Mr. Wilson
Mr. Wilson.
Jerry
He always felt a little different. But he couldn’t understand why? He thought of himself as dumb or maybe even crazy. His upbringing was a working-class, large family, a small house in an environment that was dog eat dog. The ’70s were tough, harsh even. At the ripe old age of thirteen he saw things for what they were, he saw the brutality of life and the disparity of privilege and wealth, he couldn’t understand how other people accepted the status quo. Inside he felt the actuality of it all, did others? Ignorance is bliss when he first heard these words from his English teacher no one grasped it better than he did, the problem was, ignorance wasn’t a choice for him, but he wished it was.
Packs of kids roamed the streets; there were territories, pecking orders established by how well you could fight. There was a tangible whiff of aggression in the air. He could fight, you had to, but preferred to talk his way out of situations, his ability to disarm with words was uncanny, but it didn’t always work. Sometimes his words got him into more trouble. He had friends, thankfully powerful friends, tough and hard friends that garnered him some protection and even a little status. He knew how to work it.
His teachers were both amazed and sometimes angry at his reasoning and questioning, with his thought-provoking questions, it annoyed them. They would often shut him down, admonishing him, but he didn’t mind that because he knew he had made his point. Gave them something to think about. Some teachers were actually intrigued and gave him a little respect, but they couldn’t show that, of course, no, he was just another scruffy boy from the wrong end of town with a drunken father and a mother who cleaned houses to make ends meet. How could he possibly amount to anything? Having this hammered continuously into your brain that you cannot and will not amount to anything, to get ready for the factory, get someone pregnant, get married, pay your rent and doff your cap.
The future looked bleak, and the choices were either to fold and accept it or drown. All other gates were closed; they were for the others, the ones with money, houses, and cars. The ones who were obviously closer to God because the priest liked them more. There was, however, one teacher who did take an interest in Jerry, he saw something in him that others didn’t. Mr. Wilson. His English teacher.
The Lord of the Flies.
Mr. Wilson was one of the few teachers that Jerry respected at his all-boys Catholic School, he was one of the few teachers that weren’t a priest, Jerry liked him, he wasn’t hiding behind a collar or using Jesus as his teaching aide. English class was a refuge mainly because this was one teacher who encouraged debate, wanted you to question things, and he actually listened. The problem was that most of the kids in the classroom were not debaters, it was as if they had already resigned themselves to their lot and they gave Mr. Wilson a hard time with his flowered shirts and broken taped-up glasses. His hippie hair and awkward mannerisms. Jerry felt sorry for him in a way, but Mr. Wilson was enthusiastic, animated, and had conviction. Although the boys he taught may have given up, he was not going to give up on them. Mr. Wilson didn’t know it at the time, but he was also about to change Jerry’s life.
That morning it was a double English class. The classrooms were always locked and were opened by the teacher, the kids crowded the corridor outside of the classroom, waiting for “Willy One Eye” to come and open the door. He arrived a little late, as usual, a cup of coffee in one hand, papers and books tucked under the other. He always seemed flustered and unprepared. Jerry liked that, it was a refreshing contrast to the disciplined authoritarian presence of the priests and some of the other teachers. He was wearing one of his infamous flowered shirts and a thin brown tie, his clothes looked tired, he had socks and sandals on, he was either brave or poor, probably both. His clothes obviously came from a myriad of second-hand stores. Jerry liked this too, it was almost as if Mr. Wilson was one them, as if of his own kind but had somehow got through the fence, past the factory gates, and used his brain. Jerry identified with that. It gave him hope.
The classroom was eventually opened, cool kids at the back, geeks at the front, Jerry had some standing within the pecking order, not wanting to be with the geeks but also wanting a prime position for this class Jerry sat in the middle. Acceptable. Mr. Wilson raised his hand; in it was a yellow book. He announced that this was going to be the book to study for the end of year exam. This is The Lord of Flies by William Golding Mr. Wilson bellowed, for an odd-looking man, he had such a deep and loud voice as well as an unusually large Adam's apple. Ah, Jerry thought the Daffodils guy. Flies! But it has the word Lord in it, please don’t let this be some religious tripe he thought to himself. He liked Golding, and he loved poetry, he wrote a few poems himself but in secret of course. If anyone found out that he was writing poetry, he would become a target because anything that could be construed as a weakness, and this would be in that category, was used against you. Like animals preying on the injured and the weakest. Hell no, he kept his prose hidden at home. Besides, he didn’t think it was that good, but more importantly, it was a release for him, maybe, one day, he would show it to Mr. Wilson, but not yet, no not yet.
Mr. Wilson had a system, each kid would read a few pages in a chapter out loud in rotation. Some kids stumbled as they read, and he would help and encourage them while some of the other kids made fun. So, it began, the reading of “The Lord of The Flies.”
