by S.L. Jordan
If you wasn’t gone tell us your business
then why did you write this memoir?
Category / Uncategorized
Musing on Alien Romances
By: Tony W.
For the most part only white women from the United States are abducted by aliens.
If they want a feisty woman than she’ll have red hair.
Most aliens are humanoid.
Aliens only want human women because their female population is either on the decline or has died out for various reasons.
In some novels human women are wanted because they can copulate with various species.
Aliens are usually seven feet tall with chiseled humanoid features.
The good aliens are usually blue and sometimes gold.
Villainous aliens are usually red, reptilian, or grey with big heads.
Sometimes the aliens will be humanoid with anglo features and onyx or ebony skin.
Recent (the last few year) alien romances include heroines who are Black, Hispanic, or Asian though they mostly seem to come from North America or the Caribbean.
Also recently, we start seeing more aliens who look more alien – horns, scales, tails, varied eye shapes and colors with no sclera or lashes.
An increasing number of aliens are based on animals, insects, arachnids, and reptiles from Earth both real and mythical.
Men and women are now abducted or find themselves in space for the purpose of mating.
A few books now contain triads or reverse harems (one female and five males). In some books the triad is a human female and two different alien species.
In the majority of alien romances the female is cherished by her male(s) no matter how they came together initially, a version of the one story.
I can’t comment on the “darker romances”.
HEA’s are the most prevalent story line.
The better writers give you interesting world building and character development. However, I can’t discount the writers who simply give a good story with engaging characters.
Love it when alien heroes call out human heroines for calling them alien.
A little humor goes a long way.
There aren’t many women of color writing alien romance.
The few writers who include women of color in their series and go the extra step to have sensitivity readers to ensure the character comes across as genuine.
I read a story recently where the alien/nonhumanoid hero used his claws to comb through and moisturized the heroines’ curls with a plant-based ointment.
I’ve only come across a few alien romances with women who are disabled in some way, usually deaf.
More writers are writing vulnerable heroines of color.
Pet Peeves –
Calling non-Earthlings alien when the Earthling is in outer space on another planet etc.
Continuously calling aspects of the hero or heroes anatomy alien.
If Earth is a dystopian shit show where women and children are vulnerable to the whims of men and actual aliens come to clean the environment and help not harm and the heroin/alien love interest talks incessantly about how humans don’t need help/can do this on their own/ blah, blah, blah
Alien romance series that only contain white women.
The only women of color who are the heroines of the story have a white mother.
Heroines who are in black/brown face.
“Sassy” women of color
Do Something
By: IO
I tried to find something to write all week but nothing’s coming out. This has been a rough summer filled with discouraging decisions from SCOTUS. I wanted to find empowering words for myself, for the brilliant women I write with, but all I’ve got is this.
Do something. Anything. Any small thing.
Know that you alone are not gonna fix what’s been broken since before the ink dried on the parchment declaring ourselves a nation. It’s not on any one person to untie the binds that’s taken many others many decades to wrap around us. There are no human wrecking balls capable of demolishing a wall in one strike. But if we all do something, support the organizations and the activists that have made these struggles their lives work, donate some spare change, some time, some necessity…if we all act as a chisels, chipping away at the obstacles to our rights, then maybe we can get the work done and we won’t need the wrecking ball.
Where do you start? Right here.
The Afiya Center is a reproductive justice organization founded and run by Black womxn in Dallas. They have a comprehensive call for volunteers on their site:
https://www.theafiyacenter.org/volunteer
And if you can’t volunteer, or even if you can, there’s also the option to donate:
https://www.theafiyacenter.org/donate
There are other organizations that need help too. This one is important to me as a Black Texan woman who loves her state despite all it does wrong.
Another thing you can do, and I hate sounding like a shill for one of the biggest corporations in the world, is use Amazon Smile to shop. It’s a program of Amazon, not widely advertised, that makes donations to a charity of your choosing, at no additional cost to you, when you make an eligible purchase. A lot of Prime items qualify. The amount that gets donated is tiny (0.5%) but it’s something. And that’s all we have to do…something.
K’s Reading Updates
By K. Osorio-Teamer
So after a four month reading hiatus I’m back in the literary saddle thanks to a book about dealing with your annoyingly perfect little sister… who keeps killing people.
