The Dreamer and the Dream: Afrofuturism and Black Religious Thought

196 Pages·2021·1.49 MB·English

by  Roger A. Sneed

The Dreamer and the Dream
N E W S U N S :
R A C E , G E N D E R , A N D S E X U A L I T Y I N T H E
S P E C U L A T I V E
Susana M. Morris and Kinitra D. Brooks, Series Editors
The Dreamer and
the Dream
Afrofuturism and Black Religious Thought
Roger A. Sneed
THE OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS
COLUMBUS
Copyright © 2021 by The Ohio State University.
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sneed, Roger A., author.
Title: The dreamer and the dream : Afrofuturism and Black religious thought / Roger
A. Sneed.
Other titles: New suns: race, gender, and sexuality in the speculative.
Description: Columbus : The Ohio State University Press, [2021] | Series: New
suns: race, gender, and sexuality in the speculative | Includes bibliographical
references and index. | Summary: “Analyzes the interplay of Black religious
thought with science fiction to illuminate Afrofuturism as an important channel
for Black religion and spirituality, drawing from Octavia Butler’s Parable books,
Janelle Monáe’s Afrofuturistic saga, Star Trek’s Captain Benjamin Sisko, Marvel’s
Black Panther, and Sun Ra and the Nation of Islam”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021016237 | ISBN 9780814214794 (cloth) | ISBN 0814214797
(cloth) | ISBN 9780814281574 (ebook) | ISBN 0814281575 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Afrofuturism. | African Americans—Religion. | Religious thought.
| Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PN3433.6 .S64 2021 | DDC 700.4/52996073—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021016237
Cover design by Black Kirby
Text design by Stuart Rodriguez
Type set in Palatino
C O N T E N T S
Preface vii
Acknowledgments xiii
Introduction 1
PART I FOUNDATIONS
Chapter 1 Race in Science Fiction 13
Chapter 2 Black Religious Thought and Afrofuturism 27
PART II INTERSECTIONS
Chapter 3 Octavia Butler as Architect of
Intersectional Afrofuturism 41
Chapter 4 “It’s Code”: Janelle Monáe, the ArchAndroid,
and Queer Afrofuturistic Salvation 62
Chapter 5 Walking in the Path of the Prophets: Star Trek:
Deep Space Nine, “Far Beyond the Stars,”
and Black Prophetic Visions 77
Chapter 6 “Wakanda Forever!”: Black Panther, the Divine
Feminine, and the Subversion of Toxic Masculinity
in the Western Superhero Monomyth 95
PART III AFROFUTURISTIC THOUGHT EXPERIMENTS
Chapter 7 Space Is the Place: Sun Ra, the Nation of Islam,
Afrofuturism, Eschatology, and Utopia 115
vi ≈ CONTENTS
Chapter 8 “Who Am I? Who Are You?”: Afrofuturism and Black
Religious Identity 133
Conclusion “The Shape of Things to Come”: Future Directions in
the Intersection of Afrofuturism and Black Religious
Thought 148
Postscript 161
Bibliography 165
Index 173
P R E F A C E
In some respects, this book began the first time I laid eyes on a comic book,
the first time I watched an episode of Star Trek, the first time I saw the rede-
signed USS Enterprise streak into warp speed. It began when I found other
nerds like me, but they didn’t look like me, and I was told that my love of
science fiction in general and Star Trek in particular was “a white thing.”
Coincidentally, I was also told that being gay was a “white thing.” The book
began when I realized that while my mother and my community had Chris-
tianity, I had Star Trek, Superman, and Star Wars. My first hero was Superman,
my first crush was on Aquaman, and my first role model was Mr. Spock.
Growing up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the 1970s and ’80s was a bundle of
contradictions and contestations. As most gay folk say when they talk about
their emerging awareness of their sexuality, I knew that I was different. My
mother said that she and my grandmother were concerned that at the age
of five I hadn’t started talking. When I did, she said that all I ever did was
talk to myself.
However, by the time I was in first grade, I was talking a lot, and read-
ing even more. When I went from reading Little Golden Books to reading
comic books, I entered a new world. My grandmother would take me to the
grocery store with her after she got off work, and she would let me pick out
a comic book. If I remember correctly, the first comic book my grandmother
vii
viii ≈ PREFACE
bought me was a Batman comic; however, I remember the first Superman
comic I got. I became obsessed with comic books and the superhero genre—
especially Superman and Action Comics. I also remember seeing televi-
sion commercials for Star Trek: The Motion Picture. While I did not get to
see the movie until much later, the images of the redesigned USS Enterprise
on television and in print stayed with me. I would make sure that I stayed
up on Friday nights to watch the original Star Trek, which was in syndica-
tion at this point. I remember missing an episode and thinking that I would
