Candice Marie

I used sneak into my brother’s room to watch Terminator on ‘cable’. We’d laugh together and
then re-enact our favorite scenes. It made me dream of making Terminator 2. Movies were
awesome then. So when the tv and vcr was rolled into my classroom for movie time in the 4th
grade, I was ecstatic. And when Roots began to play, I sunk into my seat. Apparently, the
easiest way to handle Black History Month in a predominantly white school was to show one
volume of the epic classic, Roots, the most epic retelling of slavery in America ever filmed.
The entire collection of Roots was on display in the living room of my childhood home like a
work of art. It was the closest thing Black people had to a discussion about shared trauma.
Contemporary films were added to the collection: Boyz in the Hood, Menace II Society, and
Higher Learning. I refused to watch any of them. I wanted the excitement of Indiana Jones, the
romance of Pretty Woman, the joy of Mrs. Doubtfire.
I dreamt of making my own movies that would avoid Black themes all together. I dreamt of a
life that avoided Black themes. I moved to England to finish undergrad. I moved to Korea to
complete a graduate degree in International Relations (so that I could keep living overseas). I
created a life that was bigger than Black trauma. And a deep yearning to be a filmmaker grew. I
still wanted wanted to make Terminator 2. But when I arrived at film school decades later, I was
met with the question “Do you consider yourself a black filmmaker?”. Instantly I was teleported
to my 4th grade classroom, watching black celebrities pretend to be slaves. “No. I’m not a
black filmmaker. I’m just a filmmaker.” I went on to write short films about noodles and paper
cranes.
Joining the Slate 505 team for the Albuquerque 48 Film Festival a year later was a leap of faith.
I still couldn’t describe myself as a filmmaker in any succinct way. I wanted to be a part of this
entire filmmaking community. The writers’ room that weekend was magical. It was filled with
equal parts laughter and vulnerability. It felt like playing Terminator with my brother. The
Albuquerque film community is marked by its spirit of collaboration and that weekend I had
been baptized in it.
I look at my own screenplays now. The one about noodles. The one about paper cranes. I edit
the main characters to be Black women. I write them with my own nuances. They’ve lived
overseas. They understand geopolitics. They experience joy without qualifying it as Black. They
know trauma beyond the Black. They are soft and accepted. Finally, after all these years, I’m
not forced to revisit a horrific past and leave it there. I am free to create films that lead to
discussions around shared hope; to add to the canon of black film stories that celebrate, that
entertain, that bring joy.