2019 Bloodlines Archive
Academic Links
~ WRITING - Nonfiction ~
They Day I Started to Believe
by Cameron Gumke
Being a child is one of the biggest joys in life. Not having to pay bills, nothing to stress over, and having the ability to run outside and play after you’re done with school. However, when I was just twelve years young, I had the most exciting and horrifying experience any child could ever have.
It all started on a sweaty July 4th, 2011. Me and my obnoxious family of six started our long journey to Lake Lathrop, a large lake in Walsenburg, Colorado, to enjoy America’s Independence Day. After an annoying five-hour drive, listening to my grandfather tell stories of his youth, hearing my mother and step-father argue over directions, and my little five-year-old brother drooling all over me as he napped, we finally reached the lake. As soon as we arrived at our campsite, I instantly sprinted towards the blue lake that was shimmering with sparkles from the sun hitting the water. Hauling down the gravel path, I felt the cool summer air running through my hair, sniffing the scent of fish being gutted and hearing kids splash in the shallows of the cold lake. It was as if nothing could go wrong in that moment. Seconds later, I was right about to reach the sandy shore when I looked down to see my shoelaces untied and flopping around like a fish out of water. I just thought to myself, I can’t stop now when I can practically feel the sand between my toes. I soon regretted my decision. Slam! I went face first into the dirt and slid a couple feet, scraping my knees and hands in the process. At first, I didn’t feel any pain due to the large amount of adrenaline that was circulating through my bloodstream, but I got the sense it would soon surface.
I heard a faint voice in the distance and footsteps approaching. I slowly looked up to see a large dark figure crouched above me. A low, husky voice muttered, “Are you alright kid?” I sat up slowly, as the pain started to kick in and replied, “Yeah I’m good, just a little banged up is all.” A large, callused hand reached out to me in attempt to help me up. I took it with satisfaction and the man pulled me up with ease, patting my back and sending dirt flying everywhere. I looked at the tall figured man when I realized he was the lake’s park ranger. Overcome with nervousness, I started to mumble a thank you, but it just came out as a bunch of gibberish. Realizing I was scared, a ginormous white smile spread across his face, not making him as intimidating as I thought he was. “I’m Benny, but you can just call me Ben. Everybody calls me that anyway,” he said loudly.
Ben and I started to walk towards the campsite where I could see my parents had already set up the tent and chairs around the fire pit. As we approached, my mom glanced in my direction and started running towards me as if I was in mortal danger. “Is my baby alright?” she dramatically yelled. “He’s fine, just got a couple battle scars and scratches on him. Nothing too severe.” Ben replied. My grandmother grabbed my hand and took me into their camper to clean me up. After she finished, I ran outside to see Ben walking away. I loudly yelled, “Thank you for helping me!” The man looked back, gave a little nod, and hollered a response I would remember for the rest of my life; “Be careful kid, if you run off again, I may not be there to keep the monsters from getting you!” I just laughed at his reply, but little did I know what would happen later on that night.
A couple hours later, we sat down to eat our huge feast of hot dogs, hamburgers, pulled pork sandwiches, and mounds of potato salad. I quickly shoveled my two helpings worth of food in my mouth and asked to go play with the other children. Hesitant, my mother rolled her eyes and sighed, letting out a quiet yes. I grabbed my little brother and carefully made my way back to the lake. As soon as we got to the white shore, we were invited by a group of kids to play hide-and-go seek in the nearby woods. Happy that we had found friends so quickly, we agreed with no hesitation and followed them towards the woods. We all gathered by a massive tree trunk that must’ve fallen earlier in the month to decide who would look for the others first. When a smaller kid name Jared asked who should go, everyone pointed in my direction and said “the new kids.” Outraged, I bitterly said ok and walked towards the base of the fallen tree while the other children scurried away to hide. My brother and I started to count to twenty when I heard a growl in the distance. Thinking that it was just one of the children messing with me, I stalked towards the sound to scare them. The noise started to get louder and louder as I approached, making me rethink my decision of leaving my brother and following the sound. Starting to get a little anxious, I crouched in a shrub and peeked through the tall, wavy grass trying to catch a glimpse of whatever made the deep growl. Creeping closer, I was astonished at what my eyes laid upon.
A hairy, abnormally large creature stood scratching his back on a pale Aspen. The mystic creature stood about seven feet tall and had large, broad shoulders padded with thick mats of fur. Overwhelmed with shock, I stayed crouched, watching what the gigantic beast would do next. He slowly started to walk in my direction, when he looked up sharply and started sniff around the area. Noticing that he picked up my scent, I took a small step back and tried to make a getaway. What I didn’t realize was that I was surrounded by hundreds of sticks that were from the huge tree a couple yards away. Snap! I stepped on a frail stick right behind. I stayed low to the ground hoping that the creature didn’t hear me. Once I gained enough courage, I fearfully looked through the grass to find the monster gazing at me. I instantly froze. My stomach filled with butterflies, forehead started to sweat with anxiousness and a cold feeling traveled up my spine. In that moment I had no clue as of what I should do next. The ginormous ape-like-man started to run at me, screeching louder than before. My eyes filled with tears and a terrifying scream came flooding out of my mouth. The animal made a dead stop in its tracks and averted its eyes behind me. I frantically looked back where I saw my little brother skipping towards me, not noticing the tragedy that was about to unfold. But to my relief, I slowly turned around to see the monstrosity was nowhere to be found. Vanquished with relief, I snatched my brother up and ran faster than I had ever before. “Bubba what were you screaming at?” my brother asked. I kept silent, still not able to comprehend what I just witnessed.
