Monday, May 10, 2010

All the doors locked...

*A fictional piece on prison brutality.

By: Alonna Berry

All the doors are locked, and everyone is finally setting in to go to sleep. After a long day of work, they only thing I want to do is rest my head. I slowly walk to my room, barely able to make the semen block under my legs move. Every time I step it feels as though my legs are locking. I just have to make it to my room, and then I can rest my head. I have been waiting all day for this – the one thing I my life that hasn’t been stripped away from is, the one thing and the only place I can call my own - it is complete bliss. When I lay my head down to sleep, I am finally free, free to dream and explore the world beyond these four walls – I am free to fly. As I finally make it to my room, I am so relieved to be in the comfort of my home. As I slowly begin to take off my clothes for the day, my roommate come in. We have a brief conversation about what had happened today, who had been taken away, and about a letter he had received from his daughter. Even though the conversation wasn’t long (a relief), it was touching, and it gave me warm thoughts to think about as I would drift into freedom.

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I began to fade away. The ways of peace and serenity began to wash over my face. The rhythmic sound of the ocean numbed my body, and lulled me to sleep. Oh I loved the ocean, I dreamt about it always. I would never try to imagine when I would see it again, because it would depress me, I would only remember the good times I had there. Dream were the only place I could…

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG….

I’m not going to open my eyes yet, I will not give up my dream. Why are they banging? We just go to sleep. They haven’t called my name; they haven’t called anyone’s name. Maybe it’s not for me, maybe it’s not for anymore. Maybe there just being CO’s and thought it would be fun to wake up all up after we just went to sleep.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

I could feel the blood pressure in my body rising. I was going to lose control, I hated loosing control. The only place in my life I had control is at night, and they strip that away from me to. I cant…

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

Why won’t they…

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

I can’t live like…

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

UUUGHHH! That’s it!

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

“Shut Up!” I exclaimed before I could even catch myself. Oh no, I shouldn’t have spoken, I shouldn’t have done that.

-Did you have something to say Monroe?

-No sir, not at all, I must have wake up from a bad dream.

-A bad dream, I coulda swore I heard you say something. What did ya say boy?

-I don know sir, sometimes I talk in my sleep, maybe I was doin that again…

-In ya sleep you yell boy?

-When I am havin a bad dream

-You were havin a bad dream tonight boy?

-Yes sir.

- I don’t take very kindly to lyin – Monroe. Get your ass up and out here now

He unlocked the door; I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. By now a few other men had woken up, and as I walked from my door I felt my legs begin to shake.

-You lyin to me Monroe?

-No sir, I was dreamin.

-You were havin a bad dream?

-It turned into one

-You bein smart Monroe?

-No sir

-What did ya say?

-No sir

-No ya stupid fuck! What did ya say when ya woke up from ya dream?

-I’m not sure sir

-I was right beside your cell, Monroe, I heard you clearly….

He began to move his night stick, slowly back and forth. I noticed, and he wanted me to. He was giving fair warning that if I continued to lie, I would have to suffer my punishment. But I knew if I ad mitted to lying, I would suffer as well. I would stand my ground.

-You got something to say boy?

-Uhh, no sir I don’t remember

He pulled his night stick up and began patting it on his hand.

-You said “Shut up” boy! Ya don remember that?

-No sir

Then I felt it his stick came down on the back of my head like a ton of bricks. He was yelling something as he continued to hit me. I lost all sense of what was going on. I began to fade away. But not to a place where I had control, I was drifting to the bottom of the sea. Soon I would feel the big thud, as my body would slam against the ocean floor.

Friday, May 7, 2010

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Pencils, Pages and Power

It’s amazing the how significant a small detail can become when it’s the little things that you live for. In a prison the smallest object can send the most pungent point. Let’s take a pencil for example, it is a utensil used for writing, it is a utensil made to allow mistakes to easily be erased, it is a utensil used for learning. Each and every week I step into Auburn prison prepared to teach, prepared to learn and prepared to tutor. The Auburn GED program is promised GED books to tutor with, pencils to write with, and scrap paper to work on. Each week we roll a small cart containing these materials into Room #10 and the other tutors and I prepare to help one another and the inmates.

Every week one of the first questions the inmates ask if for pencil and paper. Unlike other classrooms I have been in (for learning) these students are prepared to learn and wanting to learn. In order for that learning to take place simple tools are needed to encourage that learning (pencils, paper, and a textbook). Each week I dread when that question is asked. “Judge Alonna” they call me.

-Hey Judge Alonna can we have a book and a pencil?
-Sure one second.

I slowly walk across the room dreading the implications of my actions. I slowly lift the book. It reads GED. It is falling apart at the seam, the pages are ripped. They are not ripped out of frustration or anger from a misguided or “troubled” student like other textbooks I’ve seen. They are ripped from use, from countless nights of relentless studying and work. I pick up the book with two hands, carefully, not wanting to rip another page.

-Here you go.
-Are there pencils?
-Oh I almost forgot… one sec..

I turn to get the pencils. There is a pile of over 20 pencils, all of them smaller then my hand – none of them sharpened. I pick up a few, desperately searching for a point that is usable. I can’t find one – not a single a pencil. I begin to frantically look for a pencil that is large enough to fit into the pencil sharpener. I slowly turn and glance around. The inmates are making their way to the cart – one book out, two books, three… I’m going to need more than one pencil.

I slowly lift my hand to the sharpener and shove the pencil inside. I can barely hold on to the edge of the pencil. By the time it is finished sharpening I couldn’t imagine it fitting into any of the inmate’s hands. I try another… then another…

-I think I have one for you to use… Sorry it’s so small…
-Thank you Alonna.
-Your welcome.

I sit down to tutor. We begin to work algebra problems. As I sit and watch the inmate struggle to hold the toy sized pencil in his hand as he flips through the ripped pages I realize that this is the system. It’s an institution built with subtle and constant reminders of what the system think they are worth. They give you a classroom to learn it but no tools to learn with. Who are they really helping?

-That’s good! You did a good job here.
-Is that the right answer Alonna?
-That’s what I got! Let’s check in the back of the book to make sure…

As my finger slid across the page I found the page number with the answers.

-Its page number 357.

We flip through the pages. The last section has been ripped out.

The book ends with page 345…