Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Phage, My Star Trek Voyager episode
Was looking for a DVD of my Star Trek Voyager episode when I found it online. No wonder I'm no longer getting residuals. :) Click Title to view.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Couldn't Help But See The Help
The Fayetteville Observer published this opinion piece of mine, the third in a commissioned series.
Couldn't Help But See "The Help"
by Skye Dent
I hadn't planned on seeing "The Help," the new hit film revolving around the lives of black maids catering to dark-souled white women in the 1960s South.
Sure, there were good solid reasons to attend.
As a black female who wrote scripts in Hollywood for over a decade, I know the small band of brothers and sisters of color still working there. I generally know someone who has worked on, crewed in, acted in or written any film somehow involving black people in front of or behind the camera. So, I support the product of my friends just as I buy the tamales my cousins make and sell door-to-door in Los Angeles.
And although many people think only black people can enjoy or identify with black films, that's preposterous. Audiences enjoy good films, no matter what. I've written for general audience TV shows such as "Star Trek Voyager" and "The Burning Zone." I'm proof positive that black people can write scripts that white people enjoy.
But "The Help" was another story, one I knew would hit home in a painful way from seeing the 30-second trailers. It was my story. My mom's story. My aunt's story. My grandmother's story. The story of many black women from generations before mine.
For all of them, it was a story of searingly brutal sacrifice punctuated with few moments of self-fulfillment.
The story of Negro women denied important time with their own families because they had to raise the kids of white folks. The story of women who scrub the floors of multiple level homes and then walk home in the dark to small cramped quarters shared with children and husbands they barely see.
My family's story
My mom is from Belize. As a young woman, she was runner-up in the Beauty of the Bay pageant. She had every right to expect a fantastic life when she moved to the United States in the 1950s.
Instead, she ended up being the help to a New Orleans family. Ten bucks a week to clean the house, take care of two kids, and cook breakfast, lunch and dinner. For the first few months, she didn't even get the full 10 bucks because the family deducted the costs of her passport and boat ride from Belize. When she became pregnant with my oldest sister, they kicked her out.
She and my dad, a railroad cook who was part West Indian and part Mississippi Choctaw, moved to Boston as did many Negroes seeking a better life and less segregation. Again, she became the help. I'll always remember Mrs. McFawn, the Jewish woman in Brookline for whom my mom worked. For the first four years before I could attend school, my mom took me to work with her and sat me in a corner while she cleaned.
In those days, tea-bag strings had cards attached. Mrs. McFawn did not make tea for me. Heavens no. But she did save the tea cards for me. Those cards had pictures of animals and little descriptions, my first clues to the power of the written word.
Later, during summer vacations from junior high, I became the help. I washed dishes and served food at a senior citizens home. My most vivid memory was bringing food to one patient and finding her dead. A nurse reminded a very shocked me that she'd told me the patient had "expired." How was I to know what "expired" meant? I soon learned.
And like the maid Aibileen that Viola Davis plays in "The Help," my mom lost her son at a young age - 16. We never knew the truth of how it happened. In those days, police used to take black boys into alleys and beat them behind the knees where the bruises were hesitant to show.
A few reporters said police had killed my brother and wanted us to investigate. The police said he hanged himself. At the funeral, I snuck up front and tried to rub the makeup from his neck to see if there were burn marks. But my parents knew a world of trouble lay in wait for a black couple making claims against the then primarily white Boston Police. So, my mom packed away photos of my brother.
Like Aibileen, my mom remained the help. Like the women in "The Help," what choice did she have? She not only had to help take care of her children. As an immigrant, she was expected to help those she left behind in Belize. She sent money home for decades. She helped sponsor relatives so they could start a better life.
Results of their labor
My mom and my dad were the help all of their lives.
Because of them, I got to go to Brown University, became the youngest editorial writer of a daily newspaper, produce documentaries for Discovery Channel, write a script for, and co-create an alien race for, "Star Trek Voyager," get a job as a staff writer on "The Burning Zone," work on "Dirty Sexy Money" and now, teach at Fayetteville State University.
Because of my parents' sacrifices, one of my sisters went on to become a successful advertising production manager. The other is an artist. One of her paintings was in the "Sex and the City" movie. And the younger brother, the other brother, went into the restaurant business like my dad. We may occasionally have to put up with bosses who have Ph.Ds in stupidity and arrogance. But, we don't have to clean up after them.
And now all of us siblings collaborate to take care of The Help. Yes, my mom has Social Security. But, it's never enough. So we fill in the gap. We take care of my mom. We "help" out.
