The Lawn

For the last four and a half years I've been working to bring my grandfather's story to an audience.  I've been researching and I've been writing.  I've been reading and I've been writing.  I've been conducting interviews on camera and off and I've been writing.  It's catching up to me.

The last couple of mornings I've been going to Starbucks at 4:30AM to write.  Mid-morning I take a break and then write for six to eight more hours somewhere else. Before the sun came up this morning I was already several pages into a piece that feels like a mess, a great big jumble of disconnected words that don't entertain, inform, move the story along or help at all.  The problem is that I need something there.  I have to tell that part of the story.  But what I have sounds contrived.  When I read it I feel like a fraud.  I wrote better stuff in sixth grade English.

There is a beauty and an energy about my grandfather's story.  Through his one life can be seen the horrors of black life in the South and the very essence of courage.  I want to get out of the way so that his story and the story of Greenwood can pass through me.

How do I take my heap of empty words and transform them into something that feels light and effortless?

This morning in my little spot at the local Starbucks, I took a break from revising to spend some time with a blank page.  I wrote the following piece.


The Lawn

Writing for me is like finding a field of hard, dry land that’s full of deeply embedded rocks.  In the distance there’s a beautiful mountain that sparkles when the sun sets.  It occurs to me that this would be an ideal place for a plush, thick green lawn, the kind of lawn that your feet sink into when you walk across it.  Somehow I know that one day a child will sit on this lawn and pull the grass out in chunks.  The beautiful grass will fill their tiny, fat hands, sticking out curiously from between their fingers.  This child will dig and dig, but never find anything but green.

For inspiration I go to a garden center, grab a hunk of emerald green grass that someone else has grown and I stuff it into my pocket.  I return to the field and go over it with a tool to loosen the dense dirt and rocks.  I think this will take an hour.  It takes two weeks.  When I’m finished I feel exhausted.  I’m convinced that my original idea was completely idiotic.  I look over the field prepared to give up, to do something else with the limited amount of time I have on this earth.

But there, in the distance I see it.  A few slivers of grass have fallen from my pocket.  Their green is even more vibrant and beautiful against the backdrop of the mountain that sparkles when the sun sets.  I cannot abandon this work.  Who will take it up if I leave it behind? 

Again, I believe it can be done.

I survey the land.  The ground is loose but it's covered in parched dirt.  I feed the land, going over it again and again to develop a rich soil that can nourish the green grass I'm dreaming of.  I think this will take two weeks.  It takes two months. 

Finally, I have rich, life sustaining soil.  I plant my grass.  I do not have seeds.  I must plant each blade of grass one at a time.  I do.  I plant them as close together as I can.  I think this will take two months.  It takes nine. 

When I get to the end of my field I excitedly turn around to survey my beautiful work only to find that my lush green lawn looks like the head of a bald man with a few stray hairs.  My lawn is sporadic at best.  

I am heartbroken.  

Exhausted, bent over by doubt and regret, I gather what little energy I have left and I go over the lawn once more.  I plant many more blades of grass, delicately placing each one in the soft, willing soil.

It’s taken all the energy and hope I can muster to go over this ground again.  This time it has to work.  I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not finished.  I must move on to other things. 

With anxiety and fear I again turn to survey my work.  Now it looks like the hair on the head of a doll.  There’s a lot more grass, but something about the lawn is still wrong.  It’s not rich and plush, but it is there.  Every few feet I see a patch of beauty, but these patches are not connected and in between them the ground looks lost and barren. 

I want to give up.  The scale is even.  On one side is the weight of the time I’ve invested and on the other is the weight of the time I may still have to invest before I’ll be done. 

I know that if I walk away I will always wonder what my lawn could have been. 

Again, I plant and again I survey.  There is still not enough.  I’m getting older. 

When I set out on this endeavor years ago I thought I was a natural grass planter.  I thought that a rich, emerald, glittery and magically green lawn would pour out of me like water from a faucet.  But it’s not.  I have no magic.  I have time.  I have hours.  I have commitment.  I have dirt and a few beautiful blades of grass. 

All that keeps me going is the hope and the vision of what this lawn might be if I don’t give up.  No one else will plant it, it has to be me. 

Long ago I was a person who noticed a field.  Now, I am an obsessive planter of grass.

Is this lawn my prison or my purpose? 

I am exhausted, wind blown, and sunburned.  I stand to survey the field.  Then I write.  

The Handsome Twosome

I keep thinking about how much time this whole project has taken away from my “real” life.  What’s my real life?  My real life is spent hiking and picking flowers with two little boys who are the very definition of handsome and cuddly.  In my real life I cuddle on the couch with my kids and read book after book without ever wondering how much time has passed.    

Watching and listening to my kids play is a true high for me.  To say that I love the sound of their laughter is to put it mildly.  Their laughter is a beautiful music that’s the soundtrack of my life.  When they smile their skin is taut over their plump brown cheeks and their bright white smiles glow only slightly less than the whites of their eyes against their stark black pupils.  They are truly beautiful and I miss them. 

“But you home school, how can you miss them?”  Teaching my boys to read, write, and do arithmetic is not the same as what I described above.  In my “real” life the days flow together like endless amounts of unsegmented time.  At any given moment we could be jumping on the trampoline together, going for an impromptu walk, playing chase at the park, or eating ice cream in bed. 

I wanted to give my sons the gift of heritage which is what this work has been about.  Even more than that though I wanted to give my sons the gift of a relaxed, unscheduled, carefree childhood on which they could look back upon and recall days spent riding bikes, climbing trees, and hiking mountains.  Even more than this idyllic childhood, I wanted to give them me. 

I remember as a girl that I loved riding my bike on the tree lined streets of our suburban neighborhood, I loved eating chocolate ice cream from 31 Flavors, watching Tom and Jerry, and chasing boys.  But most of all I loved my mom.  No matter where I was or what activity I was engaged in, I would always be willing to give it all up to be able to spend quality time with her.  I can still recall the joy I felt whenever her eyes smiled at me.  Having her listen to me, talk with me, and go places with me was always the highest of highs.

I hate how much time I’ve been spending away from my kids.  Writing, researching, and homeschooling leave very little time for impromptu dates with my boys, leisurely strolls to the lake and so on. 

I feel a bit of conflict about this season in my life.  Some days (like today, obviously) I feel like I’m running out of steam.  I’m writing at a Paradise Bakery and I am not with my kids.  I schooled them this morning and then quickly had to leave them with their dad so that I could run errands and write. 

Hopefully, this detour in my life will not last forever.  Maybe one day they’ll read this and they’ll know that while they were missing me I was missing them too.  

I'll Shut-Up Now

I'm an idiot.  A selfish, self-consumed idiot.  After causing someone I love dearly immeasurably deep pain, I finally get it.  Not only do we all deal with the past differently, we remember it differently.  As a mother I'm sure that I'll look back one day and need to believe that all went relatively well in the raising of my kids. Whether it's the truth or not, it's something that I'll probably need to believe so badly that I'll just believe it anyway.

For me, looking into the past is therapeutic.  For other people it can be like a death sentence.  Someone I love is hurting.  This work, these conversations, this research has really hurt someone who I love and who I never intended to hurt.

A very smart friend told me once (actually she tells me over and over again) that non-fiction writers should never write about the living relatives in their family.  It can cause too much damage.  I didn't completely agree with her.  It worked in "The Glass Castle", right?  But it's not working here.  Knowing that I experienced pain and hurt as a girl is too much for some of my loved ones to bear.

I thought that since it was "my story" I should be allowed to tell it anyway I want anywhere I wanted.  But my story, almost every piece of it, is always intertwined with others.  I wasn't alone then and I'm not alone now.  It's more than a courtesy to leave out the bad things that other people may have done when I tell my story.  It's a great kindness.  It's the ultimate act of forgiveness.

If you're reading, I'm sorry.

Sound Bites Bite

So, I’m going to be interviewed by a well known national news program.  I always knew that there was a chance that at some point all of this stuff (making the movie) would get to a point where it just felt so weird that it was surreal.  The details would get so “out of this world” that I would become numb – experiencing my life as an observer. 

I think we’re there.  The “awe” the “wow” of the whole national news program thing is completely lost on me.  I’m just watching now and waiting to see how it all shakes out.  Every now and then my girlfriends ask me for updates on the movie and the book.  We meet for coffee or have quick calls.  That’s when I check in.  Otherwise, I am completely and utterly checked out. 

