I_n February, Jennifer Lackey, a philosophy professor at Northwestern University, where I teach journalism, invited me to speak to a class she teaches at the Stateville Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison an hour outside of Chicago. Her students, fifteen men, are all serving long sentences, mostly for violent crimes. Some will be at Stateville until they die. I talked with the students about storytelling, and had them complete an exercise in which they described their cells._
I was so taken by what they wrote that I suggested that they develop these stories about the space, which, for some, had been home for twenty years. Over the past ten months, I have worked with them from draft to draft to draft. This process was not without obstacles. Sometimes, Jennifer couldn’t return my marked-up drafts because the prison was on lockdown. One student missed class for a month because, after surgery, he had to wear a knee brace, which the prison considered a potential weapon. Another student was transferred to a different prison. (I continued working with him by mail and phone.) One despaired at my comments and edits, writing to me that “this must be my last draft because clearly I’m incapable of doing it correctly.” But with encouragement and gentle nudging they kept going. Below is one of five of these stories that will appear on the site this week.
—Alex Kotlowitz
I’m a recluse. By definition, that implies I don’t like being around people. But the oddity of this situation is that I don’t enjoy the feeling of being alone. It’s just that I feel as if I should be alone. I’m not educated enough to pinpoint the psychological origins behind this, but I do know that, prior to imprisonment, I knew several individuals who were murdered by so-called friends. So it just made sense to me to adopt an isolationist strategy. I figured that if those closest to you would betray you, then why allow anyone to get close? Or maybe it was because my biological father made me feel that I wasn’t good enough for him because I’m darker than my siblings. He once told me, “You probably ain’t mine.” I figured if I wasn’t good enough for him, how could I be good enough for anyone else? I am most comfortable being alone.
Being a recluse, especially in prison, does simplify things. For ten years, I didn’t call my family. Nor did I write them. I felt that they were content with my imprisonment. I’d ask myself, if they truly believed in my innocence then why were they not trying to do everything (anything, really) to effectuate my release? I was sixteen, so I confess that my behavior was immature. I thought I was punishing them, but it had the opposite effect, of getting them accustomed to not communicating with me. They simply blew away like grains of sand in a sandstorm.
I’ve pushed away fellow-prisoners, as well. Despite their invitations to join them on the yard, I’ve politely declined. When I see other prisoners, I greet them with a “What’s up, bro?” or “Hello, how are you doing?” But that’s the extent of my interactions. It’s as if I’ve taken a vow of silence. Part of it is that I don’t want to become infected by their gripes about the prison, which is mostly what the guys speak of when they congregate. Don’t get me wrong—I understand their need to express their disapproval of this place. But to do so incessantly is pointless.
Because of my reclusiveness, the complexion of each day mimics the one before it. Every morning at 5:30 A.M., my cellmate, Antonio, wakes me. At 6, he heads out to work in the barber shop, so this allows me to exercise without him being in the way (or me being in his way, depending on how you view it). I construct an improvised barbell by tying a sheet to my property box that’s filled with books; the sheet is tied tightly around the edges so I can use it not only as a barbell but also as weight for bench pressing (I lie atop my cellmate’s legal-property box, since I obviously don’t have a bench). This is every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I do cardio and calisthenics. I jog in place and “jump rope” using an imaginary rope. This kills ninety minutes each day.
After I exercise, I affix a bed sheet to the wall with a bunch of tape holding a string, so that I can have the illusion of privacy as I wash up—a kind of “bird bath,” really—in the sink. I then wash the clothes I exercised in and hang them from a fan, purchased at commissary, by using my identification-card clip. At about 7:45 A.M., I’m ready to eat breakfast, which they serve in your cell and which consists of food purchased at the commissary: usually grits, oatmeal, mackerel, or tuna. I eat lunches and dinners in my cell, too, so I don’t have to deal with other inmates in the dining room.
After breakfast, I read my Bible and often ask God to help me get out of the shell I’ve placed myself in. After contending with God and myself, I devote the day to whatever legal endeavor I’m undertaking, or an assignment from one of my classes (which is the only time I have interactions with other inmates, outside of going out on a health-care pass or to the commissary). Antonio doesn’t return until 1:30 P.M., so I’m alone for a large portion of the day. He and I have been cellmates for nearly a decade, so I guess it was inevitable that he and I would get close. He’s the only person whom I trust, but even that is shaped by my lens of reclusiveness. It was he who convinced me that I was sabotaging my relationship with my family, so I now call them weekly.
Some people here think I’m aloof or that I think I’m better than them. I’ve been told this by other inmates. Interestingly, a number of guards have told me that they understood why I don’t leave my cell. One of them told me, “It’s too much B.S. going on around the prison.” I didn’t respond because that’s not the reason I isolate myself. It’s rather simple. I don’t believe I have anything to contribute, and I figure that the others are probably better off without me.
I’ve contemplated going to the yard, or to lunch or dinner, but I can’t seem to do it. I just don’t want to be around people. I keep remembering Antonio’s look of disappointment as he sat on the sink with his feet on the lip of the industrialized toilet. He said, “Marcos, you can’t keep ignoring how unhealthy it is for you to be so secluded. You need to impart some of what God’s given you to these guys around here.” I nodded in agreement, but I’d rather keep that to myself. I simply tell him, “I am who I am—and who I’m not, I will never be.” And, as it stands, I am not ready to forgo being a recluse, because, as miserable as it is, I am at least familiar with the misery it entails.
Read the other stories in this series: “Learning to Hear on a Cardboard Piano,” by Demetrius Cunningham; “A War Against the Roaches,” by Oscar Parham; and “A Visit from an Outsider,” by James Trent.
