CZM Book Club: What We Want, What We Believe, by Alex Smith, Part Two

0:01 Cool Zone Media book Club Club Club Club Club Club Club Club. Hello and welcome to the Cool Zone Media book Club, the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because Prince Shakur does it for you. Prince, how are you doing today?

0:26 I'm good. I'm good. I had a pretty good breakfast today, coffee, I slept well. I'm enjoying life for the most part, So yeah, how are you.

0:37 I'm doing all right. The world has no guarantees and you should do what you want with it. I just found out that a friend passed right before he recorded, but she lived a life to the fullest. Yeah, I don't know. I did really kills all my banter for the day that I'm like that this happened right before the recording, but.

0:54 Yeah, rest in peace.

0:55 What was I going to.

0:56 Try and banter you about. I was going to try and banster to you about the evidence of your name, because your name. When I say things like Prince Shakur is going to do it for you, that is a fucking You have a you have a sick name. You want you want to tell a story behind it?

1:11 Yeah, Prince is my dad's name. Yeah, I started going by I don't know, like a while ago, just because I never knew him and I wanted to feel more connected. And around that time I read Condemned by Bumani Shakur and he was a political prisoner during the Lucasville Prison riots and still.

1:36 Is related to Asta or no is it just a name that people take?

1:41 At least for him, it was just a name that he took. He talked about that process in the book, and I was really inspired by the text and his journey, and I don't know, around this time was like really a radicalizing period for me, and so it just kind of made sense for me to kind of take on this piece of my father in relation to all these politics that I was kind of discovering. And my sister's name is princess, so.

2:08 It's kind of like, oh yeah.

2:10 And even my dad, like my grandma had an affair. She's dark skinned, her husband was dark skinned. My dad came out light skinned, and her husband was like, oh, he's he's royalty. Let's call him prince. So that's the story behind his name.

2:27 So yeah, okay, for people who are wondering why I'm talking about this. Prince Corp is the author of a memoir called When they tell you to be good. Yes, And and I first saw it, I think actually I think before I met you and was like, oh, Shakur, that's the name of the legacy. And I just I like that. It's that's something that people have taken on.

2:50 I like that. I've talked a little bit about Astottiship Court, not on the show, but on my other show, the History Show. But like this, like idea of people renaming themselves to get away from the history of colonization and slave not get away from reject whiteness, you know.

3:06 Yeah, or to confront it in a way or to yeah, yeah.

3:10 Well, speaking of political prisoners, because two thirds of the people I know it, well, no, only half the people I know of the last name Shakur political were political prisoners, because you are not, and I believe Tupac was not. But Asada and what was the other name of the person, Bumani Shakur, Umani Shakur were We are in Black August, and we are doing episodes to honor that. And Black August, as you told me last time, comes specifically from a legacy of black political prisoners and the fight for freedom in the United States.

3:49 Yeah, and it's a very important month of like fasting, taking action towards abolition, like doing more than commemoration. Like I have so many friends that literally fast and have regimens of exercise during this month, so I feel like it's really important the action part of it too.

4:08 Yeah, that makes sense. Well, we will be listening to part two of the book the story What We Want, What We Believe by Alex Smith. And we were following last time. We were following three threads. Regina, a woman whose husband was murdered by the police for being a black panther, who has just fled a mysterious government agent threatening her and her child. We were also following Maya, a transwoman who hears voices and just recovering in a hospital after an altercation. And a child whose name is who sees a bunny in a suit named Bouncy who has just been smuggled out of a house in a suitcase.

4:51 And yeah, you want to read us a story.

4:54 Yes, yes, let's finish What we Want, What we Believe by Alex Smith. Eight. We want freedom for all black men held in federal, state, county and city prisons, in jails. This won't hurt a bit, lie back, calm nurse I know the needle. She's a big one. H Just miss Regina, please be calm there there, okay, see, not so bad.

