The first two SheroCons were a blur. It was January 2019, and I had just been “theoretically” laid off from my last corporate job. My Shero Universe Book Tour had ended just a few months earlier, with stops in North Carolina, New York, Indonesia, and South Korea.

During my tour stop in Seoul, I got an idea while trekking through the COEX Mall attached to my hotel — a place I somehow kept getting lost in. I turned to my producer and said, “I think I want to host a comic con in a mall!”

In my mind, it was something I would do a few years down the road. But in true Shequeta fashion, I called Westfield anyway to see what they were doing for Women’s History Month.

They had nothing planned, but they loved the idea. They asked, “Can you do it here?”

Before I could blink, I had four weeks to plan a comic con at Westfield Culver City.

The vision started out as just a few six-foot tables in center court with a squad of my fellow Sheroes in comics. However, 2019 was the year God kept pushing me to think bigger. The marketing team at the mall was pushing me, too, offering two stages and giving me a great rate to bring SheroCon to Westfield.

Four weeks later, Westfield estimated that more than four thousand people attended SheroCon over the course of the day. SheroCon 2019 was simply electrifying. It was also historic. This was the first time a comic con had ever taken place inside a Westfield property, and it was the only all-female comic con in the country. By the end of the event, people were already asking about the next one. Meanwhile, I was just trying to catch my breath because, “How, Sway?” How did that just happen?

Then 2020 came along, and there was this thing called COVID spreading across China. No one knew what was coming, but SheroCon was scheduled for March 7, and it was going to be even bigger. Tyra Banks was talking about making a surprise appearance. We had young Sheroes from local high schools coming to showcase their artwork, and we were even featured on Spectrum News to talk about the event and what it meant for girls in the community.

By the time the day arrived, COVID had reached America, and the panic and hysteria were just starting to set in. Fortunately, SheroCon was a welcome distraction, so attendance was still strong, just with plenty of hand sanitizer this time. The mall estimated that around three thousand people attended the event over the course of the day.

Just a few days later, the world shut down, and we all went inside for the remainder of the year.

I believe SheroCon was one of the last comic cons to take place before the pandemic hung a “Closed” sign across America.

The next few years were weird for comic cons and live events. Some went virtual. Others tried to return with fewer attendees, while a few shut down permanently, like E3. SheroCon was on the sidelines, waiting for the right time to tap back in.

In 2023, we got our chance when Los Angeles Comic Con invited us to curate a section of their convention under the SheroCon banner.

By 2024, I figured it was probably safe to bring SheroCon back. But not only had the pandemic changed the world, the team at Westfield had changed as well. Unfortunately, the mall had eliminated its entire on-site marketing department, and the new staff had never experienced the magic SheroCon brought to Culver City during those two incredible years.

After getting the cold shoulder from Westfield on more than one occasion, I spent the next year searching for a new location. Unfortunately, none of the venues fit the budget for an event I was still funding out of pocket — the first two SheroCons were brought to you by the Bank of Shequeta.

In 2025, I thought I had found a new home for SheroCon at Los Angeles Valley College, but that opportunity fell through. So I went back to Westfield, and this time I received a more positive response.

There was just one problem.

Without a marketing department championing the event, the cost to host SheroCon had skyrocketed. What had once been an affordable community partnership would now cost roughly seven times more than it did in 2020.

This increase in cost meant that I would have to find sponsors or raise money from donors. Despite having run multiple successful crowdfunding campaigns, I really don’t like fundraising. But SheroCon was electrifying. It was so electrifying that people ask me about it almost every week. So, I decided to put on my cowboy boots and smooth criminal hat and go raise some SheroCon money.

After 13 months, countless grant applications and rejections, emails to celebrities and foundations, meetings with neighborhood councils, and calls to city council offices, I managed to raise just enough money to host the event at the rate the mall had quoted me. Not only was I excited about the accomplishment, I was proud of myself for persevering through an extraordinary amount of rejection.

The day arrived for my walkthrough of the mall, and I was walking on sunshine. A few days later, the mall sent over a new quote, and that sunshine quickly turned into inclement weather. The cost had nearly doubled the amount I had raised.

After more than a year of fundraising, there was no extra money. And the Bank of Shequeta had officially closed several years earlier. Once again, SheroCon was on the brink of not happening for another year.

This is the part of being an entrepreneur, founder, CEO, or creator that no one tells you about and that can’t be taught in school. It’s the moment when you’ve reached your breaking point. The moment when no one is coming to save you. The moment when you have to lay down your sword and admit defeat.

The moment when you…FAIL.

And not only had I failed, there was an audience watching me fail in real time.

It was the women and girls I was going to let down, the neighborhood councils that had written me checks, the friends who had put up money to support the event, and the group of female angels who wrote the final check I needed to meet my fundraising goal. Not to mention the haters who doubted me every step of the way and even showed up at some of those neighborhood council meetings to antagonize me.

For a full 24 hours, despite having raised the money, I had failed to bring SheroCon back because I didn’t have a location. I had no idea what I was going to do. So, I did the only thing I could do: I went out for tacos.

I showed up at the Kogi BBQ truck to drown my sorrows in Korean short rib tacos.

As I began to place my order, I noticed my fading SheroCon 2019 sticker next to the window. Months earlier, I had discovered that a mystery SheroCon attendee had placed my SheroCon 2019 stickers on every Kogi BBQ truck in Los Angeles. On this particular truck, the sticker was beginning to fade, which felt reflective of how I was feeling about SheroCon.

I think those tacos must have had pixie dust in them because, by the time I was pulling into my driveway, a new location had popped into my head. Ten minutes later, I was sending an email. By the weekend, I was doing a walkthrough of the Valley Relics Museum at Van Nuys Airport.

Last week, I signed the contract to host the fourth-annual SheroCon at the Valley Relics Museum on Saturday, August 1, 2026.

FREE tickets will go on sale on June 15!

It’s a smaller venue than the mall, so tickets will be limited, and mandatory, but SheroCon 2026 is going to be just as electrifying as it was the first time, and I can’t wait to see you all there.

I want to thank all of our sponsors — the She Angels Foundation, Queen of Mercia LLC, Kamrock Entertainment, the Sherman Oaks Neighborhood Council, the Valley Glen Neighborhood Council, and Creative Visions — for supporting SheroCon 2026!

If you would like to become a sponsor, or make a tax-deductible donation to SheroCon, you can donate via our fiscal sponsor here: https://creative-visions.networkforgood.com/projects/245463-sherocon-2026

Am I a nerd or a geek? That was the burning question looping in my head as I boarded my flight back to Los Angeles after attending the 2024 Game Developers Conference (GDC) in San Francisco. I’ve never shied away from my nerd girl tendencies — after all, I’m not just the CEO of Shero Comics, I’m also a proud Space Camp alum. But until now, I’ve always used nerd and geek interchangeably. It wasn’t until GDC that I started having a full-blown identity crisis about the two words that have shaped my cultural identity the most.

