michele-far

[michele-far]

Blog Post 6

Wow I can’t believe it is the end of the quarter! I feel like this quarter flew by. For my final blog post I want to discuss “Walking Awake” by N.K. Jemisin. When I finished Walking Awake by N.K. Jemisin, I didn’t know whether to cry or scream. Maybe both. What hit me hardest wasn’t just the horror of the parasitic Masters or the sheer violence of the system they uphold, it was the slow, quiet burn of complicity, of waking up to your own role in something monstrous. At the heart of the story is Sadie, a caregiver in a world where humanity is bred and raised like livestock, their bodies harvested for alien parasites who rule as Masters. Her job is to nurture children who will eventually be taken, and she does it well. She tells herself she has no choice. She tells herself she is being kind. But when Enri, a boy she raised, is selected for transfer, something breaks. The story doesn’t explode right away. It seeps. The rage, the guilt, the knowledge, all of it accumulates like pressure beneath a dam. There’s a moment that haunted me: when a Master, in a borrowed human body, says casually, “I never let them get past fifty… You’ll understand when you get there.” The violence of that sentence is disguised as familiarity, but it’s chilling. That’s when I realized Jemisin was writing not just about sci-fi parasites but about systems that consume people, bodies, lives, futures, with smiling efficiency. Slavery, colonialism, capitalism, patriarchy. It’s all there. Sadie’s dreams act as a metaphor for awakening. Through them, she reconnects with Enri, his consciousness still alive somewhere, preserved in the dark, and begins to understand the true history that’s been denied to her. And it’s devastating. Jemisin forces us to ask: What does it take to not just see the truth but to act on it? For Sadie, it takes the risk of total obliteration. Not just her death, but the loss of her sense of self. Her final act, locking herself in the transfer room, denying the Master a new host, and offering herself as the weapon of vengeance and liberation, isn’t just heroic. It’s tragic. She doesn’t know if it will work. She only knows she can’t be complicit anymore. And in a system built on silence, compliance, and forgetfulness, that choice, to know and to refuse, is revolutionary. Jemisin’s story isn't hopeful in a traditional sense. It's searing. It strips away the fantasy that we can escape oppression without cost. But Walking Awake does offer something else: the truth that resistance starts in the mind, in dangerous thoughts, and in the courage to act on them, no matter how late. For me, Walking Awake is a reminder that the systems we live in are only as strong as our willingness to maintain them, and as fragile as our decision to say, “No more.”

[michele-far]

Blog Post 5

Reading Professor Due’s Herd Immunity was like reopening a wound I didn’t realize was still tender. This post-apocalyptic short story, set in the sun-scorched stillness of California farmland, brought back intense memories from the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, when everything was uncertain, everyone a potential threat, and survival meant something different to everyone. At its heart, Herd Immunity is not just about surviving a virus, it’s about what it means to be human when everything human is stripped away. Nayima is not a hero in the traditional sense. She’s not altruistic or righteous. She’s a survivor in the purest sense of the word, pragmatic, lonely, angry, yearning. And I felt that. Deeply. What struck me most was Nayima’s hunger for companionship. After months of silence and solitude, the simple act of seeing another living person walking in the distance, just breathing, was enough to shake her survival instincts. What makes the story even more haunting is the moral ambiguity that builds until its final moment. Nayima isn’t a villain, but she makes a choice that feels like betrayal. She kisses Kyle in his sleep, without his consent, believing he’s immune like her. It’s a moment that made my stomach twist, because it exposes how easily even good intentions can mask selfishness, how desperation can lead us to gamble with someone else’s life just to feel less alone. 

What stays with me after reading this story is the haunting image of Nayima walking away from Kyle, someone she thought might be her future, after possibly dooming him. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t fall apart. She simply leaves, because that’s what survivors do in her world. But her detachment is terrifying. It's the cost of living too long without connection, accountability, or hope. And maybe that’s the hardest part of this pandemic legacy: the numbness. I remember when the death toll passed half a million and headlines read like statistics, not obituaries. When we became desensitized to suffering because it was just too much. Like Nayima, many of us learned to keep walking, keep surviving, sometimes at the cost of our empathy. But unlike Nayima, we don’t have to stay numb. We can rebuild. We can listen to music and remember each other’s names. We can remember what it's like to care for people beyond utility or convenience. Herd Immunity isn’t just a cautionary tale, it’s a reminder. A reminder that surviving is only the first step. Living again, together, that’s the real challenge. And the real hope.