5:28 You can rest now. You know. At the turn of the century, before that, even they considered the slaves nurse, yes, just put it on the desk, yes there, thank you dear. Where was I? Oh? Yes, slaves. It was considered a type of pathology for slaves to want to be free. This same diagnosis was first given to women that wanted to you know, work and not get married vote. They called it hysteria. It's funny how these things become embedded into our everyday society. The same terminology is being used today, except with kids in the inner city. We call it behavioral issues or what have you. But really, and this is the sad part, it's all the same. A young black child isn't a behavior risk because he, say, doesn't

6:19 want to sit up in class and listen to a teacher go on and on about great white men conquering the world. He's just acting out and often practice pathology. He's experiencing and expressing the delusion of freedom. But what is freedom but another boring, earth bound state of mind? Ah? There, you're almost under soon you'll see Thank you, Regina, thank you for coming to see us. But don't worry. Rest assured, soon we'll find your child. Trust us, let us nurture you.

6:56 She tucks into her hoodie, hands deep in her pockets. The city paper tornadoes over a vent bursting with hot air. She kicks a rock with her steel toe sixteen eye red Doc Martins. It ricochets off a trash can and onto a parked buick, the saber echoing down the alley. The night is a trapdoor hidden under the moonlight. Maya pulls the flyer out of her pocket. She looks up from the piece of paper towards a heaving, paint chipped row home. A band is playing. Two white kids in all black, ripped pants, cases of beer in hand, covered in patches adorned with band locos on them, turn the corner, walk up the street and enter the house. They don't even nod to her. She starts to shake a bit and puts the flyer back into her pocket. She searches

7:46 her memory to make sure, yes, she took her pills today, all of them. She can do this. A woman with pink hair streaks from the house. Fuck you, Gavin, She screams, throwing a bald up cigarette packed toward the house. It's fine, It's fine, sighn. Maya enters the house. A thick haze of smoke billows up around her, the din of talk pushing out of maladjusted, pierced white lips as a roar that seems to suck her own thoughts away. Check. Check.

8:19 A skinny white boy with a bowl cut of jet black dyed hair rocking a white belt, bellows into the mic. Check Hello, shitheads, we're chlorox angels. This is what we sound like. Roars of guitars and drums topple into each other. The skinny white boy is writhing like a downed telephone wire. Is there a bassist? It sounds like a drone. These guys are really good, Maya thinks, Maya, Susie's here. She runs up to Maya and hugs her deeply, uncomfortably. Susie, Maya says her lungs on the verge of collapse. Hi, oh my god, Hi, Maya, are you playing tonight? Susie's enthusiasm is sweet. They'd spent so many hours on top of so many roofs, throwing tiny pebbles at the trolley as it lurched down Baltimore Avenue. So many hours on

9:12 the bed of some redneck punk's truck, talking about Bakunin and dreaming up terrible band ideas. Days spent stapling zines and pamphlets before shows, only to see them all discarded and lining the floors of the VFW hall. They spent all day canvassing we broke up. Susie tilts her head like a puppy trying to figure out the strange sounds of its owner. Maya ventured to continue over clorox, angels, cacoffney, how's aoen? Oh, you know, screaming, crying, throwing stuff. Susie shrugs, so she's two, yeah, Susie laughs. She has this way of staring at Maya that seems to beg things out of her. Maya has taken to avoiding eye contact, not just with Susie but with that everyone, since the pills they make things better, soothe her. Life on the pills

10:06 is not just safer or comforting. It is a lucid dream. Constant work, sure, but easier work. After the band. Maya sits on the porch, Susie sits beside her, cautiously. They both stare at the stars. Thanks for not asking me why I'm at the show and not at home with the kiddo, She says, what everyone always asks me, that as if it's all my responsibility, you know, I mean, she's got a father for Christ's sake. Oh yeah, no, fuck that shit. Maya tilts her head down. Susie edges closer and puts an arm around her, almost knocking her own glasses off. You deserve a little freedom. The night is silent. A police car's siren oscillates. Everyone on the porch stops to crane their necks as if they can see the ensuing drama unfold Philly, Susie says. Maya stares

11:01 at the sky, the clouds clearing, welcoming the arrival of a million stars. Look at them all at home. Maya looks at her pills lined up on her dresser. She takes one and for a moment pretends it's a rocket. The game feels ridiculous and forced, a bit of whimsy that she can't allow herself. But Maya does eventually that night, take the same bottle of pills and empties it into the toilet.

