Christine from our POVs

A collection of stories, reflections, and memories shared by those who knew and loved her.

Jodi Long

Christine hated social injustice and throughout her life fought to expose the very foundation of it.  She was tough and yet funny and completely one of a kind. She was brilliant and could eviscerate a movie or a script in a flash with "Where the fuck is the subtext?”. She was extremely competitive, crazy as a loon at times, and completely unfiltered. She could challenge a room to see what or whom she could rile up to hilarious effect. Her students loved her because not only had they never met anyone like her, she gave them the tools and freedom to be who they could be. Despite her loud bark she was full of heart and a fiercely loyal friend. I shall miss her.

Chris & Jodi at an after screening party in NYC (2022)

Chris & Jodi at Asian Cinevision. Q&A for LONG STORY SHORT (2008)

Chris, Jodi, and Wayne Wang (2008)

Shanghai (2008)

Koonyoung Klingspor

We have known each other for soon nearly 70 years and I have had a great pleasure knowing her and have had privilege having her as one of my favorite friends  in my life.  She was so witty and funny and had her heart in the right places.

Sadly, we never lived in the same place except in Seoul, Korea in our younger years but went to Sacred Heart in different countries.  We kept friendship just the same.  

 When I first met her, she was so shy and didn’t talk much but she was a beautiful child. Even as a child myself, I could sense that she was a unusual person with extremely high intelligence. I truly liked her and her sister, Cathy.

Chris & Koonyoung at Stockholm, Sweden (2015)

Chris & Jodi at the 21 Club for an Academy Event (2016)

Jodi Long: “When a very important person in my life died in 2021, Chris insisted on accompanying me to his memorial even though she had only met him twice. That truly was a great gift to me.”

Spain (2018)
Provided by Koonyoung Klingspor

Shannon Lee

There are people in this world who exist as electricity incarnate, who embody the very force that animates life. Chris was that, undeniably. Chris was a bolt of lightning in the night sky; depending on your vantage point, she was beautiful, brilliant, illuminating, faster than anything, shocking, and sometimes dangerous (especially if you got too close or worse, tried to contain her). Even her hair always appeared as if it was radiating electric currents out of its ends, conducted by her wiry frame and generated by the enormous battery of her heart. She was also funnier than anything. 

My first memory of her is from when I was about eight years old. She and her son Tatanka, who was six at the time, came over to my family’s apartment in Queens to make Christmas ornaments—Can you imagine? Christine making Christmas ornaments? Cigarette in one hand, hot glue gun in the other, gesturing wildly, cursing at the top of her lungs?

  • Tatanka was deep into a martial arts phase at the time and, after learning I was enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, spent the entire evening demanding I spar with him. Meanwhile, Chris, under the tutelage of my mom, was making snowmen out of cotton balls. She proudly held her creation up, fondling a protrusion coming from its middle, turned to us, and yelled, “SHANNON! TATANKA! LOOK!! IT’S A FROSTY PENIS!!!” 

    “Who are these insane people?,” I thought. I was hooked.

    My next significant memory is from a few years later, when she asked me to narrate a voiceover for her documentary, Sparrow Village, which follows a group of young girls in rural southwest China yearning for an education. I tried hiding my deep anxieties about stepping into a vocal booth for the first time with a thin veil of apathy; I was 12 and so self conscious, especially having gotten to know Chris’s brutal and acidic brand of honesty. I thought apathy would be an armor. 

    But here, she surprised me with patience and gentle encouragement. She loved when I would stumble over words and sigh in frustration between takes—she told me these moments felt real and honest, like things a young girl would say and do. She introduced me to the power of authenticity, vulnerability, and imperfection—how these things undergirded all great art. Suddenly I saw this person, who I thought was just another one of my parent’s whacko friends, in a new light. Here, for the first (but certainly not the last) time, I got a glimpse into the incomparable tenderness she had for the world and for people, that irreverent thing that made her tick. 

    Granted, that tenderness often manifested in ways that felt antithetical. To that end, Chris was the epitome of what they say about “real” New Yorkers: we’re kind, not nice. 

    When I sent her a short film made by my boyfriend’s friends in high school (I played a small role in it), she sent back an entire essay’s worth of feedback. Some excerpts: “IT’S HARD TO WATCH THIS MOVIE BECAUSE OF YOUR BOYFRIEND’S BAD HAIRCUT AND ACNE.” “THIS MOVIE IS A PIECE OF SHIT.” “STORY MAKES NO SENSE.” Her memo, which wasn’t totally wrong, concluded by offering to write a letter of recommendation for the director if he needed it to get into film school. So kind, so not nice. 

    Though it was never binding in the eyes of the law or god, Christ was always referred to (and referred to herself) as my godmother (or, to more accurately use her words, MY FUCKING GODMOTHER). My interpretation of this title, having grown up with no specific religious upbringing or affiliation with any particular god, is that Chris was meant to be a kind of spiritual parent, someone to guide my soul. 

    In that sense, Chris’s title fit(s) perfectly. She was a formative force in my life, who affirmed that I didn’t have to conform to what people expected of me, especially as an Asian American woman. Knowing someone like her existed (and so unapologetically) gave me permission to stake out the limits of who I wanted to be from a young age. She would always encourage my toughest, my most headstrong, and wildest self. She revered wildness—funny for someone who was trained as an architect. 

    When I started playing in bands, she only liked the songs where I sang loudly, on the verge of screaming. She would come to shows and would mosh to our covers of Bikini Kill and yell at anyone who wasn’t dancing. She didn’t like it when my music got softer and less overtly angry over the years: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT??” When I went to art school for college, she introduced me to artist friends who gave me internships and some of my first jobs. She shared her love of Patti Smith and Agnes Varda. She talked shit about everyone without a filter.

    When my parents moved overseas in my 20s, she called or texted me ahead of almost every holiday to make sure I had somewhere to go—and would invite me over if I didn’t. There are many Thanksgivings spent with exes that I now so wish I’d spent at hers. She’s also helped me get over many relationships: “MEN ARE FUCKING SCUMBAGS.”

    I’ll miss Chris profoundly, probably because I’ve yet to meet anyone on earth that comes even close to reminding me of her. She, more than anyone I know, was truly one of one. I count my inherited friendship with Chris among the greatest gifts given to me by my parents (of which there are countless). I’ll miss her light ripping its way through reality, showing us something true and all-too-often unwieldy. I am so grateful to have known this uniquely electric person for so much of my life—what a privilege to have caught a spark. 

    An incomplete list of things that will forever remind me of Chris: 

    • Patti Smith

    • Agnes Varda documentaries, especially Beaches of Agnes and The Gleaners and I 

    • Issey Miyake

    • Hop Kee

    • Loud, smart women 

    • Drawings, especially charcoal ones

    • Tiny bottles of vodka

    • Ganjang gyejang

    • Cai Guo Qiang 

    • Virginia Slims 

Chris & Oscar Klingspor. Sweden Stockhom (2018)
Provided by Koonyoung Klingspor

Oct. 28th, 2018
Provided by Helena Park

Spain (2018)
Provided by Koonyoung Klingspor

Mary Bassett

I met Chris Choy in the 1970s, through the Third World Women’s Alliance. An early memory is of her hitchhiking from the Third World Newsreel office on 23rd street. Who ever heard of hitchhiking in New York City! But that was Chris- always breaking the mold. She was already a mother, I see to remember she was imploring passing cars to get her home to her child. I remained loosely in her orbit over the years- visiting her and Alan in their loft on the Bowery. I remember it was spotless- along with her brash, rebellious, imaginative streak, Chris was disciplined and liked order. She was not impressed by sloppiness. She was not from money, not at all. She was committed to activism and to the idea that film was a tool for change. She somehow turned up to visit me and my newborn daughter in St Vincents hospital.

