I can’t think of a better way to describe The Black Hole.

  When I was seven years old and sitting in a Levittown movie theater near Toa Baja, Puerto Rico, Star Wars made me point to the screen and say, “I want to do that.” In that moment, I had a “utopian conception of ideal development.”

  Then I came of age in the Reagan Era, under the shadow of the mushroom cloud, and the AIDS crisis, and Chernobyl, and the fall of communism, and 9/11, and America’s endless wars on drugs and terror. I also went, and continue to go, through all that one would expect from the well- but mostly badly- lived life of a middle aged man: the two marriages, the one divorce, the two children, and trying to raise them and preserve my own sanity in a time of racial, social, and political turmoil made even more urgent by the reality of a coming catastrophic shift in our entire way of life due to pandemic and climate change. Oh, and somewhere in between all that, there’s also been three decades spent in the entertainment industry trying to fulfill my dreams.

  All of which is to say that my experience of living has definitely felt a lot more like watching The Black Hole than Star Wars.

  I have spent many a moment trying to dream up a story in which all the disparate elements that make up The Black Hole come together in a sensical way. While it pains me to report this as a professional writer for comic books, film, and television, I have not even come close to succeeding. The Black Hole frustrates all my attempts at a cohesive and satisfying synthesis of its component parts, even as it sparks constant creative speculation.

  That is why more than forty years after The Black Hole was released, I haven’t forgotten this sad and misbegotten assembly of old Hollywood death throes groaned in the wake of a new wave. In fact, all I have to do is lift my head and look across my office to see a shelf on which rest little plastic figures of Maximillian, B.O.B. and V.I.N.CENT.

  Floating on their lucite stands, these big-eyed angels and their towering devil remind me of how the broken and wretched, the incomplete and imperfect can still offer a space where consideration of the past, present, and future give way to bittersweet emotions, and reflection on one’s life, and finally a symbolic richness evoked by the persistent tokens of childhood, no matter how badly they were abused in the past. In failure, The Black Hole does something that evades many far more successful films: it creates light where none should exist.

  © 2021 Javier Grillo-Marxuach

  Though best known as one of the Emmy winning writer/producers of Lost (Outstanding Drama Series, 2005) and The Dark Crystal (Outstanding Children’s Program, 2020), and for creating The Middleman graphic novel and TV series, Javier “Javi” Grillo-Marxuach is a prolific creator of TV, movies, comic books, essays, podcasts, and transmedia content. Javi’s current work includes writing and producing for Raising Dion (Netflix), Blood & Treasure (CBS), and an upcoming event series for Epix.

  An advocate of mentorship and diversity, Javi instituted the Grillo-Marxuach Family Fellowships for writers at USC film school, and the Carnegie Mellon University undergraduate Creative Writing Program. He also co hosts the Children of Tendu podcast, which educates new writers on navigating the business with decency and integrity, and mentors new writers as part of his work with the Writers Guild of America.

  Javi was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico. His name is pronounced “HA- VEE-AIR GREE-JOE MARKS-WATCH.”

  Scenes from the Apocalypse

  by Dawn Xiana Moon

  (Content Note: Racial Slurs and Racist Violence)

  March 2020. Chicago is three days into lockdown and while my Facebook feed is busy baking bread, I’m testing software, researching business models, trying to figure out how to translate intimate circus cabaret shows and celebrations of geek culture into a livestream format that can give my cast (and myself) some income.

  I’m the founder and director of Raks Geek, a small bellydance, circus, and fire performance company, and all of our work and plans for the future have just evaporated.

  I worry about artists around me, many of whom live on the financial edge in the best of times.

  Internally, I’m kicking and screaming—I love live performance and never wanted to be a Youtuber, and I wonder if the entire arts industry is going to collapse—but I’ve been keeping tabs on COVID-19 around the world and it’s clear we’re not going to be done with this in two weeks. My estimate, watching China’s robust pandemic response, is about three months before things start to go back to normal.

  As we all know, this proves to be optimistic.