So, why did I go to see "The Help," knowing it would dredge up painful memories? My friend, longtime "NCIS" executive producer Charles Floyd Johnson (along with actors Terence Howard and Cuba Gooding) were appearing after the Philadelphia screening of "The Help" to talk about their new Lucas action-adventure feature film called "Red Tails."
So I went to see "The Help" to have a seat up front when the credits ended and Charles came on stage. Charles introduced me to the Lucas marketing people. I got to see my friend and put in a plug to premiere "Red Tails" in Fayetteville in January.
I'm glad I saw "The Help." The characters were nothing like the typical woe-is-me black maids we've come to know and dread. The women and men, white and black, were nuanced in a way that didn't detract from the realism, sadness and treachery of Jim Crow Mississippi.
And surprisingly, it made me and the rest of the audience laugh for days. It had a "Driving Miss Daisy" feel, with more attitude and an expectation that viewers were intelligent.
I don't care about the complaints that a white writer got to write a black woman's story. I don't care that, yes again, we people of color seem to star only in films from way back in history and cannot be stars set in our own time. I don't care that they fudge history (the film takes place in the '60s while the portrayed murder of Emmett Till occurred in 1955).
"The Help," for me, proved an unexpected tribute to my grandmother Hannah, my aunts Grace and Idolly, and my mom Rosetta.
When you go from being a Belizean Beauty of the Bay to bathing white folks' infants in the Jim Crow South, few people applaud.
But, when the audience gave a standing ovation at the end of "The Help," they were clapping for my mom.
Couldn't Help But See "The Help"
by Skye Dent
I hadn't planned on seeing "The Help," the new hit film revolving around the lives of black maids catering to dark-souled white women in the 1960s South.
Sure, there were good solid reasons to attend.
As a black female who wrote scripts in Hollywood for over a decade, I know the small band of brothers and sisters of color still working there. I generally know someone who has worked on, crewed in, acted in or written any film somehow involving black people in front of or behind the camera. So, I support the product of my friends just as I buy the tamales my cousins make and sell door-to-door in Los Angeles.
And although many people think only black people can enjoy or identify with black films, that's preposterous. Audiences enjoy good films, no matter what. I've written for general audience TV shows such as "Star Trek Voyager" and "The Burning Zone." I'm proof positive that black people can write scripts that white people enjoy.
But "The Help" was another story, one I knew would hit home in a painful way from seeing the 30-second trailers. It was my story. My mom's story. My aunt's story. My grandmother's story. The story of many black women from generations before mine.
For all of them, it was a story of searingly brutal sacrifice punctuated with few moments of self-fulfillment.
The story of Negro women denied important time with their own families because they had to raise the kids of white folks. The story of women who scrub the floors of multiple level homes and then walk home in the dark to small cramped quarters shared with children and husbands they barely see.
My family's story
My mom is from Belize. As a young woman, she was runner-up in the Beauty of the Bay pageant. She had every right to expect a fantastic life when she moved to the United States in the 1950s.
Instead, she ended up being the help to a New Orleans family. Ten bucks a week to clean the house, take care of two kids, and cook breakfast, lunch and dinner. For the first few months, she didn't even get the full 10 bucks because the family deducted the costs of her passport and boat ride from Belize. When she became pregnant with my oldest sister, they kicked her out.
She and my dad, a railroad cook who was part West Indian and part Mississippi Choctaw, moved to Boston as did many Negroes seeking a better life and less segregation. Again, she became the help. I'll always remember Mrs. McFawn, the Jewish woman in Brookline for whom my mom worked. For the first four years before I could attend school, my mom took me to work with her and sat me in a corner while she cleaned.
In those days, tea-bag strings had cards attached. Mrs. McFawn did not make tea for me. Heavens no. But she did save the tea cards for me. Those cards had pictures of animals and little descriptions, my first clues to the power of the written word.
Later, during summer vacations from junior high, I became the help. I washed dishes and served food at a senior citizens home. My most vivid memory was bringing food to one patient and finding her dead. A nurse reminded a very shocked me that she'd told me the patient had "expired." How was I to know what "expired" meant? I soon learned.
And like the maid Aibileen that Viola Davis plays in "The Help," my mom lost her son at a young age - 16. We never knew the truth of how it happened. In those days, police used to take black boys into alleys and beat them behind the knees where the bruises were hesitant to show.
