Conroy: A Short Story

It was Wednesday, August 12th and I was just about to enjoy lunch with Sarah Lucas when I received a message on my phone, “PIPING PLOVER AT CONNEAUT.” Lunch was over - I quickly grabbed my Binoculars and my camera and I was off!!!

In America, everyone seems to have a different idea about what goes on behind the grey, dismal walls of prison. For many of us, the idea itself conjures images of coiled barbed wire fences, chains dragging across the ground, somber faces behind rusting bars and those bright orange jumpsuits. These visions come from a variety of sources-- movies we’ve seen, the stories that we’ve been told and our own imagination that is constantly at work. However, the reality of prison life in America can only come from those who have stepped foot inside. Through memoirs written by Danner Darcleight and Ted Conover, I’ve had to reconsider some of these previously held visions of prison life. While Conover writes about the abusive relationship between the correctional officers and the prisons, through Darcleight’s writing we see the rewarding powers of having social life and the hopeful possibility for anyone to attain redemption. The first chapter of Concrete Carnival, by Danner Darcleight, as well as Guarding Sing Sing by Ted Conover has led me to re-evaluate these previously held visions of prison life, including the relationship between guards and inmates, social systems, and redemption.

He was assigned to a dorm where about fifty teen-age boys slept in an open room, each with a plastic bucket to store his possessions in. “Their conversations bored me,” he told me. As far as he could tell, the other inmates were interested only in “crimes they committed and girls that they did.” When Browder asked a guard how inmates were supposed to get their clothes cleaned, he was told that they had to wash them themselves. He thought this was a joke until he noticed other inmates scrubbing their clothes by hand, using their bucket and jailhouse soap. After he did the same and hung his wet clothes on the rail of his bed, he wound up with brown rust stains on his white T-shirt, his socks, and his boxers. That day, he told himself, “I don’t know how I’m going to live in this

Conroy’s analysis of Northern Ireland is, in the simplest of terms, refreshing. Convoy’s attention to detail and analysis when describing Jimmy Barr’s dealing with the Housing Executive’s, when discussing the hunger strikes, and when discussing the plight of those who live in the Divis Flats all support the notion that Conroy has an understanding of Northern Ireland, even though he’s an outsider. John Conroy’s Belfast Diary is an example of how an outsider can provide a reliable analysis into the communal violence that has consumed Northern Ireland. I believe that Conroy’s outsider perspective, combined with his choice to immerse himself into the culture of Belfast allowed him to write a story that leaves out major biases, a story that

“Do you think.. we.. can find somewhere to stay?” Looking outside, it seemed like they were in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t even know what state they were in at this point.

The night air is warm in Maycomb, perhaps even welcoming one on a nightly stroll. Perhaps on any other day, I’d relish the air and the newspaper in my hands. Not tonight. Tonight, the humid and warm atmosphere tortures me; it drives me crazy. It adds to the already strenuous mood. Desperate for a distraction from the waiting, I focus my attention to the newspaper in my hands. Scanning for any interesting stories, I flip through the newspaper. Insults hurled toward me, words of anger tossed at Tom Robinson. Despite the foul things that were written, I could not find a place in my heart to hate these people. Each and everyone was a person I had known since my childhood, each knew me, yet they let their good judgement be blinded. I look back at the jailhouse, curious if the

“It’s all right, Rainsford. You needn’t cry any longer. You merely did what you needed to do.”

Jay awoke in a musty holding cell with orange light tricking through the rusting bars. His attention was captured by a pungent smell that wafted from the filth-covered basin in the dark shadowy corner. He lay eagle-spread and supine on the floor, as if he had been dragged roughly by his limbs and aggressively dumped. Clutching his head, he felt an amassing bruise and groaned. Being jailed was the last thing on his mind. It was like being a fish caught in a barrel. There was so much he needed to do and achieve, which had already been meticulously

‘”Yer goin’ in, Hemmings, the captain muttered. ‘The inmates wanna talk.’ ‘Its’ too late, ‘ he protested. Hawkins spat on the ground. ‘That don’t make no difference, Hemmings.’ Tom felt his brow sweating. ‘Then get some one else.’ Hawkins folded his arms. His face was now sulky – his eyes hard as ice. ‘The inmates are asking for you, Hemmings. You and you alone.’

On December 4th, 1966 in Pittsburg, New Hampshire, it was just another normal and quiet day. Arthur Raeburn had just locked the doors to his business’s building. He didn’t have any sort of transportation and had to use a public bus to get back home. It was late and cold, with nothing lighting up the sidewalk he was walking on except the moonlight, streetlights, and the headlights of passing cars. “Eight more days.” Arthur said. Arthur was well known in his town for seemingly always being positive, everywhere he went he would always leave a positive impression on people. However, Arthur was not happy, and he couldn’t figure out why. He could always make everyone else happy, but not himself. His plan was to leave his state on the 12th of the

“Hmm, sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” he replied rather vaguely.

“This area isn’t so bad. Do you see all the small shops in this plaza? The pharmacy, a grocery store, a clothing outlet, and a diner. All they need is a bank and they’ll have everything within arm’s reach.”

"This guy," Alistair said, digging a knuckle into the top of my head. "Is a mother effing genius! Got me my job, ya know? Taught me everythin ' I need to know, too."

“Your neck of the woods? I still live in Fayetteville and haven’t moved or left the planet.”

The sea is a being that can never be conquered it is its own ruler. Try as we may we can never become its friend. As humans it is in our nature to conquer what is facing us as the greater force. So what is to happen when a man finds himself stranded on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with nothing but the clothes on his back and a picture in his pocket? He conquered what no one before ever could he became friends with the ocean.