Lost in Space(s): The Internal Wars of Liminal Characters
By: Briane Willis & Dawn Adepoju
Editor’s Note: (please cue up the Welcome Back, Kotter theme song!)
As much as I love a good “start with a lyric” post, I hesitated a moment today: The Apologist went on an obvious summer vacation, though I’m back, now, and with one of the most fun essays to come over the transom in some time. Where’s the lyric? Well, when I signed off in April, y’all knew that “school [was] out for summer,” but not everyone was as aware of the fact that, for me, “school [was] out forever,” as the great Alice Cooper once declared. Yes, at 39, I have officially done the academia gauntlet, did the thousand-page tenure binder, shared some incredible classroom moments, and I loved every minute of it. Now I’m in, as luck would have it, a bit of a transitory, or… shall we say… liminal space.
Many of my readers know that this journal started as a way to participate in a challenge I’d issued to my Editing & Publishing class— “start an independent magazine.” (*I see you, Mania Magazine and Earworms— having issues out and already accepting more submissions!) As this summer went on, I spent a lot of time being still and watching everything move in what felt like hyper-speed around me. I jokingly called it “bullet time” because I felt like everything was fast, but I was moving slow enough to observe— well, as another lyric appropriately from Seger’s “Against the Wind” says— “deadlines and commitments/ what to leave in, what to leave out.”
For years, writing and reading have been my job, and I loved my job. I wasn’t sure if I loved writing and reading anymore. Perhaps, then, I got the greatest! gift of all time: this summer has been a full-on bacchanalia of writing and reading. I’m 150 pages into a mystery novel, I got my first Spanish-language poems written, submitted, and rejected— IN SPANISH!, I’ve read dozens of books, and I am here today because THE APOLOGIST is everything I want to love and celebrate in the future. I’m grateful to have so many wonderful readers, but I’m especially honored and grateful to have the writers I’ve had and that I’m working with in the future.
Today’s essay is by Briane Willis and Dawn Adepoju, and when I say that I had fun working with them, I’m underselling it. How often do you get a brilliantly written essay about liminality in your inbox, out of nowhere, and have it ALSO include a ton of your favorite shows and characters? (Reader, my Paramount+ Account has a picture of Star Trek: Discovery’s Michael Burnham as the profile picture, and I made my husband’s Book. There were no other options in my mind.) If you love characters in space— spaces— or just really love in-depth character analysis about moving through challenging times and places, well, this is for you.
And for me. I’m not even sure I’ve told this to Briane and Dawn, yet, but here goes: This essay found me in the most transitory space of my adult life. By being still and quiet, I was able to see myself in this essay even on my first read-through. Thank you for being a mirror, and thank you for using pop culture to explore what it means to be human. Truly, this is a love letter to all of the characters— and people— who are going through it. It was having this essay find me at this moment in time that recommitted me to editorial joy and The Apologist. Thanks for getting me back on the horse, y’all— hell, thanks for making me WANT to be on the horse. I hope you enjoy this essay half as much as I did: it is a turning point for me. If you’re feeling stuck, go into this one loose and with open eyes: maybe it will find you, too.
Original artwork by Dawn Adepoju (instagram: @dawn_adepoju)
Humans are liminal beings, moving from one stage of life to the next. We change physically, mentally, and emotionally, inhabiting different realms throughout our lives. Liminality can also describe other categories, including the physical world, the psychological, and the narrative. The authors find this concept particularly enthralling in the fictional realm, stemming from a perceived pattern among their favorite characters across media, but particularly in the science fiction and fantasy genres. Broadly, we can observe how fandom spaces engender a collective, loud, and sympathetic response to such narratives. This shared enthusiasm for indelicate space men, vengeful pirates, honor-driven firebenders, and more is not only how friendship blossomed between the writers of this essay, but also suggests no matter the genre, world, or galaxy in which these characters are situated, there is something cross-cultural at play. It’s possible the tales of ostracization, vengeance, and ultimate atonement that surround these archetypes speak to audiences in understated yet provocative ways. By exploring media’s flawed but beloved characters who straddle the in-between, perhaps we can discover what it is about the threads of liminality that bind us to these stories and to one another as human beings.
The Greek word līmen means “a threshold” (Allo Contributors, 2023). In architecture, liminal spaces are physical environments or areas of transition and change (Hernández, 2021). Some examples are hallways, train stations, and elevators. A person is not supposed to stay in such a place; it is intended to be temporary.
When one lingers, or something is unnerving about the space, such environments can feel dissatisfying by representing an incomplete journey. This offers anticipation for what is expected to occur, and that expectant human mind may seek resolution. If none is provided, something may seem “off” about the environment or place, such as a broken bridge, a streetlight illuminating an empty street, or an entryway into a tunnel. The unsettling details contrast the typical human experience, introducing an abnormality that the subconscious mind may have difficulty accepting. Here, uncertainty is implicit, and the unfulfilled expectation carries a vague threat. As a species, humans thrive on the known, relying on an expectation being met. These spaces undermine that psychological need.
Time, shifting from day to night, is a threshold. On a grander scheme, liminal times can describe a tumultuous period of history, such as the change in governmental structure. During the political transformation, traditions are perhaps upended, order lost, and unrest may proliferate within the population. Further, there are communities of people who exist in the liminal; teenagers transitioning from childhood to adulthood, emigrating populations, or LGBTQ+ people existing outside hetero-normativity. Liminality intersects with other divergent identities that fall between socially acceptable categories.
(A visual representation of the Hero’s Journey)
In the study of psychology, the term is similarly useful to describe mental states. This includes rites of passage across cultures, and the more personal, such as an individual who must make a decision. Both provide a rich context for analyzing narrative structures. The popular Hero’s Journey is a designated sequence of events wherein a character encounters a conflict, embarks on a journey to overcome it, finds gratification when successful, and ultimately is celebrated by their community. Most fictional heroes understand the external driving force—the high-stakes conflict in the story—but often, they also have a sense of their personal investment, the internal, guiding motivation. Their success is inevitable in this narrative model. Each traditional hero follows a path to their aim, and may waver during their journey for a brief period, but only briefly before the hero reclaims their purpose. Their motivations are demonstrated within the text and with minimal uncertainty.
Yet some have no such ease. The characters explored in this essay remain in the figurative liminal state. Some may stagnate in their familiar mode, refusing to grow, grasping desperately to what they know. They become trapped. Moving through to the next phase is not yet an option. They do not have the resilience, sense of safety, or mental clarity to view the situation differently, to perceive a subsequent stage. The possibility of “the other side” is too abstract, or unreachable. This stagnation for the character can feel similarly unnerving for the audience, as it evokes the human need for arrival at a destination, rather than remaining at a midpoint.
In this realm of stasis, the liminal state character (LSC) fails to define their identity. They cannot make decisions or choices for themselves, merely reacting to others in a misguided pursuit of acceptance and validation. Their motivations may feel more obscure, unpredictable, and ambiguous. As with real world individuals, these characters seek the familiar, afraid to lose whatever degree of understanding they possess. To these narrative constructs, the known is preferable to the unknown.
The LSC may reveal this tumult, seeking guidance from those they respect, showing strong emotion, or communicating confusion when shown kindness. Often, these characters withdraw into themselves further, believing it is too late to change, and commit anew to a seemingly lost endeavor. However futile the cause may appear, it is all the liminal state character has.
The eeriness of their own existence comes from the very heart of liminality; it urges them to a new stage of being. But not all characters are willing to take that step forward, believing–or wanting to believe–they belong exactly where they are. To retrace their steps, to select a different path, means acknowledging a foundational mistake or failure, which terrifies. Further, for many of these characters, a fierce hopelessness persists. They have submitted to whatever forces exert the most persuasive power over them, and may relinquish their own needs in acquiring this supposed allegiance and acceptance. Some of them dedicated everything they have to a task or objective they deem vital for self-actualization. Eventually, the significant blunder may become unavoidable, even to their own disjointed minds, forcing them to address where they went wrong. Not all characters are ready to acknowledge all they have sunk into this unsatisfying path, whether that is time, energy, relationships, etc, but doing so allows them to begin moving on.
(Adam Driver as Ben Solo/Kylo Ren)
Some fictional characters are born liminal, while external factors force others into it, and neither process includes consent. The characters born into the liminal lack a firm initial grasp of identity within the story, straddle multiple worlds or contexts, and flounder to understand themselves from an early age. The character inhabits an uncertainty, often worsened by the contradictory nature of their identities. This specific category is tied to the family’s lineage, the biological, or the environmental.
Ben Solo, son of Leia Organa and Han Solo in the Star Wars universe, is the fictional product of the Light and Dark sides. In the Star Wars movies released in the 1970s and 1980s, Darth Vader, epitome of evil, subverts his old identity of Anakin Skywalker. That is, until the character makes a different choice before his death and receives redemption from his son, Luke. In the sequel trilogy released in the 2010s, Ben Solo is the offspring of the Light side heroes. He is born into a dichotomy, a war between this heightened polarity, and deprived of the context and support to find his place in a galaxy of strict binaries. First, he exists in utero as a vulnerable soul targeted by the most evil beings in the galaxy. As a young man, he exists as a Padawan, a physical representation of a promising future. Under this weight, his identity splinters, fracturing as a teenager after hearing the truth of his origin. He becomes Kylo Ren, a separate identity partially sculpted by dark entities, and embraced by the young man as inevitable, as the only way he knows how to survive.
And yet, despite seizing the Kylo Ren alter ego, Ben’s turmoil continues, and those who love him repeat their belief that it is not too late for him to delineate his own path. His mother Leia Organa trusts there is still “good” in him. Han Solo extends both his hand and heart to his son as the darkness eclipses Ben’s face. Ben Solo as Kylo Ren didn’t believe there was any hope, especially since his parents failed to acknowledge his warring sides when he was a youth in their care.
Still, Ben shows compassion to the characters of Finn and Rey in the film The Force Awakens (Abrams, 2015), and later in the story, he hesitates to take the life of his father, confessing to Han that he was being torn apart, and desperate to no longer suffer. Han stands in front of his broken son with love in his eyes and offers that irresolute young man a form of relief. But Ben has no more hope. By killing his father, Ben believes this will move him out of his torturous limbo. He is wrong.
In the sequel film, The Last Jedi (Johnson, 2017), a wound bisects Ben’s face, a strike administered by the trilogy’s hero, Rey. When the murder of his own father doesn’t bring the clarity of identity he desperately craves, he soon pivots again, killing his Dark side master, and extending his hand to Rey. Even now, he refuses to determine who he is, instead embracing an antithesis of what came before, and yearning for Rey’s acceptance. What he doesn’t comprehend is acceptance arises within himself; an acceptance of his lineage, his inheritance from both the Light side and the Dark. Only within this profound binary can he discover himself, the fulcrum of the opposing forces. It is not until the trilogy’s third film, The Rise of Skywalker (Abrams, 2019), that Ben discovers his true identity. Not a paragon of the Light, nor a leader of the Dark, but someone who has discovered his own heart and pursues that authentic truth. He fully accepts who he is and departs the liminal. He fully accepts who he is, and we see the beginning of his departure from the liminal. Sadly, this departure is cut short due to his premature death. That said, with recent speculation regarding his return to the Star Wars galaxy, perhaps Ben Solo’s escape from the liminal will one day be fully-realized. He fully accepts who he is, and we see the beginning of his departure from the liminal. Sadly, this departure is cut short due to his premature death. That said, with recent speculation regarding his return to the Star Wars galaxy, perhaps Ben Solo’s escape from the liminal will one day be fully-realized. He fully accepts who he is, and we see the beginning of his departure from the liminal. Sadly, this departure is cut short due to his premature death. That said, with recent speculation regarding his return to the Star Wars galaxy, perhaps Ben Solo’s escape from the liminal will one day be fully-realized.
(Adam Driver in a moment of vulnerability as Kylo Ren)
Another space-bound example is Spock, from the fictional universe of Star Trek. Spock’s unique characteristics are integral to his appeal. Spock, too, is the product of an acute polarity. His father is Vulcan, a species that holds logic and reason as paramount. His mother is human, a species that most Vulcans perceive as inferior and weak. These parents, Sarek and Amanda, raise their mixed-species son on Vulcan, where Amanda contorts herself to fit that society’s expectations, and distances herself from stereotypes associated with Earth. Spock, who is exceptionally intelligent and observant, notices this requirement. He embodies that habit for survival.
In private moments during the first Star Trek series, in addition to the more recent shows, Amanda reaches out to Spock about his unique confluence of identity, wishing him a synthesis, reminding him that his humanity is nothing to be ashamed of. But the verbal confirmation isn’t enough to help Spock comprehend, let alone function in a healthy manner, from a place of self-acceptance. Thus, Spock exists in this gulf between his parents, unsure how to integrate.
During Star Trek Discovery season two, which aired in 2019, Spock’s childhood was fraught. He inherited a learning disability from his mother, which Spock and Amanda kept secret from Sarek, making his already challenging school years more difficult. He experienced nightmares, bullying, and did not connect with other children. It is only when his family adopts a fully human child named Michael Burnham that Spock witnesses someone else juggling the two roles he inherited. He latches onto this relationship, experiences immense emotional pain following their adolescent severing, and must say goodbye to his sister just as they reestablish their bond as adults.
Though Michael struggles to perform Vulcanhood perfectly, she still receives more warmth from their father than Spock does. Spock ends correspondence with his father during his youth, not directly speaking to him again until he reaches his mid-thirties. When Spock encounters Sarek in the 1960s Star Trek show, the tension inherent to their relationship–and by extension Spock’s very identity–is on full display in their clipped communication and unease. Despite the feeling he has disappointed his father, Spock has continued to prioritize his Vulcan heritage over his human, believing that is how he will move through the liminal and reach self-actualization.
During their unexpected last moments together on Star Trek Discovery, Spock admits to Michael that he was lost as a child, torn between the paths of both parents, but when Michael joined their family, she showed him the possibility of walking both. He called her his balance and confessed deep anxiety about losing her.
(Michael Burnham and Spock from season 2 of Star Trek: Discovery. Editor’s Note: Michael is my hero and I can’t believe I get to publish an essay that talks with the correct amount of reverence for Spock and Michael’s use of found family to pull themselves out of being ‘stuck.’)
Without his sister, Spock fears he will remain in between. She encourages him to reach out to others, to never stop making connections. As he matures, Spock gradually discovers who he wants to be, diverging from Vulcan tradition by refusing an important rite of passage to purge emotion. He holds onto his human heritage, finds safety and acceptance with the human Captain Kirk, and eventually becomes an ambassador for the bridging of disparate worlds. He moves through the liminal over many long years, and after losing important relationships.
Both these characters share a commonality: the pressure of family obligation, social expectation, and environmental constraints. This can involve childhood abuse or neglect that burrows deep into the character’s psyche. From their earliest experiences, the liminal state characters are taught it doesn’t matter what they want for themselves. To be accepted, they have to perform an identity according to what people around them establish as acceptable. For Ben Solo, it is dutiful Jedi to his own detriment, while as Kylo Ren, he is a tool used by those to whom he bows. Spock defaults to the facade of an unreachable and exceptional science officer, hiding all discord, even when faced with heightened emotions through the Star Trek series, claiming his life’s happiest moments were under the influence of a mood-adjusting pollen, as seen in the original episodes. Both characters have suffered and crave relief, approval, and to be authentic to themselves.
Another LSC is the character of Nimona, who originated in the graphic novel (Stevenson, 2015) and then an animated adaptation (Bruno, Quane, 2023). Nimona is a shapeshifter, which provides an intrinsic foil to her liminal state. She leaps across identities and forms, changing herself to make connections wherever possible. As a child, her deep desire to establish relationships with others–both animal and human–resulted in disappointment. When only a single human child receives Nimona’s truth with joy and acceptance, hope follows. But this too ends when the human friend’s community labels Nimona as a threat. Nimona’s instability is too much of an uncertainty to their status quo. Not only do the other characters show no compassion, they reject Nimona, casting her off with fire and savagery.
Adult Nimona camouflages her deep interest in finding a companion by presenting herself as a sidekick, someone for a villain to rely on and trust, but not an equal. She is uncertain of who she is, carrying the pain of centuries past, convincing herself that violence and domination are more important than anything else. Another chance to bond with her new villain-turned-friend Ballister brings these fundamental desires to the surface. But this awareness is frightening. When Ballister offers her radical acceptance and safety, Nimona integrates her various parts, and is branded a hero instead of a monster.
(Nimona, being all casual-like)
The characters outlined above, who only know a liminal state, are denied consent from the very start. Other characters fall into the liminal after immense strife, an abrupt change in their lives, and traumatic experiences.
