I Don't Need To Read No Damn Books

I had an incident this week in one of the creative writing classes I teach. For those that don’t know, last February I asked the school principal for permission to begin a writing program. I learned shortly thereafter that one of the teachers I worked for had tried, unsuccessfully, five years earlier to develop a writing program here.



We outlined a writing course with heavy emphasis on reading great authors. Over a fourteen week period, three hours each Wednesday afternoon, I lectured on a “nuts and bolts” issue (grammar or story development) and in group discussion covered the “genre” of the week: two weeks devoted to poetry; two weeks for short stories; six different genres in all.


Our initial class had twelve students. I was the “front man”. Ms. “W” helped with syllabus development, editing student works, and getting the class materials. From that small group we expanded to two classes; the basic program and an advanced class with more emphasis on writing material fit for publication. We now have 30 students enrolled and a winter term waiting list of another 30. The guys enrolled love the class, love to hear my stories, and love to read and write. It is an all around success.


My reasons for proposing the writing program were not all altruistic. Yes, I saw a deep need for guys in here to open their minds and express themselves constructively. But, I was looking for a way to present my own story. A week after my arrest I began keeping a journal. In these two plus years of incarceration I’ve written over 900 pages. My soul, my heartache, my hopes, my simple observations about days, are contained in those pages.


I’ve written in excess of 200 pages of my story centering on my arrest with flashbacks of trips to Vegas, the Caribbean and Atlantic City. I’ve written the first three chapters of a legal thriller. I’ve completed ten short stories. I write daily. It keeps my grounded and sane.


Back to this week’s class and “GT”. He was a student in the writing class. I say “was” because he quit the class.


GT is 34. He comes from Camden, New Jersey. His mother was a crack addict and he moved repeatedly from public housing unit to public housing unit. He never met his father.


He’s had a difficult life. He’s halfway through a ten year sentence for dealing heroin. He “decided” six months ago that he would write a “Gangsta novel” about life in the ‘hood. He signed up for the writing class to get editing help and feedback on his book.


Each week I ask the guys to read handout copies of short stories, poems, chapters from novels. We’ve put a reading list on reserve in the library and ask each student to commit to read three books during the term. The list includes works by Steinbeck, Hemingway, Harper Lee, Jack London, Melville, Wright, Hughes and Crane to name a few. Each week GT comes in and refuses to read. “I ain’t joinin’ no book club; I ain’t here to read no damn book. I wanna write my book, make money, buy a Benz, get me a ho’ and some ‘Henney’ and live.”


I switched tactics. Ms. W and I found essays by black writers, poems by Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes. All to no avail.


This week I tried a different tact. I edited a section of his book. I pointed out all the misspelled words, the sentence fragments, and improper punctuation. I showed him how his story was just one cliché after another. I came in with facts and figures on writers’ income and the unemployment rate for African-American males lacking college degrees. I handed out articles on publishing tips indicating that being well-read and writing properly matters. It fell on GT’s deaf ears.


Ms. W told me afterwards “you can’t make him do what everyone knows he needs to do. He’ll stand and fall on his own.”


I thought about both my sons and our family. When our oldest was about five (he’s now 22 and in law school), my wife began reading him “Where the Red Fern Grows”. It is an amazing story about a boy’s love for his two dogs - “Dan ad Little Ann” – and their love for each other. That story, I thought for a long time, captured the essence of the love my wife and I shared. After our divorce I can’t help but choke up as I think of “Dan” and “Little Ann”.


I took turns reading the story to my son. At the story’s tragic climax I was asked to read. I remember I began describing the scene and then reading about death, and devotion, and grief, and love. I felt tears roll down my cheeks as I read aloud what became of “Dan” and “Little Ann” and the boy. My wife sobbed. Our son sat transfixed, listening intently to the words, gauging our emotions.


Reading was always a part of our family’s life. Each night, my wife read to our sons when they were small. Our youngest heard aloud the “Harry Potter” series. Vacation driving featured books on CD. Both boys came to expect regular stops at Barnes & Noble. Books, magazines and newspapers were always present in our home.


Terry McMillan, author of “Waiting to Exhale” was recently interviewed on TV. When asked to give advice to upcoming writers she simply said “read, read, read”. I wish GT understood that.


So many men that end up behind bars do so out of ignorance and the pitiful circumstances of their lives. Mine was a crime of opportunity. I knew right from wrong but miscalculated – through pride and arrogance – the true cost of crossing the line. Of 1200 inmates here, around 50 are college educated, 50 enrolled in college, five with advanced degrees. Over half the compound lacks a high school diploma or GED.


Reading matters. Writing matters. Education matters. Perhaps someday GT will realize that, before it’s too late.