I'll Fly Away

Further Testimonies from the Women of York Prison

Wally Lamb, I'll Fly Away contributors

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061744983
• Topic: Ciencias sociales
• Subtopic: Estudios de género

For several years, Wally Lamb, the author of two of the most beloved novels of our time, has run a writing workshop at the York Correctional Institution, Connecticut's only maximum-security prison for women. Writing, Lamb discovered, was a way for these women to face their fears and failures and begin to imagine better lives. Couldn't Keep It to Myself, a collection of their essays, was published in 2003 to great critical acclaim. With I'll Fly Away, Lamb offers readers a new volume of intimate pieces from the York workshop. Startling, heartbreaking, and inspiring, these stories are as varied as the individuals who wrote them, but each illuminates an important core truth: that a life can be altered through self-awareness and the power of the written word.

I.

When I Was a Child…

There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.

—DEEPAK CHOPRA

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.

—EDWARD DE BONO

And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses—would you not then still have your childhood…that treasure-house of memories?

—RAINER MARIA RILKE

Florida Memories

BY BONNIE JEAN FORESHAW

It’s Thursday morning at 6:00 A.M., and we two have just arrived at the open-air flea market, the largest in south Florida. I’m an apprentice shopper and my teacher is my Aunt Mandy. Later this morning, the market will be hot and crowded—alive with music, laughter, gossip, and bartering about the price of everything from necklaces to nectarines. But at the moment, it’s cool and quiet. Our focus is fish.

“Pay close attention to the eyes of the fish,” Aunt Mandy instructs as we walk from stall to stall. “If the eyes are clear, not cloudy, and the color of the skin’s not fading, then the fish is fresh.” Auntie’s dressed for shopping in a pink sleeveless blouse, burgundy pedal pushers, Italian sandals, and a white sun visor. I’m wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and rubber flip-flops. I am tall for my age, and starting to get the kind of shape men take a second look at. My glasses take up half my face. “But you have to shop with your finger and your nose, too, not just your eyes,” Auntie instructs. “Poke the fish gently near its fin. If it leaves a dent, then you don’t want it. If it doesn’t, it’s probably part of the morning’s catch. And listen to me, Jeannie. Fresh fish never smells foul.”

We stop at one of the stalls where the fish are lined up, one against the other, on a bed of ice. The fish man approaches us. He’s handsome—black hair, hazel eyes, tank top and cut-off jeans. “May I help you, ma’am?” I watch him take in Aunt Mandy’s curves, her green eyes and honey-colored complexion. I might as well be invisible.

“Well, maybe you can,” Auntie says. “Oh, by the way, I’m Mandy and this is my niece, Jeannie. Now what’s your name?”

“I’m Ricardo,” the fish man says. He’s sucking in his stomach, and his feet are moving up and down like he’s trying to stretch his height. “It’s nice to meet you, Mandy.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Now tell me, Ricardo, how much you want for these five yellowtails?”

“Well, let’s see. They’re seventy-five cents apiece, so that’s a total of…” He stops to watch Auntie pass her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. It’s salt-and-pepper-colored, but Mandy’s still got it. “Uh, three seventy-five.”

“Oh,” Auntie says, half-shocked and half-disappointed. “That fellow three stalls down says he’s selling his yellowtails for fifty cents each. So unless we can work out a deal…”

The smile drops off of Mr. Ricardo’s face, but Auntie’s smile returns. Her gold tooth is glimmering. She shifts her weight, puts her hand on her hip.

“Mandy, it’s a deal,” Ricardo says. “Five yellowtails for two-fifty. That’s a dollar twenty-five cut I’m giving you.”

“Which I appreciate,” Auntie says. “And look at it this way: you’ve just gained yourself a faithful customer. Now, tell me. How much you selling those red snappers for? If I can get them for the same price as the yellowtails, I’ll buy some of them, too. And conch.”

I stand there looking from one to the other. Auntie touches the small gold cross at her throat. She fingers her earring. I can tell Mr. Ricardo is only pretending to do the math in his head. “Okay,” he finally says. “Sold.”

