Why By Birthright?
There was a time, when I didn’t know myself. I grew up a black kid in a whitewashed world, went to mostly-white private schools, and lived in an all-white suburb. In fact, my family was the first black family to move into our sleepy town. I grew up listening to Duran Duran and riding and showing horses before it was a thing to showcase black equestrians.
As a child, my heroes on the big screen were white: Elvis Presley, Speed Racer, Captain James T. Kirk. To be them, I had to become something I wasn’t. White. And I always fell short of the mark, no matter how hard my imagination tried to make up for the difference. My blackness was an ‘other’ in my peripheral vision, a silent sentinel keeping vigil at the tomb of an unknown soldier, waiting for me to awaken.
When I started writing at the tender age of eight, my heroes were white with blue eyes and blond hair. Because that’s what Luke Skywalker looked like. That was what the world told me was desirable and beautiful. I tried to write black characters, but I didn’t fit into that world either. I acted too white. Talked too white. Didn’t listen to the right music. So, I walked adrift between worlds.
As I got older, I wanted the black experience, but was rebuked at every step. I was invisible on both sides and yet too visible to adequately hide. So I did what every only child does best. I retreated to the playground inside my head. Where my imaginary friends made no judgments. Where the color of one’s skin didn’t matter. But it did matter.
As a freshman in college, a black professor folded her hands over my fantasy novel and asked me how many black characters were in the book. I was livid! How dare she ask such a question before even reading it. Ultimately, I was furious with myself because I could not answer her. I tried to make my characters black without saying they were black. I described them with dark skin, but didn’t want to say anymore. I was afraid of drawing attention to them. Just as I was afraid of drawing attention to myself. My father had taught me the lessons of the South, where such scrutiny was not only dangerous, but fatal.
It was not until I wrote “Out of the Cradle”, my first story set in the Star Wars universe, that I turned a personal corner. For the first time, my protagonist was black, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed. I longed to know where all the black people were in the Star Wars universe, not just the token few offered in tribute to appease the masses. Where were the people who looked like me? And yes, it was important. It was important to me. Not finding the answers, I wrote a sourcebook for Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game called Black Sands of Socorro and embarked on a quest of discovery, creating the pirate world, its lore, and its people. And what a world!
Black Sands was my first step on a journey to find myself and love blackness. But it took a hard-hitting, feisty Marine Corps sniper named Anaba Raines to bring me to heel. Who was Patricia A. Jackson? It would take a long fall down the rabbit hole to find that answer. Writing Forging a Nightmare was a literary exorcism that forced me to confront my ‘other’ and see myself, and not the demon of post-Jim Crow thinking.
As I labored on my debut novel, with Anaba as my taskmaster, I learned that my main characters could be unapologetically black and proud, beautiful and vulnerable, uplifted and redeemable. I, too, could be all of these things, unabashedly. This journey was mine — by birthright. Thus, the name for my website.
I watch Star Wars with a troubling sense of exclusion. I want the Emperor to be black. I want the most powerful Jedi family in the galaxy to be black. I want the Jedi in the forefront of the story to be black, not tokens. And if I can’t have that, I will live in my own fantastical stories on worlds, where the heroes sport dreadlocks and look like me. Doing the Force my way! On my terms!
James Baldwin warned, “Be careful what you set your heart upon — for it will surely be yours.” And with all my heart, I believe him.
As a child, my heroes on the big screen were white: Elvis Presley, Speed Racer, Captain James T. Kirk. To be them, I had to become something I wasn’t. White. And I always fell short of the mark, no matter how hard my imagination tried to make up for the difference. My blackness was an ‘other’ in my peripheral vision, a silent sentinel keeping vigil at the tomb of an unknown soldier, waiting for me to awaken.
When I started writing at the tender age of eight, my heroes were white with blue eyes and blond hair. Because that’s what Luke Skywalker looked like. That was what the world told me was desirable and beautiful. I tried to write black characters, but I didn’t fit into that world either. I acted too white. Talked too white. Didn’t listen to the right music. So, I walked adrift between worlds.
As I got older, I wanted the black experience, but was rebuked at every step. I was invisible on both sides and yet too visible to adequately hide. So I did what every only child does best. I retreated to the playground inside my head. Where my imaginary friends made no judgments. Where the color of one’s skin didn’t matter. But it did matter.
As a freshman in college, a black professor folded her hands over my fantasy novel and asked me how many black characters were in the book. I was livid! How dare she ask such a question before even reading it. Ultimately, I was furious with myself because I could not answer her. I tried to make my characters black without saying they were black. I described them with dark skin, but didn’t want to say anymore. I was afraid of drawing attention to them. Just as I was afraid of drawing attention to myself. My father had taught me the lessons of the South, where such scrutiny was not only dangerous, but fatal.
It was not until I wrote “Out of the Cradle”, my first story set in the Star Wars universe, that I turned a personal corner. For the first time, my protagonist was black, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed. I longed to know where all the black people were in the Star Wars universe, not just the token few offered in tribute to appease the masses. Where were the people who looked like me? And yes, it was important. It was important to me. Not finding the answers, I wrote a sourcebook for Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game called Black Sands of Socorro and embarked on a quest of discovery, creating the pirate world, its lore, and its people. And what a world!
Black Sands was my first step on a journey to find myself and love blackness. But it took a hard-hitting, feisty Marine Corps sniper named Anaba Raines to bring me to heel. Who was Patricia A. Jackson? It would take a long fall down the rabbit hole to find that answer. Writing Forging a Nightmare was a literary exorcism that forced me to confront my ‘other’ and see myself, and not the demon of post-Jim Crow thinking.
As I labored on my debut novel, with Anaba as my taskmaster, I learned that my main characters could be unapologetically black and proud, beautiful and vulnerable, uplifted and redeemable. I, too, could be all of these things, unabashedly. This journey was mine — by birthright. Thus, the name for my website.
I watch Star Wars with a troubling sense of exclusion. I want the Emperor to be black. I want the most powerful Jedi family in the galaxy to be black. I want the Jedi in the forefront of the story to be black, not tokens. And if I can’t have that, I will live in my own fantastical stories on worlds, where the heroes sport dreadlocks and look like me. Doing the Force my way! On my terms!
James Baldwin warned, “Be careful what you set your heart upon — for it will surely be yours.” And with all my heart, I believe him.
Doing the Force my way!
