This morning
I dug through dresser drawers and rifled through hangers, searching for a
non-gang-affiliated-color shirt, as I do every morning on the days I
volunteer. With a sigh, I settled
on a turtleneck the color of a city sidewalk. Then, wondering about the possibility of red, I slipped into
a vest the color of an Oregon barn slick with newly fallen rain and ran for the
bus.
I am tired
of eschewing
vibrant hues, sick of having to favor shades of ash. When I help you with your reading and math, I want you
to remember the first ladybug you ever saw, its bright back like a berry—how it
found you the way a raindrop does on a sunny day, its red gleam rippling
through you.
When I
arrived at the office, I made the mistake of asking the staff about red, which
sparked a conversation about the challenge of avoiding so many colors, and
though I was told I could wear my vest because as an accent it was less of a
concern than say, a full-body suit, I remembered a recent incident in which
some of the boys teased me when I wore an orange and blue plaid shirt. “Nice colors,” they’d snickered,
letting me know I was an involuntary cheerleader for some gang and a target for
others. There are many rules here,
and I don’t wish to bend any more than I already have, so before heading for
your classroom, I divested myself of red, stuffing it deep in my bag, and
adjusted the photo ID hanging against my gray shirt.
Last time we
worked together, I helped you un-mix the mixed numbers on a worksheet, but
because you resemble the son I hope to have someday, I had to remind myself not
to mistake the parts for the whole.
(You have his blonde hair, just a shade brighter than mine was when I
was a child, and his eyes, the same shade as my grandmother’s.)
We aren’t
supposed to talk about what you did or didn’t do. “War stories,” the staff calls them. And you aren’t supposed to know my life
beyond the symbols on the page.
But I can’t breathe without color, and you are so quiet—you must be
suffocating, too.
To save us
both, I turned every problem into a joke, broke the black numbers out of their
cages and aimed for the whole pink of your smile. We finished figuring in the bright realm of metaphors and
similes, and as we parted, your shy laughter burst inside me like golden
kernels of popping corn.
Today, it
was taxes. Your peers arrived before you, spilling into the room with their
hands down their government-issued khakis, their solid green t-shirts sagging
from their thin shoulders or stretched across their bellies. They grabbed the backs of the plastic
chairs Mr. G and I had so carefully arranged, and as they always do, dragged
the seats into new positions so they could throw up their feet, lean back and
close their eyes against the ceiling like they were at the shore warming under
a hot orange sun rather than inside prison chilling beneath the electric glare
of fluorescent lights. “Six on the
floor,” we reminded them, and they took their time setting their soles down,
gradually leaning up so that all four legs of the chair came to rest squarely
on the carpet.
Mr. G began
the lesson, passing out W-4s and asking who had ever had a job. Sly, toothy grins greeted each
other. “Yeah, I got a job, but I
ain’t never filled out one of these,” one boy said, and suddenly the word
“cartel” was bouncing around the room like a beach ball. Everyone was laughing, and I looked
quickly to the young guard in the doorway, but she only straightened her back.
Minutes
ticked by, and I wondered why you hadn’t yet joined us. Were you with the nurse? A counselor? A visitor? Had
you opted to stay in your cell?
While Mr. G
gave instruction on the importance of understanding the W-4, I helped the
others taking tests on the computers.
One, who introduced himself to me at the start of class by offering his
hand for a shake—which I accepted virtually, explaining that I was not allowed
to touch anyone there—loudly declared his autism over and over again, hoping,
perhaps, I would take pity on him and give him what he wanted, but I could only
give him what I am permitted to give, and it was not enough. He sulked and waved his hand in the
air, hoping to catch Mr. G’s attention, and I walked away, towards another boy,
because what else could I do?
You arrived
so quietly, I didn’t notice you until I turned to tell the boys at your table
to stop drawing and start paying attention. They were penciling faces on the backs of their worksheets
and comparing their tags. They
glared at me when I reminded them how short a trip it was to their cells.
You were
listening to the lesson, but Mr. G had to repeat himself every two minutes
because everyone was so riled up.
There were fourteen all together, split between the two tables and the
computers along the wall.
Not wanting
to startle you, I hovered near the corner of the table and put my hand beside
your papers to let you know I was there.
“Let’s get you caught up,” I said, wondering if you’d rebuff me the way so many of the other boys
did, even after they’d accepted my help on prior occasions. But you pulled closer to the table as I
knelt beside you to explain the form and the accompanying income table. “Have you ever played Battleship?” I
asked, and when you shook your head, I admit my first feeling was not pity but
relief at my own station in life.
My childhood was hard, but not so hard I hadn’t played that common game.
“It’s like
Battleship,” I said. I don’t know
why. Maybe I hoped you’d suddenly
recall playing the game or that you’d seen it referenced on TV. Maybe I was hoping I could bring you
this small piece of normalcy.
I showed you
how to use the information you were given to find the information you
needed. You watched quietly as I
ran one finger along the top row and another down the side column and then drew
my fingers down and in until they met.
“A5,” I said. “Hit. Sunk!” As is true with most games, a victory in Battleship means a
loss. I wanted you to know that
this time, you’d be on the winning side.
