iris1499

[iris1499]

Blog post#6

This week’s coursework brought me back to an important question: what does resistance look like when traditional power is out of reach? Through See You Yesterday and Parable of the Sower, I was reminded that Afrofuturism is not only about escaping injustice with science or faith—it’s about confronting it in deeply personal, sometimes painful, ways. It’s about the loops we can’t break, and the futures we dare to imagine anyway.

See You Yesterday hit me harder this time, especially after our class discussion. I’ve always been fascinated by time-travel stories, but what stayed with me wasn’t the science—it was the emotional toll of trying to fix something that keeps breaking. Watching C.J. relive her brother’s death, over and over, with no guarantee of success, made me think about how many times communities have tried to protest, to vote, to speak up—and still ended up grieving. Her determination felt familiar. But what struck me more was the silence around her. The world keeps spinning as if nothing has happened, as if her loss is hers alone. That loneliness—that disconnect—felt like a core part of what Afrofuturism is addressing: the way Black pain is so often isolated or erased from collective memory.

In contrast, Parable of the Sower offered a different kind of resistance—one rooted in shared vision. Lauren’s belief in Earthseed isn’t flashy or immediate. She doesn’t try to reverse time; she writes, listens, and adapts. Her way of leading isn’t to force change but to invite people into it. I realized how rare that is in stories: leadership that doesn’t require domination. As we talked in class about “God is Change,” I thought about how much of my life I spend trying to control things—grades, plans, expectations. Lauren’s calm acceptance of instability was uncomfortable at first, but gradually, it made sense. Maybe resistance isn’t always action—it can also be mindset. And that made me reflect on my own habits: how do I respond to change? Do I panic? Or do I grow?

What resonated with me most this week was how these two works showed two ends of a spectrum. C.J. is desperate to change the past; Lauren is focused on shaping the future. One reacts; the other builds. Both face injustice, but their responses are so different—and equally valid. This duality stayed with me. In the classroom, we often talk about activism or social justice as big movements, but this week’s texts reminded me that resistance can also be deeply personal. It can mean continuing to believe in something, even when nothing around you encourages it.

As I think about my role in the world, I realize I’m still figuring out what kind of resistance I’m capable of. But this week, I’ve learned that the first step is awareness—and the next is choosing not to remain silent, even when it feels like no one is listening.

[iris1499]

Blog post#5

As the quarter comes to a close, I’m noticing a theme that runs through many of the works we’ve discussed: being othered. Whether it's aliens, robots, or vampires, Afrofuturism often uses figures on the margins to explore the experiences of real people who are treated as “less than” in society. This week’s works—Sinners and Greedy Choke Puppy—continued that theme in surprising ways. I hadn’t thought much about vampires in relation to Black culture before, but now I see how powerful the metaphor can be.

In Sinners, the horror of the vampire story is mixed with something more grounded: the exploitation of Black musicians during the Jim Crow era. The film shows how white record producers “fed” off the talent of Black artists, literally turning their voices into something consumable. What made the film even more effective for me was its use of music—not just as background, but as memory. When the vampire bluesman sings, it’s like he’s reaching across time to remind us of what was taken. That idea—that music can carry grief, history, and resistance—stuck with me. It also reminded me of our earlier discussions about how art, especially when created by marginalized people, is often stolen or stripped of its roots once it becomes profitable.

Then in Greedy Choke Puppy, Nalo Hopkinson reimagines Caribbean vampire folklore through the lens of female grief and rage. The main character doesn’t just feed on people—she feeds on sorrow, including her own. There was something deeply emotional about that. It made me think about how grief can be both destructive and deeply human. I also liked how the story blurred the line between folklore and science. The doctor character tries to explain away the vampire’s existence, but the story suggests that cultural knowledge and personal experience are just as valid as scientific explanation. That tension between belief and logic felt really relevant—not just in fiction, but in how different cultures understand the world.

What resonated with me most this week was how these stories used “monsters” not to scare us, but to reveal what’s already terrifying about our reality: racism, exploitation, loss, and the way history repeats when it’s not remembered. Afrofuturism doesn’t just imagine the future—it reclaims the past and turns it into something that speaks. Whether it's through a song or a short story, these works helped me see that even the supernatural can be a form of truth-telling.

