True Notebooks

by Mark Salzman

  Patrick blew the sheet clean of eraser fragments, then said, “But what if you don’t like what you find out? Then you’re totally fucked, instead of just halfway fucked.” He put the drawing back in his folder and took out his notepad. “What should I write about today? I’m kinda stuck.”

  I asked if he could remember a time he wanted something, then had to earn it. He stared out the window for a while, then nodded. “Yeah, I can think of a time.”

  At half past ten, Mr. Sills wandered past the library and looked inside. The boys were all working, but Mr. Sills did not seem impressed. To me, it looked as if he was searching for any excuse to throw us out. He stood motionless in the doorway for two or three minutes, then returned to his office without any comment. My relief must have shown when he left, because Francisco asked, “Wha’chu trippin’ about? He can’t do nothin’ to you!”

  “I’m not used to being watched like that.”

  “Try takin’ a shit that way.” Francisco slapped his pencil down on the table and looked around the room. “What the fuck’s that, Chumnikai? Some kinda bird?”

  “It’s a penguin.”

  “What you drawin’ a penguin for, fool?”

  “In school the other day the teacher asked us what animal we thought we were most like. I said penguin.”

  “Fuckin’ Chumnikai!”

  “Fuckin’ Javier.”

  “Why a penguin?” I asked.

  Patrick shrugged. “Because a penguin is small, it has wings but it can’t fly, and it can withstand cold temperatures. That’s me.” He began crossing out the drawing, but pressed so hard with the pencil that the tip snapped. He froze, bracing for my angry reaction.

  Francisco winced; he also seemed to expect the worst. “Damn, Chumnikai! You fucked up his pencil!” I sensed that this was more of a plea than a reprimand. Francisco seemed to assume that I, as an adult, would naturally go ballistic over a small infraction; he was trying to keep me from taking it out on the whole class.

  I handed Patrick a fresh pencil, told him not to worry about the broken one, and asked if he’d finished his essay.

  “Yeah—I’ll read it if you want.” As he had never volunteered to read before, I took this as a gesture of gratitude.

  “Go ahead.”

  It was a Thursday, around mid-October, of ’94. It seemed like a normal day, but something happened that day that changed my life forever. I used to be a good kid doing good in school, but that changed. I arrived at my cousin Ryan’s house. He was about fifteen at the time, bald-headed, and wore khaki pants and a white shirt. He told me that a group of his friends were coming over to kick it and drink. Ryan’s friends were different. They were from a gang. A gang I used to see on the store walls when I was young.

  Soon the house was filled up with gang members. It seemed like they were like one happy family having fun, and I wanted to be part of that family. I was sitting on the couch drinking. The air was filled with smoke from the cigarettes, and loud and noisy from the guys who were yelling and singing because we were all drunk from drinking forty ounces, tequila, and vodka. I was a little dazed when I saw a guy who was about twenty, stalky-looking, and had a fade. John was his name. He asked me if I wanted to join. I thought about it for a while. I mean it seemed OK, because we were all talking, dancing, drinking, just having fun. I told him I’d join. So he told me to just hold on tight, and suddenly, two guys just rushed and jumped me. They beat me for about twenty seconds, then they stopped. All of them in the room were watching me. ALL EYEZ ON ME. They shook my hand and gave me a name. Now I was a part of their family. It was about 2:30 p.m. I had to pick up my brother from school. I told John that I was going to walk to the school. But he insisted that he drive me there to pick him up. We went and when I saw my old friends at the school, I felt different. I was from a gang now. I felt like I had power. People would fear me and my friends when we went into places. Little did I know how much trouble I got myself into. I now have enemies I haven’t met before, police watching me, endangering my family, and sending me to a place like this. Sure, I thought it was cool three years ago, but I didn’t know it could put me in jail. If I had the chance to go back to that day and not join, I would. And maybe I wouldn’t be in a place like where I am today.

  “I wanted to be in the gang, so I earned it. And now, here I am.”

