BLACK TRUNK

Int. SUBURBAN HOUSE, CLEAR SKIES, AND A FRESHLY MOWED LAWN-DAY

16-year old caucasian girl, HANNAH, walks down the steps in her cookie monster pajamas. Father and mother are waiting at the steps, fully dressed. Father has on a birthday hat and holds a cup of coffee that says, “smiley joe :).” A baseball bat leans like a cool guy against the wall by the front door behind them. It's Hannah’s birthday.

FATHER

Happy birthday Hannah Banana! [He hugs her]

HANNAH

Thanks Dad.

MOTHER

Happy birthday sugar bear! [She hugs her]

HANNAH

Thanks mom.

FATHER

Before you grab yourself some birthday breakfast burgers, come look at this. Your mother and I decided to give you your present earlier in the day since your mom couldn’t wait. You know her, she gets way too excited for things like this. [Walks into living room]

MOTHER

OMG. I’m so excited! [Claps her hands with her palms together]

HANNAH

Whoo  chill-ayy! I guess those birthday burgers have to wait. Oh my god, what did you guys get me? You know I’ve been waiting for a new car. [smiling]

FATHER walks back into the frame with a black trunk the size of Kyle Lowry’s torso or even Jalen Brunson’s.

FATHER

This baby has been in our family for generations! [Sets it down]

HANNAH 

What is it? [Starts to feel the trunk]

FATHER

A trunk. Your birthright. 

HANNAH 

There would not be keys to a 2021 corvette in here would it? 

MOTHER

Go ahead and open the thing already.

FATHER

Yeah, go for it.

HANNAH opens it. A shining light shoots out of the trunk like a sunrise. A naked, bald black man emerges. His face is stoic. 

HANNAH steps away in shock. 

MOTHER and FATHER are smiling.

FATHER

So how bout it eh?

Close up to MOTHERS FACE. She bites her lip, she’s aroused by the stoic black man. 

HANNAH

What in the actual fuck? Dad, what is this? Wh-who is this? Is this what I think it is?

FATHER

It's our family heirloom! Your birthright! Your aunt got him when she turned 16, your uncle as well, even grandpa. Even g-pas g-pa.

HANNAH

This… this isn’t right. This is actually fucked. A slave? An actual African slave… guys really? I can’t believe you! Do you not recognize how fucked up this is to do as a rich cisheteropatriarchal figure in a capitalist society? Maybe if you were a queer nonbinary BIPOC, you would be a position to deserve a slave but we literally don’t even need one Dad. You need to check your- [Dad interrupts.]

FATHER

Wait, wait! He’ll do anything you tell him to do for exactly 24 hours, then he goes back into a pure nothingness until your future child turns 16. You don’t need to do anything crazy. For my 16th birthday I had him play catch with me because my old man was busy and I needed to get the reps before baseball practice. He even gave me a good night's kiss before tucking me in at night.

HANNAH 

You kissed a black man that came out of a box when you were 16 years old? 

FATHER 

I think they prefer to be African-American. Don’t be racist Hannah Banana. And it’s a trunk, not just a box. 

HANNAH’S caucasian boyfriend, COLTON, comes down the stairs, rubbing his eyes in his elmo pajamas. By the third to last stair he looks at the stoic naked black man, he is not as surprised as you would expect.

COLTON

Your parents got you a slave for your b-day? That’s siiick.

HANNAH

No, Colton! It’s literally fucking insane.

MOTHER

He’s like some sort of hot black beef cake.

FATHER

Colton, get this, he can do literally anything Hannah wants him to do for 24 hours! 

COLTON 

Can he go get us a couple of beers? 

FATHER 

If we give him a few bucks, he could go right over to the store and get some right now. 

COLTON 

Sickkk, yo Hannah, could I borrow 20 bucks? 

HANNAH 

I am not going to use slave labor Colton and you won’t either? 

COLTON

Didn’t you say Allison refused to compliment your new hat in first period when everyone else did. Maybe, you know, you can… [makes clicking sound with the back of his tongue and a beheading gesture]

[HANNAH looks up] Flashback to HANNA walking into 1st period with a bowler hat reading the room. Everybody around her is complimenting her new hat. She grins and tips her hat as they walk by. Allison walks past her from behind, then goes to sit down. HANNAH looks at her with a blank rage. Back to scene.