I think a part of me doesn’t want to get too wrapped in all of this.  In my normal, every day life no one asks me to write books or to be interviewed by national news sources.  People ask me for sandwiches and to glue dearly loved toys back together.  I have a simple, rich, lovingly chaotic life that I will be returning to when all of this is over.  On some level I want to stay connected to my simple life and not get overly wrapped up in all this other stuff.  This is one of the main reasons I’m not bouncing off the walls with excitement.

There are two others.  Race and family: the themes that seem to being chasing me when I’m not chasing them.  Maybe it's race, or maybe it's class, or maybe labels don’t matter.  In my pre-interview with the news program’s producer he asked me if I thought things had changed in Greenwood since the airing of the 1966 film.  I never know how to answer this.  I usually say that I can’t answer that because I’m not from Greenwood and answering that is arrogant or somehow insensitive.  Who am I to go around shouting my California girl opinions from the rooftops?

One of the questions presented during my first filmmaking trip to Mississippi was, “Did desegregation work in Greenwood?”  Someone on the production team encouraged Raymond and I to start asking this in interviews.  We did.  It turns out that a lot of people have questions about how well desegregation worked in that small town.

I don’t think anyone would say that Greenwood should go back to an era of segregation when a white cop could beat up my grandfather and his partner could shoot Silas McGhee in the face, both without consequence.  Some people would say that the work wasn’t taken to completion.  Whites were allowed to open private schools, they moved to the other side of the bridge and on and on.  But can we really legislate hearts and minds?  If you disgust me and I resent you, what laws are going to make us live peacefully with one another? 

I home school my kids partly because I think the public school system is in serious trouble.  But I don’t go around criticizing the schools because I really don’t have any solutions.  How does one adult meet the educational needs of 30 kids for seven hours?  I don’t know.

I feel the same way about Greenwood.  There is something otherworldly about it – at least for someone like me who grew up in a large city.  Some parts are beautiful.  Other parts are blanketed in hopelessness like an LA fog.  It permeates every orifice, every door, every home, and every heart.  It’s the kind of place that would make you believe that there is no way out.  Of course (the pundits would say) there is always a way out.  A football star can pump his legs, push against the soil with his toes, stick his neck out and run like hell to get as far as he can from the house he grew up in, the one that was a stone’s throw away from the home where Emmett Till slept on that fateful night.

Desegregation’s impact on Greenwood, MS is delicate and painful to talk about.  When white businesses were integrated almost all of the black businesses eventually closed.  Then many of the white businesses started to shut down or moved to the “white” side of town.

The other thing I feel apprehensive about when I anticipate this interview is the story of my family.  I still haven’t come up with the perfect, empty, yet provocative sound bite to give to the press about why I needed to find Booker Wright in the first place.  I don’t want to throw my family under the bus, but I also don’t want to lie.  Were we a success story or did the stench of their fear-filled Greenwood past follow us to the West Coast, haunting my parents to the point that they simply couldn’t properly parent us?  I’m not supposed to say that.  I’m supposed to say something else.  I’m supposed to walk a verbal tightrope that keeps my soul clean and honest but that also appeases my entire family, including my abusers. 

“You have to respect and honor your family.”  “Alcoholism is a disease, you have to treat them like they’re suffering from a disease…” even if their suffering left you on the edge of sanity.  “Think of them first.  This is not a time to dishonor your family.”  Think of the abusers. 

How did I get nominated to be the spokesperson, again?  Oh yeah, I wanted to learn a little something about my grandfather?

Corked

Today I spoke with the woman who oversees Cork's unit and she agreed to shred the visitation forms for me.  Honestly, I hate even writing this post.  I feel like a total wimp.  Pursuing Cork, however, just makes me feel too exposed.  Yesterday my kids were playing in the backyard and I kept wondering what I'd do if, at that exact moment, an ex-con knocked on my door with an unfriendly message for me from the man who murdered my grandfather.

The odds are slim that he would get his hands on my home address.  The odds are even slimmer that he'd be able to somehow "get" to me.  But I just feel a little less safe knowing that my personal data is in the same building with him.  Actually, I feel a lot less safe.

This is a hunt, a real journey, an honest search for me to get as close as I can to the truth of my grandfather's life and death.  But this journey is not and never will be the center of my life.  I have a family that moves and breathes regardless of what happened 38 years ago.  I've been blessed beyond my wildest dreams with an amazing life.  I don't want to put even the smallest portion of it in jeopardy for what really amounts to a hobby that's lasted for four and a half years.

I'm sad.  I'm feeling quite reflective about all of this.  I've devoted so much time and so many hours and so many resources to this journey with the hope that it would yield something rich for me.  In many ways it has and it many ways it hasn't. Making that call today brought me relief that I could protect my info from a murderer, shame for being so fearful, and a sadness because I was closing a door that I'd hoped for so long would open.

I don't know how much longer I'll continue to post here.  I thought I was finished "making the movie", but the producer mentioned the other day that we need to shoot just one more on-camera interview of me.  There are a few moments that need to be explained more clearly, and then Raymond is trying to work out some final moments to sum up my thoughts on Booker's life.  That's the hardest part.

It used to be that whenever I thought of my grandfather I swelled with pride.  Now it's different.  I picture a man who smiled for everyone.  He protected and taught his children, all the while showering them with joy and good times.  But this same man was beaten by the police and possibly harassed by them more than I will ever know.

Just before he died, my grandfather told my aunt that if anything ever happened to him she should know that he'd lived a good life.  Who says things like that when they're only 46 years old?  I keep wondering whether or not he endured continual harassment from the police.  Was he receiving threats?  Did he think someone was coming for him?

He just strikes me as lonely.  I wish I could find someone who he talked to about the beating.  I wish someone could tell me that he'd made peace with it all.  But if he never talked about these things, if he just kept them inside, could he have ever really found peace?

I often think of him as someone who was given a life of sour lemons (separated from his mother, raised on a plantation in poverty, working full time at 14, living in a town where whites took a hard stance against integration), but he took those lemons and he made lemonade.  Whenever I try to stop my summation of Booker Wright's life there, another voice always seems to echo back to me, "Who could he have been had he been given something besides lemons?"

This brings me to another thought.  Not that my grandfather was necessarily a civil rights hero - he was an everyday guy who simply did the right thing.  But, I think the danger of focusing so much on the heroes of the civil rights movement is that we forget the reason why there even had to be a movement in the first place.  We celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. for his accomplishments, but maybe all he wanted out of his life was to watch his children grow up.  Or maybe he would've been the first black president.  We will never know.

I am proud that Booker Wright owned his own business and was able to spend the last several years of his life working for himself.  Booker's Place was on one of the roughest streets in town.  My grandfather did his best to ensure that it was the nicest place on that street.

What kind of a place could he have opened if banks back then lent money to blacks?  What could Booker's Place have been if all restaurants were integrated? Who could Booker Wright have been if more than two jobs (waiter or cotton picker) were available to him in Greenwood all those years ago?

He was a big fish in a small, black pond.  But who could he have been if the pond had always been integrated?

Freaking Out

It's Saturday.  Yesterday I sent the forms to the prison that will enable me to visit Lloyd Cork.  As I was filling out the forms I felt a little uncomfortable because they needed my social security number, home address, and maiden name.  I called the prison to ask them whether or not these forms might ever end up being viewed by the prisoner.  They woman on the phone said, "He shouldn't be able to see them."

However, she informed me that my application for visitation would become a part of Cork's permanent prison file.

It dawned on me that since I was already headed out to to mail a letter to Mississippi that I may as well write Cork back.  I received his second letter almost a full month ago.  I grabbed the letter and quickly reread it.

Maybe my mind is completely going.  Maybe I have too much on my plate.  But somehow, the first time I read the letter, I'd missed two or maybe three really inappropriate moments in it.  First, he tells me a story of a time before he went to prison when he met a girl who looked old, then she put her hair down revealing that she was quite young, and then the two of them had sex for a really long time.

Later in the letter he mentions that his pen is running out of ink, then he goes back to talking about my letter, and then says that he lent it to a fellow prisoner.  The way his letter reads, it makes it sound as if he lent my note to a prisoner, not the pen.

Then I got to the end of the letter.  He talks about being so excited that he went "off".

I started to write him back, realized I needed more time to process what I'd just read, grabbed the visitation forms and ran out of the house.  My first stop was to the drive-thru post office, I dropped the visitation forms in the mailbox without giving it a second thought.

