What Happens to Female Film Directors of Color?

As I prepare to direct the book trailer for my novel PICTURE ME ROLLIN', I went to the video store to rents several films that might have the sensibility I wanted to emulate. One of the film's I rented to watch again was JUST ANOTHER GIRL ON THE IRT written and directed by Leslie Harris.

I found myself wondering what happened to Leslie Harris. Has she made any films since her debut? After all, JUSTANOTHER GIRL ON THE IRT won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance in 1993. That usually means that someone somewhere is going to gamble on the director's next feature.

I go to the Internet Movie Database and enter Leslie's name. According to IMDB.com, despite her auspicious debut, Leslie has yet to write or direct another film. She doesn't even have a website.

This made me curious about another woman of color whose debut film received critical acclaim. I entered the name of Karyn Kusama who wrote and directed GIRLFIGHT, the 2000 independent film that launched the career of Michelle Rodriguez. GIRLFIGHT also won Sundance and scores of other prestigious nominations and awards. But it took five years for Karyn to get a break in Hollywood helming the ill-fated AEON FLUX. Since then she has only directed a single episode of THE L WORD.

The continued success of Darnell Martin conjures mixed feelings in me. Darnell's debut film I LIKE IT LIKE THAT made history as the first feature produced by a Hollywood studio to be helmed by an African American woman. I LIKE IT LIKE THAT won many kudos, too. But it took seven years for Darnell to make another feature length film - PRISON SONG. If PRISON SONG ever received a theatrical release it was short-lived and received little to no marketing.

Since I LIKE IT LIKE THAT, Darnell has directed several television projects, including multiple episodes of critically acclaimed series such as OZ and LAW AND ORDER. However, it's a mixed blessing. It's heartening to see such a talented sister earning a living as a director yet anyone who has seen I LIKE IT LIKE THAT and knows anything about the craft of filmmaking can tell you (if they're honest) that a talent like Darnell should be making films with the same regularity as directors Charles Stone or F. Gary Gray.

In fact, there are some male directors regardless of race who helm feature films on a regular basis that can't touch Darnell's talent. I can think of a few hacks who find the financing and distribution to make one clich� after the other while years pass between features from women like Leslie, Karyn and Darnell. Whether in the independent front or the Hollywood scene, my business partner and our female peers are constantly told that our �urban� stories will never be produced unless we do it ourselves. �Urban� (whatever the hell that's code for, it always applies to our projects) doesn't sell, they tell us. It won't make money. But rarely a weekend passes where a project not unlike one of ours is released. They may or may not be particularly original or well done, but they are there, always dominated before and behind the camera by men.

Music videos have been a major springboard for many men - especially men of color on the hip hop scene - to receive an opportunity to direct a mainstream feature-length film. Names of such men easily come to mind - David Fincher (one of my favorite directors), F. Gary Gray, Brett Ratner, Spike Jonze, Hype Williams, Jessy Terrero. . . But I can't name a single woman of color who has leveraged a stint in music videos into narrative film. Hell, I don't know of woman of any race who directs music videos on regular basis. Directors Franc Reyes and Andy Tennant started their careers as dancers, but has anyone given Rocafella, Tina Landon or Laurie Ann Gibson an opportunity to direct a video let alone a feature?

To finally see a female music video director who worked consistently, I had to invent her for my novel EXPLICIT CONTENT.

Despite all its pretense of liberalism, the industry conspires to give men - regardless of race, genre or even skill - an opportunity to tell their stories. It matters little if those stories are fresh or clich�. Sometimes it doesn't even matter if the projects is a commercial failure. There still seems to be chance for a male director whose film fails to find another opportunity to redeem himself. I'm still waiting for Leslie and Karyn to be given that same chance.

The latest statistic is that less than four per cent of directors are women. Women of color don't even comprise a single per cent. Yes, in 2007, the number remains this low.

And it clearly isn't for lack of available talent. In the past fifteen years, we have seen quite a few amazing women of color emerge with promising debuts only to languish before being given the resources to direct a second feature. When they do, it is often with a weak screenplay plucked out of development hell then poorly marketed (e.g. AEON FLUX. Come to think of it, the studios didn't even properly market GIRLFIGHT so if you ask me, Karyn Kusama never got a full break. And despite some major flaws, Monique's PHAT GIRLZ was not the low-brow ghetto comedy it was promoted to be. All this for another blog at another time.) While producers and distributors continue to bank on the boys and their projects - some who undoubtedly deserve it, and others who clearly don't- sisters must continue to resort to doing it for themselves.

Leslie, I know a long time has passed since JUST ANOTHER GIRL ON THE IRT, BUT I hope the first time we heard from you won't be the last.

Kique's Ghost - The 3rd Story in the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour

KIQUE'S GHOST

By Sof�a Quintero


Even through the veil of my hat, I see all eyes are on me as I sachet down the aisle toward Kique's casket. Good. That's the main reason why I squeezed my big ass into the red spandex dress. The same dress I wore on our first date when I was two sizes smaller.

Just as I reach the casket, a teary-eyed girl barely out of her teens carries away a toddler on her hip. Don't ask, Lili. Just let it go. I take a deep breath and look into the casket. Damn it if Kique don't look good! The bochinche was that the last woman he burned had shot him right between the eyes. Guess not. I glance at his crotch. Well, if she aimed there, the damage is not obvious.

'Chacho, the undertaker really did an amazing job. Kique's soul patch is sharply trimmed. Those perfect lips, rose and soft, are shaped into his signature smirk. Kique looks exactly the same way he did the day I realized I had fallen for him. That memory gives me the courage to do what I vowed I would to all my disbelieving girlfriends when this day came.

I look to my left then check to my right. Everyone is too busy mourning - or glaring at the llorona en la esquina who's making a performance of it - to watch me. I lean over Kique's body, lift my veil and spit on him.

�Burn in hell, asqueroso!�

Then I spin on the heels of my Via Spiga stilettos and march out of the funeral. Through the veil of my hat, I watch the others as they stare at me, their eyes so swollen and red. Look at them crying for Kique. Wearing black. Falling over themselves to praise him now that the son of a bitch is dead.

Di que Kique was so funny 'Member the time he did eso y lo otro?

Or when he was working, Kique was so generous.

And my personal favorite. Kique loved his children. All five of them. If he knew about 'em, he loved the hell out of them kids of his.

�Hipocritas! All of them, if they truly knew him. Where's the bitch who shot him? That's who I want to see. Shake her hand. Buy her a drink. Ask if his eyes were open when she did it. Why she did it? I don't need to ask her that.

Just as I push open the door that leads from the parlor into the lobby, I hear glass crash against the tiled floor. A black wave rushes by me as mourners run past me toward the commotion. When I reach the scene, Kique's brother and best friend pull apart two women who still claw for each other. Water, glass, and carnations are all over the lobby floor.

