After the Dull Knife Battle in November 1876, a society of Cheyenne men sat down and documented their account of the events on a buffalo hide or robe—the traditional medium on which my ancestors told stories and kept records. The buffalo hide is where they memorialized important moments in the Tribe’s history, as well as their own personal achievements. And they did so using pigments they created from their environment with ingredients like ash, soils, berries, and plants.

The Dull Knife hide was kept in a camp at the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains. But this camp was a major target for the United States Cavalry, which was still in search of those tribes involved in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, which had taken place in June 1876 and left the U.S. military sorely defeated.

After scouts reported the camp’s whereabouts, the cavalry ambushed it. The Cheyennes put up a good fight but eventually fled deeper into the Bighorn Mountains in freezing conditions. As the cavalry raided the now-empty camp, a soldier stole the painted buffalo hide out of a tipi. And thus the beloved hide, and the story it told, began its journey away from its people.

Heartbreakingly, this kind of theft was all too common for us. It was part of the settler-colonialist effort to erase us from our homelands—and erase us altogether. Oftentimes when sacred objects were taken from camps, they were locked in private collections with no way to track or find them. Many were never seen again, and the Cheyennes had mourned the loss of this buffalo hide and accepted its fate to be gone forever. But after more than 100 years, this hide was once again seen by the descendants of the people from which it came.

On the 146th anniversary of the battle, the unveiling and honoring of this historical object took place at the Brinton Museum in northern Wyoming. Tribal Members and the Northern Cheyenne Tribal Historic Preservation Office were invited to view it. Many eyes filled with tears as our traditional honor songs filled the room. The sacred objects that surrounded us, caged in glass, hummed in their display cases. They, too, were excited to be a part of this honoring; it’s not everyday we as Indigenous people get to practice our ceremonies for pieces put into institutions. This was a raw and powerful experience for everyone and everything involved.

At this moment, in the presence of it all, I felt the importance of keeping our hide-painting tradition alive. I understood the impact this form of storytelling has on my own culture and on those who experience it from near and far. Although this painted retelling of the Dull Knife Battle now hangs in another non-Indigenous collection, it is closer to home than it’s ever been, and relatives are able to view it freely.

And so, in the winter of 2023, I began my renaissance of buffalo hide paintings, not far from where the Dull Knife robe was painted nearly 150 years earlier.

As a storyteller and an artist, I have painted with many different media before, on canvas, ledger paper, felt cowboy hats, and more. I had never painted on something like a tanned buffalo hide, though. Plastic paints like acrylics simply didn’t stick to the surface. Oil paints bled and left dark spots. This required me to use trial and error, as well as asking elders, scouring the internet, and reading historical books to figure out the best way to use modern materials for such a traditional technique.

To practice, I started with a vintage elk hide, which I hoped would behave similarly to buffalo, but was much easier to source. Black, white, blue, red, and yellow pigments sat in small vibrant piles of powder on my palette. While I wasn’t able to source everything the way my ancestors had, I gathered materials from far and wide to bring these pieces to life. Slowly, I began to add water and buffalo fat, mixing them with the powders until the consistency was smooth and even. The thinner the paint was, I found, the easier it was to push it across the surface of the hide.

I hung the elk hide from the wall, tacked along the top and pulled taut by gravity. I sprayed a layer of water and watched as the hide went from a bright off-white to a dark tan. Spraying the hide opens the skin’s pores and makes the painting process much easier. After a deep breath to steady my hand, I began with my first paint stroke. The nerves, the worry, and all other thoughts in my head went silent. I could feel my ancestors guiding my hands as I worked the earth pigments into the tanned hide. Almost like being in a trance, I brought paint to hide without feeling the passage of time, and the portrait of a woman appeared in front of me. She was an Arapaho/Cheyenne woman warrior who gave me the confidence that the vision I was seeing in my head was achievable in real life.

After I finished the elk hide, I was ready to move on to the much larger buffalo hide that was patiently waiting its turn to become a part of my story, the story of a modern Indigenous artist. I already knew who I wanted to paint next: I could see in my mind’s eye the contrasts of bright red and electric blue against neutral black and white, and the tan of the unpainted skin of the hide.

I chose to paint an Apsáalooke (Crow) medicine woman by the name of Pretty Shield. A strong matriarch revered for her knowledge of medicinal plants, Pretty Shield had influence that reached far beyond her own tribe. I chose to render her in black-and-white natural pigments, representing a time when reservations were fresh and photographers were documenting the foreign feelings throughout Indian Country in black and white.

Rising above her is a halo of medicinal plants. I chose to represent this aspect of her work in contemporary color to show its continued relevance and vitality in modern times.

Each aspect of the hide represents a different generation of storytelling and art. The first generation is the hide itself, the traditional material. The second generation is the black-and-white photography that captured the first accounts of reservation life. The third generation is the contemporary style of bright colors and stylized plants.

My own love for medicinal plants comes from another matriarchal figure in my life: my mother. Bringing wellness back to the reservation through healers, medicinal plants, and creative outlets, she provided opportunities for people to help themselves, much like Pretty Shield. These two women reflect each other’s energy and inspire me to see the medicine women of today.

Pretty Shield is the first in a collection of women I plan to pay tribute to with my paint. Each of them has impacted their Plains Tribe communities with their inspiring accomplishments and gifts. I want to honor our shared stories by continuing to push the boundaries of traditional materials and contemporary ideas. I want to uplift the generations surrounding me to live in their medicine, to live out their dreams, and to live how our ancestors dreamed for us.

My name is Shawnee Real Bird, and I am Apsáalooke (Crow). Five years ago, I held a first-edition Edward Curtis portfolio in my hands for the first time. Curtis’ revolved around preserving his outsider view of lifestyles that existed before the United States of America did—before we were ever called “Indians.”

He spent the first three decades of the 20th century photographing more than 80 tribes across the continent, including mine. The published result, , is a 20-volume set that captures a pivotal time in Native American history. Curtis recorded my Apsáalooke people in 1908, as they began their transition from nomadic freedom on the plains to isolation on reservations.

Among the thousands of sepia-toned images Curtis took is one of my great-great-grandfather, Richard Wallace, known to our people as Eyes Taken Out, as well as one of his brother, John. Today these visual remembrances aid the oral histories of my people. Born in 1998, I am part of a generation of Native Americans who know the stories of life on the plains but whose upbringings reflect reservation life. For us, The North American Indian has become a sort of Rosetta stone, helping us connect our ancestral memories with our modern lives.

In the spirit of his great-grandfather, whom the Northern Plains people affectionately referred to as Shadow Catcher, Graybill and his wife, Coleen, are working to capture shadows of today’s realities. Their “” aims to amplify the voices of Native Peoples whose ancestors were photographed by Curtis.

I am one of those descendants.

Five generations after Curtis’ visit to the Northern Plains Tribes, Graybill journeyed to the Crow Reservation to capture my story on a dry plate glass negative. I chose to bring him to the Wolf Teeth Mountains, where my mother rode horses with me in her belly and where I now chase wild horses on foot. It is also the only place I’ve ever seen my dad, a lifelong Indian-Cowboy, connect to himself, and only then on the back of a horse. It’s a place his ancestral DNA understands better than anywhere else. Among the sagebrush, my father and the horse become one spirit.

I began riding horses with my parents when I was 3. It was then that I witnessed my dad’s ability to create a connection to our First Maker and integrate that spiritual relationship into his modern existence. As a young person, I wondered what I would connect with that could become a portal to the old way of life I longed for.

Growing up on the reservation, I heard oral histories from my elders and often questioned where I belonged. Those who existed before me thrived in the harsh mountains of Montana. They survived wars with enemy tribes, followed by genocide and boarding schools, then reservation life, always striving to preserve what makes our Apsáalooke hearts strong.

In today’s fast-paced world, filled with isolating technologies, the way of life that my Apsáalooke elders taught me felt out of place. It wasn’t until I learned to fly that I was able to merge my modern identity with my ancestral roots. In 2019, I became the first Apsáalooke airplane pilot. In the cockpit of a Cessna 172, I find solace with the sky beings who populate my tribal histories. When the plane’s altimeter reads 10,000 feet—the same altitude at which my Apsáalooke people once sought visions atop mountains—I honor the ability to connect, to have finally found my place among the clouds.

