You the Man

The time is always right to do what is right. ~ MLK

Seemed like the right thing to do tonight was to walk over to the VCU Depot for a candlelight vigil for Martin Luther King.

When Mac and I got there, there couldn't have been more than a dozen people there, but within no time, the number had grown to many dozens and we'd all been handed white candles to carry. A VCU student sang a song and we were instructed by an organizer to walk two abreast in an orderly line as we made our way to the Student Commons for remarks.

His next instruction was couched in the usual millennial manner. "This is a silent vigil, so please refrain from talking...if you can." As if to say, if you just can't shut up for five blocks, we understand.

What??

As we proceeded in an orderly manner, complete with a VCU police escort along side us, it was in a mostly silent manner (a few people just couldn't resist talking to a friend), our breath visible as we moved slowly through campus.

After the first couple of blocks, the silence became so enveloping that the conversations of passersby seemed unnaturally loud and intrusive while in some cases, people would notice the silence hanging over the march and lower their voices,although not quite sure why.

There was a stirring solemnity to the vigil - it was tempting to get lost in watching the small flame flickering in your own hand - that was frequently overshadowed by the sound of shutters closing as hordes of cameramen walked and ran alongside us, shooting our faces, our marching feet, our candles.

It must be what being a model on a runway feels like, except we weren't there to be looked at or photographed.

Walking into the ballroom at VCU to find few seats available beyond the first row (we took them), we heard, appropriately enough, Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On" right up until a student in a fraternity jacket got up and gave what sounded like a poorly-delivered book report on King and his accomplishments, leaving out most of the highlights.

He was also extremely careful about his word choices, using "African-American" and studiously avoiding using "black" as if it were the n-word. Fortunately, he was just the prelude to a slide show of mostly old black and white photographs while we listened to King's stirring "I Have a Dream" speech.

When it concluded, we agreed that we were both glad we'd come.

After a quick dinner of chicken and lamb shawarmas at Doner Kebab while listening to middle-eastern dance music and admiring sunny posters of Syrian landscapes and buildings that probably don't exist any longer, we headed to the Byrd.

Standing at the front of the line for the late show, a young mixed race couple came walking down the sidewalk and inquired what we were waiting for.

I didn't just tell them that we were waiting to see Spike Lee's "Do the Right Thing," I wondered out loud why they weren't planning to see a classic black film and one of the top movies of the '80s as well.

He was black, had seen it with his parents when he was 12 and been underwhelmed at its lack of CGI effects and high-definition production values. So old fashioned.

As you might guess, this was catnip to me since the notion of style winning out over substance is not one that holds any water for me. Before long, he was explaining how his generation needs to be entertained (she said they all have attention deficit) constantly, so why risk the uncertainty of human interaction when you've got the reliability of Reddit?

I'm not kidding, he said that.

We went on to spend enough time talking about race relations, millennial malaise, sexual exploitation and the value of old movies to the point that she eventually admitted she'd never seen the film and was a little curious. Next thing we knew, she was in the line to buy a ticket, so of course he joined her, despite having dissed the film repeatedly.

Come on, he was 20 years old and she was pretty. He's going to go where she wants to go.

As luck would have it, they wound up in the row right in front of us so we could further the conversation. He was still leery about having to sit through the film (which I assured him would resonate differently now from how it had at 12), so I leaned forward to reassure him that his parents would approve, that this is where he should be on this holiday.

"I'm doing the right thing," he said, cracking himself and me up at his humor.

It had been so many years since I'd seen "Do the Right Thing" that there were some surprises along the way. The trio of men sitting by the wall and constantly commenting on the street theater played as completely real, especially the deeply dimpled Sweet Dick Willy who insists it's never too hot for sex and made me laugh out loud when he saw a pretty girl and said, "Oh,, Lord, I better not see her on payday!"

I hadn't remembered Samuel L. Jackson as the DJ Mister Senor Love Daddy, dropping gems such as, "Today's temperature's gonna rise up over 100 degrees, so there's a Jheri Curl alert. If you have a Jheri curl, stay in the house or you'll end up with a permanent black helmet on your head fo-evah!"

And I certainly didn't recall derogatory references to Trump and his hotel.

But the final scene had been burned into my brain, or perhaps the believable violence just seemed too current and real even then not to make a lasting impression, but after 28 years, it still left me pondering and us discussing what the right thing was.

When the lights came up, we reconvened our discussion group about the production and content value of the film, diving so far into it that it was only an usher calling to us from the doors, "Hey, it's time to leave!" that got us moving.

On the other hand, Mac and I had been the sole reason two 20-somethings not only talked to strangers, but sat through a classic piece of black cinema tonight and, for that reason, I have no doubt we did the right thing.

In the words of Mister Senor Love Daddy, that's the double truth, Ruth.

The Interrelated Structure of Reality

We must learn to live together as brothers sisters or perish together as fools. 
~ MLK (with a small adjustment)

Some movies are worth seeing a second time. Some issues are worth addressing until we get them right.

