Maybe I'll Call This Bridges

When I was teaching at a charter school in the county jail in San Francisco, I had three white supremacists in my class, big guys, with thick necks, shaved heads and pockmarked faces. They kept to themselves, the only white students in the class, and were always together, one with a HATE tattoo splayed on his fingers.

I’d taken the job when, after seven years of teaching writing workshops in the jail, funding from an arts nonprofit ran out. At the charter school, I was supposed to be teaching various subjects in humanities, but whatever subject was assigned any given semester, I turned into personal narrative writing. Because when we’re in touch with who we are deep down, it’s harder to hurt ourselves and others. And sharing our stories allows us to swim in the same river of humanity, something I wanted to do, too.

The first assignment was “Write your life story in twelve minutes”. Sometimes people would protest, I can’t do that! and I’d say, Just try it. And for some reason, that mostly worked. If not everyone wanted to go there, I’d tell them to write what wasn’t their life story. Either way, this was about opening a crack in the shield. 

I’d then give each student individual assignments over the weeks to unpack it from there. They didn't have to share their writing if they didn't want to, even with me, just so they would tell their truth—but without incriminating themselves, which could lead to further punishment.

During the very first class, a man with a scar running down his face, shoulders hunched as he walked, legs splayed, the proverbial tough guy, wrote: I could look at a movie on T.V. and start crying, yeah.  I don’t want nobody to know that side of me, but it’s part of me.  I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life but still there are only a few people in this world who really know me.  Some people know Roy the jailbird, some people know Roy the hustler, then some people know Roy the independent person who won’t ask anybody for anything.  There are still some who know me as the person they can always ask for something and get it.  At times I’m not sure which Roy am I....

There were never any fights breaking out between the different races or affiliations. Everyone wrote, and everyone mostly just kind of got along, or like the supremacists, kept to themselves. The men left their differences at the door except when they didn't, but for most, it wasn’t worth the loss of privileges to start fighting and incite officers to come in.  And in this class I was lucky; over time, a feeling of closeness developed between us as they shared their stories.

At the end of each session, which was about ten weeks long, I would say something that I especially appreciated about each student like, You’re so funny or, I loved how you always turned the story on its head at the end or, It was brilliant how you made that poem a song, things like that. And with these three guys, I said, You know, when you walked into my class, I was scared of you.

And they said, Why were you scared of us? 

I said, Because your people killed my people. 

They kind of fell apart and said, We would never hurt you, Margo. And then one of them wrote me a note that I found on his desk when I left that day. 

“You know, dear Margo, we would never think about hurting you.”

I thought, well, it really pays to come out with the truth sometimes. In more ways than one. 

It takes so little to be real and smash through the way we see each other. It’s easy to feel intimidated, to be scared of other people and do what you can to avoid any kind of confrontation. Especially when you’re a woman. But some men, too. During the pandemic, that first year when everyone was scared of catching Covid, it was pretty funny. It was the only time I ever saw white people crossing the street to avoid white people. 

But, you know, we're all in this system together, and the more we can do to break down barriers . . .

Another time in the jail, a line of men was being led out of a housing unit. One of the men said to me, Oh, I really like your outfit. Very flirty. Honestly, as a woman in a men’s jail, you could walk in dressed in a garbage bag and you’d still be flirted with. It’s not something you want to abuse.

I said with a grin, I wish I could say the same about yours. And they just cracked up. 

When you can use humor and be real and just treat people like they're people and not like they're stereotypes . . . Except when you’re on a dark street by yourself. Like the time I was in Perugia on a lonely street and taking a walk in the beautiful velvety air. I heard a man’s footsteps following me and thought, Oh shit. I stopped in front of a shoe shop as if curious about what shoes to buy at eleven at night. He stopped, too, and as he moved in for the kill, I remembered my self-defense training, spun around and started waving my hands and yelling jibberish, acting like I was crazy. Boy, did that perp jump and run back down the street as fast as he could.

My students used humor and challenged me to be real, too. One day, I mentioned that my sister had just told me she’d read that people who are nice are angry underneath. 

One student immediately piped up, “So what are you so angry about?”

I stopped mid-breath, startled. I was, indeed, furious about being raised in a sea of secrets by a criminal father on the run and denied my identity, how difficult it was to fit in anywhere with my multicultural background, my poor health that made me feel trapped in my body . . . It was a relief to teach and be focused on other people’s ills rather than my own.

I didn’t say anything cohesive at that moment, just stuttered something incomprehensible. But over time, I shared more of my life with them when they asked, aside from where I lived and my daily personal life. No matter how much I loved my students, they lived at a basic survival level and were savvy about how to get what they needed, and not always to the benefit of other people. I had to build proper boundaries around myself, no matter how close we became because of our work together.

As they did, too, under much greater threat than me, including what would happen to them if they broke whatever code was followed by them and their community. There were no guns in my life, and I wasn’t targeted by the prison industry.

Another student, the jail scribe who’d write love letters to the men’s girlfriends upon request, sat at the back for several weeks only writing Hallmark type poems, and assessing me with piercing eyes. He finally opened up and wrote about his life and when I passed by his desk, he slipped me a note on which was written: “From your deeper self, what is your incentive to help others write about what is underneath?”

That night I thought about it and wrote a poem in response, calling it Physics, in which I wove together their experiences and mine, and how we can easily feel we don’t matter. 

Men locked in the shadows / invisible anti-matter / sealed in sunless chambers / they cease to matter / or be matter / except to those who matter . . .

I read it in the following class. The men sat in silence afterwards, and then started clapping one by one. 

They got it, and I got it. No matter what, and how unfair it all is, we’re all in this world together. 

When students were released, I would organize readings in bookstores and libraries so they could share their writing, their poems, and their stories. There would be audience members, people who saw flyers and family members and friends, and so on. I would invite people from my other creative writing classes, people who were paying me a lot more than the jail did, and they were middle or upper class, mostly people who could afford to pay for classes, and they had the time to do that.

I would invite them to come and people were always fascinated because it's a secret society behind the walls. And here was a chance to get an inkling of what a lot of people go through that's hidden from the public. So a lot of people would come to the readings. 

And then I would see the writers and their audience talking with each other. And my students on both sides; my students who had been incarcerated would tell me how surprised they were by anyone being interested in their stories, how gratifying it was, people who they normally felt shunned by, invisibilized or disrespected at best, and policed on or killed at worst. And my wealthier students, they would say, Wow. I had no idea I had anything in common. So it was really good, and the more we can do to create bridges . . . Maybe I'll call this piece bridges. 

I started taking the men’s writing home and would bring it back the next day. They wrote so much that stacks of paper were piling up in their cell areas. Only allowed one rectangular plastic container for their possessions, including books and toiletries, the officers had started telling them they’d have to throw them all out.

A student asked me where I kept their writing.

I said, In my car so I won’t forget to bring it back

He said, What's gonna happen if somebody breaks into your car and steals it? 

He was in for theft. Ironic. 

His assignment the next day was to imagine his writing had been stolen and how he would feel about it. Part two of the story was to imagine he was the random stranger stealing it and how he would feel. Bridges.

Photograph courtesy of Amy Scher