Speechless

My oldest son said something to me tonight.  He said, “If I was regular, I would be white.”

I don’t know how I got here.  Actually, I do know I just don’t feel like admitting it to myself.  There are so few blacks in Arizona that people like me have to make a choice.  Either we live in predominantly black neighborhoods with terrible schools and random shootings or we live in predominantly white neighborhoods with great schools and little crime.  I obviously chose the latter.  Was it the best choice?  Tonight it feels like it was not the best choice.  I hate Arizona. 

I thought I could decide what I would pass on to my children.  I thought I was smart enough to know how to save them from this.  The minute those words left his sweet little mouth, all the running and all the effort of shoring up a different childhood from the one that I had suddenly caught up to me and I felt exhausted.  Is his life something I can construct out of thin air with prayer, advice from the best books, quality friends, and a literature-rich home? 

The horrific event that most civil rights experts credit with sparking the movement happened just a few doors down from my where my father lived when he was five years old.  My parents grew up at ground zero for the movement.  They took me out of Greenwood partly so that I could have a life that wasn’t defined by race.  In the end, pain over being a different color than my peers and neighbors was the anthem of my childhood. 

Now, here I am.  My beautiful, fresh faced, caramel colored son – the most beautiful boy I have ever seen – is coveting the one thing he can never have. 

Booker Wright said that he didn’t want his children to have to go through what he went through, and then immediately after that he took on the persona of a white person and said, “Hey, tell that n---- to hurry up with that coffee!”  Clearly, part of what motivated him was the idea that his children would find a world or make a place for themselves in the world where their race wouldn’t matter. 

For generations my family members have tried to throw this thing off and then run in the other direction, but it always seems to find us or at least it finds our children, stealthily and efficiently like a boomerang.

Headlights

There's a critical piece about this story that keeps getting told different ways. Actually, it gets told two different ways by the same person.  If one version is true, then all is good.  If the other version is true, then there are questions that need to be asked, the answers to which may alter the very foundation of my work.

I don't know if this person's memory is the problem or their conscience.

Sometimes I think this particular part of the story doesn't matter at all.  I watch the video of my grandfather and I see his courage.  I pause the video and I can see the passion in his eyes.  He put it all on the line.  That's what matters.

One of the hard truths I'm learning is that "truth", in and of itself, is elusive. Memory is even worse.  Trying to nail down a story that's 47 years old is like trying to grab the air.  If these events were outside of me this would be so much easier. But every theory and every twist matters to me.  I get elated.  I feel like the wind got knocked out of me.  I jump for joy and call all my friends.  I cry.

There's something in me, the writer in me, the researcher in me that wants to either get to the bottom of all the questions or at least present each of them so that the reader can decide for themselves what is most likely true.

Then there's the granddaughter in me.  The starry-eyed girl who thought she could commune with a ghost is still naively willing to believe in magic.  She wants to conveniently shut her eyes to anything that doesn't make her feel warm and gooey inside.

There is still so much work to be done.  Some of it excites me.  Some of it makes me feel like a deer staring at headlights.

Memory

Today I was listening to a podcast by Radiolab about memory.  The scientists on the show explained that every time we remember something we actually recreate the memory.  Each time we recreate memories there's the chance that we'll make slight additions and changes to the way the event actually occurred.

Therefore, the more times that we remember something the less honest the memory becomes.  If we experience something and only recall it once thirty years later that memory is probably more accurate than if we thought about it every day of those thirty years.

One of the questions that sort of hangs in the ether surrounding this work is, "Why was Yvette so desperate to connect with her grandfather in the first place?"  I've always known the answer.  I finally shared some of it with Raymond last summer.  In August my father and I discussed the past for the first time in almost 15 years. My Razor-wielding Tornado and I talked about it as well.  Actually, she talked, then screamed, then hung up on me.

The answer to the question is in the nooks and crevices of a mountain of childhood memories.

There were things that happened that I've talked about a handful of times in counseling.  There were other things that happened that I've talked about so often they feel like lore.

Every now and then my son will say something to me that is an exact replica of something I said or wanted to say to my Razor-wielding Tornado.  When this happens I am usually forced to stop myself in my tracks and take a cold, hard look in the mirror.  Some days I try to reconcile the mother that I am with the mother I thought I would be.  Other days I throw off every distraction and every worry and I push myself to be the mother I dreamed I would be when that sweet boy was growing in my womb.

How much is my mothering like that of the Razor-wielding Tornado?  Part of me screams, "NONE!"

But the memories that have created the rift, the ocean of hurt between us, are ones that have been played over and over again.  Can I trust them?

I have never felt more pressure to hold tightly to integrity and truth as I do now.  I am writing about my family.  I have a stage, a megaphone of sorts with which to tell the world my story.  I do think it's an important one.  I know that I wasn't the only black girl who was struggling to find her way in a post-civil rights era, predominantly white world.

But I cannot tell the whole truth without talking about why I was so alone.  It almost seems unfair.  I get to tell my version of the facts.  I get to recreate my tainted memories because I have a voice.  My dad, my sister, my  brother, and my Tornado do not.  In the last few months my dad and I have talked a lot about the past.  He gets that writing this story is a healing process for me and there is not a hint of self-preservation about him.  He's fine with me sharing everything.

My Tornado on the other hand is not.  If she even gets an inkling of an idea that I may say anything other than, "It was all grand," she gets really upset.

The writer in me is itching to get it down.  The daughter in me is cringing.  It's hard to write with a cloud of guilt lingering in the air.

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.