Katie Mitchell of Atlanta, Georgia, is a writer, reader, and researcher whose online bookshop Good Books ATL offers vintage and contemporary reads from Black authors. As of last month, Mitchell is the author of her first book titled, “Prose to the People: A Celebration of Black Bookstores.” In March, I had the opportunity to speak with Mitchell about the book’s genesis, her travels, and the recurring themes throughout the text that allude to a larger history of surveillance for Black communities. “Prose” is a chronicle of Black bookstore history that guides us through time and space. My favorite moments from the book are the pages spent exploring the life and memory of Martin Sostre, a political prisoner who committed his life to literacy and the liberation of Black people all over the world. May this interview encourage us all to keep reading. 

Bry Reed: To start, let’s talk about how “Prose” went from idea to reality. What sparked that transformation?

Katie Mitchell: I was in Washington D.C., and I was looking for Black bookstores. I eventually found one, and the person working there gave me some great recommendations. That night, I wrote in my journal: “a book about Black bookstores.” I had this idea that I wanted [the book] to be like a Black bookstore. What I mean by that is, I wanted it to have a diversity of thought. I wanted it to be highly visual. I wanted it to feature a lot of different media. And I wanted it to be very engaging, like how I find Black bookstores to be.

I think “Prose” goes beyond what I originally wrote down. It’s an anthology. You hear from Nikki Giovanni, Kiese Laymon, Rio Cortez — so many great people. There’s poetry, there’s essays, and there’s interviews. I wanted “Prose” to encompass the feeling of Black bookstores, and I wanted people to be able to experience the [Black] bookstores that no longer exist. You’ll see pictures of those places and you’ll get interviews from people who were in them. You get to see all of that in “Prose.” 

BR: The book features a foreword from the late and great Nikki Giovanni. Did that connection happen through the publishing house or was she someone you had a personal connection to?

KM: Nikki Giovanni is one of those people you know of your whole life, so you feel like you know them. I met her at a couple of signings, but when I was recording the book, every bookstore that was around from the ‘60s to the early 2000s had a Nikki Giovanni story. And they were all positive! She’s such a big writer that when these Black bookstores would get her [to do readings], it’d propel their store to a national level. She was really helping these bookstores out. She could’ve gone to chain bookstores, but she went [to local Black bookstores]. Everyone had a great story about her, and that’s when I thought that I’d really like her to have the first word in “Prose to the People.” I think she deserved that.

BR: As you were on the journey of collecting these stories and experiences for the book, how did it feel to be able to hear from these independent booksellers? 

KM: It was something that I felt a weight to. I knew there hadn’t been a book like this before, and I knew it was really important. One of the unexpected things that came about was how many older friends I’d make because of this book. I’ve been hanging out with all these octogenarians who tell me about their bookstores and the civil rights movement and all this great stuff that I wouldn’t have known if it wasn’t for “Prose.” Now, all of my best friends are in their 80s. 

BR: You also do a great job of giving us a bookseller and bookstore historiography. How did it feel to compile these stories and see those connections playing out through storytelling? 

KM: To me, it feels like a big family tree. Pick any story and you can trace it back to the National Memorial African Bookstore. Paul Coates, Ta-Nehisi’s dad, who had The Black Book bookstore, went there to get books, and then Ta-Nehisi was at Everyone’s Place bookstore, where he had his first signing. Then Everyone’s Place helped out Sankofa Video, Books & Cafe. There are so many connections. When people think of business, they tend to think that these [booksellers] are in strict business with each other. To some extent, they are competing for customers — even more so now, in the internet age — but they were actually helping each other. When The Liberation Bookstore closed, they gave the rest of their inventory to the Hueman Books when it came to Harlem. There are all these connections. It’s something that you wouldn’t truly get until you’re in the archives and pulling [those layers] back. 

BR: I was really intrigued, as a Baltimore native, to see you reference The AFRO archives. Did you have an opportunity to work with the team at AFRO Charities?

KM: Yeah! AFRO Charities were the ones who got me that picture of W.E.B. Du Bois at the Hugh Gordon Bookshop. They were great! It’s another one of those serendipitous connections. 

BR: Through these auxiliary essays (and citations) you see these different images that you’ve pulled from the FBI, CIA, and COINTELPRO archives. Did you expect that pattern of surveillance to emerge when you first had the idea to chronicle the history of Black bookstores?

KM: I knew it’d be a theme, although I didn’t know to what extent. Being in the archives, I realized that the FBI probably has the most complete archive of Black bookstores because they were being surveilled so much. A lot of the ephemera that Black bookstores have probably wouldn’t be around if the FBI hadn’t archived it. It’s kinda like great that I get to see this flyer about the Black bookstore George Jackson movement. However, the reason I get to see it is because [these stores] were getting spied on! 

BR: As “Prose” came together, what was it like to chronicle the histories of physical spaces? What was it like to witness the ways communities are changed by the decisions of people in power?

KM: You think of gentrification as a new phenomenon like “Ugh! The rent is so high in Atlanta and I can’t afford a house in D.C.” Then you look back at the ‘60s and ‘70s and realize that [people in power] were kicking us out for a long time. It’d be called “urban renewal,” or as James Baldwin said “negro removal”. It’s interesting because sometimes they’d demolish these buildings, say they were building something, and then nothing would get built. 

I think that in addition to the surveillance that the government did, the fact that they were physically demolishing these spaces shows the kind of threat [Black] bookstores were to government officials. It was like “This time, we aren’t going to shoot you or put a bomb in your car, but we’re going to demolish [this building], and we know you’re not going to be able to find another space.” This happened so many times, and not just in the South. There were a good four or five bookstores in Harlem that all had the same fate because of one state office building. 

BR: To shift gears a bit from surveillance, I want to talk about your childhood. Where did young Katie find stories that called to her? 

KM: My mother would be the person I have to credit for helping me find those stories. She was like “Y’all are reading these Black books, and before you go outside to play, you need to recite this poem and do it perfectly.” She was the one who introduced me to that world. And by my late elementary school years, I was reading adult books alongside her. She introduced me to a love for Black literature, but also a love for Black people and the love of self. I never had an identity crisis of [thinking] Black people aren’t good enough. I think that was because my mom instilled those values into me early. 

BR: What’s one thing you hope readers take from your new book?

KM: I’d love for people to know that you can be in your own community and not know what was there before. Things can change so quickly, and as we get further [removed] from the time [they were around], there’s less people who remember them. I want “Prose” to be an aid to remembering. 

—

Prose to the People is available at local libraries and bookstores.

The post Prose to the People: A Celebration of Black Bookstores appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Known and loved for her impactful work in broadcast journalism and her bright daytime TV presence, Tamron Hall continues to elevate — and celebrate — Black voices through her popular talk show and various projects. With the success of her upbeat, eponymous show (which, this March, reached its 1,000-episode mark), and the recent release of her very first children’s book, Hall ushers in a new chapter of representation for Black storytellers.

This spring, the two-time Emmy Award-winning journalist and host of the nationally syndicated “Tamron Hall” talk show is adding a new title to her impressive resume: children’s book author. With the debut of “Harlem Honey: The Adventures of a Curious Kid,” released on March 25, Hall is not simply entering a new literary genre; she is furthering her mission to celebrate Black culture, ignite curiosity, and champion representation. Books like “Harlem Honey” create modes of representation for young Black and brown readers. Our children, nieces, and nephews can go to a bookstore and see someone who resembles them on the printed page.  

The book opens with Moses missing his home in Texas as he sits on his stoop in Harlem. He draws in his room, and a few bees buzzing through his window ignite his curiosity. Soon, he meets his neighbor Laila. 

Mrs. Louise, Laila’s mother, lives across the street, and they have a honey farm. Together, Moses, his dad, Laila, and Mrs. Louise (and Moses’s pets) go on a journey to deliver the sweet honey to neighbors in Harlem. 

They start at the world-famous Sylvia’s Restaurant. Later, when they visit the Studio Museum of Harlem, Moses sees a painting of a family that reminds him of his own. This journey, where honey is delivered throughout Harlem, allows Moses to begin to love and appreciate his new neighborhood.

“Harlem Honey” is more than a charming tale; it is a love letter to Black boyhood inspired by Hall’s son, Moses, who turns six this month. 

Illustrated by Ebony Glenn, the book’s cover features Moses, his neighbor Laila, and his puppy, Lotus-May. The two characters, with their brown skin and curly hair, smile, holding two jars of honey. Behind them is the city of Harlem. 

The imagery throughout the book yields whimsy, depth, and movement — and most critically, is full of Black and brown people. At first glance, the importance of a book with two Black children on the cover might not register. But that is monumental. 

 “I wanted [Moses] to open a book and see a reflection of himself,” Hall said about her choice to write the children’s book.

 “I wanted him to know that his brown skin, curly hair, beautiful eyes, all of him, is worthy of a story.”

