Between J and K

In October, 1974, when I went to get my picture taken for the Gilroy High School yearbook, I barely knew Jennie Kajiko. We had some friends in common, might have exchanged some words when we sat near each other in Senior English, but that was about it. In the spring, though, when she came to my house to help with an editing session for the literary magazine (back when editing mostly involved scissors and rubber cement), things started to change. By the time the yearbooks came out, just about exactly forty years ago, we still hadn't done anything that could be called “dating,” but we were getting very creative at finding ways to spend time together. Which made it seem awfully significant when this is what appeared in our yearbook:

Significant to me, at least. Jennie, ever more realistic, saw it as nothing but an alphabetical accident. (She was far more concerned with the fact that they’d called her “Jenny.”) But I was determined to find meaning in it. 
       Some months later, in the sad but warm spell after we’d survived a few hard conversations and a near-breakup, I told Jennie that I had a very strong feeling about our future. I said that I had a feeling we might not always be together, we might even break up for long periods, but somehow I believed we would ultimately be together. Jennie found it a sweet sentiment but not a very realistic one, and I suspect she may have felt a bit confined by it. A joke seemed called for as an antidote to my overflowing romanticism, so I said something about how it must be true, because why else would we have been side-by-side in our yearbook? Underneath the joke, though, I think I sort of believed it.
       Clearly it was just the sort of thing an eighteen year old says, and clearly such things aren’t to be taken seriously. But forty years after that yearbook came out, here we are.

It hasn’t been an easy road. There’ve been hard times, and long times when our lives barely intersected. We’ve decided that the relationship was over more than once, most recently five years ago. But here we are still, or here we are again. And we’ve finally figured some big things out, learned how to make life together as good as we both want it to be. I’m not silly enough to try predicting the future anymore, but I don’t see this ending any time soon.
       I’ve mostly stopped thinking about that yearbook page. It was just a matter of alphabet, after all. We were in a small high school, and there happened to be no one named Judson or Kable to muscle between us. But if I were going to write a romantic story about a long, difficult, and ultimately wonderful relationship, and if I weren’t too worried about coming off as corny, it would be a great detail to use.

Geek Love

The San Francisco Silent Film Festival finished yesterday. This was its twentieth straight year, fourteen of which I’ve attended, and I think it was my favorite so far: five days instead of the usual four, twenty-one program events, including sixteen feature films, all but one with live music. Fascinating movies, some stunning, some hilarious, from six nations, in every genre, all gloriously preserved and presented. And (much of the joy for me) suffused with the energy of passionate geeks wallowing joyfully in the stuff they love.
       The festival brings in a big audience. The evening performances usually sell out the 1400 seats of the Castro Theater. Even at its slowest moments (an obscure Blanche Sweet comedy from 1919 playing on a Monday afternoon) it can bring in 600 or 700 people. Not all of those people come in as aficionados of silent motion pictures. But the core of the community, the sources of the energy, the leaders of the audience responses, are people who live and breathe for the things. I like that kind of community. I haven’t really been part of one since I eased out of the comic book subculture fifteen or so years ago, but I enjoy visiting them. It’s like spending a few days with a very warm but rather peculiar family.
       Rituals are essential to geek families, especially in-jokes. The crowd didn’t waste any time creating new ones for this festival. When Mike Mashon of the Library of Congress, introducing the first movie, made a reference to it being restored on 35 millimeter film, a smattering of applause broke out. He made some wisecrack about how no other audience would applaud the words “35 millimeter.” This time the whole audience clapped. For the rest of the festival, assorted scholars and film restorers introducing the movies would milk “35 millimeter” as a laugh and applause line. 

      The full, geeky, inspiring unity of the family came home to me, though, on Monday afternoon, the last day of the festival, as I approached the theater. Every geek family creates its own parent figures. In comics, we made Jack Kirby and Will Eisner our collective fathers, our demiurges and role models. For the community of silent-movie restorers, collectors, historians, and enthusiasts, the ur-father is Kevin Brownlow. He had started collecting silent reels as a boy in post-War London, when hardly anyone had any interest in the things. In 1968, his book, The Parade’s Passed By, essentially created silent-film history. Through the decades since, he’s done more than anyone to find, rescue, and call attention to the films, culminating a few years ago in the restoration and international presentation of Abel Gance’s colossal Napoleon. 
       This was by no means the first time Brownlow had appeared on stage at the festival. He’s been there a few times, introducing movies and signing books, including last year. But this year, the 20th Anniversary year, his restoration of Ben Hur was scheduled as the concluding event. His name was invoked again and again as the festival went on. On the third night, when he came on stage to introduce Flesh and the Devil to a full house, he got a standing ovation. On the last night, before Ben Hur, he was interviewed on stage by Serge Bromberg, one of the younger heroes of film restoration. On the Castro’s marquee for that last day, Kevin Brownlow got the treatment that only stars and a few directors ever got in the heyday of the movie palaces: his name above the title.
       I love the movies at the festival. I love the music, I love the history, I love the theater, I love sharing it all with my friend Joe Filice (my annual companion and the only other person I know who’s willing to spend Friday watching silent movies for thirteen hours straight, then come back to do it again Saturday and again Sunday). But I think what makes me set the days aside every year to immerse myself completely in the experience is the quality it has of an annual family reunion. A loose-knit and diverse family, formed around an uncommon passion, but, like all the best geek families, held together by love.