All Day Read online

  Copyright

  Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed, whether or not so noted in the text.

  Copyright © 2017 by Liza Jessie Peterson

  Jacket design by Jody Waldrup

  Jacket copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Center Street

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  centerstreet.com

  twitter.com/centerstreet

  First edition: April 2017

  Center Street is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Center Street name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBNs: 978-1-4555-7091-1 (hardcover), 978-1-4555-7090-4 (ebook)

  E3-20170315-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword by Abiodun Oyewole

  Introduction

  1. Summer Substitute

  2. Sizing Me Up

  3. I Got This, Not

  4. Danny Gunz

  5. One, Two, Poof

  6. Rug Rat Roll Call

  7. Africa Prince tha Don

  8. King Down

  9. This Is Some Bullshit

  10. Artist vs. Civilian

  11. Paradigm Shift

  12. The Hardest Part

  13. MoMo and Friends

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Rikers Rug Rat Slang

  Newsletters

  For Leslie, my sister, my bookey, my heart.

  Eternally

  Foreword

  All Day is a tremendously powerful story of a warrior writer, Matrix Momma, beautifully bold and blessed sister who has an undying love for her people fueled by her passion to make a difference in the lives of Black youth in trouble. Liza Jessie Peterson has captured the essence, the humor, the intellect, and the psychology of the lives of young people (especially young Black men) trying to survive in the penal systems of America. Her narrative takes you to Rikers Island and into the classroom—into the minds and souls of some of our most precious treasures, the children. I was captivated by the characters. I could see them, smell their musk, feel their attitudes, and hear their voices to a point where I felt I knew them and would recognize any one of them if I bumped into them on the street.

  Peterson’s perspective and the insights and wisdoms she so powerfully shares will make any teacher a better teacher and any person a better person. It was a pleasure and very refreshing to know that there are real, live angels among us who are doing God’s work, which is to bring out the God in each of us so in some way we can be a blessing to ourselves. Liza Jessie Peterson is a tall Amazon, caramel-brown, laser-eyed sister who also just happens to be very attractive. Her presence alone is positive and powerful. She presents herself in such a way that demands respect. Her words are sharp, witty, provocative, passionate, and Black. She is not afraid to show love in a way that is never misunderstood.

  The stories, the characters, the talent, the conflicts, and the love are all there with a message: There must be a better way to raise our youth among us who have gone astray than to warehouse them in penal institutions throughout the land. The number of young Black men in jail is embarrassing. This country was built on the backs of many of these young people’s ancestors. For them to be labeled as bad seeds or as incorrigibles destined to a life of crime speaks volumes about the shame and callousness America has shown its benefactors. All Day is a must-read for anyone who cares about children and believes in the possibilities that arise from affording them the opportunity to have the brightest of futures.

  Abiodun Oyewole

  Founding member of the Last Poets

  Author of Branches of the Tree of Life

  Introduction

  Most New York City transplants come to the Big Apple with a dream of doing something extraordinary. I first came to New York by way of Philadelphia with a dream of becoming a supermodel. I did the Paris–New York–Milan couture romp for several years, not achieving supermodel status, but I managed to walk the runway for some of the fashion industry’s best designers. The luster and glam quickly lost its shine, as I found it unfulfilling to be judged solely on my looks. I was searching for my identity, my voice, my calling. Walking away from modeling, I decided to take a theater class and immediately felt alive and a spark was lit. I experienced an unshakable desire to express myself; I had something to say and it was through character that I discovered a passion for acting and journaling, which would quickly unveil my dormant poet and playwright. Both the stage and the page became a refuge for my creative spirit. I studied classical theater at Stella Adler and the National Shakespeare Conservatory in New York and later with the legendary Susan Batson (acting coach for the stars). I took classes religiously, auditioned frequently, and landed several independent feature films. But it was at the renowned Nuyorican Poets Cafe in lower Manhattan that I would nurture my calling as a poet and playwright. I performed on HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, on PBS’s Between the Lions, and virtually all over New York wherever there was a mic reserved for poets. The poems evolved into monologues, which evolved into plays, and when I looked up I had a one-woman show under my belt with a second one gestating. When my sophomore solo show, The Peculiar Patriot, was born I performed it in more than thirty-five adult prisons around the country. From model, poet, and playwright to teaching in prison, this book is a testimony about my experiences once I stumbled upon teaching incarcerated boys as a full-time GED teacher at Island Academy, the high school for inmates detained on Rikers Island. Initially starting out as a teaching artist conducting poetry and creative writing workshops, I was merely looking for a steady job that would pay more than the poetry gigs, enabling me to pay my rent and get on my feet financially. It was supposed to be temporary, but a funny thing happened when passion met purpose, and so it’s been eighteen years and counting that I’ve been working in multiple capacities with incarcerated youth.

