True Notebooks

by Mark Salzman

  Through all of this, Kevin Jackson had kept his eyes on the table and said nothing. He had a disarmingly sweet face. “How about you, Kevin? What can you tell me that would give me some sense of who you are?”

  He paused for a long time, smoothing out the creases in his orange uniform with his palms, then said, “I don’t know who I am. Somebody lost, I guess.”

  Something caught Francisco’s attention through the window facing the yard. “Hey—homeboy’s back!” He pointed to a boy limping toward our unit with a guard right behind him.

  “That’s Esquivel. I thought that fool got sent to county?”

  “Naw, just to the Box.”

  As the prisoner came closer, we saw that he had a black eye. Francisco doubled over laughing at the sight of it. “Check it out! Homie’s all fucked up! He got his ass kicked! Ha!”

  “It happened in school.”

  Francisco waved this suggestion off. “Naw, it was in court, in the holding tank. Some fool threw up a sign, and homie had to do something.”

  “That’s crazy, man. He’s too small to do any damage, look at him.”

  “Yeah, but he’s loco, he don’t know that.” Francisco leaned over and started pounding his fist on the glass until the boy outside looked in our direction. Francisco started blinking hard with one of his eyes, and the boy grinned sheepishly.

  Sister Janet had been gone less than five minutes and already the class had drifted out of my control. Imagining how humiliating it would be if Mr. Sills and his posse—who I was sure had sized me up as a flake—had to rescue me, I asked Francisco to sit down and explain to me what the Box was.

  “The Box? Oh, uh—I mean ‘sir’—it’s like . . . if you fuck up on the outs, you come here. When you fuck up in here, you go to the Box.”

  Jimmy Wu went into more detail for me. “The real name for it is SHU—special handling unit. Basically it’s solitary confinement, with a video camera watching you 24/7. You’re not even supposed to do push-ups in there. Sometimes, like Javier said, it’s used for punishment. But it’s also for other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “When guys like us lose our cases, they consider us a suicide risk. Because our sentences are so long. So they take us straight from the courthouse to the Box, where we can’t hang ourselves or whatever. It’s also for people who would get hurt if they were stuck in with the rest of us.”

  “Snitches,” Francisco hissed. “And homos.”

  “No,” Jimmy corrected, “they put the homos in the sex offenders’ unit. With the rapists.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  When the room fell silent again, I took the opportunity to suggest we try some writing. “How about if we go for thirty minutes? And don’t worry about spelling, grammar, neatness, or any of that. Just write what’s on your mind.”

  The boys picked up their pencils.

  “For real—any subject?” Jimmy looked skeptical.

  “Think of all the times you’ve had to write on subjects that were chosen for you,” I said. “Well, this is your chance to make up for it.”

  Francisco, his pencil already moving, said under his breath, “We can even use cusswords, homes. I’m gonna get a fuckin’ A in this class.”

  How slowly can thirty minutes pass? I learned the answer that morning as I found myself with nothing to do except watch three teenage inmates struggle to write. I spent part of the time watching each of them out of the corner of my eye. Jimmy sat up straight as he wrote, while Francisco and Kevin hunched over their notepads with their forearms on the table and their faces only inches away from the page. These two clutched their pencils tightly, and when they made mistakes, they erased with a vengeance. After only ten minutes, Francisco slapped his pencil down, sighed loudly, and announced, “Done. Now what do I do?”

  “Would you like to write something else? There’s still plenty of time.”

  “Naw, my brain is tired. Could I go get a drink of water?”

  “Sure.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and crossed the dayroom. He walked right past the water fountain and wandered over to the staff room instead. To my surprise, he began chatting with the guards. I saw him pointing toward me, and in a moment they were all laughing.

  When Francisco returned to the library, he sat down and began drumming the table with his pencil. I didn’t want to shush him, but I didn’t want him to disturb Kevin and Jimmy either, who were still concentrating on their writing. I got Francisco’s attention and pointed to his paper, then to myself, then gestured as if asking for permission.