Now that I'm sitting alone in my house, the address to which is on its way to a building that houses murderers, I am feeling as though this whole thing needed a lot more thought.  Cork has mentioned in both of his letters that he has a stash of money somewhere.  In his first letter the said that he just needed a nice girl to spend it on.  I think it's crystal clear that Cork wants to do more with me than just talk about Booker Wright.

My instincts, my gut instincts in situations when men make unwanted advances, is to shut them down quickly with clarity and assertiveness.  This situation is made even stickier by the fact that Cork's an imprisoned murderer.  Do I give this whole thing extra weight because I'm the granddaughter of the man Cork is in prison for murdering?  In other words, is he even sicker than I thought because he's willing to reach out sexually to Booker Wright's granddaughter?

Everyone says he's crazy.  I heard this from many people in Greenwood, they all said that he'd gone crazy.  He still denies that he murdered my grandfather even though so many people saw him do it.  So, I know that I won't get the "truth" from him.  This whole time I've just wanted to see his reaction to the question, "Did someone hire you to kill my grandfather?"

To be honest, there is a little theater in all of this.  I'm writing a book and making a movie.  Dramatic moments are critical for both.  I'm really trying to search myself to find out if I'm doing this to "punch up" the drama or if I'm really on a search for answers.  It may be a little of both.

After all these years I am never going to know for certain what the truth is about my grandfather's murder.  I am never going to know if he was regularly harassed by cops or if it only happened a few times.  On some level, visiting Cork is almost ceremonial.  It feels like the next logical step in my search, but I'm not sure that it's an authentic choice for me or if it's a wise choice considering that I do have young children to protect.

What do I mean by an authentic choice?  Since I am so convinced that he's not going to tell me anything significant, there is a part of me that's prepared to let the connection with him go cold.  I have a whole lot of other things to do with my time and going to see him may be a waste of it.  Also, he still denies murdering my grandfather.  Something about that really just doesn't sit well with me.  It feels disrespectful.  It frustrates me.

There was a part of me that was burning to meet him, to look him in the eye. Knowing that he's trying to start some sexual letter writing campaign with me makes me want to throw up.  I don't think his last letter mentioned my grandfather even once.

I am so deeply and utterly conflicted.  He's a sicko.  I live a nice, simple, safe life.  Why am I inviting him into it?  Why am I giving an audience to the man who killed my grandfather and is now talking about sex with his victim's granddaughter?  It would seem that not only does he have no remorse, but he also has no dignity either.

The forms are on their way.  I may need to see if I can stop what I've started.

He Wrote Back Again and Again

Several weeks ago I received a second letter from Lloyd Cork, the man who murdered my grandfather.  I'd been waiting on a response to my second letter for what felt like an eternity.  I'd started to believe that I wouldn't hear from him.  I even wondered if maybe he'd found my blog and decided that he didn't want to be a part of any of this.

After much waiting and worrying I finally received a second letter from him in early October.  Like before, I was initially really excited to get it, I was still standing in the post office when I tore it open.  There wasn't anything groundbreaking in it.  He talked about how he spends his days and asked again for my phone number so that he could call me.

I haven't written back because my life has been fairly nuts and I didn't want to write back again without having set up a way for him to call me.  Getting an untraceable phone and corresponding number is surprisingly simple, but I also have to create an account with the prison so that he can make the calls from his end.  This is a little more time consuming.

Yesterday I checked my P.O. box because I was expecting something from someone else and there inside was another letter from Cork.  This one contained nothing besides the forms that must be filled out by anyone who plans to visit him.  I've been doing a lot of procrastinating when it comes to Cork, but these forms must be returned within 14 days.

I've set something in motion and now it's game time.  Whenever I tell people that I want to sit down with the man who murdered my grandfather their eyes widen and they ask me why I'd want to do that and if I feel afraid.  I always respond as if it's no big deal and I tell them that I just have a few questions to ask him.

Obviously, it is a big deal.  I've been busy, but I could have gotten the whole phone thing set up weeks ago.  On some level I feel fearful for my safety.  I know that we'll be in a secure situation, but he'll see my face, he'll learn more about me.  What if I slip up and give him information that allows an outside contact of his to find my home, my children?

On some level I know that the odds of this are highly unlikely.  I met his mother and he really comes from a deep, seemingly relentless poverty.  The idea that he would have the resources to get to me or my family from prison is kind of silly.  But it's not impossible.

What if I travel all the way there only to find that he's crazy and he doesn't have a thing to tell me?  What if I ask him whether or not he was hired to kill my grandfather and he says yes?

This entire journey has been full of peaks and valleys.  Today it feels like both.  Like always, I am busy.  But there's a deadline on this form.  I can't hem and haw because the window will close.  I can't ignore this chance because it may not come again.

I was in a car accident the last time I was in Mississippi.  I actually hate talking about it because I drove away from it with only minor injuries and the whole thing turned out to be little more than an inconvenience in the big scheme of things. However, the accident itself lasted a long time and it really did leave me feeling quite shook up.

I'm usually a very confident driver, but since the accident I find myself feeling hesitant about driving in inclement weather.  Several years ago I was talking to my aunt Vera about coming to Mississippi in the winter to visit and to conduct some research into Booker Wright's life.  She was more than happy to pick me up at the airport any time during the year except during the winter months.  She told me that sometimes the roads get ice on them when it's really cold and she was afraid to drive too far from home.

Cork's prison is several hours drive from the nearest airport.  Also, if I'm in Mississippi I'll certainly want to travel to Greenwood to visit family and friends.  If, by the time the forms get approved, Mississippi is unusually cold and the roads are too dangerous to drive on, I may be forced to push this off until sometime next year.  If not, I may be getting on a plane as early as next month to sit across from the man who forever altered my family's history with a single shot.

Wanting to Know More

When this journey started I wanted to find my grandfather so that I could have some sort of moment or relationship with him.  I know this sounds odd and had I articulated this idea to myself, really written it out, I would've realized that it was a goal that was completely unattainable.  One night in Greenwood I was talking about this with Raymond and he looked up at me and said, "But of course, you know that you can't have a relationship with a dead person." I remember feeling as though someone had just made the lights flicker.  Of course, how silly of me.

Now, I'm here waiting for what's next.  The filmmakers are finishing the movie and I'm working on a book of sorts - I'm writing out what happened.  Sometimes this writing is fun and it reminds me of the laughs and the drama of making the film.  I'm reminded of people I initially didn't trust and then came to adore and people I initially adored only to realize that I needed to be a little less trusting.

I'm writing through the mystery.  I had no idea when this journey started that there were any questions about my grandfather's death.  When I boarded the plan that took me to the making of this film, I had no idea that my grandfather had been beaten so badly by a white cop that he had to be hospitalized.  There was so much that I didn't know before the first Greenwood trip.

Tonight I was thinking about my grandfather and I still feel as though there is so much that I don't know. 

I'm writing the story of my search to find him.  I'm writing about what I learned and when and how I felt when I learned those things.  But the thing that I set out to do years ago, the thing that I always wanted to do, is the thing that I still cannot do.  I cannot write about Booker Wright.  Everyone knew of him but it seems that nobody really knew him.  A white judge, a man who I'm sure my grandfather never hung out with, is the one who told us about the beating.  A man removed from my grandfather's way of life gave us one of the most shocking and critical pieces of data we found on our search.  This information did not come from my family because my family did not know.

As I sit here on the foot of my bed, I feel kind of deflated.  I've dealt with the crazy hope of "meeting" my grandfather's spirit on this journey, but I never dealt with the other hope that went unmet.  I had a hope to learn more about him.  I hoped that people would share conversations they had with him, conversations that would reveal his sense of humor, his quirks, and his worries.

Initially, I searched for him so that I could piece him together and know him like a granddaughter would know a grandfather.  Now I simply wonder about his thoughts.  Did he fear for his life?  It seems the answer would be yes because he had those end of life talks with my mother and my aunt.  But, what specifically did he fear?  Who did he fear?  Did he expect the beating he got after the NBC documentary aired?  Or was he surprised and left shaken?

There are a few more sources who may know the answers.  My family members have asked me not to pursue these leads.  They fear that if these voices make it into the film that they might sully Booker Wright's memory.  Well, the film is almost done.  The Greenwood researchers are off the case.  The resources have all but dried up.  But there are four people who might know more.  They might have pieces that could complete the puzzle.  They might be the ones he confided in.  