11:30 But did you know Prince and dear listeners, what else feels ridiculous and forced. It's the ad transitions that we have to do in order to keep the lights on on this podcast. And Rebecca.

11:59 Nine, we want all black people, when brought to trial, to be tried in court by a jury of their peer group, were people from their black communities as defined by the Constitution of the United States. Curled up on the bed in her cell, Regina, eyes closed, let the atmosphere around her heave against her chest, wat a weight.

12:21 She let her sighs soothe her. The noise of prison rattled around her head, women arguing over dominoes and illegal card games, cursing out, prison guards shoving and pushing themselves into metal bars at the slightest infraction, mostly a low grown and shuffle. The sounds were ambient, snatched samples from dreams, so much so she didn't hear the noisy clang clanging of the prison guards Billy club on the cell bars.

12:49 Seventy one, Get up, you can't stay in here all day. Gina rolled over, her eyes stretched, weary. Her skin was still pulled taut around her frame, still small but lumpy in places, she reluctantly meandered into the television room. The news piped in on the small screen. Gerty was always in front of it, slumped down in her chair backwards, sucking her teeth. The other lady shuffled in around her. Alice, a simpering white woman who ran her husband over with the mini van after catching him in bed with his stepdaughter. Janice, a press secretary for a hedge fund manager caught in bezzling investors money. Rita, a little, rail thin spike of a thing whose life was a constant whirl of jail, prostitution and crack cocaine. And there was Regina ambling around,

13:42 lifting up books in the library, reading their spines and putting them back on the shelves, staring at dust mites, or flicking her mashed potatoes with a spoon. Something's wrong with her, Rita would say, Rita. Gertie turned from her TV. So this was serious, that every day something's wrong with Regina. Nigga, don't you know? We know that? Goddamn Gerty shot her a look. Rita twittered away, mouting curses to herself, but never to Gerty. Gerty spun back around, dumbass, bitch, what do you watch it? What are they saying? Alice asked, cutting through the tension with her mewing. It was a way to distract, to get Gerty thinking about television again.

14:27 I don't know. Gerty shrugged, But the john on here is bang. Who is this girl? Yo? Everyone stopped and peered at the television. They became transfixed, most of them watching for whatever it was they thought Gerty was seeing. There were a throng of orange jumpsuits bent toward the television, hands on hips, arms crossed, all but Regina, who just sat staring into the void, and Rita, who just stared at Regina from across the room. What was behind those eyes, Regina, I don't know, Gina whispered to herself, as if picking up Rita's ambient thoughts through a portal to another plane.

15:06 All Regina could see was an image of herself and a sun dress. She was on a farm. Several men and women in drab gray were clapping, a hardened smile on all of their faces. She walks among them. A man at the end of the line. He looked a little like Clark Kent, held a syringe. A stocky compact, dark black man was running straight toward her. He burst through the line of gray clad clappers reaches out to her.

15:35 Everything slowed down, stopped, rewound. That was it, This was all she saw. Every bit of my memory is soup. Rita snaked her way through the crowd of women in the cell. All of them were watching a woman at a podium. They all thought the speaker was a badass. Perhaps Rita did too. Her curiosity for Regina's truth lured her. Besides, Rita had seen so many badass girls doing badass things get cut down by salivating, slovenly ferocious men, all starved for the attention they drained from their mothers, never got from their fathers, and they now demanded from the rest of the world. Rita will not be fooled. She sat beside Regina and stared with the child's eagerness at the woman.