"Selma" is one of those films and racial justice definitely one of those issues, so when I saw that Hands On Greater Richmond was showing it at the Byrd this afternoon in honor of tomorrow's MLK holiday, I not only decided to attend, but made plans with others to go.

Waiting for the film to start, I watched as a diverse crowd - ages and ethnicities -filed into the Byrd. When I asked the woman next to me what had brought her out, she said it was her sister, who'd read about the screening online. Her sister soon arrived with a large popcorn and joined the conversation about King.

And then she did something extraordinary: she extended her popcorn tub and offered me some. As many times as I've been to the movies, no stranger has ever offered to share. Mind blown.

The film was every bit as difficult and uplifting as it had been the first time and the scenes of troopers beating peaceful protesters were no easier to watch the second time. Once again, I was dumbstruck at how perfectly David Oyelowo captured King's cadence, look and mannerisms.

After the film, there was a panel (including Oliver Hill, Jr.) to lead a discussion about race in Richmond and while about a third of the audience bolted after the movie ended, I stayed, as did my seat mates.

One of the panelists talked about how some people who participated in the marches later came down with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Another spoke of how although Virginia tried to be more genteel about race relations back then, there was the same threat of violence for blacks (Hill recalled a cross being burnt on his family's lawn in Battery Park). We were reminded of the key role of the Student Non-Violence Coordinating Committee, in tandem with King's efforts and the legal battle to get states to comply with integration.

If you weren't alive or haven't studied the Civil Rights movement, this film is a good platform to learn about it, we were told. "What is the person in your seat going to do?" one of the panelists challenged.

In other words, it was an interesting start to the discussion, but one of us needed to use the bathroom, so I crept out, intending to come back. Except then I wound up having a far more significant discussion in the ladies' room of the Byrd Theater and never went back.

When I came out of the stall, a black woman was washing her hands and I asked how she'd liked the movie. "I cried so many times," she said, which was also true for me, I told her, and it was my second time seeing it. Hers, too.

Very naturally and quickly, Wilma and I discovered we were four years apart in age and had a lot of memories of that era in common. "Remember how we all listened to the same music?" she recollected. "Black, white, nobody paid attention to what color they were, we listened to it all. Now they listen to the music that matches their skin. We didn't make that distinction."

I did know.

Standing in the ladies' room, we talked about racial attitudes then and now. She shared how a new co-worker in her office had expressed surprise to find she was black because she didn't think her name "sounded black." Wait, it gets worse. The woman said to her, "I bet you cook some good fried chicken."

It's the 21st century and a woman working at VCU said this to her. Brilliantly, Wilma told her that no, she didn't like the popping oil, so she always bought chicken when she wanted it. She should have smacked her upside the head.

As recently as Friday, one of the doctors she works with made a comment that she'd probably be going to a rally Monday (for the MLK holiday). This was an educated man who said this.

I was struck by her comments about Africans and American blacks when she mentioned how little knowledge she and others have about life in Africa, so they wouldn't fit in there, either. It made my heart hurt when she said, "We don't belong anywhere."

She remembered the houses torn down in Jackson Ward for the highway and the creation of housing projects. When she began to explain where Gilpin Court was, I told her I lived in J-Ward and knew what she was talking about.

"Where in Jackson Ward?" she asked, clearly surprised and we exchanged addresses. Turns out she lives three blocks from me, so we've probably seen each other plenty of times. I don't know which of us was more tickled or incredulous.

When she brought up how generations used to live together, I told her that my grandmother had moved in with us when she was in her '50s and how her wisdom had added to the household. I heard how her parents had kept most of the ugly racial goings-on of the time from her and her siblings.

Since she never had to sit at the back of the bus, the Civil Rights movement was more of a history lesson to her than a reality, while I was actually bussed to a black high school, so I have memories of the changes happening.

Eventually, we chatted so long, bonding almost, that the real discussion ended, people began exiting the auditorium and women began coming into the bathroom.

We walked out together not long after the sun set and strolled down Cary Street still talking about the difference in how people react to injustice now as opposed to then. "Young people today are too involved with their devices. No one cares beyond their own interests and needs," she lamented.

Passing a man who was asking for change, she got upset. "Grown men asking for money! Men didn't use to beg on the streets like that, they went out and looked for work. What's happened to the world?"

Too much to cover before we reached our cars. Besides, we're just a couple of Jackson Ward sisters saying goodnight and hoping we'd see each other around the neighborhood.

Yes, I missed a lot of the official discussion post-film and that's a shame. But the person in my seat is convinced connecting with a stranger and the resulting conversation is what really matters today.

Shouldn't we all have a dream?

Best Kind of History

I never have to go far to honor Dr. King on MLK Day.

After my walk down to Brown's Island this morning, I knew it was a nice day so I dressed lightly for the walk over to 2 Street, making it all the more surprising when I walked outside and found my front stoop and walkway covered in ice-melt pellets.

So apparently my landlord had come by and put them down in the 61-degree weather anticipating tomorrow's snow showers.

