RETURN TO THE PROMISED LAND

READERS OF THIS BLOG KNOW that over the past few years, I have consistently written about the quandary of the poor and homeless in our society. 'One Paycheck Away From Humanity' reported about the growing numbers of homeless I witnessed while GENERATION RX was being screened at the Cleveland Film Festival; and 'How the Other Half Lives' shared my journey to the other side of the world, only to be reminded of the homeless men I met as a young boy in Cleveland many moons ago.

Yesterday I posted my 1991 film, 'The Promised Land' online after days of restoring the documentary with my friend Charles L. Gilchrist. It is a film about homeless war veterans and hordes of men and women caught in the grip of poverty — and forced to the streets to survive. During the restoration process, the memories from 20 years ago came flooding back...and as I watched the film for the first time in over a decade, so did the tears.

During the frigid Cleveland winter of 1991, at 4 a.m. — in six-degree weather, we found dozens of men sleeping under a bridge in an area known as 'the Flats,' a stones throw from the arctic air blowing off Lake Erie. Many of my interviews with the men are featured in 'The Promised Land,' alongside stories of the “middle class homeless.”

As I outline in the film's description at my channel at vimeo.com, 'The Promised Land' was the highest-ranked TV program in prime time, but most importantly, it raised nearly $500,000 in donations after its first showing — and just under $1,000,000 total. The donations went directly to transitional housing, veterans groups, Foodbanks and job training for the poor and homeless.

It's a story about people living on the brink of disaster. . .and a few who crawled their way back — inch by inch — to self-sufficiency. One of those was a woman named Kathy Pinkis, whom I had met months earlier when I was producing a video for the Cleveland Foodbank. Kathy was a lovely lady with red hair, educated, and articulate. She was a single Mom who nearly lost everything after her divorce. When I first interviewed her, she cried...movingly so. When I asked to interview her again for 'The Promised Land,' she peered at me and said “yes, but this time I am not going to cry.”

I smiled, but realized that this would be a very difficult promise to keep. Kathy was a passionate survivor, and she wore her heart on her sleeve. Near the end of the still-tearless second interview, I told her I was a new father, and that I couldn't imagine how difficult it must have been for her with her young children in tow. . .with only $100 to last six weeks.

Kathy broke down. “I vowed then that I would do whatever I can to help someone else so that they won't have to go through what I went through...because it was the worst time in my life . . . and I won't ever be there again. . .ever,” she said sobbing.

As I stated above, the film was a big success: Emmy nominations and an International film award were the topping to near seven-figure success in fundraising for the homeless.

And Kathy was right. . .she never was forced to return to the streets.

About two years after 'The Promised Land' aired on television, I received a phone call from one of Kathy's teenaged sons. He began by introducing himself and by thanking me for including his Mom in the film. She had healed her bruised psyche after the trauma she'd endured, but now, he said bravely, “Mom is in the hospital with liver cancer...and only has weeks to live.” I was distraught with the news and as I hung up the phone, I promised Kathy's son that I would write her immediately...and did.

In the letter, I told Kathy what an inspiration she had been to hundreds of thousands of people; that she was a voice for so many — that she was so selfless that she was willing to tell her painful story publicly not once, but twice in order to help others. Almost singlehandedly, I said, she had shattered all of the myths people harbored about the 'face of the homeless;' she, with her shining red hair and her educated air.

“You touched them all,” I wrote. “They felt your courage. You gave others hope. You are a hero.”

A few weeks later, Kathy's son called again. His Mother read the letter many times.  She smiled, he said, and cried.

“But she was at peace when she died,” he said. “Thank you.”

As you watch 'The Promised Land' — twenty years after it was produced, you may note an eerie connection to the present. As you meet Kathy and all of the others I had the privilege of speaking with, I hope you will be motivated to help the poor and homeless wherever you live. Foodbanks need food, the homeless need beds, and millions need job re-training if they expect to survive.

Do so in honor of Kathy Pinkis, the thousands of homeless veterans, the poor and the unemployed who need your help. . .now more than ever.