  • I’m not quite sure how we kept in touch, but I went to a screening of who killed Vincent Chen at MOMA. I knew she had gone to Hong Kong for a time. I had dinner with her in Chinatown while NYC Health Commissioner and we laughed that here she was a professor and I a senior government official, unexpected in our youth. Lewis Erskine, a childhood friend of mine from our days in Dyckman Houses, organized that get together. He is also gone. I worried at her surreptitious drinking and commitment to cigarettes. My daughter Pambana met her at some gathering that involved a film Chris had made in Namibia, introduced herself. Chris was welcoming and boisterous. My last connection with Chris was not in person but through her film on Tiananmen. That somehow seems fitting- she was always committed most of all to her work. Having also been that sort of mother to my two daughters I know that is not easy, but we are so lucky to have her body of work . We have lost a singular voice. Now more than ever, a luta continua

The original painting Christine wanted to recreate

Thanksgiving (2020)

Christmas (2021)
Provided by Yi Liu

Gregory Mitnick

Christine was my professor, my collaborator, my friend—and always, my teacher.

I met her twenty-one years ago while interviewing for admission to NYU’s Graduate Film Program, which she chaired at the time. During that first meeting it came up that I was living in Chinatown and gambling Malaysian blackjack with the locals. That did it. I was in.

For those who never knew Christine, here is the essence. She was a rebel—unapologetically nonconformist in her subject matter and radically unfiltered in her style. Her honesty was bracing, and because she hid nothing, she was utterly trustworthy. That brash transparency shaped her films, her relationships, and her life.

I saw Christine as a mentor. She saw me as free labor. We filmed all across New York, and when she opened NYU’s film program in China, I went with her and we made documentaries together. Her apartment in Shanghai was a twenty-four-hour salon: distinguished artists, wealthy scions, government officials, and dozens of curious students, all orbiting at once.

  • Christine was childlike in the best ways—wide-eyed, curious, funny, unpredictable, and humble. And she enjoyed herself, drinking and smoking with abandon. She opened doors for countless young filmmakers and helped shape many successful careers.

    I have two young kids, and I’ve brought them to Christine’s house many times. She was always impossibly thin, and—like your typical (former) architect—almost always dressed in black. The first time we visited, I told my kids she was a real-life witch, and that her son, Tatanka, was a magician. They believed it!

    In truth, Christine was a kind of witch—of course, a good one. She was a strong, independent woman with unusual ingredients and hard-won wisdom. She could distill complex narratives to their essence, articulating the primal stories that connect us all. She cast spells on her subjects, her students, her friends, and—most powerfully—on her audiences.

Nancy Tong

Hi Chris,

How is it up there?  You must be glad the pain is gone, that you feel warm again – back to eating breakfast with eggs, bacon and ham, cappuccino on the side, and finishing it off with a duty-free cigarette that you always insisted, “I don’t inhale.” 

Who are you hanging with now?  You always knew – friend or foe – from a mile away. With your quick wit, you spoke words that went straight to the heart of things, leaving some in awe and others quietly undone.   

You were a force of nature, a unique artist shaped by contradictions.  You stood fiercely for the disenfranchised and scorned the wealthy, all while wearing a Cartier watch and an Issey Miyake dress.  You were an inspirational teacher to many, yet a fierce and unforgiving competitor who would fight tooth and nail over a film credit.  It was these contradictions that made you unforgettable.  

It is surreal to write this.  You were not meant to leave us so early.  I suppose I am now resigned to saying this more often than I’d like: What would Chris say?

Rest in peace, Chris!

Nancy Tong

Nancy Tong, Renee Tajima and Chris. Toronto, Canada (1988)
Credit: Jack Seto

JT Takagi

It is probably safe to say that Third World Newsreel wouldn’t exist but for Christine Choy and Susan Robeson. The transformation of the Newsreel collective to Third World Newsreel, a media organization that prioritizes people of color and social justice, could have easily collapsed - but it didn’t, thanks in great part to her tenacity and determination - and it proudly lives on today. 

J.T. Takagi, Quynh Thai, Renee Tajima, Juanita Anderson, Christine Choy, Nancy Tong, Holly Fisher, Annie Tan at NYFF (2021)

Lei Zhong

I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that Chris is gone. She was such a bundle of energy, brimming with brilliant ideas, with a trove of stories she’d longed to bring to the screen...

Chris and I first crossed paths in 1996. The following year, we joined forces on the documentary Dances with Dragon, spending over a year filming and crafting it across the United States and China. Back then, we were simply producer and director, bound by our shared project. But once the cameras stopped rolling, we became family friends—a bond that would endure for nearly three decades…

  • On August 7, 2022, I went to visit Chris at her home, accompanied by my daughter Starr, son-in-law Ben, and son Stone. She had just returned home from the hospital not long before, so we brought along her favorite Chinese dishes. Even though our children were all grown adults by then, Chris and I still felt the same spark we’d had the day we first met—young, vibrant, and chasing our dreams with unbridled passion...

     

    Chris, there is no more pain in heaven. Rest easy, for that is your haven of peace and joy. Your extraordinary talent and genuine, unfiltered spirit are your most precious treasures there, where you can finally be wholly and unapologetically yourself.

     

    Chris, you were a gift that graced my life, and I will hold you in my heart for eternity.

     

    Lei Zhong

    12/19/2025

    Beijing, China

Chris & Lei in Beijing (1997)

Lei Zhong, Christine Choy, Shen Tao, Liu Jiefeng filming at the Shenzhen Port (1997)

Stone Chen, Christine Choy, Lei Zhong, Starr Chen, Ben Hu, New York (2022)

Lei & Chris in NYC (2022)

Yuki Sakamoto Solomon

Hello Christine,

I was going through all of the old photos, hoping to find at least one picture of you, but I wasn’t successful. I first met you in the corner office at NYU in 2005, and from that moment on, you became my mentor and my friend for more than twenty years. I was so fortunate to have the opportunity to create a program about you for NHK.

It’s hard to find the right words to describe you, because you were truly one of a kind. If I may use ordinary words, you were the smartest, most organized, most generous—and craziest—person I have ever met. Your signature way of speaking, with an f-word sprinkled between every other word, will be deeply missed.

The last time I saw you, in the spring of 2023, we shared sashimi from Yama on 17th Street. The next day, you texted me to say how much you enjoyed the leftovers. Your stories were always endlessly fascinating; I could listen to them forever.

I will miss you deeply, and I thank you for sharing your voice with the world. I’m sure I’ll see you again in the next life.

With much love,


Yuki Sakamoto Solomon

Yi Liu

To Christine Choy,

Twelve years ago, when I first came to the US, I knew no one and had no one. Since I met you, you’ve welcomed me to your Thanksgiving and your Christmas, and I have not spent a single holiday in the US without you ever since. You’ve become a family to me. I hope you know how incredibly grateful I’ve been. 

You loved to say that New York is a melting pot, and so was your living room! Over the past decade, I watched you help so many and connect so many, myself included. You loudly criticized, passionately fought, and generously loved. You are a one-of-a-kind, generous soul! I miss you so.

