Have you ever felt like the walls were closing in — like doors were shutting and you couldn’t figure out why?

Today’s essay is about that season. The P & P season.

Persecution… and the paranoia that follows.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you deserved the storm you were in, this one is for you.

Persecution is an odd thing.

When everything starts going wrong, I feel myself shrink. I feel extremely small. Then every slight becomes magnified. A look. A tone. An unanswered email. And suddenly we’re dangerously close to the other P word — paranoia.

Your once-hopeful persona begins to fade. You start waiting for the next blow.

As a type A person, an engineer at heart, I look for cause and effect. I try to pinpoint the moment I FAed and FOed. While I search, I double down on hope, prayer, and producing. I can be one productive fool when I feel the walls closing in.

Still, I will lie awake trying to figure out what I did to deserve this.

And for the whole of last year, I couldn’t find the culprit. Did I cross a line? I would like to know. Did I cut somebody? Did I punch somebody really, really hard? Did I steal your chair or your parking space?

No.

I didn’t take anybody’s anything. Nope. I have my own.

In our twisted parasocial world, I will wonder if I liked the wrong posts, which now give you beef.

You can see how the paranoia can ramp. Deep down, I think many of us want to feel like we deserve this punishment. If I earned it, at least there’s logic. At least there’s control.

But the painful lesson I’ve had to grapple with is this:

Other than being overly eager and overly enthusiastic, I didn’t do anything wrong. Persecution is not necessarily earned.

Somewhere in the strange karma of the cosmic universe, you were chosen. And we all want to be chosen, right? But just not like this.

Congratulations, you were chosen to have doors slammed in your face. Sometimes your hand was still on the seal — so you get that extra sting. You were chosen to lose. You were chosen to have your integrity questioned. You were chosen to decide whether you were going to grow up, go high… or sink low. If you’ve contemplated being the villain and getting revenge, put it in the comments.

Now I’ve said before — and if you’ve read Fire Sword and Sea, you know — I believe in something called holy anger. There is a righteous anger. As a woman, I was urged to hold it in. To not sin in my anger. Yet, you can be angry and still be whole.

Nonetheless, that is the struggle. How do we keep ourselves together as we wait for relief?

I won’t pretend I’ve mastered survival. I haven’t. But I can say I didn’t curse anybody out — at least not where it could be recorded. I kept my cool for the most part. And when it came time to fight the battle, I didn’t yell. I let other people stand in the gap. I brought my hurt to those who could counsel me. I found fellowship. I found sisterhood. I saw rapiers lifted to defeat an armada.

I found in real time who was on your team, my crew, and who wasn’t.

My blessed crew found the time to encourage me, and gave me grace to rise above every point of contention. The P&P season, it’s very shocking. It’s hurtful.

When you find you’re in the P&P-season, hold yourself together even when you find traitors in your midst.

Persecution shows you who’s pulling for you. You find out who will show up, and the ones who have your back, even when it costs them something.

It’s priceless the perspective I now have. And let me say this clearly: persecution is momentary. It may feel fresh, but there is an expiration date.

Despite the pain, I am grateful for the experience.

Why?

Because it has made me more appreciative of those who advocate for me. It has made me more discerning about praise and opportunity. It has made me double down on what connects me most to you.

This podcast–I do this podcast every week because it allows me to express what I’m going through — not just as an author, but as a human being. And in putting a voice to thoughts and sharing, I feel closer to you. My books may move you, yes. But when I talk about the shared experiences we are all living through — just in different forms — something deeper happens.

We bond. We may commiserate. And maybe I’ve given voice to shared pain, shared struggle.

When I started writing weekly essays, I was angry at the world. Frankly, I was pissed off. Somewhere along the way, this became therapeutic. I often write about the past. This podcast became a bridge to our shared present. It’s our bridge. And this bridge energizes every facet of my heart and mind.

Every week, I look forward to this space, to sharing a revelation. A story. Something that made me angry. Something that brought me joy. Something that might shift your perspective.

Listen to me. I know some of you are hurting. Some of you are still in the storm. I wish you comfort and safety. When you get close to the other side of through, I want you to see the sunlight breaking through the clouds.

I want you to be amazing.

I want you to have clarity.

I want you to be stronger than before.

If you’re in the middle of the dark season, ask yourself:

1. What are the facts versus your interpretation?

2. What was said?

3. What was done?

4. What evidence do I truly have?

Document everything. Emotion fades. Records protect you.

5. Is this a “you” thing or a “we” thing?

6. Have you conferred with trusted people? Not just those who validate you — those who will challenge you gently.

7. Have I accounted for my own actions or inaction?

8. What is within my control?

You cannot control other people’s actions. You can control:

Your documentation.

Your tone.

Your boundaries.

Your next move.

If you’ve done all these steps and sufficient brooding, stop and rest. Don’t spend another minute trying to figure out someone else’s motivations. It’s at best a waste of time. At worst, it becomes a list of things that keep you angry, that shift someone else’s bad attitude, poor behavior, or evil onto you.