I crunched over them and strolled over to the Maggie Walker House, where I joined a roomful of people eager to hear Nell Draper-Winston, the sister of photographer Louis Draper, talk about "Recovering the Work and Life of Louis Draper."

Mind you, I'd already seen the Louis Draper retrospective at Candela Gallery and the "Signs of Protest" exhibit containing some of Draper's photographs at the VMFA, but here was a real, live person who'd known the talented man who'd left Richmond to forge a name for himself and yet is still unknown here.

Nell was a tiny woman with a clear-cut way of speaking and a quick smile as she talked about growing up in Henrico County with an emphasis on family values and meals where everyone shared their day's activities.

She said her Dad was an avid photographer, documenting the neighbors and the area, but he couldn't manage to interest Louis in taking pictures.

What he did do, though, was give Louis a camera when he left for Virginia State University and that began a lifelong passion for him.

He left Richmond for New York, living in the Bowery, at the YMCA and eventually in a brownstone owned by Langston Hughes, who became a mentor to the young Louis.

Although primarily known as a street photographer, her brother shot images of lots of famous people, like Michael Jackson and Jackie Kennedy-Onassis and photographed for "Life" and "Popular Photography" but Nell said his main joy came from shooting everyday people living their everyday lives.

She finished her talk old-school style, pulling out 11 x 14 photographs her brother had taken and passing them around.

I've been to a lot of photography lectures but it's a singular pleasure to see and hold the actual photo rather than just see it projected on a screen.

There was one of Malcolm X, but Nell said it was done as a study of shadow and light rather than as a portrait. There was another of Miles Davis playing. Several were from Draper's trip to Senegal.

Another study of light and shadow, with the word "Santos" scrawled on the wall, was the one Nell said Louis placed  a copy of in both their parents' caskets.

The gentleman next to me and I lingered over a striking photo of John Coltrane with his sax at the piano.

It was after we looked at the photographs that we learned that Nell had also met Dr. King and been part of the group that picketed Thalhimer's in a show of peaceful resistance.

She'd been going to VUU where they brought in a different minster every year for the Week of Prayer.

The year it was Dr. King, she'd collected her autograph book and patiently waited in the crowd among RPI students, "And they were all this tall and you may have noticed, I'm short."

She was ready to give up on ever getting to the man she described as "the most eloquent speaker I ever heard" when Dr. King told the towering group to hold on because "this young lady has been waiting a long time."

He gave her his autograph and, as she put it, "You couldn't talk to me for the rest of the day."

Yes, on Martin Luther King Day, I am fortunate to meet and hear from someone who actually heard Dr. King talk.

And still has the autograph book to prove it.

Celebrating a Survivor

I couldn't make it to the inauguration, but I could celebrate MLK Day.

The Maggie Walker historical site always does something to honor the day and today's program featured a documentary.

Being a documentary dork of the highest order, I made the short trek over to Leigh Street to claim a seat in the visitors' center.

Sydney Shavers was showing her recently-completed film, "Elvira's Eyes," about her great-great-great grandmother.

The film traced the process of seeking information about Elvira Sophia Abernathy, a former slave who lived to be 106 years old.

Sydney had done her research, taking the few documents her family had and using them as the starting point for a road trip to North Carolina to see what she could uncover.

Plenty, it turned out.

Using census records, death certificates, newspaper articles, visits to graveyards and previously unknown relatives' houses, she pieced together an amazing story of Elvira.

Like the fact that she'd been sold for $900 ($21,000 in today's dollars) originally.

That she'd married a mulatto slave in 1864.

That unlike the other slaves on the plantation where she worked, she and her husband had remained after emancipation, eventually becoming sharecroppers.

That she'd had six children and worked as a seamstress.

That up until she turned 100, she was considered to have "retained a remarkable spryness."

A North Carolina newspaper article about her 106th birthday said, "The old darkie can walk without aid and thread a needle."

As part of her research, Sydney attended a family reunion in N.C., meeting relatives and interviewing them for the project.

Several spoke of Elvira's insistence on education, learning to read at a time when slaves weren't allowed to read and insisting on literacy for her children and grandchildren.

After sharing his memories, one older man praised Sydney, saying, "Somebody got to remember what went on in the past."

That message resonated even more poignantly when Sydney said afterwards that two of the older relatives shown in the film had died since she'd filmed them.

She stressed the importance of everyone capturing their family's oral history before it's too late. "Their stories would have been lost otherwise," she said.

It was wisdom out of the mouths of babes, because Sydney is only seventeen and still a high school student.

During the Q & A after the film, someone asked her, "What are your plans for the future? I'd like to vote for you someday."

The whole room applauded.

Wouldn't Dr. King have been proud to hear that remark directed at a young African-American woman on the day our African-American president takes the oath of office to begin his second term?

Even as a complete stranger, I felt pride sitting there, knowing Elvira had handed off the torch to Sydney and her generation.

As Sydney put it, her eyes would be smiling.