Writer in Prison 监狱里的作家
I was doing a guest writing workshop at Susanville State Prison near the Sierra Nevada foothills in northern California.Most of the men doing time there are sentenced to prison because of drugs.They are housed in huge dormitories in bunk beds.They have no privacy，no place to be alone，no place to think quietly.I had great apprehensions when I walked onto the prison grounds.I had taught writing workshops at many California prisons，but those prisons had cells.In cells，even if they are shared with another inmate，one can find at least a little writing time.Surely the men here at Susanville were not going to be interested in what I had to offer.
I had decided to spend my two days giving a monologue workshop.I wanted the men to have a chance to write and then perform before a camera.I wanted them to see themselves on video before I left the prison at the end of the second day.I felt that life in this prison had probably stripped them of most of their identity and that writing and performance art might restore some sense of who they were or who they could be.
I was pleased that twenty men had signed up for the class.This was the maximum number I had said I could take.I spend the first hour with them，talking about what it was like to be a writer，telling them that there is a joy and a freedom in the words，that no matter how much they were all forced to be alike，dress alike，eat the same food，keep the same hours，that in their writing they could finally be different.As different as they wanted to be.Writing，I told them，can be the most liberating of all the arts.You can be free with the word.There are no limits.I told them that every time I picked up a pencil or sat down at a computer or a typewriter that it was as if I was coming home，coming home to my art，my words，that this was a world that no one else could take away.This art would sustain me throughout all my days.
The men listened well and when I finally had them start their writing projects，they worked hard.There was only one，a young，very handsome blond man，who I worried about.He was reluctant to share during that first day when I had them writing their monologues.Every other student read and rewrote and read again，but this man sat quietly，erasing，writing，tearing up drafts，starting again.Whenever I would approach his desk，he quietly covered his paper with his arms.
“Can I see？”I ask.“It would be easier for me if you didn't，”he would answer then a shy smile would appear.
I figured，what the heck.Even if he doesn't share his writing with the class，he's writing.He is choosing to spend his whole day in this hot stuffy classroom working on something called monologue.That morning he probably didn't even know the meaning of the word.This should make me happy.But it didn't.I was concerned about his need for privacy，about his inability to share，knowing that he didn't think his writing was good enough.
I had worked in prisons for too many years to be fooled by his shyness.I knew that many of the inmates had learned at a very young age that they could do nothing right.They had been abused and tormented as children and lacked any self-confidence.But no matter how much I praised the other prisoners he wouldn't relent.He went back to his dormitory that evening with his writing tucked into his jeans pocket.Many of the other men just left their work on the desks.Not him.He was taking no chance that I would read it after he was locked away behind the bars.He was right，of course.1 would have made a beeline right for his desk the minute he got out the door.He had judged me right.
The second day all the men returned to the classroom.This was particularly pleasing to me.Even the young blond man.This was the day for reading and taping.I wondered how the silent，shy student would handle this.I was actually surprised to see him there.He had combed his long，blond hair and his shirt was neatly pressed.He had obviously thought about the fact that he was going to be filmed and wanted to look his best.At last I was going to hear what he wrote.
He didn't say much during the performances.I had given the men fairly loose instructions about who should be speaking in their monologues.I had，though，told them that I wanted to hear their characters tell me what it is they really wanted，what it was that no one understood about them，and why they needed to talk.He sat there quietly，watching the work of his fellow inmates.One of the men had written a monologue for God，and another had been Abraham Lincoln，another Martin Luther King，Jr.Some of the monologues were funny，others serious.Even though they hadn't had time to memorize their lines，once they began reading，the scripts in their hands were hardly noticeable，and I was extremely moved by their work.
Finally，he was the only one who hadn't read his monologue.When all the others were finished I asked him，“Are you ready now？”“I don't think so，”he answered in such a gentle voice.Then the men were on him.“Man，if I can do it，you can do it.Try it.You'll like it.Come on man.Don't be shy.Nobody's going to judge you here.”
So he got up，took his script to the performance area and stood before the camera.He looked so young.The papers in his hands were shaking like frightened birds，but he looked with determination into the eye of the camera and opened up his monologue.
“My name is Bruce.I am twenty-one years old and I am dead.I am dead because I spent time in prison for drugs and I didn't care.I didn't care about me.I went to bed every night just counting the days'till I could get out and get that next fix.I would kill for my next fix.I would kill for my next fix.”
He went on about his life，how he was raised in poverty by alcoholic parents，beaten，hungry，no life at all，shuffled back and forth through foster homes.While he read，he showed scars on his body，the burn marks on his arms where a drunken father had extinguished cigarettes，the cuts on his wrists where he had tried to take his own life.I couldn't help it.The tears began forming in my eyes，hot and painful.My God，why had I asked him to share this horrible pain？Then he got to the end of his story.
