​Upon reading this, I felt a moral obligation to be the Trilogy Defender, as there are numerous trilogies other than just the mainstream ones that successfully tell their story and require a trilogy to do it well.

​It’s easy to get into this mindset of thinking of the bridge book as pointless or better-off-without. However, to normalize this idea that trilogies as a whole fall into this “trap” instead of accepting them as special cases devalues the essential components often found in these middle books: the plot and character development, the world building, the preparation for the last book, and so much more. It also undermines the parts of the story that the authors themselves deemed necessary to set up the finale.

​​Another point Avery mentions is how authors will turn to trilogies because of the profit, not necessarily because it’s what’s right for their story. I can acknowledge that, like in most professional fields, there will be those who turn to money instead of doing what they think is best for their work—as well as publishers who may push trilogies for financial gain. However, publishers, at their core, will be looking for stories with heart, grit, and a successful story arc. While trilogies often bring in money, it’s no longer a smart financial move to push stories to fit in three books and ruin the integrity of it, as readers will see right through that. V. E. Schwab, who has written both stand-alone novels (like The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue and Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil) and a trilogy (Shades of Magic), proves that there are authors who will write what they believe their story needs to be successful, not just what they think will fill their pockets, as well as publishers who will showcase all kinds of stories, not just the “money-makers.”

​That was my first thought. But then something else occurred to me: my mind has been bouncing back and forth from untethered thought to unfinished thought for quite some time now. So I ask myself again, why is this? 

​I’ll tell you why: short-form media.  ​

That single sentence shattered the sense of belonging I thought I had. What did my race have to do with enjoying a cartoon? Why did my Blackness suddenly make my fandom interest strange or unacceptable?

​Fandoms have always been the heart of geek culture. A place where people like me can explore, create, and connect with others who share the same passions. Whether a fandom is massive or niche, chaotic or wholesome, it’s supposed to be a place where everyone feels welcome.

Take some of the most popular fandoms today: Star Wars, Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, and countless others. These communities attract thousands upon thousands of devoted fans. People attend conventions dressed as their favorite characters, debate theories online, memorize obscure lore, and form friendships that often extend beyond the screen. That kind of passion and shared joy is what makes fandom culture so special.

​But when Black fans try to join in on the fun, the energy in the fandom suddenly shifts. The excitement quiets, conversations stall, and it’s as if we were never there to begin with. And when it’s not silent, the response is often worse—waves of hate, confusion, or outright hostility.

The reality is that most mainstream fandom spaces are overwhelmingly white. While that fact alone isn’t the issue, the problem begins when Black fans are treated like outsiders in communities that claim to welcome everyone. This kind of behavior doesn’t just hurt individuals; it sends a message to the broader Black community that our presence isn’t wanted.

​What’s even more damaging is how easily others follow that lead. When people witness the mistreatment of Black fans and say nothing—or worse, join in—it normalizes the exclusion. Plus, the moment someone dares to speak up or defend a Black fan, the backlash is immediate. Suddenly, the focus shifts away from accountability and toward making excuses, piling justification upon justification until the real issue gets buried and repeated. 

When my peer questioned why I watched the video and then added that it was because I was Black, I was completely caught off guard. I had never experienced anything like that before. In fact, I hope it’s the first and last time I ever do. The rest of the group murmured complaints for a moment but quickly brushed the comment aside, while I stood there, stunned, trying to process what had just happened.

When I look back on that moment, I remember how I would try to puzzle everything and think of all the fandoms that I was a part of. It also got me thinking of representation in the fandoms I was in and just how many characters that I see were actually of color. 

One of the main reasons Black fans face exclusion and backlash in fandom spaces is the lack of representation beyond white-centered narratives. For decades, most fandoms have been built around media that cater to and prioritize white characters, creators, and audiences. Because of that, when it comes to casting, the majority of main characters—sometimes even entire ensembles—are white or appear to be. Audiences rarely stop to question a character’s ethnicity or cultural background; instead, they automatically assume whiteness as the default.