  “You wanna read it?” he asked loudly.

  “If it’s all right with you,” I whispered.

  “Sure, go ahead,” he said, still making no attempt to lower his voice.

  He slid it to me, put his fists one on top of the other on the table, and rested his chin there. The first thing I noticed was that in spite of the clumsy way he held the pencil, he had the most elaborate handwriting I had ever seen. Each letter was meticulously formed, with curlicues and embellishments and variations in the thickness of each stroke. He had written me a letter:

  Dear Sir:

  I am writing this few lines to let you know that I apreciat you coming here. You will help us open ourselves and express our feelings on paper. I never thought I had that talent until now and I believe you will help me develope it. I just want to say thank you sir.

  Sincerly,

  Francisco Javier

  When I looked up at him, he shrugged. I took his pencil and wrote below his message:

  Dear Francisco:

  Thank you very much. I appreciate that you took the chance to give this class a try. I look forward to reading whatever you write. Since we have ten minutes left, would you do me a favor? Describe yourself in one paragraph. Who are you, besides someone who is locked up?

  Sincerely,

  Mark Salzman

  He read my note, gave me the thumbs-up sign, and hunched over the page again.

  At the thirty-minute mark, Jimmy and Kevin put down their pencils. “Gimme one more minute,” Francisco said, writing furiously. We waited for him, and when he finished he threw himself back in his chair, shook his hand out, and blew on it. “Damn!” he said, wincing. “That shit hurts! It’s hard to be a writer.”

  I noticed that Kevin was looking over my shoulder and nodding. He said to me, “I think the staff wants you.”

  I turned around and looked toward the staff room. Mr. Sills pointed at the clock on the wall, then opened his hand and spread his fingers out wide. Five minutes.

  I felt that now was time for the last hurdle. Would I be able to convince them to read aloud to each other, the way they did in Duane’s class? I expected plenty of resistance, so I had come prepared with a speech about the importance of communication, sharing ideas, getting feedback, and so on. I took a breath and asked,

  “OK, we have just enough time to read aloud. Would anyone be willing to go first?”

  “Read aloud?” Francisco complained. “You didn’t say nothin’ about readin’ aloud before.”

  “Well,” I began, “there are all sorts of reasons that—”

  “I mean, it don’t matter to me,” Francisco interrupted, “but I’ll go first if you want.” He picked up his sheet of paper, leaned back in his chair, and frowned. “OK. Here we go. It’s just something short, no big thing. I had to write it fast, so—”

  “Just read it,” Jimmy said.

  “I’ll read it when I’m ready, don’t push me. OK. I call it ‘Stress,’ ’cause, well, that’s what it’s about.”

  He fidgeted some more in his chair, then began to read.

  You know something, the thing I hate most about my life is when I stress. There’s times when I feel like I’m gonna explode! Like when a .45 caliber bullet at high speed hits a tomato and doesn’t leave anything but li’l pieces. That’s the way I feel, like if I’m gonna end up in li’l pieces. Yeah, I’m not going to deny it, I have shed many tears in my room here, ro
om 17, and I don’t think there is anything wrong when a guy cries. There’s been times when I had this li’l voice in my mind saying to me, “Kill yourself!” There’s been an occasion where I tried to commit suicide. I tried to cut my veins but thanks to God it was nothing major. I was letting all my problems get to my head. One of my major problems is my case. If a person tells you that you are facing two “life without possibility of parole” term sentences back to back, what are you suppose to think, huh? I use to stress a lot on my case. Sometimes I wouldn’t even come out my room. I would stay layin’ on my bed, lookin’ out my window, thinking why did this have to happen to me, with tears dripping down my face. I would close my eyes and in my mind I would tell God what would be the purpose for me still living, to just let me die. It would really hurt me. I never thought I was going to suffer like this.

