The Sunken Place

We need more Janelle Monáes in this world. More artists who aren’t afraid to tell the truth, even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient. Dirty Computer is not just a visual album. It’s an Afrofuturist revolution, an act of creative resistance, a coded love letter to all the “misfits” who refuse to be erased. Through science fiction, music, and memory, Monáe constructs a world where queerness, Blackness, womanhood, and rebellion are not just visible. They’re sacred.

Watching Dirty Computer in 2025 feels even more urgent than when it was first released. Because right now, in this moment, life is terrifying. It’s disorienting. It’s heartbreaking. It’s jaw-dropping and exhausting. Especially if you’re a woman, a member of the LGBTQ+ community, Black, Brown, an immigrant, someone who knows or loves any of the above, or frankly, anyone who doesn’t fit neatly into the mold of what white supremacist patriarchy says is acceptable.

We aren’t moving forward. We’re in a freefall. Rights are being stripped at every turn. Reproductive rights, LGBTQ+ rights, immigrant rights, voting rights, and freedom of speech are all under attack. Bigoted rhetoric is normalized, and hate crimes are on the rise. Students protesting genocide are silenced, punished, and deported, while guns are protected more fiercely than the lives of children. Healthcare and education are becoming luxuries only the wealthy can afford. And through all of this, our government shrugs, claiming nothing can be done. Or worse, they support it, cheering it on wholeheartedly.

In Dirty Computer, the powers that be literally try to “clean” the identities of people like Jane 57821, scrubbing away queerness, Blackness, nonconformity, and memory. It doesn’t feel speculative. It feels prophetic. The erasure taking place around the world right now may not be high tech, but it’s very real, and it’s happening right before our eyes. Through policy. Through forever prisons in El Salvador, where the innocent are held without justice. Through rights being stripped away at every corner. Through propaganda shoved down our throats. Through an overflow of distractions meant to confuse and numb us. Through unchecked power, unlike anything we’ve seen before.

Despite Dirty Computer’s underlying dystopian theme, Monáe dared to center joy. To center love. To center community. That’s what makes it a masterclass in Afrofuturism. It envisions survival not just as resistance but as connection. The music pulses with defiance and pleasure. The visuals are rich and lush, centering joy outside whiteness and heteronormativity, showing people simply living their lives and loving who they love. And her message is clear. We exist. We matter. And we’re not going anywhere.

We need more Janelle Monáes. Not just to escape, but to feel. To grieve. To dance. To scream. To cry. To see ourselves and be ourselves, unapologetically. To be reminded that art has the power to do what politicians will not, and that’s to tell the truth, loudly and beautifully. Because sometimes, the only way to survive in a world trying to erase you is to make yourself unerasable.

Boots Riley’s Sorry to Bother You is many things. It’s absurd, disturbing, hilarious, and painfully real. It’s about capitalism, corporate greed, labor strikes, protest, and the monstrous systems we build in pursuit of profit. But what hit me the hardest was its commentary on what it means to be Black or Brown in corporate America. The pressure to assimilate, to fit in, to speak the right way and act the right way just to survive and succeed in a system that was never built for us is exhausting. It’s soul-crushing. And it’s a reality that so many people of color face every single day.

In the film, Cassius Green learns how to “code switch,” using a “white voice” to sound more appealing to customers. It’s a satirical exaggeration, but anyone who's ever had to adjust the way they speak or carry themselves to feel safe or acceptable in a white-dominated space knows exactly what Riley is pointing to. Code switching is a survival skill, but it comes at a cost. You start to lose touch with who you really are. You leave behind your community, your values, your identity, and eventually, your soul.

Cassius doesn’t start out trying to sell out. He just wants to pay his rent. But as he climbs the corporate ladder and gets a taste of success, he starts to drift further and further away from the people he loves and the principles he once believed in. He becomes complicit in a system that exploits others for profit. It’s heartbreaking to watch, but it’s also real. This is what it takes to “make it” in America? Giving up your humanity to line someone else’s pockets?

And then there’s WorryFree, a corporation offering labor contracts in exchange for food and shelter. It’s slavery dressed up as job security. The film takes this to its most grotesque conclusion when Cassius discovers that the company is literally turning workers into human horse hybrids, equisapiens, to create a more obedient and profitable labor force (slavery symbolism once again). It’s absurd, yes, but it’s also a chilling metaphor for how capitalism dehumanizes us. How far will corporations go to extract every last drop of productivity from their workers? Apparently, gene modification isn’t out of the question.

