It was in the summer of 1995, as I was recuperating from major surgery, that I got the call from Cousin Abbie. In true diplomat fashion, dad always went through intermediaries. “O is in Paris,” said Abbie. “He wants to visit with you in three days.” I explained I’d just had major surgery and wasn’t yet up to driving or caring for a guest. Could he perhaps give me a bit more time? “Not to worry, the embassy will provide a driver. You are able to make his coffee?” Continue reading Daddy’s mementos
Few writers speak to me so directly as does James Baldwin. The way he asks the fundamental questions “who am I and why am I here,” is precisely how I’ve always asked them of myself. I can only hope to achieve the kind of courageous self-examination he did. Continue reading A quote from the introduction to James Baldwin’s Nobody Knows My Name
When people think of James Baldwin, they think of Go Tell It On The Mountain, The Fire Next Time, or Giovanni’s Room.
They might think of his articles for The New Yorker. They wouldn’t readily think of him as a documentarian. He was that too! Continue reading Take this Hammer: James Baldwin in Oakland, 1963