Ill fly away, p.2
I'll Fly Away, page 2
The DOC’s chief spokesman denied that these things were happening, but CBS’s Sixty Minutes had evidence to the contrary. And when they aimed their cameras at Attorney General Blumenthal, he suddenly, if belatedly, understood the rehabilitative value of the women’s writing and announced the reinstatement of the program and the settlement of the lawsuit.
In the months that followed, ironies abounded. The settlement terms required the inmate writers to donate a portion of their earnings to the very writing program corrections officials had sought to eliminate. With his department facing a wrongful death suit from the family of a mentally ill inmate who had died while being restrained by guards, as well as lawsuits that alleged he had tolerated the sexual harassment of female employees under his command, Armstrong retired as commissioner and headed for Iraq, where he took a position as the deputy director of operations for the Iraqi prison system.
Armstrong’s successor, Commissioner Theresa Lantz, directed computer techs to resurrect from those hard drives the inmates’ erased work; about 90 percent of it was eventually restored. In 2005, Barbara Parsons was released from prison and Governor Rowland became an inmate. He served a ten-month sentence for felonious “conspiracy to steal honest service”* at a federal prison in Pennsylvania that seems far more like a Club Med resort than the high-tech (and leaky-roofed) gulags built in Connecticut at his behest.
The writing of Couldn’t Keep It to Myself was wrenching for the women who bared their souls and its publication was hard-won, but the unpredicted ripple effect caused by its existence has proven worth the pain. Without ever having met my teacher Gladys Swan, the inmates had followed her advice by writing what they needed to write and letting the audience that needed to find it, find it. The book has gone into foreign translation, and here in the United States has become required reading for middle school and high school students, sociology and psychology majors, and law enforcement officers. Just last week I received word from the Netherlands that a Rotterdam-based theater group, De Theaterstraat, has made a play based on the women’s words. Just last night I attended Time In, the Judy Dworin Performance Ensemble’s heart-wrenching, spirit-lifting interpretation of the inmates’ writing in dance, song, and spoken word. Also seated in the audience was eighty-year-old Janet York, the former warden and namesake of the prison. York’s progressive policies, her emphasis on inmate education, and the institution’s low recidivism rates while she was warden earned the institution the nickname “the prison that cures with kindness.” At the end of the performance, Janet York approached me, took my hands in hers, and squeezed. I’ve never received a more eloquent thank-you.
And there’s more. When SeniorNet, an online website service for people over fifty, featured Couldn’t Keep It to Myself in its monthly book discussion, the women’s essays triggered an initiative. To date, SeniorNet members, under the leadership of Ginny Anderson, have collected and shipped thousands of books to American prison libraries. And back home, the book begat a change in the law. At the urging of Attorney General Blumenthal and several key legislators, the state of Connecticut no longer is permitted to sue its inmates for the cost of their incarceration in response to the rehabilitative work they do. For me, there was a final, personal sweetness: after the dust had settled, I received an unexpected package in the mail from Couldn’t Keep It to Myself’s publisher, Judith Regan. When I opened it, out slipped a thirty-fifth anniversary edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. It was signed by Harper Lee.
A fiction writer weaves a fabric of lies in hopes of revealing deeper human truths. I aim for truth in my novels, and in my teaching and parenting. Jared, that infant who helped birth my writing life, is now twenty-five. A Teach for America–trained educator, he’s had his heart captured by the inner-city schoolchildren of storm-tossed New Orleans.* Jared infuses his kids with learning and hope, and his dad tries to do the same for his students. The blessings we receive in return far outweigh what we give.
My former students—the Couldn’t Keep It to Myself contributors who have served their time and been freed—are thriving. One, a recovering alcoholic who entered prison after a DUI fatality, now speaks to high school groups alongside members of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. She is in the tenth year of her sobriety. Another has become an advocate for the homeless at Fellowship Place, a New Haven–based organization that services the mentally ill. A third is a hotel chef. A fourth is a property manager for Goodwill of Austin, Texas. Barbara Parsons works at a plant nursery and cares for the elderly. In her spare time, she writes to change things for the better. Shy by nature, Parsons has become an articulate public speaker and an advocate for the victims of domestic violence and the rights of incarcerated women.