��Saca a esa pedenja, Junior!� yells the petite negrita with the box braids. �She didn't give a shit about Kique, and everybody knows it!�

The voluptuous chinita screams back, �You've always been jealous of me, bitch, because I'm the mother of his only son.�

Someone behinds me sucks her teeth. �That ain't true,� she mumbles �Doesn't Kique have a son in Santo Domingo?�

Another woman say, �And a daughter in Haina.� The revelation inspires several gasps. Don't these people know by now that scuttlebutt regarding Kique's �reproductivity� should be believed until proven otherwise?

I'm so over all this. As the catfight ensues, I ease my way through the crowd to the exit. By the door is an easel with a poster of Kique from his three-month stint as a real estate agent. It reads Enrique �Kique� Gilberto Mendoza, April 29, 1967 - October 29, 2007. As I walk by the easel, I snarl at Kique's picture and point to the crowd. �Damn it, Kique . . . even in death!�

Once outside the funeral home, I hand the parking attendant my ticket. As I wait for him to bring my car, I break out a cigarette. Fuckin' Kique Mendoza's dead.

I had just turned twenty when we met. Before Kique I was too busy being the dutiful daughter to date. Going to college, working my way through school, practically becoming the matriarch of the family as my mother cared for my father. . . What little time I had for a social life, I didn't want to waste on the boys around me because they were just that. Boys who just wanted one thing and yet were incapable or unwilling to offer much in return.

Then Kique came along and swept me off my feet, giving me all the romance I had been missing. Craving really. Then he ruined me for all men.

That's not a compliment.

Suddenly, a chill dances up my spine, and I shiver. What gives? It was almost seventy degrees when I left my apartment! The temperature must have dropped drastically in the few minutes I had been inside the funeral home. That's October in New York for you.

I wrap my arms myself while I wait for the valet to bring my car. He takes his time, stealing long glances at my dress. Or more like my ass busting out of it. That's why you're cold, Lili! I flick away my cigarette and drag the valet out of the driver seat so I can hop in. The car's pretty damn cold, too, so I blast on the heat as I drive off.

Only when I pull onto the Bronx River Parkway do I remember I still have on this silly hat with the veil. I laugh at myself as I sit on the entrance ramp and check oncoming traffic. Just before I'm about to merge, I pull off the hat and fling it onto the passenger seat.

�Nice hat.�

I almost give myself whiplash in the direction of the voice. Kique? He wears his burial suit, my spit sliding down his tie. In fact, Kique, his suit, his body, all opaque like crepe paper. But my saliva glistens in the ray of sunlight beaming through the front car window, just as fresh as I cut it loose.

I scream so loud that only the blaring of the horns of the cars behind me snaps me out of it. And what does Kique do? He chuckles condescendingly the way he always did when faced with a woman he drove to hysteria. �Pull over, Lillian,� he says, pointing to the shoulder. He folds up the tail of his tie to blot at my spit. �We need to talk about this lingering rage of yours.�

My mind scampers, trying to remember how to handle a ghost. A wooden stake through the heart! No, that's for vampires. Besides, who the hell keeps a wooden stake in the glove compartment? Then it hits me. I do have my shiny new Club under my seat. I hit my blinker and make my way to the shoulder of the parkway.

Kique continues to rub at his tie, but the spit remains as if untouched. �Spitting on me. . . he says. �What were you thinking, Lili?�

Oh, now you want to know, asshole? The second I arrive at the shoulder, I reach down to grab the Club and swing it with all my might at Kique's head. It slices right through him, banging against the passenger window and ripping a crack through it. �Fuck!�

Only the sound of cracking glass makes Kique realize what I had tried to do. �First, you spit at me and now this?� He squints at me. �What happened to the sweet nena tranquila who would look away whenever I told her she was beautiful?�

Anger finally erupts, taking me far past fear. �Damn it, Kique, what are you doing here?� Then I remember. When you encounter a ghost, you're supposed to confront it. Ask him what he wants so you can give him what he needs to move on. They say sometimes a person just doesn't know or hasn't accepted that he's dead until a living person breaks it to him and convinces him to let go of earth. God, I hope this is not Kique's problem. The man was so full of hubris, it'll take his ghost weeks of hopelessly chasing live women before he accepts that he doesn't have �it� anymore and take his game to the netherworld. �You're dead and no longer belong here,� I say. �Que en carajo is holding you back?�

�I need you to forgive me, Lili.� He blinks at me like a child, that infamous smirk gone. �Without your forgiveness, I can't rest in peace.�

Shit. If that's true, I'm fucked. As a child, I never even had an imaginary friend but now at the age of thirty-three, I'm stuck with the ghost of the only man I ever loved? That'd be bearable if he also wasn't the worst ex-boyfriend I ever had. Like it wasn't bad enough that he lied to me about how many his-and-her kids he had, chased away my few male friends with his possessiveness, and eventually cheated on me with the most psychotic of his baby mamas. After I left him, Kique would stalk me every time he was in between women - from the �Oh, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop to say hi� drives by my apartment to the �IF YOU REALLY FUCKIN' LOVED ME YOU NEVER WOULD'VE LEFT SO EASY, YOU HEARTLESS BITCH!!!� messages on my answering machine. I finally had to file a restraining order against him.

�Of all the women you've known and screwed in your forty years on this planet, why me, Kique?� I yell. �I mean, according to the chisme, I got off easy.�

Kique cocks his head to the side. �That's true. What I did to you is nothing compared to what I did to Sherry. Or Flaca. Or La Bembe. . . � I roll my eyes at him, and he halts the roll call of his victims. Kique looks at me with those sad eyes. Not those telenovela eyes reserved for performing deception and manipulation. The sincere eyes that I rarely saw in the short but intense six months we were together. The ones filled with tears at my father's funeral. The eyes wide with fear when Kique Jr. was diagnosed with leukemia then tight with joy when the cancer went into remission. The eyes that slacked with resignation when it finally sunk in that when I said I was never going back to him, I meant it and not playing along with the usual script he enacted with his other women.

Kique says, �But it doesn't matter that I was at my worst with them. You were the one I hurt the most. That's because you were the only one who truly loved me.�

I did love the son of a bitch. It hadn't matter to me that he was a twenty-eight year old father of three children already. I didn't care that he had those children with two different women, neither of whom he married. I didn't care that he only had a G.E.D. and changed his career every month.

�Look, Enrique, I really do want to forgive you. I mean, it's been thirteen years.� I say. Can you lie to a ghost? Probably not. So I level with him. �But I just can't. I've gone for months, even years not giving you a second thought, but when a certain song comes on the radio or I drive by a place you took me to, all the dirt you did comes rushing back right along with all the hurt and anger, and it feels like it just happened yesterday.� And here the feelings come again, and this time with an additional dose of despair. I start to cry. �I want to let go of all that shit. I've tried really hard to focus on all the good times we had. But I just can't.� Now I start to sob. �The fact that you're dead now doesn't change it.�

Kique shakes his head, and that smirk of his reappears. Bastard. This is what he wanted all along. Rest in peace my ass, he came to haunt me. Like the realization that I will never be free of these ugly feelings toward him wasn't horrible enough. I'd try again to crash in his skull if I knew it'd do any damage. Maybe I should do it anyway, it night make me feel better even if just for a moment. No, Lili, you can't afford to break that window any worse.

