We came together carrying questions, memories, unfinished ideas, private longings, and the fragments of futures we had not yet found language for. Over four weeks, we moved through the Dikenga—the BaKongo cosmogram—and allowed its movements to guide our study: Musoni, Kala, Tukula, and Luvemba. I called the series Dreaming in Public, but it was not really about making our dreams visible for public consumption. It was not an invitation to perform our hopes, polish them until they became presentable, or turn them into another list of goals to accomplish. It was an invitation to dream in the presence of witnesses.

When we talk about study, we often imagine that the object of study exists somewhere outside of us. We read the book. We examine the theory. We listen to the lecture. We gather information and try to understand what someone else has written, built, remembered, or discovered. But what happens when we understand ourselves as worthy of that same careful attention? What happens when the life we have lived becomes part of the archive? When our questions become texts? When our desires, contradictions, griefs, pleasures, and recurring dreams become material through which we might think?

Dreaming in Public was a four-week self-study. Not self-improvement. Not a project organized around repairing ourselves, because Black people have been handed quite enough projects built upon the assumption that there is something fundamentally wrong with us. This was study rooted in curiosity. Study as listening. Study as remembrance. Study as a way of noticing what has been trying to emerge. The Dikenga gave us a way to move through that work.

In Musoni, we entered the unseen—the place of possibility, ancestral memory, gestation, and what has not yet taken form. We considered the things moving beneath the surface of our lives, including the dreams we had buried because they seemed too large, too impractical, or simply too late. In Kala, we considered emergence. What is asking to be born? What have we begun to name? What becomes possible once an idea crosses the threshold between the unseen and the known? In Tukula, we moved toward the fullness of the sun. We considered visibility, embodiment, and what it means to stand inside the life or work we say we desire. Dreaming is one thing. Allowing the dream to rearrange us is another matter entirely. And then we arrived at Luvemba: the place of descent, release, transformation, and return. We asked what must be surrendered—not because it was meaningless, but because it had completed its work. We made room for endings that are not failures. We considered the wisdom of letting something become compost.

Black August felt like the necessary container for this work. Black August asks us to remember struggle, resistance, discipline, and those who have imagined freedom under conditions designed to make freedom appear impossible. But remembrance cannot be the only work. We must also ask what our remembering makes possible now.

What are we building with what we know?

What are we practicing?

What are we willing to imagine beyond survival?

For me, Afrofuturism has never been only about speculative worlds, futuristic clothing, or technology as spectacle. It is a practice. It is a way of using memory, imagination, and what is available to us in the present to build toward another way of living. Sometimes that work looks enormous. Sometimes it looks like political struggle, institution-building, art, or collective organizing. And sometimes it begins with a small group of people meeting on Wednesday evenings and telling the truth about what they want.

Over these four weeks, people showed up with generosity. They listened to one another. They took the questions seriously. They sat with the travel documents, the music, the writing, and the silences. They allowed themselves to consider that dreaming could be rigorous—that imagination could be a discipline rather than an escape. The series has ended, but I do not think the work is finished. I am still sitting with what emerged in that space. I am thinking about what it means to create containers where people can study themselves without being isolated, witnessed without being exposed, and challenged without being diminished.

I am also thinking about what may come next.

Several people have already asked whether I will offer Dreaming in Public again, or whether there will be a second part. The honest answer is: I do not know yet. I want to resist the impulse to immediately turn a meaningful experience into the next product, the next program, the next thing clamoring for an announcement graphic. Some work needs time underground. Musoni taught us that.

But I know that I want to continue creating spaces for this kind of study—spaces grounded in Black intellectual traditions, spiritual technologies, imagination, memory, and the practical work of making our lives more closely resemble the futures we claim to desire.

If you are reading this in your inbox, you are already on my email list—and I am glad you are here. If you found your way to this post through my website, you can subscribe here to receive future writing, reflections, announcements, and invitations. I do not send emails constantly; I write when I have something meaningful to share.

For now, I am grateful. Grateful for everyone who trusted me enough to enter this experiment. Grateful for the people who came ready to think, make, remember, question, and dream. Grateful for the ideas that surfaced and for the ones still making their way toward us.

We dreamed in public.

Now we get to decide what those dreams require of us.

I recently had the honor of giving the spring talk for Empire State University, part of the State University of New York system and one of my alma maters.

In “Listening as Liberation: Memory, Imagination, and the Work of Building Community,” I explore what becomes possible when we listen deeply. Not simply to respond, defend, or debate, but to truly hear. To witness. To be changed.

I structured the talk like a mixtape, with each section unfolding as its own track. That feels especially meaningful to share now, at the beginning of Black Music Month, because Black music has always taught us about memory, survival, testimony, improvisation, and freedom.

I’m also thinking about this at the start of Pride Month. For those of us who are not centered in every liberatory movement, part of the work is learning how to listen across experience. To ask what people are telling us about their lives, their safety, their joy, and their right to exist fully — and then to actually hear them.

In a world that constantly pushes us to react quickly and loudly, listening can be a radical practice. A way of remembering. A way of imagining otherwise. A way of building community.

I’m grateful to Empire State University for inviting me to offer this talk, and I’m glad to finally share the video.

