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After escorting the guys back up to their cells and

unshackling everyone, I walked back off the block

and headed around the corner. Pulling a chair

from the watch desk, I returned to the block

carrying the chair. I positioned the chair in the

middle of the block and made myself

comfortable.

I pulled a book from one of my large cargo

pockets, cleared my throat, and began reading

aloud from Adrian McKinty’s excellent crime

novel, Dead I Well May Be. There was talking on

the block as I began, but I was used to reading to

large groups who didn’t want to listen. When

reading to my classes, I often used accents and a

variety of voices to bring stories to life, so with an

Irish accent I started in. Unfamiliar with an

officer reading to them, the boys closest to me

began shushing the others around them. Soon the

only sound on the block was my accented voice

booming through the block. I waited for any

objections, but none came.

178

Behind my head, I heard the black box on the

wall squeal. It was the audio monitor being

activated from downstairs. Instantly I knew the

Sergeant was listening in on me. She listened for

several minutes, and then the hum went away,

indicating that she was done. No one came to

stop me. When another officer appeared on the

block, I continued reading, expecting to be told to

stop, but he had only come to “run the clock.”

The “watchman’s clock,” a monitoring device

that we all wore at some point, was used for safety

checks that we had to do every thirty minutes, all

day long. “Watch tours” required an officer to use

a key located at the end of each block to

timestamp a wheel of paper inside the clock. To

my surprise, the officer merely squeezed by me,

making his rounds without a word or even a

glance.

The guys sat on their bunks listening intently, as I

read the adventures of Michael Forsythe. They

were deeply enthralled by his criminal world. The

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reading was soon punctuated by cheerful

exclamations, hoots and hollers from the guys in

their cells. Their responses of uninhibited

enthusiasm made the reading interactive and

thoroughly engaging. When the call came for

“lights out,” they all begged for more. It was

Friday night, and everyone knew I’d be back

tomorrow. I told them that if they stayed calm all

night, I’d come back up tomorrow and read some

more. Though they begged me not to stop, they

all agreed, and the block was quiet all night.

The next night when I appeared on the block,

everyone greeted me with a reminder of my

promise. I was as true to my word as they were,

and I spent all of my down time on their block

reading to my captive audience. Again they

protested for “just one more chapter” when

“lights out” was called. Again I told them that if

they remained calm, I would read to them the

next day. The attention-starved young men

responded enthusiastically by listening actively

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when engaged with positive adult attention. The

importance of our reading sessions became clear

later that night when a car crash was heard. The

typically tight-lipped crew to whom I had been

reading was eager to point out that the

disturbance had come from the opposite block.

The reading of the book continued, even though I

only worked weekends at the time. I read

whenever I had the chance after that first reading.

I had to travel around to each of the four male

blocks to read because, as of my first reading, the

original crew had been split up onto the other

blocks for one reason or another. I traveled

around, finishing the book for some and hitting

points in the middle or end for others. It took

nearly six shifts to read the whole book to the

original set of boys. When it was over, I

mentioned that there were two other books in the

series, and the guys begged to have them. In the

end, I bought a set for the library, so they could

read and share them at their leisure.

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Reading Dead I Well May Be brought my

relationship with the guys to a different level.

There now existed the intimacy of a classroom,

but on a larger scale. The guys and I had honest

discussions about books and their characters,

plots, and morals. Every week I brought in more

books, and every book led to more in-depth

discussions: taking responsibility, having babies

with young girls to have someone to love, “baby

momma drama,” how bad visits led to bad

behavior on the block, being honest with yourself,

and loving yourself before you can love someone

else. The young men approached me with all of

these topics and insights after reading one book or

another. It all started by trying to deter an

evening filled with car crashes and paperwork.

One night on the block, as I ran my clock, a

young man I’d spoken to frequently about books

asked, “Mista Love, why you like readin’ so

much?”

182

“Cuz he a teacher, stupid!” A voice yelled from

down the block.

Grabbing onto the bars and leaning his head in

the direction of the voice, the first boy called

back, “Man, shut up. I aint talkin’ to you.” He

stepped back but kept his hands firmly on the

bars, his knuckles turning a paler shade of brown

as his grip tightened. He faced me and awaited

my answer.

“Well Sir, when I was young I didn’t have such a

great home life. My teachers at school knew that I

was afraid to go home, so they would let me stay

at school. They didn’t really have anything for me

to do, so they would just feed me books. As I grew

up, my life became increasingly unstable and out

of control, so books became my haven. I was

always safe reading a book. I was always busy

reading a book, and reading books kept me out of

a lot of trouble.” I felt my eyes welling up as I

spoke. Thinking back on the times I hid in school,

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too afraid to go home, was something I tried not

to think about.

“Sir, is that why you became a teacher, cuz a’

teachers you had?” he asked respectfully.

“In a way, yes Sir I did. In the end though, I

became a teacher because I felt I needed to help

kids. I wanted to help kids. And I knew I could

help kids as a teacher.”

“That why you workin’ here now? You tryin’ to

help us too?” He asked with a bit of sarcasm.

“Do you think I’m helping you?” Answering his

question with a question.