I think it’s worth pointing out that in the nine years before attending GDC, I’d exhibited at countless comic cons around the world, shoulder to shoulder with creators I proudly considered nerds. But GDC felt completely different — otherworldly, even. These weren’t the nerds I was used to seeing at cons. These were full-on, pocket-protector-wearing, snort-laughing, game-developing geeks.

In my mind, the geek-o-sphere had always been clearly divided: Nerds were the comic book readers, the Marvel vs. DC debaters, the Dungeons & Dragons fanboys and fangirls. Geeks were the computer coders, the rocket scientists, the ones building apps and curing diseases. Or so I thought.

After arriving back in Los Angeles, I was anxious to learn the difference between the terms. And being the geek…or nerd that I am, I found myself inside a wormhole trying to get to the bottom of not only what these terms meant, but the history behind them, and how they’ve evolved over the years.

WHAT IS A NERD?

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, a nerd is: 1 : a person devoted to intellectual, academic, or technical pursuits or interests, also : a person preoccupied with or devoted to a particular activity or field of interest. 2 : an unstylish or socially awkward person

The term, nerd, has a long and eccentric history fueled by varying theories on how it came to be. Some believe it goes back to when Mortimer Snerd — a ventriloquist’s dummy created by Edgar Bergen — rose to fame on a radio show that was popular from the late 1930s through the 1950s. Snerd was modeled on a country bumpkin who listeners would’ve labeled a “drip” or someone who is dull or tiresomely annoying.

One theory traces the origin of the word nerd to Dr. Seuss, who first used it in his 1950 children’s book If I Ran the Zoo. In it, he casually lists a group of oddball creatures, including “a Nerkle, a Nerd, and a Seersucker too.” At the time, the word had no connection to intelligence or social awkwardness, it was simply part of Seuss’s signature nonsense style. Some speculate that he may have been inspired by Mortimer Snerd, possibly shortening the name for poetic effect. However, there’s no definitive proof linking the two.

Other theories suggest that it either evolved from the 1940s word nert, which was a term for someone being stupid or crazy, or that it was created on the streets of Detroit. In 1951, Newsweek released an article about recent slang teens were using that included the word nerd. The article noted that “In Detroit, someone who once would be called a drip or square is now, regrettably, a nerd, or in less severe cases, a scurve.”

The Detroit-born definition of nerd stuck in popular culture throughout the 1960s, generally referring to someone uncool or socially awkward. But by the 1970s, the term began to evolve — though it still carried a trace of disrespect. With the rise of computers and technology, nerd came to describe someone who was book-smart, awkward, and deeply obsessed with school, science, or tech. By the 1980s, this new archetype was cemented in American pop culture through films like Revenge of the Nerds, Back to the Future, and Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, all of which showcased nerds in their full, quirky glory. This version of the nerd carried on through the ’90s and 2000s, gaining more cultural power as Silicon Valley exploded, gaming became a global force, and tech billionaires became household names.

Today, the nerds who helped build the modern tech ecosystem — think Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg — are no longer mocked like the misfits from ’80s movies. Instead, they’re celebrated as visionaries: wealthy, powerful, and influential. Once the punchline, nerds are now seen as experts, innovators, and cultural architects.

WHAT IS A GEEK?

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, a geek is: a person often of an intellectual bent who is disliked. 2: an enthusiast or expert, especially in a technological field or activity, computer geek. 3: a carnival performer often billed as a wild man whose act usually includes biting the head off a live chicken or snake.

As you can tell from the definition, the term geek has an even more topsy-turvy history than nerd. First appearing in the 1800s, it stems from the Low German word geck, which means fool or freak. The moniker made its way to American shores by way of circuses and traveling sideshows, where a geek was a performer who shocked audiences with grotesque acts, most notoriously by biting the heads off live animals. The term was deeply derogatory, and being labeled a geek was shameful.

By the 1940s through the 1960s, people began using geek to describe those they considered weird, awkward, or who wore tacky attire. This included people who were obsessed with odd hobbies. While still a put-down, it wasn’t quite as shameful as it was in previous years.

From the 1970s through the 1990s, as technology began to reshape the world, the term geek gradually evolved into a badge of honor for those obsessed with intellectual pursuits and niche, brainy interests. There were computer geeks, sci-fi geeks, math geeks, and of course, comic book geeks. While nerd was more closely associated with intelligence and academic achievement, geek came to describe people who were deeply passionate about their hobbies.

Today, the term geek has gone fully mainstream — thanks to the rise of superhero movies, anime and manga, comic conventions, and the booming gaming industry. Much like nerd, geek has evolved into an accolade, often associated with being both smart and cool. Fandoms and “geek squads” now attract open support from even the most traditionally popular “cool kids” — a far cry from earlier decades, when geeks were seen as social outcasts and easy targets for bullies.

WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE?

While nerd has evolved from a diss to a cultural compliment, it has consistently been linked to those who are academically gifted, tech-savvy, and often deeply immersed in science. Geek, on the other hand, has come a long way from its origins in circus sideshows, where it referred to freak-show performers. Today, it represents passionate fans who immerse themselves in Marvel characters, pop culture moments, and vibrant fandom communities.

This means I was wrong in my initial assessment. On the geek spectrum, my fellow Comic-Con comrades — cosplayers, collectors, and pop culture fanatics — are, by definition, the geeks. Meanwhile, the game developers, engineers, and tech gurus I encountered at GDC clearly fall on the nerd side of the spectrum.

You might be asking: Why does it matter who’s a geek or a nerd in today’s world, especially now that both labels have shifted from insults to accolades? I’d argue that once a space becomes commercialized — and geek culture most certainly has — the people who built it have a responsibility to protect its integrity. In today’s attention economy, more and more people are entering geek spaces not out of passion, but for profit. And while nerds often earn more societal respect than geeks, I believe that combining the strengths of both identities is the best way to spot the opportunists and preserve what makes these spaces — and the brilliant minds within them — so valuable in the first place.

As I emerge from this space-time continuum of geekdom, I’ve come to a clear conclusion: While the definitions have evolved, I am a hybrid who stands confidently at the intersection. I’m a fangirl of comics, tech, and science — that’s the geek in me. But I’m also a builder, a full-on nerd, channeling my creative ambitions into comics, films, and games, all while leveraging tools like AI, coding, and weird science to bring them to life. And just like my very own Shero, Wonder Woman, I’m here to protect our sacred, nerd-themed Themyscira — a world I’ve proudly belonged to since the day I graduated from Space Camp.

Now, it’s your turn to do some self-reflection. Are you a nerd, geek, or hybrid of the two? We need answers…the future depends on it!

Take the quiz below to find out.

“Are You a Nerd or a Geek?”

Discover whether you’re powered by brainwaves, fandom feels, or both.

How It Works:

Choose the letter that best describes you for each question. Keep track of how many A’s, B’s, and C’s you get. Your result is at the bottom!

