My Blog

I am riding the train to Pleasantville to the Jacob Burns Film Center,
where the first three hours of FLYING is playing tonight. Outside it is
dark and rainy and the sound of the train brings back memories. When I
was a girl, I remember how precarious life could be: little things had
huge effects and might change the course of where I was going – without
me even realizing it.

I remember the first summer my parents sent me to sleep-away camp.
My brother had gone the year before, and I couldn’t wait to be in his
shoes, even though he hated it and threatened to run away before he’d
go to camp again. You see, my father had gone to camp when he was
growing up, so we all had to go. Later in life, I heard it was a Jewish
thing: Jews sent their children out of the city to make them physically
strong while the parents toiled all summer in the hot steaming,
concrete world of the mind. But as a girl, I knew nothing about the
reasoning behind my parent’s decision – and my desire to go to camp had
nothing to do with my father. Already, at nine years old, I couldn’t
wait to be away on my own. I dreamed of freedom, and I saw camp as the
first step… then I would go to college…. and then I would travel the world….

The place my parents sent me was an all-girl’s camp on a hill in
Maine that sloped down to a lake – something all good Jewish camps must
adjoin. Water sports were essential to wholesomeness: here I would
learn to swim, sail, water ski, have camp fires on the shores and do
all the things I (and they) had seen in the movies. The cabins made a
straight line down to the shore and the order showed the lake’s
importance: the older girl’s bunks were right on the water’s edge so
they could croon over the moon at night, while the bunks decreased in
age up the hill until the youngest girl’s bunk was the farthest away
from the water. That was of course my bunk – the puny kids.

When I arrived, I felt like I was in heaven. My mom had packed a
whole black steamer trunk full of things for me to use for the eight
weeks I would be there. She had bought me a uniform of gray shorts and
white t-shirts with little monograms of the camp on it. And a green
sweater with the same monogram in the center of my chest for when it
got cold. Best of all, stowed inside was a pair of new tan riding
jodhpurs and new riding shoes whose leather creaked when I walked. My
mother had signed me up ahead of time for the special riding classes,
which took place off the campgrounds.

I don’t remember saying goodbye to my parents and I don’t remember
caring that they left. In fact – I don’t think the thought of
homesickness even crossed my mind once. By some stroke of luck, I was
assigned a bed by the far wall – surely the coziest spot in the room.
You could lean your back against the wooden panels and only have one
other bed beside you. The first few days I had some squabbles with one
of the other girls, but nothing too daunting I thought. In fact I can’t
remember what it was about – perhaps she wanted my wonderful cot? Or
perhaps it was because I had bucked teeth and couldn’t close my mouth
when I chewed my food? Or, perhaps, now that I think of it, she was
teasing me because I still wet my bed and the counselor had to get up
in the middle of the night to help me change my sheets a few times.
Yes, it was the girl who slept next to me and the noise of me getting
up wet woke her up. Of course I was mortified, but I couldn’t do
anything to make it stop – or her stop. She must have told the whole
bunk. Still I didn’t think it was that bad. Things would die down – I
loved being at camp; I couldn’t wait for my first campfire and sing
along. I remember the first riding lesson I had and the smell of manure
as I walked across the stable to mount my horse.

Until one day, my bunk counselor asked me
if I’d like to move my bed closer to her to get away from the girl in
the cot beside me making fun of me. I didn’t think it was so necessary,
but I remembered feeling vaguely flattered by the attention, so I said,
“Ok.” The next thing I knew, I was sleeping on a cot in the middle of
the room surrounded by other cots. Suddenly, I was very exposed. I
longed for my lovely place by the wall but it was too late to get it
back. Now that the counselor had me sleeping by her bed, the teasing
from all the other girls led by the first girl who now had my bed,
started for real. I was called, “Little Pet” and taunted that I was
getting special privileges. Of course my bed-wetting increased, which
gave my bunkmates more to whisper about and laugh at me each time I
passed them. Now, the counselor came up with a new plan: perhaps I
should change bunks to get away from these horrid girls? Not knowing
how to stop the escalating attacks, I agreed. Suddenly I had to pack up
all my new and perfect camp clothes – and four counselors picked up the
heavy trunk just like a casket and carried it out the door to the next
bunk one step closer to the lake and filled with strange girls who were
older than me – by two years.

Of course, I was completely doomed before the counselors even put my
trunk down. I had no idea the gulf between a nine year old and an
eleven year old. The girls in my new bunk were, among other things,
already wearing training bras – something I had never even heard of and
had absolutely not developed a need for. The older girls knew words my
young friends and I didn’t even know the meaning for. They knew how to
inflict pain in ways I could not have dreamed. Since my very coming to
their territory already labeled me as a sissy, a sellout, a tattletale,
there was nothing to do but face the price of what I had done. Because
if I haven’t mentioned it yet, my previous bunk was punished for how
they treated me and were put on a kind of ‘inner camp detention’,
blocked of any special privileges, including desert, for one week. Now
only one thing was clear to me: say anything to a counselor about how I
was being treated by my new bunkmates and I would not survive my first
summer in camp.

