2 community life.
The sun bid farewell, the light in the window surrounding the slits marked the beginning of a new morning for the correctional facility. A man, perhaps six feet tall or a bit more, one eye injured from an old brawl, with grayish hair accentuating the little that remained on his head, gave a grumpy look around the room. The bright white lights flickered on in strong and deafening white—factory lights, thought Billy, as he tried to turn around to cover himself with the blanket.
-Well, you have thirty minutes to get ready. The dining hall will open, and those who are late will miss breakfast. I hope everyone is ready and lined up by the time I return, lazybones, - said the man with a deep voice.
Walking down the corridor, he pulled back the old gray curtains, which seemed to be full of dust, although they weren't.
Billy got up; luckily, the bathrooms were separate stalls. The water was cold, almost freezing. Although winter was in season, the warm Los Angeles climate was famous, and the winter wasn't unbearable. The shouts and commotion from the showers echoed in cheerful conversations. The guard forced them to enter in groups of 10 at most; the surveillance visual was strong.
A quick five-minute shower, a long song—Billy sang for a while in a low voice and could only remember a few songs from his memory. He knew little about music, but he kept some songs from his favorite artists in his heart. In his time, Coldplay had some big hits, Ed Sheeran, and some classical music ballads that he played during critical moments of artistic inspiration on the balcony of his small apartment from his old life.
Other great classics that were always present were the powerful British bands from the 60s that flooded radios, stadiums, and homes. The iconic Beatles, the grandiose Queen, the powerful Rolling Stones, The Smiths, Pink Floyd, and Radiohead. There are some bands scattered around the world, but nothing like the English, who appreciate good lyrics and proposed rhythms that make up the entire melody.
It is said that the cultural importance the British give to their music is deeply rooted, and valued with numerous music schools, festivals, and an environment that can be decisive for emerging artists. They often reflect their cultural identity as a country, addressing relevant issues about politics and society that establish an emotional connection with listeners. The dynamic environment is indeed a cradle of culture for musicians, and even those who nourish themselves in that environment end up developing a healthy critique of their music.
However, the United States doesn't lag, especially New York and California, exceptional places and the birthplace of some quite relevant groups in the history of music in people's memories. Like the smooth Red Hot Chili Peppers, the great Guns N' Roses, the harmonic Eagles, Metallica, and the unforgettable Nirvana.
The dark blue full-body suit saw some young guys who only wore pants, and the top hung at their waists. The large dining hall had long rows of tables with benches attached to the tables.
Breakfast consisted of standard milk cartons, fruits such as apples, oranges, and pears, bread, and cookies—the typical American breakfast. Billy observed a couple of guys heading towards his table, just like in a prison movie. They sat in front of his spot, eager to exchange words and share news about the newcomer.
-How's it going, buddy? - said a short white boy around 13 years old, looking somewhat small.
-This is Benson, Andrew, and yours truly, Silk Hand, - the boy introduced.
Billy thought the kid was trying to seem cool, so he let it slide. After all, he was on high alert.
-Billy Carson, - he said while biting into his whole wheat bread. Although he had a more mature mental age, for some reason, his mature focus lost all context in his body. He felt more inexperienced and found it difficult to manage his emotions.
-Oh, so Billy, why did they send you to the juvenile correctional facility? It's so far from the city; I guess you're a pretty strict young man, - said Silk Hand.
-Property damage, skipping school for five months, and insulting a cop. Ended up spitting in his face when he grabbed my arms, -- Billy explained, almost as if the juvenile judge would determine the case. -- And what brings you all to the prison? - he asked the others.
-Oh, me, for stealing wallets on buses, - said Silk Hand, dismissing the severity.
-Benson and Andrew are cousins. They burned their neighbor's car over some dispute, - the boy added.
-I see, and what's your name? I don't think your father gave you a nickname as your real name, - Billy said.
-Silk Hand, but Austin works too, - the young boy said with a radiant smile.
-I see! I prefer to use Austin, - said Billy.
-Look, we're a group of three, the whites in the area. Sometimes the Latino gang has power; they're all Mexicans. But don't forget in this neighborhood, the ones who rule are the African Americans. They come from everywhere and are the most dangerous. No one wants to cross them, - Austin explained.
-There's East High, all from the same school and the most dangerous. It's not for nothing it's called the most dangerous neighborhood in California. Some are guilty of stabbing and more serious crimes. Then there are the African Americans, who are also part of East High, a large group. They tend to mess with the newcomers, - Austin continued.
