One of my mom's favorite movies growing up was 'Big' with Tom

In the bold and visionary words of Marsai Martin, there breathes the timeless spirit of creation: “One of my mom’s favorite movies growing up was ‘Big’ with Tom Hanks. I thought, ‘Oh, OK, what if we do something like that but not like that. Something more modern, with a different perspective, and maybe with an all-black cast.’” Beneath this reflection lies a deep current of imagination, heritage, and renewal—the sacred act of taking what was loved in the past and reshaping it for a new dawn. It is the work of one who honors legacy yet refuses to live within its boundaries, of one who sees not imitation, but reinvention as the truest homage to art.

Marsai Martin, though young in years, speaks with the wisdom of the ancient storytellers—the ones who understood that stories are not fixed monuments, but living rivers that must flow through each generation. When she recalls her mother’s love for “Big,” she acknowledges the lineage of inspiration, the passing of dreams from parent to child. Yet in the same breath, she transforms that inheritance. “What if we do something like that,” she says, “but not like that.” This is the artist’s cry—the eternal call to renewal, the courage to build upon the past without being bound by it. In her vision for a modern retelling with “a different perspective” and “an all-black cast,” she claims the right of her generation to tell its own story, to stand in the creative light not as imitators, but as authors.

The ancients, too, knew this cycle of renewal. When Homer’s epics inspired the poets of later centuries, those poets did not merely repeat his verses—they transformed them, shaping them to reflect their own world. So too did Shakespeare rework the old tales of kings and lovers, and in doing so, breathed into them the living spirit of his age. Each generation inherits the myths of those before it, yet it must retell them through its own eyes, its own language, its own truth. This is what Marsai Martin embodies—the courage to take what was beloved by one era and make it speak to another.

But her vision is not only artistic—it is also revolutionary. In dreaming of an “all-black cast,” she reclaims space in an industry that too often denied it. She does not merely wish to retell a story; she wishes to restore balance to the storytelling world itself. In ancient times, the griots of Africa—the keepers of memory—understood that to tell one’s own story was an act of power, for through story, a people define their place in the universe. Marsai’s creative dream is the same kind of act: the reclaiming of narrative, the refusal to let others define what is possible. She seeks not only to make art but to make room—for herself, for her community, for the voices yet unheard.

There is something deeply familial and sacred in her inspiration as well. She begins with her mother—with the shared experience of a story once loved, and the desire to transform it together through imagination. This, too, is ancient wisdom: that creation is not born in isolation, but in connection. The mother who once watched “Big” passes down her love for film, and the daughter transforms that love into a new vision. In this way, Marsai Martin stands as a bridge between generations—a living testament to how family becomes the first forge of dreams.

From her words, we draw a powerful lesson: honor the past, but do not be confined by it. The works of those who came before us are gifts, not cages. Let them inspire you, but let your own voice sing through them. Whether in art, work, or life, look upon what has been built and ask, as Marsai did, “What if we do something like that—but not like that?” Let each generation bring its own truth, its own color, its own light to the canvas of existence.

So, O listener, take this wisdom to heart. When you look upon the creations of others, do not merely admire them—converse with them. Add to them. Renew them. Be not afraid to dream a different perspective, for it is through difference that humanity grows. As Marsai Martin reminds us, it is not disrespect to reimagine the old; it is reverence. For every story worth remembering must be retold, and every dream worth having must evolve. Thus, creation becomes eternal, and the fire of imagination, once kindled by our ancestors, continues to burn anew in every heart that dares to say: “What if we do it again—but this time, through my eyes.”