107.
GE 107 is in the basement. The ceiling is low, and huge steam pipes hug it, hissing dampness. Anyone over five-foot-seven, which is a good percentage of the boys, has to be on constant guard to avoid being scalded by the hot metal; at least one forehead is stamped with a red burn at the end of every class. There aren’t any windows, often not enough chairs, and both of the tables are wobbly. Still, the kids have an amazing ability to block out their surroundings and surrender to their inner artist. I suppose blocking out their surroundings is something most of them have been doing since day one.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Reggie whines. “It’s been, like, an hour.” I’m fifteen minutes late.
Johan turns to Kimberly. “Does that mean we get an extra hour to paint?”
Kimberly claps her hands. “Okay, Ms. Roth’s going to pass out the paints and brushes.” She points to the three guards standing in the corners of the room. “We’re triple-staffed today.” It’s unnecessary for her to explain why.
I look over at a table holding brushes and about thirty small cans of paint. I can’t see what colors they are. “Did the silver paint clear screening?”
“We really need for you to be here on time,” Kimberly says in a low voice. “The youths get edgy when there are unexpected changes.” She looks over at the guards. “As you can imagine, that isn’t a good thing.”
“Sorry.” I feel terrible. “The traffic on Washington Street was stopped dead. The bus couldn’t get through.” I’m surprised that she’s calling me out on this. I hadn’t expected her to last a week in here, let alone get stern with me. “Sorry,” I say again, warming to her. “I’ll leave even earlier in the future.”
“Good,” she says, and turns to the boys. “Everyone stand in front of your own drawing. Anyone who knows that he wants to start with red, yellow, or blue, raise your hand.”
The boys shuffle for position, and two of the guards step closer.
“No physical contact,” Kimberly orders.
Last week, after the boys finished their drawings, we projected all the images on the wall, and the boys traced them in charcoal. I worked with them to fit the images together to make an appealing whole, backing off when they resisted, trying to let them work it out. Kimberly had to step in a couple of times, and Manuel, who didn’t have a completed drawing, got kicked out for swearing at Christian. After the boys went back to their cells, I stayed to outline their figures in black permanent marker and wash the charcoal away. They did a damn good job.
Ten are here today. Nine with drawings to paint and Manuel, whom I’m surprised to see. He stands to the side of the mural, arms crossed, looking tough. It’s clear from his shifting gaze that he needs a task.
I pull Kimberly aside. “Manuel’s going to have to work with somebody,” I say. “Who should, or shouldn’t, it be?” There are lots of factions at Beverly Arms, mostly based on which gang the boys are in on the outside—or aspiring to be a member of. The wrong pairing can create a high-tension situation.
“He’s not from the area,” Kimberly says. “Doesn’t hang with anyone. He’s had training as a fighter, an uncle who’s a heavy-weight or something. After he put a youth twice his size in the hospital, everyone stays out of his way.”
“Anyone he gets along with?”
Kimberly grins. “I’d say he’s an equal-opportunity hater. But don’t put him with Christian or Johan.”
I look at the nine boys lined up in front of the mural. All but Xavier have their hands up. I had Al send the bulk of the paints and brushes a few weeks ago so that the materials would clear contraband screening before we needed them. But because I sent the cans of silver later, they had to go through a separate testing. The guard, Rodney, one of the few nice ones, couldn’t promise me that the screening would be finished by today, but he said he’d try
GE 107 is in the basement. The ceiling is low, and huge steam pipes hug it, hissing dampness. Anyone over five-foot-seven, which is a good percentage of the boys, has to be on constant guard to avoid being scalded by the hot metal; at least one forehead is stamped with a red burn at the end of every class. There aren’t any windows, often not enough chairs, and both of the tables are wobbly. Still, the kids have an amazing ability to block out their surroundings and surrender to their inner artist. I suppose blocking out their surroundings is something most of them have been doing since day one.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Reggie whines. “It’s been, like, an hour.” I’m fifteen minutes late.
Johan turns to Kimberly. “Does that mean we get an extra hour to paint?”
Kimberly claps her hands. “Okay, Ms. Roth’s going to pass out the paints and brushes.” She points to the three guards standing in the corners of the room. “We’re triple-staffed today.” It’s unnecessary for her to explain why.
I look over at a table holding brushes and about thirty small cans of paint. I can’t see what colors they are. “Did the silver paint clear screening?”
“We really need for you to be here on time,” Kimberly says in a low voice. “The youths get edgy when there are unexpected changes.” She looks over at the guards. “As you can imagine, that isn’t a good thing.”
“Sorry.” I feel terrible. “The traffic on Washington Street was stopped dead. The bus couldn’t get through.” I’m surprised that she’s calling me out on this. I hadn’t expected her to last a week in here, let alone get stern with me. “Sorry,” I say again, warming to her. “I’ll leave even earlier in the future.”
“Good,” she says, and turns to the boys. “Everyone stand in front of your own drawing. Anyone who knows that he wants to start with red, yellow, or blue, raise your hand.”
The boys shuffle for position, and two of the guards step closer.
“No physical contact,” Kimberly orders.
Last week, after the boys finished their drawings, we projected all the images on the wall, and the boys traced them in charcoal. I worked with them to fit the images together to make an appealing whole, backing off when they resisted, trying to let them work it out. Kimberly had to step in a couple of times, and Manuel, who didn’t have a completed drawing, got kicked out for swearing at Christian. After the boys went back to their cells, I stayed to outline their figures in black permanent marker and wash the charcoal away. They did a damn good job.
Ten are here today. Nine with drawings to paint and Manuel, whom I’m surprised to see. He stands to the side of the mural, arms crossed, looking tough. It’s clear from his shifting gaze that he needs a task.
I pull Kimberly aside. “Manuel’s going to have to work with somebody,” I say. “Who should, or shouldn’t, it be?” There are lots of factions at Beverly Arms, mostly based on which gang the boys are in on the outside—or aspiring to be a member of. The wrong pairing can create a high-tension situation.
“He’s not from the area,” Kimberly says. “Doesn’t hang with anyone. He’s had training as a fighter, an uncle who’s a heavy-weight or something. After he put a youth twice his size in the hospital, everyone stays out of his way.”
“Anyone he gets along with?”
Kimberly grins. “I’d say he’s an equal-opportunity hater. But don’t put him with Christian or Johan.”
I look at the nine boys lined up in front of the mural. All but Xavier have their hands up. I had Al send the bulk of the paints and brushes a few weeks ago so that the materials would clear contraband screening before we needed them. But because I sent the cans of silver later, they had to go through a separate testing. The guard, Rodney, one of the few nice ones, couldn’t promise me that the screening would be finished by today, but he said he’d try
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