But it’s not all hopeless. Like many Black stories, Sorry to Bother You centers community as a source of strength. Cassius’s friends, coworkers, and even his girlfriend Detroit fight back. They organize. They protest. They show us that solidarity still matters, even in the face of monstrous systems. Cassius eventually comes to his senses and tries to make things right, even if it’s too little, too late. His arc is a warning, but also a call to action.

Watching District 9 for the first time left me unsettled in a way I didn’t expect. What I thought would be a sci-fi thriller quickly unraveled into something much deeper, a haunting reflection of our world today. Directed by Neill Blomkamp, this 2009 film is set in a fictionalized South Africa that feels like a mirror held up to our most urgent global crises. The genocide in Gaza. The brutal treatment of migrants at the U.S. border. The deportation of innocent people to forever prisons in El Salvador, where even a mistake can become a life sentence.

At first glance, the aliens, mockingly called “prawns,” are just another element of science fiction. But they’re not just aliens. They are refugees. They are immigrants. They are the people this world routinely pushes aside, fears, imprisons, and forgets. The film makes it painfully clear that the true monsters aren’t the ones who look different. They’re the ones who hold power and use it to oppress.

What disturbed me most was how familiar it all felt. These “prawns” are forced into segregated camps. They’re policed, studied, weaponized, and spoken about as less than human. The language used to describe them is dehumanizing: “prawn,” “creature,” “infestation.” Sound familiar? It should. It’s the same rhetoric we hear today. Calling immigrants “illegals,” “criminals,” and “animals.” Calling refugees “invaders,” and entire nations “shithole countries.” It’s not just language. It’s policy and it's violently dangerous. It shapes the way we justify violence, displacement, and erasure.

District 9 draws a direct line to apartheid South Africa, but it also speaks to a much larger ongoing pattern. Wherever there is fear of the “other,” history repeats itself. We build borders. We create camps. We pass laws that criminalize survival. And then we tell ourselves we’re civilized. This is what systems of oppression thrive on. This is othering, reducing human beings to categories. Stripping away their stories, their families, their dreams. The aliens in District 9 aren’t violent by nature. They’re reacting to violence, neglect, and exploitation. They just want to go home. They just want to be safe. They just want to live their lives. But no one is listening. Sound familiar again?

The film also highlights the dangers of government-backed enforcement agencies that claim to protect but often escalate harm. In the movie, MNU doesn’t just enforce order, it profits from it. This echoes the real-world prison-industrial complex, ICE raids, and military interventions carried out in the name of security, all of which disproportionately target the most vulnerable and marginalized.

What hit me hardest was the emotional weight of it all. The realization that we keep making the same mistakes. Again and again, we find new ways to alienate those we don’t understand, to cast out those who don’t look or live like us. But these aren’t just stories. These are real lives. Real people. And they deserve better.

In both Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler and The Brother from Another Planet by John Sayles, the central characters have extraordinary abilities that tie them closely to the pain and experiences of others. In Parable of the Sower, the protagonist Lauren Olamina lives with hyperempathy, a condition that causes her to physically feel the pleasure and pain she witnesses. While it makes daily life more difficult and dangerous, it also deepens her emotional awareness and ultimately shapes her into the leader of Earthseed, a belief system rooted in adaptability, compassion, and collective care. In a similar way, the alien protagonist in The Brother from Another Planet, known only as “The Brother,” has silent but powerful gifts. Though he cannot speak, he communicates through healing as he mends broken bodies, fixes machines, and uncovers past traumas embedded in physical spaces. His abilities aren’t labeled hyperempathy, but they echo the same essence, an intense sensitivity to human suffering and a quiet determination to mend what’s been broken.

This connection got me thinking about something bigger, something I’ve seen not just in these stories but in real life. So often, the people who have endured the most suffering turn out to be the most compassionate. They are the ones who hold space for others, who offer comfort without judgment, who know exactly what to say, or what not to say, because they’ve been there. They know pain. And that knowing becomes a gift.

In Black stories, this is a recurring theme. The ones who have been silenced, marginalized, or cast aside often rise to care for others in the most profound ways. Lauren, who has witnessed death, violence, and despair, doesn’t become hardened. Instead, she becomes soft where it counts. Her hyperempathy doesn’t just define her pain, but it also represents her capacity to build something better. The Brother, othered and alienated in every sense, does not retreat into isolation. Instead, he heals strangers. He repairs what others have given up on. He connects with humanity not through words, but through touch and presence. His ability to feel and respond becomes a form of radical care, a kind of Afrofuturist resistance that imagines healing as power.

