FILMS GONE WILD: On this Juneteenth, Dallas International Film Festival Artistic Director James Faust gives a first person (and family) account of a life lived

Dallas International Film Festival Artistic Director James Faust, on Juneteenth, gives a first person (and family) account of a life lived

Juneteenth with James Faust

We think we know. We think we have an idea. Even if we are not arrogant enough to believe we know everything or that we’ve seen it and done it all, we are all generally secure in our worldview and up close and personal view.

And then, if we are lucky, we see or read something that shakes it all up like dice in a Yahtzee cup. And then we slap our forehead and do a reset.

Or I should say that I do that and sincerely hope whoever reads this column does that as well.

James Faust (Photo by Steve Duffy)

Juneteenth with James Faust

James Faust, the Artistic Director of the Dallas International Film Festival, is my friend. He also happens to be someone that I respect immensely as a film festival programmer. I have known him for thirteen years now, I believe.

We worked together with the legendary AFI DALLAS film festival and I distinctly remember having conversations with him regarding what I saw as his growth as one of the “faces” of the film festival and how I looked forward to helping him hone the skills to be exactly that.

He, in fact, didn’t just become exactly that, he has risen to be a nationally recognized tastemaker, voice, and presence on the film and film festival scene.

This has happened due to his relentlessness as a film programmer, his ability to navigate the often political waters of this industry, and the fact that is genuinely a good person that sees the bigger picture, even as he methodically problem solves and looks for films that will succeed in the Dallas-Fort Worth and North Texas market.

Bottom line is that James has got the goods talent-wise, he’s earned his place work-wise, and if there is a single person out there that would be hesitant to give him his due, it would be because one, they don’t know what they are talking about, and two, they likely have not met him and/or had a conversation on film with him.

He is beyond any doubt, not just the face and voice, but the heart and soul of the Dallas International Film Festival and the reason that people give a damn about it.

James Faust at the EarthxFilm festival in 2017
(Photo by Steve Duffy)

The reason I am taking this moment to lionize my friend, James, is because, on the occasion of Juneteenth, apparently after a feverish night of sleeplessness with his brain bombarded by thoughts and memories and feelings and thoughts generated by the significance of today’s date in history and his own personal history, James wrote a JERRY MAGUIRE-like essay illuminating us all on snap shots from his life, anecdotes from his family’s history, and explanations of what he was thinking and experiencing in the moment.

I read it this morning. I’ve talked with him since. I’ve talked to my wife about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. And with no exaggeration, it has brought me to tears as I consider it. And my point in re-posting it here is to hold the curtain back just a little on one man’s experience and journey. A black man who has achieved an incredible amount and holds the respect of many. And a man who carries these memories with him with grace, good humor, wit, and a generous nature toward everyone that I have ever seen him encounter. I’m absolutely sure that I would not have played it all out as well as he has.

So, please read the following from James Faust..

AMERICAN FAMILY BLACK
Late 1930s a 15-year-old black man is jumped walking home after a football game in Galveston Texas …a group of white men/boys were just out looking. They beat him so severely they knocked out his right eye. I don’t think that I ever knew him to be the man he could have been.

During WW2, my grandfather is traveling the world in the army and Merchant Marines. While in Egypt, he and other black soldiers are detained. it seems some white soldiers had told Egyptian soldiers that all colored people in America had tales. They were searched and stripped. HAHA, very funny.. it happened in two other ports. My grandfather died a proud veteran 5 years ago…he told that story well into his final years.

THAT 70s BRO
I’m about 5 or 6 years old. In the car with my family driving in Dallas. I wonder out loud why there are these large walls around the housing communities. We didn’t have a wall. Someone in the car says, “It’s to keep the black people out.” An argument ensues: “Don’t tell him that..!” “Why, it’s true..””Not really…” “He has to grow up to think it’s not…” A year later we move into an apartment complex separating us from University Hills in Irving Texas…large walls.

I’m 8-years-old riding my bike with my friend (white) talking about STAR WARS. 7th grader pulls up on his bike. to my friend. “Why you riding with that N—-. you don’t play with them.”