And that’s about when my memory of any camp activities stopped. Did
I learn to swim? Did I sit by the campfire? Did I get to go riding a
second time? I vaguely remember a huge mess hall, but what happened to
me in there, I have no idea. It was all about survival – and survival
meant keeping all eyes pinned on the faces of these girls I had to live
with to try to be ready for the next blow. The small ones, like
stealing my favorite stuffed animal and rolling him in mud behind the
cabin before tossing him in the waste basket, to sabotaging my bed
sheet so I couldn’t put my feet in it, to the larger ones, which always
fell in the realm of verbal mental torture. The high point came one day
when the three toughest girls surrounded me, during our “rest period”
after lunch, that time when we all were supposed to be on our beds
safely napping with our eyes shut. Of course, the counselor had left
the bunk.

My eyes were shut until the hissing began above me: There as I
opened my eyes were three twisted girls’ faces staring at me. They
wanted to discuss one thing and one thing only, very simple: did I know
where babies came from? They were sure I was too stupid to know even
this simple fact.

I remember sitting up in bed and barely blinking. Then I said the
only thing I could say: Of course I knew. My mom had four children (the
fifth was on the way) and she had told me everything. They snickered
and their lips curled. “Well, then tell us?” the tallest one said with
a grin. I think I stood up at that point, just to get some leverage. I
carefully explained what my mom had told – at least what I remembered
she had told me – it was hard to remember much with the three girls
faces pressing towards me. And what I said to them was obvious: when my
mom and dad wanted a baby they prayed to god and that god put a seed in
mom’s belly that then grew into a baby.

The three girls shrieked with delight. “No!” The second tallest girl
said: “When your Mom and Dad want a baby your dad puts his wonky wet
penis in her ugly vagina and then he squirts out little gray seeds and
that’s how she gets pregnant!” The three girls started to laugh and
slapped each other on the back. How stupid could this ugly bucked tooth
girl be? I don’t know what my face must have looked like: Shocked?
Confused? Outraged? The thought of what they had said was too
horrifying. I screamed at them all: “That’s not true! My mom and Dad
don’t do that!” Then I covered my ears and ran out of the bunk into the
empty, stillness outside. There was not a soul in sight since everyone
was asleep in their bunks. I found a large rock not far from the cabin,
sat down on it, and cried hysterically. It was the most awful thing I
had ever heard, yet in my heart, despite the fact I had denied it to
the girls faces, I knew they were right – my mom and dad did that
horrible thing. And I hated my mom for not telling me the truth and
leaving me exposed to this type of ridicule.

Somehow I fell ill and was taken to stay in the camp infirmary for
days. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. I was driven to
the hospital several times in the middle of the night with a high
fever, but nothing was ever determined. They thought I had Strepthroat
and might need my tonsils removed. There was a beautiful nurse named
Karen who lived at the infirmary – well not actually beautiful, she had
a bit of a horsey face, but still she was very pretty. She had long,
long brown hair to her waist and kind eyes – and she treated me with a
lot of love.

I don’t know how I managed to remain sick for the rest of the
summer, but somehow I did. I don’t remember ever having to go back to
that bunk with the eleven year old girls – or if I did, it must have
been only for short periods and under the constant guard of a
counselor. I will always remember Karen driving me back and forth to
the hospital at odd hours for tests – and stopping for a soft ice cream
after the prodding and poking was over, on the way back to my infirmary
bed. Because in those days, if you had tonsillitis you got to eat a lot
of ice cream, which was a great solace for me.

In the middle of it all, one morning my parents suddenly showed up.
I was summoned to the house of the camp director way up above
everything on the very top of the hill. I remember the shock of seeing
my mom and dad sitting on two iron chairs in the middle of a vast green
lawn. My father took me on his lap and my mother stroked my knee. They
had something very sad to tell me they said. I had no idea what was
coming. Were they finally going to take me home? Did they realize my
suffering? I had written them letters telling them things weren’t going
so well, hadn’t I? Maybe now I could tell my mom how angry I was at
her! But there was no time for that.

My first cousin Jimmy, who was 13, had been hit by a car and killed.
I was so shocked. I don’t think I understood the meaning of death at
all, but still I burst out crying and I sobbed for a long time. They
would not take me to the funeral, they said; I was too young. I should
remain at camp, having a good time; everything would be fine; I should
stop crying. They didn’t look fine; they were ashen, but had decided
they must come to tell me. After a few moments, they would drive to see
my older brother Harry at his camp and break the bad news to him. And
then they left. I think I went back to the infirmary again – but
perhaps not. I didn’t know Jimmy that well; he was always much older
than me and didn’t play with little girls. But I was stunned
nonetheless. Somehow everything was put in its place with his death —
but I couldn’t tell you how exactly.

