A Novel Solution
It seemed like this was going to be the year.
In February, I had been signed by a manager, and was in negotiations to have my screenplay optioned. During the week-long vacation from school, I holed away for a couple of days in a Catholic retreat center called Enders Island. I was working on script revisions while my new manager negotiated the deal with the director who wanted my screenplay. Unfortunately, that deal fell apart. I was heartened by the fact that my new manager had saved me from a bad deal, and the fact that another producer stepped forward in March. He called and we had a nice conversation, and he expressed great enthusiasm for my script. He also said he would be sending me an option agreement within the next few days.
He never did, and in spite of the fact that over the next few months I would get phone calls and emails from him telling me he was “about ready to make an offer,” he never actually came through. I put up with his shenanigans probably far longer than I should have, because he seemed to have a real passion for the script, and frankly, I had no other suitors. Finally, in July, I ran out of patience with him when he left me a message saying he was going to a couple of meetings with producers to discuss my script. I called him back and told him if he wanted to do that, that we would need an option agreement in place, and then he was free to do that as much as he wanted. My next piece of communication from him said “there was just no interest in my screenplay” so he was going to move on. Again, it was disappointing, but it’s also clear he’s a bit of a fly by night. I never understood why he wanted to shop my script without an option agreement–the agreement puts him on the hook for one entire dollar, and gives him exclusive rights to shop it for six months. At the end of the six months, he can drop the option, and owes me nothing more. The only thing I can figure is he didn’t want to negotiate with my manager, who proved very clearly she didn’t come to represent Oscar winners by suffering fools gladly.
It was around that time that I finished second at Visionfest, and in spite of these set backs, still felt optimistic about my screenplay and other projects I was working on. However, the entire experience with the Bridge contest and the fact that the revised version of my script failed to place in the Nicholl competition did begin to deflate me. It seemed I was heading in the opposite direction I thought I would be in this year, and it was starting to grate. I realized that the changes I had made to the script–following the notes of the director who never hired me–had taken the story away from where it should have been. In short, I had made it worse. So, I went back to where it was a year ago and rewrote it from that copy, and deleted everything else I had done since then. As a result, I feel much better about it then I did this summer. As if to affirm my new faith, I was soon contacted by a Boston-based director with a Kurdish wife who was very interested in the screenplay (if you don’t know, it takes place in Boston, and the protagonist is Kurdish refugee from an honor killing). I’m not sure if I believe in signs or not, but this seemed like if this was a sign, it was one I shouldn’t ignore. So, I sent him the script.
And I haven’t heard back from him. Nor did he respond to my follow-up email last week.
So what now? Well, this is when I started thinking about the words of the great Randy Pausch, he of the Last Lecture. He has a theory about walls–walls let us know how badly we want things. They also keep the people who don’t really want things out of your way. So I started thinking that if this is a wall, how might I get around it? So, I have made a decision. If, by the time my contract expires with my manager in February, and there are no new deals on the horizon, I am going to take my screenplay and adapt it back into a novel. Some of you may recall that it started life during National Novel Writing Month a few years ago. Maybe what I am being told is that it needs to go back. I still believe in the story, and still think it needs to get out there, but maybe it’s not supposed to be a movie. So that is my new plan.
Intimidating? Yes, but I was heartened by the words of the brilliant Dave Eggers whom I saw at the Connecticut Forum a couple of weeks ago. Eggers mentioned that there is a page from Amy Tan’s “The Bonesetter’s Daughter” on the wall in one of his tutoring centers. It’s designed to remind the students that even the people who are the very best at this craft have to work very hard at it to be successful. And Ms. Tan is clearly not afraid of walls:
The page is from her 26th draft.
Motivating Factors, Part Two
I know it has taken me a little while to get to this–and it’s not because I lack motivation to finish this topic. 🙂
I mentioned that at the end of the first post that what motivated me the most at work was relationships. Relationships, I think, are key to much of what we pursue in life. Why do we take time to try to be attractive to others? We are looking for their attention–we want love, we want sex, we want something that won’t happen without them noticing who we are, followed by some level of communication. Why do we follow sports teams, or musical acts, or other celebrities? We feel connected to them in some way–even when we have never met them, and really don’t know them at all. It’s the same reason we get caught up in the lives of fictional characters: we imagine a connection with them, and want that relationship to come to some sort of fruition (triumph for the hero, defeat the villain). It’s part of what motivates me to write this blog, and to write screenplays–at some point, a human being will connect with my writing, and have an experience. Although I may never have direct interaction with my readers (or viewers), that desire for connection is still part of my motivation.