I love and respect my family.  During the making of this film I respected their wishes even when they did not respect mine.  But I feel as though Booker Wright has been silent for all these years.  The work we've done with the filmmakers has brought one piece of his story to the masses.  He said in the NBC film that he didn't want his children to go through what he went through.  Was he talking only about being called the "n" word?

I still have so many questions.  Is it wrong for me to want the answers?  I just don't think I'm finished with this.  As much as my family wants him to be the hero and wants his life to be tied up neatly with a little bow, I can't help but wonder if someone out there can tell me what he really thought and felt.  

Did he confide in anyone?

A Beautiful Thing

Yesterday I got to watch a rough cut of the film.

I'm not even sure what to say about it.  First, it was brilliant.  I LOVED it.  It tells the story of Booker Wright, my journey to find him, Frank's desire to help Mississippians and wondering if he did more harm than good, Ray's relationship with his father and his father's work, and through all of these different lenses, you also get a glimpse of the story of Greenwood and it's conflicted role in the civil rights movement.

Watching it was surreal and bittersweet.  I'm still processing which moments made it in and which ones didn't.  I'm amazed at how Raymond was able to distill so many hours of footage down into one neat little package.  I'm sad about some of the story lines that didn't make the cut and elated that others were left on the cutting room floor.

There is one thing I know for sure.  The film is simply beautiful. Our director of photography is a guy named Joe Victorine.  I knew from working with him that he was thoughtful and deliberate about his craft.  What I mean is that, filmmaking is really hard work and it can often be quite physical.  Joe never cut corners. Regardless of how hot or exhausted he was, it was clear that he always wanted to get each shot and each moment just right.

In spite of heat, mosquitoes, and how much odd equipment needed to be manipulated or carted from one distant place to another - Joe always wanted to get it right.  He was meticulous and thoughtful about every single moment of film that he shot.  Now I see why.  This film is beautiful to look at.  So often the camera is moving in a way that is almost imperceptible, but it captures the subtle pain or irony in a moment without ever intruding on it.

When I was in Greenwood on the first trip I got to go into Booker's Place which is now a rundown and dilapidated building.  I tried to take in as much as I could while I searched for the spirit of my grandfather.  What Joe captured of Booker's Place on film is an accurate representation of what it was like to be in the space.  It's as if the camera was searching for the same thing that I was - a glimpse of Booker Wright.  It was searching for an indication of his spirit in each piece of furniture, in the dust, and even in the air.

How to do this, how to use a camera - a simple machine - to communicate a heartbreaking truth is something that is beyond my ability to grasp.  Joe simply has a gift and I am monumentally grateful that he shared it with us in the making of this film.

Voicing the End

One of the slightly comical things about this whole experience is that while, yes I got to make a movie (a real movie, folks!); it's been anything but glamorous.

Our budget was tight to say the least.  The first time I walked into my house at the Flats the production manager asked me if I'd brought my own towels.

For the record my travel, hotel, and food were all paid for - and I was provided with bathroom towels as well.  I have to say, however, that before I went to Greenwood I was promised that there would be someone to powder me in between scenes.  In the end this amounted to David tossing something akin to tack cloth on a table and instructing Raymond to tell me, my mom, and Vera to blot ourselves if we got too shiny.

Last week David called to tell me that I would need to do a voice over for the film. Saturday morning I got an email from Raymond with a list of three questions and two topics that I would need to respond to in the recording.  I needed to write the content and then send it to Raymond for editing.  Then he'd send it back to me so that I could practice.  This sounds very simple and would've been if both my husband and son didn't just have birthdays.  So, between the circus, birthday parties, birthday luncheons, a sleepover, a soccer game, and volunteering to help with extra stuff at church - I also needed to create some magnificent copy for the film.

Does it sound like I'm complaining?  I'm not.  To be clear, I feel incredibly lucky to have something so fun, meaningful, and exciting dropped into my life. Every now and then I just wish I had a little more control over where and when it landed.  But I've loved every bit of this experience and I'd take it any way it comes.  I would do it over again in a heartbeat - even the painful stuff.

I'm going on a tangent now, bear with me.  That "painful stuff" entry was an intense post and a very painful couple of weeks - lots of crying and lots of calls to my best friends.  Thank you for ladies for helping me through it.  As hurtful as it all was, I have to say I learned a valuable lesson from it all.  Razor-wielding tornadoes cannot be contained in a box.  They need to be avoided at all costs.  Luckily, the only people that got hurt this time around were adults.  It could have been my children who got tangled up in the fray.  So, as painful as all of that was, it served as a much needed wake up call.

Back to my voice over copy:  Despite a few challenges and missed deadlines, the content was written, and the voice over experience was fabulous.  It was one of the few times in this process when I've actually felt a little glam.

The studio was gorgeous.  Everything about it said high end.  The furniture, the snacks, the flooring, all of it was top of the line.  When I went into the recording booth the technician and his assistant set me up with everything I could possibly need.

They gave me a headset and then got Raymond and George on the line.  In the voice over session I had three different scripts, all of which were written in my own words (mostly).  I needed to "read" them in a way that would sound like I was just having a conversation with Raymond.

This was harder than it sounds.

I was trying to sound natural, but I was trying too hard, so I sounded like I was presenting an Oscar to someone or announcing a war or something.  It's times like these that I really, truly love working with Raymond De Felitta.

At one point during the voice over he gave me some direction in an effort to get me to read a section a little differently.  After rereading it I heard silence.  I asked if I'd completely messed it up.  He quickly said, "No, no I think I may have given you the wrong direction."  Raymond is truly kind.  He's always helping me without ever alluding to my lack of experience in the industry.

In the booth that I was in I sat on a stool and faced a window that had a rolled up shade at the top of it.  Beyond that window was a room with tons of devices and machines and a technician who was moving buttons around while I talked.  In my headset I could hear Raymond's voice.  He kept telling me to pretend like he was right there with me.  I felt self-conscious because I knew the technician could see me.  To properly pretend that Raymond was there I would need to "look" at him and gesture with my hands.

So, in true Hollywood fashion, I stopped the recording and asked the technician if he would come in and pull the shade down so that he wouldn't see me.  I know, I was being a baby and maybe even a little prima donna-ish, but it worked.  Instead of redoing everything five times I was able to do some sections only once.

Alas, my "Hollywood" moment didn't last long.  When the recording session was over I turned into a true fan and asked the technician's assistant to take a photo of me with my iPhone - hence, the blur.  Then when I went to the parking lot - which is completely visible from the studio lobby, I was met by my husband who was there to give my truck a jump.  Back to reality.

I keep writing about how the making of the film is over for me.  In Oxford, the last day of the final trip, I sat down with my laptop and wrote several hundred words about what I thought had been my last on-camera moment. I was trying to capture the feeling of my movie-making experience coming to an end.

While I was writing it, the production manager came in to tell me that I was needed on-camera for Margurite's interview.  It wasn't over after all.  That was a fantastic way to end the trip, by the way.  She and I are deeply connected by a love for a man she knew only as a girl and who I never knew at all.

Unfortunately, the interview almost didn't happen.  One week before the last trip my Razor-wielding Tornado gave my relationship with Margurite a serious blow. As a result, Margurite wasn't sure if she could trust me. She'd been made to believe that it was my goal to destroy Booker Wright's legacy, so she almost didn't come to Oxford at all.

Thankfully, she did come.  After what she was told about me, it was clear that our relationship was still a little tenuous.  I could tell that she wasn't quite sure about me.  It hurt that she so easily believed what she'd heard from my Tornado, but I know that she was just caught in the middle.

When she got to Oxford Raymond spent some time with her and made her feel more comfortable - he is so good at disarming people. In the end, Margurite was able to trust us enough to go on camera and share her memories of Booker Wright.

What's so amazing about her is that she, just like Vera, talks about my grandfather as if he were dipped in magic.  It dripped from him and anyone he loved got drenched in it.  When Margurite and Vera talk about Booker, they bring the magic.

I hope that one day when she finally sees this film, she'll know without a doubt that my intentions were always true.

I thought my Margurite interview marked the end.  Then yesterday I recorded the voice over.  Maybe that was the last recorded thing I'll do for this film, but maybe not.  Either way, it's been an amazing ride.

