I write about Bill Cosby in BETTER: Waking Up to Who We Could Be, about the welcome yet disorienting death of respectability politics that came with the birth of #BlackLivesMatter and #theEmptyChair New York Magazine cover. I must confess I felt deeply conflicted about calling Cosby a serial rapist, though he had already confessed to his covert use of Quaaludes to “loosen [women] up” in a deposition. I went back and forth over the course of months with exactly how to phrase one sentence in particular. I thought a lot about libel. I thought about the impact on my community to paint a luminary in such an unflattering light. I thought about the ways white folks might use my words, along with the denouncements of others, as permission to come for the so few Black people who have ascended to Cosby’s level of profile, influence and generosity. I thought about what we teach our children when we cannibalize our elders within a broader society that only valued them to the extent that it could profit from them. I ultimately decided to come down directly on the side of women. But the point is it was not easy calculus. I was caught in what NPR’s Gene Demby noted last summer as “the knotty work of disentangling Cosby’s fate and cultural legacy from [my] own.”

26 April 2018, despite a 2017 mistrial, a Pennsylvania jury convicted Bill Cosby of 3 counts of aggravated indecent assault, after more than 2 weeks of new testimony, 25 witnesses and 14 hours of deliberations. At 80-years-old, Cosby could be sentenced up to 30 years. I stand with and applaud the 60+ women who suffered at his hands, yet had the courage to tell us this was who he was. But even in my appreciation of the verdict, I find I cannot rejoice. I grieve.

I grieve for those who experienced both the trauma of rape and the indignity of not being believed for years. I grieve for my children who will struggle to make sense of a world in which the man who created and portrayed Fat Albert and his gang and Dr. Huxtable and his family — the man who made generations laugh together and care about so much — could, in real life, be the total opposite. I grieve for myself, whose already overtaxed psyche has to find somewhere to put all the conflicted emotions that run through me when I think of all the positive impact this man’s art and example of generosity has had on me at the expense of the negative impact his behavior has had on others. I grieve.

I also believe the world is better for having named Cosby’s abuses for the assaults they were and for having torn down the monuments erected in his honor. Maybe this will convince us that there is life after reckoning, and no matter how hard it is to hold notables, elders, ancestors, whomever to account, you don’t get to dismiss violence with the excuse that we all have feet of clay. #BETTERbeginsNOW

So apparently the way it works is that the director of a studio-sponsored feature film gets to envision, staff, film and edit a project and, to varying degrees, even conceptualize, write and cast a project, but at both the beginning and end of it all, the studio producers and execs get final cut say about what makes it to the theater. It was that version, Walt Disney Production’s version of Ava Duverney’s adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, that I felt like I witnessed opening weekend with my children. Now I want to see Ava DuVernay’s A Wrinkle in Time, even if it’s three hours long.

Don’t get me wrong. What my family and I saw in the theater did not disappoint. It is a soft and moving action adventure. All three of my kids as well as my spouse, Leslie, and I adored it! The chance for our two daughters to see themselves in a leading role yet again in a second big budget feature in as many months is unprecedented. The visual effects are extraordinary. The use of color and light, size and scope is breadth taking. (That alone was enough for “A Fish Out of Water” <er, I mean> The Shape of Water [2017], the unofficial remake of Splash [1984], to clean up 2018 awards season.) Everything is so visually fluid and texturally rich — a delight for the senses. DuVernay’s gentle, adept touch is unmistakable, as well as her daring. Her instincts, better yet, her intuitions of when and why to diverge from the novel in order to communicate in film what strict adherence to the novel couldn’t are unsurpassed. The whole transmutation, ride, flight and fall sequence with Ms. WhatsIt — stunning! And that gorgeous, graceful, gripping lullaby coaxed out of Sade after a ten year hiatus, only Ava DuVernay could have accomplished all this. My 12-year-old daughter, the one closest in age to Meg (Storm Reid), cried — twice — it was all so beautiful.