Teaching, of course, is different from writing a blog or deciding I know Casey Anthony better than a jury that spent weeks in the same room with her. Teaching doesn’t happen without relationships. You can’t really be an island if you are a teacher. Even if you don’t interact with your colleagues much, you still must interact with your students. Ineffective teachers, I think have decided that they don’t really want any relationship with their students. It’s okay if you don’t want a relationship with a colleague–even in a small school like mine, you can mostly avoid any unnecessary interactions. It’s also fine if you don’t want to have a relationship with your neighbors–stay out of their business, they are mostly going to stay out of yours (especially here in stolid New England). Don’t want to be in a relationship with your significant other? Take steps to end it. That’s more complicated, of course, but still within your power. You’re a teacher, and you don’t want a relationship with your students? If you don’t quit your job, you have a serious problem. Your students are coming back tomorrow–and if they realize you have no interest, or you don’t like them, or worse, you don’t care–well, get ready for a thoroughly miserable experience for all concerned.
My wife Valerie brought up in her comment to my first post the issue of toxicity. It’s a valid point. What if you like your kids, and they like you, but you are struggling with motivation because of all of the other pressures you have–test score politics, ever-changing state/federal/accreditation requirements (many of which are contradictory), helicopter parenting, and less than stellar school leadership? What if all of these factors suck your energy and your desire to have any sort of relationships in your school? What, then?
To answer that, I want to first consider an example of what schools should look like: American Canyon High School in Napa, California (and don’t think just because it’s in Napa, it’s really flush with cash. That’s not how California funds its schools.) The principal, Mark Brewer, sums up his school’s credo: “Motivating kids to learn means building relationships with them.” The school is divided up into four learning centers that allow students and teachers to develop relationships over time–what Brewer calls “communities within communities–where it’s easier for administrators, teachers, and students to forge relationships.” It’s also not a one size fits all model–in addition to college prep and AP courses, there are vocational programs from culinary arts, auto shop, and nursing, to name a few. He also has this crazy idea that the teachers work together in the “communities” to plan lessons, set goals, and develop curriculum. Brewer has argued that his school model reflects what should be the priorities of education.
I know many of my colleagues are probably reading the above paragraph, and thinking “my school does something similar, and I (or one of my colleagues) still struggle with motivation.” I don’t doubt that’s true. I think the difference is leadership. Too many schools have leaders that lack the proper perspective. They have decided that, in essence, relationships are not important. They make no effort to cultivate a relationship with the individuals who staff their buildings. They treat them with disrespect, make knee jerk decisions, and lash out at anyone who offers an alternative. This is because there is tremendous pressure on schools and school districts to perform. The consequence is that relationships are being sacrificed at the altar of “results.” A media culture that celebrates such “toxic avengers” like Michelle Rhee as smart, tough, pragmatists (Ms. Rhee actually has all but three of those qualities) does not help. It creates a dysfunctional model–one that people like Mark Brewer are trying to resist.
I have often said that as long as I could keep the other distractions out of my classroom, I can continue to stay motivated to do my job. So far, I have been successful, but that may not last forever. The only way to avoid is for the Mark Brewers of the world to get the upper hand over the Michelle Rhees and the Arne Duncans. I wish I could say I was optimistic that will happen. Nonetheless, I’m going to keep rolling that stone up the hill for as long as I can.
Fatherless on Father’s Day
I know I said in my last post I would write part two of Motivating Factors. I still plan on doing that, but yesterday being Father’s Day got me thinking about my own father, so I decided I wanted to write about that instead. I’ll post the sequel to Motivating Factors later this week.
My father passed away in 2003, just a few weeks before his 68th birthday. It doesn’t seem that long ago, yet I find myself recently thinking about all of the things that have happened to Valerie and I since he died. My pursuit of screenwriting. My district Teacher of the Year Award. Our trip to Italy in 2006, and our trip to Scotland (including a stay at Brodie Castle) in 2009. Valerie and I buying a house together. A lot can happen in eight years, and I often find it painful when I realize that I can’t share some of these things with him.
When I think about being a writer and a teacher, it’s difficult for me to imagine that either of those things would have happened without his influence upon me. I grew up in a house surrounded by books. We had more books than we had room, so books didn’t just fill up our cheap aluminum book cases (covered with a wood colored veneer–very classy!)–virtually every cabinet, closet, bed stand, and any other conceivable nook and cranny contained books. Most of them were hardcover, and were purchased by my father. One of the very first books I read cover to cover was Henry Williamson’s “Tarka the Otter”–which I mistook for a children’s book. And even though it was not “Rikki Tikki Tavi” (my favorite children’s book, also in my father’s collection), I found I could not put it down. I could see Tarka as clearly as I could see anything, as Williamson’s irresistible prose opened up a whole side of my imagination I didn’t know I had.
