A few weeks ago I was in Alaska and someone in the audience asked a question that comes up a lot. "How has this experience impacted your family...are they proud..has it brought them joy....?" I tried to briefly explain how every step we take to honor Booker Wright comes with the a deepening knowledge of what was lost. So, it's been painful. The audience was satisfied.
If they only knew.
Sometimes the tiniest details can bring out the strongest reactions in my family. Person A will say that Person B did XYZ. Person B's cousin will wonder why Person B never mentioned doing XYZ to them. The cousin feels hurt, left out, and they question why Person B kept this from them. Even if XYZ is a small detail, it makes the cousin question other things about Person B. The cousin doesn't know how to feel about the relationship they once had. Was it all a lie? They can't get to the bottom of it because Person B is dead. An unanswerable question has been planted in the cousin's mind and the only way to get rid of it is to forget.
The cousin becomes a lot less talkative. They stop returning my calls and may even discourage others in the family from talking to me. Person A will start to feel guilty about stirring up pain and will also pull away from me or, at a minimum, show extreme caution the next time .
Every time I get on the phone with someone in my family they act like anything they say might appear in my book. The fact is, they're right. I'm collecting all of these stories for a reason. So, part of me understands their discomfort. Part of me has a hard time with it, though. I'm trying to get as close to the truth as possible. There are so many things about Booker that I will never know. But I want to get the details that I can correct. I don't want to be wrong.
Multiple this by 20 details, one hundred conversations, countless moments and lots of dead ancestors with skeletons in their closets.
One of the topics that comes up again and again when I talk to audiences about my grandfather's story is the idea of family silence within communities of color. So many adults simply don't know their family stories, oftentimes because those stories are ones of humiliation and pain. Aside from details here and there, a knowledge of a place of birth, a marriage, a death, so many of us don't know the ins and out, the stuff that glistens from the nooks and crannies. We don't know and we don't think to ask. We live with each other day in and day out unconcerned about what came before us. Until someone comes knocking and unearths it all.
People change their stories. Loved ones hide from me. I don't always know why.
I do know that losing someone you love is indescribably painful. Finding out later that they weren't who you thought they were is something else altogether.
Showing posts with label Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Monday, September 24, 2012
A Killing at the Grill
There's a restaurant in Greenwood (NOT Lusco's) that, for many blacks, was the primary symbol of segregation during the movement. It's still open today and is one of only a handful of sit down restaurants that even offers lunch in Greenwood. Nevertheless, most Greenwood blacks have never eaten there.
During the making of Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story, Raymond De Felitta and I interviewed a woman named Marie Tribitt, a childhood friend of Booker's. Marie told us the story of a man who was most likely mentally disabled. He had a job cleaning floors at this whites' only establishment in Greenwood decades ago. According to Marie, one day the man was mopping the floor and he accidentally touched a white woman's foot with his mop. The woman became very angry. Later that day, the man was shot dead.
Many of my white friends from Greenwood have been angered by this story and the fact that it was included in the film at all. They've never heard it and don't believe that something like that could ever have happened in their town. I was on the fence about it until Thursday night.
I just got back from Greenwood where I screened Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story, at MVSU, the local state university there. A black man stood up and recalled the challenges he'd faced while living in Greenwood when segregation was upheld by the police. He told a story of something that happened when he was nine years old. A black man was in this same restaurant and he was mopping the floor. He spilled a little water on the foot of a white woman, who then became irate. Someone tried to calm her down, tell her that it was an accident, that he meant no harm, and that it was just a little water. She could not be soothed. Later that night the man with the mop was murdered.
Sometimes I think there are two Mississippis. Otherwise, half the people talking to me must be liars. I'm not a god, I have no magic, I cannot discern a lie from the truth when the story is older than I am. Sometimes people argue that if there is no record, then there was no crime. However, the Greenwood library is filled with white history and almost completely void of black history. Finding public photos of Greenwood blacks from the 1950s and earlier doing anything other than hanging from a tree is almost impossible. If there is no record of them, then were there no blacks in Greenwood at all?
Sadly, the police rarely investigated the murders of poor black men in Greenwood unless pressured to do so by outside forces. The idea that this man lost his life in such a way, for such a simple mistake seems absurd to many whites in Greenwood and completely plausible to many blacks.
What does that tell us? Beyond this story, what does that say? Blacks remember, with a clarity that cannot be compromised, that there was a time when their lives were worthless to the white people in their community. Whites remember their parents feeling trapped and not knowing how to navigate in the segregated society that a strong few wanted to keep in place. Whose version of Mississippi shall prevail? Whose truth is the Truth?
I tend to think that both are true, depending on which side of the river you grew up on. If I say this murder didn't happen because I cannot prove it, then that means that countless black murders that were never investigated also didn't happen. If I say I believe it because two sources recall it, then I am following fanatics who want to exacerbate the problems of the past to justify the troubles of today.
I am not a judge. I am a woman in search of the stories that shaped the world my grandfather lived in. If blacks believed that stories like this were true, whether or not they were true, can we use that to help us understand how and why they lived in constant fear? Can we move the ball forward by admitting that even if it's hard to believe this one story, that surely, somewhere in Mississippi there are true stories like this that never made it out of the grave?
