This chapter examines discursive connections between Black Feminism and Afrofuturism in the late 20th century and the early 21st century. Development of Afrofuturism as an aesthetic, theory, or as a process is fraught with the many of same critical debates and discursive tensions that continue to permeate through Black Feminism with regard to essentialism, identity politics, performativity, and aesthetic concerns. Making connections between two flourishing movements is not so much the issue as it is negotiating the discursive tensions with regard to political and aesthetic concerns. In order to understand these discursive tensions permeating critical reception of gender and race in Afrofuturist culture, this essay will discuss the role of critical debates and critical tensions in Black Feminist theory, as well as its role in the development of Afrofuturism as critical theory. https://www.academia.edu/16199640/Strategic_Disruptions_Black_Feminism_Intersectionality_and_Afrofuturism
This is an excellent unraveling of white male privilege in academia and beyond. A must read!
Originally posted on feministkilljoys:
It was one of the funnier moments in my diversity research. I was interviewing a practitioner. She shared with me a story. She had been looking at the new webpage of the senior management team at her university. They had just put up photographs of each member of the team. Her friend looked over her shoulder and asked: “are they related?” When she relayed the story, we both burst into laughter. When we catch with words a logic that is often reproduced by not being put into words it can be such a relief.
We recognised that each other recognized the logic. Laughter, peals of it; our bodies catching that logic, too.
Are they related? Well perhaps they are not related in the sense of how we might usually use the word “related.” They are not kin. Or are they? Is each member of the team one of the same…
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“From the beginning, Delany, in his fiction, has pushed across the traditional boundaries of science fiction, embraced the other, and questioned received ideas about sex and intimacy.“
Bottle Service #7 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)
by Cherie Ann Turpin
A quiet crowd hovered in the alleyway between  street leading up to the dull, gray door of Aremwen’s Parlour near opening time, 11 p.m. Two Nephilim hybrid brothers, one with Black skin, one with White skin, stood at the entrance as security, quietly surveying the makeup of the chic crowd. Both men wore matching black suits, sunglasses, and Secret Service style earpieces, but they reserved the electronics for human eyes and ears, as they were adept at telepathy and teleportation. They were quite useful as security not just for their 7’8 height and massive chest and arm muscles, but because they were magical beings like the clientele of this private club.
The bar was located in the alleyway near an art gallery just before the C&O Canal at the bottom of Georgetown. It was the only venue that openly welcomed Phorzhicoans, witches, vampires, demons, angels, shifters, warriors, extractors, telepaths, fallen deities–in other words, all uber-natural beings often not welcome among humans in social settings. Mary, who was a vampire, owned Aremwen. At 300 she still looked like a slender teenager with smooth, dark brown skin, and a tall Afro cut down the sides into a mohawk. She was originally brought to the New World as a small child from Ghana.
After surviving the Middle Passage, Mary was sold into slavery to a small farm outside Jamestown, Virginia. Her Vampire Mother, under the guise of a freedwoman midwife, rescued her from the lecherous slave master whose nefarious intentions had already resulted in an unwanted pregnancy and birth of a stillborn girl. After smuggling the almost dead 19 year-old from the farm, the “midwife” offered Mary the choice of a quick death to relieve her of the painful, uncontrollable bleeding that would certainly result in her eventual death, or a new life that would free her of human pain and enslavement. Several centuries later, Mary owned a high-end bar that offered Bottle Service to VIPs, a complicated but extremely profitable service, given the special appetites of her VIP clientele.
Few of the ordinary patrons who sailed through the bar could afford Bottle Service–contrary to the myths, most supernatural beings these days struggled to make ends meet by working like the humans–but there were a few who had not been around long enough to know of Mary’s wrath who deemed themselves cocky enough to attempt to run a scam, i.e., get Bottle Service and skip out on the bill. Such was the entourage of new vamps in the corner, loud enough to partially drown out the techno music pumping through the bar. Some of them were too young to even have the knowledge of comparing vampire powers. Had even one of them known the full extent of Mary’s power none of them would be destined to be tied to each other with heavy silver chain links, prone, and in a pile like logs to be set afire in the venue’s basement.