When I reached the end of the book only to discover that Tarka had been killed by hunters, I wept for probably an hour. Then I was angry. I was angry at Williamson for killing off his protagonist, and I was angry at my father for having such a dreadful book. My father worked late at night, and was napping that afternoon, but it didn’t stop me from charging into my parents’ bedroom and rousing him from his slumber. He had some explaining to do.
To his credit, he didn’t lash out in anger when he realized all that had upset me was a novel about an otter. Looking back on it all these years later, his affect seemed to suggest that it struck him as completely reasonable that I would warrant an explanation right then, his sleeping be damned. So he pulled me up onto the bed and calmly explained to me why it was that Tarka had to meet his demise at the end of the book. To be honest, I don’t remember what he said to me. I remember the smell of his musk, and the gentleness of his voice, and feeling much better after he spoke–so much so that when I left, the book in my hand was no longer an object of scorn, but appeared instead to be magical treasure. I didn’t return it to the shelf–I kept it in the drawer in my nightstand. I would come back to that book for the next several years–flipping through it, rereading passages, sometimes just enjoying the feel of it in my hands.
The thing is, my father helped me understand what great writing was–to hook an audience, to make that audience feel deep emotion for people (and other creatures) that didn’t even exist, to create a world that audience just could not shake. Even though I didn’t understand that at the time, he certainly did. Perhaps that’s why he took me seriously. He could have easily told me to leave him alone because he was sleeping, or to stop being so silly–it was just a book , after all. But he knew better than that. He knew what writing could do. And that’s what I think he tried to convey to me.
After that, what I wanted more than anything was to make someone else feel so deeply for a character as Williamson had made me feel for Tarka. I couldn’t imagine what joy that would be, but I knew it was something I wanted to feel. Every time I sit down to write, I think about Tarka and I think about my father, and suddenly I believe anything is possible.
The last time we spoke was around Thanksgiving in 2002. I had just published my first poem in a major magazine, and one of the last things he said before hanging up was that he was proud of me for writing it. I thanked him, of course– but I really wish I had thanked him for what he said to me all those years before. Neither of us realized it then, but that was the day he taught me I could be a writer.
Happy Father’s Day.
Motivating Factors
“We are not supposed to be perfect. We are supposed to be useful.” — Leonard Peltier
A few weeks ago, a senior in my philosophy class–let’s call him Andy– asked me, “How do you stay motivated?”
I don’t think he was interested in what kept me going, per se. I think he wanted to know how anyone had motivation, and if there was perhaps some magic elixir I could share with him. I remember thinking at the the time that when we are young we are far more willing to look at the world thus: if I could just find that one answer I’m looking for, everything will fall into place. If I could just get my car, if I could just get that girl to notice me, if I could just get my diploma, then it’s all going to be o.k.
Come to think of it, we keep doing that as adults, don’t we? I think this is why his question has stuck with me so. What keeps me motivated, and why does Andy struggle with it? What keeps our current class valedictorian so motivated that she’ll do extra credit for me if her grade slips down to a 98? Conversely, what keeps one of my colleagues–let’s call her Andrea–from being motivated? Andrea uses all of her sick days up by February vacation and seems perpetually resentful of the presence of her students.
I wonder if Andrea thinks if she can just make it to Friday, or the end of the school year, or to retirement, then everything will be o.k.. The problem is that most of her day is filled with events and interactions that make those goals seem so far away. Maybe that’s why she’s so unmotivated. She has a goal, but it doesn’t get her what she needs, and she has to wait so long to get it.
This strikes me as ironic, because every motivational speaker–whether they be self-help gurus, retired professional athletes, or pseudoscientific charlatans (or all of the above!)–will tell you that the key to motivation is to set realistic goals and work towards them. I won’t dispute this, but it seems to me those goals also have to be meaningful–that the process of obtaining them must be just as valuable, if not more, than the goal itself. For Andrea, there is nothing meaningful that happens between her showing up at work and her next day off.
I think the same may be true of Andy. He wants to graduate high school, but he can’t get motivated enough to do what he needs to do to finish, perhaps because there is no meaning in it for him. This wouldn’t shock me–Andy might be the smartest kid I have ever taught. He is likely bored by high school. Of course, if we are bored and uninterested in what we are doing, it becomes virtually impossible to derive any meaning from it.