I never told my brother or any of my family for that matter about what I came to conclude was the Big Foot monster I had stumbled upon that day. I just figured some things are better off not said until now. Besides, what is the reality of someone believing a little kid about seeing a fictional creature? That one small instance has taught me to never take life for granted. Huge things can pop out of nowhere to make you remember that you aren’t the only thing living in this world. I now, more than ever, don’t judge those who say they have seen things beyond this world, because shoot I witnessed one!
Cameron Gumke
No Place Back Home
by Destani Garcia
When a traumatic event, such as a natural disaster occurs, many children do not know how to cope with the trauma afterwards. Natural disasters have a huge influence on children; however, it is not just restricted to them. After a disaster occurs, everyone is disoriented, and confused. Their life at that point has been erased and they must start new. I believe the most trauma occurs to children. It has been proven that there are huge impacts on them and they struggle trying to cope with life afterwards. It is important for parents to understand that their children need attention after traumatic events. Nobody ever knows what life will throw at them, so when that curve ball finally comes, what is the outcome?
There is no doubt that adults go through a tremendous amount of stress in the aftermath of a natural disaster. It is often the children who possess the fewest coping skills and face the most trauma. For example, majority of adults know how to cope with their stress and thoughts; however, when you bring up children they do not know how to do any of those things. They are young and still learning, so they are not sure what is happening at the time. A pair of school psychologists, Krystal Simmons and Denika Douglas, wrote a journal article about helping children cope with trauma after natural disasters. “Symptoms that are associated with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) can be noticed days or even weeks after a natural disaster. What might not be immediately noticeable to everyone is the effect the trauma has on a child’s developing brain.” (K. Simmons, D. Douglas) I find this statement to be important because parents usually do not think any problems will occur weeks after a trauma. This is something that needs to be taken into consideration during these events.
Most adults know when they need to receive help, and most of the authorities know how to help them. When it comes to children, it cannot always be known what is wrong with them. They are not sure how to express what they feel. It is critical for parents to understand this and try to help their child in any way possible. Carolyn Kousky, a writer for the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton University, mentioned many things that can impact children in the event of a natural disaster. “Children can suffer psychological harm from the damage to their homes and possessions; from migration; from the grief of losing loved ones; from seeing parents or caregivers undergo stress; from neglect and abuse; and from breakdowns in social networks, neighborhoods, and local economies.” (Carolyn Kousky) A child’s mental health is important and it needs to be taken care of in every way possible.
With this picture (left) showing how many natural disasters have been recorded each year, there is a lot of information that needs to be reflected. It is surprising to see how many have been reported, so how many children do you think are involved in each? Numerous people have never thought this through and I hope to bring it to everyone’s attention now. I am positive that the children involved in these disasters do not know how to manage the trauma that has been experienced. Parents, along with all other adults in the world should definitely take children’s mental health into deliberation when they face natural disasters. The best option is to always receive help as soon as possible so the child does not get effected more than necessary.
Works Cited
Kousky, Carolyn. “Impacts of Natural Disasters on Children.” Journal of Research in Education Eastern Educational Research Association. George Watson, Marshall University, One John Marshall Drive, College of Education and Professional Development, Huntington, 30 Nov. 2015, eric.ed.gov/?q=Coping+after+natural+disasters&id=EJ1101425.
Simmons, Krystal T., and Denika Y. Douglas. “After the Storm: Helping Children Cope with Trauma after Natural Disasters.” Journal of Research in Education, Eastern Educational Research Association. George Watson, Marshall University, One John Marshall Drive, College of Education and Professional Development, Huntington, 30 Nov. 2017, eric.ed.gov/?q=Hurricane+Harvey&id=EJ1167197
Destani Garcia
My Coaches Through the Years
by Hanna Day
After-game talks were always my least favorite part of high school soccer. My coach would spend nearly half an hour digging into us about how senseless and terrible we were. He would strut through our lifeless locker room full of arrogance. His angry red face was always the brightest thing in the room, aside from his silver-slicked back hair. His black, beady eyes would pierce into our souls, looking for just the precise way to tear us apart. Every loss was our fault and every win was due to his amazing coaching skills.
Hanging our heads down low in order to block the insults coming from our coach, my team all sat together in the grey and damp locker room in silence, attempting to block out his screaming. The room smelled of sweat, blood, and fear. My teammates’ eyes were puffy and their cheeks were flushed from exhaustion and humiliation. I sat there, staring at my dirty fingernails and bleeding knees. I had tuned out his hateful taunts and let my wander to earlier times in my life when I first began to play soccer as a little girl. My current coach’s repulsive words brought me back to the time I had a very verbally and physically abusive coach when I was eight years old.
Ten years ago, my team was the best in our league; we dominated every game and finally qualified for a high-level tournament. It was like the State Cup for U9 teams. We were in the semi-finals when we were destroyed 0-5 by a Texas team. The after game talk was complete hell. My coach brought my whole team to tears.
“Are you guys f***ing stupid?!?” He screamed “You dumb b****es gave away the whole game!! Just wait until practice, I’m running your a**es for the next week!”
At eight years old, I had never been spoken to in that way before, and I had never ever been screamed at so harshly by an adult. He made me feel completely worthless. Once the degrading session finished and my team walked across the field to our parents, I noticed my best friend Rose stayed back, huddled in the shade, shaking. I slowly wandered over to her.
