Commentary: Octavia's Brood & Water Carrier

In January, the Decolonize This Book Club read both Octavia's Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements and Water Carrier, a collection of poetry by Nakia Hill.

For folks who aren’t into Science Fiction and don’t think Octavia’s Brood is for them, know this: Octavia’s Brood is something special.

In Walidah Imarisha’s Introduction, she defines “Visionary fiction” as: “a term we developed to distinguish between science fiction that has relevance toward building new, freer worlds from the mainstream strain of science fiction, which most often reinforces dominant narratives of power. Visionary fiction encompasses all of the fantastic, with the arc always bending toward justice.” This is the heart of what makes Octavia’s Brood different from mainstream Sci-Fi. Black and Brown and Queer writers contributed short stories exploring gentrification, colorism, incarceration, ICE, protest, and more, grounded in both terrifying and exciting futures.

My favorite story was called “The River” by adrienne maree brown. In Detroit, in a not too distant future, we meet a “water woman” who essentially lives on the river and who witnesses something haunting belle isle. People go missing and then turn up in the river, dead. The water woman pieces together that all the dead have one thing in common: they aren’t from Detroit. “The River” makes me feel like a voyeur— watching gentrifiers lose at their own game with both terror and, yes, pleasure. When neighborhood after neighborhood is made inaccessible to those who had always been there— decent, regular folk— it’s electrifying to experience a story where the tide quite literally turns. We get the chance to look in on a world where powers beyond human control intervene on the side of justice.

During our book club discussion, we did something a bit different. After being inspired by the visionary fiction in Octavia’s Brood, we each wrote a bit of our own. I prompted us to consider a world without ____. That could be as big as an institution or as small as a single object. I urged us to contemplate oppressive institutions, ideas, or items and describe a future where it no longer exists.

I’ll share what I wrote during those 15 minutes of free-writing.

A world without manicured lawns.

When Grannie tore up our front lawn a few years ago, I didn’t get it. The neighbors stared in disbelief as this 90 year old with bright pink hair dashed around our front lawn, charting where garden beds could go, where irrigation was needed, and ridding the entire space of the soft, green grass that characterized this gated community. But not even my parents would question Grannie’s methods; they knew better.

By the time the first green shoots of lettuce, green beans, and peppers rose from the ground, the HOA had had enough. Lee-Ann, our across the street neighbor, stiffly crossed the road, clipboard in hand, and approached our lawn-- grass completely gone, replaced by dedicated rows of Life-- nourishing life-- where fruits and veggies were to grow. Grannie barely noticed Lee-Ann over the sound of the hose, as she watered.

“Doing a little gardening?” Lee-Ann asked, a smirk on her pale face.

Grannie, who’d seen it all, knew the real question underneath: What the hell are you doing?

“All that grass wastes so much water,” Grannie explained, never lifting her eyes from the task at hand. “I’d rather use that space for growing food or creating new homes for little critters.”

“Critters?!” Lee-Ann gawked. “No, no, we can’t be attracting wildlife to the community. If you’re bringing in pests, then… well, the rest of the HOA will have something to say about it.” Lee-Ann was intimidated, no doubt, by Grannie’s dismissive posture, standing with her back turned to Lee-Ann, until she heard a familiar voice.

“Grannie!” A child carrying a bucket much too large galloped up the sidewalk and into the yard, ignoring Lee-Ann too.

“Truth be told, Lee-Ann,” Grannie sighed, “we are the pests here.” Grannie filled the bucket with compost from around the corner of the house and handed it back to the child, who began spreading it in-earnest around the base of each sprout. The child came every morning to watch Grannie work. “If you want peppers come harvest,” Grannie had told the child, “then you have to get your hands dirty now. Lend me a hand.” And so Grannie set about teaching the neighborhood children how to garden-- a skill they and their parents had forgotten since moving to the manicured, detached world of the subdivision. The children loved her for it.

Grannie continued to the dumbstruck Lee-Ann, “We destroyed the land this neighborhood is built upon and we evicted all the animals from their homes.”

Lee-Ann didn’t know what to say.

“Far as I’m concerned,” Grannie said definitively, “I’m just restoring what once was.”

Seeing the child happy and at work, Lee Ann grumbled about the compost stinking up the whole street as she walked back across the road to her house.

“I’m increasing the property value, Lee Ann!” Grannie shouted triumphantly with sarcasm, as she returned to the dirt, smiling.

Now, years later, after the entire neighborhood picked up on the trend, I see families harvesting their own vegetables, fresh from the vine, and I’m starting to get it.