Our Shared Stories
Last night, my husband, Amos, and I were cruising around on Netflix when we settled on an instant-play movie called Boys Don’t Cry. When it came out in 1999, I meant to go see it in the theater but missed it. Even though I didn’t catch it on the big screen, it garnered enough media attention that I remembered generally what it was about. I knew it was a fairly popular indie film that had been nominated for several Academy Awards, I knew who it starred (Peter Sarsgaard, Chloe Sevigny, and Hilary Swank), and I knew it told the story of a transgendered person (anatomically a girl but identifying as a boy) who was subjected to some pretty horrific gay bashing that ultimately resulted in a violent death.
Given these tidbits of plot that I’d retained for more than a decade, I braced myself for a story that I knew would be sad and difficult to watch. And it was by all means that.
I should say here that I won’t go into any plot specifics for several reasons: 1) For those of you who haven’t seen it, I don’t want to spoil it any more than I already have, 2) nearly all of my dreams/nightmares last night were related in some way to the story, and I’d like to sleep more soundly tonight, and 3) my point here is not to write a movie review.
What I’d really like to share with you is what happened after the movie. Following a lengthy silence, we mused for a while on the questions that, not surprisingly, would come up after such a story: Why do people hate those who are different from them? How true was this to the real story and other similar untold stories? What must it have been like to be that person in that time and place? Emotions of disbelief and anger ensued, casting a dark net around my fitful sleep all night long.
This morning (though not before my bike ride in to work and two cups of coffee), I found a bright side: without history and storytelling and all of the ways we remind ourselves of our shared cultural heritage (like it or not, and especially not in this case), these stories would be lost. People like me would forget about people like Brandon Teena. We would forget how hard it once was and still is to be considered so different that some people would want to hurt or even kill you. The story of Brandon Teena is part of our shared history, a sad but important chapter in the story of human rights that continues to unfold, especially amid the Prop 8 trial.
So today, I’ve come to have a renewed appreciation for storytelling and history. I’ve also had that darn Cure song stuck in my head all day—but I think it’s worth the trade-off.
About Raina Hassan
Raina Hassan is the communications assistant at Oregon Humanities.
13 August 2010 | Posted by Raina Hassan in Inside O. Hm. New Ideas
Permalink | Comments? (2 so far)
Bravo Raina, I had to watch Boys Don’t Cry in several sittings as I couldn’t deal with it all at once. Storytelling is such a part of our culture and history. But we seem to be letting good stories slip through our fingers only to be replaced by shiny, over-produced, plot-less, mind-numbing tripe. Stepping off of my soapbox now! I have added an oral history component to my summer speech class and while some are embracing the concept, some of my students are completely lost as to why it is important. Their presentations begin next week and I am excited to see the results. Keep telling great stories!
Chelsea | 13 Aug at 01:02 PM
Thank you for this comment, Chelsea! And thank you, also, for your teaching and your work with oral history. I’m sure the experiences in your classroom will really strike a chord for some of your students. I hope to hear some of your stories sometime!
Raina Hassan | 13 Aug at 01:15 PM
Add a comment
Oregon Humanities welcomes your commentary. We encourage lively public discourse and civil debate, but please be respectful in expressing your views.