Octavia's Brood: Science Fiction Stories From Social Justice Movements Read online

  The conversation went on like that, but in the end, Kelvin knew his son was going to be a superhero, and nothing could stop it from happening. He wanted to be angry, but his wife Voncetta—the pragmatic one in the family—helped calm him down. “Daddy K, are you really going to be angry that our son was blessed with wings and has decided to use them to fly?” she asked.

  Even though Voncetta calmed him down, Kelvin could not bring himself to sign the parental release form required for Alonzo to join Teen Justice Force. Instead, Voncetta signed the release. “It’s not that your daddy doesn’t want you being a superhero, it’s just that he worries about you,” said Voncetta. “You know that, son?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Alonzo.

  With the written consent of his mother, Alonzo Ramey became one of the first members of Teen Justice Force, and the only member of color—unless you counted Neptuna, who had bluish skin and could breathe underwater. Neptuna had been given a terrible name, and when it became the object of public ridicule, it was quickly changed. Alonzo didn’t have the same luck. He had been given the superhero name Black Fist, which made absolutely no sense to him. It wasn’t like he had unusually large fists, or fists made of anvils—like the supervillain Anvil Fist—or that his powers were solely based in his fists. No, he was stuck with the name Black Fist because, when push came to shove, no one wanted to think that hard when it came time to give the token black guy on Teen Justice Force his name.

  Alonzo’s career in Teen Justice Force was perfectly fine, although he was the only member without his own solo comic book or an endorsement deal. Even Neptuna got some choice deals—although these came after her name was changed to Princess Oceana. And when the Teen Justice Force animated series proved popular enough to see a line of action figures produced, the only member to not have a figure made was Black Fist.

  If it had been just a case of not having his own comic, action figure, or endorsement deals, the degradation of being a black superhero with “black” in his name might have been bearable. But all of that stuff was minor compared to the fact that neither Black Fist nor his alter ego got much respect from the press. In private, Black Fist was pretty much the leader of Teen Justice Force. In a fight, the other members all turned to him for decisions, and on multiple occasions he’d saved each of them from certain death. But every article about the force’s exploits always seemed to downplay his involvement, saying, “Black Fist was also present” (if he was even mentioned at all).

  Things didn’t get better when Alonzo aged out of Teen Justice Force, which is when Captain Freedom, the leader of Super Justice Force, offered him a position on the team. But at the age of twenty, Alonzo was already bitter, cynical, and tired of being a token. He tried to reinvent himself, with a new costume and a new name, but none of it took. Twice he’d been attacked by other superheroes who’d mistaken him for a supervillain, and then there was the time he’d been shot by cops. Fortunately the bullets had bounced off. Disgusted and depressed, Alonzo Ramey decided to retire from the superhero business.

  Despite his original misgivings, no one was more disappointed by the retirement of Black Fist than Kelvin Ramey. He had come to see that his son was a great superhero. In the barbershop where Kelvin worked, the exploits of Black Fist were a regular topic of conversation, along with relevant issues such as police brutality in the community, gentrification, and how music was so much better “back in the day.” The autographed picture of Black Fist hanging on the wall at the shop got more comments than the photos of famous rappers and athletes.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Kelvin asked his son.

  “I thought you of all people would be happy to see me give it up,” Alonzo said.

  “I just want to make sure you’re giving it up for the right reasons,” Kelvin said. He took great care not to explain what the “right reasons” were, because he knew that was something only Alonzo could determine for himself.

  So Black Fist officially retired, and Alonzo tried to adjust to his new life, but it wasn’t easy. He got a regular job and enrolled in college, with no plans other than leading a normal life. After a few months, however, he started missing the action and excitement of being a superhero—even when it came with little respect or acknowledgment. And one day, while riding the subway home from his boring job in the non-superhero world, he saw something that changed his life.

  A group of rowdy teens, not much younger than Alonzo, had been terrorizing passengers on the train headed uptown. His years as a superhero kicked in, and Alonzo started to intervene, but before he could, another group of teens entered the subway car. These kids, a motley group of three boys and two girls—of various backgrounds—rushed the rowdy teens. For a moment it looked like things would turn violent.

  The punks who had been terrorizing the other passengers were bigger, but the other kids stood their ground. And after a few heated words laced with profanity, the confrontation ended. That’s when Alonzo noticed that the kids who stood up to the punks were all wearing T-shirts with an image of Black Fist. In all his time as Black Fist, there had never been any officially licensed merchandise—no T-shirts, pajamas, or anything like that.

  “Excuse me,” Alonzo said to the group of teenagers. “Where’d you get those shirts?”

  “We made ’em,” said one of the girls. She flashed a huge grin, revealing the braces that covered her teeth.

  “You made your own Black Fist T-shirts?” Alonzo asked. “Why?”

  All at once, the kids launched into an explanation of how Black Fist had not only been the coolest member of Teen Justice Force but was also the coolest superhero around.

  “He does what he does because he can do it,” said one of the boys. “It ain’t all about the business with him.”

  “He just made me feel good about myself because, you know, he’s black and all,” said the other girl.