1. Your favorite way to spend a Friday night is:

A. Solving logic puzzles, watching a documentary, or building something in silence
B. Binge-watching Stranger Things, live-tweeting a K-drama, or arguing Marvel timelines online
C. A mix of coding, cosplaying, and correcting people on Reddit

2. You hear the word “algorithm.” You think:

A. Yes, let’s dissect it!
B. Is that the name of a DJ?
C. I understand it…but only because I saw a breakdown on TikTok.

3. Which of these would you buy first?

A. A new microcontroller board for your robotics project
B. VIP passes to Anime Expo
C. A 3D printer for your Pokémon-themed chess set

4. You’re most likely to be voted:

A. “Most Likely to Cure Something”
B. “Most Likely to Win a Cosplay Contest”
C. “Most Likely to Hack the Matrix While Quoting The Office”

5. Your dream job would be:

A. NASA engineer, data scientist, or neurosurgeon
B. Comic book writer, Twitch streamer, or pop culture journalist
C. Running your own tech + fandom startup

6. Your personal aesthetic is:

A. Clean, functional, a little awkward but brilliant
B. Bold, expressive, and definitely wearing fandom merch
C. “Tony Stark meets Sailor Moon”

7. How do you react when someone misquotes your favorite franchise?

A. Quietly correct them with a source link
B. Roast them (lovingly) and send a meme
C. Both. Also, here’s my 10-slide PowerPoint

Results

Mostly A’s: You’re a NERD
You live for data, logic, and learning. Whether it’s science, code, or history, you’re the person people call when they want real answers. You’re intellectual, intense, and probably the one your friends rely on when tech breaks.

Mostly B’s: You’re a GEEK
You love what you love LOUDLY. You’re the heart of fandoms, the queen of cosplay, or the person who just turned a Game of Thrones rant into a blog post. Passion is your superpower.

Mostly C’s: You’re a HYBRID
The rare breed. You ace math tests and quote Attack on Titan. You’re equally comfortable in a coding bootcamp and at Comic-Con. You’re the future — and we love that for you.

A few months ago, I set out to turn Chapter One of my kids’ martial arts manhwa series, Young Grandmaster Choi, into animated dubs for YouTube. The goal? Entertain kids over the summer and showcase the episodes during my inaugural virtual “Shero Talks: Comic Book Writing Bootcamp.”

I had a plan. I hired the same animator from Fiverr who had worked on my book trailers for the past two years. Since we’d already animated several panels for the trailer, I assumed this job would be quick and easy. His style involved rigging my comic panels — adding subtle head and body movement to bring them to life while staying true to the original artwork.

But once I booked him and sent over all the pages, everything stalled. Week after week, it was excuse after excuse: he was out of town for his birthday, dealing with personal issues, or just straight-up ghosting me. My June release deadline loomed. I was out of patience.

That’s when I started wondering… what about AI? Could it help me bring Young Grandmaster Choi to life?

I went to Google and typed, “AI that animates comic book panels.” A bunch of links popped up, but none seemed promising at first. Most were focused on generating live-action AI films — cool, but not what I needed. Still, I started clicking around, hoping to stumble across some kind of unicorn platform.

And then I did.

A site called LTX — short for Lightricks — caught my eye. Like the others, it emphasized AI filmmaking. But something about its interface made me pause. It was simple. Clean. Two boxes. One for uploading an image. One for prompts.

I uploaded a panel from my comic and typed, “Can you animate this panel?” The result wasn’t an animation, but it was magical. LTX resized my 2x3 comic panel into a gorgeous 16:9 image, adjusting the artwork with no weird borders or distortions. It gave me three beautiful widescreen versions of my panel, ready for video.

Intrigued, I clicked on the “Video” tab.

Same two boxes. I uploaded one of the newly resized panels and typed the same five words: “Can you animate this panel?” This time, LTX returned three animated 3-second video clips of my artwork. And I screamed.

“This is life-changing,” I said out loud.

I texted the clips to friends, giddy with excitement. Just like that, I had taken back control of my timeline — and my project. AI had officially entered the chat.

Over the next several weeks, I signed up for LTX’s pro tier and animated every panel in Chapter One — one by one — until I had a full nine-minute animated version of Young Grandmaster Choi.

But I wasn’t done. I needed voiceovers.

In the past, I’d hired voice artists on Fiverr — one Korean, one Black American — to narrate trailers. But this time, I needed actual kid voices, with emotion, and ideally, a few with Korean accents since the story is set in Seoul, Korea.

Finding AI voices for kids isn’t easy, especially ones that sound real and convey feeling. But then I stumbled across Typecast, an AI voice platform made (coincidentally) by a Korean company. At the time, I didn’t know that.

Typecast had over 500 voices. At least 30 were for children. Even better, many could speak in both Korean and English, some with accents that were just right for my characters.

So, I started casting my digital cast.

By mid-June, I had the first two 1–2 minute episodes fully animated and voiced, ready to roll out on my Shero Comics YouTube Channel and debut in my Comic Book Writing Bootcamp. It worked, but not without complications.

The AI-generated voice performances were limited in emotional range, and rendering the comic panels was often a grueling process that required real patience. Sometimes the animations came out perfectly. Other times, the software added bizarre new characters that weren’t in the original art or pixelated the panels entirely. These platforms still have a long way to go when it comes to faithfully animating 2D comic art, but they’re offering real value to creators like me, especially when you’re in a pinch and need to expand on existing work quickly and affordably.

By mid-July, all six episodes of the micro-series were released. And during the bootcamp, I used them as a teaching tool, showing students how to animate their own comic panels using the same tools I had just discovered. That moment alone was beyond what I could have imagined.

Looking back, I’m actually glad my animator bailed.

It pushed me to learn tools I never thought I’d use. I became my own animation studio — producing a full 2D dub for a fraction of the cost. My total AI budget? About $320. That covered two months of subscriptions to LTX ($125/month) and Typecast ($35/month).

There’s a lot of debate about AI in the creative world, and many of the concerns are valid. But for creators like me — especially those running small, scrappy operations — AI can be a lifeline. And just for the record, it didn’t replace my animator. He vanished like Casper… only without the friendly part.

In a summer where everything could’ve fallen apart, AI helped me deliver. And today, I feel more empowered than ever.

Will I use AI again to animate future comic book artwork? Absolutely. Do I hope the technology improves so it’s not such a grind to animate panels or voice characters? Heck yes. But in the meantime, I’m thrilled that AI gave me the chance to offer kids something truly unique — not just the ability to read Young Grandmaster Choi, but to watch it come to life.

As an indie publisher, it feels like I unlocked a new superpower, and I plan to use it every chance I get.

You can watch the Young Grandmaster Choi animated dubs by subscribing to our YouTube channel at www.youtube.com/@sherocomics. You can also read digital copies of the series through your local library, or grab physical copies — and even pre-order our new collector’s doll — directly from our webstore at www.sherocomics.com/store.

This all started with Skateboard P — or, for those who may not know his alter ego, Pharrell Williams of The Neptunes. A few years ago, he launched a groundbreaking initiative called Black Ambition, designed to support entrepreneurs by pairing them with industry mentors and offering a rare opportunity to win funding — up to one million dollars — to invest in their companies.

