Category: Writing

One of the first things I researched when I relocated to Fayetteville from Austin was finding a local film school, filmmaking group or something, anything to continue my path as an emerging filmmaker. Apparently, a similar motivation inspired the founders of this fabulous film festival eight years ago.

They had plotted all the film festivals around NC on a map and saw a ring around the city with the nearest events still about an hour away. Unlike me, they did something about it besides reading filmmaking books and writing scripts.

I’d left my filmmaking network in Austin. Even the nearest Women in Film chapter in NC seemed to no longer meet. So, I focused my creative energy on digital illustrating and podcasting, interviewing my extended family for episodes of “Strange Family Folklore” (SFF).

Then, I received a miraculous email update about the movie I’d interned on the year before, “Shame Full.” Our short film had been selected for this local film festival. I’d received other updates about the movie, but this one hit very close to home. I felt energized at the prospect of seeing the film on the big screen and talking with the co-directors/co-producers IRL.

Imagine my disappointment, followed by my sheer surprise that the co-directors/co-producers couldn’t make it themselves, but offered me the honor of representing the film instead. As I checked out the festival schedule, I discovered that on Saturday night, when our film would show, I had a previous, equally exciting event. Unbelievable. Nothing interesting hardly ever happens in Fayetteville. Thanks to the flexibility of the organizers, they accommodated my schedule and included our film in the noon block.

I took Friday off, so I could still swim a mile like I normally do on Fridays after work and run my Saturday morning errands. For me, that was clearing my schedule. Instead of swimming laps, I was on time for a water aerobics class that was about as strenuous as a mile-long swim, especially since the instructor noticed that I’d grabbed a small pool noodle instead of a large one. She upgraded my noodle. Granted, I was at least ten years younger than the rest of the other women and she knew I needed more of a challenge.

Toward the end of the class, a woman shared that a film festival was beginning later that night. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “My film is in that festival!” Everyone’s electrified smile encouraged me to explain that “Shame Full” was about how a mother had internalized body shaming all her life, but realized she needed to make a change when she discovered her daughter internalizing the same trauma.

The Friday night opening film, “Black Barbie,” premiered at The Cameo theatre. Initially, I thought that extraordinary documentary had capitalized on the success of the “Barbie” movie; however, toward the end of the film, the audience learned that the filmmaker took 12 years to capture the story of Mattel’s first Black Barbie. Part of that fascinating journey was told by the filmmaker’s aunt, who’d worked for Mattel for decades. Even though the filmmaker was not available for Q & A, I was excited to hear that the film had been picked up by Netflix.

Saturday morning, I watched a feature film, “Witnessed,” in The Cameo theatre. One humorous detail that I detected throughout this otherwise male-driven thriller was that two out of three women who had a speaking part had put money in their bra as part of their hustle. Again, the filmmaker wasn’t available for Q & A, but I would have definitely asked them about that detail.

Afterwards, I trekked up two very long, steep flights of stairs to The Loge theatre, where our film was shown. Had I originally thought that I’d miss exercising on Saturday due to attending a daylong festival, I would have been mistaken! The comfortableness of the plush seats in that small theatre was a godsend. The best reward was seeing “Shame Full” on a big screen for the first time, especially immersed with other moving shorts in that block.

Prior to my viewing block, I reminded myself to be gracious to the other filmmakers during the 15-minute Q & A since I tend to get “diarrhea of the mouth.” Turns out, I was the only filmmaker present for that block. No one even had to ask me a question to get the session going. I was so excited to be there. I explained that my Marvel hero sounding film credit, “Sound Shadow,” meant that I had been an intern with the sound department. I then explained my interest with that department was due to being a podcaster, but honestly, I was happy to get in where I fit in.

I shared with the audience that the one of the filmmakers and I were on the inaugural board for the Austin Chapter of Women in Film and TV. Through that connection, I’d first read and provided feedback for the script and liked the story because it dealt with generational trauma. I was also impressed with how quickly the funding, cast and crew came together rather than the idea languishing for months. I told everyone that we filmed with COVID precautions in place. Besides that level of comfort, I felt that the set had been a safe place since 60% of the crew were women and a higher percentage were people of color.