16:23 Who are you girl? What are you doing in here? The only thing Regina could think to say was when, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds that have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth. Rita sat back, stunned. Look at God, she whispered, won't he do it? I knew there was something wild about you. You're Regina. Gerty was standing up. Regina reflexively snapped her head towards Gerty's thunderclap of a voice. Regina, this bitch just said your name, girl. Regina pushed through the crowd on the farm. The hands clapping in gray are now tucked under orange, white hands, black hands. She moved toward Gerdi, who stepped aside humbly. Gerty knew. On

17:15 the screen a beautiful woman stood, encircled by microphones. Cameras flashed. The woman was tall and lithe, with glowing brown skin, her hair a wild frizz of curls and locks that seemed to flow elegantly. Her stance was of an oak's. She spoke as if words were small fires. And we will not stop until she is free, Until Leonard Peltier is free, until Momia abou Jamal is free, until Geronimo Pratt is free, until all prison walls are raised. We will not stop, no justice, no peace, free all prisoners.

17:50 There was something oddly familiar about her to Regina, something in the head tilt, the slight twist of the body, the way her eyes blinked in a staccato rhythm. What was she saying? Oh, the eyes, the woman on the television, her eyes onyx, stones, inky black. They swam in the milk of their cornea. Regina clutched her hands to her chest and let the tears fall gracelessly down her cheek.

18:18 She waved to the girl on the television, that's my Regina began. She paused, squinting gently, nodding, Yeah, that's my daughter. Minutes after she inserts the disc, Maya gets a ping on her computer. You've got mail. She's not supposed to be using the office after hours. Not after they found her printing three hundred copies of a zine about racism in the West Philly Marxist Knitting Circle community. That after she let a few homeless queer boys sleep here for three weeks during a particularly harsh February, she checks the screen.

18:55 I have the information you seek. A clap of thunder erupts outside of the window. She watches Carrie, the new programming director, smiling with her precious latte in hand, laughing up the street clutching a designer briefcase. There are two white men in birkenstocks standing with Carrie holding newspapers over their heads. That doesn't give them much shelter. But those men think they're bulletproof, that they're every machination, every whim, every grant, every invasive design they've hinged the city on matters a little rain. They're not impervious, simply unconcerned. It's all Maya can do, not to toss the computer out the window and down into the street at them. Don't do it, You'll never find out. Maya scoffs at the

19:46 little white text box on her screen. What makes you think I want what you have? How do I know it's authentic? How? Yes? How I mean? You? Contact me literally two days after I left the side, days after a Chinese man in a Buddhist robe passing out tai Chi pamphlets gave me me, specifically one of those weird AOL discs. No need for exposition. I know the story.

20:13 Don't get smart. Maya tears open a bag of chips and angrily pops one in her mouth. Have I steered you wrong before? I told you exactly where the most strategic exits were during the RNC. I helped you and your comrades void capture. I told you Dominic was a saboteur working for the Philadelphia Police Department. Everything I've shown you has been real, Maya bangs furiously onto her keyboard.

20:39 And everything you showed me how to catch I always had to do some fucked up, meaningless task before you gave me the full story. Nothing is meaningless, nothing has meaning. All things simply are whatever. Maya flashes the computer screen the middle finger. The point is, NI, you're just offering this information freely. Yes, I don't think so, Maya. It's true.

21:05 I know who and where your mother is. It is imperative that you go to her now. It is imperative that you know bullshit, prove it. Another clap of thunder the lights shut her off. The smell of ozone coats the air. Maya is illuminated by the glow of the computer screen. She feels something gingerly walking up her spine, something pulling tight. It's somehow loose, not there, but ever present.

21:33 It feels like woven gossamer. Then it passes a buzz and a whirr that sound feel like a cyborg's death rattle. Maya looks around the room. Sure she turned all the computers off for the day. It's the fax machine oring to life. An image takes shape on the page, an arrangement of pixelated characters, letters, and numbers, forming odd shapes, each line breaking into rounded pictures, something like a paw a body, then long pointing ears a rabbit.

22:09 But do you know what, Prince and dear listeners also appears despite your best efforts, its ads and we're back.

