Unlimited Futures: Speculative, Visionary Blak and Black Fiction
Rafeif Ismail & Ellen van Neerven, editors
Paperback
ISBN: 9781760990701
Fremantle in association with Djed, March 2022/US June 2022, 296 pgs

Identity is complicated. To discuss it properly, you have to be flexible. You have to be able to change definitions as you go, to shift perspectives, and to embrace different understandings. With each discussion (if things are discussed in an open and honest way), we inevitably realize that the way we discussed something before actually missed a few points.

Increased visibility of individuals who were largely overlooked by mainstream publishing means that the cultural discussions at hand become more enriched across a larger audience. But this isn’t the same thing as saying that the discussions are new. Often the discussions are only new to some people, while other people have been talking about them for years and years.

As an example, the recent Black Lives Matter protests brought discussions around race and police brutality to many kinds of folks in the US. While a large number of white people saw these events as new, and had never really entered into these discussions before, most Black folks in the US had been discussing these things all along¹. Many white people conceived of police violence as isolated incidents scattered throughout history. Meanwhile, many Black families have, for decades, coached their kids on dealing with the police in such a way as to decrease the chances of getting shot; it’s not about “isolated incidents” so much as it is about a consistent throughline. White people and “mainstream” culture may not have been cognizant of these discussions, and in at least some cases, have been willfully ignorant, but that doesn’t mean the discussions weren’t happening.

So—where am I going with all of this?

In 2012 University of Arizona Press published Walking the Clouds: An Anthology of Indigenous Science Fiction, edited by Grace L. Dillon, the “first-ever anthology of Indigenous science fiction.” Tor.com recently posted a discussion of “Science Fiction’s Very First ‘Year’s Best,’” a book published in 1949. Science fiction is often described as a conversation. As we celebrate old books which are stuffed to the gills with white authors, we ignore the other side of this situation: sixty years is a really long time to largely ignore groups of people who might have something to add.

Sure, there were a few exceptions here and there. But you can pick up nearly any random genre anthology published within a span of several decades, flip through its pages, and find that many people were being left out of those conversations².

Walking the Clouds received a starred review in Publisher’s Weekly, but it seems to have been somewhat ignored by genre folks, including all the various awards people.

Even today, as people go to conventions, they still argue over Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, or George R.R. Martin and Robert Jordan. I suspect that few of those people bring Dillon’s work into the discussion. Or, for that matter, the 2016 anthology Love Beyond Body, Space, and Time by Hope Nicholson. Or Joshua Whitehead’s 2020 anthology Love after the End. I’ve met people who could tell you which years Heinlein won awards, but they probably couldn’t name five Indigenous genre authors. It might not be such a big deal, except for those decades where genre publishers have been largely disinterested in hearing what so many people might have to say.

Well, it’s our lucky day: Here’s another anthology bursting at the seams with brilliant things to say. Editors Rafeif Ismail and Ellen van Neerven have put together Unlimited Futures—and it is absolutely fantastic. “Unlimited Futures is an anthology of speculative, visionary fiction from First Nations writers and Black writers, reflecting visionary pasts, hopeful futures and the invisible ties between First Nations people and People of Colour.” That’s the blurb, but my blurb would be: “This is a book stuffed to the gills with great writing.” I’ll discuss a handful of pieces, but really, you’re in good hands whether you’re the “pick stuff at random” type of anthology reader or the “go from cover to cover” type of anthology reader.

The book opens with “The River” by Tuesday Atzinger, and this piece is a great way to open a book. Well-structured, evocative, visceral; frankly, it’s just . . . wonderful. The story follows a warrior chief who tries to court a woman named Thandeka, who already has a lover, Amandla—and they are quite happy where they are, thank you very much. But the chief isn’t happy with that. Tension ratchets up as the chief’s overtures are deflected, because he is not one to be dissuaded. The situation escalates to violence, but the consequences are much larger than the chief would imagine. The piece is beautifully told, while also intellectually engaging. Atzinger plays with dichotomies to superb effect, exploring human nature while delivering a gripping tale. Really well done.

