Sandra gathered her papers into her briefcase and glanced at the wall clock. She was going to be late, all because a student missed a deadline and crumbled like a crybaby. Manipulative, Sandra thought. She hurried outside. Felecia had advised her to arrive early so she’d comfortably pass security.
Soon, Sandra was driving in her car battling traffic. Someone honked and she swerved slightly, almost sideswiping another car. Why was she so rattled? She had a new class to teach and had to collect herself. The student had unsettled her.
Finally, she reached the women’s facility. She ran to a guard who escorted her through several locked doors. Another guard, one who looked too lithe and frail to defend anyone, ushered her into a drab gray room with harsh fluorescent lights and ten new faces. They weren’t like anything she had imagined. They ranged in age from about 21 to 60, and except for their maroon jumpsuits seemed downright ordinary. They could have been her students at the community college.
“I’m Sandra,” she told them, trying to tame her agitated breath. “I’ll be filling in while Felecia is away.” She tried to remember the topics Felecia warned her to avoid in prison and rambled a quick introduction.
“I’d like each of you to say your name and favorite color,” she said.
“Melanie,” said a young woman with the croaky child-like voice. “My favorite color is pink.”
They continued introducing themselves in living colors. Silver and gold were the most popular: Rachel, silver, Janice, gold, Susan, turquoise, Thelma, silver, Evelyn, gold. The last one, a woman with a mannish voice who looked about 60, said her name was Rose and chose black. Had Sandra not been so nervous, the color and the way Rose said it, in that testing way teenagers sass at parents, might have piqued her interest. She might have asked her about it. But not that day.
Sandra explained the class format, a few lectures on grammar, but most of the time would be spent on writing exercises. She turned to the blackboard and wrote a number of words – pumpkin, schoolyard, hands, theatre, child, and song.
“Write something, perhaps a childhood memory, that includes at least three of these wordsYou’ll have twenty minutes. Begin now.”
She saw the women comply, their heads bent low as their pencils slid over the binder paper and stubby pencils the facility provided. Only Rose sat sullenly, staring at her from the back of the room. When Sandra returned her gaze, Rose immediately dropped her eyes to her paper. Sandra took in the splash of gray on her ash blonde hair. It resembled splintered wood kindling, probably from a bad perm.
“Just write anything,” Sandra told her.
Rose gave her a contemptuous look. Fine, Sandra thought. I don’t care. It was that kind of day. She sat on the plastic chair and pulled out her own notebook. She didn’t feel like writing. Delving into the day’s events would take time and she could not afford that now; not in this new class.
She thought about Rose. Why was she here if she didn’t’ want to write? Sandra looked over at Rose. She was large and built like one of those refrigerators from the fifties. For a moment, Sandra imagined being overtaken by her. Quickly she glanced at the female guard, also a large woman with a bulge of keys and baton at her waist. Finally, Rose began to write and Sandra wrote a sentence about her earlier encounter with the student. After wiping her tears, the student had called her an unfeeling bitch. Sandra felt her heat rise with the mere thought. She set her notebook aside.
That night, Sandra read her students’ papers. She was most curious about Rose’s. She’d written almost a page, but only blurred smudges remained after she’d attempted to erase everything. Only two sentences remained.
When I was a girl, I lived for recess, kickball, dodge ball. I was good at them and playing jacks in the schoolyard…
Jacks, Sandra thought. Did girls still play jacks? She remembered playing jacks in front of the rectory of Saint Albans School. Her right palm always returned home ashy and gritty from sweeping jacks across the cement. She loved playing even when two girls, Samantha Jones and Mary Watkins, made a game of picking on her, jeering her accented English. She distinctly remembered Mary laughing while warning her that her glasses would fog up when she started crying, something she invariably did. She thought for a moment of the puny, nearsighted and curly-haired little girl she’d been, one whose English words were so wrong she’d been sent to a room labeled remedial English. The memory seemed distant, like an old dress she’d outgrown.
There was a time in her life when she’d become a puddle over a broken crayon. She couldn’t sit before a cartoon show and watch animals cruelly pummel each other without feeling the blows in her own gut. Fortunately, she’d discovered a way to funnel sadness and pour it into stories and poems. As her publications grew, she received invitations to teach at various colleges. But writing required time and deep thought. The more she taught, the less she wrote.
I’d love to hear more about your childhood experiences, Sandra wrote on the margin of Rose’s page. Don’t censor yourself; just write.”
The following week, Sandra returned to the women’s facility. She arrived early this time and was more attune to her students. She asked them how they felt about their writing.
Melanie and Thelma smiled.
“Writing gives you the opportunity to dig into the past and examine it more closely,” she told them, “It can heal.”
“Today, I’d like you to write about a member of your family. If one of your friends is like family, write about them.” She watched as her students’ black, chestnut brown, curly and wavy hair spilled down as they lowered their heads to write.
At home that night, Sandra read the papers. She realized she was most interested in what Rose had to say, but waited to look at hers lastThat way she could linger over it the way she might save the last morsels of scalloped potatoes rather than the green beans on her plate.
Thelma wrote about her cellmate who snored and farted in her sleep but who she loved like her dead sister. Melanie wrote about her boyfriend “nefarious” activities. Sandra wondered where the girl had found that word. What had led her into prison? Rachel wrote about heroin that seemed like her only family. Sandra considered the writing’s poignancy then picked up Rose’s writings.
We were all a big mess. Too many brothers and sisters, a Pappy who drank, and a Mom who shoved us out of his way. Mostly I hung with my brothers cuz I didn’t fit in with my sisters. I didn’t fit in anywhere. But there was a pecking order and every one of us teased the heck out of everybody beneath us. It was the mid sixties.
The sixties, Sandra thought. Perhaps Rose was closer to her own age than she thought. She wrote encouraging statements on each of the compositions and praised Rose for opening up.
At the final class, Sandra chatted awhile before giving the students their last assignment.
“Write to someone, anyone. It could be a celebrity, a person who’s no longer alive. Write to God, an angel. Go!”
Sandra watched the students dig in to the assignment. They were so engrossed in their writing that she gave them an extra ten minutes. When they were done, it was almost time to end.
“Felecia will be back next week,” she told them, “Any parting words you want to say before I go?”
Rose raised her hand. “Thank you,” she said. She said it without guile or irony and was almost sentimental.
“No, thank you,” Sandra said. You’ve been wonderful. I’ll send your writing back with Felecia.”
She collected their papers and watched as the female guard led them out single file.
That night, she lay in bed reading their papers. This time she picked up Rose’s paper first.
Dear Sandra,
You see, there was this girl who always cried at school. We played jacks together and her small hands were quick and she’s actually pretty good. It’s maybe the only thing she’s good at. I can’t help giving it to her. She’s such an easy target.
I didn’t mean to bully you. But all I had to do was look at you cross-eyed and you’d start bawling. I’m sorry, Sandra. I didn’t mean no harm. It’s strange to see you again. I’d forgotten you. I guess you reminded me that there’s still people out there I needed to say sorry to. Thanks for that.
Mary Rose Watkins
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 