The book’s protagonist, Moses, is a young Black boy with an insatiable curiosity about the world around him.

“Harlem is the place we called home when my son was born,” the author continued.

 “But Harlem [could be] any neighborhood, anywhere in this world, because our neighborhoods are the first place that we really can inspire curiosity in our children.”

Through Moses’s eyes, readers experience the sights, sounds, and rhythms of Harlem, a neighborhood overflowing with Black history and culture. Hall’s vivid descriptions and evocative language — and Glenn’s glowing illustrations — elevate the neighborhood of Harlem to a character in its own right.

“I wanted to capture the magic of Harlem. The music, the food, the people, the energy — it’s all there in the book,” the author said.

But “Harlem Honey” is not just about a place; it’s about the power of curiosity and faith to open doors and expand horizons. In Hall’s book, Moses’s curiosity propels him on a journey through his neighborhood of Harlem, which inspires him to celebrate his individuality and overcome his fears, and find familiar connections between his former home in Texas and his new home.

“Curiosity is a superpower,” Hall said. “It’s what drives us to explore, to learn, to grow. I wanted to show kids that it’s okay to ask questions, to be curious, to wonder.”

During our interview, Hall noted the dearth of children’s books featuring Black boys as main characters. She recognizes the importance of representation in shaping young minds and fostering a sense of belonging. 

“It’s crucial for Black boys to see themselves reflected in the books they read,” Hall emphasized. “It tells them that their stories matter, that they are valued, that they belong.”

“Harlem Honey” is a loving celebration of Black joy and, above all else, Black resilience. Despite the challenges that Black boys often face, Hall’s book accentuates their strengths, smarts, and potential.

“I wanted to show Black boys as they truly are: smart, creative, compassionate, and full of joy,” the author stated. “They are our future, and we need to nurture their dreams.”

Hall’s dedication to the empowerment and representation of Black people extends beyond the pages of her brand new book. From her early days covering local news in Texas to becoming the first African American anchor to host “The Today Show,” Hall has consistently broken barriers and redefined the landscape of broadcast journalism while also remaining a vocal advocate for transformative change within media spaces.

When asked what advice she might offer young journalists, Hall urges content creators, particularly Black journalists, to “own their platform” and produce “exceptional content” that resonates with and empowers communities. Hall herself embraces new forms of storytelling and digital media. Her show has become the destination for social media stars — like fashion content creator Nicky Campbell — who might have millions of views and followers online but would otherwise never make it onto daytime television.

We live in an era where media consumption is rapidly evolving. (Consider the amount of news you get from social media compared to printed publications.) Hall recognizes the untapped potential of emerging platforms, explicitly highlighting the podcast space.

 “I have been on my soapbox lately about really owning your platform for content that is exceptional,” Hall said, emphasizing the importance of Black voices and impactful storytelling in white-dominated spaces.

“I think that we are sorely missing in these podcast spaces dominated by people that aren’t having the conversation that is impactful to us,” she asserts, underscoring the importance of creating content that reflects and aims to service Black communities. 

With “Harlem Honey,” Hall has created a powerful, sweet, and inspiring tribute to Black boyhood where Black children can see familiar glimpses of themselves in the pages. Harlem, like Baltimore, is an iconic area, deeply rooted in Black culture, art, and history. In our interview, Hall emphasizes their triumphant legacies.

“Baltimore and Harlem…these two cities were ‘for the culture’ before that phrase became a thing,” she said, highlighting their enduring contributions that predate contemporary trends. 

This rich cultural landscape has fostered diverse artistic expression in both locales, from music, especially jazz, to writing to theater to visual arts, providing avenues for Black individuals to thrive and gain recognition (Eubie Blake and Louis Armstrong come to mind). 

Beyond their cultural vibrancy, Harlem and Baltimore carry a spirit of resilience and self-determination. We discussed the communal DIY and collaborative spirit propelling folks in Maryland and New York. In both states, Black and brown people have historically forged their own paths and created opportunities, evident in the abundance of independently owned businesses, from restaurants like Rooted Rotisserie, which she featured on her show, to clothing stores like City of Gods to newspapers like the Afro and Baltimore Beat, both founded by Black people. Hall also linked the unique sense of style and culture both Harlem and Baltimore have from Dapper Dan of Harlem to City of Gods. Hall says she proudly wears a hoodie from the Baltimore-based brand in Harlem.

With Donald Trump’s attacks on DEI (Diversity, Equity, & Inclusion), it is essential to take a moment to highlight the importance of books written by and for Black people. Representation matters, and books like “Harlem Honey” demonstrate its critical importance. Black children’s books embody the principles that DEI seeks to uphold. Efforts to undermine DEI not only highlight the importance of supporting these books, but utilizing them as tools for counteracting Black erasure. 

Through her talk show, Hall has tapped into the cultural zeitgeist and nestled a lane built by a Black woman for the creative uplift of all. And with “Harlem Honey,” Hall has created a lasting contribution to children’s literature.

Her work not only provides inspiration for diverse audiences; her career is also a testament to resilience, bravery, and determination.

 “Fear is natural,” Hall told us.

“But on the other side of fear, what can you experience? That’s what this book is about. That’s what my journey has been about.”

The post Tamron Hall, Harlem Honey, and Sweet Representation for the culture appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

The Enoch Pratt Free Library held its 37th annual Booklovers’ Breakfast at the Baltimore Marriott Waterfront on February 1, marking the beginning of Black History Month programming for one of the oldest public library systems in the United States. This annual event brings together hundreds of book club members, library enthusiasts, and community members from across the mid-Atlantic to Baltimore City to celebrate literacy and learn about the Pratt’s plans for the upcoming year. 

As in previous years, this gathering also serves as an opportunity to assess the state of libraries in the United States. In 2025, many public library systems nationwide are facing challenges such as threats of defunding, restrictive book bans, and declining circulation rates, which are concerning to advocates of library services. 

One constant presence at the Booklovers’ Breakfast is Oxon Hill, Maryland-based Mahogany Books. The family-run, Black-owned bookstore is the official bookselling partner of the event, and owners Ramunda and Derrick Young champion literacy as a part of Black storytelling. When asked how it feels to attend the event every year, Ramunda Young is clear: “It is crucial for us to be here. We must be wherever Black books are being celebrated.” 

“Our hope is that attendees continue to fall in love with our stories. It’s important that Black stories are passed down from generation to generation,” Ramunda Young said. 

Another attendee Ryah Bunting, founder of the Cut and Discussed book club, is a Baltimore native excited about the annual Booklovers’ event since attending for the first time last year. Bunting says the onus for starting her book club was very personal, “I love food. I have a massive library and wanted accountability for reading all the books I have.” Since beginning the book club with her younger sister and grandmother, she’s gotten to know many new people of all genders and across personal interests. Bunting, a Howard University alum, is a big proponent of book clubs’ ability to gather people. 

This year’s keynote speaker, Imani Perry, is one scholar striving to share Black history across generations. For this year’s event, she delivered a lecture connecting her latest book, “Black in Blues: How a Color Tells the Story of My People,” with the long arc of Black resistance movements that she believes offer guidance for surviving the present.

In her 2022 acceptance speech for the National Book Awards’ Nonfiction Book of the Year award, Perry said, “I’m sweetly indebted and deeply bound to my family and friends from Birmingham, Boston, Philly, Chicago, Milwaukee, Georgia, Tennessee, Los Angeles, New Orleans, and always Mississippi: land of the bluest blues.” With the publication of her latest book, “Black in Blues,” Perry’s fans can read about the bluest blues of Mississippi, along with the multilayered history of how blues — as a color, genre, and mood — fasten to Black life.

In addition to being a National Book Award winner, Perry is the Henry A. Morss, Jr. and Elizabeth W. Morss Professor of Studies of Women, Gender, and Sexuality and of African and African American Studies at Harvard University. She previously taught at Princeton University and has published several other monographs, including “Looking for Lorraine: The Radiant and Radical Life of Lorraine Hansberry” (2018) and “May We Forever Stand: A History of the Black National Anthem” (2018). In 2023, Perry was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship, also known as a “genius grant,” for her interdisciplinary scholarship. 

The moments before Perry takes the stage are anticipatory. I, along with other attendees, the Pratt team, and hotel staff rotate around the venue, navigating the aisles between round, navy blue breakfast tables. Plates, mugs, and books overflow atop the dark linen cloth as conversation about Perry’s past work, The Pratt’s upcoming events, and other topics fill the space.

“Have you read the latest work?” I overhear from across the table. A pause and then a chuckle precedes the response, “I haven’t even started.” The air is light, and copies of Perry’s work are scattered around nearly every surface. 