I made it through the eight weeks and went home. The next year my
parents sent me to a new girl’s summer camp and everything went fine.
This time I would not become the odd girl out, I was tougher now. I had
learned an important lesson – never let adults ‘save’ you. And what I
mean to say is this: somehow I understood very clearly that the problem
with that summer is that I played the victim with that first camp
counselor, and that act had made me into a victim for real the rest of
the summer. It was a downward spiral I couldn’t stop. I saw how
susceptible I was to pity, and to adult attention, but that their
helping hand actually undermined my ability to stand on my own feet. I
wondered to myself back then if every young girl was like me? So easily
knocked off her center by an adult? I was scared by my own perception
of the ease of my downfall: and I wasn’t sure I would be able to catch
myself next time. I tried to make myself vow that I would never be a
victim. But I wasn’t sure I could hold to it. I didn’t have this word –
victim — for it then. I just knew to be careful, vigilant of my needs
to be cared for rather than standing on my own feet.

And now as an adult I realize something else: it is so good that my
parents didn’t come to take me out of camp and save me from my
suffering. I don’t know what they knew about how bad a time I was
having, but surely they must have known something. The camp must have
told my mother that I was practically living in the infirmary. It
couldn’t be that usual for a child to spend thirty days out of sixty on
her back? But somehow they knew enough not to get me out of it.
Whatever it was, living in the infirmary still meant I was making it
through the experience on my own feet, in my own strange way. And that
fact, would help me in the years to come when things – as life would
have it – got still harder.

I was wondering if anyone else has memories of ‘turning
points’ in their lives when they were young or now? Moments when their
lives could have gone one way and yet went another? I am very
interested in these moments and how we save ourselves from disaster or
transform disaster into good. I’d love to hear your stories.

Well, I guess my last post wasn’t that far off… Check out Maureen Dowd’s Op-Ed piece, A Flawed Feminist Test, published on February 13 in The New York Times.

“We’re not just in the most vertiginous election of our
lives. We’re in another national seminar on gender and race that is
teaching us about who we are as we figure out what we want America to
be.

It’s not yet clear which prejudice will infect the presidential contest more — misogyny or racism.

Many women I talk to, even those who aren’t particularly fond of
Hillary, feel empathy for her, knowing that any woman in a world
dominated by men has to walk a tightrope between femininity and
masculinity, strength and vulnerability.”

What do you think about all this?

I am sitting in a small café in Ithaca in upstate New York while FLYING is playing across the street at the Cornell Cinema.
The snow began falling this afternoon and has been falling at a good
pace into the night. Despite the travel warnings, the theater is full
and the room felt full of excitement when I snuck out as the lights
went down to watch Chapters Three and Four of FLYING. Now it is just
waiting time. I hurry across the street to buy a Chai and sit on a
stool in the coffee shop surrounded by the warm smell of toasting
bagels as students wander in to get late night dinners and snacks.
Today my co-worker, Adella, passed me an article in the New York Times,
an op-ed piece: When Women Rule.
The article really crystallized something I have been thinking about a
lot and want to discuss. I am by far not a political expert, having
come to politics late in my life. I always feel I should let others
speak first on the subject and do a lot of listening:

I don’t believe in telling people whom you voted for – to me it’s a
personal choice. Of course this may have come out of the fact that I
grew up in a family where my father — a staunch Republican — ran our
household. Debate in my family consisted of my father lecturing us on
his beliefs and if anyone dared cross him, he would smirk a little with
a veneer of kind tolerance, then proceed to destroy the others argument
with all he had read on the subject. My Aunt Shirley, an ardent
Democrat, couldn’t stand my fathers opinions and was the only one I
ever saw go up against my father at the dinner table. My aunt was
highly intelligent and also well read – but emotional in her opinions –
and my father always won the fights by picking on her ‘hysterical
(subtext female) views’ to the point that she sometimes ended up in
tears at the end of the meal. Basically this meant that there was no
debate at our dinner table, but a whole lot of little heads nodding in
agreement at my brilliant, beloved father. (It was only when we were
much older that we realized that my father never actually read the books he quoted– but would skim them to get his talking points together. We realized my dad only read the cliff notes.)