Who cares if the persecutor is motivated by fear, competition, bias, malice, or worse? If the response is from the system, higher-ups, etc., you will not change their minds.

A few more tips:

1. Seek grounded counsel. A mentor. A therapist. A minister. Legal advice if necessary. Someone who will steady you.

2. Protect your mental and strategic position.

3. Don’t react publicly in anger.

4. Don’t overshare emotionally. I’m not saying not sharing your feelings or even asking for help in these social streets. I’m saying leave all the emojis and expletives behind.

5. Don’t isolate.

6. Self-preservation is a strategy.

Direct confrontation doesn’t always work, especially in systemic situations. If a system knows you’ve identified it, it may escalate your demise — and by demise, I mean reputation, perception, and future references.

If persecution is real and systemic, you may need an exit plan.

A graceful exit is not defeat. It’s wisdom.

I will say this with my whole chest. My P-season is over. There are big moves ahead, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

So here we are. On this journey. Some of us are on the other side, some—finding a new normal. Some—waiting for daylight. Some—waiting for a breath with no pain, I see you and wish you love and endurance.

And I am thankful, my listeners.

Thankful for the clarity. Thankful for strength. And grateful that even in persecution, there is an end and a hope for a brighter tomorrow. Just know we are writing the future together.

This week’s booklist includes titles like:

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah — A moving WWII novel about two sisters resisting oppression and finding courage in impossible circumstances.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker — A classic of oppression and triumph, showing how relationships and community empower a woman to reclaim her life.

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood — A powerful dystopian story about identity and agency under systemic control.

If I Ruled the World by Amy DuBois Barnett — A sharp, juicy coming-of-power novel about a young Black woman navigating misogynoir, ambition, and authenticity in 1990s New York media and hip-hop while fighting to keep her soul intact.

And reposting last week’s:

Keeper of Lost Children by Sadeqa Johnson

Set across postwar Germany and the United States, this novel explores abandoned mixed-race children, chosen family, and how love and responsibility can reshape lives history tried to discard.

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

A novel that examines how love and trust are tested by systems that refuse to see certain Americans as fully human.

Fire Sword and Sea — Vanessa Riley

A sweeping historical novel that exposes pirates, sisterhood, and survival in the chaotic and diverse 17th-century (1600s) Caribbean.

This week I’m again highlighting East City Bookshop, because I forgot to post about them.

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from East City Bookshop or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s keep everyone excited about Fire Sword and Sea.

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com, under the podcast link in the About tab.

Let’s keep rising and creating together. Please like, subscribe, and share the podcast. And stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for listening. I want you to come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

Author Talks presents Vanessa Riley, Fire Sword and Sea: One of the best happening Lit/Bookish Scenes in Atlanta is Author Talks – Music, Crafted Cocktails, Tapas, and Great Conversation about Pirates and Resistance! Don’t miss it.

Friday, Feb 20 from 7 pm to 9 pm EST

Register:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/author-talks-presents-vanessa-riley-fire-sword-and-sea-tickets-1977625097904

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

There is a time and a season for everything.The real question is: Are you ready to move?

Right now, it’s a scary time to be a Black creative. Honestly, it’s a scary time for everybody in the arts. I’ve shared in a previous episode how the Canva bots came for me — they told me that the word slavery was political and banned in their system of tools.Banning books is all the rage. Banning concepts or ideas — stopping the writer or artist at the very beginning — is unfathomable.

Vanessa speaking at the Conyers Book Festival.

You might say, “Vanessa, AI and bots are just part of the times.” And yes, there are many great uses for AI in research and algorithmic approaches. But until we figure out how to train AI without stealing from artists and writers, we are going to continue to have a problem.

If you tell me that the season we’re in now involves AI writing novels and creating drawings and graphics to replace artists, I will encourage you to consider the following:Nothing can replace human creativity, authenticity, and zeal.Those impacted by theft or imitation must press boundaries, pursue legal actions when necessary, and most importantly — outlast the wave.Sometimes, winning is simply about longevity.

Outlasting your haters is definitely one way to gain victory.

For those who follow me, I’m Vanessa Riley. I write in three genres: historical fiction, historical romance, and mystery.

Lately, in the book world, I’ve seen so many friends — so many writers like myself who focus on history — getting hurt. Series are being cut short. Book options aren’t being picked up. Doors that were once wide open are now being slammed shut.

The reasons are many:They tell us the market is soft.They whisper there are “enough” Black books now.They say history—the kind that reveals hidden figures and rich, complicated lives—is suddenly being gutted, looted, or dismissed.

For someone like me, who loves history and is just now finding my footing in historical fiction, it’s dark. It’s absolutely terrifying.

The visual arts, films, and TV have also suffered. In January, I heard similar feedback from filmmakers.

Hollywood is still “recovering,” they say.Budgets are tighter. Risk tolerance is low.Historical pieces, they say, are too “hard to place”—too expensive, too niche.

And then—everyone gets dazzled by Ryan Coogler’s Sinners, a historical piece set in the 1930s that genre-bends horror and drama.The film is a hit.

Annie and Smoke from the Movie Sinners shot by Eli Joshua.