I began planning the 2026 African American Read-In in the fall.

Not because February sneaks up on anyone who works in higher education — though it does — but because I knew I wanted this year’s Read-In to do something more than mark a date on the calendar. The African American Read-In is a national initiative of the National Council of Teachers of English, established in 1990 as a nationwide literacy effort to celebrate African American literature  It is the oldest national event dedicated to diversity in literature. That history matters to me. It situates our campus inside something larger, something sustained.

But tradition alone is not enough and I did not want to replicate a template. I wanted to intervene. So in the fall, I began asking myself: if we are participating in this national literacy movement, what is our intellectual contribution? What does this moment require — not abstractly, but here, in Albany, in this political climate, with these students?

The answer that kept returning was futurity.

I chose the theme “Black Speculative Futures” because speculative literature is not an escape hatch. It is a diagnostic tool that allows us to examine race, power, memory, and history while simultaneously imagining what might exist beyond them. In a city layered with erased Black neighborhoods, submerged archives, and half-told stories, speculation becomes a method of repair. It asks: what was buried? What could be otherwise?

Once the theme crystallized, I secured the infrastructure. I applied for and received two university awards to fund the program. I say that plainly because funding matters and shifts the scale of what is possible. It signals institutional investment and allows you to curate deliberately instead of improvising under constraint. When Black literary programming is funded, it is no longer symbolic. It becomes structural.

That distinction is important to me.

The Program in Writing and Critical Inquiry hosted the event, but I wanted the Read-In to extend beyond one program’s borders. I invited artists whose work embodies speculative practice in real time: B. Sharise Moore, Marcus Kwame Anderson, and D. Colin. Each of them works at the edge of genre — poetry that refuses containment, graphic narrative that redraws historical memory, performance that makes the body itself an archive.

Their presence changed the room.

Faculty contributors — Janell Hopson, Kyra Gaunt, El-Ra Radney — alongside Assistant Vice President Latonia Spencer joined in conversation. Students and faculty read their own work, as well as the work of authors such as Octavia Butler and Tananarive Due at the closing open mic. What moved me most was not the polish of the readings but the shift in posture. Students who are often tentative became deliberate. They read as if they understood themselves not only as consumers of Black literature, but as participants in its future.

That shift does not happen accidentally. It happens when a space is prepared with care.

The University Libraries supported the event with a curated display and expanded collection development aligned with the theme. That detail might seem procedural, it is not. It means the work lingers. It means that long after the microphone is packed away, the books remain. It means the Read-In seeps into syllabi, research projects, and quiet afternoons in the stacks.

The institutional recap notes that the 2026 Read-In affirmed storytelling as both archive and prophecy. That phrasing resonates deeply with me because it names what I was trying to hold. Archive and prophecy. Past and possible. Grounded and speculative.

Organizing this Read-In was not separate from my scholarship; it was an articulation of it. My work lives at the intersection of Black speculative thought, place-based inquiry, and pedagogical design. The Read-In became a public convergence point for those threads. It allowed me to situate our campus within a national literacy movement while also rooting the event in Albany’s particular intellectual and cultural terrain.

I began planning in the fall. I secured funding. I framed the theme. I curated the voices. And in February, I watched the architecture hold.

Planning is already underway for 2027, which will explore “Black Dimensions of Health” through literature, film, art, and community dialogue. But this year marked something specific for me. It affirmed that speculative inquiry belongs not at the margins of institutional life, but at its center. Black literature is not decorative. It is imaginative infrastructure. It is a technology for surviving the present and drafting what comes next.

And this year, we made that visible.

As the calendar year starts winding itself down—and the Fall semester begins to settle into that hum of grading final papers—I’ve been thinking about what this season is actually asking of me. This is the beginning of my second year teaching at the institution I once drove past as a child, long before I imagined I’d return to Albany as a grown woman with a PhD, an office key, and a whole constellation of projects. I left this city at six years old, and somehow life threaded the needle and brought me home again. Returning isn’t just geographical, it’s spiritual, vocational, and ancestral work.

This was my first full term teaching Writing and Critical Inquiry through The Wiz, and let me tell you, the work took on a life of its own. I always say the ancestors will embarrass you into alignment, and they did not disappoint. They reminded me, again and again, that teaching is care work. It’s cultural work. It’s community work. And some days it’s also just: “Baby, rewrite that thesis. I know you don’t want to, but go on.”

If this semester taught me anything, it’s that students rarely need superheroes. They need consistency, clarity, and care. They need someone willing to slow down with them. They need someone who understands that real learning rarely moves in straight lines. And somewhere in there, I realized that I needed all those things too. I’ve been giving myself the same grace I give my students: resting when I’m tired, rethinking when something isn’t working, letting the work shift instead of trying to hold it still.

Alongside all of that, I found myself cooking more—not for show, but for grounding. And life handed me a moment that still feels like my spirit hasn’t caught up to it yet. One of my elders—the one whose potato salad is a whole institution—has been in the hospital. And if you know, you know: you can’t just eat anybody’s potato salad. Hers is the only one I trusted. Before I moved back and came home to visit, she’d make me my own bowl and send me home with it, like it was a little edible blessing.