My feet dragged in the grass and she looked over to the sound of my shuffling feet. My exhausted eyes met her bloodshot and puffy ones right before she turned away to hide her face. I sat down next to her and started to rub her back to comfort her.
“You can’t let him get to you,” I insisted. “He’ll only get more mad if he sees you crying.”
She sniffled her nose and leaned her body into me. “I just need a moment to calm myself down” she whispered to me.
I stayed there, playing with her hair to relax her. That’s when I saw the bruises along her collarbone. My stomach dropped.
“Where did you get those bruises?” I asked her. Her face flushed a bright red and the tears in her eyes began to spill again. Her breathing quickly turned into heavy sobs. After she caught her breath, she explained the bruises to me.
After coach had subbed her off during the game, he pulled her aside to explain to her exactly what she was doing wrong. While he was humiliating her, she let her thoughts roam and her eyes faded out of concentration. Coach noticed this and was filled with rage. He seized her small shoulder into his full-grown hand and dug his fingers into her skin, pressing into her pressure point and drilling into her collarbone. The whole time he started screaming at her for disrespecting him by not paying attention to him. When he saw her tears forming in her young eyes, he just became more infuriated and insulted her, calling her a “pathetic p*ssy.”
I filled with horror and heartbreak. I sternly told Rose “you have to tell someone,”
“No I can’t! That will just make everything worse, I’m too afraid of what he will do if I get him in trouble.” I could see the terror in her red eyes. I knew in my heart that no child, or person for that matter, should be treated this way. My body temperature rose with anger. I hated that man.
I helped Rose off the ground and walked her over to her parents before hopping into my mother’s red minivan. The ride back home started out silent. I was biting my nails with a furrowed brow and looking fiercely at the dashboard in front of me. “Is everything okay?” my mom asked with concern.
“I hate my coach,” I spat back. “He is an evil man,”
My mother laughed at my broad statement. “Evil? I understand he can be a little harsh sometimes but evil?”
I immediately began to cry out of frustration and confusion. My mother’s smile instantly turned into a face full of concern. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” she cooed.
I repeated the horrific story Rose had told me. I watched my mother’s face darken after every line I spoke to her. Then explained to her how Rose didn’t want to tell anyone because she was scared of him. “We have to do something mom, he is evil… Rose needs us.”
Rather than going home, my mother took us straight to the office of my coach’s boss. She had me tell them the same story I just haunted her with. The next day he was fired. Rose called me off of her mother’s phone to thank me for getting him out of her life and for being brave when she couldn’t be.
“What the f*ck are you looking at Hannah?” My high school coach’s screams snapped me back to present time. He noticed me not paying attention and decided to call me out.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said embarrassedly “I got lost in my thoughts.
“That’s the problem with you women, always thinking rather than listening when a man speaks to you.”
My face burned a hot red with animosity. I look straight into his eyes and glared at him. “Oh what’s wrong? Are you on your period or something? Maybe that would explain your sh*tty work today.” He was baiting me, trying to get me to yell at him so he could rebut any complaints made about him. Saying we were hormonal women who didn’t know how to control our feelings. All eyes were on me, waiting for me to blow my head off and scream at him as I had done many times before. Rather than acting on my urge to literally fight this old, evil man, I picked up my stuff and walked out.
That night, I called every girl on my team and together we made a list of all the terrible things he had spoken to us. The next day, along with three other girls, I calmly walked into our athletic director’s office and gave him the list of obscenities. We had a long talk about our coach and his mistreatment of our team. I kept thinking of my friend Rose and how I needed to stand up not only for myself, but for every girl on the soccer team.
The athletic director started attending our practices and games undercover and would listen in on the appalling actions our coach put onto us. By the end of the year, our coach was fired.
The whole team celebrated with a pasta party at my house. I was beaming the whole time. That day, I felt very thankful for my coach I had when I was eight. Without his terror and hateful ways, I would have never earned the courage to fight the off the corrupt authority of my high school coach. I learned from both of these experiences how to have a voice and how to stand up for others as well as myself.
Hanna Day
One December Changed My Life
by Janelle Casias
My memories with him will always be nothing short of amazing. He was one of the best. Everyone knew him as Stanley or Stan, but I knew him as Daddy. My father is easily my fondest memory and I’ll forever carry him with me. We would spend as much time together as we could. He would take me swimming, bowling, and golfing. He taught me how to ride the bike the entire summer. I received this bike as a gift for my 6th birthday. The memory of seeing the sunset while he guides me home, always brings a smile to my face. It was a beautiful bright pink bike with purple tassels and a white seat. I can still feel the pressure of his hand on my back and see that bright proud smile he always wore. The evenings when the summer days cooled down and became night was the best time to try riding. I was often quite unbalanced, but I knew he would always catch me as I started to fall.
That summer, with my father, was wonderful and went by way too fast. I so wish I could do it all over again just to see that smile and hear his laugh. Before I knew it, it was winter, and the holidays had commenced. Which naturally meant there were a bunch of school functions to attend. The Christmas recital is the event in December that really stands out in my memories. My mother and father decided to decorate the house for Christmas the night before this recital. My father was a little less than thrilled with the Christmas lights. He was cursing under his breath as he untangled these massive glowing balls of lights. Then a light would break or get lost and the hunt for replacement bulbs would ensue. Mommy and I would just sit back, laugh, and enjoy the show. He was determined and eventually got it all done. We turned all the lights off in the house and admired his job well done. The glowing, white lights draped across the Christmas tree filled the living room with such feeling of warmth and happiness. Soon, the same lights that brought Christmas cheer into our home would be just a memory.
