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.

♪♪ Woman: And that's what love is.

Love's got your back.

Woman: It's a reaching.

It's a yearning.

It's an aching.

Adamu: I think silence prohibits expectations.

Rodriguez: Are we being heard?

Are we being seen?

Woman: 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.

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.

Yeah.

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 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!

[ Laughs ] I love that.

...which didn't work out.

So, I haven't -- you know, I've continued to live in the United States since then.

But I think we sometimes refer to ourselves as "transnationals."

Mm.

That is, we go back and forth all the time.

Right.

I think things sort of fundamentally changed when, 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.

Right.

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

Wow.

And especially then I married an American, I had an American child, American grandchildren.

Yeah.

I would say -- I would s-- But it's a hard question to answer.

It's a hard question.

That's why we're here.

Yeah.

If you ask me, "Where is home?"

I will still feel it's Trinidad.

Trinidad.

Yeah.

Yeah.

What about you, Che?

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

'Cause I know you're not even American.

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 3, and I came with them, and so I was born in Trinidad, but I only remember kind of running in a preschool, you know, 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 every other two years to, you know, just get -- 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, you know, 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.

[ Chuckles ] [ Chuckles ] 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, um... considered... 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 changes already happened.

Like, queer people are -- are being accepted, even in, you know, 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 want to cast that burden off, actually, and, like, just speak clearly, and then so -- Wow.

But, I mean, I love "Giovanni's Room," you know?

It kind of was like the -- the book that I 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 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.

Mm.

For me, it's -- it's, you know, "Where do I belong?"

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

Can I belong to as many -- I have 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.

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.

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.

Mm-hmm.

African-Americans were here for like, what, 400 years, if not more?

Yeah.

Yeah, yeah.

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 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 for 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.

Mm-hmm.

So, we were brought to the Caribbean.

Africans were brought to the Caribbean to work on the plantations.

Right.

And when emancipation came in 1833, then they brought the indentured people, they brought the Indians, and we were indentured laborers to work on the cocoa estates.

So 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, because the struggle is impossible -- Yeah.

Right.

It's 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.

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.

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 on, like, a cultural-exchange program.

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

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

it's more the -- 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, um, 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?

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

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

Um, uh, 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... Mm-hmm.

Mm-hmm.

Mm-hmm.

...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," and you wanted to enter those worlds and share that world with others.

'Cause, you know, blackness is diverse, right?

It's like -- Yeah.

So, like -- Yeah, and so I wanted to, like, I think, testify to that, as well.

You know what I mean?

It's like -- 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?

It's like... Yeah.

...that's a lifelong worth of work that I want to make, because there's so much in it.

And so, like, um... yeah.

That's -- That's why.

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

So, what do you think of that?

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

Right.

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.

Right.

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.

Mm-hmm.

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.

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 -- 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.

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.

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.

You came to America so that you can effectively be a writer and be an artist, but you returned to Trinidad to talk about healing, you know, as a return so that you could make a new kind of art.

So, could you tell us about that?

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

Thank you.

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

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

Yeah.

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.

I think going back to Trinidad actually was a grounding, you know, and, like, they kind of hold me accountable but also see me outside of the institutional affiliations, outside of the status, outside of, you know, all those other things that, for me, are just kind of, um, where I've entered to do the work I want to do.

Right.

And so, like, um, we can talk in a way that's really just, like, real and fun and laugh and -- You know what I mean?

And, like -- And, um -- And I appreciate that because without that, you know, I don't think I can access the truth I need to.

Yeah.

Well, I think what's interesting -- this [Chuckles] this generational 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 that are leaving home, or 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."

Well, you know, it's so difficult for your generation to find a 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... Wow.

...on -- 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 mean, to a certain extent, 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 that that is the same as having a touching, feeling, close physical contact?

Of course not.

No.

It's definitely -- It's -- You do think it's the same.

I don't -- 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, I'll pick up FaceTime and my sister will be there, and I think, "Now I'm home."

And it's a -- 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 -- You have that pushback where you think -- I'm pushing back.

Push back.

Push back.

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

Yeah.

That is the thing that my generation cannot understand... Mm.

Mm.

...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.

Yeah, yeah.

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

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

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 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'm thinking of this Dionne Brand quote.

It's about childhood.

It's from her book "A Map to the Door of No Return."

Yes.

Yes.

I love that book.

And she's saying, like, the center of the world was the beach at Guaya, 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 a center of my world because 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 to my phone and like, "Oh, this person's here.

This person's there.

Da-da-da-da."

And it's like a mental map of, like -- of my -- of -- of the places that I can be connected to through these people.

Right.

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, um, happened because people could communicate across geographies.

I think of it just as a 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, just do something that would would shift our connections, you know?

Yeah.

And what are you building now, Che?

What are you working on?

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

She approached me to, like, make a film about the situation with police brutality in Trinidad.

It's in its early stages, right?

And it's very sensitive, as you can imagine, because of what's at stake, but it's what's giving me, um... a lot of, um... funny enough, motivation, because, you know, when you see, um, people like you being killed, like, just because they look like you, it's a thing that destroys your feeling of agency.

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.

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.

So, my novel 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.

Yeah.

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?

Mm.

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.

Yeah.

The only person who knows the silence is the person who stayed silent.

The person who gets involved is taking kinds of risks, and so, um, 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 claimed 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 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 issued all excuses and explanations.

The man was murdered in cold blood, they said.

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

[ Applause ] Woman: That's a wrap!

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