"Dear Jesse: For a long time, I thought we had nothing in common, but I realize now I was wrong. You and I were both born in Monroe, North Carolina, and raised as Southern Baptists. We both attended Wingate College, for one year each, before transferring to other schools. We've also both worked in journalism and radio broadcasting. But I believe we have a more significant similarity: For most of your 24 years in the U.S. Senate, you've been obsessed with homosexual men; for most of my adult life, so have I."
That's Tim Kirkman's voice-over opening to his groundbreaking new documentary, Dear Jesse -- which sprang from a particularly desolate time in the 31-year-old filmmaker's life.
For Kirkman, New York City's dismal winter of 1996 mirrored the climate inside his heart. "My life had reached an all-time low," he recalls. "Manhattan was as cold as I had ever remembered it. I was working full-time as an art director at Miramax Films, and struggling to complete my master's thesis in media studies, when an important romantic relationship ripped apart at the seams. I felt totally displaced -- and homesick for my family, back in North Carolina. On all fronts, you could say that my life sucked."
But Kirkman just kept putting one foot in front of the other, tackling each challenge as it presented itself. And then one day he flashed on a journal entry he had written years before -- a collection of random thoughts about the ironic similarities between himself and Jesse Helms and about how Helms' homophobia may have impacted Kirkman's self-esteem, as a gay man growing up in Helms country. Kirkman leafed through his journal, playing around with the thoughts he had scribed, and an unexpected phenomenon began to take hold: The more he wrote, the more he found himself thawing emotionally -- until, after numerous rewrites, the journal entries alchemized into a potential documentary film idea (and a master's-thesis project).
Inviting everyone he knew to a fund-raising gala for the project, Kirkman was introduced to producer Mary Beth Mann -- a young woman who, fortuitously, also hailed from North Carolina. Eager to "dish" about news from home, the two found themselves yakking into the wee hours -- specifically, about the upcoming Senate race between Jesse Helms and Harvey Gantt.
Mann mentioned that, in 1990, she had been very active in Jim Hunt's campaign for governor, and that as a liberal Democrat, she often wondered who it was, exactly, that shored up Helms' seemingly immutable reign in the Senate. Kirkman confessed to Mann that, as a young gay person growing up in North Carolina, he had felt painfully ostracized by Helms' stand against homosexuality and had run away from home to "come out" in the more permissive atmosphere of New York City.
Equally mortified that Helms might, in fact, win yet another term, Mann and Kirkman mused about what it could be that "runs" Jesse Helms. "We asked ourselves, 'Who is this man Jesse Helms, and what could have inspired his boldfaced bigotry and fierce opposition -- not only to gay and lesbian rights, but also to AIDS research, abortion, affirmative action and government financing for the arts?'" Kirkman relates.
Thoroughly jazzed by their instant connection, Mann encouraged Kirkman to "grab a camera and go for it," he remembers, confident that she could hustle up financing for a film about such juicy, controversial material.
Kirkman decided to return to his roots -- and Helms' home turf -- to film conversations with assorted North Carolinians about how the senator's influence has affected the political and social climate of the state. The timing was perfect, because Kirkman had recently received an invitation to attend his class reunion at N.C. State. It seemed that the "cosmic traffic signal" was finally turning green.
Thus began, for the filmmaker, a cathartic adventure that rapidly took on a life of its own. Kirkman and Mann had anticipated that what would emerge from the filmed interviews would be a balanced, objective documentary about the current state of politics in the Tar Heel state. But a funny thing happened on the way to objectivity: While the camera rolled, an exquisitely personal, overwhelmingly powerful revelation of Kirkman's own thoughts and feelings sprang to light.
"I quickly came to realize that I was less interested in an objective documentary about politics, and more interested in the people I met who cared about those politics," he explains.
In Dear Jesse, we accompany Kirkman in his dad's old truck, on a series of personal -- and political -- pit stops. He goofs around with college friends at the reunion, who tease him about making his "big announcement," when they'd known he was gay all along. He frolics with his nieces and nephews at a family barbecue in Charlotte, and talks to people at a local "Ham and Yam" festival about the upcoming face-off between Helms and Gantt. He interviews Gene Price, a conservative Goldsboro newspaper editor who passionately (and publicly) touts Helms as an exemplary choice for the state, a politician who "excels in the area of constituent service." He chats with a National Guardsman who also sings Helms' praises as a trustworthy, forthright political servant.
Saving the most cogent (and heart-wrenching) interviews for last, Kirkman then visits with articulate, gay author Allan Gurganus (Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All) and the single, white mother of an adopted, HIV-positive, African-American baby, who discusses the double-edged prejudices her new family faces.
But perhaps the most poignant scene in the film is Kirkman's visit with two mothers who have lost their sons to AIDS. These women have found comfort and companionship in a group they've formed, called MAJIC (Mothers Against Jesse In Congress). One of them, whose husband was a friend of Helms', describes writing to the senator about the devastating loss of a young man she describes as "the most nonjudgmental person I ever knew." In reply, Helms offered not comforting words, but a statement that he was "sorry your son chose to play Russian roulette with his life."
Finally, we observe Kirkman and his father (who has come to accept and support his son's sexual orientation) driving through the Wingate neighborhood where the filmmaker grew up, wondering aloud whether, if Helms had had a gay son of his own, his attitude toward homosexuality might be different.
Back in New York, editing the footage, it became even more obvious to the director that he had not made a film about current North Carolina politics. Instead, he'd given birth to a documentary about love, faith and reconciliation -- and, in doing so, had completed a chapter in his own story, as well. Kirkman's odyssey had come full circle: "I felt not only proud to be from the state of North Carolina, but even more proud to be me."
He discovered for himself that he not only could go home, but that he had to go home to reclaim the discarded parts of himself and find peace. And for first time in his adult life, Kirkman says, he felt free.
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