As the story goes, my mom was a Democrat when she married my father.
Even I remember her being one when I was still in elementary school.
But, as my Aunt says, “how could you live in that house with
your father and not become a Republican?” Well, my aunt must be right,
because it is clear that somewhere along the lines my mother ‘slipped
over’ and started voting Republican. As for me, well you would think I
had the word ‘Democrat’ stamped on my forehead when I was born, but I
am ashamed to say it, it took me till my forties to speak out about
anything political. My fear, my need and my love of my father was so
deeply ingrained that it was impossible to have a conscious political
opinion, dare I loose him as my protector and advocate. When I did
start speaking about my political beliefs, I was just as surprised as
my father to discover that what I believed in was diametrically opposed
to what he believed in, but by this time I was at least hopefully a
little on my own feet – as I said about 40 odd years old. (And my
unconscious prediction was right all along: taking a different
political stand than my father has drove a wedge between us that has
been hard to reconcile.)

Growing
up, my father had a lot to do with my struggle with how to be strong,
powerful — and a woman. He wasn’t alone though, because my gram, aunt
and mom also contributed to my confusion. There were so many messages
coming at me back then, its no wonder I went into the proverbial closet
for years. One thing though was sure: strong women were masculine in a
bad way. If a woman wanted to be powerful she had to get there
surreptitiously and on the back of a man. I can’t say anyone told me
this directly, but I watched these principles every day in my family’s
negotiations. My dad had the so-called power and my mom had to
negotiate with him to get what she wanted. She was trained well – she
used everything from cooking (“Feed your husband before you talk to him
about anything!” was my grams advice), to beauty (I remember hours of
pinning dresses and putting on makeup so that my mom, a mother of 5
screaming children, could walk out the house at seven pm with my father
to a fancy party, and look like a queen, like a woman who could seduce
any man…) and talking of seduction, I am sure she also used sex (five
kids don’t come out of no where, do they?).

Now as I write all this, I feel sad, as if I am in some way
betraying my mother. My mother loved being a woman and loved these
‘womanly arts’ and tried her best to teach them to me. So it’s not as
if she was up in arms about the whole thing. Absolutely not! Would she
have liked more power? Sure. But I don’t think she realized that the
dance she did for my father’s approval was as much to blame as he was
for the problem. But what strikes me most is that while I am writing
about my mother — a 50’s bride and 60’s, 70’s, 80’s housewife – I could
be writing about almost any woman in history. The rules have almost
always been the same. Women must seduce; men can demand. And the crazy
thing is there are few women – or men - in the world that have not been
indoctrinated in this way. And the proof of it is as much in these
current election primaries as anything.

Now, as I said, I am not going to tell you whom I voted for, because honestly both Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama
have similar platforms and they are both talented, bright people. And
on the other hand I have my criticisms of both of them for different
reasons. But I am going to point out that no matter how many people
tell me – “it’s not that Hillary is a woman, I just don’t like her.” I
think America needs to do a reality check: Every time Hillary is
attacked or criticized it is often on the same old fashion gender
bashing standards that we have seen through out history – and that I
always heard from my oh so male father. Almost every political cartoon
of Hillary shows her as a phallic man with a woman’s face! Now what
message is that? That to be a strong woman – just like my father said —
you’ve got to be a closet ‘ball buster’? That for a woman to act like a
man – hence be strong, clear, demonstrative, intelligent – is the most
abhorrent thing for society bar none. It certainly was the thing my
father hated most. And where would it get Hilary to be more feminine
and “soft”? Do we really think America is going to vote for a woman
that is not tough? Especially now, with the emphasis on the terrorist
threat and the future of the war in Iraq….

So the message is clear – to be tough, you’re too manly; to be soft,
you are weak, too feminine. Has anything changed in gender relations?
Can a woman ever win? What is it about our country that it is hard to
imagine a woman making it through the gender gauntlet to be elected
president? I have no doubt in my mind that black men are absolutely at
the bottom of the totem pole in every way in America – except possibly
one. Although racism is still an obvious problem in this country,
sexism seems to go virtually unchecked and seems to be a bigger
hindrance in a political race than I would ever expect. And the proof
seems to be in the pudding: When I picked up the copy of USA today
sitting on the floor outside my hotel room door, the top headline was
about how Obama swept VA, MD, D.C. in the Democratic Primaries. But
when I read further, I noticed the line, “Clinton lead among White
women, but Obama lead among White men.”

My name is Shelly and I work in Jen’s office in New York City. I
came to work one day loaded with questions after I had an an all too
familiar and unfavorable encounter in the subway. Seeing me visibly
shaken, Jen encouraged me to write a guest entry on her blog, hoping
that her wise readers could offer me insight on the dilemma I often
face.

I am a twenty something, professional living in New York City. I
graduated in the top of my class from the college I attended on an
academic based scholarship. I believe myself to be kind, sensible and
secure and yet, I somehow find myself in the most peculiar, sometimes
dangerous and always avoidable situations like the one I am about to
recount for you now.