After some time, as movements gained momentum and the media began including more BIPOC characters in various fandoms, certain people started viewing this progress as a threat or even as a form of “bullying.” Why? Because they interpreted the Black Lives Matter movement as an attack, believing it implied that anyone who isn’t Black is automatically racist or anti-Black, or that it aimed to elevate people of color above others. Some people think being “woke” goes too far because they’re not ready for social change and prefer the status quo. There’s even the saying “go woke, go broke,” but what does money have to do with representation and inclusion?

For example, a young woman named Zina shared how much she loved being part of the Marvel, Star Wars, and DC fandoms. However, when she began writing critical analyses of these communities back in 2012, she faced intense backlash. People accused her of bullying and even of trying to “segregate” the fandoms, even though she was simply offering thoughtful criticism about their issues.

​On top of that, she noticed a pattern of hypocrisy online. Many people who claimed to support BIPOC would post hashtags like #BlackLivesMatter, #JusticeForGeorgeFloyd, and #JusticeForBreonnaTaylor. But the moment she spoke up about how certain fandom spaces perpetuate anti-Blackness, everything shifted. She was suddenly met with insults, threats, and hostility. Those same individuals who once promoted justice quickly dismissed the movement and turned against her for speaking out. The worst part is that even after Zina decided to step away from those fandoms and join the K-pop community instead, she encountered the same kind of backlash.

​For me, being part of these spaces also means finding others who share my experience of being Black. Because of the hate people of color often face, it can be hard to find other Black fans who enjoy the same things I do. While I don’t mind making friends with people who aren’t of color, it means a lot to see that I’m not the only Black person in the room. It’s a reminder that Black people can be nerds too. Whenever I show up to a convention or event, connecting with other BIPOC fans is the highlight. Hearing their experiences in fandom spaces that usually center whiteness hits home, and it’s proof that we’re here, we matter, and this culture belongs to all of us.

One of my major gripes with being a “student of literature” is that I get whipped back and forth between enriching conversations with my fellow learners-in-arms, to a glorified book club with my peers who either whine, complain, or project themselves on what had otherwise been an excellent read. I’ll sit in a survey class, or a lecture on theory, or even a course dedicated to methodological practices in reading for multiple dimensions—and still, the conversations devolve into  echo-chambers chock-full of projections and unethical readings. ​

I give Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises my personal award for “book best butchered” by my peers, as the nuance and vertical dimensions of narrative (the irony, satire, and authorial critique of Hemingway on a world after war) fall by the wayside. The classroom turns into a straw-manned battleground of moral superiority between green college freshmen vs. a seasoned author of a bygone era. The story gets labeled dated, the language and characters as bigoted, and by extension, so does Hemingway as the author. He couldn’t possibly be delivering an accurate depiction of the “Lost Generation” after World War I, could he? Apparently not. ​​

This is subsequently compounded by the fact that when we’re not in school or working, we park our asses in front of the nearest screen and veg out to easy-to-follow stories with characters tailor made for easy consumption. Hollywood has a habit of pre-chewing IP’s and feeding them like mother birds to newborn chicks in a regurgitated fashion, sucking out all the nuance and nutrients from what would otherwise be (or had been previously) a great story. We’re content to eat our mush: we accept and praise versions of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein that give the creation superpowers or change the thematic complexity of the text to a simple “daddy didn’t love me enough” story. We watch comic book adaptations of superheroes become shells of themselves, and we love it! We gobble up Superman hyperbolic portrayals as either a villain or the embodiment of the “American Way!” Or we take versions of Marvel’s “The Punisher” (an anarchist anti-hero that clearly despises all criminal acts) as a white supremacy icon—you know those skull stickers on the backs of every truck on I-95? Our readings inform our beliefs and vice versa; we are content to see what we want to see in the media, just as we are in politics, which leads me to our most dire situation. ​

I am quite literally watching both books and the world burn in real time, and it all points to one culprit—reading! Bad readers are just churning out even worse readers. They are perpetuating a cycle that perpetuates power. But what’s the solution? How do we make sense of a world that has removed itself so far from nuance? Is everything only either good or bad? Right or wrong? 

The real answer—quite paradoxically—is no. There are meanings beyond meanings, and things materialized in language that will have a corporeal effect on the world around us. Frankly, it comes down to us, to the ones brave enough to advocate for such a “daring” concept. We need to read more, read often, and read better. Bad readers are ruining the world, and yet, reading is, ironically, the only thing that can save it.​