While interviewing one of my cousins for the latest episode of “Strange Family Folklore: Where the Paper Trail Meets the Genetic Trail,” she kept referring to “Anne Swanson.” Nearly a week prior to our interview, I’d discovered a report that detailed Anne Swanson’s extended family, who were my maternal grandfather’s mother’s side of the family.
We came across the report when my sister and I organized the pantry part of our parents’ front closet. As I looked at the family trees contained in the report, I found several different Annes. Not only that, but Anne Swanson had a daughter whose middle name was also “Anne,” which she chose to go by rather than her first name.
Throughout the report, last names were dropped from family trees and people were referred to by their nicknames in some places and their Christian names in others. That alone motivated me to update the report.
As I studied the family trees, I came across a branch I knew the most about: my maternal grandfather and his children, including Mom. To my horror, my aunt who’d died in childhood, was not listed as one of the children. I knew that once I finished the post production of the latest SFF episode, I’d start updating the report.
My usual approach to any project, is to work a little at a time. Before diving into the update, I researched how to create a family tree with the Word doc tools. Next, I researched how to select some pages to appear landscape style while others are portrait.
I read how to do those things for two reasons. First, to know that the program had the capability, and secondly, I wanted to jump into recreating those family trees.
Apparently the Anne who’d put the report together also placed a high priority on the family trees. She’d used graphing paper to neatly organize each family tree and had oriented the paper landscape style to provide more room.
There have been many innovations since 1978 when the report was completed. Once I have retyped and updated what already exists in the report, then I will begin filling out who people were beyond the one-sentence descriptions as found in several places.
This isn’t a criticism of Anne’s work. I appreciate her laying the foundation. According to her own description, she was a very accomplished person who may not have had the time or help to flesh out every family member’s entry.
I’m going to do my best to advance what she put in motion.
I researched dance classes after relocating to a new state. I’d been rehearsing with an African dance troupe for several months. I wanted to continue dancing even if I had to pay for classes rather than be a part of a performance group.
Just as I’d feared, not only were there no African dance classes, the vast majority of the offered dance classes were geared toward children and young adults. The first and perhaps only adult dance classes I found were pole fitness classes. I didn’t bother researching ballroom classes since COVID’s made a comeback. Now Monkeypox is making a run.
I’d always heard that pole dancing was good for both strength and flexibility. I started out with a style of dance class that could be best described as “backup dancer moves,” followed by level one pole dancing lessons. Next week, I’ll check out both “chair dancing” and “beginning aerial hammock.” The class names alone make me happy that I’ve found this studio.
I’m just fortunate I have something to get me out of the house that’s a form of exercise because my parents’ house is full of good, healthy food along with damn-near addicting unhealthy snacks. I’m eating too much of both for my full-time desk job. Even though I have a standing desk, it’s not a treadmill desk. That’ll be next.
Four months ago, most of us dancers auditioned for a nonprofit West African dance troupe. This rendition of the group’s debut occurred during Creative Action’s first Creative Sunday since the pandemic.
We’d rehearsed for several months.
This was our first dress rehearsal. The choreographer fussed over our costumes like a mom getting her daughters ready for prom. We wore several layers over our sports bras and dance pants/shorts: a gele (head wrap), shirt, lapa (wraparound skirt), belted “grass” skirt, cowrie shell belt and arm bands, cloth anklets, necklace and earrings.
So of course we had to test everything.
One unwritten rule: never dance in a performance wearing something you haven’t practiced in. I made a point of sharing that little pearl of wisdom with everyone. Then on the day of the performance, I did the very thing I’d warned everyone about. Instead of using one of the masks that I’d practiced with many times before,
I switched out the white mask for a black one.
That bad boy flew off dramatically into the wind the moment I started my interpretative dance for “Why Anansi Has Eight Skinny Legs.”
As soon as I wished out loud to be part of a real film set, versus the spur-of-the-moment set where I shot my first short film, the universe granted my wish. Originally, I applied for the “Sound Mixer” position not really knowing what all it entailed. The only other open position was DP (Director of Photography). I learned back in undergrad that I didn’t have the “eye” to be DP. Besides, I’d edited several podcast episodes. All I knew was that the filmmakers, who shared director/producer titles, stated they would rent the equipment if the Sound Mixer didn’t have their own equipment–something I learned while on set to not be the usual case.
