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

MORE THAN 'LIGHTS AND WIRES IN A BOX'

I’LL NEVER FORGET a conversation I had with a TV executive back in the early 90s when I was approached to produce what ultimately became my film called The Promised Land.

A TV anchorman had recommended my work to this broadcast company after emceeing a fundraising luncheon for the Cleveland Foodbank. There, he saw my short film Praying for Food and became introduced to my work for the very first time. This mini-documentary was designed to help raise the Foodbank’s visibility after dismal decreases in food and financial donations during the early years of the first Bush presidency. The anchorman told execs that he believed that I might be able to help the network with their own Holiday campaign — which had also performed poorly in the previous three years — by producing a documentary about the homeless.

Eventually I was sitting in the office of this powerful TV executive, listening as he cautiously extolled the virtues of my work. It was 1990; I had one small son and was soon to have another on the way. I had just begun my documentary work a few years prior after a brief stint in the music business and many years of studying journalism.

During this unusual 20 minute conversation, the man’s eyes rarely met mine. After listening diligently, I finally asked, “How much are you offering?”

“Well, we have $900 in this budget,” he said while pointing to a popular morning TV program on his programming sheet. “It’s the end of the year and I’m sorry to say that this is all we have.”

“This is not what the wife is going to want to hear,” I thought to myself. I wondered how, just-how in the WORLD I could accept this job. Since my then-wife was at home caring for our first-born — and I had just struck out on my own after years working for an old high school buddy — I was definitely hurting financially. With a newborn to boot... well, let’s just say that I was less than thrilled. He had me hook, line, and sinker on the subject of producing a film about the homeless. But $900? Not only could I not afford to produce this film, but I feared that my wife would kill me if I came home with this 'offer' after months of lying far-too-low to the earth.

The exec saw that I was wavering. “If things go well,” he promised, “I will guarantee that you will be named the Producer of our next big documentary. You have my word on it,” he said. As his eyes finally locked in on mine, he added, “We really need to turn this charity around, and we think you are the man to do it.”

Still conflicted, I stared at one of the studio monitors in his office for a few moments.“I’ll do it on one other condition,” I said while locking on his eyes. “And this is non-negotiable. I want this to air in prime time.”

“Oooh. . .umm. . .that will be difficult,” he stammered. “Hmmm. Let me see what I can do.”

The next day he phoned me to explain the economics of prime time TV — and how much money they would lose if they programmed my documentary at 9 or 9:30 on a weeknight. “Well, you’re saving a helluva lot of money on me,” I told him.

“True, but no one watches things like this in prime time. There is no way that we can get viewers to watch a program like this in prime time,” said the executive.

“Nonsense,” I countered. “Just watch. Anyway, those are my terms. Take it or leave it.”

Seemingly begrudgingly, he accepted, and I immediately began five weeks worth of non-stop madness — for $900. Well, not actually $900…because I paid my friend Henry $250 to shoot a few hours of additional footage — and paid a local composer a grand total of $500 for an outstanding musical score. Each of them only agreed because they knew that I was only making $150 for five weeks of work — and they felt sorry for me. They just knew I was catching Hell at home — and they were right.

That incident started a running battle with commercial television that is still ongoing. The Promised Land won a slew of regional Emmy’s, was nominated for a national Emmy award, and captured an International Film & TV award in the category of International TV Programming from the N/Y. International Film & Televisional Festival. More importantly, it proved my assertion that important programming about vital issues could not only attract and hold viewers — but could motivate them to action as well.

The Promised Land was the highest-ranking TV program in its’ time slot and raised nearly $500,000 in its’ first showing alone — and $1,000,000 total. As a bonus, I was able to read the thoughts of real viewers who scribbled notes on hotel memo pads and notebook paper and sent them in with their donations, which went directly to transitional housing and job training for the homeless.

When I read the notes, which came in by the hundreds, I cried like a baby. It taught me to believe in my instincts — and to believe in the humanity of humanity. There was a businessman from Chicago writing from the Holiday Inn downtown, an elderly woman on a fixed income who sent a tattered $5 bill with the note “I wish I could do more,” and six poor families from the East side of Cleveland who pooled their money and contributed $100 for their brothers and sisters because “there but for the Grace of God go I.”