She’s infirmed now, and during a visit, she looked at me and asked me to make her a sweet potato pie.

I blinked. I asked her to repeat herself. Because what do you mean me?

It felt like something cracked open—an initiation, a passing of something. A portal. A mathematical shift in the lineage. I’m still letting it settle. I’m still letting myself change in response.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, my department interviewed me for our first Faculty Spotlight. They asked about my teaching, my path, my philosophy, and it was strange and beautiful to hear myself reflected back. To see that the work I’ve been doing—quietly, steadily, imperfectly—is visible.

Here’s the video, if you’d like to watch:

And on the “what’s coming” side of things—I’m stepping into the new year with a full, grateful heart. I was awarded an experiential learning grant that allows me to hire my two peer mentors (former students) as research assistants. They’re each embedded in one of my WCI sections, and we’ve built this little lab that feels like the kind of learning space I always wanted when I was their age. Together we’re working on a project called The Yellow Brick Mixtape, a collective autoethnography about their roles as peer mentors—what it means to be mentored, what it means to mentor, and how that triangulation of care, guidance, responsibility, and reciprocity plays out both inside and outside the classroom. They’re documenting how relationships shift, how confidence grows, how leadership emerges, and what it means to support students who are walking a path they themselves just finished traveling. They’ll be presenting this work at our Showcase Day in the spring, and they’re being paid for their intellectual labor—which, if you know me, you know brings me deep joy.

And because the universe has a sense of humor, I was also awarded funding to bring the National Council of Teachers of English African American Read-In to campus on February 21, 2026. The theme: Black Speculative Literature. A full day, open to the public, students, educators—an immersive celebration of reading, writing, memory, imagination, and Black futures. It builds on what I once did as an English department chair at St. Joseph’s High School in Brooklyn, when I held a much smaller version of this event. Now it’s expanding in scale and vision, and I’m grateful—and a little awed—to be stewarding it here on such a large campus.

As I move into the last stretch of the year, I’m choosing slowness on purpose. I’m clearing space—externally and internally. Cooking things with meaning. Listening more. Resting more. Trusting the rhythm of my return home. There are more announcements coming, more projects unfolding, but I’m letting this moment land first.

If you’ve been following along with my teaching, my creative work, or just my general existence in these internet streets, thank you. Truly. Your presence matters.

I’ll be back with more soon. But for now, I’m letting the year close gently.

This summer, I created a short film map called Unseen Routes: Mapping Black Albany’s Past, Present, and Possible Futures for Compass Roses at Opalka Gallery. You can watch it here. And read my full reflection on Electric Relaxation.

When I first said yes to the project, I thought I’d make something tactile like a textile piece dyed in indigo, reaching back to my grandparents’ South Carolina roots. But the city had other plans. Spirit led me instead toward film. Once I said it aloud, everything opened.

I didn’t go searching for locations. They called me. Events, visits, family ties pulled me to the Hudson, the South End, Cherry Hill, the Empire State Plaza, and to Israel AME Church—my family’s church, where my grandmother founded the Martin Luther King Child Care Center in 1968. The Stephen and Harriet Myers Residence sits just six doors from my paternal grandmother’s former home. The past was already standing beside me.

Unseen Routes taught me that mapping isn’t about ownership, it’s about attention. Every place has a story, even the ones that seem erased. To live somewhere is to listen: to know what made your being there possible.

There are unseen routes everywhere. The work is to find them, to tell their truths, and to keep returning.

See you on the next step in the journey.

October is Black Speculative Fiction Month. It’s also Hoodoo Heritage Month...and Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Month. That overlap isn’t random, it’s resonance. Each celebrates the ways Black people have always looked at this world and known it wasn’t the only one. Each is about memory, conjure, and dreaming as survival.

So, what is Black speculative fiction? It’s a term that stretches wide enough to hold folktales and far futures, horror stories and hoodoo tales, magical realism and multiverses. It’s science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, magical realism, and all the spaces in between—but through Black lenses. It’s what happens when we say: our stories don’t need to fit inside somebody else’s genre box. Our stories move with the drum, with the river, with the hush-toned stories told late at night. They carry what was, what is, and what still might be.

Black speculative fiction is not just entertainment, it’s testimony. It insists that Black presence in the past, present, and future is not up for debate. It bends time. It refuses erasure. It says: we were, we are, and we will be.

Which brings me back to Hoodoo Heritage Month—and now, Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Month. Hoodoo itself is a speculative practice. It remembers across centuries, pulling on the knowledge of the ancestors to make something new in the present. The Gullah Geechee tradition carries that same lineage of spiritual and creative technology, where the boundaries between the sacred and the everyday are fluid, where land, language, and spirit all hold memory. Black speculative fiction draws from these same wells; dreaming of what the world can become, guided by what has been, sharpened by what we know right now.

