by Mark Salzman
“Exactly. Don’t cheat your audience.”
“Careful not to mumble, Victor.”
“Louder, Benny.”
“Can you look up from the page and make eye contact with us, Francisco?”
“Then I can’t see the words.”
“Not the whole time, just every few seconds. It makes the audience feel that you’re really talking to them.”
“I’ll try.” He read a line, then paused to stare at me as if I had just challenged him to a fight. Then he read another line. “Like that?”
“Never mind, Francisco. You were fine before.”
The retreat was scheduled to begin at nine and to end at five. When I arrived in the gym on the girls’ side of the facility at 8:30, Sister Janet, Duane, and Karen were already there, collating photocopies of student work to be placed in folders and given to every participant. The writing teachers from E/F and G/H units, Lydia Johnson and Terry Taylor, came in right after me.
Members of the kitchen staff had set up a long table on one side of the room and stocked it with containers of orange juice, plates of blueberry muffins and bagels, and an urn of coffee for the adults. Two custodians and their crew of inmate assistants arrived with a microphone, an amplifier, and a pair of speakers. After plugging it in and testing it, they helped us set up tables and chairs. The gym had one bathroom, the walls of which were scarred with graffiti carved into the paint. The stainless steel sink had graffiti scratched into it, too, as did the ceiling and the mirror; even the toilet seat had been tagged.
At 9:20, with no sign of any kids making their way toward the gym, Sister Janet started pacing. “This is so typical,” she fumed. “I came here three times this week, making sure that every unit knew what was going on, that every kid’s name was on the right list, that every list was in the right office, and that the staff understood how important it was that the kids get here on time. A lot of good it did.” She waited another five minutes, then took off to do battle. The rest of us milled around in the empty gym and drank coffee.
At 9:45, Sister Janet returned with the boys from M/N and K/L units. Of the four staff members who led the boys in, Mr. Granillo was the only one I recognized. I waved to the boys in my group, but they could only nod back. While in transit, the rules of Movement Control were strictly enforced: hands clasped behind the back at all times, no talking allowed.
“Where do you want ’em?” Mr. Granillo asked.
Sister Janet made a sweeping motion with her arm. “Boys, feel free to spread out. Sit wherever you’d like.”
The two units spread out but did not mix. My group occupied several tables on one side of the room, Duane’s did the same on the other side of the room. Predictably, the boys divided themselves according to race: Francisco and Victor claiming one table, Kevin and Nathaniel another, with Jimmy, Patrick, and Benny choosing a third. I comforted myself with the thought that at least they had chosen three tables close together.
Since we were going to be together for a whole day, I thought it would be a good idea to say hello to Mr. Granillo. He leaned against the cinder-block wall, arms folded, watching the boys from under the bill of his cap.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Hey. How ya doin’?”
“It’s the big day.”
“Yep. The guys are excited, that’s for sure. Which table are the girls going to be sitting at?”
“I think the plan is for the girls to sit at the same tables as the guys.”
He rolled his eyes. “This’ll be different.”
Before sitting down with my own group, I went over to greet the boys from Duane’s class. It had been nearly four months since I’d seen them.
“You got your own class now!” Ruben Barreda said, standing up when I approached his table. “That’s cool, man. You must be a good teacher.”
“I’ve enjoyed it a lot. And I have you guys to thank for it.”
Ruben looked pleased to hear that. “That’s nice to know. It feels good to hear something like that around here.” He glanced at the podium and microphone just behind him. “Man—I can’t believe how nervous I feel. I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to do this.”
“Everybody feels nervous about reading in front of people,” I told him. “The hardest part is the waiting. Once you get up there and get past the first sentence, you’re going to be fine.” He looked doubtful, so I added, “Your writing speaks for you. Being nervous might make you uncomfortable, but it won’t take anything away from what you’ve written. Just go up there and deliver the message.”
“I just hope I don’t puke.”
At last I felt free to join the boys from my class. I pulled up a chair and asked how everyone was doing, but they barely responded.
“Hey Mark.”
“Hey.”
Something was wrong. When I asked about it, they shrugged and looked around the room. Sensing I could get information out of him more easily than the others, I cornered Benny Wong. “What’s up? Something feels wrong.”
He leaned in and whispered, “How come you went over to talk with those guys first? They’re our rivals, man.”
I whispered back loud enough for all of the boys to hear, “Strategy.”
Francisco blinked a few times, then started nodding. “I get it! He just playin’ with their minds!”
“Naw, it’s the other way around—he playin’ with our minds, fool!”
“Damn, now I’m confused!”
“If those fools could hear us now, they’d laugh at our sorry asses.”
“We’ll let it go this time, Mark.”
“Yeah, but don’t scare us like that, man. We thought you forgot about us or somethin’.”
“So where are the girls?”
“Yeah, when are they gonna get here, Mark? This tape ain’t gonna last much longer and we wanna make a good first impression.” Francisco was referring to the tape holding the bottoms of his pants legs into cuffs. I began to notice other things: their tops looked fresh from the laundry, Francisco, Kevin, and Patrick had clipped their hair almost to the scalp, Benny and Victor had wetted theirs down and combed it back, Jimmy had found some gel and spiked his, while Nathaniel had combed his hair out into a huge ’fro.
