Today on "Generational Anxiety," what is home?

Is it an anchor, a prison, a refuge?

Today, we're talking to two incredible artists about home, the worlds they come from, the worlds they build, and the healing power of both.

♪♪ And that's what love is.

Love's got your back.

It's a reaching.

It's a yearning.

It's an aching.

♪♪ I think silence prohibits expectations.

Are we being heard?

Are we being seen?

Nunez: I think people feel safe when they can define you.

Vivion: We created this show because the world is changing.

To call my first guest an accomplished writer would be an understatement.

She's an award-winning author of a memoir and 10 novels, four of them selected as "New York Times" Editors' Choice, winner of the American Book Award, Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and co-founder of the National Black Writers Conference.

She's a distinguished professor at Hunter College in the city of New York, hailing from the island of Trinidad.

Please welcome Dr. Elizabeth Nunez.

Thank you for being here today.

Thank you.

Thank you, Bianca.

Vivion: My next guest is an award-winning Trinidadian British filmmaker, writer, and organizer raised on the streets of London.

His short film, "A New England Document," world-premiered at the Sheffield Documentary Festival in 2020 and has since been featured at several major film festivals and was even recently selected for the Criterion Collection.

If that's not impressive enough, he's a recent graduate of Harvard University with a degree in anthropology, history, and literature.

Plus, he's only 23.

Please welcome Che Applewhaite.

Thank you, Che, for being here today.

Thank you for having me.

Both of you are from the islands, specifically Trinidad.

Yet you're both a long way from home here in New York.

So, what is home for you?

I'll start with you, Elizabeth.

Oh, good.

[ Chuckles ] I thought you were going to start with the younger guest.

You know?

[ Laughs ] Age before beauty.

Is that it?

I've been away from Trinidad -- that is to say, where I live -- for many years.

I came to the United States when I was 19, I came to get my first degree, went back home.

So I'm using your word.

Went back home to Trinidad for a year.

Had a difficult time getting a job, and that's a whole different story.

Came back for the usual.

I don't know.

I call myself an accidental immigrant because I didn't come for the usual reasons that an immigrant returns -- for economic reasons.

I came following a romantic interest.

Oh, I love that.

Which didn't work out.

So I have -- you know, I've continued to live in the United States since then, but I think we sometimes refer to ourselves as transnationals -- that is, we go back and forth all the time.

I come from a family of 11.

I have five brothers, five sisters.

Five of them are in the Caribbean.

So it's just constant moving back and forth.

And the truth is, it took me -- I would say it took me almost 25 years before I decided to get U.S. citizenship.

Wow.

In those days, you could hold on to a green card forever.

You know?

The permanent residency.

You had everything, except you couldn't vote.

Today, that's not it.

So that was how I intended to go on.

So when you asked me about home, I still always thought Trinidad was home, though I was living in New York.

I think things sort of fundamentally changed when I -- after 20-something years, I became a citizen.

And at that point, I was able to vote.

I hadn't thought of it before.

But once the notion is that I was voting, I had skin in the game.

Right.

I was involved in how I was going to live my life and the government and what was happening.

And then I think the notion of home sort of really became two homes.

Wow.

And especially, then, I married an American.

Had an American child.

American grandchildren.

Yeah.

I would say...

It's a hard question to answer because...

It's a hard question.

That's why we're here.

if you ask me where's home, I will still feel it's Trinidad.

Trinidad, yeah, yeah.

What about you, Che?

Where's -- Where are you a local, and where's home?

'Cause I know you're not even American.

[ Laughs ] Well, I mean, I admire that, for Elizabeth, Trinidad is still home because for me, it's always been a hard concept to grapple with.

Like, my parents moved to London when I was three, and I came with them.

And so I was born in Trinidad, but I only remember kind of running in a pre-school class and, like, tagging other friends.

That's kind of my only memory I have of childhood in Trinidad It's a strong memory, but it's not one that, you know, I can build a sense of personhood around, you know.

So what we did was we would kind of go back and forth over the two years to, you know, just get a -- so I knew more about where I came from.

And then again, I moved when I was 17 to the United States for college, you know.

And so only recently have I come back to Trinidad to live -- to understand really what is there for me and, like, you know, why do I feel this attraction to a place that I never really lived, but I was born in.

So I'm trying to work that out, you know, as we speak.

Right.

So for both of you, it's a question.

It's a question that you're working through.

Well, I wanted to start with the famous words of James Baldwin from his novel "Giovanni's Room," given you're a novelist and you're a filmmaker, which, to me, is actually a kind of novelist.

[ Both laugh ] Do you all agree that home is a condition we heal from?

I'll start with you, Che.

I mean, James Baldwin can be somewhat sensationalist in his writings at times, but I agree with the spirit of his statement that it's kind of a lifelong kind of burden you have to carry or even work through as someone who, like, say, is not... considered, like, always, like... Belonging?

Belonging, yeah.

Belonging in, say, a space of home.

You know, like, especially as a black queer person, right?

So, like, I see in his history, you know, in the '30s and '40s in Harlem, like, the discomfort of that, right?

For me, it's different now because I think we're living in a time where, you know, Billy Porter said recently, like, the change has already happened.

Like, queer people are being accepted even in Trinidad, where the British really enforced homophobia for many, many years, and, like, it's become culturally ingrained.

But young queer people are really trying to make space and are doing it.

And so I think there's a way that, you know, I want to cast that burden off, actually, and, like, just speak clearly.

And then so -- but I mean, I love "Giovanni's Room."

You know, it kind of was like the book that was like, "Oh, my God, like, queer people have, like, internal lives."

-Right, right.

-You know, like, yeah.

Yeah.

Well, there was a word that Che used that I think is pivotal, important, and that the word was "belong."

The sense of belonging.

Where do you belong?

And probably that helps you to decide where home is.

Yeah.

And I think that is the difficulty for those of us who have immigrated.

I could see my son knowing where he belongs.

For me, it's, you know, where do I belong?

Because belonging has to do with the people you grew up with.

It has to do with the nature around you.

For example, the first time I knew what snow was or that you could go out in a place and it's cold is -- I was 19 years old.

-Wow.

I remember thinking of coming to the United States and sticking my hand in the freezer and saying, "Is it going to be cold like that?"

And someone said, "Your whole body is going to be cold."

I mean, what the heck is that?

So can I belong to as many -- I've lived more years in the United States than in Trinidad.

But can I belong to a place where, as I was growing up, as I was forming myself and my identity, I had no idea of what is so normal to an American living here?

