Black Sci-Fi/Spec Fic Primer

The first group of authors that I am going to share began publishing more than a century ago.  I bet that’s unexpected.  They were contemporaries and well known for their literary contributions–though not, perhaps, as much for their speculative efforts.

Charles Chesnutt (1858-1932) was known for fiction that explored the nuances of postbellum African American experience with a particular focus on the efficacy of  Reconstruction in providing solutions to the various inequalities that were the legacy of slavery.

He published The Conjure Woman in 1899.  The book, a series of loosely associated short stories, focuses on Uncle Julius McAdoo efforts to dupe and manipulate his northern-born, white employers.  The tales are short and funny, and Uncle Julius is no Uncle Remus–if you catch my drift.  His stories combine a good bit of “cunjuhring,” “root wuk,”  “goophering” and a whole lot socio-political commentary on black life in the era immediately following Reconstruction–all of the things that we love about good speculative fiction today.  The book also has quite a healthy dose of dialect–that nineteenth century dialect which Chesnutt employed with unparalleled mastery and to great effect–so be prepared to wade in and be amused and amazed.

Pauline Hopkins (1859-1930) was well-known for her fictional representations of middle class black women and black families and the very different challenges that they faced in the aftermath of the Civil War and as a result of the ways that slavery undermined both identities and institutions within black communities.  Hopkins, through her writing, was an advocate for black women becoming involved in the political process as a way of reclaiming some measure of freedom that slavery denied them.

Her novel Of One Blood, or The Hidden Self was published in a serialized version beginning in 1902 and ending in 1903.  The novel begins on a stormy Boston night, in the living quarters of Reuel Briggs, a mysticism scholar of mysterious ethnic origins (for those of you that aren’t familiar with the nineteeth century lingo, that means he is a mulatto).   From there, Hopkins concocts a tale of stunning intricacy that includes Oriental (don’t worry, when talking about Hopkins, that term is appropriate) mesmerism, ancient, mystical, and hidden African kingdoms, and metaphysical globetrotting.  How’s that for a novel published at the beginning of the twentieth century.   In addition, this book has all of the action and adventure and romance that you could want.  There’s even a leopard (so now you understand why I love this book).  Find out whether Reuel is tragic or not and check out this book.

Black Sci-Fi/Spec Fic Primer: Your Introduction to the World of Black Speculative Lit

Speculative fiction is a rose known by many other names: science fiction, fantasy, paranormal, dystopian…the list goes on, with each genre producing unique and wonderful blooms (if you will permit me to carry the metaphor through to its conclusion).  What each of these, and the many other genres that fall under the umbrella of speculative literature, have in common is that all such books imagine worlds that do not quite exist, but might–whether in some near future, some recent past, or some alternate dimension in the present.  In that lies the appeal of the genre for black writers; the space that it offers to imagine things differently and to tell a different kind of story.  Whatever you call it and whichever genre you prefer, there is something in the black (here, I am going with black, rather than African American, because some of the authors that I will name are not American) canon for you.

The idea for this “Primer” came from my recent experiences and conversations about being an author of speculative fiction.  In my travels, I have met many who believe that black authors are new to the game of speculative fiction.  They name recent authors that have had success:  Octavia Butler, Tananarive Due, L. A. Banks are frequently mentioned as favorites.   But too often that knowledge does not stretch beyond a contemporary few, which leads to misconceptions about the African American presence and impact on the world of speculative fiction.

So every Saturday, I am going to take you to school.  This primer is about excavation.  I will bring, in each blog, titles and authors that represent the depth and the breadth of the black tradition in speculative fiction.  This column will be primarily chronological–going from some of the earliest examples of black speculative fiction and moving into the present. Of course, the past is so important to understanding the present. If, however, I happen upon something that lies outside of the chronology, I won’t let that stop me from bringing it to you.   Many of the writers that I will mention over the next few weeks did not write speculative fiction exclusively.  Some of them may have only written one work in the genre.  Still, their contribution adds to the canon of black speculative fiction and, frequently, informs the fiction being produced today.

So, sit back, relax, and let the priming begin.  It’s time to get your speculative mind right.

Rock The Drop–ATL 2012

At coffee shop across the street from Grady High.

My #RocktheDrop swag.

Interlopers in the big, wide world of Piedmont Park.

In tree across from Inman Middle School. Interlopers is adventurous.

In a swing, in Cunard Park, on Virginia Ave.

*Not pictured, Bench on Highland Ave., across from Honeybutter.

Who are you trying to be?…Posers cover unveiled!

Why the Hunger Games Movie Didn’t Work…For Me…

I was so ready for this movie to be epic!

Of course, I am Janie-come-lately to the Hunger Games movie.  It was a deliberate choice for me.  I am in that space right now–you know the one where you don’t want to be around goo-gobs of people.   Where the thought of being surrounded by that many people ignites such dark thoughts that you know that it is not wise for you to be anywhere near a crowd–that’s where I am right now.  Anyway, the one place you shouldn’t be when you are in that kind of mood is in a theater where Hunger Games is playing on opening weekend.  So you have my excuse; now let me present my reaction.