I tried to answer Andy as honestly as I could. He’s here to get his diploma. If that is the single most meaningful thing in his life right now, he could do it–and in his case, with very little effort. However, if he is encumbered by the fact that a lot of what he is being asked to do is purposeless–well, he’s right. It’s high school. A lot of it is stupid. A lot of it is pointless. A lot of it will be so unimportant in a few years, it will disappear down the memory hole, never to resurface again. As I frequently tell my students: if you ever meet someone my age who says high school was the best time of his life, run like hell away from him, because his life sucks in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.
So I asked Andy what he ultimately wanted–to walk in graduation with his fellow seniors? To walk away early to adult ed or a GED test? To stay at home until his parents died and it becomes his? He confessed that he was afraid of those choices, because he didn’t want to be a quitter (I think he actually meant being judged a quitter by his parents, but that’s just my supposition). I told him there was no shame in quitting something he found meaningless. Ultimately, though, he was going to have to figure that out on his own.
He thanked me for the advice, and he left me hoping I had been of some use to him. Then I started thinking about what kept me motivated at a sometimes thankless job that despite some common misconceptions, doesn’t pay very much and eats up a great deal of energy. And though I will be the first to admit that I am happy on Friday afternoons, and relieved at the end of the school year, those are rarely at the forefront of my mind. Indeed, I am sometimes asked how many days are left in the school year, and I take it as a good sign that I rarely know.
So what does motivate me? Relationships. The relationships with my students, with my colleagues, with the materials and ideas I teach. I find meaning in all of these. Indeed, I would argue that relationships are the single most important factor in a successful classroom and school.
In fact, I will argue that extensively in my next post.
Winging About Wisconsin
I have been reluctant to chime in on this issue–primarily because I feel in terms of who reads this blog that this might be a case of choir preaching . Nonetheless, my frustration level with the overwhelming ignorance about the role and cost of public employees has angrily driven me to the keyboard. As C.S. Lewis once said, “Prayer doesn’t change God, it changes me.” If you find this enlightening at all, splendid. If not–well, you can console yourself with the knowledge that I now feel better.
I’m going to do this in a sort of myth versus reality format. A cliché, I know, but please indulge me.
Public Employees are Paid More Than Private Sector Workers. Both Forbes magazine and Fox News (no surprise there) have published data along the lines of Wisconsin teachers earning an average salary of $55,000 per year, while the average American worker makes around $38,000. A damning comparison if it was in any way shape or form valid. The problem is you cannot compare teacher salaries in a state with a relatively high cost of living with everyone else in the nation. That $38,000 figure includes every entry-level and minimum wage job, regardless of whether it’s in Manhattan or Jackson, Mississippi. In other words, the comparison is essentially meaningless. It’s a bit like saying Wal-Mart cashiers are overpaid by comparing them to maquiladora salaries in Honduras. No one would take that comparison seriously.
The truth is that when one makes a valid comparison–like comparing teachers to private sector workers with comparable education, experience, and age, the numbers are very different: public sector employees get paid on average 4% less than their private sector counterparts. This has been demonstrated by the Center for Economic Policy Research (among others) on countless occasions but the likes of Forbes and Fox News (not to mention the New York Times and the Associated Press) seem to be ignoring this fact.
Governor Walker Wants to Balance the Budget. I have no doubt this is true. However, it is abundantly clear that his plan to strip union workers of their right to collectively bargain is not about the budget. Otherwise, he would have accepted the union’s ascension on this issue. He would not have extracted this particular section out of the budget so he could get it passed in the state senate without a quorum. The smoking gun was his claim after the senate ratified the legislation: that he would now not have to lay off 1500 workers. Given that the restriction to collectively bargain would have no immediate effect on the state’s funds–the budget concessions have yet to take effect–how could this be? It’s simple–there is no connection between the ending of collective bargaining rights and these layoffs. The layoff threat was not an economic consequence, only a political one.
Indeed, politics is the true motivator here. Private sector unions make up less than 7% of the workforce–they are no longer a political force. Public sector unions comprise 36% of the government workers in the U.S. As a result, they are a large, motivated, educated group of mostly Democratic voters. Crippling the strength of their unions would break one of the most effective election bases for Democratic candidates. Given that Walker demonstrated repeatedly that the end of collective bargaining rights was far important than budget concessions, it should be obvious to the average 12-year-old that this is about politics. Probably why Fox News hasn’t worked it out yet.