�So you can't forgive me,� says Kique. �Do you know what that means?�

I wipe my runny nose against my sleeve. �What?�

�You haven't forgiven yourself yet.�

I suck my teeth at him. �Forgive myself for what?�

Kique sucks his teeth back at me. He knows I hate when he mimics me, pendejo. �For putting up with the shit I did and never giving me the hell I deserved for it.�

I think about that. I was so young. Back then I thought that if you were truly committed, you loved unconditionally and that meant relaxing my standards beyond recognition. All through high school and college, I told myself You're pretty, intelligent. . . You come from a good family. You're getting an education and planning a career. Why is it so hard for you to find a boyfriend? Then Kique came along and heaped on the romance, and grateful for attention, the validation, I did overtime to rationalize all the flags. So he didn't go to college. Don't be such an elitist, Lillian. And so what Kique has three kids but has never been married? Nena, if you prefer a Latino man and rule out single fathers, you drain an already shallow pool! OK, so he didn't tell you about them until you were head over heels. He was falling for you and was afraid of losing you. How can you not forgive him for that?

For the first three months when things were idyllic, it was easy. Kique always has a job, sometimes two. Kique not only supports his kids, he actually makes time for them. He didn't pressure you into sex, was gentle when you were ready, and is always attentive to your pleasure. I used all the good things about Kique as excuses for putting up with the mind games he played during the last three months. Only when he stood me up one night after going to his ex's apartment to visit his son did I draw the line. He said that had just pulled a double shift but didn't want to disappoint Kique, Jr. and ended up falling asleep on his ex's couch.

While he was �sleeping on the ex's couch,� I was crying my eyes out on mine. But the possibility that Kique had been cheating on me was the farthest notion from my mind. In my lovestruck naivete, I truly thought that something terrible had happened to Kique. (He did allude to a thuggish youth.) I had called his job, his friends, and even his mother. She actually sighed and said, �Nena, there's nothing wrong with that boy for you to be so worried about him. Nothing you can fix anyway, and you shouldn't have to if you could because you're a good girl, Lili. Por favor don't give Kique another thought.�

I couldn't understand how his own mother could say such a thing. Eventually, Kique arrived at my door with a half-dozen roses. I rushed into his arms, sobbing with relief that Kique was with me in one piece.

My genuine concern floored Kique to the point that he couldn't tell me his story with a straight face. He expected me to be furious. To interrogate him while knowing all along what he had been up to, curse him out, maybe even hurl something at his head. Then Kique was supposed to seduce me, I was supposed to forgive him, and then we were supposed to have a fuckfest, all the while knowing that we were entering into an unspoken agreement that this scenario would repeat itself for as long as we were together.

The problem was I had really loved and trusted Kique with all my heart. Unlike his other women, I didn't need to be with him. I wanted to be with him. Looking past all our differences, I chose Kique, and that made his betrayal all the more egregious. As young and inexperienced as I might have been, I wasn't going to tolerate his constant betrayal of my love and trust. When Kique pulled me away from, looked me in the eye and insisted that nothing had happened between his ex and himself, the guilt in his eyes told me that I needed to stop lying to myself. He was not the man for me.

Damn it, Kique, er, his ghost or whoever, he's right. It's been thirteen years since I've been with the man, and I still haven't forgiven him for what he had done to me. But that's because I still blame myself for allowing him to do it.

I look at Kique who's checking himself out in the rear view mirror. Some things never change. �Kique. . .� I say to get his attention. He taps his finger on his tongue then wipes it across his eyebrow before looking at me. I snicker at the paradox of his old vanity and his newfound depth. �When did you get so damn insightful?� I ask.

�When you run toward the light,� he smiles, �a lot of things get really clear.�

�You're supposed avoid the light, Kique, not make a mad dash toward it.�

�Only if you want to live, Lili. Not when you're ready to go.� He pauses then continues, his voice heavy with exhaustion. �'Chacha, I ran toward that light, and I got, like, hosed with more wisdom then I could handle. That's probably why I had to come back and unload some of it. You know, before I could rest.�

It never occurred to me that Kique was unhappy. When I would hear through the grapevine about his latest escapades with the woman of the hour, I would swear that he enjoyed it. That it was all sport for him. That he reveled in the drama that he created over and over again. How bad it must have been for Kique to be so ready to let go and leave his kids behind. Especially if in that rush toward the light and the accompanying torrent of wisdom, he finally got an accurate count of how many kids he actually fathered.

I try to find something nice to say. Despite all the bonding, it's kind of hard. Finally, I settle on, �You made a really pretty corpse, Kique.�

Of course, he beams at that. �Thanks, Lillian. And thanks for coming to my wake in my favorite dress.� He hands me the veiled hat. �You know, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, but I always knew you deserved better.� Kique has said that to me before, but for the first time, I actually believe he's sincere. �That's why I did everything to mess it up. Then when I did mess it up, I tried so hard to win you back. Which is why when you wouldn't take me back, I got ugly. But I never stopped loving you, Lili. I mean, as best as a guy like me could. I truly gave you my best and, I'm sorry it wasn't worth much and that I broke your heart.�

I take a deep breath and give a long exhale. �I forgive you, Enrique.�

�No, you don't.� Ever the drama king, he practically sings when he says it. �You're just saying that to get rid of me.�

�Uh, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?�

�Yeah, but 'member what I said. You can't forgive me until you forgive yourself. You didn't realize that was why you were stuck until I told you three minutes ago so no way you're gonna get over it. . .� Kique snaps his fingers. �� Just like that.�

I think I'm going to cry again, this time out of frustration. The ghost is more trying than the man ever was, I swear. �OK, here's the deal, Kique. In order for me to forgive myself so that I can forgive you, you gots to go, man. I mean, be reasonable here. If you haunt me, you're gonna piss me off, and that kind of defeats the purpose, don't you think?�

Kique gives it some thought. �Yeah, I can see that.�

�And have I ever lied to you.�

�No.�

�So please I'm asking you to trust me on this. If you leave and go wherever it is you belong - and stay there! - I promise you that I will work through this.� I start to cross my heart but quit when I remember that the last time I crossed myself, I heaved a wad a spit onto Kique's cold body as it lay in a casket. �In fact, I guarantee you, Kique, your leaving is going to go a looong way in helping me make peace with what happened between us. It's best for both of us if you go.�

There goes that impish smile again. I brace myself for the worst, but Kique say, �OK.� His apparition steps through the door and climbs out of my car. My car suddenly becomes so hot, I snap off the heat. Kique turns around to look at me through the cracked glass of my passenger window. �One more thing, Lili.�

Damn it. �What?�

�An incentive.�

�What, Kique, what?�

�That dude who keeps hanging around your cubicle? Stop punishing yourself by blowing him off. He's the One.�

�Huh?�

�Nena, don't play dumb, you know you're no good at it. I ain't telling you nothing you haven't already wondered. Get over yourself and go out with the man.�

Before I can say thanks and goodbye, Kique's ghost blows me a kiss, pulls away from my car and just fades away.