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YOU CAN VIEW 'THE PROMISED LAND' AT THIS LINK: 

http://vimeo.com/18652969

FRIENDS AND VETERANS—AGAIN

TODAY IS MEMORIAL DAY IN AMERICA. Thousands of miles away in Belgium, however, young schoolchildren began their day at the Flanders Field cemetery, honoring the fallen American heroes from World War I who helped save their country at a desperate time in Belgian history. As is customary, they sang the Star Spangled Banner and placed small American flags next to Belgian ones in memory of those who died to preserve the liberty of this great nation.

It gives me pause to consider that we're nearly 100 years removed from the ‘Great War,’ yet small children in Belgium still take the time to learn our national anthem and pay respect to our nation for its sacrifice.

Last Memorial Day evening, a family friend named Eric — an 18 year young man who had just graduated from high school — shipped off to boot camp as a Marine. This August he goes to Afghanistan. With the world in turmoil, it pains me to think that his tour of duty will mean long days and months of hazardous duty in such an unforgiving terrain. “Thank God his mother has passed on,” I sometimes think, but in reality, he probably would not have enlisted had she not died three years ago. That makes it extra sad for me.

I am a child of Vietnam. As a teenager I listened to audiotapes mailed home by my brother Martin from DaNang and for the first time heard what bombs and mortar fire really sounded like. I heard my brother's voice—while desperately trying to convey calm—speed up, then slow down, then go silent as the sound effects of bullets and explosions and helicopters filled the void. I finally told him of this experence at my Dad's funeral a few years back, and for a time, at least, it seemed to bridge a gulf molded by differences in age, distance—and yes, war.

Perhaps as penance, I became very involved with Vietnam vets. I interviewed and befriended many who served there. . .and truth be told, most are still not entirely free. Many are haunted; drunk with dark images of sniper fire and eerie, ghostlike images appearing — and dying in the jungle before them. These nightmares, this PTSD, persist after all these years. . .and that is what makes me wince when I think of young Eric.

I am proud of him — obviously. I pray for him every day. I honor his selflessness and courage, but I wish I could protect him—as if he were one of my own. He is strong as an ox, and yet I pray he is protected from the psychic horror of war as well.

On this Memorial Day, while we honor all of the brave men and women who serve; all who fought and died in foreign wars, perhaps we should also ask, “what will we do to support Eric and others when they return home from war?” It is a vital question to ponder as a new generation of young men and women return from the trauma of war. For, we cannot simply drug them; numb them; expect them to forget. Increasingly, that is what we're doing... and it's not right.

If we are going to ask them to fight on our behalf, then our solutions must be more personal and meaningful than that. We can't just fly a flag, nor pat them on the back. We must commit to be with them for the long hall—whatever that takes. If it means more taxes in order to try behavioral therapy, then so be it. If it means bringing back the real GI Bill so that these heroes can start a new life with a free college education and a new home, then they should be afforded that. If it means volunteering to be with them — when they return with a mental or physical prosthetic—if it means any of this or more—we must do it. There can be no more copping out, by politicians, the VA, military leaders or psychiatrists.

There is nothing more important than our human capital—our young men and women. There is no excuse any longer. As a nation, we have asked them to do our bidding; as a nation we must share the sacrifice necessary to help make them whole—if we humanly can.

As a very young boy, I tried, unsuccessfully, to extract the meaning of war from my father, who served in the Army overseas during World War II. He resisted, time and again, looking rather distressed and puzzled by the notion that his youngest son — the second last of seven children — had this persistent curiosity about his time in Italy fighting the enemy. Being a Southerner by birth, Dad was always a private man, with little interest in divulging excessive emotion or grandiose stories. But after years of pestering, he finally told me some painful stories about his experiences in WWII.

He had been sobered by war, to be sure — and I suspect he knew that the questions I asked as a boy were important to my understanding of him as a father—and as a man. Later, as he saw the unconditional respect I paid to Vietnam vets... it made him proud.

So on this Memorial Day, I choose to give thanks to not only the veterans who suffered — and perhaps died in faraway lands, but to the new recruits like Eric who are bracing themselves to fight in the nightmare of war. We should also thank our friends, who despite political and cultural differences, despite being called out for their opposition to the Iraq War, have stood at dawn, young and old, year after year, to honor us.

That's what friends do.

Happy Memorial Day.

May God Bless us all with peace.