  “Negative leads to more negative,” Francisco said. “And positive leads to more positive. That’s how I changed. It’s simple.” Francisco looked around the room for support, but Patrick snickered.

  “Who was just saying Hall shoulda beat the crap out of somebody instead of just talkin’ shit? Who got sent to the Box last month for starting a fight?”

  To his credit, Francisco was able to laugh at himself. “Hey, I’m turnin’ my life around, but you gotta do it gradually. You try to do that good shit all at once and you could get sick, like tryin’a eat nothin’ but nuts and berries all of a sudden. You gotta build up to it. And it’s working! Have I shot anybody recently? No!”

  “That’s so beautiful,” Patrick said, wiping away imaginary tears.

  “Fuckin’ Chumnikai.” Francisco made the squinty, buck-toothed face again, and Patrick responded with the fused eyebrow and crossed eyes.

  “Francisco, why don’t you read next?”

  Francisco, who usually jumped at the chance to read, rubbed the back of his neck and declined. “I’ll pass this time.”

  “You’re not happy with what you wrote?”

  “Naw, it ain’t that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “None of anybody’s business, that’s what.”

  “I know what it is,” Patrick said.

  “You don’t know shit, Chumnikai.”

  “It’s a letter to his mom.”

  “You always peek into other people’s shit? Nosy motherfucker.”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t know what a penguin is when he sees it in somebody else’s notebook.”

  “Just read the letter,” Jimmy said.

  “It’s personal, man.”

  “Oh, like the rest of us don’t write anything personal. Come on, Javier, we don’t have much time.”

  “All right, if it makes you happy, I’ll read it. But any of you motherfuckers laugh, it’s on.”

  He looked at the sheet of paper and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand again.

  Dear Mother,

  You don’t know how difficult it is to be a youngster. Sometimes I want to throw myself in your arms and cry, but since I’m so big I don’t dare to. You know what, Mom? When you lecture or counsel me, even though it doesn’t seem like I’m listening, your words stay in my mind. When I go to bed, I reflect on them. I know you think I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but it’s the opposite. I love you more than anybody in this world and I think that there isn’t no better mom than you. Sometimes I feel bad at myself and since I don’t have the maturity that you have, I often find myself saying things that I really don’t want to say. Then I feel worse but you’re already mad at me and you make me feel that there isn’t anybody that could understand me . . .

  You always tell me that I should look more for God. Only if you knew how much I want to feel free from everything that has me tangled. I don’t have inspiration to pray, although I try to find the Lord, everything that surrounds me in this world is taking me farther and farther from God. Sometimes I think that there isn’t forgiveness for me. How many times I’ve asked for forgiveness, then I find myself doing the same sin again. I think that God is tired of all this. You tell me that God is wonderful and loving, but don’t you think that God has his limits?

  None of the boys laughed. I asked Francisco if he planned to send this letter to his mother.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure it would mean a lot to her.”

  “You don’t know how my family works. You can’t say this kind of stuff directly. Maybe someday, but not now. Right now, I gotta be strong for her.”
>
  “I think you oughta send it,” Kevin said.

  “Somebody else read now. I feel like I’m bein’ interrogated and shit.”

  “I’ll read,” Kevin said. “Mine’s in three parts—see if you can figure out what I’m trying to say.”

  PART ONE

  Sunlight used to be a good thing, and at times it still is. The only problem I have with it now is, it reminds me of all the fun I used to have on sunny days. When I was out there, there was nothing better than a sunny day. Girls dressed in short dresses or shorts showing off their bodies, the water fights with my friends. Going to the beach or a picnic with my homies, and just sitting in my front yard looking at the bees and dragonflies while sipping on a cup of homemade lemonade.

  Most of all the good times that I’ve had during life have been on sunny days, but now that I’m in here I like the night, the darkness. It’s like a friend, I can’t really explain it but at night when I’m alone it brings me comfort. When I touch down I’ll like sunlight again, but until that day comes, the night sky will be my counterpart.

