I Cried Dark Tears. (Fruitvale Station, 2013)

I don’t usually cry in movies. I just don’t. I just put on a tough face and try to think artistically (probably overly so). And that’s what I did today. I grabbed some pasta for lunch, turned on Netflix, and started watching Fruitvale Station. Now, I know I’m a little behind. This movie came out a few years ago. I didn’t really want to go see it in theaters because I don’t do violence very well. I just sit there like a six-year old with my eyes squinted waiting for the brutal moments to end. I didn’t even go to see Michael B. Jordan, who I would now like to take a moment to officially swoon over.  But today, his physique and swagger were irrelevant. 

Today, I cried all of the way through the credits. Not like a little misty eye, but actual this-isn’t-cute-at-all tears. The tears came because this film felt real. They continued because it is real. Fruitvale Station was pleasantly simple. It wasn’t overly dramatic or contrived. I like that. It highlighted moments of humanity, fear, compassion, love, and normality in a way that didn’t seem pushy. The cinematography was also a contributing factor to this. A lot of the film had an unsteady look and was likely shot with a single handheld camera at moments. As the frame followed Oscar, I felt like I, too, was walking behind him, making me feel closer to him and his loved ones. As a result, this movie really hit home. 

The film ended with little Tatiana Grant asking where her dad is; and with that strike to black, I became heartbreakingly aware that the thump of my heart and the falling drops on my wet face were in sync. As the names rolled down I just kept thinking about the loss of another one of our men and replayed the horror over and over again. 

I wasn’t crying because I saw blood--there was blood, but not enough to cause tears under normal circumstances. I don’t even think I was crying because someone died—I hate to say it, but A Walk To Remember didn’t even get me. I cried partially for Oscar’s daughter Tatiana—her final words made the reality of loss sink in even more. But mostly I cried because of the questions I had during the film.

The movie starts with actual footage from a cell phone of Oscar Grant’s murder. So, from the beginning, everyone knows what’s going to happen. It’s no secret that he gets shot. Because I knew that, I kept searching for the moments in the movie where Oscar transitioned from a person to a corps. Yeah, sure, biologically that’s when he dies. But what is it that a Black man does that strips him of his personhood before God strips him of his breath? Is there an alarm that goes off labeled “you are no longer valuable to us?” (“Us” is a totally different and necessary conversation). Was Tatiana, like so many little Black girls, born into tragedy? Is there a moment when we no longer matter? I sat waiting, watching, and wondering for eighty-five minutes and never found that moment. Those moments don’t exist. 

I’m glad that I waited to watch this film. A year ago, when I was in high school, I think that I would have felt bad and probably would have been outraged—outraged because I saw another one of my brothers dying. After a year in college, planning to major in African-American Studies, I am more informed and therefore look at this movie differently than I would have a year ago. Today, I am sad. I’m sad because I am more aware of the systems that exist in this country (and in the world for that matter) that even made it possible for this movie to be based on a true story—a story that’s far too familiar. We can talk about why Oscar was in prison. To be fair, I believe in personal responsibility and choices. I also believe that people are forced to make those choices for a reason. Why is it that Pete (I believe his name was), the White man with the pregnant wife could steal a wedding ring and then go on to start his own business? Meanwhile, Oscar, who also committed a crime, is struggling to make ends meet, let alone buy jewelry for his longtime girlfriend. Call me a White supremacy theorist, but…actually, yeah, you can call me that. It’s not a theory.  But this is about movies, right? So let me refer you to The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander. Like this film, it’s enlightening.

This post wasn’t necessarily meant to be about politics. But, as Amiri Baraka would argue, Black art is and must be inherently political. It needs to serve a purpose. It needs to expose so that we can deal with the issues and move forward. Fruitvale Station did that. I was reminded of how much work there is to be done and given the opportunity to cry for my brothers and sisters. The work screenwriter and director Ryan Coogler (who will be the subject of my internet stalking for the next couple of days) is proof that film is an effective and necessary tool in our community. Kudos to all of those filmmakers, especially the Black ones, who create art with a purpose. We need you. I hope to be one of you. Together, we will fight on, because Fruitvale Station doesn’t need a sequel.