At the time of this podcast, Sinners has grossed over $161 million and is now projected to gross between $300–400 million. A diverse audience of moviegoers—Black, White, Asian, and more—people from all walks of life are coming together to experience this masterpiece of storytelling.

Ryan Coogler, I salute you. You had a daring vision, found or created the systems and opportunities to execute it, and made magic.

Now is the time of opportunity.

We have to shake off our fears and create.We must figure out new ways to tell the stories burning in our souls.To innovate. To evolve. That is pathFinding way through the wilderness is the answer.

Sinners showed us the way—not just by being excellent in storytelling, photography, cinematography, and research—but by knowing exactly who the story was for.

Ryan and his team pushed the right buttons—the necessary buttons. The heart of the film is Black-centered storytelling: Jim Crow South, inclusivity, and vampires.

Because when you know who you’re speaking to and what you want to say, you don’t have to dilute the truth to make it palatable.

As a Black creative, I’ve often been pressured to center pain and trauma in my stories—because that is what some believe (and still desire) is what sells.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners proves that de-escalating trauma works.It sells.Even in the scariest genres.

He took care in how the story was told.Care in how every scene was shot.Care in the research, the respect.

He cast with authenticity—from hair to skin to clothes to dialogue.He didn’t slap diversity on just for clout—the script lived it.

To succeed only by limiting our stories to an audience that believes in our humanity through our suffering is inexcusable.

We must push boundaries, push different buttons.And I believe it is our mission to find new ways to share the lessons of the past—without reducing ourselves to victims or spectacles.

And if Sinners has taught us anything, it’s this:Audiences will reward care.They will reward newness.They will reward stories told with humanity, dignity, and love.

When I first started writing, my mission was simple:Educate the world about the history of Black people across the diaspora.Show our humanity through love stories.

But missions shift with the seasons.Right now? For me—and this pen or keyboard—it’s time to move, to be more daring, to try new approaches to story.

Looking back, I know there were times I softened words, edited scenes, chose tenderness over rawness—because I wanted to make sure readers were comfortable.I wanted the message to reach as many as possible.And I don’t regret the stories I told. I’m proud of every one of them.

But the filter is gone now.And here’s the hard truth:If you still need convincing of my humanity in 2025, I say this with all respect—You probably aren’t going to get it.Keep your coins.Find your own Damascus road.You need divine intervention.

I’m not St. Peter.I’m not standing at the gate any longer, waiting to explain myself—or my people—to you.If you want my knowledge, you’re going to have to do the work yourself.

This new season? This new phase?My stories will be as unapologetic and as free as they’ve ever been.

Because I am a storyteller.And with that comes a duty:To honor my people.To carry the sagas of our ancestors.To bridge the distance from “over yonder” and back to “right here.”

Of course, I want everyone to feel welcome reading my books.I understand I live in a system I didn’t build—but I’m here, and I intend to win.

But my stories?They’re for my people.

And if you’re still listening, you are my people.I write for you.I labor for you.I see you.

I’m ready to move and adjust.And I will be your guide—to happy-ever-after, happy-for-now, or to some bigger definition of freedom and faith. What say you?

What say you?

Some books to guide you in your quest for more authentic storytelling:

“We Do This ‘Til We Free Us” by Mariame Kaba — Essays on abolition and hope, but also about how storytelling and imagination drive social change.

“Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds” by adrienne maree brown — A guide to embracing change and creativity rooted in community and freedom.

And now some fiction titles:

“The Prophets” by Robert Jones Jr. — A deeply poetic novel about Black love and resistance set during slavery but centered on love and humanity, not suffering.

“Bloodchild and Other Stories” by Octavia Butler — Speculative short stories about survival, community, and power dynamics.

“Ring Shout” by P. Djèlí Clark — A daring, genre-bending novel mixing horror, history, and Black resistance during the Jim Crow era (very much like Sinners).

“Island Queen” by Vanessa Riley — A real-life figure’s story told with dignity, richness, and depth.

Show notes are here. This week, I’m highlighting East City Bookshop through their website and Bookshop.org

You can find my notes on history and writing on my website, VanessaRiley.com.

Enjoying the vibe? Go ahead and like this episode and subscribe to Write of Passage so you never miss a moment.

Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

Originally posted 2025-04-29 13:10:00.

Hands. Dozens—reaching up, hands high, reaching together—midair, mid-trust, mid-hope.

At the Super Bowl, it wasn’t about the score. It wasn’t the teams. It was a moment during the halftime show when Bad Bunny turned his back, leapt into the unknown, and believed—without hesitation—that someone would catch him. I don’t have the faith that. Somehow, I’d love to find it again.

Hands. Hands. Hands

Like many of you, I got ready for Super Bowl Sunday. I wasn’t particularly invested in either team—though, fine, go Seattle. Super Bowl LX, played on February 8, 2026, at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, gave us a familiar matchup: a rematch of Super Bowl XLIX between the Seattle Seahawks and the New England Patriots. The Seahawks won decisively, 29–13. But I’m not here for the game.

I’m here for the halftime show.