Chris & Yi Liu (2015)

Christmas (2017)

Christmas (2017)

Chris & Yi, New York Fashion Week (2019)

Leslie Li

I met Christine in 2014 when I was making a documentary film about the Kim Loo Sisters, my mother and three maternal aunts who were a jazz vocal quartet popular in the 1930s and '40s. Though I wasn't one of her film students at NYU and knowing that I was a first-time filmmaker, she agreed to "take a look" at my very rough rough cut. Not only did she give it her detailed attention, she came back to me with 17 questions and comments and a sincere interest in my project. Despite her extraordinarily busy schedule, we met at restaurants (mostly Asian, of course), where she generously gave me advice and suggestions—everything from the pacing and structure of my film, to the pros and cons of crowdfunding, to the clearance and cost of song licenses, to distribution, to the current state of documentaries. She did not mince words. She saw many problems and flaws in my film which she never failed to point out, but she always softened the blow by saying, "Your doc needs a lot of work" in a way that sounded like a brutal sign of encouragement…

  • As the years passed, Christine invited me to her beautiful loft apartment where over artfully prepared meals that she enjoyed cooking as much as she enjoyed seeing her guests eating them, our relationship of mentor and mentee became one of friendship as well. She was a voracious reader and, because I am a writer, she enjoyed discussing books and their authors with me. I would recommend books to her; she would recommend films, especially documentaries, to me. As much and as often as she told me how much work I still had to put into my film, she also insisted that I had an important story to tell: not just a Chinese American story, but an American story. Her declaration was a gift—a weighty one—and a responsibility.

    The last time that I saw Christine was in September 2024. She had undergone a number of operations for a series of health issues and she was quite frail. And yet, with the help of a shopping cart for stability, she came to Yu & Me Books in Chinatown to help me celebrate the launch of my most recent book The Forest for the Trees. In addition to my book, she bought a novel by another Chinese American author that she admired. "Read it," she said and gave it to me. Clearly, she never wanted me to stop learning, and from a master.

    Rest in Peace & Power, Christine.

Rose Han

Christine, my eternal teacher.

It breaks my heart that I was not able to be by your side.

The thought that I can no longer see you brings tears to my eyes all day long.

Your life meant so much to countless people.

More than anything you ever achieved,

I know how deeply warm and generous a person you were.

Just like the films we made together in the past,

please continue making films with me.

  • You used to call me your only Korean producer,

    and you said that the four documentaries we created together

    were made not by Koreans or Americans,

    but by citizens of the world.

    And there is still one unfinished project left—

    I don’t know if I can complete it without you.

    Your intellect, your humor, and your spirit of the times will live on.

    I will continue making documentaries,

    and every film I create from now on will be dedicated to you.

    Tatanka is my family.

    I will help him with everything he needs.

    My beloved and respected Christine,

    one day we will surely meet again.

    And when that day comes,

    I hope to hear your strong, unmistakable voice once more.

    With gratitude and deepest respect,

    Rose Han 

Shen Tong

I met Christine Choy when I was barely twenty-one, newly exiled from China in the long shadow of 1989—when a generation’s hope was met with blood, and many of us were scattered across the world carrying grief we did not yet have words for. In that fragile moment, Christine appeared like a force of nature.

She was a young Asian woman then, camera slung over her shoulder, carrying a 35mm not as a tool but as a vow. She followed students, intellectuals, dissidents, and dreamers across the United States—not chasing headlines, but devotion. She walked among us with fierce tenderness, high spirit, as you see in the photo. and a kind of fearless curiosity that made you feel seen even while history tried to erase you.

Christine stayed. She always stayed.

  • For more than thirty years, she guarded the fragile footage of 1989—celluloid aging, colors fading, history at risk of disappearing. There were moments when the film itself needed rescue, when conservation and digitization became acts of love and resistance. She summoned a community—friends, collaborators, believers in memory—to help her protect it. Out of that lifelong devotion emerged The Exiles (2022): a film shaped by patience, loss, and moral stamina, carrying the weight of unfinished history with uncommon grace.

    Christine would be deeply, unfairly missed.

    She was eccentric, wildly creative, determined—a female Asian immigrant who did not simply build a successful life in America, but an impactful one. She showed what was possible without asking permission. She inspired generations of filmmakers not by chasing power, but by standing in truth long enough for others to find their own voice.

    Her presence was unmistakable: loud laughter, sharp humor, relentless insight. Whether at hole-in-the-wall restaurants, film premieres, festival corridors, or Oscar-orbit parties—where worship often replaces wonder—Christine would cut through the noise. We would break into laughter, into storytelling, into dreams: which of her students would win major awards one day, and how she would still be there, smiling, proud, never surprised.

    She taught us not only how to make films, but how to live inside them.

    In 2012, I received one of her quiet gifts: the chance to audit her legendary documentary studio class at NYU. Sitting there, I saw her transmit something rarer than technique—an ethic of witnessing, a refusal to rush truth, an insistence that history deserves patience.

    And somehow—almost mythically—Christine seemed to run on pure life force. For as long as I knew her, she radiated energy and spirit with little regard for conventional needs, as if nourishment came directly from purpose itself. For four decades, she moved like that: fueled by conviction, humor, and an unshakable love for people and stories.

    Christine did not just document history.

    She kept it alive.

    She built a community around memory.

    She turned exile into testimony.

    Her voice—bold, insightful, laughing—still echoes.

    Her spirit did not leave with her body.

    It continues in the images she saved, the students she awakened, and the lives she touched simply by showing up, camera ready, heart open.

Yoichi Kawakita

About twenty years ago, on the day before Christine was to leave New York for Shanghai to prepare for the opening of the new NYU campus there, she called me and said, “Let’s have a meal together at my place!”

That evening, my family and I visited her home. Over the Chinese dishes she had prepared, we enjoyed lively conversations about the Shanghai project as well as updates on our families.

After dinner, Christine invited us to go downstairs. We followed her, a bit puzzled, and found ourselves in the underground garage, where her beloved black Mercedes was parked. She then asked if I would like to buy it, and I decided on the spot. That fond memory suddenly came back to me.

She was a woman we deeply admired and loved—talented and sensitive, with both profound insight and a pure heart. It is truly sad to think that we will never again hear her bold and provocative remarks.

Yoichi Kawakita

Annie Tan

Christine lied when she said in The Exiles (2022) documentary: “My legacy? I have no goddamn legacy.” She of course leaves so much that we will take with us.

I first met Christine Choy in my senior year of college, a few years after I watched “Who Killed Vincent Chin?” for the first time. I was so excited to meet her; what I didn’t expect was how excited she would be to meet me. I first learned when I was thirteen that I am a relative of Vincent Chin. The footage from the documentary made it to the PBS documentary “Becoming American: The Chinese Experience” which I was watching when my mom walked by and said “That’s your cousin,” then walked away. I might have never known I was related to Vincent without the footage, as my family is private and also so hurt by the trauma endured by Lily Chin, Vincent's mother, who I learned later is my maternal grandmother’s sister.

  • Christine’s work has immortalized the efforts of my great-auntie Lily Chin to fight for justice for her son Vincent Chin, and for that, I will forever be grateful. The film let Lily say her piece and showed, in the background, my cousins, uncles, and aunties supporting her through the horrible court cases. Lily passed when I was twelve, before I ever knew about Vincent, so I never got to ask her questions about the case. What I have is on tape, though. As I said at the 40th Anniversary of Vincent’s murder, I’ve often thought about getting a tattoo, “WWLD?” What would Lily do? I rewatch the footage of Lily speaking every few months for my own moral grounding and north star. Thank you, Christine, for that gift.

    Christine was so generous with her time with our college’s Asian American Alliance, sharing stories about how my great-auntie fed them and tried to set them up with boyfriends, while being her characteristic blunt and blustery self on the geopolitics and racism of that time and now. I reconnected with her in 2018 when I watched “From Spikes to Spindles” at BAM, where I saw footage of Chinatown I’d never seen before and learned about the fight for Confucius Plaza for the first time. She kept that same fiery spirit, enthusiastic and so proud of her films.

    Christine was such a larger-than-life character: so hilarious, off-the-cuff, brutally honest and forthright, sometimes difficult, and oh, what a storyteller. Christine made an effort to email me whenever someone messaged her about Vincent. She emailed me her updates, and I emailed her mine. She was a connector, always eager to help people know one another in the community. If she could offer you help, she did.

