My Blog

Jennifer Fox and Swedish journalist "pass the camera"

I just want to talk about breasts for a minute.

Last week, I just saw this amazing film called “ABSOLUTELY SAFE”,
by Carol Ciancuti Levy, about breast implant safety. It is a film I
Executive Produced, so I’ve been viewing it over the years. But it just
had it’s premiere screening in New York and watching it finished in the
darken theater, I was horror struck again. It made me think about what
has happened to us in our culture. How is it that we as women have
somehow gotten brainwashed about how we think about our bodies to the
point that we willingly mutilate them in the name of beauty…?

When I was a kid I remember loving my body. Not my face – I thought
I was ugly for a long time – but I thought my body was perfect because
it was well proportioned and thin. That is until I was about
11-years-old and I realized that my breasts weren’t growing. My older
brother started to tease me mercilessly about this and it just became
fodder for another one of our many fights. Indeed, it seemed like all
my girlfriends were growing something beneath their shirts, and I was
growing nothing…

My mother was always small breasted, and during my childhood my dad
often made remarks or innuendos about how tiny she was. Sometimes he’d
even tease her about how when he married her he got cheated in the
breast department. Unbeknownst to him, she had worn falsies and, when
he finally got his hand inside the bra, there was nothing there.

So, of course, when my time came around, I was very sensitive to the
issue. And my bother, having picked up on my father, really took the
opportunity to get back at me big time.

I remember when I first started to be sexual, thinking things like – “Well since I don’t have breasts, I have to ‘go further’ with the guy to make-up for my lack thereof…”

By the time I was 16 or 17, I was dying to have my breasts “fixed.”
It was only 1977, but I already wanted breast implants. I don’t even
know where I read about them or how I found out about them because that
was so early in the popularization of implants. But somehow they were
already well imbedded in the culture of women’s magazines that I read
voraciously. I talked about it so much that my mom agreed to take me to
see a plastic surgeon when I was about 19.

I remember she took me on the train to New York from Philly where we
lived, and we went to the doctor’s office. As we sat in the waiting
room, I looked at a brochure he had on the table with photos of various
headless women ‘after surgery’ – and how I wanted the ‘after’ so badly.

When we finally enter the examining room he made me take off my
shirt and looked at my chest. He kind of smiled and said, “Why you have
beautiful breasts, you don’t need implants at all, let me show a
picture of women who is flat chested who I would suggest implants
for….” And he took out a book of pictures of other women and indeed
they were completely flat, whereas I had these little round mounds. He
told me that I should think about it for a few years, and if I still
wanted them to come back and see him, and he would discuss it with me
again.

I never did go back, and the desire disappeared. Thinking back, I
don’t know if my mom had called ahead and told him what to say or
exactly why the doctor had been so altruistic to turn me away, but the
pictures he showed me helped my self-image a lot.

Over the years, I can’t say I’ve always loved my breasts. They are
small, and I now wear a padded bra, which is another discussion in
itself. But now that I am older, I am so grateful I didn’t cut them
open to put plastic in them to make them bigger. I would have lost so
much that I love about my breasts – like the sensation of softness, the
sensitivity in my nipples, the very nature of what they are….

I remember, when I was very young, how my mom replied to one of my dad’s wisecracks about how small she was by saying, “Breasts have a function, they are made for nursing children, they are not for show…” Now, I think back and realize how wise my mother was, but I didn’t know it then. I wish I had.

I’d love to know what other women think about their breasts and how
they related to their changing bodies growing up? I am really curious
how each woman finds self-acceptance and even love of our “oh so
imperfect but oh so very perfect forms” in a world that makes us
believe that perfection can be created by man. Please write me back.

Now that I was in Scandinavia, surely male-female relationships were
different here? This was the region of gender equality. The Swedes and
the Fins could finally teach me how to do this, they could help me with
my failing relationship, if only I could take notes.

But then the strangest thing happened. Interview after interview
each journalist asked me the same question I was asking myself – why was it that men and woman communicate so differently? And
they didn’t ask me abstractly or objectively! They asked me with
exasperation in their eyes and disappointment in their face. I could
see they – like I – were desperate. They hoped that I might provide
them with some clue to resolving this painful dilemma. One shy looking
journalist in his thirties with glasses, began to give me some clues:

“I
have to admit watching FLYING made me jealous!” He sighed heavily. “Why
are women able to have such intimate conversations?” I could see he was
a little embarrassed admitting this to a stranger. “I don’t know how
you do it. I try to be intimate, but then I just run out of steam —
after a while I just don’t have anything left to say! Whereas women can
go on forever…”

It was such a relief to hear a man admitting what he couldn’t do,
but also strange because despite my hopes that this was just a problem
with my boyfriend, (yes I was still trying to deny gender!) I had to
face the realization that this issue divided the world in two. Men and
woman had different languages; the fight I was having with my boyfriend
was so very typical. And even now, in the millennium, the cause of this
gender division still wasn’t clear to any of us:

“But tell me,” he asked with a kind of desperation. “Why do you think it is so?”

I knew I was supposed to be an expert on gender issues because of
FLYING — and certainly I had thought about it a lot — but I still felt
lost in the proverbial woods.

“I think,” I began tentatively, “that there is or must be a
biological component…. as well as a learned component…. You know that
feelings just weren’t useful when you went into the woods to hunt
animals to eat. Of course, the men must have been afraid –terrified —
but to talk about it would only make it worse. So there grew up a
culture of male pride. Probably the men who didn’t talk survived
better, so then there was a genetic change….”

“Oh,”
he said; his eyes excited. “You know here in Sweden bringing biology up
around gender differences is just not politically correct. You can’t do
it, people get angry at you….”

“I guess it make sense that if you want to talk about change, it is
easy to use biology as an excuse.” I agreed and I saw him nod, “But
honestly biology is just following our repetitive actions, so I am sure
even biology could be changed if talking became a preferred trait for
men over generations, don’t you think…?”

Just then, the SVT press agent, Brita, knocked on our door that it
was time to stop. I was on a strict schedule and we had to say goodbye.
It was sad because we both could have talked a long time. Before
leaving the journalist said:

“If it wasn’t for my wife, I would be completely hopeless, but she has taught me a lot…”

As he left, I thought how lovely it was for a man to admit openly
that a woman — his wife – could influence him like that. I think a lot
of time men don’t allow themselves to change because they are afraid of
seeming weak and giving their power away to women.

The day continued. There were five more interviews all by women –
but amazingly all asked me the same golden question about male-female
language. And I’m afraid for the most part none of us had much insight
on the matter.

One woman who ran a feminist Internet site also asked. I decided to
try my theory tentatively again with her, even though I had been told
by the male journalist that it was politically incorrect. So I told her
that I thought it was both biological and learned behavior:

“…Yet all culture turns into biology at some point, no?” I said. “If
the genetic code is being created by us then even not talking can be
both hard wired and supported by cultural practice…” But I really
wasn’t sure. “What do you think?” I asked frustrated.