In a previous essay, I talked about what I half-jokingly call the Kendrick Bowl (and the Beyoncé Bowl)—those halftime performances that feel less like entertainment and more like cultural moments, collective storytelling events we prepare ourselves to receive. We tune in expecting meaning. We expect to be told something about who we are.

Bad Bunny delivered exactly that.

As the solo headliner of the Super Bowl LX halftime show, Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio made history with an almost entirely Spanish-language set—the first of its kind on this stage. The 13-minute performance was unapologetically Latin, deeply Puerto Rican, and expansively American. With guest appearances from artists like Lady Gaga, Ricky Martin, Karol G, and Cardi B, the show pulsed with energy and intention. It honored elders and entrepreneurs, community and culture, sugarcane and sweat—the histories on which this nation, and particularly the Caribbean, were built. The theme might as well have been spelled out in lights: Together We Are America.

But that’s not why I’m writing today.

I’m writing because of a single image—a still photograph taken during the performance—that I will not soon forget.

At one point, Bad Bunny turns his back to the stage and vaults into the air, committing fully to a trust fall. There is no visible harness. No safety net. Just the assumption—no, the certainty—that he will be caught. The photograph captures him midair, body arched, while dozens of hands reach up toward him. Many hands. Many skin tones. All extended in the same direction, united by purpose: we will not let you fall.

It is a breathtaking image.

Ishika Samant’s Getty photograph freezes that moment of collective trust and shared responsibility. It is not about celebrity. It is about belief. And when I saw it, I felt something click into place.

At first, I thought of 2020—the flood of performative black squares, the hollow gestures of solidarity that required nothing and risked nothing. But no, this image goes further back. Much further.

It took me to November 4, 2008.

The New York Times ran a photograph by Doug Mills of supporters of Senator Barack Obama cheering at a rally in Chicago as news broke that he had won Pennsylvania. Hands raised. Faces lit with hope. That night, as Adam Nagourney wrote, Barack Hussein Obama was elected the 44th president of the United States, “sweeping away the last racial barrier in American politics.”

Welp. That didn’t last.

Yet, the photo still exists. The image of hands raised high—reaching, open, expectant. It’s hopeful.

Hope, that’s what the Bad Bunny photograph reminded me of: that version of America, diverse and unfinished, but leaning forward together.

That moment in 2008, or 2026, seems a distant dream.

Leaders chuckle at racist cartoons. Organizations kill Americans because they dared to protect a brother or a sister. Young folks question the American dream and if they’ll be able to afford half the things their parents did. Millions of people don’t know if they will ever be able to retire, because the economy many voted for has stripped them of their dignity and security, and quietly tells us what many of us already suspected—that in the eyes of the state, you are disposable, especially if you are not part of the vaulted class chosen to run industries, sit on boards, or make lists.

I don’t like that picture of America. It’s hollow. It’s performative. It’s as empty as a black square aka 2020 on Instagram.

I want a hopeful America again. I want the shining city on a hill—not the slogan, but the promise behind it. I want to believe that yes we can find unity and forgive division.

Lately, when I talk about Fire Sword and Sea, I use the metaphor of a pirate ship as a meritocracy. Stay with me. Yes, pirates stole other people’s things, and by today’s standards that’s somewhat illegal. In the 1600s, it was disturbingly legal.

A pirate crew survived because . everyone worked toward a common goal. Picture it: Africans, Europeans, Indigenous people, people from across the Caribbean—the very nations Bad Bunny called out in his performance—thrown together with a dream to win. On that ship, you voted. You were equals. No one asked who you were or who you loved. They asked: Can you rig the sails? Can you scrub barnacles? When the fighting starts and you’ve got a rapier or a sword in your hand, can I trust you to strike the enemy and not stab me in the back?

That’s it. Contribution. Trust. Shared survival.

So when I look at that Super Bowl photograph—Bad Bunny suspended midair, many hands reaching up—I want that America again. I want the America of 2008, when people didn’t hate again, so openly or so loudly.

Oh, what a time that was.

And what we see now is how fragile those moments are—how quickly they can erode. Division waits patiently for fear, resentment, and weak thinking to give it an opening.

Division takes root. It’s loathed to let go. It would never trust and dive into outstretched hands, diverse hands, hands with color.

So I want to thank the Super Bowl. I want to thank everyone who stood up during Bad Bunny’s performance and danced, who took in the imagery of Puerto Rico and its rich history, as well as all our neighbors to the south, in the Caribbean—the Americas as a shared, complicated whole.

For a brief moment, we saw unity on that stage, and it was beautiful. I don’t know how we get back there.

I just hope, we do.

This week’s booklist includes unify titles like:

Keeper of Lost Children by Sadeqa Johnson

Set across postwar Germany and the United States, this novel explores abandoned mixed-race children, chosen family, and how love and responsibility can reshape lives history tried to discard.

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

A novel that examines how love and trust are tested by systems that refuse to see certain Americans as fully human.

There There by Tommy Orange

A powerful chorus of voices that explores Native identity, belonging, and what it means to gather, hope, and be seen in modern America.

