Llanor Alleyne
Writer | Editor | Artist
In 1996, as I read Sapphire’s graphic and idiosyncratic novel Push, I was in agony. Too much of Claireece Precious Jones’ life was cutting me to the bone and there were times when picking up the novel felt like visiting an all too familiar insane asylum. You see, my mother said things like to me and my sister and her violent outbursts often caught us unprepared and left us welted and trembling. While my dad bears no resemblance to the man that fathered two of Precious’ children, his lovable rolling stone persona only left my sister and I feeling abandoned in a sea of emotional, psychological and physical pain.
Watching “Precious,” the film adaption of Push, was not any easier. There on a 20-foot screen was that hurt black girl in her 300-pound, profoundly abused body. And there, just as large and looming was her psychologically disturbed mother. It was almost too much to bare. But what kept me planted in my seat, alternately weeping and laughing, was the humanity that director Lee Daniels brought to not only Precious, but also to her derange mum.
While much of the criticism leveled against the film focuses on the color gradients of the characters and what that does and doesn’t reflect in the larger world and how Precious’ story is just another bad portrayal of black ghetto life that adds fuel to bigoted mindsets, I saw a film that does something other films of its ilk rarely have done: it delves honestly into the interior life of a black girl and an abuse survivor.
As someone who has been abused, I can say that not every day was torture. That is important to know. I had teachers, friends, and caring neighbors who saw in me someone who could get out of a bad situation and do well. But for all of their love and concern I still had to go home. When I got there I had to split myself in two. There was the girl who walked on eggshells around a mentally fragile person and who after sixteen years still wasn’t a good enough mood reader to dodge fists, extension cords, and yes, a frozen chicken. And there was the fantasy woman. The one that was a writer doing pretty well, in a pretty apartment, far, far, far away from Crown Heights and an uncontrollable demon.
Lee Daniels beautifully and heartbreakingly renders this split personality on the screen. For all of the tossed televisions, hurled frying pans, and bum rushes for talking back, there was an inner place for Precious to go. Frankly, these self-created safe houses are the godsend of many an abused person. It is the hope well. It is the mental ticket out. It keeps you breathing. And if you are cognizant enough, it leaves you open to accepting the help of those who see what is going. That Precious’ saviors come in paler skin is of little consequence to me. My guardian angel was a Jewish woman with a missing finger who introduced me to scratchy vinyl recordings of Nina Simone and nurtured my creative writing.
I hear the criticism and I understand that in this time of Obama black people don’t want our hurt hanging like dirty drawers in a multiplex. But we can’t argue for all of our stories to be told and then crucify those that attempt to do so in a boldface way. We can’t talk about “Boyz in the Hood” being a classic, and then denigrate “Precious” because we can’t stand the thought that this is part of us. Yes, there are pans of grease, Precious is fat and blacker than tar, her friends and helpers are lighter skinned than her, and her mum is a crazy welfare whore. Guess what? These people exist and these things have happened. I’ve seen them. What sets this film apart is that there is no punch line, it isn’t a skit. Precious doesn’t toss off her fat suit and take a bow. The humor that exists in the film is as natural as any we encounter in real life. It is generated by the people around Precious who are being themselves and who in doing so, let’s her in and allows her to not only tell her story but to also find her strength. For that alone everyone should see it.
Precious is a very apt and genius title for a film of this nature. I haven’t seen the film but have read the book Push. I think the book is brilliant in an uncompromising way; this, coupled with its brevity makes it a slap in the face that is undeniable. If your treatment of the film is anything to go by nothing has been lost. Thank you for applauding the space we, as all shades, sizes and fucked-upnessness, need to tell our multi-tales.
As uusual your summary hits the nail!
Georgex