I file in, one foot behind the other, my hands behind my back. They told me to. I make a sharp right turn, and I sit in Row B, Section 5. They told me to. I am seated beside a woman in a new orange dress with flowers all over it – my favorite flower is a lilac – because they told me to. I wear a new orange prison suit. They told me to.
I want to say hello to her, but they told me not to. I also wanted to call my mother this morning and tell her I love her, tell her I’m sorry, but they told me not to. When the writers had come in two weeks ago to collect my story – my story – I wanted to give the name of the guy still out there, still shooting up, but he told me not to. I blink back my tears when they read my words out loud, and I want to cry, but I won’t. I was always told not to.
Imagine this. Read it again. Put yourself into that narrative, and think about this – Fayetteville, Arkansas. A women’s correctional institution. They fill a theatre with those who have freedoms they do not, and for the first time in what feels like months, they are allowed to watch a play. A play about them, with the stories they have wanted to tell for what feels like months. The actors read every word the men in a Pine Bluff Prison told the writers, and they bring every person in those seats to tears. They hear words like:
“I’m sorry I loved meth more than I loved you.” “I’m sorry that daddy never came home.””I’m sorry that I couldn’t get my head on straight, I wish I could tell you in person.”
These are not their stories, but they are. These women know the same pain, and they mouth the same sentiments into the air. Addiction – to drugs, to sex, to money – wrecked them and shut them away from society, tossed them behind steel bars. The Prison Project took the stories of these men and performed it for them, and from that strong and solid exterior emerged the woman who wanted out. Wanted a second chance. Wanted her mother, her dad, her sister – one woman raises her hand after the performance and asks: “What’s Pine Bluff like? My brother is there.”
And for that moment, those women were heard. For that moment, they felt worth something. For that moment, a story – just words – carried them to where they wanted to be.
The Prison Project is administered by an active group of Creative Writing MFA students right here in Fayetteville, Arkansas. With a pen and notepad, they sit down and collect the raw, tearful material from the imprisoned. They take those words and develop from them a story worth sharing, and they share it with another institution. Through this, we are reminded to never take advantage of the written and spoken word, the nature of a story – it is a luxury in its simplest form. You’ll find that when you’re no longer free, it isn’t the car you miss, or the phone. It isn’t the telvision or your wardrobe. It’s the sound of your mother’s voice, the warmth of your father’s laugh, your brother’s stories and your sister’s complaints. Just words. Just stories.
So always listen.