Government Employees are Lazy and Retire with Huge Guaranteed Pensions. My beginning logic students would recognize this as the fallacy of the Hasty Generalization. Even if we modify this statement to “most,” it cannot be reasonably defended. Are there lazy and ineffective government employees? Of course. It turns out there are lazy and ineffective employees everywhere, regardless of whether one is the private or public sector. Yes, DMVs can be awful. However, you may have noticed that over the last three decades the U.S. economy has transformed itself into a service economy without any real service. Of course, none of this excuses an ineffective or lazy teacher. It does, however, show that making sweeping generalizations is tantamount to saying nothing.
In terms of those pensions: in fifteen states, public employees are not allowed to participate in Social Security. Moreover, thanks to a sub-section of overreaction in federal law, public employees aren’t allowed to collect the Social Security benefits from a job outside of teaching in which they contribute to the fund. Thus, if a scientist works ten years at Pfizer and then decides to become a teacher, s/he is no longer eligible for the Social Security benefits earned from that decade of private sector employment. In states where public employees can contribute to Social Security, their pension contributions are much smaller. To make matters worse, many of the state pension funds were severely weakened during the economic collapse of 2008. Which leads me to my last point…
Public Sector Largesse is Wrecking the American Economy. It’s not, because the economy was already wrecked by Wall Street brokers repacking toxic assets to others, then betting on the market to collapse. The companies that committed this horrible crime were unable to survive without government intervention, and then decided to reward their CEOs with massive bonuses. There is a common complaint that public employees are not held accountable for doing poor jobs. Well, so far, no collection of public employees has managed to throw the world into the worse recession in nearly eighty years. The group of people who did not only did not get fired, or go to jail, they gave themselves huge raises. The only reason companies like Bank of America or Citigroup are still around is due to the huge injection of public funds from the TARP program. In other words–taxpayer funds. $700 billion of them. Can you think of anything else that could have been done with that money?
Public employee unions understand the tough situation governments are in–that’s why the vast majority throughout the country have agreed to concessions. Many have had to endure layoffs and reductions as well (my school laid off one of the best teachers in the district–all because our Board of Education thought the Middle School athletic program was far more important). Yet Bank of America and Citigroup took billions of dollars in government funds to stay liquid, gave themselves huge bonuses–then paid exactly zero taxes last year.
So who do we blame? Public employee and teacher unions. We denigrate our neighbors. Meanwhile, the thieves that wrecked the economy sneak off while our backs are turned. If you think Scott Walker isn’t aware of this–well, I have an occupied capitol building I can sell you. Cheap.
Why I Teach
I had been mulling another rant about the institution of education, when it occurred to me that I haven’t had much positive to say about my profession. My last entry was extremely positive about my writing, but I haven’t really talked about why I became an educator, and why I still love it. So I thought in the interests of equal time, I should go to there (thank you, Tina Fey).
I’d like to be able to tell you that I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, and am happy to have the career I set out in—but that would be a lie.. I have great respect for individuals who are able to be that certain about a career choice at a young age. Many people know what they want to do in high school, and pursue their education with that in mind. Many people know their going to college right out of high school, and worked hard to get in to the college they wanted. For me, I didn’t know what I wanted, and I certainly didn’t work hard. I graduated from San Diego High School with a GPA of one something something (when it starts with a one, it doesn’t matter what the other numbers are). Out of a class of 593—I finished 577—proving the cliché things can always be worse.
Oh, a little side note: San Diego High School’s mascot? The Cavemen. When I got to the University of California Santa Cruz, I discovered the mascot was the Banana Slugs. Only in California could you go from Caveman to Banana Slug. Anyway…
My lack of motivation of success was, apparently, not lost on one of my school administrators: Vice Principal Nancy Moreno. Nancy Moreno was my vice principal from 7-12 grade. She was my vice principal for three years of junior high school, and then when I moved on to high school–she followed me. She was, to put it mildly, a terrifying individual. First of all, she constantly wore mirrored sunglasses—even indoors. I may not remember this correctly, but I think she posed in them for her yearbook photograph. Her face was perpetually stuck in a smirk I can only describe as “barely tolerant.” And for reasons that shall remain forever murky, she sang an ear-splitting rendition of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” at every school Christmas show. All six years. Outside of those performances, though, I had no idea what her voice sounded like, because in all that time of her being my vice principal she never spoke to me. Not once.
Until the day I graduated.
It was after the ceremony. There was the usual amount of frivolity, horseplay, high fives, and of course, silly string. I was, in fact, high fiving a friend of mine, the unfortunately named Mark Lemongello (whom we had nicknamed “The Gel.”) Immediately afterwords, there was a forceful tap on his shoulder. We all turn around to be confronted fact to face with mirrored sunglasses, and a barely tolerant smirk. Ms. Moreno just stood there looking at us – for a moment I thought,–oh my god, she’s going to sing. Happily, she instead congratulated Mark, and then turned to me. She extended her hand and said the following words:
“Congratulations. Although, I don’t know why I’m bothering. You’re never going to amount to anything.”