I handed you
a piece of paper to use as a guide, and to my surprise, after I left you to do
the remaining problems on your own, you continued using the blank paper as a
guide . That had been my
intention, but none of the other boys was doing it, and I figured you might be
self-conscious or worried they might bully you later for being so acquiescent. I don’t know your role in juvie. Are you a leader or a follower? I pegged you as an outlier—as someone who lives and lets live, so nobody bothers you. I
watched from across the room as you flew through the worksheet like your hands
were on fire. If only you could
burn through the problems in your life with such facility.
Not long
after you finished, Mr. G thanked everybody and dismissed the class. I set about erasing the chalkboard and
collecting calculators. Reading
was next, though I wasn’t sure if I’d travel to the other side of the pod with
Mr. G or stay in your classroom. I
waited until both instructors were in the room, and after a brief discussion
and a coin toss, it was decided I’d stay.
While setting up the computers, I asked about one of the new
volunteers. Mrs. M said she was
learning, as we all were, not to care too much. I nodded and grabbed the seat where you’d been sitting and
waited for everyone to file in.
You returned
from the fifteen minute break between periods with a small black bible in your
hand, and I wondered if you were the same boy who told me a couple of months
ago that the bible was helping you change, that you hadn’t touched it before
prison but it spoke to you now and you planned to hang on for life. I am sorry I cannot remember if it was
you. Sometimes I don’t remember
names or faces. It’s not just that
I come here only once a week for a few hours—and not on in-service days or
holidays or days when I have outside obligations—and that there are always boys
here with blonde hair and blue eyes, it’s that I want to forget you. I want to forget you, to have you
forget me, to have this part of your life be a bad dream. I don’t want these walls to be real for
either of us.
You should
not be here, misty-faced boy with your cross-emblazoned book and slight
shoulders. I know you broke the
law, but that’s not what I mean.
When I told you about the college student who told me he used to be in
your seat, you told me you have two Measure 11’s under your belt. Your hand was wrapped around your bible
as you spoke. I responded quickly,
not because the gravity of what you said hadn’t hit me, but because I needed
you to know the truth. “Your life
does not end here,” I said, and I’m saying it again because you need to hear
it—because whatever you did, whatever fire you set, or whatever you stole, is
not worth your life. “I know,” you
said, and you talked about doing well in school, and I nodded, but I wasn’t—am
not—thinking about school.
“Have you
read Hole in My Life?”
I asked. You remember, but I feel
the need to replay the scene. You
shook your head and handed me your pencil, the one you must remember to return
to the guards whenever you leave the room. I slid my hand below your taped-on cell number and wrote the
title on a slip of scratch paper.
I haven’t read the book, but a student I tutored at the writing center
where I work told me all about the memoir, written by a guy who went to jail
when he was just twenty years old.
He found a reason for living even as he faced the worst experience of
his life. “You have a shot at
living a good life, even in here,” I told you, sliding the paper your way. You nodded, and I stood to give you
some space, but I stood close, just behind your shoulder, and watched you fold
the paper into a rectangle the size of a business card and press it between
your thumb and the cross on your bible.
Then class ended, and I watched you leave the room even though I wanted
to chase you to your cell.
I want to
fill your head with words and music, but, as you know, music is not permitted
here. Still, I could teach you how
to stomp your feet, how to feel the sun in the clap of your hands, how to make
your own beat. I want to teach you
about the paradox
of language, about the word “whole,” how it’s not complete without the “hole”
that lives inside it. If I could,
I’d push my vest into your hands like it was a flashlight a child might hold in
a storm, I’d curl your fingers around the bright fabric so you would know you
are every bit as red inside, that you have all the love and ladybugs you need.
Glossary
Eschew looks like cashew, and cashews are
kind of fancy nuts, and since you don't hear the word every day, you might
think it's too formal for you. But
trust me, it's not, and it's totally worth using. Eschew is a verb meaning to purposely avoid using, or to
stop oneself from doing something.
You might remember it better if you know how to pronounce it. Did you ever learn pig latin? You would pronounce it a little bit
like that. It sounds sort of like
"ass chew." Here's an
example of how you might use it: the boys in the drug treatment program must
eschew drugs or else suffer a serious ass chewing.
Rebuff looks like it means to get buff
again, right? Well, if getting
buff means tightening up, making yourself hard like a wall, then it makes
sense. Rebuff is a verb meaning to
reject or refuse someone or something, an offer or request, in a cold or sharp
way. Example: the boys in juvie often rebuff kindness for fear they will appear weak or needy.
Acquiescent is an adjective, or describing word,
that means ready to accept, or ready to do what someone else wants. The "a" at the beginning has
the same sound as the start of "accept," and the "cqui"
combination sounds like "kwee," which almost sounds like kiwi, which
is a delightful, soft fruit that slices easily and hardly needs to be
chewed. The rest of the word
sounds like "essence" and "scent," so you might think of
that fruit and how accepting it is, how gracious.
Facility is a noun we often use for a place
that fulfills a particular function--like the one you're in now. But it also means an ability to do or learn something well and easily.
If you listen closely to the end of the word, you can hear the
feeling. And if you pay attention
to the first half, and put it all together, you might see how it looks and
sounds like falling into ease or falling into silliness, which is easy.
Paradox is a noun meaning a situation,
person, or thing that combines opposite or conflicting features or
qualities. It's hard to understand
until you think about examples like how right this moment, you and I are both
living...and dying. Or how a person can be physically locked up but still be freer than the people holding the keys.
No comments:
Post a Comment