I enjoyed the first novel in the Hunger Games series (complete disclosure, I have not read the subsequent books yet).  I was prepared to be swept up in the movie.  It had all of the elements:  a strong cast, a good story, plus Suzanne Collins was a writer and a producer (Yay Suzanne!  Score one for authors!)  Prepared as I was to completely give myself over to the experience of the movie, I found  myself leaving the theater relatively underwhelmed.

As I watched the film, I felt a sense of detachment.  I mean, it was interesting to look at, but it did not have me invested the way that the novel–which I read in one day–did.  As I watched, I tried to place a finger on what it was the movie was lacking.  All of the characters were there, relatively faithfully rendered.  All of the moments, which grabbed my heart when I read them in the book were there too.  There were moments that worked well.  The chilling discomfiture of  “The Reaping” was well done and made me squirm a little in my seat.  But something was missing.  When we got to the scene with Peeta and Katniss in the cave, I figured out what is was.   There was no chemistry.

Even though I am way over love triangles (really: way over.  I can’t even tell you how over.  Ok, let me stop.), I have to say that Hunger Games, the book, hinges in part on the relationship between Katniss and Peeta;  the entire latter half of the novel relies on the possibilities that exist between them.  The possibility that she is growing to care for him, in spite of herself and the circumstances.  Without that, the central motivation for Katniss repeatedly risking her life for Peeta is gone.  For me, there was no sense of that possibility in the movie.  Not for one second did I believe that Katniss felt anything at all for Peeta.  I didn’t even really believe that Peeta cared so deeply for Katniss.   Even in the forbidden fruit/never-going-to-happen dynamic, there has to be chemistry.  There has to be the feeling that it could happen, if only one of the characters would let it.

And the Peeta/Katniss relationship was not the only thing that was missing that spark.  The development of those relationship dynamics seemed lacking across the board.  We did not get to see why and how Haymitch made the decision to really become the mentor that P and K needed.  Would you know, if you hadn’t read the book, why Cinna cared so much about K’s success? I sure wouldn’t, because it wasn’t in the film.  Those relationships were just presented and we were supposed to accept them as real and having depth. It doesn’t quite work that way.  Though Katniss was constructed as protective, even the scene with Rue’s death was not the tearjerker that I thought it would be.  Something about all of it just rang hollow.  And because it rang hollow, the emotional climax of the movie was…enh.

Maybe the exposition was too brief…I don’t know. I still can’t quite place my finger on it.

As you can see, I am disappointed by my disappointment in this opening film for the series.  On the heels of epic series like Harry Potter, I was hoping for another film series that I could sink my teeth into for a while.  Sadly, this first installation of the Hunger Games trilogy has not left me wanting more.   One thing that the folks who made the Potter films always remembered was that it was about the relationships.  The magic and the action sequences my be amazing to behold, but they mean nothing if the character investment is not there.  Moreover, that development needs as much time as the action sequences, particularly in the first film of a franchise. I am hoping that the DVD release is the extended cut, that fills in all of the gaps (fingers crossed).

Of course, I am probably alone in this.  The film did, after all, rake in goo-gobs of money.  Tell me, what were your thoughts?

Don’t Punk Out–Fighting Bullies

So the topic of bullying has been much in the news in recent months, often with tragic consequences.  And now the new Bully movie is coming out tomorrow, which documents the experiences of kids that are being bullied.  I have listened to this news with sadness and frequently, admittedly, without understanding exactly what has happened in the past 20 or so years that has made bullying so exponentially worse in this country.

At first, I could not comprehend the reason why bullying seems to have such a great impact on this generation of kids.  I mean, I was bullied sporadically from about the time that I was in first grade (and at least once I was also a bully) and I have come through it relatively unscathed–and millions of people and infinite generations before mine can profess the same.   I wondered whether things were really so much worse than they used to be, or if the sensationalist 24-hour news cycle was just doing what it does best.

Then I realized that while there are many things about bullying that have not changed in the past twenty years (people still get bullied about the same things–appearance, sexuality, race, i. q., etc…), what has changed is how incessant it has become.  When I went home, my bullies were out of sight and out of mind.  They did not call me on the one land line my family had.  There was no Facebook or Twitter or email through which their insults could sting.  I had some respite.  There are less safe spaces for kids these days.  Bullies follow them home on their phones and through their computer screens.   Such relentless torment is enough to drive anyone to extremes.

Of course, this led to thinking about coping mechanisms.  What, I wonder, are young people learning about how to deal with conflict, wherever that may arise.  As beautiful and utopic as the idea of a bully-free world is–like a utopia, that reality exists nowhere.  Furthermore, we all know that bullying does not stop when school ends.  Some folks never grow out of their bullying ways.  It is an issue that we have to deal with all our lives.  Rather than inaugurating a never-ending and probably failing war on bullying, isn’t it more important to learn how to deal with bullies, learn how diffuse certain situations, how to stand up for yourself, and how–when necessary–fight (My mother used to tell us not to start a fight,  but that if someone laid their hands on us, we should defend ourselves.  I know that is not a popular thing to say these days).  Do we do our children a disservice if we shield them from the experiences that help them to develop these skill-sets?  (Which is not to say that intervention is not necessary in the most extreme cases.)