I am caught between whites and blacks in the town of my ancestors. Both hold me up as a spokesperson for their side. I am not a referee who will determine whose story is true. I'm more interested in why people believe in and want to tell their stories at all. I am a collector of memories.
Adichie says that "Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people, but stories can also repair that broken dignity."
My only hope is that people will keep talking, keep remembering, keep listening, and that they will keep moving the ball forward.
During the making of Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story, Raymond De Felitta and I interviewed a woman named Marie Tribitt, a childhood friend of Booker's. Marie told us the story of a man who was most likely mentally disabled. He had a job cleaning floors at this whites' only establishment in Greenwood decades ago. According to Marie, one day the man was mopping the floor and he accidentally touched a white woman's foot with his mop. The woman became very angry. Later that day, the man was shot dead.
Many of my white friends from Greenwood have been angered by this story and the fact that it was included in the film at all. They've never heard it and don't believe that something like that could ever have happened in their town. I was on the fence about it until Thursday night.
I just got back from Greenwood where I screened Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story, at MVSU, the local state university there. A black man stood up and recalled the challenges he'd faced while living in Greenwood when segregation was upheld by the police. He told a story of something that happened when he was nine years old. A black man was in this same restaurant and he was mopping the floor. He spilled a little water on the foot of a white woman, who then became irate. Someone tried to calm her down, tell her that it was an accident, that he meant no harm, and that it was just a little water. She could not be soothed. Later that night the man with the mop was murdered.
Sometimes I think there are two Mississippis. Otherwise, half the people talking to me must be liars. I'm not a god, I have no magic, I cannot discern a lie from the truth when the story is older than I am. Sometimes people argue that if there is no record, then there was no crime. However, the Greenwood library is filled with white history and almost completely void of black history. Finding public photos of Greenwood blacks from the 1950s and earlier doing anything other than hanging from a tree is almost impossible. If there is no record of them, then were there no blacks in Greenwood at all?
Sadly, the police rarely investigated the murders of poor black men in Greenwood unless pressured to do so by outside forces. The idea that this man lost his life in such a way, for such a simple mistake seems absurd to many whites in Greenwood and completely plausible to many blacks.
What does that tell us? Beyond this story, what does that say? Blacks remember, with a clarity that cannot be compromised, that there was a time when their lives were worthless to the white people in their community. Whites remember their parents feeling trapped and not knowing how to navigate in the segregated society that a strong few wanted to keep in place. Whose version of Mississippi shall prevail? Whose truth is the Truth?
I tend to think that both are true, depending on which side of the river you grew up on. If I say this murder didn't happen because I cannot prove it, then that means that countless black murders that were never investigated also didn't happen. If I say I believe it because two sources recall it, then I am following fanatics who want to exacerbate the problems of the past to justify the troubles of today.
I am not a judge. I am a woman in search of the stories that shaped the world my grandfather lived in. If blacks believed that stories like this were true, whether or not they were true, can we use that to help us understand how and why they lived in constant fear? Can we move the ball forward by admitting that even if it's hard to believe this one story, that surely, somewhere in Mississippi there are true stories like this that never made it out of the grave?
I am caught between whites and blacks in the town of my ancestors. Both hold me up as a spokesperson for their side. I am not a referee who will determine whose story is true. I'm more interested in why people believe in and want to tell their stories at all. I am a collector of memories.
Adichie says that "Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people, but stories can also repair that broken dignity."
My only hope is that people will keep talking, keep remembering, keep listening, and that they will keep moving the ball forward.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Untethered
During the past year I've spent a lot of time thinking about family. One of the early ideas that was floated around about the documentary, "Booker's Place: A Misssissippi Story", was focusing the doc on the reason I was searching for Booker Wright in the first place, the answers to which were buried deep in a host of family memories.
In an early draft of my book I wrote:
Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth. Its memories, habits and secrets are woven together to form a thick rope that both anchors us and makes us relevant. Everything we do eventually floats away on aimless currents, but maybe there is something in us, impossible to name or pinpoint that renders us inexplicably unforgettable to family.
"Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth." Looking back I realize that, growing up while feeling so disconnected from family left me with the belief that, if I could construct a sense of family or if I could I find a place to belong, "where everybody knows your name," that I would somehow be complete.
Many of my life choices were governed by a quest to find family. My choice of friends, where to worship, who to marry, what groups to join were all determined by the level of family I hoped to build with strangers. I didn't allow these relationships or choices to happen organically. I was always thinking of the long term, always looking down the line 10 or 20 years into the relationship. I was planning, calculating, even scheming to win hearts and find a place so that I wouldn't have to float, untethered.
At 37, I am finally realizing that this doesn't work. Yes, I need to make choices for myself, but not based on a fear that I will one day be alone. I have to spend a little time in my life, truly being untethered, to prove to myself that I can. It's like I'm running from loneliness, but I always end up lonely because I chose my crowd for the wrong reasons. I heard someone say once that, in life, it's just me, God, and the dirt. I'm trying on that life for awhile.
In an early draft of my book I wrote:
Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth. Its memories, habits and secrets are woven together to form a thick rope that both anchors us and makes us relevant. Everything we do eventually floats away on aimless currents, but maybe there is something in us, impossible to name or pinpoint that renders us inexplicably unforgettable to family.
"Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth." Looking back I realize that, growing up while feeling so disconnected from family left me with the belief that, if I could construct a sense of family or if I could I find a place to belong, "where everybody knows your name," that I would somehow be complete.
