The Power Of Memory

Last night I watched “Mr. Smith Goes To Washington”, which I hadn’t seen in years.  Its relevance for today was both surprising and overwhelming to me. For those of you who don’t remember, or have never seen it, Jimmy Stewart plays an innocent moral country guy, working with a boys’ club, who is sent to Washington to fill in for a Senator who has died by politicos who think he will be easily manageable.  It takes him awhile to catch on, but when he does, he is outraged by the corruption, greed, and self-serving he finds in this august forum.  He fights for justice and the constitution.  Of course I thought about ‘yes we can’, and felt terribly sad that Obama has done so little to change ‘business-as-usual’ in Washington.  But the movie also brought me right back to my childhood and a memory that has haunted me my entire life.  As a very young child I was brought up to voice my opinions, as Stewart had been, and to speak up when something was unfair or just plain wrong.  This was during the fifties during the McCarthy era.  Though my mom was glued to the television, and the hearings, she didn’t think to tell me that it might be dangerous for me to voice my thoughts outside of our home.  Voice them I did.  When a social studies teacher asked us if we believed in the commandment to ‘love thy neighbor’ we all yelled out ‘yes’.  She continued with words something like these.  “If you love your neighbor and need to sell you house, and a black person decides to buy it, you would not want to upset your neighbor so you wouldn’t sell the house to him.”  I felt genuinely confused, and can still picture that seventh grade classroom, down to the desk I sat in on the lefty and towards the back of the room.  Tentatively I raised my hand. When she finally called on me I stammered, ‘Miss Larkin, I don’t think that’s what the bible means by neighbor.  If the person living next door to me is a bigot, he’s not the person I should love.  I think I”m supposed to love my fellow human beings, and that black man is a fellow human being.” Or words to that effect.  The woman stood there stunned, and then pointed at the door, saying, “Out of my room, you communist!”  I had to ask my mom what the word meant when I went home that afternoon.  Furious, she called the Superintendent of Schools, and went to see him the next day. I was allowed back into the class.  But the teacher hated me and made my life miserable the entire year.  When Stewart bucks the political machine in the movie, they use all their influence to discredit him, lying overtly, and spreading poison about him through the newspapers they control. Fortunately,  that kind of thing no longer makes me anxious, as it often has throughout my life because of those school years.  Which is a plus. I know these kinds of folks can’t control me anymore no matter what I say out loud, and that I’m no alone. If I go to jail, many of my friends will be alongside me.    And like Stewart I believe we need to stand up and be counted during times of inequality, and need to do so to people like them.  I’m just glad my own memories don’t have the power to unhinge me anymore.  I slept well last night, which I might not have done ten years ago. But memories sure are powerful!