Fortunately, my mentor guided me in the right direction by providing a few videos and a blog. Until she did that, I truly thought I’d stroll up on set, dressed in all black, wearing hiking boots and a camelback without having done any research. Thank God I killed the camelback idea and brought a water bottle like a normal person.
The first thing I learned and immediately internalized was: early = on time; on time = late; and late = fired. Since my official title for this set was “Sound Shadow,” which, if I hadn’t known any better, I would have assumed was the latest comic book superhero, essentially meant I was an unpaid intern.
At least I didn’t have to pay for a class to gain this experience. As an undergrad, I’d worked on three student film sets. In that blind-leading-the-blind situation, none of them were at any level of professionalism as this movie set was. Regardless of my volunteer status, I still respected our mutual time and made the most of the opportunity.
The second lesson was an explanation of what “collaboration” means on set. As collaborative as both codirectors/coproducers, who I’ll refer to as A and C, announced they’d be on set, I’m happy I didn’t go with my original plan. Instead, I quietly approached the codirectors to ask a question or suggest something. That way, none of the actors overheard, which might have been confusing.
Plus, if one talks when things aren’t rolling, then they should do so quietly. I witnessed first hand how side conversations get out of hand. I found myself pulling a Ms. Roberson and gesturing two people on set to talk quietly. Given the lag time between takes, there was no way we’d all remain silent, but talking normally was too loud.
On the first day, I parked on the edge of the lawn among the other cars with a minute to spare from my call time (ie, late) and texted one of the codirectors/coproducers, C, about my arrival. I entered the house through a side door, nearest the line of carefully coiled cables–another thing the videos had reminded me: the over-under method to wrap most cables that would minimize damage and entanglement. C met me at the door with a big smile on her face and gave me a hug. (At least her eyes communicated “big smile” since her face was actually covered with a mask. Everyone on set had to show a negative COVID test that had been administered within 48 hours).
As I walked in, I met the Boom Operator, T.
For weeks I’d sung the phrase “boom operator” to the tune of Sade’s “Smooth Operator.” Took me mere seconds after our introduction to sing it to T. It had been my ear worm for a while, but I didn’t quite plant it in T.
Moments later, the Sound Mixer, J, arrived with an impressive amount of equipment, 12 years of filmmaking experience and a remarkably positive attitude for someone who wasn’t a morning person. The most golden nuggets of information I learned from him was that sound mixers were expected to own their equipment, and that he sometimes makes more money renting his equipment verses his labor rate. Although I’ve been a lifelong an emerging entrepreneur, my ears perked up when he talked about “rental.” There’s a standard package of sound equipment that filmmakers pay for. On top of that standard package, any additional needed sound equipment will be rented at a daily rate.
One of our producers/directors, A, bravely chose to shoot in and around her home.
I could have made a documentary just from the furniture alone. The piece that spoke to me the most was the Singer sewing machine that had been repurposed into a table. My maternal grandmother had a Singer. When I visited her, I’d sit down in front of the Singer and peddle. Not sewing, mind you, just idly peddling. Bonus: the set dog is in the picture. He was super chill for that many strangers doing strange things around his house.
I notoriously have cold fingers and toes even in warm weather.
For once, masking due to a pandemic worked in my favor because it kept my face warm. We purposely had open doors to keep fresh air flowing–fresh COLD air. Except for when I was eating or using the bathroom, I had gloves on whether I was inside or outside. The combination of post lunch, a comfortable beanbag and comfy coat and KA-BOOM! immediately transported T into a power nap. The headphones were such a nice touch for someone who confidently stated that she wouldn’t fall asleep.
At one point on the first day, T and I talked about me handling the boom when we were outside.
Yet, I didn’t want to be part of the reason why the shooting schedule got further behind. So, even though I never worked the boom for a scene, I miked the actors. Plus J told both T and I that whenever we were operating a boom, we should either fully extend our arms or have them bent and close to our ribcage in order to use our bones rather than our muscles. He summarized in this sound adage: “Muscles wear out; bones don’t.”
On Halloween 2021, I’d requested to read A’s script after she announced that she wanted to make a movie. Just get the dang thing done. Although I didn’t know her, I loved her confidence. Since it was a short film, I offered to read it and made three suggestions.