22:34 Ten. We want land, bread, housing, education, clothing, justice and peace. The island was a strange place. Baboons would come and steal fruit from their tables. There was plenty, though. Regina stood under a canopy where she took hold of a large knife, swatting at birds, swatting at monkeys to cut a pineapple. She put the knife down and ate the succulent pieces of the thorny fruit. Children. So many children ran about, playing on plastic motorbikes that cut new paths into the sandy dirt. Regina wondered what kind of danger they would be in. But these children seemed feral free.

23:17 She never knew that kind of freedom. Maybe this was just how kids were now the Internet is making them crazy, she thought. People buzzed along on small disks, cutting through the sky while tapping on invisible screens in the air. Diagrams and images appeared in front of them. As they navigated over the water, down the beach, through the trees.

23:41 A black man in a long flowing robe held hands with another man, brown skinned and shaggy haired. They pulled each other close. Their blithe laughter echoed. Regina stepped out from under the canopian into the sun. The women tried to act like she belonged there, absorbing the giant and radiant yellow spears rays, letting it swim up the canals of her melanin. Maybe I'll write a poem today, she thought.

24:09 She took another step and almost forgot. She was standing on an embankment. Whoops, She looked down on a tall, golden, sunstroked woman. What the wild mane of hair was walking toward her In the distance. She was flanked by two well built men, shirtless and flowing pants. One carried a spear, the other typed diligently with one finger on an invisible pad.

24:35 The woman smiled, shyly, stopped and waved at Regina. Regina slowly waved back, shaking her head and awe, don't be afraid they're yours. These are your dreams. I know you want land and bread and freedom and peace. I know you've been through the wars, You've seen the shuddering of shelter. You've looked through the raw, ripped tapestry of the world that was supposed to protect you, and it rocked you.

25:05 I know we've always been here though with you. It's okay, it's okay. You don't need them. We're right here with you. Always let us in. We know when you put those dreams on a hold for this world, when you borrowed through the fog of time, when you screamed into the vortex, you did. You took those pills to drown us out.

25:30 You didn't know that we were looking over you, that you're an ethereal being in a corporeal world, a world that doesn't quite understand you. But it's time. We've got you sit with us. Wake up, now, let us in. Maya wakes up. Mother is there. She crosses the room you slept again. Yeah, Maya shifts on the floor. Her legs are crossed and numbed. The pain doesn't wash over her so much as it just miss She's used to it. Now, get up. Mother's hands are crossed. She has draped in a heavy robe of colors that swirl and shimmering chroma.

26:10 Her every movement is both grand and effortless. It's weird hearing you talk, Maya mumbles, the little orphan girl, all grown up. Mother paces came to me as a seed. And now, she says, gesturing, look at you, prickly pine tree or a great, big old oak. You know, I don't do well with this esoteric stuff. Mother. Mother moves so swiftly that it's as if she simply materialized in front of Maya. Mother frowns at what she sees. Why can't you see it, girl, Mother urges, placing her bony hand on Maya's forehead. Why can't you wake the fuck up?

26:52 A searing heat. As Mother pushes down on Maya's head, steam emits from her hand. Maya wants to scream, but when she opens her mouth, there's only a click, A silent, burning inward scream, A white hot everything. The light is massive, weighty. There she is, floating in the middle of it. Is this the sun? The sun where it all flashes harsh rays, hues of gray silhouettes acting out before her, her birth mother tossing her into a suitcase, Her in her grandmother's clothing, bounding out of a window as the old woman bursts after her swinging a belt from her bad hip. A night under the pier in Solitude, A plastic bag squeezed into a drug kit, tucked under a spoon. A nightclub's dizzying strobe lights and thumping bass. A peer group session

27:43 at the youth center, tossing a kickball back and forth with other kids, and shopliftedt jingos, A shitty job at Rainbow, selling biker shorts, the Thoughdy latinas in the Northeast, kissing Susie on the beach, starting a band the co op, a cops baton, throwing a computer out of the non profits window, watching the shards splash in front of Carrie's smug face, bits of screen embedded in the donor she's coddling's foot, a bullhorn, a fire walls of a prison crumbling into dust, barbed wire choking a police officer acquitted of killing a black teen on a playground in Tennessee.