  May 2020. Hate crimes and harassment against Asian Americans are on the rise. Most Americans think Chinese folks from China and Asian Americans in the diaspora are the same, and, encouraged by politicians, they blame us—all of us—for COVID. My social media feeds are full of stories of elders being beaten, women with acid thrown in their faces, racist insults, and shunning.

  Meanwhile, much of the country cites the Model Minority Myth and is skeptical that we ever face racism at all, in spite of a history ranging from the Chinese Exclusion Act to anti-miscegenation laws. In spite of Iron Fist and Firefly and Doctor Strange.

  Most of Raks Geek’s performers are Asian American. I myself am Chinese by way of Singapore, an immigrant and naturalized American who grew up a mile from Detroit.

  This is personal.

  The fifth livestream show I produce features an all-Asian cast from around the country (it turns out that the online format has certain advantages). We represent Hmong people who grew up in the Midwest, Korean adoptees, South Asians, and more, with firespinning, aerials, contortion, and fusion bellydance.

  We donate proceeds for the entire show to Asian Americans Advancing Justice.

  June 2020. Black Lives Matter protests have swept the country, and my white friends swear that this time it’s different, white people comprehend racism now to a level they never have before. Within the arts, there are calls for more diverse casts, more diverse material, more diverse leadership—more BIPOC, more LGBTQIA.

  Raks Geek has been doing this work for years. Most of us are Asian, but most of our cast and crew are also LGBTQIA. One of the reasons we love science fiction and fantasy is that we can imagine different worlds. More equitable worlds. And through this genre, we can help others envision a reality where we’re judged for who we are, not what we look like or who we love.

  For a month or two, other producers are more conscientious with their lineups. The momentum fades, as it as often does, and most organizations go back to business as usual.

  Our business as usual is conscious representation. Justice. Equality. Care for each other. Some of our performers with day jobs quietly donate their pay to performers without. I slip some of our cast money for groceries, help fellow artists navigate PPP loans, grants, unemployment insurance, and mutual aid.

  Making the art you want to see is a hard path—in a reality where historically underrepresented groups systemically get fewer resources and support, working twice as hard to do half as well is not just an adage. For WOC especially, it’s a fact.

  But. We make it through with each other.

  March-May 2021. Vaccines! Rehearsals are back. Small, in-person gigs are back. After a year of stoppages, getting in front of an audience is nerve-wrecking, exciting, and a relief. Slowly, we get back to doing the thing we were put on this earth to do.

  Half the country immediately tries to pretend the last year never happened. The other half echoes Sam and Frodo returning, indelibly changed, to a Shire that is not the same.

  While the pandemic shut everyone down at roughly the same time, returning comes in trickles.

  Mentally, emotionally, we’re exhausted. Some of our colleagues have left art entirely. Major organizations, venues, pillars of local and national scenes, have permanently shut down. Many of those that did survive are on the brink and won’t be on secure footing for a long time. But it feels like hope exists again.

  We get back to training, to doing the thing we’re called to do.

  June 2021. A woman spits on me and calls me a chink while I walk down the street. In my neighborhood. In broad daylight.

  A couple weeks before, a friend is nearly run over by a man in a truck yelling “f— Asians” —the man hops the curb and drives into their Saturday afternoon picnic. Everyone tries to dive out of the way, but one woman is pinned underneath the truck. Two people end up in the hospital.

  The racists are getting bolder, no longer content to go after elders in the dark. They’re attacking younger, more Americanized Asians, less easy targets, in the middle of the day.

  A white friend posts a joke on Facebook: What if Thanos had snapped his fingers and stopped Chinese people from eating bats and causing COVID?

  I unfriend him, but he’s far from the only one making those jokes on the internet.

  July 2021. Raks Geek does our first full-length theatre production in 16 months. Wow, does it feel good. We require proof of vaccination at the door, limit the audience to half capacity, under 60 people. We open windows and filter the air. We enforce stricter protocols than the city requires.