So, if you want to step into this month with a book in hand, here are a few places to start:

• Tracy Deonn, Legendborn – A YA fantasy that takes on Arthurian legend and roots it in Black Southern life, grief, and ancestral power.
• Tananarive Due, The Between – A chilling and deeply Southern story that slips between dream and reality, haunted by ancestry and rooted in the rhythms of Black survival.
• Nalo Hopkinson, Brown Girl in the Ring – Urban fantasy that blends Caribbean folklore, Hoodoo, and survival in a near-future Toronto.
• Rivers Solomon, The Unkindness of Ghosts – A stunning, layered novel set aboard a generation ship structured like a plantation, where memory, resistance, and identity all defy containment.
• Nisi Shawl, Everfair – An alternate history imagining what might have been if colonized Congo had a different fate.
• Nicole Glover, The Conductors – A historical fantasy set in Reconstruction-era Philadelphia, following a married couple who once used celestial magic to guide people to freedom along the Underground Railroad.
• Cadwell Turnbull, The Lesson – Alien arrival in the Caribbean woven with questions of kinship, power, and belonging.

This list is just the beginning. Black speculative fiction is vast. It spans centuries and continents. It’s in the folktales our grandparents told us, in the blues songs that bent reality, in the stories carved out of loss and joy alike.

This month, as we celebrate Black Speculative Fiction, Hoodoo Heritage, and Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage, I’m also reflecting on Unseen Routes: Mapping Black Albany’s Past, Present, and Possible Futures, my digital installation currently on view at Opalka Gallery Albany, NY. It’s a map of memory and imagination—exactly what Black speculative work is. The exhibition closes October 11, and if you haven’t had a chance to experience it yet, you can still visit in person or explore it here. To view all of the maps from the exhibition (included one by my amazing offspring) head to the Compass Roses: Maps By Artists site.

Unseen Routes grew from the same impulse as this month’s celebrations: to bend time, to honor what lingers beneath the surface, and to imagine what else might be possible.

So as you move through this October—reading, conjuring, remembering, and dreaming—know that you’re participating in a long lineage of Black speculative practice. The stories are still unfolding. The routes are still unseen, but they’re waiting for us to walk them.

Ever since I was a child, museums have been my place of wonder. Growing up in Albany, the New York State Museum was where I first learned to love history, artifacts, and the way stories live in space. Later, I worked in museums across New York City—but that first spark never left me.

Now, I’m honored to bring that lifelong connection home. My new work, Unseen Routes: Mapping Black Albany’s Past, Present, and Possible Futures, is part of Compass Roses: Maps by Artists — Albany, on view at Opalka Gallery through October 11, 2025.

Unseen Routes is a digital film installation that blends archival research, speculative storytelling, and memory work. Organized around the BaKongo Cosmogram, the piece maps Albany’s Black presence across time: memory and foundations, thriving communities, erasure and violence, and possible futures. It is both map and portal—an invitation to see the city’s unseen layers.

This show is especially meaningful because my daughter, Zen Spencer, is also an exhibiting artist. Her piece, Loved Here: A Map of Holding, Home, and Heart in Albany, is a large-format digital work that traces intimacy, care, and belonging across the city. Our works are in conversation with one another—hers charting the places of love and anchoring, mine tracing histories of erasure and imagination. Together, they weave a multi-generational map of Albany: what has been, what is held, and what we dream forward.

About the Exhibit
This Albany edition of Compass Roses was co-curated by Nadine Wasserman and Renee Piechocki, part of a national series that has previously appeared in places like Pittsburgh and Albuquerque. Thirty Albany-area artists were invited to create maps that reimagine the city—some navigate memory, others fictional landscapes, emotional geographies, or hidden histories.

Fall Programming Highlights at Opalka Gallery:

• Opening Reception: Friday, September 12, 6–9 pm — Pop-Up Beer Garden and exhibition launch
• Albany History in Maps: Saturday, September 13, 11 am — Presented by City Historian Tony Opalka, followed by a map scavenger hunt
• Virtual Artist Talk: Thursday, September 25, 6–8 pm — With curators and artists (registration required)
• Plus additional events throughout the run, including a kids’ art workshop, live performance, music, yoga, and more.

If you’re in the Capital Region this fall, I’d love for you to visit Opalka Gallery and experience this remarkable re-mapping of Albany. Admission is free, and the exhibit brings together so many powerful perspectives on place.

For those who can't get to the exhibit, you can watch the film and take one of the routes. Your responses will be included in a data visualization.

I’ll be sharing more behind-the-scenes reflections on Unseen Routes over at Electric Relaxation.

If you’ve been with me for a while — thank you for walking with me. If you’re new — I’m so glad you’re here.

The last time I wrote here was in January, when the year felt wide open and the calendar was still fresh. Since then, my life has shifted — quite literally. I moved. I live now in upstate New York, in the woods, where the air smells of pine after rain and the night sky feels impossibly close. My neighbors are deer, owls, and the occasional fox.

But this move isn’t just about geography. It’s about returning.

I was born here. Both sides of my family migrated here between the 1930s and 1950s, leaving the South in search of something better. This is where they built their lives; where their histories still ripple through the streets, even when the city itself has tried to forget. It’s where most of my family still lives.

Coming back has been a reclamation: of space, of time, of story. It’s been about grounding myself in the place that made me, even as I reimagine what that place can become.

Time, Space, and Afrofuturism

Living here has stretched my sense of time. Days move slower, yet somehow hold more. Space is not just square footage, it’s the mental and spiritual room I’ve been reclaiming.