As Graybill sets up the vintage camera, I close my eyes (for all great things are felt most fully with your eyes closed). I am full of adrenaline, surrounded by 15 wild horses from the herd of my grandfather, Timber Leader. I know the feeling well. It bounces between the palms of my hands and gathers as sweat along my lips. I trust the horses with the entirety of my being. I take a deep breath and imagine my light expanding beyond me. All the generations of cowboys and medicine women that make up my “blood quantum” stand behind me. I put my spirit in that moment to be captured by exposure and alchemy.

From behind the camera I hear Graybill say, “Got it,” and we all breathe again. The feeling from my hands disappears. It now lives within that dry plate image. More than 100 years separate my image from those captured by Curtis. Looking at my photograph next to those of my ancestors, I am unrecognizable to them, and one day I will be unrecognizable to the generations that follow. Only the contents of our hearts will reveal our creation stories to be the same.

Throughout the book, Giovale faces the dark truths about her European ancestors and pushes through to see an opportunity to create a new way of being and thinking. She explores and acknowledges the atrocities committed by her European ancestors toward Indigenous peoples, the impacts on her own identity as a white person, and the systemic perpetuation of this violence. In doing so, she creates a blueprint for European-descended people living in America to examine their own role in white supremacy—and to heal. 

Read an excerpt from Becoming a Good Relative here.

By embarking on a journey of rekindling ancestral memories, Giovale uncovers the hidden stories and legacies of her own lineage—even those that involve the perpetration of harm or complicity in injustice. She dives deep into the historical context that led her Irish ancestors to emigrate to the United States, including the British settlement of Ireland in the 1600s and its deliberate attack on Irish culture and systems of governance as a means to dissolve communities from within. Generations later, British rule exacerbated the already catastrophic Irish potato blight, resulting in mass forced migration to the U.S., where Irish immigrants were labeled dirty and dangerous. This was the inflection point where Irish immigrants assimilated to American whiteness, leaving behind cultural traditions and practices that connected them to their heritage. That assimilation also required the once-othered Irish to participate in and perpetuate harm and violence toward other U.S. communities deemed “non-white.”

Ancestral aversion is a common experience—the urge to sever ties with the parts of ourselves that relate to painful histories. Yet Giovale urges her white peers to examine their own lineage as a way to build empathy and compassion for their ancestors. While she does not excuse or justify the harms of her ancestors, Giovale shares a road map for forgiveness, a critical first step in creating a personal reparations plan. This process of exploring ancestral narratives can create healing across generations and enable a deeper understanding of how historical traumas continue to impact individuals and societies today.

Giovale’s depiction of her family’s history draws not-so-subtle connections to other Indigenous peoples whose worlds have been destroyed time and time again by European colonizers. It also brings to mind the harmful narratives currently being perpetuated about migrants crossing our Southern border. This parallel is critical and has the power to catalyze healing on a tremendous scale. 

We need more white relatives to face their own truth, though doing so may bring immense discomfort. As we see on Giovale’s journey, it is only through this initial discomfort that she is able to achieve true growth, ultimately uncovering her own cultures and ancestral practices that have been tragically lost through colonization. It is optional for white folks to investigate their whiteness, and that itself is a privilege. Giovale acknowledges that it was many years into her own life until she was confronted by her whiteness, her ancestry, and her own role in white supremacy. 

In a time when division is the air we breathe, Giovale offers our white relatives an opportunity to stop the cycle of extraction, exploitation, and control, and embrace a worldview of human interconnectivity and mutual thriving. This is especially powerful for European-descended individuals who also have ancestors with Earth-based traditions and beliefs, whose ways of being were destroyed through the same colonialist mindsets that created the environment we live in today.  

Giovale’s story reminds us that discomfort begets connection. Her encounters with Indigenous people from around the world, and her exploration of how their practices can be applied to her own life and lineage, illuminate our commonalities—and our relatedness. Her journey, and this book, demonstrates a deep truth: All our suffering is mutual—and so is our healing.

Hell’s Kitchen, the loosely based on Alicia Keys’ upbringing, follows 17-year-old Ali (Maleah Joi Moon) as she searches for purpose and freedom in ’90s Manhattan. Ali’s being raised by Jersey (Shoshana Bean), her overprotective single mother who Ali believes is “suffocating” her.

As a Black woman, who’s also biracial, grew up in the ’90s, and navigated early adulthood in New York City, I was enthralled by the show’s colors and effervescent characters, some of whom have curly hair like mine. Within the musical, Keys’ familiar, soulful songs reverberate and shatter spaces that diminish women while making space for vulnerability to become the loudest melody.

While Hell’s Kitchen’s premise is promising, the perspective of Black women slowly withers away as other characters’ development and traumas are prioritized. When Ali meets Knuck (Chris Lee), a man who drums a bucket near her apartment, she develops a crush on him, though it is unclear why they’ve fallen for each other. “What y’all even got in common?” Ali’s friends ask her, before saying, “Don’t waste energy on this.”

Their relationship quickly becomes unhealthy: Ali follows him to his job at a construction site, while he lurks outside her apartment. Though Jersey says they are “babies in grown-up bodies,” the reality is Knuck is in his 20s, while Ali has just barely passed the. Their relationship reaches a boiling point when Ali sneaks Knuck into her apartment when her mother’s not home. Though Knuck knows he shouldn’t be there, the musical portrays Ali as the sexual instigator: “[Jersey’s] at work, we got plenty of time,” she tells Knuck. “Let’s do it, baby.”

When Jersey walks in on them, she calls the police, who arrest Knuck without explicitly charging him with a crime. Since Ali supposedly didn’t tell Knuck her actual age and Black men, including Knuck, are overpoliced, Jersey’s actions are framed as a betrayal. “Every time she [Jersey] tries to speak to me, I remember what she did to Knuck,” Ali says.

In her angst, Ali turns to her piano teacher, Miss Liza Jane (Kecia Lewis), who belts a heart-wrenching tribute to her son and all the Black people who have been murdered by the police. However, juxtaposing Jane’s son’s murder with Knuck’s arrest feels manipulative, especially considering that .

Both realities can be true: Knuck’s history with the police is dehumanizing, and Ali’s unspoken trauma in her problematic affair with him (and within systems) also matters. By prioritizing one struggle over another, Black women’s traumas, triumphs, and stories are silenced. In essence, Ali becomes an audience member—a vessel for the people and systems around her rather than a stand-alone character. I left the theater asking, “Who’s Ali? Why was she portrayed that way?”

Theater’s Minstrel Show Roots

Theater’s depiction of Black women has deep roots in that reinforced Jim Crow segregation and reduced Black people to stereotypes. In a 2011 paper, historian , Ph.D., writes that these shows fueled negative characterizations of Black women in theater and broader culture, including perpetuating stereotypes such as the oversexualized, aggressive “jezebel” and the “mammy,” who’s a “natural caretaker.”

In the 1960s and ’70s, Black women playwrights began producing plays that resisted these dehumanizing characteristics and offered a more layered worldview. “Women playwrights of the Black Arts Movement followed a tradition of Black women intellectuals who actively resisted controlling images of Black womanhood,” writes La Donna L. Forsgren, Ph.D., in her 2018 book, . Rather than reinforcing “distorted images of Black womanhood,” these playwrights, including Pearl Cleage and Ntozake Shange, used art to challenge and complicate the portrayal of Black women as “scapegoats for the ills within Black communities.”

Forsgren argues that through plays such as For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf (1976) and Mad at Miles: A Blackwoman’s Guide to Truth (1990), playwrights began focusing more on Black families rather than solely Black men while also revealing hidden truths about Black women’s traumas and joys.

There might be no better example of this approach than The Color Purple, an award-winning play adapted from Alice Walker’s Pulitzer Prize–winning 1982 book that explores three Black women’s experiences with sexism, racism, and intimate-partner violence. While the book’s film adaptation in 1985 for its portrayal of Black men, remains a touchstone for Black women seeking understanding of themselves and their experiences.

