"The Weight of the Stars" Is a Gorgeous Novel about New Possibilities
After an accident brings them together, Ryann Bird finds herself keeping track of space messages for her classmate Alexandria.
Although they have a frosty start, the two eventually bond over their status as misfits and an appreciation of outer space. As Ryann begins to help Alexandria learn more about her astronaut mother and her one-way space mission, their tentative friendship slowly blooms into something more.
One of the first things that drew me to this book was its very short chapters. Each of them has its own title and is only a few pages long, reminding me of those brief short fiction stories known as flash fiction. This resulted in a nice, steady pace for the storyline that urges the reader to keep reading without making them feel bogged down by page length. It was an unexpected yet relaxing reading format.
In addition to the leisurely pace of the chapters, the prose itself is great to read. It is lyrical, thoughtful, and sometimes even humorous. It gives almost every character their own unique voice that makes their personalities palpable. An example of this is the following exchange between Ryann, Alexandria, and one of Ryann’s friends, Shannon:
“What a bitch,” Shannon seethed. “They tell us not to judge a book by its cover, but then, like, they say mean things like that.”
“You have to learn to not care, you know?” Alexandria replied.
“Or at least be able to defend yourself well,” Ryann mumbled.
Speaking of the characters, they are wonderful to get to know. While there are too many to list them all, personal favorites included Ryann, James, Alexandria, Ahmed, and Shannon. Ryann is a tall butch Black girl who is a tough yet loving mother hen to her found family of misfit friends and to her younger brother, James, and his baby, Charlie. James became mute after the death of his and Ryann’s parents. He fiercely loves Ryann and Charlie. Alexandria is a soft butch mixed-raced Black girl whose coldness protects a warm heart. Ahmed has beautiful polyamorous parents and is a loyal friend. Shannon is popular yet kind and fun, a refreshing deviation from the usual popular girl trope.
Bonding the characters, especially Alexandria and Ryann, together is the topic of outer space and the stars. Even for someone uninterested or unfamiliar with space facts, the information is presented in a way that is easy to understand and thoughtful. One part of the book that is especially notable is the depiction of how Ryann and Alexandria’s parents influenced their own outer space goals and appreciation. It is truly touching to see both young girls discuss and work toward their hopes and dreams under the stars.
Together, the writing format, prose, and the characters work to tell a emotionally resonating story about new chances and the burdens we all carry. There is also a slow-burn romance that is pleasant to watch unfold as Alexandria and Ryann grow closer. Sometimes, the baggage we carry can be too much to handle alone, especially if that baggage is unwillingly given to you. K. Ancrum’s The Weight of the Starstells us that others can help you carry that weight and that sometimes it’s okay to put yourself first.
A minor flaw of the book involves some of the characters. While the huge cast of characters made for engaging reading, it also made it a little confusing at times. It can be easy to mix up some of the characters, and I did this myself with it came to Ryan’s friends Blake and Tomas, as well as the adult characters of Alex’s dad Raleigh and the CEO Roland. This wasn’t too bothersome, but Blake and Tomas did feel like the same person sometimes, since their character dialogues felt similar.
All in all, this book is a gorgeous novel about new possibilities, love, and family. Great pacing, characters, and prose, along with a love of outer space, make this a novel worth reading. If you’re looking for a new contemporary coming-of-age story and/or romance, prepare to be dazzled and heartbroken all at once.
The Afro YA promotes black young adult authors and YA books with black characters, especially those that influence Pennington, an aspiring YA author who believes that black YA readers need diverse books, creators, and stories so that they don’t have to search for their experiences like she did.
Latonya Pennington is a poet and freelance pop culture critic. Their freelance work can also be found at PRIDE, Wear Your Voice magazine, and Black Sci-fi. As a poet, they have been published in Fiyah Lit magazine, Scribes of Nyota, and Argot magazine among others.
"The Exene Chronicles" Is a Beautiful, Brutal Glimpse into 80s Punk Culture
When I initially read the synopsis of Camille A. Collins’s book, The Exene Chronicles, part of me expected a novel written as a series of letters and poems.
Part of me expected an angsty, maybe slightly melodramatic book about a young Black female punk rock fan writing letters and poems to the lead singer of her favorite band. Instead, I got something more genuine and relatable.