“Even though I died right there in prison，I want to tell you something.The reason I need to talk to you today.I have risen again，just like in the Bible.I am reborn.One day a woman came in and told me to write.And I had never written before，but I did it anyway.I sat for eight hours in a chair and focused the way I have never focused before.I could never even sit still before！I wrote out my ugly life，and then I was able to finally feel something.To feel pity.For myself.When no one else was ever able to feel it.And I felt something else.I felt joy.I was writing，and what I was writing was good.I was a writer！And I was going to get up in front of all those men in that class，and I would say that this……”At these words he held up his little manuscript.“This is more important to me than any drug.What I wanted to tell you was that I died a drug addict，and I was reborn as a writer.”
We all sat there stunned.The camera kept running.He took a self-conscious little bow.Then he said，“Thank you，”once again in his quiet voice.And then the men broke out in spontaneous applause.He walked over to me and took my hands.Inmates are not allowed to touch their teachers，but I let him anyway.“You have given me something，”he said，“that no drug has ever given me.My self-respect.”
I think of him often.I pray that he has continued to find respect for himself through the written word.I know，though，that that day in that room with those men，a writer was born.After a long and terrible journey，a lost soul had come home，home to the words.
我在苏珊韦尔国家监狱做一个访问性的写作讲习班，监狱位于加利福尼亚州北部，靠近内华达山脉的山麓地带。在那里面打发时间的人，大部分都是因为毒品被判入狱的。他们被关在设有上下双层床铺的巨大宿舍间里，没有隐私，没有个人空间，没有地方能够安静地思考。当我走进这里的时候，我就感到忧惧万分。我曾在加利福尼亚的很多监狱里上过写作讲习班，可是，那些监狱都是有小格子间的。在单间里，即使是两个人同住，一个人至少也可以找到点儿写东西的时间。苏珊韦尔的这些人肯定不会对我要教的东西感兴趣。
我决定这两天教授独白剧的写作。我想让这些人有一个写作，并在摄像机前表演的机会，我想让他们在我第二天结束离开之前在录像中看到他们自己。我觉得这个监狱里的生活可能使他们丧失了很大部分的自我，而写作和表演艺术也许可以让他们多少重新感觉到自己是谁，或者可能成为谁。
我喜出望外，有二十个人报名参加了学习班。这是我说过学习班可以容纳学员的最大数目。头一个小时，我和他们聊了作为一个作家的心理体会。我告诉他们，文字的世界里充满快乐和自由，不管他们在强压下变得多么相似，相同的衣服、食物、作息时间，他们都可以最终在写作中找到属于自己的不同，想有多么不同就可以有多么的不同。我告诉他们，写作，可以成为所有艺术形式中最自由、最具解放感的一种。你可以任马驰疆地运用文字，没有束缚。我告诉他们每次我拿起笔，或是坐到电脑前、打字机前，我就好像回到了家，我的艺术、文字的世界，没有人可以侵占和拿走。写作维持和延展着我的生命，将会伴随我一生。
这些人听得聚精会神，最后我让他们开始动手写作自己的东西，他们也很用功。只有一个年轻、很英俊的金发小伙子，让我有些担心。第一天写作过程中，他踟蹰着不肯与他人分享他写的东西。其他每个学生对自己的文章都是修改再三、一读再读的，但是，他默默地坐在那儿，时写时擦，一会又都撕掉重新来过。每次我走到他桌子旁，他都悄悄地用胳膊把纸挡住。