Right.

So I still find myself fascinated when I look in the park and I see little children running around in the snow.

I mean, you'd think I'd be accustomed to it.

I don't belong to that.

Well, I think what's interesting about both of your work is that it does sort of ask this question like, can America or, in your case, American educational institutions -- like, can they be home?

And I know that your latest work deals with that a lot, of people that are from elsewhere and they come here.

And I think during the Trump presidency especially, a lot of people were asking even me, who's a black American, you know, and comes from a lineage of black American slavery, being like, "Is this ever really home and can I belong to America?"

So how does that play into how you write your novels?

Well, you definitely belong here.

And this is what I find so fascinating about African American history.

African Americans have belonged to the United States longer than most living Americans.

Right.

Most Americans, white Americans that you meet, they are probably second or third generation.

African Americans were here for like, what, 400 years?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

If not more.

So I find that fascinating to ask that question.

Well, I think for me, it's because when I think of home, home is a place where you can rest.

You know, or home is a place where -- I love a phrase from an author that says, "To love is to stop lying."

A French author said that.

And I think, like, when I think of home and love, it's, like, where you don't have to pretend to be something else or you don't have to translate everything you do or you have no fear of betrayal.

But the way that it is for a lot of black Americans, you know, walking just out onto the street, you don't have that sense of rest.

You don't have that sense of fearlessness.

And when you get a political situation like what was happening in, you know, 2018, 2016, it's very difficult to feel a sense of just [Exhales] home.

It's not like, oh, the trees are swaying and mangoes and, you know, the water.

And I know that that's a very idyllic vision of the islands, but it's, like, we don't have that sense of peacefulness that I think home -- the concept of home is supposed to bring.

So I think that that's where it comes from.

But I want to talk about how that's reflected in your work, which I love, because in your books there's this grounding in this place called Trinidad, and you sort of build that world.

So can you talk about, like, what that process looks like or how you find yourself back home through your novels?

Well, first, many people think, when they think of the Caribbean islands, they think that the people -- the original people of the islands look like Che and look like me, and that's not true.

Right.

The original people of the Caribbean Islands were Amerindians.

So if you want to get the first genocide in the Western world that happened along our chain of islands, you would probably have to go to Dominica, where you will see some Caribs -- the remnants.

So we were brought to the Caribbean, Africans were brought to the Caribbean, to work on the plantations.

And when emancipation came in 1833, then they brought the indentured people.

They brought the Indians.

And my lineage is actually Portuguese.

And we were indentured laborers to work on the cocoa estates.

So you look at the Caribbean islands and the thing that should strike you, when you look at it, you're looking at people who are not the original people.

From elsewhere.

To the islands.

And they came to serve Europeans.

I think the difference I would make in between what you're saying and what I'm saying is that the Europeans, basically the English, they didn't want to belong to the islands.

They had no desire to do that.

So they came to create labor and money to send back to England.

And they weren't buried on the islands.

Right.

They didn't have another generation there.

They sent their children.

And that's the difference with us.

We belong in the sense that these are where we planted roots, but we were not the original people.

So what I want to say about what you said, which kind of made me a little sad, actually, is that this is white America telling you you don't belong.

This is somebody else saying to African Americans they don't belong.

But that is such a foolish idea, because I think of one of my very close girlfriends who both parents came from Italy, and she believes she's solid American.

She can fly that flag all over the place.

But you can fly that flag 100 times more than she can.

Sure.

Yeah.

In other words, this is your land.

If I can say, as a black Trinidadian, that Trinidad is my land and I was brought there to labor on it, you can say the same about... Yeah.

So it makes me sad because I think some people have a vested interest in saying to African Americans that you don't belong.

I'm not negating the struggle... Yeah.

Right.

...because the struggle is impossible.

Long and impossible.

And I think what you're talking about, this struggle, that's what makes us pause when we think of this concept of home.

And I think that a lot of black Americans, we idealize this idea of Africa, right?

We think, like, oh, that must be home.

And I've been to the continent of Africa several times, and it's like, I don't go there and think, "Oh, wow, now I'm African."

You know, I'm here, I feel home.

You're American.

But I know that the historical struggle and the way that it's lived is very different.

And, you know, I want to turn it to you, Che, because I know, like, cinema, it's all about world-building and it's about making kind of the world in your mind, which I think that's very interesting.

Even though your short film is a documentary film, I still think that it's sort of like you get to choose your purview, you get to choose this sort of... Do you try to build a world where you feel safe, or you try to build a world that is home in your films, or is it a refuge or a reflection, or how does that process work for you?

I found it interesting that you said you found parts of yourself when you visited parts of Africa, because that's actually how I began wanting to make films, because I lived in a village for six weeks in Senegal...

Okay.

...on, like, cultural-exchange program.

And I was shooting kind of a group of French kids.

And it was interesting, not as much because of the French kids, even though I love Paris.

It's more the way that the people in the village related to me as someone who is black, but not from Africa.

They felt really comfortable telling me their stories.

Right.

And, you know, some of these stories about kind of farms being exploited to the point that young boys were crying, you know, because of the pesticide fumes.

Wow.

You know, and, like, the president of the Farmers Association telling me, with tears in his eyes, that, you know, like, "What do I do now?"

You know, "What do I do when my children -- you know, my young are being hurt in this way for the money that they need to feed their families?"

You know what I mean?

And it was kind of a rough, I guess, firsthand introduction to what life is like for a vast number of people on the planet, right?

Right.

And so, like, I think that really put a sense of, you know, well, what do I do with these stories that people tell me?

How can I, you know -- what do I do with them?

'Cause I think that's something that's been a recurring theme in my life -- like, the stories that people tell me.

And so now after I came back to school, the next semester, I decided to take a documentary class.

And that was the beginning of kind of wanting to make the film, which became "A New England Document."

And as you said, like, it's kind of a creative reflection on what it means to be kind of a black student at Harvard, you know, in New England, that kind of environment.

Right.

Of a lot of violence, actually, for people who are, you know, either indigenous or black or not, you know, settled there in some way.

And so what I wanted to do was try and reflect back on myself and kind of understand who I am to tell these stories.

You know, where am I?

And then... And now the process is beginning of actually, like, telling other people's stories.

Yeah.

So... Well, I think -- I want to just pause 'cause I think it's fascinating that you're saying, if I understand this correctly, you began filmmaking as a process of being an outsider who was trying to convey other people's worlds.

