In fact, new books,
movies and network series seem to be coming out every week where the old White
Guy won't be hoarding the hero role. This has been resisted by white male
writers and fans complaining about how they're being "oppressed," if
you can believe.
 |
| Unqualified white guy leader |
Then,
last month on thenerdsofcolor website, Walidah Imarisha wrote about sci-fo and
social justice in the article "Rewriting the Future: Using Science Fiction
to Re-envision Justice." Her article is worth reading in its entirety, and
many of her points made me wonder about protagonists I've created in
speculative stories.
Some of the old
[white-male] guard of speculative fiction haven't totally understood the
achievements that new PoC--Chicano, Latino, black, Indian--authors have
accomplished by reinvigorating the literature. Some of the old guard still
maintain that science and technology just have to be re-imagined better to
bring new life to spec-lit.
For instance, Project Hieroglyph emphasizes
"technical innovation, techno-optimism and a forward-thinking approach to
the intersection of art and technology that has the power to change our world."
Not about changing the inequality of the social structure. Or about people organizing to stop fossil fuel production or neverending wars or the oligarchy of the 1%.
 |
| a book that promises hope |
The history in
question is the exclusion not only of minorities of all types. What nearly all
of spec-lit also ignored is that the changes in Earth history were not
accomplished by lone heroes. Good leaders led, yes. But the strongest movements
were those supported by the collective of humanity, carrying out to the best of
their ability the desires of their peoples. That's history.
In creating
fantasies, futuristic sci-fi tales, many historical lessons can be appropriated
by today's new, rising and especially young authors. Latino, Chicano, black,
red--it doesn't matter. Imarisha states, "The science fiction — or
speculative fiction, fantasy, horror, magical realism, etc. — we humans create
doesn’t appear out of the ether." It comes from what we were, are and
could become.
Writing about
possible futures should inspire, not depress, the young people who will replace
us and be reading our works for years to come. The dismal dystopias of
vampires, Armageddons and Snowpiercers don't provide hope; they inculcate
sheepish acceptance of bleak powers beyond anyone's control. Even if you're a
young person, of any color.
 |
| Will this contain any hope? |
The youth and all PoC
and all people deserve hope. Their literature should reflect that. In a world
of Climate-Change-for-the-worse, assaults on all civil rights, and the
gentrification of the U.S. that's driving poor, ethnic and working people out
of the cities, speculative literature can spread seeds of how to save and
rebuild society.
How do you write a
thriller where the protagonist succeeds by keeping the peoples' interests at
heart? How can a society be saved from Global Warming with masses of people as
the prime movers? Will a successful blockbuster be written that shows young
people, or even us, avenues whereby they can save their planet? That's up to speculative fiction writers.
No one novel, movie
or series could accomplish all that, though we'd all love to experience such a
work. In the meantime, many short stories and longer works, on-screen too, can
chip away at the One or A Few Heroes myopic trope. Maybe an example will better
explain my meaning.
Below, I took, and
edited for this article, part of a chapter from my debut novel, the
alternate-world of The Closet of
Discarded Dreams. How the book's characters begin to face their own
dystopia is one of my endeavors to get away from the One or A Few Heroes Save
Us All. I'm not the first to put the lessons of how history has been changed
into a novel's plot. And I am definitely not the last. I welcome comments about
other stories that accomplish this better than mine has.
[extracted from the
chapter entitled A Gathering of Souls]
People had covered
over a stage constructed from ornate
coffins, pirates' chests and inverted Jacuzzis, covered by scores of Oriental rugs and medieval tapestries. Someone in
the audience yelled, “We’ll do anything that’ll keep us safe. But why are we
here?”
I didn’t respond. Our
plan or strategy couldn’t develop out of my ideas alone. It didn’t help that
the reason many had come centered on their worries about losing their regular
lives. Conservatism motivated those who wanted to maintain the routines. But the
times called for the opposite.
People had shifted
the flooring to form a shallow amphitheater. Several thousands sat around inside
it, leaving aisles every hundred feet or so. Not everyone I knew had shown up,
but most had. Apparently some mosquitoes too, given the slapping sounds.
A solution to save us
had to spring from a new source. Even the nearly limitless knowledge I’d
acquired didn’t meet our needs.
Something was missing that was beyond
me, likely beyond any one of us. From that we’d reasoned that everyone needed
to pool their resources, put their heads together and close ranks if a solution
were to be found. We had nowhere
else to turn. Our first problem now was how to begin.
Brian presented the report covering logistics. "People can access the database through
terminals here and at
specific locations in other sectors, or search for info via the Grapevine.
Ideas, questions, clarifications will be
centralized in this area."
He withdrew, waved me
forward. My turn had arrived, an honor I’d tried to decline. “I hope to make
this short. We think the new, strange incidents indicate it may be the end of us
all. We have no idea of how to stop the process, help
it heal, fix itself. That’s why we’re all here or tied in via the systems.
“There’s nowhere else
for us to go, nowhere to seek safety. Even
escaping the affected
areas might only amount to a temporary reprieve for a handful of us. We need
something more, to save us all. That’s how it is, as best as we can guess.” I
gave them time to digest that before continuing.
“In reality, we have
a greater task than that, a responsibility, if you will. We are not real. There
is no us. We’re the dreams of Earth’s people. We’re not from Earth, because
physically we never lived there. That's just a fact.
