FOREWARD
A black and white graphite sketch still rests propped against my front classroom wall. I put it there in late spring of 1987, the May that Jimmy Keihl gave it to me, the May that he graduated. The artwork he made is a composite of objects from my classroom. Jimmy depicted typical things, really: student desks, some books, a podium, a blackboard, and a teacher---me---demanding, "Define literature" from a cartoon bubble coming from my mouth.
I remember Jimmys class, the class of 87. I felt especially close to that group of students. As their English teacher, I taught them about Emily Dickinson and Christopher Marlowe, about commas and semi-colons. I taught them the definition of literature that my own college professor had taught me (hence the caption in Jimmys sketch). I remember that we laughed a lot together, too.
Now a dozen years have passed, and Jimmy Keihl is in prison, serving a life sentence for murder.
Perhaps I should have taught about passion and frustration, about opportunity and alternatives.
Just this very morning, one of my seniors presented a quotation of her choice to the class. Unwittingly, she placed it right under Jimmys collage. Her quotation reads: "It is a most mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done, compared to what he might have done [Samuel Johnson]." Perhaps I should have taught that. Where does one learn such truths anyway? Whos responsible for those lessons? There are, after all, some lessons that must be learned.
What a tragedy happened that one evening between Jimmy Keihls graduation day and this very day--a tragedy for the young man who was killed and a tragedy for Jimmy Keihl. I cant even begin to imagine the pain that both of their families endure.
This poetry collection, this bit of literature, is Jimmy Keihls view of life as it is for him today in his prison cell.
Frances Barber February 16, 1999
The Two Prison Guards
Each time I wake, they look me in the eye. They are cold, as is the stare they possess. They do my time with me, but do not care. Interesting qualities do they retain: arrogance, consistency. Had they voices, the stories they could relate! Yet they are too preoccupied for idle chat. They must keep their wits about them, for invincible they are not. But when they do speak, they keep the conversations short. When the frequently-asked question is put to them the answer is usually no. Some might inquire, what question is that? To answer that, one must first be confined to this place. They unite to be my dungeon. Though cracks and dents are their adversary, they do not falter. Strong, fierce, capable are they. Sleep is not among their vocabulary. They know not names, merely numbers. And those shall be forgotten. For they serve more time than man himself. Confide in them your secrets, and also any problems. They are trustworthy and attentive, though they offer no solutions. A day shall come when they will stare at me no more.
But they will not weep nor fret, for another shall occupy my space. But until that day, they will always be there at my side. Sometimes even making me feel safe and secure. When I desire solitude, they provide it. When I need correction, they administer it. When I require shelter, they become it. By now you may know them...concrete, steel.
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