One year ago, Shero Games — the gaming division of my multimedia company, Shero Comics — was selected to join the 2024 Black Ambition cohort. While I didn’t advance to the final round, I walked away with a clearer vision of what needed to happen next. According to my mentor, the missing piece was simple: I needed an influencer or celebrity endorsement to help amplify my company to the masses. So, I went down the rabbit hole of influencers and celebrities and somehow landed in the promised land of Black Wall Street.

That’s when I came across TikTok influencer Keith Lee — or rather, news of him landed in my inbox after he endorsed the dessert shop of a friend of a friend in Texas. That one endorsement took her business from zero to 100, real quick. I realized that what Lee does on TikTok through benevolent, community-driven marketing, and what Williams does for Black founders through Black Ambition, mirrors the spirit that made the original Black Wall Street thrive: An unapologetic sense of we.

But despite these remarkable parallels between past and present, I’m not entirely sure a new Black Wall Street is even possible in today’s America.

Before I dive into my skepticism around the increasingly popular idea of building a new Black Wall Street, I want to start with a quick history lesson on a fascinating chapter in American history that was buried for nearly a century.

A Loophole to Early Reparations

Long before Black Wall Street was on the horizon, Black Americans arrived in Oklahoma in the mid-19th century as slaves of The Five Civilized Tribes — the Cherokee, Choctaw, Seminole, Creek, and Chickasaw. Whites had infamously forced the tribes from their lands in the Southeast, which led them to migrate to Oklahoma, which became known as Indian Territory.

Post-Civil War, under the Treaties of 1866, Black Americans were emancipated, with some of them integrating into The Five Civilized Tribes. This integration, coupled with the Dawes Act of 1887, required the government to divide tribal territories into individual allotments for Native Americans, which also included the Black members of the tribes. This loophole resulted in Black Americans settling in the area between 1865 and 1920, gaining wealth through landownership and founding more than 50 Black townships across Oklahoma.

40 Acres & A Mule in Tulsa

In 1889, during the Oklahoma Land Rush, a wealthy Black serial entrepreneur named Ottawa (O.W.) Gurley arrived in the state with a vision that would change the world. Born to freed slaves in Alabama and raised in Arkansas, Gurley ran a general store in Perry, Oklahoma, prior to moving to Tulsa in 1906. In Tulsa, he purchased 40 acres of land with the goal of selling residential and commercial plots to Black settlers migrating from Mississippi. Gurley quickly opened a rooming house, acquired buildings and rental properties, and began giving out loans to help other Black entrepreneurs start their own businesses. He named his melanin metropolis Greenwood, after the town in Mississippi.

Coined the “Negro Wall Street” by Tuskegee Institute founder, Booker T. Washington, Greenwood became a self-reliant mecca of Black excellence as its’ population ballooned to ten thousand Black Americans between 1910 and 1920. Although Gurley founded what we fondly call Black Wall Street, there were several others who saw his vision and joined the movement for Black-owned prosperity.

Attorney J.B. Stradford was the son of a slave who owned pool halls, shoeshine parlors, and boarding houses in Kentucky before moving to Tulsa in 1899 with the vision of creating Black wealth in Indian Territory. Shortly after arriving in Greenwood, he invested in real estate properties and built the Stradford Hotel, which was the largest Black-owned hotel in the country at the time, with 54 rooms, a dining room, saloon, and pool hall.

Around the corner were John and Loula Williams, a power couple from Mississippi who became two of the wealthiest Black people in Tulsa. John founded the Williams’ One Stop Garage, an auto repair shop. While they shared ownership in some of their businesses — a rooming house and a commercial rental property — Loula, a businesswoman in her own right, would often use her maiden name to purchase her own properties, like a popular confectionery shop and the Dreamland Theatre, a 750-seat movie theater.

A.J. Smitherman was a revolutionary who moved to Oklahoma in the 1890s and launched the Tulsa Star, a Black newspaper that was instrumental in informing the residents of Greenwood of their legal rights, new legislation, and court rulings that affected the community. An activist at heart, Smitherman was known to intervene in lynchings across Oklahoma, and called on Black war veterans to arm themselves to fight back against white lynch mobs.

And finally, Simon Berry started a jitney service using his Model-T Ford since the only taxi service in Tulsa was strictly for whites. Soon, Berry expanded his automobile expertise by building a garage where he trained mechanics and eventually negotiated a franchise deal with the city to run buses downtown. Soon Berry was rolling in the dough, making up to $500 per day, which would be equivalent to making a little over $7,000 per day in today’s economy.

By 1921, just 15 years after Gurley started what could easily be considered the only “Golden Era” that Black Americans have experienced in this country, Greenwood had built 108 Black-owned businesses. This included 41 grocery and meat markets, 30 restaurants, 11 boarding and rooming houses, nine billiard halls, and five hotels. A dollar circulated anywhere between 36–100 times and spent nearly a year in Greenwood before leaving the community. And although Oklahoma only had two airports, six Black families owned their own planes. It was truly a remarkable time for Black Americans and proof of what’s possible when they work together toward a common goal.

The Fall of the Great “Little Africa” Empire

On May 31, 1921, Dick Rowland, a 19-year-old Black shoe shiner, was barred from using the restroom at his white employer’s business. He ran down the street to the Drexel Building, one of the few places with a segregated restroom available to him. Inside the elevator, he encountered Sarah Page, a 17-year-old white elevator operator. The elevator ascended one floor, Page screamed, and Rowland fled the scene. A white clerk, the only witness, reported the incident to police and accused Rowland of sexual assault. He was swiftly arrested. A surge of racial tension followed as Black residents of Greenwood gathered to protect Rowland from a lynch mob, only to be met by an armed group of white men. The confrontation ignited what would become the deadliest race massacre in American history.

Thirty-five square blocks of Tulsa’s Greenwood District — including 1,200 homes — were reduced to ash. Up to 300 Black residents were killed, many buried in mass graves. Nearly 10,000 people were left homeless. Not a single member of the white mob — deputized by local police to loot and burn churches, schools, hospitals, and hotels; to rape, shoot, and kill Black residents; and to drop makeshift bombs from private airplanes — was ever arrested or held accountable for this act of domestic terrorism. Instead, they panicked, cowardly blamed the Black community for inciting the violence, and buried the truth for nearly a century.

A New Black Wall Street?

This year marks 104 years since the fateful day that led to the destruction of one of the rare moments in American history when Black Americans had the chance to build a world of their own design.

What’s often left out of the story is this: The residents of Greenwood rebuilt Black Wall Street in just 18 months — a staggering feat that speaks to their resilience, brilliance, and determination. (Yes, these people were magical.)

By the 1940s, the district had begun to thrive once more. But without access to loans, relief funds, or any form of restitution, the wealth and prominence it once held had faded. Then came the Civil Rights Movement, and with it, integration, which would become the final blow to the kind of economic self-sufficiency Black entrepreneurs had achieved during segregation.

Thanks to the work of historians who interviewed survivors of the Tulsa Massacre — and to TV shows like Watchmen and Lovecraft Country that helped resurface its long-buried history — the story of Black Wall Street has become a source of inspiration for many Black Americans and entrepreneurs. In recent years, countless podcasts, Facebook groups, and organizations have emerged, all exchanging ideas on how to rebuild a new Black Wall Street.