At the center of The Exene Chronicles is Lia, a fourteen year old Black punk fan in the 1980’s living in Coronado, a San Diego suburb. As one of the few Black kids in the area and at school, she befriends Ryan, a white girl her age acting rebellious and grown up to cope with unwanted sexual advances for her pubescent body. When Ryan disappears, Lia uses the punk rock singer Exene Cervenka as a guide to cope with what happened, what led to Ryan’s disappearance, and Lia’s falling out with Ryan.
One notable aspect of the book is the depiction of the joy and tumult that Lia deals with as a Black punk fan. On the one hand, seeing Lia become enraptured with Exene and punk rock through listening to CDs and viewing the 1981 punk rock documentary The Decline of Western Civilization is enjoyable and relatable. During these moments, Lia reminded me of my teenaged self in the early 00’s discovering alternative rock bands Linkin Park and Evanescence through CDs and YouTube.
Although we lived in different decades and listened to different rock subgenres, I really related to Lia’s feeling of alienation and frustration and how punk rock became the catalyst for her to express herself and feel better about her life. Some particularly memorable thoughts Lia (and Ryan) have about Exene is expressed in the following: “And as much as they admired Exene, watching it all unfold bolstered their perception of themselves also, and made them, for a moment, feel fearless — of every place they’d been and wherever it was they were going.”
On the other hand, Lia also experiences racism, not just in the punk rock scene but also in her daily life. Some of the racism is overt, with Lia being called the “n-word” by white people during certain interactions. As a Black reader, I did find these scenes stinging me a bit, especially during one particularly harrowing scene involving Lia encountering Nazi skinhead youth. Other times, the racism is more subtle, Ryan making race “jokes” and Ryan’s mother thinking “Lia should’ve been the one abducted because Black people are used to suffering.”
Skillfully intertwined with racism is a critique of America’s glamorous white middle class standards, toxic masculinity, and sexual assault and harassment. These issues are depicted not only through Ryan and Lia, but also through secondary characters such as Ryan’s younger brother Jeff and the predatory young half-Mexican man, Neil. The book’s point of view alternates between the main characters and the secondary characters, providing a multi-faceted look at some of the ugliest aspects of the American ideal.
Despite the seriousness of the book, Collins manages to add some beauty in the story with lyrical turns of phrase. This writing style was especially notable when reading from Lia’s point of view, displaying her dreamy side. Notable examples of this include, “Many of the songs began in a flurry, the gates open on a racetrack and the horses fly! Played fast and ending abruptly with the slam of a door that gives finality to an argument, the notes standing on tiptoe.”
All in all, this book is a beautiful, brutal glimpse of 80’s punk culture. Lia is a young, alienated Black female punk fan who must navigate a sea of whiteness and racism to define herself on her own terms. Through the highs and lows of punk rock music, Lia’s story of eventual liberation from confining standards inspires all.
The Afro YA promotes black young adult authors and YA books with black characters, especially those that influence Pennington, an aspiring YA author who believes that black YA readers need diverse books, creators, and stories so that they don’t have to search for their experiences like she did.
Latonya Pennington is a poet and freelance pop culture critic. Their freelance work can also be found at PRIDE, Wear Your Voice magazine, and Black Sci-fi. As a poet, they have been published in Fiyah Lit magazine, Scribes of Nyota, and Argot magazine among others.
“A Blade So Black” Is a Fantastic Take on “Alice in Wonderland”
Alice in Wonderland always struck me as a really dreamy metaphor for coming of age.
The versions of Alice in Wonderland I know best are from the video game Kingdom Hearts and the 2010 live-action Disney film. Both media have their protagonists growing as heroes and as people as they journey through Wonderland. In L. L. McKinney’s A Blade So Black, the heroine comes of age beautifully through trials based in reality as well as fantasy.
Alice Kingston, the book’s protagonist, is a Black teenager living in Atlanta, Georgia, and a warrior known as a Dreamwalker. Together with her mentor, Addison Hatta, she fights Nightmares, creatures that serve as the embodiment of human fear. When Hatta ends up poisoned, Alice must journey deep into Wonderland to search for a cure and face a darkness that threatens Wonderland and the real world.
One of the first things that appealed to me about the book is its striking cover. Designed to look like an ace of spades, it features a dark-skinned Black girl literally poised for battle with her daggers. This cover told me that the heroine was going to kick butt and do some growing, and I had to know what her story was.
Once I started reading the book, Alice won me over as the lead character. Her grief at losing her father, her nervousness and excitement about venturing into Wonderland, and her casual display of her inner fangirl were so relatable. Not to mention that the way she speaks sounds true to life. One of my favorite lines of dialogue goes, “You play too much. Talkin’ ’bout some ‘you’ll have to be specific’. Specific deeze.”