Many of my life choices were governed by a quest to find family. My choice of friends, where to worship, who to marry, what groups to join were all determined by the level of family I hoped to build with strangers. I didn't allow these relationships or choices to happen organically. I was always thinking of the long term, always looking down the line 10 or 20 years into the relationship. I was planning, calculating, even scheming to win hearts and find a place so that I wouldn't have to float, untethered.
At 37, I am finally realizing that this doesn't work. Yes, I need to make choices for myself, but not based on a fear that I will one day be alone. I have to spend a little time in my life, truly being untethered, to prove to myself that I can. It's like I'm running from loneliness, but I always end up lonely because I chose my crowd for the wrong reasons. I heard someone say once that, in life, it's just me, God, and the dirt. I'm trying on that life for awhile.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Masters and Man
Check out this video on Dateline. It's a clip that didn't appear in Dateline's Finding Booker's Place broadcast. In it, Raymond De Felitta talks about about the place where we stayed while making Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story and, what it was like to visit the South.
The Tallahatchie Flats, where we stayed during filming, is an interesting place. It's a collection of reclaimed sharecropper shacks that sits on the Tallahatchie River, the same river where Emmitt Till's body was discarded after he'd been beaten and tortured all night long for making a sound in the direction of a white woman.
The Flats have been restored enough to make them livable. They have working toilets, the spaces between the floorboards have been sealed, and each flat has at least one room with a window air conditioning unit. It's strange to me that people think its quaint to live in sharecropper shacks. It reminds me of people who tour Alcatraz and want to be temporarily locked up.
Raymond makes a point in this video that I really want the world to know: sharecropping continued well into the 1970s. Many blacks continued to live at or below the poverty level while they worked their fingers to the bone in hot fields only to be told at the end of the year that they hadn't earned enough money to get paid. Many young black boys, my father included, were expected to miss school when the harvest came in.
I have to say though, the Flats truly are in God's country. They overlook breathtakingly beautiful fields that stretch on and on. Nights at the Flats are blanketed by an eerie silence. I have to wonder how many slaves were whipped in those fields, and how many mothers had their young sons dragged from their arms because someone decided it was time for their sons to be sold.
Many times in the last five years I've thought about tracing my roots back as far as I can. I envision myself uncovering the stories of my ancestors who lived as slaves. I went back two generations and found Booker Wright. His presence in my family line has been an amazing gift, but it hasn't come without a cost. His story pains me, and I wonder how I will bear the weight of all the other stories which will most likely grow more and more painful as I look back deeper and deeper in time. Maybe I'll save this job for my sons. Maybe I'll be brave enough to do it tomorrow, or next year, or in the next decade.
The Tallahatchie Flats, where we stayed during filming, is an interesting place. It's a collection of reclaimed sharecropper shacks that sits on the Tallahatchie River, the same river where Emmitt Till's body was discarded after he'd been beaten and tortured all night long for making a sound in the direction of a white woman.
The Flats have been restored enough to make them livable. They have working toilets, the spaces between the floorboards have been sealed, and each flat has at least one room with a window air conditioning unit. It's strange to me that people think its quaint to live in sharecropper shacks. It reminds me of people who tour Alcatraz and want to be temporarily locked up.
Raymond makes a point in this video that I really want the world to know: sharecropping continued well into the 1970s. Many blacks continued to live at or below the poverty level while they worked their fingers to the bone in hot fields only to be told at the end of the year that they hadn't earned enough money to get paid. Many young black boys, my father included, were expected to miss school when the harvest came in.
I have to say though, the Flats truly are in God's country. They overlook breathtakingly beautiful fields that stretch on and on. Nights at the Flats are blanketed by an eerie silence. I have to wonder how many slaves were whipped in those fields, and how many mothers had their young sons dragged from their arms because someone decided it was time for their sons to be sold.
Many times in the last five years I've thought about tracing my roots back as far as I can. I envision myself uncovering the stories of my ancestors who lived as slaves. I went back two generations and found Booker Wright. His presence in my family line has been an amazing gift, but it hasn't come without a cost. His story pains me, and I wonder how I will bear the weight of all the other stories which will most likely grow more and more painful as I look back deeper and deeper in time. Maybe I'll save this job for my sons. Maybe I'll be brave enough to do it tomorrow, or next year, or in the next decade.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Lusco's Restaurant
Wow, the pot has been stirred. Apparently, since Dateline aired Finding Booker's Place this past Sunday, Lusco's Restaurant has received threats via phone and email. People have threatened to burn down their restaurant and the owners of Lusco's have been harassed at gas stations and at other public places. Lusco's is the restaurant where Booker was working when he experienced the racially charged treatment that hurt him so deeply. That was in 1965.
I am deeply saddened to hear the news that today, in 2012, the family that owns Lusco's is being harassed. The heart of Booker Wright's message was to let people know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of racism. His message was not meant to incite hate or violence. Anyone who responds to my grandfather's story with more hate has clearly missed the point. I have personally eaten at Lusco's Restaurant many, many times. They have the best steaks in the Delta and they have always welcomed me with open arms.