But what many seem to overlook is that the Tulsa Massacre didn’t extinguish the spirit of Black Wall Street alone. The gradual erosion of support for Black entrepreneurship — and for one another — ultimately brought the movement to a halt.

Since graduating from Black Ambition, I’ve been on a mission — just as my mentor advised — to find my own O.W. Gurley, someone who believes in my vision and can help amplify my company. But if I’m being honest, the journey so far has made me question whether we’ll ever see a true resurgence of Black Wall Street.

First, we hold $1.98 trillion in spending power, but that power only seems to be directed toward Black entrepreneurs in a significant way when racism makes headlines. Second, while Black influencers such as Lee have built massive platforms, it’s still rare to see those influencers follow in Lee’s footsteps by consistently using their platform to champion Black-owned businesses. And third, unlike the original Black Wall Street — which was led by Black leaders and power couples united by a shared vision of Black prosperity — I’ve never seen us more divided than we are today.

The bottom line is this: If Black Americans truly want to build a new Black Wall Street — without the conditions of segregation — we must choose each other first. Our greatest strength lies in unity, not division.

Since 1984, there have been six Karate Kid films, a Cobra Kai spinoff, and a world of young and old fans who’ve discovered martial arts through these stories. Once upon a time, I was one of those young people. And although I’ve enjoyed every Karate Kid film released — and will surely enjoy the upcoming Karate Kid: Legends — I can’t help but wonder: will we ever see a prominent Black female character in a leading, active, and pivotal role in the franchise?

Sure, Taraji P. Henson played Sherry Parker, mother to Jaden Smith’s character Dre Parker, in the 2010 Karate Kid reboot, and Nichole Brown portrayed Aisha Robinson, a student and best friend to Samantha LaRusso in Cobra Kai. But as a lifelong fan of martial arts films — and the sport itself — the invisibility of Black women and girls in leading roles is hard to ignore.

While we had some badass Black female action stars in the ’70s during the Blaxploitation era — like Pam Grier, Teresa Graves, and Tamara Dobson — once that era ended, so did the wave of bold and beautiful Black women who had been kicking butt on screen for a decade.

Too young to watch Pam, Teresa, or Tamara in their Blaxploitation roles, The Karate Kid became my entry point into the wondrous world of martial arts. Although I had just started kindergarten when it premiered, I remember feeling every single emotion as I watched the beautiful relationship unfold between Daniel LaRusso and Mr. Nariyoshi Miyagi.

Like many kids who grew up in the ’80s, the film didn’t just inspire me…it changed my life.

A year after The Karate Kid was released came The Last Dragon in 1985, and it blew my mind. The film blended comedy, fantasy, sci-fi, martial arts, and even romance — every genre I love — and starred a mostly Black cast to boot. I was in movie heaven and may have been a little bit in love with “Bruce” Leroy Green (honestly, who wasn’t?).

The music, the tone, the Eddie Arkadian of it all — the hokey fun — completely inspired me and still does, as I continue to watch the film often. Eventually, Leroy’s obsession with Bruce Lee rubbed off on me, and my own love for martial arts was ignited.

What followed these two classic films was an influx of mainstream martial arts movies that I grew up watching — films like Bloodsport, Kickboxer, Bloodfist, Red Sun Rising, and even comedies like Double Dragon, 3 Ninjas, Surf Ninjas, and of course, the iconic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Growing up in a small town in North Carolina, I didn’t get a chance to see my first Bruce Lee film, The Chinese Connection, until college. That was also when I first watched a bootlegged version of Jet Li’s The New Legend of Shaolin, and it was game over.

Like that Brandy song, I wanted to be down, so I signed up to take karate as an elective.

Though I didn’t exactly become a Black belt during the semester I spent in karate class, I do remember that being the moment when I started to long for a Black female martial artist — with main character energy — to look up to, whether in the real world or the land of make-believe.

Up until that point, the only Black woman I could remember seeing in a martial arts movie was Marjean Holden, who played Sheeva in Mortal Kombat: Annihilation. To this day, Sheeva is still one of my all-time favorite Mortal Kombat characters, but Holden’s role was a co-starring character — and for me, that wasn’t enough.

By my senior year in college, the opportunity arose for me to go on a cultural exchange trip to South Korea. Even though Japan had always been my original dream destination, that trip to South Korea changed the trajectory of my life. On the plane ride home, a story began playing in my head…and it’s been playing ever since.

It was about an African-American army brat who witnesses a hitman murder her parents, is adopted by a Korean family, and raised in Seoul, South Korea, where she studies Hapkido and Taekwondo. I named her Rayven Choi.

That was 25 years ago. And thanks to The Karate Kid, I’ve spent the past decade building a Shero Universe around Rayven Choi. The graphic novel series has taken me around the world twice. But every time I’ve ever presented the story to Hollywood, there’s been a collective hesitation.

Since there hasn’t exactly been an influx of badass action films starring Black women, I can only assume they don’t think it’s marketable, or commercial, or that it’ll work overseas, or whatever other excuse they reach for when non-stereotypical films starring Black women come up.

But never one to shrink my vision, I’ve continued my quest to put some Black girl martial arts magic into the universe.

To date, we’ve independently sold nearly 5,000 copies of Rayven Choi, released a short film, and developed an upcoming mobile game based on the series. We’re now two books and two action-figure dolls into the prequel series, Young Grandmaster Choi — a chibi-style kids’ manhwa about a six-year-old Rayven growing up in Seoul, where she becomes a child prodigy in Hapkido.

With the cultural lovefest that has blossomed between Koreans and African Americans in recent years, thanks to K-pop’s R&B influences and the K-Drama craze that has Black women, especially, in a chokehold — Young Grandmaster Choi is uniquely positioned to capture both audiences.

That’s why the next Karate Kid shouldn’t just look like Young Grandmaster Choi, it should be inspired by her. This character has the power to be a true cultural bridge, one that genuinely connects America to the heart of Hallyu.

If this were an episode of Shonda Rhimes’ award-winning television series Scandal, this would probably be the moment when B613 — the covert CIA agency run by Elijah ‘Rowan’ Pope — kidnaps and interrogates the rogue billionaire, only for them to never be seen again.

Like my Shero, Shonda Rhimes, I am a screenwriter who hopscotches between historical fiction and espionage. In the land of make-believe, this coup d’état unfolding in America is right in my wheelhouse. However, it’s something I never imagined could actually happen — not in real life, and not even in fiction…well, maybe in dystopian science fiction.

The level of overt corruption and lawlessness we’re experiencing all at once is unprecedented. I doubt our Constitution ever anticipated a U.S. president and his band of tax-evading oligarchs — led by an immigrant South African billionaire — would be holding the country hostage as if it were Nakatomi Plaza. Or that elected Republican Congress and Senate members would simply roll over and allow it… so far. I guess it’s true what they say: there’s no honor among thieves.

