I think this is appropriate for the 'family' portion of our blog.  When I tried to include it in the comment area it was too long. So, I'll stick it here. It is a review of a movie about Family by Roger Ebert.

I don't want to Clog the Blog but I felt the need to share it.

In the Family
A father who deserves his son

"In the Family" centers on one of the notable performances I've seen — if, indeed, it is a performance. Perhaps Patrick Wang is exactly like that. Then he must be a very good man. He wrote, directed and stars in the film, but it's not a one-man show. It is about the meaning of "family." This is his first feature, and may signal the opening of an important career.
Wang plays Joey Williams, a Chinese-American man who has been living happily for about five years with Cody Hines (Trevor St. John) and Cody's 6-year-old son, Chip (Sebastian Banes). Chip's mother died in childbirth. Some months after that, to his own surprise, Cody fell in love with Joey, and they're raising Chip. This household is given enough screen time to establish it as a happy, healthy place.
Then Cody is killed in an accident. Chip stays with Joey, whose treatment of him is a study in wisdom and love. The boy is so irrepressibly joyous that we sense what a happy life he has led. But Cody's sister Eileen (Kelly McAndrew) reveals that her brother left a will years ago, granting her all of his property and custody of his child. This will, written after the death of Cody's wife and before he met Joey, has never been updated.
On Thanksgiving Day, Joey drops the boy off at the sister's house and never sees him again. A lawyer in his Tennessee town tells him flatly he doesn't have a child custody case, and no judge in the state will rule in his favor. Neither this lawyer nor anyone else ever uses the words "homosexual" or "gay." It isn't in any sense a "gay rights" film, nor is it an "Asian-American" film. It is about a father and son who have been separated against their wishes.

Its objectivity in these terms is possible because of Wang's extraordinary performance. I've been unable to discover any details about him, but he speaks in a relaxed, natural Tennessee accent and creates Joey as a particularly convincing character, a contractor who drives a red pickup truck. (Cody was a schoolteacher.) His own parents died when he was very young. He was adopted by foster parents, who gave him their name, and who died when he was a teenager. As a man of Asian birth who has been raised apart from other Asians, as an orphan and a foster child who for years had no family, we sense how important stability and continuity are to him.

And there is something else. Without ever making a point of it, he has been treated as an outsider. Wang, as director, indicates this by several scenes with the back of the character's head to the camera, so that we see the other characters from his POV, instead of seeing Joey mixed in visually. He is not a hothead, not neurotic, not psychologically damaged, but in this crisis, the entire basis of his being has been challenged. Having seen Cody, we can feel certain he would have granted custody to Joey if he had ever made another will. Cody's sister doesn't see it that way. What does she think about homosexuality? She never says.

Joey's case looks hopeless. Friends try to console him, but helplessly. He's working on a house for a local attorney who has an ornate law library, and he reveals his skills in bookbinding — an art learned from his foster father. This attorney, Paul Hawks (the authoritative and wise Brian Murray), offers his help and observes there may be no help within the court system but there may be a more human path around it.

Then follows a scene of legal depositions, during which Patrick Wang's performance, in long takes that feel entirely spontaneous, recounts his life story. Joey's response to the offensively hostile attorney for the other side is masterful: He humiliates the other man simply by being a good person and telling the truth.

"In the Family" is a long film, and truth to tell, could have been made shorter. (One dimly lit confrontation between Joey and a key participant seems unnecessary.) That said, I was completely absorbed from beginning to end. What a courageous first feature this is, a film that sidesteps shopworn stereotypes and tells a quiet, firm, deeply humanist story about doing the right thing. It is a film that avoids any message or statement and simply shows us, with infinite sympathy, how the life of a completely original character can help us lead our own.

Family

My cousin is the last of his family.  His dead brother's wife has two boys so I guess he has nephews.  But, his mother, my aunt Bea, died of complications from diabetes. I imagine he looks at me and remembers her struggles, especially if I'm complaining about my aches and pains. His mother's mother died of the disease, too, only much later after ten years in a coma caused by a stroke caused by the diabetes. I believe he thinks of her when I mention how cheerful and fun I try to be around my grandson.  She was my grandmother.

