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.

Branded

When I was a girl, I dreamed of being a writer.  In middle school, I started reading Sweet Valley High books and other teen romance novels.  In my early teens, I read E.L. Doctorow, Pat Conroy, John Irving, Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.  In my late teens, I painfully made my way through Shakespeare and Faulkner, all the while imagining that one day I'd be sitting at a desk writing deep, complicated tales that would both reveal and inform the American way of life.

I didn't write those tales.  Actually, I didn't finish those tales  Every laptop and every computer I've ever owned contains dusty hard drives imprinted with half-written stories that are trapped in an eternal, peaceful sleep.  When it comes to fiction, I'm just not a finisher.  During those blurry days when I started and restarted my computerized masterpieces, I was using napkins, scratch paper, and the backs of grocery lists to jot down my feelings. Unbeknownst to me, where I was failing at fiction, I was succeeding at non-fiction.  

Around this time I discovered the story of Booker Wright, and I made a choice that would change my life.  I decided to record, here on this blog, the steps I took to uncover his story and my efforts to grasp his soul.  Some of my earlier posts are lame.  I'll be the first to say that.  You can see me struggling to find my way.  At first, I thought that no one would ever read my blog, so I wrote hurtful things about my family, revealing with reckless detail, all of their earthly failures.  

In the summer of 2011, I made a documentary about my grandfather, called Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story.  After our first shoot, the filmmakers went back to their work spaces and started trying to pull together a movie.  I went into a corner and started blogging about everything.  Every feeling, every emotion, every moment of bliss and pain, I recorded here.   

My computers tend to die sudden deaths, and I can't keep up with printed copies. I've lost every story I wrote as a young girl.  That's why I posted here.  I was afraid that if I collected my random thoughts anyplace else that, one day, they'd be gone, accidentally thrown away or trapped in a computer that'd been murdered by the latest virus.  So, I blogged.  Blogging helped me to process, and it simply made me feel better. 

At the time, the only "visitors" to my blog were poor souls from the Ukraine who'd typed in the wrong URL. Then, one day the producer called and said, "Everybody in NY loves you."  He meant everyone at his agency who was working on the film.  I said, "Why?"  He said, "They've read your blog."

I felt like someone had just said, "Hey, yesterday, when you were showering, the window was open and everybody on 46th St. and 11th Avenue was watching."  It was weird.  I went back and read some of my earlier posts, the ones where I talked about which members of my family couldn't hold down jobs and which ones would go on shopping sprees and then not have enough money to pay their bills.  I did some quick deleting.  

Since then, I've tried really, really, really hard to keep writing with the same mission I had at first.  I write to escape, to work out my feelings, to make sense of what stalks my soul, and to record, so that in 30 years I can go back and accurately remember.  

But something has been lost.  Sometimes, I feel like I'm changing my clothes with eyes on me.  I wear my best undergarments, turn my body in a way to highlight my toned parts, but hide the flabby ones.  I have about 60 blog drafts here that I chose not to post because I didn't want to throw anyone under the bus or make anyone angry.  In some ways, I'm a brand now.  When I start to write I catch myself wondering if the writing will enhance or hurt my brand.  I wonder if it will make the people who've invested in me happy or angry.  Will it help the movie?  Will it hurt my book?

My soul lives here.  I stamp myself onto this blog space.  Just now, I started to type, "I stamp myself onto this blog space, because..."  but nothing came after "because."  I don't know why I leave myself here, I just do.  

There are things about this project that I need to work out.  I've seen my counselor about them, talked to girlfriends about them, and even started several pen to paper writings about them.  But for some reason, at least for now, I only seem to be able to get to "the end" of my conflicted emotional ropes when I am here, sitting in a coffee shop, shutting out the conversations around me, and staring at this empty white space, the one that invites me to pour it all out - the goopey, confusing stuff that sloshes around inside me.  

I've learned a lot about myself through this process, most of it hasn't been too beautiful.  I'm working on a book about this journey and I've had to dive deep into my past.  Some shameful truths have come to the surface and I want to run from them.  Lately, I've been spending a lot of time in my bed staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, and trying to shut out who I am.  It's not working, so I'm switching gears.

I'm really hopeful that if I can write through some of this, that I can get to the other side of the murkiness and once again feel the sun shining on my face.  Some people will think I'm using this platform to harm.  What I've learned about those people is that nothing I say makes any difference, they'll assume the worst about me, anyway.  Blogs are free, go get your own.  

I'm starting a "hard truths" series.  Hopefully, I can use this space to face myself.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

Questions and Answers

After each official Tribeca screening of the film, Raymond, David, and I do a Q&A. It has been truly amazing to hear the immediate reactions of audience members.  I was fearful that the Q&A's would feel flat and that we'd be standing up there waiting for people to ask questions.  The opposite has happened.  The Tribeca moderators usually have to cut the Q&A short because the discussion goes on and on. After each one Raymond, David and I move into the lobby where people surround us and ask questions and often debate different issues surrounding the complications of race.

Tonight at the Q&A someone asked us why the whites in Greenwood were so angry about what Booker said.  I responded by saying that many of them believed that they had true friendship with him.  It never occurred to them that he would've minded some of the sour treatment he had to endure.  Booker mocked them.  He changed his tone of voice and moved his body to actually mimic them.  I said, "Imagine if you thought you were friends with someone and then you saw them on television expressing that you really weren't friends at all and then seeing that person mimic the way you talk."  It would be upsetting.

But there's another side to this coin.  I explained to the audience that in the course of making this film I got to sit down with Karen Pinkston, the current owner of Lusco's.  When she explained how hurt the Lusco's customers were I was able to express to her that Booker probably thought that he couldn't tell his white "friends" how he really felt.  He probably thought that he couldn't say, "Please stop calling me n-----."