First thing, last Tuesday morning I had to run to 42nd St. on an
urgent errand for FLYING. After completing the task, I stood in the
surprisingly quiet subway station in a not so surprisingly state of
mental haze, waiting for a train to take me downtown and back to the
office. An extended holiday weekend had just come to a close and my
mind was still mingling with the friends that had visited me and the
incredible Soy Chicken we had discovered in Chinatown. However, I was
jolted back to my surroundings when a woman, similar to my age, asked
for directions. We stood together at the large subway map and I began
tracing the winding train tracks, directing her in which blue and
orange snakes she could take to Queens. But yet another startling
interruption came from a man urgently approaching the two of us asking:
“Do you ladies need help? I live here. I can help”. The train was
clamoring into the station and I got the feeling he was torn as to
whether he should take it and not be late for work or stay behind and
help the damsels find their way in this tough city. Fortunately for
him, I had already given her directions and all three of us could catch
our trains without further delays. I hurried to my train only to find
that the man who had been trying to help us had sat directly across
from me. We sat there studying each other, me trying to be a bit more
discreet about it, peering at him over the top of my book. He had an
open sore on his face and lips that were so dry I wouldn’t have been
surprised if he had just returned from an expedition in the Himalayas.
His hands were well worn with more than half of his fingers dotted with
dark purple spots on his nails. His age was indistinguishable. Maybe 43
or 65 or a dirty 35? I sat there trying to guess whether he was
homeless or just disheleved when all of the sudden my object of study
spoke:

“That was nice of you to help that girl.”
“Oh, it was nothing”.  It really was nothing.
“You work in the Financial District don’t you?” He said this as he got
up and made his way over to me. Sitting down next to me, he left no
room for comfort. He then said:
“I’ve seen you around down there…many times”.
SHIT!  I thought I lived in New York City where all faces are anonymous.
“Yes, that’s right.  I do.” The first stupid response of many more to come…
“Where do you work?”
“At a film production company.”
“What’s the address?”
“ Maiden Lane.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Zohe Films.”
Second, third, and fourth stupid responses of the day.

But really, could it be that bad? He was just a lonely old man. I
was bringing him joy. And I have always had a place in my heart for old
men. It was a harmless conversation.

We continued talking and I learned that he also worked in the same
area as I, in fact, how wonderful!, only one block away. Much to his
delight we were getting off at the same stop. It was at this point that
I began to get a little worried. Even though I had foolishly given him
the name and street of where I worked, I hadn’t given him the exact
address. I didn’t want him to gallantly walk me to my door, only to
return and just “happen to run into me again”. The questions he was
barraging me with began to get much more personal also- Where did I
live? What was my last name? I realized I needed to throw in something
about a bodybuilding husband or a jealous boyfriend and soon! He gave
me every opportunity to do so. “Who do you live with?” “My boyfriend of
three years”, I should have said. It would have been the truth. But
there was something in me that just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It
wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted to continue talking to me and
think he had a chance, a chance at what, I don’t know, but nevertheless
a chance. And so I just said, “I live with a friend”. “Where did you go
for the holidays?” Again, I went upstate on a ski trip with my
boyfriend‘s family, it would have been the truthful and safe answer.
But again, I merely said, “On a trip with family”. I was so mad at
myself for not being cautious, for not protecting myself with the “I’m
taken” schtick. But what for? Let the man have his cake, just don’t let
him eat it too. That was my philosophy.

The train finally came to our stop and I hurriedly made an excuse
that I had another errand to run before going to my office. We would
have to part ways here. We stopped walking and standing in the sunlight
he asked me for my number. He wanted to take me to a gallery opening
where I could meet lots of film producers. I could hardly believe that
this scrappy looking man in a torn flannel shirt was going to a gallery
opening, but I gave him my phone number minus the real digits anyways.
It was just easier then saying, “I don’t want to give you my number.
You are too old for me and you actually are making me feel sick.” I
needed to get away. I was starting to feel suffocated, like all the
personal information he was sucking from me was actually the air I
breathed. I turned to leave and he reached out his hand to shake it. I
was reluctant. I remembered the purple sores on his hands, but I
extended my own anyways. I didn’t want to offend him. But, then as he
grabbed my hand he thrusted me towards him and went in for a full-on
kiss! As I came to from my disbelief I snapped my head away from his
intrusive and chapped lips and he ended up planting one on the side of
my face. Ugh! I could and probably should have screamed. Shaken, I
didn’t say anymore. I just walked at the greatest speed possible away
from him. I couldn’t let him take anything else away from me.

In retrospect, I am aware that I must appear to be something of a
naïve dolt, traipsing around New York City confiding and trusting in
every Tom, Dick or Harry that so much as offers me his seat on the
subway…and as I write this, I think, “Yes, maybe I am.” But most of the
time I prefer to think it is just my mid-west upbringing manifesting in
all of it’s “Please and thank you’s, kind sir and that’s mighty kind of
ya’s, ma’am” glory. But, returning to work after “the incident” I
realized that I am not alone in my instinctual need to please. Many of
the women I work with shared similar stories. Why don’t we say anything
when we are clearly being taken advantage of? Where does the desire to
please come from?