The majority of the secondary cast of characters was enjoyable, too. Addison Hatta struck me as a British, loveable rogue. Alice’s mom will resonate with anyone who has loved and gotten in trouble with a Black parent or family member. Lady Xellon is a noble knight with a soft, protective side, while Odabeth is a princess who humbles graciously. The only characters I didn’t like were Courtney and Chess, who didn’t seem as interesting as the Wonderland characters.
In addition to the characters, the real and fictional settings of Atlanta, Georgia, and Wonderland were memorable. Given that I live in Georgia and have some experience with metro Atlanta, I could easily imagine Alice living around that area and experiencing some supernatural shenanigans. The book’s prologue was especially notable in this regard, as Alice experiences her first supernatural encounter a little ways from Grady Memorial Hospital.
Meanwhile, Wonderland is just as vivid and dangerous as I imagined it would be. McKinney’s world-building and physical descriptions of Wonderland let you see it in your mind’s eye as the story unfolds. Wonderland is particularly stunning when Alice visits it for the first time, and her sense of joy and wonder is sure to be reflected in the reader.
Although Wonderland and ATL are interesting settings on their own, they are even more interesting when they overlap and affect each other. At one point, it is explained that Dreamwalkers are immune to the physical and emotional effects of Nightmares unless the fear is personal. One of Alice’s personal nightmares is becoming a victim of police brutality.
In a couple of paragraphs, the author makes police brutality a literal and metaphorical nightmare. When a black girl named Brionne Matthews is shot and killed by police, the fear that results from her death causes two Nightmare creatures to appear and show Alice the cold reality of having special abilities even as her life is at risk in the real world. Alice wonders, “She’d protected this world, but would anyone protect her?”
Despite her fears of losing her life and losing those she loves, Alice manages to take the first steps to becoming the hero she can be. By focusing her Muchness, the part of her that believes in herself the most, she wields her daggers and a sword to slay Nightmares in a way that is empowering. In a creative nod to Lewis Caroll’s poem “Jabberwocky,” Alice’s heroic journey reaches its climax with the lines, “She left it dead, and with its head, she went galumphing back.”
All in all, A Blade So Black is a fantastic, grounded twist on Alice in Wonderland. With a compelling heroine, a quirky cast of characters, and thought-provoking world-building, A Blade So Black brings adventure, heart, and Black Girl Magic. Whether or not a sequel is in the works, this book alone breaks new ground for retellings and urban fantasy.
The Afro YA promotes black young adult authors and YA books with black characters, especially those that influence Pennington, an aspiring YA author who believes that black YA readers need diverse books, creators, and stories so that they don’t have to search for their experiences like she did.
Latonya Pennington is a poet and freelance pop culture critic. Their freelance work can also be found at PRIDE, Wear Your Voice magazine, and Black Sci-fi. As a poet, they have been published in Fiyah Lit magazine, Scribes of Nyota, and Argot magazine among others.
As I sit and consider my favourite book genre, I think of how I never really understood what genres meant when I first started choosing what I wanted to read, and how liberating that was.
I’ve always loved reading, and with parents who propagated reading as the ultimate learning tool, I often found myself from a very young age in a bookshop or library, given free rein to choose whatever I wanted to read. My parents did not have English as their first language, and thus did not really care what I read, as long as I read. Lacking guidance in school (growing up in Malaysia) and supervision at home, I never explored literature through its canons. Rather, it was whatever the bookshops and libraries around me stocked. And as a child, my only criteria then were that the books were of my reading ability (or a little harder), had a nice cover, interesting title, and a premise/plot that was new to me. Outside that, anything goes.
The two books that propelled me into exploring literature more rabidly as a child are Roald Dahl’s The Enormous Crocodile and Susan Hill’s I’m The King Of The Castle. Though both are mainstream children’s books, they proved to be special to me, as they introduced me to what I would realise later to be the types of books that I like – books that push my boundaries of imagination, knowledge, and understanding of humanity.
The tricksy characteristics of the Enormous Crocodile, or how the elephant, Trunksy spun Crocodile on its tail and propelled it into the sun was mind-boggling for my eight-year-old self. Though I had read fantasy stories before (Enid Blyton and fairytales), this mixture of reality and fictional imagination acted as a catalyst for my love of science fiction and fantasy later in life.
