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.  

The Lawn

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

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

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

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

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


The Lawn

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

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

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

Again, I believe it can be done.

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

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

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

I am heartbroken.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this lawn my prison or my purpose? 

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

The Handsome Twosome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll Shut-Up Now

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

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

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

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

If you're reading, I'm sorry.