True Notebooks

by Mark Salzman

  The cliché problem: white guy with everything going for him telling dark-skinned kids in prison that art matters.

  The futility problem: art doesn’t matter enough.

  ON THE OTHER HAND

  Knowing it’s futile means I can’t fail.

  White volunteer teacher better than no volunteer teacher.

  If one of those kids ever gets released, he’s not going to want to move to Glendale.

  I debated like this for a week, filling my notebook and losing sleep but coming no closer to a decision. In the end, my wife—who does not understand the concept of indecision— settled the matter for me. After I’d told her about the opportunity, had listed the pros and cons and described my conflicted emotions, she said, “You don’t get out of the house enough.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Sister Janet insisted as we passed the guard station, where the large man was snoring again. “All you have to do is be genuine with them, be yourself, and the rest will follow.”

  I noticed that each time Sister Janet spoke, she stopped walking, as if to give full attention to the topic at hand. I, more accustomed to continuous motion and shallow conversation, couldn’t get my feet to follow her example. As she talked, I stepped in place.

  “These children are in crisis,” she continued. “Most of them never had a chance, never got the guidance and attention they needed from adults. Is it any surprise they join gangs? The gang makes them feel part of something, it provides structure, and it gives them opportunities to prove themselves. How can we compete with the gangs if we can’t offer them something better?

  “Look at this place—it’s awful! It’s falling apart, it’s depressing, it’s unsafe. What message does that send to these kids? That they are garbage, that’s what. It tells them that society simply wants to dispose of them. It’s obscene, it’s unconscionable that we aren’t willing to do better than this! We have given up hope on rehabilitation. That says more about us than it does about these children.” She shuddered with anger, then her expression softened and she touched my shoulder. “That’s why what Karen, and Duane, and now you are doing is so important. You are making a difference.”

  If it had been at all unclear before, I now understood why Duane described Sister Janet as the most persuasive person he’d ever met. I expressed my concern that while I had not met Karen yet, I knew for sure that I was no Duane Noriyuki. He got those boys to behave like honors students, yet seemed to accomplish this telepathically. During the hour I spent in his class, he couldn’t have spoken more than two dozen words, but he managed to convey enthusiasm, compassion, and authority all at once. Sitting next to him that night, I felt like a rodeo clown sitting next to Black Elk, the Sioux mystic.

  Sister Janet took a step forward, then stopped again. “Duane has a special gift, it’s true, but you’ll find your own way. It all boils down to one thing, really: the kids want to feel that they matter to someone. They want to please adults, they want to fit in, they want to model themselves after someone they respect. It’s just that most of them have been brainwashed into thinking they aren’t capable of it.”

  Before we could resume our progress toward the unit where I would be teaching, Sister Janet looked over my shoulder and waved to someone coming toward us from the other side of the yard. He appeared to be trying to avoid us by walking through the grass rather than on the path.

  “There’s a member of the staff. I’ll introduce you.” She called out to him, “Good morning, Mr. Stone.”

  The man, who wore a black cap and a policeman’s mustache, returned the greeting but did not change course. “Morning, Sister.”

  “Don’t be shy, come join us for a second. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  He adjusted the bill of his cap, grimaced, then walked over.

  “Mr. Stone, this is Mark Salzman. He’s a very well-known writer. One of his books won a Pulitzer Prize.”

  “Actually,” I said, feeling both flattered and embarrassed, “it was just nominated for one. A lot of books get nominated.”

  “Well, it should have won,” Sister Janet continued without missing a beat. “He’s going to start a writing class in K/L unit.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Stone said, looking me over. “A famous writer, huh? Would I have heard of any of your books?”

  I named the titles. He smiled—a bit too broadly—and shook his head. “Sorry, never heard of those. You ever work in a place like this before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t ever forget where you are, or who you’re dealing with. It’s no college campus.”

