TEN MINUTES OF MADNESS
J
1989 was the year I was brought onto this earth all its pain and hurt. Well, I‟m Joe. I‟m now twenty years old, and currently serving a sentence for ABH and affray. I‟m not a bad person. I‟m actually polite and a pleasure to be around. I believe we all make mistakes and indeed I‟ve made a few of my own. I like going out partying and meeting new people, and generally having a good laugh. And that is how I found myself in trouble with the law.
I went out on my eighteenth birthday, as most people would – it was finally legal for me to drink alcohol. I didn‟t have to worry about getting asked for I.D. I had a brilliant night, and got very drunk. I left the club at closing time and began to walk home. On the way, my friends and I ended up having a fight! One of my mates decided to take it too far and took a chunk out of one of the men‟s ears. So I owe it to him for being in this predicament. Great mate he turned out to be. He didn‟t want to admit biting the chunk of ear off, and I wasn‟t able to tell the authorities otherwise, so I „got done‟ for the same thing. And all I was guilty of was a drunken brawl; common assault at the most.
I‟ve served nearly a year now and I‟ve lost a lot. My mate only lost eighteen months of freedom. I lost contact with my children and split up with my girlfriend. That broke my heart. I also lost my job. This is all down to him. I walk around and look at all the people who are wasting their lives, who think that they are hard because of this. Jail doesn‟t make anyone hard. How can you be hard when you‟re locked up twenty hours a day when you could be at home or out with your mates? I hope when people read this they will realise that prison affects you in more ways than you think.
Losing my kids and my job was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. My job was setting me up for the future, and my children‟s, and I threw it away in ten minutes of madness. I‟ve realised what triggers I have and decided to do something about it. Prison has changed me and I‟m glad. I‟ve realised life‟s too short for silly crimes. If there were more things for youths to do, crime rates would fall and life would be better.
ALL I WANT TO DO IS RUN LIKE THE WIND!
N
It‟s been two months now since Mum has gone, I haven‟t seen her for a whole two months, the last day I saw her she was crying her eyes out! Me and Dad were sat in the Police Station, then we saw Mum in the corridor. She was screaming and shouting, which made me feel there was something major wrong. Something that probably would change her life forever and maybe even ours. There were two big women who looked like men and had stern looks almost tattooed on their faces. She was shouting at them to „Fuck Off‟. We were told she was going to be kept in the police station overnight as she had a court appearance the next morning. Dad said I wasn‟t allowed to go to the court appearance because I had to go to school but he promised that Mum would be home the following day by the time I got back from school. All that night I couldn‟t sleep, I was tossing and turning and finally when I went to sleep it was time to get up and go to school.
The day at school dragged so much. I rang my dad up from school but there was no answer so I thought to myself that he must still be at court seeing my mum! Inside my mind I felt a dark cloud above my head. After school I ran out of the school and ran all the way home. I was so fast that I nearly got run over. When I got home, I opened the front door; it was a mess as though someone had broken in. Dad was sat in his chair with empty cans of beers everywhere and he had one in his mouth swigging away. I was always scared when I saw him drinking and especially as he had trashed the house previously. I didn‟t know what to say because I didn‟t want to say anything that would set him off in a mood. I was so tense that I couldn‟t move and I was just rooted to the spot. Then I eventually plucked up the courage to ask what had happened. He said, „The bastards have taken your mum away, she is on remand but don‟t worry, I‟m here to look after you.‟ As I looked at him my insides broke down and started weeping even though I didn‟t show it to him. Even though his words were reassuring me that he would look after me and my little brother Josh, I somehow got the idea that there was more to it than just what he had said. I ran upstairs to check on Josh. He was fast asleep, so I went to my room and wept and wept till my eyes were sore. I prayed that God would bring my mum back home where she belonged. Home with her family who loved and thought the world of her. I said to God I‟ll do whatever he wants me to, I‟ll behave for the rest of my days, just please let my mum come home. I never prayed before but I thought it was worth a try. Later on when he sobered up my dad started talking a little more about my mum. He was saying that she was in prison for a crime she had committed that whatever happened we have to stay strong for her till she gets out. I was just quiet because I couldn‟t find the words to say to him.
high gates with spike bits on the top. We were driving along the endless fences, we drove for a long time. Once we were there we reached some huge gates. It reminded me of the gates that were probably waiting for us at hell. There were two people in black wearing black pants and black long coats, Dad gave them a slip of paper and they said where to park. Once we were parked me and Dad got out of the car and we went into this room where we were locked in. We were searched and they took Dad‟s wallet off him and his lighter. They even searched me and it felt really intimidating; some women were touching my legs and feeling me up. It really wasn‟t pleasant. Then we had a few minutes to wait and we were told that we were to go to table 21. When we were at the table Mum came out in a red bib. I asked Dad quietly why was it red. He said it was because Mum was on remand. There were loads of prison officers who appeared to look like police officers and were staring at us all the time. It reminded me of Big Brother.
