When The Pen Bleeds Page 2
By Anthony Douglas Gere
It wasn’t the books on top, but there was something underneath a few that he could see,
but feel. He reached in the mass of hard-pressed wood that is now paper, and found why
he had stopped. It was a biography; written by a man he had never heard of before this
moment. It was a book written by Rubin “ Hurricane” Carter, explaining his life, and is
inevitable death. He purchased this book for a quarter, twenty-five cents ya’ll, and went on
about his way. About a week later, he was lying in his bed, and remembered this book he
had gotten. He found it in a stack of things he had placed in a corner, and began to read
it. He read, and then read some more, and then, starts visualizing the words he was
reading, like you are now. He was getting into this book, and almost re-living it through the
eyes of the creator. The all of a sudden, things weren’t adding up, and his curiosity began
to take over. He went into the other room with this puzzled look on his face, and the do-
gooder group noticed the perplexed look on his face. They asked him if everything was
okay, and he replied, “ Have you guys ever heard of the Hurricane?”. Two of the three
looked at each other, and was wondering, where in the hell was this coming from. Then
they remembered that the title of the book they had bought was called the same thing.
Well one of them remembered Bob Dylan mentioning this man in one of his songs, and
somewhat recalled the drama that surrounded this back in the day front page story. But
this kid was convinced that Rubin was innocent, and he wanted to do somet6hing about
it. He asked them what he could do, and they told him that the courts had convicted him,
and surely, he had used up all of his appeals in his defense. The child not knowing the
law, returned to his room, and began writing a letter to the convict, behind bars for the
rest of his life. He didn’t expect a return letter, nor knew if his letter would even get to
this man that he didn’t know. For all he knew, he could have changed prisons, or could
have been dead. But he wrote a letter, and began this unconditional line of
communication with a ghost of a past he had never known. Well to his dis-belief, a
letter came back to him, and it was from The Hurricane. Well not to bore you, he and
the group rallied behind Mr. Carter, and with a little digging and help, they got him
released on this trumped up charge. But why I told you this, is this. During the end of
the movie, these two pivotal players met in the hallway, and one said to another,
“ Aren’t you glad I selected that book Mr. Carter?” That’s when the mentor stepped in
and made you realize why he was a mentor and said to the youth, “ Sometimes when
you think you are selecting something, something is actually selecting you”.
Now after hearing that part of the movie, and going to parts unknown in my brain, I’m
pretty much smelling a theory coming from it. I didn’t know why or what about, but knew
I had to lay it down for the masses. So then I’m looking at my computer, and then getting
prehistoric, and thinking about the pen. I’m thinking about snail mail, and how we used
to communicate in ways that meant something. Something that took time, and
marinated a feeling beyond the instamatic ways of today.
By Anthony Douglas Gere
It wasn’t the books on top, but there was something underneath a few that he could see,
but feel. He reached in the mass of hard-pressed wood that is now paper, and found why
he had stopped. It was a biography; written by a man he had never heard of before this
moment. It was a book written by Rubin “ Hurricane” Carter, explaining his life, and is
inevitable death. He purchased this book for a quarter, twenty-five cents ya’ll, and went on
about his way. About a week later, he was lying in his bed, and remembered this book he
had gotten. He found it in a stack of things he had placed in a corner, and began to read
it. He read, and then read some more, and then, starts visualizing the words he was
reading, like you are now. He was getting into this book, and almost re-living it through the
eyes of the creator. The all of a sudden, things weren’t adding up, and his curiosity began
to take over. He went into the other room with this puzzled look on his face, and the do-
gooder group noticed the perplexed look on his face. They asked him if everything was
okay, and he replied, “ Have you guys ever heard of the Hurricane?”. Two of the three
looked at each other, and was wondering, where in the hell was this coming from. Then
they remembered that the title of the book they had bought was called the same thing.
Well one of them remembered Bob Dylan mentioning this man in one of his songs, and
somewhat recalled the drama that surrounded this back in the day front page story. But
this kid was convinced that Rubin was innocent, and he wanted to do somet6hing about
it. He asked them what he could do, and they told him that the courts had convicted him,
and surely, he had used up all of his appeals in his defense. The child not knowing the
law, returned to his room, and began writing a letter to the convict, behind bars for the
rest of his life. He didn’t expect a return letter, nor knew if his letter would even get to
this man that he didn’t know. For all he knew, he could have changed prisons, or could
have been dead. But he wrote a letter, and began this unconditional line of
communication with a ghost of a past he had never known. Well to his dis-belief, a
letter came back to him, and it was from The Hurricane. Well not to bore you, he and
the group rallied behind Mr. Carter, and with a little digging and help, they got him
released on this trumped up charge. But why I told you this, is this. During the end of
the movie, these two pivotal players met in the hallway, and one said to another,
“ Aren’t you glad I selected that book Mr. Carter?” That’s when the mentor stepped in
and made you realize why he was a mentor and said to the youth, “ Sometimes when
you think you are selecting something, something is actually selecting you”.
Now after hearing that part of the movie, and going to parts unknown in my brain, I’m
pretty much smelling a theory coming from it. I didn’t know why or what about, but knew
I had to lay it down for the masses. So then I’m looking at my computer, and then getting
prehistoric, and thinking about the pen. I’m thinking about snail mail, and how we used
to communicate in ways that meant something. Something that took time, and
marinated a feeling beyond the instamatic ways of today.