My life since that night has been in fast forward. The next night, in my white angel costume, properly accessorized, with my halo made of a wire clothes hanger and gold garland, I stood at my front door. It was just about time for the recital. But before we could walk out of the door, we needed to take pictures! Mommy broke out the trusty old disposable camera and snapped a few photos of me in my costume and one with me and my father. I would believe this to be another proud moment for him. I could tell just by how bright his smile was in that photo.
The recital was a smash! Everyone enjoyed themselves, and it was time for our bedtime nightly ritual. He carried me into the house, tucked me in, and off to bed I went. Being a six year old, I of course wasn’t ready to sleep. I snuck out of my room and saw a dim light peeking through the bathroom door into our dining room. I knew he was getting ready for work as he did every night. So, naturally, I wanted to go sleep with my mother. He went and asked my mother if it were okay, she consented. He then tucked me into bed with her, and off to work he went.
The following night was spent at the bowling alley with my mother, father and grandparents. Thursday night bowling leagues were a thing in our family and still carry through to this day. I spent the evening in the bright, smokey, and loud bowling alley. There were other kids for me to play with there and lots of junk food to be eaten. I was pretty sleepy by the time we went home, and even fell asleep one the ride home. My father wrapped me in his coat and carried me to bed. I woke up before he left for work, I was crying. I wanted my dad; he carried to my Mom’s bed instead. Tonight, I didn’t want him to leave for work. I didn’t know that he wouldn’t be returning home. That tonight would be the last night he would tuck me into bed with my mother. Eventually, it was time for him to make his routine departure to work. I laid in bed talking to my mother about what I wanted from Santa for Christmas. In time, we were both fast asleep. I knew it hadn’t been very long, when we heard a loud, panicked knock at the door. It was my uncle Vincent.
As quickly as he could get the words out, he tells my mom, “Shirley! Its Stanley, something happened. There was an accident while he was at work. You need to go to the hospital now! Get dressed, I will stay here with Janelle.”
As my mother bursts through the room she makes a point to tell me “Something happened with daddy. I have to go be with him and uncle will be staying with you. I love you, go back to sleep and I will see you in the morning!”
And I did what she said. I saw my mother the next morning, sadness and exhaustion written all over her face. Shortly after her arrival home she sat me down and informed me briefly of the night’s events. “We are going to go see daddy in the hospital now. He doesn’t look the same. But it’s going to be okay. He’s really sick.” My heart sunk as I asked, “What happened to daddy? Why is he sick?!”
“Do you remember how daddy can’t eat peanut butter, because it makes him really sick?” she asked.
“Yes, it makes him not breathe good right?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s right”, she replied. “Well, someone, had some Christmas cookies made for everyone at work. They used peanut cooking oil to make them. And he ate one. He got really sick from it and had to go to the hospital.”
Holding back tears, feeling that horrible ball in your throat that makes it difficult to swallow, I left with my mother to the hospital. The day was gloomy with grey skies, and a chill in the air, as we entered the hospital. We made our way back to the Intensive Care unit. I felt a little more at ease when I saw my Godmother standing at the nurses’ station. She greeted us all with warm hugs and a forced smile. Everyone seemed so sad. I knew why the second I entered the glass doorway way into my father’s room. “Is he sleeping?” I wondered to myself. “What’s all over his face?”
I turned to my Godmother, and asked “What are those things in his nose and mouth?”
My Nina replied, “It’s okay, they won’t hurt him.” I think she could tell I was scared by the look on my face.
“Those are there to help him breathe,” she continued.
Not really knowing what that meant, I just took her word for it. I finally let the hot tears glide their way down my rosy, cool cheeks. My person, my hero, the man I spent all the time I could with, wasn’t the same. There were cords, and tubes that did many different things. One tube was placed over his mouth and down his throat. The rhythmic sound the machine connected to it matched the rise and decline of my father’s chest. The next few weeks were very similar to that day. We would visit and talk to him. Eventually, it was understood that he was in a coma. Due to the lack of oxygen supplied to his brain, cells denatured, and he was clinically considered dead. This was ultimately determined prior to his arrival to the hospital. My mother made the most difficult decision she would ever be faced with in her lifetime. She stopped treatment and let him go.
My father’s passing, was a huge, life altering moment for me. My mother wasn’t the same from that moment on. She began slowly distancing herself from everyone. We picked his headstone out together and held a huge funeral for him. He is still, to this day, remembered fondly by many people here locally. I see their eyes brighten when they find out I was “Stanley’s Daughter”. This makes me incredibly proud when I hear those words. My mother hasn’t been the same, she wasn’t okay with anything that happened either. She fell into some bad habits and a less than satisfactory social crowd. Less than a year later, my grandmother felt it was necessary to take full custody of me. My mother wasn’t around much after that. She did come around when I was a teenager and reattempted the parenting thing. We are close now, but it took a long time for us to rebuild that relationship.
The impact of my father’s death left me feeling quite alone, and often abandoned. I not only lost my father, but my mother as well. Due to financial hardships following our loss, my grandmother wasn’t always able to provide a lot of the luxuries most children were blessed with. Often my clothes were tattered or too small; and rainy days were a challenge when you had holes in your shoes. Most nights the house was filled with the aroma of fresh homemade pinto beans, chili, and rice. Most of the time it was all we could afford. My grandmother tried her best, and for that I will forever be in her debt.