7 months later I’m hanging out with my Pakistani buddy. A bunch of older white kids…high schoolers…literally snatch us up and drag us to the apartment swimming pool. They throw us in. I scream, “I can’t swim!” I climb out. They push me back in. “LET’S SEE IF SHIT FLOATS,” they bellow. I get out. I get pushed back in. After 3 rounds we get help. When the manager comes. I go home crying. Couldn’t find the kids who did this…so no repercussions. I still don’t swim.

 

5th grade at Farine Elementary: I look at this girl in class and say she’s cute. After school..I’m a student crossing guard…another kid in the same class comes up to me and lets me know that a N—- like me shouldn’t be looking at white girls. I punch him. I get a spanking at the office. remember corporal punishment? fun stuff.

 

4th grade. Coming back from a trip with classmates on a train. one classmate, Drew, says, “Look at all the people on the platform waiting..” As we get closer.,. “Oh wait, their just N—-…” I’m sitting one seat behind him.

 

FORGET ABOUT IT JAMES, IT’S THE 80s

Kid at Truman Middle School continues to call me Shadow. I punch him before school. We fight. I go to the office. He went to class. I get blasts (hit with a wood stick you know that works).

I grew up a good Catholic kid. We went to church every Sunday. Ash Wednesday, Christmas mass the whole wafer thing. Felt like the only blackolics in the city of Irving. At a point in the service you offer peace to each other, a hand shake and you say, “Peace be with you” to the people sitting next to you: More than I want to remember our hands extended were extended only to be met by a hand pulled back or a nasty glare. I stopped going to church in 1985.

I attended South Grand Prairie High School. The Warriors (we’ll get into the Native American thing later). The Varsity football team started every game by running onto the field waiving a giant confederate flag. My old friend and neighbor was an amazing running back and only 15. The Varsity wanted him to move up…he couldn’t/wouldn’t as long as the flag was still blazing on the field. He was kicked off all football squads. What happened next was the stuff of cinema: Weeks of news reports, some violence in the halls, a Top 10 football team taking a stance, fights in the school parking lot. I was told I should get my N—- ass in line and back the flag more than once. All this culminated in a rivalry game with our cross town rival that included protests from the NAACP and KKK…on the same block. You had to walk through it to get to the game. the things they yell at kids…fuck me.
We don’t have the flag anymore.

 

We used to hang out on this street: Mayfield. it was an empty street where houses were to be built. On any given weekend there were dozens of cars and a hundreds of people just partying. One night a young lady screams, “Where’s the next party!” Someone answers with a part of town that might be a bit less gentrified. Young lady in question responds….,”Too many N— over there. who wants to party with them?!” I’m about 15 feet away from her. I get no support from the predominately white crowd…fuck it…I walk home…. I’m 5 miles from home.

 

I was voted most witty in high school. someone was quoted saying they loved when I did my Eddie Murphy. I didn’t do an Eddie Murphy. I was a Robin Williams type of guy… “Why can’t I be known for that?”

 

I attend Texas Tech. home for the summer. taking summer courses at North Lake Junior College. Psychology class. a young lady (white) in class is not doing well. I am. She asks if I could study with her. Sure. She invites me to her grandparents’ house where she is staying. She says her grandma will make me a snack. We arrive at the same time. I walk in the house. Grandma greets me. Grandpa comes around the corner. i extend my hand.. “Hello sir…” He stands back and tells me i am not welcome in his house. “You need to leave.” I think he’s kidding. He is not. He restates his request. Moves toward a cabinet pulls out a gun. Grandma and friend scream. I back out quickly, get in my car and drive away. I’m freaked out. I head to Jeremy Bush’s house. He is angry for me and wants to go do something. I don’t want to go to jail. but there was comfort in friendship. I think we played video games. (Sidebar…I told my other friend Masters what went down….and I believe we signed this old dude up with a subscription to Jet Magazine… I hope he liked the black girl of the month pictorials.

THE COLLEGE YEARS
There’s a lot here but….you’ve come this far..

Had a history professor that didn’t believe my grandparents and most of their siblings went to college. he asked me to prove it on more than one occasion.