Fast forward to mid-February 2022, I was part of the crew. The first scene we shot implemented my first suggestion. To my joy, as the two-day shoot unfolded, I witnessed my other ideas implemented as well. That was my preproduction contribution. Being on set was a whole different animal, just seeing those words come to life through the interplay of crew and actors.
In the one screenwriting class I’ve taken, the instructor said that a film gets made three times: once when you write it, then when you shoot it, and finally when you edit it. Throughout the shoot, A kept thinking out loud about how to edit the story altogether. I didn’t envy her that, having to switch back and forth from director and editor.
On the second day of shooting while we were finishing up lunch, I looked at A and asked if filming in her house was everything she thought it be. Her nonverbal reaction, which ran from exasperation to optimistic smile, was something I wish I’d captured on film. Her practical answer saw the value of saving location fees. Another thing I wished I could have captured on audio: the other producer/director, C, commanding “Quiet on set!” Up until then, I’d never experienced her voice hitting the back walls.
The second day of shooting began outside, adding to the challenge.
Our location was near traffic and in the flight path of several planes/jets. I helped solve one challenge that day.
I’d noticed on the first day that a tablet, which was linked to the DP’s camera via an app, had to either be held or lie on some inconvenient surface. My solution? I removed all the painting paraphernalia from my music stand, which has not hardly had sheet music on it since a friend had gifted it to me years ago. Now I can add another nonmusical item to the list of things that have rested on that music stand.
Ever since I was offered the position of “Sound Shadow,” I wanted to illustrate it as a superhero. The moment I can use as inspiration occurred on the second day shooting while we were outside.
Our lead actress lost an earring. At one point, a handful of people were looking for it. Then, just the lead actress and another actress who had been in a scene with her were on their hands and knees still looking for the earring. My attention was on the shoot nearby, but from my peripheral vision, I saw them searching for the lost earring in the same patch of ground as if conducting an archeological dig. I carefully walked over, not wanting to accidentally step on it. Once the lead actress showed me what the earring looked like, I looked at the patch of ground in front of the chair where she’d sat, and squatted to examine the ground closer.
“Don’t hate me, but…” I held up the earring and handed it to the lead actress.
That’s precisely the types of wrongs that The Sound Shadow rights–small scale, huge sentimental value. Like a mysterious superhero, regardless of magnitude, I drove back to my lair once the shoot was over.
I knew ‘Rona had destroyed a little part of my soul when I wasn’t in the mood to dress up for Halloween, my favorite holiday as an adult. Granted, I had no place where I wanted to celebrate Halloween, but that never stopped me every other year. Last year, I dressed up twice for Halloween celebrations and never left my apartment. This year, I couldn’t even think of a single thing to dress up as. Unofficially, I went as “Apathy.”
I’d cancelled Thanksgiving plans since I didn’t know my COVID status until Saturday morning following the holiday, but I still had a relaxing, joyful time with a coconut vegetable curry dinner, then a gathering with a dear friend and her extended family after I found that I was COVID-negative.
Even so, Christmas wasn’t on my radar until Mom sent me a family group picture somewhere around DC, posed in front of giant Christmas tree. That picture zapped me out of my Rip Van Winkle time warp. Yes, the holidays still continue even if I’m not in the mood for them.
For years, Thanksgiving signaled the start of hand-making Christmas cards. That time came and went. I barely threw together a Christmas kickoff for myself on December 1st when I sipped eggnog and watched “Jingle Jangle.”
A few days later, I made four Christmas cards and ordered Austin-themed gift baskets for my family. I thoughtfully researched the contents of the basket, so that everything in them would be appreciated by someone in the household. For example, there were a few baskets that had coffee, but my parents don’t drink it, so their basket doesn’t have any. On the other hand, my two nieces and occasionally their mother drink coffee, so theirs could have it.
Yet, for some time now, my life has been one of mere homeostasis with punctuations of some different shit that, by default become the highlights of the week. It’s survival mode, straight through the holidays. Funny how so entrenched in the sameness of my schedule that Christmas caught me off guard. At least I caught it in time to be a part of it.
Watching so much of the 2020 Olympics had me thinking. Those elite athletes have laser-sharp focus and make a tremendous effort within a minute skill set. Countries don’t send one athlete to do EVERY event or even a Noah Ark’s pair, but a team. An advanced team to compete, each in their area of expertise.
