Past Resident

Dehanza Rogers

Dehanza Rogers is a filmmaker exploring black girlhood. She builds narratives around the lives of black and brown folks that focus on showcasing complex lives and breaking down stereotypes. Her work speaks to the shared narrative of our differences and confronts narratives that exclude or ignore.

Dehanza received an Anthropology undergraduate degree before earning an MFA in Directing and an MFA in Cinematography from UCLA’s School of Theatre, Film, and Television.

“I strive to fashion narratives around worlds and about people rarely seen in film.”

IG:  @dehanza, Twitter: @dayerogers


Q&A with Dehanza Rogers  (from Crosstown Arts newsletter, Oct. 20, 2020

Crosstown Arts residency alumnus Dehanza Rogers is a filmmaker whose work explores Black girlhood. Her narratives around the lives of Black and brown people focus on the complexity of their experiences and breaking down stereotypes.

Dehanza received an undergraduate degree in anthropology before earning an MFA in directing and an MFA in cinematography from UCLA’s School of Theater, Film, and Television.

“I strive to fashion narratives around worlds and about people rarely seen in film,” says Rodgers

Crosstown Arts registrar Jesse Butcher caught up with Rodgers to talk about her latest films, her artistic process, and future projects.

Jesse: You have released two new films this year. In “I’m Not Resisting,” the winding down of a jovial day in the park quickly disintegrates due to the intervention of ICE demanding documentation of citizenship. In a similar breath, your most recent film, “from land to land,” portrays the plight of a symbolic fellowship finding sanctuary on a beach for fear of deportation during the California wildfires. These current works are made in the immediate present tense as we watch the events unfold in the news. Can you tell us about how these films materialized?

Dehanza: These films were actually shot some time ago, during another fire season. When I first moved to California, I had to learn a new language for the physical environment. There were so many weather climates in Northern California and droughts in Southern California. It was all new to me, having grown up near the Georgia/Alabama border. I had never lived near the ocean or the mountains. And then, I learned about the “fire season.” It was a new thing for me, watching these heartbreaking images of people losing their homes. The longer I lived in California, it got closer to home. [I was] living in the valley where evacuations could be called at any time, and [I was] watching friends lose everything. I was listening to Democracy Now! one evening, and the fires were the central story. In that report, there was a conversation on undocumented folks not going to shelters in fear of being detained by ICE. So the ideas were born from that and various other stories.

Your film “Sweet, Sweet Country” is composed of a fable within a fable, a construct of multiple characters analyzing their own moral positions of sacrifice for the sake of family.  What was the writing process like for you?

I’m a writer/director, as well as a cinematographer. When I write my first pass at a script, it’s always visual. No dialogue. Can I tell this story strictly with images? Films are a visual medium. You show, not tell. I then find the places where the understanding of a moment needs words in order to process the story. Then I try to keep the dialogue as simple, yet meaningful as possible. The real writing happens in the edits and rewrites. I use to edit as I write, and that is not productive at all. The first pass is about getting it all on the page, and then you go back and refine it. I would wake up in the middle of the night with a thought, and that is when I started sleeping with a notebook on the nightstand. It also included a lot of research, interviewing people in the community. At one point, I dumped a version of the script and started over because I felt I wasn’t doing justice to their story.

Did you begin with the larger, broader story, or were some image conceptions there initially, i.e. the father returning to the physical and mental garden?

I had to really dig deep to remember where I started “Sweet, Sweet Country.” It’s evolved so much. It came from reading articles about Clarkston, Georgia, and the struggles of a predominately white southern town that was becoming the home to refugees from around the world. It’s a 1.1-square-mile town. It’s home to so many nationalities, and the dynamics of the town changed quickly. The story started there, and then I thought about what could this father and daughter do together that would be meaningful. I remember growing up with a garden and how it represented a lot for my grandfather, who came from the very deep South.

You were born in Georgia and have stated that it was key to film this production in Atlanta. What were the crucial elements of the city that you knew would help to tell such a poignant and haunting story?

