I wish I could say that I watched American Fiction organically; that I saw a trailer and thought, “Oh holy heck balls, I gotta see that as soon as it’s out!”

But I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t think seriously about watching it or any of the other “prestige” films of 2023 until the week leading up to this year’s Oscars, when my wife and my co-workers started talking about their Vanity Fair Oscars ballot. Suddenly, for the first time maybe ever, the Oscars became intriguing, because suddenly the competition included me (it did not and does not include me, but it’s fun to think I matter to the Oscars. maybe one day).

I wanted to throw my hat into the ring. So I decided to binge as many movies as I could before the Oscars to make educated guesses at who would win. My goal was to get at least half of them right. If I got half, then I won the Oscars.

This is what led me to American Fiction.

Annoyingly enough, I have to thank the Academy and capitalism for leading me to the water, and I have to thank myself for deciding to drink. American Fiction is my favorite movie of 2023, and that’s after acknowledging the utter glee of Barbie, the beautiful cinematography of the Holdovers, the sheer talent in The Color Purple, and the excellent character work in Anatomy of a Fall. [Notice how I’m not saying anything about Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon, or Poor Things.]

American Fiction is a bit controversial.

I recently talked to someone who had sorta watched American Fiction and asked if they liked it. Their response was no, and also that they hadn’t finished watching it because they hated the main character, Thelonious “Monk” (played by Jeffrey Wright, Westworld).

Luckily, although he is the main character, the story isn’t so much about his story, but about Black stories in general: who gets to tell our stories? Which stories deserve validity? How do we balance telling our stories with the need to thrive in this hellish late capitalist framework?

There are no absolute answers, but the questions - that crucial foundation - was presented to us through the film. Now it’s up to us to discuss and decide.

Our stories are diverse.

American Fiction brings to light a serious issue Black writers confront when attempting to publish their work. There’s an expectation for Black writers - and artists - to tell Black stories that align with what white audiences think a Black story is. When a given story doesn’t fit the script or becomes too uncomfortable, interest wanes and often disappears. Or, publishers make the excuse that they love the story, but they’re not the right ones to promote it.

The problem is that generally, white publishers look for stories of Black trauma. The stories themselves are not a problem; they are valid because they are often rooted in reality. Telling these stories only becomes a problem when they are the ONLY stories being told. We keep telling people that we are not a monolith. We have a variety of backgrounds, privileges and lack thereof, interests, and so on. When only one story is told, it not only limits how we are seen by the broader audience but also how we see ourselves. The broader audience can’t see us if publishers, the vast majority of whom are White, won’t publish all of our stories.

With that said, Monk was being a little shit.

I understand where his frustration came from, but it does not absolve him of his actions. I also don’t entirely approve of Sintara’s (Issa Rae, Insecure) actions, but they make sense and are fair. She balanced the sustainability of her work with telling honest stories, and she succeeded in that balance, to Monk’s chagrin. The story she told was real, even if it wasn’t hers, and she set herself up to write more stories that could potentially become more diverse in the future.

On the use of the “Black card”.

I have to admit - there are moments where I have pandered to white people a little to get what I want. Sometimes it’s the easiest way to get from Point A to Point B as a Black person or a person of color in this world. I wish I never felt the need to. I wish our world was more meritocratic. Before that though, I wish our education system was standardized so that a meritocracy was actually fair. It doesn't matter how brilliant we are if we don't have equal access to education, tools, and career possibilities. With that said as more of us gain access to these things, we are proving to the world that we are and always have been capable of extraordinary things. Because we are brilliant. As we move forward, we are also making everything so much easier for the next generation.

Issues of validity, visibility, and sustainability go past the page.

Black people and our diverse stories are underrepresented in pretty much every creative field and throughout history. On one hand, we get complaints that our work, our stories, our history is “too Black” (whatever that means), or too uncomfortable. On the other hand, our work isn’t “Black enough”.

In reality, Black is Black, regardless of the topic or genre that the story is tackling. Our history in America is real fucked up, but we have nice moments too, like that whole thing that happened with the chairs, or when Mae Jemison went to space, or when RuPaul introduced the general population to the artistry of drag. Jordan Peele and all his films. Parable of the Sower finally being made into a film. Cowboy Carter. The Age of Pleasure. A Black Lady Sketch show. Black Girl Sunscreen. Lauren Scruggs winning fencing at the Olympics. Don’t get me started on Simone Biles.

We’re so cool, but so much of our coolness has been hidden or appropriated or underreported because, well, racism. It’s important to talk about the racism (it all goes back to racism), but dammit, we should see more of the cool stuff too.

The inclusion of all our stories is the goal. If it’s a good story, an’ it harm none, then motherfucker let’s go.

In Summary: Both Thelonious and Sintara were right. Both of them were wrong. We are not a monolith. We have the right to tell all of our stories, and all of our stories are valid.

If we wrote the story, it is a Black story.

ps.: I did win the Oscars.

Some Black stories in my current library:

• Their Eyes Were Watching God (Zora Neale Hurston)

• Now Is The Time To Open Your Heart (Alice Walker)

• Becoming (Michelle Obama)

• Unapologetic (Charlene Carruthers)

• My Sister, The Serial Killer (Oyinkan Braithwaite)

• Parable of the Sower + Parable of the Talents (Octavia E. Butler)

• Honey Girl (Morgan Rogers)

• Queenie (Candice Carty-Williams)

• How The Word Is Passed (Clint Smith)

• The 1619 Project (Nikole Hannah-Jones)

• The Gilded Ones Trilogy (Namina Forna)

• The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl (Issa Rae)

• Pleasure Activism (Adrienne Marie Brown)

• Emergent Strategy (Adrienne Marie Brown)

• Children of Blood and Bone (Tomi Adeyemi)

• The Souls of Black Folks (W.E.B. Du Bois)

• This Poison Heart + This Wicked Fate (Kalynn Bayron)

• Cinderella is Dead (Kalynn Bayron)

• Gumbo Ya Ya (Aurielle Marie)

• Black Futures (Kimberly Drew, Jenna Wortham)

• All About Love (bell hooks)

• Ain’t I A Woman (bell hooks)

• Rest Is Resistance (Tricia Hersey)

• Conjure Women (Afia Atakora)

• Our Hideous Progeny (C. E. McGill)

• Afrofuturism (Ytasha L. Womack)

• Bless The Daughter Raised By A Voice In Her Head (Warsan Shire)

• Zami (Audre Lorde)

• Sister Outsider (Audre Lorde)

• Freedom Is A Constant Struggle (Angela Y. Davis)

• When They Call You A Terrorist (Patrice Cullors)

• When Ivory Towers Were Black (Sharon E. Sutton)

some other digital goodies: