In the realm of digital nostalgia, few figures are as iconic yet as enigmatic as Mavis Beacon, the typing tutor who guided millions of children through the keys of their keyboards. For many black people, seeing a black woman being a face for the beginning of a digital era changed their worlds. But behind the beloved software character lies a more complex story—one that filmmakers Jazmin Jones and Olivia McKayla Ross have set out to uncover in their hybrid-documentary, Seeking Mavis Beacon. Blending fact and fiction, their film dives into the mystery of the real-life woman, Renee L’Espérance, the Haitian-born model whose image graced the first cover of Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing. With the lines between reality, myth, and memory constantly shifting, the two filmmakers act as “DIY detectives” in a journey that raises profound questions about identity, artificial intelligence, and the ethics of digital representation.
Jazmin, a Brooklyn-based filmmaker known for their nuanced portrayals of marginalized communities, and Olivia, a queer video artist and theorist from Queens, form an intergenerational duo that uses unconventional methods to explore Mavis Beacon’s origins. Their investigation goes beyond simple fact-finding; it delves into the exploitation of Black women in technology, the erasure of their contributions, and the moral complexities of seeking out someone who has chosen to disappear. At the heart of *Seeking Mavis Beacon* is the tension between history and myth, and the question of whose stories are allowed to be told—and by whom.
The film plays with revisionist history, inserting Mavis Beacon into imagined moments of Black excellence: receiving accolades from Barack Obama or courtside shoutouts from Naomi Osaka. Through these fabrications, Seeking Mavis Beacon critiques the ways in which Black women, especially those in digital spaces, are commodified and controlled. Yet, this playfulness is balanced with a serious reckoning as the filmmakers eventually track down the story of Renee L’Espérance, uncovering unsettling truths about how her image was manipulated and used without her consent.
For both Jazmin and Olivia, Seeking Mavis Beacon is more than just a film—it’s an offering to all the unsung Black women who have been erased from the public record. Their work honors the invisible labor that made icons like Mavis possible, while also questioning the ethics of that erasure. In crafting this documentary, the filmmakers also draw from their personal experiences as Black queer women, bridging their own histories with that of Renee and, by extension, Mavis. Through their investigation, they not only seek to rediscover Renee but also to reclaim the narrative.
As Seeking Mavis Beacon makes its way into the public eye, it invites audiences to question their own relationships with technology and representation. In a world where Black women have been digitally immortalized but frequently erased from historical memory, Jazmin and Olivia’s film offers a powerful reflection on visibility, agency, and the futures we choose to imagine.
GLAAD Had the opportunity to chat with both Jazmin and Olivia about the film and the experience of documenting the journey. Check out what they had to say!
View this post on Instagram
GLAAD: How did the both of you connect and find your way into becoming what you refer to as “DIY Detectives”
Jazmin: I think online, there already exists a lot about the generational wars between Gen Z and millennials. But I think this film is also about the beauty of intergenerational friendship. Olivia is nine years younger than I am, so I actually encountered her when she was 18, just after she graduated high school. In my eyes, she was very much a source more than anything. She was a technologist developing a rich glossary around ideas about how we as Black people, femmes, and folks in the margins exist in relation to technology. You see her in the film come to define the term “cyber doula” or talk about these people—or characters, in this case—who steward a healthy and nonviolent relationship with technology. I also learned about the concept of data trauma from Olivia. Given that she had an actual foundation and understanding of technology, and as someone who understood code and was able to build her own things, her approach to technology was a lot more hopeful than mine as a millennial who thought, “I don’t know, we can only do so much.” So yeah, to me, Olivia was a source, but she was also an 18-year-old who had just graduated high school.
At the time, my collective, BUFU (By Us For Us), was running a summer school where we invited different people to teach classes on whatever they wanted, kind of rebuilding the violent relationship we had with academia with a more queer, community-centered approach. Olivia taught a class on cyber feminism on her 18th birthday, and I thought, “This person is brilliant.” Not only did I want to be her friend, but she was also able to articulate these really complicated concepts in a playful way. I tend to clam up when the camera’s on me, and I thought, “Oh wait, the film would be so much more fun if Olivia were a part of it.”
Olivia: Yeah, my first time encountering Jaz was through this arts and technology conference that their collective, BUFU, was presenting at. They were doing this really fabulous expanded cinema documentary that explored robust themes in solidarity, specifically pan-Black and pan-Asian solidarity. That was one of the first times I really saw documentaries doing something different. I have loved documentaries ever since I was a kid, but they were usually nature documentaries. I was okay with being sold some really dry, David Attenborough-style stuff because I just find the world that interesting. It’s okay if it’s served to me dry, but if it’s not dry, that’s even better. I was really inspired by the work they were doing.
I caught wind of WYFY school, which stands for With You For You; a decentralized school. I was really excited to be a part of it, but it wasn’t until a couple of months later, when I was a student at the School for Poetic Computation, that Jaz shared the Mavis Beacon project idea with our class. I was in a class taught by American artists about the critical theory of technology, specifically from a Black perspective. We were reading a lot of Christina Sharpe, and Jaz came in and spoke about what was on their heart and the kind of research questions that were spiraling around for them. I was really hooked from that conversation, and it stayed in my mind for weeks. And so, I went on my Wayback Machine and looked at Mavis Beacon, and that’s when 2020 struck. There was nothing to do; we were stuck inside. Later, I got a DM from Jazmin Jones about working on the project and developing it together. From there, we kind of just set sail.
Jazmin: Yeah, so in many ways you are seeing our friendship [blossoming]. This film captures us getting familiar with each other and really building a sisterhood.
View this post on Instagram
GLAAD: How did y’all find that balance between exploring the historically violent relationship that Black and Black queer communities have had with academia and technology while also presenting technology as this tool for self- expression and community upliftment?
Jazmin: For me, a phrase that I used a lot while we were developing this project was something I referred to as my own digital insecurity. We talk about the concept of digital security a lot throughout the film. I realized that I had a lot of digital insecurity that functions like all insecurity does, which is, having thoughts like “I don’t really know how this works.” And these thoughts become all-consuming. They become these narratives that are put into young Black femmes’ heads, which say, “We’re not tech-savvy.” And we start to believe them. But really, when you interrogate those ideas- you start to think “wait-what are you talking about? I’m from Silicon Valley. I’ve been using a computer since I was a small child. You know! Mavis Beacon got me started, and I’ve been on this journey ever since.” So we do know.
So I think for me, I wanted to make a film that was about tech and cyberfeminism, but was also at the same time really fun and alluring.
I do have my own concerns about the future of technology and the ethics of artificial intelligence. But I wanted a movie that posed more questions than it answered, to get people thinking for themselves. I don’t think there is one answer. I think it’s truly valid that if you want to opt in- I mean someone needs to take a seat at the table to build and beta test these things; otherwise, the technology will continue to be violent. But also, if you want to, you have the right to disappear. If you want to opt out, you don’t have to [participate]. You can read the terms and conditions and decide that you don’t want to do this at all. So I wanted to make a film that, regardless of what head space you’re coming from, you can still find value here.
View this post on Instagram
GLAAD: Near the end of the film, Jazmin, you speak about telling your story as a form of empowerment. But of course, in this situation, Renee chose not to share her story—at least not yet—and even went so far as to expunge her digital footprint. Which made us sort of consider that perhaps the real power lies in the ability to choose when and whether to share my story. Can both of you discuss this idea and how it may have influenced you as individuals while making this film?
Jazmin: Yeah, I’ve come to understand this project as us confronting the limitations of representational politics alongside the audience. I believe we need to see diverse, queer, Black femme stories—I can never get enough of those. That’s why you see me making a feature film about a fictional typing teacher; it’s like, no, no, no, there’s plenty of room for critical fabulation. Renee’s story has introduced us to so many other women in history—Black women and queer folks—who have been forgotten and deserve their own feature films and critical fabulation in places where no one archived them in the beginning.
Part of the reason Olivia and I included ourselves in this movie is that we didn’t know how things would pan out. From the very beginning, we knew the only story we could tell was our own and the story of our discovery. There were many different ways this could have unfolded. There were times when I was stressed, and my mind went to some really heavy places regarding the potential outcome of this journey. That’s part of the reason you see so much delight and joy in the film; we truly didn’t know what would happen.
So, in case this took a turn for the worse, we wanted to balance it out. After 2020, on the back of the uprising, Black Lives Matter, and the murder of George Floyd, I wasn’t going to make a film about Black trauma and Black death. Those conversations were constant during the making of this film. We were aware of the issue of missing Black women syndrome and how mainstream media often ignores our disappearances. We wanted to make it clear that what we’re doing is a playful thought experiment, a wellness check, and giving someone their flowers—not invading someone’s privacy or detracting from the serious investigations surrounding missing Black women who have been harmed.
So when people say, “Oh my God, it’s so fun,” it’s because we didn’t know if it was going to be fun. Every delightful moment we had was intentional, adding a little extra glitter because we’re queer and fabulous. We wanted to include that extra razzle dazzle because we didn’t want to expose our audience to a film that felt heavier than it is uplifting.
View this post on Instagram
GLAAD: I love that you deliberately chose not to make just another trauma-based film and instead focused on your own stories throughout this journey, including both the ups and downs. So often, Black films center exclusively on trauma, and queer films are often viewed only in a romantic context. How did you seek to challenge that narrative and create a more nuanced portrayal as the film was being released?
Olivia: I think, especially when it comes to being a queer film without a romance plotline, a lot of what happened throughout our investigation was a kind of queering of the traditional detective mode. We explored what it means to take these systems and specific protocols for how to conduct yourself in public, how to behave while cosplaying as a detective. A friend of mine even referred to us as “detectives in drag,” like e-girl drag. Instead of leaning into a strict idea of what it means to conduct an investigation, we leaned more into the decorative and the sparkle, embracing a sense of mystery without getting too hung up on the idea that we had to find out information by any means necessary. Some means are decidedly unethical and emulating structures of exploitation that we don’t want to mimic at all.
As the story progresses and we encounter different obstacles, we also draw lessons from the queer people in our community and thought leaders around the idea of redaction and being less visible. There’s a scene where Jaz and I go to a ballroom, attending voguing performances on the piers. This scene comes right before a desktop montage that heavily focuses on the concepts of glitch and redaction. The thesis of that arc discusses how Black trans women, in particular, deeply understand the harms of hyper-visibility and hyper-representation, and how little representation can both feed and nourish you.
Throughout the entire film, we take cues from our community. When we try to create safe spaces, we model them after those we encounter in queer spaces—whether it’s having an altar or honoring people in our chosen lineage or chosen ancestors. Your public life feels less important compared to these intimate connections. The queer millennials and older folks in my life have really modeled for me what it means to build blended chosen families. Your domestic life encompasses everything you do; there’s no visible barrier between what’s inside your home and what you do in the outside world. The idea that we owe it to each other to take care of one another—that we are each other’s responsibility—is something quite queer that transcends romance almost every time.
Jazmin: And as you say that Olivia, during this interview, I’ve just had a shift in my perspective. I’ve been saying there’s no central love plot in this queer movie, but now I realize like, no there absolutely is, and it’s very legible to the girls who get it. It’s a platonic love story. This is very much a love story about Olivia and I and our platonic love and how we care for each other. And so maybe through a heteronormative framework, it’s like, where’s the love? But I’m like, it’s drenched, it’s drenched in love.
View this post on Instagram
__________________________________________________________________________
As Seeking Mavis Beacon continues to resonate with audiences, it not only sheds light on the underrepresented stories of Black women in technology but also invites viewers to reflect on their own narratives and relationships with digital representation. Jazmin and Olivia’s journey serves as a reminder that storytelling is not just about recounting history, but about shaping it—honoring those who have been overlooked while celebrating the vibrant connections that bind us. In a world that often seeks to erase, this film stands as a powerful testament to the resilience, creativity, and love that flourish in community. You can watch the trailer here and get tickets to see it in theaters now here.
And stay updated on the film’s journey and exciting developments by following us on Instagram @seekingmavisbeacon!