By Gyasi Lake
Writer/activist Walidah Imarisha once stated that the act of being Black and alive was a work of “Afro-Fiction.”
In my seventeen-year-old mind, July 13th, 2013 began by following the tropes that lace films about teenagers during summer vacation. The middle-class parents allowed their daughter access to the car for some “summer fun,” citing her high marks and good behavior. The daughter says she intends to be with her best friend, whom her parents adore, for the evening. The daughter omits the presence of two boys who will take residence in the backseat, writing it off as a minor detail.
On their way to the fifties style diner on the opposite side of town, the teenagers blast contemporary secular music with no regard for passersby. Now stationed two-by-two in booths, they exchange in the type of witty banter that elicits laughter which develops in the stomach and erupts in the air.
Dusk and curfew were synonymous and rapidly approaching as the daughter starts the engine for the journey back. Not wanting to depart quite yet, the daughter calls her parents to see if her friends can stay a while at the house. After an elongated pause, a “yes” engulfs the car amongst muffled cheers.
Walking past the threshold of the house, I was mystified that the grandeur of the exterior was superseded by the interior. I surveyed the quaintness of the Victorian decor, which reflected the family’s longing for the traditional, as her parents embraced us with open arms.
We were directed to the lowest level, which would serve as our exclusive living room. After filling ourselves with the finger food presented by her mother while watching TV, a jovial, flirtatious pillow fight was initiated by the daughter. Tired, ready to take a breather and with the channel not providing the same entertainment, we decided channel surfing was needed. I saw the daughter start flicking through, and then, after awhile, pause.
“George Zimmerman found not guilty.”
The weight of despair from those words became omnipresent and crushed us like the water pressure at 5,000 meters. Suddenly, none of the day’s previous festivities mattered. This is how the day would be forever remembered.
As social media made me more cognizant of the atrocities of state-sanctioned violence, my thoughts began to grow darker. My soft optimist soon crystallized into a hardened soul. Entering my senior year, I was left with no more aspirations for the future because I couldn’t visualize one where Black bodies could live freely.
I often thought about the Dred Scott decision and how I longed for that type of finality. Scott was denied recognition as a U.S citizen thus providing the ultimate understanding of Black people’s relationship, or lack thereof, to U.S law. Now, on paper we have been granted the illusion of full citizenship, while our relationship has been more like citizens of an occupied state. Not having a viable outlet such as therapy to process my mounting Afro-pessimistic depression, my relationships (familial, platonic, and romantic) shifted in a volatile nature. I carried resentment and anger into every interaction, an act that contributed further to my isolation.
My escapist ritual of devouring sci-fi literature was thwarted once I realized that I had to place myself into narratives that didn’t acknowledge my existence. In a genre that can invent entire complex universes, sci-fi/fantasy is notorious for its tone deaf treatment of race through metaphor (Harry Potter, etc.) Narratives that were essentially depicting conditions that non-whites have been living in for hundreds of years.
Discovering Janelle Monae was a cathartic experience for me. Through her artistic expression, she used a droid, Cindi Mayweather, as an allegory for those that are considered “The Other.” The ambiguity of The Other allows the most marginalized to place themselves within the narrative of the protagonist through her spectrum of complexity. Monae delved into questions of one’s recognition of being human, finding identity, and love. Through her music I found release in words about revolting against an oppressive system of domination.
I also discovered the term “Afrofuturism,” an umbrella term for speculative fiction exploring the future through a Black lens, and fell down the rabbit hole of the artistic style. My consumption became an obsession, beginning with Octavia E. Butler and proliferated onwards towards Nalo Hopkinson, Nnedi Okorafor and others.
The power of Afrofuturism rests in its ability to reclaim the narrative around Blackness. Academic books have gone on to become revered best sellers while equating dark skin with the primitive, thus suggesting Black people didn’t deserve the distinction of humanity. Afrofuturism is a political statement to envision free Black bodies in the future in a society that never relents in its obsession to cause said bodies destruction.
At a time when my Blackness felt more like a target, Afrofuturism proved a lens in which to look at my melanin as a gift, to see the richness in history and envision a future I’d fight to see develop.
Suggested Readings:
Octavia E. Butler Parable Of The Sower
Mark Dery Black To The Future
Frantz Fanon Black Skins White Masks
Gyasi Lake is currently attending university in Buffalo, NY studying Sociology. He spends his leisure reading and writing poetry. He can be fond on twitter @SekaniGyasi
