Two Books I Spent My Summer Reading

The Violent Bear It Away was one of only two novels published by Flannery O'Connor in her lifetime. The other, Wiseblood, is perhaps more widely read, but I came to The Violent by way of her short story "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," which we read in the book club I attend. When our conversation turned to unlikeable characters, I mused about whether an effective book-length narrative could be sustained using such odious personalities. The club facilitator responded, "That's so interesting, Byron, because O'Connor actually wrote a short story that became a sort of early version of a novel she published many years later."

We soon read both that story (entitled "The Lame Shall Enter First") and the novel that grew out of it. Three O'Connor works in three months—this was how I had my first experience with her, an author I avoided for such a long time, assuming that her being a Southern woman writing before the Civil Rights Era had to mean she was a prim, mannerly beldam who wrote about sippin' mint juleps on the veranda while Aunt Tillie shelled peas. Boring, in other words. But boring she was not.

"Is that the one about the woman with the prosthetic leg?" one friend asked. "That was brutal." Anyone who's ever read O'Connor's fiction seems to have the same opinion, that she wrote incendiary prose about people whose very souls flamed, often violently. "Brutal" is certainly not the worst word you could use.

In The Violent Bear It Away, two men vie over the soul of their teenage relative who wants no truck with either of them but finds his future inextricably bound up with that of his mentally disabled cousin, a boy whose soul he feels compelled to save by bringing him to God. Things, it's safe to say, do not go according to plan for anyone involved. The most interesting thing here is that everything that happens here happens behind, between, and beneath what happens here.

Lacking in anything resembling plot or characterization is David Markson's The Last Novel, the other book I read, which felt like a major change of pace after all that Southern Gothic psychodrama. Regular readers of this blog might remember, a few months ago, when I mentioned another couple of Markson books, This Is Not a Novel and Vanishing Point. The Last Novel is a third title cast in the same mold—his final literary breath before dying, back in 2003.

The Last Novel has the same textual qualities as its predecessors. It's a work of literary collage, pieced together from the author's note cards. As such, it offers scads of fascinating tidbits.

Chekhov died in Germany, and when his casket arrived in Moscow, by freight car, the crate containing it was labeled, "Oysters."

Voltaire wrote that the first priest was the first rogue to cross paths with the first fool.

William Carlos Williams called Emily Dickinson "a real good guy."

And so on.

I don't know how much novel there was to be found here, or in either of the other Markson books I've read, but at least The Last Novel kept me engaged, compelling me along with its tireless references and unexpected humor.

Next season, I anticipate turning to Buddhist literature and rereading a specific Camus novel. Because intention guides me. Because I prize meaning. Because I'm a guy who knows how to have a good time.

"Do You" Was the Challenge Issued

We hold monthly peer-review meetings at my work—which may not be the kind of thing you expect from a prison job. Sweeping rat droppings out of kitchen kettles? Sure. Stuffing bagged undergarments into an industrial washing machine? Yeah, that too. But engaging in a closed-door, round-table critique of coworkers' on-the-job performance? Let's just say that my coworkers and I pride ourselves on not fitting the penitentiary mold.

Every third Wednesday, our eight-man team coordinates to buy ingredients for an agreed-on recipe, which one of us cooks. The meals have been good: angel hair pasta with Alfredo sauce, chicken bacon ranch burritos, pizza bagels.... Usually, someone also makes fudge. We set up a couple of folding tables in our studio, sit down to a shared meal, and get down to business.

The review consists of two elements, applause and a challenge. Each of us takes a turn, giving everyone else a compliment on some aspect of their job performance that month and providing a concrete and measurable way that each peer might try to grow or expand their skill set. The process is meant to foster camaraderie, accountability, and empathy. To some degree, it even works.

When a coworker at our August meeting challenged me to "do you," I didn't at first understand. His applause had been for my displays of authenticity, loyalty, and meaningful criticism. Then he added, "You're always doing so much for everybody else. Take some time and do something that's just for yourself. Take a couple days off, do some reading, watch you a series on TV.... Whatever it is, just make sure it's something only Byron benefits from."

An instruction to be selfish ignores the satisfaction I get by doing things that benefit others. At this point in my life, "doing me" means doing for the community, which I find far more enduring than anything done solely for ego fulfillment. And it's not as if I live like some saintly ascetic. I am far from selfless. Last weekend I binged the entire first season of the post-apocalyptic videogame adaptation "Fallout." Yesterday I finished a Flannery O'Connor novel. Between those two events, I single-handedly scarfed an eleven-serving bag of corn chips in one sitting. The number of things I do purely for myself feels sufficient. And isn't contentedness the yardstick by which "enough" should be measured?