I still get chills when I think of that one.

It proved — once and for all — that the TV execs were wrong — DEAD wrong — when they said that no one would watch, and that certainly no one would donate, except for the few bleeding hearts. People bombarded the phone lines with a fury never seen before — so much so that the network decided to air the program in 20+ other cities.

SO, ONCE IN A BLUE MOON, when I turn on the television and actually find something worth watching, I recall those early days when I believed in the craft so much that I staked my family’s welfare on my God-given abilities to produce documentaries.

Twenty years later, I realize the sacrifices I made for the good of "the all" — and I am still sacrificing. Twenty years later, I am still trying to live a principled life.

Too much of what we see — too much of what we support — pales in the light of the brilliant observation Edward R. Murrow made about television a half century ago. “This instrument can teach, it can illuminate, and yes, it can even inspire,” he said. “But it can only do so to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it is merely lights and wires in a box."

Whether or not I continue to produce films, I will never forget his words — nor the time I created an International award winning documentary for 900 bucks.

Because twenty years later, despite the fact that the TV exec broke his vow to me, I realize that I was the person who profited most. For, when given the chance, I helped raise $1 million for the homeless — in just one city. And that's just where the blessings started.

In view of today’s sophomoric and sleazy prime-time lineups, full of their reality TV and mindless nonsense, I have done my best to teach, illuminate, and yes, even inspire. I have put those “lights and wires in a box” to good use.

Perhaps Murrow would be proud.

THE PROMISED LAND

THEY FOUGHT THE ENEMY through the jungles of Vietnam, ducking gunfire, spending sleepless nights and avoiding death, only to be caught in the tripwires and booby traps set by society here at home. I see the faces of America’s war heroes living on the streets of every major city I travel to. They were soldiers who were proud to serve...proud to fight for a way of life here in the Promised Land.

And now they sleep on the streets for all to see, from Los Angeles to our nation’s capitol.

That this fate has been dealt to them is ironic — because these men and women — like so many before them who served in a foreign land — dreamed of the day they would come home to America. Home — home of the plenty, home of the brave — and now, home of the homeless.

“The way I live now is like I lived back in the jungle,” one vet told me. “Thirty years later look at me. . .this is where I live at,” he said while motioning to his plastic-encased barracks. I sat with James for nearly an hour as the wind ripped through his 6X10 shack. He was an articulate man, but clearly troubled. I saw a few books stacked neatly in the corner; one by Albert Camus, the French author and playwright, and another by James Baldwin.

Can you imagine that, if but for a moment? A homeless man, a soldier who’d dug a new foxhole, reading books by a Nobel prizewinner — and another by a man who was a powerful voice in literary circles for decades?

How could it be, I asked James, that patriots have been relegated to this subterranean existence — especially in a nation which claims to revere its’ warriors?

He looked at me and smiled. “Son,” he said with sad eyes and a half-smile, “have you ever killed a man? Do you know what that can do to you in your darkest hours?”

When I produced THE PROMISED LAND in 1991, America had just won the first Gulf War a year earlier. There was talk from President George H.W. Bush that we had finally “kicked the Vietnam syndrome, once and for all.”

Back then, I thought it apropos to raise the question of what it meant to be a soldier in war, and whether these men and women on the streets — drunk with dark images and in need of help — were casualties of a society disconnected from the realities of the horror they encountered in war.

It is a question I have never been able to escape. . .and it is a question we should be asking ourselves today as the killing and dying continues in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Cleveland State professor John P. Wilson was the first to call Vietnam vets “Forgotten Warriors,” and to bring attention to the deeply held trauma they felt upon returning from that war. Wilson and his own “band of brothers,’ including former Army Captain Shad Meshad and others, helped define what we now know as PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It was the modern version of “shellshock,” a term known to just about any WWII veteran.

The question is, will we really “support our troops” when they come home? The answer is anything but certain, considering our recent history.

