English Original
I was conducting a guest writing workshop at Susanville State Prison in northern California. Most inmates were there for drug-related offenses, housed in crowded dormitories with no privacy. I was apprehensive; unlike other prisons with cells, this environment seemed unconducive to writing.
I decided on a two-day monologue workshop, hoping writing and performance could restore a sense of identity stripped away by prison life. Twenty men signed up—my maximum. I spent the first hour speaking about the joy and freedom of writing, how it allows individuality in a place that enforces uniformity.
The men listened intently and worked hard. However, one young, handsome blond man worried me. He was reluctant to share, constantly erasing and restarting his work, shielding his paper when I approached. "It would be easier for me if you didn't," he'd say with a shy smile.
His need for privacy concerned me. Having worked in prisons for years, I recognized the deep-seated lack of self-confidence many inmates carry from childhood abuse. He took his writing back to his dormitory that night, unlike others who left theirs behind. He knew I'd be tempted to read it.
On the second day, for recording, he returned with combed hair and a pressed shirt. He watched quietly as others performed monologues from the perspectives of figures like God or Martin Luther King Jr.
When he was the last one left, he hesitated. Encouraged by his peers, he finally stood before the camera, his hands shaking. He began:
"My name is Bruce. I am twenty-one years old and I am dead... I died because I didn't care... I would kill for my next fix."
He described a childhood of poverty, alcoholic parents, beatings, hunger, and foster homes. As he read, he showed scars—cigarette burns from his father, cuts on his wrists from suicide attempts. Tears filled my eyes.
Then he reached his conclusion:
"I have risen again... I am reborn. One day a woman came in and told me to write... I wrote out my ugly life, and finally felt pity for myself... and joy. I was a writer! This..." he held up his manuscript, "is more important than any drug. I died a drug addict and was reborn a writer."
We were stunned into silence, then erupted into applause. He took my hands—a rule violation I allowed. "You have given me something no drug ever has," he said. "My self-respect."
I often think of him. I pray he continues to find respect through the written word. That day, in that room, a writer was born. A lost soul had come home—to words.
中文翻译
我在加利福尼亚北部的苏珊维尔州立监狱主持一场客座写作研讨会。大多数囚犯因涉毒犯罪入狱，住在拥挤的宿舍里，毫无隐私。我感到担忧；这里不像其他有牢房的监狱，这种环境似乎不利于写作。
我决定举办一个为期两天的独白研讨会，希望写作和表演能重塑被监狱生活剥夺的自我认同感。二十名囚犯报名——这是我的上限。第一小时，我讲述了写作的快乐与自由，以及它如何在强求一致的地方允许个性存在。
囚犯们听得很认真，也很努力。然而，一位年轻英俊的金发男子让我担心。他不愿分享，不断擦除重写，我一靠近就用胳膊遮住稿纸。“如果您不看，我会更自在些，”他会带着羞涩的微笑说。
他对隐私的需求令我担忧。在监狱工作多年，我深知许多囚犯因童年受虐而深植内心的不自信。那晚，他把稿子带回了宿舍，不像其他人那样留在桌上。他知道我会忍不住去看。
第二天是录制日，他梳好头发，熨好衬衫回来了。他安静地看着其他人表演，他们的独白以上帝、亚伯拉罕·林肯或马丁·路德·金等视角展开。
当只剩下他时，他犹豫了。在同伴的鼓励下，他终于站到摄像机前，双手颤抖。他开始了：
“我叫布鲁斯。我二十一岁，我已经死了……我的死是因为我不在乎……为了下一次吸毒，我会杀人。”
他描述了一个充满贫困、酗酒的父母、殴打、饥饿和辗转于寄养家庭的童年。他一边读，一边展示身上的伤疤——父亲烫的烟头印、试图自杀时在手腕上留下的割痕。我的眼里充满了泪水。
接着，他道出了结尾：
“我再次复活了……我重生了。有一天，一位女士进来让我写作……我写下了我丑陋的人生，终于为自己感到了怜悯……还有喜悦。我是一名作家！这个……”他举起手稿，“比任何毒品都重要。我死时是个瘾君子，重生为一名作家。”
我们震惊得沉默，随后爆发出掌声。他握住我的手——我允许了这次违规。“您给了我任何毒品从未给过的东西，”他说，“我的自尊。”
我时常想起他。我祈祷他继续通过文字找到尊重。那天，在那个房间里，一位作家诞生了。一个迷失的灵魂回家了——回到了文字之中。