I certainly wasn't going to argue with my well-intentioned coworker. He sees me holding doors for people, giving my time, and tolerating endless incivility and imbecility, so of course he assumes that people walk all over me. Not so! If anything, I feel widely respected and well liked. There are shitheads everywhere; prison's no exception. But overall, my daily interactions are decidedly more positive than negative.

They're not just more, either. They're also greater. I get smiles, waves, fist bumps, handshakes, back pats, and even the occasional hug from the other residents of this institution. That's worth so much to me—way more than a few hours of zany TV, time with a good book, or bites from a bag of salty snacks.

I'd say my challenge was complete before it was even given to me.

A Hard Talk About a Delicate Matter

The Brother to Brother peer mentorship program was something I didn't seek out so much as fall into. The wing that I live in became the designated mentor wing, and the staff and prisoners spearheading the project recommended that I stick around to take part. At least I didn't have to move out, the way that a lot of other people were made to do.

Compared to mentors who don't have twelve-hour-a-day jobs, my involvement in the program is minimal. I don't teach classes, I don't write curriculum, and I don't go around shaking every mentee's hand in gleeful welcome to the program. In fact, there have been a couple of occasions when mentees—people with no previous prison experience—were surprised to learn that I'm a mentor at all. I don't make a big thing of it. My approach is less performative than conversational. I prefer one-on-ones.

A few weeks ago, a transgender person moved into the wing. They're on the autism spectrum, small of stature, somewhat naïve, and utterly lacking the street smarts that help keep people safe in prison. This being their first imprisonment, they were offered an opportunity to skip the nightmare of general population by going through a six-month period as a mentee.

"You guys saved his life," one of my acquaintances said after seeing me talk with them. "Like, for real."

He was joking, but he might also be right. As for his misgendering of the person, that can be forgiven because they generally present as male and haven't yet fully come out as trans. Only a few of us have been told, and we've been asked not to say anything.

Partly because of their enthusiasm for model trains, Dungeons & Dragons–playing nerddom; partly because of their neurodivergence; and partly because of their intent to get involved in every positive activity possible, I've developed a connection with the new mentee. We talk about model trains. We discuss prison nonsense. We share experiences from our respective lives as weirdos.

One day last week, I became concerned. They told me that a lawyer was handling their name change and that, once that legal procedure was finalized, they wanted a reintroduction to everyone—a celebration of officially beginning their life as a woman. Decades of experience have taught me that this would likely become a fraught circumstance. I couldn't hold my peace.

"I'm all for living as what you feel is your true self," I said, "but as hard as that can be in the 'real' world, it's going to be even harder in prison."

"But I like women," they said, matter-of-factly.

Delicacy is for neurotypicals, I reminded myself and took my verbal filter offline. "That's irrelevant. A lot of people are here because they don't care about the desires or needs of others. If they want something, they're going to try and take it. It's no different here than outside of prison. If you live outwardly as a woman here, they're going to see you as exactly that, which to them means you belong with a man. They think of themselves as men. You understand how that could play out, right?"

"Yes," they said, "but I fight dirty. Eyes, throat, groin. I'm little and I'm not strong, so I'll do everything I can to protect myself."

Was this bravery or foolishness? The two are so often indistinguishable. I went on.

"That's fine for when you're already in a bad situation. What I'm talking about is conflict avoidance. I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, but I want you to be informed about the potential results of your decision."

I told them about my entry to prison as a young man, how my first hours, days, weeks, and even months were terrorized by would-be abusers and rapists. I told them about everything I had to do to avoid assaults and exploitations. I explained how, throughout it all, my adversaries never took my preferences into account, then I posed the big question.

"Are you so uncomfortable with presenting as male that you're willing to risk being physically, sexually, or psychologically traumatized by being honest about your gender? Don't tell me your answer. You only need to answer that question yourself. And please take your time deciding."

This issue will probably come up again. In all likelihood, I already know what their answer's going to be. I feel almost ridiculous for having asked it, but I see the matter as one of informed consent. Before I posed the issue, no one—not even the prison's mental health staff—had framed the situation quite like this. At least now they know what potentialities could lie ahead.

I've done my part for the moment. Only one thing right now is certain: I don't envy them.