  I will always remember when my parents would tell me that my homeboys were just sinking me deeper and deeper into the hole. And that when something bad happened to me, we would see just who would be there for me. I should of listened to them. Ever since I got busted, I have never received a letter or personals from my homeboys. My parents are the ones that have always been there for me. And I thank God for letting me have them till this day. I guess I just had to learn the hard way, huh?

  Francisco laid the sheet of paper down on the table and fixed his gaze on me. “Is that what you meant?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly what I meant. Nice job, Francisco.”

  He looked suspicious. “I know there’s gotta be plenty of mistakes in there.”

  “Don’t worry about mistakes. The most important thing is being willing to write honestly. To write something genuine and important. Well, you’ve done that.”

  Francisco looked like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz just after the Wizard has given him a diploma. He sat up proudly, gave a polite little cough, then said, “So who’s next? Don’t make me carry the whole fuckin’ show.”

  “I’ll read,” Jimmy said. “It’s about a place in my imagination. My daydreams used to be of beautiful places, or places I remembered from the outs, but now I keep seeing this other place and I can’t get it out of my head.”

  I stand alone and look out at the ocean. Feeling the wind against my face and hearing the water lap against the sand, I can’t hear or feel anything else. I look around and see that no one is around. I start to shiver and I feel my arms covered in goose bumps. As I stand there, I wonder how I became who I am and why I feel nothing but coldness and loneliness. Where had I gone wrong? Why am I standing here alone? Why is no one standing here

  with me?

  Before any of us could make any comment, Mr. Sills knocked on the window and pointed in the direction of the hallway. The boys stood up immediately.

  “Hold on a second,” I said to them. “Let me ask if we can stay just five more minutes so Kevin can read.”

  “Maybe better not,” Kevin said. “I can read next time.” Mr. Sills already had the door opened.

  “Are you sure?”

  Kevin clasped his hands behind his back. “You comin’ back?”

  “I’ll be here Wednesday night. We’ll meet twice a week from now on.”

  “Sounds good,” Kevin said. “I’ll read then.”

  The boys filed out silently, then disappeared down the corridor. They had left their essays, along with the pencils and notepads, on the table. I gathered everything and stepped into the dayroom. Mr. Granillo had already opened the main door to the unit for me and was holding it.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It went really well.”

  “Have a nice day, sir,” he said, looking over my shoulder.

  I stepped out into the blinding sunlight, heard the door close behind me, then saw Sister Janet standing nearby in the shade of a tree.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “It ended too soon.”

  “I told you! Did all three boys write?”

  “Yes, but Kevin didn’t get to read. We had to end class just before it was his turn. I feel badly about it.”

  “Don’t worry, the boys are used to having to wait for things.

  He’ll get his chance. How about the other two? How was their writing?”

  I showed her the two essays. As she read them, she shook her head as if in disbelief. “Can you imagine being seventeen years old and feeling this lonely and confused? Most of them are severely depressed, to the point of considering suicide, but no doctor sees them and they get no counseling at all. What Jimmy writes here about standing alone is absolutely true. These children have been abandoned. Someday, perhaps you’ll go to court to watch one of their trials. Then you’ll really see what I’m talking about.”

  She led me out to the key trailer, where I exchanged my visitor’s badge for the driver’s license I’d surrendered earlier. When we parted at the metal detector she said, “I can’t tell you how much even this one visit meant to those boys. Even if you can’t do this regularly, the boys won’t forget you, I can promise you that. Today will be one of the few good memories they’ll have of this place.”

  I said goodbye, got into my car, and sank into the front seat. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so exhausted. Still regretting that Kevin had not been able to read his essay, I took it out of my bag and read it in the car.

  I remember the time when my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Blue, took me to the museum. I know it might not seem like much to write about, but at that point in my life I needed someone there for me. At the time I was a broken-spirited nine-year-old in desperate need of a shoulder to cry on. The reason I was so down in spirits was because my parents had just been killed in a head-on collision three short weeks before.

