Walking The Line

Inside Out

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Teaching memoir in prison presents unique challenges.

How, for instance, do you respond to L, the new guy in class who - when reading his response to the writing prompt - ends with this: “I was playing with my little brother and we hear something, so we look out the grate and see someone put a bag over our father’s head and shoot him from behind.”

Before I can pull together my thoughts, S says, “Man, that’s the second time since I’ve been in this program that someone wrote about watching his father get shot in the head.”

“How did he do?” R asks.

“He ain’t never been the same,” L says. Then he points to the side of his head. “Up here.”

Lesson learned: my best response was to initially stay quiet, and let other class members weigh in. The matter-of-fact way that the other guys talked about L’s story helped me address it as a piece of writing.

I suggested that L write in more detail about the minutes before his father was shot. What exactly had he and his brother been playing? How old were you? Do you remember what you were wearing? Your little brother? What time of day was it? What was the weather like that day? Describe the sound you heard that drew you to look out the grate. And was it a grate or a grill or a fence?

Painting a detailed picture of the mundane minutes beforehand will make witnessing the shooting more dramatic; the contrast startling, I said. L was dutifully taking notes in his composition notebook. I did not ask L to go into detail about the shooting, though as I write this, I’m wondering if the bag or hood or whatever they threw over his father’s head was to contain the blood.

But not only do I need to hold the line from turning a Memoir Class into group therapy, but also I’m wary of being prurient – the gruesome details as some kind of guided tour of a world unknown to me. Exploitation of pain for my own edification.

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The evening had started out with me being a bit frazzled. When I got to the first security gate, I realized I was wearing my smart watch. Well, it’s actually a Fitbit, but it’s too smart to be allowed into the prison.

The guard promised she’d have the escort wait for me, so I returned the watch to my car, nestling it into the same compartment where I keep my phone while teaching.

Then when I got my hand stamped, I saw that I had neglected to take off my jewelry. There’s no rule about not wearing jewelry to the prison; it’s more a matter of personal judgement. On my left hand, I was sporting my engagement ring – two sapphires framing a diamond, along with a gold wedding band. On my right hand, I wore the ring that my late Dad had given to my mom on their 25^th wedding anniversary. That also has three diamonds.

Usually, I only wear the plain band, but my mind must have been elsewhere this evening - thinking about upcoming travel, my little granddaughter, multiple writing assignments.

Anyway, to be clear, I’m not worried about theft of my jewelry; it’s more that these guys have so little, and I don’t need to be swanning in the classroom wearing expensive stuff. It just creates one more barrier.

The prison had been relatively quiet over the week, according to both the corrections officers and the incarcerated men. B complained that they hadn’t held Catholic services in a while, claiming a staff shortage. He’d written a letter that his rights were being violated, copying everyone from the Governor to the head of the archdioceses, along with prison authorities.

“Someone will read it,” he said.

“Yeah, but they won’t let you use the chapel. They’ll stick you in some un-air conditioned room to punish you for the letter,” M said.

We reviewed some writing basics. “Show not Tell” is such a familiar concept that R volunteered to explain it to the class. We talked about using all five senses when we write. We chatted about the use – and overuse – of metaphor.

Today’s writing sample was “The House on Mango Street” by Sandra Cisneros. The book, a classic memoir about growing up in Chicago , is written in two and three page chapters- each a vignette about her neighborhood and the people who lived in it.

As usual, the men take turns read portions out loud. Sometimes it’s painful. Some men read beautifully and with fluency, even dramatizing different voices. Others really struggle to sound out the words, reading haltingly and in a low monotone. Last night, S could not figure out the word “geranium” and once someone pronounced it for him, he didn’t know what it was anyway.

“A red flower,” B explained.

Generally, the other men are kind about their different levels of literacy and and try to help each other without being patronizing. Almost all of them have at least a high school equivalency degree, but the quality of the public schools some of them attended is appalling.

Our prompt had been to write about your neighborhood, and in doing so, try to portray how it formed you. Here are a few other samples of what they wrote about:

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B wrote about growing up in South Florida and how storms were a big part of life. “There were no hills, no mountains and you could stand on the porch and watch the weather coming in.” He wrote, “Everyone knew someone who knew someone who had been fried by lightening.” B described how as a little kid, the thunder “rumbled and grumbled” through his body.

R described walking to the corner store in his neighborhood. There were always guys hanging on the street, he wrote. “They had beautiful, expensive clothes and thick gold chains. They had fancy new cars.” R especially admired the men’s shoes, because his shoes, R wrote, “were talking back to me.”

It took me a minute to get this reference – he meant that the sole of the shoe was partly detached from the bottom, making it look like a flapping mouth.

Once, he walked by the men, and one called out “Hey Shorty!” R saw that one man carried a tube with a purple plastic top and some “funny looking rocks.” He gave it to another guy who’d just arrived, and he said the guy who took the tube “looked like this was the greatest day in his life. And I knew I wanted to be just like those guys on the street.”

R was all about show don’t tell.

S wrote about a school trip he went on to George Washington’s home. It was the first time he’d ever seen a spiral staircase. He was entranced. He loved looking at the rifles, the uniforms, and the beautiful house, and wrote that he thinks back on it as one of the greatest days of his life. S was eight.

When we stood in a circle for our closing ritual, every man said the class had been the highlight of his day. And I realized that it was the highlight of mine, too.

They call out when I’m leaving: “Thanks, Kate!” “Get home safe!” “Drive carefully.”

Walking back through the courtyard, I see a group of men in handcuffs being lead in a line by multiple corrections officers wearing blue plastic gloves.

“What’s going on there?” I asked the guard escorting me.

“Those guys are going to the methadone clinic.”

Meanwhile, while the handcuffed prisoners moved down the walkway, the other incarcerated men in the courtyard were required to stand still, backs to the path, facing the fence. I recognized K from my journalism class. I had a certificate of completion for that class in my plastic tote bag.

“May I give that man a certificate?” I asked the guard.

The guard nodded tersely. He yelled at K (not by name) and said, “Get over here!”

K called out, “Kate! Hey!” He was thrilled to get his certificate, which had his name printed in what looks like calligraphy.

“Back to the wall,” the guard said.

I repeatedly thanked the guard for the escort and for allowing me to hand K the paper. We teachers are a guest in their house, and we want to remain welcome.

With a wave to the officer who maintains the last gate out of the prison, I drove out into the night.