I want everyone to know that when we were looking into my grandfather's life, the filmmakers and I were eager to find photos and footage of him. The folks at Lusco's had a box full of old and precious 8 mm film that spanned decades. They suspected that some of that film might contain a few minutes of footage of Booker Wright. They trusted us enough to send several boxes of film to New York, where we processed it and found, out of hours and hours of footage, a few precious Booker Wright moments. Having that additional footage, seeing my grandfather as a young man, was a gift beyond words. That was a gift from Lusco's.
The family that owns Lusco's has supported my research with openness and kindness.
As a nation and as a people, we should revisit the hurts of the past to learn from them, not to imitate them. Anyone who has harassed the family that owns Lusco's Restaurant today, should be ashamed.
I am Booker Wright's granddaughter and I embrace Lusco's Restaurant and so should you.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Who Killed Booker Wright
There's been lots of talk about whether or not Booker was murdered because of his appearance in Frank's film, Mississippi: A Self-Portrait. This is one of the ideas that's explored in Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story. To be clear, seven years passed between Booker's 1966 news appearance and his murder in 1973. That's a long time for someone to wait for revenge.
Nevertheless, there are a whole host of strange details about the murder, and some Greenwood residents still believe today that Lloyd "Blackie" Cork was hired to kill my grandfather. Who hired him? I don't know. One lifelong Greenwood resident told me that a white cop hired Blackie to commit the murder. Interestingly, people who witnessed the murder are really uncomfortable talking about it. Even though Booker's Place had lots of customers that night and McLaurin Street was hopping with activity, only one person testified to actually seeing Blackie fire a gun. She's alive and she's avoiding me. The cop who pistol-whipped Booker Wright still lives just a short 45 minute drive from Greenwood.
If I could drop this, I would. I don't want to create a story where there isn't one, but I also don't want to be naive and believe a tale that's full of holes. I have an indescribable, difficult to explain passion for my grandfather. My love for him is fierce. I am tormented by his murder, by the loss of a man who surely would've embraced me had he been given the chance. I'm trying to think of the word to describe my feelings. It's more than duty, it's more than feeling tasked, it's more than being compelled. I know that I may never get to the bottom of his murder. Or maybe I already have. Maybe the odd, yet simple story is the truth. What I know for certain, is that I won't have peace until I've done all that I can get to the truth.
I'm hoping to sit down with Cork where he lives in a Mississippi State prison in late September to ask finally, face-to-face, exactly what happened that night. I hope to God that he tells me the truth.
Nevertheless, there are a whole host of strange details about the murder, and some Greenwood residents still believe today that Lloyd "Blackie" Cork was hired to kill my grandfather. Who hired him? I don't know. One lifelong Greenwood resident told me that a white cop hired Blackie to commit the murder. Interestingly, people who witnessed the murder are really uncomfortable talking about it. Even though Booker's Place had lots of customers that night and McLaurin Street was hopping with activity, only one person testified to actually seeing Blackie fire a gun. She's alive and she's avoiding me. The cop who pistol-whipped Booker Wright still lives just a short 45 minute drive from Greenwood.
If I could drop this, I would. I don't want to create a story where there isn't one, but I also don't want to be naive and believe a tale that's full of holes. I have an indescribable, difficult to explain passion for my grandfather. My love for him is fierce. I am tormented by his murder, by the loss of a man who surely would've embraced me had he been given the chance. I'm trying to think of the word to describe my feelings. It's more than duty, it's more than feeling tasked, it's more than being compelled. I know that I may never get to the bottom of his murder. Or maybe I already have. Maybe the odd, yet simple story is the truth. What I know for certain, is that I won't have peace until I've done all that I can get to the truth.
I'm hoping to sit down with Cork where he lives in a Mississippi State prison in late September to ask finally, face-to-face, exactly what happened that night. I hope to God that he tells me the truth.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Wanting the World to Know
Five years ago when I first learned about my grandfather's heroic statements to the national news crew I felt like something was happening that was bigger than me. I felt as though I was being handed a precious gift and also, that I was being tasked with the responsibility of sharing that gift with the world.
So much has transpired during those years. I type these words with tears of joy and a heart that is filled to the brim with excitement. People are hearing his story. Once again, Booker Wright's name and his words are making their way across the nation. His tender, yet triumphant story of humiliation mixed with hope is a beautiful song that, if we listen, can inform and influence the way in which we interact with one another and lead our daily lives.
With tears of joy and hands held high I proclaim "GO BOOKER WRIGHT!"
I've recorded lots of thoughts and memories throughout the course of the journey. I've put them together in a collection called Searching for Booker Wright, which can be picked up on Amazon for just $2.99. Like me on Facebook and get a free, 36 page preview of this book.
So much has transpired during those years. I type these words with tears of joy and a heart that is filled to the brim with excitement. People are hearing his story. Once again, Booker Wright's name and his words are making their way across the nation. His tender, yet triumphant story of humiliation mixed with hope is a beautiful song that, if we listen, can inform and influence the way in which we interact with one another and lead our daily lives.
With tears of joy and hands held high I proclaim "GO BOOKER WRIGHT!"