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

A reflection on reciprocity, care, and collective survival, offering a vision of community rooted in responsibility rather than dominance.

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

Through lyrical vignettes, a young girl navigates identity, language, and belonging within a Latinx community shaped by migration and memory.

Puerto Rico: A National History by Jorell Meléndez-Badillo

A people-centered history that reframes Puerto Rico through resistance, labor, and collective struggle rather than colonial myth.

Fire Sword and Sea — Vanessa Riley

A sweeping historical novel that exposes pirates, sisterhood, and survival in the chaotic and diverse 17th-century (1600s) Caribbean.

This week I’m highlighting East City Bookshop.

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from East City Bookshop or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s keep everyone excited about Fire Sword and Sea.

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com, under the podcast link in the About tab.

Let’s keep rising and creating together. Please like, subscribe, and share the podcast. And stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for listening. I want you to come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

Author Talks presents Vanessa Riley, Fire Sword and Sea: One of the best happening Lit/Bookish Scenes in Atlanta is Author Talks – Music, Crafted Cocktails, Tapas, and Great Conversation about Pirates and Resistance! Don’t miss it.

Friday, Feb 20 from 7 pm to 9 pm EST

Register:

44th & 3rd BooksellerAtlanta, GA

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/author-talks-presents-vanessa-riley-fire-sword-and-sea-tickets-1977625097904

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

Last week was a weird one. The algorithms—the bots—seemed to come for me. Canva, of all places, led the charge. It made me feel like I wasn’t just wrong in opinion, but wrong in essence. As if the characters I write—rooted in history, full of breath and heart—were somehow unworthy. Handcuff me now, because it felt like I was being told it was a crime to write them at all.

Caption: Two Scaredy-Cats watching the must see movie, Sinners.

And in this current climate? That kind of doubt sticks. There’s so much anti-DEI noise. So much effort to “protect” people from truth. Heaven forbid someone learns something. Heaven forbid someone dares to be better, more moral than their ancestors.

I thought I’d shaken it off. Thought I’d moved on. I got back work on my manuscript and typed out another 6,000 words. Then came another note from Canva, gently suggesting I find another word—something less “triggering”—than “enslaved” to describe Jacquotte of the upcoming Fire Sword and Sea, who had in fact was enslaved. So I turned to friends and asked them for other ways to phrase “enslavement.” Here’s what we came up with:

* Bond servant

* Stolen laborer

* Forced job training

* People in the condition of slavery

* Held in captivity

* Kidnapped

And y’all—I laughed to keep from crying. Because all I could think of was: Lord, have mercy.

I might have sinned right then—if not in word, then in thought. I wanted to cuss out the machine. I was disappointed in technology. That’s a hard place to be for a data girl. Yet, I was more disappointed in me for even entertaining the idea of appeasing the bot—the faceless, soulless thing that some biased, flawed, or agenda driven human had created and enabled it to think it knows what’s best.

Surrendering is not how we honor truth or the stories we’re called to tell.

Let me take a moment to invite you to something special.Write of Passage is my little corner of the internet where I share thoughts on writing, storytelling, the ups and downs of life, and how we keep going—even when the odds feel great. If that sounds like your speed, go ahead and hit the subscribe button.

Welcome to the Write of Passage family. Now, back to the podcast.

Fear is a seductive thing. It whispers: Don’t speak too loudly. Don’t shine too brightly. Don’t center stories on Black truth, Black joy, or Black progress.

And lately, I’ll admit—it’s been taking me longer to bounce back. It’s getting harder to hold on to the vision of a brighter morning just ahead when everything feels handcuffed and ready to be jailed or deported.

In the past forty-eight hours. The visuals that I allowed my eyes to see have been, stunning, heartbreaking, and even holy.

On Easter Sunday, my church goes all out for a dramatization of the Crucification: lights, drama, music, the whole thing. But this year, there stood a Black Jesus—bloodied, whipped, brutalized. It hit different, terrifyingly different. Then came Black Simon, stepping in to carry the cross, basically taking on his shoulders the oppressor’s burden given to Jesus. I’m watching it and something cracked, fracture into hundreds of pieces on the inside.

It’s been a long time since I cried in church. The first time was when I said the sinner’s prayer and I admitted that I was scared and I needed salvation.

Side note: Did you know the “Sinner’s Prayer” doesn’t actually appear anywhere in the Bible? There is no biblical record of anyone praying those exact words. It emerged around the Protestant Reformation and took shape in the early 20th century—barely 125 years ago. For context, the Civil War officially ended 160 years ago. Both of those things are not that long ago.

On Easter Monday, I saw Sinners—the Ryan Coogler film with Michael B. Jordan, Wunmi Mosaku, Hailee Steinfeld, Li Jun Li, Miles Caton, and Delroy Lindo. On a gorgeous widescreen, I watched this emotionally rich tale saturated with period details and truths. Spoilers alert: Two brothers are seen watching the sunrise, just in awe of the majesty and their freedom. Then I focused on people dancing, singing, loving.

Then comes destruction.