  “I just wish he hadn’t retired,” said the first girl.

  In that moment, it struck Alonzo Ramey that being a superhero meant more than endorsement deals, your own comic book series, and whatever fame and fortune might come your way for fighting the good fight. He had gone through years of training, been on countless missions, and saved hundreds of lives, but it was that moment on the subway that he understood what it was all about.

  Yes, he’d been a token black superhero in a world made up mostly of white heroes. Yes, his name was ridiculous, and he hated that it was a constant reminder that others felt the need to state the obvious when it came to defining who he was as a hero. And yes, it sucked that he didn’t get credit where credit was due. But that wasn’t how those kids on the subway saw him. To them he was simply a superhero they admired enough to make their own T-shirts emblazoned with his image. And that was enough to make Alonzo Ramey rethink everything.

  Shortly after that, Alonzo asked Captain Freedom about returning to Super Justice Force. He’d been apprehensive at first, recalling how his father used to say, “If you ask a white man for anything, you best be prepared to beg.” But there was no begging. He didn’t even have to “tooth it up” by putting on a fake smile—something his father told him never to do. Instead, Alonzo and Captain Freedom talked man to man.

  “There’s very little about this line of work that is easy,” said Captain Freedom. “If I could make the world a better place—the kind of place where you could be who you are, without any of the crap that the world puts on you—then I’d do it. But in that world, there’d be no need for superheroes.”

  And so Alonzo Ramey went back to being a superhero. He once again donned his Black Fist costume and took to the streets fighting crime. But this time around, he changed his personal definition of what it meant to be a superhero. Yes, he still spent time slugging it out with supercriminals and engaging in what amounted to a ridiculous carnival sideshow, but that was only part of what he did. Instead of patrolling the streets of the inner city and busting gangbangers, he spent much of his time reaching out to the youth that most people saw as a thre
at. He became known as much for being a community organizer superhero as he did for being a superhero. With the money from his first real endorsement deal, he bankrolled his own comic book series, which was geared toward promoting literacy. The series became so popular that it launched an entire line of comics that helped teach kids of all colors how to read.

  Over the years, Black Fist felt the bitterness rise up inside of him from time to time, as well as the cynicism. He hated his name, didn’t care much for the costume, and when he finally got his own action figure, they’d made his lips look way bigger than they were in real life. But whenever these things got to him, Alonzo Ramey remembered that at the end of the day none of these things mattered. For him, his life would always be defined by a group of boys and girls, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, wearing T-shirts with hand-drawn designs inspired by Black Fist. His life would not be defined as much by his adventures as by the adventures recounted in comic books that helped young people learn to read. That’s what defined Alonzo Ramey. That’s what let him know that, despite it all, he really was a superhero.

  the river

  adrienne maree brown

  1.

  something in the river haunted the island between the city and the border. she felt it, when she was on the waves in the little boat. she didn’t say anything, because what could be said, and to whom?

  but she felt it. and she felt it growing.

  made a sort of sense to her that something would grow there. nuf things went in for something to have created itself down there.

  she was a water woman, had learned to boat as she learned to walk, and felt rooted in the river. she’d learned from her grandfather, who’d told her his life lessons on the water. he’d said, “black people come from a big spacious place, under a great big sky. this little country here, we have to fight for any inches we get. but the water has always helped us get free one way or another.”

  sunny days, she took paying passengers over by the belle isle bridge to see the cars in the water. mostly, you couldn’t see anything. but sometimes, you’d catch a glimpse of something shiny, metal, not of the river—something big and swallowed, that had a color of cherry red, of 1964 american-made dream.

  these days, the river felt like it had back then, a little too swollen, too active, too attentive.

  too many days, she sat behind the wheel of the little boat, dialing down her apprehension. she felt a restlessness in the weeds and shadows that held detroit together. belle isle, an overgrown island, housed the ruins of a zoo, an aquarium, a conservatory, and the old yacht club. down the way were the abandoned, squatted towers of the renaissance center, the tallest ode to economic crisis in the world.

  she had been born not too far from the river, in chalmers, on the east side. as a child she played along the river banks. she could remember when a black person could only dock a boat at one black-owned harbor. she remembered it because all she’d ever wanted was to be on that river, especially after her grandfather passed. when she was old enough, she’d purchased the little boat, motor awkward on its backside, and named her bessie after her mama. her mama had taught her important things: how to love detroit, that gardening in their backyard was not a hobby but a strategy, and to never trust a man for the long haul.

  mostly, she’d listened to her mama. and when she’d gone astray, she’d always been able to return to the river.

  now she was 43, and the river was freedom. in that boat she felt liberated all day. she loved to anchor near the underground railroad memorial and imagine runaway slaves standing on one bank and how good—terrifying, but good—that water must have felt, under the boat, or all over the skin, or frozen under the feet.

  this was a good river for boating. you wouldn’t jump in for any money. no one would.

  she felt the same way about eating out of the river, but it was a hungry time. that morning she’d watched a fisherman reel in something, slow, like he didn’t care at all. what he pulled up, a long slender fish, had an oily sheen on its scales. she’d tried to catch his eye with her disgust, offer a side eye warning to this stranger, but he turned with his catch, headed for the ice box.

