The Visitor: a review

The name of this blog comes from the Greek language. Empatheia means passion, and it is one of the roots of the English word empathy. Empathy is the ability to identify with or experience the thoughts or feelings of another person.  In all aspects of culture (literature, film, art, food, and language) I am inspired by creations that challenge me to view the world through a new lens. Learning occurs at those moments when my eyes are opened, when I become cognizant of something I never before considered. It begins with a trickle of awareness and then slowly grows into a flow of questions, encouraging me to ask for more information.

I enjoy learning. I enjoy seeing things from another perspective. I take to heart that Native American proverb stating, "Before you judge another man, walk two moons in his moccasins." I look for learning opportunities that help me see the world as a child--with a newness that sparks my imagination, and makes me ask questions. The film The Visitor created such an opportunity for me.

In The Visitor, Walter Vale is a widowed college professor in Connecticut. From the very start of the film, it is obvious that he is in a slump. The class he teaches is filled with glazed-over eyes, a student complains that they have not yet received the syllabus--despite the fact that the due date for their first big term paper already passed. We see Walter whiting out the date on a previous year's syllabus, readying it for redistribution just before he heads to New York City. In NYC, he will be staying in his second home, an apartment, while presenting a paper at a conference on the economics of third world countries. Upon arriving at his apartment, though, he discovers a young Senegalese woman in his bathtub. Zainab thinks that Walter is there for some nefarious purpose and begins screaming in French. Walter backs away and is met by Zainab's Syrian boyfriend, Tarek, who has returned to the apartment just in time to defend his girlfriend from her "attacker."  Walter explains that the apartment is his, and proves it with his keys. The young couple says they rented the apartment from someone named Ivan, who apparently set them up as squatters while Walter taught in Connecticut. Zainab and Tarek gather their belongings and head out to find another place to stay.

Walter looks around his apartment after they leave, and notices a photograph of the couple that was left behind. He decides to seek them out to return it, finding them on the street calling friends and looking for a place to spend the night. Walter stands silently by the couple and you can see the wheels in his brain turning. Eventually, he invites them back into his apartment to stay. With that decision Walter's journey of two moons in another man's moccasins begins.

The film is the story of an awakening--not just for Walter, but also for the viewer.  Walter is made aware of several aspects of both Syrian and Senegalese culture. He also begins to see parts of NYC that he's passed by a multitude of times, but never taken the time to really see. Tarek opens his eyes to a new world, a new way of thinking, and Walter becomes alive again. It is a beautiful story of friendship that becomes horribly complicated when we learn that Tarek is an undocumented citizen. The audience is then awakened to what it is like to live in the U.S. without the proper paperwork.

This is a very touching and thought provoking film. The trailer states, "You can live your whole life and never know who you are until you see the world through the eyes of others." That quote not only beautifully describes the experiences of Walter in the story, but it also captures the experience of those who watch the film: allowing a spark to ignite, allowing questions to form, allowing voices to be heard. I highly recommend this film to anyone who loves to learn, who is willing to see things from a new perspective.

If The Visitor gives you a trickle of awareness that slowly grows into a flow of questions, I encourage you to ask for more information. Visit the Federation for American Immigration Reform to learn more about immigration policy and reform in the U.S.

Special thanks to my mom for recommending this film to me. 

A Friend is a Friend

Flickr photo by  soopahgrover 

Friendship is a gift. The longer the friendship the more precious the gift. I am lucky to have some very precious gifts in my life.  One particular friend has been in my life for more than 35 years...since kindergarten!  This post is about that friend, whom for the sake of anonymity I will refer to as "B." Please note that my friend gave me permission to share this story.

B and I were both raised Catholic. B's parents wanted their children to attend Catholic schools, but our local parish elementary school didn't offer kindergarten. Her parents had to send B to a public school--where she met me. After beginning our friendship at five, B transferred to the Catholic school for first through sixth grade. We still saw each other, though, because girls from our two schools were in the same Girl Scout troop. We became friends, discovering that we had a lot in common: we both liked to ride bikes, hike, canoe and camp.

In seventh grade we were reunited for junior high. School was bigger and scarier, and I was happy to see B's familiar face. We hung out together at lunch and in between classes, and we always introduced each other as, "my friend since kindergarten." During those two years I had some health and family problems that greatly interfered with regular attendance. It was hard for me to make friends, but B was always there for me. She was nonjudgmental, caring, and just...a friend. If I unloaded my feelings about the things happening in my life, she didn't run away or make fun of me--she was unflappable, a true friend.

When it was time for high school, I was pretty lost. I'd missed a lot of school and didn't feel very comfortable around most of my peers. The first day of ninth grade I got on the school bus, scared to death of riding into unfamiliar territory. I was the third person on the bus. As I climbed the steps, peering at the bus driver, I got extremely anxious. I looked warily towards the back of the bus to see who was there and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that it was B and her older brother. I was so thankful to have my friend and her brother--a senior no less!--to make me feel more at ease in my new surroundings.

B and I continued our friendship throughout high school. B even continued in Girl Scouts--camping, canoeing and biking all over the country. We still saw each other daily and hung out some, but our teenage rebellions were of a different variety: she hung with what we called the "burn-outs" and I hung out with the "punkers." Our paths crossed often (rebels are rebels, after all!) We still talked, still introduced each other as, "my friend since kindergarten."

After high school, B and I went to different colleges in different states. We lost touch. I attended a high school reunion or two hoping to see her, but she never made an appearance. When the information superhighway opened, our alma mater started an online directory.  I input my information hoping that some old friends would contact me. I was eventually rewarded by an email from B in my inbox! Perhaps the most amazing thing about the Internet is the way it helps to reunite old friends. I was so happy to reclaim my friend of 25 years! But that email from B wasn't a regular "hi, how are you" email.  B's email was a confession: a coming out. B wrote that she was living happily with her partner in Oregon, where they were raising dogs together and doing the things that B has always liked to do--hiking, biking and camping. 

In my mind,  that email changed nothing. She was still B, one of my oldest friends. Who am I to judge one of my oldest friends for who she falls in love with? I fell in love with a black man. Many people in the world see that as something unnatural. I cannot judge B for falling in love with a woman.

B and I emailed back and forth a couple of times, but that was it...until one of my colleagues convinced me to join Facebook. Soon after my first login I got message from a guy named D, who happened to have the same last name as my friend B. I mentally ran through B's brother's names in my head and soon realized that there was no D in that family...hmmm...who was this D?  Curious, I read the message and discovered that D and B were the same person. 

Flickr photo by PhotoComiX 

I can't imagine the emotional pain B went through before finding the courage to become transgendered. I can't imagine the physical, psychological, social and emotional upheaval that must go along with such a change. I know that it has cost a lot of money, caused a lot of hardship, and taken a long time. But I do believe my friend is happier now. I have followed the latest news of his transformation on LiveJournal. I am amazed to read on Facebook about the difficulties he's encountered: D is over forty and has no credit history. B has a credit history, but B is no longer a functional identity. Without a credit history or job history, D has trouble getting loans to pay for housing, vehicles, and medical procedures. It is not an easy life. I am impressed by the courage of my old friend.

It took me a few months to remember to call him "D" instead of "B," and to say "him" instead of "her." But the bottom line is this: names and pronouns are simply functional parts of speech. They are not the important human stuff that comprises my friend. For more than 35 years I've known the spirit of a person. That person and I grew up together, shared experiences together. I respected my friend's spirit when we were five and I respect it now. Just because the external package housing that spirit has changed, it does not mean that the spirit inside has changed. My friend is still my friend.