Beyond time and memory—where the computer cannot reach—is dreaming.
Published: 2022
Genre: Science Fiction, Afrofuturism, Dystopian Fiction, LGBTQIA+
CW: Homophobia, Transphobia, Racism, Police Brutality, Drug Use, Forced Institutionalization, Chronic Illness, Violence, Classism, Abusive Relationships
Rating:⭐⭐⭐.5 (3.5/5)
American singer-songwriter Janelle Monáe released her third studio album Dirty Computer in 2018, accompanied by a short film of the same name. The film follows a trio of lovers—Jane (Monáe), Zen (Tessa Thompson), and Ché (Jayson Aaron)—living in a future where the government deems anyone that isn't white, monogamous, or heterosexual as "dirty computers." These individuals are constantly at risk of being abducted by law enforcement and taken to the House of New Dawn to have their memories deleted. In The Memory Librarian, Monáe collaborates with a team of established authors—Yohanca Delgado, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Sheree Thomas, Danny Lore, and Eve Ewing—to further explore the world of Dirty Computer outside the context of the film.
Now, as a fan of Monáe's music, I must admit that I was both excited and apprehensive about reading this collection. Monáe has already proved herself to be a skilled lyricist and storyteller with her first two albums, which detail the exploits of android fugitive Cindi Mayweather. However, there is a huge difference between writing songs and writing prose, and while I don't want to imply that collaborative writing projects are inferior to solo ones, I couldn't help but worry that this was a sign that Monáe was out of her depth.
My fears were quashed once I read the book's introduction, which sets up the lore for the stories that follow and is the one section of the book written by Monáe alone. Her voice is immediately established and paints such vivid imagery that you can almost hear her speaking into your ear:
On the skin of it, the future's blemishes appeared to be clearing, but they'd just been forced down into the sinews—a righteous inflammation burning a fragrant flame in the flesh.
I was so enamoured with this introduction that, I will admit, I felt a bit disappointed reading the collaborative stories that followed. It's difficult to tell who wrote what, so I don't want to accuse the other authors of bringing the writing quality down, but even the most impressively written of the stories never quite held my attention as much as the introduction did.
With that in mind, the content of the stories certainly made up for the more straightforward writing styles. In her collaboration with Lore, "Nevermind," Monáe explores Jane and Zen's life after the events of Dirty Computer as they recuperate at the Pynk Hotel—a self-proclaimed sanctuary for women and other gender minorities. When Jane recognizes a potential attack incoming from New Dawn, most of the community is hesitant to take her warning seriously, both because they have never been threatened by New Dawn in the past and because the one other person vouching on Jane's behalf, Neer, is the only nonbinary resident at the Pynk. It's a fascinating look at how TERF rhetoric can easily infect so-called safe spaces, pushing anyone who doesn't meet a specific criteria of womanhood to the edges of society.
In the titular story of the collection, Monáe and Johnson explore the inner workings of the New Dawn government through Seshet, who despite being a queer Black woman, holds the position of Director Librarian—the person in charge of monitoring and deleting citizen's memories. Seshet constantly tells herself that being in this position means that she can ensure citizens who commit offences she deems minor won't face the severe punishments New Dawn would normally subject them too. However, Monáe and Johnson severely criticize this "model minority" ideology, as it's made clear throughout the story that any power Seshet thinks she has is constantly undermined by the expectations of her white superiors and that she isn't above using memory wipes solely to improve aspects of her personal life.
Another aspect I especially enjoyed about this collection is how obviously Monáe and her cowriters love science fiction as a genre. All the stories are love letters to Afrofuturism, but there are also certain plots that feel like specific references to other works of science fiction. "Timebox," cowritten by Ewing, tells an almost Twilight Zone-esque tale of two girlfriends from differing economic backgrounds discovering that a room in their apartment exists outside of time and arguing about how they should use it. Meanwhile, the Thomas collaboration, "Timebox Altar(ed)," follows a group of children who, with the help of a strange nomad named Mx. Tangee, create a clubhouse that allows them to briefly view a day in their future; it reads almost like a scene from Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time.
If there is one major criticism I have of the work as a whole, it's that sometimes the worldbuilding feels contradictory to what was established in Monáe's prologue. In "Timebox," the two protagonists are in an openly queer relationship despite living in a government surveyed city; similarly, Seshet's lover Alethia in "The Memory Librarian" is a transwoman who claims to have been brought back into society after going through a New Dawn cleansing ritual, yet she is still allowed to present as female afterwards. It seems odd to me that Monáe would outright state that New Dawn is an openly homophobic and transphobic organization and then not address these particular points.
While The Memory Librarian is flawed, I am happy that it exists in the sense that the general public may become more acquainted with Afrofuturism and that Monáe used her platform to help her cowriters get more exposure. Monáe's mind is clearly a place overflowing with creativity, and I look forward to her future writing projects, whether they be new albums or another attempt at prose.