Before the keynote begins, Chad Helton, the new president and CEO of the Enoch Pratt Library, opens the event with a message of gratitude for all the attendees and staff members who make the annual event a success. The welcome concludes with a roll call of the book clubs in attendance and a lively invitation for attendees to applaud themselves and their peers for their commitment to literacy and community. 

Afterward, Perry takes the stage in a long-sleeved dress that lands between cobalt and indigo. The curtains behind her are Oxford blue. Before a word is spoken, the ballroom’s visual tone — the curtains, tablecloths, and other linens — adds to the thematic refrain of the lecture. We are here to discuss the blues and its meaning across history for African Americans. Perry’s opening of “Happy Black History Month!” is met with applause before she acknowledges the bittersweet triumph of the phrase: the federal government’s current crusade against the very meaning of our gathering. She proceeds to declare, “The federal government didn’t give us Black History Month and cannot take it away.” The audience erupts. Clapping, hollering, and the sound of a reassured public answer her.

From then on, Perry’s keynote transforms into an interrogative lecture about the history of the blues as a focal point of Black life, organizing, and art deserving of rigorous study. Through her analysis of Rayford Logan’s book, “The Betrayal of the Negro” (1965), and Alain Locke’s 1925 essay, “Enter the New Negro,” Perry asserts that lessons from the past are integral to our collective survival against state tyranny.

“The efforts made at the lowest points [of Black suffering] made the gains of the Civil Rights Movement possible,” Perry says. Her statement is followed by a recollection of the historic conditions that birthed “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” written by James Weldon Johnson and set to music composed by his brother J. Rosamond Johnson in 1900. 

Perry draws on the work of Albert Murray and his 1971 memoir, “South to a Very Old Place,” to emphasize that “Lift Every Voice and Sing” began as a “school bell song” for Black Southern children at the turn of the 20th century, preceding the codification of any song as a U.S. national anthem. To be clear, “The Star Spangled Banner,” written by Francis Scott Key in Baltimore in 1814, was not adopted as the official anthem of the United States until 1931 by President Herbert Hoover. Therefore, it remains true that before the State recognized any anthem, there was widespread community support from Black educators and students, from Alabama to the Carolinas, for a schoolyard song that would change the nation. Perry’s opening is a well-researched reminder that one of the greatest musical artifacts of the 20th century began with Black Southern peoples’ pursuit of quality, culturally-resonant art to reinforce the lessons being taught to their children in schoolhouses.

As her lecture continues, Perry reminds us that now “is the time to be instructed in the practice of creating beauty at the site of need.” Though we all sit in a hotel ballroom yards away from the Inner Harbor, Perry’s words transform the space into a lively classroom. For the next hour, we are students.

With each passing minute, Perry fashions a multilayered historiography of Black life and its tethering to the blues. We are reminded that those in bondage in the 17th century (and onward) “were being sold for blocks of indigo” and prompted to consider, “What did people see when they were being thrown over the board of the slave ship?” as she helps us understand the depth of blues in Black history. Then, Perry stitches together a broad timeline by citing scholars and artists throughout history as pieces of her epic quilt. Concurrently, Perry advises the audience not to dismiss today’s repressive political leaders. She cautions against labeling them as monsters, stating plainly, “They must be treated as humans who’ve betrayed their greatest virtues.”

Perry’s advice is practical and strategic. In her delivery, she stresses the idea that our country enters periods of repression following failures in ethics. “We are still tasked in adversity to make a living future,” Perry asserts. Her fundamental belief is that the past provides “an ethical foundation for what we carry in the present.” In Perry’s assessment, dismissing ethical failures as actions of inhuman enemies  — instead of the measured choices of those who are committed to political violence — is a misstep. Instead of monstrosity, those failures are the culmination of miseducation that Perry suggests is only remedied by a devotion to “haunting the past.”

Her answer is returning to lessons of those who survived by focusing “on what Black people had done internally to their communities” to make it through the “thicket of segregation.” She’s calling our attention to “the beauty of people who sang the blues when they had the worst blues of all.” Perry is referring to the Nadir.

By definition, the Nadir means the lowest point in an astronomical horizon. It’s the bottom. The Nadir Perry references here is a historical period. From 1890 to 1940, Africans/African Americans in the United States endured unrelenting racial terror known as The Nadir. Events like Red Summer in 1919 and the ongoing slaughter of Black people via lynchings are some of the acts of violence marking the era immediately following the political gains of Black communities in Reconstruction. Perry calls on us to learn from the archives and communal histories available as necessary guides for our present survival. “Continue the tradition of educating young people even when it’s fugitive” is her marching order. She says, “Open living rooms to have conversations if we can’t have them in public anymore.” Her words echo the writing and pedagogical work of the late June Jordan whose work on “Life Studies” often contended with living rooms as sites of education and conversation about all things needed for dignified lives.  

With the assessment of the Nadir, Perry goes on to highlight the agricultural and artistic work of George Washington Carver at Tuskegee University. She spans a long history of agricultural development and artistic marvels to emphasize that during a period of fatal losses, Carver worked with Alabamans to survive. The knowledge gained from his work with farmers in Alabama led Carver to magnificent discoveries, like the first recreation of rare Egyptian Blue containing pigments derived from Alabama soil in his lab. Carver’s legacy as a brilliant polymath is coupled with another major figure in Black in Blues: Lorna Simpson. If the Nadir is an astronomical low, then the zenith is the high, and Simpson’s artwork is evidence in the American Jeremiah (prophecy). Perry draws together the history of Carver’s marvelous Egyptian Blue with Lorna Simpson’s bluestone pigment from quarries in upstate New York. Both are roadmaps.

Perry closes her lecture with the sobering statement, “Society will be lost if we don’t change our course.” She draws again upon the histories of Harriet Jacobs and Gil Scott-Heron, a self-proclaimed blueologist, as tools for surviving.

The post Black in Blues: Imani Perry at Enoch Pratt Free Library’s 37th Annual Booklovers’ Breakfast appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

I wrote A Pair of Wings, a historical fiction about the original Hidden Figure, pioneer aviatrix Bessie Coleman, whose story has waited one hundred years to be told.

On a snowy evening one week before Christmas, the Wright Brothers flung themselves into history and gave the world quite possibly the greatest Christmas gift of all time – the gift of flight. An unlikely spectator, 11-year-old Bessie Coleman, a Texas cotton laborer and chambermaid, was watching. 

Coleman would go on to become the first of her eight living siblings to go to college, live as a single woman in Chicago and work as a manicurist. While a dozen or so stoic photos seal our image of her as exquisite and poised, what we don’t get a sense for in vintage sepia is her ability to strategize, and to solve the seemingly unresolvable. Coleman was coming of age in an America where women were just gaining the right to vote, lynchings went unprosecuted and Jim Crow was the law.

When access is denied to her because she is both female and Black, and it becomes clear that she will not be able to train in the U.S.; Coleman is undaunted. France appears to be her only option, but first she must learn how to speak French. At age 26, Coleman enrolled in Berlitz night classes. After working all day as a men’s manicurist, and later, a restaurant manager, she becomes fluent within three years. Indomitable, peerless, tough, charismatic, funny, gorgeous, resilient, resourceful, and Black––there are not enough adjectives to describe her. And at thirty-four, when I first learned who Coleman was, it seemed impossible that the world did not already know her, let alone celebrate her. It was unthinkable that this woman, who had done so much for aviation, civil rights, and gender rights wasn’t a name that rolled easily from people’s lips. 

I came to learn of Bessie’s life when I began pursuing my own lifelong dream of becoming a pilot. In an effort to find out how one would go about doing this, I went to a Women in Aviation Conference, as well as to an Organization of Black Aerospace Professionals (OBAP) convention. At the former, I met a beautiful woman named Captain Jenny Beatty, picture Winona Rider, in Black Swan. And once I met Jenny, I believed that I could make my own dream a reality. When the three-day affair of seminars and job expo wound to a close, Jenny gave me a gift. It was a coffee mug. On one side was a picture of Bessie Coleman, on the other was a two-paragraph story about Coleman’s life. In a convention hall crowded with colorful displays, I stood turning the mug over in my hands. A cacophony of five thousand voices swelled, yet I heard nothing other than Coleman’s story in my head. 

My sense of outrage that I, and most people I knew, had never come across Bessie Coleman in a history book, began to grow. That needed to change, and so I decided to write a book. 

I knew this book had to appeal to a wide audience. I wanted a single woman on a beach vacation to be so enthralled that she had to be reminded to put down her book and tan on the other side. I wanted the business executive flying on a transcon to sink into Coleman’s story. I wanted a married woman with children to take a peek before putting away toys or packing tomorrow’s lunches and find that she was still reading in her kitchen chair when the sun came up. I knew each of these audiences intimately, as I had been each of these women  – a human resources executive, a scuba diving, upper East Side single woman, as well as a busy suburban boy Mom, who was in charge of exploding volcanoes for the science fair. Coleman, too, had been multifaceted. She flew loops over Kaiser Wilhelm II’s Potsdam Palace, and she could explain the physics of lift to a fifth grader. I wanted young women everywhere to let Coleman show them that pursuing their dreams, no matter how unlikely the dream seemed to others, was both worthwhile and possible.

