When we think about justice, for better or for worse, we often think of a handful of people and spaces whose responsibility it is to provide that for us. We think of the police, the courts, the government, the infrastructure that builds up the thing we call the ‘justice system’. It’s in the name, we think, and therefore we’re expected to get that thing there. It doesn’t matter whether we don’t trust those people or spaces, or whether we have a complicated relationship with them, or even if we don’t have the same access as others. That’s where justice is, and we have to find our way there or, as the Trinis would say ‘crapeau smoke yuh pipe’.

The issue is, though, that for many people, that’s not at all where justice lives. And, even more importantly, it’s not the same place as where the people who need it live. And that’s a problem.

This might be a harsh thing to say, but perhaps black folks making black films isn’t enough? The black stories that we deserve are thoughtful, deliberate (and maybe, perhaps, hopeful) ones that call us to action, bring our gaze to injustice, and carve a path out of it for us. If we can’t give ourselves justice in our own fiction, then where will we find it? (SPOILERS!! BEWARE!!)