[iris1499]

Reimagining Power and Possibility

As we wrapped up the quarter, the last two class sessions made me reflect on how Afrofuturism stretches across both history and the future—and how both are deeply connected by the question of power. Steven Barnes’s guest lecture on Lion’s Blood reminded me that speculative fiction isn’t just about imagining other worlds—it’s also about rewriting the stories we’ve been told about this one. Barnes created an alternate history where African Muslims colonized the Americas and enslaved Europeans. On the surface, that reversal might seem provocative, but the way he spoke about it made me realize how seriously he approached the moral weight of that idea. He didn’t write it as a revenge fantasy. Instead, he asked: What would power look like if the roles were reversed? Would people treat each other any differently?

What stood out to me most was how deeply he felt the emotional impact of writing violence and injustice, even in fiction. He talked about how hard it was to write scenes where power was abused, because he wanted to stay grounded in empathy and truth. That made me think differently about storytelling—not just as entertainment or “worldbuilding,” but as an ethical act. Writing from the point of view of someone with power forces you to examine what power actually does to people. Barnes said he wanted to honor history, not exploit it. That level of care really stuck with me.

Then in our final session, we shifted to a very different kind of future: artificial intelligence. We talked about tools like ChatGPT and DeepSeek, and how AI is now writing, illustrating, even narrating audiobooks. At first, I thought the conversation might feel unrelated to Afrofuturism, but it actually fit perfectly. We weren’t just talking about robots—we were talking about labor, creativity, and ownership. Watching Robots of Brixton brought this all into focus. The robots were meant to symbolize a disposable labor class, but it didn’t feel that far from reality. The film made me ask: who gets to be seen as fully human in a system that runs on productivity?

One question kept coming back in both sessions: Who gets to imagine the future, and who gets erased from it? Barnes used fiction to give voice to a different kind of past, one where power isn’t taken for granted. Our discussion of AI made me wonder if we're slowly giving away parts of our voice to tools that don’t have any stake in what’s being said. I also realized that even using AI as a student feels complicated—when does it help us think, and when does it replace the thinking?

I’m ending this class with more questions than answers, but also with a stronger understanding of how imagination is political. Whether we’re looking backward or forward, Afrofuturism asks us not just what could happen—but who gets to decide.

[iris1499]

Blog assignment#3

As the course has progressed, I’ve started to see how Afrofuturism isn’t limited to science fiction or distant futures. Through works like Daughters of the Dust and The Brother from Another Planet, I’ve learned that Afrofuturism can also be rooted in memory, silence, and everyday survival. Daughters of the Dust stood out to me the most. The use of an unborn child as the narrator made me think about how the past and future can exist in the same moment. It also helped me understand how cultural storytelling can be a way of passing on history, even without relying on traditional narrative structure. The film’s pacing felt unfamiliar at first, but I began to appreciate its rhythm and visual language, which expressed emotion more than plot.

The Brother from Another Planet offered a very different lens, but I was surprised by how strongly it resonated. The main character doesn’t speak at all, but that silence creates space for reflection. Watching how others respond to him says as much about society as it does about him. His quiet empathy and observant nature reminded me of Lauren from Parable of the Sower, especially in the way both characters navigate systems that treat them as outsiders. The film made me consider how silence can be a tool—not just for survival, but for witnessing.

Across these stories, I noticed a shared focus on migration—not only physical movement, but emotional and generational shifts. In Sorry to Bother You, this theme becomes even more urgent, showing how individuals must often change parts of themselves in order to survive in exploitative systems. That film especially challenged me to think about how language, identity, and success are shaped by systems of power. It left me questioning: what does survival cost, and what’s left of a person when survival becomes performance?

These stories also made me reflect on the role of community. In Daughters of the Dust, the tension between staying and leaving wasn’t just personal—it was collective. The characters had to decide what parts of their culture they were willing to let go of, and what they needed to preserve in order to stay connected to who they were. That same idea showed up in The Brother from Another Planet, where small acts of kindness and mutual support helped the alien character survive in an unfamiliar world. Even in Sorry to Bother You, where the tone is surreal and chaotic, resistance only becomes powerful when people act together. I think Afrofuturism often asks: What does a just future look like, and who do we build it with?