28:24 An edict, a convergence of scientists, engineers, ecoists, fashionistas, vigilantes, their afros and dreads and box breeds resting like impenetrable crowns on their black heads. A cloud. Maya is floating there like an angel, a hadron collider. A masked group of men surrounds a miniature hadron collider pulled out of its cryo cell by barefoot African children riding hyenas through the hallways of Nasa. What she asks herself as the heat intensifies and the flashes grow larger, is a hadron collider?

29:07 Her mother? No, her mother Regina, wearing a black beret, a dashiki, an apron, a gray sweatshirt, an orange jumpsuit her mother wrapped and needled threaded linen, adorned with paper thin golden embellishments, and cast in a wreath of doves. Let us in. Maya falls back. The light snaps off like a valve shut tight. Maya pants her eyes, darting violently.

29:39 Mother stands above her. Again. Maya gasps. Her throat is a scratchy, nealy gullet. Again, Mother bends down and smirks at her. No, she says intently. She claps her hands twice, then exits the room through a door. And Maya did not know existed tomorrow really start. Maya slumps to the floor, crying. Her sobs can't be controlled. They ebb, rise and eb again until they become a simple breath. She closes her eyes to sleep, let us in, and that's the end of our story.

30:18 Wow, that story is weird.

30:22 Yeah, I really love that ending. Yeah, I like that, even though it's very surreal and kind of stressful. Like whatever the process is that's happening between this mother and child, it's an opening, it's hopeful, it's a reclamation of self. Like that's how I kind of read what we've been going through in this second episode, the mother being in this facility and being able to see her daughter on screen and kind of these systemic and psychological goal processes getting in the way of us or these characters being able to connect to their reality, and then these breaks in the illusions being able to I don't know, I guess cultivate a deeper connection withself, okay, And I love that in this last section, this deeper connection of self

31:23 with Maya theoretically is because of what her mother is able to bring into this process. And I mean I call it a process because I'm kind of like, what's happening in the scene, Like it seems.

31:35 Like right I don't entirely know what happened here, but I like it, and I think I like the fact that I don't entirely know what happened here, because, Yeah, the like the opening that you're talking about, the optimism, the chance it seems to be providing is basically like psychedelic itself. M Like, it feels like if I were to get yes. The literal thing that happens in this story is that Regina sees her husband killed while she's pregnant, gets away, gets kind of taken into a program, like hides the kid in a suitcase in a way that causes the kids some permanent psychological damage. But I'm not mad at the mom here. I'm mad at the police for chasing her killing her husband. And then that kid grows up to be Maya. Is just used as like

32:29 a stand in, and I like it because it's a stand in, not as a dead name, but it's a stand in. Is like this is a person that doesn't exist, you know, like I have never been that, or like that was an untrue thing that happened, and now I am Maya, you know that's my read. And then mom ends up in prison because the program that she goes into.

32:52 But maybe it is the program is maybe I think it's just a regular prison.

32:56 Yeah, that's what I kind of thought too.

32:58 But then there's like kind of two parallel things happening. As best as I can tell that, both there's this prison that the mom is in and then also this sort of more asylum kind of situation. But there's this like psychedelic possible afrofuturist society where they're all like walking around with spears and tapping on invisible screens and they can fly on discs and shit and everything fucking rules.

33:20 And I feel like, as a white person, I tried to understand afrofuturism right and as specifically the more psychedelic elements of it, because I would say that afrofuturism has a much more psychedelic past than like white science fiction. And I feel like this story kind of helps me understand that of like these prisons that people are put in, like maybe kind of understanding that our reality isn't the only reality, is like part of people's way out.

33:52 That's my read.

33:54 I fully could be entirely wrong about this.

