Friday night was our third writing
class at Stillwater prison. We are working with offenders at Level 4, one step
down from lifers, although we don’t know what they have done and we don’t ask.
The group consists of nine men, only two born and raised in Minnesota. Two are
Mexican, two are Hmong and one is black. Their ages are hard for me to gauge,
nowadays almost everyone seems younger than I, but some are in their
twenties and one has grey hair. Four have previously taken writing classes and come to
class with folders full of poems and stories that they have written.
We are locked in a classroom, with
a dry erase board, and tables formed into a square, but there is a glass window
so the guards can watch and we are given “squealers”, small gadgets that fit
into our pockets. If we pull the pin, they will emit a high pitched squeal to
bring guards running. The outside world disappears, though, as we read, write,
and listen. Even shouting in the halls outside our door is tuned out as we
concentrate on the magic of creative writing. Their desire to improve their writing
is tangible. The first class amazed us with the
honesty, self-awareness, and quality of some of the writing. We continue to be
amazed with every class.
We can’t meet the third Friday of
the month, so I gave them homework. Their assignment was to read an interview
by Michael Meade, author of Fate and Destiny: The Two
Agreements of the Soul and write on “How to move from Fate to Destiny”. I
asked them to write about their backgrounds: their ancestors, family,
community, neighborhood, and cultures.
Xee, a young Hmong man and
beginner writer, admitted that he struggled with the assignment. He said he
asked about 12 men in his cell block what they thought it meant and some told
him that they don’t believe in either. He continued, “I got a lot of help
in writing this.” before reading his piece. He started with describing his parents
fleeing the Laotian war to become refugees. Tears came into my eyes as he described their
terror as they fled for their lives. Then he described the culture shock of living
in the states, the challenges for the Hmong community as gangs were formed, and
how he got swept up in it. He described his transformation while in
prison to change and to choose peace. It was a hand written story of eight
pages, coherent, articulate, and moving. He shyly smiled while we applauded.
The next piece read was also by a
beginner, the other Hmong man, and he wrote about the ceremonies and beliefs
around death, mourning and burial of one’s ancestors before tackling the
cultural shock of being a refugee. He had us laughing at his shock of being hugged by a little blond girl when he was a child. Again, I was
astounded.
And the black writer, with writing experience and a deep melodious voice, wrote a piece that had us on the
edge of our seats as he described an ordinary outing for ice cream with his
family. The word “nigger” was shouted at them from a moving car, the first time
he had ever heard that word, and then he heard a loud popping sound. His mother
managed to hustle them home before he realized that she had been shot.
Around the circle, we heard things that are beautiful, moving, terrible, and thoughtful. I told them that I
knew this was a hard assignment, and I admired them for tackling it, and
tackling it well.
The homework assignment for this
week is what it means to be a man: what they were told and what they have since
realized. Jimmy Santiago Baca’s Crying
Poem is the prompt. I can’t wait to hear what they write.
The teaching
assistant and I walk out of the prison shaking our heads at how such bright,
articulate men could have ended up here. We know that for some, it was under the
influence and youthful arrogance and we also realize we are working with the
men who want to change, who want to grow and find meaning in their experience.
The walls dissolve, around us and
between us, as we celebrate the power of words to express what is deepest
within us: our fears and desires, our longing for circumstances to be different,
our realizations that we have to work with what we have, our awareness that we
are on a journey, a journey of self-discovery. I feel privileged to be a small
part of their journey, as they are part of mine.
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