Whereas when I think of, like, you know, black filmmakers in my mind that immediately come to mind, like a Spike Lee, who's like, "Okay, I want people to know about Bed-Stuy.

I want people to know about Harlem, about my world."

But you did it almost as an act of empathy to be like, "Other people are living in their homes," like, and you wanted to enter those worlds and share that world with others.

Because, you know, blackness is diverse, right?

It's like... Yeah.

It is.

So, like... Yeah, and so I wanted to like, I think, testify to that, as well, you know what I mean?

Right.

But there's also the, like, "I see you," you know what I mean?

Like... And so that's also super interesting.

Do you know what I mean?

Yeah.

That's a lifelong worth of work, do you know what I mean?

That I want to make, because there's so much in it.

And so like, yeah, that's why.

That's interesting because you think of it as like, this is an invitation into a home, right?

And I think of, actually, Elizabeth, when I think of your novels, I've always felt, you know, sort of like looking at the Caribbean as, like, an idyllic outsider and someone who goes there to vacation.

And when I read, one of your novels... Oh, yeah.

...it's like I felt like I'm being invited into this world that's a very secret -- like, the secret homes of women and, you know, lives of the the elite and the workers and things like that.

So do you -- What do you think of that?

Well, I think people have just such a narrow concept of the Caribbean.

I mean, there are some people who think of the Caribbean only white sand and blue sea, and they come there for this vacation.

Or people think of people from the Caribbean as all the nannies -- most of the nannies you're going to find in New York are from the Caribbean -- they think of them like that.

And they don't realize that we have as complicated and a much-layered society as any other society.

And so sometimes I will -- I won't be apologetic about this.

I mean, I come from probably what you would call a upper-middle-class family in the Caribbean.

And so I'm interacting -- and I believe the same for you.

And so I'm interacting with professionals not as somebody from outside, but my relatives, my siblings.

And so when I write about these people, people think I'm not being authentic.

And that's because they have a stereotypical view of people from the Caribbean or the stereotypical view of black people.

But we are as complicated -- What...?

And complex.

So I think people feel safe when they can define you.

And they define you from whatever the stereotype is or from whatever they now see.

So I tend to write about the people I know.

Right.

I tend to write about a certain -- people in a certain social class.

They are black.

The color of their skin does not define them.

So they are not necessarily constantly talking about that.

They are talking about the human condition.

They are talking about things of love and of grief and of fear.

And some people get disappointed about that in my novels.

Yeah, do you ever feel like there's a kind of betrayal involved in being very honest about home, you know, the nuances of Trinidad, about what goes on in the household, about sexual relations and tensions and racism and classism within that?

Do you ever feel like -- or other people might listen to it or look at your books and think like, "Oh, she's telling our secrets?"

I feel like a lot of artists, they're involved in that kind of betrayal.

Like, you have to be involved in that kind of betrayal.

My mentor was the African American writer John Oliver Killens, and he would say, "You cannot be a writer unless you are willing to be stark naked at high noon in the town square."

Wow.

Yes.

Wow.

That's a bar.

So, you know, all this stuff about who's looking over my shoulder.

You're going for the truth.

You're trying to get the truth.

And, you know, if it offends people -- you hope it doesn't.

And I don't think it does.

You know, I think people recognize themselves.

But this kind of, you know, censoring yourself, like -- you can't be an artist if you're censoring yourself.

You can't be an artist.

You can't, you know, not tell the truth.

You know what I mean?

Like, it's our job.

You know, some people would be offended.

You, like -- you know, and obviously, I think -- and I don't know if this is true for you, Che.

You're writing from something that comes deep within you.

You're making up a story, an imaginary story, but the feeling and the passion and the emotion is something close to you, so some people close to you would recognize you in your writing.

Right.

Right.

I remember I wrote a story about adultery, and the main character was a man from Africa.

Not me at all.

Right.

And my mother kept following me all over the place and saying, "I know who that is.

I know who that is."

Yeah.

Right.

Right.

So... Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.

I want to start with what you just said, Elizabeth, about seeing yourself in your work.

Because I know, Che, for your short film, "A New England Document," there's a young boy that the film centers around.

Is that you in your work?

It's how I see myself in another person.

Wow.

So, like...

When I was in the archive doing the research for this film, like, it came from a sense of feeling like there was more to the story about, like, these expeditions that these ethnographers did in the Kalahari Desert, which is now in Namibia.

They went in the '50s, and they brought back, like, 40,000 photos.

And so, you know, they published them and wrote about these people as if they were hunter-gatherers.

Right.

But this photo shows, like, an indigenous boy holding the camera, and he's like -- his eye is, like, in the lens.

And so that kind of gave me chills because it was like, this is 1957, 1958.

And we, you know, tell the story about, you know, filmmaking or documentary as if people of color or people of African descent -- you know, people across the world -- as if they don't have the capability or didn't have the actual... Agency.

Agency to tell this kind of story.

Right.

And so I always knew that was wrong.

But it's kind of like, well, here's the evidence.

You know what I mean?

It's like smoking-gun kind of thing.

And so when I saw that, I was like, "I really need to make this film because this needs to be seen."

You know what I mean?

Right.

But I think what you were saying earlier, Elizabeth, about artists needing to tell the truth -- and you say this thing very casually where like, of course, like, to be an artist is to tell the truth.

And actually, I'm reminded of the rapper Nas and how he talked about once he made "The Illmatic," which he wrote at 17, and then it premiered when he was 19, it was all about his neighborhood in Queens.

And really when he started telling certain stories, he said people were very mad at him.

Like, there was certain times that he couldn't go home.

And so I think about, like, yes, the artist has to tell the truth, but then are they allowed to just walk in the door like nothing happened?

You know, you write about your aunts and uncles or I think about Deesha Philyaw's "The Secret Lives of Church Ladies," like when you talk about what happened in the church or what happened in the basement when you were in middle school.

Like, are you allowed to just walk right back into that environment?

I think that that's the question for an artist.

"If I tell the truth, can I go home?"

Hmm.

Well, I'm not sure you'd be much of an artist if you let that question bother you.

And this may not be a fair thing for me to say.

Say it anyway.

Get the letters.

I think there's a difference between a small "t" -- lowercase "t" for truth and an uppercase "T" for Truth.

I think the unfair thing I'm about to say, which I'll probably get criticized for -- I think people writing nonfiction have to be diligent about that small-"t" truth.

In other words, the things that actually happened.

So they are recording what actually happened.

The novelist or the creative artist has more room to wander around because they're pursuing that essential truth.