    When “Who Killed Vincent Chin?” was inducted into the National Film Registry by the Library of Congress, Christine wrote me about the screening: “Here are your comp tickets for 10/2 you better show your ass” which of course I did. Christine had me speak after the screening, and then threw a party in celebration: she was so, so happy to see the film digitally restored and preserved for the future. That was the last time I saw her, in 2021. I never took Christine up on her offer to look through her archives; I wish I’d gotten to do that with her and hear her stories about everything she kept. But I will make that happen, as I continue to share my family’s legacy as the next generation.

    Christine said in The Exiles (2022), “I told my son, “If I drop dead, number one, I don't wanna have a memorial service because everybody's gonna say nice things about me.”” Well, too bad, Christine. Thank you for everything. Though you lived in the present always, you made sure what was documented is preserved for future generations to come.

    So much love,

    Annie Tan

    Niece/cousin of Vincent Chin

Starr Chen

For most of my life, I knew Christine simply as a dear family friend, the one who was like a bolt of lightning in every space we shared. I have childhood memories of hearing her and my mom's laughter in the background as I watched Batman & Robin with her son. As I got older and became interested in film and social justice, it was such a privilege to learn about her body of work as I saw her name appear in different spaces. I felt so proud to know her and so privileged to become not just her friend's daughter but her friend as well, and I will forever be grateful for our overlapping time in New York and for the many happy memories we've shared over the years. 

Chris & Starr (2022)

Center of Asian American Media (CAAM)

We at CAAM want to express our sincere condolences to Chris' family. CAAM would not be the organization we've become today without artist/activists like Chris, but she in particular had a profound influence on our creation and commitment to independent filmmakers. Chris was at our founding conference at UC Berkeley in 1980, and was part of a core group of filmmakers and community leaders who steered us into our future. She was an exceptional filmmaker, educator, community leader and mentor. She was a towering presence in our community, and it was our privilege to be associated with Chris.

Donald Young

Who Killed Vincent Chin? is the film that inspired me to do the work that I do today. It is a searing example of the very best of social art, yet equally important for me, also was an incredible tool for building community. I had the opportunity to work with Chris many times throughout my time at CAAM, most recently assisting with the rebroadcast on PBS. When I first met her in the 1990's, for a young aspiring media arts professional, Chris was on the Mt. Olympus of community heroes. It was initially very intimidating. Typical Chris, she tested if I could withstand her boisterous personality and grand aspirations for community, and then there was a comfortable banter that is harder and harder to find in today's world. We will all miss Chris dearly, but are for the better that she was with us.

Ian Tan

I met Christine when I was 17. I was helping her digitize and sync archival footage that would eventually be used in THE EXILES (2022). She asked me if I had ever smoked weed. I said no, and she called me a loser.

For many years after that – I would go on to take her class, then make three films with her – she was a guiding light. I met her when I wasn’t sure about who I wanted to be. She made it clear that what matters is not who you become; you are the accrual of a lifetime of honest, human, and passionate choices. If you lived right, people would know.

I have since smoked weed, but not much else. I don’t think I speak for only  myself when I say I don’t know if I have the courage to live the way Christine did. She was a trailblazer, a hater, a sentimentalist, a great hang, but most importantly, she was a pusher. She pushed you, she pushed the system, and she pushed for the right things in life. 

There are generations of people whom she touched, and I hope we all take a bit of Christine into our own lives.

Wendy Cheng

Christine Choy was a good friend and a role model whom I brought up constantly with my own students – even within the past few weeks. Her charisma, sense of humor, and ability to inspire and lead were in many ways unmatched, for the Asian American community in particular. When I first arrived at NYU, I found myself in Christine's office and nearly about to cry, as I had studied her Oscar-nominated documentary on hate crimes at Cornell University and had been deeply impacted by it. Christine, who was then Chair of the MFA Film program, introduced me to Ang Lee right after that meeting, as he would give a talk in one of our huge auditoriums that same evening. I remember Christine's introducing Ang Lee to the hundreds of audience members in her bold, raucous voice with, "I gave this guy his first job, and now he's huge and I'm still nobody." But really, Christine was the kind of most magnanimous somebody who always supported everyone around her with incredible energy, warmth and bluntness, connecting people of all races, helping so many succeed, making Asian Americans less afraid to participate. And she was constantly producing important documentaries to represent us, and/or Asian culture.

  • I had an independent study with Christine during school. My sister and I spent some time with her in San Francisco in 2008 when she personally stood up in our audience to cheer on my thesis film just before it was presented. She herself presented "Long Story Short" the same day, I think: a short documentary about an Asian American vaudeville couple who had once gone on the Ed Sullivan Show. I later met up with Christine and Carol Liu Films in Beijing in 2012. We had a very memorable time over dinner and coffee. I remember meeting with Christine at cafes in Manhattan and also at an apartment with a very avant-garde design in which she was staying, which had been granted to her in connection to her work. She was always talking about funding and was good at getting funding, just as she got the scholarship money for many of us our first year at NYU. She was always moving, talking animatedly about all her upcoming projects, making jokes and involving even strangers around us in our conversation in ways that were unpredictable and delightful and drew warmth spontaneously. I remember her pointing to a homeless person who was sitting in a van as we walked by and her telling me, "Go talk to him." This was not just to inspire documentary work, but a deeper engagement with life and people. I remember our being at a cafe and Christine's randomly asking a guy sitting nearby if he thought I was pretty when she knew I was feeling down on myself. Her positivity and boldness made him respond humorously and affirmatively as if he was one of her students. This was kind of them both. Christine was a person with whom I exchanged personal experiences and problems. We had some similar politics when it came to gender and transnationalism. Christine was a remarkably strong, brave woman with fierce independence, and I remember often worrying about how thin she was. She told me she'd often boil a big head of broccoli and just eat that for dinner. It did teach me, immediately, to eat more vegetables. I often worried whether or not she was alone. I just saw that Christine and I emailed in 2017, when I suggested introducing her to someone. But even then, she was talking about going back and forth between three different countries for another project. She probably worked too hard. I felt it was tough to rein her in in any way because she was so strong and relentless in the pursuit of her work. Yet this is of course exactly why I admired her so much. Christine was a woman who never cared what anyone thought, often said the most surprising things, but always had the good in mind. She was just a firecracker powerhouse. She was simply amazing to me. I don't know why we lost touch after 2017, but she was always in my thoughts. This day came too soon. I love you, Christine.

    Wendy Cheng

Jason Shepard

I met Christine shortly after starting a clerical position at Tisch Film/TV. I was 25 years old, frightened of the future, hoping to make a difference in the world, and relieved to finally work somewhere that paid enough to cover rent. I met a number of interesting, successful, eccentric artists that first year, but even in a group full of eccentric talent, Christine stood out. She was easy to get to know—she always said exactly what she was thinking, often shouting it down the hallway as she approached my desk—and easier to admire. Besides her deep knowledge and passion for film, she was well-versed in history and kept up-to-date on the latest political events. She knew all the books and authors I was reading at any given time and would ask, earnestly, what I thought about their work. It didn’t take me long to realize that she was so knowledgeable, in part, because she participated in and/or documented the people, places, and ideas I was only reading about. 

  • When we realized our shared political affinity, she told stories about the social struggles she took part in and the people she met and befriended along the way. Once, she brought a copy of “The History of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union” into her office for me to thumb through. The book’s original owner was Paul Robeson. He had even signed his name on the inside. I think my excitement and interest in the rare historical ephemera sitting casually on her bookshelves or in storage boxes amused her. That was fine, she amused me too. She always gave me unfiltered reviews of the latest films she saw, and took the time to ask and listen to my opinions too. Sometimes, she’d send me angry, short, unprompted texts about political events, for example: “I am not happy with what is going on with this country and the shit that the [redacted] is doing makes me sick!”. She was just as likely to message me an absurd non-sequitur, like when she asked, “what is the website for NYU job search? I am applying for a job as a janitor” (I sent her the website, and we never talked about it again). She’d often ask me to do little tasks: bringing paperwork or tea over to her apartment, editing letters of recommendation, reading her the bus schedule, bringing her cartons of cigarettes back from my trip in North Carolina, and countless random miscellaneous requests. I felt that it was a privilege to help make Christine’s life a little easier. I still feel that way.