That, to me, is Afrofuturism at its core: the refusal to accept time and space as fixed. In this city, I can walk through centuries in an afternoon — from the histories embedded in the soil to the speculative futures I dream while watching the light shift through the trees.

A Note for Legacy Weavers Lab Readers

Earlier this year, I made the decision to sunset Legacy Weavers Lab. In the final LWL email, I shared that I’d be moving my work here, and that I’d be importing the subscriber list so you wouldn’t miss the transition.

If you’ve come here from that space, welcome. You are part of the throughline. And if this new direction isn’t for you, you are always free to unsubscribe — no hard feelings, truly. My hope is that you’ll stay, explore, and see where this next chapter leads.

What This Space Is (and What It Isn’t)

Wayfinder+ is my public newsletter and update space — a kind of digital bulletin board. It’s where I’ll share:

• Announcements about new projects
• Invitations to events and workshops
• Updates on what’s unfolding in my work
• Links to new talks, features, and exhibitions
• Notes on teaching, speaking, and community offerings

This is not where the deep writing lives.

That kind of work — the layered essays, private podcast episodes, behind-the-scenes process, and personal storytelling — lives on my Substack, Electric Relaxation. That’s the space where I stretch out, experiment, and reflect. If this site is the map, then Electric Relaxation is the listening room.

I’ll be sharing more updates soon as projects begin to bloom — some are almost ready, others are still seeds.

If you want to support the work, you can do so here — there are tiers, but you never have to pay to stay connected. And if you’d simply like to drop a little something my way as a thank-you, that’s always welcome. Your presence matters just as much as any contribution.

We’ve got new routes to chart together. I’m glad you’re here for the journey.

What’s coming next lives at the intersection of memory and imagination — rooted in the archive, blooming into the speculative. Stay tuned.

Speculative fiction has a unique way of making us question the world we live in while imagining something entirely new. Whether it’s a novel, a short story, or a film, these works don’t just entertain—they challenge and inspire. Here are five pieces of speculative fiction that have deeply shaped how I think, create, and teach. *Note: Each text leads to a link that I receive commissions from.

1. Wild Seed by Octavia Butler

This novel is a masterpiece of Afrofuturism, exploring themes of power, survival, and identity. It’s also one of the most compelling stories about transformation I’ve ever read. The dynamic between Anyanwu and Doro constantly reminds me of the complex negotiations we all face in relationships and community-building.

2. Of One Blood by Pauline Hopkins

A groundbreaking work from the early 20th century, this novel weaves together mysticism, science, and African history. It’s a stunning example of how speculative fiction can reclaim and reshape narratives about the Black diaspora.

3. Black No More by George Schuyler

Sharp, satirical, and still strikingly relevant, Schuyler’s novel examines race and identity through a speculative lens. Every time I reread it, I’m amazed at how it balances biting humor with profound insight.

4. Brown Girl in the Ring by Nalo Hopkinson

Set in a near-future Toronto, this novel blends Caribbean folklore with speculative themes. It’s a beautiful example of how culture and tradition can inform and enrich speculative storytelling.

5. Sassafras, Cypress, and Indigo by Ntozake Shange

Though often categorized as magical realism, this novel carries speculative undertones that blend spirituality, ancestral knowledge, and a deep connection to the natural world. Through the lives of three sisters, Shange reminds us that the boundaries between the mystical and the everyday are often much thinner than we think. This work is a lyrical, visionary celebration of Black womanhood and creativity.

Each of these works has shaped me in unique ways, both as a writer and a teacher. I’d love to hear what speculative fiction inspires you—feel free to share your favorites!

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to explore even more thought-provoking content by subscribing to my platform. Here’s what’s available:

• $5 Tier - Thoughtful Scholar: Gain access to exclusive articles, creative prompts, and in-depth explorations of themes in literature and culture.
• $10 Tier - The Creative Catalyst: Enjoy everything in the $5 tier, plus multimedia content, annotated guides, and behind-the-scenes insights into my writing and projects.

Join me in this journey of imagination, reflection, and growth. Your support not only fuels my work but also helps build a vibrant community of thinkers and creators. Subscribe today and let’s imagine the future together!

Afrofuturism is often celebrated for its imaginative power—the ways it conjures distant galaxies, alternative histories, and impossible futures. But beyond the gleaming costumes and cosmic landscapes lies a profound methodology for critique. Afrofuturism isn’t just about envisioning new worlds; it’s about interrogating the systems and structures of this one. It’s a framework that allows us to ask: How do power, technology, and identity shape our present? How do we reclaim the tools to rewrite those narratives for ourselves?

In this piece, I want to move beyond aesthetics to explore Afrofuturism as a critical lens. It’s a framework that offers us new ways to analyze culture, question dominant ideologies, and imagine possibilities beyond oppression. Whether in education, storytelling, or activism, Afrofuturism provides the tools to dismantle binaries and reimagine the connections between past, present, and future.