The boys’ relationships in I’m The King Of The Castle were a brilliant introduction to psychological thrillers and horror that would come to be my love during my formative years. It was here that I learnt about human behaviour, social triggers, and the many faces of humanity that are reflective of real life. My understanding of the world comes from fiction, and I am still constantly looking at fiction for new stories that would allow me to learn more about the world.
They introduced me to what I would realise later to be the types of books that I like – books that push my boundaries of imagination, knowledge, and understanding of humanity.
So from these two books, I journeyed into different realms; soaked up romance novels, fought through crime thrillers, was kept awake by horror, as I made my way through the genres to science fiction, fantasy, and speculative fiction. Science fiction (or hard science fiction) still remains my true love today. I don’t think I’m anywhere near a science fiction specialist, but I’m definitely a massive science fiction fan at heart, with Frank Herbert’s Dune firmly in its centre.
My understanding of the world comes from fiction and I am still constantly looking at fiction for new stories that would allow me to learn more about the world.
I’ve read it countless times, and yet it still entertains, teaches, and opens up new understandings of humanity to me. The far-fetched worlds that are grounded in our own world’s sciences are precisely what I feel is the perfect form of escapism. It is in these surreal worlds that we can scrutinise humanity and its actions without judgement, but with acceptance.
The best I’ve ever had? Well, it’s got to be science fiction as the ‘imaginative extrapolation from the possible’.[1] After all, ‘cutting edge sci-fi is sci-fi that dares you to think differently’.[2]
The far-fetched worlds that are grounded in our own world’s sciences are precisely what I feel is the perfect form of escapism. It is in these surreal worlds that we can scrutinise humanity and its actions without judgement, but with acceptance.
I fell in love with fantasy when I started reading the Harry Potter series as a kid.
A fourth-grade classmate brought Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fireto school for our teacher to read aloud. She only read one or two chapters, but it interested me enough that I got my mother to buy me Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
Chamber of Secrets was a wonderful reading experience. My mind became filled with flying cars and broomsticks, Hogwarts castle, and mythical creatures. Sparks flew from the wands of Rowling’s witches and wizards flew into my imagination, where they bounced around and created a craving for more fantasy fiction.
Still, when it came to fantasy fiction, I didn’t think characters of color could exist. I had been taught through reading itself that the realm of fantasy was only for white men and women, and I’d never thought to look for anything else.
While waiting for the next Harry Potter book, I wanted to read stories of epic adventures, gods and mortals, with well-written female protagonists like Hermione Granger. I consumed novels from the Dragonlance series, books on mythology, and female-lead books like the Song of The Lioness series. However, I read very little fantasy fiction with people of color in it.
In fact, I can remember only one moment when the existence of people of color in fantasy didn’t feel strange to me. I was reading Lirael by Garth Nix, a book that is part of a trilogy. I saw a description of the book’s protagonist, Lirael, that said her white skin “burnt” when outside and that she had long, straight hair. I looked at the cover and thought that she looked a little like my mother, who is Vietnamese. Even though she seemed racially ambiguous, I thought she could have been Asian.
Still, when it came to fantasy fiction, I didn’t think characters of color could exist. I had been taught through reading itself that the realm of fantasy was only for white men and women, and I’d never thought to look for anything else.
Once, I bought a fantasy trilogy with characters of color without realizing it. The Farsala Trilogy by Hilari Bell featured a setting and characters that were inspired by Persian folklore—but years of reading fantasy with white characters had taught me to read them as white.
By the time I found a fantasy with a protagonist of color whom I was able to recognize as such, I was in college. I was browsing the adult section of my local library at random when I found The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N. K. Jemisin. I decided to check out the book when I turned it over and saw the author was a black woman. It had never occurred to me that a black woman could write fantasy novels with characters who looked like black people.
This book blew my mind just as much as reading the Harry Potter series had. Instead of seeing a white cast of characters, I saw more brown than white. Not only was there a brown woman of color protagonist with curly hair, but also a fantastic mythology involving two brown-skinned gods and one white one. The plot involving these characters and more added even more color. I imagined the gods dressed in silver, yellow, and black and their universe as a limitless rainbow of planets and stars.
While The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms was part of a trilogy, I didn’t read the other books until much later. I believed that fantasy authors of color were a rarity… I gradually forgot about the book.
Not only was there a brown woman of color protagonist with curly hair, but also a fantastic mythology involving two brown-skinned gods and one white one. The plot involving these characters and more added even more color. I imagined the gods dressed in silver, yellow, and black and their universe as a limitless rainbow of planets and stars.