What does it mean to be a human being?

What does it mean to love?

What does it mean to be afraid of death?

What does it mean to be scared?

What does it mean to believe in God?

What does it mean to those things that make us human?

Right.

Now, you create a story around that.

You create characters, you create a world or whatever and let your characters play around that.

But what you're really pursuing is the answer to that question.

I would think of my second novel, which was "Beyond The Limbo Silence" -- I forgot for a minute what... You've written so many.

Truly so many.

But it was that -- I think the central truth about that is letting go.

How difficult it is for us to let go.

And we see that played out now.

I would even use myself as an example.

As you get older, it is hard to let go.

It is so hard to let go, and it's probably a criticism we can make about the political situation we are in now.

Right.

So many of our leaders are in their late 70s, 80s.

That is a human question.

That, you know, you're so young, so you haven't faced that question.

You have no need to let go.

You are climbing up.

But when you get up there and you have all the weight of this experience, to let go is to face the void.

Right.

It's to face the end.

And I think that's a criticism of our society today.

Let me push back on what you said a bit, though, because you said this is with fiction writers.

They're dealing with these big human questions.

And so in that, they're allowed to tell a kind of truth.

But I think that the difficulty with fiction, and this also comes up a lot with filmmaking, is that are you going to tell the story people need to hear or a story that needs to be told, or are you going to tell the story that people want to hear?

And I think a lot of the reason why I take problem with some modern fiction or, like, the Marvel films or these sort of big-name cinematic projects is because they're selling people a fantasy that they already desire and confirm a world that they already know versus a kind of fiction when you think about Toni Morrison or these other things, it's to say, like, "I'm going to show you a world that you might want to look away from, that might scare you, that you might not feel comfortable or at home in, so to speak, but I'm going to do it anyway."

And I feel like young artists, sometimes we're afraid to take that risk.

And maybe, Che, you could speak to that.

Like, we want to make people comfortable and at home in the fantasies we create because we don't want to disturb them.

Oh.

And that's a big statement.

I don't think that's what I want to do as an artist.

I mean, I think some people might.

It makes money.

That's for them.

But I think for me, in terms of the source of the work, and this is independent of money, it's more how do you -- how do I kind of... really show the truth I see in someone else.

How can I reflect that back to someone so that they can take that into their own life, in their own world?

You know?

That's really it, you know.

And for me, it's also a question of, in some ways, spirit.

Like, you know -- like, things actually can't be seen.

Even in a movie screen, it's like, how can someone actually access a part of that through, you know, something that I'm showing to them?

Because that is where, for me, I think, going back to your question on healing, healing can can arise from, you know what I mean?

From connecting with spirit in that way.

And so it's interesting because, like, when I was reading Elizabeth's novel "Prospero's Daughter," there's this character, Carlos, and you talk about how, in the Caribbean, to, like, kind of have a voice, you study big books.

Growing up, you know, from a young age, you read widely, and that's a way of getting out.

You know, that was a way of getting out in the '50s, but it still actually is, you know, the way of getting -- you know, getting out to -- and what I understand it as, to become a voice of your own, you know what I mean?

And I was lucky that my parents moved me at a young age, so I didn't have to work in the way that people, maybe, like you would have had to work to to to get their voice heard outside.

But once you -- there's a way that you can access that in you, there's the kind of spirit that is now unleashed, you know what I mean?

Into the world.

And so, like, I think of it, also, as a question of, like, not just, like, whose voice is being heard, 'cause everyone has a voice.

Not just who -- How can I phrase this properly?

Like, it's not just a question of, like, having a voice because everyone has a voice.

It's like, how is that voice going to be heard by the people who will, you know, take it forward?

Does that make sense, right?

Yeah.

And I think that's what you were really honing in on.

And I connected with that.

Yeah.

Right.

And I kind of want to transition into your work because I know so much of the plot actually deals with the household and the position of women in the household.

Is the household a prison for women in your books?

Well, I wouldn't probably use the word "prison."

I would say there are so many limitations put on the women, and Che may or may not agree with me on this.

But I think in the Caribbean, there's still a sort of a macho vibe in the Caribbean.

And there are some kinds of limitations on what you can be.

And I did say that I came to the United States in pursuit of a romantic interest.

But I would say that, mostly, I left Trinidad because I felt I was going to be locked in to this idea that I was going to be a wife, I was going to have children, I was going to keep the house in a certain way, and that, I didn't want.

I mean, I wanted to explore what was in my head.

Was I capable of doing something?

And actually, I have this vision -- my brothers.

My parents felt my brothers should go into science.

They should get higher degrees and so on.

But they didn't pay too much attention to me.

And I remember my my father coming to my graduation at NYU when I got a Ph.D. -- that was many, many years.

You weren't even born yet.

And I have this picture of him just sitting down, staring at me in total disbelief.

Total disbelief.

Wow.

And my father was a very intelligent man.

Why?

Because he could not conceive of that.

So this is where I think my writing helped me, because I lived inside of myself.

Wow.

So regardless of what they thought, my imagination was creating a world for me.

So you were at home in your mind?

I was.

Absolutely.

I always, and thank God, to this day, have a life of the mind.

And it's a very vibrant, fulfilling...

I would advocate it for anyone.

Right.

And I had it from a little child.

And so I didn't care what they said.

But yes, in that sense, yes -- in that sense of a prison.

And as soon as I got outside... And what's so wonderful about America, honestly... Yeah.

...that freedom that Americans take for granted.

Yeah.

That ability to get up and say, "I'm going to wear whatever I want down the street, and I'm going to say whatever I want."

Actually, you know, this is very ironic, and I just want to, you know, pause here for a second because you came to America so that you can effectively be a writer and be an artist.

But you sort of had to leave America to become a filmmaker and an artist because you told me, and you can kind of talk about it, like, when you finished at Harvard -- and congratulations, by the way.

We're fresh out of that.

Amazing.

Thank you.

Yeah, it's an amazing accomplishment.

You returned to Trinidad to talk about healing, you know, as a return so that you could make a new kind of art.

So can you tell us about that?

Because I think that that generational difference and that gender difference is very striking.

Yeah, I mean, I don't want to downplay the difficulties that women go through in trying to...

Thank you.

Yeah.

Yeah.

...you know, make their way in the world as an intellectual, as an author.

I mean, because one of my aunts, you know, trained to be an artist.

She's a teacher.

She's someone I think would -- could have pursued a life of the mind and wasn't able to.

Wow.

