THE UNTITLED, THE UNWRITTEN

A writer’s material is what he cares about.
—John Gardner

Lately I’ve been thinking of the seven young black men (all under twenty-one) in my morning classes. I’ve wanted to write something about them for quite some time, but I’m at a loss for words. What can I say?—They’re like a pack of wolves. None of them are interested in learning. They’re gang bangers. They’d rather talk about their hood, about bitches and whores and how many niggers they’ve killed. Every other word is N-this and N-that. I’ve tried to intervene. I’ve said, “You know, those bitches and whores are somebody’s sister or mother.” They don’t care. I’m Caucasian. Why listen? I know not to correct them on the use of the N-word on account of my race. I just tell them to quiet down. The older inmates get annoyed. They look at me, as if to say, “Do something, or we will.”

I’ve confronted the loudest of the bunch on several occasions. “Look,” I say, “there’s no need to shout at each other. You’re sitting at the same table.” I remind them that I don’t have a seating chart. “We’re all adults and should be able to control our tongues in here.” It doesn’t work, even when I’ve kicked the ringleader out. He calls me a N-this and N-that all the way down the corridor. I’ve tried to redirect him, to get him to study. He orders me to get him a book, a pencil, and some paper, as if I’m one of the very same bitches and whores they speak of. I tell him that I’m not here to serve it up. “Get your own damn book,” I say. He laughs. They all laugh. His latest trick is to pick his nose, get it to bleed. He requests to go back to his cell. I tell him no. “Go use the bathroom,” I suggest. He whines about his rights, that I can’t deny him his rights. “Fuck your rights,” I want to say to him, to them. But I don’t.

An eighth young black man ignores them. He sits up front. He’s lighter complected, has freckles. He’s working on Algebra and preparing for his GED Exams. “Would it be okay for me to remain in your class,” he asks, “once I’m finished with my exams?” I check his TABE scores, and tell him he could qualify as a classroom tutor. He looks horrified. He doesn’t want to be put in a position where he’d have to help the other seven youngsters in the back. I don’t blame him. I say, “Look, try to make the best out of a bad situation. Try to learn as much as you can before you’re paroled.” He understands what I’m talking about. He didn’t come to prison to make friends, this isn’t a bed and breakfast, or sixth grade camp. He wants to learn from his mistakes. He knows he’s done something wrong, that it isn’t his place to question authority. He wants to leave here, to go unnoticed. He’s worth writing about.