HANNAH

[Thinking gesture] I mean that bowler hat was a new bowler hat from bowlerhats.com. That stupid [beep noise] can’t appreciate a new bowler hat from bowlerhats.com? Does she think Freddie Mangalo (may-ng-ga-lo) makes these hats or sumthin? Freddie Mangalo doesn’t make these hats. Joseph Bridalgi (bree-dal-jee) makes these bowler hats. Everyone knows that. [She grounds herself]. As much as I fucking hate Allison, I’m not going to kill her COLTON! Jesus.

COLTON

Yeah, you’re right. Let me know when you come back upstairs. You know I can’t go back to sleep unless you do that thing first. [Walks back up stairs and into the bedroom]

MOTHER

If she doesn’t want him to do anything for her, can I ask him to do something for me?

FATHER

BETTY NO! Jesus fucking christ!

HANNAH

You know what, I know what I want him to do. I want to free him!

FATHER

You’re no fun. Come on, not even one request? Oh! Maybe you can ask him to rip a good one! Come on, just one little teeny tiny favor [tiny hand gesture]. He’s not just a gift, he’s the gift! This is the first step for the rest of your life. It’s ritual. 

HANNAH

No Dad! I could be like Abraham Lincoln or Dr. Martin Luther King Jr or Obama or something. Go! You’re free! [Hannah helps the man towards the front door]! That's what I would like you to do for me. I want you to be free.

“The gift” looks at HANNAH, then at both of his palms. He then looks at the baseball bat at the corner of the door. He walks over and grabs it. The girls scream and run upstairs as well as the father but he stumbles on the first step. As his back is on the stairs he raises his arms as if they’ll help him. The stoic naked black man cocks the bat back and smiles. [Freeze shot at the gift’s smile and bat behind him. He is ready to smash in their heads like a sledgehammer touching a cantaloupe]

KIND OF BLUE

KIND OF BLUE

The clock hands spun too fast, I lost myself.

I missed treasures with no map in sight,

beneath scorching sand, X marks my heart.  

You carry my spirit and spite along with it-

my beaming ultralight, ultrabright

in rays of ultraviolet. Love is ultra

violent. I hide at sea, Poseidon pierces 

me with his trident. The blow to my heart 

paints me with pain.

(Different Kinds of Blue)

Nothing’s the same. 

Trust goes away. 

serial lovers of unrequited dreams,

zircons and diamonds glitter the same

but only one breaks beneath the pressure. You 

can’t live tomorrow if you die today

chasing some head, I’m chasing my tail.

I’m why my relationships fail.

Too much love to give

And none to myself.

You dream of the burning man

(This is no festival).

I’m kind of blue,

Miles Davis’s saddest tune,

The darkest hue

Only for you,

I’ve been conditioned.

-

Miles Davis’ 1959 best-selling album, ‘Kind of Blue’ has become the soundtrack to my life. The moodiness of the album’s introduction, “So What,” is what my thoughts feel like. A melancholic undertone with calls to sporadicity, joy, and unsolved pain. The same is reflected in my poem, anode to the album that mirrors how I feel. 

There’s a crossroads in your youth that no one tells you about when you’re becoming your adult self. I feel as if I’ve watched the time pass by being someone for so many other people that I missed the opportunity to become my authentic self. Now, I must fight through the many fake faces I’ve put on throughout the years to be who I truly am. I’ve buried so many emotions in the hole that many of us carry at the bottom of our stomachs, but the thoughts attached to them seem to live with me. I know I live in the mind of those I’ve loved before as well. 

My spirit lives through the moment. I’m told I’m alluring. The ones I’ve loved the most have become victims of my private pain. So, when I’m faced with the consequences of my actions, I’m more hurt than when I met them. I’ll ask myself what better to do with myself than hide. I cloak in pity. 

The third session on the album titled “Blue in Green” carries my worries down a river. John Coltrane and Miles Davis’ solos cry the tears that I can’t bring to my eyes. Yet, it’s my fault I feel this way. I’m losing trust in myself. I become married to these ideas of false realities and cling to people who feed into my ego. I carry these people on my back, and when life relieves me of these spirits, I come to terms with an intimidating fear. 

I have to be alone. 

