THERE ARE TWO MEMORIES THAT ARE as vivid and fresh in my mind as when they occurred, when I was in kindergarten. I remember I was the only one in my class who was left-handed and there was only one student who had red hair. He stood out more than I did. His hair was the type of red that looked like flames, bright with an orange tint. There was a smattering of freckles across his face that looked like one of those connect the dot coloring books. He wasn’t the nicest of students but looking back I now may understand why. Rarely was he asked to come play with someone on the school’s playground. While students were playing tag or tossing a ball back and forth, he was sitting on the school’s stairs or on the ground with his back up against the playground fence. The other students, I do not want to say avoided him per se, would interact with him if they were together on an art project or at assembly. However, I think he was a loner not by choice but because of the students confused with his red hair. I know that sounds silly, but I cannot come up with another reason. Maybe kids did not like the way he looked; to me even back then that would be a ridiculous notion.      THE IDEA THAT A PERSON IS judged by their looks is something I find appalling. Back in that kindergarten class, I remember tearing up when the teacher was teaching the class how to use a pair of scissors to cut colored, construction paper. I saw the other kids were able to do it, but the scissors felt funny in my left hand when I held them the way the teacher told us. The boy sitting next to me asked me if I was dumb because I could not manipulate the scissors like the other kids. The tears were increasing in size, ready to fall out of my eyes. Luckily a girl on my other side showed me how I could cut paper using my left hand. From that incident, I have never forgotten what it feels like to be different. That red haired boy who stood out in class, me being a lefty and the girl who wore unusual clothes; we did not fit in the way people felt we should fit in. The arguments I hear about people’s looks or actions that they were born with are completely offensive in my opinion. What does it matter what two consenting adults feel for each other or someone has a different skin color? There is only one classification and that is human. Watching this documentary was a disturbing experience. I felt I was witnessing a crime.      A MOVEMENT FORMED THAT WAS RELIGIOUS based, that believed a person could pray away something they were born with. This group would try to make a person conform and fit in, no matter the cost and the cost was high. Directed by Kristine Stolakis (Where We Stand, The Typist), this was a startling revelation for me. I will do my best not to give much away, but I have a hard time with anyone who tries to convert someone to their own religion or control someone else’s body by creating laws or considers a person less than themselves because of their skin color. This was a powerful and frightening story. Though I was fully engaged in this movie, I wished they had devoted more time to the victim’s stories or should I say journeys. The impact would have been more powerful in my opinion. The scenes that had the sermons in front of the congregation were sad to me; all I saw was hatred for someone being different than themselves. I appreciated seeing the interviews with the individuals who came to terms with themselves and survived; however, it would have been interesting to talk about the ones that did not survive. Once again, we are all human.

3 ½ stars