  “It certainly isn’t,” Sister Janet agreed. “And that’s what Mark is here to do—to make it more like one.”

  Mr. Stone folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “It’s nice that you people come here to help out. We appreciate our volunteers. But in my opinion, there’s a tendency to see what you want to see, to see what makes you feel good. You see the kids at their best, and then think that’s the reality.”

  Although he was looking at me as he spoke, I sensed that his comments were meant for Sister Janet.

  He went on: “These kids can seem like the nicest people you’d ever want to meet, oh yes. And when you hear their sad stories, you feel sorry for them, you really do. But Ted Bundy seemed nice, too. My cousin worked at the prison where they held him. Saw him every day. Said you couldn’t meet a nicer guy.” He tipped the bill of his cap. “Nice to see you, Bob. Have a great morning, Sister.”

  After he’d left us, Sister Janet peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “Bob indeed! Now you see what I have to deal with every day. Don’t expect a warm welcome from the staff. Some of them are caring, but unfortunately, you have a lot of people working in law enforcement who are in the wrong profession.”

  She closed her eyes. “It’s crucial for them to believe, you see, that the kids are not salvageable—they’re all just little Ted Bundys. If the kids are monsters, then it’s appropriate to dehumanize them, you see how it works? On the other hand, if you or I suggest that the kids are still developing, and could actually benefit from counseling and education, we spoil the whole picture. We’re seen as a threat.”

  Then she grinned at me. “Little did you realize what you were walking into! But don’t worry, all of this will become irrelevant as soon as you sit down with the boys. All that matters is what happens between you and them.”

  When we reached the entrance to K/L unit, which was just downstairs from where Duane taught, Sister Janet had to try several keys before finding the one that worked. It seemed to take forever. Then we passed into a dayroom that looked exactly like the one upstairs, although this one was empty. There were no boys watching television, no boys anywhere in sight. We walked across the linoleum floor, still wet from having just been mopped, to the control room where three staff members—two of them black, one Latino—were mock-arguing over a plate of nachos.

  “I’m telling you, you don’t want to put that hot sauce on here.”

  “I like hot sauce.”

  “Not this shit, you won’t. Renteria’s mother brought it, it’s from a part of Mexico they don’t even show on the map.”

  “I had some of it, it ain’t so bad.”

  “Yeah? When did you have it?”

  “Just now, when you were out front.”

  “Oh man—that’s what I was trying to tell you! You don’t notice it when you put it in your mouth. It’s at the other end where it kicks in.”

  None of them paid attention to Sister Janet or me standing in the doorway a few feet away. The bantering went on until Sister Janet cleared her throat.

  “Could you give us just a moment of your time?” she asked, using a tone of voice familiar to anyone who has been addressed by an angry schoolteacher. “I know you’re all very busy.”

  The three men fell silent but would not look at us. I wanted to run away.

  She fixed her gaze on the man sitting at a desk in the middle of the r
oom, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. He was black, tall, and looked around fifty years old. He had a former athlete’s build: broad shoulders, powerful chest and arms, long legs, slightly thickening waistline. His body language conveyed ease and authority, while his face registered annoyance.

  “Mr. Sills, this is Mark Salzman. He’s a very distinguished writer. He’s the one who’s going to be working with the boys here in K/L. We’re very lucky to have him.”

  Mr. Sills unclasped his hands, leaned forward in his chair, rested his forearms on the desk, and turned to look at me.

  “How ya doin’,” he asked without smiling. He looked tough, definitely not someone to be messed with. And I had an awful feeling that, intentionally or not, I had just messed with his morning.

  “Fine, thanks,” I chirped.

  “What can we do for you?”

  I froze. I had no idea what he could do for me; I felt so unwelcome there I couldn’t even remember why I’d come.

  Sister Janet frowned. “I brought a list yesterday with the names of three boys on it, and a letter asking you to have them out of their rooms for us by ten o’clock. I gave it to the person on duty last night and he promised he would give it to you. Did he?”

