Truth Be Told
Several months ago, I was invited to attend a graduation
ceremony held inside the state prison in Lockhart, and I agreed to do so,
mostly for reasons no more noble than fleeting curiosity. The ceremony is one step
along a longer journey of discovery for female inmates, sponsored by an outfit
called “Truth Be Told.”
Once I’d agreed to attend, I was instructed to read, fill
out, sign and return a stack of forms that reinforced the fact that I was about
to enter a real prison, and this is serious stuff. Even an inveterate smartass
like myself was impressed and sufficiently cowed.
A month or so later, on a stormy November afternoon, I and 20 or so
other attendees — all women — assembled in the gravel prison parking
lot, emptied our pockets, removed our jewelry, dropped our cell phones in our
car trunks, queued up and double-timed our way into a holding area, where we
were reminded politely first and sternly second to pipe down. Duly chastened, we allowed ourselves to be eye-balled and stamped
and processed and shuttled through a maze-like corridor past gawking inmates
into a huge assembly hall that resembled an empty bus barn. We dragged metal folding
chairs across a damp concrete floor into a semi-circle and sat and waited,
making small talk and listening as the rain peppered the corrugated tin roof.
Eventually, the women inmates entered. They were mostly
young and mostly black or brown. Some seemed defiant. Some were sheepish. Most
of them were something in between — embarrassed but determined to make sense of
the wreckage of their lives. They ambled in and sat among us, and we were
invited to chat with them, but we were instructed not to ask anything about why
they were in prison, how long they’d been in prison or how long they’ll be in
prison, though we could ask them where they grew up and went to high school.
Most of the inmates had names like Monique, Crystal,
LaPorsha and LaShon. I doubt any of them grew up in Westlake Hills or Highland
Park. Several went by nicknames such as Nay-Nay and T. Bo. One tiny, young black
woman was movie star gorgeous, full of spunk. Another was a tall, lumbering Hispanic
gal who reminded me of Chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. She spoke no
English that day, although I'm told she speaks well enough, and seemed desperate to disguise the fact that she’s 6-1 at least.
After the obligatory introductions and an occasional abrupt
interruption by a guard (or, correctional officer or whatever they’re called),
the program began. I expected a half hour of hip-hop dancing and geeky pantomime
worthy of a fifth grade talent show at an all-white school. I was so wrong. The
program was funny and sad, poignant and profound, smart and deeply moving. I
was particularly blown away by a poem by Chantel, titled “Let It Be.”
Here’s a
stanza:
I’ve taken my mask off before and got hurt.
But with my mask on, I be damn if I’m
treated like dirt.
Some think my mask is ugly, but to me, it’s
beautiful.
My eyes black as coal lookin’ straight to
your soul.
My lips are painted ruby red from all the
blood I’ve seen shed.
My skin is a tone of 18-karat gold.
You will never see through it, so my
secrets are never told.
The skits and the poetry readings, the “wise letter to
myself” all hammered home a seminal point: I am here for a reason, and I have
no one to blame but myself. Neither Momma nor Daddy. Not some piece-of-shit man.
Not “The Man.” Not God. I’m here because I didn’t love myself enough to avoid
or reject those people who used me and abused me, so I put myself here. I know that now. I also know that I can be someone
of value if I believe in myself and trust in God, if I surrender my false
pride, if I wise up and grow up and stop living in fear because it’s never too
late.
Love may never find me here.
Alone and scared, my biggest fear.
I must search within and find out why,
Confront this pain, “I have to try.”
Memories surfaced from deep down inside.
My past, My Self, could no longer hide.
I then realized this prison was built
With blocks made of secrets, shame and
guilt.
— T.Bo
— T.Bo
After the skits were finished and some of us outsiders had a
moment to compose ourselves, the Truth Be Told directors invited us to offer a
few thoughts, and I was thrilled to do so.
This is what I said:
“Two or three years ago, I was teaching a writing workshop
at Columbia University in New York City, and one afternoon I was sitting in Alfred
Lerner Hall, and I picked up and thumbed through the campus literary magazine,
which is produced by some of the smartest yet most coddled and privileged kids
on the planet. Everything I saw and heard here today was light years better
than anything I read in that literary magazine.”
I told them how inspired I was by their honesty and courage,
and then I got choked up again and had to cut my comments short, but here’s the
deal: Not so long ago, I was asked to respond to the following writing prompt:
What Inspires You? I submitted something, but it was half-hearted because at
that time, I had no idea what inspired me. After meeting and watching and hearing these women who are
struggling valiantly to understand how it is they are doing time in a privately-run, for-profit prison in Lockhart, Texas, well, let me just say, I do know now.
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