ibpocfutures-blog

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About

We came together to imagine, dream and create better futures and new worlds. Using a variety of mediums, and drawing from the legacy of Afro-futurisms, Indigenous futurisms, speculative and visionary fiction, we explored what our worlds could be like. Beyond white supremacy and systems of oppression.

We asked  –

◆What are the futures we want, need and breathe?

◆What new worlds could we create beyond the limits of dominant science, society and power structures?

◆What would the world look like if we centered the knowledge systems from our own communities, spiritualities, and ancestries?

◆What if liberation had already been achieved?

◆What would this world, where we have achieved liberation by and for our people, look, taste, smell and feel like?

◆What are the steps to getting us there?

This page contains samples of some of the writing and art that was created in response.

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The Braven

From the hearts of our mothers beaten and broken. Sisters missing and murdered. Grandmothers raped and molested. Children stolen and forsaken. the Braven is called from the flames to avenge us all.

by Kweegay

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Participants and facilitators from “Tomorrow is Ours: IBPOC Futurisms” - a 7-week writing workshop for Indigenous, Black and people of colour. Imagining, dreaming and creating better futures and new worlds. 

Collective poem, inspired by “Speak to me of justice” by Waziyatawin and Legends & Lyrics

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by Kweegay 

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Mason’s Poem

by Afrodykie Zoe

They watch her walked in with somber faces, ask questions each time she responded the same way. Not knowing which direction the truth would take her.

All of them around the table ten. Staring at her, as if she had betrayed them. “We are taking your son.”’ they said icily looking everywhere but her eyes. They went on but all she heard was her heart beat, all she saw was her heart leap, out of her chest As she recalled the months she had spent fighting. Stressed. To keep food in his belly and Clothes on his back.

Where they there?! Whenever he was sick,’ dehydrated,’ seizing. Did they watch as she skipped 10  15  30  meals in a row So he could have his 3 squares and then some? Skin and bones she had become so that he could have the belly of kings. Her prince.

She focused back to the room, regained composure, and above the dull roar of irrelevant voices she asks “where will the boy go?” “To the father.” Her heart stops. Her mind races. That man won’t love him like she does. That man can’t teach him what she can. That man, was barely there now.

She excused herself and raced back to the hospital bed. Packed all the toys, clothes, books that she had brought For him. Tears springing out of her eyes like a persistent leak The boy awakens and utters an excited’ “Mama!” She stops. His eyes so curious, so wide, so innocent. His cheeks so full and soft. His understanding of the world goes no further than knowing the warmth of her breast, the softness of her skin, and the unconditional love in her voice. She is his home.

They were too quick! Those sombdf faces returned, having added more to their ranks. Dr.’s nurses, security, and the Judas that was, no. Is the boys’ father. So pious is he to accuse her of an act so callous, so disgusting that any human would cringe at the thought? So self-righteous of he to lie and present as the better half. Where was he before now? How could they not see through such a ruse?! She grabs her son and bags and heads for the door They try to grab her. She threatens to call the police. They counter with the same fate./ Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth they joust using only their words. Their objective was to get her to lose control. How cruel some humans can be when they sense weakness and desperation in another.

The boys’ father watches her with a perverse calm�� Pressed Armani suit, smirk on his face, eyes Dead. He watches as she fights like a wounded animal Disorientated. Hurt. Scared. Trying to protect her one and only treasure. Pleading to him to make the nightmare end.

Silence.

He watches as she is surrounded Watches as they pin her down. Watches as they rip’ the screaming child from her bony, unpolished fingers. Watches as they joyously hand the child to him to be consoled He continues to watch her as they drag her to her feet. Listens to her woeful laments And counts the tears as they stream down her face

Then, with a final smirk’ As if bored by such an emotional display,’ He turns on the pretentious heel of his well polished Louis Vuittons’ and calmly/ Walks/ Away/…

They watch her get carried out With somber faces, they ask questions, Each one she responds the same way Now knowing which direction the truth would take her

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Story excerpt

by Rachel L.

Zee grits their teeth. Fly through the pain. Fly through, damn it. Soaring above Baihe River, they close their eyes. Flying is the only safe way to move from place to place in Villordo. 

The air is thick with acrid fumes and floating dust. Breathing shallow, Zee continues to fly as the particles collect in the corner of their eyes. They don’t flinch. At this altitude, this is considered clean air. Beneath them, a family walks along the river. From where Zee is, the family looks like black crumbs crawling across red earth. Zee shakes their head. They won’t last more than five minutes. Zee winces, feeling a pang in their chest. Distracted, they fly full speed towards an exhaust tower of a klinda factory. Taking a sharp left turn, Zee avoids the collision by centimetres. Zee furrows their brow at the thought of walking along the Fraser River with their father. They scoff at the image of their younger self laughing and running in and out of the cool river. Their father used to watch them and let out a hearty chuckle. Zee shakes their head to rid the thought. There is no use for nostalgia in Villordo. The family is no longer moving along the river. Zee peers below to find a pile of pale bodies on the ground, a mere white stain on the red earth. Called it. Geez, when did I become so cold?

