Fill it
I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields
Reflection, you may come tomorrow,
Sit by the fireside with sorrow.
You with the unpaid bill, Despair
You, tiresome verser-reciter, Care
I will pay you in the grave. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, 17921822
These words by the late English poet make a compelling case for the urgency of my reflection upon my personal history. Death by execution limits the reach of my tomorrows; therefore, I feel the need to plough the fields of my memories today. Fifty years: the swiftness of their passage, as well as my searing recollections of them, astound and rend me.
Let me share some pivotal events from my past with you.
My family moved out of Chicago's urban sprawl when I was six years old. We were among the few who settled in the suburb of Markham, Illinois, 40 kilometres south of the city. We had not been there long before it became clear to me that I was the only child in the area. I had no friends for a long time.
I chose my playmates from the ranks of the local chickens, hogs, horses and stray cats. I also included among my friends foxes, birds, turtles and snakes. (I have always had a healthy respect for wild creatures and their habitats but I was too curious and lonely to be fearful of most.) I have had serious conversations with animals that even the fictional Dr Doolittle would envy.
At age seven I started my schooling (two years later than most) at Lowell Longfellow School in Harvey, Illinois, a suburb situated on the northeastern border of Markham.
My first day in school was an utter disaster. I was severely beaten and then kicked out. Mr Fry, the principal, told my parents that I had started the trouble — which was not true. I was the hapless victim of a violent schoolyard mob. (I describe the scene in vivid detail in Growing Down, my autobiographical work-in-progress.)
For the sake of space I will make a long story short: I was the only African-American in the entire student body; I had never been in the presence of Caucasian children; and I had never heard the "n" word before. In this day's retrospection, all of these events have come rushing painfully back to me.
Fast forward ...
Looking back, I see that one of my life's greatest longings during that very vulnerable time was for a friend. A child without a near or distant friend is lacking a key component of his or her emotional development. Prolonged absence of childhood friendship creates an ineffable emptiness that carries over into adulthood, often in very negative ways. Some recover from it, but others do not.
Be sure that your children are in an environment that offers them the opportunity to make friends.
Sometimes bad things that happen in overt ways leave subtle wounds in our psyche that we do not even know we have. Then one day another event will touch us and, in equally subtle ways, heal those wounds, and we consciously or unconsciously move on. Today, I am sharing my healing and moving on with you.
Two years ago, a correspondence began between Ian and John Hopkins and myself. The Hopkins brothers are now six and eight years old, respectively. They live with their parents in Manchester, England.
Our correspondence has progressed from communicating with stick-figures, to letters using printed words, on to cursive writings and various artistic sharings. It is a real pleasure for me to witness the communication skills of these boys developing so rapidly and to be instrumental in their growing talents.
Recently, I sent a box of pastel chalks to John, and a set of coloured pencils to Ian. They are creating extraordinary artworks with them. The bird shown here is John's chalk rendering of the North American falcon, more commonly known as the kestrel (falco sparverius).
I think that most readers will agree that it is very well done. It is ironic that a seven-year-old boy who lives in England is teaching me things about an American bird of prey — as well as about life in general — that I did not know.
I have come to understand that John and Ian are — for me — the friends I sought in childhood but could not find on that terror-filled first day in school. They are unwittingly filling an emptiness that hate, ignorance and bigotry created fifty years ago.
Alas, I suspect that a number of readers may question whether these interactions actually have sufficient power to facilitate the healing of which I write. They will say that it is too little, too late, because, considering my circumstances here on death row, it may seem too late for me to make meaningful life adjustments.
To those who, like me, recognize that there is much emptiness to be found within and around us, I must say this: I know from personal experience that it is never too late for anyone to fill it.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns (include your name and full return address on the envelope, or prison authorities may refuse to deliver it). He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-63, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA, or e-mail <BrandonAstorJones@hotmail.com>. Visit the author's web site at .]
BY BRANDON ASTOR JONES