    Christine was ridiculous, irreverent, blunt, and hysterically funny. But she was more than just an eccentric personality. She was a caring, kind, generous, and deeply inspiring human being. She was, I think, first-and-foremost, an educator. She loved to teach and people loved to learn from her. She taught me all the time, and I wasn’t even one of her students. Educating—in class, in conversation, or through her documentaries—was her lifeblood, and we’re all blessed to have learned from her. She belonged to a generation of revolutionaries who entered the artistic and political scene of the 1960s and 1970s, and lived through the reactionary backlash. She remained, even in her 70s, absolutely outraged at the state of the world, the people and institutions in charge, and the violence and oppression that continues to destroy lives today.

    The critic David Ehrlich recently characterized Christine as “combining the revolutionary zeal of a teenage Marxist with the diva-like magnetism of Mariah Carey”, but I think he missed the mark. Christine combined the revolutionary zeal of a social movement veteran with the diva-like magnetism of Nina Simone, and a Joan-Rivers-caliber sense of humor. More to the point: Christine was simply Christine. One of a kind. Irreplaceable.

Sebastian Duran

Christine, 

For so long your apartment overlooking Stuyvesant Square felt like the safest place in the world. 

During the pandemic you invited me, and a few other students to your home for dinner, which quickly became a regular thing. It was something to genuinely look forward to in a really grim time.

When restrictions opened up, and these dinners became dinner parties, and birthdays, and Thanksgivings, you always found a seat for us. You taught us how to cook, and where you kept the good wine, but the biggest treat was always the conversation. 

  • On so many nights, long after dinner was finished, I remember leaning in as you told documentary war stories, and what it was like to be a Black Panther. How you’d squeeze my arm like a stress ball at the most climactic moment of the story.

    I learned more in that apartment than I ever learned at school. I learned about history, and documentary. I learned about confidence, and kindness. I learned storytelling is about listening, and not judging.

    Christine, you had an incredible talent for seeing through bullshit. You understood someone after one conversation and you remembered little details about just about everyone. You saw people as they were, warts and all, and you accepted them. You accepted me, and believed in me, in times it was hard to believe myself.

    At screenings, and cocktail parties, in rooms I felt I had to buisness being in, you’d march me infront of whomever and introduce me with pride.

    Now that you’re gone, I’ll be the one saying those things about you. About how generous, and honest, and wise you were. About how much you taught me, and all the friends you introduced me to. The help you gave me on my first pitch. The hug you gave me when we last said goodbye.

    Thank you for everything, Christine, I could never thank you enough. Rest in Power.

    Your student,

    Sebastian Duran

Daniel and Josephine Webb-Danielson

Josephine and I were overwhelmingly honored to have gotten to know Christine these past few years. While writing, re-writing, developing and packaging our Fannie Lou Hamer Biopic Christine was a true constant presence for us! We LOVED her "colorful" critique as she would tell us stories about Mississippi in the 60's and 70's. She would take us everywhere and introduce us to so many of her filmmaking friends. She would address everyone loudly saying "These are my friends, they need help making their film, somebody help them!" We were so happy to go down to her apartment and sit with her while she shared stories about students she loved (some she hatred, those stories were funny too...) or how she hired Spike Lee to work at NYU! Even as I continued to pitch our project in different corners of the world during covid, I would get responses like... "You know Christine Choy?" 

  • She told me about baby sitting Tupac and interviewing Assatta. She was a dear friend to my Uncle Worth Long who also left us in June of 2025. He always spoke so highly of her, because of that we loved her more!

    As she started to not feel well we didn't really know what to do or how we could help, she stopped drinking for a while but she complained that her stomach really bothered her so I knew right away a remedy that will always get you through a few more days and the timing was perfect. Sort of late July early August when the Jubilee watermelons are at their best! So we brought her this huge 1/4 slice of watermelon. It was almost as big as she was, we were all laughing and someone decided to take her picture, hmmm maybe that was me because the picture is in my phone LoL. Anyway…

    Christine we  LOVE and miss you everyday, we THANK you for being the trailblazer and taking no shyt along the way! We are gracious for the lessons that you taught us, we listened and we will continue to keep up the fight!

    Love,

    Daniel and Josephine Webb-Danielson

Provided by Daniel and Josephine Webb-Danielson

Provided by Taylor Williams

Provided by Taylor Williams

Taylor Williams

My parents used to joke that I left for film school and returned a chef. This was because in the Fall of 2020, in lieu of any filmmaking misadventures, their sole proof of life from me was a series of weekly photo updates of whatever I was cooking at Christine Choy’s that week. My roommate, Sebastian, was the TA for her Korean Cinema class, and since we were both isolating on her behalf in those months, she allowed me to accompany him to her apartment every Thursday night.

While I had taken two of her classes the previous semester, it was during these Korean Cinema nights that I properly got to know her, and before long we fell into a steady routine: Sebastian would run technical support while she lectured on Zoom (along with co-professor Peter Kim), meanwhile I would be firing up some greens in the wok or roasting whatever hunk of meat Christine had thawed earlier that day.

  • By the time the lecture portion of the class was over, the students would watch the corresponding movie from home, and we would turn our camera off and begin eating, smoking cigarettes, and drinking vodka from Christine’s infamously conspicuous Essential water bottle.

    What you need to understand about these dinners is that Christine was constantly sitting on an assortment of meats, fish, and stocks gifted to her by various colleagues, be them friends, former students, or both. So if Sebastian was her TA, then I was her sous-chef – I would show up, she would give me orders on how to prepare the cut of the week, and I would get to work.

    As more friends joined the circle, these weekly dinners became my life force in that limbo period before vaccines rolled out. We roasted lamb, steamed branzino, made Korean stews, conducted CNY hot pot, and eventually had two Thanksgiving turkeys under our belts together. And while our friendship and collaboration developed beyond just dinner over the following years, when I think of Christine, I think about those Thursday nights and how much she was able to express even through something as mundane as a weeknight meal.

    In preparing the food, there was always her strong sense of decisiveness, which she practiced in all areas of life. Be it the specific cooking method she would choose, the utensils we pulled out, or the order we ate in, she was uncompromising, as though she were directing the dinners. But she also exercised the spontaneity and improvisation required of a documentarian of her stature, only coming to the decision of what to do with the meat after we had already arrived for the evening, and eventually even trusting us entirely to cook however we saw fit, once she knew she was in (presumably) good hands. It was controlled chaos, and we learned something new with every meal.

    When you faltered, in the kitchen or elsewhere, she would not hesitate to speak her mind (after I once tried to impress her by preparing 狮子头, she never let me live down my blunder of using chestnuts instead of water chestnuts). But her tough love stemmed from an inherent belief in the potential of all of her students, a desire to refine them into the sharpest versions of themselves that they could be.

    And the sheer variety of meats she was constantly working through has always struck me as a physical totem of the robust ecosystem she had built around her, the number of friends and family she always had looking out for her, offering these pieces of sustenance to, if nothing else, just let her know that they were thinking about her. More importantly, whatever she received, she was instantly willing and eager to share with anyone in close proximity. And that doesn’t just go for foodstuffs, but for filmmaking opportunities, movie screenings, and general Christine wisdom – it was impossible to spend an hour with her and not leave the room thinking more critically and urgently about the world. This endless generosity kept her in touch with each new generation of students, and one got the sense that she was learning from them almost as much as they were learning from her.