-I understand, - said Billy.
-Counting me and these two, there's Scott and the twins, Thomas. We're a small gang in the correctional facility, but we have some space in the group. You know, if you follow the group, we'll protect you from the gang beatings. Some open your locker and steal everything you have. I can prevent that, - Austin offered.
-I'll think about it. Are those over there the Latino gang? - Billy asked.
-Yep. -
-And those are the East High gang? -
-Yes, - Austin replied.
-Alright, we'll talk later. I have to go to the director's office to get a feel for things, my friend, - said Billy, heading towards one of the correctional officers who was chatting with the cook or an assistant—his white apron and mesh on his head gave it away, but in bad times, you have to move quickly.
-Good morning, sir. I'd like to see the coordinator coordinate my extracurricular activities and weekly sessions with the psychological council, - Billy said, putting on his best face.
-You're the new one, the one with issues with public authority. Come with me. I'll take you to the coordinator, - said the security guard.
He nodded. - See you later, brother. - he said quickly as he opened the emergency door, heading towards the exit, towards the director, psychologist, and administrator of the correctional facility.
The journey was uncomfortable, with a grumpy guard and a man who postponed his life like that of a youth with a music system.
-Is this real? - Billy whispered to himself, as if in prayer.
-You'll have to get used to life in the correctional facility, son. A few opportunities lie ahead of you. Don't cause trouble, and be respectful to all guards. If you have any problems, don't hesitate to come and ask. - said the guard.
-Yes, sir. I'll try to follow the rules. - said Billy.
-Don't try, just follow them, kid. - grunted the grumpy guard, but he saw a glimpse of kindness, he read on the name tag - Samuel.
The coordinator's office is the same as the psychologist's; the budget is not very acceptable in correctional facilities, and some teachers double as guards. The psychologist is the coordinator, and even the prison director is the basketball team's coach.
-Greetings, young man. - said a man dressed in a suit with a red tie. He was filling out some forms and had a stern look, and his vibrant blue eyes emphasized his furrowed brow.
-Good morning, sir. I'm Billy Carsen; I arrived at the correctional facility yesterday afternoon. - said Billy.
-I was notified, Mr. Carson, but don't stand at the door. Come in, take a seat. All your classes are in Classroom 2-B; on the other hand, you have to choose extracurricular classes. Art, Music, or free periods; it all depends on you. Many choose the free period and go to the yard for sports.- said the man behind the desk.
-I would like to participate in music classes. - said Billy.
-Music! That's a good choice. You'll have class every day with Mr. Spencer; he's a very enthusiastic man and will be pleased to have a new student. Don't disappoint him. - said the man, with a politician's tone, which disgusted Billy, giving him a feeling of inhospitality in his normal appearance.
-Well, sir, have a good day. - said Billy, leaving.
-Of course. -
-Mark, take this little troublemaker to his classroom. - said the man behind the desk, calling a guard on his walkie-talkie. It took only four minutes for them to arrive; Billy didn't know, but he filed that thought in his head.
The correctional facility was a large building; a metal mesh surrounded the entire institution, a large sand yard used as a soccer field, two basketball courts, and a few chairs shaped like bleachers. The sports room was in a small room at the front of the building.
Classes at the correctional facility were poor; one teacher lectured for an entire class of perhaps 40 people.
-Professor Beins, I bring your new student, keep an eye on him; he's a bit unruly. - said Mark.
Although it seemed like strong words, it was something that was always said; it's just that the kids at the correctional facility didn't know how much.
-Come in, here's your notebook and pen. At the end of the class, I'll ask you to return them to me. Check well; this notebook has four subjects: English, Mathematics, and History. - said Beins.
-Thank you. - said Billy.
-Sit at the front, and everyone else moves one row back. - said Beins.
I was adjusting the classroom in a second.
He saw Austin sitting a few rows away, but he didn't notice.
The classes confirmed his greatest fear; he was a disaster when it came to concentrating. This mind had so little discipline that even paying attention for more than five minutes was impossible. Although he tried, it was very difficult to pay attention to everything the teacher was saying. American history, he knew very little; English wasn't very good, and he could do math, but not as well as he hoped.
He was starting to hate this body and its limitations!
-For tomorrow, everyone must pay more attention. Go and have fun. Don't cause unnecessary problems. - said Beins.