It doesn't really matter which event marks the end of my movie-making experience - what matters is that I was brave enough to get on the ride at all.

Update on Cork

Every couple of days I stop by the Post Office, search through my purse for a tiny, golden key, unlatch my kids from their car seats, and head into the building with a hope that I'll find a letter from Lloyd Louis Cork waiting for me in this little box.

This image is what I see on most of those visits.  Sometimes I find junk mail or random bills in there. But, the odd excitement I felt when I received his first letter has yet to be duplicated.

I keep thinking about the first letter I sent to him this past June.  I was nervous about reaching out to the man who murdered my grandfather.  I tried as hard as I could to remove emotion or the possibility of blame from my initial letter.  I tried to give the impression that my interest in Cork and his relationship to my grandfather was just pure curiosity or maybe even mildly academic.  I didn't give the impression that I desperately wanted to have him answer some vital questions about what happened the night that Booker Wright was shot in cold blood in his own restaurant.

Cork seemed to buy it.  In late July I received a somewhat lengthy letter from him that was thoughtful and detailed.  In the letter he seemed, for lack of a better word, nice.  I got the impression that he wanted  me to like him.  He spoke highly of my grandfather and of Booker's Place.  He also explained his version of how the events unfolded that led up to my grandfather's shooting.  He asked me how old I was and said that he needed my phone number so that he could add me to his call list - this would allow the two of us to connect over the phone.

I wrote back about a week later.  In my letter I asked him to begin the procedure that would allow me to meet him in person - an idea that he was open to according to what was written in his first letter.  I didn't tell him how old I was or offer him my phone number.  It's been well over a month and I haven't heard back from him.

Last week I wrote to him again.  Usually, I take a piece of computer paper and write to him in longhand.  This time I used a blank card with flowers on it and asked if he received my previous letter.

I am waiting on pins and needles for correspondence from a murderer.  I am anxiously anticipating word from the man who shattered my family.

I simply need to know whether or not I'm ever going to see him.  If he writes back, then I know that eventually I'll be sitting across from him.  The question that keeps coming to me is how long do I hold out hope that he'll write me back.  I could get a letter from him in two months or in two decades.  I've opened a door that may remain open for as long as I have that PO Box.

Without intending to, I've given Lloyd Cork a bit of power in my life.

The other day I found a letter leaning on the sidewall of that PO Box.  I was more than a little excited when I thrust my hand into the box and pulled the letter out.  It wasn't from Cork.  Why hasn't he written back?  Is he toying with me?  Is he taking the opportunity to hurt Booker Wright one more time by leaving his granddaughter in limbo?  Or maybe he's just working to pull together the paperwork that would allow us to meet.  Does it even matter?  Whether he knows it or not, he's in the driver's seat in this situation.

I am at his mercy.

A Steak and A Song

One of the first things Vera ever told me about Booker was how he felt when he opened Booker’s Place in Greenwood, MS in the early 1950’s after working for well over ten years at Lusco’s Restaurant.  She said he felt like he was “his own man.”  It wasn’t until I saw the 1966 film and watched my grandfather play the role that he played at Lusco’s, where he clearly was not his own man, that I was finally able to grasp just how important it must’ve been to him to be his own boss.  At Booker’s Place he could drop the act. 

After appearing in Frank’s film in 1966, Booker’s employment at Lusco’s ended because some of their regular customers no longer wanted him to wait on them. 

I keep going back to the “relationship” Booker had with his white customers at Lusco’s.  At one of my first meetings with them, Raymond and David told me that many of the customers at Lusco’s had “hurt feelings” when Booker spoke out on the news program and that they felt like his statement was a betrayal.  I can remember wanting to throw my hands in the air and laugh, scream, and pull my hair out all at the same time.  It struck me as so idiotic that the oppressors had really come to believe that the one oppressed was happy.

But I can kind of get it now.  Booker was so good at giving them what they most certainly would've been looking for.  A relationship that would save them from being called into account for the sins of their fathers.  They never wanted to truly explain how their grandfathers were able to build their beautiful homes with such cheap labor or explain why they felt disgusted at the thought of sharing a drinking fountain with someone whose skin was a few shades darker than theirs. 

Booker kept them from ever having to explain.  He was their evidence that they were evolved.  They let themselves believe that Booker’s dance was 100% sincere and that he was nothing but delighted to deliver a steak and a song to them every night of the week. 

As painful as it is and as much as I hate to do it, I have to ask myself if they can really be held responsible for not taking the time to consider my grandfather’s happiness or to consider his place in their locked down socioeconomic system.  He seemed so happy being a waiter that it may have never occurred to them that he would ever want to be anything else – he was just a poor black man, after all. 

Did it ever occur to them that maybe he became a waiter because he didn’t want to work those fields and that, when he was originally hired at Lusco’s, those were his only two career options?  It seems to me that they chose to believe that he had happily selected his place in society just like they had chosen to be dentists, car salesmen, politicians, and the like. 

Well, they were wrong. 

In making this film, I’ve had the awkwardly heartwarming experience of meeting many of the men and women Booker waited on during his 25 year stint at Lusco’s.  Their faces light up and glow with the memory of my grandfather singing the menu to them, delighting their children with funny stories, and his ability to remember the orders of five full tables at once. 

Today, when I look into the eyes of some of these people I can see that they truly loved him.  It was a complicated kind of love.  One that I’m sure must’ve included some level of shame and regret.  I think many of them felt helpless about their place in the structure of Southern society in the 1960’s.  They didn’t build it, but they certainly reaped its benefits.  Were they all supposed to become activists?

Some of these very customers embrace me when they meet me.  Their eyes fill with tears.  I embrace them back and listen intently to their memories of my grandfather.  Sometimes these encounters go on and on.  At times, I feel like a priest.  My nodding head and inviting eyes allow them to bask in the good thing they had with my grandfather and to finally bury any guilt that might still be lingering. 

The simple truth is that I can’t help but to love anyone who loved Booker Wright. Their affection for him - their sweet, unchanging, delightful affection for him - has won me over, in spite of myself. 

Sweet as Honey

I'm back home.  I'm sitting in a Paradise Bakery scratching mosquito bites on my forearm, the true souvenir from my trip.  I couldn't post the dates of when I was going back to Greenwood because there were a couple of people who we didn't want to know that we were coming.  One of them was M.W.

This trip was a lot shorter, just five days.  It was probably my last trip to Greenwood, at least the last one I'll take with a film crew.  I still can't believe that I got to make a real movie.  I also can't believe the amazing people that I got to work with.  From the sound guy, the cinematographer, the editor, and the production assistants - the team of people that made the shoot happen were always kind, fun, and hardworking.  I know that some of them I will never see again, except of course on Facebook.

As I sit here, the thing that sticks out to me about this last trip is M.W.  I think I can write her name now, Honey Wright.  Honey and my grandfather were together for over 20 years.  When I look at her I always feel amazed because I'm looking at someone who stood next to him, fed him, kissed him, and was loved by him for many, many years.

In the summer of 2010, she sat down with me for about three hours and told me stories about Booker Wright, Booker's Place, his family, and their life together.  She was warm, confident and funny.  She repeatedly hopped up to make me drinks, get me crackers, and so on.  She was funny and full of life.  Her memory was like a moving picture in her mind and she took me for a ride.

When I first started compiling a list of possible interviewees for Raymond and David, Honey Wright's name was at the top of my list.  I called her several months ago to ask her to help with this film.  Initially she said yes, then I heard through her daughter that Honey would not be involved.  I had trouble getting her on the phone, when I finally did she sounded confused.  I thought that maybe I'd woken her from a nap.  I heard through the grapevine that one of her sisters, the one she traveled with and spent the most time with, had died.  I felt badly for her, but I didn't think too much about it because I really needed her to agree to get on camera with us and also to provide photos of Booker.

Over the last several months the filmmakers and I have had countless strategic conversations about how to get what we need from Honey Wright.

I saw her briefly on the June trip.  I hardly recognized her.  She'd gained weight and she seemed hunched over even when standing straight up.  I was warm towards her.  I always feel warm towards her.  But I needed the photos so I didn't really take her in.  In July I found out that she lost another sister not long after I left Greenwood.  I wrote her a card and called to give my condolences.  This time I sincerely felt for her, but part of me was also trying to cultivate trust so that I could get what I needed from her.

I know how this sounds.  Yes, I feel ashamed.

