Only three movies have made me cry: My Girl, Crooklyn, and Alfie. I mean, come on, Thomas Jay needed his glasses, Troy thought her mama was still alive when her daddy was beating a rat, and no one wants to end up alone; ever!
Tonight I held a watch party for Fruitvale, the film about the last 24 hours 20 or so hours of Oscar Grant’s life. We sat there, knowing how it ends, but hoping the writer used his creative license and did what Tarantino did in Inglorious Basterds, rewriting history. My heart stopped, started, slowed and exploded. And I fought back tears, knowing that if one fell, I’d be forced to write another “Kill All Cops” status on Facebook, Twitter, or the side of a LAPD cruiser. Well, not all cops because of my brother, Chris, and my buddy Lashay. But most cops.
And I’m not sure if it’s the father in me, the son in me, the blackness of my skin or the memory of being facedown on the ground with a gun pointed at my back by Officer Darrin Santiago of the Daytona Beach Police Department in 2005, but I wanted to break down. If my mouth opened to speak, it’d quickly find itself full of salty tears.
An amazing film I urge all to watch with a room full of people who are able to intelligently discuss the why’s and next steps.
And I still hold firm my belief that former officer johannes mehserle should be dragged into a town square with his child and murdered violently.
And Michael B. Jordan did an amazing job.