A few reporters said police had killed my brother and wanted us to investigate. The police said he hanged himself. At the funeral, I snuck up front and tried to rub the makeup from his neck to see if there were burn marks. But my parents knew a world of trouble lay in wait for a black couple making claims against the then primarily white Boston Police. So, my mom packed away photos of my brother.
Like Aibileen, my mom remained the help. Like the women in "The Help," what choice did she have? She not only had to help take care of her children. As an immigrant, she was expected to help those she left behind in Belize. She sent money home for decades. She helped sponsor relatives so they could start a better life.
Results of their labor
My mom and my dad were the help all of their lives.
Because of them, I got to go to Brown University, became the youngest editorial writer of a daily newspaper, produce documentaries for Discovery Channel, write a script for, and co-create an alien race for, "Star Trek Voyager," get a job as a staff writer on "The Burning Zone," work on "Dirty Sexy Money" and now, teach at Fayetteville State University.
Because of my parents' sacrifices, one of my sisters went on to become a successful advertising production manager. The other is an artist. One of her paintings was in the "Sex and the City" movie. And the younger brother, the other brother, went into the restaurant business like my dad. We may occasionally have to put up with bosses who have Ph.Ds in stupidity and arrogance. But, we don't have to clean up after them.
And now all of us siblings collaborate to take care of The Help. Yes, my mom has Social Security. But, it's never enough. So we fill in the gap. We take care of my mom. We "help" out.
So, why did I go to see "The Help," knowing it would dredge up painful memories? My friend, longtime "NCIS" executive producer Charles Floyd Johnson (along with actors Terence Howard and Cuba Gooding) were appearing after the Philadelphia screening of "The Help" to talk about their new Lucas action-adventure feature film called "Red Tails."
So I went to see "The Help" to have a seat up front when the credits ended and Charles came on stage. Charles introduced me to the Lucas marketing people. I got to see my friend and put in a plug to premiere "Red Tails" in Fayetteville in January.
I'm glad I saw "The Help." The characters were nothing like the typical woe-is-me black maids we've come to know and dread. The women and men, white and black, were nuanced in a way that didn't detract from the realism, sadness and treachery of Jim Crow Mississippi.
And surprisingly, it made me and the rest of the audience laugh for days. It had a "Driving Miss Daisy" feel, with more attitude and an expectation that viewers were intelligent.
I don't care about the complaints that a white writer got to write a black woman's story. I don't care that, yes again, we people of color seem to star only in films from way back in history and cannot be stars set in our own time. I don't care that they fudge history (the film takes place in the '60s while the portrayed murder of Emmett Till occurred in 1955).
"The Help," for me, proved an unexpected tribute to my grandmother Hannah, my aunts Grace and Idolly, and my mom Rosetta.
When you go from being a Belizean Beauty of the Bay to bathing white folks' infants in the Jim Crow South, few people applaud.
But, when the audience gave a standing ovation at the end of "The Help," they were clapping for my mom.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
There's Your Trouble / Fayetteville Observer Column
Published: 12:00 AM, Fri Jun 10, 2011
Community Advisory Board: There's Your Trouble> < > < [+] By Skye Dent
Recently, I was among community-minded intelligent colleagues discussing the wave of terrorist-like tornadoes when a haunting subject arose. The group expressed surprise that so many strangers offered help during the tornadoes' aftermath.
They repeated quotes from others who were - surprised. The unknown off-duty military folks who pitched in without waiting to exhale. The stranger who did this. The no-name woman who did that. Their departing shadows reminded one of Clint Eastwood after he cleaned up the badlands and rode into the sunset with a nod, a squint and a toothpick between his teeth.
Weeks later, visiting Missouri's Joplin where many lives were swept up and crushed, Barack Obama applauded similar "countless acts of courage."
I had lived a bit of it in other places. Fires consuming acres, homes and wildlife. Floods. Earthquakes. My most vivid memories of the 1994 Northridge Earthquake were both aching and amusing. To avoid closed off streets, I biked 10 miles to my office at Warner Interactive. The guard wouldn't let me in. Even after scanning my work I.D., he said I might be there to loot.
So, I called my regular disaster volunteer organization. L.A. Works sent me to a retirement home to pick up fallen items for evacuating seniors. I spent hours packing hundreds of porn videos, pretending for a tenant's benefit that I didn't know what they were.
There were thanks. Gratitude. But no surprise.
