THE THREE OF us walked into a small classroom. There were about fifteen other people already in the room. Maxine was greeted by a woman draped in flowing, brightly colored clothes. Her limbs jutted out from between openings in the fuchsias and limes in her fabrics. Her locks wrapped around themselves into a high, full bun. Maxine and the woman embraced. Their hug was deep with room for soft hellos and murmurings of “you look so peaceful.”
Maxine turned to us. “Zaira, this is Juliet, Harlowe’s research assistant and houseguest. Juliet, this is Zaira.”
I extended my hand. Zaira reached for it and pulled me gently into a hug. “Welcome, Sister Juliet,” she whispered against my temple.
I hugged back hard. “Thank you.”
Zaira’s embrace was like having motherhood and a fortress wrapped around my body. “Hello, Harlowe,” Zaira said, taking one half step toward her.
“Zaira, it’s good to be here. I love your open workshops,” Harlowe said, and met her halfway. They held hands and forearms, smiled big, admired each other with respect. They didn’t hug. I thought it was weird but only for a second.
Maxine and Zaira walked off, nestled together, greeting other folks around the room.
Harlowe paused, watching them move through the space. I stood by Harlowe.
We found seats toward the back, near a very small cluster of white women. I sat on the outskirts of their group next to Harlowe. But I realized that they were the outsider group. Black and brown women of all shades and sizes organized and worked this space. The energy in the room was warm and loving, like that plate of food your mom brings back for you from a party at your aunt’s house. It felt like home, sort of. The styles of the women here were different from back in the Bronx. People didn’t look hard here or worn down. They looked like they worshipped the sun and bathed in buttermilk. It made me feel like this writer’s workshop was actually the official meeting of hippies of color or some shit. Just sitting there watching everyone made me view my people through a whole different lens, like we could be hippies too and that wouldn’t make us any less Black or brown. I could dig that.
The power and confidence that radiated from Zaira permeated the bright classroom. She let go of Maxine’s arm and walked to the front of the room, clasped her hands together, inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled. All eyes were on Zaira. She smiled wide and opened her hands, palms facing up.
“Hello, beautiful women writers. Welcome to Honoring Our Ancestors, the Writer Warriors Workshop series. Thank you for your presence. I’d like to ask all of you to turn to your neighbor, look her in the eyes, and say, ‘Thank you, sister, for sharing your time and essence.’”
I almost laughed, but the silence and reverence in the room pushed that laugh back into my chest. The woman next to me breastfed her baby. Such a beautiful and weird thing, breastfeeding. The mom held her child with one arm and reached out to me with the other. She said, slightly breathless, “Thank you, sister, for sharing your time and essence.” I repeated the blessing, holding her hand and her child’s hand.
Zaira blessed her neighbors on both sides. “Ashe, everyone. I’m Zaira Crest, founder of Black Womanists United, and we are here to celebrate the legacy of our sister Octavia Butler, one of the greatest writers of all time. Octavia gave us worlds caught in post-apocalyptic struggles, narratives billowing with critiques of the way racism and brutality are ingrained in white American society and culture, a culture that we must also navigate and reclaim. Octavia gave us the means to do that via a genre where there are no limits.
“This writing series is for the empowerment of Black women and femmes and the development of a Black womanist, Afro-futuristic writers’ group. Blackness isn’t limited to African Americans here. We welcome our Afro-Latinas también y toda la gente morena, negrita, el color de la noche y de café con leche. Many of our meetings are closed to non-Black, non-POC individuals but members of the group expressed interest in offering open sessions. White allies, we ask that you respect this space, own your privileges, and remain open to your own journey. We welcome all women here and hope that we can all find or further cultivate our relationship to Octavia Butler’s work and to the world of science fiction. In this series of workshops, we will also produce an anthology of sci-fi short stories with a social justice lens from writers of color. Thank you, sisters, for sharing your time and essence with us all.”
Zaira was a force. Her words enveloped the room and while she spoke, all attention was on her. She gave us a minute to take it all in. I had mixed feelings, but only about the sci-fi part.
Science fiction was actually the worst. One Christmas, my parents decorated the entire tree in Star Trek ornaments, complete with a Spock tree topper that told us to “Live long and prosper.” Trekkies wasn’t a strong enough word for them. They also loved the Star Wars trilogy and every single 1950s sci-fi show ever created. And now here I was, somehow at a science fiction workshop. Hope no one minded me dying of boredom and awkwardness.
