Moment of Truth

By Peter Rodrigues

Variations of the saying “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,” originally attributed to Jesus, are now mottos inscribed in stone above the entrance to several secular universities, and the Original Headquarters Building of the Central Intelligence Agency.

“You!” Dr. Steinberger said loudly, his voice piercing the din in the classroom. With his bushy white hair and eyebrows, booming voice, and stern, transfixing gaze surrounded by black-rimmed glasses, he seemed like a modern version of the Old Testament Jehovah.

“Me?” I asked, not wanting to believe he was really addressing me. After all, I was sitting alone, not talking to anyone. 

“Yes, you!” he repeated. “Take your things and sit in the bathroom for the rest of the period.”

The raucous chatter and laughter in the classroom immediately ceased.  Stunned, and without any idea of what I could have done wrong, I meekly returned my notebook to my book bag and walked out of the classroom.  For a moment I thought about going somewhere else, but decided I should go to the bathroom, in case Dr. Steinberger checked on me.  I had no idea what was going on. As I sat in one of the toilet stalls, I recalled the events that had brought me to this abject state of shame.

* * *

A couple of years before, in 1962, I took a test to get into Stuyvesant High School, reputed to be one of the best high schools in New York City. At that time, Stuyvesant was in a rundown building and neighborhood that bear little resemblance to the 150-million-dollar edifice and upscale community in which it resides today. Back then it was still an all-boys school, and the five-story building in which it was housed suffered from peeling paint, creaking floorboards, and outdated labs. But I didn’t care. I was relieved to be there. 

That’s because my local high school was one of the worst in the borough of Queens, rumored to be filled with tough teens who belonged to gangs, carried switchblades, and got their kicks beating up puny eggheads like me. I didn’t do well enough on the entrance exam to be admitted immediately, but I did get on the waiting list, and luckily for me a spot opened up. Getting into Stuyvesant was like a last-minute reprieve from being thrown into a shark-infested pool.

* * *

In 1964 I had just started my junior year. I was required to take a current events class with Dr. Steinberger, the chairman of the History Department. Dr. Steinberger’s reputation was that of a notoriously tough teacher. Tough on students, and tough on his staff. The previous semester he fired one of his new history teachers who apparently had a nervous breakdown. It was rumored that the teacher just sat there while students talked and laughed and carried on.  When told about this, Dr. Steinberger rushed into the classroom, immediately removed the man, and had him fired him shortly after. 

I was not looking forward to being in Dr. Steinberger’s class.

* * *

On the first day of class I walked in and chose a seat in the middle of the room.  A group of students who were friends came in talking loudly, searching for seats next to each other. Dr. Steinberger was sitting at his desk in front of the classroom, staring at some papers, looking irritated. I had just taken my notebook out of my book bag, when for no reason at all he decided to banish me to the bathroom.  

After the buzzer rang, indicating the end of the period, I forced myself to return to the class.  Dr. Steinberger was there as before, sitting behind his desk writing. Most of the students had left the room.

“Excuse me, Dr. Steinberger,” I said. “Why did you tell me to go to the bathroom?” 

He looked up from what he was doing, and for a moment seemed a bit puzzled.

“Oh,” he said.  “A rowdy bunch of students entered my classroom. I wanted to make an example of someone so they wouldn’t behave that way again. You were the first one I looked at. The homework assignment’s on the blackboard.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t think it would help to point out I wasn’t one of the noisemakers.  It was guilt by association. I copied the homework assignment and left.

* * *

After several weeks, Dr. Steinberger took a break from his normal teaching routine to tell us about an activity he and some of his friends did around the holidays, which were approaching. 

“We go down to the Bowery,” he said, “and look at the miserable people there.” The Bowery was the oldest street in Manhattan, and was originally an Indian footpath running the length of the island. Though once a fashionable neighborhood, in the 1960s it had become New York City’s skid row, where alcoholics and homeless people lived.

“Do you know why we go there?” he asked.  “Because no matter how disappointed or depressed we might feel about our own lives, it makes us realize things could be much worse.”

We weren’t used to hearing strange personal stories like that from a teacher. What was he trying to say? Did he mean that no matter how badly off you were, there was always someone else worse off? Was he suggesting that if we didn’t work hard, we too could wind up on skid row?  Was that where the teacher he fired lived now? We didn’t know what to think. He made us nervous. He was hard, sad, and scary, all at the same time.

* * *

I felt I was in a difficult position. I would have to work harder in this class than I had ever worked before if I wanted to get a decent grade. Whatever it took: reading more, studying harder, working longer, that’s what I would have to do. 