“I think it has something to do with being oppressed.” She said,
“When there is no ability to act, you learn to talk. Not just women but
all oppressed people….” She looked me straight in the eye: ‘I mean, if
you have no agency in the world, you have nothing but talking…”

A light bulb went off in my head. When I was growing up the most
communicative and open person I ever met was an Afro-American man named
Cola who was the housekeeper for my family. We lived in the suburbs and
because we had so many kids, my mother and him would split the driving.
He used to drive us everywhere and when he drove we would talk, but he
talked about everything openly – his feelings, his desires, his
problems — and he talked to me as an equal. Cola was the son of
southern sharecroppers and he had moved east to find work. He didn’t
even have a high school education. There is no one more oppressed in
America than the Afro-American male….

When you are oppressed, the only way you can let off steam is by
talking. The women in my family did nothing but talk and express their
feelings (to the degree that I often wanted them to hold some back but
they definitely knew how to express). My father couldn’t express his
emotions at all – except anger, which is the one male emotion. He went
out in the world and ‘acted’. All his energy was consumed by action. No
wonder he didn’t need to learn the language of feelings. That language
of feelings had no place in the marketplace, where showing you’re
feelings, tipping your hand so to speak, could actually make you loose
your job…

… The interview went on, and of course there wasn’t enough time
to say everything we wanted, since there were others waiting. Through
the course of the day, there were so many things said and shared with
my new Swedish friends. Because even thought this was a professional
setting, FLYING had opened up the subject and provided a frame for us
to talk in an honest way about who we really are as women and as men.
So, after hours and hours of talking with the Swedish press I felt
better, and though I hadn’t made huge inroads into the dilemma I was
having with my boyfriend, I felt like I had some new thoughts to chew
on. And that is all I need to feel better in the world. Sharing ideas
and feelings. It is what feeds me – and that is oh so female.

I was having another fight with my boyfriend – only now I was in a hotel room in Finland. The locations changed, but the subject always remained the same.

Fox en route to SwedenI was here to do press for the TV launch of FLYING on Finnish television, YLE, beginning Thursday, November 1, and Swedish Television, SVT, beginning Sunday, October 28. Both countries were going to air the film in a weekly one hour evening slot, like a real series. I was thrilled. They had asked me to come to help with the press and also to do master classes in both countries about the film. In Finland I would do a seminar for the DOCPOINT with my editor Niels Pagh Anderson who was in Finland to edit a new film by John Walker (and also because his girlfriend is Finnish), and in Sweden I would screen the film at a festival called MDOX and run a master class there.

The film was having a fantastic reception. It seemed like there was a kind of love fest with the journalist here. I have never seen reporters ‘get’ FLYING like those in Scandinavia. I had already been to Denmark to launch the film on DR-2 there, and the reception and ratings had also been phenomenal. Somehow this film was just made for the region. But now, underlying all the excitement was the conflict with my boyfriend.

I was fine till I got back to my hotel room at night and then found myself unable to sleep – with the excuse of jet lag – except I had never seen jet lag like this before! I was averaging two hours a night and going down hill quickly. We had both reached a breaking point. We were having the same fight we had since early in our relationship – and I think we were reaching that point where — we just couldn’t do it anymore.

Our fight was about a seemingly simple topic: talking. I wanted to talk more; he wanted to talk less. I needed to talk about feelings, worries, and dramas in my family life or with friends. He found these things uncomfortable or even tiresome, tried to solve them quickly, and move on. I never wanted things solved; I wanted them explored; and if left to my own devises, I could explore them for hours. He felt I never got to “the point” and was impatient for me to hurry up in my story-telling; I wanted to tell him all the odd details that occurred so he would be able to get a true picture. Synopsizing was against my religion.

I have tried to adapt over the years: I have learned to sensor most of my inner life from my partner. I have stopped sharing many of my thoughts, feelings, and even creative ideas with him. I have learned to talk about the weather, what I did that day, what I ate, and what is in the newspaper. We call each other up each day and ‘report’. I have learned to avoid the frustration of asking him for some deeper conversation – and getting the response that he doesn’t have anything deep to share and – why am I always criticizing him. I feel I have changed and to be fair, he feels he has changed too. But since this is my rant, I get to tell my side of the story.

You see, no matter how hard he thinks he is trying, I end up feeling like I am living in silence. So once in a while I try to share something that is bugging me — because I have to let it out. I am a bit like a pressure cooker with feelings – eventually I’ve got to blow.

For example, I’d just had a big revelation that day when talking to one of my girlfriends, Paula, about my fears about having children that stretches back to when I was a child. As we chatted, I had suddenly realized that I was afraid to be happy. To me having children looked like the most hopeful thing in the world. What if you loved them and something bad happened? What if they got hurt or died? And then it hit me: I had been shocked when my middle brother, who I adored, was hospitalized twice before he was a year and a half old. I remember my mother rushing out of the house with him naked in her arms, screaming in fear. The second time, they threw him in the bath to bring his temperature down and then the police came to whisk her and him away. I stood at the window as the police car pulled away with its siren blaring, thinking I might never see him again. And indeed he had to have a huge operation and almost died.

Now as strange as this might sound, it suddenly came to me that I probably was traumatized by this event and my own fear and the fear of my mother. So honestly when I look at families today – I think, wow you guys are really courageous to take those risks. People think I am courageous to make films, but that is nothing compared with having children!

I was all excited to tell my boyfriend all this; it seemed like a big revelation that if I could get my head around, might actually help me to move forward with the adoption we’d been thinking about for so long. So I ran to the phone to call him, believing also that it would help him understand me better, which would lead to a better relationship. He answered the phone and I laid out my brilliant insight and traced the whole problem back to my childhood. I cried on the phone and felt really exposed. This was what relationship was about, I thought exultantly.

But on the line, his voice was irritated with that tone – oh no, here we go again with the deep stuff. He asked many tense questions and then changed the subject. “Well,” he said, “I don’t think you are willing to change your life enough to have children anyway.” And inside of me, I sunk. I was not talking about the practical side of child rearing but the inner ghosts preventing me from even beginning the process. I began to think maybe I hadn’t explained it right? Maybe he didn’t understand what I had told him? But he claimed he did. I tried to stay calm and not jump on him, tried to understand where he was coming from, tried to get a reaction to the story I had told him – you know connection, commiseration, compassion — but he didn’t have anything to say. Nothing.

I got off the phone feeling lost. It took me till the next day to react – after a long flight to Finland – I realized I was really angry. So once I arrived in the hotel and did my first two interviews, I called him on the phone and told him I was really upset. Of course, we got into the same spiral. He cannot talk more; I don’t accept him the way he is, I am always criticizing him. To me, asking to have a conversation about feelings isn’t criticism but expressing a need, a need that I can’t live without. And therein lies the difference between him and me. He can live with out talking and I can’t.

And of course, you are thinking: for a woman who just made a film about gender differences, this person is pretty stupid! Doesn’t she know by now that men and women are different? Of course I do know, but it is still hard for me to accept…

Life on the road leaves me little
time to do some of the things I love to do, like writing this blog.
Fortunately, my good friend, Lisa, has her own idea of what life as a
free woman entails. When I heard she was on her way to Russia, I saw an
opportunity. I thought it might be refreshing to get a different
perspective so I invited her to act as a guest blogger for this latest
entry. I know you’ll enjoy her story as much as I do.