“The girls are coming, don’t worry. You’re looking good, guys. Did everybody remember to bring his work?”
“Don’t trip, Mark, we’re cool. We won’t let you down.”
“Hey Mark—that’s a coffeemaker over there, right?”
“Yes.”
“D’ya think you could get us some coffee? The staff won’t let us have any, but if you get it for us, they won’t do nothin’.”
“Let’s wait until everybody gets here and see what the deal is with the food, guys.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mark!”
“Yeah, man, a little coffee ain’t gonna kill us.”
“And some of them muffins, too. Before everybody else gets here and grabs all the blueberries.”
“We don’ wanna get stuck with the brown ones, Mark. They taste like shit.”
“We’re going to be here all day, guys. Just relax.”
“I thought you said this was gonna be fun?”
“It is. Be patient, you just got here.”
“Aw, man.”
I looked over at Duane’s group and they were leafing quietly through the handouts. They weren’t pestering Duane for coffee or muffins. I felt like a failure.
“Hey Mark—where are the bitches?”
“Don’t use that word, Nathaniel! Especially not today.”
“No problem. Where’s the pussy?”
“Nathaniel—”
“Ha! I’m just playin’ with you, man, don’t trip. Hey—does that mike come off the stand?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“You never heard me rap, Mark! Today’s your chance. And look! There’s a tape player attached to the amp! I was right! I brought a tape, just in case. Can I go check it out?”
He was exhausting me alre
ady. “Have a look at it, but don’t play the tape yet or start rapping. Let’s not do anything until everybody is here.”
“No problem.”
He leapt up from his chair and strode over to the microphone. One of the staff immediately confronted him and told him to sit down.
“But my teacher said it was OK!” he protested, his face a portrait of innocence.
“What teacher?”
“Him—over there.” He pointed me out. The staff member stared at me, then turned and walked away. While Nathaniel examined the audio equipment, two more writing classes filed in and occupied the tables in the middle of the room. It was 10:00 and the girls were nowhere to be seen.
“Mark, this is getting boring, man.”
“We’ll get started soon.”
“I need some coffee or I’m gonna fall asleep.”
All of a sudden, a window-rattling rhythm thundered out of the speakers. It was the kind of music you hear coming out of cars with miniature tires and darkened windows. Nathaniel had put in his tape and started it. I waved for him to cut it off, but he pretended not to see me. He fiddled with the volume, turning it down at first but then bringing it up even louder than before. The room came alive; every kid was swaying to the beat now, tapping out the rhythm with hands and feet and talking all at once. Not even the kids from Duane’s group could resist. Nathaniel picked up the microphone, turned it on and said, “Test! Test! One, two, three—can you feel me?”
“That’s it, Hall! Kick one!”
“Yeah, I hear that. How’s everybody doin’ today?”
Thump, thump, boom. Thumpa-thumpa-boom.
I got over to the stage as quickly as I could without running and told Nathaniel to turn it off.
“Why? It’s not bothering anybody? Look—they like it!”
“I know they like it, Nathaniel. But I asked you not to play the tape and you said you wouldn’t. You’ve got to turn it off now, it’s not time for this yet.”
He delayed, pretending not to know how it worked, but eventually turned it off and returned to his seat. From the look on his face, I had a feeling he would not be speaking to me for the rest of the day. I checked my watch; it was 10:03. Seven hours of this to go, I thought, and already I could feel a tension headache forming just behind my right eye.
The activity in the room that had started when Nathaniel turned on the music didn’t stop. Voices and laughter echoed in the gym, along with the squawks of plastic chair legs scraping across the floor. Everybody was in motion, even though they were sitting down. Nothing organized was happening, and the staff looked uneasy.
And then the girls showed up.
A woman nearly the size of Mr. Jenkins sporting a coach’s whistle around her neck entered the gym first. She was outraged by what she saw: boys at every table. She took charge immediately and shooed a group away from a table in the center of the room. With a safe haven created, she waved with her hand and a line of five girls, hands behind their backs and heads bowed forward, marched into the room. The room had become so quiet you could hear their footsteps. With thirty or so pairs of adolescent male eyes on them, none of the girls dared to look up. They looked like rabbits being led into a coyote pen.
Two of the girls were black, three were Latina. One of the Latinas, a petite girl not yet old enough to drive, was obviously pregnant.
Sister Janet approached the woman in charge of the girls and explained that we wanted the different groups to mix— especially the boys and girls, since they had built up so many negative stereotypes about each other.
“Oh no,” the guard said, shaking her head for emphasis. “Absolutely not. No way I’m putting my girls at those tables. These minors can listen to each other read, but that’s as far as it goes.”
Sister Janet let the matter rest. She went to the podium, adjusted the microphone for her height, then welcomed everyone to the first Inside Out Writers retreat. After thanking the volunteers, the staff, and the administration for making the event possible, she spoke directly to the kids.