My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite started with a bang. A murder right away. And oooh, it wasn’t even the first murder. It has a fast pace with short chapters, so it was easy to lose time. Sadly before I knew it, I was done! I wasnt sure how it would end, but the protagonist surprised me. 100/10 wish I could amnesia this book out of me and reread it like it was the very first time.
Next up was Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron. After rekindling my love of all things Jane Austen and cottage core, this book was right in time. After rewatching Bridgerton AGAIN, visions of carriages and business deal weddings were easily conjured while reading this reimagining of the fairy tale. This book didn’t grab me like killer kid sister, but it had high stakes and a protagonist who always did the wild shit her heart desired. 7/10 wouldn’t read again but will read the sequel.
My next read took me on some emotional rollercoaster. Upon first starting We Set the Dark on Fire by Tehlor Kay Mejia, I couldn’t get into it. I even talked my partner about my inability to connect to the story. On my next reading session, I cried like a baby. The story touches on immigration, oppression, and the ways that standing against violence can be manipulated to appear violent. It felt like a political spy thriller with bits of forbidden love woven in. 8.5/10 A good time that made me cry and I can’t wait to read the sequel.
I’m currently reading Fledgling by Octavia Butler, AKA the wisest of us all. It’s a fascinating book so far that has left me with my mouth open on multiple occasions. I’ll report back soon. Wish me luck as I try to read 12 books this year!
Religitually
by S.L. Jordan
Write about a moment in your life in which you felt connected spiritually. Where were you? What happened and what came of that moment?
I am a black woman, who was raised by a good ole fashioned southern black woman, who was also raised by a good ole fashioned southern black woman, and so on, and so on, or at least until my 1st maternal ancestor stepped foot on American Soil. So, it should go without saying or reason that I was raised in the church. The Baptist Church. There is a story my mother used to love to tell. I was 3, and my older brother was 4. It must have been sometime between my late winter birthday and his late summer/early fall birthday as we are 18 months apart. Almost step ladders. We were at church, I can’t remember the name but it’s kind of in, or was in, Midtown Detroit, not far from 75 N/S. We were sitting in a pew, my mother, my older brother, baby brother, and I. My dad only went to church when my maternal grandmother requested it, when the pastor made a call for baptisms. Now, according to my mother, my brother and I got up of our own accord and walked up to the front of the church holding hands. Of course, I have absolutely no recollection of that day. I remember the church, massive and gray, but that’s all about all. The majority of the early church memories consist of being dragged with my grandparents to their church. First, it was a church that was attached to a house somewhere on the Westside of Detroit. There was nothing fun about those Sundays. At church early for Sunday school, which transitioned into the regular afternoon service before finally going into the NIGHT service. I spent all 3 services sitting next to my grandmother trying hard to not let the devil get me.
“Granny, I’m sleepy” I would whine.
She would lean in close to my ear and whisper, “hush girl. If you were at home you wouldn’t be tired. You’d be ripping and running and I wouldn’t be able to hear how to listen! That’s just the devil tryna distract you from God’s word”, in a tone that let me know the issue wasn’t up for debate unless I wanted to talk to “Mama Sarah” when we got home.
My brother, on the other hand, had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, and he loved sitting up front with Bubba and the rest of the Deacons. I was just there as the dutiful daughter, granddaughter, or niece. Blindly reciting scriptures for the Easter and Christmas programs.
“None of my grandchildren are going to STAND up in front of the Church and the Lord READING from the bible. Yawl gone memorize your verses. You need to know God’s word anyway.” Granny would fiercely declare.
By this time, my mother’s older sister had found, became a new member and was a Sunday school teacher at New Mt. Sinai Missionary Baptist Church, off Wyoming between 7 and 8 mile but closer to 7, led by Pastor Joseph Lanning. Every summer, for 2 weeks we spent Monday –Friday at New Mt. Sinai from 8am -12pm in Vacation Bible School pledging eternal allegiance to something I didn’t quite understand.
“Are you a child of God?”
“Yes”
“What if someone asks you to denounce God?”
“What does denounce mean?”
“To deny”
I am a child of God”
“What if they threatened to kill you?”
“I am still a child of God?”
When school started it was more of the same, just different. Catholic different. More rituals. Every morning we pledged allegiance to the Christian Flag, and said our prayers. Wednesday mornings, it was mandatory for the WHOLE school to attend morning mass, for which my brother and I were habitually late. Look, Baptist churches had a lil bit of a Grace period with announcements and such. Catholic churches?? The organ started RIGHT on time.