This is not the first time I’ve let something like this happen. I’ve
actually found myself in much more life threatening cases where I’ve
blindly given men the benefit of the doubt, thinking I was doing them
some great favor by being nice to them when no one else would, only to
have them wait for me outside my building at all hours of the day and
night. Is this the price one must pay for showing a bit of compassion?

In FLYING, Jennifer discusses Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) with Somalian women living in London.  Here’s an article from the NY Times Magazine about FGM in Indonesia.
Although it’s difficult, I think it’s really important to be informed
about and discuss. Would any one out there want to share their
reactions?

It’s a Sunday afternoon in January, and I’ve just spent the last
couple of days at the Beloit International Film Festival. That’s
Beloit, Wisconsin, where today the temperature is well below freezing
(-9 Fahrenheit and many people will bear this sub zero temperature to
sit outside all day on a bleacher and watch a football game)!

It’s the first time I’m representing FLYING at a festival - though I
have previously worked as a Filmmaker Liaison at the Miami
International Film Festival. I have recently been thinking a lot about
what it means to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. More precisely,
I am more and more seeing the “flip side of the coin.” While my work
experience at the Miami Int’l Film Festival was about helping the
filmmakers, my experience representing FLYING at the Beloit Int’l Film
Festival was about “being” the filmmaker. With a slightly evil laugh,
Jennifer had specifically asked me to pretend I was her, and I was
wondering if it would be a lot harder than I imagined. Both festival
experiences were lots of fun, and at the end of this post, I list 5
film festival tips based on my humble experience at the Beloit Film
Festival.

As I write this, I realize that one of my favorite activities in
life is travel… I imagine it must be one of Jennifer’s favorite things
to do as well. It’s not just the leaving of Point A and arriving at
Point B, but all the little stops and detours and people that you
interact with along the way.

All 6 episodes of FLYING were screened over the course of a Saturday
afternoon, and the audience response was great. But I understand now
that it’s all the connections you make with people before and after the
film screening that make the festival experience really amazing.

After arriving at the Chicago Airport, Morgan, a volunteer for the
film festival, picked me up in a hybrid car which had accumulated
nearly 1000 miles just by picking up filmmakers from the Chicago and
Milwaukee airports. In the 90 minutes that we were in the car together,
I learned that Morgan is one of 8 children. I told him I am one of five
children, and we laughed at how the average family in the US today has
about 2.4 kids. Curious about the meaning of the word “FLYING” in the
film’s title, he asked if Jennifer was a pilot. It turns out that he
runs a program in Beloit that teaches kids about flying and they had
recently started a special program for girls. I was struck by the fact
that there was more interest from boys than from girls… In the film,
it’s Jennifer’s father that flies the plane…

One of the first people I met when I arrived in Beloit was C.K. Lichtenstein, the producer of a film called “Cathedral Park.”
He gave me a postcard of his film, and when I told him I was there to
represent FLYING, he mentioned that he had seen a poster for the film
and was interested in seeing it (see 5 film festival tips below). He
came to see Part 1 of FLYING - and in turn gave me a copy of his film,
which I’ve been too busy to watch. I’m excited to watch it now that I’m
on my way back home…

Randy, a volunteer at the festival, sat through 5 episodes of FLYING
back-to-back. I met Randy on Saturday morning as we started chatting, I
told him to come check out FLYING. He was one of the few men in the
audience, and was very involved in the Q&A that followed the first
screening. While I can’t remember all of Randy’s questions and
comments, I do remember that he said things like:

“It makes me not like men, but I respect that Jennifer is so honest and real.”

“I like Patrick. He comes across as very charming, but content to
just move forward with life, whereas Jennifer has this need to
communicate and discuss dark feelings. If I were to go out with
Jennifer, it wouldn’t last very long.” (Is this what Jennifer meant
about how hard it is to be her? Were people always projecting their
feelings on the main subject of a film? I fastened my seatbelt.)

Honestly, it was great to have someone engage the audience in a
dialogue about the film, especially to hear about how as a man, Randy
identified with Patrick and put himself in Patrick’s shoes. I wonder if
other men who see the film put themselves in either Patrick’s or Kye’s
shoes? And if so, how many of them imagine themselves responding the
way Patrick and Kye do or in some totally different way?