“We are the ethereal,
what every human being ever aspired to, dreamed to one day be, or maybe even
envisioned angels to be like. We’re not all angels and not all the dreams we
live sound desirable, judicious or in some cases even humane. That’s not our
concern at the moment. Something to discuss another time. What we do have to
deal with, face up to is how to change our destiny, and not just for our own
sake.
“We don’t know what
the repercussions would be for people on Earth if we all disappeared. Whether
humanity would survive. We have to assume, not!”
Close by a child
giggled, which for no apparent reason irritated some listeners.
“Out there amongst
you are ideas, questions, possibilities that no one has thought of before, some
way of stopping the destruction. At least, that’s what we’ve got to come up
with. If we don’t, so be it, but we’re here to make the attempt.
“As we come up with an
idea, we’ll allocate resources to
implement it. We can't
imagine what that may require, but we’ll
mobilize for it. For
all our sakes.
“Whoever you are,
whatever you come from, you can contribute.
There are no limits
to what we should consider. Nothing is too silly or outrageous. Any idea may be
the key. Open your minds, talk amongst yourselves. Share anything you've
noticed or you once thought about or that just pops into your head … especially what pops into your head.
That’s all we’re here to do.
“Despite whatever you
heard about me, I don’t have the answers.
I need your help. We
all need each other’s help, for our, for Earth’s survival. For all the living
things in that beautiful blue place.”
I took
my first full breaths since I’d started, wondering what had happened to my keeping it short and why they’d let me
go on and on. Someone
handed me a liter of
Knob Creek. I took two swigs and saw Stubby
pantomime a scissors
cut with his one hand.
I took a last breath.
“Until we’re forced to move, this is our headquarters. Facilitators will always
be up here and regularly going through the aisles. If you have questions,
direct them to us or relay them through the system. Ask, suggest, talk with
your buddies alongside you. Anything you think of, however absurd it may sound,
might provide a clue to our predicament.”
I hadn’t wanted an
ovation, and I didn’t get one. People turned, formed circles and started
talking with one another. I turned the podium over to Stumpy and headed down
the aisle.
*
* * *
What transpired next
astonished more than me. There were the expected suggestions about physically
dealing with the spreading erosion, like cementing up the cracks. Some people
wanted to stack vehicles to create some sort of dam out of the larger, heavier machines
to prevent the ground from shifting, just as a temporary solution. Nevertheless,
people and equipment were mobilized. We had ample resources and little to lose.
We knew there’d be
those who’d advocate mass, spiritual meditation or prayer marathons to gods
they followed and we’d made preparations to channel the religious types into
supervised areas.
We gazed at the
Jumbotron, listening to Fedir who wielded a laser pointer.
“Dr. Martin Luther
and Cesar Chavez’s marchers have encampments here, here and here. They’re doing
what we’re doing and told us they’re ready whenever we need them, for whatever.
They’ve got one zany idea: to link themselves all the way across, making
themselves into a human dam. We’re letting them go with it even though the
engineer types think the forces involved make that a moot effort.”
Fedir ignored some
moans. “We’re still bringing the
densest, heaviest material we can find along this line: lead, gold, platinum, tanks, tractors, etcetera. It’s our last
line of defense, you might say, against draining away what’s under us. It won’t
last long.”
Brian scooted in,
touched computer keys and took over. “We’ve
put hundreds of
psychics, magicians, prophets, sorcerers, levitationists,
shamans and all the
Houdinis as close to the here as we can. There’s more juju, black magic and
karma being thrown at it. So far, no response.”
Brian was giddy, nervous,
stressed. “On the theoretical side, the cosmologists, the Einsteins, Hawkins,
and Alcubierres can’t come up with a model to answer our questions. The physics
here isn’t what they studied and has its own rules. Since we're in a box with
walls, no matter how thick, there should be an outside, something out there. However,
it’s also possible there’s nothing behind them, or something we couldn’t
survive. They just can’t imagine with any certainty what’s…”
“…out there,” a bunch
of people murmured.
Over the course of
the next few days, what impressed me most were ideas that had little to do with
saving our necks. A village of Quiché Maya proposed mystical methods to contact
Earth, to inform them they needed to keep on dreaming. There was more. Some of
it choked me up, from people’s
unselfish hopes for the future, even if we all would soon cease to exist.
Whenever the committee
deemed new plans were worth attempting, teams were organized to develop the
details and carry them out. Thus, when a group came up with the idea of using the
increasing abundance of Pink Stuff as glue, eight thousand people joined those
already building dikes from Sectors 242 through 334.
We didn’t want to
kill creativity, nor assume we could foretell what wouldn’t work. In some
sense, almost anything was worth the effort, since it might give us additional
breathing space till we came up with a real solution….
– – – –
Learn the
cost of our drugs-&-guns addictions
On a more contemporary, historical note, family of the 43 missing students from
Ayotzinapa, Guerrero, Mexico, who were tortured and disappeared by the Mexican state, will be in Colorado April 12th and 13th,
as part of the national speaking tour, Caravana 43 (Caravan 43). The group will
visit Denver, Greeley and Longmont.
The
purpose of their visit is to provide to share their continued struggle for
justice and to bring national attention to the systematic violence and impunity
that continues to plague Mexico. The arrival of
Caravana 43 in Colorado will mark over six months from the night of the attack
that occurred in the city of Iguala on the evening of September 26, 2014, which
left six people dead and 43 students forcibly disappeared.
Es todo, hoy,
RudyG, a.k.a. Chicano lit author, Rudy Ch. Garcia, hoping to
help bring back some wonderment and promise, like in The Closet of Discarded Dreams
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