The movie has all types of monsters. The obvious hate-filled men of the Klan, who are hungry for blood and money. Then monsters disguised as your own kind. The evil is often invited in. He feasts of fear and death.

The violence didn’t make me jump. The gore wasn’t any worse than the makeup used at church for the crucifixion. Eventually, dread arrives. It settles in your chest. It steals all joy before the next morning can come. I found myself waiting for that other foot to fall, for when that bad was coming.

So what does this all mean? Anticipating doom or consequence can be as draining as when the threats or violence comes. We can’t surrender in advance.

It means we must guard our eyes—not to shield them from truth, but to make sure they still see beauty, even in chaos. Still see family. Still see hope.

We must guard our ears—because false praise can lull us into stillness. It can lie to us that we are safe and leave us vulnerable to brokenness. Yet we need music, sweet music, true music, ancestral rhythms. All can cut through the noise and remind us who we are, who we are striving to be.

We must remember:

This little light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine.

A light can be seen.A light reveals what’s nearest—what needs our care.A light casts shadows, warning us of what’s creeping in the distance.A light tells the truth of our circumstances. And it gives us the chance to see the true face of things lurking in the dark.

So keep your light burning. That is your protection.Keep your voice strong. That is how you inspire hope.Then revel in each new day, letting your truth-telling, joy-making, world-building self be known.

To help encourage your soul, try:

Call Us What We Carry by Amanda Gorman – Poetry that engages with history, hope, and the responsibility of bearing witness.

Sula by Toni Morrison – A meditation on Black womanhood, loyalty, and community through beautifully painful prose.

And of course, go see Sinners in the movie theater. Watch creativity and inclusiveness on the widest screen you can find. Thank me later.

The winners will be those who kept their light shining, who believed in truth. And who dared to cry out: It’s me. It’s me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer.

Darkness is real. We tend to invite into our life, our work, our sanctuaries.But remember dawn is also real. Dawn, I hear comes with new mercies, too. I pray we find them.

To be the first to know about Fire Sword and Sea, go to: https://bit.ly/vrfiresword

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting The Book Cellar through their website and Bookshop.org You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

Help fight the bots by hitting like and continuing to share this podcast. You are essential to its growth.

Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

Originally posted 2025-04-22 13:10:00.

As we head into February, Black History Month, remember that this month is short, intentional, and earned—created because Black contributions were systematically erased from American history. My that sort of sounds familiar. Like what’s happening now. Welp, for my part, I’m making a block list. That’s right for all asking performative questions, those too lazy to Google asking for labor or lists. So, if you show up confused, unprepared, or intentionally obtuse, don’t worry—you won’t be staying for long.

Blocking Season

As we enter Black History Month, I find myself both excited and annoyed.

I actually love this month. I hate that it’s only twenty-eight days—unless we luck into a leap year. February is the month my father was born, which establishes my own Black American cred: Caribbean immigrant roots on one side, and on the other, my mother’s people—Igbo transported, South Carolina born and bred. The family name Riley traces Irish roots, because everyone, at some point, was complicit in colonization and enslavement.

But I digress. That’s not the purpose of this essay.

Black History Month did not simply appear—it was fought for. In 1926, historian Carter G. Woodson established what was then called Negro History Week. His aim was simple and radical: to force a nation that had erased Black contributions from its textbooks and public memory to pause and acknowledge the truth. He deliberately chose February to coincide with the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln (February 12) and Frederick Douglass (February 14), dates many Black communities were already honoring.

It was radical to demand national attention on Black contributions. Woodson understood something America still resists: history does not correct itself, nor does it acknowledge wrongdoing, unless it is confronted.

Eventually, that week became a month. A complicated, necessary space to recognize Black history in America—and across the world.

I remember the irony well: focusing the shortest month of the year on Black history, while the other eleven months continue doing what they always do—centering dominant or majority cultures.

Still, I look forward to it. To revel in Blackness. To listen to our music. To laugh at our inside jokes. To not explain ourselves. To exist without translation.

It’s my history month. It’s actually everyone’s history—but truth deniers don’t have the bandwidth for that.

Which is why I am not doing this thing we do every year.

If you have never thought about reading anything by a Black author before, do not log onto social media and ask those performative, empty questions. I saw one just yesterday: “I want to read about Black people, but I don’t want to read about slavery.”

Here’s the thing: Black authors write about everything—just like everybody else. Romance. Science fiction. High-tech thrillers. Family sagas. Hollywood celebrity culture. I guarantee someone is writing about the Epstein saga as we speak.

What we are not going to do is pretend Google or ChatGPT doesn’t exist.

What we are not going to do is pretend libraries are inaccessible or that librarians are scary.

What we are not going to do is ask for free labor from people you have spent your entire big age ignoring.

If you have gotten this far in life without caring to learn about anyone who doesn’t look like you, stay in your lane. You simply don’t need to know. You lack the empathy gene—and that is information we need to know. In pirate terms, you are the person we watch closely when swords are handed out, because history suggests you’ll stab someone in the back.

So go ahead. Self-identify.