Like Madeleine L’Engle’s original telling of the story, Disney’s theatrical cut whet my appetite. What I now crave is the impeccable narrative development, pacing, consciousness and attention to details for which I fell in love with Ava DuVernay. Even my children longed to see certain iconic scenes through DuVernay’s eyes, most specifically the part of the story when Meg, her father and her classmate actually have to leave Charles Wallace under the power of the It to recoup, regroup and re-strategize for his rescue. If I remember correctly (it’s been a while since I read the book to my eldest), Mr. Dr. Murry desperately wants to be the one to go back, but has to come to terms with the fact that Meg is the only one who can do what needs to be done. What a powerful realization for all characters involved as well as for the audience: The challenge they face calls for new leadership. (Sound familiar?) Such a scene, in this #TimesUp, #BlackLivesMatter, #NeverAgain moment, is perhaps the only rationale for Meg’s father remaining stereotypically white in a multicultural adaptation of the story. I can’t imagine that someone as attentive to such things as DuVernay would have simply overlooked such a multilayered payoff. Absent some scene like this that made sense of the chosen casting, if the producers had to go with someone who had already “boldly go[ne] where no one has gone before,” John Cho would have for multiple reasons made more sense than Chris Pine. Instead the studio gave into that unspoken rule that, even in multicultural projects, white people must remain in the majority (usually a whole 50%) and unrealistically sympathetic.

I also longed for the scene that explained why Meg was specifically the hero the moment required and not Charles Wallace. It isn’t solely about girl power or that Charles Wallace is an impressionable child who gets in over his head. Charles Wallace is the one recognized as having unique abilities. He is the most sensitive to both the light and the darkness. He is empathic and can apprehend things no one else can. Thus, he is the first to encounter the Mses. He is the one convinced his father is still alive and just can’t find his way home. He is the one who can tesser most easily and immediately perceive reality as it presents itself in new forms on each planet they visit. Nonetheless, all this talent is also what endangers him, because like so many, he begins to believe his own hype. He gets it into his head that he can go tit-for-tat with evil and that it’s somehow important to try to do so. There is a scene in the book, not unlike the interaction on the beach in the movie, in which the It not only takes interest in Charles Wallace as opposed to Meg, but Charles Wallace tries to match wits with the It and unwittingly falls under Its spell. How powerful it would have been to hear Meg say, “No, Charles Wallace, we have to make our own decisions” (an actual line from the book), and plant a cautionary seed in the minds of children of color, particularly at this time when historically marginalized persons are wrestling with the value of the perpetual back-and-forth with systems of inequity versus building our own equitable systems (like DuVernay has done with ARRAY). This is the typical DuVernay-like consciousness as also demonstrated in showing a teenage white boy learning to respect and support black girl magic.

Even though I loved the film, there were three bits of the final dialogue that actually bugged me. I can deal with Ms. WhatsIt’s (Reese Witherspoon) constant whitesplaining because it is addressed within the context of the story; plus it helps drive the plot in a way that compensates for places in the novel that actually drag, and it has contemporary relevance. However, I was annoyed by Calvin (Levi Miller) feeling the need to twice randomly comment on Meg’s physical appearance— “I like your hair.” Whereas this is all too familiar to Black folks, male or female, and often comes with white folks actually reaching out to touch our hair (yes, try to pet us) without permission, it seems unlikely that DuVernay would have included both scenes absent some sort of broader context. It would have rung truer either if it had been played bigger, spotlighting just how ridiculous it was, or if the comment had been offered as affirmation to some expressed self-doubt from Meg. Which is also how I felt about the prominence given to the line “I hate myself” muttered by this beautiful little black girl wielding all the magic of the universe. Such a statement, without context, felt defiling. Maybe that’s how it was meant to feel. But it left me wondering.

And that wondering eventually gave way to this unsubstantiated suspicion. In the final stages of the post-production process, after a director has had her time with the film editor, it is not uncommon for studio producers to continue working with the editor to “improve” a film with precisely these kinds of (remember-whose-project-it-really-is) edits. Such “improvements” can put creative staff in the awkward position of having to stand behind a final product that might be slightly (or dramatically) off from what was originally planned. During promotions, I imagine one can find one’s self trying to make sense of executive choices that feel somewhat out of place because one had less to do with them than she would have liked, which seems to be the case with screenwriter Jennifer Lee’s explanation of why the Aunt Beast scenes were ultimately cut. (Really: it was truer to the story unfolding in the film to show Meg going into battle without nurture and support, because “that’s not what you get in life”?)Perhaps this delicate discrepancy is what I felt as I watched. Certain scenes a little more hurried than what feels normal for this director. Minor narrative loops left open. A few bits of dialogue forced. Nothing in particular, but just the kind of subtle sabotage a socially astute person might expect on a better story project carrying so much weight. “Sabotage?” you query. Sure. Not enough for intent to be proven beyond a reasonable doubt, but just enough so-called “improving” to skew intent. Admittedly, this is complete conjecture. But one doesn’t need insider knowledge to recognize likely. One just need be alive long enough to pay attention. Patterns emerge. I may not be exactly right. But a nickle to a dime (or should I say, one positive opening weekend box office headline to a dozen negative ones), I bet I’m closer to right than I am to wrong.