The System
Twelve years had gone by, twelve long years as Jerry sat in his cell. First juvenile detention, psychiatric evaluations, and ultimately a medium-security jail. He shared his cell with Monty, a career criminal in his thirties. Harmless enough, although a bit too talkative for Jerry’s liking. Destined to be in and out of the system for the rest of his life. It wasn’t even as though Monty cared. It was merely a matter of being released, doing the same thing, and seeing how long it was before he was collared again and sent back to prison. All Monty cared about was which prison, as some had better attributes than others, but it was the food, always the food that was of paramount importance. Here the food was okay, not great but okay, well at least according to Monty and his rating system. This was a sixer, slightly above average. Nice to know thought Jerry because it was awful, and he would hate to see a three or a four-star rating prison mess hall. Twelve years done with no end in sight. Oh, how he wished he could go back in time and change things, but so did everyone else. Do not go gentle into that good night, he would read that poem over and over again to bolster his resolve, using Thomas’s words to summon up the rage against it all. He felt dead in his own mind, a living deadness he called it Hell on earth. Yeah, he felt dead inside, so he would write, that helped, yes it helped a lot. He sent endless letters to anyone who he thought would listen to him; help him, even Mr. Wilson himself. But he never received a response.
Henderson had managed the facility for over fifteen years now, he didn’t even bother to read the letter, he simply shredded it. It would be just like all the others, the same crazy rantings, the man was a nutcase, shouldn’t even be in general population; they should have kept him in psych. He listened to the buzz of the machine as it sucked the letter in and ripped apart Jerry’s words, then he hit the off button. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, looking out of the window, over the walls, sometimes he felt like a prisoner too, being released each evening and home visits on the weekends.
Deja Vu
At first, Jerry thought this was going to be another chapter by chapter review with a test at the end of it, but after the third chapter, Jerry was mesmerized. He took the book home and read it cover to cover. When his friends came to the house to get him and go roam the streets or go to the park, hang out with the other gangs and talk to girls, Jerry came up with an excuse to not go out. Instead, he would go back to the book. It was a mixture of gratification and startling horror. He related to it. Ralph, oh Ralph weeping at the end of innocence. Then there was Piggy, pitiful, poor Piggy. The darkness of man’s heart. Jerry fixated on this sentence, reading it again and again. He couldn’t sleep, this was us! It was real. This is truly us! He repeated this in his head, again and again. Then there was Jack, he knew a Jack it was Steve, crazy Steve who would fight anyone anytime for anything and sometimes for no reason at all. He started to relate the real people in his life to the characters in the book. Harry represented Roger, targeting the Piggy’s and Ralph’s at any given opportunity, egging on Steve. Jerry identified with Ralph, we need more Ralph’s, he thought, why wasn’t he brave enough to be a Ralph? But Jack was horrible, older, more hardened, and mean like Steve. Jack was in a story, Steve was in real life and they were both the same people to him. He reread the book, then re-read it, sinking him deeper and deeper into despair.
He became withdrawn because he knew that what he was reading represented his own world, which was being laid bare in front of his own eyes. A world he had a part in, out there on the streets. He knew he was some way perpetuating it by not doing saying or doing anything. He became confused, messed up, furious that the grownups didn’t know who their children really were. Every time their little darlings came home for dinner, watched TV, and went to bed it was like they were being rescued from that island. Except in real life, unlike the final chapter of the book, there was no ending, wash rinse repeat as they all returned to gratuitous violence. The stark reality of it all tripped a wire in Jerry’s head. He felt compelled to do something about it.
The Reckoning.
It was a Saturday morning. The sun was shining through the thin curtains into his bedroom, making him squint. He was the last one out of bed that morning, his mother was yelling for him to get up and get dressed, she was going to the laundromat and needed to get the sheets off his bed. His brother Eric was frantically looking for his soccer stuff, he was the sporty one and had a game that morning. Not an official match, a made-up game between the kids, they had all saved up some money and bought the same colored shirts. Bright orange with black ringed collars, it made them feel like a team. Jerry saw it as an attempt at belonging, an escape. Not for him, though. He got dressed and was ready to do what needed to be done, sort things out. Exonerate himself. This was the day he said to himself. This was the day.
He rummaged through the cupboard under the stairs. It was in disarray, stuff everywhere piled up, he saw it, then digging past the coats and picked it up. Jacks and Rogers. He knew who they were, save the Piggy’s and help the Ralph’s. Had to be done, he knew this, someone had to take a stand, and he was going to step up.
It was all over the news, some kid had gone crazy with a baseball bat. Twelve attacks, broken bones, hospitalized kids with one dead. His mother was weeping as they took him away, but he was laughing, Jerry was laughing. I did the right thing, Mom, I really did, you don’t understand, then screaming. I took a stand, Mr. Wilson, I took a stand!
The End
Comments