I saw her on this latest trip.  I learned that she's actually lost three sisters in less than 13 months.  Raymond and I sat down with her, showed her a few scenes from the movie he's making, and chatted a bit.  She was so frail.  She was reflective, talking about her life as if she believes she's at the end of it.  She was tired, her thoughts would trail off.  She often looked into space and just stared.

Finally, I was able to see her.  Her hair fell in soft, intentional curls.  Her skin, which is so light brown that you can hardly tell her race, was clear and delicately decorated with dark freckles.  Her long, thin fingers traced the table as we spoke. Her eyes were large and brown.  They reminded me of the way a young child will often look off when you answer a question for them.  Their expression fades to nothing and their lips may slightly part as they use all their mental energy to conceptualize what you've just explained to them.  Honey has those eyes.

I finally get it.  She's not avoiding us.  She's not trying to make our work difficult. She's not afraid of anything.  She's tired.  She sent her warmth, her memories, and her joy to me a year ago and she simply has very little of it left.  Three sisters have died since her screen door shut on our visit in June of 2010.  She's holding on to today as tightly as she can.  She's no longer concerned with events that took place almost 40 years ago.

I love looking at her.  I want to watch her when she sees the movie we make.  I want her to swell with warmth about the man who moved through her life all those years ago.  I want to send her home with joy.

"Four Days and Not Much Longer...Let My Spirit Pass"

Reeling again.

It's interesting.  Many times throughout this process I've felt as though my fate was rising up to meet me.  So many things have fallen into my lap.  So many moments just seemed to work out.  I remember early on in the production phase feeling a fear that the story wouldn't be interesting enough.  I kept reminding myself that whether or not it would be interesting was not my problem, the filmmakers would have to figure that out.  In the end this story has proved to have more twists and turns than I think any of us bargained for.  Ray could easily make a provocative and moving four hour film at the rate we're going.

But nothing comes without a cost.

There's someone in my life who just can't be in my life.  Someone who I would liken to a tornado filled with razor blades - get too close and you're sure to be decimated. Years ago this person was a huge force in my life.  A major part of my weekly existence.  This person would swing from love to rage in a breath.  I was always the bad guy.  I was frequently yelled at, hung up on, and gossiped about.  This person would call my husband in an attempt to get him to see how terrible I was. For some reason, I lived with a constant fear that this person would leave me.  I apologized regularly and tried continually to keep this person from getting upset with me.

Three years ago I made one of the hardest decisions of my life; I walked away from this relationship.  I didn't cut anyone off, I simply stopped pursuing.  I would long to call this person, long to hear that voice even if its words were filled with anger, even if it left me crying on the floor.

It took a really, really long time for me to go a week without missing this person. Then a week turned into two, and on and on.  It's been so long since this person has been close enough to my life to damage me that I forgot just how breathless this person's unique brand of pain can make me.

In an effort to thoroughly tell the story of Booker Wright's life it was important for me to reach out to this person.  I thought that I could control the communication.  Keep it in a box so that I was never surprised, never taken off guard.  Well, Saturday morning the box exploded and the razor wielding tornado was unleashed.  The last several days I've been trying to "stay in my cubicle".  This is a phrase my girlfriend coined about 11 years ago when I was going through a rough time.  I stay in my cubicle, keep things simple, and wait for the wave to wash over me.  "Let the oceans dissolve away my past."

I think I may need a new cubicle.  Today someone mentioned my tornado and their involvement with this film and I almost started crying.

Part of me can't believe all the ways that this project has reached its tentacles into my life and reawakened wounds and family complications that I thought were long since forgotten.  The other part of me thinks, "Of course, what did you think would happen if you started digging up the past?"

I know I must sound crazy.  A few hours ago I was posting about how I finally feel excited to go back to Greenwood.  Now, I'm talking about tornadoes made of razor blades.  I guess this is the reality of this project for me.  Highs and lows.

On this next trip I'm not staying at the Flats.  I'm staying at a separate hotel.  I will literally have my own cubicle.  I think I'll need it.

Finally Getting Excited

I've written several posts about how challenging the June Greenwood trip was for me and how I feel a sense of dread when I think about the one that's coming up.  For the latter half of July I spent at least a few minutes each day trying to figure out how to tell the producer that I didn't think I needed to go on a second trip.  Then one day, with no warning, the production manager called to tell me that she was ready to purchase my ticket and that she just needed to confirm that I was traveling to and from Phoenix.

For the last couple of weeks I've been communicating (okay, complaining) about how I don't want to go back Greenwood to shoot more scenes.  So, much so that the producer expressed a concern that I may not get on the plane at all.  I don't want to be difficult and I don't want to be a problem for anyone so I vowed to him that, no matter what, I would get on the plane.  This was before all the craziness with my family unfolded over the weekend, two members of which still aren't speaking to me.  My father and I actually had the biggest fight on Saturday that we've had in 17 years.  This is hard, really hard.  

Many days the only thing keeping me from cancelling my plane ticket and refunding the cost of it to the filmmakers is that little promise I made to the producer.

But today, oh, today something wonderful happened.  It's like the clouds parted and I could once again feel the sun warming my skin.  I am starting to get excited.  I'm remembering why I started this in the first place, remembering some of the wonderful people I've met along the way, and remembering how much laughter I shared with our fun-loving, yet hardworking crew.  

Raymond, the director, asked me to write a piece about why I started this journey in the first place.  The last few days I've been remembering and trying to articulate the spark, the hope, and the connection I felt to Booker Wright four years ago when I first set out to find him.  Having a man like Booker Wright in my lineage is simply amazing.  It brings me awe to think about it.  But having a man like Booker Wright in history is equally amazing.  

People like him are rare and beautiful.  He had so much to lose and so little to gain when he told the NBC news crew how he really felt about his "relationships" with his white customers.  What he lost was realized immediately.  He was beaten so badly that he had to be hospitalized.  He also lost his job.  Some people say that he left his job because his customers refused to have him wait on them anymore.  Either way, his employment at Lusco's ended, after more than 20 years, because of his appearance in Frank De Felitta's film.  

What would be gained by being in the film was not fully realized within Booker's lifetime.  His voice was one of the countless courageous voices that helped to bring down an establishment of violence, fear, humiliation, and intimidation.  One by one, act by act, moment by moment black men and women put themselves at risk to collectively change the world.  

Thank you Booker Wright.  Thank you that I got to go to exceptional schools.  Thank you that it's illegal to discriminate against me because of the color of my skin.  Thank you that my two sons are growing up in a world that's full of hope and opportunity for them.

I look forward to returning to Greenwood to continue uncovering your story.  I am going to try, really, really, really hard to let you be human on this trip.  You deserve to be a man with flaws, secrets, and mistakes.  I know that on the last trip I fell apart at the slightest idea that you were less than perfect.  I'll try to bring more balance with me this time.  If you were perfect, then no one could imitate you.  Why would I speak out and help others or exercise boldness in my own life if those types of acts are only reserved for the perfect.

Change is not made by perfect people.  The world moves, grows, and is lead by those who, in spite of their imperfections, rise to the occasion anyway.

The Word on the Street

...is don't be interviewed for this movie...

The weirdest thing is happening.  The fillmmakers and I are going back to Greenwood to shoot some more scenes.  We have a list of over 40 people who we'd like to interview about Booker Wright and his restaurant/club called Booker's Place.  Almost every one on that list has at one time or another already agreed to be interviewed.  We (me, David, and a production coordinator) have spent the last couple of weeks contacting these people to pre-interview them and to arrange an exact time to sit down with them.

They're dropping like flies.  Don't get me wrong, many of the people who said they'd sit down with us are still planning to do just that.  For instance, GL agreed to meet with us, although after our call in July I'm not quite sure if he's going to give us much on Booker, but hopefully he can give a colorful account of McLaurin Street - the famous street where Booker's Place was located.  But Irene B., one of the eyewitnesses to the murder is back and forth about her willingness to participate.  Booker's lifelong companion is still unwilling to even let us scan photographs of him in her own home and so on and so on.

When we were there the last time there were a few sources we were having trouble reaching over the phone. So, the producer, his amazingly efficient production manager, one of the cameramen, and I spent half a day driving around in an SUV trying to find some of these people.  We did several "on the spot" interviews and the filmmakers got some great footage of me running around asking complete strangers how to find people, etc.

It looks like at least a few days this next trip may very well be in the same style.  I may need to pack fewer high heels and more flats.