I've recorded lots of thoughts and memories throughout the course of the journey. I've put them together in a collection called Searching for Booker Wright, which can be picked up on Amazon for just $2.99. Like me on Facebook and get a free, 36 page preview of this book.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
You can now purchase Searching for Booker Wright: A Collection of Blog Posts and Journal Entries on Amazon for $2.99. It features selected posts from this blog along with numerous previously unpublished journal entries. Follow along with me as I face the challenges that go along with digging up the past. In addition, readers will also get a behind-the-scenes glimpse of how the documentary Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story came into being.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Dateline NBC: Finding Booker's Place
It's official. Dateline NBC will be a one hour special on Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story, Sunday July 15 called Finding Booker's Place.
I am beyond ecstatic that so many people are going to hear about his triumphant journey!
Go Booker Wright!!!
I am beyond ecstatic that so many people are going to hear about his triumphant journey!
Go Booker Wright!!!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
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.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Theatrical Release
It looks like Tribeca is bringing "Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story" to a few more cities. So far it's in New York, New Orleans, Detroit, and Philadelphia. YEAH! I'll try to keep you guys posted about the other cities where you might be able to see it in theaters.
Thank you to everyone for all of your support of this film!
Thank you to everyone for all of your support of this film!
Monday, July 11, 2011
"May 2011" or "A Blood Disorder, Breast Cancer, Deal Memo Revisions, and Hair Stylist Etiquette"
This is a post about things that were happening in my life and in this project several months ago. I wrote a draft of this awhile back, but it's taken me some time to revisit it. I want to apologize in advance because it breaks lots of "blog rules". It's way too long and it deals with too many different topics. Plus, I'm posting it out of chronological order. But, I write to rob my problems of their power. So, I'm writing about May 2011 because, even though I cried my way through it, I did eventually make it through.
May 2011 was a nightmare. In a nutshell, I had to deal with an annoying blood disorder, had a breast cancer scare, had deep concern for the development welfare of one of my children, and tried to negotiate contracts Hollywood style.
The blood disorder is not major or even remotely life threatening, but the treatments are a hassle
Until last spring, the one and only official treatment I'd had was about eight years ago. It took seven hours and I had to do it in the same room where people receive chemotherapy. Everything in that room was grey. From the carpet to the recliners that lined the walls to the side tables that were covered with magazines, everything was grey. Even the liquid they pumped into people seemed to be tinged with a grey gloominess.
I sat in that room for seven hours while people came and went for their chemo treatments. Some people looked hopeful and energetic, others really looked like they were at death's door. One guy sat down for his treatment and a nurse came over to tell him that his test results had come back and the doctor needed to speak with him privately. I will never ever forget the look on his face as he searched hers for a clue as to how bad it was. His hand searched for his keys, his book, and his drink while his eyes desperately scanned her face. All the while she avoided looking at him. I remember praying for him and for every one else that came there for the medicine they hoped would save their lives. I felt so guilty sitting there getting an infusion because I was feeling a little rundown.
About a week later I saw the doctor to go over my blood work. He said that my numbers were up but that I would need to come back once a month or maybe even every couple of weeks to repeat my treatments. I had a full time job and a full time ministry at my church, and I didn't know if my spirit could withstand the heartache of that place. I smiled, shook his hand and never went back - that was about eight years ago.
Earlier this year I noticed that my hair was falling out. I went to my new stylist and asked her for advice. She said, "Hmph, I don't know why it's falling out. Maybe you should try a different shampoo." I was a 36 year-old woman sporting a comb over, this wasn't about shampoo.
With my tail between my legs, I went back to my old stylist, Stephanie. Stephanie is awesome, but her shop is far from where I live and she really doesn't keep up with the latest styles. What she does do is take great care of her client's hair. Mine thrived under her artful touch for almost ten years. But I got restless and wanted someone closer and more adventurous so I'd moved on. Unfortunately, I don't know the proper etiquette for breaking up with a hair stylist. Was I supposed to have a conversation with her about it? Maybe I was supposed to give her flowers and say, 'It's not you, it's me." Well, I didn't, I just stopped making appointments and hoped that I'd never run into her at the mall.
When I went back to Stephanie, she did not ask where I'd been or why I started seeing someone else. Instead she ran her fingers through my hair, walked around the chair to face me, looked me in the eye and said that she only sees my level of breakage in women who have health problems. She urged me to get myself to the doctor. Then she gave me a super cute cut while we got caught up on one another's lives. I promised myself that I would never stray again.
I'd already scheduled an annual with my primary care physician so, while I was there I asked her to order the blood work I knew that I needed. I got the blood work done and then went to California on vacation because my husband was on spring break. Late one night after a long five hour drive across the desert, I walked into my house, leaned on my counter and listened to my voice mails. I had four messages, all from my primary care physician's office. I needed to go to a cancer research center post-haste. Deep down I knew that this was probably about my blood condition, but having the nurse leave me urgent messages about going to a cancer center definitely put me on edge.
I went to the cancer research center and the hematologist was both interested and surprised at how low my numbers were. He kept asking me questions about my lifestyle. Was I able to do this? Was I able to do that? Did I get winded easily? How often did I feel like I was going to pass out? As I answered his questions, I realized that I'd let my disorder go for way too long. I acknowledged feeling all of the symptoms he was describing, but I also told him about my relatively active lifestyle. He smiled and said, "I'll be amazed to see what you're able to do when we get you well."
He signed me up for five sessions of treatments, which he said should definitely get me back to normal. Thankfully, in the last eight years they'd developed some new drugs and the treatments only took a couple of hours each. Figuring out childcare in the middle of the day was nuts, but it was only for a handful of appointments, so I wasn't that concerned.
