thesunkenplace

[thesunkenplace]

Why Victor LaValle’s Destroyer Is Essential for Young Black and Brown Readers

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.

Young Black and Brown people need stories like this. They need to see themselves represented. They need to see the truth on display, no matter how painful it is. And they need to see themselves come out on the other end, not just surviving, but as heroes. As the ones who rebuild, who fight back, who refuse to be erased. Victor LaValle does something incredible with Destroyer. By telling this story through the lens of sci-fi horror, LaValle highlights the deep-rooted trauma that Black and Brown people have had to fight against for generations, a trauma that comes simply from existing in a society built to oppress them. The sci-fi horror genre makes it more digestible, but the truth remains intact, undeniable, and impossible to ignore. Horror and sci-fi have always been powerful tools for exposing real-life horrors in a way that people can engage with without being completely retraumatized. Destroyer does this masterfully, offering both representation and empowerment to those who need it most. This story is imperative. It is a rallying cry, a refusal to be silenced, and a testament to the power of Black and Brown voices. Thank you, Victor LaValle, for calling it out in a way that is creative, undeniable, and absolutely necessary.

[thesunkenplace]

From Night of the Living Dead to The Girl with All the Gifts: How a Black Protagonist Transforms the Narrative

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!

Take a moment to reflect on these characters, these films, and ask yourself, how different would the story, the relationships, and the overall meaning have been if the protagonists were white? Now, expand that question to other films you’ve seen. How does casting shape the way you perceive the characters, their dialogue, their relationships, and the message the film conveys? Consider the era in which these films were made. How does the time period influence these stories, these characters, and the way audiences interpret them? And most importantly, how did the choice to cast a Black protagonist change cinema, Hollywood, and audiences? What did it mean for Black individuals to finally see themselves represented, not as side characters, not as stereotypes, but as the lead?

[thesunkenplace]

Real-Life Horror: How Tales from the Hood Still Speaks to America’s Racial Injustice 30 Years Later

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.

Tales from the Hood stood the test of time because it was never just a horror movie, it was a warning. The film’s themes of police brutality, racial violence, and political corruption still define our present. The real horror isn’t in the supernatural revenge of ghosts or cursed dolls. It’s in the fact that, decades later, we are still fighting the same battles. If there’s any lesson to take from the film, it’s that ignoring injustice doesn’t make it disappear. Clarence, the Black cop in “Rogue Cop Revelation,” learns this too late. But we still have a choice. We can acknowledge the horror happening around us, call it by its name, and fight to change it. Otherwise, the cycle will continue and the ghosts of the past will keep returning, demanding justice we should have given them long ago.

[thesunkenplace]

Candyman and the Power of Propaganda: How Fear of the "Other" Persists

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.

We need to dismantle this rhetoric before it consumes us. We cannot allow these dangerous, racist, fear-driven narratives to persist. The truth is, there is no “other,” we are all connected. Six degrees of separation. The idea of the “other” is a lie designed to divide us, to make us fearful instead of powerful. We must stand up, speak out, and reject the propaganda that seeks to turn us against one another. Not tomorrow. Not when it’s convenient. But right now. Because if we don’t, the next generation will inherit the same old tired manufactured fears, the same recycled lies, the same poisoned stories. And the cycle will continue. It’s time to change the narrative and stand up for what’s right!

[thesunkenplace]

Living in the Shadows: The Tethered as a Symbol of Systemic Oppression

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’ve watched Us multiple times now, and each time it feels like I’m experiencing an entirely different film. Every detail reveals something new. The scissors, the red jumpsuits, the rabbits, the consistent use of 11:11, and the Hands Across America imagery, are all intricately woven together to explore themes of unity and division, privilege and oppression, the haves and the have-nots, the ways our government abandons its people, and the ways we ignore and abandon one another. I love that Jordan Peele doesn’t hand you easy answers and instead forces you to confront the discomfort and uncover the meaning for yourself. What I discovered was that the Tethered aren’t just characters in a story, they’re a haunting reflection of the exploited, the marginalized, the people society chooses to ignore because it’s more convenient to look away. The most unsettling truth, however, is that they remind us we’re not so different from them. In the blink of an eye, everything we know and love could be torn away from us. We could become just like them, the others. Watching Us is like gazing into a mirror, and what’s reflected back might be the most disturbing part of it all.

[thesunkenplace]

Rising Above the Sunken Place: Overcoming Systemic Oppression

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. 

With resilience and strength, A proud sunken place escapee.