Fall 1992, the president of the Texas Tech Black Student Association is tipped that there are some troubling pictures at a local party pics company. The pics are from a sorority/fraternity party called Party in the Projects. White kids in black and brown face dressed as KKK, pimps, hookers, Mexican stereotypes, some even having pledges in chains acting like slaves. Quick action is taken and the organizations involved are kicked off campus. Over Christmas break while most students are away…the punishment is severely lessened to light probation. Seemingly, like it never happened.

I have two amazing friends and we had the coolest apartment ever in Lubbock. We threw a massive party. TV cameras where there documenting “back to school” parties. We had a cop in the complex sneak in. He found my other two roommates. Begins to talk them. I walk up. He tells me to get back. I say I live here. He looks me up and down. Returns to my roomies. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. It’s not like I wanted to go to jail, but dude I EXIST !!

YOU LIVE IN THE SOUTH…YOU HAVE TO GO SOMEWHERE LESS RACIST

I loved NYC from a far for decades. I finally get to the magical city in 2006..with my brother. We have a great time. Later, I’m walking around the city by myself a little lost. I walk by the same Italian restaurant twice. The 2nd time…a large Italian fella gets up and steps outside the patio and proceeds to tell me, “I don’t want to see your black ass walk by here again. You here Me?!” I’m a bit shaken and don’t want to start a fight in a city I don’t live in. I go down the street to a little store. The Asian lady at the counter jumps up, picks up her phone and starts following me around the store. I leave. I head to the famed Midtown comics. I walk in. I don’t know the rules. I get yelled at by patrons. Fuck it, I just bought some bullshit comic, pay and leave. I’m walking down the street and the guy I paid comes running at me. I’m done… I m ready.. Let’s do this…. I drop my bag… He shoves money in my face. “You gave me too much. Here’s your change.” I hug him and I don’t think he knows why. That day sucked…ended well…ish… I didn’t return to NYC for 11 years.

 

2007 France. My 6’4 burly Australian traveling companion and I are in Marseilles heading towards the train station. We are surrounded and verbally (IN FRENCH)…accosted by a bunch of dudes with fanny packs…and badges… They separate and interrogate us…. It is revealed later that there was a strong African drug trade in the area and they though I was a dealer.

Cannes – same trip. I’m walking in a shopping center…a gun shop… (I know, a gun shop in Cannes France?) Security is called. I am followed until I leave the establishment.

Paris 2013. My wife starts to notice we are the last to be served in certain restaurants. It’s because we’re’ American, we think. We notice multiple white American couples getting great service around us. Feh..It happens…I’m used to it.

MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH

Where is my mind? I’m offered the Artistic Director job at DIFF. I have to think about it. I love this organization, but i don’t want to be a distraction…”A black A.D.?” That’s what they might say… Not, “Look at the good work.” Why can’t it be both?! Why do I even have to consider this shit?
40 days ago. At Casa Linda Shopping Center (Dallas) an elderly white woman with a cane falls down in front of a store. I see here and so does another man… He’s white. we rush over… I pause… Will she scream or will she recoil if I go near her? He touches her and asks if she can stand. I ask if I can come close. I tell her in clear terms that I am going to pick up your purse now. He carries her and realizes he needs my help.  She looks at me…pauses…then takes my hand in the time of COVID-19. We put her in her car and wait till she is comfortable to drive.

This was a lot. I know. if you got this far, here is a payout: This is only a fraction of my story. A tenth of a tenth percent. It’s hard to write – to relive and to talk about. This is just my story. Imagine this times 8 million, 30 million… It’s epidemic.
I’m not looking for sympathy or apologies. I put this out there so you can see me. Really see me. We are at a major moment in history. a chance for real change and conversation.
When you reach out to your friends of color and ask how they are doing…remember… you may be opening a box of systemic trauma that they don’t want to, or are ill equipped to deal with. Rancor and rage may come your way. I ask you to listen ..really listen… For every step forward…there’s a George Floyd. For every success story, there’s a Trayvon Martin. For every…you know what…it’s too much…there are too many. My mother shouldn’t have to check in on me and remind me how to act in front of cops.. I’m 50!
I’m tired. tired of being sad and tired…keep talking America.

Me with my friend, James. (Photo by John Strange)

DIFF Artistic Director James Faust, on Juneteenth, gives a first person (and family) account of a life lived