Auntie pays for the fish and conch, thanks him, and we walk away. A few stalls down from Mr. Ricardo’s, she turns to me. “Okay, now,” she says. “Show me a fresh fish.”

I go up and down the row, looking each fish in the eye, then pick one up by its tail. I turn it, look at its other eye, study its coloration. When I press my finger against its head, near the fin, there’s no indentation. “This one.”

Her look is serious. “You think this fish is fresh?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

Aunt Mandy flashes me her gold-toothed smile. “Well, Jeannie, now you know how to pick fresh fish.”

I’m excited to have passed the test, but I’ve been wondering something. “Auntie?” I say. “I don’t remember going to any other fish stalls before we went to Mr. Ricardo’s.”

She laughs. “You and I knew that, but Ricardo didn’t. It’s one of the tricks of the trade when you shop at the flea market. But bear in mind, Ricardo would rather make a sale than not sell. If he has fish left at the end of the day, that’s a loss and a waste for him. So we were doing him a favor. Now, come on. Let’s cross the street and I’ll teach you how to pick out vegetables and fruit.”

We meander among the tomatoes and squashes, the potatoes and mangoes and plums. Shopping for fresh produce is a matter of looking and smelling, but mostly of feeling, Auntie says. “Fruits and vegetables can get damaged by cold weather, the way they’re packed, or how far they’ve traveled to get to the market. If the skin is firm, that means it’s fresh. If it’s loose, then it isn’t. And always check for bruises.”

Although I’m listening to my aunt, it’s the peaches in the stall to my right that have my attention. They’re big and beautiful, golden yellow with blushes of pink, and their aroma makes my mouth juice up. I’m thinking about how I might get myself one of those peaches.

“Pick us out some bananas,” Auntie says. It’s test number two.

My eyes pass over several bunches before I pick one up. I check each banana, one by one, then walk over to Auntie, who is examining pears. “These are nice, firm, and yellow,” I say, handing her the bunch I’ve chosen. “Tight skin, no bruises.”

She twists the bunch back and forth, then nods her approval. “Good job,” she says. Smiling all over myself, I decide to seize the moment. “Auntie, may I get a few peaches?”

“Sure,” she says. “Get about six.”

I examine the peaches as carefully as I did the bananas, and Aunt Mandy is satisfied with the ones I’ve chosen. “You’ve done an excellent job,” she says.

We pay up and gather our bags. “I am sooo hungry, Auntie,” I say. “May I have a peach?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll have one, too,” she says.

I hold mine before me and, salivating, take my first bite. Ahhh. My taste buds jump alive; the juice runs down my chin. I eat hungrily, devouring my peach in record time. “Mmm, this peach is good,” Auntie says. I look at her, enviously. Half of hers is left, but I’ve eaten mine down to the seed. I suck on it for a while before I pull it from my mouth and toss it away.

Time passes, the sun beats down, and the aisles clog with customers. There’s music now. On someone’s radio, Bob Marley’s singing, Buffalo Soldier, dreadlock Rasta, stolen from Africa… I can feel the bass vibrate. Although I’m young, I already understand that reggae is the music of history and truth, and that it invites your body to dance and sway to the message. Around the corner, there’s Latin music, with its horns and powerful drumbeats. No need to understand Spanish; it’s the rhythm that matters. One couple’s dancing the salsa, another the cha-cha-cha. Fingers snapping, they move forward, backward, the woman’s hips swaying. At the end of the stalls, someone’s blasting R & B—Aretha! R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Find out what it means to me. Everyone knows the words to this one. People are doing their own little jiggy dances, singing along with attitude. Auntie’s all into it. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” she laughs. “My girl Aretha can sing it for me any time!”

By noon, the flea market’s alive and up-tempo—part shopping, part festival. People are smiling, laughing, price-arguing, swaying to the beat. Even the old folks and the little kids are moving to the music. But the noonday heat has no mercy. “Now you know why we come so early,” Aunt Mandy says. “We’ve bought everything we need, and at good prices. Time to go.”

And so we do. Walking home, I feel happy and successful. I’ve learned how to shop. I’ve eaten the tastiest peach of my whole life. And I can almost taste those pan-fried yellowtails, those conch fritters, deep-fried and golden brown.