Family Squared

Probably a few minutes after I wrote the previous post everything went haywire.  I won't get in to details, but some of my family members are starting to question the tone of the film. They're wrong in what they've heard, but their anger is sincere.  Lawyers were mentioned, someone hung up on me and I hung up on someone else.  People are really, really mad because they think this film will contain content that it simply will not.

It's midnight.  I want to write.  I need to write.  But I am exhausted.

I often try to remind myself why I started this in the first place.  Nothing was promised to me, just the opportunity to go on a journey in search of Booker Wright.  The filmmakers would use their resources and their time and influence to help me recreate a man who's been dead for 38 years.  That was the promise.  I, and my family, climbed on board.  Sometimes it's as if the feelings of excitement that we all had at the beginning of this journey are at the end of a rope that just never seems to end.  I pull and pull but all that I get is more rope.  The rope is coarse and thick, it cuts my hands.  I keep thinking back through the countless conversations, the interviews, the research, the people I've met.  How did we get from there to here?

Having people root around in your life, in your private memories, stirring up things and making remarks and comments about your life and your past is something else.  I am looking for the right word.  Is it painful?  Yes.  Does it produce a feeling of being out of control?  Yes.  Does it make me want to spend all day explaining and excusing every flaw, every misstep that my family members have made?  Yes.  Does it make me want to listen to slow, sad Pearl Jam songs in the dark?  Yes.

It's so easy to get focused on the discomfort of the journey.  I am holding to a hope with a death grip.  It's the hope of a completed film that makes my family members smile.  The ones who aren't speaking to me right now.  The ones who won't return my calls.  The ones who call me a liar.  The ones who clearly no longer trust me.  I have stated  my case as best I can.  I have gone to bat for David and Raymond.  Now, I think I need some room to breathe.

Every time I talk to certain family members they treat me like I'm trying to pull one over on them.  The truth is that I don't completely understand all of the choices the filmmakers are making.  Not because they haven't tried to explain them to me, but because I'm too close to the situation to see anything objectively.

There's this great movie that my oldest son loves about a little boy who's orphaned as a child and then grows up to be a wonderful scientist and inventor.  He changes the world.  The movie ends with one of Walt Disney's mottoes, "Keep moving forward."

That's my goal.  The second Greenwood trip is coming up soon.  As much as I'd like to bury my head in a hole and feel sorry for myself because everyone's mad at me, I can't.  I need to make this time extra meaningful and special for my kids because they're really going to miss me when I'm away.  And I need to gear up for the inevitable emotional drain that the upcoming trip will certainly be.

I hope that moving forward will prove to be the right move, because right now, it's the only one I've got.

Family

Family has been the recurring theme for my week.  On Monday I had a conversation with Raymond DeFelitta about why I was so desperate to find Booker Wright in the first place.  He asked me to write a piece that would pull together how and why this journey began for me and where I am with the journey today.  The idea is to be able to use some of these pieces in voice over in the film to accurately and effectively portray my journey from beginning to end.  All week I've been mulling over what I need to write.  Yesterday I spent a couple of hours writing out my past.  I wrote about how and why I felt so lost in my family.  Much of it probably won't be relevant to the film.  It may or may not be useful for Ray to completely understand the genesis of my deep, lifelong loneliness, but it's there anyway.

Writing it all out was actually a little frightening.  In the life I have today I am somewhat together.  I rarely overreact, I can diffuse angry situations, I try to let my emotions settle before making important decisions, and I am somewhat steady. I'm very different from the little girl who grew up in the house on Tambor Road.  I love her, I would like to reach back and embrace her, but I would never, ever again want to be her.  She was so lost.  I'm not exactly sure how I was able to peel her away and grow into someone else.  It's the not knowing that frightens me.

What if I am somehow thrust back into that murky darkness?  I didn't leave a trail of breadcrumbs for myself.  There was no visible path to safety.  The only logical answer is that I made it out by the grace of God.  He lead me with chords of human kindness and he bound me with ties of love.  There were people along the trail of my past who literally saved my life without even knowing it.  They helped deliver to me the vital emotional nutrients that carried me out of the pain.  For brief moments in time, each of them were a member of the family of my heart.

On my first night in Greenwood with the film crew we did a Q&A with whites and blacks about race relations in their town.  There was a woman there who kept telling me that she knew my grandfather and that she really wanted to speak with me.  She left early so I didn't get to talk to her, but the production team got her phone number.  On my last night in Greenwood she spoke on the phone with David, the producer.  She mentioned, with inaccurate details, an extremely painful and ugly family secret that still brings great pain and humiliation to someone I dearly love.   She also went on to make some very strong accusations about Booker Wright.

The filmmakers plan to interview her on this next trip.

The producer keeps telling me that we're going on a fishing expedition.  We need to record (film) as much as we can so that when they get into the editing room they can make the movie they want to make.  They don't want to find themselves in the middle of editing a scene when they realize that they need one more soundbite to tell the story that evolved in front of them.  I have to say that I get it, but I just don't like it.  I hate that they want to interview people who, 38 years after he was murdered, are happy to tear down my grandfather.

There's another piece to this week's drama.  Someone else in my family did something terrible and criminal.  It's one of the worst things that any human being can do to another one. These acts have nothing to do with Booker Wright.  However, these acts did lead to the family member interacting in a strange and provocative way with Booker towards the end of his life.  I know this makes very little sense.  My mouth is covered with a family-made gag and my hands are tied neatly and lovingly behind my back.  Sorry, reader, I'm not allowed to let you in.

As you've probably guessed, the filmmakers want to explore and touch upon this piece of my family's history as well.  From coast to coast, my family is freaking out.

One of my family members is the sister of the man who committed the terrible criminal acts.  I get the impression that no one in her life, no one she interacts with on a daily basis, knows that she has a close blood relative who is capable of what her brother did all those years ago.  It's understandable why she wouldn't want to go on camera and talk about it today.

One of my aunts read me the riot act last night.  She no longer wants to be involved in the project.  If the film is meant to honor Booker why are we mentioning anything bad.  She believes that if the film acknowledges any of his shortcomings that those will be the only things people remember.  I could go on and on about how I tried to help her see this differently, but even remembering it exhausts me.

I honestly don't know what to do.  I'm in the middle and I feel conflicted.  Raymond and David are on one page while my family is on another.  My family actually wants creative control over what makes it into the film, but they don't understand filmmaking or how to craft a compelling story.  They can't wrap their minds around the possibility that Booker can still shine even if his shortcomings are acknowledged.  They feel out of control.  So do I.

All that I have to hold on to is my trust in Raymond and David.  Luckily, I am convinced that Booker will shine once all is said and done.  I'm quite confident that when my family sees the finished film that they'll understand the filmmakers methods and will feel proud of the product.  I just have to get them to the finish line.  

Going Back

The filmmakers want photographs of me and images of our family from my childhood years.  For the last several weeks I've been collecting photos from aunts, uncles, and my parents.  Looking at them brings back a great flood of memories that I really don't want in my head.

In real life I'm a terrible swimmer.  If I'm in a lap pool swimming next to the wall and wearing a nose guard and flippers there's a 10% chance that I'll make it all the way across.  But in my soul I'm an expert swimmer.  I swim away from all the reasons I ever needed to find Booker Wright.  I swim hard against the current, away from the raging waterfall. I'm so good at this.  I always, always make it safely back to land.

I have a sense of foreboding about this second Greenwood trip.  I thought the emotions from the first trip were behind me.  I thought I'd come to a new perspective about this work and that I was ready for the next chapter.  But I don't feel any of those things.  Instead of swimming away from waterfall, it feels as though I'm swimming right into it.

I'm Blocked

I've promised family and friends that I'll send them a link to this blog.  Every time someone asks me where the link is I tell them that there are historical posts missing that need to be there in order for the blog to make sense.  What are those posts?  I haven't posted about what actually happened when I was making the film.  I haven't said..."this morning we went here, we interviewed so and so, etc."

Here's the deal, I don't know if I can write those posts.  Some of them are partially written and I have some sparse notes from those days.  But honestly, they're a weird fog to me.  Usually if I can't face something I write my way through it.  This is me hoping that I can deliver the "historical posts" that this blog needs by being honest with myself about why I can't write them in the first place.

