Judith taught one of the poetry classes and she suggested I jot down my thoughts and feelings, however those thoughts and feelings wanted to come out. She pronounced no “shoulds” or “should nots.” I did the exercises, but kept the writing to myself. I sat in the back of the class with empty chairs surrounding me. Judith allowed me to absorb what I needed in silence, which made it possible to listen in the ways I needed to listen and to slowly transform inside. It was like setting a plant in a saucer of water to soak in what it needs for that moment. I do not know how she knew to leave me in silence but still somehow include me in the class. It might be her innate skills as an artist teacher to gauge and engage within each student their own inner voice. She knew what books to turn each student on to, the exact book that would enlighten. I learned that the universal truths able to touch souls and hearts are personal. With each class, I felt something freeing up inside me. Some emotion, some heart. Some wild unbreakable stallions that had been trapped in stalls were freed to roam the earth once again.
Having the doors of poetry opened to me by a woman was, I think, very important. As men in prison, we were caught up in a macho, masks-always-on, non-feeling world. In this setting, deep in one of the basement classrooms at San Quentin, having a woman artist teach me poetry was, at times, surreal. It allowed a full integration and expression of self through art.
My prison journey and my studies had taught me to observe the changes, the vibes, the sounds, and pitches that buzzed around me. I focused in on, or felt, everyone’s gestures, voices, or moves. Silence gave me amazing focus and depth. I had heard Judith speak from the heart, nearly in tears, as some of the fellows in the group drilled her about her motives and reasons for coming inside San Quentin to teach. For me, either I trust somebody or I don’t. I trusted Judith instantly and trusted what she had to offer and impart. I had no need to test, insult, or belittle her. What people are usually speaks like the sky.
Judith’s words, and my fellow students’ words, revealed a map to their minds, hearts, and souls. They were not nearly as much strangers to me as I was to them in my shades, chairs, and silence. This silence made many folks, including some prisoners and staff, wonder why I kept coming back after each Monday night class. The conversations, the lessons, as well as the observations I made, stretched my mind and deepened my heart. I felt more in tune with my own inner thoughts and world. When I went back to the cell after class, I read and wrote sometimes all night.
At first in my prison journey, I had just wanted to know what a word meant and how words were constructed into sentences so that high society and political folks like lawyers, doctors, and professors would not be able to say just anything and leave me not understanding. Now, in Judith’s class, I began to embrace words in a new way and to allow words to embrace me. Words swarmed inside me like honeybees and took me places—imaginary and true—from the past, present, and future.
Almost everything I encountered in the poetry class was new, raw, inspiring, and fodder for my mind and heart to chew on. My journey had led me here, my whole life had become words—reading words, listening to words. Words slowly opened me up as I began to string them together, like swallows building their nests in spring. I had not learned yet how to stand out of the way and allow the muses to bring their gifts, but the gates of poetry had opened. There were so many images and visions inside me waiting for a way to come out, images and visions that must have lived within me—unrecognized—for decades.
For as a youngster, like a lot of young people in the free world, I lived on the edge of society, with no forum, form, or way to express what was on the inside. I had felt out of place in school, unheard and unseen. Though when I was about two-and-a-half tumbleweeds high, I looked out of my parents’ bedroom window and watched some of my brothers and their friends prance across the field, stopping every so often, battling to establish leadership, playing follow-the-leader up into the sky over the railroad tracks. I knew the bridge they walked on led somewhere, maybe not over any rainbow, but to a place called school where all the kids older than I went. They seemed happy to go and they stayed all day long. I thought the fun must be endless.
I was five years old when I finally made it across the field and over the bridge. Kindergarten was fun. I liked the finger painting, the naps, the snacks, and playing at recess. I even loved my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Tereese. I liked her name, which sounded like Ms. Treat. I liked how I was able to walk right into her smile when she said “Hello, good morning.” Her voice made me think of the cooing of our pigeons.
But one day, while standing in line to return to class from recess, another little boy punched me. Being a natural little boy, I punched him back. Games among little boys often start from punching and both our punches would have soon been forgotten, leaving no scars. But when I punched the other boy back, Ms. Tereese slapped me. With all her 20/20 vision, apparently she hadn’t seen the first punch and that I had only defended myself. The slap was not that bad, but the pain in my heart hurt a great deal and served as an awakening. I didn’t understand why I had a swollen face and not the other boy, too.
In first grade, Miss Rude slapped my hands a few times with a ruler and introduced my behind to the pine. From then on in school, I knew there was no justice, or if there was, it was selective. My second grade teacher, the white Mr. Williams, confirmed this. At times it seemed like every day I was getting paddled. I often wondered was it the way I looked, walked, or didn’t talk? Or was there a neon sign on my butt which read, “Swat me if you are bored or have energy to expend”? Did all the teachers go off to lunch each day and decide who would guide the pine?
I still tried to learn, dabbling with printing and cursive writing. But the abuse picked up. After the paddlings in second grade from the white Mr. Williams, I went on to more of the same from the black Mr. Williams in third grade. It was equal opportunity paddling on me back in those days of the Civil Rights Movement. From then on, learning something proper and real was out of the question.
Even the principal, Mr. Chavez, got into the show. One day, in the hallway, he pulled me to the side and said, “Boy, you will never graduate from high school.” I looked at him and wondered why he told me that. I did not know what graduate meant and what it had to do with high school, a place I had never even seen. But the words shot a hole in my already weak self-esteem.
The white Mr. Williams seemed to follow me from grade to grade. I remember him breaking two or three paddles on my butt in one session because I refused to cry. My ass must have built up calluses and my mind unwavering anger, pride, and strength. Mr. Williams swatted me so long one day, he seemed to cry from exhaustion.
One beautiful late spring day during recess on the playground, stretching my neck like a giraffe, I saw the white Mr. Williams go into the dark basement storage room under the auditorium near the outside ramp that led down from the cafeteria. We were playing four square—Andrew, Willie, Randy, Felix, and Clyde. My friend, Isaac and his neighbor, Gloria, along with other kids, hung on the fringe of the game waiting their turn to play. Andrew stood next to me. I pointed to Mr. Williams who had unlocked the basement door and left the lock on the hinge.
“So?” said Andrew.
“I’ll close the door on him.”
“I dare you. You are not that crazy.”
“You’re not doing nothing!” said Willie.
“I’ll lock his ass in there!”
“I bet you won’t.”
“A peanut patty.”
“I’ll do it for nothing!”
I slapped the rubber four square ball away and strolled across the playground. It was a warm day and I could smell the hot lunch simmering from the cafeteria and knew it was beef tacos and corn. I licked my lips like a young lion club sniffing meat. I could hear the leaves breathe softly in the desert heat.
As I walked, I sensed that Andrew, Willie, Randy, and Clyde were in tow. Then I saw Isaac and Gloria. Gloria was the prettiest and most athletic girl in school. She ran faster than most boys and beat a lot of us in tetherball. I joined the Christmas choir