11.20.09
From the ferry: 11/19/09
It’s one of those nights when I am at capacity. How to let go of learning that a man in our group was sentenced to life–life–at the age of sixteen. What do you have to do to receive a sentence like that? I feel like I can imagine the answers, and still I think…life, sixteen, forever behind bars. Raised then, in essence, by the prison system. I can’t find peace with that sort of justice system. And yet, I imagine, the crime and the victims and I wonder if they feel like life is long enough? How can we ever bring two sides of a crime together? Should we? What choice do we have? This same man is now working with juvenile offenders, he tells us. Trying to help them stay out of prison, avoid his fate. I don’t know what else to do but pray that they listen. LISTEN. There are too many lifers in our group. Too many lives wasted. These men have served their time–forgive me any controversy that statement may cause for some. But they are doing us, society, the free world as they call it, no good behind bars. A man with a seventh grade education is one of the best writers in the class. He tells me tonight that he taught himself spanish and now works as an interpreter inside the prison. In the darkest place these men find a way to give something of themselves, to make something of a life that is so restricted you actually can’t imagine it unless you go there, meet them, listen.
We are letting lives go to waste. I understand the want for punishment, retribution. I get the pain of the victims. I grasp the idea to contain violence. I know it’s complex, so very, very complex. But I’m telling you, some of the lives in there are simply being wasted.
Small things tonight, like the men made sure we had hot water and brought us tea.
Small things tonight like the man who said on the first day of class that he was only there to pass the time, has started writing.
Small things tonight like S-, a lifer and gentle soul from the south, telling me that he is grateful this time of year that he has gotten to know us. And if he had one wish for me for Thanksgiving it would be that I gain a pound. What woman wouldn’t want to hear that–inmate or not?
Small things like thinking these men look to me with my MFA and think I know something, when every time I am up there it is they who teach me.
10.25.09
Know Thyself
Annual training today at the prison. I’ve heard the presentation three times now, and it doesn’t change much. Though the woman leading the training today, I thought, did so in a manner that was more true to reality, as well as more sanity and compassionate based than the others I’ve attended.
The first two trainings I attended seemed mostly to focus on scaring the shit out of volunteers. Maybe that’s a necessary step in the initiation process. First you fear them, then you understand how to work with them. It never worked like that for me. I don’t worry about the men manipulating me (though some of the trainers would say that’s a sign you are being manipulated). I don’t have irrational fears about the men finding me on the outside or asking their family or friends to find me. I don’t have nightmares about prison riots (though when they said today that our emergency contact would be the person they would call in case I a) had a heart attack while inside or 2) if a riot broke out — and I thought, crap, don’t call my mom if a riot breaks out!).
At these trainings manipulation by inmates is typically the topic we spend the most time on. Trainers go through a lengthy list of all the ways the men will try to manipulate us. First by befriending us. Second by being a star student, so as to garner our attention and admiration. Third by asking for favors. Fourth by asking to correspond with us outside of the program. And so on and so on. All of these things do, of course, happen. It can be difficult to know if an inmate is simply a good student or is in the process of trying to manipulate you. You never know, unless something obvious does happen (such as a request to call a family member and relay a message). Even if the obvious happens though, there’s a part of me that has always thought–can you blame these guys?
The prison culture is one of manipulation, power and control. That’s how you survive. It’s also how you entertain yourself in an extremely myopic universe. Their world on the inside is small. They have an abundant amount of time to think about what they want and how to get it. I never assume that any attempt to manipulate me is malicious or ill intended. I always assume this is how they have learned to survive (probably before they even arrived in prison). Which means it’s up to me to be clear about my boundaries.
Sometimes I think this issue of boundaries is part of my reason for working on the inside. I often struggle with boundaries on the outside. Saying yes to too many people. Rescuing friends and family in that way therapists always tell you not to do. Having too much empathy for people I barely even know. But on the inside I have no choice but to maintain boundaries of all kinds. It’s the professional way to run a program and to manage a classroom. Boundaries keep expectations and roles clear. I have to be able to say no at times, otherwise the guys would have me taking home entire novel manuscripts to read and critique and I don’t have that sort of time to offer. Boundaries let them know what I can do for them and what I can’t do for them. If I’m clear, then no one’s feelings get hurt, including my own. So far, it’s worked.
