The Saturday after Thanksgiving had come and gone, December crept in quietly, and the air carried that thin, sharp winter chill that made people walk a little faster and keep their hands deep in their pockets. A flyer posted outside Phelps Park said the Nile Theater, an old theater on 38th & 23rd Avenue—was doing a special showing of “The Learning Tree,” directed by Gordon Parks.
A movie about a Black boy coming of age in Kansas in the 1920s. A movie about injustice, choices, roots, and truth. Derrick had read the book the year before in class, and he never forgot it. When he heard the Nile was showing it, he knew he had to go see it, and somehow—he wasn’t sure how—he found the courage to walk over to the Washingtons’ house and ask Tasha:
“You wanna go see a movie with me?”
She blinked, surprised. Then she smiled.
“I’d like that.”
It wasn’t a date. He just wanted someone to go to the movies with him. Someone other than his boys.
He picked her up, and they walked to the bus stop on 38th & Portland. It was cold, and Derrick had on his good coat, the dark one his grandmother bought him. Tasha wore her winter coat, and also wore a light blue scarf wrapped gently around her braids.
The bus pulled up with a loud hiss, brakes squealing. They climbed aboard, dropped their coins in the box, and took seats near the middle. The bus rattled as it rolled down 38th Street, passing, Wilharm’s Drug Store, Dave’s Superette, Bancroft Elementary, and the Dairy Queen right across the street from it.
Tasha pressed her glove to the window. “It’s so different from St. Paul.” she said softly. “I mean the sights are different. I’m so used to St. Paul, but it’s nice seeing area I’ve never been before.”
Derrick just looked at her and smiled. Tasha smiled back at him, with her brown eyes locking onto his eyes. He felt it.
The Nile Theater stood tall and proud. It wasn’t fancy—not like the downtown movie palaces—but it had charm. It was Derrick’s favorite theater. The marquee lights flickered, glowing warm against the cold. Inside, the lobby smelled like popcorn.
They sat down in the middle rows. Derrick with his popcorn, and Dr. Pepper, and Tasha with her box of Whoppers and a 7-Up. When the lights dimmed and the projector flickered on, the theater grew quiet, and Gordon Parks’ world filled the screen.
A Black boy in 1920s Kansas. Struggling. Laughing. Learning. Facing things too big for his age. Derrick leaned forward, elbows on knees, fully absorbed. The scenes of discrimination hit him in the gut. The scenes of family felt familiar. The scenes of loss felt heavy.
Tasha watched the screen, but she also watched Derrick from the corner of her eye. She saw his jaw tighten during the scenes where the boy was mistreated. She saw his shoulders loosen during the softer moments. She felt his connection to it. And she knew there was more behind his silence.
Halfway through the movie, Derrick whispered,
“My dad… he grew up in Kansas. Not far from places like that. He never talked about it much… but I know it wasn’t easy.”
Tasha leaned closer.
“You think he went through the same kind of stuff?”
He nodded slowly.
“Probably. Maybe worse. He was a teenager when he moved up here. Said Minneapolis felt like a fresh start.”
Tasha whispered.
“Your mom?”
“Born in Memphis,” Derrick said softly. “Her family moved here when she was little. Got away from Jim Crow. She always said Minneapolis felt cold at first… but safer.”
Tasha’s hand brushed his—not grabbing, just close.
Derrick looked down toward the floor, thinking. He wasn’t used to talking about family history. He didn’t even know why he’d shared it. But with Tasha? It felt natural.
When the movie ended, the audience sat in stunned silence, and quiet reflection for several long seconds. Some people wiped their eyes. Older folks nodded in maybe reliving their past. A man in a long coat whispered,
“Gordon Parks showed it the way it was.”
Derrick took a deep breath.
“That was… something.”
“It really was,” Tasha said softly. “Sad. But beautiful, too.”
They walked out slowly, the cold night air hitting them full in the face.
They stood at the bus stop together, breath forming little clouds. The streetlight above them flickered. Cars passed. Someone across the street shoveled snow from the sidewalk. The city felt quiet, peaceful. Tasha nudged him lightly.
“You’re really deep, you know that?”
He blinked.
“Me? Deep?”
She laughed quietly.
“Yeah. You think a lot. You feel a lot. It’s… nice.”
Derrick’s face warmed despite the cold.
“I just… I don’t know. The movie made me think. About family. About growing up.”
She nodded.
“I liked seeing that part of you.”
Silence fell between them—not awkward, but warm. The bus arrived, headlights bright against the snow-dusted street.
They sat closer this time. Their shoulders touched whenever the bus bounced over a pothole. Tasha rested her head lightly against the window. Derrick watched the city go by— the old businesses, the neighborhood streets, the familiar corners of South Minneapolis. He wasn’t thinking about football, or school, or junior high drama. He was thinking about just this moment, and just her.
When they got off at Portland, they walked the few blocks toward her house, steps slow, neither wanting the day to end. On the front steps, Tasha turned to him.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I never been to a movie like that before.”
Derrick nodded.
“I’m glad you came.”
She gave him a small smile—the kind that lingered in the heart.
“Goodnight, Derrick.”
“’Night, Tasha.”
He watched her slip inside as the porch light warmed her figure for a moment, then disappear behind the door. Walking home, hands in pockets, snow crunching under his shoes, Derrick felt something shift inside him. Something growing. Something gentle. Something real.