After the Q&A was over I was in the lobby surrounded by people who connected with the work and having interesting discussions with them when David tapped me on the shoulder.  He pointed to an elderly white couple and said, "These people used to live in Greenwood, used to eat at Lusco's, and knew your grandfather."

I was delighted and horrified at the same time.  Delighted because once again I was given the gift of meeting someone who'd actually known my grandfather. Horrified because I had just tried to express the collective thoughts of their community and their peers.  After exchanging pleasantries I said, "I do hope that as you watch the film and hear us talk about it that we're accurately and respectively representing what was true in Greenwood during that time in regards to the complicated relationships between whites and blacks."  Before I could even finish my statement they were nodding at me.  They didn't feel offended and they felt like we got it.

This was probably one of the highest compliments I've received so far.  I have talked so much about "our national dialogue on race" that I'm practically blue in the face (although as a black girl, I really might be more of a dark shade of purple).  I have felt concerned for years about how difficult it is for people to talk about race.  I don't want to be a polarizing person.  I try to have these painful and difficult conversations in a way that is underscored by kindness.

Today I was asked to explain the position of the people who my grandfather waited on for most of his life.  Many of these people embraced him without ever recognizing how humiliated he felt.  It would've been easy for me to vilify them, but then I'd be a hypocrite.  If I want people to listen to Booker's heartache, I have to be willing to respect that sometimes whites then and now simply don't know what's going on or what to do.  There's no evil in that.

Finding the balance when talking about race is hard.  At least this time, I think I got it right.

15 Minutes

When I was a kid my dad was a small town celebrity.  He played for the local football team and people seemed to think that was a big deal.  Even today if it comes out that my dad played “pro-ball” I am bombarded with all kinds of questions about where, for how long, or whether or not he was famous for any plays.  Then people either remember him or they go home and tell the story to their spouse, sibling, or friend - whoever the football fan is in their world. 

My dad wasn’t a national star.  He wasn’t a household name, except in our town. But he was famous for one special play.  I'll save that story for another time.  On second thought I don't see myself blogging about that so here you go.  

My dad didn’t seem any more special to me than other dads.  I remember feeling curiosity about the people who were curious about us.  If anything, it seemed to me that the thing that brought him celebrity was terrible.  My dad was a defensive end.  His job was to chase after people at top speeds, slam his body into theirs, wrap his limbs around them and then hurl himself as hard as he could - with his human package sealed tightly in his arms - straight into the ground.  

Think about that. 

Imagine a job where you’re expected to run as fast as you can, slam into something and then slam into the ground again and again and again.  Would you celebrate that job or get yourself a new one?  I remember watching my dad ice his knees and elbows.  I remember him having injuries that looked like softballs hanging from his body.  I remember him needing help to get out of bed.

Yes, he was in the newspapers.  Yes, he was on the morning shows.  Yes, he even made an album.  Really.  This song was the anthem of my elementary school years.  Thank God I didn't know what the lyrics meant.  Today my dad has a nice little spot on Wikipedia and he lives in chronic pain.

The years have flown by and I am no longer a kid.  I’ve watched as celebrity itself has become a commodity.  People use fame like it's compound interest – they might come from a famous family, they turn that into something more interesting than just a name, they turn that into a small level of celebrity that gets them into parties, that gets them famous friends, that turns into a reality show, and on and on. 

Modern day media has allowed us all access into these people’s lives.  Where did they sleep last night and with whom?  What kind of fast food wrappers did they leave behind?  

This movie thing has exposed my feelings towards media - or my lack of trust towards it.  Maybe it's because people thought that we were always perfect simply because we were known.  Even as a kid I knew that equation was dangerous and fallible. 

When I was young my parents threw party after party only to have the crowds disappear when my father's body was too battered to play ball anymore.  I saw a movie once where someone was talking about fame and he said, "They never leave you alone until they're leaving you alone."  That was us.  Constant noise when he played and then unbearable silence when he couldn't.  

Sometimes I get into these huge arguments with one of the filmmakers about sources.  He doesn’t want me to ask any hard questions until we can ask them on camera.  It’s so simple to him.  The movie takes precedence over everything.  It’s the media.  It’s the vehicle for all of our potential celebrity.  It’s the door to awards, deals, talk shows, more media, more money, and eventually, fame. 

We rail against each other because he thinks I want first dibs on information so that I can put it in my book.  Something interesting is happening in my life, something that others may find compelling.  But if I was doing it for the drama then I would’ve gone to see Cork.  Even though this thing in my life happens to be interesting, it is still my real life, this is my real family, these are my real feelings and this is a real journey for me.  It is not a magically manipulated media maneuver.  It’s not for her book.

They say that I don't trust them.  They say that it's been nine months and I should trust them by now.    

When we were in Greenwood making the documentary we would often stop people on the street and ask them if they'd ever been to Booker's Place.  If they said "yes", then we'd ask them if we could talk to them on camera.  They always agreed.  I thought these people were crazy.

Don't get me wrong, I was grateful. The entire documentary is a compilation of testimonies given to us by people who agreed to share their stories with us for free. They didn't know us or what kind of movie we were making, yet they trusted us without a moment's hesitation.  When the interviews were done we gave them something to sign, a document that would allow us to use their interview however we saw fit.  They all signed.  Again, I thought they were crazy.  

Maybe I'm the one who's crazy.  Anything that involves cameras, fame, and exposure makes me cringe.  I sound so Un-American.  I sound like a baby.  I'm a handful for the filmmakers, I know.  I exhaust them because I question every detail, I am suspicious of everyone, and I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  But I know what it's like when the story ends and the party is over.  

I tell myself everyday that I need to remember to enjoy this process.  After all, it is my 15 minutes.  

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.

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.

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.  

"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.