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What does a 16-year-old boy know about "learning, survival and coming of age in prison?"
For me, it's too much information. Our young sons and grandsons and brothers and nephews and uncles don't need to know that because they should be incapable of wrapping their brains around such a concept.
Dwayne Betts, of Suitland, Maryland, was a handsome 16-year-old, bright, middle-class kid, the only son of a single, hardworking mom. For all these reasons, this "memoir" seems the ultimate wrong.
Having said that: I'm the one whose wrong. So far off the mark that I should have seen this book coming.
It's not that it's a terrible book— it is. All the more horrible because it's true.
Think about it. At 16, a teenager should be thinking junior proms, homework, dates, sports, maybe even college. Not prison. Not jail. Not even juvenile detention— although that's bad enough— but especially not PRISON!
In 1996, that became a terrible reality for 16-year-old Dwayne Betts and his friend, Brandon.
For 30 awful minutes, they made the decision that would change their lives forever. They can literally divide their lives by 30 small minutes.
It's Saturday; they visit a mall and decide that they want a car, but, they don't have a car. So, Dwayne (armed) and Brandon walk up to a sleeping motorist, tap on his window and steal his car. For 30 minutes, they're teenagers— driving around— ignorant of the impending consequences.
For 30 minutes, their lives are still the same. Minute 31: they're pulled over and eventually arrested. Their lives are not their own anymore.
Sixteen years old— not old enough to vote; to register for the draft; to buy tobacco or alcohol— legally; no facial hair to speak of and, if he is driving, it's with a provisional license. In 30 minutes— in less time than it takes to wash dishes, they've gone from carefree teenagers to convicted felons. How is that for perspective?
Dwayne and Brandon, surrounded by cops are hauled off to jail. And hell has just opened up for them.
Reality sets in— Dwayne soon learns his fate. He's not being charged as a juvenile. Why not? He's only 16.
No. This kid is "a menace to society," according to the judge, and belongs in PRISON! Big boys' jail! Proof of that is his sentence— 15 years for carjacking; five years for robbery AND the MANDATORY minimum sentence of three years for the use of a firearm in the commission of a felony, to run concurrently. "I didn't even know what concurrent meant," he writes. "To me, it sounded like 14 years and I have to do them all." How does a kid wrap his brain around that reality? I still can't.
Throughout the book, I'm amazed as his young brain and body try to cope with nearly a decade in prison. I'm also amazed at this young man's talent as he describes the cycle of incarceration; witness to all the things in prison that await him and his young friend.
There is the violence— by prisoners and corrections officers (CO) alike. Overflowing toilets that leak into the hallways and down the pipes into the cells below; the noise and the comings and goings of prisoners— transferring in and out. Amidst all this confusion, all Betts can do is to worry about his safety.
He notices that the prisoners and COs are locked in together, except for one irony: the COs get to go home to sleep in their own beds after their shifts.
Betts' journey begins in the Virginia prison system. Sometimes in solitary confinement and even time in a Virginia Supermax, where he spent 23 of 24 hours in his cell— he begins his soul-searching and eventual redemption.
"I remember the first time my mother came to see me after I had been sentenced. The visiting room was still and, when I walked in, I might as well have been holding a clock with no hands. The phone in my mother's hand was scuffed and her knuckles strained against the black. But when she saw me, she kissed her hand and placed it on the glass where my hand waited. What's more painful to a mother than to stare at her only son behind glass in a jail's visiting room?"
She was crying, even before the tears. Why wouldn't she be crying? What mother wouldn't be? I cried for Betts' mother, too.
"Dwayne," she said, "you're my only son." She didn't ask why he'd done what he did; he may have had an answer. Those five words put into perspective all those things he shouldn't have done and as a result he had no answer; it wasn't a question. You understood that, despite the trouble he was in. You also understood that, in spite of the trouble, he was still her only son; she loved him. It's just that simple.
This book— this memoir— is written with such honesty. He describes cellmates, violence, coming of age; the despair of missing home, Christmas and family. Ironically, he also witnesses small miracles, like the prisoner who teaches himself Spanish, "Because I want to learn Spanish that's all."
A Question of Freedom is, obviously, subjective. After all, Betts had nine years to think about freedom and understand that it wasn't just about being released from prison. That, in spite of all he went through, he came out almost— just almost— unscathed.
Obviously, he'll relive those nine years for the rest of his life, but he (and we) can relish the satisfaction of his small victories. He "did the time." He didn't "let the time do him." And, as he began to understand this, I nearly cheered.
Today, Betts is a graduate student at Warren Wilson College. He's been awarded the Holden Fellowship. He has begun a book club for young men: YoungMenRead. He is a teacher of poetry at several D.C. area schools and is the recipient of the Beatrice Hawley Award for his book of poetry, Shahid Reads His Own Palm, which will be published next year.
He is married and has a young son.
A Question of Freedom is a must-read and should be required reading for all those young sons and grandsons and brothers and nephews and uncles who believe this can't happen to them; it can, even if they can't wrap their brains around such a concept.
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