The Great Film Club

I’m back in the hazy, palm tree-lined city of angels, actors, models, fractured hopes, fragile egos, artists, unions, and frequent lonesome. My new roommate is a 6’1” shiny blonde girl from Michigan, who recently moved to LA to launch her modeling career. Over what should have been shallow, introductory small talk, we agreed that being alone is the only way you can figure out who you really are. 

Last night I decided to go to a screening put on by The Great Film Club in Downtown LA. I drove 45 minutes to the wrong location and paid $5 to park in the wrong parking garage. I pranced around confused, trying to find the address for 10 minutes in high boots and skinny sunglasses resting on the tip of my nose. I walked up and down the same five streets. Streets lined with fruit stands, sizzling meat and vegetables that filled the air with rich flavor like the neighborhood was one big family home. Strangers smiled and waved to me with a warmness that felt foreign after years in the Seattle freeze. 

One young man with face tattoos, packed into a leather jacket and holding a motorcycle helmet, walked straight toward me. My heart beat double time in the familiar way that it does when I’m alone and it’s nearing night. As we were approaching each other, I saw him notice me. I picked up my pace, avoiding eye contact. As we neared closer, he stepped to the side of the sidewalk to let me pass. He offered me the kindest smile and told me to be safe. Assuming the worst in people lets them surprise you, I guess. It was around this time, I realized I was in the wrong place completely. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. As annoyed as I should have been, the writer in me loves a mishap for the plot. 

I drove 15 more minutes to the right location. I landed in front of a tall building in between two large gargoyle statues. I later learned this building used to be the Los Angeles Post Office. I was greeted by Sabrina, the club’s founder, a small woman with a high-pitched voice. She smiled behind a baseball cap, with a kind and organized manner. She directed me to take an elevator and follow winding hallways covered in intricate swirly artwork, walk across a rooftop to another door, and walk into the screening. I followed her directions, opened the door and out overflowed a warm bustle. I stepped into the white-wood loft covered in abstract artwork. There were chatty people filling the space with fan-tastic vibes. They were sitting or leaning against wide floor-to-ceiling beams and drinking white wine out of small clear plastic cups. 

Everyone quieted down for the screening to begin and I sat on the floor against a wall. I heard a voice from my right, tip-toeing over people, “Excuse me, hi, sorry, oops, cute shoes, eek.” The voice belonged to Sam, a face I could hardly make out in the dim lighting of the loft. She slid down the wall, next to me, and introduced herself. She seemed a few years older than me, so I asked her what she did for a living. She told me she was still deciding between, spiritual leader, make-up artist, and I believe the other option was nurse. It was a refreshing uncertainty opposed to the tightly set students I go to school with who look at me like I’m an insane person when I say I want to be a writer for a living. Sam was happy and kind and not bound to or by anything. Her energy was free and inspiring. 

Sam asked me, in hushed tones, if I was showing a film. I told her it was my first time there so I wanted to sus out the scene and see the other people’s work to spare myself some embarrassment if mine was the worst one. The screening began and short after short, men walked up to the front of the crowded room to introduce their projects. A lot of them began by saying it was their first time there. Over the whole night, only two films were presented by women. I looked around the room and there were just as many women in the audience. I was shocked that so few of them were presenting… but then, of course, I wasn’t either. 

I turned to Sam during intermission with my realization of this fundamental difference between men and women: Whether learned or innate, there is more caution and risk assessment that fires in a woman’s brain before putting themselves in a situation that could harm them. This is why women are rarely accused of the rash actions men are accused of, like sexual assault or violence, because there is more thought that goes into every single thing we do… because we are trained and bred to protect ourselves at all costs. Unfortunately, I think this fear of being harmed physically carries over to our fear of being emotionally scathed. So we play safe but then that means we don’t play at all. No matter ones gender identity, we are human and humans learn by doing and failing. 

Watching everyone’s work, I really regretted not submitting something of mine. At that moment, I made a vow to myself to do less thinking and take more irrational, unwarranted, shameless action, even if I embarrass myself, even if it’s sort of out-of-line… as long as it’s not hurting anyone. If I am going to succeed at all, people need to hear me, I need people to see what I do and I want to learn so why would I hold any part of myself back? I realized the reason that there are more men on the creative side of the industry is not because men are more talented, it’s just because more men are actually doing it. 

I hope my future daughters grow up in a world where men step aside on the sidewalk. It’s important they know that people won’t always be courteous, accepting, or leave room for them, but living in fear is no way to live. It’s more valuable to jump and fall than never jump at all.