The Prison Book Club by Ann Walmsley Page B

looked back at the nodding shoreline willows and thought about the island’s absurdly abundant and bold animal life, reflecting on why it was so important to me. My parents had raised my three brothers and me to be keen observers of the natural world, believing that a close connection to nature would help us put the human experience into perspective. They imbued us with a sense of wonder and curiosity, teaching us where and when to look for marsh marigolds, gentians, Dutchman’s breeches and lady’s slipper in the wild and how to identify birds by their song alone.
    What was it about nature that I now found so pleasantly distracting and reassuring as I interacted with men in prison? Its umbilical cord back to my safe childhood, I suppose, and its predictability. Each spring, blossoms unfurled in the same order: snowdrops and crocuses first, followed by carpets of indigocoloured scilla and on and on through forsythia and magnolia. I was awed each year when plants emerged from the ground knowing how to assemble themselves into their predetermined shapes, each so distinct from the next. The progression of bird migrations was equally reliable, as was the birdsong that tinted the air as purple finches and others passed through.
    But even non-naturalists couldn’t help but encounter wildlife on the low-lying twenty-kilometre speck of land that was Amherst Island. Animals had taken over there, thanks in part to its position on an avian migration route. The lounging foxes were just the latest. And I’d even seen my first whippoorwill—a rarely viewed, seemingly neckless bird sitting nonchalantly on the edge of the gravel road one evening soon after sunset, its large doe eyes gleaming red in my car headlights. I was so grateful to Carol for sharing her island paradise with me and I resolved to share my enthusiasm for nature with the men whenever possible.
    The drive from the ferry to the prison was quick that day, just fifteen minutes. After all the failed attempts in June and July, I was finally going to sit down with Ben for my first one-on-one to get to know him better. We found seats in the chapel storage room. A fan whirred in the far corner to help move the air and the window was open in an attempt to capture a breeze.The air remained stubbornly close, though. Through the windows, we could hear the sharp chirp of sparrows over a lower chorus of crickets, then suddenly a loud burst of men shouting. I jumped. Ben looked unfazed.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” I asked.
    â€œThose are the guys in segregation. Calling from their windows.”
    â€œWho are they calling to?”
    â€œOther guys are walking by right now, probably going to work at CORCAN and they’ll shout to anyone they know is in the hole.”
    So that was segregation, a.k.a the hole: solitary confinement. The seg cells were housed in one of the old wings branching off from The Strip. Inmates wind up there either by requesting it for their own protection, or when the warden deems they’re jeopardizing the security of the penitentiary or the safety of others. In Canada’s federal prisons at that time, fewer than 20 percent of those in solitary were voluntary admissions. While there, they spent twenty-three hours a day in their cells, with one hour out for exercise. Some men from our book club ended up there from time to time.
    We walked to the storage room window and listened to the exchange for a minute. “You fucker” was all I could hear clearly. It died out quickly. The passing inmates had to report to their prison jobs. Ben and I settled back into our chairs.
    He spent some time giving me a few glimpses into his early life. He’d been born in Canada, but went back to Jamaica with his mother for his early schooling. “Education is like number one there,” he told me. “You’re nobody if you don’t have an education. They’re so competitive there: spelling bees, math bees. We used