on: "let the fire burn" and "men we reaped"

i had all kinds of feelings about "let the fire burn" before i saw it at the siskel film center tonight. i found myself trying to remember when i'd first heard about move and the may 1985 raid. i think it was in college, b/c there's no way i would've learned about it in high school. and even in college, it must've been in a book or article i read outside of class, b/c i'm pretty sure it wouldn't have been covered in any of my classes. then again, it's been a bazillion years since my undergrad days, so i could be misremembering things and indeed learned about move from a professor, but i doubt it.

so i was having these thoughts of "ok, i know enough about move to know that this documentary is going to be powerful," and also thinking about my privilege w/r/t being exposed to information about move in the first place, and how there may or may not be a whole generation out there, both my age and younger, who have no idea about what was happening in philadelphia in the late 70s/early 80s, and how this movie would be a good thing for them to see, but that they probably wouldn't be exposed to it.

but then i walked into the theater and there was a row of young black boys with their father/uncle/male relative. my heart grew 3 sizes and i took the aisle seat nearest them. it just felt right, somehow.

throughout the film, i caught myself laughing and sucking my teeth in disgust and shaking my head, while also wondering about the reactions of other folks in the theater. what kind of background did they have on move before tonight? how had those young boys next to me been convinced to go see this movie instead of whatever other entertainment option may have been available to them?

(as you can see, one of the fun things about my quasi-ADD is that my brain comes up with all kinds of interesting questions while i should be concentrating on just one thing. it's a blessing and a curse, i tell you.)

i want people to see this movie, not because it has any particular artistic merit, but because it examines a slice of history that folks may not be aware of. i realize i'm making that statement during the opening weekend of "12 years a slave," which is another movie that folks are all "omg people need to see this because slavery was bad, mmkay?"

and i get that. i accept that. i am in no way saying that these 2 films, or any others, can not co-exist. they can and they should. hell, i will probably see "12 years a slave" w/in the next week or so, and i will again be viewing it from a weird privilege angle b/c i've read the book and also b/c, y'know, i'm all too aware of some of the effects of the slave trade.

i was surprised by my reaction, or should i say lack thereof, at the end of "let the fire burn." i wasn't angry or frustrated like i was at the end of "fruitvale station" or "amistad." i wasn't an emotional wreck like i was when the closing credits started on "hotel rwanda." i don't know what emotional reaction i was expecting from myself, but i just felt...resigned, for lack of a better term. like, "ok, this happened, and it's obvious that this shit was fucked up from the beginning, and therefore there's no point in getting pissed about it."

on my way home, i decided to break my usual rule of not reading while on public transit, and dove back into jesmyn ward's "men we reaped" b/c i was close to finishing it anyway.

y'all. the last chapter of this book knocked me on my ass. proverbially speaking, of course, since i was already sitting on the train, but holy fucking shitballs. i felt like someone had punched me in the gut. i wanted to curl up in the fetal position and just rock back and forth for a few minutes. it's that powerful. i don't want to spoil it for anyone who's planning on reading it and hasn't gotten around to it yet, but i have to share this:

"We who still live do what we must. Life is a hurricane, and we board up to save what we can and bow low to the earth to crouch in that small space above the dirt where the wind will not reach...We love each other fiercely, while we live and after we die."

i recognize that this book resonates with me more than it might with others because i've also lost a brother, but i feel comfortable in recommending this book to every black woman who's lost a black man in their life - a father, brother, uncle, cousin, spouse, neighbor, boyfriend, best friend, homie from around the corner, classmate, or any combination thereof - b/c jesmyn's been where we've been. where some of us still are. i am seriously thinking about buying a copy of this book (b/c of course i got it from work) just so i can have access to this last chapter whenever i want or need to.