“When it was first released in 1985, The Color Purple was a cinematic outlier,” NPR host Aisha Harris notes in a . “For the first time, many Black women saw a movie that reflected their own experiences at home. Characters like Celie and the free-spirited Shug, who’s played by Margaret Avery, or Sofia, the self-assured force of nature who’s played by Oprah Winfrey. They were women who had seen or experienced abuse firsthand and pushed to seek happiness in spite of it all.”

Yet even plays that don’t feature explicit stereotypes about Black women can be harmful. In the musical Hamilton, Sally Hemings, the woman Thomas Jefferson enslaved, was only portrayed briefly caring for Jefferson. Also, the young Maria Reynolds (white in real life, but not in Hamilton) seduces the older Hamilton—before trapping him in a scandal, the very epitome of the “jezebel.”

While not all theater characters require tragic backstories, plays should depict Black women as layered—not foil characters.

Trauma-Informed Theater Practices

Though musicals purvey joy, there’s also a responsibility to be trauma-informed. Theater productions should consult mental health professionals, scholars, and even members of the production itself. In May, , Hell’s Kitchen’s lead actor, publicly revealed her battles with depression. “I wasn’t getting out of bed,” she told The New York Times. “I was missing class … it got really bad.” Imagine if Moon, with this lived experience, helped write Ali’s journey. 

Broadway plays haven’t often done this work, though the jukebox musical Jagged Little Pill is an exception. In 2021, after the play’s producers , they and revisited the script. They also with mental health organizations, recognizing the impact that theater has on trauma. “We are very proud of the show we made and its transformative power,” the lead producers said in a statement. “It is precisely because we have made this show about these charged and nuanced issues—a show about radical empathy and truth-telling, about protest and vulnerability—we have to hold ourselves to a higher standard.”

Even if Hell’s Kitchen’s writer, Kristoffer Díaz, isn’t solely responsible for Ali’s character arc, playwrights should be trained to understand trauma responses so they can better be conveyed onstage. Perhaps Ali made these choices because women often blame themselves for trauma—because it gives them control when the world feels out of control.

Imagine if Miss Liza Jane told Ali that she wasn’t responsible for Knuck’s trauma and suggested support beyond the piano? What if playwrights held characters like Knuck accountable and showed how systems and environments inform a character’s choices? 

There are some organizations, coalitions, and producers attempting to address these issues, including , , , and

In 2020, after the murder of George Floyd, more than 300 theatermakers of color released “,” a statement demanding “a more equitable and safe space for BIPOC communities in our nation and inside of the American Theater.” The statement—which holds the theater industry accountable for actions such as dangling “opportunities like carrots before emerging BIPOC artists … at the expense of [their] art and integrity”—offers a number of demands. One such demand is for productions to “provide therapists or counselors on site for the duration of a rehearsal process and production run when producing/programming content that deals with racialized experiences, and most especially racialized trauma.” Another demand asks for theater companies to diversify the plays they offer by not having the BIPOC plays in any given season centered solely on “trauma and pain.”

If Hell’s Kitchen is any indication, theater is still struggling to meet these proposed standards more than four years later. While more than 100 theater organizations have —making changes that lessen the harm BIPOC performers, producers, and directors experience—there is still more work to do to create a more equitable theater industry.

Theater professionals don’t just imitate life—they shape it. Keys said she crafted Hell’s Kitchen , so its writing should remind audiences that women’s inner “” of bright colors shouldn’t dim because people around them are struggling to find theirs.

In a quip that launched a million memes, Minnesota Governor–turned–VP candidate Tim Walz referred to his right-wing political opposition as “weird people” in a July 23, 2024, .

Since then, the barb has stuck, with leading Democratic party figures, from Senate Majority Leader to presidential nominee , branding their Republican opposition with the moniker.

Of course, in a classic deployment of the “I know you are, but what am I?” retort, the Republicans have tried to flip the script.

“You know what’s really weird?” . “Soft on crime politicians like Kamala allowing illegal aliens out of prison so they can violently assault Americans.” And in an interview with conservative radio host Clay Travis, , “They’re the weird ones. Nobody’s ever called me weird. I’m a lot of things, but weird I’m not.”

While I get why both sides are hurling weird bombs at each other, I’m nevertheless not on board with all the “weird shaming.” It isn’t just hypocritical for each party to claim to speak on behalf of the forgotten and marginalized while mockingly calling the other side “weird.” It’s also deeply regressive.

The weird, I would argue, deserve respect. As someone who has spent the past three decades researching, writing about, and teaching topics including vampires, ghosts, monsters, cult films, and what gets categorized as “weird fiction,” .

“Wyrd” History

When politicians use the term weird, they’re trying to depict their opponents as odd or strange. However, the origins of the term are much more expansive and profound.

The Old English wyrd, from which the contemporary usage is derived, in fact was a noun corresponding to fate or destiny. “” signified the forces directing the course of human affairs—an understanding reflected, for example, by Shakespeare’s three prophetic “weird sisters” in . An individual’s “weird” was their fate, while use of the term weird as an adjective connoted the supernatural power to manipulate human destiny.

Despite the progressive generalization of the term to refer to all things strange, fantastic, and unusual, resonances of the weird’s “wyrd” origins are retained by what has come to be called “,” a subgenre of speculative fiction.

The weird tale, explained early 20th-century writer in his 1927 treatise “,” is one that challenges our taken-for-granted understandings of how the world works. It does this through—to use Lovecraft’s characteristic purple prose—a “malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safeguards against the assaults of chaos and the daemons of unplumbed space.”

The weird tale pushes back against human pretensions of grandeur, hinting at just how much we don’t know about the universe and just how precarious our situation truly is.

Meanwhile, the freaks, geeks, outsiders, misfits, and mavericks are weirdos who push back in a different way. They are the nonconformists whom, as Ralph Waldo Emerson pointed out in his 1841 essay “,” “the world whips … with its displeasure.”

Where would we be, I wonder, without the artists and scientists and thinkers developing “weird” ideas and unorthodox ways to see and appreciate the world?

In this sense, nearly all progress is part of weird history, propelled by visionaries frequently misunderstood in their own time.

From Denigration to Celebration

Of course, not all weirdos change the world through grand gestures and history-altering interventions; sometimes weirdos just do their own thing.

That, too, has been a large part of the story of the past century, as Western culture has increasingly—if reluctantly—made room for once-unorthodox or even taboo forms of self-expression, to.

Proliferating subcultures, gender identities, and forms of self-expression—although no doubt propelled by capitalist market forces—nevertheless demonstrate the premium placed today on individualism.

In fact, pop culture has been keen to invite historical weirdos back into the fold—so much so that vampires, ogres, and fairy-tale villains from “Sleeping Beauty” now enlist audiences’ sympathies by telling their side of the story.

The true villains are now often seen as those who demonize difference and insist on straight-jacketing individual freedom of expression. Many contemporary monsters aren’t bad, —and their monstrous behavior results from being bullied, excluded, insulted and rejected for being “weird.”

Reclaiming Weird

However sincerely felt, the Democrats’ deployment of the weird characterization is, of course, strategic.

Walz’s barb clearly managed to get under the skin of a crowd for whom the idea of not being “normal” is apparently distressing—and it is for this reason, I believe, that the Democrats have repeatedly tried to make the idea stick.

Historian of political rhetoric , “The opposite of normalizing authoritarianism is to make it weird, to call it out and to sort of mock it.” Said another way, to refer to your opposition and their policies as “weird” is to denigrate it as abnormal.

Political expediency, however, comes with consequences—and here, much to my dismay, I find myself agreeing with Vivek Ramaswamy—the conservative entrepreneur who unsuccessfully ran for the Republican presidential nomination.

Ramaswamy that the weird insults are “a tad ironic coming from the party that preaches ‘diversity & inclusion.’” Ironic puts it mildly.

This whole “they’re weird” argument from the Democrats is dumb & juvenile. This is a presidential election, not a high school prom queen contest. It’s also a tad ironic coming from the party that preaches “diversity & inclusion.” Win on policy if you can, but cut the crap please.