The interviewer managed to get in a few questions of her own. When asked what had been my favorite scene, I said that every time I see the bathroom scene, I fondly recall how the cinematographer had stuffed himself under the bathroom sink to get the shot. When asked about something strange happening on set, I shared how I’d walked up and found a lost earring in the grass by using logic since everyone else had been looking in the wrong spot. I also shared how I’d brought my music stand for the tablet, so the directors could conveniently see what the cinematographer was seeing. The interviewer also surprised me with her comment that the pattern of my dress reminded her of film. Now, I will always associate that dress with film.

I watched as many other short films as I could before jetting home to eat, then making a dramatic dress change. Fortunately, my sister is an art teacher, which was the only way I transformed into Ahsoka within 30 minutes. My dance studio had its Halloween-themed teacher-student presentation. That spectacular event, however, will be next week’s blog post.

On Sunday midmorning, I attended the awards BBQ lunch. Many of the award winners had already left town, which meant that there was plenty of leftover wine. With the help of one of the festival board members, we gathered an unopened bottle of Merlot with a twist-off cap and some plastic cups.

I had no trouble finding other festival goers to share wine with. We spent a lovely afternoon sipping wine in The Loge theatre, watching the festival award-winning films.

I left the theatre inspired. Two cousins, both of whom I’d interviewed for SFF, had each given me a DVD with interviews about our extended family. Up until now, I had not viewed them because I had no way to view them, much less edit them. I ordered a piece of equipment to rip those DVDs. My goal is to enter the finished documentary into this film festival.

On sunny Sunday mornings, I trek to my former junior high school from home. As much as I hated that walk when I was younger, I now love it since I’m not obligated to do it.

For this outing, a flock of ducks distracted me more than the schoolyard litter. They stopped me in my tracks. Not that they were the least bit aggressive. Quite the opposite.

I sensed that they saw me since their pattern changed. Stopping at a respectable distance, I allowed the ducks to cross with minimum perturbation by my presence.

Usually, I consider my Sunday strolls to be faster than leisurely, but definitely not a power walk. I’m not so much trying to elevate my heart rate as to keep it beating healthily. For once, I wasn’t rushing to be somewhere else. After all, the only real scheduled thing I had to do was make breakfast for Dad and me.

For Dad, every day is essentially the same. He doesn’t experience the weekend joy of sleeping in. When he awakes, he wants his breakfast. Not that I mind. I’m a breakfast eater, myself.

The challenge is, balancing my weekend schedule while not disrupting his schedule too much. If anything goes astray, Mom has to pick up the slack. That’s something I definitely don’t want to do, especially since she’s already the primary caregiver. She doesn’t often have reliable attendants and no help on Sundays, which she’s trying to change.

When I was younger, I wanted to buy my parents a house. That’s not happened, yet I’d love to buy my own house, all on one level for them to move in with me. Ever the optimist, thinking that my art will cash out. Lord knows it won’t be the 9 to 5.

My sister and I made a day trip out of town to rendezvous with one of our first cousins. Actually, Mom had sent us on a mission to get discounted toiletries although the former math teacher in me questioned whether the savings held up, considering we traveled nearly four hours roundtrip. The gas expenditure alone (because Mom DEFINITELY wouldn’t have paid us for our time!) may have possibly eaten into that savings.

Originally, Mom suggested that we meet at a gas station, followed by her second suggestion: in the parking lot of a popular dinner theater. After hearing all this, I thought, “What’s with all this ‘parking lot’ shit?”

It’s not as if we were making a drug deal or selling otherwise things acquired by ill-gotten means. My cousin had bought things on sale to resale to Mom at cost.

We hadn’t seen our cousin since the family reunion at the end of June. As enjoyable as that event was, we wanted a mini reunion while enjoying an early seafood dinner.

I was starving by the time we arrived since I’d skipped lunch just to ensure I’d have an appetite. I love supporting local mom and pop restaurants. Usually the local flavor and charming staff make such places. As soon as we walked in, we were hit with both. From the prominent sign displaying the mixed seafood and Greek specials to our server whose tip-enhancing generosity and sassy sense of humor entertained us throughout our visit.

