After escorting the guys back up to their cells and
unshackling everyone, I walked back off the block
and headed around the corner. Pulling a chair
from the watch desk, I returned to the block
carrying the chair. I positioned the chair in the
middle of the block and made myself
comfortable.
I pulled a book from one of my large cargo
pockets, cleared my throat, and began reading
aloud from Adrian McKinty’s excellent crime
novel, Dead I Well May Be. There was talking on
the block as I began, but I was used to reading to
large groups who didn’t want to listen. When
reading to my classes, I often used accents and a
variety of voices to bring stories to life, so with an
Irish accent I started in. Unfamiliar with an
officer reading to them, the boys closest to me
began shushing the others around them. Soon the
only sound on the block was my accented voice
booming through the block. I waited for any
objections, but none came.
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Behind my head, I heard the black box on the
wall squeal. It was the audio monitor being
activated from downstairs. Instantly I knew the
Sergeant was listening in on me. She listened for
several minutes, and then the hum went away,
indicating that she was done. No one came to
stop me. When another officer appeared on the
block, I continued reading, expecting to be told to
stop, but he had only come to “run the clock.”
The “watchman’s clock,” a monitoring device
that we all wore at some point, was used for safety
checks that we had to do every thirty minutes, all
day long. “Watch tours” required an officer to use
a key located at the end of each block to
timestamp a wheel of paper inside the clock. To
my surprise, the officer merely squeezed by me,
making his rounds without a word or even a
glance.
The guys sat on their bunks listening intently, as I
read the adventures of Michael Forsythe. They
were deeply enthralled by his criminal world. The
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reading was soon punctuated by cheerful
exclamations, hoots and hollers from the guys in
their cells. Their responses of uninhibited
enthusiasm made the reading interactive and
thoroughly engaging. When the call came for
“lights out,” they all begged for more. It was
Friday night, and everyone knew I’d be back
tomorrow. I told them that if they stayed calm all
night, I’d come back up tomorrow and read some
more. Though they begged me not to stop, they
all agreed, and the block was quiet all night.
The next night when I appeared on the block,
everyone greeted me with a reminder of my
promise. I was as true to my word as they were,
and I spent all of my down time on their block
reading to my captive audience. Again they
protested for “just one more chapter” when
“lights out” was called. Again I told them that if
they remained calm, I would read to them the
next day. The attention-starved young men
responded enthusiastically by listening actively
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when engaged with positive adult attention. The
importance of our reading sessions became clear
later that night when a car crash was heard. The
typically tight-lipped crew to whom I had been
reading was eager to point out that the
disturbance had come from the opposite block.
The reading of the book continued, even though I
only worked weekends at the time. I read
whenever I had the chance after that first reading.
I had to travel around to each of the four male
blocks to read because, as of my first reading, the
original crew had been split up onto the other
blocks for one reason or another. I traveled
around, finishing the book for some and hitting
points in the middle or end for others. It took
nearly six shifts to read the whole book to the
original set of boys. When it was over, I
mentioned that there were two other books in the
series, and the guys begged to have them. In the
end, I bought a set for the library, so they could
read and share them at their leisure.
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Reading Dead I Well May Be brought my
relationship with the guys to a different level.
There now existed the intimacy of a classroom,
but on a larger scale. The guys and I had honest
discussions about books and their characters,
plots, and morals. Every week I brought in more
books, and every book led to more in-depth
discussions: taking responsibility, having babies
with young girls to have someone to love, “baby
momma drama,” how bad visits led to bad
behavior on the block, being honest with yourself,
and loving yourself before you can love someone
else. The young men approached me with all of
these topics and insights after reading one book or
another. It all started by trying to deter an
evening filled with car crashes and paperwork.
One night on the block, as I ran my clock, a
young man I’d spoken to frequently about books
asked, “Mista Love, why you like readin’ so
much?”
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“Cuz he a teacher, stupid!” A voice yelled from
down the block.
Grabbing onto the bars and leaning his head in
the direction of the voice, the first boy called
back, “Man, shut up. I aint talkin’ to you.” He
stepped back but kept his hands firmly on the
bars, his knuckles turning a paler shade of brown
as his grip tightened. He faced me and awaited
my answer.
“Well Sir, when I was young I didn’t have such a
great home life. My teachers at school knew that I
was afraid to go home, so they would let me stay
at school. They didn’t really have anything for me
to do, so they would just feed me books. As I grew
up, my life became increasingly unstable and out
of control, so books became my haven. I was
always safe reading a book. I was always busy
reading a book, and reading books kept me out of
a lot of trouble.” I felt my eyes welling up as I
spoke. Thinking back on the times I hid in school,
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too afraid to go home, was something I tried not
to think about.
“Sir, is that why you became a teacher, cuz a’
teachers you had?” he asked respectfully.
“In a way, yes Sir I did. In the end though, I
became a teacher because I felt I needed to help
kids. I wanted to help kids. And I knew I could
help kids as a teacher.”
“That why you workin’ here now? You tryin’ to
help us too?” He asked with a bit of sarcasm.
“Do you think I’m helping you?” Answering his
question with a question.
