We’ve all had our private nightmares. But most of us haven’t had that one nightmare, the nightmare of war, that has truly affected our lives from our childhood.

When I was in eighth grade, I had a history teacher named Mr. McCarthy. He wasn’t a pushover like many of the other teachers – he impressed the facts on us, made us speak up, participate, and learn. I respected Mr. McCarthy, though I was a bit hesitant to admire him when I saw him driving in his red Porsche.

But one day, I didn’t like Mr. McCarthy anymore. Without warning, one dreary morning, we noticed the movie projector in the back of the room. “Great, movie day,” we told ourselves. Then the disclaimer: if we didn’t want to watch this movie, tough. We couldn’t leave the room. The old black & white film rolled and to our dismay, we witnessed real footage of WWII on the battlefields of France, and the concentration camps of Auschwitz. I will never forget those images: piles of stiff, naked bodies being dumped out of trucks into large pits; soldiers shooting a man who was already dead – shooting, shooting, until he was completely blown in half.

Many of the girls, and boys, believe it or not, were darting for the door, but they were not allowed to leave. Many proceeded to turn their desks toward the back of the room and close their eyes. I couldn’t close my eyes; I guess it is the curse of curiosity, but I couldn’t look away.

I hated Mr. McCarthy after that day and wondered if he was right to do that. Was he right to show that to 13-year-olds? Without a parent release form? I had all these thoughts in my head, but the most vivid were the bodies. Those thin, rigid, helpless bodies.

Last week I saw Steven Spielberg’s “Saving Private Ryan”, and felt all those feelings again. Now as an adult, I was even more horrified by what I saw. Not only because of the pictures, but the sounds, which is what we didn’t hear in that black and white film. I remained so petrified throughout, that I couldn’t even let a tear fall until long after it was over. We were given no relief, like Mr. McCarthy did when he wouldn’t let us leave. I wanted to leave the theater, but as the film demonstrated – the soldiers felt the same way.

I then realized why I stopped playing guns when I was a child. It was after that black & white film in 8th grade when I wouldn’t touch one again. So when I hear people complaining that “Saving Private Ryan” should have been rated NC17 so kids can’t see it at all, I was very upset.

This film should be seen by all 13-year-olds, with their parents, guardians, teachers, older siblings and/or family who have any love for these children at all. Yes, I would let my own children see it. I would want them to see the horror of war, and how picking up a gun in anger and hate is the most destructive thing they can ever do in their life. I now admire Mr. McCarthy for showing that to my eighth grade class, because he has made more of an impact than I would have ever realized. He had been driving in that American dream, the one that those men were fighting for – that “trip home”.

Maybe if there were more adults who could let go of the false political correctness of this time, they would realize that allowing their children to watch a film of this magnitude could change their lives at such a young age. They could grow up hating guns as weapons; they could understand that war is pure horror, and that single, private nightmare they had as a child, could prevent them from ever taking up arms in anger.

- JJ, © 1998