Looking back

The Commissioner of Prisons was waiting for me. When I drove the good old Hillman Minx up to the gigantic green gate on Frederick Street, an officer looking through a little opening in the tall cream wall asked me to identify myself. I did as he requested.

“You are right on time. The Commissioner is upstairs. When the gate is opened drive in slowly. I will close behind you,” the officer explained. It was opened and I drove in. There, in front of me, was another enormous gate. The one behind was closed and just as I was beginning to wonder how long I have to remain with a gate in front and a gate behind and walls on both sides, the front gate was opened.

Now I was in the Royal Jail. There was this huge quadrangle with cells allround but I did not have any time to survey the scene as another prison officer showed me where to park and escorted me up a stairway to the Commissioner’s office.

“I was so glad when you told me that you would undertake the job. Those fellas would benefit a lot from what you have to offer. I got the idea when I read about the drama course you were conducting for teachers in Toco”, said the Commissioner shaking my hand enthusiastically.

The year was 1966. The Commissioner had just returned from a course he had taken in England dealing with the rehabilitation of young offenders and was eager to keep the young men busily occupied — learning a trade, taking the academic subjects and participating in sports and cultural activities.

Before I left his office, he said, “Just remember they are not Secondary school students or teachers. You may not find it that easy.” I assured him that they would love the activities I had planned and I firmly believe that in everybody there dwells a secret actor.

Putting on my thinking-cap, I devised a curriculum especially for them. Those guys would not be interested in phonetics, vowels, consonants, history of drama or reading plays. My area of concentration would be play-making, improvisation, mime, movement, story telling and dramatisation. All my exercises would be for males — no man playing woman. Also sound moral principles would be the undercurrent of all my drama activities. Every Tuesday for fourteen weeks I travelled from the Division of Culture based at the National Museum, corner of Frederick Street and Keate Street to the Youth Training Centre on Golden Grove Road in Arouca — 17 miles away.

At first, the participants, about twenty of them, were as serious as the magistrates who had sentenced them to the YTC. They did not wear their prison clothes for the classes but wore white flour bag shirts and short pants. It was tough getting them to relax and smile but very soon they became comfortable in the workshops.

They expressed themselves with tremendous passion. In an improvisional exercise, I particularly remember one topic called “In the Cinema” where some of the characters ‘stormed’ to get in and there was this young man climbing along the side wall on the meshed wire like Spiderman. It was truly realistic.

In the dramatisation of stories, they did this one to perfection. There were two very competitive athletes. The one from Sparta always defeated the other in every race. A statue of the Spartan was erected in the city centre and the other athlete was filled with hellish envy. Every night, he worked feverishly, chipping away at the base of the statue until it was detached from its pedestal. He smiled happily, knowing the forces of nature would do the rest. But, unexpectedly, the strong powerful ocean wind came and blew the statue down. It fell, crushing him to death.

“Matron, I have a request to make. I’ll be thankful if I can conduct my classes without an armed guard in the room,” I asked her after the fourth or fifth session. I felt the boys would be less inhibited if they were left unguarded. “No way, Mr Kissoon,” she replied immediately. “First of all, it is against prison regulations. All visiting teachers must have a guard in the room and secondly, you don’t really know these young men.”

She went on to remind me that they had committed crimes. One of them had participated in a murder, two or three of them were there for rape, some for larceny, robbery with violence, many for house-breaking and other offences. “As a matter of fact, the one who was climbing on the wire was really playing himself. He broke into a house by entering from the roof,” she mentioned.

Once a teller in the bank was robbed for the third time by the same crook. The policeman asked her if she was absolutely certain, it was the same man. She replied, “Sure, sure, sure! The first time he had on an oldish T-shirt and jeans. The second time, he wore a shirt, dress pants and tie. This time the gun was in his briefcase and he was wearing a suit.”