12 Years a Slave is a Must-See

“For the dead and the living, we must bear witness.” Elie Wiesel I said I wasn’t going to do it, but I lied. I tried to bite my tongue and swallow the words making their way from my brain to my lips, but I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in another debate about the film 12 Years a Slave. Surprised and dismayed by the reaction, I find myself defending the film to African Americans of don’t want to see another movie about slavery. I have never heard Jewish people utter such foolishness about movies about the Holocaust.

The fact that my people don’t understand why 12 Years a Slave is a must-see film makes me sad. It’s not as if movies about slavery are rolled out on a regular basis—two within the same year in very different genres does not measure up to, too many in my book. In America, we shy away from stories about the slave trade—an integral part of American history, but often flock to see films about the Holocaust. I often wonder if we embrace the tragedy of the Holocaust, but not the Transatlantic Slave Trade because we take comfort in knowing that the atrocities of Holocaust did not happen on American soil.

As Americans we like to hold ourselves superior to the Germans, but I don’t know how when America also promoted racial superiority. Just as the Holocaust is Germany’s shame, America must accept slavery as this country’s shame. The same thought process set that allowed Hitler’s reign of terror over Jewish and other “undesirable” people in Europe was also a mindset in America. We too, had a strong eugenics movement and believed in racial superiority that was born out of the very institution that we want to people to forget and get over because it happened hundreds of years ago.

We cannot ignore the impact of slavery as its effect is still being felt today. There is a scene in the film where Solomon is lynched, and as he stands on tip toe with his life in peril, the slaves on the plantation go on about their day—timidly looking on, but saying nothing. One woman gives Solomon a drink of water before going on. I sat in horror as I digested the mindset of those who acted, but did nothing. And yet, I see this in my life all the time. The police stop young men of color and search them all the time, and the rest of us watch and say nothing. I watched 12 years a slave to learn. I watched to pay homage to my ancestors. I watched to draw strength, to draw courage, to have faith. I am because of who they were.

There is no shame in me for being a descendant of slaves. I am a product of those who survived such horrific circumstances, and I’m thankful to those like Steve McQueen who tell the stories that need to be told.

Tale of Two Runs

I recently joined a running group to give a much needed boost to a sluggish exercise program. I’m not really a runner; I jog/trot my way to my desired destination. The group meets at a running store on 102^nd and Western and they run through Beverly. This was something I manage twice a week because it was on the way home from work. I could get some things, meet for a run and head home. Perfect.

The first day out I cheated myself and ended up walking. In my rush to leave that morning I forgot to pack a required essential—my sports bra. I knew I couldn’t run without my attention-seeking companions acting out and trying to get some attention. They needed to be tied down, and I had left the harness at home. So, I resigned myself to walking. But it was a wonderful walking experience.

Although I ride through the Beverly/Morgan park neighborhood and admire the scenery, it was not something I had done on foot. The perfectly manicured, rich deep-green lawns surrounding the home create a sense of serenity. As I walked and enjoyed the view, I could feel the stress that had been nipping at me fall away. I passed a boutique and peeked in the window, and then ducked in the jerk chicken restaurant to grab a menu. It was a wonderful prelude to what I hoped would be a peaceful evening.

On Saturday, I decided that I wanted to run outside again, but I didn’t want to drive to Beverly. Since there’s a park near my house that I have used as part of my exercise regiment in the past without incident, I decided to go to the park. The area around Palmer Park is definitely not as scenic as Beverly, but I could be outside and be one with nature—or so I thought.

The early morning peace was pierced by the sounds of sirens speeding west on 111^th St. unfortunately, living in an area plagued by violence, the sounds of sirens are commonplace. I started my run and noticed CTA workers in the park along with a bus. “That’s odd, I thought.” As I rounded the corner I saw the news crews. I saw people gathered. I saw a building across the street with the windows broken out, and the yellow tape stretched across the fence in front. I slowed, but I didn’t stop.

The next time around, I became a voyeur and whipped out my phone. Snap, snap. I took pictures to document the difficulty of even something as simple as a run in certain neighborhoods.  Two days earlier being one with nature melted the tension of a long day, but on Saturday, the songs on my from iPod were fighting with my stream of consciousness thinking of-what-had-happened-and-whose-life-was-forever-altered-by-the-early-morning events. 

I couldn’t help but wonder how could anyone find peace in the midst of unrest?