While I plan to use these Price of Rotten Eggs articles to unpack this ratchet season of America, I wanted to kick things off by addressing something that’s been bugging me since day one. As an award-winning writer, I always keep a dictionary and thesaurus on my person. But I’m also a country bumpkin who grew up in a small town among simple country folk who spoke plain Southern English. While I appreciate the media’s flowery language in describing this mess, a few weeks ago, someone called it a ‘kakistocracy,’ and my head started spinning. I thought, ‘What in the hell is a kakistocracy?’

I figured that if I was confused by all the big words being thrown around, the rest of the country might be just as lost. And trust me, this is not the time to confuse ‘We the People’ — especially since there’s no real-life B613 coming to save us from the rogue billionaire and his sidekick president. So, I decided to break down some of these head-spinning terms for myself and others. Think of me as your ‘fascism translator,’ much like how Luther was President Obama’s ‘Anger Translator’ in those classic Key & Peele sketches on FX.

What is a coup d’etat?

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary…

A coup d’etat is a sudden decisive exercise of force in politics. Especially the violent overthrow or alteration of an existing government by a small group.

The Fascism Translator version…

A coup d’état is basically a heist — but instead of robbing a bank or a casino like in Ocean’s 11, this administration and a crew of tech billionaires are attempting to rob the American people of more than just our money and quality of life. They’re coming for all of our Constitutional rights.

What is fascism?

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary…

Fascism is a populist political philosophy, movement, or regime (such as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual, that is associated with a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, and that is characterized by severe economic and social regimentation and by forcible suppression of opposition.

The Fascism Translator version…

Much like the bestselling book and film The Hunger Games, fascism is a system in which a dictator (e.g., Hitler) seizes control of a country, stripping its citizens of individual freedom, resources, and the ability to oppose their rule. If this administration succeeds in making Musk and Trump dual dictators, Americans will lose their right to free speech, the right to bear arms (yes, fascist dictators will take your guns), birthright citizenship, and all the freedoms and protections the Constitution has granted us for centuries.

What is a kakistocracy?

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary…

A Kakistocracy is government by the worst people.

The Fascism Translator version…

A kakistocracy is hiring a podcaster to run the FBI and a Fox News host to lead the Department of Defense. It’s basically putting the least qualified people on the planet in charge of the American government — at a time when we’ve got opps (a.k.a. enemies) everywhere!

What is an oligarchy?

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary…

An oligarchy is a government in which a small group exercises control, especially for corrupt and selfish purposes.

The Fascism Translator version…

An oligarchy occurs when the world’s richest individuals decide that having more money than God is not enough. After growing bored of their luxurious lives on yachts and at the world’s most beautiful beaches, they seek to play God by purchasing spineless politicians — whom they can control — to force us to pay THEIR taxes!

And there it is, folks — my first shot at translating fascism. As you probably noticed, none of these definitions suggests anything that will make America great. Instead, fascism weakens nations, leaving citizens politically powerless and trapped in poverty while the dictator and oligarchs live in luxury at their expense.

Losing our democracy to dictatorship just so the rich can get richer would quickly turn the American Dream into an American horror story. That’s why we must keep fighting against this administration’s push toward fascism and their relentless quest to strip us of our rights, our money, our healthcare — and yes, even our GUNS!

WE MUST RESIST by joining local organizations that oppose this administration, showing up at town hall meetings to voice our concerns, and taking action through protests, economic boycotts, writing articles, and making social media posts to spread the facts about what’s at stake.

You should also use the 5 Calls app to contact your members of Congress, senators, and attorneys general — demanding that they protect our democracy. Let them know we have their backs as they fight to maintain our freedom!

If you haven’t noticed, this is no longer about Republicans vs. Democrats. Honestly, I don’t think this past election ever was. But regardless of how it started, it has quickly escalated into a battle between democracy and dictatorship. The glaring question is… which side are you on?

I’ll start this by saying that I like to win. Not in a cutthroat mafioso “swimming with the fishes” type of way. But in an “I’m shooting for our team to three-peat while playing my butt off for that MVP trophy to feed the ‘Black Mamba’ in my belly” kind of way. Because of this “Mamba Mentality,” I’m often labeled “the hardest working woman in comics.” If I showed you my schedule, you’d probably agree.

In my previous life in corporate sales, I was an overachiever. Because I juggled two careers, one in corporate America and the other in entertainment, I walked into each company on a mission to learn my job as quickly as possible. I would charm my customers into buying from me and only me, and once I had my territory running like a well-oiled machine, I would put it all on cruise control so I could do what I do best…write movies and comic books.

In 2016, during my fifth year at Coca-Cola, I launched Shero Comics. The biggest lesson I learned while selling Coke was that if you have a great product, even better marketing, and loyal customers, you, too, can be the number one company in the world. And so began my journey to win with Shero!

Eight years later, with thousands of comic books sold, a recognizable brand, a decent fan base, and being on the verge of completing the trifecta of my company with Shero Games, you’d think that the mountaintop would be somewhere on the horizon. But nope, I’m still in the valley…literally and figuratively.

As an indie comic book publisher and entrepreneur, the highs and lows from the peaks and valleys of running a business are nonstop. So, last year, when I somehow found myself running two crowdfunding campaigns within six months of each other, I buckled up for the ride. The first campaign, for my kids’ martial arts manga, Young Grandmaster Choi, was successfully funded on Kickstarter. The second campaign, for my new gaming division, Shero Games, reached around 50% of our goal on FundBlackFounders. I thought we did a pretty good job with both campaigns, but there was something about that Kickstarter campaign that I haven’t been able to shake.

Before I get into what happened during that first campaign, I want to quickly go over comic book publishing and distribution in three short sentences:

1. There are two comic book companies: Marvel and DC.

2. The entire distribution industry for comics caters to…Marvel and DC.

3. If you are not Marvel or DC…you’re on your own.

I’m partly joking, but dead serious. While there are smaller comic book imprints like Image, Boom, Dark Horse, and maybe a handful of indie creators who have been able to get distribution from the Diamonds, Ingrams, and Baker & Taylor’s of the world, for the most part, only the titans are the priority. This means that the rest of us talented mofos are on our own when it comes to getting our books into the hands of readers.

As a big fan of experiential marketing, I’ve spent the past eight years trying all kinds of methods to market and sell comic books. From selling them in beauty supply stores to distributing them out of my trunk, I have left no stone unturned when it comes to “pushing C.” But the goal of attaining worldwide domination — I mean distribution — for my comics remains, which brings me back to what bothered me so much about that Kickstarter campaign.

My Young Grandmaster Choi campaign was my first time using Kickstarter. The campaign ran for 31 days and funded in the first 8 days. In the remaining 23 days, we worked to keep up the momentum and ended at 155% of our goal. We set out to raise $5,000 and ended up with $7,770, which was just enough money to pay my team (but not myself) to complete the book, print the book, create the rewards we offered, and fulfill orders for our very kind 144 backers.