Mary would soon have a nice talk with the Nephilim brothers, because they were either clearly off their game tonight, or she had two very strong creatures who were in on the scam. Either possibility brought dread and not a little bit of irritation to Mary, as she stared at the quivering set of baby vampires in the corner.
This was not going to be a good night.
Incursio #6 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin
My tabby cat Munchkin first noticed the strange lights in my pool late last night after spectacular meteor shower that lit up the sky. I thought the meteor shower was lightning at first, until I walked outside and peered up from my deck in the backyard. The clouds partially covered the flashes of light, but no thunder occurred. Munchkin scurried inside and ran under the kitchen table, her tail quivering. I leaned over the wooden rail and glanced at the sparkling night sky, slowly dragging a curl of smoke from my cigarette. The air was thick and humid, and the wind flowed on my skin like a moist pillow.
An unnatural stirring of the heavenly realm was afoot.
I finished my cigarette and walked into the house, sealing shut the sliding glass doors and pulling together the white curtains. The outdoor lights were left on, casting shadows on the pool below. I motioned to Munchkin as I walked down the hallway towards my bedroom, and she jumped up into my outstretched arms, purring away like a perpetual motor buried in fur. As I kicked off my slippers and sat down on the bed she curled up at the edge of the bed, her favorite spot. Clicking off the light, I finally feel into a deep sleep.
After what seemed to be hours, I was awakened by a strange howl and hiss. Munchkin paced around the room, visibly disturbed. I looked at the clock on my cell phone: 3 A.M. What the fuck, I thought. I threw on a night robe and stuffed my feet into my slippers, then followed my shaken cat towards the sliding doors and pulled back the curtains. The outdoor lights were still on, and the sky looked, well, odd. Yellowish, like phlegm. I’d never seen clouds like that, but weather wasn’t exactly normal, lately. I noticed Munchkin staring and hissing at something and peered out towards the pool. It seemed to be glowing with lights like that same phlegmatic yellow. The water seemed to churn with an urgency to boil.
I carefully backed away from the glass doors and ran into the bedroom, leaving the lights off. I quickly dressed, and grabbed my purse, cell phone, and laptop bag. My cat looked at me, quietly pleading. I pulled her up and placed her into the opening of my purse and rushed outside to my car. As I pulled away from the house I noticed some people who had wandered outside to stare at the sky, while others were busy packing a few belongings and their children into their cars.
The invasion had begun.
“Uporzyna’s First Feed (A Phorzhicoa Collective Story)” #5
(Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)
by Cherie Ann Turpin
“Animal Crackers” served up coffee, pastries, bread, and homemade soup to their customers, mostly college students and faculty from the nearby private college. Well-worn easy chairs, couches, and low tables, along with wi-fi access kept a series of regulars settling in with laptops and tablets while drinking strong coffee. Finding a pair of easy chairs and a clear table near the rear of the shop, Onaryani and Uporzyna blended well with the lunchtime crowd. As Onaryani raised his ceramic cup of molasses and hazelnut coffee, he gave the slightest of nods to Uporzyna, who pulled a book from her over-sized bag on the floor, flipped to a random portion, and stared at the words on the page.
As the typescript melted from her view, the room itself became transparent like cloudy water, and time itself slowed. With the exception of Onaryani, who continued to observe her, every human in the room seemed to radiate with streams of light that spontaneously spurted from various parts of their bodies. Sound accompanied these streams, and Uporzyna understood some streams as conversation and others as thoughts. Erotic thoughts “smelled” sweet and heavy, as did erotic-themed conversational exchanges. Many other emotions and impulses promised to be tasty as well, but she felt drawn to the complexity of Eros as a sustenance suitable for her hunger, so she directed her Phorzhicoan gaze to the strongest streams flowing out, a couple near the window drinking coffee and eating coffee cake. Her first feeding would be a memorable one.
As she returned to shared consciousness, she slowly raised her head to find her guide watching her with an approving smile. Soon, she would do well on her own as a hunter, and in less than a year she would seek a life companion to share those endorphins and passions absorbed into her essence.