#15 Books through Bars
Witness to Humanity
The part of the exhibit that caught my attention was the collection of envelopes--regular business-sized envelopes covered with art. Some of them had been used to send mail, with the art surrounding address and stamp. Others just provided a blank four by nine inch canvas. There were restful pastoral scenes, a lovely close-up of a child with a missing tooth and engaging grin, cute cartoon figures, symbols of love and ordinary life--hearts, birds on fences, cars. One of the most striking was an image in black and white, with the envelope on end, of hand over hand reaching out through prison bars.
I had never thought about it. If you're stuck in jail with virtually no resources, endless time on your hands, and little affirmation of your humanness, an envelope can become a precious and powerful vehicle for self expression. The exhibit did not call me so much to be a critic, or to indulge my love of art, as to be a witness--to respond to this hunger to be seen as creative and individual human beings.
This was my second up-close contact with Books through Bars, a local initiative to provide educational materials to prisoners. Theirs was the address on these envelopes, full of letters requesting books. The exhibit grew out of a boxful of saved envelope art, and a desire to share it more widely. My first encounter, an afternoon responding to the letters inside, led me to a poem. So art, witness and time, inside and outside, come together in an affirmation of our common humanity.
Books through Bars
The letter said
I'd like to be a pilot
and I need to know more about my diabetes
and I want to learn Spanish
Can you help?
I read the return address
checked what the prison would allow
and went to search the shelves
It was pouring rain
the collection of used books was carefully raised
off the flooded basement floor.
The health section had cancer, AIDS, asthma, heart atack
I found hang gliding, astronomy, rocketry--
close, perhaps, yet impossibly far
The Spanish texts were all hard-cover
forbidden in this prison
I ended up with one little Spanish phrase book
a pitiful offering to a hopeful man
In my long search
crouching in puddles
straining to read titles
I'd grown to care
My note, saying how sorry I was
seemed criminally inadequate.
The next letter requested a Bible dictionary
a way to prepare for the GED
someting to help with sex and relationships
He said God bless you.
I found a simple math text
(hardcover okay)
and a book on writing
There was no Bible dictionary
but I fingered a book of devotional essays
The author, it said on the back, was true to her midwestern roots
would she speak to this man?
The self-help section was full of possibility
what were his struggles?
what did he need the most?
it seemed a momentous choice.
This was a more hopeful stack
not what he asked for
but maybe something he could use
I wanted the best for this man too.
So it went all afternoon
letter after letter
men wanting to read,
to learn
to make the most of endless time
I never found just what they wanted
I tried.
Imagining that a long-awaited package
might just bring more disappointment
seemed more than a body could bear
But some would see value
have doors opened
For some it would matter that I had tried.
And as I sloshed through those basement aisles
doing the best I could
for each man
my heart was opened.
Pamela Haines
Philadelphia
11/03
Thoughts from others on column #14, On Love and Grief
I love grieving. It's not only a source of energy and vitality, as you say, it's a source of fundamental hope and creative thinking. Like anger, grief is a deep recognition in the wrongness of something. Without doing grief work, I end up cycling in the same cycles, following a path of hate and vengence, or subtly assuming that I also should burn-out (like my potential mentors before me). Without what I call anger, I move into my middle-class complacency -- okay with slowness of justice work, and focusing on personal health. I think nobody should remain content with justice taking its time: we should want it now. (And, I believe we can't get trapped into thinking it will come now, or not being present to the moment we live in.) What anger does for me is indicate urgency -- a valuable contribution to keep us moving, keep us involved, keep us close to the hurt itself.
I'm angry, but also very, very sad. I didn't think that it would be this way when I got old. I guess I had hoped for a relaxed, peaceful, reassuring old age. No way. As a nation we seem to be bent on doing all the wrong things. The fallout abroad is obvious. How it splinters lives and relationships at home perhaps not so obvious; but the pain is. And the impact on children is very much a cause for grieving.
