Crash Course

The upside of smacking into each other.

by Christine M. Flowers

I have now seen Crash three times, and will probably go again before the movie makes its way to video. There is something powerful in the way director Paul Haggis splices together disparate stories to form a profoundly moving portrait of our times. As in real life, there are very few heroes or villains: Each character has his or her own flaws, and equally compelling virtues. I had the impression that this was an antidote to blockbusters from the Star Wars mold, which find characters either affiliated with the "force" or on "the dark side." In Crash, the journey between these two extremes is taken by every character, back and forth and back again.

Another interesting lesson is that there are many different worlds, and many different layers of society, all coexisting on parallel levels. The film is a confirmation that we are not a melting pot, but instead an assortment of separate and highly polarized cocoons. It is only when something causes us to inadvertently cross over the lines and "crash" into those other worlds that we realize how much we share with strangers. And while the film is set in Los Angeles, it could just as easily have been centered in our own back yard.

I've lived in Philadelphia most of my life. I've loved this city through ethics scandals, neighborhood bombings, crime, decay and, ultimately, redemption and urban renewal. Philadelphia has always exerted a powerful (and sometimes undeserved) hold on my heart. Some will say that since I live in the suburbs, my loyalty is either unwarranted or irrelevant. But given the fact that the city is the beating heart of the region, it deserves respect from those of us who take the train home to the suburbs.

My situation is somewhat unique in that it enables me to "cross over" into parallel lives on a daily basis. I live in one of the inner counties that ring the city limits, and take the El into work. The faces of the passengers are dark and light, scowling or indifferent, youthfully smooth and ancient. The same faces appear on the Broad Street subway that deposits me near my South Philadelphia office where, as an immigration attorney, I deal with professors and laborers, ballroom dancers and ministers. Sometimes I feel as if I am channeling Emma Lazarus, although there are no lanterns at my office's golden door. These people, like the passengers on the train, sit next to each other in my waiting room, all seeking advice on how to make their lives better. Unlike the train, where people are enveloped in their own separate lives, they look at each other and even though language is an obstacle, their common humanity causes them to make a fundamental connection.

Then, at day's end, I take another train, one that deposits me on the Main Line where I used to teach children who rarely visited Philadelphia and were, in fact, afraid to step over the city line. The passengers on that commute wear the identifying armor of their professions — lawyers and doctors and teachers and college students, most avoiding eye contact like their brothers and sisters on the El. And the faces look more or less the same. We are headed towards the tranquility of the leafy suburbs. I won't lie and say it's not a comfort. And yet, we shouldn't be defined by ZIP codes and skin color.

A few months ago, I wrote an article objecting to renaming West River Drive after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Even though I praised the man and his mission, I received some hateful e-mail, calling me, in no uncertain terms, a racist pig who couldn't understand the "struggle" because of my skin color and my class. The fact that my father went to Mississippi in 1967 and fought for civil rights made no difference. It seems that the walls that existed then are still as high as they ever were.

I have a radical idea. What if we could all "crash" into each other's lives for a day or so, inhabiting a different skin for a short while and experiencing another person's reality? The impact would be shattering, exhilarating and, in the end, maybe even rewarding. Maybe we wouldn't be afraid of the young male on the train that looks threatening. Maybe we wouldn't assume the briefcase-toting lawyer is a closet bigot. Then again, maybe not. But as a Catholic, I'm inclined to believe in miracles.

Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer in Center City. If you would like to respond to this Slant or submit one of your own (750 words), contact Duane Swierczynski, editor in chief, City Paper, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail Duane Swierczynski