  After their demise I had a hard time coping with life. I didn’t want to eat, go out and play, or participate in any other daily activities except grieving. I had a hard time adjusting back to my regular lifestyle, but after our trip to the museum things just started to seem brighter.

  I recall the things we did that day like it just happened earlier today. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon when she arrived at my doorstep. She came in and talked with my grandma for a while. I assume they were talking about the day we had ahead of us. After their brief conference we were on our way. We went to the Museum of Science and Industry in South Central. We saw everything there was to see in the museum: the dinosaur bones, the earthquake room and much more. After we finished our exploration of the museum we went into some gift shops nearby. I played with a few of the things they had but was only interested in one object: a “Slinky.” Mrs. Blue saw how fascinated I was by it and purchased it for me. She gave me a hug and told me it was the least she could do. After that we walked around the store and looked at all the other weird trinkets that astounded us. She bought us some freeze-dried ice cream for the first time and we both enjoyed it. After experiencing freeze-dried ice cream, we went across the street to a low-budget hamburger stand for dinner. We sat and talked about the things we saw and did at the museum and about a few other things. Once we finished our food, we got back into her car and I was on my way home from a fun-filled day. My house wasn’t that far, so it didn’t take us long to get to my house. Before I knew it we were at my front door. She gave me a hug and waited to make sure I made it in safely. Then she left.

  Once in the house I went to my room, laid on my bed, and thought about my day until I drifted to sleep. And that concluded my day at the museum. I know it wasn’t a spectacular day, but I cherish that day because that was the only person that took time out of their life to help me make it through the death of my parents.

  5 / Collision

  I met Duane at the key trailer the following Wednesday. After we crossed the yard together, he disappeared up the stairway leading to M/N unit. I knocked on the door to K/L and waited. A female guard answered, opening the door wide enough for us to speak through but not wide enough for me to enter.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m the writing class teacher.” />
  “Writing class? That’s upstairs, I believe.”

  “We started one here. Just last Saturday.”

  She looked skeptical, but opened the door the rest of the way. This time inmates filled the dayroom, sitting in small groups with an adult at the head of each group. Most of the adults were Latino, and all of them were holding Bibles.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” I asked the guard.

  “No, it’s always busy on Wednesdays. This is religious volunteer night.”

  She led me to the staff room, where I introduced myself to Mr. Warren—a thin, nervous-seeming black man with a goatee—and explained why I had come. Instead of giving me the silent treatment like Mr. Sills, he talked to me as if I were five years old.

  “It’s very nice that you’ve started a little writing class here, sir, but we’ve got a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As you can see, Wednesday nights here are a mess. You’ve got a lot of movement, a lot of bodies, a lot of contact, but only three of us on the staff. It’s hard to keep track of who’s doing what, and who’s sitting with who. This is not good.” He shook his head for emphasis. “Way too much movement.”

  Hoping to sound deferential, I said, “I don’t mean to cause any problems. I’d like for the class to meet twice a week, and was told that Saturday mornings and Wednesday nights were the best time slots. Is there another that would work better for you?”

  Mr. Warren kept his eyes on the dayroom. “That’s very generous of you, sir, we thank you, but I’m afraid those are the only times volunteer activities are allowed.”

  I asked myself: What would Duane do? In the mental image I conjured up, he just stood there and didn’t say anything. I tried it, and to my surprise, it worked.

  “We can’t be everywhere at once,” Mr. Warren eventually said, speaking more naturally. “I don’t know who it is who sets these things up. There’s way too much movement in here.”

  “Who you got in that class?” the third member of the staff asked me. He had a body the shape—and nearly the girth—of the Liberty Bell. He wore a baseball cap with the bill turned backwards, which somehow seemed less threatening than the bill-pulled-way-down-in-front style that the Saturday crew favored.