What does surprise me now, 10-plus years later, is why so many people here and in other parts of the country seemed surprised that strangers would put their lives on hold to help. So maybe that is what we should be asking. Why is it that people devastated, left helpless by tornadoes, did not expect strangers to help? What is it about our psyche these days that we feel others won't respond in times of need and distress?
Aloneness
According to S.L.A. Marshall, a World War I Army historian, when troops could not see each other, they felt more alone. Forced out of one's home and unable to contact friends and family, perhaps the tornado-stricken felt so alone that their normal expectations were put on hold.
Taylor Clark, author of "Nerve: Poise Under Pressure," says that "under life-threatening stress, complex brain processing plummets and the neural mainstream often maxes out." I think he means that it's normal for our caveman instincts, "Lord of the Flies" expectations to take over.
"Surviving under fire is about formatting your brain to take the right action reflexively," explains Clark. Did those who helped without question have their minds formatted from a previous catastrophic situation? Of course, that's part of the theory behind the CERT (Community Emergency Response Training) I took two years ago. Train regularly and the doing is automatic, we were told.
That would explain the take-charge actions of many off-duty soldiers. What author Sally Le Boeuf calls "The Warrior's Edge." People from the military who, at one point or another, have lived at a level of performance at which physical skills are precisely executed with little effort. Snap, the cognitive process kicks in.
Even in guys who fought as far back as Vietnam, I've seen that reaction. It's one reason I gave a few of them my "dig here" packet of driving routes and copies of I.D. before long drives. If I didn't arrive, their warrior's edge would kick in and the hunt would be on before you could say "criminal minds."
Of course, we could blame news organizations for low expectations of charity. Newspapers and TV news get blamed for so much else. Think about it. The media highlight Good Samaritans as if they're endangered species. But that theory would assume that we readers and viewers are not media literate and cannot think for ourselves.
Still, even on an international level, we're reminded that our country doesn't do good deeds just for virtue's sake. How many times have we been told in the last two weeks that America gives aid to Pakistan in exchange for strategic interests?
Even on a new board that I'm a part of, some board members want to benefit financially from the organization's activities. We're talking about a nonprofit.
Compassion
So is generosity a zero sum game? If you do something for me, do I incur a psychological debt that has to be made up? I took care of you when the tornado struck your house. Now you owe me. Better to be suspicious than to incur debt, goes the theory.
Perhaps the answer isn't so deep. What if, even though compassion has not totally been kicked to the curb, it's simply no longer a fundamental character trait that counts? Hmmm. Well then, how long before we reach the stage where compassion is seen as a negative?
To quote a popular country-western song, "there's your trouble."
Skye Dent is a member of the Observer's Community Advisory Board, which meets regularly with the editorial board to discuss local issues and contributes op-ed columns. She is a professor within the University of North Carolina system as well as a newspaper reporter and screenwriter.
Community Advisory Board: There's Your Trouble> < > < [+] By Skye Dent
Recently, I was among community-minded intelligent colleagues discussing the wave of terrorist-like tornadoes when a haunting subject arose. The group expressed surprise that so many strangers offered help during the tornadoes' aftermath.
They repeated quotes from others who were - surprised. The unknown off-duty military folks who pitched in without waiting to exhale. The stranger who did this. The no-name woman who did that. Their departing shadows reminded one of Clint Eastwood after he cleaned up the badlands and rode into the sunset with a nod, a squint and a toothpick between his teeth.
Weeks later, visiting Missouri's Joplin where many lives were swept up and crushed, Barack Obama applauded similar "countless acts of courage."
I had lived a bit of it in other places. Fires consuming acres, homes and wildlife. Floods. Earthquakes. My most vivid memories of the 1994 Northridge Earthquake were both aching and amusing. To avoid closed off streets, I biked 10 miles to my office at Warner Interactive. The guard wouldn't let me in. Even after scanning my work I.D., he said I might be there to loot.
So, I called my regular disaster volunteer organization. L.A. Works sent me to a retirement home to pick up fallen items for evacuating seniors. I spent hours packing hundreds of porn videos, pretending for a tenant's benefit that I didn't know what they were.
There were thanks. Gratitude. But no surprise.
What does surprise me now, 10-plus years later, is why so many people here and in other parts of the country seemed surprised that strangers would put their lives on hold to help. So maybe that is what we should be asking. Why is it that people devastated, left helpless by tornadoes, did not expect strangers to help? What is it about our psyche these days that we feel others won't respond in times of need and distress?
Aloneness
According to S.L.A. Marshall, a World War I Army historian, when troops could not see each other, they felt more alone. Forced out of one's home and unable to contact friends and family, perhaps the tornado-stricken felt so alone that their normal expectations were put on hold.
