‘Zo-Ology’

A Study in Nurturing

By Sarah Knott

Some describe him as a seasoned lion. “I’ll be asking him advice until I’m 40 or 50.” Others say he’s like Morpheus, the mentor in The Matrix. “He’ll show you the door, but you have to open it.”

Others call him Mr. Wesson. Or Zo. Or Papa Fonz.

“He’s true to the game,” they say.

These are the ways young people from Cincinnati to Atlanta to Australia paint a picture of Alfonzo “Zo” Wesson: Cincinnati film director, creative, reality TV star, and, in his free time, mentor. He’s helped many young African-American men and women of our town learn the ropes of filmmaking while, hopefully, opening their eyes to career possibilities in Hollywood, New York, and beyond.

In our Sunday afternoon conversation in East End, Wesson uses a number of famous leaders and thinkers to illustrate his points, quoting everyone from Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer” to Andy Warhol to Clint Eastwood. No Cassius Clay was mentioned, but as he talked, Wesson’s hands moved like butterflies, his words stung like bees. He’s quick, concise, articulate and precise, nothing if not his own, he says, and he wants to help other budding African-American thinkers, whether they hail from Over-the-Rhine or Price Hill or Indian Hill, realize the same.

Wesson remembers meeting his idol, Gordon Parks, and the very first thing Mr. Parks said to him.

“He said, ‘Ask me a question only a filmmaker would ask.’ I said. ‘Ok. You shot the opening segment of Shaft without a permit. All those shots were stolen, weren’t they?’ And yes, he said, they were.” Wesson had passed Park’s test and reaped the rewards. Zo says, “He opened up everything to me.”

It’s a testing tactic Wesson continues to practice: finding a student who will ask the right question, that student with a true passion for filmmaking. He remembers the time he was introduced to the work of Rasheen Crawley, then a young Wright State student and someone Wesson now calls his “prize pupil.” About a decade ago, Wesson reached out to Media Bridges, a local media education non-profit, telling its leaders he was looking for young people who wanted to use film to express their point of view. And as he watched Crawleys’s reel, he saw exactly what he was looking for.

“It’s like that saying, ‘Good artists borrow, great artists steal.’ I wanted to steal one of Rasheen’s shots. Wow, I thought. That’s interesting.”

The shot was of someone drinking from a glass, shot from the drinker’s point of view.  From the other side of the camera, Crawley knew that the shot was just an example of him doing what he loved to do, and he was excited Wesson took an interest.

“I didn’t think he was going to take me seriously,” says Crawley of his meeting with Wesson. But Crawley quickly demonstrated an amazing work ethic, an intense capacity to learn, and immediately, the mentorship was on. There was one more hurdle to jump.  Crawley’s mother was a skeptic, and invited Wesson over for dinner at their Kennedy Heights home before she issued her stamp of approval.

“It was during a storm in the summer, so we had no electricity. And we had no air-conditioning. So there we were, burning up. And Zo was sweating,” Crawley says. He laughs. But once things cooled off, he describes how Wesson passed Crawley’s mother’s test, and not long after, how the apprenticeship began. Crawley soaked up everything Wesson showed him, asked questions and honed his instincts. Both benefited.

“To say that I wouldn’t be here today without him isn’t fair to him and it isn’t fair to me,” says Crawley. “But it all fit together like a nice Tetris puzzle. I love the guy for who he is, not for what he’s done for me.”

Wesson agrees.

“True power is not about controlling people,” Wesson says. “It’s empowering someone to live out their dreams.”

Today, Crawley is 32 and works in the industry as a full-time grip/electric on projects such as nationaly-televised NASCAR awards shows, CBS’s Final Four coverage, and a variety of BET, MTV, and ESPN productions. And whether it’s for professional or personal advice, he continues to call on Wesson.

So does another protégée, Lorenzo Jackson II. Jackson, who as a senior saw Wesson speak at Hughes High School, was instantly inspired by Wesson’s energy and sought out his ideas. Jackson currently lives in Atlanta, is trying to produce a play, and working in the entertainment business.

“He sees the world through his camera,” says Jackson. “And I can trust him 100 percent. He wants to work with you, and every time I talk to him, he’s straightforward. That’s rare in this sort of business.”

This kind of no-holds-barred, constructive approach is one Wesson says he feels is valuable in a community often lacking father figures. He should know.

Forty-something years ago, a result of a rape, Wesson was born on the south side of Chicago to a loving mother but a verbally and emotionally abusive father figure. As he grew, so did his imagination and he figured out early that he had a way of looking at things that was different than most kids. So he simply followed his dream and vowed that if he succeeded, he would help others do the same. His mission is reflected not only in his mentoring style but also in his creative DNA. From reality show direction to movie scripts to inner city projects, the story of someone returning to help can be a prominent undercurrent.

“It’s like Harriet Tubman,” he says. “What if she hadn’t come back? Think about the Freedom Center. It’s a perfect metaphor for the best of this country, of black and white working together. It’s the basic tenet of finding freedom and helping others achieve it.”

His story is true and genuine. He’s lived a story and tells stories he knows young students find tangible and real. That’s why Wesson inspires them.

“I ask young people, ‘Would you do this for free?’ I would. It’s not always Oscars and parties in Bel Air. It’s about illuminating the human condition. And I need to know they feel the same way.”

But if filmmaking or production or directing doesn’t pan out, Wesson encourages his “mentees” to pursue something else, whatever that may be.

“You’ve got to find something you’re passionate about whether it’s business of medicine or street sweeping.” He stops and recites the famous Martin Luther King quote about being the best street sweeper you can be. He adds:

“What is it that you have to do?”

And in every case, Wesson says, there comes a time when a student must be put to the test. So after he feels he’s opened the eyes and camera lenses of his protégés, he lets go with one final message: nothing should stop them now.

“Just because you have a mentor doesn’t mean you get to stop learning. You have to be curious. I’m not a surrogate, but I try to be an assistant.”

Then he’s gone, but only until a new challenge, obstacle, problem presents itself. And in these times, the seasoned lion, Morpheus, Zo—whatever appositive is chosen, whatever you want to call him—he definitely will be there. He’s true to the game.