I’ve never wanted to rescue the men in prison. Maybe being a part of a program other than a religious group or AA makes that easier. I’m not out to redeem anyone’s soul, or forgive them their sins or cure of them of an addiction. I’m there to help them look at their life story and write it down. The work is their own and they can choose to do with our program what they will. Right now, for example, we have a guy who on the first night told us he was only there to watch (which basically means he’s trying to pass time, but isn’t all that interested. It’s happened before, we don’t mind). At the last meeting though (our third visit with this group) he was silent for almost the entire meeting and then, as another inmate discussed his story idea, this “silent” man was suddenly participating. Something had touched him and there he was giving feedback. We don’t make a big deal out of it in the group, but we certainly notice. It just works best to let them decide what they want from our program. While I hope that what they want is to re-examine their life and choices, putting them in a new context and thus experience some growth or enlightment about who they are (and can be) as human beings. I haven’t found it difficult to let go of any attachment I might have to that outcome for each of them. We are all a work in progress, right? And we are each on a journey. It’s not my job to rescue them from what they need to experience.
What I most appreciated about the trainer today was that she kept reminding us that manipulation is not a phenomenon unique to prison. People on the outside manipulate. None of the previous trainers ever pointed out this obvious fact, but in doing so she reminds us that inmates are human, using reliable survival skills that we all learn along the way. So, the message I took away today is, know yourself–both inside prison and outside. Know yourself and you will not compromise yourself or your program.
04.07.09
A conversation worth a listen…
The conversation with Judy Lightfoot and seniors at the University of Washington on my local NPR station, KUOW, on working with the homeless struck a cord with me. Many of the things said about why Judy and her students work with homeless people are similar to many of my own reasons for working with prisoners. In particular, she noted that sometimes she feels selfish because she gets so much out of meeting and talking with the people she comes into contact with. I agree. Also, she noted how important it is to get out and meet people not like yourself. If I ever have kids of my own, I think this is the one piece of advice I will give them over and over.
Listen to the conversation, titled, Reaching Out to Homeless People, here: http://www.kuow.org/program.php?id=17277
Additionally, you can read a post Lightfoot wrote on the subject of working with the homeless at: http://crosscut.com/blog/crosscut/18911/
And, finally, follow Lightfoot’s blog at: http://freestylevolunteer.wordpress.com.
03.18.09
One year and counting…
March marks a year since I started volunteering at Monroe. A short list of the ways my life has changed since March, 2008.
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left a six year relationship
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house-sat for various folks for 6 months
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finally moved into my own apartment the beginning of this month, which required a move from the north end of the island to the south end
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started a new job, working full time
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finished my internship, which began this whole journey
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began my last semester of school
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continued with my various follow up appointments related to my 2007 cancer diagnosis
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received my first “clean bill of health” March 11, 2009
It’s been a full year indeed. More full than is probably good for one’s mental health.
But there is another list, and that is the list of ways I have changed since beginning the work at Monroe.
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I am more compassionate – for myself, and especially for others.
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I am more aware of the fact that there are multiple perspectives on every story and we are well served (as writers and as individuals) to explore them all.
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I understand there is nothing – nothing! – in life that can be considered as easy as “black and white”.
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I understand that being on the side of “right” is often dependent on the privileges and opportunities with which you were born and to be on the side of “wrong” is often (not always, but often) not a choice but a series of complex missteps and misinformation leading up to a tragic mistake.
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I understand that writing is as an activity most easily enjoyed by those who are “free” to write without censor. What the men in prison do is defy that censorship – at times at great cost to their personal safety. So if you are “free” and a writer, then damn-it quit whining and write!
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I now believe I am lucky, and a little bit blessed.
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I now understand that bad people can do good things and good people can do bad things. Most of the men in our group at Monroe are good people – believe it or not.
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I now believe my writing here on this blog and beyond will one day make a difference. I know that the writings of the man in our group have already changed my life.