Then she sauntered off. I don’t know where she went after that. Perhaps to stop by a local animal shelter to kick some puppies, or to find a senior citizen in a wheelchair to shove down a stairwell. I laughed, and pretended it was funny, but mostly I remember it being awkward as hell. As I walked out of the stadium, I was comforted by one thought: at least I’d never have to set foot in a high school again!
There are some life lessons I’ve gleaned from this experience. Number one: Don’t make bold declarations about the direction of your life when you are 17. Lesson number two: There are good ways of being honest and direct, and there are not so good ways. Some might look back on this event and say that Vice Principal Nancy Moreno was giving me some tough love, being brutally honest, so I’d get the kick in my backside that I needed. Perhaps. But if your idea of tough love is “I’m going to make you feel worse about yourself, so I can feel better about myself”–that’s not actually tough love. That’s narcissism. That experience, though, always reminds me how important it is what I say to students, and how I say it. It’s a maxim that doesn’t apply just to my students–it applies to anyone, really. Oddly enough, that’s a harder lesson for me to remember outside of the classroom. As I get older, I find I am much more patient with my students than with the adults I know.
The third lesson is this: When I tell my students the above story, they often suggest that I should find Nancy Moreno and tell her how wrong she was about me. While this thought has a certain appeal, I have my doubts that she actually remembers me, or even the words she spoke. The worse thing that happened is not that she said it—the worse thing is that for while, I believed it. It’s not important that she knows she was wrong; the important thing is that I know. Four: it’s really important not to give up on someone. It’s so easy to make judgments, especially if those judgments have ever been proven right. There was one student I had a couple of years ago who I made up my mind about. He had done nothing in class, except give me a lot of attitude and treat many of his classmates with a lack of respect. Desperate to graduate he came to me after midterms and asked if it was still possible to pass my class. I told it him it was, but that he was going to have to do a great deal of work–more than is classmates–and make a sincere effort to treat me and those classmates with respect. He readily agreed, so I signed the contract with him, then waited for him to fail.
He didn’t.
He did everything I asked of him, and more, so when the year ended, he passed my class and graduated. I was happy for him, but of course, he never showed me the slightest bit of gratitude. That was okay–the important thing was, that he kept up his end of the bargain.
When I was grading his final exam, I noticed something he scrawled on the last page. I thought it was just a note he may have written to himself–it certainly wasn’t put in a place where he ever really wanted me to find it. I would have ignored it if I hadn’t seen my name:
Mr. Brodie:
I remember back in tenth grade you told us you didn’t give up on students. At the time, I thought that was just the usual teacher bullshit. But this year I realized you meant it. You didn’t give up on me, even when everyone else did. Including me. I’ll never forget that.
There. Right there. That’s why I teach.
I’m On the Oscars Page?
Well, so much for my plan of writing one entry per week. The month of December is busy for a number of reasons. Those holidays, for one, and I have discovered some of the downsides about having five classes of mostly high achieving students. One, they do all their work. Two, they do it well, so there are lots of words to read. Three, they remember that they have turned in work or taken a test, and want to know when they’ll be getting it back. Four, if they are not satisfied with their grade, they will take advantage of their sucker teacher’s idiotic rule about revising and resubmitting any work they wish. Which is to say that I have much more to grade than I usually do. Throw in the fact that my wife was in Indiana tending to her ill mother (who is recovering nicely), all of a sudden it’s December 27, and that month went by fast.
Oh, and there’s been one other thing: the title of this entry, me being on the Oscar page. Don’t believe me? You don’t even have to scroll down to find me listed as a Nicholl Fellowship semifinalist. For those of you who are not familiar with the Nicholl, it is arguably the most important screenwriting contest on the planet. Winners get writing careers, and $25,000. However, the award is so prestigious, that being a finalist, semifinalist, or quarterfinalist is also a very good thing. There are over 6500 who submit to the Nicholl. The quarterfinalists are the top 300. The semifinalists the top 100. The finalists the top ten. It’s about the only screenwriting contest out there where not winning can still a really good thing. Last year I was a quarterfinalist, and had production companies, agents, and managers contacting me. This year, in the semis, I have even more. Also, when I mention that I am a Nicholl semifinalist in a query letter to a production company, they seem much more likely to request my script. This is the other reason I have been so busy.