33:58 Yeah, I mean it's interesting because in this life section, like the two people walking behind Maya, and the one person as a spear and the other person is tapping on an invisible pad. I kind of I mean, it's interesting because I think there's numerous ways to read that. I mean, I read it as like the kind of guards.

34:15 I kind of read it as Regina like getting out of prison. In that little part about the invisible pad, I was like, oh, is she talking about the Internet like people traveling across the ocean and seas and being able to communicate? And I mean I do get the afro pessimist reading as well, but I found that kind of interesting. And then like with the afro pessimism, I'm like, where would she be where there's like baboons like steal them food?

34:39 And oh, I'm saying afrofuturism not afro pessimism, but.

34:42 Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. And so I find the last part interesting on those numerous levels because I did kind of read the invisible pad is like could this be the Internet or could this be like a more like surreal kind of afro futurist kind of assertion of wherever they are are? Yeah, And so I found that interesting.

35:02 And then the other part that I was kind of curious about was like with Maya being at this like punk show with chlorox. What were they called clorox angels, Yeah, something like that. Yeah, I wondered why at the end she dumps the pills away, Like I wonder what that shift was for her leading up to that.

35:24 Oh interesting because she talks about how it's taking the pills that let her go into the white subcultural space and like be okay at the show.

35:33 So I don't know she had enough she had enough?

35:36 Yeah, I mean, like yeah, because I get the impression because she's like, oh, well, the pills help me like not lose my mind all the time. But at the end she's like, I don't know, man, I kind of want to lose my mind all the time. Because her like wild knowledge is also part of what's making her a better activist, right, she has like these voices in her head that are telling her like so and says a snitch, this is how you escape the mass arrest.

35:59 My read is that kind of disappear into like let the madness be your guide kind of thing. But I don't know. I'm also not trying to make a moral statement out of this, as just like my read of this one.

36:11 Yeah, yeah, I mean I feel like also with this ending. The other thing that I liked was kind of thinking about epigenetics as well, like what Regina experiences and how she tries her best to flee to hide her identity, ends up in the state's custody, and then is further traumatized by these state driven processes of trying to disconnect her from reality, and then how her experiences then feed into many of the systems for Maya that makes her life challenging, leads to her being on the streets, like engaging in these counter cultures as like a way to I don't know, experience the world in a deeper way, and how these voices, the medicine, the facility, I don't know, there's a lot of parallels in both of their journeys,

37:13 and it really makes me think, I don't know specifically about epigenetics. Yeah, reading this, like I think about like coming from an immigrant family, having a single mom for a good amount of my childhood, her dealing with a lot of domestic issues before I was born, and how those traumas have led me to question things about gender, masculinity, violence in my life, like for better or for worse, and so I don't know, I just find there to be like a really beautiful correlation around like the control that epigenetic trauma can have on us. And I love that there's like a duality to how they both free themselves and it's sort of like, yeah, around similar times, and then their journeys can converge, and these journeys converge

38:09 in this kind of afro futurist kind of space or afro surrealist space, which I think is like a really beautiful imagining and maybe it's also like reading Asada Chakur into it as well. But like I remember a friend who I think went to an event in Philly where Asada Shakur's daughter was and if I'm remembering correctly, my friend said, Sada Shakor's daughter talked about like how much state violence is taken away from her not being able to see her mother and not really having as deep of a connection as they could have. And I mean, and that makes me think of like growing up with a stepfather who was incarcerated and dealing with that, or having friends go through state violence or repression or going

38:52 to jail or prison, and how I don't know, you literally watch people change in front of you, or what does it mean when your separate from someone and in the world is trying to destroy them, erase them, etc. So I don't know. I just feel like there was so much in this too, I don't know, kind of give various pathways to like certain kinds of liberation. Even though I mean, I don't want to judge the endings.

39:17 I'm kind of like, Okay, what is this process that they're going through? Is this like brainwashing? Is this her liberating herself?

