Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabby Rivera Page B

color de la noche y de café con leche . Many of our meetings are closed to non-Black, non-POC individuals but members of the group expressed interest in offering open sessions. White allies, we ask that you respect this space, own your privileges, and remain open to your own journey. We welcome all women here and hope that we can all find or further cultivate our relationship to Octavia Butler’s work and to the world of science fiction. In this series of workshops, we will also produce an anthology of sci-fi short stories with a social justice lens from writers of color. I am Zaira. Thank you, Sisters, for sharing your time and essence with us all.”
    Zaira was a force. Her words enveloped the room and while she spoke, all attention was on her. She gave us a minute to take it all in. I had mixed feelings, but only about the sci-fi part. Science fiction was actually the worst. My parents were trekkies. They even loved the Star Wars trilogy and were super into all the old sci-fi shows from the 1950’s. Don’t even get me started on the one Christmas where our entire Christmas tree was decorated with Star Trek ornaments complete with a Spock that told us to live “Live long and prosper.” I was going to die in this workshop of boredom and awkwardness. Cool.
    She asked us to stand. We stood in a circle holding hands. Zaira implored us to find a sound within our bodies and memories, hold it in our hearts and then share it out loud. She counted to three and the women in the room opened their mouths releasing secrets, deep hums, and the sounds of prayers. Nothing came out of me. It felt hella awkward and I had nothing to give. I held the hands on each side of me. I moved my mouth as if I was participating but it was too much. The cacophony died down. Zaira called for it again. Once more, I pretended to make noise. Zaira watched me, read my lips, caught my lack of give and let it go. The icebreaker ended. Respectful silence followed. Zaira introduced two women, Aleece and Ruby, to the group. They read excerpts from Parable of the Sower and Kindred . Trippy shit, for real. I wrote the titles down in my notebook. Zaira and her team then asked us to brainstorm terms we associated with science fiction.
    Words written in pastel yellows and pinks filled the blackboard. “Asteroids, milky way, immortality, corporate colonization, gamma rays, meteor showers, parallel universe, queer futurism, no air, Gaia, geeks, moon colonies, lunar pulls, aliens, abduction, time travel, apocalypse…” We were asked to choose one word or phrase and write our science-fiction-loving hearts off. I wanted to leave, smoke a cigarette, and call Ava about this new-wave hippie brown people thing. Maybe she knew about it. But the affirmations and the weird humming got to me. Instead, I remained in my chair and wrote. My words were: heavy metal, android Latinas, and time warp.
    Forty-five minutes later, a chime went off indicating the end of the writing exercise. Zaira encouraged the group to share a section of their work with the person they shared the greeting with. The mother turned to me, her child asleep in an orange stroller.
    â€œDo you want to go first?” I asked.
    â€œNo way, go for it,” she replied. She reached for my hand. “My name’s Melonie, by the way, and this is my son, Nasir,” she said.
    â€œJuliet,” I replied. We shook hands like we were already friends, none of those awkward jerky movements. It was smooth like passing slang through gossip.
    I swallowed, feeling awkward. Sci-fi was another notch in my belt of geekery on this trip. But I pushed forward and read from the short story, I titled it Starlight Mamitas: Three Chords of Rebellion, in which three Boricua sisters from New Brooklyn, year 3035, formed a heavy metal band called the Starlight Mamitas. They sold bionic quarter-waters and titanium jolly ranchers on the train to make money for lessons and instruments. On the