I was 10 years old in 1982 when E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial arrived in theaters near me. Back in the 80s, movie tickets were $4.50 for shows after 2 p.m. If you were lucky, the "early bird" price was $2.50, popcorn not included. In Chicago, we had the "cheapies" that showed movies for $1.50 after their initial run on major screens.
We were refugees. My parents escaped the oppressive grip of the communist regime in the former Soviet Union in 1980. Our journey to the United States took us from Russia to Austria, then Italy, and finally Chicago. My parents, branded as Jewish traitors behind the Iron Curtain, carried an unshakeable love for America. Since setting foot on U.S. soil in the bitter cold of April 1980, they have never looked back. My father’s first job paid him $4.50 an hour. We had no color television, no VHS, no air conditioning, and, on occasion, no food in the fridge. The four of us lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment. Yet, despite these hardships, we were always happy. Being together was all that mattered.
I vividly remember the thrill of seeing E.T. at an early bird special. In that darkened theater, surrounded by the magic of cinema, I felt a dream ignite within me. I wanted to create movies. "What better way to connect with the industry than to introduce myself to the king of Hollywood himself, Steven Spielberg?" I thought. With the naivety and determination only a child could possess, I crafted a plan. I tirelessly dialed 411, seeking a way to connect with the genius behind the magic. Pre-internet, armed with a pad of paper and pencil, I persisted. Eventually, I reached a studio in Los Angeles and was given an address where Spielberg might be reached. Most likely, I was tricked by a random, amused person intercepting a call from Chicago. Elated, I quickly wrote a heartfelt letter, enclosing a photo taken with a 110 camera my parents had received for free when opening a bank account. I made a copy of my letter at a local 7/11 for a nickel and sent it to the man who made children everywhere believe in the extraordinary.
Mr. Spielberg never received my letter. Or else, why would he not answer? But the consequences of my quest soon became clear when my father received a staggering $2,000 bill from the phone company. All those out-of-state calls had added up. "My life is over," I thought. I watched my parents discuss the bill; their faces etched with worry. The fear in my father’s eyes, a look I had never seen before, filled me with guilt and dread. "What have I done?" I wondered, the weight of my mistake crushing me. As a child, I felt powerless to fix the situation. "I will do chores. I will finish all my homework. I will do well in school and never bother my sister again," I vowed silently. But with rent at $300 per month and my father earning less than five dollars an hour, I knew my efforts were insufficient.
That night, my father came into the room I shared with my sister. My parents had converted a small dining area into a bedroom for themselves. He gently asked me about the calls. Through tears, I confessed my dream of working in movies, of creating the same magic that E.T. had brought into my life. My father listened, his stern expression softening into a smile. "We’ll make it work," he said. I could hardly believe my ears. I wasn't going to be punished. "We’ll make it work," he repeated.
My father took on a second job, working as a bagger at a local grocery store to cover the enormous phone bill. He did what he promised; he made it work. I wonder what would have happened had he scolded me that night? Would I have lost that same sense of wonder? As months went by, my parents announced that we would be taking a road trip to California in our 1978 used Oldsmobile. They wanted me to see a place I had only seen in my dreams—a place where movies were made.
Years went by, and many Steven Spielberg movies later, I am still convinced that he is this country’s national treasure. My parents never left this country, though they traveled by car through most of its states, always pulling over to enjoy its people, culture, diversity, and natural beauty. Being a father now, I understand what transpired that night of the large phone bill. My parents always did what needed to be done to move forward. They felt my passion for film, were surprised at a 10-year-old’s proactive nature, and saw the wonder in my eyes after watching E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. They did not want to extinguish that magical feeling with punishment. Instead, they chose to foster it, nurturing my sense of wonder and ensuring it flourished.
Eugene Roginsky CEO
Growing With Stories
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