That same month, March of 2011, I had my first mammogram. Feel free to stop reading...is it just too much? About a week after the appointment, the office that conducted the mammogram called back to say that they needed to take a more in-depth look because they saw something in one of my breasts. They wanted me to come back as soon as possible - literally, she called on a Monday and wanted me to come in that Wednesday. I was in the middle of the blood treatments and I just couldn't make it in that soon.
Then in April David called to tell me about the film and then he and Raymond asked me to make a documentary with them. Come May, I'd finished my blood treatments and I was just waiting on the results that were certainly going to tell me that they'd been effective. I was still putting off the mammogram thing. My husband and I were starting to talk with a good friend (a special education teacher) about a concern we had for one of our sons.
In early May, David Zellerford and I were going back and forth and back again regarding a little document called a deal memo. Every one in my family and I mean EVERY ONE (except my husband who is really too smart so he doesn't count) has asked me if I have a contract with the filmmakers since I'm co-producing and this is our family's story. Each of them seems to have a cautionary tale. It happened to Ashford and Simpson, it happens all the time - big, bad Hollywood people take advantage of unsuspecting everyday individuals. They come like thieves in the night, steal your ideas, make millions and leave you trying to figure out how to pay for toothpaste and toilet paper.
There's just one problem. It's Booker Wright's story and, as much as my heart feels attached to it, the story doesn't belong to me at all. Raymond and David have the 1966 film and they can do whatever they want with or without me. They're including me because they're good guys and they want my family involved. Nevertheless, I knew that no one in my family would agree to be interviewed if I couldn't say that I had some sort of contract. So, I painfully asked David (more than once) for something in writing.
He sent me something. It seemed to entail everything we'd agreed upon verbally and I was pleased with it. I showed it to my attorney who was decidedly not pleased with it. He had several revisions he thought needed to be included. For several days I had what felt like a thousand awkward conversations about things that really went over my head. I'd talk to David and feel great, then I'd talk to the attorney and feel not so great, then back to David, then back to the attorney, and into infinity. David likes to scream and apparently, I like to cave.
One last thing. My husband and I were learning AT THIS SAME TIME that someone in our family may have a life-altering disorder. But hey, I get to make a movie, right?
The worst day was on a Thursday in mid-May. Since I home school, doing anything during business hours is simply a pain, so I usually try to stack several appointments on one day so that I only lose one day of school and only have to arrange for childcare once. On this particular day, I'd arranged to have my simple follow-up with the hematologist and I was finally going in for the follow-up breast exam.
All week I'd been on the phone trying to find a happy medium between what my attorney wanted for me and what David was willing to give up. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was sleep deprivation, but I basically had a meltdown. I went to see my blood doctor and he said that my body didn't respond to the treatments the way he'd expected. He thought that there must be a THIRD disorder that was keeping my body from efficiently making new blood. He wanted to test me for a whole host of disorders and diseases. I smiled and hopped in the car and went to the breast center. My mind was racing. What kind of underlying disorder? Cancer. That's why I'm not making new blood, I have breast cancer. I know this sounds ridiculous, but having never been to medical school it sounded completely plausible to me.
As I raced down the freeway I prayed and tried to calm my thoughts.
Thankfully, my friend Jill had offered to meet me at the breast center. I got there before her and promised myself I would at least ask her how her week was before launching into my battery of problems. She walked in wearing her trademark blue jeans with a white top. Her eyes sparkled with glittery eye shadow and her plump pink lips were turned up in a warm, calming smile. She asked me how I was doing and I immediately started crying and talking. I motioned for a box of Kleenex, which she dutifully put on her lap and then began dispensing tissues to me one at a time - all the while nodding and moaning at just the right moments.
In the end, I think cried for about three hours that afternoon. I'd convinced myself I was going to die. I was actually trying to figure out how to tell David and Raymond that I wasn't going to make it to Greenwood because I'd be spending my days in a chemo room, and not to get medicine for my simple little blood disorder. I was desperately worried about my son. Would I still be able to home school? Would all of his little dreams still be able to come true?
I went in for my first test. The technician rubbed my back while I cried. She told me that if all was fine I wouldn't even need to see the radiologist at all. I went back to the waiting room and poured out more emotion to Jill. Someone came out to tell me that I would need to see the radiologist after all. More tears. This was it. I went in to see the radiologist. I lay down on the table while she moved an ultrasound scanner over my breast, her eyes staring intensely at the screen.
Finally she looked down at me and said, "I have your results. I understand you have a friend outside waiting for you, would you like me to go get her?"
I lost it. I cried so hard I could barely breath. The radiologist's eyes got really big and she awkwardly waved her hands in front of my face, "It's good news, it's good news, I just thought you might want your friend with you."
I was fine. No cancer. The doctor left the room and as the door was slowly closing behind her I heard one of the nurses say, "Is she okay?"
The doctor said, "She has young kids, she's scared."
After another round of treatments for my blood disorder the numbers finally look decent. The deal memo is signed and filed away. We're working with my sweet son, finding creative solutions to make sure that he can be the boy he wants to be.