Since the beginning of Kickstarter, break-even campaigns like mine have been a business model for indie comic book creators and companies — who are not Marvel or DC — to raise enough funds to get our ideas out while building an audience. But, in recent years, since Kickstarter has become a juggernaut for indie comic book creators and companies, I’ve watched this funding-only model evolve into a full-fledged distribution model.

After Comixology went kaput and the pandemic grounded comic cons for nearly two years, I watched many of my fellow indie comic book creators pivot to use Kickstarter exclusively to sell their completed comic books and graphic novels directly to consumers. In other words, indie comic book creators and companies who can’t get their books distributed traditionally have begun using Kickstarter as an all-in-one distributor and pop-up comic book shop.

This has been pretty revolutionary for a lot of indie comic book creators who otherwise wouldn’t have an opportunity for their work to be seen. During my first campaign, I witnessed several comic book campaigns pull in six figures within minutes of launching. These campaigns were, of course, from rock star creators, well-established companies, or those selling comics on the sexier end of the spectrum. While my campaign didn’t reach six figures, the success of these campaigns set off the “All Spark” in me of what’s possible for the future of indie comics and what needs to happen next.

Next month, we’re back on Kickstarter with the Young Grandmaster Choi sequel. This time, the book is complete. Therefore, this campaign isn’t using the “fundraising model” to complete the book — we’re using the “distribution model” to sell the book. So, we’re setting up a Shero Comics pop-up comic book shop for 31 days, where readers will have the unique opportunity to purchase our brand-new martial arts manga fresh off the presses, with a doll to boot!

While it sounds pretty exciting when I position it this way, that’s not quite how the masses see it. Over the past decade, crowdfunding has grown from a unique way for artists to fundraise for their quirky artistic endeavors or inventions to people using it to raise money to make potato salad, get their hair and nails done, or stuff their dead pets. I think it’s safe to say there’s a bit of crowdfunding fatigue going around. This means that even though indie comic book creators are creating the big fun ideas that Hollywood is seemingly too risk-averse to make, when we mention crowdfunding as our methodology, instead of people seeing it as a business move, they often see it as a burden.

This usually happens when something new and innovative comes along and everyone starts doing it until they run it into the ground. In Hollywood, it’s superhero movies and reboots. On social media, it’s podcasts. In politics, it’s the word “woke.” Burnout is real, but like the Phoenix, there’s always a chance to rise from the ashes. When it comes to indie comic book creators and crowdfunding campaigns, I think what we have is a messaging problem.

The type of crowdfunding campaigns that creatives run on the platform probably shouldn’t be grouped into the same bucket as someone crowdfunding to stuff their dead goldfish. But, to the general public, crowdfunding is crowdfunding. Also, as I mentioned earlier, indie comic book creators have moved past using the platform solely for crowdfunding and have created a distribution model that will likely be the future of indie comic book publishing, and with the closure of so many bookstores even traditional book publishing.

The problem with Kickstarter is that I don’t think they realize the power they wield and how they’ve become the plug for the whole wide world to discover new stories and universes outside of Gotham City, Wakanda, and even Hollywood. I think if they begin positioning indie comic book creators as indie comic book entrepreneurs, they’re going to revolutionize the comic book industry so the rest of us talented indie comic book mofos — who aren’t Marvel or DC — will finally get a shot at the worldwide domination (I mean distribution) we deserve!

My Young Grandmaster Choi II “pop-up comic book shop” launches on Kickstarter on Tuesday, September 10, 2024. While you’re supporting my comic book shop, be sure to stop by and support some of the others. This is the perfect opportunity to help us tell the bold original stories that everyone has been asking for, but have seemingly become too risky for Hollywood to make into movies.

Support our campaign here: https://kck.st/4bWUfLy

Dear Taraji,

I was moved to hear your thoughts on the state of affairs regarding Black actresses in Hollywood. While I know that this moment of clarity came from a world of pain, I’m so glad you were brave enough to speak your mind. For so long, we’ve been told to be quiet and never air our grievances, and that this is just the way it is. As a fearless leader, I’ve never been a fan of just shutting up and letting things be, so I wanted to write this letter to address the part of your lament regarding the film and TV projects that failed to appear after “Empire.”

“Black women are hot right now” is what I kept hearing back in 2019, right after I graduated from Ron Howard and Brian Grazer’s screenwriting incubator Imagine Impact 2. The incubator, similar to the accelerators that Silicon Valley Venture Capitalists put on to find profitable start-ups to invest in, was the first of its kind in Hollywood. Howard and Grazer kicked off an international search to find the best undiscovered screenwriters in the world and pair them with seasoned professionals as mentors, with the end goal of having them write a feature film or television pilot in eight weeks to pitch live in front of Hollywood. From over 4000 submissions, they picked 8 screenwriters and 13 TV writers. I was one of 3 Black women selected for the program that year and the only one on the screenwriting side.

While my peers were writing everything from crime dramas to supernatural horror, I decided to write an uplifting big-budget fantastical movie about a Black American woman who not only finds her tribe, but her purpose in South Africa. I figured if Black women were hot and trending like industry insiders were saying, this would definitely be the project to test the waters.

A few weeks after the program ended, I signed with a manager, and the general meetings began. Almost immediately, I began to see cracks in the whole “Black women are hot right now” trend. Just like when you finished “Empire” and had a momentum that should have propelled you to the next level, I figured that I had enough heat to get at least one or two offers; but nope, there was no big push nor offers to buy the script I felt was Black girl magic personified.

Instead of selling, the script got me meetings with nearly every production company in Hollywood. Despite my initial disappointment, I felt like George and Weezy. I had finally made it to the “big leagues!” The general meetings continued for several months while I continued to write Black and female-led projects. Finally, in 2020, approximately 48 days before COVID shut the world down, I signed with a big three agency.

Throughout the pandemic, thanks to my big fancy agency, the general meetings of the past turned into pitching to write studio films. There was even one film I pitched on that was for you, Taraji. I never heard back on that one, though.

These pitches continued through 2022, until I began to feel like they were less about me getting the job and more about providing free development services. When no one got around to hiring me after performing these services, I figured that Black women weren’t “so hot” after all. I stopped pitching altogether and continued working on my own projects.

After four years of swinging from the heavy metal gates of Hollywood, desperately hanging on with my glittery red gel nails, Taraji, here’s what I’ve learned:

Tribalism is Real

You mentioned that after “Empire” ended, your reps had nothing for you but a “Cookie” project that didn’t work out. Something I’ve come to realize is that the big agencies tend to pull from their own talent first. It makes complete sense from the business side to “keep it in the family.” But on the creative side, it means that if I or another screenwriter wrote a project specifically for you and you weren’t signed to the same agency, that project might never reach you. At least not before a production company and/or studio came on board, and by then, they could go in another direction for the leading actress.

The Power of Two

There was one rare instance when I created a project for a Black actress. At the time, we were at the same management company, and she was looking for a TV series she could star in and take to a major studio that had shown interest. Of course, her team began looking from within for a writer, and eventually came to me for a few pitches. We tag-teamed as we pitched the series to the studio. They didn’t end up buying the show, but it was a powerful move that might be an industry hack for Black actresses like yourself to find the projects that haven’t been finding you.