Joel Miller, one of the primary characters in the video game The Last of Us and the 2023 streaming show of the same name, is a single parent working to provide for his daughter. When a fungal infection destroys society and he faces unimaginable loss, he enters the liminal–alongside all of humanity. No longer does his previous identity serve him. He inverts how he interacts with the world, leaving behind who he once was. This forced change is not psychologically acceptable to the character, and he uses whatever means necessary to dissociate and suppress his pain. He remains stagnant until he encounters a girl who needs protection, and he will fulfill that duty, no matter what violence it requires.
Before he can reach self-realization, healing his seemingly fragmented self, he is forced to address the ramifications of his actions. His personal fight persists through the video game without providing a clear answer. He presents an example of veering toward the darker side of human identity than those who choose the middle or lighter paths, such as Ben Solo or Spock, distancing himself further from traditional heroes.
Prince Zuko of the animated Avatar: the Last Airbender series is partially born into the liminal, but more fully steps into it as a youth. He disappoints his father from a young age, who compares Zuko to his more capable sister and finds him inadequate. Punished by his father for speaking out of turn, the boy wears the scars of his disobedience for the rest of his life. He has no conception of life outside of his father’s control, and he will do everything possible to gain his father’s approval. Zuko is caught between forms of honor to his father’s bloodline and the Fire Nation, and to himself. There is no cost too great to fulfill these aspects of his inauthentic identity, and he questions nothing, until he stumbles into a bond with a supposed adversary, and begins to shift his perspective. Within the narrative, sufficient time passes for Prince Zuko to cross the liminal threshold, breaking the generational trend of loathing “others” as a distraction from how much they loathe themselves.
Encountering someone with a profoundly different point of view is a common trope within these stories; the mirror opposite character–the one who is supposed to be sure of themselves–offers a distinct narrative opposite. A single person who represents an alternate way of existing may yield immense influence over the liminal state character as the two further their interactions.
These characters walk a long road to integration. Killian Jones in the 2011 series, Once Upon a Time, endures personal losses that break his psyche. Without his brother and his first love, existence lacks fulfillment and satisfaction. Desperate to escape the cage of his grief, Killian takes on a new identity, Captain Hook, and thus distances himself from who he was before the pain overwhelmed him. As Hook, he seeks only revenge and violence. Hook stokes rage toward the individual who killed his love, and only wavers after centuries upon meeting the show’s heroes, ones determined to make the most humane choice for as many people as possible. Over five seasons, Hook reconciles the internal dispute, reclaiming his selfhood through repeated acts of atonement, and departing that indefinite state of being. His happily ever after arrives alongside the show’s heroine Emma, and the two start the family that Killian has long yearned for. Their slow burn relationship is strengthened by the personal flaws they have both confronted, the challenges they have overcome, and the trust they have built over many seasons.
(Killian Jones after deciding to protect himself by becoming Captain Hook— clearly, this is not how he saw his life going)
In the later seasons of 1990s show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the character Spike, a long-term antagonist, willingly suffers for his previous actions. Over time, he recognizes the immense horrors he caused, takes action to make amends, and fights for his redemption. Though by the closure of the show he is deprived of what he most craves–romantic connection with the show’s protagonist–his final actions are the opposite of his original ones. He counters the vampire tendencies within himself, finds wholeness, and dedicates himself to a selfless goal, saving the world and his love. In doing so, he achieves a heroic end.
Killian and Spike both reach a point in their shows where they address, and repeatedly confess, their longing to connect with the initial protagonist of the stories, Emma Swan and Buffy, respectively. At their core, these characters are confused about where they belong and desire that understanding and kinship. There is an ache to be acknowledged, though few of them concede this desire. In fact, many go out of their way to deny it, to pretend otherwise, in an effort to avoid the pain of recognizing whatever caused this splintered self in the first place. Oftentimes, these characters experience a breaking point or moment in their lives in which unconditional love or acceptance is denied by those closest to them. This denial then pushes them to one side of the “binary,” compelling them to adopt maladaptive traits out of defiance. It’s an act of self preservation that makes the journey to their actualization all the more tempestuous for fear they may confront rejection once more.
Upon encountering another character, who may be positioned as a hero or protagonist, a shift can occur. This protagonist may see doubt in the liminal state character, may offer compassion, some shred of optimism. The protagonist may identify cracks in the metaphorical armor that they may encourage to widen.