Sex no longer excites me. That was taken from me. I still will do anything to satisfy someone who calls themselves fancying me. Satisfaction is scarce during this time of night, though. I look in the mirror, and the eyes that look back aren’t mine. That same sand I buried over those feelings is where I left my loved ones, but you can’t leave behind love.

The outro to Kind of Blue, “Flamenco Sketches,” reminds me to appreciate the moment my spirit lives in. I am kind of blue, the darkest hue. Only in this moment, and this moment will not last forever. The darkest blue eventually evolves into the brightest pink. I am grateful for this storm, soaking in what I have to learn from these currents. I’m digging up those emotions out of that hole. This is a gem I found in the cave of my heart. I’m telling the truth more and loving easier. Being myself is something I can’t get right, which frustrates me. I’m making decisions for me now, so I’m getting closer. 

Thank you to my God, my mother, father, grandmothers, and grandfathers. Thank you to my brothers and sisters of BDY and Fastlane Records. Thank you to Najee and the entire eastside.

King. 

AFROFUTUR(IS)T SURVIVAL GUIDE 🧚🏽‍♂️

i was born. i was born 46 minutes to midnight, during a full moon, on a Friday, to a Leo and a Pisces. i could tell many stories and ink an autobiography filled with truth and dishonesty. But mostly, you should know that i was born. i am her(e), carrying and bearing every day. i was named. Middle name from my mother, and last name from my father. i’ve been consumed by who I’m supposed to be. Obsessed with how i can emulate her. Or how i can be perceived as her. i’ve had to be so many people and things to be seen and liked and loved. i’ve offered my love and food and legs and emotion for men who refuse to do it themselves. And in return i’ve gotten a glance, a smirk, 2 seconds of attention. i have been the glue and am tired of being sticky. I’m tired of being stuck. The younger me who longs for love and the words to express it reaches up from the inside. i think that i am not alone in this. i feel that others are with me.

i was born in Southfield to parents from Pine Bluff and Brooklyn. i don’t remember much of my childhood in Michigan. Maybe that’s a good thing. i remember being perceived as an exuberant, lively, curious child: my talkative and humorous nature warranting changed seating arrangements and the occasional parent teacher conference lecture. i was imaginative: i used to color coordinate my outfits, a different color each day. i changed my handwriting every year. i cried when India stabbed her hand with a pencil. i ate glue and stapled my finger. i was a leader. In the 3rd grade i banded a group of students together. During class we would rub paper and eraser together, collecting the scraps that were typically given a backhanded push to the floor. We molded the small pink scraps into balls and sold the eraser dust as “Sasha”. i started JJJJewelry with Harshini in 4th grade. The business fizzled, as many others did. My venus is in gemini. i would form a new crush every year and tell them on the last day of school (to avoid rejection of course). i still remember their names. i still remember my name. i guess i remember Michigan too.

i moved to Georgia in the middle of my 6th grade year. i adapted. i was funny. i observed people, learned what they liked. i mirrored them, and assumed it meant that they liked me. That’s a hard habit to break out of, being for other people. i think they want me to be me. i’ve been told i have a pure soul. i wonder what they see. i’ve been told i’m quiet. i wonder when that happened. i often ponder who i’m going to be. Or who i was… or both. i’ve come to realize that the solution doesn’t have to be so singular, so binary. i can move forward and backwards. i used to think that to find myself i needed to choose, pick one. Go forward or inward. Or inward then forward. i didn’t allow my growth to be disorganized. i have come to challenge those strict notions of what it means to come into myself. 

Afrofuturism gives me permission to reject traditional suppressive norms and embrace difference, community, and emotion. It is a tool that reminds me to stop questioning self and start questioning system. To start relying on self and not system. Afrofuturism IS. There are a few tools you need to successfully navigate this world through an Afrofuturist lens. Glue, imagination, and question marks to name a few. So maybe it’s better to say you only need one thing that carries lots of things… like a bag or a book. Mostly, you need space: to feel, grieve, and reflect. Journals grant me the opportunity to do all three and more. To press back against confined spaces. The space i take up on the margins is growing uncomfortable. Herein lies not a solution, but a response: an amalgamation of me in different stages of life and learning. i work to honor the space that i take up and use, the many Me’s that make up this community. i think about young Jade. And what she wanted. And i’m proud of what we(she) created. So many of the questions i pose come from my inner child. She whispers, and Afrofuturism yells back.