  My hope is that this book will give you an insight into a draconian subworld where so many of our children languish and allow you to understand the plight of adolescent boys behind bars and feel, as I do, that they are worth our love and attention. All Day is a story of my journey finding love and purpose in an unexpected dark place.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Summer Substitute

  2008

  As I make my way down the dingy gray hallway of Rikers Island C-74 at 7:30 a.m., correctional officers (COs) are already stationed at their desks on the school floor while other staff are gathered in the poorly lit teachers’ lounge, putting their lunch in the large refrigerator as the TV plays a random, early morning news show. I pop my green tea into the microwave so I can have something warm and comforting to hold on to in hopes of easing my anxiety. I notice most teachers are carrying large, hideous “Department of Corrections” see-through plastic tote bags, which I later find out are mandatory for security purposes—to make visible any contraband that might sneak in and inadvertently wreak havoc, like
cell phones, matches, cigarettes, sharp objects, pocketknives, glass bottles, and aluminum cans.

  The microwave beeps. I grab my tea and head to the main office, which is across the hall from the teachers’ lounge, to clock in. I search for my name on the row of time cards hoisted on the wall. The teacher behind me introduces herself. “Good morning. I’m Ms. G.” She is a tall, thin, sassy fashionista with perfectly manicured sandy-brown dreadlocks pulled up into a perfectly coiffed chignon. She appears younger than she probably is and I wonder how she navigates the boys crushing on her.

  “I’m Liza Peterson,” I reply as I slide my time card into the clock, which punches 7:38 a.m. A lump forms in my stomach. Time cards. I am officially a time-card-punching worker bee, a common pedestrian. For any hardwired artist like myself, creativity and freedom is paramount. I have an aversion to time cards. I associate them with assembly line jobs, factory culture, and becoming so mechanical that creative expression is replaced with groupthink. The shit makes me anxious. I swear I can faintly hear the clink of a chain gang in my head. My breath gets shorter. This is going to be a major adjustment. I take a deep breath and tell myself, This is a blessing, girl. You were broke and now you’re able to pay your rent, and you’re even eligible for benefits. This is a blessing.

  There are only two more weeks left in June before summer break starts for all New York City public schools, and Phil, the principal here at Island Academy, the high school located on Rikers Island, asked if I could substitute for a teacher who couldn’t finish the semester due to a family emergency. The gig lands me back on my old stomping grounds. I first touched the Rock* back in 1998 when I taught poetry workshops over in the Six building (C-76), where most of the sentenced adolescent boys are housed and attend classes. What was supposed to be just a three-week teaching-artist gig turned into three years straight, and I became the unofficial poet in residence at Rikers. When I first started, I was a bright-eyed poet who had never been to prison for any reason, ever. Rikers Island became my introductory crash course about the prison industrial complex and, over a span of ten years, I evolved into a seasoned vet working with incarcerated teenagers. Barbed wire, correctional officers, and the sound of gates opening and slamming shut had become routine—familiar even. But the river of Black and Brown boys streaming up and down the hallways was unsettling and pricked at my spirit. With a daily inmate population of roughly 12,300 at any given time, approximately 800 of the prisoners at Rikers Island are sixteen-to eighteen-year-old kids; 746 boys and roughly 45 girls. The adolescents are housed separately from the adults until they turn nineteen, and even though they can’t legally buy alcohol until the age of twenty-one, in jail they’re considered old enough to be housed with the grown-ups. Rikers Island is its own altered reality, a sub-universe, an ugly island surrounded by dookey-brown stinky water. It’s a mammoth jail, one of the largest in the country. It’s where I planted seeds and grew roots. A lotus in the swamp.

  I’ve always enjoyed being an artist who teaches poetry and theater. It’s a really cool gig with flexible hours. I can prance from class to class and school to school and never feel stuck. I’m the rocking, cool poetry lady who comes into the class for one or two periods and wows the kids with my poetry mojo. I tap into their creative self-expression, inspire them to write, and get them hyped about poetry. My workshops are a break from their regular academic class schedule. I bring the magic and the fun. As a teaching artist, I’m in and I’m out, spending no more than an hour and a half, tops, sometimes just forty-five minutes, in each class. My poetry teaching artist swag is tight. I flow like honey and the kids gravitate to me like bees. I rock that shit.

  But today, the next day, and the next three weeks will be very different. I will be teaching incarcerated boys a pre-GED curriculum all day. From 7:50 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. I’ll be with the same group of boys in the same class teaching all subjects, all day. Jesus, take the wheel. Lord knows I don’t want to do this. I’m an artist! I love the freedom of making my own schedule and not being confined to any one place for any extended length of time, like being in a classroom all day—or worse, sitting in an office cubicle, a graveyard for dreams. But dammit, I need the money, and my artist coins aren’t consistent enough to support me on their own. I find myself frequently jumping from teaching-artist gig to teaching-artist gig like an urban frog on a concrete lily pad. And summers are always financially tight because there’s no school. No school generally means no teaching gigs. Summer school teaching-artist programs are scarce, and I have only one lined up, with just a couple of paid poetry performances sprinkled throughout the summer to help me eke through till September. It’s a constantly unpredictable hustle. Landing this temporary substitute teaching gig at Rikers was perfectly timed. The universe has thrown me a three-week money branch. I should count my blessings. Punch the clock, heifer.