The music and arts classroom was on the rooftop. It sometimes served as an auditorium for celebrating ceremonies. It was a correctional facility, and as long as the youths dedicated themselves to three classes, the administrators were satisfied.
On Fridays, there would be psychology class, focusing on good behavior and reintegrating into society, with the rest split between free periods and sports. Curiously, three days a week included sports class.
The tall corridor indicated that there was a guard room nearby. He entered the little room and saw a chubby man.
-Ah, you must be Billy, Superintendent Charles mentioned that a new student would join my class. - said Spencer, the music teacher.
Its pleasure to meet you all, I'm Billy. - said Billy.
-Oh yes, this is Connor, our little wild drummer. The guy over there is Enrique, the guitarist, and Pablo plays the triangle, drums, cymbals, and a bit of flute. - said Spencer.
-We're a small group, but I'm thankful for a new member of our passionate youth group. - added Spencer.
Spencer's chubby cheeks and perpetual smile encouraged him; from afar, he seemed like a friendly person. His good-natured appearance highlighted his cheerful and clumsy demeanor.
-Tell me, Billy, do you have any specific musical preferences? - asked Spencer.
-I like Oasis, Nirvana, some classics here and there. For now, I can only say that I sing a bit, but this is my first time actively practicing. - said Billy.
-That's better than nothing. If you allow me, can you give us a demonstration? - asked Spencer.
Billy blushed. - I have no idea what to sing, sir. - he said.
Spencer adjusted his posture. - In other words, let the music speak for all of us. Let's start with a demonstration, Connor, get your drum set ready; we have a singer to test. - Spencer said, pulling out his guitar.
-Do you know the song 'What a Wonderful World'? It's perfect for practicing rhythms and timing. It has some difficulty, but I'll handle the harmony with the guitar, and the synthesizer already has a track. - Spencer said in a burst of excitement. It was incredible how this guy could embody a cliché.
-I know a bit, sir, but... -
-Not at all, Billy. Pablo, take care of the triangle. - Spencer interrupted.
-Sir, I was born ready. - Pablo said, jumping with the same enthusiasm as Spencer.
-Alright, Enrique, you'll be the beat. Remember, slow strokes. - Spencer instructed.
-I don't know the rhythm well, sir, and I don't know the song from memory. I can't make a good impression on the first try. - Billy admitted.
-Who cares, Billy! Music is freedom; sing as you please. We'll correct the rest later. - Spencer said happily.
-Here, is the sheet music and the lyrics. - Pablo said, handing it to Billy, saving him from a possible misunderstanding.
In the distance, Connor could be seen giving slow beats with his drumsticks at breakneck speeds. Surely, he had a music talent, Billy thought.
-Alright, here it goes. - His system told him that while singing from the heart, he could reach people's souls. He was going to try his best. This song was rooted in a deep alphabet of sadness and happiness.
He thought about his past life, his new life, his birth. He walks around the neighborhood with his mother, and trips to the beaches. The beauty of the sky, the first time he cried with joy, his 27th birthday, or his 10th birthday when his mother gave him a skateboard.
So many lively moments vivid in the memories of his heart. His eyes welled up, he lowered his head so that no one could see that moment of vulnerability.
-Here I go. –
I see trees of green, and red roses too
I see them bloom, for me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands sayin' how do you do
They're really sayin' I love you
I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll never know
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world
Oh, yes[1]
The overflowing feelings, like a child being born, and crying, that moment, among many. The lost encounter of a breathtaking life that is beautiful but we don't distinguish it for that reason, the embroidery of work, material possessions, problems, personal matters... fill our minds and prevent us from seeing the satisfying aspects of life.
-Well, how was it? - asked Billy.
-Bro, you're our singer from now on. We don't have another one who can represent what you just did, my friend. You can join my band, don't feel bad, the triangle steals the show, - said Pablo cheerfully.
Teacher Spencer was jotting down some notes and continued playing a few chords. - Young Billy, I see a promising future in your performance. You have the charisma of a musician. Let's try it again, Connor, try to give it a slower octave in the first chords. A slow takeoff, and then we speed up, - he said.
-Again... -
Yep. - Spencer said with pleasant eyes.
[1] What a wonderful world: such a beautiful song, that, there are times when I play it to see the sky or to reflect a little, I hope you listen to it and love it as much as I do.
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