On Black mermaids, remembering, and being stewards of our history.

Approximately 1.8 million Africans died while crossing the Atlantic Ocean during the transatlantic slave trade. An untold number of them were pregnant, cast into the sea while alive because they were deemed too costly or inconvenient to make the journey. This harrowing fact sparked an enduring afrofuturistic fiction. These mothers’ children, already familiar with breathing underwater in the wombs, emerged from their drowned bodies as merpeople in a new and unfamiliar land, building a futuristic and powerful underwater kingdom, either unaware or in defiance (depending on the myth) of the world above. This land was dubbed Drexciya by a Detroit-based electronic duo of the same name in their 1992 album Deep Sea Dweller, an album dedicated to the synth and sounds of this envisioned land.

I've been thinking about this world since the day I read about Adriana Smith, a pregnant woman in Georgia who was declared brain dead in February but was kept on life support so her baby could be born because we live in a society where our administration places the life of a child before its mother, and the rights of the unborn before the woman who gave them that spark. I've been thinking about how our country has never stopped casting our bodies into the depths of the sea when they lose value, extracting what it needs along the way. Like Adriana, we have no written narrative of the feelings of this fate. We can only use critical fabulation, as I am now, to try to understand the depths of this cruelty while trying to retain the dignity we deserve.

The cruelty waged against Adriana in the falsehood of children protection didn't just determine her fate, robbing her and her family of the autonomy they each deserved. It swept her child, Chance, who was born at just 1 pound, 13 ounces on June 13, into an abyss, a space where they now must learn to swim in a world much different than what this one feigns to be. They, like the first generation merpeople of myth, are now burdened with finding new ways to live while carrying the devastating story of how he was born: Submerged and parentless in the depths of our mistakes.

In their story The Deep, author Rivers Solomon breathes life into this world by introducing us to Yetu, the protagonist. In their interpretation of the story, these merpeople are called wajinru, and have collectively decided to forget their dark history. Instead of remembering collectively, they select one person, called the Historian, who carries the community's memories of the events. Yetu is this generation's Historian, and, unlike her predecessors, is overwhelmed by the grief, anger and heartbreak stored within her. The novel gives us an intimate look at how she balances duty and sacrifice, helping us understand how interconnectedness is necessary for our individual and collective wellbeing.

Collectively, we have failed our children, and it will be more apparent as they grow to reckon with the wreckage left in our wake. And these children – including little Chance, or little Leen – will be the ones left to reckon with the memories as society turns away. As the history books are rewritten, and other books are banned, as AI chooses an alternative story, the freedoms and liberties we once fought for could become their own myth.

It's not just up to them to remember, but all of us. Together, as we rally, rest and grieve, we've got to preserve the joys and the heartbreak for the generations that will follow. Here are three ways to be a more effective historian for these times.

Practice Critique

Whether you're watching a movie, listening to a podcast, or reading a newsletter like this, you're likely always engaging with content. As you do, take the time to analyze it. The simple act of reflecting on what we consume becomes a form of intellectual archaeology, a way to contextualize the world around us and the impact of these works on ourselves and others.

Building a practice of critique helps us find resonance and meaning with what we see. This practice can also help you build an archive of your thoughts and perspectives, and how they're shaped by current events. It doesn't have to be fancy, nor public – you can write your own reviews of movies in your notes app on your phone, or keep a list of articles that gave you a visceral reaction. You can use a critique framework that works best for you, or make your own set of questions or inquiries to contextualize things with. Here are a few prompts to consider:

• This [media] made me feel _______ because ________.

• If I read/saw/listened to this when I was younger, I would have felt _______ because ________.

• This [media] reflects how the world currently feels about _____________.

• If I hadn’t engaged with [media], I would have thought ___________. I now think __________.

• This reminds me of three other forms of [media] because ________________.

Build Your Archive

Self-archiving represents a radical act of claiming agency over our own stories. In an age when our narratives are increasingly commodified and dispersed across digital platforms, intentionally collecting our experiences—not for social media performance but for genuine self-understanding—becomes a form of resistance against the constant pressure to externalize and monetize our inner lives. This practice honors our stories' intrinsic value independent of their social media metrics or public reception.

The methods of self-archiving can be beautifully mundane:

• Photograph objects in your home that bring the most joy

• Maintain a journal dedicated to your favorite rituals, like morning walks with your dogs or the perfect cup of coffee

• Hang photos of your life on your walls

• Take photos of things that matter to you, and create albums on your phone dedicated to them

• Record photos and videos of yourself, simply for your own reflection

• Collect photo and audio narratives from loved ones in your life, including your children, grandparents, friends, or neighbors

These seemingly small acts of documentation create rich archives of our evolving selves. These collections become mirrors, reflecting back patterns and preferences we might not consciously recognize.

Support Community Preservation

Our individual stories exist within webs of collective history. These larger narratives require intentional effort to maintain and honor. Take time to learn the stories that shape your neighborhoods and city, especially as gentrification, displacement, and rapid change threaten to erase them.

Some places to start:

• Research the history of the religious spaces in your community, including churches, mosques, and synagogues. You can likely learn a lot about your neighborhood by knowing both their history and how they operate today.

• Explore the founding stories of your local colleges and universities.

• Map the "geography of resistance" by identifying where important marches and protests occurred in your neighborhoods. Learn how these actions shaped the places we now inhabit.

• Go to your local community centers, libraries, museums, and historical societies to find stories of local influential leaders.

• Learn the stories of the people behind the preserved buildings and sites where you live.

Venus in Two Acts This work by Saidiya Hartman examines the ubiquitous presence of Venus in the archive of Atlantic slavery and wrestles with the impossibility of discovering anything about her, sparking the idea of critical fabulation and its role in understanding limited archives.

For Black Archaeologists, the Atlantic Ocean is an Ancestral Graveyard. Black maritime archeologists like Gabrielle Miller find both healing and terror as they excavate shipwrecks from the transatlantic slave trade.

What was the Middle Passage? Get a quick overview of the Middle Passage and the conditions captured African people faced during the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

Slavery at Sea by Sowande M Mustakeem is a book that highlights the terrors of the Middle Passage by combing through documentation. This is a helpful analysis of the book that provides additional context.