  I was drifting when Ms. G brought me back: “Whose class are you covering today?”

  I’m not sure how she knows I’m a sub, probably because I’m a new face among the regulars who are greeting each other with familiarity. It takes me a second to remember. “Umm, I’m subbing for Ms. Morgan until the last day of classes.”

  Ms. G looks at me with pity. “Oh God, they put you with the goons. That’s a tough class. Good luck, girl!” My deer-in-the-headlights expression beckons her to continue. “Put your foot down right away, and if you have any problems, don’t hesitate to call a CO.” She smiles and tries to reassure me. “You’ll be fine, though.” Ms. G is Brooklyn-fly, talking to me with Gucci sunglasses perched on her petite cinnamon face. And her shoe game is tight. I know we’re going to be cool. Sometimes divas clash, sometimes they connect. We connect.

  I stand there trying to convince myself she is right, that I will be all right. Hell, I’ve worked with these kids before; I’ve been teaching poetry workshops here at Rikers for ten years. I have nothing to be afraid of. Ms. Barron was never afraid. She was a teacher I worked with back in 2002 when I taught an eight-week poetry workshop with her class. I remember watching her on this very same school floor wield her iron fist in a velvet glove.

  Ms. Barron had a way of nurturing the boys with tough love. She said things like, “I don’t care if you try to intimidate me, but there are certain things I won’t allow in my class! You might want to punch me in my face. I might want to choke your neck. But the bottom line is I care about you learning and getting an education. I want you to get to know who you are and learn to like yourself! I care enough to say no. It’s much easier for me to sit back and let you do what you want. But that’s not who I am. I’m consistent and persistent. And you will most certainly work hard and use your brain while you’re in my class. Believe that. If you can’t get with the BOE [Board of Education], then you’ll have to deal with the DOC [Department of Corrections], and I’m team BOE.”

  Ms. Barron would frequently bring the boys breakfast bars because they often came to class hungry, complaining they hadn’t eaten. Some mornings they’d have to wake up at four thirty for breakfast. Since most of them stayed in bed, the boys generally wound up missing morning chow. She knew it was impossible for them to focus and learn if their stomachs were growling and ribs were touching. “Make sure I get every wrapper back. If the officers find out I’m giving y’all snacks, I could get in trouble, and they’ll dead the snacks,” she’d say. They would gobble up the breakfast bars and diligently return the wrappers.

  I’d met Ms. Barron through a mutual friend and, after talking with her at length, I couldn’t wait to teach a series of poetry workshops with her class. She was the real deal. Her love for her students was palpable and, coupled with her passion and brutal honesty, it created a unique bond between her and her students. She constantly challenged them to think critically. She’d tongue-lash them when they were wrong and praise them when they were right. And, in a place where they were seen as criminals, dangerous minds, a booking case number, and a menace to society, she saw them as her sons.

  Ms. Barron taught at Rike
rs for over fifteen years and felt God put her there for a reason. Her son is incarcerated, serving a twenty-five-year-to-life sentence in a maximum security adult penitentiary. He was convicted when he was sixteen, the same age as many of her students. When she shared that information with her class, it got so quiet you could have heard a mouse piss on cotton. Heads just nodded, followed by a couple of “wows.” Losing her only son to prison when he was a teenager was the catalyst for her embarking upon a deeply personal journey to teach incarcerated adolescent boys, in an attempt to heal. It was a classic case of transference indeed, and yet every boy who came through Ms. Barron’s class was better off because of it. She was a stand-in mother; she stood in the maternal gap when their own mothers could not.

  Whenever some of her students would get on her bad side, their act was nothing short of self-sabotage, because they’d be denied the mother’s love they all craved and needed. Even though many of Ms. Barron’s students rebelled, they soon found themselves back at her door like hungry puppies, humble and apologetic, wanting her thug mama hug, which she always gave.

  Ms. Barron was genuine and real and, in spite of her going ballistic on her students at times, they knew she cared. Urban kids recognize real and pick up on phony instantly. They are masters of quickly reading and sizing people up—a skill they need to have in order to survive the streets. Ms. Barron left an indelible imprint on my teaching style, and thinking of her gave me a boost of confidence. If she could run a classroom without being afraid, why couldn’t I?

  I was trying to convince myself but couldn’t, because teaching in this capacity, as a full-time teacher, is still terrifying. It’s a far cry from a poetry workshop; this is the Marine Corps for teachers. Plus, I was going to be a substitute teacher, aka a “sub,” the lowest level on the teacher food chain. Even the kids know it. When I went to school the same was true… substitute teachers always got played and suckered, all day, every day.