never get a chance to see it again—this, of course, was well before VCRs and
streaming services.
Amidst my burgeoning nerd life was the church. Sunday mornings and
evenings and more than a few Wednesdays were spent at North Peoria and
Young Street Church of Christ. There, I learned about God and my own
place in the world. I would perform readings of Scripture and serve com-
munion. I was special. I was part of a community . . . that did not have room
for gay people.
I came of age in the middle of the HIV/AIDS crisis. I heard that AIDS
was God’s punishment for living a “wicked lifestyle.” The same God I had
been told loved me did not actually love me. I begged God to fix me, to
make me “straight.” I heard that liking comic books and science fiction made
me gay. I heard that I was too smart and that I “talked white.” I was too
light, and my walk wasn’t correct. I was a sissy, homo, queer, weirdo, fag.
By the time I got to college, I assumed that if I did all the right things and
acted the right way, then I could successfully eliminate my same-sex attrac-
tions. Sublimation was the name of the game. I threw myself into “respect-
ability politics” and nearly any and every activity that signaled acceptable
Blackness. I joined the university’s gospel choir—even though I have never
been able to sing. I pledged Alpha Phi Alpha, reasoning that the first Black
college fraternity and the fraternity of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King
Jr. was the perfect fraternity for me.
I subscribed to the respectability politics of the day, hoping to fashion
myself into the proper model of a Black man. I even continued to go to
church every Sunday, mostly to please my mother. But something gnawed at
the edges of my life. I let it become anger, telling myself that it was righteous
anger at injustice and apathy.
Finally coming out was, to put it bluntly, traumatic. Friends were no
longer friends. Some friends did their best to walk with me through the
tumult, but I had no real resources. I had only seen Tongues Untied once—I
was thoroughly scandalized. I had yet to encounter Essex Hemphill or James
Earl Hardy. I had read just an excerpt from E. Lynn Harris’s Just as I Am. I
PREFACE ≈ ix
had only recently (at that time) encountered Cornel West’s Race Matters, but
I knew nothing about Black liberation and womanist theologies. I had never
even heard of a Black science fiction writer, though I had thankfully been
exposed to the Milestone line of comics and Dwayne McDuffie’s ground-
breaking writing and centering of Black and Latino superheroes.
When I decided to attend seminary in order to answer my existential
questions regarding my sexuality, I knew virtually nothing about theol-
ogy and next to nothing about Black cultural criticism. I also did not know
much about divinity schools or schools of theology—I nearly applied to Oral
Roberts University, until I saw that their application demanded a statement
that the applicant would not participate in homosexual activity. I moved
to Atlanta two weeks after the end of the 1996 Summer Olympics. The city
was awash in the afterglow of the international spotlight and an influx of
people into the city. My years in Atlanta were not uniformly excellent, but
they were transformative. I was out in every conceivable way.
I would argue vehemently with conservative classmates, devour James
Cone’s insistent, passionate writings, struggle with my Old Testament class,
and endure Supervised Ministry; on the weekends, I would go to Loretta’s,
Traxx, and the Castle. Each club had their particular day. Loretta’s on Fri-
days, Traxx on Saturday evenings, and the Castle on Sunday. I encountered
house music and the freedom of letting my body go on the dance floor. I’d
eat dinners with other Black gay men at Mick’s or, if we had the money,
Houston’s. Sundays, I’d go to a small AME church in Decatur led by Rever-
end Kathi Martin, an out Black lesbian. I became part of a discussion group
for Black gay men and joined a small writing collective.
Despite having a vibrant social life, the days I spent in classes were
increasingly frustrating. My professors possessed vast knowledge of the
Christian theological tradition, but they could not speak to my experiences
as a gay man. Indeed, Emory University itself had reached a compromise
with the United Methodist Church regarding allowing same-sex commit-
ment ceremonies to happen in the churches and chapels that were part of
the university.1 I recall going to chapel one Wednesday because a classmate
was going to deliver the sermon. As they preached, naming marginalized
groups and how God stood with them, I waited for the preacher to men-
tion gays and lesbians. That moment did not arrive in that sermon. Out of
frustration, I penned a poem called “Speak My Name,” concluding that I
had to be the one to speak my name, since no one else would. By my final
1. http://www.umaffirm.org/cornews/emory3.html