What is it about suffering that makes someone capable of such profound empathy? Maybe it’s that once you’ve known despair, you never want anyone else to feel it. Maybe it’s because surviving pain teaches you how to see it in others. Maybe it’s because those who have been ignored, erased, or silenced become hypersensitive to the suffering of others. After all, they remember what it was like when no one noticed theirs. I’ve seen this in the real world, too. The most nurturing, present, and selfless people I know are the ones whose pasts would break your heart. People who’ve survived trauma, poverty, illness, or loss often develop an emotional literacy that can’t be taught, only earned. They become the healers, the listeners, the people who show up.

Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower envisions a future America devastated by environmental collapse, deepening inequality, and widespread violence. At the heart of the story is Lauren Olamina, a teenager who grows up behind the fragile protection of a walled neighborhood near Los Angeles. When her community falls, she must face the dangers of a lawless world. What sets Lauren apart is her founding of Earthseed, a belief system that redefines God not as a fixed being but as an ever-changing force. Through Earthseed, Lauren teaches that “God is Change,” constant, powerful, and inevitable. Survival, she insists, depends on adaptability, resilience, and humanity’s ability to actively shape change rather than resist it. In presenting Earthseed, Butler argues that faith in a collapsing society must be rooted in action, not in traditional institutions that have failed. Lauren’s vision becomes more than personal survival; it offers a model for creating a stronger, more enduring future (Butler, 1993). This has been an especially powerful read given the current uncertainty in America, and around the world. Life feels different. Life feels unstable. Especially if you're Black, Brown, or identify as LGBTQ+. It made me wonder, is Parable of the Sower more than just a novel? Is it a survival guide? And if I had to build my own Earthseed community, what would it look like? Dream with me for just a moment. 

Today’s real-world issues make the creation of a new Earthseed community not only necessary, but urgent. First, the experience of othering, including the deportation of innocent migrants, the erasure of Black and Brown communities, and the ostracization of LGBTQ+ individuals, leaves countless people vulnerable and unsafe. Second, the attack on women’s reproductive rights threatens basic bodily autonomy. Finally, food and water insecurity, driven by environmental degradation and soaring costs, has become a looming threat across the globe. My Earthseed community will be built to provide shelter and a future for people impacted by these crises, creating a sanctuary where dignity, safety, and sustainability are not luxuries but guarantees.

Two Earthseed verses from Parable of the Sower will serve as the guiding principles of my community. The first, our mission statement, is:

"All successful life is

Adaptable,

Opportunistic,

Tenacious,

Interconnected, and

Fecund.

Understand this.

Use it.

Shape God" (Butler 110).

This verse will be displayed prominently at the heart of the community, reminding every member that survival depends on adaptability, resilience, and our commitment to one another. It will embody our belief that together we can survive anything, protect one another, and create a thriving future.

The second verse will serve as our moral compass:

"Any Change may bear seeds of benefit.

Seek them out.

Any Change may bear seeds of harm.

Beware.

God is infinitely malleable.

God is Change" (Butler 103).

This verse will be used throughout the community as a reminder that although change is inevitable, we have the power to shape it. It will encourage thoughtful, intentional action, warning us that without vigilance and moral grounding, change can lead to harm just as easily as it can lead to growth.

Our Earthseed community will be built in rural Canada, far from the political turmoil and rising instability in urban centers. The isolation will offer both protection and the chance to live sustainably, close to the land. It will allow us to form a strong, independent society built on Earthseed's principles.

Membership in our community will be open to anyone seeking refuge from injustice: those who have been displaced or threatened due to race, immigration status, gender identity, sexuality, or reproductive rights. However, anyone who actively promotes oppression, racism, misogyny, fascism, or other forms of hatred will be turned away. This is a sanctuary for those committed to collective safety, equality, and respect.

Leadership will be egalitarian, based on equality and sustainability. Every member will have an equal voice, and leadership roles will be rotational and voted on by the community. No one will have more power, status, or wealth than another. Our economy will rely on bartering and trade, eliminating the exploitation that often accompanies currency-based systems. Decisions will be made for the good of the whole community, always to protect the environment, supporting each other’s rights, and ensuring that no one is left behind.

To combat food insecurity, the community will invest heavily in future farming technologies. We will build advanced vertical gardens that use recycled water systems, natural pest control, and compost-based nutrients. In addition, we will develop Protected Source Cloning, a near-future technology that allows us to clone fruits and vegetables directly from original, genetically pure, and safeguarded plants. These original sources will be protected within controlled environments, and cloning will ensure an endless supply of healthy food, regardless of extreme weather, environmental collapse, or natural infestations, all without damaging biodiversity. By preserving and duplicating from these pure sources, our community will always have access to abundant, sustainable nutrition.

Our Earthseed community will survive because we will be self-sufficient, united, and deeply committed to one another. Our remote location will protect us from outside threats, while our farming and water technologies will ensure that basic needs are met. We will have teachers, doctors, scientists, builders, and farmers, all working together, not for profit, but for the shared goal of survival and thriving.

