Long Term Movie Plans
Art, Fascism & Why We Matter
My niece is due in September.
I’ve been child-averse for most of my adult life. But when I saw her ultrasound photo, I wept tears of joy in a way I didn’t know I was capable of. So much potential. So much curiosity. So much history—baked into a black-and-white image of a being smaller than a bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll.
Since high school, or maybe early college, I’ve known I don’t want to bring children into this world. Fatherhood has its appeal—its intimacy, its pride—but my fears have always outweighed the joys. I used to joke with friends: “I can’t wait for you all to have kids so I can take them to see the new Avengers movies!”
Then, nearly five years later, I got a text: a photo of an ultrasound with the caption:
“4 tickets to Avengers please.”
And I cried. I smiled. I blew snot bubbles. And I started making fun Uncle plans for my beautiful niece.
One of the first things I’ll do, in 2031 when she turns six, is show her Star Wars.
Her mother and I were in college the night I found out she’d never seen it. I’ve been a card-carrying blerd since age five, when my dad showed me the original trilogy in anticipation of The Phantom Menace. I was captivated by the characters, the galaxy far, far away. But at five, I didn’t yet grasp the thesis.
Naturally, I insisted we do a watch-through—in release order (the only reasonable way). Our friend group gathered for a string of movie nights, immersing ourselves in space politics, lightsabers, and rebellions.
That rewatch, at 22, felt radically different than it had 17 years earlier. The themes of Star Wars—a people manipulated by fascism in plain sight, a disorganized resistance riddled with ego and infighting—hit hard. It was 2017. Trump had been president for a year. His behavior felt dangerous, but more like a nuisance more than an existential threat. Day-to-day, things looked and felt normal-ish to me.
But I watched hate crime statistics rise by triple-digit percentages. I watched my Muslim and Hispanic friends shrink in fear under a president who called them terrorists, rapists, murderers. I got called “nigger” twice while walking the streets of Boston.
Eight years have passed.
The Trump administration has returned with an unambiguous, fascist agenda, targeting the most vulnerable among us. U.S. citizens like Mahmoud Khalil, Abrego Garcia, and others have been disappeared. Without charges, without trial, without evidence of wrongdoing. The U.S. has been placed on a global human rights watch list.
And still, with all the evidence, with all the cruelty on full display, people I love: family, friends, people I once admired, are applauding it. Applauding him. It’s baffling. Devastating. I don’t just worry about what this means for me—I worry about what kind of world my niece is being born into.
And yes, I know how melodramatic it sounds. But I can’t stop hearing the words of Senator Padmé Amidala: “So this is how liberty dies… with thunderous applause.”
The other day, I scrolled past a post by an artist I admire—a trans woman, a brilliant musician, someone constantly pushing boundaries. Her post was understandably heavy. Not verbatim, but the gist was: “What’s the point of making music when the world is falling apart? Why am I not doing more?”
Her words burrowed into my bones. Because I feel the same. Every day.
This moment we’re in, it feels existential. It has ripped fathers from children, alienated our allies, normalized ignorance, and empowered hatred. The perpetrators are emboldened, smug. And me? I write essays barely anyone reads. I make songs few people hear. I shout into the Instagram void. It all feels… small. Powerless.
Back in 2016, the day after Trump was elected, a professor stopped me in the hallway.
“How are you doing, Hunter?”
He wasn’t asking about my day. It was a layered question. He was offering a moment of honesty or silence.
I mustered a smile and said, “Nothing Black folk haven’t dealt with before,” and kept walking.
That truth still anchors me. What we’re living through is terrifying, but not new. And it’s not unbeatable. Black people have endured worse. We’ve survived with grace, with strength, with fire, with invention.
I owe that same resolve to this moment. I owe that resolve to everyone.
In every era of oppression, great art has been born.
When my friend, the artist who wants to quit, asked what the point is, I said:
“What would these eras be without James Baldwin or Nina Simone?”
Nina Simone said the role of the artist is to reflect the times. Martin Luther King Jr. used to call Mahalia Jackson just to have her sing to him over the phone. Art heals. Art sustains. Art resists.
Maybe you think your art doesn’t matter. Maybe you think no one’s listening. Maybe they’re not. But maybe someone is. Maybe your work gives them one more reason to stay.
So the question isn’t: “Am I doing enough?”
It’s: “Am I doing all that I can?”
Do all that you can. That’s all you can do.
Maybe I’m writing these essays to a void. Maybe the songs are just for me. But I believe that honesty, integrity, fear, and conviction matter. Art can be the key that unlocks understanding. The spark that ignites resistance. The mirror that shows us who we are.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings.
But I’ll write another day. I’ll write as real as I can. And in a few years when we have survived once again, I’ll sit down with my beautiful niece, and I’ll show her Star Wars.
This is powerful. Keep writing Hunter.