comment on how pleasant we all seemed and
what a change she had noticed since first coming
to the apartment. She was very pleased with our
progress as a family, and she was convinced it was
Matthew who had caused me so much harm. She
gave us weekly updates on Matthew, who was
living with an older woman who had had years of
experience with foster children. According to the
reports Matthew was doing well.
She said he seemed happy and settled, but that it
was time that he come home, so we could all be
together again. I pleaded with the social worker
as I had when she had originally taken Matthew,
but this time because I didn’t want the happiness
to end. I did not fear the future. I had gotten a
taste of Matthew’s relationship with Bobby, and I
didn’t want it to end. It was plain to me why
Matthew was so happy with Bobby. Unwilling to
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give up the relationship that had formed between
us all, I continued to beg the social worker to
keep Matthew away. She refuted my pleas by
suggesting that Matthew was a calm and happy
boy. She promised that he would not cause me
any more problems. Knowing I could never tell
the truth, I stopped pleading and sat quietly by
my mother’s side. The social worker told us that
Matthew would be returning home in a few days
and that we should all prepare ourselves for his
return.
On April 18, Matthew returned home with an
unfamiliar suitcase. He was accompanied by the
same social worker that had been visiting us, but
there were no police officers as there had been
when Matthew had left. His suitcase was full of
new clothes and toys that he pulled out and
displayed to us excitedly. He was exuberant to be
back in the apartment, and Bobby and Debbie
were giving him a hero’s welcome. There was a
cake, laughter, and group hugs. I sat on the couch
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and sulked, knowing the good times were over.
The social worker scolded me for not joining in
the revelry and suggested that Matthew and I
attend counseling sessions to work out our
differences. She offered to set it all up, but Debbie
declined in favor of first “seeing how it goes.” The
social worker left happier than I had ever seen
her.
Evening came, and Debbie tried to stay in to be
with Matthew. Bobby became angry at her short-
lived refusal to work. As she went out the door
dressed in her street clothes, I knew that
everything would be back to normal soon. I sat
on the couch watching TV with Matthew, as I
had with Bobby while Matthew was gone. Bobby
came over to the couch with a smoldering joint.
In a motion I mistook for generosity, Bobby’s
hand came down and pushed me off the couch.
He handed the joint to Matthew and spoke while
holding his breath, “I bet that old bitch didn’t
give you any of this in’at foster home.” He
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coughed out a short burst of laughter as the air
filled with smoke. I sat on the floor, looking at the
two of them on the couch with disdain. They
passed the joint back and forth between them a
few times before Bobby put it into an ashtray on
the coffee table next to me. It was then he seemed
to notice me.
“Get us a couple of beers.” He instructed. I
hopped up quickly and returned with three
bottles of beer. Bobby took all three, opened two
and put the third between his legs. He handed
one of the open bottles to Matthew.
“Welcome home son,” he said to Matthew,
holding his bottle up in Matthew’s direction.
Matthew held up his own bottle and clinked it
against Bobby’s. Speechless, I stood staring at the
two of them.
“What da fuck you lookin at? Damn boy, aint you
got somethin’ ta do? Get the fuck outta here. Go
play with yer toys or somethin’.” With a wave of
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his bottle I was dismissed, and order returned to
the apartment.
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Time passed quickly for me at the JDC under
Tre’s guidance. I felt at ease in my new position
after only a few weekends on the job. Soon
enough, I felt like I’d been there for years,
although I began to notice minute details that no
one seemed to know, notice, or really care about,
particularly the Center’s library. The library
consisted of a two-foot by five-foot “locker” half-
filled with over-worn paperback books nearly as
old as me. There were no guidelines as to what
the kids could read. We passed out books as kids
requested them, though few seemed interested in
the books they were given. However, some of the
kids seemed truly interested in reading, even if
just to kill time.
I had begun collecting books long ago. My
personal classroom library was full of books of all
reading levels that I had picked out to secretly
coax reluctant readers into becoming avid
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readers. Picture books were an especially useful
tool in this area. While my students of all ages
would poke fun at my having picture books, they
would inevitably grab one at some point to try to
understand why I found them so fascinating. I
also made a regular practice of presenting picture
books in class – even to a room full of high school
students.
After one especially insightful conversation on the
block, I brought in a copy of Tookie Williams’s
“The Tookie Protocol For Peace,” a renunciation
of violence printed from Tookie’s website. I
brought it to give to a young Crip who had told
me he wanted to quit “the life” when he got out.
The life he referred to was the life of gang
banging and hustling that had brought him back
and forth to Detention for years. Unsure as to the
guidelines, I first gave it to my Sergeant and
asked her if it was within regulations to give a
detainee reading material printed from the
Internet. She asked me why, so I showed her
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what I had brought and explained why I had
brought it. After a quizzical perusal of the
unbound pages, she told me she didn’t care what
I gave them to read, as long as it wasn’t a
magazine or anything else with staples.
I thanked her quickly and let the papers rest on
the desk for several minutes, trying not to seem
too eager to take it up on the block. At
dinnertime I walked upstairs to pass out trays,
and I nonchalantly passed the pages through the
bars to the young man and said, “I’m not really
sure about this, or if someone might give you
hassle over it, but if so just tell whoever it is that I
gave it to you.”