What does this have to do with this blog?

I normally don’t write about these sorts of things on this blog;  I like to focus on topics relevant to my writing–and therein lies the connection.  I had to think a lot about bullying for this book–as Nate encounters his fair share of bullies as a high school freshman.  I had to think about how Nate responds to that bullying with each encounter.   I wanted to have Nate handle his bullies in as smart a way as he could; and it really is something that he has to deal with.  His parents can’t fix the problem for him.  The teachers–well, let’s not even go into that.  Nate has to figure out a way to deal with the problem himself.   He doesn’t always come out on top, but it’s all a part of his process of learning who he is, what he stands for, and how to stand for himself–all of which are really important to the process of becoming an adult.

I am curious:  Were/Are you bullied?  If yes, how did/do you deal with it?  Were/Are you a bully?  If yes, could/can anything stop you from bullying?

Bailey (Conclusion)

I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head against the horrifying image.  It couldn’t be true.  I couldn’t be a monster.  My breath came in short harsh bursts.  I breathed deeply.  In and out.  In and out.  Trying to control it.  Finally, the shaking stopped and my pounding heart quieted.  I opened my eyes and looked down at my hands.  Somehow the fur was lighter, like it was receding.
When I looked in the mirror, I looked more like myself but definitely like a monster.  I touched my face, which felt alien beneath my fingertips that were still coated with a fine layer of fur.  What was I?  Maybe this was why no one ever wanted me.  Maybe they had known from the start that I was a  monster.
I didn’t even hear the door open and shut, which was weird because normally I can hear a pin drop, on carpet, in the next room.
“Bailey?”  Her voice was soft now, not the hard taunting tone that she had used just moments before in the first floor cafeteria.  But it didn’t matter.  At the sound, my shoulders tensed and it was happening all over again. I opened my mouth to tell her to go away, and I think I growled.  Her hand touched my shoulder.  I reached up, flinging it away.  She cried out, and that was when I turned around.
I had scratched her upper arm, shredding the sleeve of her t-shirt.  The scratches were deep.  Her arm was dripping with blood, that ran down her arms in twisting rivulets before spilling in fat drops to the floor.  And the odor of it was coppery and tangy and…appetizing.
“Bailey, what’s going….” She couldn’t even finish the sentence.  I was walking toward her, and even I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.  What I wanted to do was finish ripping her arm off and maybe eat a little of it.  Even as out of it as I was, I knew that was a bad idea.  So I settled for salivating over the look of terror on her face as I backed her into a corner.
“Bailey! I’m sorry Bailey!”  To this day, I don’t know if she was yelling to convince me or because she hoped that someone would hear her.  No one would hear her though.  The fourth floor was deserted in the morning.
“Bailey, Bailey.” She whimpered and then started to cry as I took another step towards her.  I didn’t say anything.  I don’t know if I could have talked then if I wanted.
When she was backed into the corner, caught between the a sink and the wall, I ripped the sleeves from my shirt so that she could see the fur.  I stepped forward, put my hands on the walls on either side of her, and leaned in.  She tried to get away, but there was no where to go.  I have to admit, I enjoyed her terror far too much.  It made her smell good, to a point.  Then, suddenly, she just started to stink.  I think she peed her pants.   I opened my mouth, showing her my brand new fangs and growled.
The noise was so loud, I knew the rest of the building heard.  When I stopped to listen, I actually heard footfalls running up the stairs from the bottom floor.   Suddenly, I knew that I had to get out of there.
I ran.  I burst from the bathroom and sprinted to the end of the hall.  There was window, that opened out onto a narrow ledge.  I opened to window and stepped out.  Gazing at the rooftop of the building next to the home, I wondered if I could make that jump or if I would survive if I didn’t.
I heard Head Mistress Danbury calling my name.  “Bailey! Bailey!  No!”  Maybe she really did care after all.  Too late.  I jumped.  I jumped and ran.  I didn’t stop until I reached the trees….

I guess it was about a year later, when Anna Pantera found me and brought me here.   At the time, I wasn’t sure.  One tends to lose track of time in those conditions.  I had been living in a forest north of the city, away from humans, eating all squirrels and rabbits that I could catch.  I knew so little then.
She told me what I was.  She coaxed me back into my human form.  I had tried to change back once or twice, but I couldn’t.  By the time she found me, I had almost forgotten that I had been human once.
When I think about it, I was really lucky.  I could have been hunted down by humans at any time.  But she found me…and she saved me….  I owe her my life.

©L. M. Davis.  All Rights Reserved.

How far does Bailey’s loyalty go?  What will she sacrifice for the woman that saved her life?  Find out in Posers:  A Shifters Novel; available soon.