Showing posts with label my writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my writings. Show all posts

Sidney Poitier: A Patch of Blue in a Clouded World

Tuesday, September 16, 2025

How do you describe a man who stood beside Martin Luther King Jr. during the “I Have a Dream” speech? Who was often the only Black person on set, carrying the weight of representation for millions? Sidney Poitier wasn’t just an actor—he was a quiet revolution.

Hollywood has long dazzled audiences, but when A Patch of Blue was released in 1965, Southern theaters cut the interracial kiss between Poitier and Elizabeth Hartman. The world was shifting, but not fast enough.

If Poitier is new to you, let me introduce him through the film that won my heart. I first saw A Patch of Blue in my early twenties, and it never left me.

Selina, a blind young woman raised by a violent, racist mother and grandfather, lives in poverty and isolation. Her days are spent stringing beads in the park—her only job, her only escape. One day, she spills her bead box into the grass. As she scrambles to collect them, her hands meet those of a stranger: Gordon, played by Poitier. He helps her, speaks kindly, and sees her—not as a burden, but as a person.

Gordon teaches Selina that she can learn to dial a phone, walk to the park on her own, even read. He tells her she’s beautiful. Desirable. Capable. For the first time, someone cracks open a window in her dark world and lets in a patch of blue sky.

That’s why I love this film. It’s a story of hope. Selina’s life is bleak, but one act of compassion changes everything. And it’s Poitier at his finest—dignified, empathetic, quietly powerful. Gordon is a middle-class professional who sees past race and class to offer kindness. Even his own brother questions the relationship, but Gordon remains steadfast.

Race is central to the story, and Poitier’s performance handles it with grace. Though he didn’t win an award for this role, he deserved one. His Oscar for Lilies of the Field was historic, but A Patch of Blue is just as moving.

Poitier once said:

“I never had an occasion to question color, therefore, I only saw myself as what I was... a human being.”

That’s the heart of his legacy. A pebble tossed into a lake creates ripples that stretch far beyond the point of impact. Sidney Poitier was one of those pebbles—his presence, his performances, his dignity—sending waves of change through generations.

Note: This article was originally published on Femnista, a webzine that no longer exists, under the title To Sidney, with Love. For other articles that I wrote and published, please visit the Femnista Writings section of my blog. I have edited the article for clarity, but the heart of my original article shines through.

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Great Expectations: Time Marches On

Tuesday, February 21, 2023

Time is cruelty for Miss Havisham, the eccentric owner of Satis House in Charles Dickens’ fine novel Great Expectations. The progression of time drives her mad; to protect what little sanity she has left she must stop time’s progression. It’s impossible to do so. Time is powerful and in its willful determination to do as God dictates, Miss Havisham leads a fantasy life where she protects herself from the hurt of abandonment.

Wronged by her fiancé, Miss Havisham locks her doors, leaves the wedding feast on the table, and commands that all her clocks be stopped. Time is not permitted to work. Yet there is something in the saying that time is the great healer. It allows wounds to scab over and scar. The memory of the hurt remains, but the pain is gone. Time heals those wounds, but when Miss Havisham stops time for herself, she stops the healing process. There is no progression for Miss Havisham. Instead, she locks herself into the memory of the wrong done her, scraping off the healing scab every single day in order to feel the pain afresh.

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Sherlock Holmes: The Shadow in the Window

Thursday, January 26, 2023

As thin shadows swayed across my window blind, my fingers clutched the book to my chest. My throat muscles convulsed, and the blood trapped in my veins by the shock suddenly thundered on, rushing heat through my body.

It was him… the creeping man.

This was my first identifiable memory as a Sherlock Holmes fan.

Of course, the creeping man wasn’t actually outside my window; it was a crazy shadow cast by a tree devoid of its leaves in the winter. But that moment of utter terror experienced in my early twenties decided my favorite Sherlock Holmes short story for me.

The Creeping Man startles the imagination with its ghastly and Gothic possibilities, making it one of the most iconic of Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories.

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