What captured my thoughts was this: if an olympiad doesn’t have the unrealistic expectations of doing it all, why do I? Somehow, my upbringing, where I was told I had to work twice as hard to get half as much as people who were born with more privilege, has been my driving factor. Do I regret my accomplishments? Of course not. Do I now value not trying to do it all. Hell yes!
The Olympics has helped drive home my new embrace of doing what I can as I can. I fully embrace that I don’t have a personal team to pick up the slack. I’ve had a fluid schedule for years now. Juggling what needed to be juggled, given the myriad of deadlines.
Yet, there was always some part of me, my damn inner critic, who longs to be a Super Negro, nagged that there was more to be had or more to be done. Not just in terms in money. If nothing else, my life has been proof that I’m not chasing money. Trying not to chase after poverty either.
What usually stops me from asking for help, much less assembling a team, though, is the lack of funding. I don’t feel right asking people to essentially donate their time for my creative cause. The other side of it is that I’ve learned to do many creative things in pursuit of a low-budget project.
At the same time, I don’t need an Olympic team to complete the things I’m doing. A small group of dedicated people who gathered for a common cause would do. Of course, the bigger the ask, the more the participants have to invest in their time and effort.
For now, I’m going to do as much as realistically can. One day, I’ll have my team.
Remember the last time you were sick? So sick in fact you had to get off the hamster wheel ofyour busy life and slow way down. As you made the umpteenth trip to the bathroom or blew your nose until it was raw, all you wished was that someone would baby you like grandma used to do. Even Nana’s soothing voice comforted you. If you weren’t so sick, you could have thought clearly and remembered what granny used to do in times like these. Your abuela either walked into the kitchen or bathroom to prepare a home remedy or get inexpensive over-the-counter treatment. Dadi knew best. Now, you no longer need to suffer alone. With Global Grandmother Cures, you can get the advice from an Asian, Black, and/or Hispanic grandmother.
That opening pitch/introduction started the presentation, on which I’d collaborated with three other students from my evening Data science class. I’d originally had a different idea for the Chatbot project when I thought I’d have to do the whole thing by myself. Fortunately, I only had to do one-fourth. I stayed my comfort zone.
As a matter of fact, we all landed in the roles where we were best suited. The only guy in the group was also the person who had the most coding experience. Naturally, we rallied around him to present the code and tinker with the given Chatbot code to personalize it with the persona of someone’s grandmother.
If we’d had more time, we could have researched and written more home remedies data. During our first meeting, I shared my mother’s most popular home remedy for warding off a cold: crushed raw garlic in a spoon, followed by a shot of juice. Another person stated that sleeping with sliced raw onions in the bottom of a sock was her family’s home remedy for colds.
Another stated that her family just rubbed Vick’s all over their body. At that point, we all screamed that our families also used Vick’s Vapor rub. That was a unifying moment since the four of us represented Asian, Black and Hispanic cultures.
Another project member worked on the visualization. She designed emojis with different skin tones and gray hair to represent the grandmother personas.
Finally, the last project member handled the business monetization. In our rehearsal, I told her that we couldn’t use such words as “diagnosis,” “treatment,” nor “cure.” Plus, we couldn’t mention specific diseases. The safe words were “helps,” “alleviates,” “soothes,” as well as general symptoms such as “head cold,” “stomachache.”
Yet, her idea was solid, given the fact that the US is a developed country without universal healthcare; so one hospital stay due to an accident or major medical condition could realistically bankrupt someone. Even a doctor’s visit may be out of one’s budget, yet relief may be found in a grocery aisle–along with rest and drinking plenty of water.
Our Chatbot would help alleviating the minor symptoms with the caveat if symptoms persist or constitute an emergency, then someone should either call 911 or otherwise see a doctor.
If I had the opportunity to develop this project, I’d make more of a deep-dive effort to research home remedies from different cultures, starting with a collage of names for “grandmother,” written in the language/alphabet from their culture of origin.
A week prior to attending this virtual workshop, I dusted off my one and only script, which I’d edited over a year ago. I’d received a thorough critique with examples of how to improve it, but at the time, I didn’t have the motivation to implement them.
This workshop cured that apathy. With fresh eyes, I reread the suggestions. Nothing impossible with the right attitude. I took my time editing, then submitted the script to be read and discussed by one of the guest lecturers.
