James Baldwin, an activist for social justice, once argued, “All men are brothers. It’s just that simple.” As a citizen, an instructor, and a parent, I have done what I can to honor his philosophy.
Recently, Mark, a former student-turned-friend sent a text with a rushed, happy tone…Hello Melissa…What are you waiting for? Go see If Beale Streets Could Talk! #James Baldwin Masterpiece. We arranged for a “date.” I headed to the library so that I could read the book before seeing the movie. I finished it at a quick clip the night before we met up.
I arrived at The Lowry, a bustling eatery located in Uptown, Minneapolis. The joint is hopping with hungry hipsters, welcoming the end of the week over lunch. For a moment, I thought I had beat him here. He doesn’t drive, so maybe his bus was late?
I walked up to the fireplace, warming my fingers. I looked to my right, and there was Mark, leaning out of the booth, looking for me. I waved, quickly moving in for a bear hug. As I hugged him, his soft cheek gently pressed into mine, and his voice rose up with a joyful crescendo.
After I settled in, we burst into a jazzy call and response, telling how we’ve been and what we’re up to:
Mark is working on a grant within a library, researching history. I’m teaching at two schools, both reading and English. Mark just moved into a high-rise apartment that’s small, forcing him to downsize his books, much to his great sadness. I’m living in a house that really should be one level for my daughter, in a wheelchair. Mark isn’t dating anyone, claiming it would have to be just the right person. I am still with the same man, my husband Jim, and we’ve made it work for years and years, despite the hardships.
Mark has seen many movies, and he peppers the conversation with questions and suggestions. I volley back with my own. If he liked a movie, that smile widens across his face while his eyes flicker with light. If he’s not so crazy about a film, his face goes sideways, with a full-on eyeroll, and a quick little “well…” I don’t press much further. It could be a dissertation.
As you can see, we have nothing to talk about and nothing in common.
“Now, don’t give up on love, Mark. There’s someone out there, just for you.”
“But Melissa, I’m getting set in my ways. I’m 57! And the older I get, the more set in my ways I become!”
“Right. I can understand that.” I found myself looking at his face, for aging clues. Seeing no obvious ones, the afternoon sun casts a halo of light around his face, making him look far younger than his true age. I. am. Jealous.
“You know, if I want to see a show at a theatre, I go! If I want to take in a movie, I go! I don’t have to check in with any body!”
I smiled and nodded. “But Mark, here’s a question: are you lonely, or simply content with being alone?”
“Simply content. I really am.”
The waiter came by and asked if we are ready to order. I flirted with ordering a beer, but I wasn’t going to drink alone. Something about it felt wrong.
“Mark, are you having any booze today?” He said no, so I chose a Diet Coke and lemon. He ordered water with a whole plate of lemon wedges. My kinda person.
As the waiter retrieved the drinks, I asked, “Are you dry?”
“I am dry. Well, it’s like this. Sometimes, I will have a glass of wine, but that’s about it.”
“Mark, I can’t drink wine at all. If I do, I don’t know when to stop.” It’s true: I stopped back in 2013. I don’t miss it. Beer works better, but even then, one or two is about all I have.
“Ahhh…is that so? Yeah, it’s tricky, I guess. The way I see it, I might have one drink, and think, ‘Well, this is fun.’ If I have a second drink, then I think, ‘Well, anybody can touch it….” Just at the right moment, he laughs at his own joke, and I clamor to catch up. When I do, my old lady-laugh mingles with his low, booming chuckle. We make a melody of our merriment.
“So if you don’t do drugs, smoke cigarettes, drink much booze, what gets you high? Makes you happy?”
“MMMMmmmm…I love live performance. I love a good movie. I love music. I love a good book. Anything like that is good enough for me.”
He would have loved my late dad, and I think he’d love my mom! Mark’s happy place – the performing arts – is a large part of my parents’ blueprint for raising me well.
We ate for a bit, and I wanted to learn more about him. When I met Mark so many years ago, he was eager to move forward with his life and education. He spent 14 years in prison prior to the class with me. And just like so many other students I’ve had in the same position, Mark’s outlook on freedom is one of profound grace and gratitude. His smile – then and now – is like a harbor light in a misty bay.
