R.I.P.- Octavia Butler
Octavia Butler is dead.
I had a chance to meet Ms. Butler when I worked at Club Freedom. She had the stature of a Maya Angelou, with an imagination that roamed far beyond the mere confines of this earthly plane. She was picky with her words, she did not suffer flatterers gladly, and she was vehemently opposed to driving (like me), so she moved to a city where she wouldn't have to. I appreciated that this world-renowned author still caught the bus, unabashedly.
She spoke in front of one of Club Freedom's commissioned art pieces, a "raganon" chronicling the experience of African Americans in general, and the artist, specifically. Her six-foot plus frame was surrounded on all sides by the bright colors and jumbled scenes of the quilt-like piece, and she stood there, tall, dark, totally at peace with herself, and explained her work in a way that took us deep into the artwork, and then far beyond. I knew that I was standing in the presence of greatness. After she finished her talk, several staffers rushed up to glom an autograph, but I stood back, feeling shy and inadequate. I had not read her work, because I was "not a fan" of sci-fi, so I did not feel I had anything other than fawning to give to her, and that she had no need of. So I peeped at her handling the crowd through lowered lashes, studying her movements, her quiet, murmured comments. And then I slipped away and went back upstairs to my office, with the feeling that simply by being in her presence, I had been opened, and some of what made Ms. Butler a great writer had triggered a heretofore unrecognized similar space in myself. I knew that one day, I would stand in front of the raganon and talk, in louder tones for sure, about lesser work probably, but still...those moments shined a light on a bit of my destiny. And it also gave me a gentle rebuke about closing my mind to scary literary genres.
It is often joked in the African American community that white people don't plan on us being around in the future...look at The Jetson's! Ms. Butler talked about that too...and the importance for black people to explore science fiction and speculative works- to imagine ourselves in a new world, and to put ourselves and our heritage in stories of that world. I have avoided the genre mostly because of the post-apocalyptic time period many futuristic novels occupy. I am truly a child of the Nuclear Generation, and had nightmares about nuclear winter and disfigured humanoids until I was in high school.
But today I'm going to go out and purchase Kindred. Here's to you, Ms. Butler. I hope you are roaming among the stars.
I had a chance to meet Ms. Butler when I worked at Club Freedom. She had the stature of a Maya Angelou, with an imagination that roamed far beyond the mere confines of this earthly plane. She was picky with her words, she did not suffer flatterers gladly, and she was vehemently opposed to driving (like me), so she moved to a city where she wouldn't have to. I appreciated that this world-renowned author still caught the bus, unabashedly.
She spoke in front of one of Club Freedom's commissioned art pieces, a "raganon" chronicling the experience of African Americans in general, and the artist, specifically. Her six-foot plus frame was surrounded on all sides by the bright colors and jumbled scenes of the quilt-like piece, and she stood there, tall, dark, totally at peace with herself, and explained her work in a way that took us deep into the artwork, and then far beyond. I knew that I was standing in the presence of greatness. After she finished her talk, several staffers rushed up to glom an autograph, but I stood back, feeling shy and inadequate. I had not read her work, because I was "not a fan" of sci-fi, so I did not feel I had anything other than fawning to give to her, and that she had no need of. So I peeped at her handling the crowd through lowered lashes, studying her movements, her quiet, murmured comments. And then I slipped away and went back upstairs to my office, with the feeling that simply by being in her presence, I had been opened, and some of what made Ms. Butler a great writer had triggered a heretofore unrecognized similar space in myself. I knew that one day, I would stand in front of the raganon and talk, in louder tones for sure, about lesser work probably, but still...those moments shined a light on a bit of my destiny. And it also gave me a gentle rebuke about closing my mind to scary literary genres.
It is often joked in the African American community that white people don't plan on us being around in the future...look at The Jetson's! Ms. Butler talked about that too...and the importance for black people to explore science fiction and speculative works- to imagine ourselves in a new world, and to put ourselves and our heritage in stories of that world. I have avoided the genre mostly because of the post-apocalyptic time period many futuristic novels occupy. I am truly a child of the Nuclear Generation, and had nightmares about nuclear winter and disfigured humanoids until I was in high school.
But today I'm going to go out and purchase Kindred. Here's to you, Ms. Butler. I hope you are roaming among the stars.