Shakespeare Saved My Life Read online

  Week after week passed, with no word from Larry. The secretaries at the university searched the campus mail every day for a letter. Good hearts, they prayed for him. Even my boss worried, “If they take away his Shakespeare book, he’ll snap,” he said. His scenario was plausible, but it sure wasn’t reassuring.

  “Stay strong” were Larry’s parting words to me every week. I just had to trust that Larry was as strong—and as changed—as I believed he was.

  CHAPTER 72

  Closing Doors

  Something seemed wrong. The prisoners seemed distracted. They kept casting furtive glances down the hall through the window in our classroom door. On a typical day, we would see a prisoner now and then walking to the chapel or infirmary, both of which were located here in the OSB (Offender Services Building). There was no officer in our room, but if one happened to be heading for the break room for a few minutes away from his post at the end of the hall, he might wave as he passed by. I started to realize that it was strange that I hadn’t seen anyone out there for a while: no prisoners, no officers, no one. This was not a typical day. I was starting to feel something I’d never felt in prison before: fear.

  The Shakespeare group stayed focused on the hallway, without saying why. Suddenly, it hit me: there was a fight taking place in the hall, apparently involving a couple of prisoners. It didn’t involve any of our group members, but one of them must have had a vested interest in the outcome, because he got up and headed for the door.

  “Don’t hurt anyone,” I begged him.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied, “I won’t.”

  But I knew he was only telling me what I wanted to hear. I assumed that the officers down the hall would stop him and send him back into the classroom, but he never returned. It was like he just vanished.

  The group stopped talking about Shakespeare; in fact, they stopped talking altogether. Eventually, the silence was shattered by a siren that began blaring, something I’d never heard before. Before I could ask the group what to do, an officer appeared and ordered the prisoners out: now!

  I gathered up my papers and threw them into my bag, grabbed my coat, and started to follow the prisoners toward the front door that leads out of the building. But the officer blocked my way and pointed in another direction without saying a word. I started to say to him, “That’s not the way I usually go out,” but he disappeared. I started down the unfamiliar corridors, through a door that I assumed would lead me out, but it didn’t. In fact, it led me deeper into the prison. I was no longer in the safe confines of the OSB, but inside one of the cell houses. That sure didn’t seem like a way out. I turned to go back, but the door wouldn’t open! It was locked! I was in there alone, and I could not find my way out!

  Desperately, I continued on past rows and rows and rows of cells. Not the familiar steel pegboard cell doors, but old-fashioned iron bars. I’d never seen cells that looked like that. Prisoners I didn’t know looked scary—as “my” guys probably did to those who didn’t know them.

  “Don’t worry,” I told myself. “They’re behind bars.” And then…the bars opened, and one after another, prisoners came charging out of their cells, waving a variety of homemade weapons. It was turning into a full-fledged prison riot! Was I going to end up a hostage? This couldn’t be happening!

  It wasn’t.

  It was just a bad dream, the kind that I often have to this day. I never felt worried when I was in the prison, never had nightmares about working there when I was still working there, but maybe now my subconscious worries are surfacing. My sister tells me she’s had similar nightmares about living in the ’hood—but, likewise, only after we no longer lived there.

  I went back to the SHU one time after Larry was transferred, when I was no longer working there, and I was struck by the gates, the bars, the security—the risk. Although I’d only been away for a matter of months, I felt like I was seeing it all anew. The thought flashed in my mind: I can’t believe I used to work back here! That I spent roughly one thousand hours here, entered this unit nearly five hundred times!

  It might have been risky; I might have been crazy. But I’m glad I went in there, and that I also did, in the words of Dave Matthews, “find my own way out.”

  CHAPTER 73

  The Letter

  Finally, a letter arrived from Larry. The secretaries called me and I ran down the hall, as I had done eight years earlier when I had received permission to enter the SHU. I opened the letter in front of the assembled group, with no need for censorship. Breathlessly, I read aloud:

  Dear Dr. Bates,

  Hey you!

  What a ride!

  It was a rough one. King Richard’s psychological state made physical. The day I arrived here (two weeks ago) the prison went on a weeklong lockdown to conduct facility-wide shakedowns. Brutal shakedowns! As a consequence of the lockdown I was held in a disciplinary observation cell for the week. In non-institutional talk that is a cell reserved for strapping a grown man to the bunk by his hands and feet. Like being buried alive I imagine. Included is a camera to observe the “disruptive” prisoner. The problem for me was that the cell is not meant to be lived in. That means that the cell never gets cleaned. With absolutely no property for me to clean the blood-stained walls and floor, I could survive still. What drove me nuts was—

  “Oh, no!”

  “What is it?” asked Mary Ann, one of the secretaries. Recalling his one phobia, I continued reading the letter:

  What drove me nuts was the spiders, and their webs!! These webs were the stuff of legends. No angle was spared. I hate spiders! Not an animal I can trust. So I spent the week in the exact same spot—middle of the bed! I just sat there wondering how many tortured souls escaped right there on that bed. I wondered how many people were humanely put down unintentionally on that bed. My anger never has much of a life these days, but this adverse time chased it away rather quickly. I just felt sad. Not for myself, but for the men who helplessly stared at that ceiling, having no idea how to change! It sucked! The spiders were fitting: life just being sucked out of people. I never learned to pacify violence from violence, and these men will never shake a criminal impulse from criminal acts! A cycle with too many investors to be broken. Anyhow, the lockdown ended and I moved to a regular/normal supermax dungeon. Last night I received a letter from you that was sent to Wabash, and today I received my property. I am now normalized! So, here is my plan: I will finish organizing my property tonight, tomorrow I will attempt to recapture my Shakespeare momentum, this weekend I will sit down and respond to your letter, and include what work I was able to piece together. I should be able to recapture the mood in a day, two max. I feel like I miss you already, but nothing has really changed but my dungeon. It sure feels like a month at minimum. I just wanted to shoot you this quick “kite” since I received my property today, mainly to let you know that I am okay. I hope you are well. Stay strong!! I will!

  Always,

  Larry

  “Whew!” was the collective response of my colleagues. I was grateful for their empathy, though I knew that they could not begin to imagine the conditions that Larry described. Even after spending nearly a decade in the “hole” myself, I couldn’t imagine it.

  I felt a mix of emotions: worried about Larry—and worried that it was my fault that he was in this situation. If it was true that I had saved his life, then had my well-intentioned efforts now endangered it? If only I had listened to my boss, had never entered the SHU, never met a prisoner named Larry Newton, never asked him to read Shakespeare, then he wouldn’t have excelled in the program and been released from segregation, gone into general population, and had access to a cell phone.…

  I spent the next week worried sick. Literally, sick: sleepless nights resulting in elevated heart rate and blood pressure approaching dangerously high levels. I felt precisely the kind of worries that would have made my own mother heartsick too, if I had told her about my prison work.

  CHAPTER 74

  Powering t
hrough with Shakespeare

  As promised, a second letter arrived the following week. It was written in journal style, with an entry for every day of the week—almost every day.

  2-10-10

  Dear Dr. Bates,

  Hey you, how you is?

  It is roughly 8 a.m., and I am about to attempt to recapture some Shakespeare mood. I thought I would go ahead and begin my letter first though. I am sitting in front of my window listening to the radio. My energy is building as I jam. I have a window here, and outside I see a ground covered in snow—deep snow! My entire horizon is the building itself, but since I am upstairs I can see over the building and see a highway in the distance. I cannot make out much, but at night I can clearly see the lights of the traffic, and it is nearly as intimate as an up-close. I squeeze my brain to picture myself behind the wheel, anticipating some destination. It is cool for me to know that these people are going somewhere. I love it!

  No question about it, I am most intrigued by how other people live their lives. Even in pictures, my favorite sort is an un-posed moment! I can nearly live the moment myself. I can stare at one of those for hours. Man, it has been many years since I received any pictures. My mom used to take some for me, as did my brothers, but as time passes it must be less fun for them. I am promised many each year, but I would estimate it has been at least seven or eight years. In fact, I have no idea how long it has been!

  Strangely, such a condition gives me some small exposure to my place in the world. If not for the biological obligation, I could be long passed to my outside world. I do not mean that in the tone it gives; I just mean that I really am more memory than an active member. Who would ever even know I existed, but my victims? The family of that poor guy, my family, and you guys (my only nonvictims). Beyond that: what footprint is there? That is a crazy thought, no? It sounds sinister, but I am not in a darkened mood. If anything, I just wonder how I can leave some footprints in the world. Probably a mortal complex that comes with not leaving any children. I did suddenly feel isolated though. Only briefly.

  So, let’s check out your letter.

  I had written to him my enthusiastic response to his last letter, as well as a plea for him to stay on track, to keep on working.

  I needed that by the way. It hit the spot, at the right time.

  There was no end to the sentence, and no entry for the next day. The letter resumed one day later:

  2-12-10

  So much for normalized! I was pulled mid-sentence and strip-searched, all my property searched, and moved to yet another cell. The man who runs the place came and told me to blame him and not his staff. He said my name slipped by him at first, but suddenly he remembered me and the attempted escape of twelve years ago. Said I was the reason they brought him back. Assured me though that it was nothing “personal,” and certainly not “harassment,” but let me know that this will be a regular thing. To add insult, the new cell was another neglected dungeon! It took me four hours to clean it up, once I finally got in here. I am to expect shakedowns every day, and moving to a new cell every three days! I have done that before, but never for long-term. It is crazy! It stirs every unstable emotion in you, but worst of all it creates an intense paranoia. Every time you hear the range door, you tense up for another round of “not personal” security. It is not good! It is one thing to do it short-term, but something all together different for the long haul. You cannot settle anywhere! You cannot develop any relationships. You are on guard 24/7! I am lost right now. I have no idea what to do! I did nothing to get here, and most certainly did not ask for this. If I am really that much of an issue, then what sense does it make to put me here? This is going to be rough! That aside, let me tell you this story: Late last night, after cleaning this dungeon, I got to talk to someone here who did the Shakespeare program in the SHU! He just told me how great it was, and all of my grave concerns nearly vanished! He said at first he was skeptical, but he really got into it. I have yet to do my normal puzzle for troubles: that is, find some way that my problems are fated for my development, but I am certain that I cannot lay this work aside! In fact, this is a time for me to lean on Shakespeare! There is nothing else for me, except to fold to the negative energy thrown at me. No question, this is going to be a terrible experience, but if I can power through with Shakespeare—imagine the stability! So I will not let them take it from me: how about that?

  2-13-10

  They are shaking me down twice each day (once each shift), and with the moving around—it is harassment. I am trying to put together a letter to the commissioner that includes all of the great work reviews I received, as well as the great annual reviews I received. In fact, I never received a bad one! I need to show them that despite my one fumble, all of my reviews at each prison were great! Not good—great! To show basically that I am not some problem prisoner deserving of these conditions reserved for such a prisoner.

  2-14-10

  Rough day! Really rough day! I will make it okay. Will have plenty of work for you by next week, I promise. Actually, I need it right now. Anyhow, you are the best. I will not let you down! Trust me, my friendship with you has long motivated me more than Shakespeare ever did, and the last thing I would ever want is to let you down. You are, literally, my only friend, and that is never lost on me! Let me get this letter out. I feel so much better after I talk with you! Always do! Be easy, stay strong, and you young’uns have a great Valentine’s Day.

  Larry

  And then nothing. For weeks. And nothing that I could do but worry again. Every one of the prison arts volunteers that I had become acquainted with over the years cautioned me that any attempt on my part to “advocate” for him would backfire. It would bring more attention to him and would likely make the prison administration come to regard him as a problem prisoner just when he needed to demonstrate that he was, in fact, a model prisoner. Again, I had to trust that Larry would come through, that he would do what he always told me to do: “stay strong.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Revelation

  Finally, the long-awaited letter arrived. It started with a confession—and ended with a revelation:

  My brain has been occupied with old demons, and I have been completely unable to focus on anything else. I have been in six different cells in the four weeks here! I have been shaken down roughly sixty times! I get it twice daily—no grandiosity! I get shook down once in the morning, and once at night—EVERY DAY! I am clean, and it should be no big deal, but it is not that simple. First there are the psychological consequences: it keeps me anticipating harassment all day. That is as distractive as a drug addict awaiting his next lick. The moving keeps me isolated socially, and that creates a depressed mood…after each shakedown, I spend at least an hour putting my legal work, and all paperwork, back in order. Every new cell takes me roughly eight hours of scrubbing to clean. The theme is obviously frustration. I feel absolutely violated and grossly persecuted! It is illegal and completely personal!

  By the end of the letter, he was back to his optimistic mood:

  I moved again last night, but honestly I dealt with it much better. I stayed up until 3 a.m. cleaning the cell. But as is so common a coping mechanism: it is what it is. I am not at all discouraged! This is an entirely new student, with an entirely new appreciation for our work. Obstacles are a part of this beast, and one should always anticipate a climb. But as long as we stay strong on what we do, time will take care of the rest.

  As my boss had feared, they did take his Shakespeare book, the one possession that meant the most to him—but he kept on working. Along with the letter, he sent twelve pages of work.

  “Good man,” said Mary Ann.

  I wondered if Larry had ever been called that. And I wondered if Mary Ann had ever called another convicted killer that.

  Now, the revelation:

  There is some good news, though: I just saved a bunch of money by switching to GEICO. No, but I did uncover an important answer to one of the most serious questions you have ev
er asked me! Remind me to answer you again, when we meet face-to-face. This is certainly not the media for it. But I can now tell you how I know. Maybe that was the point of this journey. None the less, I am in for one heck of a fight! Or maybe it is merely a better platform to prove myself? Maybe it is my chance to become Henry the Fifth? It would be one heck of a contrast!

  I am just unwilling to justify my stay here by obnoxious behavior. I just do not have it in me anymore. Believe me, I felt every bit of the pain, but you would never be able to tell it by watching me. I still conducted myself with respect—very dignified. No officer here will have a bad thing to say about me. I really am a different creature, even in my life away from you. I feel it all, and probably express the desperation, but it is not reflected in my conduct. In fact, that is how I discovered the answer to your question. You see, I attempted to conjure up the heart for a real-felt “fantasy,” but I could not do it! I will explain one day…