Finally, to build a better future, our Earthseed community will take two key steps. First, education will be free and accessible to all members, with a focus on critical thinking, environmental stewardship, and community care. Every child and adult will be empowered with the knowledge needed to sustain and defend our way of life. Second, we will focus on conservation and regenerative farming, ensuring that our land, water, and resources are preserved for generations to come. In doing so, we will not only survive, we will build a model for a future that others may one day follow.

***SPOILER ALERT***

We just watched the short film PUMZI, written and directed by Wanuri Kahiu, in my Afrofuturism class, and I was blown away. It shook me to my core, if I’m being honest.

Set in a post-apocalyptic future 35 years after World War III, where water is so scarce it sparked a war, “The Water War,” PUMZI shows us a society living underground in total control and fear. Natural life no longer exists. Everyone survives on recycled water. Yes, sweat and urine are purified and reused, and energy is produced manually by people working out on exercise machines. Every resource is tracked. Every drop matters.

But what hit me hardest was how deeply monitored and suppressed these people are. Especially Asha, the film’s protagonist. When she dreams of being outside and seeing a tree, she’s immediately prompted by an AI robot to take a dream suppressant. Even her imagination is seen as dangerous. The community doesn’t want people dreaming of anything beyond survival. They don't want hope. They don’t want questions.

Asha is a museum curator in this world, working in a Virtual Natural History Museum where the past is preserved digitally, but nothing is truly alive. One day, she receives a mysterious soil sample. It’s uncontaminated. It has a high water content. It could mean that life outside is possible. When she successfully germinates a seed in that soil, she brings it to the Council and asks for permission to explore the surface. They say no. Worse, they reprimand her. Her actions trigger surveillance. They monitor her. They kicked her out of the museum. They try to erase what she found, what she knows. They even send men to arrest her, but Asha doesn’t give up.

With the help of another woman she once shared water with, a quiet act of defiance and compassion, Asha escapes. The woman steals a compass and returns the seedling Asha had to leave behind. Asha is reassigned to self-power generation duty, where she uses a rowing machine to produce sweat for the community’s water supply. But she uses that opportunity to escape.

She makes it to the surface, something no one else has dared to do. It’s barren, lifeless, trashed. There are radioactive water warnings. She’s alone. She loses her compass. But then, somehow, she finds the tree from her dreams, or maybe just the spot where one could grow. Either way, she digs into the soil and plants her seedling. And then she gives it the last of her water. Let me say that again, she gives it the last of her water. It’s the ultimate sacrifice. Her body can’t survive the conditions without hydration, but she chooses to give that precious resource to the Earth instead. Her life for its rebirth. A Black woman sacrifices herself, again, for the possibility of life, growth, and a better future.

The final shot shows the seed sprouting, then a time-lapse of the tree growing tall. Her sacrifice wasn’t in vain. But still, I couldn’t stop thinking about the final thing my professor said after the film: “How many sacrifices must Black women make?”

PUMZI is stunning, heartbreaking, and terrifying because it doesn’t feel that far off. As I watched, I kept thinking about Silo and Paradise, two newer shows with eerily similar themes. Enclosed societies, total surveillance, lies about what’s outside. PUMZI came out in 2009. These newer shows came out in 2023 and 2025. What does it say that we keep telling the same story? Are we listening to these warnings? Or are we just rehearsing for the collapse we already see coming?

In my opinion, Victor LaValle’s Destroyer is an essential piece of literature for young Black and Brown audiences in America. This comic book refuses to shy away from the realities of oppression, police violence, and the historical silencing of Black and Brown voices. It exposes the truth unapologetically, making it impossible to ignore. America has a long history of suppressing Black and Brown voices while erasing or twisting the realities of oppression, violence, and systemic inequality. This historical silencing and demonization has always existed, but under the current administration, these injustices will only continue to worsen. That’s why works like Destroyer are so important for young Black and Brown readers who crave representation. They need stories that reflect their experiences, that tell the truth about the world they live in, and that show them as powerful, intelligent fighters against injustice.

Destroyer centers on two powerful Black characters, Dr. Jo Baker and her son Akai. Dr. Baker, the last descendant of the Frankenstein family, is a brilliant scientist, highly educated, talented, and a pioneer in her field. But despite all of her accomplishments, she has had to fight to be seen and taken seriously every step of the way. From a young age, she was reprimanded for being the smartest in her class and forced to retake tests (God forbid a young Black girl be smarter than the rest of her class). And even after she overcame every obstacle, even after she fought to carve out a space for herself in a world that constantly tries to shut Black women out, she loses her only son to a police shooting.