After pulling his tray beneath the cell door, he
flipped through the pages quickly. He looked up
at me and gave me an eager, “Thank you Sir.”
When I walked by his cell a moment later after
passing out more trays, I saw him sitting on his
bunk with his tray on his lap, reading while he
ate. My excitement ran rampant, as I wondered
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what type of reaction he would have. When I
returned to pick up his tray, I saw that he was
only on the second page. I realized that I had no
idea as to what his reading level might be, so I
asked, “Slow going?” I kept moving as I spoke.
“No Sir.” He responded, as he stood up and
approached the bars. His voice followed me down
the block as I collected more trays. “I’ve read it a
couple of times already. I’m trying to memorize
it.”
“Memorize what?” A voice from an adjoining cell
asked.
“Man, Mr. Love gave me this thing by Tookie
Williams, and I’m gonna memorize it. It’s cool,
man.”
“Yo, Mr. Love, Sir, you know who Tookie
Williams is?” Another voice asked in disbelief.
“Was, Sir. Tookie is dead now. California
executed him a few years ago this month
actually.” I said matter-of-factly.
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“Mr. Love, how you know Tookie Williams?”
The same young man asked.
I looked at him and replied with a smirk, “Sir, I
may be white, but I’m not stupid. Tookie
Williams is probably THE most famous man in
gang culture. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t know
who he was.”
“You a Crip, Mr. Love?” He asked.
“No Sir, I’m a teacher.” I responded flatly.
“You know what I mean Sir,” he said with a
smile.
“Yes Sir, I do know what you mean, but we both
know that discussing gangs and gang affiliation is
against rules, and I take my job and the rules very
seriously.” I said as I carried my armful of trays
up the block.
“Mr. Love, Sir, do you have any other books by
Tookie?” The young man asked politely.
“I only have one book by Tookie Williams Sir,” I
shot back as I stepped off the block. I could hear
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the voices buzzing behind me. I had peaked their
interest. Again.
The next weekend I brought them books from my
home and classroom libraries. I brought some
standard young adult classics like Bud, Not
Buddy, The Outsiders, Hatchet, and Maniac
Magee, in addition to some of my personal
favorites, Dangerous Angels, The Count of
Monte Cristo, The Little Prince, The Alchemist,
but no book proved more popular than Tookie’s
prison-scribed memoir Blue Rage, Black
Redemption. The boys were not used to reading,
and they required a lot of encouragement. I told
them that the books I loved most were the ones
that I had to start a few different times before I
really got into, but once I got far enough in, I was
hooked.
“Give a book a chance, and if you need to put it
down until later, let it rest, and give it another
chance,” I told them all repeatedly. “My rule is if
I’m not into it by the first 50 pages, I’m probably
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not going to get into it. If I put it down before
that, I’ll make a mental note to pick it back up
later until I’ve gotten through the first 50. Then I
make my final decision; if it’s any good, the
choice is made for me, and I just keep reading.
The more you read, you’ll make up your own
rule.”
“Time stands still in here. I know that. Books will
not just take up your time, but they’ll take you
outta
here
.” I said waving my outstretched arms
around indicating the bars and the cinderblock
walls.
“So if I read this book you’ll let me outta here
Sir?” the young man said hopefully.
“No Sir, that’s not what I mean. A good book will
take you beyond these walls, beyond your world
and into the world of your book. It will take your
mind to places you’ve never imagined.” I replied.
“Are there any books we can read that
will
get us
outta here? I mean for real.” Another young man
hollered out down the block.
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“I’m sorry Sir, but no.” I said a little
despondently.
The kids read more after being given books that
interested them. Many of them started reading
any book they could get their hands on. They
began to ask for specific titles and subjects. We
talked about what type of books I had and then
started bringing books they requested that I had
in my library. Only from my teaching experience
was I able to recognize that the reading levels of
numerous detainees increased. Cellmates and
neighbors would convince each other to get
involved in reading to make use of their time.
Reading had transformed the way many of the
young men spent their time. They were no longer
just doing time, but spending their time on
something they had learned to enjoy.
Each night all of the detainees were allotted one
hour of TV time in which they came out of their
cells and sat together in a common area to watch
television. Some took this opportunity to play
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cards as well, but all of them used the time to
socialize with other kids they normally did not
see. During one such hour, I overheard some
guys planning to perform car crashes as soon as
the lights were turned off at 10:00 PM. Car
crashes were common activities in Detention,
especially after lights out. The boys would climb
onto the metal shelf built into the back wall of the
cell, and jump onto their bunks below. The sound
of a body slamming onto the wall-mounted metal
bunk resonating through the block resembled the
sound of two cars colliding. The guys were the
main culprits of this activity. They performed car
crashes after lights out because it was easier to do
it anonymously, though it did happen during the
day. The consequence of such activities varied in
severity, but mainly the consequence required a
lot of paperwork. As with every activity in the
Detention Center or anywhere else, an ounce of
prevention is worth hours of paperwork.
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