  Mr. Sills shook his head. “Haven’t heard or seen anything about it.”

  Sister Janet removed something from her shoulder bag. “I’m not surprised. I brought a copy of the list, just in case.” She handed it to him.

  He laid it on the desk in front of him, took his time smoothing it flat with one of his giant hands, then looked it over. “Let’s see what we got here. Jackson . . . OK. Wu . . . OK . . .” When he got to the third name, he started chuckling. He glanced up at the Latino guard, who looked like he could bench-press four hundred pounds and wore his LAPD cap with the bill pulled down low over his eyes. “You’re going to love this,” Mr. Sills said. “They want Javier.”

  “Javier? For a writing class? Whoa, that’s an interesting concept.”

  “It’s your call, Granillo. You want to let him out?”

  Mr. Granillo looked at Sister Janet. “You might want to reconsider, ma’am. His behavior has been disruptive lately.” His use of formal language contrasted with his tone of voice, which sounded as if he were trying to explain something to a child.

  “He won’t be disruptive today,” Sister Janet said.

  Mr. Granillo shared a glance with Mr. Sills, then shrugged. “OK by me, then.”

  Mr. Sills handed the sheet back to Sister Janet. “Where do you want them?”

  “Somewhere quiet where they won’t be disturbed by the radio or the television. How about the kitchen? That’s where the writing class meets upstairs.”

  Mr. Sills shook his head slowly. “I don’t care what they do upstairs. In my unit, I want ’em where I can see ’em. We’ll put your class in the library, that’ll be quiet enough.”

  When none of the men stirred from their chairs, Sister Janet asked, “And you’ll do that for us now?”

  After an interminable pause, Mr. Sills said, “You go on ahead into the library. We’ll get ’em to you.”

  I wished I could make myself disappear.

  Sister Janet led me out of their office to a small room lined with bookshelves. Several windows faced the control room, allowing the staff to keep an eye on things without having to leave their posts. I scanned the bookshelves and saw that about half of them were filled with evangelical tracts, the other half with horror/thriller novels. I slumped into a chair, exhausted from the tension of meeting the staff. And I hadn’t even met the criminals yet.

  Closing the door behind her, Sister Janet directed my attention to the far corner of the yard, where a group of boys in orange outfits were being marched toward a row of elaborately modified low-rider cars.

  “That’s what passes for educational programming around here,” she said. “Ex-gangsters come in and show off their cars and their girlfriends. Just what these kids need.”

  I was too upset to pay attention. I took out my pencils and legal pads and stared at the clock on the wall: 10:03.

  “When the boys get here,” she said, “I’ll introduce you and explain what our program is about. But then I think I should go. It’s your class, and I don’t want you to feel that I’m hovering. I’ll come back for you in an hour.” She smiled. “I bet you won’t want to leave by then.”

  At that moment, I was fantasizing going back into the staff room with a stone-cold expression on my face, and when the staff challenged me, I would—well—frighten them somehow. The fantasy became vague at that point.

  Sister Janet interrupted the daydream by telling me something about the three boys she had picked for the class. “Jimmy Wu was born in Taiwan. He was excited to hear that you speak Chinese. He’s a sensitive boy, and very smart—he was an A student before he started getting in trouble—but I’m worried that he’s getting depressed. Kevin Jackson is shy, it takes a while to get to know him, but he’s one of the nicest boys you’ll ever meet. You’ll like him right away. And Francisco Javier . . .” She glanced toward the staff room and frowned. “He’s somebody with a lot of anger and confusion bottled up inside, but he wants to change his life. The problem is, he’s not getting enough support. If no one takes him seriously, then of course he’s not going to make much progress. I think this class is going to mean a lot to him.”

