First
By Jerry Weller
My Teacher told me, Write what you know.
OK. Here:
“It all startd when Red and his gurlfrend stole a car.”
A lowering sky threatens rain as I find myself standing outside, anticipating my first teaching assignment in my first school. The classroom is hidden away within a forbidding stone structure, itself buried behind the soaring turrets, siege-proof walls, and fortified gates of Canada’s notorious federal house of correction, Kingston Penitentiary.
The gates before me seem so formidable that to get in necessitated a smaller, “sally port” surge door be cut into them, as if the whole prison begrudged entry by anything mortal.
I note that there is no door handle, doorbell, intercom, nor human presence, whatsoever. I hear the waves beyond the lakeshore upon which Kingston Pen squats, silent and brooding.
What shall I do? Do I announce my arrival? Do I knock? Should I turn and leave?
Eventually, the sally port swings open outward, and a pair of uniformed Correctional Officers appear from the dim light, motioning me within.
They seem pleasant enough, I reassure myself, before crossing the threshold.
My Teacher now tells me, Add more action.
OK:
“Red slamed the car dore after his gurlfrend jumpd out.”
One of the Correctional Officers checks her security clearance list against the Visitor I.D. clipped to my collar. While she scrutinizes my key, coat, hat, and the contents of my paper bag lunch, I cross through a metal detector, pick up my possessions and sign out a set of school keys.
Your first day? she asks, in a rather kindly way, I think.
I quietly nod.
Just follow those other teachers, she says, waving me toward four other civilians arriving for school.
Teacher tells me, Alright. Now add drama.
OK:
“I’m leving you
she screemd.
No
you wont leve me.”
I walk with my new colleagues through the drizzle and across the open, central yard, nervously chatting with them as we wind our way through a maze of sliding iron gates, guard posts, concrete stairways, and cinderblock halls. I think, How will I find my way out again? I follow my colleagues up to the reinforced riot door fronting the school.
Insanely, I recall that “Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers” is being released in cinemas.
We stare up into the security cameras until a distant gatekeeper notices us and presses a button activating the door lock. We swing it open and show our badges to the Clerk at the inside window. She presses another button and the secondary gates roll aside for us.
I have reached my destination. We enter the school.
The Principal is absent today so my colleagues take it upon themselves to direct me to my class. I notice they are glancing curiously at me as I cross into my room. Inside is dismal and empty except for a few chairs and study tables.
Then, a shadow in the corner moves, unfolding itself from the wall.
Teacher tells me, That’s fine but it needs some more character conflict.
So:
“No you wont leve me.
Im gone she yeled.
Furiusly Red grabed her.”
It is an inmate, seated, writing on a lined, yellow legal pad. I approach him. I hear myself whisper, What are you working on? He slowly looks up and I stare into the face of my first student. It is his mis-matched eyes, one brown, one blue, jerking uncontrollably back and forth, that unnerve me the most.
Teacher tells me, Thats better. But. Your characters need some motivation. So:
“No one will want you
after im don he rored”
My first inmate student shows me his work. I am shocked.
He asks me, grinning, his eyes dancing gleefully, What do you think of my first essay, Teach’?
I stammer, Uh, well ...
I search for something encouraging. Brightening, I say, You know, we could turn this story from ‘pretty good’ into ‘classic’. I immediately regret my words.
Teach tells me, Every classic story needs a strong ending. So, here:
“then he set her hare on Fire.
He laughd as she ran arond the car the flames
leping from her head”
Teach says, If we work together and fix the spelling and grammar, your first story might get published in the school newspaper.
I think this sounds good.
Teach tells me it’s OK to be an inmate but it’s better to be an inmate who is also a published author!
For over two decades, Jerry wrote stories for NGOs, government, business, and industry. Then he thought, “Life is short. I’ll try something different.” So, over the next two decades, he taught English and computer skills to convicts doing time in either federal or provincial lockups. This was as different as it gets and as a bonus, he was introduced to hundreds of bizarre personalities and their disturbing associates, co-accused and crimes.
