SAMPLE STORY 1

The writer, as a boy in school, learns that he must step out through the door of new experience, even when that feels uncomfortable, or risk becoming locked away within the walls of personal history.

A FILM FOREVER CHANGES ME

Paul Hodges

For the first seven years of school, each year I had the same teacher all day, all year long. In the eighth grade, I had two teachers. The students in my group were taught math and science by Mr. Hiatt in the afternoons, after learning language skills and social studies from Missus Nichols in the mornings.

They were both very good teachers, fair but very firm and demanding. All the students were afraid of them both. The girls thought Mr. Hiatt was so good-looking, and Missus Nichols' shapeliness and vigor stimulated the adolescent hormones of the boys. So with two smart teachers who were both attractive and intimidating, there was very little misbehavior, and practically no "back-talking" in my eighth grade classes.

In the middle of winter of that year of l964, on a cold and rainy afternoon in February, Missus Nichols had us close our language books for the day. She instructed Cecil Phillips to close the blinds, and asked Basil Haunn if he would set up the film projector. Many of us leaned back in our desk chairs, grinning around at our classmates, anticipating a pleasant relief from our rigorous studies and from the gloom outside our windows.

Missus Nichols addressed the class in an unusually solemn tone. "Class, today we have a special film that allows us an intimate glimpse into a social environment that I doubt any of you have ever seen or even thought about, although there is something similar in our own community, and not too far from here." She paused, an expression of pain on her face, and then continued. "It is called Captives of the Ghetto. It shows a day in the life of several young black men in Harlem. I hope you will all give it your closest attention."

I felt heat and heaviness spread across my chest, as if I had donned a coat of armor. My face flushed and anxiety flooded over me. I wished I were somewhere else. I wished I were home.

I had been raised to believe that black people were inferior to me. Although my parents were good Christians in every other aspect of their lives, they had taught me — not through direct indoctrination, but by the example of their words and actions — that all black people were to be avoided, and most of them despised. I had seen my father nod his head at a few black people, but I had never heard him speak to one. I certainly had never spoken to one. At home, he called them by the "n" word, as did my older brothers, as did even my mother, an otherwise saintly soul. They were characterized as dumb and lazy and not to be trusted. I had absorbed all this prejudice at the supper table. I had been nourished on country cooking and bigotry. Racism was an integral part, seemingly a natural part, of who I was.

I felt very threatened by my teacher's words. I did not want to view blacks as real human beings. With a tightness in my throat, I raised my hand and, without waiting for permission to speak, blurted out, "I don't want to."

Several other students nodded their heads, as they looked from me to Missus Nichols.

"Why not?" she asked.

I don't think she knew that side of me. She knew me only as one of her very best students, as one who was popular and well-behaved.

"I don't what to watch a bunch of, you know, running around the streets of their jungle," I managed to reply.

Missus Nichols was stunned by my retort. She could not speak for a moment, but then, taking a deep breath, she calmly though sadly offered me an out. "Anyone who objects to watching the film may go to the library until it's over."

"But it's raining," I argued. I did not want to leave. What I wanted was for her not to show the film.

"There are umbrellas in the closet," she said.

When I did not rise to leave, Missus Nichols focused the full force of her will on me. "Well, Paul, what's it going to be?"

"I'll stay," I mumbled, surrendering my opposition. Strangely, the feeling of my chest being tightly bound began to dissipate.

"Anybody else want to leave? No? Then put your hearts in gear. Basil, you may turn out the lights and start the projector."

As the documentary revealed the stark reality of its subjects' lives, detailing the poverty, the unemployment, the crime, the social and economic captivity inherent in the environment into which they were born, and yet also showing their pride in their families and their love of their friends, their strength and grace in trying to rise above their surroundings, I somehow began to identify with them. I saw myself in their faces, in their hopes and dreams and disappointments. I imagined that I was there with them.

When the film ended and the lights were flipped back on, everyone looked at me. I was crying. Missus Nichols walked down my aisle and handed me a tissue. Through my tears, I looked into her eyes and responded, with both sadness and joy, "Thank you."

 

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