Of course, Disney got the big PR moves right: multi-racial, multi-ethnic cast plus inspirational, feel-good, non-sectarian moral. And lest we forget, merchandising. That’s what Disney does. But that’s not why you hire an Ava DuVernay. You hire an Ava DuVernay to give substance to your desire to contribute something meaningful — something liberating — to an evolving world. Something about what I saw felt incomplete. To be honest, it simply felt like an extra-long trailer. Now I’m ready to see the filmmaker’s full vision. Because like Ryan Coogler and Robert Jones Jr (Son of Baldwin) before him, I believe in Ava DuVernay. Disney, not so much.

I don't care if white people don't get it, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let my own fam walk around bad-mouthing the gift that is Ryan Coogler's Black Panther because of whatever it wasn't (it couldn't be everything!) or just because they haven't taken the time to understand it.

I admit I am overly invested in Black people understanding the story and letting it do the affirmative work it is meant to do (#WankandaForever!). As a former literature teacher who wrote a book about the importance of good storytelling, this stuff matters to me because I know if we can imagine more beautiful, more just, more virtue-filled stories, we can create a better world. But if we poo-poo every attempt at a better story, we're only left with what we've got.

At least for the moment, ignore the critical drivel that is floating around (even in your own head). If you are looking for a succinct yet multi-perspective movie review, NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour is useful (although Gene Demby broke my heart). However, if you want to go deeper and connect with Black Panther on a visceral level, check out Hannah Drake's "Wakanda Got Colonizers Shook." The life-giving nourishment she serves up includes this nugget:

"Representation matters. If you see someone doing something you once believed was unattainable, you start to believe, 'I can do that or be that too.' When you see a character like T’Challa serving us Denzel Washington’s walk, flanked by his army, you start to believe that you can be that confident too. You start to believe that you can stand in your glory. When you hear M’baku say they are vegetarians, you start to think about the African diet and how food impacts your health and strength. When you see women like Nakia and Okoye, being strong, powerful, intelligent, and strategic you know, 'That is who I am as a Black woman.' When you see Shuri in all her youthful wisdom mastering technology, you start to believe, 'I can do that too.' There is power in seeing yourself in the world."

And If you want to understand what's going on with Black Panther on a socio-political level, check out Jelani Cobb's "Black Panther and the Invention of 'Africa'". One of his many valuable insights is that "T’Challa engages with his female counterparts as equals; Killmonger kills two women and assaults a third. Their political positions may be equally compelling; their ideas about gender [and what a post-liberation diaspora might look like] are not."

I'm not as sophisticated as Cobb. I come to the movie simply asking, "Did it do the work of story well?" At every turn the resounding answer is YES! And all this talk about "Killmonger was killed for wanting to liberate black people everywhere" is just foolishness!

First off, you have to consider who is telling the story. Co-writer/director Ryan Coogler (as well as his co-star antagonist, Michael B. Jordan) is a Black dude from Oakland, CA. Like many of us who grew up in the inner-city, "burn-it-all"-down might be Coogler's own first inclination. By conquering it in the story, he's not hating on himself; he's coming to grips with himself.

Secondly, Erik Killmonger isn't killed because he wants to liberate black people everywhere; he's not even killed. He is opposed because, despite what his lips are saying, he is just as careless about black lives as the colonizers who shaped him in their image. However, as viewers, we have no idea what happens to Erik. He just makes that deep-ass statement about "bury me with my ancestors," pulls the blade from his chest, and the camera fades to black. He may be back.

“In Wakanda, when one dies, they are still with us; they become part of the soil in which we are now planted.

Thirdly, there is deeper work going on here, beyond even the REVOLUTIONARY BEAUTY on the screen, that relates to how the story itself is structured. For one thing Coogler chooses to make Killmonger less a villain and more an antagonist, which gives him a greater purpose. He's not just a foil introduced for T'Challa to look good beating up and to demonstrate the superiority of Shuri’s tech. In answer to T’Challa’s prayer, Erik is there to try T'Challa, to make T'Challa prove he is ready and worthy to be king and to shape T'Challa into the hero the diaspora, not just Wakanda, needs.

But that's just if we see the two characters as people. I think Jelani Cobb is closer to right in realizing that "in Ryan Coogler's Black Panther, the hero and his antagonist are essentially dueling responses to five centuries of African exploitation at the hands of the West." (Now that's deep.)