� Sofia Quintero 2007

It's Not Too Late to Join the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour

Organized by the one and only Crafty Chica Kathy Cano-Murillo, the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour features short ghost stories from five of your favorite authors in the chica lit genre.

It started this Saturday, October 27^th and continues right through Halloween The authors -- including Sister Outsider's Sofia Quintero -- write and post short Halloween tales on to their blogs for all their fans to see. From freaky to funny, you won't want to miss a single story. Here's the schedule. Missed a day? Don't worry, it'll still be there.

Saturday 10/27 – Berta Platas
Author of "Cinderella Lopez"

Sunday 10/28 - Mary Castillo
Author of "Switchcraft"

Monday 10/29 - Sofia Quintero
Author of "Divas Don't Yield"

Tuesday 10/30 - Kathy Cano-Murillo
Author of "The Crafty Chica Collection"

Wednesday 10/31 - Caridad Pineiro
Author of "The South Beach Chicas Get Their Man"

Because October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

The following monologue is an excerpt from my novel Picture Me Rollin. In this scene, the protagonist Esperanza explains to her mentor Maite how her mother ended up in a prison. If you own the novel, you will find it on page 186.

"He kept beating on her and beating on her, and they would arrest him and let him go. They told her to leave him, but he said he would kill her if she did, and she had every reason to believe him. So Mami tried to get him to move out without breaking up with him. She begged him to leave. 'It's not good for our girls to see us fighting like this all the time.' And the cabez�n. . . His name was Roland, but behind his back Dulce and I used to call him el cabez�n 'cause he had this big head in every sense of the word. Mami never even knew we called him that 'cause she wanted us to show him respect. Anyway, at first Roland fronts like he agrees with Mami, and he starts packing. And little by little, he loses it. He's ranting about all he's done for us, getting us off of welfare, and buying us good food and pretty clothes. Roland's grabbing anything and everything he thinks he bought for the house, throwing things in his boxes. He storms into the kitchen and rips the radio out of the wall. Mami's behind him. She's not trying to stop him from taking anything; she's just trying to call him down. And then he reaches into the dish rack and grabs the knife. So, you see, Mami got lucky in that fight, because it was el cabez�n who went into the kitchen and got the knife. I don't know how she got it from him, but if she hadn't she'd be dead . . . . She'd be dead, and he'd be out by now beating on somebody else. But people in my neighborhood are, like, 'Brenda got lucky. She got the knife. She got lucky.' But Mami wasn't lucky. Three years of black eyes, loose teeth, and cracked ribs. But they called my mother a murderer."


One of the reasons why I wrote Picture Me Rollin was to bring awareness to this little know consequence of domestic violence. There's an increase in the number of women incarcerated in U.S. prisons, and a significant factor in this increase is domestic violence. Although our criminal justice system continues to be weak at protecting women from abusive partners, it has been quite strident in criminalizing women who kill their abusers in self-defense. To learn more about this and other related issues, visit the following sites just to start.

Some Facts on Domestic Violence in the United States.

Think the Jennifer Lopez movie Enough is an accurate portrayal of domestic violence? Think again.

INCITE! Women of Color Against Violence

Self-Defense is Not a Crime

National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women

Join the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour!

Organized by the one and only Crafty Chica Kathy Cano-Murillo, the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour will feature short ghost stories from five of your favorite authors in the chica lit genre.

It all starts on October 27th with Berta Platas, author of Cinderella Lopez. Join us and tell your friends. My story will be posted on October 29th and poses this question: what if the worst boyfriend you ever had died a violent death and didn't have to the decency to go straight to hell where he belonged? ;) Boo!

Terry McMillan Goes Off on Authors/Publishers of Sensationalist Books

A fellow author (an amazing one actually and a great person at that) was forwarded a letter writtten by Terry McMillan to Karen Hunter. In it she goes off on Karen for helping her ex Jonathan Plummer to write his novel as well as Simon & Schuster for publishing it. Below is what was forwarded to my peer so I don't think it's the entire letter. Nevertheless, these are Terry's words. In any event, I'd love to hear what you think of what she has to say.
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The three of you, along with the other publishing houses who have been kind enough to add "special" urban/ghetto imprints are all about to see a major shift in your ongoing and relentless publication of exploitative, destructive, racist, egregious, sexist, base, tacky, poorly-written, unedited, degrading books. Like a number of Black bookstores who are starting to refuse to sell this trash, I, along with other Black literary organizations, supporters, book clubs as well as writers are about to make our opinions known, to aid in making clear to the public just how demeaning these books are and what it means to our community.
It is sad that it took years of selling trashy sexually-driven as well as tell-alls before so-called black writers were ever allowed in the Big Publishing Houses's Little Rooms enough to FINALLY get our own imprints. Why hasn't Walter Mosley or Edwidge Dandicat or Barak Obama or Terry McMillan or Jamaica Kincaid among others ever offered our very own imprints, I wonder?
I've heard that Simon & Schuster has even gotten some of its authors out of jail just to go on a book tour. Karen, you should be ashamed of yourself, but like Jonathan, I can tell that you (along with your sister-in-law Wendy Williams) are all cut from the same cloth. You care nothing about pride as a Black woman or you wouldn't align yourself or even put your name on some of the ugliest words and stories possible. You are an embarrassment and for someone going around bragging about being a Pulitizer Prize winner (which I understand you are not, that you were associated with other writers at the Daily News who actually deserved it) you should be ashamed of yourself for relying on such a prestigious literary prize to co-write some of the despicable and outrageously base books that you can. I find it sad indeed when a Black woman of your so-called reputation was willing to help my ex-husband write a tell-all describing "the juicy details" about our so-called relationship. You know he is a liar and a thief and that he played me and you didn't care. As long as you got paid, and this is precisely why no one (last week I understand according to Book Scan a whopping 600 copies had sold nationwide, and only 87 on the entire west coast) is buying it. Karinne "Superhead's" book is tanking just like Balancing Act, and RJ's book is not going to fly either.
This is the beginning of a brand new trend, so be prepared for it. Years ago white folks bought us and worked us as slaves. You're doing the same exact thing. The only problem is that back then we didn't go willingly. Malcolm X and Dr. King and Rosa Parks, among others, didn't fight for us to get to This, and this is precisely why you are beginning to see a lack of support for these disgusting books.
So Karen Hunter, you can put your name on them if you want to, and you along with Louise and Carolyn have already been reading on Black Voices (among others) what they have to say about Simon & Schuster (but they're referring to all of the Houses with these ghetto imprints) among other sites, how people are getting fed up with these books, even the "reluctant readers" are bored with who's having sex with whom and degrading tell-alls that show black people in a negative and stereotypical light, have no respect for these type of books, for you Karen Hunter ("run the other way when you see her name") and you have already seen the beginning of downward spiral in your sales department, I'm sure. It's going to continue, because with all things exploitative, the reign always comes to a halt.
Jonathan's reign of terror is. And the publishing industry's exploitative role in all of this is too. And Karen, there are only so many scandals out there, and people are getting tired of reading about others' sex lives. Why don't you write about yours. Give 'em something to talk about.
Sincerely,
Terry McMillan