You know, and so, like, you know, it gives me pause 'cause I see it, right?

Yes.

And I love them very deeply because, you know, the care that they have been able to provide me when I came back from university really allowed me to find myself again.

Wow.

'Cause, as you were saying, like, once I graduated, I had a lot of anxiety, no pun intended.

And it was difficult, I think for a good, probably, like year and a half, I was, like, in the throes of anxiety.

But, you know, for a while, you don't realize it.

Like, you just think, "Oh, this is just, like, how things are.

I guess I just have to meditate more today.

I have to do this," you know, and then it becomes a point where even those things don't work.

Your affirmations.

Yeah.

You know?

Yeah, yeah.

And so at the point where I was like, "Okay, this is the time I need help," and so, like, I think going back to Trinidad actually was a grounding, you know?

And like, it was a kind of number of things that helped me... Hmm.

...yeah, again, find myself again.

And so now I feel a lot more comfortable in, you know, like, even being here.

I mean, like, if you'd asked me six months ago to be on this show, I would have, like, like, fumbled and, like, dive in a hole and, like, you know, never got out because I'd be like, "What the hell?"

You know what I mean?

But I think it's just...

They kind of hold me accountable but also see me outside of the institutional affiliations, outside the status, outside of, you know, all those other things that, for me, are just kind aware of and to do the work I want to do.

Right.

And so, like, we can talk in a way that's really just, like, real and laugh and you know what I mean, and, like -- and I appreciate that because without that, you know, I don't think I can access the truth I need to... Yeah.

Yeah.

Well, I think what's interesting, this generational anxiety that you're talking about and the anxiety that a lot of Millennials and Gen Z have is that we have this constant feeling of restlessness and this difficulty finding home.

And I think partially it's because we're staring down these huge generational problems.

And when I think specifically of things like climate change and political unrest, it literally destroys this notion of home because suddenly you have people, and this is going to increase over the next decades exponentially, that are leaving home or that the home that they're born in, and the home that they have to go to are completely, completely different.

And so I think how is that going to affect, you know, the way we make art?

And how do you think, like, our generation or your generation addresses this sense of having to move?

You know, it's not a choice of, "Oh, what life am I going to have?"

It's literally like, "I have to get up and go.

The tide is rising."

Mm-hmm.

Yeah.

Well, you know, it's just amazing to me to be with these two young people.

And, you know, you speak a different language.

The generations.

I mean, the technology has you speaking a different language from my generation.

In what way?

I think your brains are wired in a different way.

I think the way you have relationships with each other is totally different.

Yeah.

Your music is almost unrecognizable, and that is so fundamental.

Yeah.

Music is so fundamental to understand.

And it's...

I don't know what you're saying.

I don't know the beat.

And then I'm so scared for you.

I'm so scared for you.

For all the things you just mentioned.

Yeah.

You know, this whole topic you have of home, I think it's so difficult for your generation to find home.

And you seem to find home in virtual places that I can't recognize.

You seem to find home in the ether.

You seem to have relationships on... Wow.

I am truly s-- I don't know what's going to happen.

I actually did an interview where a young Mexican climate-change activist -- she was around 18 years old, and she said, "For my generation" -- she's talking about Gen Z -- "social media is my country."

Yeah.

And I think that that was... Actually, even -- I'm Gen Z-Millennial cusp.

Just for the record, I'm 1996, and I'm exactly Gen Z-Millennial cusp, and I could not relate to that at all.

I did not come up -- I was not socialized completely through social media, and I didn't grow up in a completely analog world.

but just the digital era I grew up in, it wasn't where I felt my citizenship, my location, my ethics, my values I gleaned from the Internet.

And so I don't feel at home in that world nearly as much as even someone that's, you know, two or three years my junior might.

And so I think actually, yeah, we should speak to that conversation of why people feel so at home on the Internet and literally nowhere else, especially -- I think Nikki Giovanni put it best.

She said your generation had the front porch and a world of the front porch, and that world is gone.

Well, our front porch is, like, Instagram stories.

Yes.

What?

Instagram stories.

It's like, you know, you have 24 hours to see it and it goes kind of thing, you know.

And like, it's funny because I'm not, I would say, that -- really into social media.

So even the difference between us -- I see the difference between me and my cousin, who's like 16.

Wow.

And, you know, she will post every day, maybe like a few hours every day of like, you know, "I got a new haircut.

I, like, saw this, like, you know, car drive down the street."

Like, she's very smart.

Don't get me wrong.

But it's just the way that everything that she sees is, like, something that is worthy of publishing.

You know what I mean?

Like... Yeah, there's no private -- Actually, that's a huge thing.

Which, to me, is very interesting.

To me, it's very interesting.

Yes.

It is.

I'm like, very curious about that.

Like, what does that do to her sense of self?

Like, what is that doing to how people see each other?

What does that do to the concept of home when you have a private realm?

Like, I know when I was growing up, and I grew up in the South, the home was something where as soon as you stepped outside, my mom would be like, "We're in public now."

And that meant a different set of behaviors, a different set of assumptions, a different -- What it meant to be a stranger was very different and public versus private.

But when you have your whole life on social media and it's the sort of exhibitionism that has become generational, what does it mean to have a private life and what does it mean to even be -- the saying "behind closed doors" -- What does that mean anymore?

Well, it might be funny that I agreed to be on TV, but I'm a very private person.

Yeah, me too.

I think how I try to maintain my privacy is just, like, having close friends that, like, understand what I'm going through, you know, as I go through it, and so, like, and this is, yeah, close friends on Instagram, but it's also just, like, trying to call them when I can, as much as possible, because, like, if I don't, for me, particularly as someone who like, studied anthropology and, like, really cares about human relationships, like, if, in my own life, I don't have strong human relationships, I mean, it's really like -- it's hard, you know what I mean?

There's points where I've, like, lost friendships.

It's been really debilitating because, you know, that's, for me, how I see the kind of kernel of finding myself, is actually being able to -- be able to be listened to.

Right.

Yeah.

And I know you said, Elizabeth, that our generation finds home in a virtual world.

And I mean, to a certain extent, for me, it's not necessarily a pejorative, right?

Because whereas your generation, it might be your neighbors and the mailman and the person down the street -- like, that is how you kind of recognize home.

Like, you say, "This is my neighborhood.

This is where I live."

But for me, my closest friends are around the world.

Like, one of my best friends is in Dallas, one is in Atlanta, one's in Tampa, one's in London.

You know, they're literally so displaced that having that digital world that I've sort of built around them.