The part of the exhibit that caught my attention was the collection of envelopes--regular business-sized envelopes covered with art. Some of them had been used to send mail, with the art surrounding address and stamp. Others just provided a blank four by nine inch canvas. There were restful pastoral scenes, a lovely close-up of a child with a missing tooth and engaging grin, cute cartoon figures, symbols of love and ordinary life--hearts, birds on fences, cars. One of the most striking was an image in black and white, with the envelope on end, of hand over hand reaching out through prison bars.
I had never thought about it. If you're stuck in jail with virtually no resources, endless time on your hands, and little affirmation of your humanness, an envelope can become a precious and powerful vehicle for self expression. The exhibit did not call me so much to be a critic, or to indulge my love of art, as to be a witness--to respond to this hunger to be seen as creative and individual human beings.
This was my second up-close contact with Books through Bars, a local initiative to provide educational materials to prisoners. Theirs was the address on these envelopes, full of letters requesting books. The exhibit grew out of a boxful of saved envelope art, and a desire to share it more widely. My first encounter, an afternoon responding to the letters inside, led me to a poem. So art, witness and time, inside and outside, come together in an affirmation of our common humanity.
Books through Bars
The letter said
I'd like to be a pilot
and I need to know more about my diabetes
and I want to learn Spanish
Can you help?
I read the return address
checked what the prison would allow
and went to search the shelves
It was pouring rain
the collection of used books was carefully raised
off the flooded basement floor.
The health section had cancer, AIDS, asthma, heart atack
I found hang gliding, astronomy, rocketry--
close, perhaps, yet impossibly far
The Spanish texts were all hard-cover
forbidden in this prison
I ended up with one little Spanish phrase book
a pitiful offering to a hopeful man
In my long search
crouching in puddles
straining to read titles
I'd grown to care
My note, saying how sorry I was
seemed criminally inadequate.
The next letter requested a Bible dictionary
a way to prepare for the GED
someting to help with sex and relationships
He said God bless you.
I found a simple math text
(hardcover okay)
and a book on writing
There was no Bible dictionary
but I fingered a book of devotional essays
The author, it said on the back, was true to her midwestern roots
would she speak to this man?
The self-help section was full of possibility
what were his struggles?
what did he need the most?
it seemed a momentous choice.
This was a more hopeful stack
not what he asked for
but maybe something he could use
I wanted the best for this man too.
So it went all afternoon
letter after letter
men wanting to read,
to learn
to make the most of endless time
I never found just what they wanted
I tried.
Imagining that a long-awaited package
might just bring more disappointment
seemed more than a body could bear
But some would see value
have doors opened
For some it would matter that I had tried.
And as I sloshed through those basement aisles
doing the best I could
for each man
my heart was opened.
Pamela Haines
Philadelphia
11/03
Thoughts from others on column #14, On Love and Grief
I love grieving. It's not only a source of energy and vitality, as you say, it's a source of fundamental hope and creative thinking. Like anger, grief is a deep recognition in the wrongness of something. Without doing grief work, I end up cycling in the same cycles, following a path of hate and vengence, or subtly assuming that I also should burn-out (like my potential mentors before me). Without what I call anger, I move into my middle-class complacency -- okay with slowness of justice work, and focusing on personal health. I think nobody should remain content with justice taking its time: we should want it now. (And, I believe we can't get trapped into thinking it will come now, or not being present to the moment we live in.) What anger does for me is indicate urgency -- a valuable contribution to keep us moving, keep us involved, keep us close to the hurt itself.
I'm angry, but also very, very sad. I didn't think that it would be this way when I got old. I guess I had hoped for a relaxed, peaceful, reassuring old age. No way. As a nation we seem to be bent on doing all the wrong things. The fallout abroad is obvious. How it splinters lives and relationships at home perhaps not so obvious; but the pain is. And the impact on children is very much a cause for grieving.
posted by Pamela Haines | 5:57 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home