Antwone’s reminder
Commentary by JoELLEN COLLINS
The movie "Antwone Fisher" impressed me
because its images remain after the popcorn is consumed and for many days after
the final, moving scene has been played. I write this column not as a critic or
as the inveterate moviegoer I am; many viewers may find the movie sentimental or
suspect in its accuracy. Although I haven't read the facts of the real Antwone
Fisher, the existence of his name as writer and producer attests to his
authenticity. Whatever the reality of the portrayal, three things about the
movie haunt me still.
The most obvious is the inspiration of
seeing a story where the young hero triumphs over a desperately deprived and
abusive childhood. Antwone learns to channel his rage and frustration over the
cards he has been dealt into an affirmation of life. Unlike some other
contemporary "heroes," Antwone seeks to overcome the violence he has displayed
and discovers his value as a human being. No drugs, no obscenities, no abuse of
women here. Just the discovery of love. I hope little boys in equally desperate
circumstances can learn from him.
I am reminded of the saga of young Somali
boys who simply walked away from the ravages of the civil war decimating their
village. After experiencing the kind of terror most of us cannot imagine and
spending years in refugee camps, they were flown to the United States for
relocation. They have progressed from staggering bewilderment to living
positive, joyous lives in their new country. These men attest to the power of
healing.
The second thing that struck me is the
ever constant and necessary reminder that, unlike the child Antwone, I have been
blessed with material comforts and the kind of security that 90 percent of the
world's peoples will never experience. When the movie hero visits a Cleveland
housing project, my friend turned to me and said, "And we gripe about a
two-bedroom condominium in Ketchum being too small!" Perhaps this sentiment is
overwrought, but I agree with Martin Scorsese’s comments at the Golden Globes:
sometimes a cliché is a cliché because it says the truth.
The truth here is that I am tired of all
the whining--my own included--about stock market losses in a world where even
some Americans living in the wealthiest country in the world go home each day to
unspeakable poverty, neglect and abuse. If my Thai friends--who live comfortably
by Thai standards--could see my kitchen, modest by Wood River Valley
requirements, they would think I am wealthy beyond any normal comparison. I
don't say we have to feel guilty all the time for our abundance, but I do think
it doesn't hurt to take time once in awhile to reflect on the bounties we
experience. A little empathy for those suffering from a lack of creature
comforts doesn’t hurt, either.
The "skinny" on the United States is that
we have indeed become the fattest nation in the world, both physically and with
the possessions we display. No wonder we are not universally beloved. Smug
material accumulation is not attractive thrown in the face of a hungry mother,
whether here in a tenement or in a mud hut in Ethiopia. Now with the explosion
of television in even the most remote corners of the world, our version of the
American dream may be off-putting. It is shining and yet repulsive at the same
time – "Dallas" as seen by Bigger Thomas in "Native Son." I personally believe
most Americans to be generous and giving but fear that quality is not evident to
most of the rest of the world. The most memorable theme of "Antwone Fisher," to
me, however, was the hero's quest for his mother. I am reminded of the
children's book "Are you my Mother?", a story of a lost baby bird searching for
his mother through encountering maternal samples of many species. He finds his
mother and a happy ending at last. Unfortunately there are untold children even
today, in our abundant society, who have not known their real mothers. And, like
Antwone Fisher's, the quest may not result in the dreamed-of mommy. Some,
fortunately, find good foster or adoptive homes; many do not. The movie reminds
us that often there are no easy answers. When I was adopted, my parents told me
they had gone to an orphanage filled with tiny bassinets. Way in the back of the
room, they said, they saw a tiny hand waving in a slant of light, fell in love
with the baby, and took her home. I never saw that story as the apocryphal one
it probably was. While I was thrilled that they chose me, I had a question. What
if I had been asleep, not waving my hand? What if they had skipped me for
another more active baby? My blessings, I thought, were tentative; I could have
wound up without a mother. So perhaps I identify more than many with the child
left behind. Antwone found his destiny, though it wasn't what he imagined. Mine
was better than anyone could imagine. Born in America, adopted by parents who
adored me, given an education, I was able to eagerly grasp the world that opened
to me. My heart aches for those who have not found their mothers or the security
I have been given. Antwone, thanks for the reminder.