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I now know I will do this work forever, if I can, in one way or another. I will always leave room in my life for those spending their nights in a cell.
02.14.09
Resurrection
I’ve spent several hours today reading some of the guys’ work. During the last workshop we gave the following prompt to the guys: When I returned [to the ordinary world], everything was different. Or was it me?
One man gave me the short paragraph he wrote while in the workshop. It is one of those pieces that says so much in the fact that it says so little. In it he writes about growing up and living his life in one place. He lives (lived, prior to prison) in the house is father lived in. His son still lives in the same neighborhood now. He says he’s traveled little. So, his biggest “adventure” away from home, has been his journey to prison.
He will not be able to return to his home upon his release. So, he writes that he cannot answer the above question about what it will be like to return home. He writes that he doesn’t know if everything will be different because he cannot go there.
And I wonder if imagining what he will not be able to return home to is painful? I think it must be. We all like to assume we at least have the option to go back, return. We don’t always, but we like to hold onto the illusion. This man holds no illusion though. His crime took him away from his home, and his crime will keep him from his home. I wonder if he cares then if he is different? Who from his previous life will be there to notice? To comment?
To go to prison, change and then upon release not be able to go back and at least see if you still fit into the world you left behind (or ifyou can, in some way, make yourself fit again) is the story of many of these men. For many, there are good reasons why they should not return home. Reasons that will make it more possible for them to succeed on the outside and reasons that might be better for their families. And yet to know you can’t go back…
Even if you have changed, “resurrected” as Vogler calls this stage of the hero’s journey, does it do you as much good if you cannot prove it to those you love and who, at least once, also loved you?
02.05.09
From the ferry: 2/4/09
My commute to and from the prison includes a twenty minute ferry crossing plus however long I get to sit in line to wait to board. It’s a good time to reflect on the night at Monroe, to record first impressions and document those moments that are resonating with me the most before I have a chance to filter them or make them academic. I’ll post these thoughts from the ferry each time I go to Monroe.
Tonight we talked about resurrection, the stage of the hero’s journey when the hero is on the road back home, about to return to the ordinary world that he left so long ago (or perhaps not so long ago — not all journeys are long, right?). At this stage in the journey the hero must both shed the parts of himself that no longer fit who he has become AND he must figure out how to go back to a world to which he, in many ways, no longer belongs.
The guys get this stage. They understand going away and returning and not recognizing themselves amongst their surroundings. They understand having changed, having grown, havng left behind old selves, but returning to a world that does not understand the journey they were on. A world that does not understand the dangers the hero has faced. A world that was perhaps hoping that the hero hasn’t changed much at all. I know my fellow MFA students can relate to this. We go away to our residencies in Boston, ten intensive days of being writers surrounded by writers, and when we return who really knows what we have gone through? How can we describe it? Does anyone really want to listen? Most of us discover that the journey was personal. It was shared only by those who were there with us and not those we left behind and so we must set aside our ego and even our enthusiasm and return to “normal” life. But we are changed aren’t we. We are walking amongst “normal” but we are changed. Now imagine going away for years, to prison, and then returning. One man wrote tonight about lives that have passed while he was “down” (locked up) and lives that have begun. One man talked about realizing that upon his release this time he won’t be able to return home. He has changed that much. There is no going back — not if he wants to keep from going back to prison. He has to give up the dream of his family, the desire for reunification. His journey forces him to let go of his dream of having what he’s never been able to hold on to, nurture, care for and face a new reality of having to go his own way. He’s scared. Shitless. Wouldn’t we all be?
Don’t we go on journeys hoping to be celebrated upon our return? How often does that happen anymore? Not often. Instead we go on journeys and perhaps people barely notice our absence. Or they are confused, frustrated, even angry that we are no longer the person that they knew and loved before.
