Precious

It's almost 1am on the morning of Thanksgiving 2009. I can't sleep, so I thought writing would possibly induce it.

I recently saw the movie Precious. I read the novel it was based on (Push) over a year ago and was kind of psyched to see how a filmmaker could transpose such a heavy, emotionally charged book to the silver screen. Needless to say, I was really moved and happy that the movie did the book justice.

Push deals with so much crazy. The issues it tackles range from rape to incest to obesity to mental illness to HIV, all set against the backdrop of Harlem in 1987. The film is way less graphic than the book. While the themes explored can easily be geared towards the Black American community, the story is actually quite universal. It raises a mirror that reflects so much of society's ills that are often ignored and swept under the rug -- only to occasionally appear on the evening news or Oprah. Without spoiling it for anyone, all I can say after seeing the movie is I have nothing to complain about. NOTHING. As bleak as the main character's life was, she still maintained a sense of hope. One must always remember that.

So anyway, like I said, it is Thanksgiving. Happy Turkey Day! There is much to be thankful for this year! We are hosting it at our house. Growing up, most Thanksgivings were held at our house. My enthusiasm for family gatherings has waned over the years. I'm not sure if it's me or everyone else. Of course the easy thing to say is, it's everyone else. There have been moments that have really disappointed me. Those moments continue to make me wonder whether others value relationships the same way I do. All part of growing pains, I suppose. One blogger summed it up better than I could:
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I hope my generation and the ones that follow will not lose old school morals. I hope they still hold a place today, because I know I'm trying to cling on to them. Helping your neighbor, being loyal and just thinking past yourself. It's scary when you can't trust someone you thought you knew. Pulling the wool out of your eyes and all that. I guess it's a part of growing up, but that also makes me sad. Someone told me I was 12 years old going on 45. I think there may be some truth in that even though I said "eww" when told this. Maybe I want to capture how in harmony things were when I was 12 years old. I know everything wasn't perfect back then, but it felt less scary. It's weird that I'm starting to become the narrator in the Wonder Years- the older brown girl version of Kevin Arnold.
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I'm considering privatizing this blog. If you happen to come upon it one day and realize you must request to read it, please don't hesitate to ask. I think perhaps I will need to take my writing to another level. I doubt many read this anyway.

Looks like it's done the trick. Good night~~