Her feedback: Although I had an original idea, she couldn’t follow the storyline because there seemed to be too many elements jumping out at her.
Then, I told her why I’d written Replenish: One of my male friends, who was in his 30s, lamented about how a growing number of young men had watched so much internet porn that they could no longer become aroused in the presence of a live nude woman.
While he wondered what the world was coming to, my first thought was, “Finally, a form of birth control men will actually use! Internet porn birth control.”
She loved that pitch, which was ironic given how two days later, I totally bombed the pitch. The guest lecturer on that day hadn’t read the script. Plus I’d been overconfident in my ability to wing a pitch. Even though I had the outline available to guide me through the major points, without the world building necessary to understand the story, she had to interrupt me to ask questions.
I got lost in the weeds after that. I’d started off well. Although she also agreed that I had an original idea since she’d never heard anyone pitch such an idea, she felt that I’d just grabbed at parts of the story without a clear idea of what I was talking about. Furthermore, since I’d indicated that the narrative was a comedy, she said that I should have described at least two funny moments in the movie.
Another thing I learned, I needed a writing partner. What one participant actually said was that I needed my “Coen brother.”
Since I’d bothered to edit that screenplay after a year, I emailed it to my writing group and another writer for feedback. I got a bite. When I told her the feedback I’d received so far on both the script and the pitch, she offered, “I’ll be your Coen sister!”
SCORE!
Of course, this was the same writer friend who had wanted me to direct several of her scripts, so I see a writing and directing collaboration in our future. Instead of being a one-woman production company, looks as if we’ll be a two-woman powerhouse.
One of the reactions to George Floyd being choked for 8 minutes and 46 seconds by a former police officer kneeling on his neck,
was a national call for submissions to The Breath Project. The organizers encouraged spoken word artists to record an 8 minute and 46 second performance to be used as a tool for education and activism purposes.
Normally, I would’ve jumped at writing and rehearsing a performance piece. Yet, these days, I’m far more interested in being behind the camera. Since my roommate constantly breaks out into original protest songs and political rants, I challenged her to perform for this project.
Once she was ready, I contacted the local participating theatre, Rude Mechs, which volunteered its space, The Crashbox, where we filmed her performance. A Rude Mechs staffer scheduled our shoot, set the lights and, using my smartphone, shot her performance while I directed.
The shoot only took about an hour. She ran through it several times while he shot it from two different camera angles.
Although we filmed on a Wednesday, I didn’t view the clips until Friday around midnight while lying in bed. I saved myself some grief by deleting unusable footage such as when she had the script in hand.
Then, I watched several YouTube videos about editing with iMovie. I normally wait until the weekend to venture into a new technology because I know the first day will be agonizing. This time around, I found a better approach. By watching a slew videos the night before, I woke up excited about diving into iMovie with a game plan–after yoga and lunch.
Of course, confident plans merely tempt the devil. Straight out of the gates, I clicked the wrong thing and imported many pictures from my photo album along with the video clips I wanted. Rookie mistake. No problem.
Once I got the clips I wanted, the easiest approach was to merge two of them, which wasn’t as straight forward as merging two audio clips with GarageBand, but I understood the process. Again, the devil found an opening.
Despite the confirmation that the merged file had been saved, the clip description showed “zero bytes.” Not believing what I read, I still clicked on it. Sure enough, nothing was there.
Back to Google, my favorite IT entity. I learned that zero bytes meant there wasn’t enough room to save a file. I’d greatly underestimated how much space a less than 10-minute clip consumed. So, I saved it to the infamous Cloud. Again, I got the message that the file had been successfully saved, but when I checked iCloud, it showed zero bytes.
At that point, I took a bathroom break. When I returned, the file actually had a much higher number than zero. A-ha! So, there’s a lag between the file being successfully saved and having it show up.
Then, I was on my happy editing way. I worked on a script page a day because after an hour, apathy creeped in. Once I finished the rough cut, I saved the file again without any devilish drama.
Yet, for all the effort, our video was around two minutes short of the required length. Stretching it was out of the question. Nor was I interested in returning to the theatre to record more.
As a matter of fact, with the exception of the time limit, her performance was solid and I liked the editing choices I’d made. All I needed to do was make some fine tune edits, learn how to create end credits, and how to upload to Vimeo.