I think about my journey with cancer. Am I just now in the stage of resurrecting a new life out of that whole experience? I think so. It can take a long time. I’ve been “down” for a year and a half and I’m well on my road back, but not everyone recognizes me and many who once knew me don’t know me anymore. So there is loss. There is grief. But at the same time there is rebirth. It’s a messy stage. A messy, beautiful stage. And if you can just keep from jumping off the path altogether (which is really impossible I think, if you are true to the journey — how can you deny that you have changed) then there is a new life, amongst the old life, to be created.
My therapist says, you can’t always expect folks to show up and give you a parade every time you make a significant change in your life. People may not cheer when you return. But you know. You know where you have been and what it has meant and you just have to hold on to that. Hold on tight.
02.04.09
Considering stillness
“It is as if Americans typically have their moments of stillness when those moments are framed on both sides by violence. It is a peculiarly American form of Zen enlightenment, when stillness can only justify itself by planting itself amid uproar.” from Burning Down the House by Charles Baxter
Baxter’s essay on stillness in writing got my attention. Not only because it is a concept I have not given much thought to other than when conversing with poets (who have a knack for the art of stillness and silence in their work). Reading the essay I’m in agreement with Baxter, including stillness in fiction (probably any prose) is difficult. It is a state of being that almost doesn’t belong in a narrative that by nature is focused on plot and action. If the action is still, what is left? Atmosphere, for one, Baxter offers. By which he means setting, perhaps. But he also talks about how for a moment the story becomes about focusing on the minutiae of the story. Not the dreams and desires, but actually allowing the character to exist in the moment with what exists around her. Tough.
When I got to the quote above in the essay, I suddenly found myself thinking about the guys at Monroe. How their lives, at the moment, almost embody what Baxter is saying. They are stillness surrounded on both sides by violence. Mind you, it is a forced stillness (or you could argue it was a choice, that’s another conversation). Or maybe they are stillness surrounded on one side by violence, that is the act(s) that brought them to prison. On the other side is what might be once they are released. Of course for too many, release does not equal rehabilitation and they find themselves back again, relegated to stillness, to the minutiae of their cell, the prison yard, the chow hall.
No doubt there is drama, plot and action on the inside. If anything such states are amplified. Living in such a regulated and intimate environment how could there not be drama, story lines that keep the mind entertained from day to day, month to month, year to year. And yet, it is as if their story, or a part of their narrative anyway, has stopped and there is a moment of stillness. It’s a life suspended. A narrative suspended. And how interesting that the one of the few places you can find such a state of being is inside prison walls.
Does enough violence ultimately bring a moment of stillness? Do these men crave such a reprieve from the chaos of their lives on the outside that the violent acts are in some way a search for stillness? Certainly there is not that much consideration put into a violent act, but if there was? And if we can reach them during this moment of stillness — with programs and therapy — can we lessen their chances of returning to the violence? If stillness and violence co-exist then what are the changes for rehabilitation?
Questions. This work always brings up more questions than answers.
01.20.09
Violence and Language
I’ve begun to prep for going up to the prison tomorrow night. I’ve been gone for too long and look forward to catching up with the guys, hearing about their holidays, seeing what they think about the inauguration of President Obama today. I was thinking about how I’d like to bring them something from my MFA residency, something that I learned, something I think might help them. So, I was going back through my pages and pages of notes last night and came across Naomi Shihab Nye’s quote, “Every act of violence is a betrayal of language. We believe in language.”
Nye’s quote is a call to action. Since beginning my work at Monroe (and probably well before that actually) I have been deepening my conviction that art and activism go hand in hand, and Nye reminded me that my goals for myself as a writer are two fold. First, to tell good stories that reveal to readers something about humanity and the human experience they might not have known or considered. Second, well, it’s lofty, but to change the world with words. That’s all. Easy, right?!
As I thought about getting to see the guys tomorrow and I read Nye’s quote again I also started to think about how it applies to them, to men who have already chosen violence at least once in their lives, if not several times. I began to think about how these men were raised by other men and women who chose violence too often and language too little. I began to think about the struggle they face when they are released to not return to violence. It might be too idealistic to hope that part of what I am doing up there is replacing violence with language, but for some of these men I think it is true. I think they will be able to walk out beyond the walls of the prison someday holding onto their stories, stories that if they’d gotten to tell instead of suppress, might have (might have) set them on a different path, and if they clutch those stories hard enough, hang onto their words with all the strength they have, then they can believe in the power of language, as Nye calls us to do.