— Vivek Ramaswamy (@VivekGRamaswamy)

While there may well be utility in deploying the term “weird” to frustrate political opponents, I’d prefer to reclaim the weird as something to appreciate, respect, and celebrate.

The weird is that which introduces cracks into the edifice of the status quo, liberating possibilities for different futures and forms of expression. There are many different, more specific adjectives politicians and others can use to characterize their rivals.

Let’s keep America weird.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Published in 1993 and set in 2024—the protagonist’s first journal entry is July 20, 2024—the story imagines a highly capitalistic America, dominated by industry, corporate greed, and impending doom. At the time of its publication, the novel was categorized as dystopian fiction with a climate catastrophe twist, but Butler later self-labeled it as “speculative fiction.”&�Բ�����;

As our calendars finally catch up to the timeline of her imagination, Butler seems to have predicted many realities that are playing out this year in her novel. She did not shy away from being “political.” Still, readers are left wondering what happens when science fiction resembles reality so uncannily. 

For young people, classified as “Gen Z,” the questions that Butler poses in her works are at the forefront of contemporary literature, exploring stories that are meant to illuminate, anger, and more importantly, liberate young people and lift up their causes.

Butler opens the novel in Robledo, a fictional suburb 20 minutes from inner-city Los Angeles, from behind the walls that surround the home of 15-year-old protagonist Lauren Olamina. The story’s narration by the teenage girl remains a key driver of the plot and resonates with Gen Z readers. 

Within the first few pages of the novel, Lauren pulls readers into a bleak futuristic version of L.A.: 

None of us goes out to school any more. …All the adults were armed. That’s the rule. Go out in a bunch, and go armed. …To us kids—most of us—the trip was just an adventure, an excuse to go outside the wall. …We rode past people stretched out, sleeping on the sidewalks, and a few just waking up. …I saw at least three people who weren’t going to wake up again, ever. 

These scenarios hit a little too close to home for Jordan Yanowitz, a 24-year-old from L.A. “It resonates deeply with my appraisal of Los Angeles culture: reading this book in 2024 in this strange city…seeing a time and place where people have so much anger and angst… and an environment where everyone feels so fundamentally unsafe in public that we isolate ourselves into insular communities and neighborhoods,” he says in an email interview. Yanowitz, who graduated from UCLA with a degree in ecology and now works as a teacher’s assistant at the university, worries about “the dog-eat-dog culture in which we live; it all feels very real for the contemporary cultural feeling of this town.”

During a bike ride from the walled neighborhoods of Robledo into L.A., a rare occurrence for Lauren, readers learn about her unique condition. Lauren possesses the gift and curse of “hyperempathy,” which allows her to feel, experience, and understand her surroundings more vividly than others. Hyperempathy guides Lauren’s choices, and she functions as a juxtaposition to her surroundings, seen most clearly in the way that she deals with grief and her ability to do so in a society that has normalized suffering. 

Lauren decides early on that she does not follow the same faith as her family, and she spends a large part of the book building upon her spiritual system, which she calls “Earthseed” (hence the biblical word “Parable” in the book’s title). Maybe this is Lauren acting as a typically rebellious teenage girl, or perhaps Butler imagined Earthseed as an applicable manifesto to current society, with change at its forefront.  

“I felt an immense kinship with Lauren Olamina,” says 26-year-old Kathleen Gekiere from Oregon. “These books have spoken to me at difficult times in my life when I was questioning things that were very foundational to me.” Gekiere, who is a Ph.D. student at the University of Oregon studying English and environment, adds that “modern dystopian literature really became popular when I was an early teen, [and] so much of my experience with dystopian literature is shaped by the cultural moment I grew up [in].”&�Բ�����;

For some, Butler’s work is a direct commentary on social issues Gen Z is starting to experience for themselves. 

“All of Butler’s work focuses very specifically on hierarchical power and how it affects us. She shows its effects on our jobs, households, and relationships, and how we can cope with these unequal power relations,” says Killian, a 22-year-old from Atlanta, Georgia, who first learned about Butler in a high school English class. “Many of us living in this year are intimately familiar with the coming of climate change, the perils of deregulation, the dehumanization of the homeless, and drug abuse,” he says in an email interview, all problems that have grown in prominence since the novel’s publication.

Butler makes clear that accepting doomsday is not the novel’s intention. “Without adaptability, what remains may be channeled into destructive fanaticism. Without positive obsession, there is nothing at all,” Butler writes on the first page of the book right below the year, 2024.

Tied to the corporate damage of the suburban west, Butler alludes to the L.A. tech boom of the ’90s when writing about Olivar, a city comprised entirely of workers who live in subsidized housing owned by corporations as payment for working in their respective industries. Lauren’s best friend’s family leaves Robledo to work in Olivar in exchange for corporate safety and to escape persecution. Lauren describes this “working model”:

Anyone KSF hired would have a hard time living on the salary offered. …The new hires would be in debt to the company. That’s an old company-town trick–get people into debt, hang on to them, and work them harder. 

Butler imagines a society in which everything is privatized, and while America doesn’t yet have corporate-owned cities, one can imagine such a result from late-stage capitalism.

For 27-year-old Zachari Brumaire from California, Butler’s work resonates as “literature about dealing with exploitation and having one’s labor used to further the ill effects of capitalism and colonialism and patriarchy against [one’s] will, and how to survive and resist that.” Brumaire is studying political philosophy and religion and runs the Butler-inspired blog , where he publishes fiction and essays. 

“As a young person—becoming politically aware during the Great Recession, stuck in a world with awful work and a collapsing climate and rising food prices and health care prices, and no real institutional resistance to COVID and genocide—everything is so incredibly bleak,” he adds. 

Lauren often critiques her association as a political pawn of those in power, categorizing the acts of the arsonists as “political statements,” while she struggles to find a spot in the vanishing middle class. 

Some kind of insane burn-the-rich movement. …We’ve never been rich, but to the desperate, we looked rich. We were surviving and we had our wall. Did our community die so that addicts could make a help-the-poor political statement? 

A larger part of Parable of the Sower is when the characters walk on Highway 101 and I-5 North to Oregon and Washington, where more water and stability are found. Butler outlines a larger class divide that stems from climate change ravaging the community. 

“Octavia Butler intentionally never drove a car. This moment, where the infrastructure we have today fails the people of the future (and people of the present) because of environmental and socioeconomic changes, challenges how we build our world now. In the context of a carless society, this road becomes a wasteland, filled with paranoid groups walking the asphalt with no shade,” says Gekiere.

Parable of the Sower nails the coffin on the climate crisis. Early in the book, Lauren argues with her father on the privilege of being able to ignore something. “But Dad, that’s like …ignoring a fire in the living room because we’re all in the kitchen,” she points out. 

Readers soon learn that the fire is also in the kitchen. In a water-scarce community, water takes the form of modern-day currency, costing “several times as much as gasoline” and being “as good as money,” according to Lauren. In Chapter 16, Butler’s protagonist says:

But … I thought something would happen someday. I didn’t know how bad it would be or when it would come. But everything was getting worse: the climate, the economy, crime, drugs, you know. I didn’t believe we would be allowed to sit behind our walls, looking clean and fat and rich to the hungry, thirsty, homeless, jobless, filthy people outside.

Self-described by Butler as a “cautionary tale,” Parable is a harrowing model of what lies in the future and is already, to an extent, being realized in the present. 

To Brumaire, the book is “not so much a cautionary tale as a warped mirror of where we already are.” He adds, “It probably was a cautionary tale when it was written, but the authoritarianism and exponential climate collapse and fortress society aspects are, I think, already largely in place.”

Lauren knows her belief system is incompatible with that of her family, and combined with the drug-related attacks and climate catastrophes that await her in L.A., she decides to escape. 

“The Quest of the North,” or in Lauren’s case, Canada, is a recurring motif in the novel, alluding to migration from South to North America. The North has always represented a sort of progress, for migrants on the southern border of the United States; for Lauren, who escapes to Canada, it represents change. 