“Hey, what happened to you last week? I didn’t see you.”

“Oh, I was on vacation. Took the family to Virginia Beach.”

At the south Florida flea market, the relationships formed between buyers and sellers were lasting ones. Over the years, our family and Ricardo’s—his brother Carlos, Carlos’s wife Maria, their children Miguel, Ramon, and Sonia, their cousins Ruben and Pedro—came to know each other well. They gave us good deals on the fish they sold, and we, as my aunt had promised, became their loyal customers and friends. I moved away from south Florida in my twenties, but whenever I returned home, I made it a point to go to the flea market to shop for bargains, visit my friends, and savor the sweet sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of life.

And although I listened to these words many, many years ago, I can still hear my Aunt Mandy speak them: “Always remember that the vendors want to sell perishable food rather than carry it home, Jeannie, so you can get a reasonable price if you work at it.” I have practiced Auntie’s advice all my life, and have taught my children as she taught me.

Here’s a recipe for how to live a good life.

When you shop, use your eyes, your nose, your fingers, and your brain. Look both the dead and the living in the eye. Don’t just listen to the music—feel it—and when you sing along with Aretha, do it with attitude. Dance if you want to, or if you have to. Smile when you’re bartering. Laugh any time. Dress up, not down. Buy fresh. Don’t pay too much.

Kidnapped!

BY ROBIN LEDBETTER

You’re suspended!”

“Suspended? She started it!” I was outraged.

“I don’t care, Robin,” the vice principal said. “You’re always being sent to this office. For God’s sake, you just got back from suspension two weeks ago.”

I was still feeling the effects of the fight I’d just had: the sound of blood thundering in my ears, the bitter taste in my mouth. But I was coming down from my adrenaline high and the reality of my situation was hitting me. I looked the vice principal in the eye. “You can’t suspend me, Mr. G. All I did was defend myself.”

“Not only can I suspend you, Robin, but I can move to have you expelled if you and Tasha get into one more fight.” When he reached for his Rolodex, I sprang from my chair and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.

“Don’t call her!” I begged. “Don’t do this to me!”

He swatted my hands away. “What the…Have you lost your mind, child?”

Fighting tears, I sank back into my seat. I hated Mr. G: his push-broom mustache, his stupid baseball trophies, the framed photos of his children on his desk. His cozy, carpeted office with its potted plants was out of place in our rundown school. I looked at a picture of him shaking hands with some guy. He thinks he’s such a big shot, I thought; well, maybe he is, but he’s not to me.

“Robin?…Robin!” Mr. G was snapping his fingers in front of my face.

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, young lady. You’ll stay after school for detention tonight, and beginning tomorrow, you’re suspended for two weeks. Here’s your letter home.” He scrawled a few sentences on a suspension slip and handed it to me. “I’ll call your grandmother later…. I hate to call her again. Lord, I feel so sorry for that lady.”

“Sorry for her?” I mumbled. “You should feel sorry for me.”

I walked out of the office and into the girls’ bathroom with its stale urine smell, its gray stalls that had no doors or toilet paper, no mirror above the one small sink. I leaned against the wall and started to cry. Damn that “Skanky Tasha” (as we called her). Thought she was better than everyone, but she was fresh—had been sleeping around since before her first period. When we’d fought in first grade, she had won. But I’d won all three of the next ones. I chuckled to myself thinking about our fight that day. Boy, had I ever put a hurting on her. Plus, I’d stripped her shirt off of her and all the fourth, fifth, and sixth graders had seen her topless—every kid in the cafeteria laughing as the teacher tried to shield her C-cup breasts. People thought they could bully me then, and I’d spent most of the school year fighting for the respect that the kids wearing Nikes and new clothes got automatically. Wel...

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Contents
• Disclaimer
• In Remembrance
• Acknowledgments
• Revisions and Corrections Wally Lamb
• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3
• Part 4
• Part 5
• Back Ad
• Excerpt from We Are Water
• Contributors
• Facilitators’ Biographical Statements
• About the Author
• Credits
• Books by Wally Lamb
• Copyright
• About the Publisher