“You be helpin’ me a lot more if you open dis cell

and let me out.” He replied with a smile. The

block erupted with cheers and a chorus of “Let

me out too!” from nearly every cell.

“Sir, if I could I would, and I hope when the time

comes I
will
be the one to open your cell to let

you go home.” I said earnestly.

“Nah, fa real doe, Mista Love. You be helpin’ us

out all the time. I see how you be runnin’ da clock

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and you always be getting’ us books an’ stuff

when we ask an’ everyone else jus’ be sayin’ dey

be gettin’ stuff when dey get aroun’ to it.” His

voice had lost its earlier sarcasm, and his sincerity

cut through the bars and my façade. I excused

myself and moved to the top of the block. I made

my exit, but not before asking if anyone needed

anything. A loud “NO SIR” reverberated up the

block. Hastily retreating off the block and into the

shower stall, I wiped my eyes out of sight of the

omnipresent cameras.

Tearless and calm, I walked downstairs to grab a

book for a young man I had spoken to many

times before. I had noticed him sitting silently, as

I spoke with the other young man a few cells

down. He was sitting pensively in his cell, his

cellmate having been released earlier in the day. I

grabbed a copy of Man’s Search for Meaning

that I kept in my locker. I knew the young man

well, and I knew he was an exceptional reader,

even though he didn’t attend school regularly

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unless he was in Detention. I also knew the

charges he was facing and the future he could

have. With the book in hand, I approached his

cell and passed the book through the bars.

“I see you sitting there. Hiding in the shadows,

masking the pain and loneliness of being locked

up,” I said. The young man’s face contorted into

an uneasy stare. He stood and approached the

bars as he reached for the book. “I can tell by the

look on your face that these are not words you

expected to hear today.” I said as the face pressed

against the bars.

“What? You mean you coming up here talking

like a guru? No one talks to us like you do. You

use big words,” he paused, examining me

carefully from behind the bars, “but you show us

respect.” The face confessed.

I let the compliment slide to avoid an awkward

conversation about other staff members. “I think

you might like this book, but for now just read

part one. You can read part two in college,” I

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said, sure that I was the first person to have ever

told him he was going to college.

“Why?” He asked defiantly as if he thought I was

insulting his intelligence.

“It has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I read

the book from cover to cover one time and the

second part is all about a very specific area of

psychology. The first part, that’s the story that I

think you need to read.”

“A’ight den. But why you think I need to read

this one?”

“I’ll tell it to you like this. I keep a copy of that

book near me all the time. Whenever my life

seems rough and I can’t take it anymore, I open

that book to any page in part one. I read

whatever I flip to and I realize that if
that man
can

survive
what he went through
, then I can survive

whatever
I’m going through
, and it makes my life

seem
a whole lot easier
.” I spoke quietly as I stood a

few inches from the bars. “Take care of yourself.

187

I’ll see you tomorrow Sir.” I said as I stepped

away.

“Sir,” he whispered as he held up the book to me,

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome Sir. Good night.”

“Good night Sir.”

188

“Get ou’ that bed mufucka and get in your

gotdamn birthday suit. You got two fuckin

minutes to get yo ass out them clothes an in yo

birthday suit or I’m aunna kick your fuckin ass.

When I come back into this fuckin room you
better

fuckin be ready
” Bobby’s voice exploding through

the night brought the overhead light flooding the

room.

I had been sound asleep and didn’t know where I

was or what time it was, but I recognized the

command through the blinding light. And I knew

to obey.

I jumped out of bed, pulling off my clothes before

the door slammed hard enough to wake the dead.

But it didn’t wake my brother, still lying in the

bed I had scrambled out of. He knew better than

to open his eyes, and I knew better than to disturb

him in any way while getting out of our bed.

“Don’t wake your brother, he got nothin ta fuckin

189

do wi’this” had been beaten in to me years

before.

Bobby had recently taken all of us to get fancy

suits to wear to his mother’s birthday party. This

had been very exciting, since I only had two pairs

of pants and a couple of t-shirts we had gotten

from either the Salvation Army or the clothes

closet at the welfare office downtown. Since

Bobby had paid for our suits, we had to keep

them on display in a separate part of the closet

that was clear of any junk. My suit was to be a

constant reminder of how good he was to us and

to me especially. How I didn’t deserve to live in

his house. What the suit had been until that point

was a constant reminder of pain.

I hurried out of bed and went to get the suit. I

pulled off my bottoms and wrestled my tired

limbs into the suit and clipped on my tie. I slid my

feet easily into my shiny black shoes that had

been bought several sizes too large so I could

grow into them. I didn’t mind having shoes too

190

large since the sneakers I wore most days were at

least one size too small.

I stood by the closet, as proud as I ever was.

There was no mirror, but I knew I looked good.

When I’d worn the suit to the birthday party,

everyone had remarked at how cute I looked, and

it made me feel good. I felt good standing there. I

waited for Bobby to come back in. I knew enough

not to leave the room looking for him. He’d told

me he’d be back. Swaying as my eyes shut, my

body started to shut down from exhaustion. I