Ignore the culture. Remain blissfully clueless. No cookout invitations were coming anyway. You’ve missed nothing.

But if you wander into my lane with lazy, antagonistic nonsense, I will block you. No explanation. No debate. You will simply find yourself gone.

Let me say this clearly: do not play the few Black people who tolerate you with your performative curiosity. Do not ask questions designed to provoke eye-rolling. Do not demand emotional labor disguised as “learning.”

Frankly, I assume half of these posts are bots engineered to raise my blood pressure. But just in case they aren’t—just in case a real person is typing these things—stay home. Stay in your zone. Keep your sheets on. Dust off the cone hats. We do not need you.

Now, for those of us who are actually curious about culture: we read widely. We write widely. Yes, enslavement is a pervasive story—because colonization is a pervasive story. Across history, there has always been a dominant culture with better weapons and a willingness to exploit others for economic gain.

Notice I did not say white people.

Enslavement is humanity’s recurring sin.

One of the most heartbreaking things I researched for Fire Sword and Sea was learning how French governors in the Caribbean actively stole poor French women from the streets of Paris—enslaving them and selling them as wives or brothel workers.

Is it the same as chattel slavery? No.

Could it be brutal? Absolutely.

Accounts describe women shackled, thrown into the holds of ships, and transported across the ocean. Terror looks the same no matter who you are when you are chained below deck in a dark frigate.

The Mughal Muslim empire enslaved infidels. Spanish, French, British, and Dutch colonizers enslaved Indigenous populations throughout Mexico, South America, and every island in the Caribbean. And in that same era, transatlantic slave trafficking—the most horrific form of generational enslavement—expanded and calcified. Power does what power does.

Which is why books like Fire Sword and Sea matter. Not because they lecture, but because they show the choices, the complicity, the sisterhoods, the brutality, and the strange exhilaration of chaotic worlds that formed the foundations of the one we inhabit now. History is not clean. It is not simple. It exists to teach us how not to repeat our worst selves.

But I cannot make you curious about a world you have decided you don’t want to understand.

That choice is yours.

So once again, as February arrives, do not make it your mission to post inflammatory nonsense. It’s Black History Month. Spare us. Spare me.

Or meet the blocking season.

This week’s booklist are books that center different facets of Black History:

A Christmas to Remember— Beverly Jenkins

A tender, contemporary based on a historic Black settled town of Henry Adams.

The Personal Librarian — Marie Benedict & Victoria Christopher Murray

The hidden true story of Belle da Costa Greene, a Black woman passing as white while shaping one of the most powerful libraries in the world.

Black AF History — Michael Harriot

A concise, accessible exploration of Black history that connects past struggles to present-day movements for justice.

The Trial of Mrs. Rhinelander— Denny S. Bryce

A riveting historical novel about a Black woman passing as white whose marriage sparks a sensational 1920s court case that exposes America’s obsessions with race, class, and identity.

People of Means — Nancy Johnson

A modern novel about class, ambition, and racial tension, following a Black woman navigating privilege, love, and betrayal in Chicago.

Fire Sword and Sea — Vanessa Riley

A sweeping historical novel that exposes pirates, sisterhood, and survival in the chaotic 17th-century (1600s) Caribbean.

This week I’m highlighting The Book Cellar.

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from The Book Cellar or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s keep everyone excited about Fire Sword and Sea.

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com, under the podcast link in the About tab.

Enjoying these essays? Go ahead and like this episode, share, and subscribe to Write of Passage so you never miss a moment.”

Thank you for listening. I want you to come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

Upcoming Events:

Coming to a library near you, Feb. 5th at 7:00 P.M. EST

Join us for an unforgettable experience as we chat with Vanessa Riley about her newest book, Fire Sword and Sea, based on the folk story of the female pirate Jacquotte Delahaye. Jacquotte dreams of joining the seafarers and smugglers whose tall-masted ships cluster in the turquoise waters around Tortuga. For twenty years, Jacquotte raids the Caribbean as Jacques, hiding her gender. When her fellow pirates decide to increase their profits by entering the slave trade, Jacquotte must make a change. Thursday, February 5th at 7 PM ET via digital live-stream in partnership with Dougherty County Public Library.

Register: https://bit.ly/RileyShare

Author Talks presents Vanessa Riley, Fire Sword and Sea: One of the best happening Lit/Bookish Scenes in Atlanta is Author Talks – Music, Crafted Cocktails, Tapas, and Great Conversation about Pirates and Resistance! Don’t miss it.

Friday, Feb 20 from 7 pm to 9 pm EST

Register:

44th & 3rd BooksellerAtlanta, GA

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/author-talks-presents-vanessa-riley-fire-sword-and-sea-tickets-1977625097904

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

The Warning That Sparked It All

It started with a slide.

Vanessa Riley trying to find peace and missing it.

Nine months away from the release of Fire Sword and Sea, my fourth historical fiction novel, I was using Canva—an online design tool—to create character slides. Each slide was a snapshot of a journey: a woman who rose from enslavement to ship captain, a reimagined heroine defying colonial narratives and gender norms. I hit the “add speaker notes” button, eager to get tips for speaking. I dream big, thinking I’ll be having substantive discussions on my writing and research. And then—Cava flagged me.