In art, especially the art of storytelling, it is not uncommon to personify ideas. Characters aren't always people, they are sometimes stand-ins for philosophies, intuitions, "responses," to use Cobb's term, that the storyteller wants to see play out and interact with one another. Killmonger then becomes an expression of a deep pain (of which Coogler has spoken) and a reasonable anger that is well articulated (and compelling), but turns out to be indiscriminate in its attempts to satiate itself. Coogler goes out his way to communicate (through Killmonger himself and through the white CIA guy—the personification of solidarity over allyship) that what is wrong about Killmonger is not his pain or anger but his implementation which too closely mirrors the West (remember the wisdom of Audre Lorde).

T'challa has to wrestle with (quite literally, because one can do that with story) the validity of Killmonger's arguments, anger, and pain. He has to come to terms with his own father's deceits and inadequacies. He realizes he has flirted too long with his own musings of vengefulness (as embodied in his best friend, W’Kabi)—leaving it unchanneled and unresolved—which in essence left a door open for someone as compelling as Killmonger to exploit. He has to acknowledge that if he had just listened to the black women in his life . . . ! (Can we just pause there for a moment—OMG.) Nakia, in particular, is a paragon of strategic engagement; she brings it every different kind of way. T’challa has to reconcile all of this and more, repent and make amends. In reconciling it, he becomes a new man that includes some version of all that he has learned. So the movie is not about one possible response triumphing over the other or the author killing off one idea in preference for the other.

That's, in part, the reason for all the African cosmology woven into the story: to put us in a different frame of mind for interpreting what we are seeing. Context shapes meaning. When one dies in the movie, they don't just pass on—out of sight, out of mind—as is often the western worldview. In Wakanda, when one dies, they are still with us; they become part of the soil in which we are now planted (hence, the burial scenes), nourishing, guiding, not dictating to us.

This is how story works, using plot and metaphor to make tangible the intangible. Of course, there is more than one meaning to all this stuff, but before you can critique it, you have to at least take time to understand what's going on and how it works. As a friend of mine lamented on Facebook, if only folks "would analyze and critique white supremacy as much as we do Black Panther."

You can scoff all you want at Black folks showing up at the theater regal in our colorful weaves, prints and affirmations; you can laugh when someone wishes you "Happy Wakanda Day" and shove your hands through the bottom of your pockets down to your knees when someone tries to dap you up and punctuate it with the "Wakanda Forever" sign. You can piss all over Black joy if you feel that is your calling in life, but leave the shallow, sloppy ignorance in your critiques at home.

I'm convinced Ryan Coogler himself is a superhero, and what the movie is more than compensates for what it isn't, because at the end of the movie, while waiting for the credit scenes, I asked my 12-year-old daughter what she thought. She paused for a long moment searching for words, then leaned in confidentially and whispered, "I don't know what to do with the rest of my day! Like what are you supposed to do after that? Can we just stay and watch it again?"

That’s what good — no, BETTER — story does.

[UPDATE] Other Thoughtful Reflections:

“After ‘Black Panther’: Roxane Gay on What’s Still Missing From the Marvel Universe”

“An Open Letter to White People Who Are Upset Because Black Panther Is So Racist” by Michael Harriot

“‘Black Panther’ and the Revenge of the Black Nerds” by Lawrence Ware

“‘The Black Panther’ Is No Call for Revolution” by Stephen L. Carter

“‘Black Panther’ Turns Hollywood’s White Gaze on Its Head” by David Dennis, Jr.

“Don’t Play with Our Emotions: Black Panther and Queer Representation” by by Briana Lawrence

“Five Ways That ‘Black Panther’ Celebrates and Elevates Black Women” by Anika Reed

“How ‘Black Panther’ Dissects Tension Between Africans & African-Americans (Spoiler-Free Review)” by Jessica Bennett

“How Do You Solve a Problem Like Wakanda?” by Justin Charity and Micah Peters

“How Killmonger’s Plan Simply Wouldn’t Work” by Scott Woods

“In Defense of Erik Killmonger and the Forgotten Children of Wakanda” by Brooke Obie

“I Took 7th Graders to See ‘Black Panther.’ Here’s What They Said.” By Kevin Noble Maillard

“Killmonger Was Wrong, and Y’all Know It” by Jason Johnson

Rebekah Henderson and Dr. Gregory Diggs’ Off Color Podcast: Special Black Panther Edition, Part 1 (featuring H-Soul and Maria Nagawa)

“The Tragedy of Erik Killmonger” by Adam Serwer

“The Trouble With Hero Worship: Is #TeamKillmonger Also #TeamToxicMasculinity?” by S.D. Chrismon

“Wakanda Curriculum”

“Wakanda Forever: Black Panther Was Beyond My Wildest Dreams…” by Julian Long

“Wakanda Future Do You Imagine?…” by Son of Baldwin