Taylor Clark, author of "Nerve: Poise Under Pressure," says that "under life-threatening stress, complex brain processing plummets and the neural mainstream often maxes out." I think he means that it's normal for our caveman instincts, "Lord of the Flies" expectations to take over.
"Surviving under fire is about formatting your brain to take the right action reflexively," explains Clark. Did those who helped without question have their minds formatted from a previous catastrophic situation? Of course, that's part of the theory behind the CERT (Community Emergency Response Training) I took two years ago. Train regularly and the doing is automatic, we were told.
That would explain the take-charge actions of many off-duty soldiers. What author Sally Le Boeuf calls "The Warrior's Edge." People from the military who, at one point or another, have lived at a level of performance at which physical skills are precisely executed with little effort. Snap, the cognitive process kicks in.
Even in guys who fought as far back as Vietnam, I've seen that reaction. It's one reason I gave a few of them my "dig here" packet of driving routes and copies of I.D. before long drives. If I didn't arrive, their warrior's edge would kick in and the hunt would be on before you could say "criminal minds."
Of course, we could blame news organizations for low expectations of charity. Newspapers and TV news get blamed for so much else. Think about it. The media highlight Good Samaritans as if they're endangered species. But that theory would assume that we readers and viewers are not media literate and cannot think for ourselves.
Still, even on an international level, we're reminded that our country doesn't do good deeds just for virtue's sake. How many times have we been told in the last two weeks that America gives aid to Pakistan in exchange for strategic interests?
Even on a new board that I'm a part of, some board members want to benefit financially from the organization's activities. We're talking about a nonprofit.
Compassion
So is generosity a zero sum game? If you do something for me, do I incur a psychological debt that has to be made up? I took care of you when the tornado struck your house. Now you owe me. Better to be suspicious than to incur debt, goes the theory.
Perhaps the answer isn't so deep. What if, even though compassion has not totally been kicked to the curb, it's simply no longer a fundamental character trait that counts? Hmmm. Well then, how long before we reach the stage where compassion is seen as a negative?
To quote a popular country-western song, "there's your trouble."
Skye Dent is a member of the Observer's Community Advisory Board, which meets regularly with the editorial board to discuss local issues and contributes op-ed columns. She is a professor within the University of North Carolina system as well as a newspaper reporter and screenwriter.
Lessons In Soldiering On / Fayetteville Observer
The Fayetteville Observer
Community Advisory Board: Some lessons in how to soldier on
By Skye Dent
I was halfway through a rant on why I didn't look nearly old enough to be a hippie when my niece cut me short and said she was talking about attitude, not age. She accused me of being too spontaneous. Doing too much volunteer work. Uprooting myself every few years with nary a care for finance or romance. And what's with those paisley print scarfs, anyway?
She had a point.
Here I had just finished stuffing most needed belongings into my shrimpy Kia. Books. Copies of sold and mostly unsold scripts. A cooler of Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. More emergency supplies than seen in "The Road." And the Stratocaster I dreamed I'd one day have time for.
Speaking of dreams - I was on my way from California to Fayetteville to fulfill another one.
Recently, I'd realized that two of the people I respected most were both writers and military: journalist Richard Brooks and TV drama showrunner Coleman Luck. I didn't always like what Brooks or Luck said. But, they were straight up, disciplined men with an enviable dark brand of humor, sarcasm and blunt honesty.
Fortunately, Fayetteville not only had such military and military-related students in abundance, but Fayetteville State University's new communication department needed a journalism professor with film and TV experience.
Lukewarm welcome
My car coughed its way into Fayetteville on Aug. 6. Day 1 was not so welcoming. The motel manager said he gave away my room. Yes, I was on time. Yes, I had paid a deposit. Yes, I had a receipt in hand. The explanation? The military had suddenly come into town. The motel manager had decided that a bird in the hand was worth more than one on the road. Besides, the military paid a higher nightly rate.
But born and bred Bostonian babes don't back down. We're scrappy, willing to throw down, at least with words. Twenty minutes of verbal fisticuffs later, the manager gave in and gave me a room.
After a month, I found an apartment. The complex's credit company said I passed all the checks. Good credit rating. Two-year contract at FSU. But, the complex manager said no. She claimed the credit report said I owed $48 on a 2004 AAA card. When I pointed out that AAA was a membership organization and that one could not owe on it, the manager agreed with me, but still said no.