Zee feels themselves suddenly drop in altitude. They throw their head backward to examine their wings. The wings have retracted out of flight mode. Zee sighs as they fiddle with the control panel on their boots. Descending at god speed, Zee can feel the air becoming thicker and more volatile. The building below becomes discernable. A klinda dispensary. In a matter of seconds, Zee’s boots let out a gust of exhaust, launching Zee upward from the spikes of the gate enclosing the dispensary. They lower themselves. A drop of sweat trickles down from their furrowed brow, but Zee’s eyes remain hardened and cold. Fuck, I thought I was done with this toxic shit. First the sleep, now this. It’s been 15 days since Zee’s last dose of klinda. They despised the fuzzy feeling klinda made their mind feel, but Zee needed to choose between a level head or a full stomach. Zee notices a commotion in the line in front of the dispensary. Ration day. One can never get enough kilnda. Zee’s stomach rumbles. Smells of barbeque pork and steamed white rice drift into their memory. Chinatown seems so far away now-- a distant memory. Nothing grows in Villordo, but klinda is sustenance. Klinda is satisfaction. The gates open. People are brawling now. In the heat of the chaos, Zee shoves the people in front of them and grabs two packets of klinda. Zee’s wings open. They launch into the air, leaving a cloud of dust amongst the crowd. I need to survive too. 

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Red Rock World

by Victoria Marie

Red rock formations rise up enormous clay gods or demons erupting from the surface giant neptunes emerging from a sea of purple grass.

Landscape, strange, alien evoking longing home, remembered before the poison lush, green, full of life home, poisoned waters spawning frankenfish home, poisoned air devoid of birds IBPOC banishment water apartheid declared IBPOCs respond, federate.

Home, leaving home! Federation scientists predict, dream, escape taking the leap into space taking the leap with us children, elders the sick, the forgotten Red Rock World People welcome IBPOC Federation

On Red Rock World a new life for us begins Sharing, knowledge, stories, art, feasts, dances cement reciprocity, interdependence for tw0 peoples now on Red Rock World a question bombards my mind, What qualities, talents have I to share? Red Rock Grandmother smiles, answers

No matter where community needs everyone to do, to be, to live Take time, explore creativity untapped stirring, ever-expanding hidden by self-deception you have nothing to give. Let go, don't chain yourself to the bounded confines of others dreams You have a limitless well of inspiration within the cosmos of your own soul.

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Futurisms collage

by Rachel L.

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Part 1: The Moving

by Anushka Nagji

Ever since the Tilt — predicted for years to a world of supposedly intelligent beings in denial and preached for centuries from pulpits and caves of brimstone and fire, ever since an otherwise insignificant shift — inches, only inches, no one thing remained the same.

Outside the private disaster of modern day progress, surely something else still existed. Wasn’t burned away by those of us who bit the hand that fed them.

If there was any saving grace, it was this, those with less melanin, less colour, less shit, dusk and night sky in their skin and eyes, have been most affected. They are burning in the fires of their own hates, greeds and exploitation. It’s — an effected, poetic, terrifying kind of justice, this.

We have always known. We have always known how unstable, how precarious existence has been for us called other. Pushed to the edges. And then pushed even farther. Despite this, we have survived. All of it. We have never let the hell that existed around us destroy us so completely, so viciously, with so little effective resistance.

For those of us left, we are not together but we are not alone either. In the madness that followed that day, some of us found each other, found those we had already started calling sister and brother, not out of blood but out of the necessity of love. The necessity of survival. In preparation for what we knew was coming. An end that could be a beginning.

I am standing beside her new and she is most glorious thing I have seen so close to me. Skin so dark adjacent a sky that has never been so bright. She absorbs the heat, even where others have burned and bled in the wilting. This fatal irony is not lost on either of us as we watch our twin ally and enemy dip just below the horizon for an hour or so’s relief. We’ve walked for weeks to find this river, guided by thirst and ancestral memory. She’s been collecting the husks of fruit and flowering trees. We build them into a prayer, close to where we’re sleeping. When the sun returns to the bewildered sky, it will light into a fire and we will cook the last of our wild meat. Heart open. Hands steady. Moving with the heat.

