Community

Right to Write leaves its mark on one SLC volunteer

by Justin Millan

Wednesday February 22, 2006

In the fifth grade I burned the flesh and nerves from my forearm by accidentally falling asleep against the radiator. A plastic surgeon scooped out all the fried epidermis and sewed my skin shut. For the weeks thereafter, with my arm bundled in white bandages, people would ask, shocked, "What happened to you arm?" and I’d reply, "Oh, I got a third degree burn." The subsequent expression on their faces – a mixture of disbelief and curiosity – was identical to the looks I received this past semester whenever people would ask how my Thursday had gone and I’d say, "Oh, I went to prison."

Like gruesome injuries, prison possesses a deep, dark mystique to which, despite volunteering with the SLC Right to Write program, I wasn’t immune. The purpose of Right to Write is to enable SLC student volunteers to hold informal creative-writing workshops with the inmates at the correctional facility in Valhalla, NY. Every time I climbed into the van to travel to Valhalla, I felt sick with fear and almost immediately developed an aching belly, itchy fingers and sweaty palms. Traveling with the other volunteers only slightly eased the anxiety.

Valhalla loomed tall and dark in a field studded with watch towers and barbed-wire fences. Two stone owls were perched like gargoyles over the main entrance. Every time I approached, I rechecked my pockets for contraband such as keys, pens, paperclips, or chewing gum for the eleventh time. Adults and children crowded the entrance as they waited to visit inmates. I penetrated numerous membranes of guards, metal detectors and huge, clanking metal doors. In the corridors inmates wearing orange jumpsuits stared at me and said "Hello." I responded with a nervous smile and kept walking.

Each workshop was an hour long, during which I operated on pure adrenaline. A guard kept watch through a window in the wall. The classroom was very small; volunteers and inmates had to squeeze together, rubbing elbows, sharing desk space, yelling to be heard. The inmates in the program were males between the ages of 15 to 24 and were serving sentences of up to two years.

Every volunteer ran his or her own workshop, usually tutoring four to five inmates at a time. I learned that the more concrete, gritty and visual the poetry, the better its reception. I had frequent success with poets like Thomas Lux and Charles Bukowski, while Robert Frost and Shakespeare only inspired boredom. The inmates favored writing exercises such as the Exquisite Corpse, a game in which a sheet of paper is passed around the group and each person adds another line of poetry without reading what has already been written (the final product is most often comically bad).

At some point, we’d take a break, set aside the poetry, and chat about movies and music. They wrote a list for me of must-hear hip-hop and rap artists. Some workshops went smoothly. Others were train wrecks in which they’d disregard the writing and try to interrogate me about my sex life. On those days, I felt like I’d failed them.

I can’t imagine how these men lived in Valhalla day after day, month after month. It’s stunning how they found the good humor to sit down with me—this sweaty, stammering kid from a cozy liberal arts college in Bronxville—and enthusiastically analyze the symbolism of rain in an ee cummings poem.

Every workshop ended sooner than expected. Along with the other volunteers, I’d pack up my papers, say goodbye and renavigate the labyrinth to the exit. I’d stroll out the door and toward the van feeling euphoric with relief. Part of that relief, I realize, came from being allowed to leave, free to spend the evening (and every day after that) however I desired.

This program was sobering. It underlined the comforts of my own life by highlighting the hardships of others. Every week was a shock more profound than the last. One week, I learned that a man in my group had a daughter on the outside who had fallen ill; he, in turn, looked sick with worry and helplessness. Another week, the inmate who seemed the most enthusiastic about the writing workshop and supportive of my lessons admitted he’d been incarcerated for beating someone with a board. I’d listen to these stories and then return to campus and order a garden burger at the Pub. I’d stand beside the window watching the frozen patty darken on the grill. I’d feel hungry. I’d feel dazed. I’d feel, with one finger, the velvety trail of scar tissue on my forearm, the mottled skin, the bumps that echoed the surgeon’s blade.