    My experience echoes the experience of so many others, who would feel as soon as they met Christine that they had a uniquely personal relationship with her. The thing is, this was not just a feeling; her real superpower was sincerely forming a uniquely personal relationship with everyone she met, no matter the circumstances. My parents still have whiplash from a single dinner with Christine years ago. That kind of person comes around once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky, and I’m more than lucky I got to be, and always will be, Christine’s sous-chef.

Evelyn Yuan

Christine, You were a warrior. You were a legend. You devoted your life to film, and just as deeply to your students. Although I was not formally one of your students, you cared for and supported every young person with dreams, passion, and conviction. You had a rare gift for making people feel seen and believed in. As an international student, I have lived in New York for fifteen years, yet I feel incredibly lucky that I never truly felt lost or alone, even far from home. That is because you were always there. Every holiday—Independence Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, even Chinese New Year—you invited me into your home: to eat together, to celebrate, to share stories. And even when I couldn’t make it, I would always receive your phone call before the holiday arrived. You listened—truly listened—to every friend. Because of you, New York felt less like a city and more like home. With you, I could laugh loudly, argue freely, and speak without holding back. You made me feel as if I had family here.

  • I always believed you would pull through, just as you always had. When I saw you in the hospital bed, I couldn’t hold back my tears. Yet, even so weak, you were still trying to be so full of life—patting me gently and saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” And then, just like always, you reminded me to go home and take care of my children. I so wish I could one day tell my babies—one not yet a year old, the other just two—that their mother had a friend who was so strong, so fearless, so inspiring. I still find it hard to accept that this time, you did not make it through. But your voice, your strength, your talent, and your stories will never leave this world. Thank you, Christine. Thank you for giving a young woman like me such extraordinary warmth and courage. Your light will continue to guide us forward. Evelyn Yuan,12/19/2025

    The attached photo shows Christine wearing the coat I gave her. She always said she knew how to dress and style herself.

Provided by Evelyn Yuan

Provided by Taylor Williams

Provided by Taylor Williams

Matan Hamam

I kept a running list of “Christine Choy Quotes” during my time with her. It became evident that every class, meeting, or call had at least one phrase or anecdote worth holding on too. The list is full of stories (she almost drowned Tupac in the bathtub), reflections on her career (“If I had big tits I’d probably be a porn star”) and insults (“I met YoYo Ma Once. Yeah. I said you have a pretty weird name”). 

The class where I met her wasn’t educational in the traditional sense. One time after I played a short documentary I made about how my parents fell in love, she suggested the film would be much stronger if my parents got a divorce. But we didn’t learn from her lectures, we learned from her life. It was the sheer volume of stories she had amassed. The number of films. The languages, the countries, the people. Each class another piece of the Christine puzzle was revealed, and that’s what went into the notebooks. I ended the semester not much better at documentary film, but inspired in a way I hadn’t felt yet in college. Not to make movies like Christine, but to live life like her…

  • Bold, kind, dancing and telling stories that make her laugh more than anyone else. Christine always laughed so hard at her own stories it was like she never bothered to see if anyone was laughing with her. She was happy telling them, and that was just fine. 

    A few years later a friend asked me to act with her together in a film. I spent three months improvising with Christine, asking her questions about her life and hearing stories with punchlines she could barely get through. She would grab your arm and start laughing, shaking her head as memories made their way back. “Yeah, yeah” she would nod after every story, confirming it was true. She walked us through photo albums of her shoots in North Korea and Africa. Tiny remote villages in China and the Oscars. I don’t know that I’ve ever gotten to meet someone who’s lived as full a life. I feel so lucky to have gotten to hear just a tiny part of it from her.

    I knew Christine for just over two years, in which I saw her share with everyone around me so generously her time, laughter, advice, and joy for life. I will always think of her that way: grabbing my arm, shaking her head as laughs escaped her like an alarm. It didn’t matter how ridiculous or improbable the story was, you couldn’t help but laugh with her, “Yeah, yeah… It’s true”.

    — Matan Hamamon text goes here

Bryn Chiang Kelly

On our last call with Christine, I asked how are you, and she responded I’m dying, and then we were talking about Zohran being the next mayor of New York. Her mode of unprecious storytelling is both enduring and hilarious wisdom. It’s a guide to facing life, including death. She told me she was dying, and I told her I was sad, and she said: “I know! Me too!”

Christine occupied a miraculous space in my life — both as a link to my late grandfather who was her teacher in Korea and as a generational guiding light: a window smashing, unrelenting woman in the arts. She wasn’t just the keeper of tidbits about my grandfather (“very tall”) but the keeper of crazy stories, of important/untold history, of jokes, and of an extraordinary kind of earnestness. Impossible to imagine it wasn’t hard to hold cultural, artistic, and personal identities at the same time, but Christine seemed to do it in her sleep. The loss is enormous in its impact on those who did not get to know her and to see that — yes, it is possible to do, and if you’re Christine Choy, to do with ease. With all she gave us, her last words to Matan and I (right after “I hate turkey!”) were: “Thank you so much.”

Kenny León

All of us who knew Christine know how much of an icon she was, and to think about her in the past tense feels reprehensible despite it being the truth. We grieve together.

I was Christine's TA for her documentary class in fall 2019, and had the pleasure to go to an Oscars party with her. It was so fun because she showed up to the party wearing sandals, proceeded to get absolutely plastered off the free alcohol at the event, and started to put the food offered at the party into zip seal storage bags so she could eat it at home. We also took some pictures with Whoopi Goldberg when Christine was at her most drunk, and I took her home in an Uber and went home thinking it was one of the greatest nights of my life. Not because I got to say I went to an Oscars party, but because Christine Choy was so uniquely herself and damn funny! 

We lost a real one.

Chris & Kenny at the Oscar Party (2019)

“when Christine was at her most drunk”

Provided by Sebastian Duran

Alle Hsu

My story with Christine Choy is one of connection—across countries, communities, and shared commitments—from China to the United States.

I’m grateful to my longtime friend Alyce Shu, whose name was so similar to mine that I knew we’d stay connected, and who first brought Christine into my orbit when I was developing a Vincent Chin limited series with fellow filmmaker/artist Anthony Ma. I remember our first conversation over Google Meet. Even through a screen, Christine’s spark was unmistakable—intense, passionate, and deeply grounded in her beliefs.

Anthony Ma

Christine Choy was a beacon, one of those rare artists who didn’t just open doors for others, but stopped to ask why the doors were there in the first place.

With Who Killed Vincent Chin?, Christine showed a clear understanding that truth is rarely clean and justice is never simple. She didn’t just document a civil rights case; she treated it like an investigation into how power, fear, and racism actually work. At a time when it feels harder than ever to sit with perspectives we don’t agree with, Christine leaned into nuance. She gave space not only to Vincent and Lily Chin, but also to the perpetrators, not to excuse what they did, but to expose the full, uncomfortable system surrounding the case. Her work trusted audiences to think, to sit with discomfort, and to really listen. That courage defined her.

Christine was also unmistakably herself. Outspoken, outlandish, brilliant, and fearless. She lived like the main character in her own life. She said what was on her mind, usually with humor and bite, and never softened her voice to fit anyone else’s expectations.

  • I had the privilege of speaking with Christine several times, through a few phone calls and a Zoom panel my producing partner, Alle Hsu, and I organized for a Vincent Chin remembrance. That panel captured her perfectly. She couldn’t figure out how to sign on, leaving our audience waiting for fifteen or twenty minutes. Instead of canceling, we FaceTimed her and held the phone up to the screen to interview her. It was joyous chaos, completely on brand, and totally worth it. Christine, a natural-born talker, took over immediately, breaking down walls with stories, candor, and laughter until it felt less like an interview and more like a real conversation with someone who genuinely cared about our work.