Akai’s death is an all-too-familiar tragedy. A woman calls the police, claiming she saw a Black man walking in front of her house with a rifle. But he wasn’t a man, he was a child. And he wasn’t holding a rifle, he was carrying a baseball bat, walking home from his game. This same story has played out over and over again in real life. Black children are treated like men in criminal cases, while white men are treated like innocent children. Black and Brown people are murdered for simply existing, while video after video surfaces of violent white men being handled with care, given the benefit of the doubt and every possible chance to survive. Destroyer forces readers to confront this injustice without offering them the comfort of looking away.

Beyond its deeply personal story, Destroyer is layered with powerful socio-political themes, using science fiction to expose the horrors of real life. LaValle masterfully draws a connection between Dr. Baker and The Monster, two figures driven by grief, pain, and a rage born from a society that has failed them, wronged them, and cast them aside. The Monster has seen the worst of humanity. He has watched as the world continues to repeat its worst atrocities, inflicting suffering without consequence. His desire to destroy humanity stems from the understanding that human cruelty knows no bounds. And Dr. Baker? She has been wronged by the very society she tried to exist within, the same society that stole her son, dismissed her intelligence, and denied her worth. She and The Monster are connected in their rage, in their grief, in their understanding that the world is fundamentally broken in its current form. Dr. Baker’s urge to destroy is not random, it is a direct response to the racist society that took everything from her. Her desperation to have her son back pushes her to do the impossible, using science, technology, and nanobots to resurrect him. But even after bringing him back, she remains haunted by the world that stole him from her, and now, she is determined to fight back.. 

Destroyer forces readers to question what justice really looks like when the systems in place have always been designed to protect some while sacrificing others. This comic book does not shelter anyone from the truth, and that is what makes it so important. America has tried for too long to hide from its history of violence against Black and Brown people. But it happened. It still happens. And it cannot be erased. Black and Brown voices can no longer be ignored. They cannot be cherry-picked for the parts that are convenient or entertaining, their music, sports, or culture, while the pain and injustices endured are swept under the rug. Destroyer forces readers to confront these truths head-on. It also highlights the brilliance, power, and strength of Dr. Baker’s love for her son and the deep connection they share in the wake of tragedy. Black and Brown communities have long relied on one another to survive generations of systemic violence, and Destroyer powerfully illustrates this unbreakable bond and resilience.

In film, every casting decision carries weight, but sometimes an unexpected choice changes everything. That’s precisely what happened with Night of the Living Dead (1968) and The Girl with All the Gifts (2016), two films where the lead role was not originally intended for a Black actor, but the casting of Duane Jones and Sennia Nanua reshaped the entire narrative. Their performances weren’t just exceptional, they altered how audiences engaged with the films, how character relationships were perceived, and how deeper social and racial themes surfaced in ways that may not have been as profound had the protagonists been played by white actors.

In Night of the Living Dead, having a Black protagonist in 1968 was groundbreaking. And not just any Black protagonist, Ben was smart, educated, well-spoken, and independent. He didn’t need anyone to save him, he was self-sufficient. He didn’t need a white man’s help, there was no white savior in this story, he was going to save himself. That alone was radical for the time. But casting Duane Jones in the role also made several key scenes highly controversial in ways they wouldn’t have been had Ben’s character been white.

First, we see a Black actor touching white actors, a shocking visual for the 1960s. More than that, he strikes Barbara to stop her from running into danger to save her brother. He gets physical with Harry, a white man, and even shoots him. On top of that, Ben kills multiple white ghouls on-screen, something unheard of in the era’s mainstream films. Given the racial and political climate of the time, these moments took on a weight that went far beyond the immediate horror of the story. They subverted expectations, challenged deeply ingrained social norms, and forced audiences to confront the unsettling realities of race and power in America.

Then comes the film’s devastating ending (spoiler alert). After surviving the entire night against impossible odds, Ben, the sole survivor, is shot by a white mob who’s out hunting ghouls. Was he simply mistaken for a ghoul? It’s hard to tell, but there is no hesitation and the mob doesn’t express any regret or acknowledge his humanity. Sheriff McClelland, the leader of the group, casually says, “Good shot! Ok, he’s dead, let’s go get him. That’s another one for the fire." This line is chilling because it completely strips Ben of his identity and agency. He isn’t seen as a man who fought to survive the entire night, just another body to dispose of. The lack of acknowledgment, remorse, or even hesitation hits harder because Ben is Black and it reinforces the racial undertones of the scene, making it even more disturbing. It mirrors the real-life dehumanization of Black victims of violence, particularly during the Jim Crow era and Civil Rights Movement.