The reality, I was told by colleagues, was that many landlords preferred military tenants because rent was paid directly out of allotments. Besides, when a pipe burst or some other fixture went bad, young recruits didn't make waves. And indeed, I started stirring the seas. I tracked down and called the corporate owners in Seattle. They checked my records, said there had to be some mistake, and within two days the apartment was mine.
Still, I had come to teach and live in peace. Now, I was worried about me. What was life in Fayetteville going to be like, being a second-class citizen behind all things military?
Taking advantage
Soon, I came to realize that new military residents had their own problem. I went to buy a bed at a place on Skibo. The price seemed outrageous. "Blame the military," said the young salesman. He explained that rather than reap benefits by being military, servicemen, especially younger ones, were often ripped off. Prices were jacked up for them.
The rationale: A lot of new servicemen were unaccustomed to regular paychecks. It's often easy to part them from their money, especially when budgeting or even writing a check may be a foreign concept.
A military couple staying at the original motel confirmed it. They and their two young kids were staying in a room the same size as mine and had tried to buy a car. When they complained that the huge deposit required was too much, the dealer said "we're not used to dealing with people like you."
And this couple was from Carmel, Calif. Could living in Fayetteville be more expensive than the place where Clint Eastwood lives and makes his day, just down the road from Oprah?
So, I started to do what journalists are trained to do best. Listen objectively. And take notes.
Other folks in the military said many businesses profited madly by taking advantage of the military. It was so bad, they said, that Fort Bragg handed out a blacklist of establishments to avoid. But when you're a young recruit (or even a returning serviceman) whose life may end in Iraq or Afghanistan, worrying about a fair price may not be priority No. 1, blacklist notwithstanding.
OK, I'm still confused. The assistant manager who runs the chain gas station where I get gas and coffee every morning says she's getting paid $10 an hour, after working there almost two decades. Most workers I meet in service positions seem to be making less. Where's the money going?
Top-notch
The military students in my classes did live up to the models displayed by my West Coast veteran friends. They arrived at class on time, handed in quality work, completed reading on time and even lobbied for extra credit despite having top-of-the-class grades.
The military wives followed suit. Diligent, determined. One improved her writing skills so dramatically in one semester that when she and her husband were transferred to Colorado, a U of C professor assured me he would be happy to ease her transition so she wouldn't lose a semester while getting settled.
Another military wife who was pregnant the entire semester completed all her assignments prior to Thanksgiving because the baby was scheduled to arrive late in November. A few days after the baby was born early, she took a weekly quiz in the hospital rather than risk lowering her GPA.
In fact, most of my students (military or not) lived up to my demands and expectations. Even those who did not always apply themselves were smart, funny, witty and warmhearted.
I hope they know I'm here for them, here to make a difference. After all, military or civilian, it's the students at FSU who make my day.
Skye Dent is a professor within the University of North Carolina system, a journalist and screenwriter, and a member of the Fayetteville Observer Community Advisory Board. http://www.fayobserver.com/articles/2011/01/28/1063087?sac=Opin
Community Advisory Board: Some lessons in how to soldier on
By Skye Dent
I was halfway through a rant on why I didn't look nearly old enough to be a hippie when my niece cut me short and said she was talking about attitude, not age. She accused me of being too spontaneous. Doing too much volunteer work. Uprooting myself every few years with nary a care for finance or romance. And what's with those paisley print scarfs, anyway?
She had a point.
Here I had just finished stuffing most needed belongings into my shrimpy Kia. Books. Copies of sold and mostly unsold scripts. A cooler of Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. More emergency supplies than seen in "The Road." And the Stratocaster I dreamed I'd one day have time for.
Speaking of dreams - I was on my way from California to Fayetteville to fulfill another one.
Recently, I'd realized that two of the people I respected most were both writers and military: journalist Richard Brooks and TV drama showrunner Coleman Luck. I didn't always like what Brooks or Luck said. But, they were straight up, disciplined men with an enviable dark brand of humor, sarcasm and blunt honesty.
Fortunately, Fayetteville not only had such military and military-related students in abundance, but Fayetteville State University's new communication department needed a journalism professor with film and TV experience.
Lukewarm welcome
My car coughed its way into Fayetteville on Aug. 6. Day 1 was not so welcoming. The motel manager said he gave away my room. Yes, I was on time. Yes, I had paid a deposit. Yes, I had a receipt in hand. The explanation? The military had suddenly come into town. The motel manager had decided that a bird in the hand was worth more than one on the road. Besides, the military paid a higher nightly rate.
