I remember sitting in my predominantly white high school during history class. My teacher decided it would be good for her students to watch a documentary on Jim Crow racism and the bourgeoning struggle for Civil Rights. I always sat up front and that day I saw a number of black people lynched, up close, surrounded by white faces. I never cried in public, but that day seemed different, I left the room, descended a level to an empty hallway and cried. My Kenyan classmate found me and I couldn’t speak. When I saw Fruitvale Station this weekend, I was stirred by that need to weep in public and this time I did, albeit in the dark. I didn’t hide my tears or my sniffles as that inevitable moment ending the life of Oscar Grant approached, once more, again on camera, for all of us to see. But this time it is a twenty-six year old black man, director Ryan Coogler, from the Bay Area, same as Oscar, behind the camera telling us: “look…see…he was a human being and was murdered…go beyond ‘never forget’ towards this was a father, a boyfriend, a brother, a friend, a son so ‘always remember.’” Yes, Fruitvale Station in beautifully acted, beautifully shot, structurally compelling and worthy of its awards at Sundance and Cannes. But most of all, it does something beyond words—moves me to tears.