  she was aware of herself as a kind of outsider. she loved the city desperately and the people in it. but she mostly loved them from her boat. lately she wore her overalls, kept her graying hair short and natural, her sentences brief. her routine didn’t involve too many humans. when she tried to speak, even small talk, there was so much sadness and grief in her mouth for the city disappearing before her eyes that it got hard to breathe.

  next time she was out on the water, on a stretch just east of chene park, she watched two babies on the rocks by the river, daring each other to get closer. the mothers were in deep and focused gossip, while also minding a grill that uttered a gorgeous smell over the river waves. the waves were moving aggressive today, and she wanted to yell to the babies or the mamas but couldn’t get the words together.

  you can’t yell just any old thing in detroit. you have to get it right. folks remember.

  as she watched, one baby touched his bare toe in, his trembling ashy mocha body stretched out into the rippling nuclear aquamarine green surface. then suddenly he jumped up and backed away from the river, spooked in every limb. he took off running past his friend, all the way to his mama’s thighs, which he grabbed and buried himself in, babbling incoherent confessions to her flesh.

  the mother didn’t skip a beat or a word, just brushed him aside, ignoring his warning.

  she didn’t judge, though, that mama. times were beyond tough in detroit. a moment to pause, to vent, to sit by the river and just talk, that was a rare and precious thing.

  • • •

  off the river, out of the water, she found herself in an old friend’s music studio, singing her prettiest sounds into his machines. he was as odd and solitary as she was, known for his madness, his intimate marrow-deep knowledge of the city, and his musical genius.

  she asked him: what’s up with the river?

  he laughed first. she didn’t ask why.

  here is what he said: your river? man, detroit is in that river. the whole river and the parts of the river. certain parts, it’s like a ancestral burying ground. it’s like a holy vortex of energy.

  like past the island? in the deep shits where them barges plow through? that was the hiding place, that was where you went if you loose tongued about the wrong thing or the wrong people. man, all kinds of sparkling souls been weighted down all the way into the mud in there. s’why some folks won’t anchor with the city in view. might hook someone before they ghost! takes a while to become a proper ghost.

  he left it at that.

  she didn’t agree with his theory. didn’t feel dead, what she felt in the river. felt other. felt alive and other.

  • • •

  peak of the summer was scorch that year. the city could barely get dressed. the few people with jobs sat in icy offices watching the world waver outside. people without jobs survived in a variety of ways that all felt like punishment in the heat.

  seemed like every morning there’d be bodies, folks who’d lost darwinian struggles during the sweaty night. bodies by the only overnight shelter, bodies in the fake downtown garden sponsored by coca-cola, bodies in potholes on streets strung with christmas lights because the broke city turned off the streetlights.

  late one sunday afternoon, after three weddings took place on the island, she heard a message come over the river radio: four pale bodies found floating in the surrounding river, on the far side. she tracked the story throughout the day. upon being dragged out of the water and onto the soil by gloved official hands, it was clear that the bodies, of two adults and two teenagers, were recently dead, hardly bloated, each one bruised as if they’d been in a massive struggle before the toxic river filled their lungs.

  they were from pennsylvania.

  on monday she motored past the spot she’d heard the coast guard going on about over the radio. the water was moving
about itself, swirling without reason. she shook her head, knowing truths that couldn’t be spoken aloud were getting out of hand.

  she tried for years to keep an open heart to the new folks, most of them white. the city needed people to live in it and job creation, right? and some of these new folk seemed to really care.

  but it could harden her heart a little each day, to see people showing up all the time with jobs, or making new work for themselves and their friends, while folks born and raised here couldn’t make a living, couldn’t get investors for business. she heard entrepreneurs on the news speak of detroit as this exciting new blank canvas. she wondered if the new folks just couldn’t see all the people there, the signs everywhere that there was history and there was a people still living all over that canvas.

  • • •

  the next tragedy came tuesday, when a passel of new local hipsters were out at the island’s un-secret swimming spot on an inner waterway of belle isle. this tragedy didn’t start with screams, but that was the first thing she heard—a wild cacophony of screaming through the thick reeds.

  by the time she doubled back to the sliver entrance of the waterway and made it to the place of the screaming sounds, there was just a whimper, just one whimpering white kid and an island patrol, staring into the water.

  she called out: what happened?

  the patrol, a white kid himself, looked up, terrified and incredulous and trying to be in control. well, some kids were swimming out here. now they’re missing, and this one says a wave ate them!

  the kid turned away from the river briefly to look up at the patrol, slack-mouthed and betrayed. then the damp confused face turned to her and pointed at the water: it took them.

  she looked over the side of the boat then, down into the shallows and seaweed. the water and weeds moved innocently enough, but there were telltale signs of guilt: a mangled pair of aviator glasses, three strips of natty red board shorts, the back half of a navy-striped tom’s shoe, a tangle of bikini, and an unlikely pile of clean new bones of various lengths and origins.