Right now, there is a film director who loves my script and is hoping to package it with other scripts to her investors. She has also has another script that she wants to shoot but needs to be rewritten. I have given her my diagnosis of what’s wrong with it, and my prescription of what I think will make it better. If she likes my take, she might just hire me to rewrite it. I also have another producer who is fond of my script, with whom I will be having a conference call later this week. All of these contacts came to me, courtesy of the Nicholl. They saw my name, the logline of my script, and contacted me. That’s how important this fellowship is. If all goes well, I won’t need to resubmit it next May to shoot for the 2011 finals.
So what is this script about? The title–“Season of Mists”–tells you very little, although it’s a title I like very much. The full story spans more than one season of mists (autumn, according to John Keats).
A few years ago, I was writing poetry, and enjoying it–I was even nominated for two Pushcart Prizes. I even had a poem published in a major publication for all of $25! It was then that I caught the screenwriting bug, and started composing screenplays. One day, I was flipping through the paper and noticed an article on honor killings in Turkey. I read it, and I was disturbed and upset, but there was one line I could not stop thinking about: a quote from a young Kurdish woman who had been “rescued by her uncle from an honor killing.” The article continued without any further comment, but I couldn’t help but wonder: how did he rescue her? What were the consequences of that decision, for both of them? Does the family know she’s alive? If so, has the uncle been ostracized? The wheels began to turn. A story began to take form.
Many of my writer associates were less than impressed and far from encouraging. What do you know about that culture? You are going to write something about another culture you don’t understand, with a female protagonist? Aren’t you supposed to write what you know? That’s never going to work. You should try something else.
Hey, I’m all for constructive criticism and brutal honesty, but couldn’t you at least wait until I wrote it first? Although I am certain this was not their intention, I became more determined than ever to write it. I also began mulling over the idea of writing it as a novel, and I knew National Novel Writing Month was approaching, so I thought this might be the perfect vehicle to see if I could write 50,000 words in one of the shortest months of the year. How did I do? I finished with 53,000 words. How did it come out? Ghastly, as you could imagine. Enough to convince me that it really wasn’t a novel after all–it was a screenplay I needed to be writing.
One thing my writer colleagues were correct about: I did need to write what I knew. Thus, I went to work turning my ignorance into knowledge. I read books from great Islamic, Middle Eastern, and South Asian authors such as Asra Nomani, Elif Shafak, Kamila Shamsee, Jhumpa Lahiri, Orhan Pamuk, and Reza Aslan, just to name a few. I saw dozens of films from that part of the world, including The Syrian Bride, Caramel, Paradise Now, and even some European, British, and American films that explored many similar themes, such as The Escape and The Visitor. Perhaps most importantly, I listened closely to the words of Aida Mansoor, a Hartford area Muslim who was written many pieces in the Hartford Courant defending Islam from the attacks of ignorance, and has visited my school on more than one occasion to help enlighten my students. She explained very clearly the Quran’s real view of women, what an inspiration the Prophet’s first wife, Khadija was to Muslim women everywhere, how the head scarf is not a symbol of oppression but of virtue and modesty, and that concepts like terrorism, honor killings, and female genital mutilation have no basis in the Quran. Many of these dreadful practices are cultural or political, not religious. Aida’s patient answers to my questions and those of my students had such a powerful effect on me, that I named one of the characters after her. She doesn’t know this, unless of course she is a devoted reader of my blog. In which case, now she does.
After I don’t know how many drafts, workshops at the wonderful Pulse Ensemble Theater Playwright’s Lab in New York, and the excellent help of the Northampton (Mass.) Screenwriter’s Workshop, and the patient encouragement of my wonderful wife, the script has now won nine contests, plus reached the Nicholl semifinals. I don’t know what will happen next, but I am hopeful it will be something good.
And why is called “Season of Mists?” You’ll just have to wait until it comes out in a theatre.
Film Crew in NYC
On Columbus Day weekend (I know it was last month, but I didn’t have a blog then), I was in Manhattan to help out my good friend Brant Smith–a DIY filmmaker who writes, directs, and blogs under the pseudonym DJ Bad Vegan (why the nom de plume? Well, if you had a DJ, would you want him to be a good vegan? Of course not.) Brant has produced and co-written another feature, which makes him by far the most accomplished filmmaker I know. So when he said he would be filming some of his new movie in New York, I volunteered to help. Not foolish enough to turn down free labor, Brant accepted my help and I was hired as a script supervisor/gopher. I was thrilled to do it–not only because I consider Brant to be a close friend but I felt I could learn a lot from watching him work.