After Ben is shot he is dragged out of the house with metal hooks like an animal, and discarded without care. This would have been disturbing no matter what, but with a Black protagonist, the moment becomes an undeniable echo of racial violence in America. It is a gut-punch, particularly for Black audiences who had already seen too many real-life versions of this scene play out. The intergenerational trauma this moment must have triggered is unfathomable.

All of this, the character dynamics, the interactions, the messages the film conveys, changes simply because of the decision to cast Ben as a Black man. It transforms Night of the Living Dead from a standard zombie film into a deeply political statement. It forces the audience to see race, power, and survival in ways they might not have expected. It’s a reminder that representation in the media doesn’t just matter, it changes everything, and the same goes for The Girl with All the Gifts.

In The Girl with All the Gifts, the lead character, Melanie, is also Black. While the story takes place in a different time period and context, the core message remains unchanged, when a Black actor is cast as the protagonist, it reshapes character dynamics and influences the film’s overall meaning.

Despite being a "hungry" (the film’s term for zombies), Melanie is sweet, kind, caring, and loving. She desperately wants to be treated like everyone else, doing her best to suppress her urge to feed on flesh. Yet, we see her locked up in a cell that evokes images of incarceration. We see her tied to a wheelchair, verbally abused, and belittled by soldiers, especially Sergeant Eddie Parks. To Dr. Caroline Caldwell, Melanie is nothing more than a disposable experiment, a means to an end. Caldwell’s goal is to find a cure, not to save Melanie, but to save the humans, most of whom happen to be white. It’s hard to ignore the echoes of the "sacrificial Negro" trope here.

Now, once again, none of this would hit the same if Melanie were white. Because she is Black, every interaction takes on added weight. Every cruel remark, every dismissive glance, every painful moment feels different. Her emotions, raw and heartbreaking, resonate more deeply. The casting choice doesn’t just change the story, it changes how we, as the audience, process the story.

But then there’s the ending, my favorite part (spoiler alert). In a crucial moment, Dr. Caldwell begs Melanie to sacrifice herself to save humankind. When Melanie presses her for an explanation, Caldwell is forced to admit that the hungries are alive. That’s when Melanie delivers the chilling question, “Then why should it be us that die for you?” This moment gave me chills. It’s yet another example of how casting a Black lead changes everything. Think about all the sacrifices Black individuals have made for others throughout history. Think about all the Black characters in Hollywood who have died so their white best friend could live. Not this time.

Melanie chooses herself. She chooses the "others," the hungries, who have no control over their condition and are no less alive than the unaffected humans. She wants them to be treated as such. And then, in a brilliant twist, the power dynamic shifts. In the final scenes Dr. Caldwell and Sergeant Eddie Parks are dead, actually most of the humans will die after Melanie burns the pods, and Helen, the kind behavioral psychologist who loved Melanie, is now the one locked away, this time in an airtight cabin, seemingly incarcerated. Meanwhile, the hungries roam free, and Helen teaches them from behind the glass. Twist!

Nearly 30 years after its release, Tales from the Hood remains disturbingly relevant. The film, directed by Rusty Cundieff, isn’t just a horror anthology, it’s a scathing social commentary on the real-life horrors Black and Brown communities face. While we’ve made some progress, the harsh truth is that police brutality, political corruption, and systemic racism are still deeply embedded in our society. The fact that the film’s themes still resonate today is both powerful and tragic.

One of the film’s most haunting stories, “Rogue Cop Revelation”, exposes the horror of police brutality. In this story, a Black officer, Clarence, witnesses his white colleagues savagely beating Martin Moorehouse, a Black community leader, city councilman, and Black rights activist dedicated to exposing and ending police corruption in the city. Rather than intervene, he remains complicit, pressured by the corrupt system around him. Moorehouse is planted with drugs and killed when the police push his car into the water with him still inside, reinforcing the all-too-familiar narrative used to justify state violence against Black men. Later, Moorehouse’s vengeful spirit compels Clarence to lure the corrupt officers to his gravesite, where he rises from the dead to exact his revenge, brutally killing them one by one.

This fictionalized horror is not so different from reality. The murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Elijah McClain serve as devastating reminders that police brutality and corruption are not relics of the past. The officers responsible for their deaths acted with the same impunity depicted in Tales from the Hood, shielded by a system that devalues Black and Brown lives. The film’s supernatural justice offers a catharsis that real life often does not. Unlike in the movie, where Moorehouse returns for revenge, the real victims of police brutality don’t get that second chance.