I’ll bring them Nye’s quote tomorrow evening and hope that a few of them will be as inspired and encouraged as I am each time I read it.
12.22.08
The story we make
Stereotypes are used by a speaker to position others within a particular storyline. – Perry R. Hinton, Stereotypes, Cognition and Culture
Nine months ago prisoners, prison and teaching on the inside were not a part of my personal story. My particular story line up until March, 2007 included many things – being a doctor’s daughter, a graduate student, a female, a writer and a cancer survivor. It was already a full life. Then I went and made it more complicated by taking something that I could keep simple if I chose – namely my ideas about who was good and who was bad — and making those ideas more ambiguous, making them something I had to reconsider, reflect on and incorporate into a new personal narrative.
In Hinton’s book she writes about how one of the only ways to change a stereotype is to bring two different groups together and have them interact. The basic premise, I think, is once you’ve looked someone in the eye it’s harder to look away again. And once you’ve heard his story, even if it includes terrible and/or criminal things there’s no turning back from the fact that they’ve become human, less a stereotype and more an individual.
This is a good thing, right? Most days.
Somedays, however, I think it might have been easier if I had chose to keep my story more simple.
But then I think of the cancer. Some experiences we choose to add to our story and some we do not. Regardless, we change. You survive cancer, but you don’t go back to life before cancer. I may someday not work with prisoners, but there’s no going back to not knowing who they are, not being able to imagine a man in a cell alone with his transgressions and the pain that can cause for some. For enough of them.
When people find out I have had cancer they think they know certain things about me. They assume they know a part of my story. But they don’t. Not until they sit with me and listen. Then, I’m not a cancer survivor, I am me, with my experience of cancer, which is different than any other’s cancer story. These men in prisoner, they are not a “they”. They are individual men with individual stories. The stories aren’t the easiest to hear or the easiest with which to make peace, but then what good stories, what good life, gets to claim it was easy?
12.15.08
Revision
I have been working with one man in the group at Monroe to try and infuse his essay on his efforts to become a teacher’s aide and receive a bachelors degree while serving time with more emotion. He freely admits to having a hard time including emotion in his writing. Easier to report it as just the facts, just the facts…less he should have to actually experience some of the pain his journey has caused him. I think about writing teachers who have told me, you have to write directly into the hard, dark places. But, of course none of us want to go into those places. Better to skirt around the outside of the story and hope no one notices what you are not saying. The only problem with this is, of course, the story that people really want to read, the story that people need to read, is the one where the emotion rests. This is what I have been saying to this man in our group as I dutifully and willingly read various versions of the essay he is working on. He’s a strong writer, but a scared writer.
Of course, then he surprised me, as I suppose students are in the habit of doing to their teachers.
Recently he gave me a revised version of the essay, and asked me if I would type it for him, which is something I’ve offered to do for those guys who are willing to do some honest to goodness revision work (alas, like many beginning writers, most of the guys still consider revision to be changing a word here or there and calling it done). As I was working on typing his essay this weekend, I came to the end and this paragraph, all of which is new writing.
“To them [his family] I have become like a phantom character in Isabelle Allende’s House of the Spirits, a world “in which appartitions sat at the table with human beings, and the past and future formed part of a single unit and the reality of the present was a kaleidscope of jumbled mirrors.” In that sense I visualize my grown children as they graduate, play sports, appear in musicals, teach in China or serve in the USCG in Alaska. I attend my father’s memorial at the American Legion with my brother and sister and their spouses. I hear my son sing at his sister’s wedding in his kilt, wish my former wife well. I randomly drift in and out of the narrative, speaking words only they can hear. Separate and together, fading and reappearing, all woven into a larger story we co-author to pass on. Though my future is uncertain as I write, I must focus on who I am becoming, not what will become of me.”
When I give his essay back to him this coming Wednesday I will tell him, thank you, your story moved me. Not just informed me, but moved me.
