All day long, I think about something that I call “water break moments.” They are moments that happen throughout our lives that fundamentally shift how we see the world. The things that break our brains. Sometimes they’re huge and obvious, and sometimes they’re so small that you don’t even realize you’ve been changed until years later.
It was the moment the credits rolled in the theater at the end of the film Fruitvale Station. It was 2013, but I remember that movie’s ending like it was yesterday because no one got up. You would’ve sworn someone had yelled out, “Nobody move, and no one gets hurt.” A packed theater full of Black folks that refused to leave. Heavy sobs. Muffled whispers about it being a damn shame. A movie night turned funeral. Every one of us sat in that theater knowing that we could not undo what we had just experienced on the screen. We sat there for what felt like 24 hours, but was more like 30 minutes. One man finally did scream out (“This shit has to stop!!”). And when we were ready, we slowly filed out of the theater. We’d taken that time, sitting together in a dark theater in some sort of communal daze. Whether we knew it or not, we were taking the time to prepare our faces.
A collective shift, we recognized that despite the glory years, we still have a lot to lose, are losing it, and will lose more. The movie came out the day before the Trayvon Martin verdict. And little did we know, we sat there doing a preparation ritual. We prepared to walk out of that theater and into the world — into jobs and relationships and the news and the internet — with those damn stretched smiles. “We gon’ be alright,” kind of smiles.
It is a thing we do. “Fix your face.” And this was that…but different. Instead of taking the punch, reacting, and then redirecting our outward expression, we were doing a new thing. We were anticipating. Plotting in advance to show grace at a table that would be piled high with bullshit. Proactively smile, as if it does not matter and cannot hurt.
I watched Michael B. Jordan at the Critics’ Choice Awards and Ryan Coogler at The Golden Globes. Every awards season, I begin to remember that day in the theater. And I add a few people to the reel of prepared faces that plays in my mind. Teyana’s. Halle’s. Kamala’s. Bey’s. Will’s. Kendrick’s. My aunt’s. My mother’s. My dad’s. My sisters’. My own.
So this year, I’ll watch with one wish. At the very least, I hope one day all my people get free access to Botox. A little token to unburden us as we hold these stretched smiles.