Armed with only a handful of black and white photos, in which a stoic, self-possessed and self-assured woman peered back at me, I desperately wanted to explore who this sepia bombshell really was? How in three years did she learn to be fluent, not merely conversational, in French so that she could learn the complexities and nuances of flying these warbirds? How did she find, cultivate and convince allies to support her efforts to accomplish the impossible? How did she restore her soul when her detractors cut her to ribbons? What did her career choices cost her in sacrifice–both in her love life and her ability to bear children? And what was it like to fly one of these delicate, finicky crafts that weighed less than a modern-day minivan, yet had the tensile strength to carry bombs, fighter pilots, and machine guns? 

To answer this last question, I went to a 2,700 foot-long, grass strip on Martha’s Vineyard. Mike Creato, who runs Classic Aviators and sells biplane rides to tourists, let me fly with him. His 1941 WACO was constructed two decades later than Coleman’s Curtiss Jenny, but the two handled similarly enough so that I could get the hang of flying an open-air, cloth and wood biplane.

So that I could understand the type of flying that Bessie performed, we flew some of the same stunts—barrel rolls, loops, spins, and hammerheads. Later, I’d fly with Eric Campbell. I would arrive at sunrise to warm up the planes with Eric, then I’d leave before the first paying customers arrived, taking Eric’s two young sons with me to care for along with my own two boys. The experience this time brought with it a host of revelations.  

The biplane was a baby carriage to fly, light and easy in the air, yet it could be gnarly to land. There were other details — I was accustomed to a yoke, but in the biplane there was just a stick, as if a car’s steering wheel had been replaced by a gaming joystick. If the biplane was a two-seater, with a bucket seat in the front and rear, the flying pilot operated the stick and rudder from the rear seat. On a takeoff roll, the rear-seated pilot gauges how straight the path is only by peripheral objects on either side of the grass strip, a parallel row of pine trees, a fence or a stone wall for example. Meanwhile, the reconnaissance spy, or shooter, sat up front to operate the machine gun. It’s only when the plane is going fast enough that the rudder becomes effective, and the tail flies up from the ground, allowing the pilot in the rear to see in front. This happens right before launch at about the same time that the sharp shooter takes aim.

While I could have taken lessons from a tailwheel instructor, what made flying with Mike and Eric special was that each was an expert stick who could offer me, a tailwheel novice, insights into aerobatic flying with a confidence that one acquires only through experience and sheer love of a thing. I grew to understand the joy of flying a plane so agile that I thought of turning and the rudder had already complied. I gained a deep appreciation for the skill and patience that flying these warbirds demanded. 

This led me to consider the post-war environment in which women were trying to enter this field. Days before Coleman  arrived in Paris in the fall of 1920, a fatal crash took the lives of two female students at the school where she planned to study. As a result of the accident, the school had closed its doors to women: to paraphrase the school’s owners, France could not lose its mothers and daughters to this game. So even though Bessie had her acceptance letter in hand, she nevertheless, was turned away. 

Forced to find an alternative or go home, she packed up her few belongings and made her way to the coast of France, more than a hundred miles north of Paris. There, Coleman convinced René Caudron to admit her to his school. Like the Wrights, the Caudrons were brothers who designed, built, fixed, and flew airplanes, and at the time, the school was the most famous in all of France. On the beaches of Le Crotoy in the Bretagne region of northern France, Coleman learned how to fly from some of the most experienced airplane designers of the day. Beach flying demanded an understanding of the moon and its tides, as landings had to be made when there was enough of a sand strip to put a plane safely down. On my own trip to Le Crotoy, I gained a whole new level of respect and understanding for the expertise needed to do such a thing. And then there was the persistent threat–money–or more accurately, the lack thereof. 

In the 1920s, there was little extra. While Coleman convinced two wealthy, powerful Black Chicago men – one a publisher, the other a banker, to back her financially, they helped pay for two ocean liner journeys to Europe, but to finance her lessons and to eat and sleep, she would have been left to her own devices.

The publisher becomes her mentor and chronicles her adventures, while the other gun-toting mogul becomes her lover. Thus begins a two-continent quest, defying the odds and even gravity itself, to become this country’s first international civilian pilot. Coleman returns to the States after her first trip with bragging rights and history in her hand – the first civilian to earn a French brevet, with international privileges – yet she is still unable to find a job – flying the mail and barnstorming were the most common opportunities and so she returns to learn how to become the latter. She manages to turn war maneuvers into death defying stunts, worthy of barnstorming shows where tens of thousands look up into the sky and at her in awe. While I learned in the comfort of a fully-restored plane, Coleman flew warbirds, relics of the Great War, that still had Hotchkiss machine gun mounts. While the crosshairs were frozen on a phantom enemy, her very present foe – poverty, racism, sexism and circumstance remained both real, virulent and omnipresent.

Coleman chose a path that was full of risk. Her instructors were soldier aviators, straight out of the film 1917. They had been dog fighters from the Great War and in the air over battlefields these grizzled combat pilots were once mortal enemies, yet somehow Coleman convinced both enemy and ally to teach her daredevil stunts. They taught her the art of war in the airplane, and quite possibly she taught them the art of endurance in life. Born in 1892, Coleman was the daughter of a slave, yet she would rise in prominence to be called a Queen in the country of her birth that first rejected her efforts to learn to fly. In five short years in the U.S. press, Coleman would become known as Queen Bess. 

Two years ahead of Amelia, Coleman is molded by battle-hardened French and German combat fighters, their death-defying bold fearlessness can be seen in her majestic loops, spiky barrel rolls and hairpin turns, all of which resemble the twists and turns of her own hardscrabble journey to learn to fly. Often her journey was splashed on the front pages of newspapers that trumped lynchings. Yet, Coleman even designs her own uniform, strapping up her knee-high lace-up boots with a moxie that leaves us breathless in a time that stole the very lives of people who loved her.

Just as Margot Shetterly’s remarkable Hidden Figures is fundamentally a story about Black women who force unlikely parallels to intersect – the civil rights movement and the space age – A Pair of Wings is about how Bessie Coleman is the only woman in the world who stood at the nexus of the dawn of aviation, as well as the dawn of the Great Migration – the movement of six million African Americans from the agricultural South to the industrial North. When Coleman moved to Chicago, from Waxahachie, TX in 1915, she rode the crest of the very first wave.

My name is Carole Hopson and I am a Captain at United Airlines. I fly a Boeing 737 and my base is in Newark, NJ. Coleman cut a path in the sky and I am profoundly grateful to roam in the firmament that she once called home. I feel so strongly about the legacy that Coleman left, that I founded the Jet Black Foundation, with a mission to send 100 Black women to flight school by the year 2035. 

Carole Hopson is a wife and mother of two college-aged sons. A captain for United Airlines, she founded the Jet Black Foundation, dedicated to sending 100 Black women to flight school by the year 2035. A Pair of Wings, a novel based on the life of pioneer aviatrix Bessie Coleman, is Carole’s debut novel.

The post Op-Ed: Her First Show appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Last month, a new Marvel title hit shelves courtesy of Tiffany D. Jackson. The author of “Grown,” “What Happened to Monday,” and “The Weight of Blood” brings a young Ororo Munroe — the child who will become the superhero Storm — to life in “Storm: Dawn of a Goddess.” Jackson’s latest release is a delightful YA novel grounded in Storm’s East African origins and the hardships of teenage girlhood. “Dawn of a Goddess” is equal parts fantasy and coming-of-age, proving to be a great fiction pick for children and adults to read together this summer.

In this new origin story, Jackson builds a fast-paced fantasy world infused with teenage angst, powerful mutants, tense combat, and lessons on belonging. She writes each layer of the nearly 300-page voyage with finesse. The most apparent strength of Jackson’s adaptation is her skill for writing young characters at pivotal crossroads. 

Ororo Munroe is a thunderous mystery and an exhausted teenage girl. The story begins with a young Ororo, at age 6, and continues as she grows into a 15-year-old. Her age is a core distinction from other adaptations of her story. Many comics, television and film adaptations tell stories of Storm as an adult already tasked with leading the X-Men with her mastery of nature’s elements. This YA entry into Storm’s canon affords audiences an earlier introduction with a chance to understand the talented mutant’s journey in Africa before she meets Professor Charles Xavier.

Writing from the perspective of teenage leads is the heart of Jackson’s literary wheelhouse. Jackson shapes Storm’s origins with attention to the motivations and limitations of a teenage protagonist. My introduction to Jackson’s storytelling was in 2020, when I finished her novel “Grown” in one day. Her attention to detail when fashioning a child’s point of view is impressive. In “Grown,” as with “Storm: Dawn of a Goddess,” Jackson delivers engaging conflict about the material and emotional costs of coming of age. Both novels depend on readers’ willingness to peer deeper at the impact of class and adultification — a harmful process of perceiving children as older or more mature — on children.