[michele-far]

Blog Post 4

When I first picked up Lion’s Blood by Steven Barnes, I thought I was walking into an intriguing alternate history, a provocative thought experiment where Africa colonizes the Americas and Europeans are enslaved. What I didn’t expect was to walk out of it with a wholly restructured understanding of history, power, and the fragile foundations of the narratives we call truth. This wasn’t just fiction. It was an intellectual and emotional excavation. And after listening to an interview with Barnes, I’ve come to appreciate the novel on a much deeper level.

The driving force behind Lion’s Blood isn’t shock value. Barnes makes it clear: he didn’t want to flip race roles for the sake of irony or easy commentary. This wasn’t a “White Man’s Burden” surface-level reversal. It was a serious meditation on the question: Why did history unfold the way it did? More specifically, Why did Europe colonize Africa, and not the other way around? That question alone, posed sincerely and without bias, demands that we confront our most deeply embedded assumptions. Barnes didn’t allow himself the comfort of easy answers. He rejected the racist ideologies that quietly linger in much of our cultural software, the insidious idea that African societies “just didn’t have what it took” to build empires. Instead, he immersed himself in years of research, drawing from Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel, and applied a rigorous alternate history framework: change only one thing in history, and allow the rest to logically follow. That single change? Socrates, instead of drinking hemlock, flees to Egypt. From there, a ripple effect unfolds: Egyptian influence grows, Alexander the Great allies with and marries into African royalty, sub-Saharan genes and governance become entwined with Mediterranean civilization, and a new world power arises from the African continent. The result? A world where Islamic Africans colonize the Americas and enslave white Europeans. And suddenly, the world of Lion’s Blood is born.

What struck me most about Barnes’ vision wasn’t just its inversion of roles, it was the plausibility. In the interview, Barnes breaks down the geographic and environmental advantages that shaped European development: a horizontally aligned Eurasian landmass allowed for easier diffusion of agricultural technology, domesticated animals, and trade. Africa, by contrast, spans a vertical axis. Its dramatically shifting climate zones make it far more difficult to share crops, animals, and technologies from north to south. This is one of Lion’s Blood’s greatest insights: history isn’t a morality tale. It’s geography, happenstance, disease vectors, and dumb luck. It’s who got the right animals, who lived next to the right rivers, and who built roads before their neighbors did.

Barnes is explicit that his goal was never to present Africans as morally superior to Europeans. If African civilizations had the same military, religious, and economic advantages that Europe had in our history, they would have done the same things, enslaved, colonized, oppressed. Because power corrupts, not skin color. What makes Lion’s Blood so powerful is that it refuses to indulge in racial romanticism. Barnes doesn’t trade white supremacy for Black supremacy. He builds a world where Africans are capable of all the same horrors, and heroics, as their European counterparts. In doing so, he underscores the radical idea that all humans are just humans, capable of cruelty, compassion, and everything in between.

Reading this novel was sobering. It forced me to reckon with how short our history really is. As Barnes and his wife noted in the interview, there were still formerly enslaved people alive in the 1930s. Barnes himself knew someone raised by a former slave. These stories aren’t ancient. They’re living memory. And the legacies of that history — the inequalities, the biases, the myths, are still with us. Lion’s Blood helped me see that alternate history is not just speculative. It’s a tool for truth-telling. By changing one thing, Barnes reveals how much of what we take for granted could have been different, and how much still can be. It’s a work of fiction that’s really about the facts: the fact that our systems are built, not ordained. That they can be dismantled. That justice is possible.

In today’s world, where debates about race, history, and power are louder than ever, Lion’s Blood offers a vital perspective. It doesn’t let anyone off the hook. It doesn’t offer easy heroes. But it demands empathy. And it makes clear that understanding the past, not the sanitized version, but the messy, ugly, hopeful, and complex version, is the only way forward. And after reading it, I’m left with more questions than answers, but also with a renewed sense of hope. Because if the world we live in was shaped by choices, then maybe, just maybe, a better one can be too.