Afrofuturism and the Critique of Time

Time is one of the most contested tools of power. Colonization disrupted Indigenous and African relationships to time, imposing linearity where there had once been cycles, rhythms, and fluidity. Enslaved Africans were stripped of ancestral temporalities, their lives confined to the brutal clock of labor and capital. Afrofuturism critiques this colonized relationship to time, reasserting temporal agency as a key to liberation.

Think of Octavia Butler’s Kindred, where Dana is forced to traverse past and present. Butler doesn’t just use time travel as a plot device; she uses it as a way to critique historical erasure and contemporary complacency. The novel reminds us that the past isn’t distant—it shapes our present and, by extension, our futures.

As a critical framework, Afrofuturism allows us to interrogate how time is wielded as a tool of control. Who gets to define the pace of progress? Who benefits from the myth of linear advancement? And how can we disrupt those narratives to create temporalities rooted in healing, joy, and reclamation?

In my teaching, I often invite students to map their own temporalities, using Afrofuturism to reimagine the timelines they’ve inherited. How might their personal or collective histories look if freed from the constraints of a colonized clock? This exercise isn’t just theoretical—it’s an act of reclaiming agency over how we move through the world.

Space as a Site of Liberation and Conflict

If time is a contested tool of power, space is its twin. Black people have been systematically denied access to land, resources, and mobility, confined to spaces that often serve as sites of surveillance or containment. Afrofuturism critiques this spatial control while imagining what liberation might look like.

Consider the lush, Afrocentric spaces of Wakanda in Black Panther. Wakanda isn’t just a utopia—it’s a critique of global systems that extract resources from Africa while devaluing its people and cultures. Afrofuturism asks us to interrogate these dynamics: Who gets to own land? Who gets to move freely? And what would a world look like if space weren’t dictated by borders or capital?

Beyond fiction, this critique extends to real-world spaces. Urban geographies, for example, reveal how systemic racism shapes the physical world—from redlining to gentrification. Afrofuturism invites us to think critically about these dynamics while imagining new ways to inhabit space. What might cities look like if designed for equity and sustainability? How can we reclaim public spaces as sites of joy, resistance, and creation?

Technology and the Body

Technology is another critical site where Afrofuturism offers profound insights. While mainstream narratives often depict technology as neutral or inherently progressive, Afrofuturism critiques its entanglements with capitalism, surveillance, and exploitation. At the same time, it reclaims technology as a tool for liberation.

In Missy Elliott’s music videos, for example, technology becomes an extension of the body—a way to transcend physical limits and assert creative agency. Her iconic metallic suits and futuristic landscapes aren’t just visual flair; they’re a declaration that Blackness belongs in the future.

Similarly, in Samuel Delany’s Nova, technology isn’t portrayed as inherently good or evil but as a site of struggle. The novel critiques the ways technology can exploit labor and resources while also imagining its potential to build community and connection.

Afrofuturism also allows us to critique how technology interacts with the body. From medical exploitation to surveillance technologies that disproportionately target Black communities, the intersection of race and technology reveals deep inequalities. Using Afrofuturism as a framework, we can question these dynamics while imagining alternative relationships to technology—ones rooted in care, accessibility, and creativity.

Storytelling as Resistance

At its core, Afrofuturism is about storytelling. Whether through literature, music, or visual art, it reclaims narrative as a tool of resistance. It asks us to tell stories that center Black experiences, challenge dominant ideologies, and imagine new possibilities.

Storytelling is especially powerful because it shapes how we see the world—and ourselves. Dominant narratives often portray Blackness as either a site of trauma or a source of entertainment, rarely allowing for complexity or nuance. Afrofuturism rejects these binaries, creating stories that are as expansive and multifaceted as the people they represent.

Take N.K. Jemisin’s Broken Earth trilogy, which uses speculative fiction to explore themes of climate change, systemic oppression, and resilience. Jemisin doesn’t just tell a story; she builds a world that critiques our own while offering glimpses of what might be possible.

In my own work, I see storytelling as both a critique and a call to action. Whether teaching Octavia Butler or guiding students through their own speculative writing, I’m reminded of the power of stories to shift perspectives and ignite change.

Afrofuturism in Practice

As a critical framework, Afrofuturism isn’t just theoretical—it’s deeply practical. It invites us to apply its principles to real-world challenges, from education to activism.

In education, Afrofuturism can be a tool for decolonizing the curriculum. By centering Black voices and perspectives, we can challenge the Eurocentric narratives that dominate academia. For example, in my courses, I use Afrofuturism to connect historical texts to contemporary issues, encouraging students to see themselves as active participants in shaping the future.

In activism, Afrofuturism provides a vision for what liberation might look like. Movements like Wakanda-inspired STEM initiatives or Afrocentric urban planning projects show how speculative thought can inspire tangible change. Afrofuturism reminds us that activism isn’t just about resistance—it’s about creation, too.

Moving Beyond Aesthetics

As Afrofuturism gains mainstream popularity, there’s a risk of it being reduced to aesthetics. Shiny costumes and futuristic visuals are captivating, but they’re not the whole story. Afrofuturism is a radical critique of systems that oppress and exploit, and its power lies in its ability to reimagine those systems.

This tension is something I wrestle with in my own work. How do we make Afrofuturism accessible without losing its depth? How do we balance its popularity with its radical roots?