  I book dates on the theatre calendar for the rest of the year even though I don’t know if we’ll get to do them. I doubt we’ll go under lockdown again, but even knowing our venue may not survive another shutdown, we’d rather voluntarily cancel shows rather than risk our health or that of our community.

  It surprises people, but I plan to keep our livestream shows too. We’ve spent a year and a half building a community of nerds from all over the country, not just Chicago, and they’ve helped us survive. I think we’ve helped them survive too.

  In spite of extreme fatigue and the trauma of the last year, we’re happier than we’ve been in months.

  But it all feels fragile.

  Raks Geek will be headlining Discon III ’s closing ceremonies on December 19 in Washington, DC. For details on their upcoming virtual circus cabaret and in-person Chicago performances, visit RaksGeek.com .

  © 2021 Dawn Xiana Moon

  Dawn Xiana Moon is the Founder/Director of Raks Geek / Raks Inferno, a bellydance and fire company that’s been featured on MSN, UK Channel 4 TV, WGN-TV, and more. She herself was named “Best Stage Performer” (2020, 2019) and “Best Dancer” (2019) by the Chicago Reader. She appeared on Britain’s Got Talent last year.

  Dawn is also a musician who’s performed in 10 states and released 2 albums; her music is a blend of folk/pop with influences from jazz and traditional Chinese music. She was named runner up for “Best Singer-Songwriter” and “Best International/World Music Act” by the Chicago Reader.

  When she’s not making art, you can find her leading UX design for projects with the CDC and Medicaid or writing essays and cultural commentary on film, TV, and music.

  Pro Wrestling Is Fake (But You Already Knew That)

  by Veda Scott

  “It’s fake…right?”

  Without fail, this question (or some variation of this question: “picking the winners” is another popular response) remains the immediate follow-up upon learning that I am a professional wrestler. And yes, it’s fake.

  To be clear, saying “It’s fake” plays against the traditional mythos of pro wrestling. Giant muscle men fighting for championships. The sport of kings. A sport, period. Never, ever fake.

  We all know how the magician saws the lady in half. We all know the illusion depends on carefully constructed boxes and panache. We all know these titans covered in baby oil and barely covered in spandex aren’t really truly hurting each other. We all know the violence is another type of illusion. We all know it’s fake. And yet—the magician never reveals their secrets.

  Knowing the secrets; knowing how the tricks are done while the audience marvels. Pro wrestling was built on this dynamic. We, the performers, know the truth and you, the audience, are fooled. It feels icky to read, let alone to type, let alone to actively participate.

  But I am a professional wrestler.

  I stumbled through childhood (and teenagehood and early adulthood) as a queer little weirdo. An athlete I was not. But I did watch pro wrestling on TV, when pop culture consisted of Cartman, laser pointers, and “Stone Cold” Steve Austin. Skipping over my almost-careers and law school and student loans we land beside me as I enroll in a wrestling training academy. I paid my tuition—upfront, thank you—and spent a few years struggling to learn the secrets. Who doesn’t want to know secrets?

  You can know what I know. Professional wrestling is: theatre in the round mixed with a bit of stunt work. Scripted, sort of; improvisational, definitely. Dangerous by default—but the goal is to avoid injuries.

  Here is your hypothetical:

  You and your opponent are scheduled to have a match on tonight’s event, a sold-out spectacle in front of a thousand fans. The event begins at 7 PM and let’s say your match should start around 8 PM. The call time at the venue is 4 PM…but after sitting in traffic for 27 agonizing extra minutes, you finally make it to the backstage area at 4:32 PM. Just in time to meet your opponent—actually, at this point let’s switch the language a tiny bit and swap out “opponent” for “partner” —just in time to meet your partner, who has traveled overnight in a semi-reliable Honda Civic crammed alongside four other wrestlers and their pile of Red Bull cans. You now have approximately two point five hours to conceive and choreograph a live performance for a brand-new audience with no time for rehearsals and oh yes—at any point during your act, one step out of place could lead to career-ending, life-altering injury. Do this night after night. New partners. New audiences. New audiences to convince that it’s all “real.”