  PART TWO

  Darkness tries to smother my true being day by day. At times the light shines through all the darkness but that’s very seldom. Happiness is very scarce, too. It feels as if more loneliness, hate, and anger comes as every minute passes. It almost seems as if it’s hereditary, but I know it’s not because I can feel my true being when I’m all alone, thinking about my situation. I can feel freedom when just laying there reminiscing on my past. I believe that I am a good person, I’ve done good things, but nobody wants to listen to that part of the story, they are too caught up in the darkness.

  PART THREE

  During difficult times, I think about freedom and what it really is. Some people say that I don’t have freedom because I’m in jail but I have freedom and lots of it. I may not have as much as a person on the “outs,” but I have enough to make life enjoyable. I can read and write or just sit back and do nothing. Back when black people were slaves they were killed or whipped severely for trying to educate themselves, and that right there helps me to recognize how much freedom I do have. I have spiritual and mental freedom. I can lay on my bed knowing I may never be physically free again, but the Lord allows me to be at peace and have that sense of freedom. Writing also helps me be free. I can create anything with my imagination, pencil, and paper, and before I know it I’ve created something that was in me the whole time, my pencil and paper just helped me let it out, freely.

  “Man,” Francisco said, “that says it all! You got everything in there, homes.”

  “Yeah, but did you get it?” Kevin asked. “Did you get what the meaning is?”

  Francisco shrugged. “What’s not to get? It sucks being locked up, that’s what it means.”

  Kevin folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “I’m not giving any more hints. Somebody’s gotta figure it out.”

  “It’s about opposites,” Jimmy said.

  “Gettin’ warmer.”

  “It’s about how inside every good there’s some bad, and inside every bad there’s some good.”

  Kevin’s eyes widened. “Damn! I didn’t think that shit would work.”

  “I was thinkin’ that,” Francisco muttered, “but I didn’t say it fast enough.”

  This seemed the perfect time to ask a question that had been on my mind since I’d first visited Duane’s class: Did any of them feel that being locked up had been a good experience? Was there anything positive they could say about it?

  They shifted in their chairs and kept their eyes on the table or out the window. At last Kevin said, “I gotta say that, yeah, there’s been some good.”

  Jimmy and Francisco nodded in agreement; Patrick started a new drawing.

  “For example, I been doing better in school,” Kevin continued. “If my trial keeps getting delayed, I may even get my high school diploma, which I never would have done. And now I talk to people that, on the outs, I wouldn’t socialize with unless I was buyin’ somethin’ from them.”

  “Yeah, that’s true for me too.”

  “But I also have to say that there’s a lot of negatives here. Bein’ locked up can make a person feel like they’re no longer a person. It makes you feel lower than people on the outside, and that can destroy your will to succeed.”

  Patrick began erasing vigorously. “I don’t think you learn anything in here,” he muttered. “It’s up to the person. If he or she wants to learn.”

  “Yeah,” Francisco agreed. “How we s’posed to change if we’re surrounded by negativity all the time?”

  Patrick folded the drawing up and put it in his folder. “I mean, they don’t teach you anything in here! They just baby you around. ‘No’ this, ‘no’ that, all you can think about is the mistake you made, and ‘I can’t wait to get out,’ and ‘I’d do this again, or that again.’ The only thing I learned here is how not to be caught next time. I thought this place was supposed to teach you something, but no, it just punishes people. Why should you change your life if all you hear all day is what a worthless piece of shit you are?”

  “OK, that’s true, but check it out,” Francisco argued. “If I hadn’t got locked up, I’d most likely be dead by now. Bein’ locked up sucks, but it’s better than bein’ dead.”

  “I disagree. I wish the cops’d shot me when they busted me. It would’ve saved everybody a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Aw, come on! What happens when you get killed? The homies visit your grave and pour some beer on it! Big fuckin’ deal—by midnight you’re forgotten, you know it’s true. The homies don’t give a shit about you, that’s the bottom line. One takes your clothes, another takes your car, and your best friend fucks your girl the night of the funeral. I don’ wanna be no ghost watchin’ that shit happen. I wanna live.”