In nearly all her published work, Jackson prompts readers to consider the power imbalance between childhood and adulthood with high stakes — her fiction holds a magnifying glass to American myths about freedom and innocence. The adults in Jackson’s novels inhabit worlds full of fear about homelessness, unemployment, and safety and so do the young people at the center of her stories. Her authorial choices invite audiences to challenge assumptions about childhood innocence and question the impact of power imbalances on young Black children. The relationships between adults and children, workers and bosses, and tourists and locals are examples of where Jackson explores power in her novels. 

Through it all, young protagonists fight for a sense of self. An example of Jackson’s prowess for writing these costly tensions comes early in “Grown.” In a conversation with her father, Enchanted, the novel’s central character, broaches a familiar situation: she is a teenager asking for her first car. Her pitch is simple: “We can lease a car for two hundred and twenty-eight dollars a month. I’ll be able to help with the Littles. Take Shea and me to school.” Enchanted’s ask, however, comes at a difficult time. Her father’s union is preparing to strike. 

A conversation that starts with Enchanted’s want for a car quickly burrows deeper into one about economic anxiety and labor organizing. In the end, Enchanted is left to wonder about the looming strike: “I’ve heard Mommy and Daddy talk about it. A union strike would mean no pay, and strikes can go on for months, maybe years.” By the end of the scene, the economic anxiety plaguing both characters — parent and child — is on full display. In Jackson’s fiction, children are not excused from the psychological and emotional impact of economic exploitation, and readers contend with that perspective.

With “Storm: Dawn of a Goddess,” Jackson’s talent for magnifying the toll of exploitation on children takes shape in a new genre. Even in fantasy, Jackson commits to the stakes that Ororo is still a young girl growing up in the souks of Cairo. Ororo must contend with classism, imperialism, and child neglect to figure out who she is. In the process, she (and other vulnerable children) try to survive starvation without being jailed or killed by adults in power. Jackson’s skill for careful world-building is evident in her handling of Indigenous African spirituality, PTSD and child poverty, even within the conventions of fantasy. 

The quest to outwit the Shadow King, a terrifying psychic mutant with the power to possess the bodies of others, is only one obstacle in Ororo’s way. Jackson composes a fantasy novel with a satisfying balance between the fight scenes that Storm fans expect and intimate moments of introspection that fans new to her writing will enjoy. Overall, Jackson pens a world of magic and mutants that remains grounded in the histories of colonialism in which we, the audience, live each day. 

Ororo’s journey from Egypt to Kenya also shatters the familiar idea that the superhero epic is only as good as its final battle. Jackson’s multilayered narrative brings waves of conflict that blow away the fantasy trope of one looming villain (usually known as “the big bad”). In discovering her talent for weather manipulation, she embarks on a path far more personal than any single fight with the traditional big, bad Marvel villain can hold. Jackson crafts a true heroine’s tale to captivate fans of all ages. And beyond Ororo, Jackson rounds out the narrative with a full cast of friends, foes and familiar faces (like T’Challa, the young crown prince of Wakanda). Every relationship invites Ororo to question herself and where her powers come from to discover who she is. 

After reading “Storm: Dawn of a Goddess,” my initial skepticism about Marvel’s ability to handle Storm’s origin subsided. Jackson’s talent for writing heartwarming teen leads with compelling motivations is a major benefit to Marvel. The choice to hire her as the newest steward of Storm’s source material saves Ororo Munroe from falling victim to the uninspired direction of recent Marvel cinematic products. This latest adaptation makes the most out of the Marvel superhero pantheon. Jackson delivers an exciting young adult novel that encourages readers to imagine the world of Storm without fully succumbing to the limitations of Marvel’s Africa. 

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It’s a Monday evening when Juju Bae and I sit in front of our computer screens to chat about her debut book, The Book of Juju: Africana Spirituality for Healing, Liberation, and Self-Discovery. The text is a work of creative nonfiction that combines memoir, history, and guided prompts for readers hoping to begin (or strengthen) their practices of Africana religious and spiritual traditions. The Baltimore-born spiritualist recently moved to New York and tells me she spent most of her day in a studio, recording the audiobook for The Book of Juju. 

As a contemporary guide to Africana ancestral veneration, The Book of Juju is a creative work about utilizing the tools of Africana traditions for healing. Juju’s past study of psychology, Black history, and culture merge with her personal experiences of grief, divination, and community work to provide a refreshing new release. Listeners to her “A Little Juju” podcast and new fans alike will enjoy the subjects explored.

As we ease into our hour together, a smile dances across her face. Her excitement about connecting with readers, even after a long day, is resonant while discussing her upcoming book tour launching this week. Despite moving up the coast, she is committed to kicking off her first event in Baltimore, “The City That Reads,” at Greedy Reads in Remington. As the sun sets on the East Coast and the sky inches toward indigo, our conversation about her work, hometown, and hopes for readers deepens. 

Bry Reed: Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations! Putting a debut book out is no small feat. 

Juju: It’s not [laughs]. Thank you so much!

BR: How do you feel as a debut writer as publication day for your debut approaches?

JB: I still feel like my feet are not on the ground yet. I’m still floating. There’s so much to do that … in some ways, my mind isn’t even on the book. It’s on the other things you have to do: the touring, the sharing it. So I feel like I’m still in the process of doing work around the book. I think when it’s actually out, then I’ll feel different. It’s so funny, I was talking to a mentor recently and she told me, “remind yourself that the greats, like Zora Neale Hurston, never had to post on social media — of course, it didn’t exist because it was a different time — but give yourself grace to put your words out into the world and not give yourself all this other labor.” I can find the balance in between that.

BR: As you balance those choices, is it significant for you that your first event for the book will be in your hometown of Baltimore?

JB: That was necessary for me. I always like to start off anything meaningful that I’m doing at my home base. Obviously, it’s where my friends are, where my family is, but it’s [also] where I was born. It is the opening piece of The Book of Juju itself. It starts off in Baltimore with my experience as a Catholic, Baltimore child. So to start off my tour being around some of the people who influenced me to write the book is deeply necessary. It couldn’t be any other way. It has to be in my city.

BR: What inspires that choice?

JB: Well, I love my city. I remember one time when I was still living in Baltimore, a couple years ago, a listener to the podcast said, “I love that you live here. Even with everything that you have going on, because it shows that you can be from — and a part of — this city and still have a good life.” I don’t live in the city anymore but I am still deeply connected to home because it is what propels me into all these spaces. If I forget my home then I forget my lineage and I can’t do that. 

BR: The importance of lineage is one of the themes, and also motifs, that is recurring throughout The Book of Juju. Your book is an exciting blend of memoir, self-help, and spiritualism. As you were drafting this work, was it difficult to balance all these dimensions as a storyteller?

JB: Surprisingly, no. I didn’t want it to be a full-on memoir. I didn’t want it to be full-on history. I wanted it to be how I show up. I talk a lot about my own life because it informs who I am, but my own life is rooted in the history [of spiritualism]. It wasn’t as difficult as you might think. 

BR: Are you happy with the balance in the final version?

JB: I’m in the process of recording the audiobook, so I’m in this process of reading the book a different way right now. And my answer today is that I wish there was more of the historical aspect and less about myself. I’m reckoning with what I wrote. 

BR: There’s a difference between a writing process and an emotional process of preparing yourself for public reception of what you’ve written.

JB: Especially when your thoughts and views change from when you wrote that. There’s other nuances, and this book is an archive of where I was when I wrote it.

BR: What has been the role of the other hats that you wear in this text? You’re a podcaster, independent scholar, vocalist, and theater performer; what aspects of those other roles influenced this text?

JB: The podcast for sure. The podcast catapulted the book. A lot of the information in the book is information I’ve thought about, said, and discussed alongside other people in interviews from “A Little Juju Podcast.” 

BR: Where do you situate Baltimore in the vast histories of Africana religious and spiritual traditions? 

JB: Baltimore is a historic place. It is an old city. The energy is old. The spirits are old. With that eldership, and that connection to slavery, all of these ancestral histories connect to Black Baltimoreans and Baltimoreans in general. It’s such a city that people consider “haunted,” and that’s new-age language to say Baltimore is a place where spirits engage with the living. I would not be who I am today if I was not raised in a city that has that haunt! 

BR: It wasn’t until recently that I learned Ouija boards were invented here.

JB: Sure were! I think [that place] is a 7-Eleven now in Mount Vernon. There’s the Catholicism of Baltimore. We’re a woo-woo city and people are talking about it, but not in a Black way. That’s where my curiosity is. 