“You be helpin’ me a lot more if you open dis cell
and let me out.” He replied with a smile. The
block erupted with cheers and a chorus of “Let
me out too!” from nearly every cell.
“Sir, if I could I would, and I hope when the time
comes I
will
be the one to open your cell to let
you go home.” I said earnestly.
“Nah, fa real doe, Mista Love. You be helpin’ us
out all the time. I see how you be runnin’ da clock
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and you always be getting’ us books an’ stuff
when we ask an’ everyone else jus’ be sayin’ dey
be gettin’ stuff when dey get aroun’ to it.” His
voice had lost its earlier sarcasm, and his sincerity
cut through the bars and my façade. I excused
myself and moved to the top of the block. I made
my exit, but not before asking if anyone needed
anything. A loud “NO SIR” reverberated up the
block. Hastily retreating off the block and into the
shower stall, I wiped my eyes out of sight of the
omnipresent cameras.
Tearless and calm, I walked downstairs to grab a
book for a young man I had spoken to many
times before. I had noticed him sitting silently, as
I spoke with the other young man a few cells
down. He was sitting pensively in his cell, his
cellmate having been released earlier in the day. I
grabbed a copy of Man’s Search for Meaning
that I kept in my locker. I knew the young man
well, and I knew he was an exceptional reader,
even though he didn’t attend school regularly
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unless he was in Detention. I also knew the
charges he was facing and the future he could
have. With the book in hand, I approached his
cell and passed the book through the bars.
“I see you sitting there. Hiding in the shadows,
masking the pain and loneliness of being locked
up,” I said. The young man’s face contorted into
an uneasy stare. He stood and approached the
bars as he reached for the book. “I can tell by the
look on your face that these are not words you
expected to hear today.” I said as the face pressed
against the bars.
“What? You mean you coming up here talking
like a guru? No one talks to us like you do. You
use big words,” he paused, examining me
carefully from behind the bars, “but you show us
respect.” The face confessed.
I let the compliment slide to avoid an awkward
conversation about other staff members. “I think
you might like this book, but for now just read
part one. You can read part two in college,” I
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said, sure that I was the first person to have ever
told him he was going to college.
“Why?” He asked defiantly as if he thought I was
insulting his intelligence.
“It has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I read
the book from cover to cover one time and the
second part is all about a very specific area of
psychology. The first part, that’s the story that I
think you need to read.”
“A’ight den. But why you think I need to read
this one?”
“I’ll tell it to you like this. I keep a copy of that
book near me all the time. Whenever my life
seems rough and I can’t take it anymore, I open
that book to any page in part one. I read
whatever I flip to and I realize that if
that man
can
survive
what he went through
, then I can survive
whatever
I’m going through
, and it makes my life
seem
a whole lot easier
.” I spoke quietly as I stood a
few inches from the bars. “Take care of yourself.
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I’ll see you tomorrow Sir.” I said as I stepped
away.
“Sir,” he whispered as he held up the book to me,
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome Sir. Good night.”
“Good night Sir.”
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“Get ou’ that bed mufucka and get in your
gotdamn birthday suit. You got two fuckin
minutes to get yo ass out them clothes an in yo
birthday suit or I’m aunna kick your fuckin ass.
When I come back into this fuckin room you
better
fuckin be ready
” Bobby’s voice exploding through
the night brought the overhead light flooding the
room.
I had been sound asleep and didn’t know where I
was or what time it was, but I recognized the
command through the blinding light. And I knew
to obey.
I jumped out of bed, pulling off my clothes before
the door slammed hard enough to wake the dead.
But it didn’t wake my brother, still lying in the
bed I had scrambled out of. He knew better than
to open his eyes, and I knew better than to disturb
him in any way while getting out of our bed.
“Don’t wake your brother, he got nothin ta fuckin
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do wi’this” had been beaten in to me years
before.
Bobby had recently taken all of us to get fancy
suits to wear to his mother’s birthday party. This
had been very exciting, since I only had two pairs
of pants and a couple of t-shirts we had gotten
from either the Salvation Army or the clothes
closet at the welfare office downtown. Since
Bobby had paid for our suits, we had to keep
them on display in a separate part of the closet
that was clear of any junk. My suit was to be a
constant reminder of how good he was to us and
to me especially. How I didn’t deserve to live in
his house. What the suit had been until that point
was a constant reminder of pain.
I hurried out of bed and went to get the suit. I
pulled off my bottoms and wrestled my tired
limbs into the suit and clipped on my tie. I slid my
feet easily into my shiny black shoes that had
been bought several sizes too large so I could
grow into them. I didn’t mind having shoes too
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large since the sneakers I wore most days were at
least one size too small.
I stood by the closet, as proud as I ever was.
There was no mirror, but I knew I looked good.
When I’d worn the suit to the birthday party,
everyone had remarked at how cute I looked, and
it made me feel good. I felt good standing there. I
waited for Bobby to come back in. I knew enough
not to leave the room looking for him. He’d told
me he’d be back. Swaying as my eyes shut, my
body started to shut down from exhaustion. I