When we told her that we wanted a piece of key lime pie to share, she asked, “How’s that going to be shared four ways?” Took my cousin, sister and me a few moments to realize that she was including herself in that count.

When my cousin said she didn’t like her side of lima beans and wanted to replace them with hushpuppies, the server not only brought my cousin a generous helping, but at the end of our meal, the server provided a to-go box full of them to gift my cousin.

At one point, I asked the server what her name was. Her response: “What, you lost yours?”

Nearly everything about the food was delicious with the notable exceptions of stuff crabs with too much bread and flounder that lacked seasoning. The hushpuppies alone could have been a meal, if you’re inclined to eat just one thing.

When checking out, we queued up at the register to pay for our dinner individually. The owner himself rang us up. With me, he gave me a miniature Hershey’s milk chocolate bar, saying that he was giving it to me because I was 19. He attempted to gift my cousin a Mr. Goodbar, but she protested, handing it to my sister, saying that she wanted a milk chocolate as well. Of course, my sister didn’t care what she got because chocolate is its own reward.

We hugged in the parking lot and headed back. That was the perfect way to spend a beautiful Saturday, running an errand for Mom.

All I wanted to do was take a picture of my sister’s car, which had been taking up prime real estate in the driveway. She’d had the For Sale sign on it for months, taken it down for a potential buyer, but then replaced it when that buyer fell through.

Now that she had a new job, I wanted her to advertise to her colleagues that a reliable, inexpensive preowned car was for sale. After all, most preowned cars have dramatically risen in price, not necessarily in value, since the pandemic. Supply chain issues not only halted the production of new cars, but delayed the production of car parts for repairs.

As I reached the front door to enter the house after taking a picture of the car, I heard the unmistakable mewling of kittens, coming from the direction of the patio. No feral kittens in sight. Following the sound to the hibachi grill, I carefully lifted the heavy black tarp. An adult cat bolted, leaving five kittens.

After taking their picture, I gently replaced the tarp, made eye contact with the mother cat and entered the house. Looking out from the glass patio door, I watched the cat carry her kittens one by one to secret them somewhere in the neighbor’s yard.

The next day, I thought about those kitties when the bottom fell out, flooding in some places. They would have been sopping wet had they stayed under the hibachi grill tarp. I could only hope that they were in a warm, dry place during the storm.

Whoever survives will be the next generation of hardy feral cats. Even though we don’t feed them, those cats are probably the reason I’ve hardly seen a squirrel or other critters around here. In other words, those kittens will have plenty to eat if they make it out of infancy.

A bout of being overly cerebral caused me to experience three strange dreams within a five-day period.

During my waking hours, I pack as much productivity into my day as possible. If I focus on one thing to completion, I’d complete that one thing faster, but rarely does my schedule afford me the luxury of doing that unless I’m bumping up against a deadline. Without a firm deadline, I juggle various projects throughout the day.

One new project is finding a supported group home for my nephew. Although he’s a high-functioning person with autism, he’s not maturing as he should because he’s only ever lived with his grandparents or his mother. If things continue like this, his grandparents, parent, aunts, uncles will be deceased and he’d be as lost as a child despite the fact that he’s currently in his 30s.

I’ve clocked several hours, taking detailed notes while watching webinars and summarizing PDFs for the past couple of weeks. So much so, that the accumulated research seeped into my dreams.

I frantically ran around in my dream, searching for a periodical table to prepare for an exam. It’s been years since I’ve had to prepare for an exam, much less teach a science class.

Dream Interpretation: organizing information to prepare for a transformation or to clean up a messy situation.

That’s precisely what I’m attempting to do. Make sense of which services my nephew qualifies for while simultaneously helping him organize his life.

The next night, in a continuation of an educational theme, I dreamed that I was attending a graduation. Several wooden folding chairs had one of my friend’s names written on it. Someone informed me that my friend had donated money for those chairs.

Dream Interpretation: dreaming about several chairs means that someone is about to be rewarded for doing good work.

That tracked since my friend is a dedicated mother, teacher and yoga instructor who also conducts antiracism workshops for other white women. That last part may sound counterintuitive, but in order to have real conversations about race, white women need to first say the quiet part out loud, which may be traumatizing to hear for people of color. The goal is to help other white women first work on themselves before they reach across the racial aisle to continue antiracism work.