But born and bred Bostonian babes don't back down. We're scrappy, willing to throw down, at least with words. Twenty minutes of verbal fisticuffs later, the manager gave in and gave me a room.
After a month, I found an apartment. The complex's credit company said I passed all the checks. Good credit rating. Two-year contract at FSU. But, the complex manager said no. She claimed the credit report said I owed $48 on a 2004 AAA card. When I pointed out that AAA was a membership organization and that one could not owe on it, the manager agreed with me, but still said no.
The reality, I was told by colleagues, was that many landlords preferred military tenants because rent was paid directly out of allotments. Besides, when a pipe burst or some other fixture went bad, young recruits didn't make waves. And indeed, I started stirring the seas. I tracked down and called the corporate owners in Seattle. They checked my records, said there had to be some mistake, and within two days the apartment was mine.
Still, I had come to teach and live in peace. Now, I was worried about me. What was life in Fayetteville going to be like, being a second-class citizen behind all things military?
Taking advantage
Soon, I came to realize that new military residents had their own problem. I went to buy a bed at a place on Skibo. The price seemed outrageous. "Blame the military," said the young salesman. He explained that rather than reap benefits by being military, servicemen, especially younger ones, were often ripped off. Prices were jacked up for them.
The rationale: A lot of new servicemen were unaccustomed to regular paychecks. It's often easy to part them from their money, especially when budgeting or even writing a check may be a foreign concept.
A military couple staying at the original motel confirmed it. They and their two young kids were staying in a room the same size as mine and had tried to buy a car. When they complained that the huge deposit required was too much, the dealer said "we're not used to dealing with people like you."
And this couple was from Carmel, Calif. Could living in Fayetteville be more expensive than the place where Clint Eastwood lives and makes his day, just down the road from Oprah?
So, I started to do what journalists are trained to do best. Listen objectively. And take notes.
Other folks in the military said many businesses profited madly by taking advantage of the military. It was so bad, they said, that Fort Bragg handed out a blacklist of establishments to avoid. But when you're a young recruit (or even a returning serviceman) whose life may end in Iraq or Afghanistan, worrying about a fair price may not be priority No. 1, blacklist notwithstanding.
OK, I'm still confused. The assistant manager who runs the chain gas station where I get gas and coffee every morning says she's getting paid $10 an hour, after working there almost two decades. Most workers I meet in service positions seem to be making less. Where's the money going?
Top-notch
The military students in my classes did live up to the models displayed by my West Coast veteran friends. They arrived at class on time, handed in quality work, completed reading on time and even lobbied for extra credit despite having top-of-the-class grades.
The military wives followed suit. Diligent, determined. One improved her writing skills so dramatically in one semester that when she and her husband were transferred to Colorado, a U of C professor assured me he would be happy to ease her transition so she wouldn't lose a semester while getting settled.
Another military wife who was pregnant the entire semester completed all her assignments prior to Thanksgiving because the baby was scheduled to arrive late in November. A few days after the baby was born early, she took a weekly quiz in the hospital rather than risk lowering her GPA.
In fact, most of my students (military or not) lived up to my demands and expectations. Even those who did not always apply themselves were smart, funny, witty and warmhearted.
I hope they know I'm here for them, here to make a difference. After all, military or civilian, it's the students at FSU who make my day.
Skye Dent is a professor within the University of North Carolina system, a journalist and screenwriter, and a member of the Fayetteville Observer Community Advisory Board. http://www.fayobserver.com/articles/2011/01/28/1063087?sac=Opin
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Cruzin'
And let's not forget a shoutout to Lt. Colonel Michael "Bo" Cruz, who surprisingly gets me more than the so-called liberals. Hmmm.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Some Lessons In How To Soldier On
http://www.fayobserver.com/articles/2011/01/28/1063087.aspx?sac=Opin
Opinion Piece by Yours Truly in The Fayetteville Observer
1/28/2011
Community Advisory Board: Some lessons in how to soldier on
By Skye Dent
I was halfway through a rant on why I didn't look nearly old enough to be a hippie when my niece cut me short and said she was talking about attitude, not age. She accused me of being too spontaneous. Doing too much volunteer work. Uprooting myself every few years with nary a care for finance or romance. And what's with those paisley print scarfs, anyway?
She had a point.
Here I had just finished stuffing most needed belongings into my shrimpy Kia. Books. Copies of sold and mostly unsold scripts. A cooler of Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. More emergency supplies than seen in "The Road." And the Stratocaster I dreamed I'd one day have time for.