BR: How did other life experiences, in other Black cities, impact writing this book?

JB: Atlanta is where I first uncovered and questioned what it meant to be a Black human being. I moved to Atlanta when I was 18 and going to Spelman College. I was considering all these different aspects of who I am: my queerness, my political views. All that came into question. In Chicago, I literally dropped out of my doctoral program to make a commitment to ancestral work and healing. All these places educated and informed me in different ways. The concept of Juju and Juju Bae, that came from Chicago. 

BR: You did all of this before even turning 30.

JB: [laughs] I did!

BR: Many Africana religious and spiritual traditions are closed practices. What choices did you make as a writer and practitioner to honor that distinction? 

JB: This is something I’m thinking of constantly in my work (and other people’s work). In The Book of Juju, I focus on ancestors more than any other kind of tradition that I’m letting people into. Of course, I mention Hoodoo and the Orisa, but this text is about the ancestors. That is not closed. Can’t nobody connect to your ancestors more than you! Ancestors are accessible to everyone.

BR: You give strong declarative statements like “you are not forgotten” when speaking directly to the reader. Why are those declarative statements important for you to include?

JB: Because for myself, and other people that I know, those declarations are what people were seeking…. Those declarations are the words I needed to hear when no one got it. When I felt like I was strange or odd. I wasn’t weird and I wasn’t forgotten.

BR: As people of the African diaspora navigate imperialism, racism, and classism, where do you see the use of ancestor veneration? 

JB: We don’t hear enough stories about us. Our ancestors are not considered spirits worthy of a story, a chapter, nothing. Even that [storytelling] shifts what we know about ourselves. Learning more about Africana spiritual cosmology means [learning] there are many Africana spirits that are lying dormant. I think learning more about them will do something. I don’t know what, but we need to get clearer on what we’re seeking in this lifetime. 

BR: I personally put your book in conversation with earlier works like The Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara and Jambalaya by Luisah Teish. What books and other works of art do you hold in conversation with your book?

JB: Ooooooh [pause], I’m thinking of Solange. A Seat at the Table. Her work feels very current but informed by ancestors. That’s what I want my work to feel like. 

BR: Is there any extra advice you’d give to readers that you didn’t have the time to include?

JB: The relationship to your ancestors does and can change. It’s not going to look like it did a week ago or a year ago. We have to allow ourselves, and them, to change. To learn more. They are not perfect beings sent into our lives to be God. Yet they are still worthy of love, honor, and veneration…. And you may take your altar down! That’s okay and we will still grow throughout that process.

BR: What is your dream for readers to take away from this book?

JB: It’s that declaration about not feeling forgotten. It’s about not feeling that you were left by a person who passed away. To know that they were not left, that we were not left, that I was not left. It’s not to say we won’t grieve or feel pain, but to know that there is thousands of years of Indigenous knowledge to interact with what they left us. Whether that’s a story, a recipe, a dream, a smell. We still have them and what they gave us. I hope this supports people digging to find the gold that they left us. 

The kick-off event for The Book of Juju will be held at Greedy Reads in Remington at 7 p.m. on Tuesday, June 18. 

The post The Book of Juju: Juju Bae talks about her new book, Baltimore’s old spirits,  and honoring the ancestors appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Hanif Abdurraqib’s latest release, “There’s Always This Year: On Basketball and Ascension,” challenges revered American myths about talent and prosperity while troubling the ground lying between fathers and sons. 

Structured in the style of a four-quarter NBA game — complete with intermissions and countdowns — “There’s Always This Year” places readers in the audience of an unyielding full-court press of cultural analysis. The familiar motifs of Black life and family in Abdurraqib’s earlier work continue in this memoir while sharing space with his chilling explorations of American prosperity. When the final quarter of the text finishes, readers must wrestle with their acceptance (or denial) of heartbreak and melancholy in the shadow of dreams. 

Abdurraqib’s experiment with form and subject pays off in “There’s Always This Year.” In this text, he opts for quarters of prose split amongst the staggered minutes and seconds of a countdown clock. This inventive frame is reminiscent of the innovative structure of his last release, 2021’s “A Little Devil in America: In Praise of Black Performance.” Both are creative works fashioned around personal and public memories, in which Abdurraqib combines nostalgic storytelling about various moments in Black American culture with his intimate recollections about living in the United States. One consequence of the avant-garde structure is that as the literary clock runs down, some quarters feel rushed. The clock is unforgiving even when mapped on the page. Luckily, intermissions and other clever breaks allow some reprieve from the hasty endings—these breaks also introduce readers to local Ohio legends as Abdurraqib invites his audience into the history of his midwestern coming of age. In these brief breaks, the audience is presented with invitations into Ohio’s vast history of basketball, abolition, and aviation. By the fourth quarter of “There’s Always This Year,” we explore pieces of Abdurraqib’s childhood and young adulthood set against the larger backdrop of basketball as performance and (sub)culture.

The strength of this book lies in Abdurraqib’s ability to assess basketball as a game and culture, subject to the same myth-making as other performances in American society. When he writes “The first way I felt myself operating on the other side of America’s fear was being young and idolizing the people America was trying to convince me to be afraid of” in the Pregame, he is setting his audience up to receive chapters full of stories about the cultivation of fear in service of domination. 

While the subject of his analysis is ever-changing, Abdurraqib is constantly assessing how class, race, and desire shape the narratives formed around basketball players in US mainstream media coverage. He reminds us that stories — like the ones crafted about the Fab Five and LeBron James — serve a purpose. In writing, “It might do all of us some good to consider what making it means,” Abdurraqib is interrogating how media outlets, as for-profit corporations, want the public to engage with athletes. This book dives into the myths that make and break us and outlines how those myths dictate who among us — on and off the court — gets to be a superstar. 

Alongside basketball, ascension is a resonant theme for the duration of the book. Abdurraqib’s word choice, metaphors, and visual imagery carry the ascension motif in every quarter of the text. By the end, it feels like a book about faith, just as much as a book about basketball. On the one hand, Abdurraqib references ascension as young basketball talent ascending through the ranks and becoming legends equipped with nicknames and highlight tapes worthy of their mysticism. On the other hand, he broadens the topic of ascension by including brief stories about masters of aviation, odes, and prayers for the dead, laying bare the fears of the dying. This way, ascension is not reserved for storytelling about American prosperity and triumph. Abdurraqib leads readers to a path of critical inquiry and reflection where we’re left to contemplate the cost of American ascension in basketball and in every other area of life. The text is clear that ascension may come with sacrifice — through isolation, systemic conformity, and a commitment to public performance — or it may not come at all. 

In “There’s Always This Year,” the audience is a congregation. Both the in-book audiences and us, the real-world readers, witness Abdurraqib’s chronicle about what it takes to “make it.” Throughout the text, we witness the creation and destruction of many messiahs whose stories are molded to captivate us. After reading this text, prepare to think more acutely about the myths perpetuated in tandem with any sport you enjoy. This book’s themes are especially relevant to our present moment as stories of basketball stars such as Kamilla Cardoso and Angel Reese are minimized in comparison to their peer Caitlin Clark. Cardosa, who separated from her family for years after moving from Brazil to the U.S. at age 15, is one player that is heavy on my mind after reading this memoir. In the end, Abdurraqib’s latest release is a critical lesson in myth-making and grief that leaves readers wondering if the joys and triumphs of sports are worth the melancholy. 

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As Baltimore prepares for the 2024 CityLit Festival, writers and readers alike are glowing in anticipation of the literary marketplace. One of the many conversations on the horizon for Saturday, April 20, is between Baltimore’s D. Watkins and Mateo Askaripour, a Long Island native and author of “Black Buck,” his debut novel. The contemporary novel follows the rise of Darren Vender from barista to sales guru while chronicling the conflicts that begin to brew in every area of his life. Askaripour’s debut morphs New York City into a dramatic stage for readers to observe a fictional account of the real struggles between home life, work life and the quest for balance. Since the publication of “Black Buck” in 2021, Askaripour has written his second novel, “This Great Hemisphere,” which will be released this summer. Askaripour and I had the opportunity to chat on a sunny Sunday morning and explore the gratitude, spaces and characters that come alive for him in crafting his novels. 

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Bry Reed: I love book festivals because they allow us, as audiences in print literature, to engage with writers beyond the page. As you prepare for CityLit, what excites you most about engaging with readers at events like this?

Mateo Askaripour: First of all, it’s Baltimore. I’ve heard that people in Baltimore are a very special type of people, a very special type of audience that gives so much love and energy to artists. I’m honored to share space with D. Watkins. He’s the bard of Baltimore, and he’s someone who when I came into the game of literature and of publishing, I knew of him as a veteran. As someone who had come into this as himself and had never really switched up on those around him. I’m excited to share the stage with someone I admire greatly. And third, I’m excited to be in-person. 