We filmed at two locations that day–one at a downtown mosque (no, not Park 51) and another at a midtown Turkish restaurant. This was another reason I wanted to help–having read Brant’s script, I knew that one of his themes was islamophobia. This is also a theme in one of my scripts, “Season of Mists” (nine contest wins and a Nicholl Fellowship semifinalist–just sayin’), so I was looking forward to working on these scenes, having spent much of the last three years studying and exploring Islamic, Middle Eastern, and South Asian culture.
For those of you who don’t know what a script supervisor does, s/he usually is present on the set if the actors or director need to be prompted for lines, or to make sure that if the actor decides to alter a line, the director is comfortable with the improvisation. In, short, to remind everyone what the script says. Brant, being a true leader, did not confine my role to simply this: after each take, he asked my opinion, and if I had any suggestions. He also gave me the responsibility of giving a visual cue to an actor. This is what makes Brant so good at what he does: he makes everyone feel like collaborators. I don’t know much about directing films, but I would think that would be an essential skill.
Also making the midtown shoot interesting was the fact that there was a huge march for Kenyan independence that passed right by the restaurant–not enough to interrupt the shot, but enough to give us a fuller cultural experience. The police presence and barricades nearby made it appear that the cops were there for us, thus giving our presence a gravity I’m not sure we warranted. It’s a funny thing about New York: you stand on a street corner filming, and people will come up to you and want to know what is you are doing. Wild.
I’d have to say the most bizarre experiences I had that day came at a Madina Masjid mosque when I was in my “gopher” role. We were preparing to shoot and were unloading equipment from the van, when a mid twenties African-American man strolled up to me with a question. I noticed that he was walking a very cute little mutt, trailed shortly behind by his impatient wife pushing a stroller. His wife, child, and dog served to undercut the tough guy persona he was desperately trying to cultivate. No matter; he pressed on with his inquiry:
“Hey, buddy. You know where I can get any replica guns?”
Excuse me?
“You know. Fake guns!”
Yeah, I can’t really help you with that, and we’re not making that kind of movie…
Later, I was asked to stand in front of the mosque, and make sure no one entered through the main door–Brant and the cast and crew were filming right inside, and anyone who walked in would have found themselves making a rather surprising cameo in Brant’s opus.
Guarding the door to the mosque was not a problem–although I felt a bit strange being a white non-Muslim American telling people they couldn’t enter their house of worship through the front door (although Asra Nomani might consider it to be a sort of karma). The only real problem was a handful of tourists from Middle America desperate for directions to Chinatown, and rejecting my frequent admonitions to move out of the shot.
Nope. We want directions, and were not moving until we get them. The sudden appearance of Brant and a most impatient director of photography (the excellent Dane Brehm) convinced them otherwise.
However, when I wasn’t redirecting worshippers and arguing with tourists, some really powerful moments unfolded before me. One young woman, perhaps twenty, walked very slowly and deliberately past the mosque, looking askance at it as she passed. As she went by, I spotted the insignia on her t-shirt: the Israeli Defense Forces.
And right behind her? Another woman, about her age, guitar strapped over her shoulder, wearing a t-shirt…with a peace sign. I don’t think they were together, but the irony was not lost on me.
A bit later, another gentleman slowed down and gazed at the Arabic writing on the side of the building. He cocked his head slightly, reminding me of how a dog might stare at a fan. He then began twisting his face in all variety of expressions, as if by contorting his features into the shape of an Arabic character, he might understand the writing. He finally gave up, but not before announcing to no one in particular: “You can’t read that shit!”
I pointed out that it was in another language, and the translation appeared in English just to the right of the Arabic, but he muttered away, seemingly ungrateful.
My favorite moment, though, occurred near the end of the shoot. A South Asian man was passing the mosque when he stopped to ask another pedestrian to light his cigarette. The pedestrian was a Latino hiding under his hoodie, pants riding low. I assumed the South Asian gentleman was new in town or never watched the evening news, for he seemed blissfully unaware of the fact that he was supposed to fear this young man. The young man agreed to light the cigarette, but the wind was not being cooperative, and they seemed to be having some trouble.
The South Asian man began to joke about the wind, which prompted the Latino man to smile–a beautiful, wide, kind smile that seemed to light up his entire face. His whole body appeared to rise out of his “street posture” as he continued to joke with the man as they struggled with the lighter. Finally, they succeeded, and after two very polite nods, proceeded on their way.
I could see they were both still smiling as they headed off. Even though it was over a cigarette, it made me feel strangely hopeful: these two vastly different individuals could share this moment, and make each other laugh. And, apparently, make each other’s day.
Gotta love New York.
Danger Is My Business 