PART 1: PENITENTIARY OF NEW MEXICO
BY TRACY SCHLAPP
Each prison visit (whether we are arriving to our weekly outpost, Oregon State Penitentiary, or to a facility that is completely new to us) shares the rituals of clearing security, locking up cell phones/wallets, and double checking the materials we are bringing inside. There is the metal detector and removal of shoes and jewelry, trading our IDs for a visitor’s badge or scanning our volunteer badges. The tasks have become routine, they should not be confused as common place for once the first metal gate slams behind you, you have entered the concrete underworld. Each line movement, every protocol, all interactions fall under the discretion of security staff. You have ceded control.
A prison yard is awash of one color — that of the prison uniform — in Oregon folks wear blue (navy to chambray to denim) at Penitentiary of New Mexico the men wear orange or bright yellow. They stand aglow in the blazing sun of the high desert sky — well, those men who are allowed to access the yard. We have travelled to Santa Fe as guests of the Museum of International Folk Art in conjunction with the “Behind the Lines: Prison Art & Advocacy” exhibition. We are leading workshops in both the minimum and super max facilities. Danny is playing a concert on the yard for a group of men in minimum. In the super max, he will play abbreviated sets in as many pods as time and energy will allow.
We arrive to the minimum facility on Friday afternoon and are warmly greeted by Deputy Warden Lucero and the security staff. Accompanied by the museum curators, we are prepped for our writing workshop. Thirty men, trickle into the gym and we work together setting up the tables and chairs to form a large circle. We try to shake everyone’s hand as they arrive, repeating their names. We know that we will never remember them all, but this is an exercise in immediacy. I see you. You are my reason for being here.
The gym space is so loud, that I need to read Laura Da’s poem Bad Wolf twice. The words roll away, getting hung up in the metal eaves of the gym, out of ear reach of the men. Many have lived a lifetime in concrete spaces and I wonder if their hearing ever adjusts. I ask the men to consider how Da’s poem draws our attention to what is lost and what is found. In this case, the poet practices her Indigenous language by learning of an old story. I ask them to think about what they have lost in their lives and in the process what they have found. At first, they are perplexed by the concept of a free write, the prompt sends waves of confusion through the group. In that moment, my stomach clutches: Mutiny?!
Nah, they settle in. Pens start scratching.
Thirty sets of eyes meet me when I ask folks to stop writing and share their thoughts. MT says he has been experimenting with writing poems lately and jumps right in:
The urge to dig.
Just search, but in a hope to
find.
For what has been passed down, I’m destined
to shine.
It has to emerge; I’ll dig all day. 9 to 5.
But no minimum wage, all through the struggle.
I’m bound to survive.
And if I shall drown, while I search through it all.
Please God forgive me, I looked for your call.
SW follows with this piece: Something I’ve lost? Or someone? Somebody close to me or somebody I don’t even know? Is it myself? I often feel alone when even surrounded by the most prominent of people. Is it feeling lost? Am I losing myself? What makes me, me? My smile, my laugh, my personality, my actions. The recognition of myself and yet, have I found the me whom I know or the me who’s still searching? Who else could know except me? So many questions on what or who I’ve lost. I am me. Free, yet so confined. But I am me, nonetheless. I was lost and now I am found.
Each person’s bravery encourages the next reader. The writers’ output varies significantly. In the five-minute time frame, Rodney Hodges constructs the poem Sadness and Anger and Isiah Stevens writes the piece Isolation. For a good many of our participants, writing is unfamiliar territory, JRC wrote: “I’m sorry I do not know how to write very well. So, this is very hard for me, but I will try because if I don’t try how will I know if I can do it or not. So, this all I can think to write here. This will be good enough for you.” JRC hits the mark. How will I know? The workshops are intended to introduce (reenforce) the value of self-reflection through writing.
At the end of our session, I ask each person to contribute a single line in response to the e.e. cummings poem [i carry your heart(i carry it in], their writing was woven together to create a collective poem. It is satisfying to hear them read their lines, one after another around the circle. We are linked by the language and a moment of reflection made concrete.
Danny finishes our writing session with a song, his warmup for the show he will perform on the yard. We migrate to a small, dusty yard with a covered gazebo and an amp that has one working channel. Vocals or guitar? He chooses the mic and decides to just play a little louder. Men from the workshop move out of the line and scatter themselves around the yard. They join groups at the weight pile, the bleachers, along the back wall, some eager men sit right up front.
Danny plays a combination of original songs and country covers, including Ring of Fire sung in Spanish. One of the men lets out a joyous grito. Deputy Warden Lucero points the man next to him. I am told that when he came to prison, the warden thought this kid was beyond rehabilitation. Over fourteen years, the deputy has come to see JH grow into a positive force in the community. From our session, JH shared the piece he wrote, Lost Time
I’ve lost myself through my time
Fourteen and a half years, where is the time?
Fourteen and a half years, I’ve lost the sense of time.
At that time, time didn’t matter,
At that time, time was lost
At that time, I didn’t realize how much time was really lost.
Fourteen and a half years and time is running out,
I’m almost out and I can’t seem to find any time.
I’ve lost the sense of it. I’ve lost myself.
Time, time is running out.
Yet, through the mist of item.
I’ve found myself down the line.
The men like to play it cool like kids on the playground, but when they are approached, they are friendly, eager to share something about themselves. In a minimum facility, you may speak with folks who have done long stints of time but who are now preparing to get out. Our conversations are peppered with plans for a new life. They share the nervous anticipation of a school-aged senior. The world is big and full of possibility.
A real-old timer, DB came to the workshop uncertain how and why he was signed up for a writing workshop. He grumbled about missing dinner, though we assured him that arrangements had been made so that he would eat. And while he shrugged off his offering before he read, it was hard to mask the hope he found in his conclusion: And in finding my lost state of existence, I found I had many avenues of opportunity to develop a new life, one that I would enjoy, things that I really want to do; such things like learning to play the guitar and piano. What would I like to do as a career? Working with my hands and building something that will last and that I can earn an income. | TDS