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How Writing Afro-Surrealist Literature Kept Me Sane
When the world gets weird, you’ve gotta go weirder.
The last story I shelved was an afro-surrealist novel about mental health, grief, and McDonald’s pancakes. It was supposed to be a mixture of It’s Kind of a Funny Story, Good Trouble, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? and Knives Out.
I know. It was a lot.
Since childhood, I’ve been drawn to Afro-surrealism. I just didn’t know it by name at the time. Afro-surrealism is all about using surrealism, which Wikipedia describes as an art and cultural movement in which artists aimed to allow the unconscious mind to express itself, often resulting in the depiction of illogical or dreamlike scenes and ideas, to describe the Black experience.
Afro-surrealism feels like a celebration of the weird. That makes me feel comfortable. I’ve always felt that being Black in America, day-to-day, is a fucking weird experience. The constant code-switching, stereotypes being shoved in your face, the strays you catch for no reason — like what the fuck is a “Black job”?
It’s all weird. And that’s putting it lightly.
Growing up I had this growing frustration with my experience as a Black girl. I felt as though I couldn’t verbalize it. I felt invisible to everything I yearned for…