BR: Your debut novel, “Black Buck,” has received immense praise for its creative, satirical narrative about capitalism and labor. How did you come to write a satire as your first novel?

MA:  When the book came out in 2021, I often found myself pushing back against that label of satire because I didn’t want it to be placed into this comfortable, convenient box. When I was writing “Black Buck,” I didn’t envision it purely as a satire. I knew that it had satirical elements. I knew that it had many absurdist elements, but I also felt that the narrative was incredibly grounded in what was happening and what was going on with the characters (internally and externally). And I also wasn’t envisioning one pure genre because I thought that that would limit the way that I would write the novel. It has elements of romance in there. It has elements, by the end, of a thriller, which was a surprise to me as I was writing it! With anything that I write, I try not to place it in a box because I feel that could limit my vision and limit how people could perceive it. 

BR: In the way “Black Buck” is crafted, as a reader, I didn’t feel like I was moving through time. I felt like I was moving through space. There are different passages, and it feels like a traversing of New York as you’re traversing these relationships throughout the novel. Did any of your personal relationships influence the relationships and conflicts in the novel?

M: Without a doubt. Certainly some relationships came from relationships that I had. The relationship with Darren and Soraya is somewhat similar to a relationship that I had with the woman I was dating at the time. Certain workplace relationships — not all of them — but a few of them informed the narrative without a doubt. When I stepped into the world of startups, after a while, I had a mentor, and it was a very strong protégée, or mentor-mentee relationship, where I was learning a lot.

Some of the things that I’ve carried into my life today that were extremely helpful, and then some things that were a bit more harmful, and I had to unlearn after I left that space. […] What’s a joy is when people reach out and they say “You wrote about me and my life!” or “You wrote about me and situations that I’ve been in and it was difficult to read at times, but I knew I wasn’t alone.” To me, that is the highest manifestation of success.

BR: Absolutely. As you talk about the different relationships, one that really stuck out to me was the relationship between Darren and Jason from the start. As readers, we don’t get a lot of Jason’s POV of the changes and escalations that happen throughout the novel. Can you speak a little about crafting Jason’s POV?

MA: What did you think about Jason? Jason was a contentious character for a lot of people. 

BR: You know who they made me think of? Song of Solomon. Milkman and Guitar. […] It’s class tension right? Those are the nuggets. 

M: Darren and Jason — you nailed it on the head — these are two brothers. They’ve grown up in the same neighborhood but in different parts of the neighborhood. Darren lives in a brownstone that his family owns, and Jason grew up in the pjs, which is like literally a block away. Aside from that, I wanted to portray this extremely loving relationship between two men who love each other, but then a rift is presented when they go on two markedly different paths. We see the deterioration of their relationship, partially rooted in their inability to communicate. […] Jason feels like he can’t say “I’m hurt” or “You’re hurting me,” so it snowballs and becomes this tit-for-tat, negativity brewing and becoming almost malignant in the body. And it becomes blistering physical harm.

BR: When you talk about the four corners, I think about a compass.

M: Wow, wow, wow! In the three-and-a-half years since this book came out, I haven’t heard that. 

BR: Really?

MA: Yeah, wow! When they’re fighting on the compass, it’s because they’ve lost direction — hard. 

BR: I was thinking of it as a compass and a crossroads. They’re at the crossroads of so many relationships, and the neighborhood is at a crossroads.

M: And so much happens at that intersection. You see the gentrifiers, Soraya, her dad, Wally Cat, we see so much happening on those four corners. Which is representative of so many places. The drama isn’t taking place in a big auditorium on a stage. It’s taking place on a street on a curb on a sidewalk. And I think that when we think about the places we’ve grown up with — where we’ve been able to exist for a long time — they are their own movie sets with their own characters. And that’s exactly what I was looking to do with Bed-Stuy and Sumwun. And Bed-Stuy is different — it’s open air. But I had to create an entire world on an office floor. So what does that mean? It means that the different conference rooms had different qualities. All of these places were on the map of Sumwun.

BR: As you were crafting the novel, what spaces in our real literary world helped you bring these spaces to life?

MA:  I’m thinking of multiple spaces. Literal, abstract, and so forth. Talking about the literal, I would go to readings in the city a lot. In Brooklyn, Manhattan. I would go just to see what it was like for these published authors to speak about their work and what it was like to interact with an audience. I would go to honestly siphon off a lot of inspiration for myself. Just seeing these artists at work. At times being able to ask a question or interact with them. I didn’t need anything else. It allowed me to touch and see something that was real. Even though my own dream was something that only existed in my spirit, that helped me immensely.

Being able to commune with these impactful writers every night [through reading] as I was writing this novel was also a safe and welcoming place where it felt as though I could be in conversation with [James] Baldwin, with [Toni] Morrison, with [Zora Neale] Hurston and with [Ann] Petry. With all of these people. With [Richard] Wright, with Chester Himes, with William Melvin Kelley. And then with contemporary writers, Nafissa Thompson-Spires, Mitchell S. Jackson, Brit Bennett, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I was consuming so much art. And consuming it with a much more critical eye than I ever did before. […] Providence was the first place that I ever read any work and any work from “Black Buck.” 

And I shared the stage with Jason Reynolds and a bunch of other talented authors. One being Carla Du Pree from CityLit.

BR: As you are in the space between the publication of the debut and the anticipation of the second, what are you holding on to in this space between those two? What is the bliss in this in-between?

M: I oscillate between [feeling like] the job’s not finished — Mamba and before him really MJ — and on to the next. In more than any other state of being, I’m in a state of gratitude. I am excited more than anything to hear what readers think. I’m proud of what I did and the various risks that I took in this undertaking because I could’ve just written a “Black Buck Two.” I am eager to take the lessons that I’ve learned in book two and put  [them] into book three.

Mateo Askaripour’s latest novel, This Great Hemisphere, is available on July 9, 2024. He will be in conversation with D. Watkins at this year’s CityLit Festival on Saturday, April 20. Click here to learn more about the CityLit Festival.

The post CityLit Preview: Mateo Askaripour Takes Space Seriously appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

“By the time I came along in 1977, my grandmother had worked as a housekeeper, a health aid in an elder care facility, a hairdresser, a seamstress, and finally as a worker in a pharmaceutical bottling plant,” author Jesmyn Ward told the crowd gathered at the Baltimore Marriott Waterfront hotel for Enoch Pratt’s annual Booklovers’ Breakfast. “But my grandmother Dorothy was more than her labor. My Dorothy was a storyteller.” 

Since 1988, the library has utilized the Booklovers’ Breakfast to celebrate the start of Black History Month. This year, it was held on February 3. In its function and execution, the annual event showcases many truths about access, literacy, and the role of booklovers in communities. 

Ward herself is a storyteller. She was the first woman and first Black American to win National Book Awards for her novel “Sing, Unburied, Sing” (published in 2017) and “Salvage the Bones” (published in 2011). Additionally, readers can explore her work in nonfiction with “Men We Reaped” (2013), “Navigate Your Stars” (2020), and an essay featured in “The Fire This Time: A New Generation Speaks About Race” (2016). 

Each work is grounded in Ward’s mastery of language and honesty about American history. Whether she is drawing us into a world of magical realism or uncovering the agonizing grief of mourning those gone too soon, Ward cuts open the myths of American life and lets the horrors and the love bleed out. 

Over the course of Ward’s speech, we get to her truth while also getting to know her and her family well. Her descriptions of her loved ones are vivid and strikingly familiar. She tells us about her grandmother’s gold teeth and ears full of piercings and gold jewelry. In between these descriptions, she also says that at one time there were more than 14 of her family members living in her grandmother’s house at once. 

Her refrain, given to her by her grandmother, is “tell it straight, tell it true.” And she does. Ward does not shy away from telling the truth about her family’s experiences of infant mortality and the harsh conditions of domestic labor on Black women working in white, wealthy homes. She offers evocative, stirring examples that “love and loss are twins in life.” 

“In part, I tell it straight because grandmother no longer can,” she says. “The reason I speak of my grandmother in the past tense is not because she is dead. It is because my grandmother is losing her memory. The first storyteller of my life is losing her stories.” 

Ward says that her Grandma Dorothy is losing her memory due to Alzheimer’s, and the room — full of Black elders with memories just like Dorothy’s — shares this feeling of heartbreak and anguish. We sit with her in these truths and let her know she is heard, seen, and witnessed in a magnitude fitting her vulnerability. Ward acknowledges us, and her larger audience, with the knowing admission that she “is not alone in this endeavor” of telling Southern Gothic tales.

Ward says she is committed to the hard task of “telling this American story.” She is candid that sometimes she wishes to tell “happy stories” not rife with grief, death, and dying, but she is frank that these harsh truths are her reality. These truths are how she learned Mississippi and how she continues to learn America. 