I remember thinking how nearly every car in America sported those silly magnetic yellow ribbons proclaiming “We Support Our Troops,” but when push-comes-to-shove, chances are that we will abandon our soldiers again — even if they are not homeless.

TODAY, with about 130,000 Americans serving in Iraq and Afghanistan, the soldiers we claim to support are living a hellish existence: again, they are ducking gunfire, spending sleepless nights and doing their best to avoid death in faraway lands.

They are fighting in divided nations, and their world is a tempest-in-a-teapot.

Will we remember that we owe them a far greater debt than to merely pat them on the back? Will we repay their service —as the Pentagon budget becomes more bloated with weaponry and big corporate payoffs — with counseling and healthcare services and job support? Or will we fail them again — as we have done so many times in the past?

Will we drug them with anti-psychotics and consider it “Mission Accomplished,” or will we really embrace them, show patience and compassion and loyalty after their selflessness?

These men and women have sacrificed the best years of their lives in service to our nation. They will be stained by the sights, sounds and smell of war — and trapped by the hyper aberrations of combat.

It is up to us — to our leaders — to choose whether they return with the full support of our people, or whether they become — like so many before them — unknown soldiers left to die without dignity — in the Promised Land.

A NOTE ABOUT RECIPROCITY

WHENEVER I WRITE ABOUT THE POOR, the responses always come in abundance. ONE PAYCHECK AWAY FROM HUMANITY was another example of this and my email was jammed with dozens of letters. A number of you have been kind enough to broadcast your feelings here. More than one of you were offended, as if I were issuing a personal and direct challenge; some were inspired to act; some heaped praise, and so on.

It is a sign that I should continue to write about the poor and homeless, especially as our nation struggles. That I shall do.

Below is a post from Gemma Benton, whose blog I began following at the beginning of 2009. She is committed to "Setting a thought in motion that will sustain seven generations, and prompting an indigenous conversation." I hope to pursue these issues with her over the coming weeks and months, but in the meantime, I don't think she'll mind if I share the entirety of what she wrote here.

You can find her wonderful blog, "Way Beyond Green: going beyond the conventional into deep sustainability" at http://waybeyondgreen.org/


ANOTHER NOTE ABOUT RECIPROCITY

If you read this blog through Google reader, you’ll want to “refresh” my post about reciprocity. I changed a bit. Soon after I changing it, I came across Kevin Miller’s post about his interaction with some ‘down on their luck’ folks in Cleveland.

You’ll enjoy his story. Here’s my take.. Kevin’s generosity was true in deed and heart and is a great example we can all learn from. Thank you Kevin!

Yet standing away from the forefront, in a single gesture I was struck by the black man who had nothing..homeless and freezing… yet found a generous moment in his soul as well. He could have done the ’street rap’, ranting about how “Its about time someone helped..I’m entitled to…a warm bed, a roof over my head…”

Yet that’s not what happened, he turned his attention to express his appreciation and return a kindness. Wow! Now that’s worth talking about. I wish I could buy this guy dinner and a cool hat to go with his new jacket and thank him for giving us the gift of meaningful conversation.

There has been a lot of talk going around about what folks think they have a “right to” or are entitled to. Some times we get so sideways with our “right to” that we lose our way and become ‘besides our selves‘.

True generosity and kindness is about giving with humility. This way of getting ‘besides our selves’ and getting humble again, it’s what the old people used to call “becoming a human being”.

If out of the crisis, we emerge true human beings… well that would be the healing miracle that the Elders have been calling for and it could be the sign for great healing of the planet; better said, the healing of our selves.




The above photo is 57-year-old Robert Slaughter, a homeless man who lives in a wooded area in Rockville. It was taken by Michael Williamson/The Washington Post

ONE PAYCHECK AWAY FROM HUMANITY

THE STREETS OF CLEVELAND were filled with people last week, due mainly to the record-setting attendance levels at the 33rd Annual Cleveland International Film Festival (CIFF). If anyone doubts the power of the arts to engage citizens and revitalize communities, they would be wise to note how many suburbanites have flocked to downtown for CIFF during March.