Love,
Jen

Before
I tell this tale, there are three essential things you must know about
me: 1) My entire family is involved in the boxing business and my
mother runs a successful boxing promotion company; 2) I studied Russian
in college and I lived and studied in St. Petersburg for a year; 3) I
am prone to tangents and asides, so bear with me. I promise it will all
come together.

I have this thing called “Den Pobedi.” It’s a term that I took from
Russian. It means “Day of Victory.” In Russian, it refers to May 9th,
the day Russians celebrate the victory over the Nazi’s during the Great
Fatherland War, aka WWII. There is a corresponding war anthem, called
none other than “Den Pobedi.” I became acquainted with the phrase
through the song. I applied my own meaning, which has nothing to do
with Nazis.

To me, “Den Pobedi” is when you win the worst kind of relationship
game. Some relationships I leave feeling satisfied. I walk away knowing
that it was for the best that it ended. More often than not, however, I
leave with a distinct “What the FUCK?!” feeling. The partner decides -
before I do - that we are headed for a dead end. I’m suddenly not as
interesting as I previously seemed. I’m not as exciting. I’m clingy. I
whine constantly. I’ve run out of cute underwear. I don’t know what
happens. Because when it does, there is very little explanation. In
fact, there is usually no explanation at all and I end up believing
that I am still in the relationship well after it ends. It’s similar to
when a phone call gets dropped and you keep on talking to dead air like
an idiot. This sort of end to a relationship is nasty and ugly. Whereas
I try to end most relationships on a good foot, the WTF relationships
end on a noticeably crazier foot. That is to say, after I realize that
I’ve been talking to dead air, I get angry and I want answers. I can’t
help myself. I push the other person to tell me what has happened. What
crime have I committed? Aren’t I still cute? Aren’t I still charming?
Aren’t I still witty? Was I ever? What the FUCK?? I do not remain calm.
I come off as a crazy woman. I’m not proud of it. But I’m aware of it.
And I can’t help it. It is a sickness. My albatross.

But do not pity me, reader! A magical thing can happen. And in my
experience, it ALWAYS happens. I am given a second chance. After some
time, I will see the unlucky victim of my angry unrequited love, and
shock-of-all-shocks!, I’m not the crazy faced woman they remember. I’ve
matured, perhaps? I’m older. I’m wiser. My hair is longer. My boobs are
bigger. I wasn’t crazy! I was passionate. They remember the good times
and they want to experience them again. This is my Day of Victory.
Maybe I lost a couple battles but, God damn it, I’ve won the war. They
want me! They have been thinking about me. It was their fault, not
mine. I was wonderful. What a fool they’ve been. They were young then.
They are different now. Now they recognize me for the Goddess that I
am. I’m an effing CATCH! Would I like to go to dinner? Of course, I
would. I turn on the charm and I can leave them a satisfied woman
because I can walk away from the relationship on top, on my own terms.
They no longer seem so terrible. I’ve tamed the beast. Look at them
scrambling to win back my affections! What did I ever see in them in
the first place? I don’t have any use for them anymore. They were right
all along. So long, lover… we’re done. “Eto Den Pobedi!”

I
ended up in Moscow for a boxing match my mother’s company was
co-promoting. Since I speak Russian, Mom thought it would be useful to
bring me along and help the company navigate the cold post-soviet
streets. Unfortunately, I could only be there for a couple days. My
mother and her crew were there longer than I and they needed someone to
help them around town. Enter: my ex-boyfriend. I’ll call him Michael.
He was a fellow Slavophile. He had been in Moscow for a couple months
and he was the only person I knew who was living there at the time. I
put him and my mother in contact with each other then stayed out of it.

Michael and I had definitely left off on the crazy foot. One of the
craziest feet I’ve ever put forward. I won’t go into details, but
needless to say, I was nervous to see him. Michael was one of the few
guys that really got under my skin. We were not together for that long.
And it was never official. But, in my own emotionally stunted way, I
think I really cared about him and felt that we had real potential as a
couple. He’s what you call “the whole package;” smart, funny, charming,
sexy, ambitious, talented… womanizing. I can’t shake the feeling that
somehow he duped me. Hoodwinked! He was the one how followed me around
like a puppy, trying to woo me. He worshipped me. So how the hell did I
end up sore? I felt, at the beginning of the relationship, we entered
into an unspoken contract that I would be the one doing the heart
breaking. Michael had other plans.

When I did see him in Moscow, it was not what I expected. He was so
sweet and so warm and actually wanted to see me! I was thrilled. I kept
it inside. And what a surprise, I started hearing those familiar lines.
Michael, not you, too! Did he really find me as charming as I found
him? Did he really miss me? Did he really still think about me? Please,
please, no lines… no bullshit. I admit, we were both a little drunk.
But those were still the words I wanted to hear and thought I’d never
hear. It was happening and I allowed myself to enjoy it. Victory!

We spent the rest of our time together enjoying each other’s
company, flirting, reminiscing. These are the times when stupid pop
songs take on an unusual dimension of profundity. I get very foolish in
the face of love. I’m not one to be trusted in romantic situations. The
old familiar feeling often gets me into trouble and this time was no
different.

On my last night in Moskva, the entire group was assembled together:
a mix of school buddies, boxing professionals and ex-boyfriends. Yes,
there was actually more than one there (that’s what you get for
studying something as absurd as Russian: a nearly useless skill and a
bunch of pale ex-boyfriends). We were in mourning. Our guy lost the
fight. And as they say, “When in Rome…” drink your ass off. We did just
that. So I was high on two drugs: the thrill of victoriously rekindled
romance and vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. I had a plane to catch early
the next morning. I needed to go to bed early. But somehow, at the end
of the night, I ended up with a key to an extra room and Michael. What
ELSE were we going to do? We spent the night together and accidentally
fell asleep without setting any alarms, without packing any bags,
without telling anyone where we were.

In the morning, my mother was hysterical. She couldn’t find me and
WE HAD A PLANE TO CATCH! Damn it, Lisa, why do you always do this? I
had gone missing. Now, my mother is no dummy, she knew who I was with.
She called Michael’s cell phone frantically. She called Michael’s
friend’s cell phone frantically. She checked in my friends’ rooms
frantically. She checked down in the lobby, back in our suite. Where
the fuck was I?

The extra room!

She assembled a rescue committee and had a maid open the door with a
passkey. And there she found us: in bed… passed out … and naked, very,
very naked. “LISA!” Her shrill howl, the shock and disgust in that
single cry, still resounds in my mind. It bounces around like an echo.
At times, it grows faint, faint enough not to hear it, to forget it.
And then, back it comes, to the forefront. It grows so loud that I am
sure my ears are now serving their reverse function. I no longer use
them to process sound, but to project it. The entire room can hear my
mother’s disappointment and they know my shame.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl that pretends to be innocent. I’ve
never claimed virginity. In fact, I had no problem announcing it to my
mother when I had sex for the first time. Although, it was much to her
horror; the woman is Catholic. But I’ve just always been like that:
unashamed. I never understood what the fuss is about. Valuing female
virginity has always seemed repressive and outdated to me. But there’s
being open about one’s sexuality and then there’s putting it on
display… to one’s own mother no less! This is an entirely different
beast. One I am not proud to have encountered.