I loved and I hated making this movie.  It made me think a lot about my life and the choices I've made with it.  Just a little background.  We stayed at this place called Tallahatchie Flats.  The Flats are basically (don't quote me on this) reclaimed slave shacks that have been outfitted with toilets and minimal air conditioning.  The filmmakers rented out all except for one Flat, which was empty for most of our stay.  The Flats are in the middle of nowhere.  When you look out from the porch you see miles and miles of green.  Behind the Flats there's a lake, on the other side of which are a gathering of Mississippi's amazingly tall, sheltering trees.

So, we were in a bubble.

Making this film was like going to grown up summer camp.  I went there with a plan to remember who I am, to hold on to my convictions, and to steal moments alone so that I could get centered and recharge.  None of that happened.  Every time I think back about my time there I want to cringe.

I love being in control.  At home I handle all the finances, plan the vacations, our retirement, home school my kids, coordinate co-ops, manage a duplex, cook almost every meal from scratch, and lead a ministry at my church.  I can get things done and I can take care of myself.  Or so I thought.

When I was in Mississippi I felt very out of control.  I was on camera a lot, probably more than I'd anticipated.  I had real, emotion filled moments on camera.  I'd try to forget the camera was there, but sometimes I just couldn't. I felt uncomfortable having those raw moments recorded.  I was afraid that I would say something that was true in the heat of the moment, but that I would've articulated differently after some contemplation.

Another thing that I felt out of control about was the people.  I spent way too much time with strangers.  I shared way too many thoughts with strangers.  I should've been journaling more, calling home more.  Whenever I think about the people involved with the film I feel overexposed, misunderstood and like I want to run and hide.  If I never see them again and never see this film, I think I'd be just fine.  Actually, I know I'd be fine.  I keep hoping that they run out of money and aren't able to finish....maybe I can pretend this whole thing never happened.

I know it sounds odd.  Doesn't everybody want to make a movie?  No, everyone doesn't want to make a movie.  And if anyone asks you if you want to make one then you run and hide under a rock.  Pretend to have Terrets Syndrome, but for the love of all that's good and pure, do not sign a deal memo, do not pass go, and do not get on that plane.

I wish I'd kept my butt at home.  I feel like I was so naive.

Have I expunged it all?  Can I write those posts?  I don't know...I'll find out later, first I need to make spaghetti and meatballs from scratch.  Because that's something that I can do.

Greenwood Lullabies

There’s something about Greenwood that I just can’t get out of my head.  It’s a paradox, a study in intertwined opposites.  It's one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.  Many parts of Greenwood and the surrounding areas are blanketed with lush, vibrant green forests.  The trees stand tall and strong, yet seem to sway and move about like old men conducting important business.  They protect and they watch. 

In this heartbreakingly beautiful place some of the worst and longest atrocities were visited upon blacks.  Yes, slavery.  Slavery was not about work.  Slavery was about cruelty, it was about rape, it was about humiliation, it was about tearing apart black families and it was about the wearing away of will, hope, pride, and peace. 

One of the things about slavery that seems to add a pungent odor to its stale air of humiliation is that people around the world knew about it and thought it was just fine.  Whether or not blacks were beings just one layer removed from animal was a given.  It seems as though there were very few people in the world who could look at a black person and see much more than a dollar sign, a work man, or an opportunity for quick sexual satisfaction.  There was a general agreement that blacks were stupid, disgusting, and deserving of nothing.

That will always be part of the history of this place.  If you stand on the Delta's rich farming soil long enough you can almost hear the cries of mothers who lost their sons to the fields.    

When I visited Greenwood in June, I met rich people who clearly treasure their Southern heritage.  I also met people who live at a level of poverty that I’ve really only ever heard about.  The homeless in most major cities eat better than some of these. 

I met heroes of the civil rights movement, men whose minds hold the memories of how change happened, who are barely be able to feed themselves.  I also met people who live across the street and around the corner from their children, cousins, and grandchildren.  Their lives are rich with love and simplicity. 

I'm stirred when I recall the look in the eyes of some of Greenwood’s residents.  I feel saddened when I think of the drunkards loitering street corners at three in the afternoon.  Yet, my heart soars when I think of the warm embrace that will always await me there from aunts, uncles, cousins, and the beautiful green landscape that seems somehow to envelope me in wonder.  

I’m supposed to go back.  The filmmakers need more scenes.  I wish we were going back today and I wish to never go back.  Greenwood haunts me, yet it calls me home.  Everyday I feel more and more convinced that what God intended for me to find on this journey was not Booker Wright, but the knowledge that I belong to a place of wonder.  I do come from the stuff of legends.  The song of the slave is my soul's lullaby.  

How can a place, a dot on the map, create such conflict within me? 

I Just Want To See Him

I wanted to get a different perspective on Lloyd Cork's letter so I read it to a good friend who's taught English for 11 years at the college level.  Over the last couple of years she's developed a writing program for prisoners so I definitely wanted to get her reaction.

Immediately she began talking about literacy levels.  She said that the letter really indicated to her that he had low levels of literacy and that he was unfamiliar with how to organize his thoughts in writing.  There were sections of his letter that seemed scattered and almost insane to my ear.  She simply heard a man who was struggling to get his thoughts into words.

It dawned on me how difficult it is to truly communicate with anyone in writing or even over the phone.  I'd originally thought that maybe I'd interview Lloyd Cork in letters, but I don't want to limit his ability to communicate with me because I'm expecting him to exercise a muscle that he's never had the chance to develop. I don't know what kind of education he had.  I do know that when I met his mother the filmmakers asked her to sign a release for the interview and she had to make a mark because she didn't know how to write her own name.

There's a good chance that the best I can hope for with Lloyd Cork is a phone interview.  The telephone, however, has its own problem.  Silence.  If I ask a question and he goes quiet over the phone I won't know if he's shifting out of discomfort or if he's looking into the distance in an effort to remember.

I just want to see him.

I tell myself that I'm hoping a meeting with Lloyd Cork will bring me peace, but I know now that nothing about this process (making the film, doing the research, writing about it) will ever bring me peace.  Then I tell myself that if I can hear economic and social desperation in Cork's life story that maybe I'll see that he and Booker were both affected by the same lack of opportunities for blacks and that they just took different paths.  But I already know the answer to this, I got it from Erlene.

I'm just not that naive anymore.  The journey is not the thing.  Maybe I'm just inquisitive and I want to look a known murderer in the eye because I can.

Or maybe there is more.  Yes, Lloyd Cork probably murdered Booker Wright.  I strongly suspect that the murder was unplanned.  If I was 100% certain I would probably save myself the hassle of filling out forms and figuring out travel.  As tired as I am of chasing ghosts, I just feel that something awaits me in a face-to-face meeting with him.  A nugget not made of peace or of understanding, but maybe another link to the puzzle.  Maybe a final dead end that closes the door on the questions.

As tired as this whole thing makes me, as soon as this post is finished I will write another letter to Lloyd Cork to start the arduous process of getting approval so that I can meet with him.  The honest to goodness truth is that I don't even know why.

He Wrote Back

Today I received a letter in the mail from the man who murdered my grandfather.  Actually, I should say that today I received a letter from the man who is serving a life sentence for murdering my grandfather.  I don't know if Lloyd Cork killed Booker Wright.  I know that when my grandfather was dying in his hospital bed that he told people that Lloyd Cork shot him.

If you're not familiar with what's odd about the murder then here's some background.  First, 38 years after it happened, eyewitnesses to the murder seem reluctant to talk about it.  See this post and this one.  Second, the trial itself seemed to raise more questions than it answered.  Third, Booker's lifelong companion is being less than helpful with this research.

At some point in my life I watched a TV show in which a person was asked to place their hand in a box that either had a snake in it, jello, or a boatload of cash.  That's kind of how I felt when I reached out to Lloyd Cork.  That's actually how I still feel.  In the letter Cork claims that he didn't kill Booker.  But this line is the anthem of most prisoners, so does it really mean anything in this case?

In the letter he sent me, Cork explains that he let Booker borrow a car of his even though it had $100k in the trunk.  If he'd have said that the car had $1k in the trunk it would've sounded suspicious from what I know about this man's economic background.  Saying that he had $100k sounds almost insane.  The most important thing in the letter is that Cork said he'd be willing to talk on the phone with me and/or meet me face-to-face.

I definitely want to meet him in person.  The filmmakers are trying to figure out a way for me to call him and record the call so that they can include it in the movie.  I'm wrestling with the best course of action.  I really want to see the look on his face.