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~Original call for applications~ Tomorrow Is Ours! IBPOC Futurisms Workshop

*IBPOC: Indigenous people, Black people and people of colour (including those who identify as mixed-race)

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7-Week multi-disciplinary writing workshop. For Indigenous people, Black people and other people of colour (including mixed-race folks)

February 22nd – April 5th, 2016

Application deadline: Friday, February 10th

Apply here: bit.ly/2iAY5iy

Maximum 12 participants 

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 WHERE: 

Vancouver Status of Women, 2652 East Hastings, Vancouver

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 WHEN:

 ◆3 hour workshops

◆Wednesday evenings

◆6 pm - 9 pm

◆February 22nd – April 5th

(Please note: Facebook is no longer allowing event pages longer than 2 weeks. This is a 7-week workshop, not 1 day)

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WHY:

 2016 was a difficult year, in the midst of difficult decades and centuries, for Indigenous people, Black people and other people of colour. The struggles we are facing are not new struggles, only the latest manifestations of the systems of oppression that seek to silence and erase us.

Now more than ever, we feel IBPOC voices are urgently needed in these times to lift up and give hope to ourselves, our people and broader communities. We're inspired by the incredible work being done by Afro-futurists and Indigenous-futurists in creating tangible and truly liberating futures for racialized people. Moving beyond reacting to the systems that oppress us and into future building for the world/s we want to manifest is work the universe urgently needs to hear, from our voices and perspectives.

 We believe that writing workshops by and for racialized people are a critical, yet rare, resource for building loving and resilient communities.

 We are constantly reacting, reaching outward, giving what we can and trying to survive in a system that eats up our bodies, our hearts, our spirits.

 Instead, let’s move beyond the reactionary. Let’s move into the imaginative, the creative and the transformative. Together, let’s dream up radical alternatives to white supremacy and systems of oppression. Let’s take time together to imagine new futures and better worlds.

 ◆What are the futures we want, need and breathe?

◆What new worlds could we create beyond the limits of dominant science, society and power structures?

◆What would the world look like if we centered the knowledge systems from our own communities, spiritualities, and ancestries?

◆What if liberation had already been achieved?

◆What would this world, where we have achieved liberation by and for our people, look, taste, smell and feel like?

◆What are the steps to getting us there?

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 WHO:

 You are someone who:

◆wants to reach in and beyond your imagination

◆be part of a creative process that allows you to nurture your playfulness and be part of working to build radical alternatives for our futures

◆may or may not identify as a writer but who likes to write

◆wants to explore the connection between your mind, heart, body and spirit through writing and storytelling

◆is willing to reach into the realms of intuition, instinct and imagination to tap into visions of a liberatory world and/or worlds

◆is committed to anti-oppression principles and understanding the lifelong journey of learning and unlearning

◆is willing to take creative risks in a nurturing, loving group environment

 We are:

◆Molly: Northern Coast Salish (Homalco/Klahoose), queer, mixed, urban indigenous, spoken word poet, facilitator and youth worker (more info coming)

◆Amal: Pakistani, brown mixie, Muslim, queer, performance poet, facilitator/educator (more info coming)

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 HOW:

Workshops will use a combination of:

◆writing prompts and other methods of creative expression (visual, oral and more)

◆texts, audio, video, other resources and inspiration

◆interactive exercises

◆group discussions and individual writing time

◆optional sharing within a loving and reflective environment

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 "Once the imagination is unshackled, liberation is limitless." Walidah Imarisha

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 APPLY/COST:

 If you have read all of the above and are feeling encouraged, we invite you to apply!

You can do so here: bit.ly/2iAY5iy

 The deadline to apply is Friday, February 10th, (midnight pst).

 Registration Fee: $300-$500

 Note: We are doing this workshop without external funding. In order to allow us to do this sustainably, as Indigenous and Muslim artists and independent educators/facilitators, we have set a sliding scale registration fee of $300 - $500.

 We also understand first hand the very limited resources available to Indigenous people, Black people and people of colour. We do not want registation fees to be a barrier for the very people who need this workshop the most - our communities.

 We are calling on our allies in the community to support this work by donating funds. There are 12 spots available for this workshop series, open only to IBPOC. Our hope is that the registration fee for many of these spots can be covered by donations from allies. There is no guarantee of funds though we will do our best to fundraise. If, as an applicant, you are making a sustainable wage and/or are able to pay on a scale of $300-$500 for the registration fee, we welcome that. If you are able to pay less than $300-$500, we are looking to raise donations from allies to support your registration. There is also the possibility of paying in instalments or other payment plans. The amount you are able to contribute will not effect your eligibility to participate in the workshop. Just gives us a clear picture of how much money we are looking to raise to support this initiative. If you have questions about this- please reach out! ibpocfutures@gmail.com

Limited to 12 participants

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ACCESSIBILITY:

-The space is one level and wheelchair/scooter accessible throughout, including the entrance and the single stall, gender neutral washroom.

-Seating consists of two couches, some desk chairs and regular un-cushioned chairs, both with arms and without. There are also several large pillows and a lot of carpeted floor space for moving, stretching, etc.

- We’ll strive together to create a scent reduced space. We are however not the only ones using the space. There are some scented materials used for cleaning.

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Questions?

Email: ibpocfutures@gmail.com

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