[michele-far]

Blog Post #3

Keeping up with my music theme for blog posts, I want to discuss our in-class viewing of “This is America” by Childish Gambino. Again, like I’ve previously discussed for Kendrick Lamar’s “DNA,” there’s something I find so mystifying about the artists’ ability to take important social issues and craft them into a visually artistic masterpiece. I remember watching the “This is America” music video when it first came out and instantly getting chills; the lyrics, the imagery, and the overall mood of the music video are so eerie. Truly, it is so revealing of the state our country is in with systemic racism, police brutality, and the corruption of our government. What makes “This is America” really powerful is the contrast between the upbeat music and the dark, violent imagery that unfolds onscreen. Childish Gambino uses this dissonance to critique how American culture distracts itself from serious societal issues by focusing on irrelevant issues. In the video, Glover performs dance moves reminiscent of viral trends, but in the background, chaos erupts, people are being chased, shot, and rioting. These juxtapositions symbolize how Black pain is often overlooked or commodified, while the spectacle of Black culture is consumed for amusement. Similarly, Many of the movements Gambino does, such as the South African Gwara Gwara dance, reflect diasporic connections to African cultural expression. These dances, while often popularized through social media, carry deep roots in African traditions and histories of resistance, celebration, and community. By blending these African dance styles with contemporary viral moves, the video bridges past and present, linking the enduring resilience of Black cultural identity across time and place. This incorporation serves not only as an homage to African heritage but also underscores the tension between cultural appreciation and appropriation in mainstream American entertainment. In a video so concerned with the spectacle of performance and its ability to distract, these African dance elements ground the piece in a lineage of Black creativity and survival that transcends borders. The lyrics themselves are minimalistic but intentional. Lines like “This is America / Don’t catch you slippin’ up” are warnings wrapped in irony, suggesting that survival in America, particularly for Black Americans, requires constant vigilance. The gun violence portrayed in the video is shocking and deliberately abrupt. Each time a shooting occurs, the gun is delicately handed off in cloth while the bodies are ignored, visually commenting on how American society seems to value firearms more than human life, especially Black life. The most haunting part of the video is its refusal to provide resolution. It ends with Glover running for his life in the dark, pursued by a mob, an image that evokes centuries of racial terror and ongoing fears about racialized violence. By weaving together these visuals and lyrics, “This is America” does more than comment on injustice; it immerses the viewer in the contradictions and crises of American life. Its significance lies in how it refuses to let the viewer look away. Like the best art, it forces confrontation, reflection, and reckoning. At the same time, the repeated phrase “This is America” becomes a stark indictment of what the country represents today. Once idealized as the land of opportunity and the American Dream, the video exposes how far America has fallen, into systemic violence, racial inequality, and moral contradiction. The dream is nonexistent for communities of color. Instead of freedom and prosperity, the America depicted here is one where survival is uncertain.

[michele-far]

Blog Post #2

I spent a lot of time thinking about real-world issues that would cause me to create my own Earthseed community, and wow, did I think of a few. Too many even. What is even scarier is that the issues I thought of were the same issues that caused Lauren to run away and create the Earthseed community in the book. The two most important that I could think of were climate change and distrust in the governing bodies, resulting in the downfall of the government. I feel a sense of fear and impending doom just writing this after having read the book and so much of what is written in the book seems to be coming true. So the book opens with a description of their society as being confined within walls in which the people of the community care for each other. Outside the walls, the society is seemingly plagued by inequality, criminal activity, and is controlled by ignorant rulers and exploited by big corporations (basically what is going on in our society today). And then on top of that, climate change is decimating communities either with water or fire. I just want to know how Butler was able to paint a picture of a society that so closely resembles our society today. 

I’m like the verse “Drowning people / Sometimes die / Fighting their rescuers” because it captures the painful truth that fear and resistance to helpful change can prevent growth. In my Earthseed community, I would apply this verse as a reminder that transformation requires trust, and that letting go of old patterns or comfort can feel scary, even when it’s necessary for survival. It would serve as a guiding principle: to embrace change not with fear, but with openness, recognizing that salvation often looks unfamiliar. I also resonate with the verse “A tree / Cannot grow / In its parents’ shadows” because it speaks to the need for independence and self-definition, especially in the face of generational expectations. In a lecture quiz, I discussed how Lauren has a great sense of agency, which she uses to save herself despite her salvation deriving from everything society was against. In my Earthseed community, this verse would be a foundation for encouraging individuals to break free from inherited limitations, cultural, familial, or societal, and to cultivate their own paths. It reminds us that growth often requires space, autonomy, and the courage to step into the light of our own becoming.