Another chilling story, “KKK Comeuppance”, follows Duke Metger (possibly named after politician David Duke, the founder and “grand wizard” of the Louisiana-based KKK), a racist politician who openly mocks civil rights and surrounds himself with Confederate symbols. He takes up residence in an old plantation, fully aware that it was the site of lynchings and brutal murders of enslaved people. This is more than just ignorance, it’s a deliberate statement, a dog whistle to his base that traditional American values do not include Black people.

The story's depiction of racial violence, including eerie puppets possessed by the souls of lynched slaves, feels uncomfortably close to reality. Today, we see politicians actively working to strip away protections for minorities, rolling back voting rights, banning discussions of systemic racism in schools, and even openly aligning with white supremacist rhetoric. The current administration is dangerously close to figures like Metger, rubbing elbows with extremists who praise Hitler and Nazi Germany while dismantling policies meant to protect marginalized communities.

Horror has long been a vehicle for our collective fears, but what happens when it reinforces the very prejudices it should be dismantling? Candyman (1992) is a prime example of how Black propaganda seeps into mainstream media, subtly, and not so subtly, perpetuating racist tropes that have existed for centuries. Set against the backdrop of Cabrini-Green, a public housing project depicted as a crime-ridden war zone, the film feeds into the fear of Black spaces, Black men, and Black bodies as inherently dangerous. Candyman himself, a victim of racial violence and a brutal public execution by his lover's father and a white mob, is transformed into a monstrous force who terrorizes his own community rather than seeking justice against the system that destroyed him. His obsession with Helen, a white graduate student, echoes the tired and harmful trope of the Black brute lusting after white women, an image deeply embedded in America’s racist past, from The Birth of a Nation to the lynching narratives of the Jim Crow era.

This is how propaganda works. It takes real systemic issues like housing discrimination, economic oppression, and racial violence and twists them into something grotesque, distorting the truth while reinforcing deeply ingrained biases. Candyman doesn't just use Black pain for entertainment, it weaponizes it, turning Black suffering into horror while allowing white audiences to consume it at a safe distance. And the worst part? If we don’t change these narratives, these stigmas will persist. Stories like this shape how society views Blackness, crime, poverty, and power. If we keep telling the same story, that Black communities are lawless, that Black men are dangerous, that the "urban jungle" is something to fear, then people will continue to believe it. Fear of the “other” will continue to thrive, and real-world policies will reflect these manufactured fears.

But has anything changed since? Have we learned from the harmful propaganda of the past, or have we simply rebranded it for a new era? The answer is staring us in the face. Fear of the “other” is alive and well, it’s just evolved. Today, we see it in political campaigns, news cycles, and social media hysteria. We’re bombarded with messages that tell us the “other” is a threat, that they’re criminals, rapists, invaders, degenerates. They are coming for your jobs, your neighborhoods, and your safety. DEI hires will destroy your workplace. Immigrants will ruin your way of life. Marginalized groups demanding equality are painted as extremists, as dangerous, as a force to be feared rather than fellow human beings fighting for their basic rights.

This is the same fear-mongering machine that has existed for centuries. It told white audiences in 1915 that Black men were rapists in The Birth of a Nation. It told Americans in the 1990s that young Black boys were "superpredators." And now, in 2025, it’s telling you that diversity is a threat. That the “other” is inherently dangerous. But none of this is true. It never was. It has always been a calculated effort to uphold the status quo, to keep people divided, and to ensure that power remains in the hands of those who have always held it.

In my opinion, Jordan Peele is one of the best filmmakers of our time. He's a true visionary, one of a kind. After I saw Get Out, I couldn't wait to see what he had in store for us next. What followed was his film Us, and it did not disappoint. These two movies are by far some of my favorites to unpack, brimming with hidden messages about society, politics, human behavior, and more. While Get Out was relatively straightforward in its underlying messages, Us proved to be a little trickier to unravel. More specifically, I was completely drawn in and intrigued by the Tethered.

You sit down to watch the movie, press play, and a black screen appears with the words: "There are thousands of miles of tunnels beneath the United States. Abandoned subway systems, unused service routes, and deserted mine shafts. Many have no known purpose at all." It is here, in this underground network of tunnels, that the Tethered live, a group of doppelgängers, supposedly one for each human who resides above them, including the Wilsons, whose doppelgängers live beneath their vacation home in Santa Cruz, California. But what do the Tethered represent? What message was Jordan Peele trying to convey?

I went down a deep rabbit hole, learning everything I could about the Tethered and their symbolism. Once again, Jordan Peele blew my mind with his creative ways of expressing both micro and macro societal problems. This is what I love most about Peele’s films, they’re like onions, with layer upon layer to uncover, each one richer and more thought-provoking than the last. The Tethered aren’t just creepy doubles, they’re a haunting representation of the underclass, those who have been robbed of opportunity, forced into the shadows, and forgotten by society.