When I saw Mum she looked weak and weary, I just wanted to hug her so I got up to give her a cuddle and a kiss but one of the officers said, „Miss, no touching please be seated and stay seated for the duration of the visit.‟ My mum was just sat there with a tissue in her hand, sobbing. I just wanted to make everything better and take all her pain and suffering that she must be feeling away from her. I just wanted everything to be better and back to the way it used to be before she was brutally taken away. We basically sat there for the hour without saying much. We didn‟t know what to say, we couldn‟t find the words to comfort her and make her feel any better. So when we left she got up and started shouting again which kind of scared me. She was saying, „My baby, please, I need more time with my baby girl, get your hands off me you fucking screw.‟ My dad put his hands over my ears so I couldn‟t hear but then tears started running down my face.
DRUGS
M
In a dark, damp squat, many people sat bickering about whose turn it was next on the pipe. Who had, if anyone, had one more line than the other or who took the crumbs from the stone that three people were meant to share equally. But of course it was never equal. If somebody had an extra crumb, it was a big thing. Grown men and women ready to kick off over this white substance. That was when I was first exposed to „drug culture‟. I said to my friend: “How can people be so weak-willed and want to destroy themselves with that poison? I could never get like that, that could never get a hold on me, I‟d never be so weak and stupid‟. The room had a stale, sweet yet sour smell about it. A smell that wouldn‟t shift. It was on your clothes, on your hands, everywhere. I did not want that smell around me. This was not the life for me.
That was two years ago. A lot has changed since then. It‟s now my flat that has that smell. It seems to even coat the fine nasal hair, so you can smell it as if it‟s directly under your nose. I wash and wash but still it‟s here, as if it‟s ingrained in my very soul. That smell is like the odour of the Devil himself.
It‟s now me who argues with my boyfriend over who got one more line, him or me? Of course it‟s always him. My greed for this drug has taken me over. Something I was disgusted over, repulsed even, is now part of me. I‟m no better than those weak- willed people I judged. All I saw then was the drugs, I could not see beyond that. As far as I was concerned they were all the same. I could never see the whole person for what they were, personalities, souls, human beings just like me. Not now. They aren‟t junkies to me anymore. By many people‟s standards, I would be classed as a low life junkie.
Junkie – that‟s not how I see myself. I don‟t smoke crack and I don‟t jack up. But I still take the gear. Is smoking gear on the foil any different? If I‟m truthful it‟s not. That tiny little bit of brown powder controls me. Without that, I can‟t function. I‟m worthless, no good to anyone. How did I let myself get in this situation? It was meant to be fun, a social event.
MASTER BLACK
C
I grew up near my primary school in Trinidad. It was Roman Catholic, and had a small church on its grounds, which everyone from the neighbourhood would go to. There was an L-shaped canal, about four feet deep, that ran behind the church and to the left of my schoolyard, which had been paved so it could act as a parking lot for Sunday mass. There were no fences around the river ravine, as we called it, because it acted like a moat, defending the church and school from the small forest-like growth and bush that had reclaimed the land beyond, where the trains used to run. During the dry season, there was little water in the moat. Enough dry points were exposed so that you could hop over the water and climb back over to the other side. Most kids would stay on the school side and try to catch the small freshwater fish that swam there. These fish would leap out of your net, and if you threw them on the banks, they would try and make their way back into the water. We liked to catch these long, black eels, even though we were told that they would turn into zombies and bite our little toes off. We liked to parade them around, to see who had the best tail, and at the end of the day, we would throw them back in. Not because of the old wives‟ tales, but because there was only one fish worth keeping: Blacko Jr, son of Master Black. Now, Master Black was the king of all ravine fish. He had a three-inch body and a four-inch tail that would open up like a Chinese fan, which extended out with long blue, orange and yellow streamers that darted in the air every time he leapt out of the water. No one had ever caught him.
THE VOYAGE
E
WhenI first arrived in prison I distressed, worrying what would happen to me.
My cellmates told me, “Imagine you are on a big ship on a long voyage. Every now and again the ship will reach port. Some people will get off, some new people will get on.
“Then one day you will reach your destination and you can leave the ship.”
THE TEARDROP COLLECTOR
W
Only women bleed? Only babies cry?!
Well my heart is bleeding and I‟m forever crying. People say they can imagine how I feel, I politely nod and smile, silently screaming, „No you fucking can‟t.‟ They‟ll never know what I‟m going through. Prison‟s so much more than locks and bars. It‟s a hold on life as you knew it except life isn‟t waiting.
Regimes designed to bring you down, suck the soul and personality from your body until there‟s nowt left except empty eyes and a million memories.
No escape from the boredom tension and stress. The insomnia worries and fears. How do you help your loved ones? Or stop the annoying scrounger asking for yet more Rislas, hell only to be replaced by another pretend friend who‟s spotted your bulging baccy pouch.