While Butler uses the walled communities and Robledo’s class divide as recurring themes throughout the book, she doesn’t present these ideas without solutions. Instead, she relies on Earthseed, a push for change. This aspect is often left out of reviews that point out the comparisons between Butler’s 2024 and the 2024 we live in today.  

The opening of Chapter 9 reads, “All struggles Are essentially power struggles,” and in Chapter 14, Butler writes, “To rise. From its ashes A phoenix. First. Must Burn.” Earthseed is about oppression and how to fight it.

For readers making these connections and wondering whether they can be translated into systems that work, the question arises, is it easier to imagine the end of the world than to build a socialist framework?

“I find that the way Butler was thinking about the extinction of humanity in Dawn [another book by Butler] resonates immensely with our current ecological and sociopolitical state,” says Gen Witter, a 25-year-old from Oregon who first read Butler in a college class at Arizona State University. After being “unable to put it down” while pursuing their master’s degree, Witter explained how Butler inspired them to pursue a Ph.D. “For me, Butler’s writing is not only trying to build worlds on the page but actively deconstructing the real world and the oppressive systems that exist within it through the stories she created.”

For Witter and other readers of Butler’s work, Parable of the Sower is an awakening. “Even though I want to look on the bright side, I refuse to be blindly complicit in systems that keep leading the most vulnerable members of our communities (and humanity, at large) toward death,” Witter says. 

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:48 a.m. PT on July 22, 2024, to correct Jordan Yanowitz’s name. Read our corrections policy here.

This story is about skateboarders who identify as anything but men. Which isn’t to say that men who skateboard are bad. Many are good. Super, even. Fantastic! But it’s time to tell some different stories. To set some records straight. To recognize and historicize the female, queer, bi, and nonbinary humans responsible for today’s more equitable skate culture.

Nothing exists in a vacuum; societies and political constructs are reflections of their respective eras. It’s what calls the “immense entanglement of everything”—the idea that everything affects everything affects everything else. Even rebel things like skateboarding have long reflected, and been a reflection of, the world around them: In the ’70s it personified the punk-rock, lock-up-your-daughters, middle-finger-to-the-Man ethos.

In the ’80s it was fingerless gloves, parachute pants, neon graphics, and synthetic beats. In the ’90s it channeled New York City—graffiti, hip-hop, and a high-low street style personified by the Supreme shop on Lafayette, where hip-hop and incense wafted out the open doors onto the sidewalk, erasing the division between public and private space.

And in all those decades, skateboarding mirrored/reflected not only pop culture, but the sexist, homophobic framework surrounding it. Women were excluded entirely or welcomed to get paid mind-numbingly less for skating the same contests as men, just as women in corporate America got paid less than their male peers and were barred from the C-suite.

Rarely did you see a woman’s name in a skate video—either on a deck or behind the lens—the same way a woman’s name rarely graced the top line of a Hollywood film under the title “producer” or “director.” And there were no gay skaters. At least, no out gay skaters. Like the rest of the world, skateboarding considered anyone who wasn’t straight an aberration.

Sometime within the past decade, though, skateboarding stopped moving in lockstep with the world around it and started resembling the dissenters it had long professed to rep, rejecting the stupid status quo to include whoever, and dress however, they wanted. It’s these genuine outcasts who are at the heart of this story, their collective story anchored by the personal experiences of four skaters, each with a vastly different relationship to skate culture:

fell in love with skateboarding at the age of 8, a precocious phenom breaking records and taking names, until their talent threatened to destroy their life. 

grew up skating in a tiny town in Iowa. She liked how she didn’t have to pretend to be someone else when she skated. She had zero designs on fame. When it happened, she was more surprised than you.

was raised to look hot, nab a husband, have kids, and live happily ever after. At the age of 21, she stepped onto a skateboard and found a more inspired happily ever after. That is, until, as in all fairy tales, the wolves showed up at her door.

And then there’s , a real-life rebel teen heroine with a lapful of gold medallions, getting into catfights, crying in secret; misunderstood. All she wanted to do, forever, was skate with her friends. She’d like it if her sponsors liked her, but in 2003, no one in the skate industry knew what to do with a rebel girl. If you’re one today, you owe Vanessa a thank-you card.

But for all their differences, every one of these skaters fell in love with the same thing: a piece of wood with four wheels, two trucks, some kingpins, nuts, and bolts. They all loved that thing so badly that even when it didn’t love them back they kept returning to it. And that’s how they broke the mold. By refusing to slot neatly into a nebulous collection of preordained boxes, and instead, fighting for their space in the world—which, contrary to popular belief, there’s enough of to go around.

The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club.

When I started writing about this topic in the summer of 2020, I didn’t know the club existed. And then my niece skateboarded down to meet me at the surf break. The world was in lockdown, and everything was the worst. But that day, after teaching her to turtle roll against the cold, crashy waves, she showed me how to tic tac across the pebble-pocketed road, and everything was the best(ish). 

We’d never bonded over anything before and suddenly were inseparable, pushing each other to try things that scared us on boards. Things that left us breathless and bruised, smiling bigger than ever.

I said, Let’s have a sleepover!

The night she showed up at my place we decided to only watch movies that featured girls surfing and girls skating.

Skateboarding has recently weathered a number of significant changes. Most controversial was the one-time fringe subculture being catapulted onto the world stage as a result of being in the Olympics. In response, a new era of skateboarding sprung up—one too young to know its past, much less the parts that have seldom been told.

So before things go any further and the history of skateboarding is forever cemented in myopia, here are some stories that tell a different tale. And sometimes the same tale, from a different perspective, with the same rapturous fervor.

“Often, if you want to write about women in history, you have to distort history to do it, or substitute fantasy for facts,” said historical novelist Hilary Mantel. This story is meant to avoid future historians having to make shit up.

This excerpt, adapted from by Deborah Stoll (Dey Street Books, 2024), appears by permission of the publisher.

So opens the first “Lesbian Health” segment on , a lesbian feminist television series that aired on New York’s public access stations from 1993 to 2006.

The half-hour program focused on lesbian activism, community issues, art and film, news, health, sports, and culture. Created by three artist-activists—Cuban playwright Ana Simo, theater director and producer Linda Chapman, and independent filmmaker Mary Patierno—Dyke TV was one of the first TV shows made by and for LGBTQ women.

While many people might think LGBTQ representation on TV began in the 1990s on shows like and , LGBTQ people had already been producing their own television programming for decades.

In fact hundreds of LGBTQ public access series produced across the country.

In a media environment historically hostile to LGBTQ people and issues, LGBTQ people created their own local programming to shine a spotlight on their lives, communities, and concerns.

Experimentation and Advocacy

On this particular health segment on Dyke TV, a woman proceeds to give herself a cervical exam in front of the camera using a mirror, a flashlight, and .

Close-up shots of this woman’s genitalia show her vulva, vagina, and cervix as she narrates the exam in a matter-of-fact tone, explaining how viewers can use these tools on their own to check for vaginal abnormalities. Recalling the ethos of , Dyke TV instructs audiences to empower themselves in a world where women’s health care is marginalized.

Because public access TV in New York was relatively unregulated, the show’s hosts could openly discuss sexual health and air segments that would otherwise be censored on broadcast networks.

, many of the producers of LGBTQ public access series experimented with genre, form, and content in entertaining and imaginative ways.

LGBTQ actors, entertainers, activists, and artists——appeared on these series to publicize and discuss their work. Iconic drag queen , where The American Music Show gave him a platform to promote his burgeoning drag persona in the mid-1980s:

The producers often saw their series as a blend of entertainment, art, and media activism.

Shows like and were tongue-in-cheek satires of 1950s game shows. News programs such as , which broadcast its first episode in 1985, reported on local and national LGBTQ news and health issues.

Variety shows like in the 1970s, in the 1980s, and in the 1990s combined interviews, musical performances, comedy skits, and news programming. Scripted soap operas, like , starred amateur gay actors. And on-the-street interview programs like used drag and street theater to spark discussions about LGBTQ issues.

Other programs featured racier content. In the 1980s and ’90s, , , and incorporated interviews with porn stars, clips from porn videos, and footage of sex at nightclubs and parties.