“我能看吗？”我问。“如果你不看的话，我会觉得轻松些。”他这么回答，然后脸上露出羞涩的微笑。
我心想，不用担心，即使他不给别人看，他还是在写啊。他选择了一整天都呆在这个闷热、拥挤的教室里埋头于什么叫做独白的东西。到那天早晨，他甚至可能还不知道这个词的意思。我应该感到高兴了。然而，我却高兴不起来。我担心他在监狱生活中的隐私不曾得到保证，甚至遭受过侵害，担心他难以与他人相处和分享，担心他认为自己写得不够好。
我已经在监狱里做类似的工作很多年了，他表现出来的羞涩蒙蔽不了我。我知道很多狱友从很小的时候起就抱定自己做什么事情都不对，也做不好。他们孩提时代就被虐待、折磨，毫无自信可言。但是，无论我多么热情洋溢地赞扬其他的狱友，他都丝毫没有让步的意思。那天晚上他回宿舍的时候，把他的作品卷起来塞进上衣兜里带走了。其他很多人都是把作品就那么摊在桌子上，但他没有。即便给锁到铁栅栏后面，他也不给我机会看到他写的东西。当然，他算得挺准。我本来是准备他一走出门口就直奔他的桌子的。他对我判断得很准。
第二天，所有的人又都来到了教室，甚至那个金发的年轻人也没有缺席，这让我特别开心。这天要朗读作品，并进行录制。我心里打着个大问号：那个安静、害羞的年轻人会怎么做呢？其实他的出现让我很惊讶：金色的长发已经梳理过，衬衫也压得很平整。很明显，他想过自己会被摄影，也想着尽可能地表现自己最好的一面。终于，轮到他朗读自己写的东西了。
其他人表演过程中他话不多。关于独白里应该说什么，我给他们的标准相当宽松，但是，我告诉过他们，我想听到的是他们作品里的人物真正想说的，别人难以理解的人物心理，还有他们不得不倾诉的原因。他静静地坐在那儿，看着狱友们的表演。其中一个写了一段面向上帝的内心独白，另一个人是亚伯拉罕？林肯，还有一个马丁？路德？金。有的写得很风趣，有的则很严肃。尽管他们没有时间背下来，但是，一旦他们开始朗读，手里的纸稿就变得不那么起眼了。听了他们的作品，我深受感动。
最后，只剩他一个了。所有其他人都完成后，我问他，“你现在准备好了吗？”“还没有。”他回答的声音竟是那样轻柔。这时，所有的狱友都围过来了，“伙计，如果我能做，你也能做。试一下，你会喜欢的。来吧，别不好意思。在这儿，没有人评判你的。”
于是他站起来，拿着稿子走到表演区，站在摄像机前。他看起来那么年轻。他手里的稿子就像受到惊吓的小鸟似的，颤抖得厉害，但是，他径直地注视着摄像机镜头，眼睛流露出决心和勇气，开始朗读他的作品。
“我叫布鲁斯。二十一岁，是个活死人。因为我为了毒品坐牢，也不在乎。我不在乎自己。我只是每天晚上去睡觉，数着我的日子，数着什么时候能出去再打上一针。为了那一针，我可以去杀人。为了那一针，我可以去杀人。”
他接着讲述了他的生活，他怎样在贫困中被酗酒的父母养大，遭打，挨饿，毫无生机，后来又被各个寄养家庭推来攘去。他一边读，一边露出他身上的累累伤疤，那是酒醉的父亲在他胳膊上熄灭烟头时留下的烧伤的印记，还有他企图割开自己的手腕自杀所留下的疤痕。我忍不住，灼热而伤痛的泪水开始在眼眶里打转。天哪，我为什么要让他向我们展示他这么可怕的痛苦呢？这时，他的故事到了结尾。
“虽然我曾经在监狱里虽生犹死，但是我想告诉你，今天我在这里的原因。我又复活了，就像《圣经》里说的那样，我获得了重生。一天一位女士进来，告诉我去写作。虽然我以前从来没有写过，但是我还是去做了。我在一张椅子里一坐八个小时，前所未有地专注于一件事情。我以前甚至都不能安静地坐会儿！我写下了我丑陋的人生，然后，我终于可以开始感觉到什么了。怜悯。怜悯我自己。从来没有人让我有过这样的感受。而且我还感觉到了别的。我感到了快乐。我在写作，而且我写得不错。我是一个作家！我要站在班里所有那些人面前，说……”说到这，他举了举手中小小的手稿。“这对我来说比任何毒品都重要。我想告诉你们的是吸毒的我死了，写作的我新生了。”
我们所有人都坐在那儿目瞪口呆。摄影机还在不断地转着。他有点不自然地鞠了个躬，然后轻声地说，“谢谢。”这时，狱友们中间爆发出情不自禁的热烈掌声。他走到我面前，握住我的手。囚犯是不允许和他们的老师接触的，但是，我让他握了。他说，“您给了我毒品从来没有给过我的东西。我的自尊。”
我常常想起他。我祈祷他能够继续写下去，在文字中寻找自我尊重和爱护。不论如何，我知道，那天，在那间屋子里，和那些人在一起时，诞生了一位作家。在经过漫长而又可怕的旅途后，一个迷失的灵魂回到了家――文字里的精神家园。
译者感言
好像有一位哲人说过，有一缕阳光，就要灿烂。这缕阳光，其实就是希望。只有心怀希望，才能在阴沉的天空中看到曙光，才能在逆境中产生拼搏的力量。不要嫌弃一缕阳光的微小，它能给万物以生命；不要埋怨希望渺小，它能让你走出困境，甚至起死回生。大家都知道染上毒瘾意味着什么，更何况他自幼起，就一直过着黑暗的日子。眼睛里没有他人，没有自己，心除了恐惧和痛苦，麻木和空洞，从来不曾感觉到别的。他只是在苟延生存，而不是生活。我想作者给他的除了自尊，更重要的还有希望。作者并没有刻意去怎样，但是作者关于写作的体会，他那天自己的写作实践，都让他的心触摸到了一种全新的东西，一种属于正常生活里的体验，唤醒了他心中的自我，唤醒了他对于自由和美好的向往。其实我们每个人从生下来心里就有颗希望的种子，只是有时候需要有人去浇浇水，让它见见阳光。所以，如果可以的话，你也向他人伸出这样的援助之手吧，让希望在他/她的心里生根发芽。