God is still God. In the end, it is always okay. Looking back, those days seem almost comical. At the time I felt desperate, clinging to scriptures with a death grip. Sometimes I wish He would send me a postcard with some clues on it as to how everything will work out. Alas, there are no postcards, just heavenly promises. But sometimes holding onto the promises feels like holding onto a slippery rope with sweaty hands, no easy feat.
As each day ticked by, I tucked myself deeper and deeper into my love for my grandfather. His mystery, his honor, his bravery all melded together to make a safe place for me. If I could smell him, I knew he would smell like home. The closer I got to my trip, to the culmination of the research and the angst, the more confident I was that I'd be able to really feel him. All the stories I would be told, all the testimonies I'd hear about him would pile on top of each other and make the figure of a man and I'd finally be able to see him, to feel his presence and to glimpse his spirit. Then this season of adding a part-time job to my already full life would finally seem worth it.
May 2011 was a nightmare. In a nutshell, I had to deal with an annoying blood disorder, had a breast cancer scare, had deep concern for the development welfare of one of my children, and tried to negotiate contracts Hollywood style.
The blood disorder is not major or even remotely life threatening, but the treatments are a hassle
Until last spring, the one and only official treatment I'd had was about eight years ago. It took seven hours and I had to do it in the same room where people receive chemotherapy. Everything in that room was grey. From the carpet to the recliners that lined the walls to the side tables that were covered with magazines, everything was grey. Even the liquid they pumped into people seemed to be tinged with a grey gloominess.
I sat in that room for seven hours while people came and went for their chemo treatments. Some people looked hopeful and energetic, others really looked like they were at death's door. One guy sat down for his treatment and a nurse came over to tell him that his test results had come back and the doctor needed to speak with him privately. I will never ever forget the look on his face as he searched hers for a clue as to how bad it was. His hand searched for his keys, his book, and his drink while his eyes desperately scanned her face. All the while she avoided looking at him. I remember praying for him and for every one else that came there for the medicine they hoped would save their lives. I felt so guilty sitting there getting an infusion because I was feeling a little rundown.
About a week later I saw the doctor to go over my blood work. He said that my numbers were up but that I would need to come back once a month or maybe even every couple of weeks to repeat my treatments. I had a full time job and a full time ministry at my church, and I didn't know if my spirit could withstand the heartache of that place. I smiled, shook his hand and never went back - that was about eight years ago.
Earlier this year I noticed that my hair was falling out. I went to my new stylist and asked her for advice. She said, "Hmph, I don't know why it's falling out. Maybe you should try a different shampoo." I was a 36 year-old woman sporting a comb over, this wasn't about shampoo.
With my tail between my legs, I went back to my old stylist, Stephanie. Stephanie is awesome, but her shop is far from where I live and she really doesn't keep up with the latest styles. What she does do is take great care of her client's hair. Mine thrived under her artful touch for almost ten years. But I got restless and wanted someone closer and more adventurous so I'd moved on. Unfortunately, I don't know the proper etiquette for breaking up with a hair stylist. Was I supposed to have a conversation with her about it? Maybe I was supposed to give her flowers and say, 'It's not you, it's me." Well, I didn't, I just stopped making appointments and hoped that I'd never run into her at the mall.
When I went back to Stephanie, she did not ask where I'd been or why I started seeing someone else. Instead she ran her fingers through my hair, walked around the chair to face me, looked me in the eye and said that she only sees my level of breakage in women who have health problems. She urged me to get myself to the doctor. Then she gave me a super cute cut while we got caught up on one another's lives. I promised myself that I would never stray again.
I'd already scheduled an annual with my primary care physician so, while I was there I asked her to order the blood work I knew that I needed. I got the blood work done and then went to California on vacation because my husband was on spring break. Late one night after a long five hour drive across the desert, I walked into my house, leaned on my counter and listened to my voice mails. I had four messages, all from my primary care physician's office. I needed to go to a cancer research center post-haste. Deep down I knew that this was probably about my blood condition, but having the nurse leave me urgent messages about going to a cancer center definitely put me on edge.
I went to the cancer research center and the hematologist was both interested and surprised at how low my numbers were. He kept asking me questions about my lifestyle. Was I able to do this? Was I able to do that? Did I get winded easily? How often did I feel like I was going to pass out? As I answered his questions, I realized that I'd let my disorder go for way too long. I acknowledged feeling all of the symptoms he was describing, but I also told him about my relatively active lifestyle. He smiled and said, "I'll be amazed to see what you're able to do when we get you well."
He signed me up for five sessions of treatments, which he said should definitely get me back to normal. Thankfully, in the last eight years they'd developed some new drugs and the treatments only took a couple of hours each. Figuring out childcare in the middle of the day was nuts, but it was only for a handful of appointments, so I wasn't that concerned.
That same month, March of 2011, I had my first mammogram. Feel free to stop reading...is it just too much? About a week after the appointment, the office that conducted the mammogram called back to say that they needed to take a more in-depth look because they saw something in one of my breasts. They wanted me to come back as soon as possible - literally, she called on a Monday and wanted me to come in that Wednesday. I was in the middle of the blood treatments and I just couldn't make it in that soon.
Then in April David called to tell me about the film and then he and Raymond asked me to make a documentary with them. Come May, I'd finished my blood treatments and I was just waiting on the results that were certainly going to tell me that they'd been effective. I was still putting off the mammogram thing. My husband and I were starting to talk with a good friend (a special education teacher) about a concern we had for one of our sons.