[iris1499]

Blog post 2

In today's world, problems like wealth inequality and racial discrimination are getting worse. More and more, it feels like people are divided and disconnected. That’s why I would create an Earthseed community—a place where people can come together, trust one another, and build a better future. I believe what the Parable of the Sower teaches: "The only lasting truth is Change." In my community, we would accept that change is a natural part of life, not something to fear. We would teach children and adults to adapt, to learn, and to grow as the world changes around us. I would also follow the idea that "God is Change." We would live by this truth every day, staying flexible when challenges come and working together to shape change into something positive. Whether it is a new farming method, a new leadership idea, or a way to face outside dangers, we would see change as a chance to survive and to thrive.

I would build this community in a small, warm town surrounded by forests and a river. The town would feel like a true paradise—peaceful, self-sufficient, and close to nature. The climate would be gentle all year round, and the land would be good for growing fruits, vegetables, and grains. In this world, neighbors would know each other, support one another, and build deep, trusting relationships, far away from the chaos of big cities.

Our community would welcome anyone who believes in equality and is willing to help others. People who carry hate, racism, or refuse to respect others would not be allowed to stay. Leadership would be organized through democratic voting, where everyone has a voice and important decisions are made together. This way, the community stays flexible and strong as challenges arise.

To support our survival, I would introduce a Smart Eco-System that collects solar energy, filters rainwater for daily use, and supports sustainable farming. We would live fully off the land, depending on renewable energy and our own gardens for food. Everyone would contribute through daily labor, and children would attend school together, learning not only math, reading, and writing, but also natural science, survival skills, world history, and Earthseed philosophy. Education would teach them not just facts, but how to adapt and build a better future.

Daily life would be busy but joyful. After a day of hard work, the community would gather in the evenings for meals, music, and outdoor activities in the park. Sometimes we would set off fireworks to celebrate life and hope. We would have special festivals too, like a Spring Festival to mark new beginnings, and a Fall Moon Festival to celebrate harvest and community under the stars.

We would protect nature by planting trees every year, running a recycling system, using eco-friendly building materials, and holding an annual "Earth Day" where everyone joins together to restore and clean the land. To defend against threats like natural disasters or outside raiders, we would build a safe shelter center and rely on cooperation and negotiation instead of violence.

In this community, the most important lessons would be learning that all people are equal, building trust with each other, and holding onto hope even when things are hard. In a changing world, our Earthseed community would not just survive—we would grow, adapt, and thrive together.

[iris1499]

Blog Assignment #1

Before this class, I had never really heard of Afrofuturism. As an Asian student, and who grew up in China, it wasn’t something I learned about in school or saw in the media growing up. I assumed it was mostly science fiction stories with Black characters, maybe set in space. I didn’t realize how meaningful and emotional it could be, or how it could connect so deeply to real-world issues.

One of the first works that left a strong impression on me was The Space Traders. At first, I thought the idea of the U.S. government trading away all Black citizens to aliens was exaggerated and unrealistic. But as I kept watching, it started to feel disturbingly possible. It made me think about how often governments are willing to sacrifice the rights of some people for what they claim is the “greater good.” What was most uncomfortable was realizing that if I were part of the majority in that world, I might be silent—or even complicit. That thought stayed with me.

Another piece that really impacted me was White, a short film by A. Sayeedah Clark. It tells the story of a Black man living in a dystopian future where race—specifically melanin—has literally become a commodity. His wife goes into early labor, and he can’t afford the clinic costs. In the end, he chooses to “donate” his melanin in exchange for money, essentially giving up his identity to save his family. The final image of his pale, bleached hands cradling his Black newborn daughter was deeply emotional.

That scene hit me hard. He didn’t resist loudly or publicly—he just made a choice in silence, and that silence said everything. It reminded me that not all forms of resistance are loud or dramatic. Sometimes survival itself is resistance. As an Asian student, I’ve never experienced this level of racial violence or dehumanization, but I have felt the quieter pressures to erase parts of who I am. Whether it was trying to sound “less foreign” in classrooms or seeing lighter skin always praised in Asian media, I’ve grown up with messages that say: lighter skin tones often received more praise or were seen as more “ideal”。 Watching White made me reflect on how deeply those ideas run—not just in American society, but across many cultures. The main character’s quiet sacrifice made me ask: how much of ourselves are we expected to give up just to get basic dignity?

This class has helped me understand that Afrofuturism is not just about imagining faraway futures. It’s about using imagination to reveal the truths of the present. Even though these stories come from a different cultural background than mine, they made me reflect on my own experiences with identity, beauty, and belonging. I didn’t expect to relate so much, but I did—and that’s what made this class so valuable to me.