Skirting the Censors

The regulation of sex on cable television has long been .

But regulatory loopholes inadvertently allowed sexual content on public access. This allowed hosts and guests to talk openly about gay sex and safer sex practices on these shows—and even demonstrate them on camera.

The impetus for public access television was similar to the ethos of public broadcasting, which sought to create noncommercial and educational television programming .

In 1972, the requiring cable television systems in the country’s top 100 markets to offer access channels for public use. The FCC mandated that cable companies make airtime, equipment, and studio space to individuals and community groups to use for their own programming on a first-come, first-serve basis.

The FCC’s regulatory authority does not extend to editorial control over public access content. For this reason, repeated attempts to block, regulate, and censor programming throughout the , , and were .

The that attempt to censor cable access programming on First Amendment grounds. that contains “obscenity,” but what counts as obscenity is up for interpretation.

Over the years, producers of LGBTQ-themed shows have fiercely defended their programming from calls for censorship, and the law has consistently been on their side.

Airing the AIDS Crisis

As the AIDS crisis began to devastate LGBTQ communities in the 1980s, public access television grew increasingly important.

Many of the aforementioned series devoted multiple segments and episodes to discussing the devastating impact of HIV/AIDS on their personal lives, relationships, and communities. Series like , , and were specifically designed to educate and galvanize viewers around HIV/AIDS activism. With HIV/AIDS receiving —and a —these programs were some of the few places where LGBTQ people could learn the latest information about the epidemic and efforts to combat it.

The long-running program is one of the few remaining LGBTQ public access series; new episodes air locally in New York and nationally via Free Speech TV each week. While public access stations , production has waned since the advent of cheaper digital media technologies and streaming video services in the mid-2000s.

And yet during this media era—let’s call it “peak public access TV”—these scrappy, experimental, sexual, campy, and powerful series offered remarkable glimpses into LGBTQ culture, history, and activism.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Here, lush date palms once shadowed a serene oasis called La Source Bleue: shallow pools that filled naturally from the underground aquifer. Until 2021, this oasis was a popular tourist destination and a cultural hub for Indigenous Amazigh communities, the nomadic tribes who have lived in Morocco’s desert regions for centuries. 

“The oases are truly a source of life for the nomads who live in the Drâa-Tafilalet region and the entire Moroccan desert,” says Mustapha Tilioua, an anthropologist of Amazigh descent and professor at the nonprofit Tarik Ibn Zayad Center for Studies and Research in Errachidia, a half-hour drive from Meski. La Source Bleue, he says, was “the heart of the oasis.”

For the past three years, climate-change-induced drought across much of Morocco has hit places like Meski especially hard. Now, La Source Bleue is dry, its low walls crumbling into an empty basin. Scarce drinking water has forced Amazigh families to relocate to urban centers with more reliable water resources for themselves and the livestock on which they depend. 

Tourism has likewise dried up, causing a loss of income for the more than 20 families who have depended on La Source Bleue for their livelihood. 

But amid the silence, there is music. In a medina near La Source Bleue, an Amazigh musician is trying to revive Meski—and his community’s heritage—with the sounds of the desert. Mouloud Amrini, who performs under the name Meskaoui, hopes to use what he calls “environmental music” to help his community attract visitors. 

“The music that I play [is like when] I walk throughout the desert,” Meskaoui says.

Meskaoui first founded his Gallery of Music Mouloud Meskaoui in 2009 to educate people about Amazigh musical traditions and nomadic music from around the world. It is supported in part by the Tarik Ibn Zayad Center, where Tilioua teaches Amazigh cultural history. 

On average, Meskaoui says the gallery receives about 800 to 1,000 visitors a year—a mix of international visitors and fellow Moroccans. That’s far fewer than before the oasis dried up, but he says its purpose remains vital. 

Meskaoui’s gallery is part of a wider goal to preserve what Tilioua calls a “rich regional heritage for future generations.” Some of Tilioua’s students have Amazigh lineage but lack a connection to their identity—the result of many years of government-led marginalization. That’s why he established the Sijilmassa Museum: Crossroads of Civilizations, with photographs, instruments, clothing, and other relics that show the diversity within Amazigh tribal history.

Tilioua and Meskaoui’s partnership started 20 years ago when they went on tour together to introduce nomadic Amazigh music to the world, performing in Saudi Arabia, China, Peru, Paraguay, Mexico, Mali, Timbuktu, Egypt, and elsewhere. Soon enough, they began to host musicians in Meskaoui’s gallery.

Mandolins, West African djembe drums, tambourines, electric guitars, keyboards, and other souvenirs from Meskaoui’s travels crowd the walls of his performance room, where he and other musicians play improvisations that blend elements of Amazigh music with their own styles. 

For Meskaoui and Tilioua, the message is simple. 

“It’s a call for peace in the world,” Tilioua says, “between peoples and civilizations and all cultures.”&�Բ�����;

Interviews were conducted in English, French, Arabic, and Darija. French translation was done by Marlowe Starling and Arabic and Darija translation was done by Rana Morsy. 

The reporting for this article was made possible by New York University’s GlobalBeat program.

, a documentary by , Emmy-nominated director of , intricately examines the evolution of racist attitudes and actions toward Black music genres that spans centuries, connecting the current legal weaponization of rap music to a long-standing history of Black musical genres being deemed immoral and illegal.

“At every stage of a new Black [musical] genre being made, it was stifled,” Harper says. “It was bringing white and Black people together. It was erasing these fabricated racial boundaries that allowed one people to oppress another. That was, and still is today, a very contentious thing to do. So why are lyrics used in this way? There’s 400 years of history to go through to answer that question.”

During the trans-Atlantic slave trade, enslaved people used song as a way to hold onto home, hope, and culture. While working in fields, Negro spirituals often disguised hidden messages that could be sung in front of plantation owners. Following the , the largest rebellion by enslaved people in the British mainland colonies, in 1740, banning drums and citing them as a tool of insurrection.

There were also protest songs in the rhythm and blues era. Both jazz music, which emerged in criminalized places like brothels and speakeasies, and rock ’n’ roll (before it was stolen from Black artists like  and appropriated by artists like Elvis Presley) were demonized. During the civil rights movement, soul music was a clear outlet for Black voices to be heard, like James Brown’s “”&�Բ�����;

Hip-hop followed shortly after, emerging from the underground scene and quickly growing into a whole new genre and culture that encapsulated DJing, graffiti, breakdancing, and eventually rap, born out of frustration and chaos of negligent social structures within the South Bronx, New York. Sally Banes, one of the first journalists to , described it as “ritual combat that transmutes aggression into art.”

Hip-hop and rap created an outlet for battles to diffuse nonviolently, repurposing struggle to provide social mobility while being therapeutic, and providing systemic critique and social commentary that was upfront, anti-establishment, and anti-police. It’s no surprise that the genre—which includes which can be viewed as political speech—hasn’t been received well by institutions. As Harper says, “No system of entrenched power wants to be questioned [or] threatened in such a way.”

Lyrics read during court, isolated from music and meaning, is undeniably an attack on the art form. Rap is embedded with metaphors, allegories, double entendres, and references to other musicians’ bodies of work, which can easily be misinterpreted or misunderstood. 

“The only voices that are speaking are the district attorney, the prosecutor,” Harper says. “The only person who’s silent in that whole constellation of people is the rap artist, the person on trial. It just seemed so bizarre that the person who was at the center of the circus was quiet, and these are people who live for the stage.”

Harper was inspired to create the documentary after reading Erik Nielson and Andrea L. Dennis’ 2019 book,, which is full of testimonies from people whose lives were forever changed because of this prosecutorial tactic. Nielson and Dennis estimate that in 95% of cases where lyrics were admitted into evidence, the defendant was a Black or Latino man.

Nielson, a professor of liberal arts at the University of Richmond, focused his Ph.D. research on the policing of Black creative expression in the United States from antebellum South to the present day. He has since testified, on behalf of defendants, in more than 100 cases.

