Same Story, Different Lens

The reviews are coming in.  Not the critics’ reviews, but the resident reviews.  I’ve gotten two lengthy emails from Greenwood residents about the film; neither of them was very good.

Both of the people who wrote to me felt as though Greenwood was not well represented.  It struck them that people would get the impression that Greenwood was stuck in the past.  I’m torn about how to respond to these individuals.

One of the initial thoughts Raymond had about the movie was to make a “Greenwood Now and Greenwood Then” film, one that would examine just how far Greenwood has come.  In the end, that’s not what happened.  The film we made dives deep into the story of Booker Wright, it examines questions surrounding his murder, and paints a picture of what Greenwood was like in the ‘60’s in order to create a proper context for what Booker Wright said and did.  I think we accomplished this.

One of the things I know for sure is that being the subject in a documentary is nerve wracking.  There is a complete loss of control.  Many times during this process I have felt angst, even anger over the direction I thought the film might go in.  Some of the people we interviewed, people who were kind enough to let us into their homes, spend an afternoon with us, get back to us quickly when we had urgent research questions now feel as though they participated in something that disparaged their community.  They feel powerless, I know the feeling.

There are two lanes of thought going through my mind, running simultaneously side-by-side.  The first is that Greenwood has changed.  They’ve had a black mayor.  Today the majority of the police force there is made of blacks.  It’s a radically different place than it was when Booker Wright walked her streets.  Longtime Greenwood residents love their town like people love their favorite football teams.  They spoke with us because they hoped to see a different story of the South told.  They wanted to see a film that would highlight how far they’ve come.  I get that. 

The second lane of thought and, I hate to say this, but Greenwood still feels very broken to me.  People who’ve lived there their whole lives see the change, but they don’t always see how far they still have to go.  I think that’s why our film angers them so.  One person said to me that he didn’t think there was still a market for speaking poorly about the South or telling the story of lynchings, etc. 

I know that Raymond did not construct this film based on what he thought would sell.  There is no money to be made in documentary filmmaking.  If he was trying to make a buck, this wasn’t how he was going to do it.  When I went to Greenwood last year and I think Raymond and David had the same experience, I was taken aback by certain things that I observed.

Maybe for Southerners the story feels old.  Maybe it’s hard for them to believe that everyone hasn’t heard it time and time again, but the truth is just that - many people still don’t understand the deep humiliation that blacks experienced day in and day out in the South. 

A few months ago I was talking to a good friend who’s from Arkansas.  I was explaining to her that I wanted to include certain details in my book to help people better understand what it meant to be black in the South.  When I told her which details I was thinking of she expressed that most people knew those things and that she personally wouldn’t want to read a chapter like that.

I pondered this for a long time.  Maybe this story and others like it have been told so often in the South that some white Southerners feel like they have done their penance and more.  They have apologized, instituted holidays, hold meetings like the Bridge - they have committed themselves to change.  But just because a story is old doesn’t mean that it’s no longer relevant. 

Not everyone knows, but everyone needs to know.

To the kind and thoughtful men and women who helped make this film, lending their voices and their memories, I am endlessly thankful.  I am deeply saddened that this story, or the way in which we chose to tell it, was so off-putting to them.  I understand why it was.  But I must stand behind the telling of this story.  Because so many people simply do not know.  

Cuddles on the Side

I haven't been posting lately because I made the decision that I have GOT to finish this book.  I've spent the last five months planning and working on structure and waiting for feedback.  I was beginning to feel like the heartbeat of the story was slipping away from me.

So, everyday I try to write at least five (but some days I get in 10) new pages and I send them to an amazing friend who sends back line item edits and she lets me know when certain sections make absolutely no sense.  On any given day I may have 10 new pages to write, 10 pages to edit from the first round of notes, and more pages to edit from the second round of notes.

This friend is moving across the country in a few weeks and I know that she's working through the night to help me.  There are no words for my gratitude.

Thankfully, some solid readers are coming out of the woodwork - people who embrace this work, get it, and like the friend mentioned above are willing to find space in their own busy lives to read my stuff and get me some feedback.  I don't know how people write entire books on their own.  It's like getting lost in a maze, sometimes, I just need a fresh set of eyes to help me see what is obviously not working and what is amazingly possible

I can say with certainty that there will be a solid draft of this book by the end of summer.  I'm trying to maintain my sanity by keeping up with my fitness so that the joy of reaching my goal isn't overshadowed by feeling like I have to get back in shape again. But when I'm tired and I know that I'll be at Starbucks before the early rising Arizona sun comes up, all that I want is a mug of rich, hot chocolate with added half-and-half.  For now when I feel that way I'm grabbing my running shoes and squeezing in a few miles, but who knows before this is done I might be grabbing my sandals and heading to the Safeway by my house because they have the best chocolate glazed donuts in the world.  Seriously.  They are the absolute best.

Needless to say, I am exhausted and bone tired.  Today I was trying to confirm the content of an interview I'd transcribed months ago and every time I leaned in close to listen I was interrupted by something like this:

"Mom, look I found an inchworm.  It's feet are sticky.  Would you like to hold it."

"That's so neat, that the feet are sticky, but no, sweetheart, Mommy doesn't want to hold your inchworm."

It takes me a few seconds to find my place again and capture my rhythm and then:

"Mom, if you want to hold my inchworm let me know because he sure is wiggly."

"Thanks, babe.  If I decide to hold him I'll let you know."

This goes on until finally I am holding a yucky inchworm in my palm.  I try to hand it back to my smiling child who is delighted to be teaching his squirmy mommy how to hold bugs.  "You can hold it for longer if you want mom."

"Thanks, babe."

On Affirmative Action

In Greenwood, many blacks lived on plantations as sharecroppers.  They lived on the property for free in homes that often didn't have running water or indoor plumbing.  Most of these homes had crooked walls, tin roofs and wooden floors with planks spaced so far apart you could see the ground below.  The deal was that you picked cotton from the time the sun came up until it went down.  Your children, your pets, your everything accompanied you to the fields.

My paternal grandmother was a single mom for a number of years.  This put her in a tough spot because most plantation owners required a man to be in the house. They also often required all of the males, as young as five years old, to pick cotton. This meant that as recently as the 1950's, many black boys in the South were not allowed to go to school for part of the year because they had to work the fields.

In 1972, my father was playing football at Norfolk State University when his stepfather died.  His mother, who was still living in Greenwood at the time, was forced to leave her plantation because there was no longer a man in the house. 1972. 1972.  Most people think that the plantation society that defined the South during slave times was over the minute an emancipation was signed.

The story of my family is the story of a system that lingered long past the headlines.

Do I think that black kids today should get a leg up because their ancestors, (not hundreds of years ago, but yesterday) couldn't read stories to their own children because they missed school and were barely literate?  I don't know.  What I do know is that anyone who wants to shout from the rooftops about what blacks do and do not deserve had better make sure that they know a little history, not just headlines.