And not a moment too soon. I’ve got a screenplay to revamp and a film festival to screen. Plus I need to plan out the second season of my podcast. Then there’s the seemingly never-ending illustrations that I need to finish for my third book.
Yet, all’s not lost. Once I uploaded the video to Vimeo, I shared it with several friends and family. Then, I took the extraordinary step of entering it into three film festivals.
One of my sisters, Renee, often takes advantage of my editing skills.
Her latest endeavor was updating the family tree on our maternal grandfather’s side as a member of The Strange Family Historical Society (SFHS). Since SFHS published its first history book over 10 years ago, they’re gathering data via an Excel worksheet to update it.
Beyond editing out the wordiness and reformatting the worksheet, the veteran teacher came out in me. The instructions included two examples of how to fill it out, using two different family members, which added unnecessary complexity. Moreover, there was no visual aid. How could instructions about one’s connection to the Strange family not include a family tree?
Fortunately, I had an illustrating app. I refreshed my memory about common conventions used in a family tree chart: squares for men; circles for women; a horizontal line connecting spouses; siblings all perpendicularly connected below their parents on the same horizontal line.
I added more features for the purpose of this data collection. First, the color coding. White was the default color, especially for the Strange family patriarch, Jessee Strange, who was born a slave and freed as a young teen as a result of the American Civil War, which ended in April 1865. Since all of my great grandfather Jessee’s 12 children were freeborn, those Stranges are referred to as The First Generation.
Half of The First Generation of freeborn Stranges had no children and were depicted with a white background. The descendants of the other half of the freeborn First Generation started wearing designated colors at our yearly family reunion, based on their branch of the family tree. For example, my grandfather, Floyd B. Strange, had lime green as his branch color.
I also numbered our family tree, starting with 1 through 12 for the siblings of The First Generation. Part of the data collection instructions included how to assign each family member a unique number, showing their relation to the Strange family tree.
Using Renee as my example, her unique number is 11-6-1 since our grandfather was the 11th child, our mother the 6th child and Renee the first born. Her youngest child, CJ, has the unique number 11-6-1-3 since he’s Renee’s third child.
As I edited the instruction examples, I was suddenly struck with a profound understanding: my sisters, first cousins and I were merely the 3rd generation of freeborn Stranges. How could that be?
There was no error in the conclusion or even the formulation of the conclusion. All my life, I’d bought into the narrative that slavery was a long time ago. So long in fact that I thought several generations had been free.
At that point, I realized I’d believed the dominant narrative hype, starting with what I learned about black people in American history class: The slaves, Harriet Tubman, Fredrick Douglass, MLK and Rosa Parks. This was back in the mid 80s in NC when Black History month was only a week. (Negro History Week started in 1926, then in 1976 the celebration was expanded to a month and renamed Black History month, but that hadn’t quite caught on yet in my high school. My senior year high school English teacher had crammed the Harlem Renaissance into that week.)
The glossing over and outright omission of the contributions of black people was systemic and served many purposes. First, watered-down Black history guaranteed that a straight-A student like me learned very little about the historical contributions of black people. Secondly, being uninformed, students of all races lacked an appreciation of the genius, innovation and sacrifices of black people. Such knowledge would have fostered pride in black students and respect among nonblack students.
Growing up, I’d always heard the narrative that Black History wasn’t important, not realizing that for the myth of white supremacy to be maximized, then there could be no counterexamples or so few that the “exceptional blacks” were just that.
After the American Civil War concluded, free blacks did not receive their 40 acres and a mule, nor an inheritance from their enslaver fathers. Jim Crow replaced the slave codes. States’ Rights facilitated the inequitable passing of laws to deny blacks basic resources needed to thrive such as education, health care and housing. Redlining carved up communities, dictating where blacks could live. Various repressive voter laws and gerrymandering denied blacks access to exercise their civic duty. Police and courts assume blacks are guilty until proven innocent–if we’re not killed prior to receiving justice. Underlying all of these things are those terrible Gap Twins: Empathy and Economic.
But our salvation lies in our family tree. Within the branches of our family tree are the narratives of struggle and triumph. Until our unadulterated family histories permeate throughout our culture like the latest black-inspired entertainment, the dominant narrative will continue its successful burial of our greatness through systemic racism.