And when I call them, ironically, as soon as they pick up the phone, I think, "I'm home."

And you think it's the same.

No, it's not the same.

You think that picking up the phone and e-mailing and texting and all of that friendship that you say you have friends all over the world.

You think that that is the same as having a touching, feeling, close physical contact?

Of course not.

No, it's definitely... You do think it's the same.

I don't think it's the same.

But I think that when I think of home and that sense of peace, when my best friend answers the phone or my mother who's in California, suddenly it does feel like -- I'll be in my apartment, alone in New York City, and I won't necessarily feel at home.

And suddenly I'll pick up FaceTime and my sister will be there, and I think, "Now I'm home."

And it is a kind of refuge.

And I think that you said, "Oh, you all find home in a virtual world."

No, we find home in other people, which has its own problems in and of itself.

Virtually.

Yeah.

So how do you find home?

You have that pushback where you think -- I'm pushing back -- Push back, push back.

I'm pushing back in terms of the generations.

Yeah.

That is the way you see the world.

Yeah.

That is the way you have -- Are you saying that it's not real?

No, I'm not saying it's not real.

I'm saying that's the divide between us.

Yeah.

That is the thing that my generation cannot understand.

That you feel -- That you say, "I pick up the phone, I'm right there with my mother, or I text somebody or I e-mail or whatever," and you feel that you have the friendships and you have at home.

And I'm not making a... Value judgment.

...value judgment of it.

I'm just saying it is the difference between us.

It is the gap between us that is hard to understand.

It's hard for us ourselves to understand.

But you're at home with it.

Well, we have to -- think about the pandemic, for example.

Like, home, immediately for everyone, the same way work was, was completely transformed in an instant.

Because if you -- you can't go home.

A lot of people physically, it was like, you know, they were across the world or they were, you know, on a work trip, and suddenly you can't go home.

Some people for months, some people for years.

I was at the Harvard graduation 'cause my younger sister was also in your class, and I know a lot of students, their parents were not -- they could not come to the graduation.

And so suddenly, this virtual lifeline, it leads you home because it's all you have.

So I'm back again, Bianca.

I'm saying that you -- this is something that you are comfortable with.

No, it's deeply uncomfortable.

And it's anxiety-inducing.

It's anxiety-inducing, yeah.

It's anxiety-inducing.

So can I use another word?

It's acceptable.

I'm just saying that this -- it is the gap.

It's the generational gap.

Yeah.

Yeah.

That's a fact.

Yes.

That if you're saying you're not comfortable, You're still accepting it.

It's... You're able to say, "I could connect with my family.

I could connect with my..." I think what you're saying, actually, we're agreeing.

And I think the extent to which we agree you probably don't even understand is that I -- and I think, Che, you can probably speak to this.

I long for home, and I long to have where I can knock on the door and my next-door neighbor, it's my best friend, and I can borrow sugar and sit and talk about, you know, who I'm dating and what went wrong.

And it's like I thought I was going to be living in a New York City, like, "Sex and the City" fantasy, where I had my girls and we had our careers and apartments or dating, and the world changed.

And I think in some ways, like, that world betrayed my generation, and it says, "You know what?

You're going to have to find home on this device."

And we can push back and try to have, you know, an analog revolution and try as hard as we can to connect in person and things like that.

But it's still like, this is the world that we're having to build our livelihoods around and our economic security and everything.

And no, it's not ideal, and it's deeply anxiety-inducing.

I'd love for you to speak on that.

I mean, it's -- okay, this might be a weird, like, way to answer this question, but like, I'm thinking of this Dionne Brand quote where she's talking about how -- I love her, by the way.

Dionne Brand.

Love her.

[ Speaks indistinctly ] Like, it's about her childhood.

I think it's from her book, "A Map to the Door of No Return."

Yes, yes, I love that book.

She's saying, like, the center of the world was the beach at Gaia, like, in the south of Trinidad where she grew up.

And, like, that, for me, is actually how, like, I see social media happening in my life, in the sense of like everywhere I go, actually, it's like, now it's the center of my world 'cause I can see the connections I have with other people from that point, you know, like -- and, you know, she imagined it from that beach.

But like, literally now I can go on my phone and be like, like, "Oh, this person's here, this person's here," da, da, da, and, like, it's like a mental map of, like -- of the places that I can be connected to through these people.

Right.

But like, I don't know.

I also think of it, like, in terms of the past.

It's like the telegram probably was, like, a thing that really like -- you know, it shifted, like, everything in the world.

Colonialism, right, like, happened because people could communicate across geographies and using the sea, you know what I mean?

So, like, I think of it just as kind of an ongoing step in that kind of process, like, you know?

Like, social-media companies make money off us, from our attention, and, like, we have to try and, I guess, live with the consequences or find ways to, like, you know, resist it, I don't know.

But like, just do something that would shift our... our connections, you know?

Yeah.

So I want to bring it back to the question of climate change and sort of really hone in on that, because I think that, really, the question of home is also a question of ownership.

And I think that partially why our generation seeks refuge in the virtual world is because we don't own much.

And what we do own, it's constantly at risk.

It's currently at the risk of flooding, at the risk of of loss, just a great deal of loss.

And so what we know we own or have some sense of ownership over is our image, is our brands, is our profiles.

And so we put a lot more stake in that than we probably should because we can't find home in the sort of physical places that your generation had it, and I think as far as, like -- I want to know what you think, Che, as far as, like where our generation will find home, because we can't -- even as an artist, actually, now that I think about it, you can't put too much stake in these platforms because you're always at risk of your work completely disappearing.

And I know that, like, now there's CDs, there's films that will be lost forever to time because there's no physical version of them.

And this is a real place of contention for the artist because where do you put your art?

Like, where is home for your art?

I know yours is on Criterion Collection, so you're fine.

I mean, I'm grateful every day 'cause, like, you know, having an institution have your work is -- it's at least some kind of endorsement.

that I will survive for some time, you know?

I don't know how long, right?

But I'm grateful for that.

I don't know -- in terms of, like, how I find, like, a sense of peace or belonging.

I think it's, like, difficult compared to, say, your generation where, like, you know, you are -- I guess the engagement with social media, you don't have to have, you know, to live your life, you know, like -- For you.

But I do.

I do need to engage with it to live my life as an artist, you know, nowadays to just, you know, get my work out there and, like... And it's a way of articulating myself and defining myself, you know, which I like, but I also -- it's like, you know, there comes both benefits and disadvantages, you know?