One answer lies in grounding Afrofuturism in community. It’s not just about individual imagination—it’s about collective liberation. By centering community, we can ensure that Afrofuturism remains a tool for change, not just a trend.

A Call to Critique and Create

Afrofuturism teaches us that critique and creation go hand in hand. To imagine new worlds, we must first interrogate the systems that shape this one. To reclaim the future, we must also reclaim the past and present.

This is your invitation. Use Afrofuturism as a lens to question, challenge, and reimagine. Look at the spaces you inhabit, the technologies you use, the stories you tell—and ask: How can they be transformed? How can they serve liberation rather than oppression?

The future isn’t something we wait for. It’s something we build, one vision, one story, one act of resistance at a time.

Speculative fiction has always been a fertile ground for imagining possibilities and interrogating the past. From tales of dystopian futures to alternate histories and fantastical worlds, it enables us to dream of new beginnings. For marginalized communities, particularly African Americans, speculative fiction offers a unique opportunity to rewrite narratives of survival, resistance, and thriving—not merely imagining escape but building bridges to empowerment.

The Power of the Imaginary

Speculative fiction begins where conventional narratives end. It defies the limitations of reality, using imagination as a tool to propose alternative possibilities. By weaving elements of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and magical realism, speculative fiction reveals a deeper truth: the way things are is not the way they have to be. This is especially resonant for Black communities, whose histories have been shaped by systems of oppression but also by incredible creativity and resilience.

Take, for instance, Octavia Butler’s Wild Seed. In this foundational Afrofuturist text, Butler reimagines the history of the African diaspora, blending historical elements with speculative ones. The protagonist, Anyanwu, embodies regeneration and transformation, using her abilities to survive centuries of change and conflict. Butler doesn’t just create a fantastical world; she maps a blueprint for survival, illustrating how adaptability and community can redefine futures.

Speculative Fiction as a Framework for Change

Every beginning starts with an idea. Speculative fiction acts as a framework for new beginnings by interrogating the conditions under which change is possible. Works like Sutton Griggs’ Imperium in Imperio reimagine Black liberation, positioning speculative narratives as vehicles for political and social commentary. These texts do more than entertain; they inspire action by modeling alternative systems of power and community.

In contemporary terms, Jordan Peele’s Get Out and Us leverage speculative elements to address systemic racism and inequality. By using horror and psychological thriller tropes, Peele forces audiences to confront uncomfortable truths about the world we live in while hinting at the transformative power of collective action and resistance. His work serves as a reminder that speculative fiction can unsettle the status quo, making way for radically different ways of being.

Speculative Futures and Personal Healing

Speculative fiction isn’t solely about collective futures; it’s also deeply personal. For individuals, it offers a means of exploring internal landscapes and crafting narratives of self-empowerment. Stories like N. K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy delve into themes of identity, trauma, and healing through speculative lenses. By situating personal journeys in fantastical contexts, Jemisin illustrates how deeply personal struggles connect to larger systems of oppression and liberation.

The act of imagining a new beginning can itself be healing. For many, particularly in African American communities, reclaiming agency over one’s story through speculative fiction allows for a rewriting of painful histories and the envisioning of triumphant futures. This narrative reparation can foster not only personal growth but also a renewed sense of purpose.

New Beginnings in Community

Speculative fiction is rarely a solitary endeavor. Even when consumed individually, it invites dialogue, debate, and collaboration. Works like Nalo Hopkinson’s Brown Girl in the Ring highlight the importance of community in crafting new beginnings. Set in a dystopian future, Hopkinson’s novel underscores the necessity of cultural heritage and communal bonds in navigating crises and rebuilding society. Her protagonist, Ti-Jeanne, draws strength from her Afro-Caribbean roots, demonstrating how cultural specificity can provide universal lessons for survival and renewal.

Afrofuturism as a movement exemplifies this communal ethos. By blending African diasporic cultures with speculative visions of the future, Afrofuturism creates spaces where Blackness is celebrated and reimagined. From the music of Sun Ra and Janelle Monáe to the visual artistry of Wangechi Mutu, Afrofuturism invites creators and audiences to participate in collective dreaming—to imagine not just individual new beginnings but systemic ones.

Speculative Storytelling as Praxis

At its core, speculative fiction is praxis: the act of applying ideas to create meaningful change. This is particularly evident in the genre’s use in educational and activist spaces. By encouraging people to envision alternate futures, speculative fiction fosters critical thinking and innovation. It’s no wonder that Afrofuturism and other speculative frameworks have become tools for activism, helping communities articulate desires for justice and equity.

One powerful example of speculative storytelling as praxis is Walidah Imarisha’s work on visionary fiction. In her anthology Octavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements, Imarisha challenges traditional notions of activism by demonstrating how speculative fiction can prefigure radical social change. The anthology is a testament to the idea that before we can build a better world, we must first imagine it.