Check Your Reps

Around ten years ago, there was a Black female rapper-singer-actress that I wanted to attach to one of my film projects. She was with one of the big agencies. Without representation, I knew that her agents would never listen to me, so I went to her manager with the project and was able to get her attached. I managed to do the same thing recently when I got a known actor to star in my award-winning short film. These actors had reps who were open to hearing about projects for their clients that didn’t come to them the traditional route.

While I understand that actresses on your level deserve the privilege of having your reps bring projects to you, it might not be a bad idea to have someone on your team who is open to hearing from creators not inside the current ecosystem.

Let me add that it’s extremely difficult for Black writers to find proper representation in Hollywood, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any easier.

The ‘Isms are Everywhere

When you spoke about being tired of working so hard and receiving only a fraction of the cost, I felt that in my spirit. The old adage that we have to work twice as hard to get half as much popped into my head. I began thinking, no matter the industry we are a part of, Black women are always at the intersection of racism and sexism. I have no bright ideas on how to overcome them; I’m just here to say that Black women in the industry, at every level, feel your pain deeply.

The Math is Changing

After a double strike and several mergers and acquisitions over the past few years, the industry appears to be headed toward some very big and drastic changes. I’m a firm believer that with change comes opportunity. You mentioned that you were tired of hearing the old Hollywood folktale that Black-led films don’t translate well overseas. Given films like Rush Hour, Black Panther, and anything starring Will Smith, I never believed this to be true. After spending time overseas and in meetings with foreign production companies, I’ve found that with the right project and push, we translate just fine. With the industry going through so many rapid changes, this might be the perfect time to find a unique project with international appeal.

Again, I’m so glad that you were brave enough to speak your mind, Taraji. Sometimes, it feels as though we’re expected to suffer in silence in this industry. When I heard you speaking so freely about what has been happening for so long, I was proud. It’s like they say, well-behaved women rarely make history. And you, sis, continue to kick open doors and lead the way for the next generation of Black women, and we love you for it!

It blew my mind when I first read about it — so utterly absurd that I found myself reading it out loud. Women make up 48% of all gamers, but since 1985, only 6% of mainstream video games feature a woman as the main character. I read it a few more times aloud before flashing back through the cobwebs of my mind…the days of a gamer girl past.

I’m an ’80s baby filled with fond memories of playing Donkey Kong and Galaga. However, my earliest memories are of me playing Pong with my three uncles while wearing my favorite Spider-Man pajama set. Ahhh, the good ole days. Then there were the trips to The Pantry, a small convenience store in my hometown of Spencer, North Carolina, to watch my Aunt Sharon — aka the “Ms. Pac Man Queen” — munch on flashing ghosts in between sips of her Cheerwine slurpee.

Gaming has always been a part of my life, but it wasn’t until I launched my company Shero Comics in 2016 that I began to realize just how much of an impact gaming had on the trajectory of my life. Growing up an only child, Nintendo was my best friend. I cured my boredom with Super Mario Bros, Duck Hunt, Mike Tyson’s Punch Out and WWF WrestleMania. My Nintendo gave me “cool points” with my friends and cousins, fueled my insatiable thirst for creativity and gave me a peek into the whimsical land of Asia — Japan to be exact. However, the one thing I don’t remember from my Nintendo playing days was playing a game with a standalone female protagonist — especially not one that looked like me.

I felt a pang of anxiety as I scrolled through each and every headline that I found on the subject of women in gaming. Could this really be true? I began to reminisce, surfing through the mental Rolodex of games in my head, desperately trying to prove myself wrong. I think back through the ’80s, and nope, I don’t remember any standalone female protagonists then. I get to the ’90s, and there’s Lara Croft. Ding ding ding! There’s one! Then, I think back to Street Fighter and my all-time favorite video game, Mortal Kombat. Wait, there are a few women in those games! And then it hits me, Kitana was no Liu Kang, and Street Fighter was all about Ryu. As I flashed back through the 2000s and 2010s, it was almost like that scene from “The Fifth Element” when Leeloo mentally downloads what she’s missed over the past 5,000 years and is visually devastated after catching up.

Though I was less tearful than Leeloo and more Hulk Smash at the idea of women being overlooked in gaming for the past three decades, I couldn’t help but wonder how does something like this happen in one of the most capitalistic societies in existence. How could creating standalone female characters in video games be a bad idea in anyone’s boardroom? They do realize that women make up half the population, right?

Despite my initial disappointment, I figured maybe I was overreacting. Perhaps my “girl math” wasn’t mathing. Prior to my life as the Queen of Geekdom at Shero Comics, I had a long career in sales and marketing. Most notably, I spent six years at Coca-Cola doing corporate sales in Beverly Hills and Pasadena. One of the biggest lessons I learned while selling Coke was how important it is to serve the needs of your target market. Though before my time, I heard all about the “New Coke” debacle and how detrimental it could be to give your customer something they didn’t want or request. So, when it came to the gaming industry, I figured maybe the female market just wasn’t into video games enough for the powers that be to consider us a viable target market.

I went down the rabbit hole of Google to solve the mystery of where the disconnect occurred between women and the gaming industry. Soon I was slapped in the face with some pretty massive reality bricks: Article after article, year after year about women being missing from the multi-billion-dollar global industry of gaming.

The statistics were mind-boggling. Video games, which now included mobile games since the invention of smart phones, were estimated to bring in $347 billion dollars annually and counting. Women make up 47% of console video game players, 50% of PC video game players and 54% of mobile video game players. Yet when it came to the games that were being greenlit, only 6% of them were bold enough to feature a woman as a stand-alone protagonist.

Women gamers are either forced to play popular games with the limited number of female characters available or play as a male or even an animal. If they do actually find a female avatar, she’s likely a stereotype or a hyper-sexualized character created for the male gaze. And even worse, these women gamers often face harassment from male players when they play online games. And if they dared to complain, they’d face even more animosity from the male gamers.

By the time I looked at the statistics for women of color, I became full-on Scarlet Witch infuriated. But my anger went beyond the toxicity, exclusivity and stereotypical characters. By not including women in a significant way, this boys’ club is potentially leaving $174-plus billion dollars on the table. What kind of “boy math” is that?

If I learned nothing else in my years slinging Coke, I learned that you don’t leave money or a loyal customer on the table. Especially a customer who’s waiting to be seen, heard and championed. So, I channeled my rage into my gaming company, Shero Games, which focuses on developing games that give women and girls of color all the main character energy we deserve. The boys have been playing in our faces for far too long, and we are long overdue for some “girl math” in the gaming industry.

To quote a page from the Book of Beyoncé, “Okay ladies, now let’s get in formation.”

Support Shero Games and our mission to “get even with girls” by contributing to our gaming fund: https://sherogames.com/gaming-fund/

Bio: Shequeta L. Smith is an award-winning writer-director based in Los Angeles. In 2016, she launched Shero Comics, a multimedia company that builds comic book, film, and gaming IPs that feature women and girls of color as the main protagonists. Company Website Instagram Facebook