It took me getting tired of seeing the same old faces and plots in fantasy to start searching for alternatives. I did online searches and gradually found fantasy books with black and Asian characters and authors.
It occurred to me that there were probably other people who, like me, didn’t know these books existed. Since I had a personal blog where I was already reviewing books, I started reviewing books with authors and characters of color. Soon, I was focusing on black speculative fiction, especially after I discovered independent black authors on the web. These authors would show me that not only was it possible for people of color to exist in fantasy fiction, but also they didn’t need society’s permission to do so.
A few years after I discovered black indie fantasy authors, I learned that this same lesson applied to black indie comic creators and artists. The first fantasy webcomic I read by a black creator was Agents of the Realm by Mildred Louis. Agents of the Realm sparked an appreciation for comic artists and creators of color that I hadn’t felt since I read Japanese manga.
After I discovered more fantasy webcomics with people of color characters and creators, I became fully immersed in comics, both mainstream and indie. The titles that made the most impact were Ms. Marvel by G. Willow Wilson and The Legend of Bold Riley by Leia Weathington. These comics made me see American comics in a new light by showing me how diverse creators can create diverse stories and characters that appeal to me. They also inspired me to spread the word about comics as a freelance writer—and they helped me understand what the fantasy genre meant to me.
Fantasy gave me a wild imagination, entertainment, and a sharper mind. It showed me that magic could exist in this world, another world, and in myself.
Fantasy gave me a wild imagination, entertainment, and a sharper mind.
I fight for diversity in the fantasy genre because I didn’t know I could exist in a fantasy world or make my own until I was an adult.
Even though their sparks seem small, marginalized readers and authors have as much magic as everyone else. The more magic we acknowledge, the more fantasy will ignite reality.
The Afro YA promotes black young adult authors and YA books with black characters, especially those that influence Pennington, an aspiring YA author who believes that black YA readers need diverse books, creators, and stories so that they don’t have to search for their experiences like she did.
Latonya Pennington is a poet and freelance pop culture critic. Their freelance work can also be found at PRIDE, Wear Your Voice magazine, and Black Sci-fi. As a poet, they have been published in Fiyah Lit magazine, Scribes of Nyota, and Argot magazine among others.
In season two of House of Cards, Frank Underwood comes home to find his wife, Claire, drinking and flirting with one of his security agents.
I am sitting with my girlfriend on the couch, watching on my laptop. The music is ominous. We have already seen Frank kill two people close to him. The scene is dark, and I can see my fingerprints on the screen. The security agent apologizes for his unprofessional conduct and makes a move to leave, but Claire stops him and pulls him in for a kiss. I gape. Frank smiles. Then, the security agent turns to Frank, and they start to make out. I yell at my computer, “What! Did they just—” And then it fades to black.
Frank, played by Kevin Spacey, is a rare portrayal of male bisexuality. I collect them like agates. Here’s another: in Skyfall, Javier Bardem runs his hands over James Bond’s body while he is tied to a chair. “First time for everything,” Bardem says.
Bond says, “What makes you think this is my first time?”
That counts. I count that. It takes so little to keep me fed.
Soon after being hired as an intern, I agree with my boss about a male celebrity being attractive. She jokes, “Are you sure you’re not gay?” I do not know how to respond, how to tell her that I am somehow both and neither, sometimes welcome, sometimes ushered out, sometimes standing with my hand pressed up against the glass. I stall with a fake laugh. “Well,” I say, and let it hang.
It takes so little to keep me fed.
Around Christmas, I tweet, “Just when you thought the straights couldn’t get any more ruinous, Michael Bublé changes the lyrics of ‘Santa Baby’ to ‘Santa Buddy.’”
“smh u straight,” replies a friend from high school. He and I have had sex three times.
When I begin to doubt the existence of my own sexuality, I search my collection for someone to identify with. Here’s another agate: Wolverine’s supervillain son, Daken, whose name means “mongrel”—a mixed breed, a neither-one-nor-the-other. He uses pheromones to seduce both men and women, usually to some nefarious end. He kisses a man and then kills him in the same issue. While he is a member of the Dark Avengers, he is asked to join the Dark X-Men. “I always did like playing for both teams,” he says.
That’s how it feels: like there are two teams. You can only wear one jersey at a time. To play for both teams is a contradiction; you must be a double agent, your loyalties firm to one side.
