In my imagined nation...

What if kids weren't the only ones with the power to say 'What if?'

I never considered myself a very imaginative child, but I knew I wanted to raise imaginative kids.

When given the choice, I’d pick a science, geography, or history book over a fictional one. Just the word “fantasy” made me cringe, so, no, I did not read Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings.

I was more of a Little House on the Prairie girl, using my daydreaming hours to travel back in time to the pioneer days without realizing, at the time, that I was indulging in a different kind of fantasy: one that focused on the gains of the colonizers and not the harms to the colonized. 

At some point, I picked up The Giver and discovered a love for dystopian fiction. Suddenly, I had the capacity to suspend disbelief and enter into futuristic worlds rather than historic ones to think about the ways our society might be causing harm that we can’t see and to imagine solutions that might free us from the consequences of those decisions. 

When I became a parent in 2007, long before I learned about “Afrofuturism” and the idea that imagination is key to abolition, I dabbled in worldmaking.

I created Juliandia. 

Cutting up maps of places where I once lived — or places I wanted to live or places with interesting names and coastlines — I glued them back together to create a fictional world named after my firstborn. When Avery came along, I borrowed inspiration from Tabasco to create Avery Isle, another mythical land composed of bits and pieces from extant geography. 

These magical places hung by their crib, and then their floor bed, and then their bunk bed until, a few years ago, when these collages, perhaps sentimental to only me, went into storage.

But when we were moving, these maps moved with us. They won’t grace the walls of our new home, but they still hang in my heart as a reminder of a time when our current life — healthy, growing children who are well on their way toward independence in a home with emotional and financial stability — was but a dream. 

So, what are we using our imaginations for now? How do I model this kind of expansive, futuristic thinking about the world around us while encouraging my kids — and my partner and I — to enjoy the present under our own roof?

As I was thinking about this week’s newsletter, I pulled out two other pieces of my childhood for guidance. 

The first is Tar Beach, the bestselling children’s book of the 1990s that was based on a series of quilts by author Faith Ringgold. 

Ringgold, the great-great-great granddaughter of an enslaved woman who made quilts on a plantation in the South, was inspired by her own childhood growing up in the shadow of the George Washington Bridge to tell a story of an 8-year-old girl named Cassie Louise Lightfoot, who lies in bed at night while using her imagination to fly over New York City.

Listen to Tar Beach:

The flying characters in Tar Beach are part of a long storytelling tradition — passed down since the slave trade — about Black people having the ability to fly away from perilous situations. 

Even though humans flying without man-made technologies is beyond the scope of what science currently allows, the dream of doing so offered a sliver of hope during hopeless times. 

Magical thinking can be bad for our mental health and sometimes it can be what saves us. 

“All you need is somewhere to go you can’t get to any other way. The next thing you know, you’re flying among the stars.” 

Like the freedom quilts that hung along the Underground Railroad or the stories from folks like Albert Woodfox, who have survived decades of solitary confinement, Tar Beach sent a message that personal liberation is always possible, even in the face of oppression, poverty or impossibly difficult times. 

And that it’s OK to dream about a day when you can be a grown woman resting like Mrs. Honey. 

The second book at my fingertips was one of Richard Scarry’s “Best Ever” books, first published in 1963 and notably updated many times since to become more modernized. The version of Best First Book Ever that I have shows everyday scenes with Scarry’s signature animals — mostly cats and pigs, but also dogs, bears, a worm, and a giraffe — going about their everyday life in Busytown.

The dad is in the kitchen. The butcher is a female pig, who looks like she’s selling bacon, but that’s another story. Gender-neutral friends play together, looking ready to use they/them pronouns with the ease that my children do today. 

I can remember looking at these pages for hours when I was a kid, fascinated by these small details about what real life might be like in the future, where I would ride trains or take buses or have my own house with a dining table and a sink full of dishes and a bookshelf with all my favorite books. 

As I stood next to my bookshelf with all my favorite books in a house with a sink full of dishes and two children tucked into their beds, I realized that I was doing the equivalent of flying. Living my ancestors’ dreams. Finding ways to use my imagination about what else is possible in my little corner of Busytown. 

These pages offered an imaginary future for millions of children who didn’t dream of mansions but just a house with a roof and two parents and a stove that worked. 

I created Juliandia and Avery Isle when I was uncertain about what their futures would look like. 

I write essays like this when I’m uncertain about what our collective future looks like. 

I collect books from people who know more than I do about the power of the imagination so I can remember that creativity is always part of the solution. 

How can we harness our imagination not to create fantasy worlds where we get every single thing we want – or where our dystopian fears become realized – but where more people have access to safety, love, and abundance?

What worlds can we conjure in our minds – or with glue, scissors, and a stack of old maps – where there are more possibilities for more people?

What if kids weren’t the only ones with the courage to say, “What if?”

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Happy back-to-school week to all who celebrate!

I hope everyone has been enjoying these little sprinkles we’ve been getting in Austin this weekend. It’s not enough, but it’s enough for now.

Thank you for your subscription to The Feminist Kitchen! Your support means so much as I navigate the world of freelancing, consulting, dog walking, tarot reading, parenting, and emergent strategy-ing. I’ve never had a workload that looks quite like this, and if growth is a measure of work, I’ve never worked harder in my life.

From my imagination to yours,

Addie

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