Meanwhile, back at York Prison, the writing program has expanded and is going strong. “I know sometimes it’s hard to understand those of us in the corrections field,” Commissioner Lantz once told me. “Admittedly, we’re a different breed.” Fair enough. I try to walk around for a while in the spit-shined shoes of those uniformed officers in charge of safety and security so that I might feel what life feels like from a perspective not my own. Sometimes it helps me understand their actions. Sometimes it doesn’t. On my visits to York Prison, I teach, watch, and listen. I speak up when I need to. And to the credit of the current warden, his superiors, and his staff, institutional silence has been replaced with honest dialogue. There are signs, small ones at this point, that the DOC pendulum has begun to swing away from the counterproductive “punishment” model and move instead toward a model that supports rehabilitation, reintegration, and alternatives to incarceration for juvenile offenders, the mentally ill, and others inappropriately imprisoned. I believe it is incumbent on all of us—legislators and justices, policymakers and private citizens—to encourage this more enlightened course.
So call me both the accidental novelist and the accidental activist. I have come to believe firmly that the more transparent the prison walls, the better and more humane the prison—and the world at large. My students believe that, too. They choose as subject matter their past lives, their past mistakes, and their day-to-day existence as prisoners. They have been writing up a storm and I’ll Fly Away is the result. They are grateful to you for reading their work. I am, too.
I.
When I Was a Child…
There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.
—DEEPAK CHOPRA
A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.
—EDWARD DE BONO
And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses—would you not then still have your childhood…that treasure-house of memories?
—RAINER MARIA RILKE
Florida Memories
BY BONNIE JEAN FORESHAW
It’s Thursday morning at 6:00 A.M., and we two have just arrived at the open-air flea market, the largest in south Florida. I’m an apprentice shopper and my teacher is my Aunt Mandy. Later this morning, the market will be hot and crowded—alive with music, laughter, gossip, and bartering about the price of everything from necklaces to nectarines. But at the moment, it’s cool and quiet. Our focus is fish.
“Pay close attention to the eyes of the fish,” Aunt Mandy instructs as we walk from stall to stall. “If the eyes are clear, not cloudy, and the color of the skin’s not fading, then the fish is fresh.” Auntie’s dressed for shopping in a pink sleeveless blouse, burgundy pedal pushers, Italian sandals, and a white sun visor. I’m wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and rubber flip-flops. I am tall for my age, and starting to get the kind of shape men take a second look at. My glasses take up half my face. “But you have to shop with your finger and your nose, too, not just your eyes,” Auntie instructs. “Poke the fish gently near its fin. If it leaves a dent, then you don’t want it. If it doesn’t, it’s probably part of the morning’s catch. And listen to me, Jeannie. Fresh fish never smells foul.”
We stop at one of the stalls where the fish are lined up, one against the other, on a bed of ice. The fish man approaches us. He’s handsome—black hair, hazel eyes, tank top and cut-off jeans. “May I help you, ma’am?” I watch him take in Aunt Mandy’s curves, her green eyes and honey-colored complexion. I might as well be invisible.
“Well, maybe you can,” Auntie says. “Oh, by the way, I’m Mandy and this is my niece, Jeannie. Now what’s your name?”
“I’m Ricardo,” the fish man says. He’s sucking in his stomach, and his feet are moving up and down like he’s trying to stretch his height. “It’s nice to meet you, Mandy.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Now tell me, Ricardo, how much you want for these five yellowtails?”
“Well, let’s see. They’re seventy-five cents apiece, so that’s a total of…” He stops to watch Auntie pass her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. It’s salt-and-pepper-colored, but Mandy’s still got it. “Uh, three seventy-five.”