Losing my father has made me stronger in the end. I know what it’s like to struggle, and I know that the only way to pull through the tough times in life is to stay humble. Daily I wonder what life would be like for all of us had that night in December never happened. Would I have ever married a man that was eight years my senior? Would he be proud of my three beautiful children? Would I even have them to begin with? These are just a few of the many questions I ask myself. I do know they would have absolutely adored that funny, ornery, loving, and kind man I knew. Even if it were for such a brief amount of time. I know that who I am today has to do with my father. As he looks down on me, I’ll let him be the judge.
Janelle Casias
Asking the Right Question
by Katherine Park Woolbert
Let’s call her Alice, a chunky woman (chunky by her own definition) who sometimes comes into class with makeup I wouldn’t begin to know how to apply—thick penciled eyebrows, heavy eyeliner, multiple shades of eye shadow, mascara that makes her eyelashes look like caterpillar fur. Other times she just looks like the worn out single mom that she is, doing good just to get up and get her kid off to school, living with the reality of being an ex-offender on probation, and eating a big slice of humble pie by coming to the Center for Adult Learning to study for her high school equivalency. On her diagnostic entrance test, she scored only about 9th grade level in reading and writing skills, but we both have theories about that. As her teacher, my theory is what I call the rust factor: being out of school for a while can set up perfect conditions to rust the machinery of the brain, and it simply takes time to wear it away. I joke that I’ve got a can of WD-40 in my backpack just in case. Alice’s theory is that her reading and writing skills have atrophied because of too much texting on her cell phone. I think we’re both right.
I’m very interested in why adult basic education students couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t make it through public school, and I’ve got a theory for that too: public school doesn’t cater to kinesthetic learners, those students who can’t quite absorb information or gain understanding if they can’t experience it tactilely in their bodies. Since public school is overwhelmingly geared towards visual and audial learners, kinesthetic learners get left by the wayside. A big factor is controllability. Visual and audial learners are much more likely to be content sitting still; meanwhile, kinesthetic learners are so frustrated that they’re acting like they’ve got ants in their pants, and not surprisingly get targeted as troublemakers or daydreamers who are not able to focus their over-active attention. Maybe public schools have caught on to this fact and achieved a better balance of teaching to different learning styles, but until they do, our little learning center will be packed with disgruntled, shamed, over-active, stymied, and self-doubting kinesthetic learners.
Alice is a self-doubter; we stumbled upon this discovery because I noticed that when I gave her a second chance to answer those questions that she missed on any given test, she would do quite well, and she’d say “Shoot, that’s the answer I put down first, but I didn’t think it could be right, so I changed it.” I hear that a lot. Students’ first instincts are often right, but they don’t trust them. So I asked her, “Do you doubt yourself often?”
“All the time.”
“When did you first learn to doubt yourself?”
She looked at me with her beautifully flecked amber eyes and when I saw them tear up, I knew I had stumbled on the right question, because the answer was right there, crowning, ready to be born. I suggested that she write a narrative beginning with the phrase “I first learned to doubt myself when…” She nodded, took paper and pen, bent her head and began to write. She didn’t raise her head until it was time to break for lunch.
The next time she came to class, she had typed her narrative into four pages that detailed how she had been sexually molested by her uncle when she was a tween. When she told her mother about it, her mother had believed her, but her father, an intimidating drunk, had not, and neither had anyone else in her family. In fact they were so angry that she would make such an accusation, they shamed her. I’m not sure what the mother’s response was; Alice was vague on that point. But her paper was very clear on the fact that the shaming had worked. She spent years in anguish wondering if maybe she had gotten it wrong. Maybe she had misunderstood what had happened between her uncle and her. Maybe her perceptions weren’t right. Maybe she couldn’t trust herself. Maybe it would be safer to hang back in self-doubt.
I suspect that that’s how Alice became a “bad” girl, failing high school, seduced by the wrong road, and eventually landing in jail. But now she is sitting across the table from me, amber eyes open and sparkling with tears as she gladly hands me the brutal facts of her life because I happen to be the first teacher so far to ask the right question.
Katherine Park Woolbert
Prison Visit
by Katherine Park Woolbert
One hundred eight degrees. Sticky, cloying, dirty air. Dead fields of desertified dirt. The worst of California’s Central Valley. Hard to imagine a time when the Sierra Nevada rose up clear as a flute song above a verdant valley.
Instead of one big prison, there are two big prisons squatting cheek to jowl, tons of cement impounding acres of former farmland now garlanded with miles of razor wire. We drive up a curving landscaped entrance road to the guardhouse where we are given a quick once-over and okayed to proceed into a vast parking lot. Grabbing the visitation paperwork, our plastic bags stuffed with quarters and ones, IDs, and a single car key, we walk over melting blacktop to the prison entrance. Heat that could microwave birds and butterflies right out of the sky. Debilitating, heat stroke heat. I walk with false confidence to the counter, hand my paperwork over to a blunt-faced, bulletproof vested man, feel his eyes sizing us up. Yeah, he says, I see you’re set to visit this guy. But this is the wrong prison. He’s at the other one. Go out the way you came. Take three lefts.
Back in the oven of the car, we turn the AC up high for the short ride to the Substance Abuse Treatment Facility. No attempt at landscaping in this place. This is Prison, undiluted, undisguised. A Pentagon-sized building, heavy set, sinister, crouching over former orchard land. Looming guard towers. Even more miles of razor wire. Acres of roasting vehicles. Colorful dabs of people wilting on their march from car to guardhouse.