    And that’s exactly who she became for us. She didn’t just share what she knew about the Chin case; she helped us navigate the emotional and ethical weight of telling it. When we ran into people we couldn’t fully trust, when we felt stuck or discouraged, when doors closed on us despite years of research and commitment, Christine was one of the few who didn’t hesitate. She said, simply, “Fuck ’em.” And she meant it. Fear should never get in the way of the truth. Passion and hard work matter more than permission.

    Christine Choy was a true maverick. A civil rights storyteller who moved the needle by insisting on complexity, empathy, and courage. Her voice, her humor, and her defiance still guide so many of us. I’ll carry her lessons with me always. And future storytellers will keep finding their backbone in her work, not just in how she told the truth, but in the fact that she never backed down from it.

Tianyu (Jeremy) Chi

I’ll never forget when I first started working as Christine's TA. I was struggling to find my footing, and she humorously complained about how “quiet” I was. Yet, she followed up that candidness with incredible support and generosity. Despite not having seen much of my work, her belief in me was absolute.

She supported me to continue working in New York, and, more personally, she welcomed me into her life. I will forever cherish her invitation to Thanksgiving gathering, and when she invited my parents to join her at dinner after my graduation. Christine’s legacy is one of empowering others, and I will honor her memory by pursuing the excellence she inspired.

Anand Patwardhan:

Deeply saddened to hear of the passing of Chris. She was a fighter. As a fellow socio-political documentary filmmaker who occasionally came through USA and New York, I knew her only slightly but she was incredibly warm and helpful. Visiting her class I could see that she was generous, loving and scathing at the same time – a characteristic her students and admirers will remember well and be grateful for. Her film Who Killed Vincent Chin is an anti-racist classic of its time. We will miss you Chris, but luckily you are unforgettable.

Elizabeth Ding 姜明佳

Christine was a talented filmmaker. Although she is known for her provocative documentaries, she also had great insight into narrative screenwriting. She helped me workshop the end of my short film, and to say her input elevated it is an understatement. She was also a compassionate educator. When I called her about my acceptance into Tisch, she sounded even happier than I was. My mother and I are forever grateful for her guidance. Lastly, let's not forget how charismatic a leader Christine was. She once told me a leader should take responsibility without taking all the credit, and she's very right. Her passing is an irretrievable loss to many of us, but her works will enlighten more people in the years to come, just like she did.

Rose Sutton

As a former student of Christine’s Sight & Sound Documentary class, I saw firsthand her enthusiasm and innate passion for the craft of filmmaking. Each day she would fill the room with stories that demonstrated her relentless ambition to see through every project, as she reflected on works both past and present. But, more than a filmmaker, Christine was a woman of integrity, heart, and a limitless desire to uplift marginalized voices. She will be remembered as one of the very few teachers I had the utmost privilege of knowing— a woman of learned experience and strong work ethic, justifying the tremendous mentorship she brought into her class each and every single day. Her legacy will live on, and her spirit is one of deep authenticity, a light desperately needed in a world of injustice and dehumanization. I will remember her for inspiring me to lead with my own truth. May her beautiful soul rest in peace, and may her legacy live on through her cinema, and the sense presence she provided each soul she encountered. While I was not close with Christine, I wish I could have held her hand gently, and felt her wisdom a little bit more deeply. 

With love, condolences, and utmost gratitude,

Rose

Kexin Tom Zhang

After my freshman year, I struggled to choose my Sight and Sound courses. Narrative was something I knew I would take, but I hesitated between Documentary and TV. Before that, I had made a five-minute final project about Chinatown— a small film combining my diary entries and DV footage. I loved it, though I didn’t realize then that what I had made was, in fact, a documentary.

A friend said to me, “Take Sight and Sound: Documentary. The professor—Christine Choy—is fascinating.” So I enrolled. And it turned out my friend was right—she was fascinating. And soon she made me realize that the documentary itself was equally fascinating.

I loved hearing her stories of carrying large film cameras around the world when she was young; I loved her editing theories; I loved listening to her sharp, humorous critiques of different documentaries. Later, I made a film— about people experiencing homelessness. The assignment required ten minutes; mine was thirty. She didn’t stop my screening, but afterward she spoke to me seriously about the ethical issues. I could barely look my classmates in the eye that day, but her words planted a seed in me—about what documentary is, how to make one, and what I must never do as a documentarian.

  • After that class, she invited me to her home. As I was leaving, she asked me to help remove her compression socks—her legs were severely swollen from varicose veins, and the socks were extremely tight. She would sometimes have to go downstairs and ask the security guard to help her. I pulled the sock off with force, just as she told me to. When it finally came off, her foot was swollen. My heart ached for her. I only wished she would eat more and feel better.

    By junior year, I began making my own documentary. When I finished it, I emailed it to her. She replied with a long message full of suggestions—her sentences never capitalized, rarely punctuated. As I read it, I felt as if I were still sitting in her classroom. Just last month, I brought the film to IDFA. When I returned, excited to share the news with her, I learned she had passed away.

    I have so much left to say—so many regrets, so much gratitude, joys I wish I could have shared with her, and of course, unanswered questions. But I believe in the cycles of life. I believe we will meet again.

    Rest in peace, Professor Christine Choy.

    Kexin Tom Zhang

Youning Jiang

I first met Chris in the fall semester of my sophomore year, in Sight & Sound Documentary. I took the class because of her name – “a pioneering Asian-American documentary filmmaker,” “Oscar-nominated,” and “the director and producer of over 70 works.” Every one of those titles seemed to promise a class worthy of the fucking expensive tuition.  

I walked into the room with two of my closest friends from college. In the early weeks, when sessions were basically technical bootcamps, we’d lug our cameras across the street from the Tisch building to McDonald’s, shooting practice exercises while eating fries dipped in vanilla cone; then we’d walk back into the classroom convinced we were the coolest kids in film school. Ha.  

In fact, what first pulled me toward Chris was that same sense of coolness. Back then,  little about documentary felt cool to us. Chris was the cool part. 

She talked in explosive bursts. Literally. Almost physically. One legendary story from her life after another.  Sharp opinions mixed with handy wisdom. A brilliant sense of humor built from an unapologetic offensiveness, which seemed so out of place at times in a liberal art school where everything is about political correctness. And I loved her for that.  

  • Looking back, my earliest attempt at a docu-fiction film project was developed over the course, under her guidance. When I first attempted to step into the uncertain territory of docu-fiction rather than straight genre practices, I found myself repeatedly pulled back, lost in the editing room, questioning. She assured me of the project’s potential and told me the only thing I needed was to finish it. She said that she never abandoned any of her work, even when she was not happy with it.  

    Now, getting to know her outside the classroom made her not just a mentor to me, but a friend. She held office hours in her house. Don’t take it the wrong way. Not like that. It was partly because of her leg, and partly because she needed a smoking-friendly, alcohol-available working environment.  

    I’d visit her there, help her write email replies, and in return she’d take me along to industry screenings. She’d cook food and freeze it in the fridge because she had no appetite herself. But she liked seafood; she’d nibble only the crab meat off the top of an Artichoke pizza. She had a closet packed with Issey Miyake dresses. She’d point out which ones were fake and which ones were the real deal, and did not hesitate to give me a few of the fake ones that were too bright for her taste, and asked me to sneak her more from TaoBao the summer I flew to China.  

    She loved telling stories, many times retelling, almost forcefully so. She’d grab my arm, lean in, stare me straight in the eyes so I stayed with her through its entirety, all while questioning if it was invented, either from being unbelievably fascinating or unbelievably repetitive. And that’s when I realized her carelessness was equally how much she cared. As pretentiously sentimental as this fucking sounds. Gosh.  

    But I think Chris cared deeply for her students, especially, being part Chinese herself, her Chinese students. She spoke to us in good English, with an accent. She also spoke to us in good Mandarin and in Shanghainese. She hosted festive parties for Lunar New Year, turkey dinners for Thanksgiving. She observed, worried, and made herself present. Although she wasn't even that nice!! 