That White Girl

If you regularly read my blog or have heard me speak in person, you know that I can be unapologetically proprietary about the term "hip hop." As an activist, I am quite critical of the phrase "hip-hop" being used synonymously with "gangster" and "thug." While I cannot deny the occasional intersection between hip hop and street life, I loathe the wholesale equation with the two. There are very few novels that explore that connection with the complex treatment of the role that race, class and even gender play in it.

There is a new addition to the small but growing canon of bona fide hip hop fiction that steps up to the plate to tackle this important yet difficult task. And check it. It was written by a White woman.

That White Girl is the debut novel of Jennifer "JLove" Calderon (ne� McLaughlin) and is inspired by her own life. Sixteen year old Amber is growing up middle-class in multiracial Denver during the 80s and attempting to find her place. Her search for community leads her to many places including, from a graffiti crew to the local Crips and all the drama that entails. These experiences force Amber to grapple with a variety of issues, both personal and political.

In the wrong hands, That White Girl could have been all the things that hip hops of color love to hate: White girl dabbles in Black culture – or what she thinks is "authentic" Black culture, whines, "Why can't we all just get along?" and never learns a damned thing about that gangsta called Racism and his first lieutenant White Privilege.

But JLove is no poseur. She has a proven track record as an activist, demonstrating time and again that she not only loves hip hop, she adores justice. JLove is not the female equivalent of Isaac of Barbershop who believes he's Blacker than you because he's fluent in Ebonics. She's not the one to throw shade at the other White person at the hip hop summit because she believes that there's just so many "Cool White People" points to go around and wants them all for herself. She's not that the chick who thinks her love of all things hip hop makes her immune to white privilege.

As a person who knows Jennifer personally, I can testify that she's the one who is unafraid to pull the coattails of other White folks when they engage in racist behavior and does so with empathy. She's the person who truly listens to her fellow activists of color even when what they say is mad hard to hear. She's the woman who never "forgets" that she's White, is in constant struggle with what that means, and always searches for ways and opportunities to exploit her racial privilege toward the ultimate goal of a building world society where it no longer exists.

JLove's that White girl, and I hope you cop and enjoy her novel.

Actors of Color, What is Your Favorite Monologue?

This fall one of the courses I'm going to teach is a high school class on writing and performing monologues. I'm very keen on using monologues delivered by characters of color as examples, and I'm on a particular quest to collect film adaptations so that I can play the performance of these monologues for my students. If you are an actor of color, perhaps you can help me out. While I welcome monologues from plays -- especially those by playwrights of color -- ideally, I'd love monologues available on video (e.g. the film adaptation of play) and which can stand alone without requiring too much context.

I find that your average book of monologues -- especially those geared toward youth -- are not very diverse with respect to culture or even scenario. Furthermore, while they may be serviceable for teaching performance, I find them inadequate for teaching writing, especially the unique art of writing the standalone monologue.
Here's an example of a great monologue I discovered while conducting research for a different writing project altogether. It comes from the 2000 HBO miniseries The Corner which was created by the same talent behind the TV series The Wire. In this monologue, Gary, a 34 year old dope addict is getting high with some friends.

I went to see this movie. The one about what they did to the Jews in the war. Lord, what they did to them people. The Germans decided that they weren’t human no more. They just said, “No, you ain’t human like we human.” And when they said that, hey, man… it just got easier for them to do all kinds of dirt. By the end, all the Germans could do, man, was like get rid of them, you know. Kill them all. ‘Cause, you know, they couldn’t see them being anything better than rats or bugs. But it was real, all right. And I’m sitting there, and I’m watching this movie, and I’m realizing that it’s happening again. We sit here day after day making ourselves a little bit less human, and the world is happy to see it. It seems like they happy to see it, man. I mean, when I was making money, it didn’t matter because I was still a nigger. And now that I’m sitting up here getting high with y’all, it’s still the same. Don’t you see what I’m saying? The Germans made the Jews into niggers. That’s what that was about. And that’s what this is here except we’re doing it to ourselves. It seems like the world just can’t wait for us to finish until we all end up dead.

This monologue is perfect because you can either read or watch it with no context and still understand it. The actual movie had a few lines of interjecting dialogue from the other characters present in the scene, but their lines can be deleted with nothing lost. It's a great piece of writing (I especially love the subtext), and it gives the actor several moments to mine.

Another good example is a monologue from Romeo Must Die starring Jet Li and the late Aaliyah. In the scene after Aaliyah's character Trish learns that her brother has been murdered, she tells how she and her brother used to get a kick out of scaring their mother by crying wolf and pretending he got hurt. The scene uses this anecdote to reveal Trish coming to grips with her brother's death which this time is real and no laughing matter. She experiences how her mother felt the moment she thought her son had been hurt yet. Unlike her mother, however, Trish realizes that she'll never know the relief of learning that her brother is actually OK.

So if you can suggest any more monologues like these, drop me a line. I'm looking for all ages, genders, sexual orientations and genres. And by people of color, I do mean also Native American, Arab and Asian as well as Black and Latino. If you've seen great monologues in any independent films, even better as I'm sure that information will come in handy for future initiatives. At the very least, any other character's lines should be minimal and can be cut out without the primary character's speech losing meaning. Again, movies readily available on DVD are ideal so that I can play them for my students as well.

Sadly, as many wonderful solo shows many actors of color have produced in recent years, very few of them have been recorded for sale never mind for educational use. What I would give to Sarah Jones' Surface Transit, Staceyann Chin's Border/Clash or Calvin Levels' wonderful Down from the Mountaintop on DVD. Right now a gal is relying on Danny Hoch's Jails, Hospitals and Hip Hop, Roger Guenveur Smith's A Huey P. Newton Story and The Vagina Monologues and even the film The Breakfast Club, but it's just not enough. Even John Leguizamo' s Mambo Mouth, Spic-o-Rama, and Freak are hard to find and mad expensive!

So if you're a person of color who produces or develops solo theatre, do your creative kin -- be they emerging and aspiring, practicing and teaching -- a favor and plan on eventually making your show available and affordable on video. :)

Things I've Learned Since My First Book Got Published

Another author wrote this piece and posted it on her blog, but, man, can I relate! I've interspersed my own commentary in blue.