AS I WANDERED through the streets of Cleveland and hosted out-of-town visitors, a few other thoughts bubbled to the surface as well. The numbers of homeless on the streets was staggering and seemed to be higher than the dreadful period in the late 80s and early 90s when beggars seemed to outnumber businessmen.

So it was sobering, to say the least — and upon request, I handed out $1 bills to dozens of men and women. I implored them all to avoid using the money for alcohol or drugs. Most were clear-eyed and appeared alcohol free, so perhaps my human investment did indeed go for food rather than ‘the devil’s tonic’ or some other destructive device.

Nevertheless, one of my guests gently criticized me for handing out dollar bills, saying, “don’t you realize you’re being scammed?”

I nodded his way and smiled, and recalled a similar event from New York City a decade prior. I was in New York frequently as a literary agent in 1997, and a nearly identical scenario existed. On every block there was a new person begging for money. Nearly every time I would give them a dollar until my dollar bills ran dry. A friend of mine, a hardened New Yorker who had lived in the Concrete Jungle for over twenty years, flipped out. “What the *%#@ are you doing, man?” he blurted out. “These people are here every day. This is what they DO. Why are you giving them money?”

I turned and smiled, calmly. I’d heard this reasoning many times before, especially during the production of my film, THE PROMISED LAND. “My friend,” I began, “if these people have fallen so far that they feel the need to scam change to survive, then I’ll give them a dollar.” My friend grumbled and uttered something about the streets of Manhattan meting out its “New York-style” justice to those who aren’t strong enough to survive, but I ignored the sentiment.

I once wrote that “the poor will always be my brothers and sisters,” and that even though I was raised as “Middle Class,” and had dined with the wealthy and powerful, that I would always feel great empathy for the poor. Being a filmmaker, at least thus far, has not made we wealthy, so I certainly can identify with those who are “one paycheck away from poverty,” and those who are already suffering.

A number of years ago I was dropping off some clothes and food to a soup kitchen in Cleveland. It was a particularly ugly day; temperatures were in the teens and it was snowing like Antarctica. A smiling African American gentleman lept to his feet and opened the door as I approached the entrance. He thanked me for bringing clothes and food to help the poor. I smiled back and proceeded inside where the soup kitchen was about to open.

After dropping off my donation I came back into the winter cold and pulled the collar of my long American Eagle overcoat up around my neck. As I reached my car, I stopped — and turned to look at the man who had opened the door for me. He waved and smiled as the snow continued to swirl around him.

I crossed the street and approached the man, who was in line with about 100 others. I asked him how long he had been coming to the Catholic center for food and he explained that he had lost his job a few months prior and had been unable to find work.

“Where are you sleeping?” I asked.

“Inside, when I can,” he joked.

“And how often is that?” I asked.

“About two times a week,” he said matter-of-factly.

So I took off my oversized American Eagle coat and told him, “You need this more than I.” He was a big man — about 6’2 — and the coat fit him perfectly, even over the layers of shirts and sweaters he’d been wearing.

“God Bless you,” he said to me.

“No sir, may God Bless you,” was my reply.

Over the coming weeks and months, I often saw the man wearing my coat as I made my way downtown. We spoke a number of times after that, and occasionally I would buy him a coffee. My simple act seemed to touch him beyond belief, but I tried to make him realize how much he had taught me; and how he helped put things into perspective.

During today’s horrific economic times, my “family” is hurting again, and the lack of compassion is more startling than ever. I suspect that we’ll see millions more on the streets, in tent villages, and more in the coming months.

Others will judge, rationalize, pontificate about the “scam artists and the bums” living on the streets, but I will not be among them.

Others will hoard and singularize, but to tell you the truth, I am thinking of walking the opposite direction.

If I can create a film about the plight of the poor, I will.

If I have bread to share, I shall.

If I have kindness to give, I will do my best to provide it.

If I can satisfy the afflicted, I will. And yes, if I have a dollar bill to invest in a fellow human, I will give it gladly.

I know I am naïve, but I still believe in the tenet, “There but for the grace of God go I,” and “what you put out comes back.”

For until things change, our humanity is all we have left. It is a perfect opportunity to change — and to evolve — if we so choose.

Godspeed.