Even with that level of indoctrination I never really had a spiritual moment. A moment when I could for sure feel the warmth and presence of the Holy Spirit.
Authors Note:
In 2018 I did a 30 Day Writing Prompt Challenge. This was the prompt from May 2nd, and my 1st attempt at a personal essay narrative.
Transitions
By: Tony W.
Be
patient
with
me
as
I
continue
to
mourn
my
yesterdays
while
awaiting
my
tomorrows
When You Don’t Know Your Ancestors
By: IO
You have an altar, but it’s bare. So, not really an altar, just an empty table top you occasionally use for your own tarot readings.
When you read cards, you ask for guidance from Spirit, but you don’t know who that is. The silent disconnect you feel tells you Spirit doesn’t know you either.
Eventually, the altar fills with crystals, Florida water, an athame, and unlit candles, all covered with a thickening layer of dust.
You feel lonely but the cards drop the Three of Cups in the space representing your present. Over and over, you ask about your future and you get The Tower, The Devil, or the 10 of Pentacles, but reversed. Knock on the deck, ask to speak to Spirit. Wait for an answer.
Wait. Listen.
The a/c clicks on, runs for a while, then clicks off.
Wait. Listen.
Look at your family tree for inspiration, a name you can recall. But half the tree is missing. The other half, littered with dead branches, falling away faster than the springing of new growth. The roots are dry and thirsty.
It is said that blood is thicker than water, but yours is anemic and too depleted to nourish the dried out roots. You don’t even know on whose head to lay the blame for that.
Look beyond the tree to the forest in which it resides.
Recall Ntozake Shange and Maya Angelou when you dance.
Recall Jamaica Kincaid and James Baldwin when you travel.
Recall Octavia Butler during instances of the bizarre.
Recall Zora Neale Hurston when you take deep breaths, making ritual out of the mundane.
Recall Audre Lorde when reaching for love.
Recall Gisèle Pineau and Alain Mabanckou when learning from the Diaspora.
Plant a new tree with seeds from ancestors and elders of the collective.
Call their names, feel them become Spirit.
Sit at your altar, cleaned and cleansed. Smudge yourself and your cards with the smoke of a cedar candle. Shuffle. Knock on the deck, ask to speak to Spirit.
Wait.
Listen
Protection Spell
By K. Osorio-Teamer
So I’m rewatching the original Charmed series, and I’m realizing I’ve been into witchy shit my whole life. It’s a real the chicken or the egg scenario. Did this show make me obsessed with magic?
Anyway, I’ve been feeling a bit anxious lately… I can’t imagine why, but here’s a little magic that has brought me comfort.
Protection Spell:
Creator, ancestors, protect this space
Grant safety, of harm leave no trace
By the Light
Tony W.
full moon
eclipse
nosey cat
raised hands
shoulder shimmy
hip shake
voice raised
spoken word
an invocation
cauldron
blaze fire
dancing feline
around
around
around
full moon
eclipse
hands upraised
shimmy
step
shimmy
turn
fire light
moon light
blessed be
hear our prayer
A Choice, Not The Choice
By: IO
A man once asked me why I feel so strongly in support of a person’s right to choose. Except he phrased it as a woman’s right to an abortion. That misses the point. It’s about a person’s right to start a family or not, to undergo physical trauma or not, to decide on a medical treatment that is right for their life where they are at that moment. It’s about making a medical decision which should not be denied wholesale just because some people would not make that choice for themselves.
Imagine if radiation for cancer treatment was outlawed because some people decided they would never choose that for themselves. A reasonable person would consider that scenario ridiculous. Afterall, if a person developed cancer and was offered radiation, they could decline and choose another form of treatment. Now, a fetus is not a cancer, and abortion options are much less brutal on the body than radiation, but the core of the argument is this: abortion is a medical procedure. It is healthcare. A person has a right to consult with a medical professional on the right options for their bodies and their health.
Some arguments take the “What about the fetus?” route. A fetus is not a person. The subject which can carry a fetus is a person. I feel strongly about people being able to make choices for their health because that is the foundation of independence we claim our laws are based on. Someone else’s abortion has nothing to do with you. Just like someone else’s cancer treatment has nothing to do with you. Someone else’s skincare treatment has nothing to do with you. Someone else’s vitamin supplements have nothing to do with you. I feel strongly about living my life and letting you live yours.
biSKITs & gravy 