6423-25 Legacy
When I was six years old, my family moved into a flat on California Street in San Francisco in a building that my dad and his brother had renovated. We lived upstairs in the 3 bedroom flat with a big back porch and a great yard that had one tree with a tree house. In time, my dad built gates into the 3 neighboring backyards where our friends lived and our playing space expanded exponentially.
Downstairs from the flat at street level was my dad’s upholstery shop. Behind the shop and up a short flight of stairs was a small apartment where my uncle lived for a time. After that it was a space for visiting relatives or temporary housing for my dad’s workers. Also behind the shop and below the apartment was a basement.
When my parents divorced, my dad moved into the apartment, and he rented the flat to a woman who had one daughter. During the last year of my dad’s life, my uncle moved into the shop creating a little living space at the back near the apartment. He piled as much of his belongings as he could on top of my father’s already abundant collection at the front of the shop, all around the living space he had shaped, and in the basement. He took care of my dad during his last months, and once he had sufficiently grieved my dad’s passing, he moved into the apartment where he lived 18 more years until his death this past January. He didn’t remove any of my dad’s things but settled his life on top of that of my father’s. The upstairs tenant remained in the flat for 42 years.
Now my siblings and I are diving into the legacy in the building at 6423-25 California Street. The layers are deep and pitted with emotion. Last weekend, Cindy and I met my sister Ginger, my son Raleigh, his wife Jenny, and their son Kyle for our second dive into the bowels of the shop and apartment. Well actually, it is the 3rd dive as the fire marshall demanded some cleanup a year ago, and a family contingent spent two days sorting and hauling away much of the flammable material. But there are still mountains of stuff left.
Here’s what I want to say: While this could be viewed as a terrible mess left for the heirs to deal with (it is), it is also an opportunity for an endearing thread of connection between the generations. Candice acquires some of her Great Uncle Buddy’s record albums and Haydon gets some of his model airplanes. Jenny gets one of Grandpa Stasiu’s whale knick-knacks and a photo of Kyle with a 20-year-old jar of Grandpa’s kombucha brew; Culley takes the copper triangle that hung over his grandpa’s head for years and Raleigh has a tool heyday. Cindy makes a pile of scrap metal for her folks while Ginger and I zero in on memorabilia like a black metal tin with pink flamingos filled with silver coins and a glass box both of which belonged to our father.
We have a couple more trips planned into this crazy haven of history and accumulation. Each time, relatives of the family who first moved into 6423-25 will dive in to see what they can find. Not only is it an hilarious experience of “one person’s junk is another person’s treasure,” these visits are a catch-all for satisfying memories.
Because of the efforts of a very smart young woman (Corrina Johnson Lindblom) a screening of “Girl Rising” sold out in my small rural community. The theater was packed with 240 women and a sprinkling of men. It was thrilling to see so many local women supporting this global campaign to educate and empower girls and exciting to be part of a grass-root movement to get the film to our small town.
That’s why I found it mildly distressing to hear critical comments as we streamed out of the theater. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, but I was struck that some leaped to criticizing so quickly instead of soaking in the beauty, imagination, and collaboration in this project. It isn’t that I disagreed with the comments. Sure there is more to the story than depicted in this film. Of course, the eight women featured were not fully representative of the oppression.
But my tendency is to stay focused on what is working– and in this particular case what is striking and inspirational in the film. I do a lot of reviewing–theater reviews, Goodread reviews, writing group critiques–and I know I lean toward seeing what’s effective, successful, or moving. I’ve been called Pollyanna, but I think my view is as discriminating as someone who points to flaws or failures. What’s more, I feel like I learn tremendously by noticing how an artist is working well.
I found the artistry of “Girl Rising” particularly fascinating. The mixing and blending of styles both in the writing and filming were captivating. Each writer’s style was unique, delivering the narrative with linguistic flair that the narrators underlined with their interpretation of the character’s voice and the film-makers imprinted with their choices of imagery.
The story of Suma, the Nepalese girl, used the repeated refrain, “Here is the house of my [first, second, third] master.” In her story, Suma rode her bike from house to house as we moved through time in her story. The brilliant orange and green of her salwar kameez provided a hopeful contrast to the story she was telling.
When Senna’s Peruvian miner father was disabled, Senna’s options diminished. The filmmaker drives the point home with a picture of Senna cleaning public toilets, water swirling down the drain, and the sight of her walking on a narrow village trail, a treacherous fall inches away. Senna recites her poetry in a bold voice that pounds like the hammer her parents use against rock, mining for gold.
Some of the segments combine computer generated animation and live action shots. In Yasmin’s story, animation depicts scenes too painful to reconstruct but also gives life to her super-hero courage. Animation allows Ruksana’s imagination to bloom and flit atop the squalor of an Indian slum. Mariam, from Sierra Leone, oozes with modernity in a 3rd world culture, a quality the filmmaker emphasizes with stylized animation.
I was captivated by the collaborative effort of writers, film-makers, and narrators to bring to life the resilience and strength of these girls. Wadley stole my heart; her unfailing perseverance put to shame every whine that has ever escaped my lips. Edwidge Danticat captured her spirit; the film-maker brought that spirit to life as Wadley danced in a white dress in a green field around red hibiscus AND walked doggedly through the tent camps of Haiti swelling in her crumpled city.
For me, “Girl Rising” was inspirational not only as a call to action–Find a way to educate girls worldwide– but also as a creative endeavor. As I walked away from the screening, I challenged myself: Dare to be different; Tell an inspirational story; Aspire to encourage and empower others, especially girls.
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