My Earthseed community will be located along a quiet, rocky stretch of the northern California coast, where the ocean provides both a natural barrier and a source of sustenance. The remoteness offers safety from urban collapse while the coastline supports fishing, seaweed harvesting, and solar-powered desalination. Only women-identifying individuals can join, those committed to mutual care, personal growth, and the my communities principles of adaptability, accountability, and building strength through shared experience. This exclusion of men is meant to create a sanctuary from patriarchal violence and trauma, fostering an environment where healing and collective strength can flourish. Leadership will follow a rotating council model, with small groups chosen by consensus to serve for fixed terms, ensuring shared responsibility and preventing power from becoming concentrated.

In my Earthseed community, we’ll use wearable biometric trackers, which are fabric or ornaments embedded with sensors that track health indicators like hydration, hormone levels, and stress patterns in real time. Instead of relying on centralized healthcare systems, each member can monitor their physical and emotional state independently, with the option to share data within the group if they choose. This helps us respond early to illness, burnout, or emotional distress, especially in a high-pressure post-collapse world. With this, it’s about practicality, staying ahead of problems, not scrambling to fix them once they blow up. Our survival strategy focuses on being as independent as possible. We’ll grow our own food, manage our own power and water, and build strong internal systems for conflict resolution and decision-making. To create a stable future, we’ll prioritize education that’s hands-on and relevant. Physical skills and emotional intelligence will be taught alongside reading and critical thinking. Our housing will be simple but durable, using whatever materials are local, easy to access, safe, and easy to repair. Our housing is less about aesthetics, more about keeping everyone safe and warm.

[michele-far]

Blog Post #1

For my first blog post, I want to reflect on Montero by Lil Nas X, which we discussed in Week 2. A big part of why I chose to write about this video is because I still remember the reaction it sparked when it was first released. It was everywhere, news outlets, social media, and debates about religion and morality. And honestly, I was shocked too when I first saw it back in 2021. I didn’t know what to make of it. Looking back, I realize some of my initial reactions came from misconceptions, both my own and those being distributed at the time. A lot of the controversy, especially the whole “devil worship” label, came from the fact that we’d never really seen a mainstream artist play with religious imagery in such a bold and unapologetic way. 

When I watch the video and listen to the lyrics, I honestly don’t see much direct connection between the lyrics and the imagery of the music video, nor Afrofuturism. The video leans way more into fantasy and religious subversion than it does into any kind of sci-fi future. So I get why our professor pointed out that this isn’t Afrofuturism per se, but it still operates in a similar essence. Like a lot of Afrofuturist works, Montero is about reclaiming a story that’s been used to harm and marginalize people. It’s not about imagining a different world in the sci-fi sense, but about reshaping the meaning of symbols that have historically been used against queer folks.

One of the most unforgettable parts of the video is the descent into hell. Lil Nas X slides down a stripper pole, passing through a gate made of human bodies (souls?) twisting and tangled like they’re bearing the weight of centuries of shame. It’s dramatic and symbolic, but it’s also empowering. Hell isn’t portrayed as a punishment, it becomes a place of transformation. By the time he reaches the devil, Lil Nas X isn’t asking to be redeemed. He’s taking control. And when he kills the devil and puts the horns on himself? That’s the moment. That’s the full reversal of power.

It’s easy to see why this was so controversial, especially among religious conservatives. But it’s also clear that this wasn’t just about shock value. It was about liberation. For so many queer people, religion has been used to label them as sinners, to exclude and condemn them. The video feels like a direct response to that. As we talked about in class, what’s frustrating is how selectively people interpret religious texts. The Bible is full of violent, problematic stories and yet people fixate on a handful of verses about homosexuality while ignoring everything else. That kind of cherry-picking says more about people’s biases than it does about the actual text.

And that’s what makes Montero so powerful. It doesn’t just challenge that kind of thinking, reclaims it. Lil Nas X turns shame into empowerment. Someone in class also brought up Samuel R. Delany’s “Aye, and Gomorrah,” which ties queerness into speculative fiction in a really compelling way. While Montero leans more toward fantasy than sci-fi, it’s still part of that larger tradition of reimagining who gets to have power, who gets to tell the story, and what it means to exist outside the lines of what society considers acceptable.

In the end, Montero isn’t just a music video. It’s a statement. It’s a reclamation. And it’s a reminder that sometimes, flipping the narrative is the most radical thing you can do.