I got ready and packed in a hurry only to come down to the lobby and
realize that not only did I embarrass myself in front of my mother, but
also the ENTIRE fight crew. Everyone: people who watched me grow up,
people who are like aunts and uncles to me, my mother’s business
associates, corner men, EVERYONE knew what I had been doing the night
before. I was the laughing stock of the trip! The trip slut! And I
endured all the ensuing torture - the laughs, the snide comments, the
sarcastic questions, the smirks - all the way home. I doubt I’ll ever
live this down. At least not for another 20 years or so. Maybe this
error in judgment will finally stop following me around once they are
all dead. God, if you are a merciful God, bring on sweet death. It’s
either them or me.

As I sit, reliving, writing, revolted, I find it difficult to
conclude. On top of everything, something is still nagging at me. My
“Den Pobedi” does not feel right. Maybe the residual shame of my mother
discovering us passed out naked and exposing my little secret ruined
it. Maybe the group’s amusement cheapened my tryst. I know I heard the
lines. I know I got the right looks. But, I don’t feel victorious.
Maybe it’s something else. Maybe I’m questioning Michael’s sincerity.
Did he trick me again? In the mad rush to recover my clothes and my
dignity, I forgot to say goodbye. It wasn’t until we touched down on
American soil that I recognized I still wasn’t satisfied. I got him to
admit defeat, but I don’t want him defeated. Whatever the reason, I’ve
got Moscow on my mind. And I don’t feel like a winner at all.

I just flew in from the Vancouver Film Festival where the film was
presented (more on that to come) to Winnipeg where it is opening at the
Cinemateque here. On the telephone tonight, a girlfriend of mine back
in New York told me about a discussion she had recently with her
boyfriend:

“….We had the flying conversation…. You know…. And we both decided we couldn’t do it….”

She was in the middle of an idea, but I was lost, so I interrupted her: “Flying?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said,  “We talked about flying and we decided it wasn’t for us.”

“Where were you flying to?” I asked confused.

“Nowhere….” Her voice was irritated.

“Oh…”

“You know we decided we didn’t wanted to do what Patrick did for you in flying…. Both of us felt we couldn’t stand it…”

“Stand what?” I was having a slow day.

“You know, to be with someone who was seeing someone else…”

“Oh” I said finally, all the pieces coming together.

“He was amazing….”

“Yes,’ I said.  “He was…”

The
conversation moved on to other things, but I kept thinking about what
my friend said long after I got off the phone. I realize how unusual it
is for men – or women for that matter – to stand the jealously of
someone they care for loving another person. Even though Patrick did
that for me, I wasn’t sure I could do that for him if the situation was
reversed.

I feel I could love two people at once – I’ve done it, although it
was hard. But I think I would be furious if my partner did the same. I
know it sounds strange, because I have been with a married man, which
means of course that I have accepted that the person I love is with
another woman and me simultaneously. But being with a married man (or
woman) is often different than one might think. In my case, my married
lover always told me that he didn’t love his partner. He was
just trapped because he didn’t want to leave his children. And I
believed him. (Ok, now the Diaspora of female sisters can stop sighing
and rolling their eyes – yes I admit I am a little slow….) In my mind I believed he only loved me;
the other woman wasn’t a factor at all so it wasn’t about sharing his
love. My acceptance of being with a married man is not the same as
having your boyfriend or girlfriend, your husband or wife, actively
loving you and another person at the same time and admitting that he or
she can love two people at once.

But it floors me when I think that that this is so intolerable for
me and for most people: Why are we so narrow as human beings? Why is
possession so important? Why do we always have to be the only one to be loved?

I guess I am not capable of flying either.

The question is can you still stay open to life’s moments? The
more you do in the world, the more plans you have, the less you are
free to feel, to respond, to be spontaneous. It is something that I
struggle with all the time.’ God is in the details’, they say, but
suppose you are too busy to notice the details?

As I walk down the rain-splashed street in Vancouver - away from the
theater where people sit watching my film - I feel a sublime rush of
liberation. My mind is buoyed in that wonderful empty space that comes
so rarely: I have done my job, fulfilled all obligations; there is nothing more I can do in life for the next two or so hours.

I imagine the infinite future before me: I will saunter back to my
hotel and answer emails, which will be relaxing. The only thing
tempering the feeling of perfection is the weight on my body: one
shoulder is loaded down with my camera bag, packed with the camera that
shot the film, which I used in the Lecture I gave earlier that day. On
the other shoulder is my large all-purpose pocketbook, stuffed with my
new still camera, writing pad, and a bright yellow umbrella. My
shoulders are hurting and begging me not to carry so much. I remind
myself of my mission to show audiences how easy it is to
“pass-the-camera” – and how with every step I am building biceps.

I walk by a music store and think of that CD that I want to buy by
VIA CON DIOS, I look in the window and am about to enter the store,
when I change my mind: Better to get some work done. Keep walking,
I tell myself lightly almost as if I was teasing a child. It’s great
you’re relaxed but don’t go too far, keep up the tension. Still I
am thinking of their music as I continue sauntering down the grey
street, how nice it would be to answer emails as I listen to their
songs. Or perhaps I should go shopping?  I am looking in windows, trying to remember if there is anything I need to buy – oh yes a sweater, red, like the one I saw that woman wearing with the nice zipper front…

“Kind of loaded down there, aren’t you?” A lilting male voice says behind me.

I don’t quite grab the words but more the teasing quality and turn
around, trying to see where the voice is coming from. “What…?” I say
smiling, because my happiness is not yet controllable.

“Got a lot of stuff…” It is an older gentleman with glasses and
white hair, tall and sturdy. He has an accent that I hear immediately.

“Yes, I guess so….”

I think: I was walking slowly, not rushing like a normal person. That’s probably why he noticed me.
I have been caught a little off guard; he came at me from behind. I
have to assess what is going on quickly, to figure out why this man is
talking to me. I am not afraid, but I am wary – antennas straight up;
all senses open. I look around. He is alone. Doesn’t look like a street person. He is keeping pace with me. He’ll turn off soon, I am sure.

“I’m looking for the Starbucks…” I say — which is kind of true and
not true, because I‘d been vaguely considering getting a Starbucks with
the free $20 card I’d discovered in my festival goody bag that morning.
I had purposely put the free card in my pocketbook with
uncharacteristic planning. Except up until that moment, I hadn’t
decided on a coffee right now.

“Kind of ugly day…” he says, “Been raining all week since I arrived… Saturday, Sunday and yes today – it’s Monday isn’t it…?”

“Yes…” I say uncertainly, trying to remember where I am and what day of the week it is. Traveling so much makes me dizzy, makes me lose track of all markers.

He is looking ahead – I suspect he is looking for the Starbucks for me. Now I will have to buy coffee,
I think, and I am not sure I want to have coffee right now after all.
Then suddenly it hits me – his accent — I know where he’s from:

“You’re Scottish?” I say

“Yes I am!”

