The who, behind those words is still a blur to me almost 40 yrs later. The impact of those words on my young mind proved strong during the many tumultuous moments of my life. It is always something that I read, or remember reading, that helps me to overcome obstacles and survive the storms I encounter in life.
I heard those words in 1991 as a juvenile in New Haven County Jail pretending to be an adult; literally. I had been arrested, again, after being released from Manson Youth Institution in Cheshire, CT, a few weeks prior. This time the charge was robbery in the 1st degree; I had violated CT General statute 53a-134. I was 16 years old, and I was a fugitive.
I laid handcuffed in a hospital bed, with my gauze wrapped head, my right leg suspended in the air, a 10” metal screw protruding from each side of my left knee, placed there for the sole purpose of connecting my leg to the contraction which kept it suspended in the air. My hip socket was broken and my hip bone needed to be pulled out so the socket could heal. Every time an officer would walk in my hospital room I waited to be addressed by my name. But, they never did.
There I was sitting in the block with the old timers. Maybe my fractured hip and, (thanks to the hospital), my bum knee made me fit in with them as it prevented me from wreaking the kind of havoc my peers in the youth block did. There were several fights up there daily. I would sit and stare at the TV in the day room. I didn’t watch TV. It just gave me a place to play out the chaotic and tragic scenes from my young life. I was in another bad situation. The TV in the small day room was mounted on the concrete wall up near the concrete ceiling. I’d have to strain my neck looking up to see it. Anyone walking by would do a double take when they saw me in that dayroom. I was 135 pounds and 5’ 5” tall.
I didn’t belong there. I felt it, sensed it, knew it. I couldn’t stand the noise and smell of the dayroom. I was getting blasted with too many questions. The dayroom was making me hot and nauseous. I would stand in the dayroom just ignoring it all, while staring off and feeling overcome by deep sadness and bitter rage. I only went into the dayroom to get my meals, and it was right back to my cell. It was better for me. I’d do push ups and reflect on the recurring scenes in my mind. I was like a sports coach, constantly examining the losing game tape. I was closely analyzing everything that went wrong in my life and seeing where all the key plays were blown and key players missing.
This is the moment when I started hearing… “READ! I DON’T CARE WHAT… READ SOMETHING! Every night, during lock-in those words were shouted out on the tier. The guy who did the shouting would annoy the majority of the tier. He’d sound as if he had a bull horn and he’d repeat that phrase about 3 times. He’d receive the occasional onslaught of verbal abuse and an occasional, “slide me one.” I never responded to the annoying admonishment, instead I was highly entertained by the response that he’d get. The whole tier would erupt as soon as he started. I’d lay listening in the dark sometimes laughing. Still, I felt like he was speaking to me, warning me, letting me know that reading would liberate my mind from this never ending horror movie revolving around and around in my head. These days, whenever I pick up a book or the subject of reading comes up, I hear his voice, hear his admonishment: "Read! I Don't Care What You Read! Read Something!”
And so believe me, brothers and sisters, freedom truly does begin with a book. Yeah, it sure does.