“Where are you from, Mark?”
“Michigan! Oh boy, when you all lost Prince, I felt sad. But when we lost Aretha, that was hard on me.”
I nodded my head in recognition of loss. I wondered what music, especially from the world of Motown, provides the soundtrack of his life. Next time, I will ask.
“Can you tell me about your parents?”
“My parents are both deceased. My aunt raised me.”
I felt like someone sliced me in the chest with a cleaver. I could relate to the loss, with my father’s passing in 2010 to cancer. But at least 40 years of living allowed for my dad and me to formulate a connection, and a loving one at that. My mom is still alive, witnessing my daughter’s recovery from strokes and illness.
“I’m sorry, Mark.”
“I have very few family members who I talk to. They are also scattered across the miles.”
“Do you have a circle of friends you can connect with here, in the Twin Cities?”
“Yes!” His smile returned, even after that heavy darkness of truth. “That circle is small, but reliable.”
I wondered if he sees me as a part of that circle?
“What time is it, Melissa?”
“12:10.” Our movie starts at two.
“Ohhh. We’re early!”
Mark has always been one for punctuality. He hates to be late for anything. Even without a car, he has mastered the public transportation system to work for him, nearly without fail. I remember him rolling his eyes if I extended a graceful pause to students who might be a little late for our Saturday morning class years ago.
After we finished our meal, we asked for the check and paid our own ways. We don’t engage in any wallet-wielding bravado here: we are equals at the table. That feels right.
We left the restaurant, and I explained how I had to park a few blocks away. It was bone-chilling cold, and this inspired me to move quickly. As I am strutting ahead, I looked back to find Mark moving slowly, gracefully, despite the chilly weather. And I don’t think it’s from age: I think it’s his own tempo that feels right for him. As Mark grooved with serenity and soul, I decided to adjust my gait, even if my teeth chattered.
Once at the movie theatre, I confessed to Mark that I love popcorn and will not share it with anyone. He laughs. He orders himself red licorice, and I carry the large popcorn, glistening with butter. He selects our seats, all the way in the back row.
I look at the smattering of people, on a chilly Friday afternoon matinee…
I have to back up here: When I met Mark, he was in my freshman Composition course at a community college. After he finished the AA, he went on to achieve a BA and then MFA. His dissertation highlighted the lack of diversity in the audiences of many theaters, especially in live performances.
So here we are, a few years after he successfully defends this thesis. Here we are, to see James Baldwin’s story come to life on the silver screen, and here is my date, Mark, and he is the only. African. American. Person. In. the. Audience.
That floors me. Why is this? This film is not written to a black audience, but rather all Americans, period. It’s as simple as that. The story’s themes are love, hope, despair, and the search for justice. Doesn’t a lot of that apply to all of us?
After I rather loudly whisper, “where are all the people of color?” to Mark, I glance at him to see him nod his head and shrug. I’m sure there was an eye-roll thrown in for good measure. Next time we meet, we better talk about this…
At one point during the film, our shoulders touched and remained pressed into one another. It struck me as a moment of warm affection. It also felt as though we were saying to one another, I am your equal, drinking in this movie. I am here to celebrate your happiness. I am here to carry your burdens. And I know you will too.
After the movie, I drove him to his high-rise apartment, a few miles from the theater. I hopped out of the van, hugged him, and thanked him for making the trek to see the movie with me. (I found out that this is his third time seeing it. I duly note his grace and patience in being my escort.)
I zipped back into my van, and I peered out the window to see Mark serenely enter his building, smiling all the while.
After I got home, I received the following text: “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon. I will cherish this day forever – Mark.” As I embraced his sentiment, I’m reminded of a quote from James Baldwin, who offers: “We are responsible for the world in which we find ourselves, if only because we are the only sentient force which can change it.” His words (still) serve as a way to unite a fractured society.
Dig this: with a friend like Mark in my world, Baldwin’s legacy allows both of us to sing life’s blues in unison, paving the way for better days ahead.