I feel a thrill – like a basketball player, nailing a hoop. This is my specialty.  “Here on holiday?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says and laughs. “Well sort of…”

I am curious what he means. Perhaps he came here as a boy? Perhaps he lives here? But I am still wary.

“I have been here a week…. Just went to the aquarium. The thing I
liked most was the white whale…. now that was interesting.” He pulls
out a leaflet from the aquarium. I am thinking: he really is a tourist.

“The beluga white whale,” he says and shows me the picture of the whale, below which he has neatly hand-printed the words — Beluga Whale.

Perhaps I should believe that he is a tourist, I think. But
it is not often you see men traveling alone, especially older men. I
figure there is a wife back in the hotel or a daughter or son living
here and working during the day.

“Are you here alone?” I ask. As usual, I am not shy.

“Yes.”.

“No wife…?”

He laughs – “No.”

I am trying to figure out this man. All the while I am thinking: should I invite him to have a coffee with me? I have this free card…it is nice to be able to be spontaneous…. But I am also thinking – you don’t know this man, maybe he is crazy; maybe you should go to do some work…. Then Starbucks appears:

“There it is…” he says

“Yes…” I say and decide to leap: “Do you want to have a coffee with me? I have a free card…”

“All right!” he says as natural as can be. “I got a free trip from the railroad too…”

I am not quite grabbing what he is saying now, but we are already
crossing the street and entering the Starbucks on the corner. Inside,
it is crowded.

“I’ll get us a seat!” He is already moving away from me.

“Ok,” I say, “how do you like your coffee?”

“Milky…” He calls out.

“Share something sweet?” I am imagining a muffin, because I know old
people like sweets in the afternoon. My grandmother used to love having
her coffee and Danish.

“No,” he shakes his head and makes a face, “But you get a bit for yourself.”

I leave him to get in line. There is something reassuring that he didn’t want a Danish. At least it is clear that he is not hungry and therefore homeless, I think to myself, still not sure I am doing the right thing.

I am wondering what ‘milky’ means in Scotland. Does he like it light? With half and half or milk?
I want to go back and ask him, but I don’t want to lose my place in
line. I am behind a Chinese Tourist who insists on buying a special
Starbucks coffee cup that hasn’t got a price tag on it. The manager is
called, the tourist holds firm; she wants the cup. All I want is two
regular cups of coffee – Grande size – but I have to wait. I cannot see
my new friend. He has disappeared in an area behind some shelves. I
don’t know why, but I start to get nervous. Maybe he will leave before I return? Maybe he will think I have disappeared…?

Finally, I get my coffee – add milk to both of our cups and grab
some sugars for my new friend, not knowing how he takes it. I make it
around the shelves to find him sitting there. I feel a rush of relief.
He has pulled out his train tickets on the tabletop and wants to show
them to me. But first I ask him about sugars, did I get enough, and he
pulls out a bunch of packets from his pockets:

“Always carry ‘em with me,” he smiles waving five sugar packets
before me , “Never want to be caught without….I like it real sweet…”

There is something endearing about the
thought of him taking sugars from all the restaurants he dined in.
Something again that reminds me of my grandmother.

“See”, he says, changing the topic and pointing to one of the
tickets he has laid out on the table, “I got a $50 rebate for that one
from Toronto to Winnipeg – Train ran an hour late…”

There is handwriting on the ticket that says, $50. He pushes another
ticket in front of me. “Now that one I got a $150 back, it was three
hours late!” – he smiles pleased, then pushes yet another ticket before
me, “And that one I got $350, back! It ran seven hours late into
Vancouver! Ha!”

He slaps my hand, thrilled, and breaks out in a huge peal of
laughter. I smile politely, still trying to understand what brought
this man here alone? Why this huge cross-country trip at his age?
I learn that he is retired from the railroad and when I ask how long,
he bursts into a huge grin and lifts up his hands to make a guessing
game of it. He shows me his five fingers two or three times. So I go
for the higher number:

“Fifteen years?”

“No”, he says smiling.  And does the finger thing again; this time it seems like two times five plus two fingers.

“Twelve?” I ask, skeptical of my ability to add.

“No!” he says and laughs, and starts again with the hands.

I am not getting it. “I give up” I say, disappointed.

“Ten years!  Ten years ago I retired from working on the railroad!” He has enjoyed the game.

“Widowed?” I ask, returning to the nagging question in my mind.

“Nope!”

“You never married?” It seems so incredible to me, to find a man like him from his world, at his age, not married. It is one thing for me not to marry.

“Never.” He says, smiling.

“Why not?” It doesn’t make sense.

“Ay”, he drawls with the Scottish poking through.  “Some things never happen…Even when you want them to…”

I am trying to figure out how to ask more. Perhaps there was a
woman he loved, who married his best friend? Perhaps she didn’t love
him back? Perhaps he is gay in a world in which it is impossible…?
There are many possibilities, but while I am considering a tactful way
in – or at least tactful enough for me — he jumps in himself.

“Ay, I reckon it’s better to be married.” He says looking me straight in the eye.

Does he know that I am single? Does it show? I think to myself.

He continues. “You always have someone behind you, backing you. You
don’t stand in the world alone. There’s someone there to discuss things
with, to fight with, to run away from, go to the pub, have a pint with
your mates and go back home and let her have her own way…” He laughs.

“You don’t always get what you want….” I say, “But sometimes you get what you need….

“Ay no,” he says shaking his head not getting my meaning, “Its not that that you always get what you need…”

There is a silence. It is too heavy to pursue this last thought of his. After a few moments of silence, I change tactics:

“Why this trip now?” I ask.

“Well, I’d moved back home ten years ago when I retired to take care of my mom. I lived with her till she died three months ago…

“Oh,” I say, thinking I now understand the reason for the big cross-country trip. “That’s sad….”

“No, not sad at all! She was 98….” He says. “It was a celebration…
She nearly made it to a hundred!’ He is smiling, “My sister and I — we
did everything for her till she died. I washed her, changed her, fed
her…”

I am again remembering my grandmother, who died at ninety-nine and a
half, and how my aunt and mother took care of her till the end. With
this man, I imagine the whole scene in my mind: watching him carrying
his mother from her bed to the bathroom and back again, day in and out.
They are very close; he loved his mother more than anyone. I am moved
but also relieved that the story is finally making sense. I have found
my in and go for it:

“Oh that’s why you are traveling now…after her death you decided to get away…” I am feeling hopeful. If only I can find the key, then I can relax.

“Ay, no,” Shaking his head, unaware of my need to give order to his life. “I always took one big trip a year….”

“Oh…” I say disappointed that my construction has failed. I am beginning to worry about the clock, that I should be going soon.

“Yes, last year I went to South Africa…

“I’ve been there many times,” I offer, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Yes I had friends living there in Bloemfontein, then I took the
trip up the coast and then we stayed in a free cabin below Durban on
the sea in Umtata…

“Oh…”

“The year before I went to China and Mongolia. We toured all the way from Shanghai to Xian….