  Through the windows I saw the boys enter the dayroom from corridors on either side, presumably where their cells were. Like the boys in Duane’s class, they shuffled slowly, with their eyes lowered and their hands clasped behind their backs. Mr. Sills rose from his chair in the staff room and followed them toward the library. He looked even bigger standing up than I’d expected. He walked in a sort of lope, then shoved the library door open with a callused palm. The boys walked under his arm to get inside, then sat down. Mr. Sills stared at our little Rainbow Coalition for a while, then let the door swing shut and returned to his desk. It was hot and stuffy in the library, and awfully quiet.

  Sister Janet stood up and introduced me to the boys, describing me as a very famous writer who nearly won the Pulitzer Prize. The boys kept very still. She explained that the Inside Out writing program was designed to give young people like themselves a chance to discover their own voices, to be heard, and to develop the skills of communication they would need to rebuild their lives. The boys nodded.

  “Mark decided to start a class here in K/L after visiting the writing class upstairs. He was very impressed by their writing.”

  Francisco Javier raised his hand. Both of his arms, his neck, and even the back of his shaved head were covered with tattoos.

  “Yes, Francisco?”

  “That’s cool and all, but Sister, they got Barreda and Rocha in that class. Those guys really know how to write. I don’t know about Wu and Jackson, but my writing sucks.”

  “Francisco, I have a feeling your writing is a lot better than you think it is. This isn’t a competition—it’s about writing honestly. Writing from the heart. Can you do that?”

  He nodded, then raised his hand again.

  “Yes, Francisco?”

  “Can we write whatever we want?”

  “Why don’t you ask Mark? He’s your teacher.”

  Having been given permission to address me directly, Francisco now looked me straight in the eyes. He had an intense gaze, made all the more hypnotic by his eyebrows, which met in the middle to form an unbroken line. “Can we write whatever we want?” he asked.

  “Anything except the details of your case,” I said, remembering that Duane had suggested this as a prudent guideline.

  “ ’Cause it could be used against us,” Francisco offered, his gaze beginning to unsettle me.

  “Right. The idea here is to write about things that really interest you, that reflect who you really are, or who you would like to be. If you have trouble coming up with topics, of course I’d be happy to help you.”

  “What about cusswords?” Francisco ask
ed.

  “If you need to use them, then use them.”

  With the boys safely delivered to me and the issue of cusswords settled, Sister Janet wished us a productive morning and left to make visits to the other units. When she had gone, the room got quiet again. Unlike in Duane’s class, where a routine had already been established, I could feel the boys wondering what I was going to do next. I thought they might appreciate it if I told them a little about myself, so I gave them some background information and told a few stories about my youthful attempts to become a kung fu master. The boys listened politely and smiled at the appropriate times, but my hope that they would feel comfortable around me immediately proved unrealistic. When I asked them to tell me something about themselves, they shrugged and fidgeted in their chairs, but no one volunteered to go first.

  Sensing that Francisco was the most outgoing of the three—and noting that he had been fidgeting the most—I asked him to start. He cleared his throat and said, “Ever since I got locked up this time, I’m startin’ to change.”

  He looked at me as if waiting for me to praise him. When I only nodded, he turned to Jimmy Wu and said, “Well? What about you, fool? Don’t make me do all the talking.”

  Jimmy shrugged. His short black hair was spiked up with gel, giving him a prickly appearance. “We all say we’re gonna change. But what good does it do? Who cares if we change now? Nobody, that’s who. We might as well be the best fuckups we can be; at least then nobody jacks our shit.”

  I asked what “jacking somebody’s shit” meant.

  “It means when fools who think they’re on top steal your personals and threaten you if you try to get it back. It’s a way of disrespecting you.”

  “Personals?”

  “The stuff you’re allowed to have in here. You know, shoes, comb, soap, eyeglasses.”

  Now Francisco laughed; his changed-man persona from a moment ago seemed to have vanished. “If somebody jacks your shit, man, you gotta deal with it right then. You gotta let everybody know: Don’t fuck with me! Otherwise you’ll get punked every day.”