In perhaps the sweetest dream, I was socializing with a group of people who were calm, gentle and all around lovely. Even as I interacted with them, I felt that their mannerisms reminded me of sheep. Never thought that “sheeple” could have a positive connotation. I’m sure these were shapeshifters because I’m currently binge-watching “True Blood.” Among other series.

Dream Interpretation: dreaming of sheep indicates comfort, dreaming and heightened expectations.

I can only credit that feel-good dream to my dance classes, of which I take at least two a week. Don’t know how much longer I have it in me for such a strenuous workout, but I’m going to attend until my body tells me “no.” Just like I did with capoeira.

I’m sure my dreams will take a sharp, anxiety-filled turn in the next week: Dad’s long-awaited return. That one change will trigger a cornucopia of changes.

My parents’ 62nd anniversary fell on a Saturday, which meant we could have a celebration dinner during the day on the actual day. Like every other celebration since mid-April, we reserved the setting room down the hall from Dad’s rehab room, pushed the tables together and laid out the spread: fried chicken, pulled pork, hush puppies, cole slaw, baked beans, fried fish and a gallon of Arnold Palmer. My pescatarian sister and her husband had a mushroom and cheese pizza and my vegan niece had a tempeh sub.

With all that food, we STILL forgot to bring a dessert. Actually, I knew I’d eat dessert at the second event for the day at a barbecue. Besides, none of us needed to tempt diabetes.

Although Dad appreciated the effort to be together with family, especially his out-of-town daughter and her family, he was ready to return to his room soon after. More concerning, Dad either had no energy or no motivation to maneuver his wheelchair. Whether physiological or psychological, Dad regressed to being pushed in his wheelchair rather than ambulating without assistance.

At the end of the month, the plan is to bring Dad home, which is what he’s wanted for months. The biggest concern for the rest of us is that he’s still not walking nor appearing to be stronger. Some of us optimistically think that once home, Dad will be so happy that he’ll regain motivation to walk again.

I hope so. As much as we’re preparing for his return, the accommodations won’t be anything like rehab. I cringe to think where his spirits will be if he has to return to rehab after a brief stint at home.

As much as I love to relax on the weekends and fully enjoy my unstructured time, I volunteered nearly three hours to help someone I care about with the manifestation of a crisis that she’s been surviving for over 32 years. It all began when she birthed a special needs child.

Not that her son’s autism was visible at birth. Even when it became apparent that he was “sensitive,” there still wasn’t a specific diagnosis, which would have been coupled with age-appropriate treatment and interventions at school. As a matter of fact, she herself could have had a support group outside of her own family with other parents of children with autism.

Presently, after more than three decades of being a single mom of a child with autism, the challenge shows in a car and home that are filled to the brim with things. At first blush, I’d call all of it “junk,” but nearly everything has a story, a purpose, a reason for its contribution to the heap of things that I’d love to bag up indiscriminately and haul off either to Goodwill or the landfill. The real mantra in this case is: Donate, Organize, Recycle, or Trash.

Yet, I asked as neutrally as possible if she still wanted certain things, small bags of which were the remains of art projects. For all of those, we concluded that the best course of action would be to set them all aside for her to consolidate the contents.

Another solid decision was to bag up the piles of clothing that she and her son could no longer wear. That cleared a remarkably amount of precious floor space.

In the end, we took three carloads to Goodwill and filled her home recycling and trash bins. At the same time, we’d only removed just one layer of stuff, still not accomplishing the goal of clearing her living room by shifting all that stuff that would be retained and organized to the spare bedroom, which also had been filled to the brim.

I offered to return the following Saturday with the goal of pulling all the books that I’d discovered during this first pass through. She expressed a strong desire to keep certain books, but admitted that many could be donated. She also stated that throughout the week, she’d go through all the “mail” that was kept in bags, a crude filing system.

Other bags of paper merely looked like junk mail, but since she’s an art teacher, everything could have eventually find a home in a future art project. Fortunately, most of it found its way into the recycling bin.

After the last load of things were donated to Goodwill, we treated ourselves to a deluxe milkshake, followed by takeout from a Thai restaurant. Having dessert first is a good way to celebrate.

