Science fiction writers imagine the way out
Jesus’ parables give us space to see that something else is possible. Writers of new worlds put flesh on these bones.
I’m reading other worlds. In one story a city is planted from seeds—buildings, people, and animals sprout like daffodils. In another, a mother and daughter clash over the fate of their planet. In another, a people, bound together by their common fate, create a new life in a decimated land.
“All organizing is science fiction,” writes Walidah Imarisha. I suppose the inverse is true—our disorganizing, our entrenchment, and the intractability of our brokenness are a failure of imagination, a failure to believe in the possibility of new worlds.
“Whenever we try to envision a world without war, without violence, without prisons, without capitalism, we are engaging in speculative fiction.” I keep Imarisha’s words close when organizing demands are dictated by the red blaze of tragedy. A Black man dead by the Taser of a police officer or a crooked landlord blackmailing undocumented tenants. Meanwhile, the city council is entrenched in developer interests. Another fire is sparking somewhere behind our backs.
