Lester doesn’t write me anymore. He used to. Once a week. It’s been six months since the last one. I wait each day for a letter from him. I know better than to hope for one, but I do.
He writes well. He works at it. He puts his heart in it. His soul. Truly, his soul. He curates his words. Looks for the right one. Or, if needed, conjures one himself. So few of us feel we have the permission to make up words. He does that. I’ve never tried.
I love him.
I don’t know where he is.
We read Martin Luther King Jr.’s Letter from Birmingham City Jail together. All of us. Nine men. Eight of them black, one white. And me. I am a white woman. I teach writing. I work in correctional facilities. That’s where the work is. Rikers Island. Edgecombe. Queensboro. Mostly at Rikers.
In class one afternoon, soon after I started teaching there, he said, “What is a word, anyway? A representation, right? Only a sound. With a meaning you give to it. A meaning you get from it.”
Another man turned to him and said something I didn’t understand. And then he pretty much kept his mouth shut after that. I could see what life was like for him. Bruising.
The next day he wrote me a letter. I’d given them cards with my name and address so I wasn’t surprised that he wrote. He’s the only one who did. Of the nine men, he was the only one who wrote. It was a letter writing class.
He signed the letter, ‘Lester.’ He used the single quote marks. I wrote back.
After that, we wrote to each other once a week, even after the class ended.
None of the men were yet alive in 1963, when King wrote his letter. None of them had read it before. Some had heard about it, they said.
My husband, at the time, thought teaching the letter was a bad idea. “You’ll stir them up,” he said.
Of course, it’ll stir them up. That was part of the point. The other part of the point was the language. One thought flowing into the next. Torment, outrage, love, courage holding each other in every paragraph. A letter like that is not a cover letter for a job application. It’s the manifesto of a movement. Of course, it will stir them up. It should stir everyone up.
We read the first five paragraphs the first day. Each one taking a few sentences.
We talked about the words. The unfamiliar ones. Ones that held the most power. Purposeful words. Simple. Direct. Unflinching.
They asked who was King writing to? Why is it six pages long? We took four weeks to read it.
By the end of the fourth week, Lester wrote that he felt his life had been changed by reading it.
He thought about me each day, he wrote.
The issue of non-violence was approached with care. Did King make a good case for it? Was he just being naïve? Was he inviting harm to others? How could he expect men, women, and children to stand still and take a blow or a bullet or a mauling by a dog? How does non-violence apply to them? Can you be non-violent in Rikers? Did you feel like King in any way? Unfairly and prejudicially treated by a hostile system? An agent of change?
They talked about Attica. White supremacy. Incarceration. Reparations. All of that. John Lewis. Malcom. Bobby Seal and Philadelphia. After each class they wrote a letter about something that came up for them. Letters that some of them read aloud. Letters They would not read.
We read Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. Woolf’s words were transcendent.
They read. Faithfully. They wrote. Letters to family. Girlfriends. Cuomo. Newspapers. Thoughtful letters. Filled with a clear and well-tempered passion.
The more I saw him, the more I came to need to be with him.
I wrote a letter to the judge for him. My husband told me I’d used bad judgment. That I was going too far. “What is too far,” I said.
“This is,” he said.
We read Celie’s letters in The Color Purple.
“I’m only trying to help him.”
“Let his mother help him.”
“I have the resources his mother may not have.”
“My God, listen to yourself! You’re not the mother to the world. You have your own two kids. Think of them.”
“Exactly. I am. Would I not want someone to do for them what I am doing for another mother’s child? Would you not want that for them?”
“But my children will not be in jail. They won’t hold up a grocery store.”
“How do you know that? How can you say that with such walled-off self-centered surety? We could be one terrible mistake away from that. Would you want your child to spend one night in jail, much less five or ten years? What or who would they be when they came out. This man is asking for help and I’m helping him.”
“You’re being duped. Used. Face it. Grow up. There is a big hard reality out there that you can’t seem to get. You do the crime; you do the time.”
“No, you’re the one being duped. Your know-it-all, I’ve-done-it-all-on-my-own, the self-made-man bullshit you tell yourself. Eighty-five percent of people in Rikers has not been convicted of a crime. That’s eight thousand men and women behind bars. Eight thousand. And they’re in that hell hole because they couldn’t make pre-trial bail. They’re not criminals.”
“They really have you by the short hairs don’t they. This homey saw a bleeding-heart liberal walk in the door holding a ‘get out of jail free’ card, and you’re it. You planning on paying his bail?
“No, fuck you.”
We wrote back and forth for almost a year. A few friends helped me put up bail for him.
By that time, my husband was tired of sleeping in the basement and he moved out.
Lester needed a place to stay and he moved in. The kids were pretty okay with that. But nobody else was. I mean nobody.
Then my husband took the kids from me.
Lester and I said we could make it. We’d find a way.
And then we didn’t.
He needed to go. He said he’d write. Tell me where he was. Told me that sometimes you define yourself by how other people see you. And then, by who you were at another time or place. But then, it’s only who you are in relation to who you need to be. He thanked me and then he left.
He’s right, of course. He needed to go. And I’ll make it, I know. Somehow.
I still write to him. It helps me make sense of things. To make peace with myself. I may mail them if he sends me his new address.