I mean, like, I have to be checking this thing every day.

I have to be, like, you know, really attend-- to the point of now attending to which messages, maybe, I forgot to reply to.

You know what I mean?

And like, you know, it's like -- it's work for me, and -- but I take it on as the kind of conditions of trying to be able to say what I want to say in the world, you know, and, like, that's how I relate to it.

But I know if it's, like -- for most, I think, of my friends, it can be really, like, daunting to feel like you have to, like, be posting your whole life, every day, because then, like, if you're not -- if that's not a good day, what do I post?

Right.

There's always this kind of, like, equation.

Yeah.

And I want to even sort of rephrase it.

I feel like your generation has the privilege, as artists, of knowing where your work lives, because you know that if someone buys a physical book and it's on the bookshelf, that's where it lives.

My generation, when everything is stored on a cloud or it's on Amazon or it's on a streaming service, you know one day that it could be pulled off and no one ever see it again.

And I think that when you have that home for your work, that sense of safety and that sense of ownership, it's something very prized.

Yeah.

You're making a very good point there.

Widening that generational gap for me.

Right, right.

Yeah.

I mean, you guys are in uncharted waters.

You really are, because this technological age is very recent.

Right.

I mean, it's just happened.

And it happened overnight, and it's taken such -- it's -- for just what you just said -- that your work could disappear.

My books are not going to disappear.

Right.

And thank God for that.

[ All laugh ] They may get eroded, but whatever.

But I also think that governments have a responsibility.

And I think this is probably what your generation is having to deal with, that governments are not taking responsibility.

Canada does this better than the United States, but if we don't have a way to -- I mean, artists need patrons because for you to do your work as an artist, you need loads of time.

And money.

Yes, but this money should be provided by foundations and governments.

Right.

Right.

I mean, this is going to make me sound like I come from the ice age, but it's not exactly the ice age.

But a writer like Shakespeare could not have existed unless he had a patron -- could not have existed.

Somebody was paying for him to take chances, to take the risk, and to do his work.

And actually, this is what universities do.

Universities are supposed to, in a way, protect the artists in that way, give the artists space.

But governments should do it.

Right.

And that I cannot understand.

And that is the difference between my generation and yours.

Governments don't seem to see the need to do that.

Right.

You're constantly on this... We're searching for support, we're searching constantly.

You're searching for support, which you shouldn't be.

And a place where your work can live.

And I think that that's something that you can probably speak to, Che, about young artists and talk about, is, like, how do you find a place, a proper place?

You know, not necessarily free, but with less exploitation, where you can say, "My work is safe here."

If it's not a bookstore, if it's not a poetry bar, if these places disappear and it is all the virtual world, where do we put our work and how do you deal with that, as a filmmaker, of where your work will live?

It's an active question.

Like, it's a question that I have actually decided to become part of the work in the sense of ask the questions of what kind of, you know, institutions or places do we need to create the work and actually be part of that now, Because it's like -- as a black artist, it's like there's already the problem of your work being seen as marginal, right?

-[ Laughs ] Yes.

-Yeah.

And so it's like, no, it's not marginal.

Like, we've known this.

It's been said, right?

It's been said.

You know, I'm not gonna say that.

It's been said.

So it's like now it's like, okay, but actually, how does the work get supported to the extent that it can become, you know, a body of work and not just a flash in the pan?

That's often the problem for young filmmakers of color, where they get their first feature film, but they actually can't create their second or their third.

You know, and so that's -- it's a real issue.

And there's things that have been set up to try and alleviate that in the US.

But when we think about, you know, filmmakers like me who work internationally because the stories and the topics that we deal with are international topics and, like, are international histories, how does that get the kind of support that it deserves to, like, just stay truthful?

Yeah.

So, as I said earlier in the episode, I believe that home is where you rest, and home is where you can find healing, where you can find love.

And I know that this generation, my generation, deals with a great sense of restlessness, as we talked about.

So I think that I just want to end on a note of where do you all find home, like, in your work?

Is it a place?

Is it a feeling?

Is it a promise?

Is it a dream?

Where do you find home, Elizabeth?

In my mind.

In my head.

[ Laughs ] The thing is, I guess going back to the Baldwin quote, which I had difficulty really understanding, I want to belong.

I want to be home in Trinidad, but I can't be.

I just hate that phrase that is said to me just off the cuff.

"Well, Elizabeth wasn't here, so she doesn't understand."

And it just cuts me off.

It says I'm not there.

Who says I can't understand it?

So I guess I have no choice but to find home in in my head.

It's very interesting that you say in your head, because I would say generationally, that's where a lot of young people feel least at home, in their own minds, because of this anxiety.

What would you say to the people watching that their mind is the last place they could find home?

It's just that we are lucky to have minds.

I mean, people call that spirituality or whatever.

I'm not calling it that.

I'm just saying we are lucky to have that aspect of us, that physical self and that imaginative self.

So we are just lucky, as human beings, to have that aspect.

And it's just, still -- just a won-- It's a wonderful place to make up stories.

So look for it there?

You can look for a home in your mind.

I think so.

It puts me to sleep.

It's how I go to sleep.

Yeah.

[ Laughs ] Yeah.

It's a hard thing to say, but... what else would I do?

[ Chuckles ] And I have to say that mine is generational, but it also has to do with me in a particular way.

I'm one of 11 siblings, so I had to find a place, and the place I found was in my mind.

So I grew up having that.

So that is not to say I don't miss -- I don't miss the tangible, physical place Right.

The smells and all of that.

I do, but I'm often -- But at least you're safe inside your mind.

Yeah.

You know, What about you, Che?

Where do you find home?

Just giving me pause, hearing you say that.

I'm just kind of like, "Yeah.

Hmm."

Yeah.

Why does that give you pause?

I don't know, 'cause it's a way that -- and I know you've spoken about the difficulties you've reached to get to that point, right?

I appreciate that, but it's also like...

It feels, like... distant for me in some way, in the sense of like -- Like,, unrelatable?

Not unrelatable, but, like... like, I want to get there, if that makes sense?

Right.

I want to get there, too.

Yeah.

You know, I want to get there.

Mm-hmm.

I don't know how I'm gonna get there, but I want to get there.

It's very peaceful.

Yeah.

And I can see it.

I can feel it.

Like, it radiates.

[Laughing] You know?

Like... You know, like, yeah.

Yeah, I think it's -- And so what do you think?

For you, what is home?

Is it a physical place?

For me, making art is home.