The world we live in today isn’t far removed from this psychological horror film. Whether we want to admit it or not, right here in the United States, we’re dealing with a class war between the haves and the have-nots. Those who have access to education, good jobs, healthcare, and plentiful opportunities live vastly different lives. Meanwhile, the wage gap continues to widen, and the middle class keeps shrinking. The haves literally tower above the have-nots, looking down from their ivory towers, seemingly oblivious to the suffering and struggles the have-nots endure day-to-day. The Tethered are a striking metaphor for how privilege and wealth often exist at the expense of others. They show us what happens when people are left behind, ignored, oppressed, and exploited. And yet, the Tethered aren’t fundamentally different from those above. They have the same potential, the same emotions, and the same humanity. But systemic oppression has reduced them to mere shadows, robotic, animalistic, simply surviving.

I think the message that resonated most with me is that the Tethered (the have-nots) are deeply connected to those above ground (the haves), just like in today’s United States. It’s not just that they’re doppelgängers, it’s that their existence is literally tied to the privileges of the people above. The haves are the ones who call the shots. They’re the ones who make political decisions that impact countless lives, especially those of the have-nots. They’re the ones who supply the jobs, decide who gets what opportunities, who qualifies for this job or that job, these benefits or those benefits, and ultimately who is deemed worthy of one thing or another. That being said, the Tethered’s uprising isn’t just about revenge, it’s about demanding to be seen, acknowledged, and recognized as human. To be recognized as “Americans,” as Red put it.

I was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and raised by a single mother. We would have been considered low-middle class. I have two half-sisters and one half-brother. We grew up surrounded by chaos with no resources, little to no guidance, a fractured and dysfunctional family, no structure, violence, abuse, incarceration, addiction, abandonment, you name it. In the 80s, when I was growing up, conservative and religious values were prominent in the town I lived in. I was not only born out of wedlock but also biracial. The combination of our social status, being born out of wedlock, and being biracial meant I was at the bottom of the social hierarchy. I learned very quickly that society was not designed for people like me to succeed in school, work, experiencing a loving and supportive family, finding happiness, or even maintaining good health. Life was bleak, and most of us who shared this social hierarchy status suffered quietly. We pushed through, even when it seemed impossible, because what other choice did we have?

The first time I saw Get Out, I was blown away. To me, it was a masterpiece. It made me think. It drew me in. It highlighted systemic issues in our society in an entertaining and digestible way, but it was also incredibly triggering, especially one scene in particular, and probably the most famous scene in the movie. The scene where Missy hypnotizes Chris. It’s captivating, you can’t look away. It’s chilling, you can’t breathe. What will happen? Missy sits there, exuding power, much like many white individuals in our society. She is calculated, manipulative, calm, but cold. He is trapped. She is the mother of the woman he loves. He is in her home with the sole purpose of getting to know them better. He feels uncomfortable, forced to sit, to be in her presence, to communicate with her, to be kind, to answer her questions. He is powerless, much like so many Black individuals throughout history. The scene intensifies. The questions become more personal. She lays blame at his feet, of course she does. In her version of the story, he is to blame for his mother’s death. Once she fully breaks him emotionally, she instructs him to sink into the floor, into the sunken place. And I am flooded with emotions and feelings I had hidden and shoved down.

I know the sunken place. It’s where those at the bottom of the social hierarchy live. It’s the place from which we view the world as if from outside ourselves. It’s the place where we see a world that does not belong to us, where we have no place, no value, and where we can never truly belong. It’s right there, so close we could reach out and grab it, but still so far out of reach. It’s not meant for us, no matter how hard we try, and it feels as though we’ll never get out of this hole that society dug for us. The world carries on, creating rules we must abide by. Rules designed to keep us down, to keep us in our place, while we suffer silently, deep in the sunken place. For me, the sunken place represents many things, a deeply broken society, white supremacy, systemic racism, social hierarchies, and isolation. It represents broken dreams, hopelessness, helplessness, and a loss of identity.

I’m sure the sunken place means different things to different people. It’s open to interpretation. But these are the raw, painful feelings it triggered in me. Luckily, the sunken place is not inescapable. It’s hard. It’s so, so hard, but not impossible to get out of. The sunken place is the reason I was the only sibling in my family to graduate from high school. It’s the reason I’m the only person in my immediate family to attend college. And it’s the reason I’m earning my first bachelor’s degree at 40 years old. But I’m doing the damn thing and that’s all that matters. 

You can try to keep us down. You can try to force us to sink into the sunken place. But time and time again, we rise, stronger and more resilient than you could ever imagine, just as Chris powerfully demonstrates when he escapes the Armitage family’s sunken place.