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comment on how pleasant we all seemed and

what a change she had noticed since first coming

to the apartment. She was very pleased with our

progress as a family, and she was convinced it was

Matthew who had caused me so much harm. She

gave us weekly updates on Matthew, who was

living with an older woman who had had years of

experience with foster children. According to the

reports Matthew was doing well.

She said he seemed happy and settled, but that it

was time that he come home, so we could all be

together again. I pleaded with the social worker

as I had when she had originally taken Matthew,

but this time because I didn’t want the happiness

to end. I did not fear the future. I had gotten a

taste of Matthew’s relationship with Bobby, and I

didn’t want it to end. It was plain to me why

Matthew was so happy with Bobby. Unwilling to

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give up the relationship that had formed between

us all, I continued to beg the social worker to

keep Matthew away. She refuted my pleas by

suggesting that Matthew was a calm and happy

boy. She promised that he would not cause me

any more problems. Knowing I could never tell

the truth, I stopped pleading and sat quietly by

my mother’s side. The social worker told us that

Matthew would be returning home in a few days

and that we should all prepare ourselves for his

return.

On April 18, Matthew returned home with an

unfamiliar suitcase. He was accompanied by the

same social worker that had been visiting us, but

there were no police officers as there had been

when Matthew had left. His suitcase was full of

new clothes and toys that he pulled out and

displayed to us excitedly. He was exuberant to be

back in the apartment, and Bobby and Debbie

were giving him a hero’s welcome. There was a

cake, laughter, and group hugs. I sat on the couch

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and sulked, knowing the good times were over.

The social worker scolded me for not joining in

the revelry and suggested that Matthew and I

attend counseling sessions to work out our

differences. She offered to set it all up, but Debbie

declined in favor of first “seeing how it goes.” The

social worker left happier than I had ever seen

her.

Evening came, and Debbie tried to stay in to be

with Matthew. Bobby became angry at her short-

lived refusal to work. As she went out the door

dressed in her street clothes, I knew that

everything would be back to normal soon. I sat

on the couch watching TV with Matthew, as I

had with Bobby while Matthew was gone. Bobby

came over to the couch with a smoldering joint.

In a motion I mistook for generosity, Bobby’s

hand came down and pushed me off the couch.

He handed the joint to Matthew and spoke while

holding his breath, “I bet that old bitch didn’t

give you any of this in’at foster home.” He

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coughed out a short burst of laughter as the air

filled with smoke. I sat on the floor, looking at the

two of them on the couch with disdain. They

passed the joint back and forth between them a

few times before Bobby put it into an ashtray on

the coffee table next to me. It was then he seemed

to notice me.

“Get us a couple of beers.” He instructed. I

hopped up quickly and returned with three

bottles of beer. Bobby took all three, opened two

and put the third between his legs. He handed

one of the open bottles to Matthew.

“Welcome home son,” he said to Matthew,

holding his bottle up in Matthew’s direction.

Matthew held up his own bottle and clinked it

against Bobby’s. Speechless, I stood staring at the

two of them.

“What da fuck you lookin at? Damn boy, aint you

got somethin’ ta do? Get the fuck outta here. Go

play with yer toys or somethin’.” With a wave of

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his bottle I was dismissed, and order returned to

the apartment.

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Time passed quickly for me at the JDC under

Tre’s guidance. I felt at ease in my new position

after only a few weekends on the job. Soon

enough, I felt like I’d been there for years,

although I began to notice minute details that no

one seemed to know, notice, or really care about,

particularly the Center’s library. The library

consisted of a two-foot by five-foot “locker” half-

filled with over-worn paperback books nearly as

old as me. There were no guidelines as to what

the kids could read. We passed out books as kids

requested them, though few seemed interested in

the books they were given. However, some of the

kids seemed truly interested in reading, even if

just to kill time.

I had begun collecting books long ago. My

personal classroom library was full of books of all

reading levels that I had picked out to secretly

coax reluctant readers into becoming avid

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readers. Picture books were an especially useful

tool in this area. While my students of all ages

would poke fun at my having picture books, they

would inevitably grab one at some point to try to

understand why I found them so fascinating. I

also made a regular practice of presenting picture

books in class – even to a room full of high school

students.

After one especially insightful conversation on the

block, I brought in a copy of Tookie Williams’s

“The Tookie Protocol For Peace,” a renunciation

of violence printed from Tookie’s website. I

brought it to give to a young Crip who had told

me he wanted to quit “the life” when he got out.

The life he referred to was the life of gang

banging and hustling that had brought him back

and forth to Detention for years. Unsure as to the

guidelines, I first gave it to my Sergeant and

asked her if it was within regulations to give a

detainee reading material printed from the

Internet. She asked me why, so I showed her

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what I had brought and explained why I had

brought it. After a quizzical perusal of the

unbound pages, she told me she didn’t care what

I gave them to read, as long as it wasn’t a

magazine or anything else with staples.

I thanked her quickly and let the papers rest on

the desk for several minutes, trying not to seem

too eager to take it up on the block. At

dinnertime I walked upstairs to pass out trays,

and I nonchalantly passed the pages through the

bars to the young man and said, “I’m not really

sure about this, or if someone might give you

hassle over it, but if so just tell whoever it is that I

gave it to you.”