Zaira asked us to stand. We stood in a circle, holding hands. She implored us to find a sound within our bodies and memories, hold it in our hearts, and then share it out loud. She counted to three, and the women in the room opened their mouths releasing secrets, deep hums, and the sounds of prayers. Nothing came out of me. I held the hands on each side of me. I moved my mouth as if I was participating and that felt hella awkward too. The cacophony died down. Zaira called for it again. Once more, I pretended to make noise. Zaira watched me, read my lips, caught my lack of give, and let it go. The icebreaker ended. Respectful silence followed. Zaira introduced two women, Aleece and Ruby, to the group. They read excerpts from Parable of the Sower and Kindred. Trippy shit, for real. I wrote the titles down in my notebook. Zaira and her team then asked us to brainstorm terms we associated with science fiction.
Words written in pastel yellows and pinks filled the blackboard. Asteroids, Milky Way, immortality, corporate colonization, gamma rays, meteor showers, parallel universe, queer futurism, no air, Gaia, geeks, moon colonies, lunar pulls, aliens, abduction, time travel, apocalypse . . . We were asked to choose one word or phrase and write our science-fiction-loving hearts off. I wanted to leave, smoke a cigarette, and call Ava about this new-wave hippie brown people thing. Maybe she knew about it. But the affirmations and the weird humming got to me. Instead, I remained in my chair and wrote. My words were: heavy metal, android Latinas, and time warp.
Forty-five minutes later, a chime went off indicating the end of the writing exercise. Zaira encouraged the group to share a section of their work with the person they exchanged the greeting with. The mother turned to me, her child asleep in an orange stroller.
“Do you want to go first?” I asked.
“No way, go for it,” she replied. She reached for my hand. “My name’s Melonie, by the way, and this is my son, Nasir,” she said.
“Juliet,” I replied. We shook hands like we were already friends, none of those awkward jerky movements. It was smooth like passing slang through gossip.
I swallowed, just a little nervous but sort of excited too. Sci-fi was another notch in my belt of geekery on this trip.
But I pushed forward and read from the short story I titled “Starlight Mamitas: Three Chords of Rebellion,” in which three Boricua sisters from New Brooklyn, year 3035, formed a heavy metal band called the Starlight Mamitas. They sold bionic quarter-waters and titanium Jolly Ranchers on the train to make money for lessons and instruments. On the night of their first real practice ever, a giant meteorite hit their mid-atmosphere apartment complexidome and . . .
That’s where it ended.
Melonie stared at me. She flashed a huge grin, showing off beautiful full lips and a Madonna gap in her teeth.
“Wait, no fair. I want to know what happens next!” Melonie exclaimed, her voice breathy and deep. Her son wiggled in his stroller.
“So, I did it okay?” I asked. My heart beat fast. “Like, it’s not stupid?”
“Nope, not at all, sister. You should definitely submit that to the anthology.”
“Ahhh, no way! Thank you. That means a lot. I’ve never written sci-fi before.”
Nasir woke up and gurgled next to us. His small baby fingers tapped my hand. Melonie cooed at him and then looked at me.
“Don’t be afraid of anything. Submit your story but most of all submit to joy. That’s what I’m teaching this boy right, here, isn’t it, Nasir?” she asked, looking from me to him.
I tucked her words into my chest. Maybe this little story could be something great.
Melonie shared her piece and it was all about robots taking over the banking industries. They thrived on the evil souls of corporate bankers. It was heavy but rad. I wondered if moms were allowed to date. ’Cuz in another life I’d ask her out and then maybe she’d keep reading to me.
Zaira announced the end of the workshop. The room erupted in hugs and kisses, as if we’d all given birth. Melonie pulled me super close and whispered, “Submit that story, girl.” She kissed my cheek and turned to baby Nasir.
Harlowe, Maxine, and I left the workshop after more hugs and rounds of introductions. I was exhausted. The workshop was beautiful, but I definitely needed some low-key chill time. I wasn’t sure where I’d get any of that. The three of us passed two young white women who had been in the workshop with us. They were near the water fountains. I paused for a sip.
White Girl #1: “I loved the workshop, but, like, I don’t get why the white ally thing has to be such a big deal, like why do we have to be the quiet ones? All our voices matter, you know?”
