1984

The first time I caught sight of a surveillance camera in a school hallway, my breath went short. And I was fourteen again, thrown across my bed turning the pages of 1984.

Earlier that day, my teacher Mr. Deaton had dumped a stack of Orwell’s books on top of his cluttered desk. On the cover of each book, the deep-set eyes of a ghost-like man on a big screen glared as two people ran from him in fear.

“A dystopian novel is a warning,” Mr. Deaton said as he handed out the books, “about what can happen if we aren’t careful.”

To escape the peering eyes of the ghost-like man, I shoved Orwell’s book deep into my satchel. That evening after supper and far into the night, I read with an ecstasy of fear about Big Brother. In the super state of Oceania, he monitors citizens with telescreens and microphones. In Oceania, even a tiny, facial twitch interpreted as disrespect to the Party could lead to arrest and torture.

For some reason, more than any of the other atrocities in Oceana, this surveillance frightened me most. I couldn’t fathom living under a camera. And if Orwell was right, I probably would. I counted it up. In 1984, I wouldn’t be nearly dead.

I didn’t appreciate the curtain Orwell pulled aside for me—how he sucked my innocence away, making me grapple with the ideas of censorship and unchecked power and the manipulation of truth. I’d never see the world the same way again.

It was all this teenage angst that leapt to my mind decades later when, as a teacher, I first saw that hallway camera. But to my surprise, I came to appreciate that ever-watching, never-blinking eye. The camera protected the innocent, brought help to the troubled, and decreased theft and vandalism and bullying.

Though 1984 gave me nightmares, I’m glad Mr. Deaton assigned it. Orwell’s cautionary tale taught me to be careful with power, thoughtful with technology, and compassionate in relationships.

And, yes. I assigned 1984 to my students.