  “But this isn’t living!” Patrick argued. “It’s the same as being dead, only you gotta be awake for it. How we supposed to become better people if we can’t have any normal friendships, any normal conversations, any control over what happens to us? How we supposed to change if we got nothing to look forward to? Everything’s abnormal in here, it fucks you up worse than when you got in.”

  “Institutionalized,” Kevin said.

  Francisco glared out the window. “Man, now you gettin’ me all depressed an’ shit.” His bad mood didn’t last long, however. “Hey—check it out! You see what I see?”

  Across the yard, a group of five girls walked single file, hands behind their backs, just ahead of a female staff member.

  “They’re goin’ to the medical module. Damn!”

  “Look at the tits on the one to the rear!”

  “Fuck that, look at the rear on the one with no tits!”

  “Wish I was one a them doctors right now.”

  “Yeah, I’d tell ’em ‘woo-woo heart rate, woo-woo reflexes, now take your pants off.’ ”

  “Time to take your temperature! Don’t be afraid or nothin’, this is just a meat thermometer.”

  As soon as the girls disappeared the room fell silent. I had the feeling that the boys either had forgotten our discussion from before or wanted to forget about it.

  The library door opened and an inmate I had not seen before stuck his head inside. “Excuse me, sir. I gotta talk to Jackson for a second.”

  “He’s the other messenger,” Francisco explained to me.

  Kevin stepped over to the door, where the two boys held a whispered conversation. As they talked, I saw something change hands between them. After the messenger left, Kevin handed the mysterious object to me.

  “It’s from Hall,” he said. “It’s for you. He says he did the writing for today and wants you to read it aloud since he ain’t here.”

  The object turned out to be a full sheet of paper, folded down to the size of a quarter. When I got it open, I read it once silently, then aloud to the class.

  DEEP THOUGHTS

  (My Arcane Beginning)

  by Nathaniel Hall

  Writerr />
  Actor

  Producer

  Entertainer

  Athlete

  I stand in the middle of my room staring out of the window, my mind racing from thought to thought only to stop where it started, the field outside. I review my life from the beginning. My mysteriously forgotten childhood which only exists through stories of my chaotic behavior. Stories so clear in my mind it seems as if I really remember living them. Voices flow through my mind like a soothing melody that carries the key to unlock the cryptic code of my past. The words to the song are unattainable to my conscious mind, but echo repetitively in my dreams. The need to know my past causes me to retreat deeper into myself to ascertain the arcane beginning that brought me to where I stand. The only discovery made is bits of a puzzle that escape my grasp as soon as I reach out to embrace them.

  Why must things be so unclear to me? I search and search for the answers to my questions but I only find myself in a state of desperation reaching out for what I know is there but only finding burnt ashes left behind by a fire that consumed my history and left me doomed to make the mistakes of my past over and over again.

  My dreams are plagued by memories of a time in which I’ve never been. At least, I don’t remember being there.

  I return from my expedition into myself only to find I have more questions about my past than I did when I first started. Will I ever find the answer I search for? Will I ever solve the mysteries of my beginning?

  “Fuck it, I got the answer for him,” Francisco said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Conjugal visits. We got too much time on our hands around here, thinkin’ ’bout all this depressing shit. We need to get laid, that’s what.”

  10 / Prisoner or Pumpkin

  “I’ve really got to quit,” Duane said, leaning against his car to have a cigarette. “But every time I see this place, my willpower disappears.” He paused before lighting it; something had caught his attention. I followed his gaze to the row of palm trees growing beside the juvenile court building. “How long do you suppose it’s been since those things were trimmed?”

  Judging from the number of dead fronds clinging to the trunk of each tree, I guessed fifteen years. Duane guessed twenty.