“I really see the prosecution of rap as a trap,” Nielson says. “You systemically put people in circumstances where they have very few ways out. You dangle a couple of options, and then if you pursue one of those options, you slam the door as soon as they take it.”

is a living example of this. While performing at a show in Louisiana in 2000, a fight broke out that eventually resulted in gunfire. Knowing his family was in the audience, Phipps drew his firearm for protection, leading to him being identified as the primary suspect. There was a lot of conflicting evidence: Phipps’ gun was never fired, there was no forensic evidence tying him to the crime was uncovered, witnesses changed their stories, and a description of the shooter didn’t resemble Phipps. Even after another man confessed to the crime, Phipps was still charged with first-degree murder and sentenced to 30 years, despite having no previous criminal record.

The real incrimination came in the courtroom, when a prosecutor presented lyrics from two of his songs. The prosecutor spliced them together, one from a battle rap and another rap referencing his father’s experience as a Vietnam vet, to create a more violent verse that Phipps had never spoken nor written. Phipps served 21 years, refusing to accept parole because he would not say he was guilty for a crime he did not commit, before being granted clemency by Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards in April 2021.

“It almost seems ridiculous when a judge is reading a lyric out, divorced from its music [and] its context,” Harper says. “It’s very easy to mischaracterize that music. And it just totally ignores the fact of the tradition of hip-hop, of lyrics passed from one song to another, or one artist to another.”

Even with the First Amendment, Nielson says artists’ creative expressions are able to be criminalized because in most cases it’s not the lyrics themselves being punished. A crime is being punished, and the speech is used to establish involvement. If the actual lyrics are being punished, it’s because they’ve been deemed a threat. 

Yet Johnny Cash, who sang, “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die,” and Freddie Mercury, who famously belted, “Mama, just killed a man / Put a gun against his head / Pulled my trigger now he’s dead,” are beloved. Authors who write horror or crime novels are not accused of being killers because they possess the knowledge to write about it. There’s a clear distinction between author and narrator that is respected and not questioned.

Hip-hop artists aren’t afforded that same distinction because, as Harper sees it, there’s a cultural disbelief in the idea that Black people have the intelligence and creativity to create anything besides a direct account of their life, failing to see the “brilliance and poetry” of rap. 

Rap has grown into a radical tool for social mobility, allowing communities who’ve been systematically oppressed and excluded the opportunity to get rich relatively quickly. When asked whether he believes prosecutors are using this tactic to stifle social mobility, Nielson said, “In some instances, maybe knowingly [or] subconsciously, I see this as an attempt to check these young men. As a way to say, ‘Remember who you are. Know your place.’”&�Բ�����;

“Too often, prosecutors are not really focused on a just outcome. They are focused on a win. And for them, a win is a conviction,” Nielson continues. “Any kind of foothold they can get, they’re going to use it. It’s a combination of much broader systemic inequalities and racism, but also just the nature of what it means to be a prosecutor in the American criminal legal system.”

While prosecutors use lyrics to incarcerate rappers, there are also many cases in which lyrics are used against people with no ties to an alleged crime or even to the music itself. Just being in the background of a music video or having lyrics from a favorite rapper scribbled in a notebook can be enough for prosecutors. 

Thanks to visibility sparked from Young Thug’s trial, there’s hope that this heightened attention can be used to address inequities in the criminal legal system. In 2023, Georgia Rep. Henry C. Johnson reintroduced the , a first-of-its-kind federal legislation that attempts to limit prosecutors’ ability to use creative expression as evidence in criminal trials.

However, in order for the legislation to be truly effective, Nielson says it needs to be implemented on both a federal and state level. California, which has seen the most cases of lyrics introduced as evidence, passed . Although it isn’t the strictest legislation, it’s a start. A New York state law, passed in the senate, limits the admissibility of lyrical or creative evidence. In March, the of an incarcerated man whose lyrics were used in his trial.

Harper is hopeful that legislators on both sides of the aisle can come together to address this issue. For Republicans, it is an issue of freedom of speech. For liberals, it is an issue of racial justice. 

“There’s a rare opportunity for there to be agreement that this is something that shouldn’t be happening constitutionally,” Harper says. “The system won’t correct itself. Prosecutors’ job is to win with any tool in front of them. It’s a matter of making this tool less available, so that it’s not so easy to abuse and put people away wrongfully.”

Since it’s an election year, Nielson is encouraging people to be vigilant about local elections. As We Speak discusses the case of Drakeo the Ruler, an influential rapper who was wrongly incarcerated for three years. The day after Jackie Lacey, the former district attorney for Los Angeles, was removed from office and replaced with George Gascón, he was . (Drakeo’s freedom only lasted a year; in 2021.) 

Nielson is hopeful that this prosecutorial tactic can be thwarted through continuous conversation and education about this issue and pressuring elected officials to pass legislation. However, in the meantime, rappers have begun censoring their own work, starting music videos with self-protective disclaimers.

“These artists attesting to the fictional nature of their lyrics, combined with all the disclaimers you now see on these videos [stating that] everything here is a prop,” Nielson says. “All of it reveals the sort of specter of the law hanging right over what they’re doing and their awareness that they are being watched. A mistake could be tragic for them. That to me, is not a healthy way for art to evolve.”

As the survivor of domestic abuse perpetrated by my, if you had asked me before reading the novel if it was OK to imbue humor into the discourse surrounding domestic abuse, I would have said, “Hell no.” But Casale doesn’t make light of violence; instead, she uses humor as an advocacy tool to illuminate a grim truth: Too often, the legal system rather than abusers. To stay safe and out of prison, women frequently have to (green thumb or not) take matters into their own hands.

If that’s too dark a thought, Casale gets it. “People don’t want to hear about the grim reality of male violence against women and girls,” she writes in her author’s note. “This novel is an attempt to use humor to cut through people’s reluctance to engage.” If readers giggle along as Sally covers her husband’s body in cat litter to dry it out, sprinkling on some rice for good measure—“just like our wedding day!”—then they’re not looking away from domestic abuse. And that’s the whole point.

The Lockdown Ladies’ Burial Club never had the pandemic luxury of baking sourdough or tie-dyeing tees. If their common bond was a love of Agatha Christie mysteries—rather than surviving abuse—they might have met in a virtual book club, cementing their friendship over wine-induced theories on how to get away with murder. Instead, they’re tasked with something much more difficult: figuring out how to avoid prison.

Women who claim self-defense against their abusers are than men who shoot strangers under. The law is more willing to side with a man who fires a gun at a nonviolent burglar than a woman who fights back against a husband who’s abused her for (as in Sally’s case) 20 years. That means Sally’s likely at fault, legally, when her husband, Jim, “punishes” her for making his tea too light—by pouring boiling water over her hand—and she reaches for her granny’s skillet to defend herself.

“There is a practical side of self-defense that can be empowering,” says Shaunna Thomas, co-founder and executive director of UltraViolet, a feminist advocacy organization. “But the concept is often grounded in a misogynistic idea that women who are harmed are and are solely responsible for their own safety regardless of the circumstances.”

In Sally’s case, the “circumstances” seem pretty clear-cut: Jim attacked her, and she defended herself, accidentally killing him in the process. But “self-defense law was not created with women or victims of abuse in mind,” says Elizabeth Flock, author of . Flock, an Emmy Award–winning journalist whose book examines what happens when, says the “” was “created by and for property-owning white men to protect their so-called ‘castles.’”

If that sounds disgustingly patriarchal,, and outdated, that’s because it is. The law allows deadly force to protect your home but “doesn’t account for women who defend themselves and their bodies against abusers who reside in their home and often have wielded violence for years,” Flock says. The result? “Women claiming self-defense often get convicted of murder or manslaughter, or take and end up spending years in prison.”

More years, in fact, than men who kill their female partners. Abusive men who kill women face in prison, while women who kill men——are sentenced to an average of. Unsurprisingly, prisons are filled with .

After Sally fights back, instead of calling the police, she eats some cake. Jim’s rotting on her kitchen floor, no longer capable of telling her she’s too fat or undeserving of treats. So she pours herself a glass of wine, grabs a bag of chips, and takes a bubble bath. The sense of relief and possibility Sally feels in Jim’s absence is overwhelming, so she makes a “be happy” list to extend her serotonin boost (bake! rescue a cat! get a job!). Then her “get rid of Jim” list takes precedence, because if she waited this long to call the police, would anyone really believe she acted in self-defense?