“The Breakup” by Jasmin McGaughey finds protagonist Zillah breaking up with boyfriend Artie, who has superpowers. The story is gently frank, and this frankness immediately grounds the piece in a sense of realness; but it’s also kind of tender, limned with a light innocence. Combined, these sensibilities create a terrific, readable voice. The story itself seems fairly straightforward, but it’s lined with keen observations seamlessly sewn into the narrative.

Flora Chol’s “Tea” is a gorgeous poem about memory and family and loss; and the way these things all tie together to something as simple as tea. It’s also a larger discussion of the meaning of touchstones. As observers, we are faced with realizations around our own assumptions, made clear while looking through this window into the deeply personal.

“Guyugga,” by Laniyuk, is near-future SF depicting the moments just after a successful Māori revolution. While the frame is post-revolution, the effect is a thoughtful meditation on colonization and its consequences. Careless readers will miss the complexity at play. “I don’t know softness, I don’t know healing. I know building myself up after they tore me down.” These sentences exemplify powerful introspection, revealing the generational damage of colonization. At heart this story is about freedom, and the assertion that living by the dictates of another group of people is not freedom at all, even if you might think it is.

Jasper Wyld approaches “Thylacine” at first like a personal essay, explaining the extinction of the carnivorous marsupial sometimes called the Tasmanian tiger or the Tasmanian wolf. I even stopped for a moment to see if Unlimited Futures includes nonfiction. Gradually the writing slips into a more narrative vibe, and somewhere along the way, becomes an utterly engrossing story. The narrator initially contemplates the fact that people—especially white people—seem to want to bring the Thylacine back from extinction; or claim to have seen a Thylacine. The atmosphere of the piece changes when scientists implant Thylacine eggs into an artificial womb—to less than ideal results. In the course of these shifts, an examination of the impact of colonialism gives way to startling and powerful metaphor. Wyld is skilled with sharp observations and comparisons; but more surprising is the deft way Wyld leads the reader to a place of wonder. There is an undercurrent through the piece, about the meaning of connection, and the importance of connection to survival.

“Today, We Will Rise” by Meleika Gesa-Fatafehi is another story about resistance and revolution, but this one is farther in the future, in a domed city. Quick, effective strokes subtly capture the feeling of chaos, matching the moment of the story. In the midst of violent uprising, themes center on the way oppressed peoples cling to each other, to family, and to culture, in a desperate, proud bid to survive. There are layers of world building which echo our own realities: “Dying from old age is a privilege not afforded to those outside the dome.” It’s a blunt, incredible commentary on inequality, but it’s also about the power of freedom, and of new beginnings, even if won at great cost.

The last piece I’ll discuss here is the poem “I have no country” by Yirga Gelaw Woldeyes. Presented with the original Amharic on the left page and English on the right, it’s an absolutely breathtaking work, an act of resistance against the limitations and exclusions which result from interactions which are all too common. This poem is an act of healing, standing against the damage caused by casual racism, and creating instead power, as well as an inspiring freedom. It’s a meditation on belonging and identity which is supremely clever, truly thought provoking, and deeply beautiful.

This book is urgent. It’s filled to the gills with powerful voices. Whatever conversations you are having, they will be improved by visiting these works.

¹. You don’t have to take my word for this (even though you should). Black literature and music provides ample evidence of these continuous discussions. Here’s an example for you: “A policeman who shot down a 10-year-old in Queens / stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood”—from Audre Lorde’s 1978 poem “Power,” about police brutality and systemic injustice.

². There have been many important notable authors of color, and specifically Black or Indigenous authors, including First Nations authors. Louise Erdrich was winning literary awards in the ’70s and ’80s, while being somewhat ignored by genre. Eden Robinson recently won a $50,000 fellowship, but has been largely overlooked by the genre community. Stephen Graham Jones and Rebecca Roanhorse are among the most recognizable names, but there are many, many others writing excellent work, and more not being given a shot at all.

There are also a number of important anthologies by BIPOC editors such as Sheree Renée Thomas, Nalo Hopkinson, Nisi Shawl, Zoraida Córdova, Dhonielle Clayton, and so on. Looking at tables of contents over the past few decades, there are far, far more anthologies with very few to no authors of color, a trend which continues even today.