Due to estrangement in his family he does not see his nephews. He does not see his mother's sister.  She called him queer once and he won't forgive her. She is my Aunt. I see my Aunt around town and she reminds me of my grandmother.  She looks like her as I remember her when I was a child. My cousin and I can both remember my grandmother as she was, full of life, healthy and laughing. We share memories.

My cousin was the middle child and he spent his years caring for his mother in her illness. His older brother was a broken bum consumed by alcoholism . His younger brother was the fairest and brightest of the clan. He was the star of his High School, strong in Sports, handsome. A college scholarship and professional baseball career were ended with the onset of schizophrenia when he was twenty-two. His life was troubled and tragic.

My cousin and I spend time together.  He's helping me clean my garage, fix a fence, and add molding to my ceilings. He has lived the last ten years alone after his mom died.  He prides himself on living off the grid in a cabin on fifty acres up in the forest with no electricity, It's his land although he worries he might lose it because he sometimes has to let the taxes slide into the next year. He is beholden to no one and proud.

When I first came here six years ago he was a hermit.  He never came to town and had few acquaintances. My sister and I visited him and his dog. He talked slowly and quietly while we were more animated and intrusive. We worried that he had no cell phone to call for help.  'No service up here anyway', he'd say.

Melvin, can you help us with the roof, the car, the trim in the kitchen?  Yes, he always replied.  Yes, although his truck could barely make the trip and the money we could afford to pay him barely covered the gas for it. Yes, he'd come down unless he was snowed in. Laconic, taciturn, he would stand and await instruction. He was ready to be molded into whatever we needed.

My sister and I fretted over him.  How could we help him? What did he need? Was he really happy? We devoted long talks between ourselves about what we could do to help Melvin. He began to come in more regularly to help with projects.  Monday and Tuesday he'd be in.  Wednesday he had the Food Bank so he wasn't available.  Thursdays and Fridays he'd be at the door by 10 and leave at 4:30 so he could  be home before dark.

In the winter we'd struggle up the mountain to make sure he hadn't succumbed to the cold. His solar panels didn't work too good when it was overcast. It was hard to tell if he was happy to see us.  His scraggly beard did not allow a glimpse of a smile, or frown. Sometimes he just stood and we weren't sure if we were intruding. Then, he would start to talk and share the old stories.  Our childhood stories, clamming at the beach, killing chickens for Grandma's Sunday dinner, listening to the old radio in her kitchen.

We share those stories. Sometimes his eyes light up and he smiles. There are details he knows that we don't. Remember the big Rhodies at the top of Baseball Hill?  They're over one hundred years old. Remember the garden Grandma planted in back of the laundry?  And, the two hundred hens she bought that summer from the hatchery. Her trees had  the best Sour Cherries ever. remember? And, we do.

Mel? I say, I'm really glad I came to live here. Sharon, he says quietly, if you hadn't come, I'd be dead now.

I'm quiet, waiting...

"After Mom died I was so alone, and I guess depressed.  I didn't call it that but it hurt awfully bad. When I sold her house I had enough money to buy my place, so I did.  It was a dream of mine to live off the grid. I had what I wanted,or what I thought I wanted. But, I felt suicidal. I was counting on not being around very much longer. And, then you came, and kept coming up to see me. You two worried about me. Me? I didn't ask for you to get in my life but I can see it is better now. In fact, I resented it. Now, look at me. Five years later and we had my birthday, ate Thanksgiving together, and we're planning a trip. It's really a big change. And, you stuck with it even though I wasn't very happy at first."

Of course we did, Mel. We're family.

Faith

A few days back when I was on the brink of losing a friend, I asked Rosie about faith. She said I would find mine eventually and it would come on its own. To give it time. Well, a day after that I asked my dad what his version of faith was like. And he described it. And I realized I had already found my faith….a long time ago.

He said his faith was like a great big hand cheering him on for his every rise. Cushioning him in his every fall. Always there, sometimes, the only thing there. Giving him strength to face everyday. I always thought my dad was admirable in the way he handled everything alone and took charge of his responsibilities facing grave pressure; now I know he wasn’t alone. God was with him.

Despite being Indian, my family has always had a rather lax and cavalier (and oh so cool) approach towards religion. My father performs his own private prayers every morning. My mother is into Buddhism and has chanting sessions with a large group every Sunday. My brother…I don’t even know what my brother believes. But I know he does. And me, the agnostic. We all do regular routine Indian ceremonies and all. But that is custom and tradition, not actual religion for any of us. Maybe that is why I grew up with a screwed up sense of what faith was. My father set me straight.

