by Gabby Rivera
I let her talk and clamped my mouth shut. I held my truth in my throat. That moment between us hurt me. I kept that hurt to myself. I locked it inside my chest cavity. I laughed off its existence in front of Lainie. And then I fucked it away using her body and that futon as transport. I hadn’t thought about it since. In the truck with Harlowe and Maxine, it resurfaced. I wanted to blurt out all the wonder and magic, every detail of meeting God, but I didn’t.
It wasn’t the right time and I didn’t know if there’d ever be a right time. Quiet settled in between the three of us. It found room between our hips and shoulders and uncrossed ankles. Harlowe flipped through a CD case, found what she was looking for, and slid a CD into the player. Some white girl rock song I’d never heard before blared through the speakers. The voice screeched and sang about a “rebel girl.” It sounded weird and I wasn’t sure if I liked it but it fit. This song about rebel girls somehow fit all three of us. Something inside of me clicked, like I was exactly where I needed to be in my life right in the truck with Harlowe and Maxine. I fell asleep against Harlowe and didn’t wake up until we got to where we were going.
9. Ain’t No Party like an Octavia Butler Writer’s Workshop
The three of us walked into a small classroom. There were about 15 other people already in the room. Maxine was greeted by a woman draped in flowing, brightly colored cloths. Her limbs jutted out from between openings in the fuschias and limes in her fabrics. Her locs 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. She’s Harlowe’s research assistant and our 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 towards 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.
“Harlowe, Octavia’s legacy is for all of us to revel in,” Zaira said. “All we ask is that our white allies respect this space. It’s good to have with you us. We’re just about to start.”
White allies? What is a white ally? An ally in what? The struggle? What did she mean about Harlowe respecting “our space”? Why didn’t people just speak normal around here? Zaira linked arms with Maxine. They 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 towards 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 or human. 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.
“We are here to celebrate the legacy of our sister, Octavia Butler, one of the greatest writers of all time. One of the only African American sci-fi writers ever. 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. We can be child vampires. We can be warriors. We can be ooloi. We can do it all through writing. This writing series is for the empowerment of Black women and the development of a Black womanist, Afro-futuristic writer’s 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. I am Zaira. 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. My parents were trekkies. They even loved the Star Wars trilogy and were super into all the old sci-fi shows from the 1950’s. Don’t even get me started on the one Christmas where our entire Christmas tree was decorated with Star Trek ornaments complete with a Spock that told us to live “Live long and prosper.” I was going to die in this workshop of boredom and awkwardness. Cool.
She asked us to stand. We stood in a circle holding hands. Zaira 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. It felt hella awkward and I had nothing to give. I held the hands on each side of me. I moved my mouth as if I was participating but it was too much. 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 shared 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, feeling awkward. 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 it 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 meteor 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.”
“Word, aight,” I agreed, “Your turn.”
Melonie shared a story about robots taking over the banking industries. They thrived on the evil souls of heartless 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: “No I understand, 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 of 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 her, 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?
The ride home in the pick up truck was tense. Maxine wasn’t speaking to Harlowe. Harlowe seemed frustrated and wasn’t speaking to anyone. I was tired and hot and cranky. But I had my first science fiction story ever in my notebook and planned to maybe think about submitting it to Zaira’s anthology. I didn’t have the headspace to deal with anything else.
10. Geekery and a Girl
Zaira’s workshop left me with so many questions. Since I’d arrived in Portland, all I’d amassed was questions. Questions about words and phrases, queerness, POC spaces, whiteness, the world of women, privileges, and the women I still had to research. All of it swirled in my head and I didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know how much I cared about it. None of it was about Puerto Rican chicks from the Bronx. All of it seemed black and white and rich and poor and queer and weird. Still no calls or texts or anything from Lainie. I missed Saturday morning nerd cartoons with my brother. I missed the way he smelled like chocolate. I missed my mom’s fried eggs and chorizos and Titi Wepa and my Dad.
I picked up an iced coffee at Blend. No small talk was made. With my family in mind and the workshop whirring around in my head, I took some time at Blend to write my mom a letter. I wasn’t sure how else to communicate with her. After a few revisions, I slipped this into an envelope addressed to her:
Dear Mom,
Remember the time you made me and Lil’ Melvin watch the Star Wars Trilogy with you while Dad was away working in Philadelphia? And I complained the whole time about how stupid and terrible the movie was, and I whined so much that after the first movie, you shut off the VCR and sent me to my room? Do you remember how I acted like a spoiled undisciplined white kid on a sitcom and said “Fine, whatever, Mom,” stomped my feet, and stormed up the stairs to my room? And then like 20 minutes later, I came downstairs, crying and apologized and you let me lay my head on your lap and watch the rest of the movies? And how it was the best rainy Saturday the three of us ever had together?
I’ve been thinking about that day, Mom. I was at a weird but cool sci-fi writer’s workshop yesterday. I started a trippy little story about Puerto Rican sisters from Brooklyn. Anyway, anyway, it all made me think of you. Our relationship feels like science fiction. I feel far away from you in my heart and my body and I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel like us. I wish you were here. But I can’t come down the stairs in tears, full of apologies.
I’d like it better if you met me halfway. We could sit in the hallway between your bedroom and mine and it would all be okay and I’d still be that little chubby frizzy-haired girl that you loved so much but maybe I could also be this version of me, the one that loves Lainie, the one that makes big announcements and then runs away, the one that still needs your lap to lie on, the one that still needs you to tell me that you love me. I will watch all the geeky, science fiction, outer space, Outer Limits, Twilight Zone marathon movies with you forever. No complaints. I promise.
Love you to the moon and back,
Juliet Milagros Palante
I put the envelope into the mailbox outside of Blend. Feeling behind on my work for Harlowe, I hopped on the same bus Phen and I had taken to downtown Portland and made my way to the library. I called Lainie on my bus ride but she didn’t pick up. I left a quick message. I spent rest of the ride staring out of the window and watching Portland roll by. It was time to focus on Sophia and Lolita.
The Multnomah Library
seemed massive compared to the one at my school. It hummed with a building excitement. I was a beast in the library. Libraries are safe but also exciting. Libraries are where nerds like me go to refuel. They are safe-havens where the polluted noise of the outside world, with all the bullies and bro-dudes and anti-feminist rhetoric, is shut out. Libraries have zero tolerance for bullshit. Their walls protect us and keep us safe from all the bastards that have never read a book for fun.
I wandered around for a bit and found myself in the reference section. The smell of the room reminded me of our basement at home. There was an over-sized Webster’s Dictionary on top of a pedestal in the middle of the room. Curious, I made my way to it and flipped it open. I looked up Sophia and found the following:
1) Sophia: Sophia is a female name derived from the Greek word for “Wisdom.”
2) Sophia (Σοφíα, Greek for “wisdom”) is a central term in Hellenistic philosophy and religion, Platonism, Gnosticism, Orthodox Christianity, Esoteric Christianity, as well as Christian mysticism.
Christian mysticism? Female name? I could practically feel Harlowe doing a dance of menstrual joy. I kept Lolita Lebrón in my pocket and focused my search on Sophia/Wisdom. Using one of the open computers, I searched for the history of Greece and the origin of Sophia. Electrified, my quest appeared surmountable and exciting. Four potential book leads popped up. I went over to the help desk and asked an elderly librarian with purple streaks in her hair where I could find books about ancient Greece. She sent me to the back of the second floor. I found the Greek history section and was so immersed in research that I didn’t notice the girl shelving books until we bumped shoulders, hard. My notes and all of her books fell to the floor.