Though they didn’t see FLYING, there were the 2 crazy college girls who
had driven to Beloit from Chicago to represent one of the short films
at the festival. They spent the night at the same hotel I was staying
at, but they had too much to drink the night before, and so they had
left their car on Beloit’s Main Street and hitched a ride back to the
hotel (apparently some nice Wisconsin man gave them a lift!). The thing
was, they weren’t sure if their car had been towed during the night and
were quite anxious to get back home… They were thrilled to find that
their car was still on Main Street. One of them had a friend who had
seen FLYING at the festival and had reported back that it was a good
film. I found out they are students at Northwestern and intend to
contact the university for a future college campus screening.

All these people, and many more, really made the festival experience
come alive for me… Now onto my 5 tips for a better festival experience:

1. First, make sure you confirm all scheduled hotel and travel
arrangements. Get specifics! If your flight is delayed or cancelled,
let someone at the festival know!

2. Next, you need your promotional materials (ie: posters,
postcards, business cards, etc). You never know when you might start
chatting with a total stranger, and then, before you both go your
separate ways, you pass them a postcard with the film’s screening times
printed on the back. This is very important. If someone you meet seems
like they’re interested in the film, you need to make it as easy as
possible for them to get to the screening. If they have to look up the
screening times, location, date, etc, you may have lost a potential
audience.

3. Make sure that the screening copy of your film (whether it’s a
film print/DVD/master tape) has been checked by the projectionist at
the actual screening venue! When your screening time rolls around, it
should be smooth sailing without any Audio-Visual problems. You want
the film to make an impact the moment the lights go down. If the audio
isn’t strong enough, or if it’s too strong, or if the projector
overheats and won’t play your film, you risk losing your audience. That
said, if you do encounter a problem, it’s not the end of the World!
Just do your best to engage the audience until the problem has been
solved.

4. If you’re going to try and “Pass the Camera” during your Q&A
session - which I did and recommend as a great way to break the ice and
get the audience involved - remember that it’s hard to film the
audience, listen to and answer all the questions at the same time! (I
figured this out when I looked at the footage from the Q&As and
noticed that while I would start with the camera frame on the person
who was asking the question, the camera would slowly tilt upwards and
before I knew it, I had a lot of interesting camera shots of the
auditorium’s ceiling.) Also, check your audio levels before filming!

5. Have fun and be open to the unexpected…

Looking back, I can say that while I was a little nervous about the
screenings and the Q&A sessions, it was an exciting, educational
and exhaustive experience! And honestly, it wasn’t so hard to be
Jennifer Fox – at least in my experience. I think I’d like to try it
again!

Meanwhile, on a lighter note, I also caught up on magazines and blogs and I’ve got some links to articles I’d like to share:

First up, for the most comprehensive 2007 wrap-up with a feminist twist, I refer you to the incredibly hard working Suzanne Reisman’s blog at Blogher.

Secondly is an article I’ve been meaning to share for some time now: an interview with gynecologist, Dr. Hilda Hutcherson, which was published in Newsweek.  She’s an amazing doctor and a very inspirational woman.

And if you haven’t read it, this article, published in the NY Times
a little while back, is a real eye-opener and articulates very nicely
many of the frustrations I’ve long felt in the work place and
double-standards I’ve suspected, but didn’t have the hard numbers to
back up… Now I do.

Besides reading LOVING WHAT IS this
Christmas, I’ve been catching up on a lot of other reading in my days
off. Books have a kind of magic for me: I walk into a bookstore and
wonder what book I will find that day that will change my life. (I
wonder: Does that happen for other people too?)

For
the holidays, I picked up a novel just before I went away on vacation
about the attempted seccession of the state of Biafra from Nigeria in
1967 and the civil war that ensued, called HALF OF A YELLOW SUN by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
I grew up aware of the struggling nation and the horrible starvation,
as Biafra was always on the news. As a young teenager we collected
money for the cause by going door to door and hosting bakesales. It was
a big part of my childhood and a time where we really believed we could
change the world. Even though back then I’d always been aware of the
troubled state of Biafra, I had forgotten much about it. This strangely
beautiful book opened my eyes again to this baffling tragedy. Not only
was the new country being starved out of existance, but rape was a
constant use of warfare on both sides of this religious civil war. The
book made me ask again why men see women, not only as objects of sex,
but as objects of violence? Are we just property to be damaged as pawns
in the games between men? I began to ponder the tragic role women and
sex often play in times of violence. As naive as I feel saying this, it
is something I want to think more about, and join forces with others
around the world to find a way to stop. (If anyone out there know more
about this subject of rape as a tool of warfare or feels there is any
group in the world that is having a sucessful effect against this,
please write in and share your knowledge.)

It was two days before Christmas and I was out early in the morning
to walk the dog and buy fresh bagels and salmon for a special
pre-Christmas brunch with my girlfriend Paula, her boyfriend and his
daughter.