“In a court of law, a woman can put her hand on a bible and swear to tell the whole truth, but if her word isn’t valued, the whole truth may not be heard,” domestic violence court advocate Tonya GJ Prince says. Prince can still remember the haunting screams that pierced the courtroom 20 years ago when a survivor she was assisting played a recording of her violent attack. 

She was seeking a restraining order, but knew that without proof of violence, her request was likely to be denied. Her abuser was—as is often the case—seen publicly as a “nice guy.”

“When the recording ended, no one in the courtroom moved,” Prince recalls. “It was one of those moments where you had to remind yourself to breathe.”

The judge granted the woman’s request for a restraining order, but not without chastising her “dramatic and over-the-top” screams. If that sounds familiar—and sickening—you may remember that Amber Heard’s of was seen not as but of her.

The inherent in our is why an NYPD detective told my mom in the ’90s that the law couldn’t protect us from my father and that our only options were for my mom to either kill him or go into hiding with my sister and me. (She chose the latter, and if this sounds like a Lifetime Movie, it.)

New York didn’t have any stalking laws at the time, so my father—and the hit man he hired—was free to hunt and terrorize us. Unless it became a murder case, there was nothing the cops could do. 

Before we escaped our home in Canada and fled to New York, my father attacked my mom outside his office in Michigan and threw her into oncoming traffic. He spent a single night in jail, and the felony assault case against him was dismissed in less than 30 minutes. Despite my horror-fueled objections, I was forced by court order to visit him. If my mom refused to hand me over, she would be held in contempt and possibly jailed.

Too often, the law protects abusive men and abused women, and the media aids and abets this abuse. Recently, The New York Times when it wrote—then seemingly—that O.J. Simpson’s “world was ruined” after being charged with killing his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson. Yet problematic language remains in the paper’s of Simpson’s obituary, which briefly mentions that he Brown Simpson—whom prosecutors said he —yet calls him “congenial” and his marriage “stormy.” The way the press has while is eerily reminiscent of the that failed Brown Simpson—and continues to fail domestic violence survivors 30 years later.

In the U.S. legal system, only dead women—who can’t speak up or defend themselves—are considered. My mom, thankfully, was not a perfect victim. Neither were Amber Heard or any of the members of fictional Lockdown Ladies’ Burial Club. These women didn’t only fight back; they survived.

“In this moment, after 100 years of erasure, false narratives, and racism built into the country industry, it’s important to shine a light on the Black co-creation of country music—and creation is the correct word, not influence,” Giddens writes. “Black musicians, along with their working-class white counterparts, were active participants and creators, not empty vessels with good rhythm.”

Sometimes these myths have been weaponized violently. Black country veterans, including , Charley Pride, and have shared their experiences performing in country music spaces, including the racial slurs and threats directed at them. For example, in his 1994 memoir, Pride writes about touring the U.S. South in the late 1960s, where some of the concert venues he played received bomb threats.

As both a Black fan and writer of country music criticism, I’ve thought twice about bringing my child to a country music festival or concert with me, out of fear she might witness or be the target of another fan’s violence. But while criticisms of Beyoncé have sometimes gotten ugly (’s dehumanizing comparison of Beyoncé to a dog peeing against a tree to mark her territory is one particularly vivid example), in the wake of Cowboy Carter, listeners who might not have heard their stories told in mainstream country music are into the genre.

Black country artists, including Tanner Adell, Tiera Kennedy, Reyna Roberts, Willie Jones, Linda Martell, Brittney Spencer, and Shaboozey, who all appear on Cowboy Carter, have seen an uptick in and overall listenership on streaming services. Perhaps we could dub this the “Beyoncé Effect,” a wave that lifts all who surround her, but Beyoncé’s impact goes beyond opening the door wider for a handful of Black country artists. 

Cowboy Carter also opens up conversations about Black creativity and imaginative freedom within country music and beyond, planting the seeds for deeper social change. On the album, Beyoncé cites and performs an expansive history of Black musical creativity, while also bringing her own unique energy and style. Throughout the album, Beyoncé channels Ray Charles’ showmanship and swinging reinterpretations that made his 1962 album, “Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music,” a in the country genre.

You can especially hear her power to freshly reinterpret classics on her version of “Jolene.” We get the sunny optimism of Charley Pride’s “Kiss an Angel Good Morning,” on “Bodyguard,” though it’s tweaked for modern times. (She even sings to her lover, “I could be your bodyguard/ Please let me be your Kevlar (Huh)/ Baby, let me be your lifeguard/ Would you let me ride shotgun?”) On “16 Carriages,” Beyoncé tells a story of lost innocence and sacrifice as a young performer, echoing themes present in Allison Russell’s “Night Flyer,” “Persephone,” and other songs about survival that appear on her 2021 album, “Outside Child.”

On her tender lullaby “Protector,” performed with her daughter Rumi, Beyoncé promises to nurture her daughter’s light: “Even though I know someday you’re gonna shine on your own/ I will be your projector.” I hear a resonance with Black country songwriter Alice Randall’s wonderful “My Dream,” performed by Valerie June and included on the 2024 album, “My Black Country: The Songs of Alice Randall.”&�Բ�����;

We get the muscular country rock spirit of Tina Turner’s “Nutbush City Limits” (especially of the song) on records like “Ya Ya” and “Texas Hold ‘Em.” (I can imagine these songs as production numbers in the style of Tina Turner and Beyoncé herself, seeing as Beyoncé performed “Proud Mary” with her icon at .)

And might Beyoncé’s flirty duet with Miley Cyrus, “II Most Wanted,” (“Making waves in the wind with my empty hand/ My other hand on you”) be the sequel (or prequel?) to Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” a sapphic provocation from the shotgun seat, Luke Combs left behind in the dust? “II Most Wanted” is one of several songs on Cowboy Carter that speak to the centrality of stories of finding love and mobility in Black country, blues, and rhythm and blues music. Whether by horse, train, Cadillac, or Starship, Black music is shaped by stories of leaving, returning, and wandering to places known and unknown.

Beyoncé’s crossing and melding, hybridizing and swirling on this album, has everything to do with reclaiming, an artistic action denied just about any Black artist who wants to make it in country music. For earlier Black artists like Bobby Womack, Millie Jackson, and Joe Tex, there has often been a double standard to “stay in your lane,” while white artists have been free to experiment, as Charles L. Hughes makes clear in his 2015 book, .

Cowboy Carter is a provocation, a new chapter, a clapback. It is not so much a rejection of the past as much as a sometimes-neck-popping conversation with that past, and with that, a rethinking of it. As both an improviser and re-interpreter, Beyoncé carries forward the tradition of African American art-making that is deeply invested in the changing same, bringing new energy to past songs. This spirit of circularity, a key African American aesthetic is evoked in the very first lyrics of the album: “Nothing really ends/ For things to stay the same/ They have to change again.”

In that way, we might see her as continuing a legacy of Black innovation in country music, whether it’s because of the ill fit of the instruments she inherited, the countrypolitan storytelling of Linda Martell, or the sex-positive grooves of Millie Jackson and Tanner Adell.

Ultimately, there is a kind of recovery at the heart of this album—a healing of the spirit of Black innovation in a genre that has worked so hard to repress it: “Hello, my old friend/ You change your name but not the ways you play pretend,” Beyoncé sings in “American Requiem.” A requiem is normally a mass for the dead, a ritual of remembrance. In traditional white and western ways of thinking, the purpose of a requiem is to lay souls to rest. But on this album, the purpose is to raise the dead, to animate histories and memories once forgotten, or misnamed.

This is an album meant to lift the lid off of the coffin of music that has grown stagnant. Like the exorcism that it is, this process of challenging old narratives and animating lost stories can be risky, vulnerable work. But perhaps it is time to abandon the old “pretend” narratives of “three chords and the truth” to honor other stories, to conjure in order to set all of us free.