After pulling his tray beneath the cell door, he

flipped through the pages quickly. He looked up

at me and gave me an eager, “Thank you Sir.”

When I walked by his cell a moment later after

passing out more trays, I saw him sitting on his

bunk with his tray on his lap, reading while he

ate. My excitement ran rampant, as I wondered

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what type of reaction he would have. When I

returned to pick up his tray, I saw that he was

only on the second page. I realized that I had no

idea as to what his reading level might be, so I

asked, “Slow going?” I kept moving as I spoke.

“No Sir.” He responded, as he stood up and

approached the bars. His voice followed me down

the block as I collected more trays. “I’ve read it a

couple of times already. I’m trying to memorize

it.”

“Memorize what?” A voice from an adjoining cell

asked.

“Man, Mr. Love gave me this thing by Tookie

Williams, and I’m gonna memorize it. It’s cool,

man.”

“Yo, Mr. Love, Sir, you know who Tookie

Williams is?” Another voice asked in disbelief.

“Was, Sir. Tookie is dead now. California

executed him a few years ago this month

actually.” I said matter-of-factly.

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“Mr. Love, how you know Tookie Williams?”

The same young man asked.

I looked at him and replied with a smirk, “Sir, I

may be white, but I’m not stupid. Tookie

Williams is probably THE most famous man in

gang culture. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t know

who he was.”

“You a Crip, Mr. Love?” He asked.

“No Sir, I’m a teacher.” I responded flatly.

“You know what I mean Sir,” he said with a

smile.

“Yes Sir, I do know what you mean, but we both

know that discussing gangs and gang affiliation is

against rules, and I take my job and the rules very

seriously.” I said as I carried my armful of trays

up the block.

“Mr. Love, Sir, do you have any other books by

Tookie?” The young man asked politely.

“I only have one book by Tookie Williams Sir,” I

shot back as I stepped off the block. I could hear

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the voices buzzing behind me. I had peaked their

interest. Again.

The next weekend I brought them books from my

home and classroom libraries. I brought some

standard young adult classics like Bud, Not

Buddy, The Outsiders, Hatchet, and Maniac

Magee, in addition to some of my personal

favorites, Dangerous Angels, The Count of

Monte Cristo, The Little Prince, The Alchemist,

but no book proved more popular than Tookie’s

prison-scribed memoir Blue Rage, Black

Redemption. The boys were not used to reading,

and they required a lot of encouragement. I told

them that the books I loved most were the ones

that I had to start a few different times before I

really got into, but once I got far enough in, I was

hooked.

“Give a book a chance, and if you need to put it

down until later, let it rest, and give it another

chance,” I told them all repeatedly. “My rule is if

I’m not into it by the first 50 pages, I’m probably

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not going to get into it. If I put it down before

that, I’ll make a mental note to pick it back up

later until I’ve gotten through the first 50. Then I

make my final decision; if it’s any good, the

choice is made for me, and I just keep reading.

The more you read, you’ll make up your own

rule.”

“Time stands still in here. I know that. Books will

not just take up your time, but they’ll take you

outta
here
.” I said waving my outstretched arms

around indicating the bars and the cinderblock

walls.

“So if I read this book you’ll let me outta here

Sir?” the young man said hopefully.

“No Sir, that’s not what I mean. A good book will

take you beyond these walls, beyond your world

and into the world of your book. It will take your

mind to places you’ve never imagined.” I replied.

“Are there any books we can read that
will
get us

outta here? I mean for real.” Another young man

hollered out down the block.

175

“I’m sorry Sir, but no.” I said a little

despondently.

The kids read more after being given books that

interested them. Many of them started reading

any book they could get their hands on. They

began to ask for specific titles and subjects. We

talked about what type of books I had and then

started bringing books they requested that I had

in my library. Only from my teaching experience

was I able to recognize that the reading levels of

numerous detainees increased. Cellmates and

neighbors would convince each other to get

involved in reading to make use of their time.

Reading had transformed the way many of the

young men spent their time. They were no longer

just doing time, but spending their time on

something they had learned to enjoy.

Each night all of the detainees were allotted one

hour of TV time in which they came out of their

cells and sat together in a common area to watch

television. Some took this opportunity to play

176

cards as well, but all of them used the time to

socialize with other kids they normally did not

see. During one such hour, I overheard some

guys planning to perform car crashes as soon as

the lights were turned off at 10:00 PM. Car

crashes were common activities in Detention,

especially after lights out. The boys would climb

onto the metal shelf built into the back wall of the

cell, and jump onto their bunks below. The sound

of a body slamming onto the wall-mounted metal

bunk resonating through the block resembled the

sound of two cars colliding. The guys were the

main culprits of this activity. They performed car

crashes after lights out because it was easier to do

it anonymously, though it did happen during the

day. The consequence of such activities varied in

severity, but mainly the consequence required a

lot of paperwork. As with every activity in the

Detention Center or anywhere else, an ounce of

prevention is worth hours of paperwork.

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