And that’s exactly what I did. To my great satisfaction, things went pretty well through the first half of the semester.  I got good grades on Dr. Steinberger’s quizzes and the midterm.  

Then came the Big Project.  

We had to write a paper on a current events topic, explaining both the pros and cons of the issue. It sounded like a killer. I thought about it awhile, then decided I would write about Kwame Nkrumah, who had recently become the President and Prime Minister of Ghana. I learned that Nkrumah was a socialist, and had recently been awarded the Lenin Peace Prize from the Soviet Union.  On one hand, his government did many positive things, like developing a strong, free education system, funding numerous industrial and energy projects, promoting bonds between the different African nations, and establishing one of the highest standards of living in Africa. On the other hand, his government recently passed a constitutional amendment that made Ghana a one-party state, with Nkrumah as president for life. He also imprisoned political rivals without trial, and appointed incompetent and corrupt officials who ultimately destroyed the Ghanian economy. 

I don’t remember how long my paper was, but it was the longest, best thought-out paper I had ever written.  I argued for and against Nkrumah, though I must admit I secretly favored him, perhaps because I had devoted so much time and effort to learn about him. It somehow didn’t seem right to have spent all that energy on someone who in the end turned out to be more of a villain than a hero. That’s the way my fifteen-year-old mind worked. In any event, I handed the paper in on time and waited with great concern for my grade on it.

After a couple of weeks, Dr. Steinberger returned the papers.  To my astonishment, there was a big A on mine, next to which was written: “Good job! Congratulations – you have an analytical mind.” Not only that, but Dr. Steinberger asked me to give a synopsis of the paper in front of the class. I had gone from bathroom-boy to A student! Things were definitely looking up!

* * * 

A few months later, as the semester drew to a close, my friends and I became thoroughly disgusted with the daily school routine.  We decided to take a short, enjoyable break and go to a movie.  “Goldfinger,” the new James Bond movie, had recently opened in a Times Square theater in Manhattan, and that seemed just the treat we needed. It was the last day for me to hand in a paper for an afternoon class, so we decided to go to an early showing. That would mean cutting the morning classes, but we were OK with that.  One of the classes I would cut was Dr. Steinberger’s, but I was doing well in that class, and expected to get a good grade on the final.

On the agreed upon day, we took the subway to Manhattan. We got off at Times Square and walked over to the movie theater.  For the next two hours we were whisked into the exciting world of James Bond, filled with hair-raising predicaments, daring escapes from villains, and amorous adventures with beautiful women.  It was a young teenage boy’s fantasy of the good life.

After the movie, I got back on the subway and headed downtown to Stuyvesant. Taking extra care not to be seen, I walked up a staircase at the end of the building and hurried into the classroom, just in time to hand in my paper.  I had filled up on popcorn and soda at the movie, but felt a pang of hunger. On my way out, I decided to get a sandwich at the small, dumpy luncheonette next to the school.  I bought my sandwich, ate it quickly at the counter, and was on my way out when who should I see but Dr. Steinberger. I froze in my tracks. 

For a moment I considered making a break for the door, in the hope he wouldn’t see me. But my hope was dashed when he walked right up to me. My whole body stiffened.  I felt a bout of nausea coming over me. Would he send me to the bathroom again for the rest of the semester? Or worse, would he give me a D for the class, and trash my grade point average?

“Did you cut my class?” he asked with that piercing, Jehovah-like glare he had. 

In a split second it occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t sure I had cut his class; maybe if I told him I was there, but took a different seat, he would believe me. 

“Say something” I screamed silently to myself, “before you barf on his bright, shiny shoes!”

“Yes,” was the word that squeezed itself out of my sandpaper-dry throat. It felt as if someone else said it.

He continued staring at me for another interminable moment. Then the fire went out of his eyes, and his face relaxed.

“OK,” he said, and walked over to the counter to place his order.

I couldn’t believe it! Somehow, like James Bond, I had escaped unscathed!  Later, after much reflection, I concluded he respected me for not lying to him, like others probably had when he caught them cutting his class.

I turned and walked out of the luncheonette, totally exhausted, but wiser. Sometimes, if you were lucky, and if you found the courage to tell it, the truth really could set you free.

Peter Rodrigues is a retired Information Technology (IT) Project Manager with a BA in English.  He’s always wanted to be a writer, and now that he has the time, he decided to try his hand at creative non-fiction memoirs, of which this is the first. He hopes to continue in this vein, since he enjoys doing it, and believes he has interesting stories to tell.