“Did you go in a train?” I ask. Maybe the key is trains.

“No we went by bus everywhere. Did you know that the name China came from the emperor Chi in the 17th Century…?

“No, I never knew that….” I say: How strange to learn this fact from an old Scottish man I just met in Vancouver. “Do you always travel alone?” I ask, still a bit worried.

“Yes,” He pauses and I can see in his eyes that he knows that I am
thinking of loneliness. “…But you meet people… the trip to china had 10
people on it…old people like me.” He smiles. “Now I know most people
would not want to spend time with old people – but it’s alright for
me…” He laughs. “It was a tour…. I also did a trip around the world in
2000….”

“Wow!” I am impressed: “How long did that take?”

“Twenty-two days. First we started in Australia…. Did you know that
in Melbourne they have really great Italian food – and cheap too? Then
when we got to Sydney, I found the greatest Chinese restaurant – in
fact a whole street of Chinese restaurants, just like there was a
street in Melbourne that had Italian food. …. Then we flew to New
Zealand.”

“I’ve been there too,” I interject, trying again to interest him in my life, but to no avail.

“Now in New Zealand,” he spreads his hands apart on the table and
chops them down on the counter: “ I had lamb chops this big!” he laughs
excitedly. “ Ay! Never seen anything like it. Now that was good!”

About now, I begin to fidget. Listening to his restaurant tour of
the world is dampening my enthusiasm. I am not getting any closer to
knowing the elderly Scottish man before me. I think of all the emails I
should be answering back at the hotel and my mind divides: I make a list of work to be accomplished when I am sitting at my computer and simultaneously talk to old man in front of me. I ask about his family and learn that his father worked in the coalmines all his life. Now that is interesting.
Of course I immediately think that he must have gotten black lung and
died young. But my burst of excitement is cooled again when I find out
that his father lived to the ripe old age of 86 despite having
pneumoconiosis, a form of black lung.

I am wondering at my need for a good story. I am wondering if I
am some sort of pariah – a real life story junkie. And just as I am
thinking this, my Scottish friend tells me:

“Ay,” he says, “my father never wanted me to work in the mines like him.”

I perk up: “Why?” I ask.

“Well, you know…” He says looking me hard in the eye because
everyone knows why a parent wouldn’t want a son in the mines. “I
remember we used to learn our lessons on a chalk board. It was because
of the war you see. But I never went to high school, just junior high.
I graduated in 51’ — no 52’. Then my dad sent me to the next town to
work on the railroad.”

“Did you work on the train?”

“No, not at first. I was only 15 years old so I was too young! They
wouldn’t let me on the trains. I started out working in the supply
shop. Then when I turned 16, they let me stoke the coal engine.” He
sees the surprise in my eyes and laughs: “Oh yes, the trains were coal
back then.”

“Did you ever drive a train?”

“Ay, no, it took me till I was 29 years to work me way up the ladder
and drive the train. That was grand! After that, I considered going
into management, but I didn’t want to sit inside all day, so I stayed
driving my train route till the end, till I retired… First the trains
were diesel, then electric…” He smiles: “You know the electric train
works like the human body. In the body the brain sends signals to your
hands to move… to pick up that camera for example…”

I have taken out my camera to take a photo of him. “May I?” I ask. He is a bit surprised, and then begins to pose.

“…. Or to take this picture…” he says smiling. Your brain has told
your hand to take this picture through a series of electrical
impulses….”

I am intrigued by this new thought about how my hands work. A thrill
runs through me and I put down my camera and take out my notebook to
write down what he has just said. Lately I have been thinking how
interesting it is that our bodies work at all. I am thinking, maybe I should I invite him to my film for the evening show – but immediately worry that he will find a film about women boring….

“Like the whale,” He continues, “they have electrons sending pulses through their body…”

I have never heard this either…

Then he point to me: “Is it easier to remember things when you write them down?”

I stop for a moment to consider. It is the first question he has
asked me since I met him on the street. Yes — I think, remembering how
much I like taking notes. But what I say covers up my real thought:
“You have a very good memory….”

“No” he says, “When I retired I took French lessons….”

“Wow,” I say and think, French lessons! This Scottish man!  How amazing!

“I couldn’t never learn to speak but I could read and write.”

“But you have an incredible memory!” I say – thinking of how he rattled off all the names of the places he visited.

“No,” he says. ” For French, I had to write the words down… You see
I was too old to remember a new language. If I had been younger I could
have picked it up, but it was too late…” And then he says in French:
“Je ne sais pas pourquoi je ne puex pas recorder rien…”

Now I get it.  Finally I feel him. I have been reached.

All the while I was sitting there trying to put him in a box, to
find an angle and make a neat story, when there is none. All my effort
was frustrated by what I was missing: not the poor elderly man I wanted
to construct, but the real person sitting in front of me — this incredibly curious mind. A man who travels every year around the world out of a desire to know; who learns French just because; who speaks to a stranger on the street in Vancouver and goes to have a coffee with her…

Alone or not alone, what does it matter? Here is a man, trying to learn and to grow, trying to understand the world for its own sake; for the sake of being alive.

And I think: This is the way I want to be: Now and till I am 70 and beyond. This is my role model.

I decide to invite him to see my film, knowing that he will say yes, knowing that he will come and even find it interesting because he is so interested in the world.

I have to hurry back to the hotel before the screening. We make
arrangements to meet outside the theater 15 minutes before the show so
I can walk him in for free.

And just before leaving we introduce ourselves: His name is Tom.
Mine is Jennifer. As we are walking out of the Starbucks, I find a
magazine catalogue from the festival stacked by the door and show him
the photo and write up of my film with my name on it.

“So your famous?!” He says and laughs, shaking his head at the
wonder of life. I laugh too, and we part, knowing that I will see him
that night. And I do….

And as I walk away from him, I think: God is in the details’, but suppose you are too busy to notice the details – won’t you miss out on what is important in life?

I am standing in the theater screening FLYING at the Vancouver Film
Festival. The audience is full and we have done our introductions. I
have walked up the aisle to the back and the lights are down; now it is
only a matter of listening to check sound before I can escape to the
anonymity outside. I hate this moment when I have to make sure
everything is right. I can feel the pressure in my body rising and I
recognize the flutter of something else: it is cool, tight, high
pitched. Fear - I name the devil in my own mind. And there is a kind of
embarrassment inside of me; after all these years I can still feel fear
before showing my film to a new audience.

The trailer for the sponsors play and then the trailer for the
festival. Normally I love trailers because it allows time for the
stragglers to enter the theater, time for the audience to settle. But I
realize the sound is too low. The temperature in my body is dropping.
My film will come on too low.

I hate this: tweaking sound with an audience. Pon Chu, the lovely
festival programmer, is standing next to me, unfazed. I lean over and
whisper in her ear. I am pretending to be calm - she was so generous to
program my six-hour film.

“We better get them to raise the sound….”

“Lets wait, maybe the film will be fine….” She whispers back serenely.

I nod. Several minutes pass with more promotion so low that I can
barely hear. My head begins to roar: they will not enter properly; they
will not get the impact, all is lost. I cannot stand it any more; I am
trying to avoid a train wreck.