“Oh,” Auntie says, half-shocked and half-disappointed. “That fellow three stalls down says he’s selling his yellowtails for fifty cents each. So unless we can work out a deal…”
The smile drops off of Mr. Ricardo’s face, but Auntie’s smile returns. Her gold tooth is glimmering. She shifts her weight, puts her hand on her hip.
“Mandy, it’s a deal,” Ricardo says. “Five yellowtails for two-fifty. That’s a dollar twenty-five cut I’m giving you.”
“Which I appreciate,” Auntie says. “And look at it this way: you’ve just gained yourself a faithful customer. Now, tell me. How much you selling those red snappers for? If I can get them for the same price as the yellowtails, I’ll buy some of them, too. And conch.”
I stand there looking from one to the other. Auntie touches the small gold cross at her throat. She fingers her earring. I can tell Mr. Ricardo is only pretending to do the math in his head. “Okay,” he finally says. “Sold.”
Auntie pays for the fish and conch, thanks him, and we walk away. A few stalls down from Mr. Ricardo’s, she turns to me. “Okay, now,” she says. “Show me a fresh fish.”
I go up and down the row, looking each fish in the eye, then pick one up by its tail. I turn it, look at its other eye, study its coloration. When I press my finger against its head, near the fin, there’s no indentation. “This one.”
Her look is serious. “You think this fish is fresh?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
Aunt Mandy flashes me her gold-toothed smile. “Well, Jeannie, now you know how to pick fresh fish.”
I’m excited to have passed the test, but I’ve been wondering something. “Auntie?” I say. “I don’t remember going to any other fish stalls before we went to Mr. Ricardo’s.”
She laughs. “You and I knew that, but Ricardo didn’t. It’s one of the tricks of the trade when you shop at the flea market. But bear in mind, Ricardo would rather make a sale than not sell. If he has fish left at the end of the day, that’s a loss and a waste for him. So we were doing him a favor. Now, come on. Let’s cross the street and I’ll teach you how to pick out vegetables and fruit.”
We meander among the tomatoes and squashes, the potatoes and mangoes and plums. Shopping for fresh produce is a matter of looking and smelling, but mostly of feeling, Auntie says. “Fruits and vegetables can get damaged by cold weather, the way they’re packed, or how far they’ve traveled to get to the market. If the skin is firm, that means it’s fresh. If it’s loose, then it isn’t. And always check for bruises.”
Although I’m listening to my aunt, it’s the peaches in the stall to my right that have my attention. They’re big and beautiful, golden yellow with blushes of pink, and their aroma makes my mouth juice up. I’m thinking about how I might get myself one of those peaches.
“Pick us out some bananas,” Auntie says. It’s test number two.
My eyes pass over several bunches before I pick one up. I check each banana, one by one, then walk over to Auntie, who is examining pears. “These are nice, firm, and yellow,” I say, handing her the bunch I’ve chosen. “Tight skin, no bruises.”
She twists the bunch back and forth, then nods her approval. “Good job,” she says. Smiling all over myself, I decide to seize the moment. “Auntie, may I get a few peaches?”
“Sure,” she says. “Get about six.”
I examine the peaches as carefully as I did the bananas, and Aunt Mandy is satisfied with the ones I’ve chosen. “You’ve done an excellent job,” she says.
We pay up and gather our bags. “I am sooo hungry, Auntie,” I say. “May I have a peach?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll have one, too,” she says.
I hold mine before me and, salivating, take my first bite. Ahhh. My taste buds jump alive; the juice runs down my chin. I eat hungrily, devouring my peach in record time. “Mmm, this peach is good,” Auntie says. I look at her, enviously. Half of hers is left, but I’ve eaten mine down to the seed. I suck on it for a while before I pull it from my mouth and toss it away.
