A Place to StandThe Pushcart Prize–winning poet’s memoir of his criminal youth and years in prison: a “brave and heartbreaking” tale of triumph over brutal adversity (The Nation). Jimmy Santiago Baca’s “astonishing narrative” of his life before, during, and immediately after the years he spent in the maximum-security prison garnered tremendous critical acclaim. An important chronicle that “affirms the triumph of the human spirit,” it went on to win the prestigious 2001 International Prize (Arizona Daily Star). Long considered one of the best poets in America today, Baca was illiterate at the age of twenty-one when he was sentenced to five years in Florence State Prison for selling drugs in Arizona. This raw, unflinching memoir is the remarkable tale of how he emerged after his years in the penitentiary—much of it spent in isolation—with the ability to read and a passion for writing poetry. “Proof there is always hope in even the most desperate lives.” —Fort Worth Star-Telegram “A hell of a book, quite literally. You won’t soon forget it.” —The San Diego U-T “This book will have a permanent place in American letters.” —Jim Harrison, New York Times–bestselling author of A Good Day to Die |
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Page 21 - ... persuade me to harness my creative powers to the struggle for a better world. A waiter came over and I let Zosia order the coffee and the rice pudding for both of us. Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to address this youth in English, nor could I speak to him in Yiddish, since he would start questioning me about who I was, where I came from, and what I was doing in Canada. Some of those sitting at the tables had already cast curious glances at me. My picture had been printed in the rotogravure...
Page 27 - I was going to wake up here, go to sleep here, eat and live here. life at the D-Home was as predictable as it had been at the orphanage. New kids came and went. We woke up at the same time every day and went to bed at the same time every night. Every weekend visitors came and visited their loved ones for an hour. And just as I had done at the Boys' Home, every night, before falling asleep, I'd imagine my mother's voice whispering good night to me.
Page 14 - Mom was trying to impress him with her "white ways," but it made her look silly. It wasn't so with my father; he spoke Spanish and used English only when he had to. He listened to Mexican music, and all his friends were Mexicans. I never saw him with an Anglo. He never said anything bad about them, but he made a point to stay away from them. I remember riding around with him and saying, "No, don't want to go in there, too many gringos.
Page 1 - The captain shrugged, surprised at her, and led us past holding cells to the drunk tank. It smelled like urine and whiskey vomit. I held tightly to Mother's hand. The corridors were dark and gloomy, and the slightest sound echoed ominously in the hall. We stopped in front of a cell where men sat and stared at the wall in front of them. Some were crumpled on the floor where they had passed out. "iOye, Damacio, despierta.1" the captain cried, and banged the bars with his baton.
Page 1 - Did you have to bring him?" he asked accusingly. Then he added, clearly hurt that I was there, "I don't want him seeing me like this. Get me out of here." "No," Mom said. He stared at her. "Listen, you, don't — " Shaking with rage, he looked at me and made an effort to control himself. We stood in silence for a few seconds. Then Mom cried, "Stay away from us!
Page 23 - God to help them, as the halls echoed with the ominous reports of the guard's boots as he checked to see if we were all in our bunks and counted. I felt sorry for the kids in for murder, grand theft auto, or drug possession, because they were headed for Springer, a prison for teenagers. Low-Blow...
Page 27 - We woke up at the same time every day and went to bed at the same time every night. Every weekend visitors came and visited their loved ones for an hour. And just as I had done at the Boys' Home, every night, before falling asleep, I'd imagine my mother's voice whispering good night to me. I'd think of my father and brother; I'd see in my mind the carefree kids at school, older than at the Boys...
References to this book
Right to Be Hostile: Schools, Prisons, and the Making of Public Enemies Erica R. Meiners No preview available - 2007 |
Prose and Cons: Essays on Prison Literature in the United States D. Quentin Miller Limited preview - 2005 |