When I write guys in prison, I can picture their cells. I’ve seen plenty during cell-front visits over the years, my nose pressed to the wired glass as we talk. I’ve surveyed the space behind their shoulders for years. Some homies have actually drawn their simple cinderblock homes for me: where they sit, where they shit and sleep, where they’ve pinned up the photo I sent to them, the one of us fishing here on the Skagit River before they got arrested again. We write long, old-fashioned letters to stay in touch, fold them into envelopes and open them in our separate solitudes.
So I can’t help but be aware of your spaces as I write to you both—where you’ll read these words—in opposite corners of the country.
Your house we know all too well, Murph. There’s no other friend in my life who’s mailing address I know like my own: 1868 N 1st Ave Upland CA 91784. I could give a virtual tour of your childhood bedroom where friends like me squeeze into your old twin bed at 3am, too tipsy to drive. Next door is the little office you’re probably in now, the former junk room confiscated from your mother a few years back when you began your PhD. I remember the late December evening we both sat on the floor in there, confessing to each other that we’d started writing some stuff on our own, for fun, and that, well, maybe we could read it to each other.
Like I said, we know your space well.
Less often do we see your pad, Wuck: the high-ceilinged, tightly-arranged apartment in Brooklyn. It was good for me to crash there again last fall on my way through NYC, to see where you write those songs, where you watch the Dodger game, where you’re reading those many novels and building your epic bookcases for them.
Both of you, I think, have poked your heads in here too—my converted mudroom study—during your brief visits to the Northwest. I turn in my chair now and see it differently, as if through your four eyes.
You’d both zero in on the large photo of all of us, I think, stretched onto a framed canvas and newly hung above one of the two doors. You know the one: the thirteen of us arranged in a tableau unmistakably like Da Vinci’s Last Supper, the restaurant otherwise empty. I didn’t get it at the moment, unwrapping it this past December, but it now makes sense that I was the one to receive a printed canvas of it during our most recent Guy Night: I’m the religious guy.
As I welcome your eyes in here another minute, I next see how many icons I have on my walls: crude and ancient art of the early Christian movement, later renditions of the saints in earthen tones, Lazarus unwrapped by friends at the open tomb, Christ’s hands forever extending toward others. I have these taped to my walls between art sent to me from those lockdown cells: pencil-shaded murals of guns and meth, prison bars and suicide, sad and happy harlequin masks, a baby daughter with a bow on her head. There’s also Chagall’s surreal painting of the angel interrupting Abraham’s knife above his son Isaac, Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son, photos of homies I’ve loved—some holding up fresh-caught salmon, some holding up gang signs, some laying hands of prayer on another homie at his wedding, everyone in collars and ties or Dickies plaid. And now there’s a blossoming patch of family photos—Rachel and little Abram smiling back at me—here behind my banker’s lamp, between scribbled quotes from my favorite monks. These photos and drawings are all memory aids, like the Orthodox icons. They remind me of the stories that brought me this far.
Volunteering at a jail up here after my lonesome years at Berkeley, I found myself not just praying with guys in small visitation cells, but laughing together, sharing stories late into the night, just two or three of us. When they were sentenced and shipped off to far-flung correctional hells, they held onto my address. Through those letters, I got to know these gang members and drug dealers more deeply than most of my friends from childhood, high school, or college. I wasn’t trying to become a minister. It’s just where I found a richer communion.
But—and this is part of a longer story I haven’t yet told either of you—things have changed in my work. The last couple years have been terrible. I’ve gotten hurt. As dearly as I love so many of them, I can’t keep making the charming and traumatized guys cycling in or out of prison my closest and only circle of friends. I just can’t.
I turn in my chair again and look at this Last Supper some more: my hometown buddies I see maybe once a year, a fraternity as secular as they come. I realize I’ve experienced a communion among you guys longer than I have with any church I’ve belonged to, longer than any ministry organization or chaplaincy post or prison to which I’ve given years of my life. It’s significant. But when I fly south during Christmastime for Guy Night, or when we chat throughout the year on The Dodger Thread, I sometimes feel like a flat background character in an ensemble sitcom, just making my expected appearance and laughing along until next time. As we get older, I realize I crave something more: a conversation large enough to hold who we’ve become and long enough to embrace our separate stories as they unfold in the present. That’ll never happen in a text thread or at our once-a-year Guy Night rumpus.
So, Wuck, when you texted just me and Murph a couple days ago with this out-of-nowhere proposal—”wanna write letters?” you asked—I found myself typing this to you both before even texting my reply.
So, yeah: I do want to write letters. I’m not entirely clear why you want to, but I thought I’d get us started by sharing—or realizing, even as I type—why I’m in.
What might happen here—in this shared space, in this closed document—where two or three are <quote-01>gathered?<quote-01>