In 2000 and 2001 I made a film called Ghosts of Attica. One of the main characters was
Frank "Big Black" Smith, an inmate elected to protect the hostages held by inmates
during the crisis due to his credentials with the other inmates and his enormous size.
Attica transformed Frank from a street hustler to a justice crusader. He fought for over
thirty years to compel the state of New York own up to their responsibility in the murder
of 39 guards and inmates. He died at the age of 70 just before I left for the Pioneer
conference. I flew from Kansas City to Raleigh and drove to the little town of Kinston,
North Carolina to attend his funeral the day after the conference.
I've never been to an open casket funeral before, and I was surprised to feel thankful
both for the open casket and for some private time before the whole cast from my film
arrived. Kinston is like the towns in Mississippi that I remember from my failed attempt
to make my first documentary, a film about Mound Bayou, an all-black town founded by the
slaves of Jefferson Davis. Kinston was a mostly hollowed out crossroads. Two story brick
buildings with stenciled names of the merchants above the door stood in what may have once
been a vibrant business center. Now this is the black part of town, and the white people
live, literally, on the other side of the tracks. Frank's church was just a block or two
from this area. I got to Kinston too late to go to his wife's house first, and early for
the noon funeral. So I went to the church and had a private few moments with Black (his
nickname). Seeing him was bizarre. I kept projecting the idea that he was still alive
and it appeared to me that he was actually breathing. Aside from a slight tinge of blue in
the part of his lips nearest his chin, he looked like he could wake up any minute. I read
the cards on the flowers and saw one from Judge Telesca, the judge who presided longest of
the nearly 30-year long Attica case that resulted in a settlement for the inmates in 2000.
The first woman I met was a bigwig in the church, and very proud of it. They have a
renovated building, which we talked about for while. I soon discovered that she barely
knew about Black's role at Attica, or as Liz Fink, his best friend and attorney who fought
the case with him, might say, his role in American history. So I told her about the
Attica uprising and the whole story of the struggle with NY since, and she was wide-eyed
amazed. It turns out that hardly anyone save the pastor knew Black's history in any
detail, if at all. Black had moved back south to get away from it all. His new dream was
to set up a youth center in this somewhat depressed town. I ended up sitting near this
woman and the president of the church. As the sanctuary filled up I became the only white
person and the only outsider on that side of the church. The other side was reserved for
family. From the front the family poured through a doorway, about 40 people strong and at
least half of the crowd were Attica lawyers and their relatives. My private moments were
gone and I couldn't fight the flood of thoughts rushing in as each familiar face passed
by. Ghosts of Attica had been an emotional film to make as I straddled between guards and
inmates who still existed in separate worlds, trying my best to tell the story from both
groups' perspectives.
My tears came right away at the sight of Liz Fink, one of the most powerful forces I've
ever encountered. Her face was swollen and red, and she was sobbing. I think Pearl (his
wife) was supporting her more than she was supporting Pearl. She had sobbed on the phone
the last time we talked, too. It's going to be hard for her to get on with her life.
She lost her soulmate. True to form, she gave a beautiful and honest speech. A line that
struck me as both true and mocking (perhaps of her lawyer brethren and, even, me) was that
"we are not here for Black, today, so much as we are here for ourselves." Her theme was
that Black was a giant of a man, and that no one around him could match his gifts. She
pulled this off without comprising his complexity, making many references to the ups and
downs of his life. Other lawyers spoke too, but they were relatively unremarkable, so I
let myself drift. It was a long service, and the second most moving part was an a capella
trio of teen girls with beautiful voices who adapted a spiritual and, perhaps what moved
me most, was that they had been inspired only by what they knew of Black in Kinston - a
man who volunteered with the youth at the church and dreamed of opening a youth center one
day. Being in the town made concrete the need for such a place. And they were proof of
what Liz had said, that Black was a man who attracted people. Truly, he instinctively
knew how to make people feel good, or known, in his presence. I can remember how the
lines of his moustache always reminded my of my long-dead grandfather. And I remember how
he was so many things to me during the film: grandfather, dueling partner, crusader,
enthusiastic film subject, reluctant film subject.
The internment was not really the climax. Liz's speech was. But in a moment of comedy
and horror, the pneumatic mechanism that lowered the casket hit a hitch and Black's large
body inside shifted causing the casket to nearly fall off the gurney thing. Yikes.
Everyone recovered with nervous laughter. I chatted with the gang from the film
afterwards. Liz was Liz, direct and distant all at once. First she hugged, sort of.
Then she told me that we (I) need to raise money for the memorial. Dennis, one of the
spacier lawyers, didn't remember who I was and his daughter had to remind him. Danny was
self-righteous but dear, just like always. My status as documentary filmmaker was
confirmed. It's that awkward existence in which the intimacy gained through hours, days,
and months of looking at footage and mining every ounce of meaning from the stories of
your "characters" is never understood by those outside of the process.
Funerals are restorative, though. And Liz was partially right. While I was there for
Black, with whom I had spoken regularly during his illness, I was also there for myself.
Brad Lichtenstein is currently working on a film for a PBS special to air in Sept.
2005 about culture change, filming the story of elders at St. John's Episcopal Home in
Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