Practical Applications: Writing New Beginnings

For those inspired by speculative fiction, crafting a narrative of new beginnings can be as simple as asking, “What if?” This foundational question opens the door to infinite possibilities, allowing writers and creators to experiment with alternate realities and transformative futures. Here are a few prompts to spark creativity:

1. What if historical events had unfolded differently? Reimagine a pivotal moment in history and explore its impact on contemporary life.
2. What if you could meet your ancestors or descendants? Create a narrative where past and future selves converge to offer wisdom.
3. What if systemic oppression were dismantled? Envision a world where equity is the norm, and explore the challenges and triumphs of maintaining it.
4. What if healing were tangible? Imagine a society where emotional, spiritual, and physical healing are prioritized and accessible to all.

These prompts not only serve as creative exercises but also as tools for rethinking the world around us.

A Genre of Hope

Speculative fiction is, at its heart, a genre of hope. Even in its darkest tales, it carries the promise of something new—a shift, a transformation, a beginning. For African American communities and other marginalized groups, this promise is particularly profound. Through speculative fiction, we reclaim the power to imagine and create, to write ourselves into the future with dignity and agency.

As we navigate personal and collective journeys, speculative fiction reminds us that every end is a prelude to a new beginning. The stories we tell—whether of struggle or triumph, despair or joy—shape the worlds we build. And in that act of storytelling lies the ultimate power: to imagine better futures and to make them real.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to explore even more thought-provoking content by subscribing to my platform. Here’s what’s available:

• $5 Tier - Thoughtful Scholar: Gain access to exclusive articles, creative prompts, and in-depth explorations of themes in literature and culture.
• $10 Tier - The Creative Catalyst: Enjoy everything in the $5 tier, plus multimedia content, annotated guides, and behind-the-scenes insights into my writing and projects.

Join me in this journey of imagination, reflection, and growth. Your support not only fuels my work but also helps build a vibrant community of thinkers and creators. Subscribe today and let’s imagine the future together!

About 6 months ago, I was preparing for one of the biggest changes in my life: leaving New York City, the home I’d known since I was a 19 year old who decided to transfer to college there behind my parent's backs (more on that at another time, maybe) to move upstate and step into a new role as faculty at the University at Albany. The move brought excitement, but also uncertainty. Would I find my rhythm? Would I create the kind of community that sustains me?

As I reflect on 2024, I realize that this change was not just a relocation—it was a reclamation. It was about carving out space for my work, my creativity, and myself. Now, as I look to 2025, I see the promise of what happens when we step into new worlds, even when we’re unsure of what we’ll find.

2024 Recap

This past year was about laying the groundwork for a more expansive vision of my life and work. Some highlights include:

• Relaunching AieshaTurman.com, a space where my academic and creative worlds converge.
• Creating a tiered subscription system to share in-depth insights, creative reflections, and behind-the-scenes updates.
• Navigating my first semester as a faculty member at a new university—a role that has stretched me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Most importantly, 2024 reminded me of the power of space—not just physical space, but the space to dream, to create, and to reflect. Moving upstate has given me more room to breathe, both literally and figuratively, and I’m learning to embrace the quiet expanses as part of my process.

Looking Ahead: 2025

This year, I’m leaning even further into the themes that define my work: creativity, liberation, and reimagining. Here’s what’s on the horizon:

• Expanding my teaching and writing: I’ll be exploring new ways to integrate Afrofuturism, speculative fiction, and cultural critique into my pedagogy.
• More exclusive content for subscribers: From personal essays to creative projects, 2025 will bring even more depth to the work I share with you.
• Big projects in the works: Stay tuned for announcements about new initiatives, collaborations, and opportunities to engage directly with my work.

For me, Afrofuturism has always been about reclamation—of time, space, and self. My move reminded me of this deeply. Upstate, I’ve been thinking about the ways space influences the stories we tell and the futures we imagine. How can more room allow for more possibility? How does shifting our perspective open the door to new ways of being? These are the questions I’ll be exploring with you in 2025.

About Me (or Welcome, If You’re New Here)

If this is your first time hearing from me, welcome! I’m Aiesha, an academic, creative writer, and educator passionate about storytelling as liberation. My work focuses on Afrofuturism, speculative fiction, and the intersections of memory, identity, and culture.

Whether I’m teaching a class, crafting a narrative, or writing about pedagogy, my goal is the same: to invite us to reimagine the world and our place in it. I believe in the power of creativity, not just as an escape but as a tool for transformation.

Join the Community

This year, I’ve created a space for deeper engagement through my subscription tiers. Here’s what you can expect when you subscribe:

• The Reader’s Circle (Free): Stay connected with public posts and reflections.
• The Thoughtful Scholar ($5/month): Access exclusive insights, teaching notes, and short creative pieces.
• The Creative Catalyst ($10/month): Get behind-the-scenes updates, deep dives, and personal reflections that explore the heart of my work.

If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve seen so far, I’d love for you to join me in one of these tiers. Subscribing is a way to support this work and gain access to a vibrant, growing community of thinkers, dreamers, and creators.

Subscribe Here

Let’s Connect

Finally, I want to hear from you! What are you dreaming of for 2025? What themes or questions are lighting you up right now? Let’s make this a space for dialogue, growth, and discovery together.

Thank you for being part of this journey—I’m so excited to see where it takes us next.

Here’s to a year of imagination, creation, and transformation.

Warmly,
Aiesha