THINGS I'VE LEARNED SINCE MY FIRST BOOK GOT PUBLISHED
by Cherie Priest, author of the novels Four and Twenty Blackbirds and other stories of Victorian gothic fantasy
http://cmpriest.livejournal.com/879864.html
I got an email yesterday from a reader who said she saw me a few DragonCons ago when I did a panel on being a new writer. At that time (if I remember correctly) I did not actually have a novel out yet. I was merely in that pre-novel stage of, "I SOLD IT, AND SOMEONE'S GONNA PUBLISH IT, YAY!"* But to make a long story short, she was hoping for an update. Her email concluded, "What have you learned since Four and Twenty Blackbirds cme out? What do you know about publishing now that you wish you'd known about then?" So here's my update, just for her. Let me call it:
Things I've Learned Since My First Book Got Published

Everyone will think you are rich. Obviously, if you got a book published, someone must have given you fat sacks of cash dollars American. You now have a moral obligation to donate to charities, give to your alma mater, and consider including PBS in your will.
Yes, everybody thinks you're rolling in it, but it wouldn't bother me much to be approached by some worthy causes. However, my activism keeps gives me plenty of ideas for where to donate so I don't really need suggestions. What I don't like is the assumptions that folks begin to make about what you can and cannot afford to do as if it's any of their business.

You will not be rich. Whatever money you might have earned from an advance will have been spent fully a year before your book appears. Maybe you paid off your car, or maybe you got that leather jacket out of lay-away at Wilson's. Whatever, that money is LONG gone.
This is so damned true, I have to laugh to keep from crying!

Publishing is very exciting. For you, personally. Everyone else will think it's dead boring, and will be sick of hearing about it by suppertime -- once they figure out that you are not rich.
Well, kinda true. It's boring to those who don't aspire to be published. To those who want to be published but have yet to be, it's way less than exciting than they think, LOL!

You will probably still have a day job. This will make you look like a failure to all the people who assume you must be rich. These people can bite you.
I've been blessed to be able to avoid the 9-to-5 marketplace thus far, but don't get it twisted. I have to do more than write books to make a living and support my modest lifestyle. But there are times when the savings are dwindling and the next check is a few months off, and I'm seriously thinking, "Should I put in an application at Barnes & Noble?"

Getting your foot in the door is not the hard part. It is the first hard part.
Too true. There's a major difference between getting a break and breaking through when it comes to any artistic career. And one book deal does not a career novelist make. It's harder than ever to maintain a writing career even as midlist author now that publishing is becoming more like the film industry -- personality driven and franchise-oriented. It's becoming less about the consistent money an author earns a house over the course of a career and more about the hot commodity that sells blockbuster even if the author is a one-trick pony.
Drinking and blogging is right out. Because once you've published a book, you forfeit the right to ever make a typo in public, ever again.
I guess this depends who you are. I'm not much of a drinker, and I've been known to put my mistakes on blast in a blog so I'm pretty carefree and fearless when it comes this.

You are now the foremost authority on the English language. At least, this is what all your friends/relatives who do not write will assume, and they will treat you like their personal diction consultant. While you are at work, you will receive phone calls from Florida, where your aunt wants to know about a comma she's considering for the church bulletin.**
Not when you write urban fiction with liberal doses of slang and ebonics, you don't. :)

Everyone will want to know how you did it. This will make you feel very SMRT and like an expert and stuff, for maybe the first (I dunno) two weeks after Locus mentions it. Then you'll get kind of tired of talking about it.
Nah, I can't say I ever felt like an expert on publishing or anything. In fact, I still feel very much the amateur. But I am tired of talking about it, but it's all that other aspiring writers want to know. It makes it very tricky to join writing groups, take workshops and enroll in seminars. Often once other people in the group realize you've been published, you are thrusted into the unwanted position of teacher when you came there to be a student. It's tough because I don't want to be unsupportive or aloof, but I can get a bit resentful because I came there to learn not teach.

No one will believe you did it by writing a book that was worth publishing. Aspiring writers will be sure that you had a secret short cut, and you are a raging bitch for holding out on all those other poor folks who are just as worthy as you, but who were unwilling to flash their boobies at exactly the right people. And if you don't think people will actually say things like this, perhaps you have not yet published a book.
It's the worst when you get this feeling from folks who you considered to be your friends. They tend to be the same people who are speculating about how deep your pockets are. You hit the trifecta with those who want you to hook 'em up when they haven't even bought your book let alone read it!

Everyone will want to know why you're not on the New York Times Bestseller List yet. You will pretend that you're much more reasonable about your expectations than that. But secretly, you will also wonder why you're not on an important list someplace and you will feel inadequate.
Yeah, hate to admit it, but it happens sometimes, even when you know that there are perfectly good reasons beyond your control as to why Oprah hasn't called yet.

People will "helpfully" tell you what you should have done differently with your cover. When you explain that (a). you really love your cover and anyway (b). you-as-author don't get any say-so over this aspect of the publishing process, they will feel sorry for you because obviously you are a loser.
You could say the same about titles, but for the most part, I've been thrilled with my covers and titles and have had considerable input into all of them. I realize that I'm the exception to the rule, and it just so happens that I'm not a diva when it comes to these things. So long as the cover or title is not some gross misrepresentation of who I am and what I stand for, I'm pretty open-minded to what the house comes up with. I did have one experience, however, that made it very clear to me that, when push comes to shove, the house calls the shots

You now have the inside track to publishing. Everyone you've ever known -- even in passing -- who has ever written a book now thinks that it's your God-given duty to put them in touch with your agent/editor/publisher. This will get awkward.
True indeed, and what these folks don't understand is that publishing is a labyrinth of an industry that takes years to understand.

People will use your name to lie. At least twice, other writers with whom I was peripherally acquainted approached my (now former) agent and told him that I'd recommended them.
Oh, hell, yeah, don't even get me started on this shit.

You will be asked to work for free. This is because you've now achieved that career point of, Technically Successful - Yet Still Approachable. Small upstart markets, acquaintances, etcetera, will appear with offers to "let" you write for them, for "really great street cred." You should kick these people in the shins.
Well, I've been asked to work for free long before I got published so...

There is such a thing as the law of aggregate success. You will also be offered more paying gigs, and if possible, you should probably try to take advantage of them. Some paying gigs (especially short markets) do not pay much, but there are plenty of very fine venues that can't afford to offer a huge rate.
I'm just starting to appreciate this as I develop two chapters of my current novel-in-progress into standalone short stories.