Time passes, the sun beats down, and the aisles clog with customers. There’s music now. On someone’s radio, Bob Marley’s singing, Buffalo Soldier, dreadlock Rasta, stolen from Africa… I can feel the bass vibrate. Although I’m young, I already understand that reggae is the music of history and truth, and that it invites your body to dance and sway to the message. Around the corner, there’s Latin music, with its horns and powerful drumbeats. No need to understand Spanish; it’s the rhythm that matters. One couple’s dancing the salsa, another the cha-cha-cha. Fingers snapping, they move forward, backward, the woman’s hips swaying. At the end of the stalls, someone’s blasting R & B—Aretha! R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Find out what it means to me. Everyone knows the words to this one. People are doing their own little jiggy dances, singing along with attitude. Auntie’s all into it. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” she laughs. “My girl Aretha can sing it for me any time!”
By noon, the flea market’s alive and up-tempo—part shopping, part festival. People are smiling, laughing, price-arguing, swaying to the beat. Even the old folks and the little kids are moving to the music. But the noonday heat has no mercy. “Now you know why we come so early,” Aunt Mandy says. “We’ve bought everything we need, and at good prices. Time to go.”
And so we do. Walking home, I feel happy and successful. I’ve learned how to shop. I’ve eaten the tastiest peach of my whole life. And I can almost taste those pan-fried yellowtails, those conch fritters, deep-fried and golden brown.
“Hey, what happened to you last week? I didn’t see you.”
“Oh, I was on vacation. Took the family to Virginia Beach.”
At the south Florida flea market, the relationships formed between buyers and sellers were lasting ones. Over the years, our family and Ricardo’s—his brother Carlos, Carlos’s wife Maria, their children Miguel, Ramon, and Sonia, their cousins Ruben and Pedro—came to know each other well. They gave us good deals on the fish they sold, and we, as my aunt had promised, became their loyal customers and friends. I moved away from south Florida in my twenties, but whenever I returned home, I made it a point to go to the flea market to shop for bargains, visit my friends, and savor the sweet sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of life.
And although I listened to these words many, many years ago, I can still hear my Aunt Mandy speak them: “Always remember that the vendors want to sell perishable food rather than carry it home, Jeannie, so you can get a reasonable price if you work at it.” I have practiced Auntie’s advice all my life, and have taught my children as she taught me.
Here’s a recipe for how to live a good life.
When you shop, use your eyes, your nose, your fingers, and your brain. Look both the dead and the living in the eye. Don’t just listen to the music—feel it—and when you sing along with Aretha, do it with attitude. Dance if you want to, or if you have to. Smile when you’re bartering. Laugh any time. Dress up, not down. Buy fresh. Don’t pay too much.
Kidnapped!
BY ROBIN LEDBETTER
You’re suspended!”
“Suspended? She started it!” I was outraged.
“I don’t care, Robin,” the vice principal said. “You’re always being sent to this office. For God’s sake, you just got back from suspension two weeks ago.”
I was still feeling the effects of the fight I’d just had: the sound of blood thundering in my ears, the bitter taste in my mouth. But I was coming down from my adrenaline high and the reality of my situation was hitting me. I looked the vice principal in the eye. “You can’t suspend me, Mr. G. All I did was defend myself.”
“Not only can I suspend you, Robin, but I can move to have you expelled if you and Tasha get into one more fight.” When he reached for his Rolodex, I sprang from my chair and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.
“Don’t call her!” I begged. “Don’t do this to me!”
He swatted my hands away. “What the…Have you lost your mind, child?”
Fighting tears, I sank back into my seat. I hated Mr. G: his push-broom mustache, his stupid baseball trophies, the framed photos of his children on his desk. His cozy, carpeted office with its potted plants was out of place in our rundown school. I looked at a picture of him shaking hands with some guy. He thinks he’s such a big shot, I thought; well, maybe he is, but he’s not to me.
“Robin?…Robin!” Mr. G was snapping his fingers in front of my face.
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me, young lady. You’ll stay after school for detention tonight, and beginning tomorrow, you’re suspended for two weeks. Here’s your letter home.” He scrawled a few sentences on a suspension slip and handed it to me. “I’ll call your grandmother later…. I hate to call her again. Lord, I feel so sorry for that lady.”