    When I moved into a new apartment near her in my junior year on 2nd Avenue, she lent me her electric pot so I could hotpot with my friends, her non-stick pan, and a pair of tongs. When I returned them, she told me she had to clean the pan from morning to night, soaking it in baking soda following YouTube tutorials for ten hours before it finally came clean. I remember being both embarrassed and entertained. 

    On a closing note, when I think of Chris, surprisingly many of my memories are about the meals she brought together. She had a frozen stomach and rarely ate. I was always curious how she sustained that energy of hers. But she managed to do so, the way she managed to do many things in her life, to read, write, and make with such intelligence and intensity until her last days.  

    She taught until her last days.  

    Rest well, Chris. I will miss you.  

    Youning Jiang, Tisch Class of 2026

Ollie Hudd

The start of my Sophomore year was not an easy one. Many of my relationships from freshman year had dissolved, and I was living in a rathole apartment (literally) in Hamilton Heights, pretty isolated from others. As a result, Christine's classes would gradually become nothing less than a lifeline for me. 

I remember hearing whispers of this fabled old woman who would be teaching Sight & Sound Documentary. "Oh you've got Christine", some Juniors would say with a smirk on their face, sometimes even a brief chuckle would slip out too followed by a nod of the head. 

Quickly enough, I understood why. 

To say Christine was a fireball was an understatement. You never knew what she was going to say, and she never once considered that anything she said was offensive. She probably actually was aware now I think about it, but she definitely didn't care. There were times I couldn't contain my laughter because of how outrageous she was. 

  • Not only did Christine create some of the most brilliant documentaries I've ever seen, but she was also a profoundly insightful and caring person. One could argue she was the Yoda to our class' Luke Skywalker.

    As someone who often struggles with self esteem as we all do, perhaps the most validating and gratifying response I've ever received from anyone was when I showed my first documentary I had made in her class. As soon as the film ended, I was cripplingly nervous, only to have Christine turn around and look at me with a piercing stare, wide eyed... only to say "Beautiful...amazing". When I told my dad that a woman with such accolades saw anything worth a damn in my silly film, it brought him to tears. 

    Professor Darrell Wilson made a comment the other day to me that "NYU's a little boring now without her." I don't think any comment has summarised anyone so well. I mean, come on, there's really not many other professors who would've had the balls to confront Robert Redford at Sundance for the festival's lack of diversity. 

    As someone who has polarised feelings about my time here, Christine Choy's consistently uncompromising attitude and wisdom solidified her as the best professor I ever had at NYU, and the encouragement I received from her played a crucial role in me continuing this path in life. 

    Christine, it was an honor to have been taught by you. You were living proof that legends don't walk on the red carpet or aren't on big screens, but are sometimes sitting right in front of you. 

    May the road rise with you. 

Taliyah-Sanaa Whitaker

I remember the last time I saw Choy, I was crossing the street with my friend, and she (as usual) was talking verrryyyy passionately with her students. I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but based on everyone's shocked face, I could probably guess it was one of her famous controversial opinions. I turned to my friend and said, “Ahh, that’s the GOAT Choy for you!” I went on to tell my friend how she was the most iconic professor to ever grace these Tisch halls and one of my favorite professors ever. And then she asked me if we should go up to her, and I froze. My mind started rushing; it had been a year since I last saw her, and she probably didn’t remember me. Which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t true because one thing about Choy is that mind of her’s is sharp. Every time we did talk, even after I finished her class, she always recognized me and never denied me some fruitful conversations- filled with hot and arguably very problematic takes. But, I’m not going to lie, I wasn’t the closest student to her. I always dreamed of being one of the chosen students to go over to her home one day for dinner. In fact, she had offered to host me and a couple of classmates once. But I never took her up on it for the same reason that made me freeze that day. I felt that her impact on my life was much greater than the impact I had on hers. I was one of probably thousands of students that she’s taught, but there is only 1 Choy. Why would she remember me? So I turned back to my friend and said, “Ehh, I’ll see her later, I’m sure,” and walked away, not knowing that was the last time I would see her. 

  • Momentary insecurity has now left me with long-term regret. And also with the realization that perhaps I didn’t learn as much as I thought I did in her class. If I had, I would have known that Choy commanded every room she walked into unabashed, boldly, and with a sense of brilliance that made everyone around her stand to attention. So if I truly learned from her, even if she hadn’t remembered me, I should have just walked up anyway, reintroduced myself, and formed an even stronger bond. Had I learned as much as I thought, I would have taken her up on that invite and been able to pick her brain more, continue to ask the questions that would spark passionate debates and conversations. Maybe if I learned as much as I thought, some of that brilliance and boldness I loved about her would have rubbed off on me. But look, it’s never too late to relearn the lessons that were already taught to you. 

    Christine Choy had a sense of self that most people spend their whole lives trying to find. That’s what made her a great professor and an even greater filmmaker. She was the type to always stand for something, even if that meant she was standing alone. That’s the type of filmmaker, and more importantly, person I want to be. I’m sure many of us will continue to hear Choy’s raspy voice ring in our minds, probably telling us something we shouldn’t say out loud. Even though she’s physically gone, her legacy will live through every life she touched. 

    My deepest condolences to her family, friends, and anyone who ever got the pleasure of knowing her. 

    Long Live Choy, The Greatest to EVER do it! 

    Taliyah-Sanaa Whitaker

Angela Shen

Growing up, I often felt “too different”—loud, opinionated, and clumsy. Those were marks against me until I met Christine in my sophomore year of college. She embodied a politically engaged and unapologetic vision for Asian woman filmmaker, rare in her time and even today. Her voice in American documentary is bold and remarkable, especially for people of color. Christine showed me that it takes courage to be different—something only a few people dare, but always worth trying. To challenge means standing up for yourself and claiming your place in the world. Being Asian in America is something to honor. That lesson of identity and bravery will stay with me forever.

With gratitude, 

Angela Shen (Tisch class of 2026)

Morgan O'Connell

There have been few teachers in my life who have inspired me and influenced what I want to do more than Christine Choy. Having her as my professor for Sight & Sound Documentary completely altered and reframed my view of filmmaking and how to live an interesting fulfilling life. I owe her a huge debt in this regard. One of the coolest people I have ever encountered and a phenomenal professor. Will greatly miss her.

Yizhi Huang

Thank you Christine for your voice and action. You’ve always been active, solid, and resilient filmmaker. Thank you for your insight and it’s a privilege to have you as a filmmaker. 

再见是人类语言中最空洞也最丰富的信息。但我们还会再见，勇敢的电影人会前赴后继。谢谢侬。

Akira Golz

Christine Choy was a tough cookie and wise professor. She opened my mind to many different perspectives and stories that have changed the way I view filmmaking and my own personal manifesto as an artist. I’ve always appreciated having a professor that not only understood the struggles of people like me, but also stood for the liberation and uplifting of black voices as a former Black Panther. I will miss her raunchy jokes and chatting with her about different films in the Tisch basement, and am sad we never got to smoke a cigarette together. Rest in power to a legend and icon that I feel lucky to have met in my lifetime.

Aidan Hayre 

Christine, I could write a million words about you and still barely scratch the surface of your rich life and vivid personality. You are a beacon of light and resilience unlike anything I have ever seen, and in that way I know you will always be with me. And with us.

Thank you,

Aidan Hayre

From Christine’s 2023 fall S&S doc class

Thomas Yoo

Christine Choy, you were a force to be reckoned with. I will never forget your doc class. 편히 쉬세요, 최 쌤.

Shotiko Kokhreidze

Christine Choy was one of the best professors I’ve ever had - she offered guidance not only on our films but on our lives as well. Losing her feels like losing both a mentor and a friend.

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