People will ask you questions about stuff you wrote, and you will say, "Um ..." By the time your book actually comes out, it will have been a full year or even two years since you actually composed the material. You will have moved on to other projects, in which you are wholly immersed; and when someone asks about why character X in book one does thing Y, you'll have no earthly idea. But you'll be confident that there was an excellent reason.
Actually, I pretty much remember, but I much prefer to move on. Still if you're talking to a fan, it's not hard to be gracious and talk to the question. In fact, if it's a fresh question -- and not one that you've heard a thousand times before -- it can be a joy to rediscover your own novel through new eyes. I am, however, tired of answering, "Why did you choose the pen name Black Artemis?" but, alas, I always do because the mere thought of saying, "The answer is in the back of the book" makes me feel like an ungrateful dolt.

You will get book reviews. If they are good, no force on earth will get those reviews into your hands so you can read them for yourself. If they are bad, fifteen people will email you the text before breakfast.
True, I'm still happening across great reviews for Picture Me Rollin' and Divas Don't Yield even though they were published two and one year ago respectively. As for people jumping to send me bad reviews, I can't say that I've had that experience. Then again, in the beginning of your career, you tend to be unusually adept at finding the nasty ones with no ones help even as the raves evade you for years. If you're a "give me the bad news first" kind of gal like I am, it's better this way.

You will acquire fans. This will blow your freakin' mind
It truly does! .
Some of your fans will be annoying. Especially when they email you to say how much they love your work, and then they spend three pages pointing out all the things you did that they totally hate.
LOL, poor Cherie. First, the "friends" who leap to email her bad reviews and now this. My fans rock. On the rare occassion that one has pushed back on something I've written, s/he has done so with tremendous sensitivity and openmindedness to my explanations (hate mail's another story, but I'm not going to give that any attention.) So pointing out all the things I hate is not the way the rare annoying fan has gotten under my skin. In fact, I don't know if the people who have worked my nerves are true fans. My gut is that they're aspiring writers who are posing as fans in the hopes that if they flatter me, I'll put them on. Or go out with them. Don't get me started on that that.

Most of your fans will make you want to squee yourself to death with joy. Because holy crap, someone who is not one of your parents read your book and liked it. I am not exaggerating when I say that this makes it all worth it.
No truer words have been said.

[Edit: I'll update the list as more occur to me.]
So might I. :)

Chicken Soup for the Hip Hop Soul

If you've been waiting for someone to write a book that could be described as Chicken Soup for the Hip Hop Soul, wait no more because it's here.


Thanks to author Felicia Pride, we now how have The Message: 100 LIfe Lessons from Hip Hop's Greatest Songs. Felicia is the founder of BackList and her mission is keeping books in style. Y'all know that ain't esy for a variety of reasons. Whether working with my company Sister Outsider Entertainment on our Urban Literature Initiative or writing her own books, and pushing forward with a myriad of pro-literacy projects, she stays on mission and on point. Support this powerful sister and cop The Message which hits the streets on October 7th.

Until the final version is available, I'm keeping my advanced review copy on my nightstand right alongside Five Good Minutes in the Morning: 100 Morning Practices to Help You Stay Calm and Focused All Day Long and Daily Cornbread: 365 Secrets for a Health Mind, Body and Spirit. :)

Till the Break of Dawn

In celebration of my birthday, some friends and I went to see a preview of the play Till the Break of Dawn written and directed by Danny Hoch, I'm a big fan of Danny's work both artistically and politically, and I had the privilege of hearing an earlier version of this work several years ago. When I found out that he was finally bringing the production to the stage this year around my birthday, I knew going to see it with a group of close friends who would appreciate it as much as I would would make for a fantastic evening. This was especially true to because -- and I'm proud to say that I knew and in some capacity have worked with some members of the cast including Jaymes Jorsling, pattydukes and Flaco Navaja as well as Danny. What a joy to be able to support and be inspired by such talented folks who are following their artistic while staying true to their views of social justice.

For those of you who don't know, Danny Hoch is a trailblazer in the world of theater due to his consistent efforts to create stage productions that resonate with the hip hop generation i.e. hip hop theatre. Among many accomplishments and contributions, he is the founder of The Hip Hop Theater Festival whose vision is at once simple yet profound: to tell the untold stories of the Hip-Hop Generation. Now that's pretty downright revolutionary when you consider several things. One, despite the fact that for as long as there have been humans, there has been some form of theater, it should yet has failed to be the most democratic of the arts. Two b-boys battling it out on a street corner for a spontaneous audience is not only hip hop, at its essence, it is also theater. We don't recognize that, however, because with the institutionalization of theater has also come much its un-democratization. Whether we consider ourselves theater buffs or not, we pretty much buy into the limited notion that theater is a live performance of drama for which you pay to see in a darkened hall with a roomful of strangers.

With that it is no surprise that, two, theater in the U.S. has evolved into and largely remains a "luxury" of the White middle class. Is this how it necessarily has to be given that it we can produce theater on a street corner? No, but because of how theater is perceived, this is mostly how it stays like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Let me put it this way. When a teacher in the 'hood decides to take her class on a field trip, she is more likely to take them to the nearby multiplex to see, say, the latest Hollywood rendition of a Shakespearean play (e.g. Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet or Tim Blake Nelson's O) than to a Manhattan theatre. That would be the case even if there was a twenty-five seat makeshift theatre in the basement of a community center in Washington Heights where an all-Dominican cast was offering its updated version of Hamlet. Theater that tells stories that veer from the topic of White middle-class angst in its multiple variations remain both underrepresented and marginalized.

And that leads me to three point A and B as to why the concept of using theatre to tell the stories of the hip hop generation is a revolutionary endeavor. Ironically, almost as quickly as the global commodification of rap music popularized hip hop worldwide as a vehicle that gave visibility to the underrepresented and marginalized, it was forgotten that hip hop (a) largely began as a form of cultural resistance and, therefore, (b) was, is and can continue to take forms other than rap music. In other words, many of its biggest fans have lost sight -- if they ever even recognized - that rap music is not the only way hip hop tells stories. If they have never been educated to the power of theater, obviously they would not understand that there can exist such a thing as hip hop theatre (and it not being Scarface: The Broadway Musical. Don't let me get started on that. Thanks to last night, I'm in a great mood and would like to preserve it)

Which brings me back to Till the Break of Dawn, Danny Hoch's latest act of cultural resistance through hip hop theater. Gibran, a young brother who aspires to use hip hop to organize communities worldwide via the internet, plans a trip to Cuba with his multicultural group of activist friends to attend the island's annual Hip Hop Festival. To many activists, Cuba is upheld to be a socialist utopia where, among other things, literacy abounds and racism is nonexistent. Gibran and his crew are eager to network with hip hop heads from around the world at the festival and export la revolucion across the globe including the United States. They even aspire to politicize Big Miff, a Fat Joesque gangster rapper who has been convinced to go and perform.

Once in Havana, however, they quickly learn that their idealistic perception are only partially correct. The sociopolitical reality of being a communist nation under the embargo of a capitalist world power forces the activists' sincere yet simplistic ideas of what it takes to make meaningful social change to undergo dramatic complication. Part of that necessary complication is the painful realization of the paradox inherent in being an American citizen no matter how much they may rage against the policies of the U.S. government, both domestic and international. That is, despite the repression they may experience in the United States, they still remain and are perceived by the global community as the undeservingly privileged citizens of a world empire.