Speaking of dreams - I was on my way from California to Fayetteville to fulfill another one.
Recently, I'd realized that two of the people I respected most were both writers and military: journalist Richard Brooks and TV drama showrunner Coleman Luck. I didn't always like what Brooks or Luck said. But, they were straight up, disciplined men with an enviable dark brand of humor, sarcasm and blunt honesty.
Fortunately, Fayetteville not only had such military and military-related students in abundance, but Fayetteville State University's new communication department needed a journalism professor with film and TV experience.
Lukewarm welcome
My car coughed its way into Fayetteville on Aug. 6. Day 1 was not so welcoming. The motel manager said he gave away my room. Yes, I was on time. Yes, I had paid a deposit. Yes, I had a receipt in hand. The explanation? The military had suddenly come into town. The motel manager had decided that a bird in the hand was worth more than one on the road. Besides, the military paid a higher nightly rate.
But born and bred Bostonian babes don't back down. We're scrappy, willing to throw down, at least with words. Twenty minutes of verbal fisticuffs later, the manager gave in and gave me a room.
After a month, I found an apartment. The complex's credit company said I passed all the checks. Good credit rating. Two-year contract at FSU. But, the complex manager said no. She claimed the credit report said I owed $48 on a 2004 AAA card. When I pointed out that AAA was a membership organization and that one could not owe on it, the manager agreed with me, but still said no.
The reality, I was told by colleagues, was that many landlords preferred military tenants because rent was paid directly out of allotments. Besides, when a pipe burst or some other fixture went bad, young recruits didn't make waves. And indeed, I started stirring the seas. I tracked down and called the corporate owners in Seattle. They checked my records, said there had to be some mistake, and within two days the apartment was mine.
Still, I had come to teach and live in peace. Now, I was worried about me. What was life in Fayetteville going to be like, being a second-class citizen behind all things military?
Taking advantage
Soon, I came to realize that new military residents had their own problem. I went to buy a bed at a place on Skibo. The price seemed outrageous. "Blame the military," said the young salesman. He explained that rather than reap benefits by being military, servicemen, especially younger ones, were often ripped off. Prices were jacked up for them.
The rationale: A lot of new servicemen were unaccustomed to regular paychecks. It's often easy to part them from their money, especially when budgeting or even writing a check may be a foreign concept.
A military couple staying at the original motel confirmed it. They and their two young kids were staying in a room the same size as mine and had tried to buy a car. When they complained that the huge deposit required was too much, the dealer said "we're not used to dealing with people like you."
And this couple was from Carmel, Calif. Could living in Fayetteville be more expensive than the place where Clint Eastwood lives and makes his day, just down the road from Oprah?
So, I started to do what journalists are trained to do best. Listen objectively. And take notes.
Other folks in the military said many businesses profited madly by taking advantage of the military. It was so bad, they said, that Fort Bragg handed out a blacklist of establishments to avoid. But when you're a young recruit (or even a returning serviceman) whose life may end in Iraq or Afghanistan, worrying about a fair price may not be priority No. 1, blacklist notwithstanding.
OK, I'm still confused. The assistant manager who runs the chain gas station where I get gas and coffee every morning says she's getting paid $10 an hour, after working there almost two decades. Most workers I meet in service positions seem to be making less. Where's the money going?
Top-notch
The military students in my classes did live up to the models displayed by my West Coast veteran friends. They arrived at class on time, handed in quality work, completed reading on time and even lobbied for extra credit despite having top-of-the-class grades.
The military wives followed suit. Diligent, determined. One improved her writing skills so dramatically in one semester that when she and her husband were transferred to Colorado, a U of C professor assured me he would be happy to ease her transition so she wouldn't lose a semester while getting settled.
Another military wife who was pregnant the entire semester completed all her assignments prior to Thanksgiving because the baby was scheduled to arrive late in November. A few days after the baby was born early, she took a weekly quiz in the hospital rather than risk lowering her GPA.
In fact, most of my students (military or not) lived up to my demands and expectations. Even those who did not always apply themselves were smart, funny, witty and warmhearted.
I hope they know I'm here for them, here to make a difference. After all, military or civilian, it's the students at FSU who make my day.
Skye Dent is a journalism professor at Fayetteville State University, a journalist and screenwriter, and a member of the Fayetteville Observer Community Advisory Board. You can find more of her work at possiblygowrong.blogspot.com.
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