The next day, I treated myself to a mani pedi, which felt more luxurious than previous trips to the nail salon.

For the 82nd continuous Strange family reunion, we celebrated our second freeborn generation. Our theme was “Back Down Memory Lane.” With help from extended family, I created a presentation with pictures, facts, and anecdotes about each honoree.

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For the 82nd continuous Strange Family Reunion, I joined the planning committee and was voluntold that I would make a presentation about the twelve second generation freeborn Strange legacies of which my mother is one. Sounds easy enough…until I started working on it.

To get the ball rolling, I designed an easy-to-use form, inviting extended family to provide at least three facts about any and all of the twelve. Two different family members mass emailed the form to extended family who had signed up to receive such missives, which I’m sure was a small fraction of the nearly one thousand Jesse Strange descendants. One person responded.

I resorted to texting. I got a few more bites, but still not as many as I originally wanted. I pivoted.

The only other sources of information about those legacies were the two other Strange Family created products: our history book and our calendar. Both were chocked full of facts, saving me from drilling my extended family even harder for facts.

Fortunately, one of my sisters had worked on the calendar and forwarded me digital copies of the pictures that I needed for the presentation. Thanks to the calendar committee, they had interviewed the twelve, providing me at least something to add to the presentation for each honoree.

At that point, I spent Memorial Day morning, interviewing two cousins about the twelve. They provided some interesting facts, which helped to spruce up the presentation. Another relative who I hadn’t called, texted several pictures of her mother along with three very interesting facts.

I thought my lack of familiarity with my extended family was due to having never lived in Cascade. Regardless, even people who grew up around the area only really knew the ones who they played with as children.

Perhaps I was too ambitious with my original plan. I’d wanted to further expand what we had already documented. Upon reflection, those other two sources were created through a committee effort and over many months.

In addition to those two factors, I wasn’t sure how much apathy played a part. When I called my two cousins on Memorial Day, they were very accommodating and gushed with stories about honorees who they knew well. The stopper wasn’t apathy, but rather technology.

In the future, I may have to front-load my initiatives at upcoming reunions for subsequent reunions. Whatever projects we have going on as a family, we have to survey people who attend the reunions to document things when we are face-to-face since we all have the everyday drama of our own lives. Add to that, being creatures of habit. Not all of us are tech-savvy and even if we are, may not take the time to respond to digital asks.

On two different levels, I knew better. I did it anyway. Someone else stepped up onto the higher moral ground and corrected me, sharing a few of the economic reasons feminism started in the US, along with the fact that not all those women were married. To be fair, that discussion group acknowledged, yes, racism was very problematic early in the beginning. At least now there’s more of an awareness of racism. Even so, I’d dismissively pronounced that feminism started in the US by bored White housewives.

Who the fuck cares about some shiny new future if you cannot envision yourself thriving in it?

Generational trauma and anger, coupled with an abundance of historical precedent informs me that women who looked like me, weren’t included in the fight for equality any more than the slaves who were counted in the census prior to 1865. Merely there to swell the numbers, so White people could use the total as leverage.

Where’s the fight now? Does the 45th president not inform us? Part of his legacy, the overturn of Roe v Wade, which he now distances himself from, was brought to us due to a significant number of White women voting for him in 2016.

Although many who voted for him in 2016 didn’t in 2020, 45’s Supreme Court looms in the fabric of our current times, ready to fetch us back to a time where women and other marginalized groups had fewer rights.

Like the perfect salve, Audre Lorde’s Sister Outsider popped up next in my ever-growing booklist. Listening to her classic collection of essays and speeches soothed that raw part of my soul, reassuring me that I can still have a rich, wonderful life despite all the challenges.

I used to be disheartened when reading such classics and acknowledging that not too much has changed in the struggle: strong, independent, straight women still being accused of being lesbians; White feminists still claiming they cannot “find” more than a vast underrepresentation of women of color to consult/participate; pricey feminist conferences that all but guarantee that only women of a certain economic class and by default race can attend; the persistent belief that in order to be happy, one must have another group of people to look down upon.

Just like that, my anger subsided. More due to not having the luxury of time to fume about it. Both creative and paid work beckoned. Life goes on.