  If you’re thinking this all reads like a scam—it is. It’s designed to be. An industry predicated on a lie—a lie about what is real versus what is fake—designed to keep outsiders OUT. Once the lie is exposed, we can either double down and keep the scam going or we can broaden our idea of what professional wrestling even is.

  Pro wrestling is fake. Pro wrestling is art. I am not a fighter. I am an artist.

  Embracing the “fake” elements opened doors for those of us who would never fit into the old version of pro wrestling—what was supposed to be a real sport, with real fights and real winners. A version of pro wrestling seen through hyperhetero hypermasculine hyperBRO eyes. And, thankfully, a rapidly outmoded version of pro wrestling. Queer pro wrestlers (and queer pro wrestling fans) are carving out our own spaces, and not by keeping pre-determined count of our choreographed wins and losses. Winning a real fight? Not interested. But scripting a fake fight based around stunts and live crowd interaction and adrenaline? That’s a challenge. That’s something unique. That’s the appeal of pro wrestling for me.

  Once we let the audience in on the secrets, the audience rewards our creativity instead of our toughness. I’m forever seeking credit for my improvisation, not my right hook. And so on and so on. Pro wrestling could not be welcoming to all performers and all fans (and, to be fair, pro wrestling still has a long way to go when it comes to inclusivity) without acknowledging the inherent grift behind the theatrics. I want to be honest in my art. I need the conversation between my art and my audience torn open and exposed. As live theatre, pro wrestling only truly works when the audience participates—cheering and booing and moving the story along through their reactions. Sometimes, the audience reactions can rewrite the script right in the middle of the show! If the audience doesn’t buy into the emotional arc of “the good guy,” that wrestler might change their performance on the spot, transforming into a villain even if just for one night. Pro wrestling can be fully immersive and fully interactive—and still fake.

  Another note: I’m writing about this divulging of secrets, this agreement between audience and artist, as if it’s the normal agreed upon practice these days. No. Keeping pro wrestling “real” remains the priority of the majority of performers.

  As for me, maintaining that wall might make for a more immersive show in the immediacy but the implications are dire. An industry—an artform—predicated on a lie cannot ever be inclusive. There remains an inherent power dynamic resulting from performers withholding truths and an audience left in the dark. Inevitably, that same power dynamic will (and has and does) imprint upon the performers themselves. An industry predicated on a lie became a place to keep your sexuality a secret. Out of necessity. Out of fear.

  By engaging in a more open, truthful dialogue with our audience, some of us—a growing “many” of us, to be frank—have opened more open, truthful dialogue within pro wrestling. Social media eliminates the geographic distance between us. Likeminded performers might be a DM away from starting an essential conversation that blooms into an entire movement.

  I recently wrestled on an event themed as a “Big Gay Brunch” and it certainly was: Queer pro wrestlers coming together for a celebration of theatrical violence and some English muffin sandwiches. The show drew 600 people at 11 AM and many, many more streamed the event from home. Several fans confessed to me this was one of the only times they felt comfortable in a live pro wrestling crowd, and for some this was the very first show they were willing to attend.

  The culture of masculine invincibility is dying. Slowly, surely, we have begun openly discussing what was kept in the shadows. Decades of pro wrestlers dying by suicide. Queer pro wrestlers forced to hide their true selves. Slowly. Inevitably.

  This is the only way to keep professional wrestling from swallowing itself whole.

  So the next time you scroll through Twitter or flip through the channels and catch a glimpse of pro wrestling, you will know the secret. Yes, it’s fake. Move past that. We know. You know. We know that you know. We are trying to entertain you. We aren’t trying to trick you. And in refusing to deceive you, a growing number of us tell ourselves the truth at last.

  © 2021 Veda Scott

  Veda Scott is a professional wrestler and broadcaster. Veda started pro wrestling training during their first year of law school and missed the law school graduation ceremony for a match. They’ve also been a personal assistant, and a TV producer, and an ice cream artist; none of that stuck, but pro wrestling seems to. For now.

 

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