Thanks for reading Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage! This post is public so feel free to share it.

The Canva warning on my character’s slide.

It warned me, that is appears I’m working on a political topic which is not supported.

I paused. Political? This wasn’t a manifesto. I didn’t mention government, war, or even the man in the White House. Just a character arc. A woman doing what men historically claimed as their domain. A woman who had been enslaved, now captain of her own destiny. Was that what triggered the flag?

The slide in question. Yes, I still can’t believe it.

Was it because she was Black? Because she was free? Because she existed at all? At the time of this recording Canva has not responded.

Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

What Had Happened Was…

There’s a popular phrase in Black vernacular storytelling—“What had happened was…” It’s often said with a chuckle, a smile, a pause before unpacking truth. It’s a doorway to context, a map through what might otherwise get dismissed.

So—what had happened was—I was trying to promote a book.

I wasn’t trying to ignite a movement or start a fire. I just wanted to tell a story that mattered. And the tools I used turned on me. These so-called helpers, these digital platforms that were supposed to amplify my voice, were suddenly filtering it.

It’s easy to say the creator world is dicey right now. We’re all stressed—consumers, readers, artists alike. But we can’t pretend this isn’t something deeper. Truth is under attack. Art is under review. And some of us are being silenced before we even speak.

History Is on the Chopping Block

I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about why Canva flagged that slide with the magic word enslaved. To me it’s simple and diabolical: history—especially Black history—is being erased. It’s happening now, it’s in real time.

We are witnessing the rollback of truth. Not in some distant dystopia, but here and now.

Books are being banned. Curriculum gutted. The “both sides” rhetoric used to flatten facts into nothingness. Trusted institutions are quiet or complicit. The hunger for moral equivalence is starving out real accountability.

If you think you’re safe, don’t be fooled. They are coming for you, too. Just ask your Grandma or senior friend who can no longer call their social security office, and now must make inconvenient trips to get questions answered.

Art Is—and Always Has Been—Political

From the beginning of time, artists have resisted. Protest art existed long before hashtags and headlines:

* Ancient Egyptians carved critiques into pottery and tombs.

* Michelangelo’s David stood as a symbol of resistance against the de Medici family.

* Picasso’s Guernica screamed against fascism.

* Jean-Michel Basquiat painted the pain of racism and systemic decay on city walls.

Writers too have been on the front lines of protest:

* Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin rattled a nation and helped spur abolition.

* George Orwell’s 1984 warned us how language and surveillance would become weapons.

* James Baldwin, in The Fire Next Time, broke the illusion of American innocence.

* Chinua Achebe reclaimed African voices in Things Fall Apart.

* Octavia Butler’s Kindred forced readers to time-travel into the inescapable legacy of slavery.

These stories didn’t whisper. They roared.

And yet, many of these works were banned, challenged, or ignored until their creators were no longer threats—until they were dead or despaired . We call them legends now, but in their lifetimes, they faced resistance just for telling the truth.

The Risk of Telling Stories in 2025

I’m not comparing myself to these masters. But here’s the truth: you never know how far a writer might go if they weren’t forced to create under duress. What stories never get told because someone’s afraid of losing a contract, a platform, a chance?

As we hurtle toward the release of Fire Sword and Sea in January 2026, I know the stakes. This novel challenges colonial history. It questions gender roles and race. It doesn’t hold back. And yes, that means it may face backlash.

But I owe it to my characters—and the ancestors behind them—to be honest. To be bold. I wish it felt better to be a truth-teller right now. But it doesn’t. It feels risky. Lonely. Like shouting into the wind and hoping the algorithm doesn’t mute you.

Algorithms Are the New Gatekeepers

Back to that Canva flag. Back to the bots.

We like to pretend the internet is neutral. But algorithms aren’t free-thinking. They’re coded by people. People with biases. People with blind spots. People who might think that a Black woman becoming a ship captain is “too political.”

These systems decide what gets seen, what gets buried, and what gets flagged. And in this brave new world, even our tools are weapons of control.

So what do we do?

Honestly—I don’t know. I rely on these tools. I use them to work faster, reach farther. But every time I click “publish,” I wonder: am I aiding my own silencing? Feeding the same beast that’s ready to swallow me?

Still Here. Still Talking.

I have no tidy resolution to offer. But I do have a promise: I’m still here. I’m still writing. Still teaching. Still telling the truth for as long as the bots allow.

Because censorship isn’t always loud. Sometimes it comes as a quiet “warning.” A flagged slide. A ghosted post. A book pulled from shelves.

And sometimes, yes sometimes, protest are simple acts— continuing to paint, dance, and create, continuing to speak, continuing to write, continuing to tell our stories.

To be the first to know about Fire Sword and Sea: https://bit.ly/fireswordseaupdate

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Fountain Bookstore through their website and Bookshop.org You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

Help fight the bots by hitting like and continuing to share this podcast. You are essential to its growth.

Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

Originally posted 2025-04-15 13:10:00.