My seventh grade English teacher, Mr. Levy, was a white man in his early thirties. I recall very dark curly hair, thick glasses, a white button-down shirt, a plain tie, and deep blue trousers. He dressed the same way every day, I think, but that might be a trick of memory’s wanting everything to be easier than it was. Mr. Levy was in charge of the school paper, a print monthly with articles about fashion, poetry, school news, and sometimes, interviews. Some of my friends and I were editors and writers for the paper. One day, there was the opportunity for a few of us to go to Manhattan to interview a relatively new, up and coming film director. When I wasn’t trying to change the world, believing that, with the help of my friends, change was possible, I battled nerves, bent over the toilet in the small bathroom in our apartment. The world was messy; my family was messed up. The morning of the trip, I got cold feet. I don’t recall why. All I know is I told my mother I had a stomach ache and she let me stay home. Someone else got to do the interview, which is why today’s entry has no accompanying photo of Woody Allen and me.
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