At a company pizza outing, my boss asks whether the table believes that bisexual men exist. She makes it clear that she doesn’t. I have just been hired part-time as the company’s fourth employee. I am afraid I could be sloughed off if they find me too disagreeable and I don’t want to field follow-up questions on the specifics of my sex life. So I keep quiet while my heterosexual coworkers hypothesize, offering up what scant evidence they have to be dissected. One unwittingly comes to my defense, saying she once knew a Real Life Bisexual Man. My boss wonders aloud whether he might have just been gay. The conversation ends, and nobody’s mind is changed.
She spoke as if bisexual men were mythical creatures, but that can’t be right; mythical creatures appear in popular media all the time. Unicorns and mermaids are not real but are easy to comprehend. Bisexual men are the opposite.
She spoke as if bisexual men were mythical creatures, but that can’t be right; mythical creatures appear in popular media all the time.
A year later, I am a full-time employee and still not out to my boss. We are talking about House of Cards, and I am recounting my shock at the threesome scene. Maybe I am trying to hint at something. In my apartment, I have practiced coming out to her—taking a nonchalant, “oh, didn’t you know?” approach—and have promised myself I would never lie if directly asked. But I have learned from Frank that there can be equilibrium in sleeping with whomever and letting people assume what they will. “I don’t think he is bisexual,” my boss says. “I think he is gay and is just using women for a political end.”
But he has sex with Claire, I point out. And Kate Mara, before he pushes her in front of that subway car! I fight for Frank’s bisexuality, and in this I fight for myself, for my own possibility and existence. I don’t know what she is fighting for. Maybe so she and her team can keep playing their game, whatever it is.
I fight for Frank’s bisexuality, and in this I fight for myself, for my own possibility and existence.
Another year later, it is fall of 2017 and our office does not go a week without someone exclaiming that another celebrity has been accused of sexual misconduct. When the dam breaks for Kevin Spacey, I think back to the first scene of House of Cards, where a dog runs into traffic and is hit by a car. Frank kneels and strangles the dog—a coup de grâce. And I know that Frank Underwood can never appear on the screen again.
Spacey was accused of sexual assault by over a dozen men. In one account, he fondles a man at a club. In another, a man passes out at Spacey’s apartment and wakes up to find Spacey performing a sexual act on him. Other men have done these exact things to me. When I read about these experiences, I don’t see Spacey and a young boy; I imagine Frank, his syrupy approximation of a Southern accent, and myself. I had once identified with Frank but now find myself across from him, his hand reaching between my legs. I could always see on his face that he was capable of something like this, but I had always imagined that Spacey was just acting.
Maybe I should have been more critical. The security guard was clearly intoxicated, and Frank was his boss. In the first season, Frank repeats a quote most often attributed to Oscar Wilde—a man who, like Frank and me, had relationships with men and women; a man who, like Spacey, pursued men decades younger than him— “Everything is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” Daken, Frank, Bond, these men with body counts—maybe all they ever wanted was leverage. That is the nature of bisexual male representation: a liminal space, a “maybe” that never resolves to no or yes. It can be hinted at, even shown, as long as there’s plausible deniability.
That is the nature of bisexual male representation… It can be hinted at, even shown, as long as there’s plausible deniability.
It is another year later now, and after a workplace happy hour, my boss pulls me aside. “I have to apologize for something that’s been bugging me forever,” she says. I steel myself. “When you started here, I made a joke about you being gay,” she says. “And I’ve felt bad about it ever since.”
I still don’t know how to respond to this. But until there are better bisexual men to point to—men who don’t commit horrendous acts of violence, men who are unambiguous and proud—I have to believe that the simple, damnable existence of Frank was a step forward. It takes so little to keep me fed.
At the center of The Exene Chronicles is Lia, a fourteen year old Black punk fan in the 1980’s living in Coronado, a San Diego suburb. As one of the few Black kids in the area and at school, she befriends Ryan, a white girl her age acting rebellious and grown up to cope with unwanted sexual advances for her pubescent body. When Ryan disappears, Lia uses the punk rock singer Exene Cervenka as a guide to cope with what happened, what led to Ryan’s disappearance, and Lia’s falling out with Ryan.
One of the first things that appealed to me about the book is its striking cover. Designed to look like an ace of spades, it features a dark-skinned Black girl literally poised for battle with her daggers. This cover told me that the heroine was going to kick butt and do some growing, and I had to know what her story was.
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