One example is Captain James Kirk from the first run of Star Trek and a series of movies in the following years. Captain Kirk has a genuine attachment to Spock, who more than once prioritizes his First Officer’s wellbeing over his crew. The two characters cultivate an intimacy, a fondness exemplified by affectionate touches and shared words. As Spock continually commits himself to his Vulcan ways, Kirk reminds him there are strengths imbued in his human side, as well. Kirk becomes the equilibrium Spock lost when his sister left.
(I never get tired of this version of James Tiberius Kirk. William Shatner, who originated the role)
Rey, the hero of the Star Wars sequel trilogy, witnesses Ben Solo’s vulnerability, which is much at odds with his violent persona, Kylo Ren. In The Last Jedi, she shares her own fears with him, matching his offer of honesty, and builds a bridge of trust. After, she becomes certain that he will turn away from the Dark side and join her in what she believes is right. Ben believes she has accepted him as he is–which is still liminal–and when he discovers otherwise, he doubles down on the rage within him. The spark of hope is extinguished until he exhausts every other avenue toward self-actualization, when he embraces what is presented to be his more authentic self–neither Light nor Dark side, merely a person letting himself love another.
These unique characters, whether originating in the liminal realm or forced into it, grapple with profound distress. Moving out of the liminal requires the character to recognize their agency, and to claim it. In confronting the discomfort of the liminal state, the character can choose to sculpt an identity that is more authentic and genuine. Once these characters have chosen the path they wish to pursue, they have moved beyond the liminal, actualizing who they desire to become. At last, they reach a level of gratification, which arises from themselves, rather than from an outside source. For the villain coded liminal state characters, narratives may allow them to find redemption, or better yet atonement, wherein they can address the harm they caused. Not only do they accept who they are, they work to correct their past wrongs.
The LSC may neither demonstrate the usual signs of such a trajectory, nor show interest in seeking one. Yet through the arcs discussed here, they might carry a hidden dissatisfaction with their stagnated state, but outwardly demonstrating resolve about their current state. While the Hero’s Journey has an established trajectory, the LSC undergoes a more circuitous passage from an inactive participant to one that wields agency in the construction and integration of their identity.
Not every liminal state character reaches redemption, let alone atonement, but the examples of those who do push the audience to consider their own biases. When the narrative is effective, audiences may empathize with these struggling individuals, those who make mistakes and cause harm. We may understand why they have taken the steps they have, protected themselves, or lashed out. Some audiences may reject the character, unwilling to investigate the struggle of inhabiting the liminal. Others may discover truths about their own subjectivity, ethical system, or flexible identity.
Liminal state characters contain the potential to heal the warring perspectives they contain and challenge the rest of the characters in their world. These characters question themselves, and when crafted successfully, the viewer does the same: How capable are we of forming our sense of self? What does harm look like? How do we live with our mistakes? How do we shape ourselves? Can we accept the truths beyond our control that confine us? Is it possible to make a new choice after a long pattern of destructive behaviors? Where does this character go after discovering they have wronged so many? When, if ever, is that redemptive effort enough to counter past wrongs?
To move beyond the threshold, to step into the subsequent stage, these characters discover the resolution of their conflict. Their dueling sides, identities, or characteristics synthesize. They may still struggle with relating to others, finding their place, or identifying their purpose. But at the core of their character is a newfound comfort in themselves, acceptance of the past, and confidence to shape their own future.
Sources
Abrams, JJ. 2015. The Force Awakens. Disney Lucasfilm.
Abrams, JJ. 2019. The Rise of Skywalker. Disney Lucasfilm.
Allo Contributors. "līmen, līminis (n.) - Latin Word Definition." Allo Latin Dictionary. Last modified September 2, 2023. Accessed April 7, 2025. http://ancientlanguages.org/latin/dictionary/limen-liminis.
Hernández, Diego. "The Architecture of Liminal Spaces" 05 Mar 2021. ArchDaily. Accessed
April 7, 2025. https://www.archdaily.com/958016/the-architecture-of-liminal-spaces.
Johnson, Rian. 2017. The Last Jedi. Disney Lucasfilm.
Johnson, ND. Nimona. HarperCollins, 2015. Print.
Quane, Troy; Bruno, Nick. 2023. Nimona. Netflix, Annapurna Pictures.
Pictured, the authors Briane Willis and Dawn Adepoju: Briane Willis is an informal educator and author who lives in Texas. Dawn Adepoju is a coordinator in the film industry who lives in California.