While I was out shopping it started to rain. As I stopped at one
store after another to get just the right delectables, the rain got
heavier. Finally, loaded down with both arms full of packages and
struggling to keep my dripping wet dog, Ptah, in check, my cell phone
rang. I juggled my packages into one arm and rustled the phone up to my
ear. It was my old friend Caroline from England. We hadn’t spoken since
October when she’d just returned from India. We’d traded emails last
week, trying to make a ‘phone-date’, but hadn’t been able to find a
time that worked for both of our schedules.

As soon as I picked up the phone, she said breathlessly, “I have to
go out in 15 minutes, do you have time to talk?” Knowing that if I
didn’t take this opportunity, it might be several months more before we
spoke again, I quickly said “yes.” I hurried across the street with
Ptah in tow and ducked into a bank’s ATM area to talk. Of course, I
remained in that automatic bank for nearly an hour talking to Caroline,
while Ptah settled on the floor and several people came in and out,
retrieving their Sunday morning cash.

Caroline told me about a cartoon she had seen in The Guardian.
A woman was screaming at a man about all the wrong things he was
thinking and feeling and the man just stood there confused and silent.
When she was finished yelling, the man said calmly, “Are you ready to
go then?” And the woman said, “why yes, I thought you’d never ask…” and
they walked off. The point being, Caroline said, that women are somehow
masters at making up stories about what men are thinking and feeling
and most of it is in our heads – our fantasy projections created and
placed on the person in front of us, much of which isn’t true.

I was so excited to hear Caroline talking about this because, of
course, it is something I’ve been grappling with a lot lately.
Recently, I seem to have a feeling and then make up a reason to place
it on my partner and somehow make it his fault. I haven’t figured out
what to do about this, but I have been noticing this projection
practice more and more. I have been trying to cut out the step where I
place it on him and then instigate a fight with him about my fantasy.
Needless to say, I haven’t been very successful at stopping myself, but
it’s pretty exciting to notice that not every feeling I have is his
fault.

Caroline thought women were more prone to these projections – and
also more prone to believing in our fantasies – then men. According to
her, women make up more stories about men – what they are thinking,
feeling, desiring – than men do about women. I wasn’t sure this was
true, but I began to explore the idea in my mind as I was talking to
her. How many times had a boyfriend told me that he didn’t feel what I
said he felt? And when he argued with me, I still believed my
interpretation of his behavior more than his. After all, I think I am a master interpreter.

I remember when I was growing up, my dad always yelled at my mom,
“Stop mind reading! You don’t know what I think!” Of course this didn’t
stop my mom from trying to figure out what he was thinking, since he
rarely shared his inner thoughts or feelings. He was raised with the
values that real men don’t talk about feelings. And I think this is
just the point: Caroline may be right that women make up more stories
about men, but probably we developed this skill because we had to learn
to read the subtext of the male world (which contained all the power
and controlled our destinies). Even if our reading was wrong, it was
better than the non-information provided by men who mostly didn’t
articulate their feelings.

I think about the difference between my Mom and Dad. If the two of
them went to a party and afterwards I asked each of them about the
party? They would respond totally differently. My dad would say, “It
was great!” If I probed a bit more, he’d say, “Everybody was doing
fantastically!” My mom, on the other hand, would have absorbed all the
nitty gritty details: who was talking to whom, who wasn’t talking to
whom, who was flirting, who looked miserable. She would have a story
for each one, gleaned by observation and conjecture. My mom would not
always be right, but she certainly always had more interesting stories
to tell. So, of course, if I wanted to know what was really happening at the party, I asked my mom.

Ok, back to Caroline and I. Sitting there in the bank machine
station, listening to Caroline’s voice from across the ocean, I began
to think she was right. Maybe women did make up more stories about our
partners and the world; maybe this was a result of generations of
powerlessness. At least that was my theory that morning. Caroline went
on to tell me about a book she was reading, called, LOVING WHAT IS
by Byron Katie. I realized I had it on my bookshelf. I had bought it
several years before and read parts of it, but forgotten it.

We had to say our Christmas goodbyes – Caroline was late for her
meeting and I had to get back to make brunch – but I vowed to read LOVING WHAT IS
again over the holidays and report back to her in our next phone date.
I closed my cell phone and gathered my wet shopping bags, woke up my
sleeping dog, and herded her back out to the rainy Manhattan street to
my loft to prepare breakfast.

Later over the Christmas Holiday, I began reading LOVING WHAT IS; I was struck by the simple and clear way it dealt with the projections of the mind.  Although Byron Katie
doesn’t say anything about gender – as far as she’s concerned both men
and women are pretty skilled at living in their fantasies – reading the
book helped me make my first New Year’s resolution: I resolved to be
aware of my thoughts and watch my projections on other people to try to
see what is really true, before I jump to fantastical conclusions.

But what about you out there: What were some of your New Years
resolutions? And what have your girlfriends taught you over this
holiday season?