There are no sacred cows in Till the Break of Dawn which is why at many moments it is laugh-out-loud funny. And yet as the playwright, Danny offers tremendous compassion and even empathy along with the unapologetic critique of hip hop activism which in many ways has spawned a culture of its own. We especially see it in characters such as Hector, a charismatic Boricua nationalist whose militancy can be endearing and even infectious at one moment and yet the next can blind him to the humanity of others -- even willingly potential allies whose appearance or choices do not readily fit his political ideals. If you now or have ever considered yourself an activist of any stripe, you have met Hector. Shit, if you're honest with yourself, you've been Hector.

Till the Break of Dawn is a must-see for many different audiences. It's a loving tug on the coattails of hip hop activists who desperately need to rethink how to continue The Work in a post 9-11 era. The play is evidence for the skeptics who doubt there are any people in hip hop who genuinely use the culture as tool for social change. It is "edutainment" for all the hip hop heads who think that going to the theater is something that only old, White folks with money do, and it's inspiration to cultural activists across forms of creative expression trying to marry their art and politics. Finally, it's imperative that theater buffs -- especially those old, White folks with money -- to check out Till the Break of Dawn for no other reason than to familiarize themselves with the cutting-edge content and aesthetic that hip hop brings to their beloved hobby, keeping it alive and relevant.

The play runs from September 13th through October 21st at the Abron Arts Center and tickets can be purchased online at the Culture Project.

My Interview with the Hip Hop Reader

Sometime ago I completed an interview with the Hip Hop Reader, a progressive, bilingual (English & Italian... yes, y'all, Italian) only newsletter, and below is an excerpt. I'm often asked why I used a pen name to write hip hop novels. There are several, and depending on the circumstances, I may not give them all. But given the Hip Hop Reader's mission, I was compelled to share my most revealing reason of all in this interview. Check it out!
__________
Hip Hop Lit: Black Artemis
Intervista n� 42 del 09-08-2007

Black Artemis � il nome d'arte di Sof�a Quintero, scrittirice, attivista, educatrice, sceneggiatrice proveniente da una famiglia proletaria di origine domicana/portoricana del Bronx. Dopo anni di attivismo, impegnata nelle campagne di lotte e prevenzione contro la diffuzione dell'AIDS, Sofia ha deciso di inziare a scrivere ed educare attraverso i romanzi. Adottato il nome Black Artemis ha deciso di scrvere romanzi Hip Hop pensati per tutte quelle donne che si sentono tradite dal maschilismo dominante nella scena contemporanea. Nel 2004 New American Library/Penguin pubblica la sua prima storia, Explicit Content – il rpimo romanzo a parlare dei travagli di una MC all'inetrno dell'industria musicale. Nel 2005 pubblical Picture Me Rollin' e nel 2006 Burn. Nonstante le polemiche attorno alla cosidetta letteratura di strada, i romanzi sono sempre stati considerati educativi e avvincenti o come direbbe KRS One sono uno strumento di Edutainment. Di recente, con la partnership della scrittrice Elisha Miranda, Sof�a ha creato Sister/Outsider Entertainment, una societa di produzioni multimediale, gi� operativa con diversi progetti in ambito televisivo e teatrale.


1. Would u like to briefly introduce yourself to my readers and explain us why did you chose the name Black Artemis?

Peace, everyone. My real name is Sofia Quintero (and I do publish in other genres under that name.) Under the pen name Black Artemis, I write what ahs been referred to as hip hop noir. I chose the pen name Black Artemis for several reasons.

Il mio nome � Sofia Quintero (e pubblico con questo nome in altri ambiti letterari). Con il nome di Black Artemis sono conosciuta per i miei noir Hip Hop. Ho scelto questo nome per diverse ragioni.

The most complex and interesting reason of all was my own insecurities about my ability to achieve my own ambitions as a cultural activist. I set out to write my debut novel Explicit Content, my objective was to write commercial fiction that raised substantive issues. "Edutainment" as KRS-One would call it. I ultimately decided to use a pen name because deep inside I doubted whether I could pull it off. So many times I hear hip hop artists – authors, filmmakers, etc. – claim that they intended to create something deeper than the usual Hollywood fare, but when you look at the final product, it's no different than the usual clich�s and stereotypes. Deep down inside I feared I would fail to walk my talk, too, and so I took on the pen name to hide my true identity if I did.

La pi� complessa e forse interessante delle ragioni consiste nella mia insicurezza rispetto agli obiettivi e alle ambizioni che mi sono prefissa come attivista. Quando ho iniziato a scrivere il mio romanzo d'esordio, Explicit Content, il mio obiettivo era di scrivere un libro di successo, in grado di esplicitare temi importanti di discussione. "Edutainment" come l'avrebbe definito un tempo KRS-One. Ho deciso di adottare un nome d'arte poich� nel profondo di me stessa non ero cos� convinta di potercela fare. Troppo spesso ho sentito artisti – autori, registi, ect – affermare di voler fare qualcosa di pi� del prodotto commerciale hollywoodiano non riuscendo per� a discostarsi molto dai soliti clich� e pregiudizi. Nel profondo non ero del tutto sicura che le mie azioni fossero in grado di concidere con le mie parole cos� scelsi un nome d'arte con il quale nascondere la mia vera identit�.

Not that I realized it at the time. As I was writing Explicit Content, I gave myself other rationales for the pseudonym. All of them were legitimate but not the ultimate reason. And when some of my elders and peers in progressive circles read the novel and gave me daps for its substance as well as its craft, when I realized I indeed had pulled it off, then I was able to admit to myself that there was an element of fear involved in using the pen name. I've been advised to drop the pen name, but I'm trying to build a brand. No one writes what I do consistently as Black Artemis. At least, not yet.

Oltre a ci�, posso dirti che mentre scrivevo Explicit Content, ho trovato altre ragioni che potessero convalidare tale scelta. Tutti motivi da prendere in considerazioni ma accessori alla ragione principale. Solo quando amici e figure di spicco in circoli progressisti hanno iniziato a darmi feedback positivi per quello che ero riuscita a realizzare, ho accettato fino in fondo le paure che mi aveva spinto a scegliere quello sinonimo. Nessuno scrive questo tipo di cose con costanza come lo faccio io sotto lo pseudonimo Black Artemis. Almeno per il momento.

As for why the specific name Black Artemis, I've always been drawn to all kinds of mythology – I guess that's the writer in me – and in particular to the myth of the Greek goddess Artemis. Among other things, she was the goddess of the hunt and a defender of women. Being a woman of color, I tried to find her counterpart in a "third" world mythology but could not find it. In the end, I decided to stick with Artemis because her story resonated with me, and I believe names carry power. I added Black to, however, so that folks would know that I was Black and proud of it.
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