In early May, David Zellerford and I were going back and forth and back again regarding a little document called a deal memo. Every one in my family and I mean EVERY ONE (except my husband who is really too smart so he doesn't count) has asked me if I have a contract with the filmmakers since I'm co-producing and this is our family's story. Each of them seems to have a cautionary tale. It happened to Ashford and Simpson, it happens all the time - big, bad Hollywood people take advantage of unsuspecting everyday individuals. They come like thieves in the night, steal your ideas, make millions and leave you trying to figure out how to pay for toothpaste and toilet paper.
There's just one problem. It's Booker Wright's story and, as much as my heart feels attached to it, the story doesn't belong to me at all. Raymond and David have the 1966 film and they can do whatever they want with or without me. They're including me because they're good guys and they want my family involved. Nevertheless, I knew that no one in my family would agree to be interviewed if I couldn't say that I had some sort of contract. So, I painfully asked David (more than once) for something in writing.
He sent me something. It seemed to entail everything we'd agreed upon verbally and I was pleased with it. I showed it to my attorney who was decidedly not pleased with it. He had several revisions he thought needed to be included. For several days I had what felt like a thousand awkward conversations about things that really went over my head. I'd talk to David and feel great, then I'd talk to the attorney and feel not so great, then back to David, then back to the attorney, and into infinity. David likes to scream and apparently, I like to cave.
One last thing. My husband and I were learning AT THIS SAME TIME that someone in our family may have a life-altering disorder. But hey, I get to make a movie, right?
The worst day was on a Thursday in mid-May. Since I home school, doing anything during business hours is simply a pain, so I usually try to stack several appointments on one day so that I only lose one day of school and only have to arrange for childcare once. On this particular day, I'd arranged to have my simple follow-up with the hematologist and I was finally going in for the follow-up breast exam.
All week I'd been on the phone trying to find a happy medium between what my attorney wanted for me and what David was willing to give up. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was sleep deprivation, but I basically had a meltdown. I went to see my blood doctor and he said that my body didn't respond to the treatments the way he'd expected. He thought that there must be a THIRD disorder that was keeping my body from efficiently making new blood. He wanted to test me for a whole host of disorders and diseases. I smiled and hopped in the car and went to the breast center. My mind was racing. What kind of underlying disorder? Cancer. That's why I'm not making new blood, I have breast cancer. I know this sounds ridiculous, but having never been to medical school it sounded completely plausible to me.
As I raced down the freeway I prayed and tried to calm my thoughts.
Thankfully, my friend Jill had offered to meet me at the breast center. I got there before her and promised myself I would at least ask her how her week was before launching into my battery of problems. She walked in wearing her trademark blue jeans with a white top. Her eyes sparkled with glittery eye shadow and her plump pink lips were turned up in a warm, calming smile. She asked me how I was doing and I immediately started crying and talking. I motioned for a box of Kleenex, which she dutifully put on her lap and then began dispensing tissues to me one at a time - all the while nodding and moaning at just the right moments.
In the end, I think cried for about three hours that afternoon. I'd convinced myself I was going to die. I was actually trying to figure out how to tell David and Raymond that I wasn't going to make it to Greenwood because I'd be spending my days in a chemo room, and not to get medicine for my simple little blood disorder. I was desperately worried about my son. Would I still be able to home school? Would all of his little dreams still be able to come true?
I went in for my first test. The technician rubbed my back while I cried. She told me that if all was fine I wouldn't even need to see the radiologist at all. I went back to the waiting room and poured out more emotion to Jill. Someone came out to tell me that I would need to see the radiologist after all. More tears. This was it. I went in to see the radiologist. I lay down on the table while she moved an ultrasound scanner over my breast, her eyes staring intensely at the screen.
Finally she looked down at me and said, "I have your results. I understand you have a friend outside waiting for you, would you like me to go get her?"
I lost it. I cried so hard I could barely breath. The radiologist's eyes got really big and she awkwardly waved her hands in front of my face, "It's good news, it's good news, I just thought you might want your friend with you."
I was fine. No cancer. The doctor left the room and as the door was slowly closing behind her I heard one of the nurses say, "Is she okay?"
The doctor said, "She has young kids, she's scared."
After another round of treatments for my blood disorder the numbers finally look decent. The deal memo is signed and filed away. We're working with my sweet son, finding creative solutions to make sure that he can be the boy he wants to be.
God is still God. In the end, it is always okay. Looking back, those days seem almost comical. At the time I felt desperate, clinging to scriptures with a death grip. Sometimes I wish He would send me a postcard with some clues on it as to how everything will work out. Alas, there are no postcards, just heavenly promises. But sometimes holding onto the promises feels like holding onto a slippery rope with sweaty hands, no easy feat.
As each day ticked by, I tucked myself deeper and deeper into my love for my grandfather. His mystery, his honor, his bravery all melded together to make a safe place for me. If I could smell him, I knew he would smell like home. The closer I got to my trip, to the culmination of the research and the angst, the more confident I was that I'd be able to really feel him. All the stories I would be told, all the testimonies I'd hear about him would pile on top of each other and make the figure of a man and I'd finally be able to see him, to feel his presence and to glimpse his spirit. Then this season of adding a part-time job to my already full life would finally seem worth it.
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