“Maybe we shouldn’t wait…?” I whisper to her again as evenly as I can.

This time she slips out to tell the projectionist. She comes back.
But it is still too low. Then the house manger pops her head in. My
film starts: it is the opening sound of a plane and it is almost
inaudible.

“How is it now?” she mouths.

“Can you raise it?” I say.

She disappears. After an interminable time, it comes up a hair.
Better, but still not loud enough. The manager pops her head in again.

“More…” I mouth, “a little higher.” Out again she leaves, minutes pass then she returns looking at me in the shadows:

“Ok.” I say,

But this is the part that really bothers me - I am not sure anymore.
Have I made it too high? Perhaps I am hurting their ears now? What
about the people in the front? I can’t stand the torture any longer and
I leave the room. I hope I have made the right decision, but I really
don’t know anymore. I just want to escape this horrible feeling.

In
the lobby, Pon Chu and I agree to meet back 15 minutes before the
question and answer session in three hours, then we will have dinner
together and get to know each other better. She has to go back to her
office.

“Do you want a ride back to the hotel?” she asks.

“Oh no, it is good for me to walk, get some air…” I say relieved to have a few moments alone.

And
I am suddenly liberated, walking down the street. It is misty but not
raining. I am thinking about the fear and the relief and how lovely it
is not to have anything pressing on me for two hours. There is so much
about my job as a filmmaker that requires me to be sure of what I
think, even if others don’t agree. To fight for some unseen vision that
I want against the masses of those who don’t ‘get it’. It also requires
me to be a perfectionist; because to me a film can be ruined if I’m not
being vigilant enough. Especially in the last few days of completion,
when all I want to do is stop fighting and rest.

What amazes me is after all these years of making films is that I
can still loose my center so quickly that I don’t even know what is
good and what is bad, what is right and what is wrong anymore. And
sometimes, I think as I happily saunter down the streets of Vancouver
and gaze in the shop windows, maybe it isn’t so important….

I am in a hotel room in a bed in the morning — half awake, half
asleep. It is another strange city like all cities, but a city that I
like, a city that I know. The light filtering through the curtains that
are not quite dense enough is nagging me awake. I have aged to be like
my mother – I can only sleep in complete darkness. I remember when I
was small thinking, I will never need complete darkness like you. But I
have become like her. I pull the covers over my head and go back to
sleep. I dream:

I am in a mini bus with my mother and father and other family
members. The bus is like something at the Sundance Film Festival. We
are taking a long circuitous route to get where we are going. Somehow,
because of me, we are all late to a screening. I have not given
directions. I do not want to get off the bus.

There
is the noise of strangers walking outside my hotel door and I drift
towards consciousness. I should get up, but I don’t want to. I turn
over again and pull the covers over my eyes. The word “cling” – comes
up to my mind – I am clinging to my bed and I like it. It must be late
but there is no clock near. I should get up. I don’t. I fall back
asleep.

I am in an airport. I am sitting on a plastic chair. I will miss
or have missed, or want to miss the next step. I don’t want to get up.
I could be anyplace. I don’t care. Someone wants me to move, my
boyfriend, but I don’t know why. I just know I am disappointing him.

I stir awake with the rushing noise of a car passing somewhere
outside my room. I remember we had a fight last night on the phone, my
boyfriend and I. A fight that confused me. I struggle to remember what
the fight was about and can’t. The sheets are calling me – so cool on
my legs, so soft, I fall back asleep. I should get up but:

I am rooted to the ground, sitting on a mountain in the woods on
a stump. Everything is green and leafy. I am going to miss something
but I don’t know what. I have become a tree. I cannot move. My
boyfriend is angry with me. He wants me to get up, but I don’t want to.

Somehow in the dream I remember why and awake - sort of. There was a
phone call last night – I am in this time zone, he is in that time
zone. We are never it seems in the same time zone. We are wearing thin.
It is not as it used to be. We used to be able to take the separations.
I complain, I am teasing him.

Why didn’t you call me last night before you went to bed?

I hadn’t heard a word from him and I had called too late – he was asleep.

He responds: Why didn’t you call me?

I say – thinking I am teasing him, thinking I am light, thinking I
just want to be close, thinking he will hear it in my voice – You should have called me because you are in the earlier zone.

He suddenly erupts: You cannot blame me for that! You should have called me!

This is not the man I met years ago. I was the one who never let him
whine when we were apart, could not stand any suggestion of guilt. This
is my part — to yell at him — which I have done before when I imagined
he was trying to ‘guilt me” for something. We should be free, I had told him over and over.

He always used to say that he was just expressing his missing me,
but I never believed him. Now I want to tell him that I get it, I
understand, because I want to tell him that is how I feel right now.
But as I am looking for the words – I can’t find the words miss you.

He screams louder. You are doing exactly what you used to accuse me of doing!

I know that. But I can’t find the words to explain. Instead I start laughing.

He is screaming: Look in the mirror. I can’t take this!

I continue to laugh and the more I laugh the worse it gets. I have
never laughed before in this type of situation. It is a new response
for me and I too am thrown off balance, but I cannot stop; I continue
to laugh.

He screams again: You better look at yourself in the mirror!  And then he hangs up.

This was not a dream. But it feels the same as my tossing and
turning beneath the sheets this morning. I do not know why either of us
behaved that way – but like my morning dream fragments we seemed locked
in a script that could not be undone. Me – laughing; him - screaming.
It is not like him; it is not like me. Somehow I am sure he wants me to
get out of bed this morning. Somehow I am sure I should wake up. But I
sink deeper under the covers and fall back asleep.

Eventually I will sit up, go to the bathroom, and make a pot of
coffee in the hotel room coffee maker, using both of the two
complimentary, pre-filled packs of coffee — because I like it strong. I
will sit down and think about what to do.

And this is what I will think: I will call him and ask for a phone
appointment. I know if we try to talk about this during his workday it
will never work. I remember that when I called him last night –
midnight for me – it was nine in the morning for him and he had just
arrived at work. Work is always full-on for him – he is a different
person when he works, intense, obsessive, arrogant, authoritative. He
needs to attend to lots of problems and it makes him nervous. Was that what was behind his outburst last night? I know he will deny it.

We will set a time and we will talk. I hope he will not yell and I
hope I will not yell. I hope we can work out this lifestyle that is
killing us slowly, this lifestyle that is what we both wanted, this
lifestyle that leaves no room for each other, this lifestyle, this
lifestyle, this lifestyle… I still believe in us – we love each other
enough to get angry. We love each other enough to want to make
compromises. I pick up the phone and press his number: it is 10 am
here, which means it is 7 pm there. It will be a better time this time.

First making FLYING took me around the world to meet and film other
women. Now the distribution of FLYING is keeping me on the road,
meeting remarkable women all the time. Only now, the conversations
begin at a different starting point because they are sparked by seeing:
CONFESSIONS OF A FREE WOMAN. So, if my relationships with women began
quickly before, now we really get to the muck quickly. As the
journey continues, I am on a plane to Los Angeles, my mind still
reeling from all the new ways I have been shaken up by the last seven
days spent in Chicago talking to new women – and men — as the film
premiered at the Gene Siskel Film Center on State Street downtown.

