There's a saying in Hollywood — you make movies from two places, your head or your heart.
I have one. My heart.
It has fueled me as a documentary producer and it’s what drives me as a filmmaker. My first short film, A Fat Girl's Guide to Yoga, won NBC's Comedy Short Cuts Prize. Back then, I was all about getting my folks into yoga and calming the mind. 10 years later, life has presented me with heart-breaking lessons and put even deeper things on my mind.
In my latest short, My Brother's Keeper, a husband is losing his wife to cancer. When his best friend realizes what’s going on, he steps up to help him.
In real life, this was my homegirl and me distracting ourselves on her couch with 2000s rom-coms, like The Wedding Planner, as she cried over the loss of her mother from gallbladder cancer. In the short film, I wanted to show the friendship between two brothas. When we talk about love and connection, our brothas always seem to be left out of the conversation. The brothas I know have that vulnerability — like my dad.
My dad is an OG. A never-sit-with-your-back-to-the-door, straight out of Texas, always-know-where-the-exits-are kind of man. He is the oldest of six, and it’s only three of ‘em left. My Uncle James (his younger brother) was in the hospital fighting the last stages of prostate cancer. By this time, it was all in his bones. He kept his hand clutched at his side like he was trying to hold his insides together. His face stayed twisted in pain. His other hand held onto my dad. Eyes closed, he whispered, “I let this sneak up on me man.” My dad told him, “Don’t worry about it, man. I’m here. I love you."
Uncle James died about two weeks after that visit, in his own bed, at his request. Uncle James was an OG too.
My dad cried, as did most of the men at the service. From these men, I’ve learned that OG’s cry, cook, do laundry, iron and bake. Between my dad and his brothers, there was a tenderness. It’s why I stay surprised when media doesn’t depict Black men with a full range of emotions. Sure, my dad and his brothers fought, but the love was free.
My nephew asked me, innocently, "Auntie, why can't you just write about love? Why does it have to be Black love?” Because baby, nobody is going to show us loving us but us. It's my job and one I'm born to do.
Black love is a revolutionary act. Everywhere we turn, the world suggests we are not worthy of it. There are schools that ignore our brilliance and textbooks that erase the invaluable contributions we've made to this world. We clock into work environments that — when they do hire us — underpay us. We trust a banking system that redlines our neighborhoods so we have difficulty buying homes. Then, that same system readily offers mortgages to non-Black folks and labels that progress. We offer our attention to a media that, until recently, would not show us authentically in love. They show us pulling weaves or rhyming about "putting a ni**a on his back,” but seldom how we hold each other down or exalt one another.
Those kinds of stories were considered soft or unsellable. Until now.
Michael B. Jordan holding Tessa Thompson's hand and telling her we gon' get ready for our baby. Or, the stunning intimacy of the young lovers in Barry Jenkins' masterpiece adaptation of James Baldwin's If Beale Street Could Talk. We have arrived at a time where we can say with the moving image that we deserve each other's love.
Just like my father showed his love for his brother, the dudes in My Brother’s Keeper show their love for each other and show up no matter what. That might sound soft, but I can’t be concerned with how it sounds. Because here’s the reality — if we're not careful, we could choke on our own swag. We could sacrifice the safety to be found in each other. Black love is the focus of what I produce, write and direct. This piece, especially, is for love and our liberation.