39:22 Is this like right? Who fucking knows? Yeah? Yeah, no, I think that's fucking brilliant. I think I'm going to read this story again too when we're done, because it took me a long time to come around on like more like psychedelic fiction, But now I kind of get it more. The problem is that my brain wants things to be sort of linear. I actually literally can't remember if I said this last time. Maybe i'll hear let me say it again. Usually when there's a break between episodes, i'm lying and it hasn't been a week, But this time it actually has been a week. But I like, I often need things to be kind of linear because I'm a simple person. But I've been really coming around on it, especially as ways of just getting at that,

40:01 like there isn't one truth is kind of the more important truth. Yeah, you want to hear what Alex had to say about it, the author, Yeah, yeah, Alex says, quote, this is my favorite story in Arcdust, which is the collection it's from that you all should go read. I believe that the previous story we ran was also from Arkdust, but it's generally my least disgust. I remember having to take a walk or drink tea or do some light meditation after each chapter. Maya's Journey was me paying homage to so many women and queer folks who have informed my life and work, so many movements and niche elements of subcultures who don't largely get their flowers, while also projecting and contemplating a future for queer and trans black people. Yeah,

40:48 let's see, here's a bio for Alex Smith. I bet you didn't know that. I bet you did, because it's the same one I read last week, but it's worth hearing again. Alex Smith aka Alexoteric a writer, artist, curator, musician that gets quotes, slash noise maker living in the cosmically kinetic city of Philadelphia. His work reflects that dichotomy, stark beautiful, wrought with afrotopian tension, avant garde fashions, last assemblage, and dynamic visual presentation. His sci fi inspired worlds collide with afro queer and radical reimaginings of the fantastic. He is a founding member of the Philadelphia based sci fi arts collective Metropolarity, essential personnel in Philadelphia's early afrofuturist community,

41:36 from collage work to zines, to bands and solo music performances, to promoting other bands and performers via curation and cultural critique. In arts reporting, Smith transcends the concept of renaissance man and works from the afrofuturist vision all things, all the time, each aspect of his work informing the other. Smith won the twenty twenty p Fellowship of the Arts, presenting work such as his short story collection arc Dust from Mersarrian Publishing, his experimental art punk bands Rainbow Crimes, Solarized Spectral Forces, Glitch Proverbs, the cyberpunk superhero indie comic book series Black Vans, among others. His work appears in anthologies such as Stories for Chip a tribute to Samuel R. Delaney from Rosarium,

42:25 Black Quantum Futurism Volume two, Black Punk Now from Soft Skull, and The Black Fantastic from Library of America. He invites you to join him in the chromatic exploration of the unknown. Is art a visual portal to that liminal space. Find Alex at patreon dot com, slash they are Birds or they are Birds on Instagram. Prins you got anything you want to plug?

42:53 Yes, yes, well one. I mean, I don't know if this is the right part for this, but if folks want another of media that I was trying to figure out what this story reminds me of. It makes me think of the poem Rhinoceros Woman by Asada Shakur, which I think is such a companion piece to this story. So I highly recommend folks check that out. But yeah, stuff I want to plug. I mean, I run a podcast with my co host Jordan called The Dugout of Black Narchists podcast. We do lots of interviews coverage of things that are happening politically in the US and abroad, and check that out. You can find it anywhere that podcasts are available. If folks want to check out any of my writing, you can check out my memoir when

43:40 they tell you to be good. I'm currently working on a collection of essays about James Baldwin, so stay tuned for that. And yeah, just find me anywhere online. But if you want to find me on Instagram, I'm at Sweet Black Prints.

43:56 Hell.

43:56 Yeah, I'm on the Internet. I have a newsletter comes out every week. You can search it. Margaret kiljoyd atsubstock dot com. I'm on Blue Sky, Margaret Bsky whatever. I am still on Instagram. I feel very conflicted about that. And buck Ice, Free Palestine, take care of each other, Free all prisoners. Yeah, remember where we come from.

44:23 Hi everyone, It Could Happen Here is a production or Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website cool Zonemedia dot com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can now find sources for It Could Happen here listed directly in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening.