Out of the Depths

Deborah Appleman, Carleton’s Hollis L. Caswell Professor of Educational Studies, took a sabbatical during the 2008–09 academic year to teach inmates at the Minnesota Correctional Facility in Stillwater. Among the four classes she taught was a semester-long creative writing course. Her students’ writings—heartfelt attempts to make amends, to connect, to pass along hard-learned lessons—are collected in the recently published book From the Inside Out: Letters to Young Men and Other Writings. The following excerpts and paintings give a glimpse into a world behind bars—and how creative acts can help free a prisoner’s soul.

A criminal court in Minnesota recently sentenced a 17-year-old, who had been convicted of a gang-related killing, to life without parole after determining that life in prison for an adolescent is neither cruel nor unusual punishment. After you read these writings, I wonder if you will agree.
Some of the writers were incarcerated as teenagers and have become men in prison. The landscape of their coming of age is shaped by craters of violence, regret, reformation, and a longing to make things right.
Life without parole means no second chances. Yet, through reading and writing, [these men] have turned their minds and hearts and souls around. They reach out in the hope that their words of caution may save even one. Theirs are gestures of generosity, of selflessness, of hope. They have learned, and they have changed.
– Deborah Appleman

Young Man Acrylic by Kenneth Starlin — “Young Man,” Acrylic by Kenneth Starlin

It would be nice though
if you would send some pictures.
I can’t even see y’alls faces anymore,
not even in the dark,
hardened heart of my imagination.
I lost track of those memories
trying to see too far into the future.
. . . The fourth of July just passed.
It was sweltering
and I could hear the thunder,
the blasts for freedom
but I ain’t free
and I wish for just a second
the world could hear
the clank of my chains.
Then maybe they could understand this,
then maybe I might understand it a little.
Man, cousin,
it really has been a while,
I really don’t even feel
like the same person.
The tattoo on my arm
seems like a memento
from somebody else’s life
and I’m not even sure
I’m still alive.
I yell my dreams into space
just waiting for a response
that never comes at all.
And man,
it’s been six years,
pretty soon it will be ten,
ten turns to fifteen
what’s gonna happen then?
I’m starting to sound like a convict.
I told myself I would never
swallow such a bitter pill
and here I am
in the middle of that same small town,
in the middle of Minnesota
counting my losses,
losing sleep over
what I’m going to lose next.
Most of it isn’t mine anyways.
What’s up with those pictures man?
I don’t really think
I’m asking for a lot.
Just a few images
to kick start some new daydreams.
– Ezekiel Caligiuri, excerpt from “A Letter to an Old Friend Whose Face I’ve Forgotten”

My mom cries. I’ve never before seen her shed tears. I actually believed she possessed no tear ducts under those bags beneath her brown eyes. So many facets to her, either she is a great liar, a con, or she’s a magician and a master keeper of secrets. Funny, how after a quarter of a century you think you know someone only to be taken aback, surprised still.

It’s been almost a year now since last we’ve seen one another. She requests more frequent visitations except I won’t allow them as long as she continues to weep for me throughout our time together. I call her every other weekend and find it hilarious how soft spoken she is to me one second and then tells me to hang on another so as to set down the receiver to devour, demean, and devastate those still at home with her. She’d put drill sergeants to shame.

Before this experience, when I thought of my mother, I thought of the hurt and the misery she germinated in my life. Now when I think of my mom, I see how old I’ve made her, of the hurt and misery I’ve caused her. I’ve so much love for this woman.

– Charles Yang, excerpt from “My Mother and My Mom”

Pastel drawing of a boy holding a prison mug shot — “Here’s Your Future,” Pastel by C. Fausto Cabrera

My son. It has been twenty years now; so much time squandered, given away in a fit of rage. I am here in prison, regretting what we never had together.

I missed your birth and the bond that your mother and I would have made with you in the early days of your life. I missed seeing your joy as you took your first steps, and the sparkle in your eyes as you tasted ice cream for the first time. I gave that away.

I missed taking you fishing with me for the first time and seeing the great, big smile on your face as you reeled in your first sunfish. I missed seeing you jump in surprise at a nearby lightning strike and watching you sleep blissfully to the music of the rain.
I gave that away.

I missed finding out about your first girlfriend through the grapevine, because you knew that your uncles and I would have teased you until your face turned red. I didn’t get to teach you how it is no big deal when she breaks up with you. I gave that away.

I never got to teach you about how important it is to be educated. I never stood over your shoulder as you struggled over algebra [or] got to feel happy for you when you finally began to understand it. I never told you how proud I was of you. I gave it all away.

I didn’t get to see you deployed to Afghanistan to fight the enemies of our way of life. I never saw the change in you. I never got to give you a hero’s welcome home when your tour of duty was finished. I gave it all away.

Son, I am sorry for the things we missed. I never knew until it was too late just how much was being given away. I am sorry that I never got to meet your mother. I came to prison never having known love. We never had you, never got to see the person you would become. I gave it all away . . . before we ever had a chance.

My mom cries. I’ve never before seen her shed tears. I actually believed she possessed no tear ducts under those bags beneath her brown eyes. So many facets to her, either she is a great liar, a con, or she’s a magician and a master keeper of secrets. Funny, how after a quarter of a century you think you know someone only to be taken aback, surprised still.

– Ross Shepherd, excerpt from “A Letter To My Son”

This is a real, life, sentence. These are real bars and that number behind your name just became your new handle. You can become just another ghetto statistic, or you can prove to yourself that you’re more than just some number wasting taxpayers’ money. Finish school. Get your GED or high school diploma. Maybe a college education as well. Who knows?

You have your whole life ahead of you to change your view of yourself as well as how others perceive you. It’s easy to give up and let the system lose you within itself. I’ve seen it done! I have friends who are so doped up on medications they can’t spell or pronounce. They forget their mother’s name, as well as their own. I also have friends who I haven’t seen since they went to the hole two years ago. They keep sending me messages to hook them up with new women, as if I went to the club last night. As if I haven’t been right here for the past 13 years with them.

Don’t give up. I know it might seem like everybody else has given up on you, that there’s nothing you can do with yourself in here, but that’s not true. There’s always hope that one day you’ll be able to look in the mirror and be proud of the man standing there looking back. Forgive yourself for the things you’ve done to get here. Forgive those who helped to influence you on that same road. Only God knows the real you and he will judge the real you when he feels the time is right.

– Lavon Johnson, excerpt from “A Letter To a Juvenile Doing Life”

I smoked my first joint on 46th and Bryant Avenue
I smoked it with my mother and stepfather
We laughed until the early morning
I ran wild on 9th and Oliver
I stole cars and robbed homes for fun
I was bored with nothing else better to do
I was introduced to the streets on 29th and Aldrich
I threw my bid in with committed gang members
I worked security for drug dealers and drug houses
On 24th and 4th gun battles blazed
Every one wanted control of the Four Block
I did my first bid that year
I got shot on 26th and Girard
Shortly after I got released from the Juvenile Detention Center
It was supposed to be a new me that fell victim to an old beef
I gave up on change and went back to 6th Street
It was around the way from Lowry and Lyndale
The Double L is where we sold packs, 6th Street is where we laid our heads
Broadway Avenue is the heart of Minneapolis’ North side
Broadway is also the gate to get to Tangle Town
That was once the headquarters before the law shut it down
31st and Newton is my last address
Now my mail reads
MCF-Stillwater, Bayport, Galley 3, cell 330, A-west
– Terelle Shaw, “Northside Minneapolis: Avenues, Streets, and Territories”

In the Midst of... — “In the Midst of…” Acrylic by C. Fausto Cabrera

I rewrite this letter every day in my head. So often I have forgotten what it were like to be you. I have forgotten how you think and what you know. I understand you in such a different way. Like the main character of a movie I’ve seen a thousand times before. I know what’s going to happen, but there is no way to get through to you. Yet I still holler at the screen.

I wish I could tell you that I am the hero you’ve envisioned in your future. I wish I could tell you all of your dreams came true. I wish I could say that I have no regrets and if you just follow your heart, things will work themselves out.

Life seems hard because we expect it to be easy. Confront adversity to the best of your ability for it will be the water to your growth. Try not to be indecisive: discern, decide, and defend. If you are proved wrong, then say so. It is best to suffer in silence but it is also impossible, so find at least two ways to bare your heart. When you hit rock bottom, pick up the Bible and read it from cover to cover. Only when you have nowhere else to turn will you appreciate God’s voice; shut up and listen.

Okay, this is getting kinda preachy, so here is some tangible shit. When you meet Katlyn, get her pregnant and never let her go. She has an indefinable capacity to love. Train to be the man she deserves. She’s a keeper, trust me. If you ever meet a Sareda, run the other way!

Oh, do me a couple of solids: Punch your cousin Jay in the face as hard as you can, and never back down from him. Find out what makes Mom tick and write it down. Last thing; be careful not to get stuck in the Streets bullshit. They have no love for you.

– C. Fausto Cabrera, excerpt from “Letter to a Young Me”

From the Inside Out: Letters to Young Men and Other Writings is available for purchase through the Carleton College bookstore. All proceeds will be forwarded to the Restorative Justice Committee.