I nodded.
She nodded back.
She placed a pen on top of the journal and slid it closer to me.
"I know, for me," she said, "I can sometimes write about things I'm not able to verbalize. Maybe you could start by writing about what he meant to you, Tim. Something seems to awaken inside of you when you write, so let it speak to you."
I sat in my cell for several days, before I picked up the pen. Yet when I did something really did seem to take over. I wrote about how I felt prior to coming to prison, and what it was like for me when I first arrived there. I put into words for the first time what it felt like to be drugged and raped and forced to get a man. How Slide Step took care of me, and how I was devastated to learn he might have been the one who set up the attack in the first place. I wrote about my experience in county jail and how the probation officer hit on me. "You probably won't believe this," I wrote, to whoever might one day open the journal and read its contents, "but it happened, so I don't care what you think." And then I wrote about Paul and how I had never known anyone similar to him before. Paul was like me-he was gay. He liked what I liked and felt the same way I did about most things. He had been raped, just as I had been, but had learned how to deal with the memory of it. I told how he helped me when no one else would and how he taught me to survive in here. I wrote about how, after having sex with him, for the first time in my life-I no longer felt alone in the world.
Recalling all of this was enormously difficult. Beyond the painful thoughts I forced myself to summon up, I was made to stay "present" through the writing process. Not zoning out or detaching myself from the deep wounds that up till then had held me back. Like my dad, I retreated inward, to that place where a small part of myself was kept hidden from the rest of the world. Somewhere safe.
Reluctantly, I let the inmate advocate read it. When at last she'd finished, she looked at me with a gentle smile, knowingly. Something in her expression told me that she understood. Finally someone understood. I came out and spoke the truth of my feelings and someone at long last understood. The feeling of being seen and heard for who I really was overwhelmed me.
That afternoon, the Classification Committee released me from isolation.
The following day, I went back to work. Miss Bain had made sure I was reinstated.
"You have a lot to catch up on," she said.
I took some folders back to my desk and sat down. I noticed the calendar. The day Paul escaped had been March 3, 1979. Exactly one year since I first came to prison.
34
I Will Arise and Go Now
I stood near the dugout, swinging the two bats together at the same time. This was how Little Leaguers warmed up when it was their turn next to bat. Holding two at a time made it easier when I stepped to the plate with one. I took a practice swing and then another. Suddenly, something inside of me said, "You're going to blast that ball right out of here."
T m not sure why that happened, but I believed that voice and swung at the very first pitch. The bat let out a crack, and the ball set sail for deep center field. The kids were playing shallow, expecting me to pop up or strike out again. The ball flew over their heads.
When I came around third, the coach was waiving me in and my teammates were cheering at home.
I don't know who or what it was that spoke to me that day, but it didn't matter. I believed that voice, and it worked!
Time passed slowly after Paul left. My days dragged by, each one much like the other, until days had become weeks and weeks became months, turning finally into years. I settled into a routine and struggled to keep my sanity as I watched my body slowly change-filling out some, and finally developing muscle.
I was glad I wasn't sent to the Michigan Reformatory, Gladiator School, to be with Paul. I remained very afraid of the place. When a prison riot broke out over there, many of the gay men and boys were gang raped. Paul told me he had escaped being victimized himself, because he brandished a shank and kept moving until the National Guard came in and quelled the disturbance. My brother Bobby was spared as well, though all of his belongings were destroyed-including the new television my parents had bought for him. The gangs were prevalent at M-R, and it was no place for a boy like me. Bobby toughened up some, even more than he'd always been, and he learned how to survive on his own. Paul just got someone that he could control-to take care of him.
I worked for Miss Bain for a couple more months, but she was promoted to Treatment Director and transferred to another prison. I was happy for her, but at the same time devastated. It felt like another abandonment. In hindsight, I believe Miss Bain was aware of this because of how well she handled the transition. She assigned me as a clerk, in the kitchen, working directly for the Food Services Director. It was a position that was demanding and carried a lot of responsibility. So I had some time to adjust before she left.
To keep others from messing with me, I hooked up with Jake from the innate store. I moved to D-unit, where he was housed, but that only lasted for a couple weeks-the Administration