Inside the steaming entrance room, everyone in line with plastic bags in hand. Some are sent back because they’re wearing the wrong colors. No blue—that’s what the inmates wear. No green or tan—that’s what the guards wear. Nothing too immodest.
Waiting. Waiting... Finally I’m next. A female guard sits behind the counter, one eye on the computer screen, one eye lasering me up and down. Flaking layers of makeup, tight hairdo, shielded eyes. Every word sounds scripted. But where is she, I wonder? Does she transform into flip-flops and cut off shorts when she gets home? Does she shake out her hair? Does she cry herself to sleep, or wake up screaming?
Her buddies in back are equally blank-faced, armored, giving Henry and me their cold appraisal. She takes my paperwork. Yeah, R. S. is here, but you made the appointment to visit the other prison. Sorry, can’t let you in. You can schedule another appointment, or you can wait until open visiting hours at noon. You might get in. She hands back my paperwork. Dismisses me with a curt Next?
I fall outside into the hot air, fighting back scalding tears. No, this can’t be happening. All the planning. All the expectations. All the anxiety to meet an incarcerated student for the first time. All the courage I’ve mustered to step back inside a prison.
It has been over twenty years since I taught a holistic health program to incarcerated women in a federal prison. Maybe I was a tougher warrior then, maybe my skin was thicker, but when I left the program after four years, I never wanted to step foot in another prison, ever again. My skin feels thin, scrubbed down to raw canvas.
I think about what I know about R.’s life. He has taken a year-long course with me, The Prison Memoir. He has written courageously and honestly about his crime, his three consecutive life sentences, his time on Death Row, his life in prison, his study of Buddhism. He has taught me as much as I’ve taught him. Maybe more, especially about peeling back the layers to see the light that lies beneath. He’s always reminding me of the really big picture from a karmic point of view. He’s as much told me that as much as he regrets his crime, and the life he now lives behind bars, he knows that prison has been the site of his awakening, and that his job now is to practice compassion among the worst of the worst. He has asked me to help him write his memoir. He has asked me to be his friend. I never wanted working with prisoners to return to my life, but here it is.
I look at Henry. I know without asking he doesn’t want to wait until noon, a good two hours away. He wants to be up in the mountains, above this frying pan. He wants to breathe.
The heat is cooking my brain. I can’t think.
And then, a little moment of clarity. I’ll go back inside, I say to Henry, and at least ask the guard to tell R. we won’t be able to see him. Henry nods. Follows me back inside. We go to the end of the line.
And we wait.
Finally, the waiting is over. We’re next.
The mask on the guard has not slipped an inch. My god, do they only hire people who know how to hide their real faces? I take a deep breath. I rehearse what to ask her.
But that’s not what comes out. No, something entirely different comes out.
I plant my feet. I keep my voice low. I hear myself say something completely reasonable, like “We’ve come all the way from Colorado and it would be really inconvenient to schedule another appointment.” I don’t dare look her in the eyes. I don’t dare add a plea to press our case, give her anything she could resist, resent, hold against me. I breathe in my belly. I plant myself deep. I wait. I pray.
Henry tells me later that he knows we are in when he sees her mouth twitch, first to the left, then to the right. I don’t know until she asks us for our IDs. Maybe the prison has a policy of accommodating out-of-state visitors. Maybe her mask has cracked enough for her to shift. Maybe my request actually connected with her humanity. All I know is I’m grateful.
Now the pace picks up. I go through the obstacle course first. Rings? Belt? another guard asks, this one tall and bald and paunchy. He notes my ring and belt on a piece of paper. Can’t take in two pair of glasses. Can’t bring in lanyards. Which pair should I take? More important to see or shield my eyes? No, the real question is, is it more important to hide my weird eyes? Which? Choose! Henry is already taking the lanyard off his glasses. I choose my reading glasses. No point hiding in prison. Secrets just make a bigger target, I reason to myself. Everyone in prison has such finely tuned bullshit antennae they’re going to see right through you anyway.
Henry disappears back to the parking lot with our lanyards, my sunglasses. I hand my plastic money bag and shoes to the burly guard, go through the metal detector, put my shoes back on, sit clutching my plastic money bag like a frightened suburban lady forced to take the city bus. Wait for Henry. Breathe. Try to relax. Watch other visitors—most of them brown-faced—go through the obstacle course, wonder if they do this every Sunday. Wonder where they find the strength.
Henry comes through the metal detector, puts on his shoes, gathers up his money bag, ID, key. We wait to get buzzed through. Follow the yellow line, we are directed by the burly guard. We follow it through a corridor of chain link fences adorned with razor wire, cross a wide yard, enter the belly of the concrete beast.
The heat inside is worse. I see big fans in every corner, but all they’re doing is blowing hot air around. We march up to another counter, hand over our paperwork to another trio of mask-faced guards. A curt nod, and we enter the actual visiting room.
How could it be even hotter? The image of a Petri dish comes to me, or being fully-dressed in a sauna turned on high. The fans don’t make the slightest dent.
The room is fairly large, maybe 30 by 50. Hard to say, as it is full of people sitting at low, evenly spaced tables. A row of vending machines lines half of one long wall; windows to a glaring courtyard line the other. We march up to yet another counter, another trio of guards, these not quite so stone-faced. One points to a table in the middle. Table 18. Sit so your prisoner faces us, he says. Keep your hands visible.
We walk back through the room, sit on very low chairs next to a very low table, kind of like kindergarten tables, except they’re made for adults. Our knees scrape against it. No hanky panky could happen under these tables. With hands, anyway.
We sit, watch, wait. I try to take in what I’m seeing. On the surface, I see inmates clad in blue sitting uniformly at the same cardinal point in each table. They sit with knees spread wide to get as close as possible to the low table. Their heads are shaved bald or with designs, some tattooed. They sit with heads bowed, touching the bowed heads of their mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers. They take their sprawling squealing children, grandchildren into their laps. They hold hands with their wives, girlfriends, some of whom are dressed right up to the breaking point of the dress code for visiting. They sit grasping old hands, rough hands, manicured hands, tiny hands. They whisper to each other. I cannot hear what they’re saying, but I can feel what’s underneath it.
Their eyes, when they are not closed, dart around the room, the long habit of sizing up everyone because survival depends upon it; they are body readers par excellence, strengths and weaknesses assessed in a nanosecond even as their own is being duly noted. When they look up to check each other out, the agitation of the room swirls and tightens upward in a spinning vortex. But then, it’s as if they remember it’s Sunday, visiting day, a day to be with family, to eat some decent food from the vending machines, to speak of normal things with their families. Their eyes close again, and their heads bow, and the tenderness returns like a refreshing mist. They reverently sip from the spring of their families’ love.
Love and tenderness, that’s what I really see underneath all the craziness in this sweltering Petri dish of a prison visiting room.
Henry is better situated to see R. enter the room before I do. All we have is a picture of him on the paperwork we’ve been given. Strange, to know so much about someone, but not know what they look like.
He is taller, leaner than I imagined. Bald with a handlebar moustache, his body might be completely tattooed except for his face. Certainly his arms are. He’s got that same darting look, that feeling of agitation like something’s underneath his skin jumping around, trying to get out. I wonder if any of these guys ever really sleep.
I don’t remember much of what we talked about. I know I wanted to help him feel comfortable. I was embarrassed about the money we had been coached to bring in, safe in our little plastic ziplock bags. Only visitors are allowed to operate the vending machines, we had been told by R.’s girlfriend. You can bring in up to $50 dollars. He’ll be hungry and very glad to see you, she had said.
So after a short while, I ask R. if he’d like some lunch. A salad, he responds right away. Off to the vending machines I go. I’m glad I chose my reading glasses over my sunglasses because otherwise I can’t see what I’m doing. Another visitor helps me out. Here, she says, press this button to make the trays rotate so you can see what kind of salad they have. Press this button when you make your selection. I am grateful for her help. We are momentary sisters visiting important men in our lives. I start to relax. With three salads in hand, I load up on plastic forks, salt and pepper, napkins. I return to our table and ask what everyone would like to drink. Dr. Pepper, R. says. Henry jumps up and takes on this chore. I watch R. chew on his salad, slowly, thoughtfully, mindfully. He relaxes just a little. I chew on my own salad. It’s surprisingly good, fresh. In the course of our visit, we see the vending machines stocked with fresh food no less than three times.
R. talks a little bit. It’s been hard to have a girlfriend. It’s not just the distance. It’s not just that he’s in prison, and probably will be for the rest of his life. He feels like her needs put too much drama into his life. He doesn’t want any more drama. He’s got more than enough for several lifetimes.
I’m not surprised their relationship is strained. It’s hard enough in the “free” world, but in prison? Hard to imagine.
I stop trying to push the conversation forward. I try to remember to settle into my back, to be quiet for a little while, to not be afraid of silence. Also, I’m curious to see if Henry or R. will fill the silence before I do. I let myself drift out into the room again. I watch R. watching a young female visitor wander back and forth from table to vending machine with her plastic bag of quarters and ones. Her bag is not a sturdy ziplock bag like ours are. It’s a flimsy produce bag. It bursts, scattering quarters everywhere. She freezes, stares at the scattered coins as if they were landmines in disguise. The room stands still, watching. And then R. softly says to her, “It happens.” She thaws. People—prisoners and visitors alike—start picking up the money and giving it back to her. Life goes on.
I notice what a kind thing that was for R. to say. His attempt to ease her embarrassment. His instant empathy. How good he is at seeing all the layers in the big picture.
Much later he says that he thinks the young woman was high. As soon as he says that, I realize that I had assumed that he was watching her because she was young and female and fairly good looking. Of course an incarcerated man would want to watch someone like that. But he says he was watching her because he knew she was high on something. R.’s history with substance abuse, meth in particular, would make him very skilled at recognizing substance abuse in someone else. His drug history constitutes much of what he’s writing about in the memoir he’s asked me to help him with. That’s why we’re here visiting him. The memoir.
Henry gets him some ice cream and another soda. We start to talk about the memoir. R. has written extensively about his twelve years on death row, and has created a new narrative about how his drug-filled life led to his crime. He is puzzled about how to weave those two narratives into one book. Maybe they are different books. He doesn’t know how to proceed.
I start talking about my experience writing a memoir, how I got stuck, how I came to realize that pieces I was sure would fit into the final draft actually needed to be cut, how the memoir itself began to tell me what it needed to be whole and complete. R. looks unconvinced.
For some reason, Henry and I start talking about the process of painting, the under-painting in particular. As artists, Henry and I have worked in many media, including oils and acrylics in which the under-painting is exactly what the word suggests: the painting underneath the final painting, the painting that pre-exists it, the painting that serves as the base or ground for the subsequent layers of paint which will constitute the finished work. Sometimes the under-painting is obvious, popping through the final surface with unexpected color or light; sometimes it is subtle, evident only in an underlying texture or a ghost image that’s been painted over. I worry that Henry and I may be losing R., so I try to draw an analogy between painting and writing. Just as the under-painting exists underneath the final surface of a painting as evidence of the painting’s genesis and journey, so too the myriad drafts that pulsate “underneath” the “final surface” of a piece of writing serve as evidence of the writing’s genesis and journey. For example, maybe the piece R. has written about Death Row is the under-painting to his memoir.
R. sits back in his chair and stops fidgeting for a moment. He looks like he’s trying to take this in, fit it into his picture of how things happen, or how he wants them to happen.
I’m no Buddhist, but I do know that attachments don’t let go until they’re good and ready. I sit back, satisfied that I’ve said the best of what I can say in this moment, and it’s not up to me to determine what’s next or what needs to happen. R. and his memoir will converse, compromise, emerge, evolve, and figure it out. Or not.
We three sit together, a little less agitated, a little more thoughtful until the announcement comes over the speaker. Visiting room hours will be over in fifteen minutes. There are some last minute visits to the vending machine, some last minute heads bowed and tender words spoken.
I feel pleased. And astounded that we’ve just had an amazing conversation about painting and writing, the genesis and journeys of creative endeavors, and that it’s taken place in the middle of a steaming visiting room in the bowels of a gargantuan prison.
Katherine Park Woolbert
The Hollowing - An Immigrant’s Love Poem
From Britta’s Ghost
by Tom Nordgren
America, come clean! You’re a transplant. You charge others of crimes as if your words weren’t lines copped from their dead rightful owners. You’ve engineered a great ethnic joke powered by irony and your every slur has its target’s arrows deep in your own hide. But every family, every Phyllis and Fred in America--in YOU, America--has US, the people, back there alive, alive and stuck to your bones. Who fell dead in love with you at first sight, as I did. Who stood on the quarter-deck and cried out “Liberty!” at dusk at the shine of your harbor light.
Our homes like dead Lazarus, waiting for a savior. We who watched and went below and drank stale water and worshipped her memory. Whispered her words in our sleep in our bunks. Tired. Poor. Huddled masses. Who dreamt of the morning through the long night, awake. Heard the chug of the gig from the hospital ship Ruth and wondered. Were motored to Ellis Island. We searched for her, Liberty, first thing in the dawn, fearing she’d been a mirage. Hearing rumors she was just a promissory, and warnings that a goddess more glaze and gauze than any god would poison our souls. And still we loved her and by our yearning to be free, we raised her into life.
Verily. It was no business deal. Because we loved her, we loved you more. Forgave you the blood in your streets and called it Progress. The clanking of chains, it was a new poetry, they were made to be broken. Forgave the echoes of our own cries for life we heard somewhere at night down inside you, in some place we could have guessed would be hollow. And so, like frightened children, we waited to be held: waited in passport lines, clothing lines, food lines, the cholera line. All the while loving you even more. Now for the wild chase onto Manhattan Island. Now for the selling of our silly trinkets for food. A search for love bringing love by belief along a terrible wilderness chute.
It was such a head-down American thing--falling in love and chasing, chasing and falling in love--sprung the mouth of Hëlsingborg harbor, riding the merchant fleets to Pittsburgh, Nashville, Omaha or Denver, then tumbling over fields of endless promise, chasing our tails till our tailbones bled. Refugee wheels of Fate following signs, you floating away somewhere unreachable ahead, charting by the stars, carving your heart on trees, we following from buggy to train to barge, to truck, dying in caravans on your trails and you making it all sound so damned believable.
I don’t repeat this to remind myself, anymore. Your time is over. The cities have grown old milling flour and have taken up the speed of light--we work in their labs. We have citizenship and credentials and shall prevail--not poor and pays on time. Ambulatory. Not Married. Does taxes. Not stupid. Educated. Hasn't starved. Worships. Never jailed. Supports his kids. Is not a drifter. Is a hero and has not read Moby Dick.
Half of those aren’t true for me and I read American novels day and night. I go to American films and relate to the thief. A drizzly November of the soul cries out for Palm Beach and we could so easily drive our Hondas down that road--seduced, reduced, massaged, and deranged. Bring this one tequila, that one a fix; get her a pipe bomb, why not? And make mine a leprechuan, let’s enjoy a terrible change. We’ll each be happy to drink, fuck and die, all the while hard at believing. Our defense will be that we've uncovered a five-hundred-year-old secret: where America’s concerned, where all the Americas in Creation are concerned, nothing will ever be allowed to mean what it means.
Maybe even that’s too narrow. Let’s just say that Nothing Shall Mean. We’re told that the search for meaning has been a problem. That Washington is a god and Liberty his Virgin Mother. But the lesson I’ve learned by all that chasing is that Liberty is a shadow, a blindness a person’s morals cast, and I have never seen more clearly the difference between right and wrong. Concerning Meaning, I am right, and even the meaning of my rightness is laughable. The Professors were wrong and extremely, because it’s not a jet. It’s not calculable. Our brothers and sisters across the world are right. They are bereft of hope and hungry. I was wrong for mistaking cause for effect. Analysis is right when it speaks visible truth. Wrong when it bleeds dreams into books of fairy tales and then lives them out. The adventuring a young person does in finding out what the world might Be is Right. But to quest after Liberty’s Meaning, to trust that that pile of cement and copper, that endless echo machine, is hopeless. She is Hollow Fabricated Constructed Hammered Out Infused with the hopes of a billion wailing souls. Tabbed and dressed and a hundred times bruised.
Give me Liberty or give me Death!
But let me fill her with the spirits of those souls.
Tom Nordgren