Point
of personal privilege…
On
Saturday, my Aunt Lynn passed away.
She’d had no end of medical difficulties since she had a stroke nearly
two years ago and we’d known for the past week that the situation was grave,
but the loss remains.
It’s
nearly impossible to write about her without first talking about what a pain in
the ass she could sometimes be.
When something would set her off, she could be withering in her dealings
with you. As a child, this was
sometimes devastating. But as I
grew up, I started to – playfully – engage this side of her personality. For instance, when she told me (after
I’d been out of college a couple years) that she was eagerly awaiting the day that
I matured (pronounced ma-toored, naturally), I responded that I’d send her a
card to let her know when that day had, in fact, arrived.
Long
after that, even as she began to grasp and root for my filmmaking career, she
couldn’t quite understand why I didn’t ever wear (or really even own) a suit.
But
during the last ten or so years, particularly before the stroke, we found a
common language. I recognized the
artist in her (she was the one who had always painted, who thrilled when I
called her from Paris after touring the Rodin Museum); she proudly followed the
beginnings of my filmmaking career (she’d listen to the local movie show on the
radio in Chicago and call me whenever they talked about documentaries or film
festivals).
Those
phone calls became regular, practically weekly. We’d talk politics. While probably more of a Republican, she could vote on
either side of the aisle and I knew the tone of the country had shifted when
she told me she had turned against the Iraq War. She would have loved CONVENTION. She loved to see how things worked and loved to see when
things did work.
She
loved talking about movies. She
dragged my mom to see BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN because, well, it was going to be in
the Oscar race and gosh darn it if she didn’t want to know what the fuss
was.
Her
and my mom together were a sight.
One day when Shirley and I were in Chicago we went to pick them up in
the suburbs for a day in the city.
Oh the short film I could have made of them that day – bantering,
laughing, forgetting where they put their car, my Aunt taking great pleasure in
the nice little French bistro we took them to. She was a character, larger than life, larger probably than
the small camera frame I would have tried to wrap around her.
Through
much of my early life, Lynn was an enigma. She had a different last name than anyone else in my
family. I’d ask why and there were
whispers of an ill-fated marriage.
It was only in the last few years, when I read some of Lynn’s evocative
and sometimes aching writings that I found out about the abusive husband and
the day that her beloved father, my grandfather, stood in the doorway and demanded
the man to go away and to never return.
There
were other mysteries. I was
shocked to learn when I began work on ABOUT A SON that she had once lived in
Seattle. If anyone was capable of
surprise, it was Lynn. And those
phone calls between us were more compelling and funny and thought-provoking
than my 13-year old self could have ever imagined.
The
stroke ended much of this. It
became more difficult to communicate by phone. Her freedom to live as she chose – afternoons in the city,
luncheons with friends, theater – ended the day she fell in her shower. She remained whip smart, but the depression
of losing so much of what defined her (at least to herself) began to take over.
Writing
this makes me remember again how much I mourned the loss of those phone
calls. I guess in some ways I came
to grips with losing part of her in the year after her accident. Also, I admit that it was harder for me
to hear that crackling woman struggle to keep her thoughts together or convey
them in the way she wanted. And
the more I traveled, which was often in these past two years, the longer the
stretches between conversations on the phone. She’d say to my mom that she hadn’t heard from me for a
while. Regrets, regrets…
Talking
or writing about what happens after death feels like a bridge too far for a
blog that often ruminates on film festivals and box office data and Oscar
chances. But since these were all
things that Aunt Lynn loved to talk about – hell, the true genesis of this blog
was probably in the movie reviews that I typed up for her when I was ten – I’ll
beg your indulgence.
Here’s
to hoping Lynn can stop by every once and awhile, I’d like to feel that spirit
of hers.
And if
it’s not asking too much and she’s able to drop or look into New York in
January, I’d love for her to check out Cinema Eye, if only to see her nephew, co-hosting
an awards show, wearing a suit.
She
might even think that I’d matured.
Here's to you, Lynn.
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