White Girl #2: “Exactly! It’s like in my feminism we’re equals. Why does any group have to have the dominant voice? I know reverse racism isn’t technically real, but, like, this kinda felt like that.”
Maxine and I rolled our eyes. I didn’t really know what was wrong with what they said, but it felt weird. Their tone and the fact that this was what they took from the workshop felt strange but, like, whatever; white girls say dumb shit sometimes.
But Harlowe spun around and addressed them. “It’s not about having a ‘dominant voice.’ It’s about women of color owning their own space and their voices being treated with dignity and respect. It’s about women of color not having to shout over white voices to be heard. We are the dominant force almost all the time. White women are the stars of all the movies. White women are the lead speakers in feminist debates, and it’s little white girls that send the nation into a frenzy when they’ve been kidnapped. So if for, like, one or two hours in a small classroom somewhere in Oregon, a group of women of color have a workshop and have decided to open it up to us, we should be fucking grateful and not whining about how we’re not the most important or equally as important. Our entire existence is constantly being validated and yeah, we have lots of shit to deal with because of the patriarchy. But for goddess sake, check your privilege. We’re the ones that need to give women of color space for their voices.”
At that last line, Maxine walked off. The two white girls stared at Harlowe, eyes wide.
White Girl #1: “Oh my fucking goddess, are you Harlowe Brisbane? The Empowering Your Pussy lady?”
I stayed for a minute. But I felt that weird thing again, like when the white girls first opened their mouths; something felt wrong. I didn’t understand what Harlowe meant about “giving us space” for our voices. I left her to deal with her groupies. What was I supposed to do anyway?
Harlowe must have schooled those girls right, because it took her forever to meet us in the truck. Once again I sat in between them, but this time there was no cozy cuddling. None of our thighs touched. It was hard to keep my round everythings contained but I put in the effort. Harlowe was all angles. Pointy knees crossed over the other. Legs pressed into the passenger side door. Head practically out the window. Maxine drove sitting straight up, not taking an inch of extra space. The windows were down on both sides. The low roar of wind flowing into the car mimicked the tension between us.
“After years of workshops and endless conversations about race, you still manage to center whiteness,” Maxine said finally, eyes on the road.
Her statement whipped through the car. I shrank lower in my seat, wishing they didn’t have to look around my body to see each other.
“I’m white,” Harlowe said, stopping hard on that T. “No matter how I said it, you’re going to experience the white supremacy first. We’ve talked about this, Max.”
I bit my bottom lip, tried to keep my eyes from going to wide. I could fix lots of things, but my face wasn’t always one of them.
“You said, ‘We’re the ones that need to give women of color space for their voices,’” Maxine replied, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “Y’all don’t need to give us anything.”
Harlowe shifted her whole body, knees bumping into mine, to face Maxine.
“Max, I honor your statements. I still have much to learn,” Harlowe said, her voice going low. “And also, we’ve talked about how you’re extra sensitive around Zaira too.”
Maxine stiffened at the mention of Zaira. The vein in her neck flexed. She swallowed hard, like when I’m about to say something reckless but still have the wherewithal to hold it in. Maxine turned her head to the side and cracked her neck.
“We’ll finish this later,” Maxine said and turned to me. “Apologies if we’ve made you uncomfortable, Juliet.”
I looked at Maxine and then Harlowe.
“Uh, no worries,” I replied, staring back down at my thighs in the dark.
Maxine and Harlowe didn’t talk for the rest of the ride home. Just as we pulled up in front of Harlowe’s, I got a text from Lainie. My heart fluttered and despite being tired and cranky, I smiled. There she was. We were gonna be okay. I left Harlowe and Maxine in the truck and raced into the house. I plopped on the bed, ready to read her text and call her back and talk on the phone all night long because we were due. It was gonna be so cute.
I looked closer at my phone and resisted the urge to fling it across the room.
Got your messages. Call me tomorrow.
Two basic-ass sentences. That was it. I read them over and over again for a full ten minutes. I pressed the call button and dialed Lainie’s number. Maybe she had a free second. I’d catch her in that free second and get to say goodnight at least. The call went straight to voice mail. I hung up. That night I tossed and turned, I dreamed that Max and Harlowe were arguing about the dimensions of the universe. In the dream, Lainie’s phone went straight to voice mail too.