First I have to say again: I have never seen audiences like in
Chicago. When the lights went up, people stayed planted in their seats
asking question after question until I had to almost forcibly end the session. In retrospect, I wish I could have asked more back of the audiences: Who were they? What stories from their lives did the film touch? Why did so many men show up?
Don’t get me wrong – I want woman watching the film, but I also want
men to see it so that what happened in Chicago can happen everywhere –
a dialogue between the sexes.

I spoke with so many women and men – there are two many
conversations to recount. But there are two conversations that I want
to mention: At the end of one screening a tall woman with blond hair,
about my age, came up to me and presented me with a book – “THE BOOK OF PLEASURE” by Carol Gillian.

“This is what you are talking about in your film and I want you to have this,” she said.

The woman’s name, I later learned, was Anita Orlikoff. I felt really
moved by her gesture. She said she would be back the next days with her
mother to watch the rest of the film and she’d love to know what I
thought. I shyly told her I would try to look at the book but not to
expect too much because my time here was so pressed. But inside of me,
I felt committed to look at least some of the book before the next time
I would see her.

Later that night, I began to read and I was struck by one thing the
author spoke about: During adolescence, Gillian wrote, girls go through
a process where they disassociate from their authentic self – often
never to be reclaimed. I didn’t get very far, but the idea kept nagging
at the back of my mind all day. It was one of the main motivations to
make FLYING in the first place and often audiences everywhere wanted to
ask me about my disassociation during the film’s question and answer
sessions:

Why was it that it was only in forties that I was able to face the issue of being a girl and a woman?

Why had it taken me so long to ‘wake up’?

How is it possible, after making political films all your life, that you still didn’t consider yourself a feminist…?

As hard as it has been to answer these questions, I always try to
take my time and explain the strange path I have had to navigate from
the time I was a girl to womanhood. Only in my forties did I begin to
understand what had happened to me – but admittedly I was still
struggling to understand it all. Reading Gillian’s book made me wonder
about the societal forces that had pushed me – and I learned most women
— out of our authentic selves as girls.

The next day I had an interview with a journalist named Jan Lisa Huttner who started a organization, called WITISWAN (Women in the Audience Supporting Women Artists Now).

We had never met before but set a time to meet outside the theater
before the show. Jan arrived in a bright pink jacket, her warm buoyant
personality immediately engulfed me and put me at ease. She took me to
a tea restaurant and we settled in to talk. She wanted to know about a
comment I had made to her friend Bill Stamets, the lovely journalist
who had interviewed me for a feature article in the Chicago Times.
In the piece I had spoke about how recently when I showed the film in
Romania where I was running a five day documentary course, the men and
women had responded differently. Afterwards one of my female students
had said to me: “Why are you surprised? As women, we have had to learn men’s language, but men have never had to learn women’s language….”

Jan brought up this comment and asked me to speak more about it. As
is often the case when you are talking to someone like Jan – deep and
inquisitive – I discovered new things about myself as I grappled to
answer her. You see, I told her, in my struggle to survive as a girl in
my family and in the world, I adopted men’s language. I knew I had to
learn my father’s language – to convince him that I was capable enough
to be able to leave the house. If I had acted like a girl – emotional
– he would have felt that I was too weak to function away from the
home. I remember distinctly being 14 years old and being conscious of
having to mimic him – his tone, his body language, his breathing. It
amazes to me to this day to remember just how conscious — and pragmatic
– I was at such a young age of having to bury my true female self
to get what I wanted from my father to survive. I knew I had to please
him in male terms. And I remember even feeling a huge sadness
afterwards – knowing that I was selling my soul in some way – but not
feeling I had any choice. But after that moment in time, I buried it
all and I adapted: I went on and continued to behave like a man. And I forgot that I had ever been any other way.

Then Jan asked me a question that I was embarrassed to try to answer – who were my female role models growing up?
Sitting there in Chicago my mind went blank as it usually does when
this subject comes up – because every journalist and Talk Show host
asks you this question at some point. My normal response is: “I never
had any female models”. My only models were men…not famous men, but men
like my father, whom I idolized. It is strange — and even a bit scary —
to have no memory of role models – did I raise myself out of the muck? How could that be possible?

Jan suggested I look at the film YENTEL by Barbara Streisand again –
because that is the story of the film. It is the story of a girl who
values male achievement so much so that she disguises herself as a boy
to have the same advantage. Until one day Yentel sees a woman behaving
with such lovely female qualities that begins to realize the value of
her own female sex.

Jan suggested this was my story. I was a little
overwhelmed. I remembered watching YENTEL but not associating it with
myself – not even seeing the shift from celebrating male values to
celebrating female values. I promised Jan I would watch the film again
soon, and then I remembered something I had forgotten until recently. I
told Jan that another Barbara Streisand film, FUNNY GIRL was my
inspiration to become a filmmaker – and of course that film was about a
woman. This was a memory that was buried for years until recently a
journalist asked the question when did I decide to make films? — And the memory came back to me.

It was October 10th, 1968, my Aunt Shirley’s birthday, and for the
occasion we were going out to the movies and dinner. I remember that my
mother, gram and aunt were excited because Barbara Streisand was Jewish
like us, with a big nose like many Jews, and had made it to the big
screen. But these details meant nothing to me yet because I was only
nine years old. I remember my mom making me wear a blue smocked dress,
white gloves and black patent leather shoes with a strap with a pearl
button. I hated these clothes, and normally we would have had a fight,
but that night I kept quiet because of the thrill of going to the
cinema. Later, I remember the feeling of sitting in the dark theater
with the horse-hair seat covers tickling my bare legs. But I didn’t
care; I remember the enormous emotion in me as I watched the story of
Fanny Brice. I felt so much – but I don’t remember what caused the
feeling. I only remember that it was so powerful that it made me say to
myself that very evening: I want to make films. I want to move people that way.
It’s strange, I would imagine that most young girls would have said
that they wanted to become an actress like Barbara Streisand, but not
me. I wanted to be the creator of emotion.

Now, thirty-eight years later, sitting with Jan – suddenly a new
knowledge that I had dissociated from the whole story came back to me:
FUNNY GIRL is the story of a woman who decides to have a career and to
be independent. It is the story of a woman who has sexual desires, who
chooses the man she will love — by herself and against everyone’s opinion.
It is the story of a free woman. In fact FUNNY GIRL was the path I
hoped to follow – as I said, not to be a performer, but to be a
workingwoman. And all these years, I remembered seeing the film; I even
remembered the decision that I wanted to make films in that dark
theater at age nine. But I disassociated that Fanny Brice (Barbara
Streisand) was a role model to be a workingwoman and that the story was
a model for me of what I wanted to become. And like many early
decisions a child makes. I do remember making a decision that day… it
is only that until coming to Chicago I had forgotten why.

This is why I need to meet other women, this is why I need
girlfriends – they are my mirrors to wake up to the world and to
myself… I have been sleeping so long.