“I want to thank you for making a dream come true. To see young people who feel they have no voices begin to find their voices. Your work has impressed us deeply, and it has already touched more people than you know. But this is only the beginning. You must believe me when I say that our world cannot be complete without you, and without hearing what you have to say.
“True justice cannot exist without compassion; compassion cannot exist without understanding. But no one will understand you unless you speak, and are able to speak clearly. And that’s exactly what you have been doing in your classes. Everyone in this room is proud of what you’ve done so far, and looks forward to hearing from you today.”
She asked Mario, a serious-looking boy from Duane’s group, if he would lead everyone in a prayer. As soon as Mario took the microphone and bowed his head, everyone in the room followed his example. No one snickered, no one squirmed. Mario thanked God for this beautiful day, for bringing light to such a dark place, and for giving everyone in the room the opportunity to do meaningful work. When he finished with the prayer, Duane joined him at the podium and explained that for the next hour the microphone would be open. Whoever wanted to read should feel free to do so. Then he and Mario sat down.
At first, nothing happened. The kids pretended to read their handouts, they doodled in their notepads. Then, at each table, several kids began urging the most extroverted member of their group to stand up. On my side of the room, it was Nathaniel who became the focus of attention.
“Come on, man, you gotta get up there.”
“Yeah, homes, you said you would.”
“I’ll go later.”
“Naw, go now.”
“Chill, man. I want to scope things out first.”
“Somebody’s gotta go first, homes.”
“Why don’t you go, then?”
“ ’Cause I don’t read as good as you. The first one’s gotta be good.”
The guys tugged at Nathaniel’s shirt, trying to dislodge him from his chair.
“I ain’t ready to read yet! Leggo my shirt, man, you wrinklin’ it!”
“Get up, Hall.”
“We got a volunteer!” Francisco shouted, his hand raised as high as it could go, with the index finger pointing down at Nathaniel. Patrick and Kevin started clapping.
Nathaniel put up a good show of resistance, but he was not about to let anyone beat him to the podium. The moment someone from one of the other groups raised his hand to volunteer, Nathaniel bolted up from his seat, the plastic chair making a loud noise as it skidded backwards.
“If no one else’ll do it, I guess I’ll have to,” he grumbled, making sure his route to the microphone took him past the girls’ table.
He read his story about the iceberg prison, rushing at the beginning but eventually settling into a good pace. When he reached the end of it, where he declares the moral (“This story is an example of the consequences of being incarcerated without being given the education and the skills to make it in the world”), the audience gave him an ovation. The retreat had begun! When he returned to his seat, I gave him the thumbs-up signal and he motioned for me to come closer. I leaned in and he asked, “Should I hit ’em with the rap next? They seem ready for it.”
The throbbing behind my eyes started again.
“There aren’t any cusswords in it!” he reassured me. “I took ’em all out, I know the drill. And it’s got a positive message in the end.”
“Can you do it without the music?” I asked. “So we can hear the lyrics?”
He made a slicing motion in front of his throat. “It’ll sound weak that way. What you got against rap, Mark?”
“I don’t have anything against rap,” I said, lying. “But once you play that tape, everybody’s going to get excited and no one’s going to want to sit still and listen to essays or poems anymore. Let’s save it for the end of the day, it can be the finale.”
“You’re just hopin’ I’ll forget about it.”<
br />
“Nathaniel, we’re going to be here for another seven hours. There’ll be plenty of time for you to rap—all I’m asking is that you wait until everybody else has had a chance to read their work first.”
He thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “I can do that.”
“Thanks. So how did it feel being up there just now, reading to such a large audience?”
“It felt good. How did I sound?”
“You sounded great. I’m proud of you—you made us look good.”
“Thanks. So you gonna hook me up with some coffee now? For good behavior?”
“No, but you have my gratitude, which is far more important.”
“If I promise not to bug you for the rest of the day, will you get me some coffee?”
“Nope.”
He grinned. “So you’re sayin’ you want me to bug you, then?”
“Shhhh!” Francisco signaled, pointing toward the stage. “Somebody else is readin’! Listen up, fool.”
Ruben made his way to the podium and read “Clouds,” the essay about seeing beyond the graffiti carved into his cell window. His classmate Nicqueos got up next and read about being abandoned by his mother at the age of four, raised by his grandmother for several years, then put into foster care. When he was thirteen the courts returned him to the custody of his mother, but she turned out to be nothing like the woman he had assembled in his dreams. She was arrested within a year, and Nicqueos went back to a group home. “Ever since then,” he told us, “I’ve been in a rebellious stage. I still don’t know where I belong.”
Nicqueos barely acknowledged the applause he received; the moment he finished reading he went back to his seat, looking more relieved than exhilarated.
“Well, that settles that,” Patrick said, stuffing his own work back into his folder. “Good luck, you guys—you’re on your own. I ain’t readin’ my shit in here, these guys are good.”
Francisco began fussing with the crease on one of his pant legs. “Damn! That was some fine-ass writing.”
“It just means we gotta take it to another level!” Nathaniel insisted. “Look—we got pencils and paper and all day to come up with stuff. This is what it’s all about!”
