Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabby Rivera Page A

me gently into a hug.
    â€œWelcome, Sister Juliet,” she whispered against my temple.
    I hugged back hard. “Thank you.”
    Zaira’s embrace was like having motherhood and a fortress wrapped around my body.
    â€œHello, Harlowe,” Zaira said, taking one half step towards her.
    â€œZaira, it’s good to be here. I love your open workshops,” Harlowe said, and met her halfway. They held hands and forearms, smiled big, admired each other with respect. They didn’t hug. I thought it was weird but only for a second.
    â€œHarlowe, Octavia’s legacy is for all of us to revel in,” Zaira said. “All we ask is that our white allies respect this space. It’s good to have with you us. We’re just about to start.”
    White allies? What is a white ally? An ally in what? The struggle? What did she mean about Harlowe respecting “our space”? Why didn’t people just speak normal around here? Zaira linked arms with Maxine. They walked off, nestled together, greeting other folks around the room. Harlowe paused, watching them move through the space. I stood by Harlowe.
    We found seats towards the back, near a very small cluster of white women. I sat on the outskirts of their group next to Harlowe. But I realized that they were the outsider group. Black and brown women of all shades and sizes organized and worked this space. The energy in the room was warm and loving like that plate of food your mom brings back for you from a party at your aunt’s house. It felt like home, sort of. The styles of the women here were different from back in the Bronx. People didn’t look hard here or worn down. They looked like they worshipped the sun and bathed in buttermilk. It made me feel like this writer’s workshop was actually the official meeting of hippies of color or some shit. Just sitting there watching everyone made me view my people through a whole different lens, like we could be hippies too and that wouldn’t make us any less black or brown or human. I could dig that.
    The power and confidence that radiated from Zaira permeated the bright classroom. She let go of Maxine’s arm and walked to the front of the room, clasped her hands together, inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled. All eyes were on Zaira. She smiled wide and opened her hands, palms facing up.
    â€œHello, beautiful women writers. Welcome to ‘Honoring Our Ancestors, the Writer Warriors Workshop series.’ Thank you for your presence. I’d like to ask all of you to turn to your neighbor, look her in the eyes, and say, ‘Thank you, Sister, for sharing your time and essence.’”
    I almost laughed, but the silence and reverence in the room pushed that laugh back into my chest. The woman next to me breastfed her baby. Such a beautiful and weird thing, breastfeeding. The mom held her child with one arm and reached out to me with the other. She said, slightly breathless, “Thank you Sister for sharing your time and essence.” I repeated the blessing, holding her hand and her child’s hand.
    Zaira blessed her neighbors on both sides.
    â€œWe are here to celebrate the legacy of our sister, Octavia Butler, one of the greatest writers of all time. One of the only African American sci-fi writers ever. Octavia gave us worlds caught in post-apocalyptic struggles, narratives billowing with critiques of the way racism and brutality are ingrained in white American society and culture, a culture that we must also navigate and reclaim. Octavia gave us the means to do that via a genre where there are no limits. We can be child vampires. We can be warriors. We can be ooloi. We can do it all through writing. This writing series is for the empowerment of Black women and the development of a Black womanist, Afro-futuristic writer’s group. Blackness isn’t limited to African Americans here. We welcome our Afro-Latinas también y toda la gente morena, negrita, el