No, I still don’t believe in god. Or the existence of a higher power. But I do have faith. I have something that gives me the strength to face everyday. I have something that cushions my every fall and cheers me on always. And I always know I am not alone. I have my family.

So I have faith in…..my FAMILY? Sounds kind of ridiculous when you think about it. Not to mention juvenile. But the moment dad described his faith to me, it just clicked. My mother, father and brother to me aren’t just those titles. They are more, oh so much more! All three of them, individually are three of the most incredible people I have ever had the opportunity to get to know.

My parents faced a great deal of hardship when I was a kid. I know this because I was told later. I was told at one point, after my dad lost his business, we were poor enough not to be able to afford milk. I was told that my dad spent a night in jail after a couple of goons from his business came after him subsequent to his company’s failure and beat him up. I was told that they came and took all of my mother’s beautiful wedding jewelry; not to mention our TV, car, AC, and everything else of worth in the house. I was told all this because they didn’t let me feel a thing. Not one thing! They took loans and kept me and my brother in our ridiculously expensive private school. They borrowed from our relatives to keep the house. They begged favors from friends and we still got our toys and dresses and everything else. They begged and they pleaded and they borrowed to keep our lives the same. And 10 years later, my father is still paying those debts. All in order to keep our tender childhood unmarred by sorrow of any sort and our studies unaffected. My father bore the brunt his burden by himself. My mother…well I can’t even begin to describe what my mother did.

My mother made up in creativity what we lacked in funds. My birthday parties were the BEST in town. Period. Girls who weren’t invited used to die of envy. There were richer girls who threw huge expensive bashes with expensive watches and imported toys as return gifts. But they were floored by the gifts my mom made. My mom made personalized masks. They were so pretty, covered with sequins and feathers. Some were of animals. All of them were completely tailored to fit the tastes of the kids attending. Mine was a tiara. She made handmade gifts, which cost nearly nothing, but were everyone’s prized possession. She decorated our dead and decaying house to make it look like a castle. She made all sorts of goodies; golguppas, dahi vada and of course her famous chicken sandwiches. My favorites. She made me feel like a princess always. She still does. And she did all this for every single event that came our way. She adored me and my brother to death. It is a miracle we didn’t end up utterly spoilt brats.

I remember this one Christmas; she was with me on our Verandah when Santa Clause came. We lived in a Christian-Muslim locality. All around us lived Christians. On Christmas Eve, nearly every house would have that telltale star hanging in front of it, signifying to Santa that this was a house worth his time. There were tons of visiting Santa’s who would drop by these houses with gifts and songs and well, happiness. That was a particularly depressing Christmas for my mother because that was the year those goons had come and taken everything away. But that’s not why it was depressing; it was depressing because now she didn’t have a vehicle to drive us around town and show us the lights. So when Santa came next door, I remember her getting up and running downstairs. She had told me to wait. She went to our neighbor’s gate and approached the guy. I could see them talking. I sneaked downstairs and hid behind a tree and eavesdropped. My mother was asking Santa to come visit our home for a little while and play with her children. No she wasn’t asking, she was BEGGING. I stood behind that tree and I heard my mother beg this random stranger dressed in a red suit to come say hi to me, to make my day a little brighter than it already was. I could hear the desperation in her voice, he could too. He snubbed her with disdain. I was 10 I think. I cried. I cried for my mother and for how much she loved me and my brother. When I think of that night, I still do. I don’t know why.

My brother, now that is a whole other ballgame altogether. He was my best friend. He was my mentor. He was my hero. Ah screw the ‘was’es. He still is. I always hero-worshipped him. We were like equals though. He told me his secrets, I told him mine. We went through thick and thin together. The four years age difference between us never made much difference. There was never any jealousy between us or rivalry for our parent’s affection. Not that we needed to fight over that; that was provided to us aplenty.

All my life I have known the worth of my family. All my life I have seen them as the strongest and most powerful force in my existence. For me, they are a religion. For me, this is faith; knowing that there is somebody out there for you no matter what you do. Holding your hand tight as you try and figure life out. Never letting go.