In prison and loving it

As a columnist whose work has no redeeming social value, which has no doubt contributed to the decline of the newspaper industry, I knew it was only a matter of time before my journalistic crimes landed me in jail. I just didn't think I would end up on Rikers Island.

But New York City's famous maximum-security prison is exactly where I found myself recently after I was asked by a teacher — not sentenced by a judge — to spend a day at the facility.

The purpose of my visit was to address three writing classes at Horizon Academy, a school for detainees in their teens and twenties.

When I asked the teacher, Martin Flaster, how to get to Rikers Island, he said: “Rob a bank.'' Of course, a bank is the last place to go for money these days but I knew I was in for a memorable time.

Mary Runyan, a secretary at Horizon Academy, picked me up at the guard post and drove me over the Francis R. Bruno Memorial Bridge (the word “memorial'' made me nervous) to the 400-acre site, which sits in the East River near LaGuardia Airport.

“I feel safer here than I would at a regular high school,'' Runyan said.

“Why?'' I asked.

“Because,'' she replied calmly, “there are no guns here.''

Although Runyan didn't mention knives, blades or other dangerous weapons, I was sure the inmates had more to fear from me than I did from them.

A day of listening to me talk about writing would have most of them begging for solitary confinement.

As it turned out, I could not have felt more welcome or comfortable. Gloria Ortiz, principal of Horizon Academy, and her staff, including Flaster and senior programme specialist Cherie Braxton, were wonderful.

So were the guards. The inmates I passed in the halls were respectful.

I believe that if you do the crime, you should do the time. And the crimes here can be serious. Let me put it this way: Nobody goes to Rikers Island for jaywalking.

But the young men in Horizon Academy, which has about 300 students in six buildings, haven't been convicted of anything.

True, they have been charged with various offences and most of them are awaiting trial. And even though they are officially called detainees, they get locked up like all the other inmates.

But they are in school, some to improve their literacy and others to get their general equivalency diplomas.

I met the first class at 11am in the school annexe. The group was so large (36 students) that it had to be held in a hallway, where desks were lined up against both walls.

I read one of three columns I had sent to the school before my visit.

It was a piece in the form of a letter to President Barack Obama, from one family man to another, giving the new commander-in-chief advice on moving into the White House and what to do when he gets his two daughters the puppy he promised them.

The students applauded when I finished and not because they were glad it was over. I felt good about the session but the other two went more smoothly because they were smaller and were held in classrooms.

Teacher John Parada's English class had eight students: Danny, Cary, Adam, Kenny, Donovan, Travis, Martinez and Anonymous.

They were engaging, sharp and interested in writing. They also had good senses of humour.

When I read my Obama column, which contained the story of the time I called the White House to see if then-president George W. Bush would declare my younger daughter's room a federal disaster area, Adam asked: “You really called Bush?''

“Yes,'' I told him.

“Man,'' Adam said, smiling and shaking his head, “you're crazy.''

“Thank you,'' I replied. “I was dropped on my head as a child.''
Cary said I was “cool'', adding, “for your age''.

When I said I was 55, Kenny, also known as “Tornado'', commented: “You don't look that old.''

The class was fun and went by quickly. When it was over, Martinez, a poet, asked if he could send me some of his work. “Of course,'' I said. I hope he does.

After a late lunch in another building, I spoke to the third group, Flaster's English class, which consisted of Eduardo, Lil Haye, Strictly 50, Lorenzo, Fever, HOV, James, B.B., Naquan and Leon.

Teacher and site coordinator Leila Riley helped Flaster conduct the class. These students also were sharp and engaging.

And creative: Instead of listening to me read my column, Eduardo, also known as “A-Rod'', suggested that each student read a paragraph out loud. Around the room went the column, provoking laughs, chuckles and smiles.

“Good job,'' Eduardo said to his classmates when they were finished.

Lorenzo said to me: “You did a good job, too.'' The class laughed. Then he read a letter to a young woman that he said “could be'' autobiographical. It was eloquent and touching.

At the end of the class, Eduardo said to me: “You were really good because you were honest with us.''

Flaster said the students would write essays about the session and send them to me. Then he asked if I would keep in touch.

As I told the guys in each of the three classes, “potential'' is one of the most overused words in the English language but it applies to them because they all have it.

I said they should use it in a positive way to improve their lives, adding: “If an idiot like me can make it, there's hope for you.'' To the charge of enjoying my day in prison, I plead guilty.

Because the staff of Horizon Academy didn't consider me a bad influence on the students and the students seemed to agree, I would definitely go back. And I wouldn't have to rob a bank.

Jerry Zezima, a freelance writer, is taking no prisoners in his latest lecture tour.