Just being able to, like, create and, like, do -- The more -- like, I've become a lot more confident in just trying to -- just making things.

You know, trying to make -- trying new things.

It doesn't have to be good.

I think that's one of the perfectionism things, you know, that I was taught from through Harvard and other places that I'm trying to shed because it's, like, actually making art just makes me feel better, even if it's, like, a doodle or a squiggle or whatever.

Do you know what I mean?

Right.

And like, that's for me.

And I don't want to become a workaholic because that's another side of the coin, you know?

And I think that's where some of the people in our generation really find things difficult, because not only are we pressured to, you know, make work to survive, but, like, literally making the work makes me feel better.

So, you know, I'm kind of caught between these two kind of things, right?

Like... Yeah.

Yeah.

But I think it's also the definition -- the pressure on you to define what it means to be successful.

Mm, mm, mm, mm, mm, mm.

You know?

And you have to work at that, in the sense that you have to say, "I do not think that I am successful because I make a lot of money and I have a big house.

I think I am successful because I am creating my art that I -- you know."

It's very ironic that you say that because I actually thought to myself -- like, I did not return to my family's home in California or Atlanta, really, for three years because I was making this show.

And I told people, I said, "When I'm successful, I'll go home."

Yes.

That's the pressure you guys have.

But even today.

Yeah, today.

Same thing with in Trinidad.

I feel like for me to live in Trinidad the way I want, I would have to be very successful to the point of, like, being able to, like, own a place or, like, pay, you know -- Ownership, yeah.

Ownership was it for me.

You know, like, have a nice car kind of thing.

And that's not just because, like -- there's a lot of middle-class stuff in that, right, that I maybe don't want to, like, endorse, but, like, it's just more in the sense of, like, feeling safe.

It's feeling safe, and, also, as an artist, being any kind of artist, I think especially for me, like, coming from low-income backgrounds, like, it's such a risk that you don't want to come home empty-handed, right?

So as an artist, you say, "I'm not coming home until I have something to show for"... All of the sacrifice for you.

..."this journey."

For the sacrifice.

Yeah.

For the sacrifice.

Like my great-grandfather, he was a descendant of indentured laborers in Trinidad and was lucky to find land in Cascade that is still in the family.

They built, like, a house of lapa -- it's like mud and straw -- 70 years ago.

And now it's like, you know, a brick-and-mortar place.

But that was built over, like, decades.

Do you know what I mean?

Like, he was a dairy farmer.

He couldn't write his own name.

His wife was a black woman.

Had to teach him to write his own name, you know?

So, like, they struggled.

Like, they really struggled, you know?

And like, when I'm in that place now in Trinidad, and it's like, I literally can feel it in my body.

I can feel in my bones that they did this.

And like, I can only access this because they did this.

And so it's like -- it's not just a question of me making the art.

It's like -- literally like -- What will you bring?

Backboards or what -- How do I how do I carry this?

You know what I mean?

Yeah.

Yeah.

Well, as the senior person sitting on this table, I want to give you guys some advice.

Please, please.

You have to fight against that because you will not find happiness and peace if you let other people define what it is to be successful.

If you let other people define for you what happiness is.

And you pay a price for it.

Yeah.

It does not come free, but it does lead you to peace and happiness.

You can't be running off like, you know, that thing -- Rat race.

Yeah, that circle just following.

Because you will never achieve it.

Right.

So you're a millionaire.

Oh, you're supposed to be a billionaire.

You have a fancy car.

Now you have to have the top car.

And that's a lot of why we never feel at home.

Yeah, it's that restlessness.

I find very vulgar those shows that show people -- and we love to look at it.

Sometimes I do.

That they have houses with 24 rooms and 10 cars.

How many cars can you drive at a time?

Right.

How many bedrooms can you be in a time?

Right, and may never feel like you actually belong in any of them.

They're in a rat race.

Right.

Right.

They're in rat race.

Well, I want to ask -- 'cause we're talking about this concept of building.

What are you building now, Che?

What are you working on?

So, currently, I've been in Trinidad for like around a year, and, like, right now I'm collaborating with an activist, Adeola Young.

She has been involved in work against gender-based violence and state violence for a long while now.

She's older than me, and she approached me to, like, make a film about the situation with police brutality in Trinidad, which actually relates to Britain, of course, you know, because Britain colonized Trinidad and actually set up the police there.

It's in its early stages, right?

And so -- And it's very sensitive, you can imagine, because of what's at stake.

But it's what's giving me... a lot of, funny enough, motivation because, you know, when you see people like you being killed, like, just because they look like you, it's like, well -- it's the thing that destroys your feeling of agency, you know?

I mean, you don't want to do anything.

It's like...

But this actually is kind of, for me, feeling like, "Okay, now I'm doing something about it," whatever it is, you know what I mean?

Right.

Yeah.

And what about you, Elizabeth?

What are you working on?

Well, I think in all my novels, I work on the same thing.

Meaning I ask questions that I do not have the answer for.

Wow.

And so I create these worlds with these characters to pursue, so I really don't know the answer until I cut through to the novel.

And then I it gives me a partial answer, which leads to another novel.

So my novel I just -- was just published two months ago, it was the question of that I know that statement, that the only way evil could succeed is when good men do nothing.

I know that.

But I know that could be theoretical.

I could say that, that silence is terrible.

But what if I create a situation where someone can choose either to be silent or to become involved?

So for me, writing a novel is not just about the fictive character, but it's about me.

You know, I'm pursuing that question myself and trying to look honestly at that question, because if you do act, there is a price for acting.

There's a price for silence, but nobody knows it.

But you.

But the person, right?

Yes.

Absolutely, the only person who knows the silence is the person who stayed silent.

The person who gets involved is taking kinds of risk, and so... all my novels, I'm doing that.

Well, we thank you for taking that risk.

And thank you both so much for being here today.

It's been such an honor and such a pleasure.

When we come back, we'll have a reading from Elizabeth's new book, "Now Lila Knows."

"On the day Lila Bonnard arrived in America to begin teaching at Mayfield College, named for the eponymous small town in a bucolic area of Vermont, there was a killing.

Some said it was an accidental killing.

They claim that the man who lay on the sidewalk of Main Street bleeding from gunshot wounds to his head and chest just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The few who knew the secrets that man held in his heart disagreed.

The dead man was in the right place at the right time.

It was his reason for being there that was wrong.

But there were other people, though only three, who eschewed all excuses and explanations.

"The man was murdered in cold blood," they said.

There could be no other way to spin his senseless death.

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