“I tell this Mississippi tale. I write toward what hurts. I write toward the truth, and I tell it again. I scribe the whole,” Ward says. 

Her role as a contemporary steward of the Southern Gothic literary traditions shines in the time she takes to draw us all in to her recollections of family, grief, and storytelling. She does not rush, and neither does the audience. We all surround her, taking in her words and delivering our own awe back to her as proof that we are listening. 

In this truth, the audience remains a steady, listening ear. We all hang on to Ward’s lush storytelling and respond with our own gasps, laughter, and moans. We react because Ward’s story requires it. There is no use in meeting her candor with silence. 

Witnessing Ward’s speech helps to solidify my belief that she is one of the strongest contemporary storytellers in the Southern Gothic tradition. Her work in fiction epitomizes the Southern Gothic genre as she frequently explores the haunting impact of racial violence, patriarchy, and classism on communities. She joins literary giants like Toni Morrison, Jean Toomer, and Gloria Naylor in illuminating the shadowy horrors that ravage the lives of Black characters set in the American South. Ward, and her fellow Mississippian, Kiese Laymon, continue this tradition well and introduce new audiences to the glory of Southern Gothics. 

Ward’s storytelling brings together intergenerational audiences with a common goal. The elders in the room, myself, and those attendees younger than me each arrived at the venue in search of rich storytelling from a contemporary writer not shy about writing for Black readers. The event serves as a place of communion for readers; a gathering around Ward’s literary campfire.

The Booklovers’ Breakfast focuses on the keynote speaker while also bringing together readers from all over the state. As I ate, I got to know the Trinidinian elder sitting next to me and learned about her journey to the event that morning. Miss Joanne ventured to the breakfast from her home in Tacoma Park. The journey was not an easy feat, but Miss Joanne, an avid reader and big fan of Ward’s work, was determined nonetheless. She, and her fierce determination, took the bus to downtown Baltimore and got off when the Inner Harbor was in sight. 

From there, with the support of her walker, she began walking in search of the Charm City Circulator, buses that offer free trips throughout downtown Baltimore. 

“I looked up that it’d take two Circulators to get me here,” Miss Joanne says between bites of her smoked salmon croissant. Moments passed, and with no Circulator in sight, she stepped out on faith and asked a passing car for directions to the Marriott. The driver, a young lady of Trinidinian descent herself, offered Miss Joanne a ride and her number to stay in touch when the event ended. With the kindness of a stranger, Miss Joanne arrived at the event with a few minutes to spare before the program started. 

My conversation with Miss Joanne added to an ongoing symphony of conversations and the reverb of hundreds of pieces of silverware hitting ceramic plates. From the moment the doors opened, the fourth-floor room brimmed with the joyous noise of people gathering. 

The 36th annual Booklovers’ Breakfast is a shining example that Baltimore is full of avid readers with needs for connection. The event takes more than six months of planning and continues because of the belief that Baltimoreans deserve access to media, literature, and events that spark their interests. With over 70 tables full of excited guests, the annual Booklovers’ Breakfast is a reminder that cities need booklovers, and booklovers need reliable public transit and funded public libraries. 

The post Cities Need Booklovers appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Across the African diaspora, there are texts—literary and otherwise—sifting through histories and revealing the violent price of girlhood. Released in 2023, Safiya Sinclair’s memoir, “How to Say Babylon,” offers her recollections about coming of age as a girl child in a Rastafarian household. Sinclair shares her own family history alongside the political and religious histories of Jamaica. Between the ongoing domination of the island—by the monied and powerful—and the religious persecution of Rastafarians by the government, we find the story of a woman who learned at a young age that her life, as she wished to live it, came at a cost.

How to Say Babylon was the last book I read in 2023, and its lyricism and candor compelled me. Sinclair opens up her family history, detailing the sexual violence suffered by her elders and the neglect imposed on her mother, and shares the abuse she suffered at school, at home, and in literary spaces. It’s clear that because of her age, Blackness, girlhood, and her family’s commitment to being Rastafari, Sinclair is isolated.

There are few moments where we, the audience—the witnesses—aren’t staring down the realities of colonialism, imperialism, child abuse, or sexual coercion. We are ushered into an intimate story of Black girlhood framed by colonial domination and religious persecution. Sinclair writes, “These were the nation’s downpressed and downtrodden” early in the memoir to make clear that Rastafari people are targets of ongoing discrimination while drawing us deeper into understanding what she, and others, face in Rastafari homes. For those of us who are witnessing these recollections while holding stories of our own survival, this memoir may stir up our own memories of terror. 

Among the recollections of abuse is Sinclair’s complementary experience of self-soothing, discovery, and building a life on her terms. She credits her mother, a community educator who taught children across Jamaica, instilling lessons about literature and media. From a young age, Sinclair studied vocabulary and enjoyed reading about current events from newspapers. Her curiosity quickly turned into mastery as she grew her skills. The memoir explores the evolution of Sinclair’s scholarship as she dutifully cultivated it with her mother’s support and the resources of predominantly white schools. 

Sinclair’s memoir adds to an ever-growing collection of Black writing that shares family histories and coming-of-age stories to help us, a larger community, make sense of our conditions. She joins Bessie Head, Maya Angelou, and Jesmyn Ward in illuminating the truth of Black girlhood while simultaneously acknowledging the violence(s) that shape Black life all around the world. Sinclair, like her predecessors in this tradition of self-recollection, makes sense of her life alongside a thorough assessment of the violent conditions that makes her abuse possible. 

Nature is integral to Sinclair’s retellings. Frequently, she describes foliage and other features of the different landscapes her family calls home throughout the island. Readers familiar with the work of Zora Neale Hurston and Alice Walker will find similarities in how Sinclair brings her environment into the frame of her storytelling. In many ways, nature and her mother’s compassion are Sinclair’s safe havens for much of the memoir. In one chapter Sinclair writes, “When she wasn’t reading poetry or swimming, she was smoking, walking with yogis who subsisted on sunlight alone, plastering a brown mixture of egg yolk and honey on her head, a concoction to help soak up the sun she was always chasing.” She invites us into her own memories and her mother’s, exploring her mother’s garden and sharing this journey with us. 

When Sinclair describes her relationship with water, we learn she is descended from fishermen. Sinclair understands that she, like her mother and her grandmother, is born along a precious coast—precious in its spiritual significance and precious in its material dividends. Sinclair writes, “Our history was the sea, my mother told me, so I could never be lost here” while clarifying that private resorts and corporations own most of the Jamaican coastline. 

The coast, where Black fishermen once fished and Black people swam, was almost entirely inaccessible to native Jamaicans. Here, the audience contends with how pleasure—vacations, weddings, and luxury—for tourists thrives because of the subjugation of native populations. We are reminded that glamour comes at a cost to those who work the land, steward nature, and die fighting against corporations. The balance Sinclair strikes between personal narrative and her role as a witness of Jamaican history works well throughout the text. Neither perspective suffers for the inclusion of the other. 

Reading the memoir, we get to know the writers who shaped her literary canon as a teenager. In this way, the book offers us intertextuality. We get to read about the life of Sinclair, a writer, while learning about other distinguished women writers along the way. While reflecting on her development as an artist, Sinclair points directly to the works of Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson. From these moments, we learn that Sinclair is an avid reader of women who grapple with their sorrow and the haunting condition of humanity. The link is set between Sinclair and the gothic poets whose work she devours. 

There’s no way to finish this text without contending with the stakes of Black childhood. For most of the text, Sinclair wades through her childhood and the stories of children around her. Even in her rage about her own childhood, Sinclair is still careful to recognize the constraints of her parents’ childhoods that led them to their partnership and their approach to caregiving. When reflecting on her mother’s girlhood she says plainly, “Like many young women born into poverty, the scarcity of her choices made her easy prey.” 

Sinclair’s writing also causes us to reflect on when childhood ends and adulthood begins. As she grows older, she is not saved from the terror of childhood vulnerability and the feeling of powerlessness because the people she loves are still vulnerable to patriarchal violence. Age has not shielded her from heartbreak. Once she reaches adulthood (while some consider this salvation), she struggles to shield her siblings—her younger brother and two younger sisters— from their own suffering. And still, beyond Sinclair’s immediate family, there are moments where she recalls how children around her—neighbors and old classmates, all Black children—disappeared. 
How to Say Babylon is compelling because it does not turn away from the horror of Black childhood. Sinclair strips childhood of the narrative of innocence often thrust upon it and delves deep into strife. Readers searching for evocative nonfiction about Black childhood, Black girlhood, and the history of Rastafarians in Jamaica will be captivated by this memoir. Sinclair is candid about the cost of enduring the terrors of structural violence and the intimate violence that stares children down at home, on the streets, and in schoolhouses constructed in the image of white patriarchal violence.

The post Book Review: “How to Say Babylon: A Jamaican Memoir” appeared first on Baltimore Beat.