Читать книгу The Seven Year-Old Pilot - Capt. Steven Archille - Страница 14

Certain events in life leave us so taken aback when they occur, that we scarcely know how to handle them and even thinking about them years later brings back some of the same emotions. One such event happened to me in the summer of 1986. While Mom and Dad took care of all my basic needs, a thirteen year old on summer vacation needs spending money for trips to the movies, the arcade, the pizzeria, and the like. There was a free weekly advertising circular distributed in Staten Island at the time called, appropriately, “The Staten Islander”. It contained coupons, discount offers, and assorted classified ads from people selling everything from cars to sewing machines. I, along with a few other boys from my West Brighton neighborhood, managed to be hired as paperboys with a distributor of this circular. We only worked a couple days each week. We would first go to the office to wrap what seemed like thousands of circulars in rubber bands. After that, we would pile into the back of a van and be driven to different parts of the Island where we would deliver them door to door. The job didn’t pay much, but it was enough to cover my aforementioned leisure activities without having to bug my parents for money, so I was glad to have it.

The first few weeks went well, and after receiving my first bi-monthly paycheck, all the rubber band wrapping and endless walking were well worth it. We arrived at each neighborhood, the driver gave all of us little maps that detailed the streets we had to deliver the papers to, and then we would split up and go on our delivery routes. The bags full of papers were heavy, and the sun beat mercilessly down on me as I walked from house to house, throwing the papers on doorsteps. However, as my parents reminded me after I got home worn out, I was doing honest work and earning every cent I received, which made me feel good about myself.

After finishing our appointed route, the driver would come pick us up at a predetermined pick-up point, which was usually a major intersection. I would sit on the curb, exhausted from lugging those heavy papers around while awaiting the pick-up. We would then be driven to the next area for another round of deliveries, and would repeat the process until all of the circulars had been delivered. I enjoyed the job because not only was I getting paid, but also because I also was able to explore parts of the Island I had never seen. I walked along looking at the nice houses, wondering what the people who lived in those houses were doing. Thinking back, I’m not so sure the child labor authorities would have liked the idea of a bunch of boys piled into the back of a sweltering van with no seatbelts, but we didn’t care... we were getting paid.

On one such hot summer day after I had finished a delivery route and was sitting on the curb at a quiet intersection with my bag of papers waiting to be picked up, I heard something that filled me with a mixture of intense fear, anger, and sadness. An eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer had pulled up to the stop light diagonally across the street from me. The driver stuck his head out the window and shouted “NIGGER, GO HOME!!!” at the top of his lungs. My head turned in his direction to see him staring at me, and I quickly looked away, frozen with fear. I sat there not knowing what to say or do. I waited what seemed like an eternity until his light turned green and he was driving away, to turn around and watch the truck as it disappeared around a corner. I looked around, but no one else around seemed to have heard him say this to me. No one to rush to my defense or to console me or say it was okay and just to ignore him. My eyes started to well up, as I thought about how unfair the whole situation was. He had seen me, a young black kid in the middle of a nice, predominantly white neighborhood and had judged that I hadn’t belonged there. He had no idea about how hard I was working in the oppressive heat and that I was just minding my own business. He didn’t care how many papers I’d wrapped or how heavy the bag was that I was lugging around under the summer sun. He didn’t care that I was studying hard in school and that I had dreams of flying jet airliners around the world one day. No, to him I was just a “Nigger” in the wrong neighborhood. As I thought about all this, tears started to flow down my cheeks. IT’S JUST NOT FAIR for him to say that! I thought, with anger welling up inside me. When I saw the pick-up van arriving, I quickly dried my tears, not wanting the driver or the other boys to arrive and catch me crying. I finished my deliveries that day in a somber mood and went to bed that night thinking about what had happened.

It was the first time I had ever heard that word directed at me... and it hurt. Having been studying American history in school in the years leading up to that event and having learned how that word came about and about what it meant, my anger at that man stirred inside me. However, it had another effect: in the days after the tears dried, my resolve to fly was steeled even further. Looking back as an adult on that event, I think of the folly of hatred and the ugliness it brings out in the few who act in such ways. What would that man say to me now if he saw me flying the plane on which he was a passenger? I wonder.

My life and travels have taught me that most people in the world really are good at heart and that we need not pay too much attention to the few who seek to hurt us with their words. I also learned another very valuable lesson from that experience: Just because someone says something intended to hurt you, it doesn't mean you need to feel hurt. Just because someone says hateful things to you, it doesn't mean you need to feel hated. What they say and do is up to them, how you react is your choice. No matter what other people do or say to you or about you, you can always choose forgiveness, happiness, and to love yourself... it’s always your choice.