Only a con knows the extent of the mental torture or experiences the stomach wrenching sickness brought on by mere thought of how your family will suffer.
I wonder how my three boys will handle the cruel taunts from ill informed schoolmates, or cope with my absence.
Things I took for granted are now distant fantasies. How I‟d love to feel raindrops on my head again, open the oven door and be hit by the heat and aroma of mum‟s roast, walk hand in hand with the woman I love or wrestle with my sons until I fake defeat. Perhaps they‟d beat me now.
“Easy life in jail.” PR rubbish. I remember the outrage when we had turkey for Christmas. Seeing them tutting over their full English. Did they picture the governor in a paper hat carving a steaming bird? Or Bernard Matthews reject, last years sprouts and two slices of gravy. Eaten in cell with only our tortured thoughts for company. Look at my face you won‟t see the burning hatred for the liar that put me away nor will you catch me laughing. An emotionless smile hides my pain and behind the mask is my growing teardrop collection.
ESCAPE
JL
My tortured mind, trapped within a black abyss, no love, no feelings can evolve. Switched off from everyday life, same old routines within the ever recurring agenda of prison life.
The little, black TV in the corner of these pale green walls is the only window to the real world. However, I choose not to escape through the politics of life and the drama of soaps.
Instead I escape into a whole new world where anything can happen, where the torments of my mind can be freed from the abyss.
AN INSPIRATION
Sallyann Robinson (Writer in Residence)
When asked to be involved with 'Life Stories' and introduce it to the women at Foston Hall I had no idea of the implications it would hold. I envisaged it to be an interesting yet emotive writing exercise where they could look at their past, give others an insight and share it with the outside world. It very soon became an area where people felt safe to talk about issues in confidence within the group and many of these had never discussed parts of their lives with anyone before.
I began the first session with creative writing exercises looking at various types of narrator and opening paragraphs We discussed what the group wanted to gain from working in the life stories group, the first thing that they decided was a confidentiality compact, this was felt to be essential as no one wanted anything that we had discussed or written about to ever be disclosed outside the group. Everyone made suggestions about what they would like in the compact and I got them all to sign it.
Over the next two weeks I asked them to look at different areas in their lives which they had very strong memories about. I explained that this may be of a memorable holiday to something not so nice. We discussed that some people may have had quite idyllic childhoods and things only started to go wrong or become eventful later on in life. The group talked about this and decided that they were all different and so their life stories were bound to be diverse, some said that they would write more about their early years and others stated that life became more eventful in their teens or early twenties.
At the beginning of each session we held readings for those who had started to write their stories so that they could share them with the group. These readings led to discussions about others lives and how they could then incorporate similar events in their own stories. The group discussed their backgrounds and
upbringing some of which were abusive and some much better with supportive parents and siblings, some went for drugs and alcohol because of peer pressure and some as part of a rebellious streak against their parents; this was particularly the case with a Muslim family living in a western culture.
would be able to achieve in five years time and others with lower self esteem were reluctant to set themselves such targets and portrayed themselves as not having achieved much at all. With this low esteem I decided to do some esteem building exercises which involved the whole group, we carried out one exercise a week from writing down something positive about a group member to crossing the room on paper plate 'stepping stones' with positive traits written on them. This all worked very well and bonded the group even more.
Some of the women struggled to write the full picture and needed help to make notes of ideas which they would like to incorporate as part of their story. The main problem appeared to be that they had begun to write and then remembered something else and had to start all over again. I took in flip chart paper which I drew a winding road on, in the middle where the white lines are I put figures in multiples of ten I gave each member of the group a piece of flip chart paper and explained that the road was their life. 0-10 would be birth, early years and junior school, 10-20 would be teenage years and so on. I said that they could have a wonderful garden or waterfall next to the road when times were happy and good, and a cactus or other object to portray not so good times. They may want a side street where they went when out of control of their lives until they got back on the road. At the side of the road they could make notes on various things which happened at any point in their lives and keep adding to them to build their life story. This was really successful we had a room full of different roads all with different life events which only had to be gathered to write the story. Afterwards the group they would take them all back to their rooms and do some work on them until they were ready to put their stories on to paper. They didn't just stick to cactus and waterfalls, we had weeping willows and footballs, lakes, trees and thunderbolts, very imaginative and some excellent pieces of work.
Many things came out of the group work, and many things were disclosed to the group and written in their stories which they had never been able to talk about before. Three of the women were referred for counselling regarding these very emotive issues which, through the group sessions they had decided that they could now deal with and asked for the help and support in order to do this. The group were very proud of each others work and very supportive of each other as they struggled to come to terms with the harsh reality which they had written down. It was discussed that it looked much different on paper and it would hardly seem that they were the same people that had come out of the misery and torment which many had suffered throughout their lives. When they discussed their crimes they felt disturbed at the lengths they had gone to and the way that any victims may have felt at their hands.