It was always Clarkston. I wanted to show the South: The long walks from one block to the next, with train tracks breaking those perfect lines of blocks of sidewalks; the beauty of women wearing traditional wear from their respective countries in this new environment; the ethnic grocers and restaurants all over Atlanta. But because Clarkston is so concentrated and small, you see just how many of these stores exist, and it’s so beautiful to see signs in Amharic, Arabic, etc. in the middle of this southern town.

Early in your film “The Youth,” we hear the line, “It is your responsibility to be heard.” This film articulates another angle of refugee youth culture’s struggle with both familial and heritage identity politics. How was your approach different in writing and directing this production?

You’re speaking about that conversation with the protagonist, Said, and his mentor, Prof Khalil. All of his dialogue is actually from various texts by Franz Fanon, except that one line. I’m really proud of that line. I’m always thinking about our various voices and how everyone wants to be heard. Over the years, I realize it’s my responsibility to make sure I put myself in situations and never miss an opportunity to speak up or speak loud enough to be heard. It’s the whole tree and forest thing, right?

[Crosstown Arts residency manager] Mary Jo [Karimnia] mentioned during our residency that working on our practice includes sitting and thinking. It doesn’t have to be constant movement. I really appreciated that, because I never think those silent moments of contemplation are part of the work. I feel guilty more than anything when I have those moments.

The film, from the beginning, was always about Said’s conversations with the people in his life, as he tries to figure out what he wants to do. I’ve read Franz Fanon multiple times, and he’s always informed my work. And I had this idea of literally bringing him into the story, so I re-read Black Skin, White Masks and The Wretched of the Earth and found those moments that really spoke to me concerning Said’s struggle.

Both films contain very bold visuals, the folding of the clothes on the bed and the food or “nourishment of the family” being abandoned longingly on the table, etc. Do you keep a sketchbook (drawings, photographs, reference images) to compile visuals for use later in the films?

As a filmmaker, I watch a film or a television episode a day. I keep a folder of creatives — images from films, paintings, photography, drawings, anything that catches my eye and pulls me in. Sometimes I go to stores and find fabrics that capture my imagination and add that to the list. I read as much possible — scripts, fiction, and nonfiction to understand the word on the page and what works.

Funny you mention the abandoned nourishment. My maternal side of the family is from Panama, and my grandmother sponsored her sister and family when they came to the states. We all lived in a three-bedroom house for a while, and my grandmother was a stay-at-home mom. We’d all come home from school at different times. We all had after-school activities, nerd things like band, and/or sports. When each of got home, there would be a plate waiting for us with our names on our respective plate. It’s just something I grew up with and something that would always stay with me. I always thought of that as this loving gesture from my grandmother to all of us, not just her kids, but to her sister’s kids as well.

You have been developing “Sweet, Sweet Country” into a feature-length film. Given your anthropological background, I am interested in what you have been researching and/or writing about since we saw you last summer.

I do bring that background to my work. I’m all about research and then speaking to as many people as possible who are part of the culture and world I’m crafting. For the “Sweet, Sweet Country” short, I met with a lot of women who came to the U.S. as refugees with their children. Depending on the region, sometimes it can be hard for men to gain asylum. These women invited me into their homes, fed me snacks and tea, and shared their stories with me. They were open and honest, and I felt honored that they trusted me with these intimate details of their lives. A lot of that research informed the short, as well as the feature script.

While I was at Crosstown, I was working on two script ideas. I started the research, as well as the outline for one story about Black coal miners. The Black experience in Appalachia has been all but erased. Black coal miners have been in Appalachia for generations, but you’d never know it when people talk about the region. It’s one of the many examples of how Blackness is constantly erased from the American narrative unless we’re talking about slavery and the civil rights movement. For instance, The Battle of Blair Mountain is this infamous moment in coal mining history centered around unionization and an uprising of the workers against the mining company, but Black coal miners are omitted from that narrative. They were fighting for their fellow miners even when they disproportionally had the harder and more dangerous jobs in the mines.

I’m also working on the original project I started with at Crosstown, “We Got You,” about the joys of Black girlhood.

Dehanza, thanks so much for taking the time to speak with us. These new scripts and your research sound very interesting. We can’t wait to see them when we get the opportunity.

Crosstown Arts

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