Ao's final rewrite

Once were warriors

The story is about the little son of the Jake, Huata Heke.

It had been like ten years since Grace died. Beth had protected Huata and his little sister Polly like a traditional Maori warrior since the same time. Mark fell in love with a girl and Nig was still in gang with his “brothers”. Furthermore, Jake was changed but still drunk all the time and mostly he is getting old. He had no more fights with those young kids in bar. It is like mysteries reason that Jake is out of violence. Maybe it is because of ages or because of Grace died. It has been a long time that Beth ignored Jake for everything.

Who am I?

I am the new roommate of Huata Heke. My name is Andrew White. My father is the immigrant from Scotland. Huata was a little shy for the first week we meet. He told me that he’s sister Grace had writing habits and he hated writing. In fact he is a very easygoing person. I heard his story at one night when we finished a crazy party at our apartment. I can’t remember the exactly time was but I did remember that his husky voice and the tears around his eyes. The speed of his saying was peaceful. However, the story hi said was not. I am not sure the end of his story is better to his family or not. I am just the guy he knew a month.

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Ben.

Ben who?

Bang your dinner.

This is one of my best friends Ben Hart. He is live out of the town and he has a motor. He loves motor and sometimes he drives very fast and scaring.

“Hi, bro! What’s up?”

A month has passed. I find that I didn’t see Ben for a long time. I am too lazy to figure out where is him. I have good time with my new Maori friend, Huata. He is very strong person. I mean he get some real muscles on his arms. I have to say that he should play rugby. He will be a player. Comparing his arms, his brain presents a normal intelligence, which I don’t mean offense. He thinks running of the world is quite easy and it seems that the relation between people is easy too in his mind. I don’t know how to say it. Is it naive or silly or just being friendly?

By the way, I find that I like taping, which I mean record on my laptop. Actually, I didn’t have this kind of habits or hobbies at all before. I used to chatting with my friends all the time and making fun and jokes, maybe drink a little bit. I think maybe I have passed that period. I am being changing.

A very bad news came to me. Ben is dead by a car accident and the sad is that he was excessive over speed on his motor when he had car accident. After that, he is in hospital for a whole mouth, struggling between living and dying. I am ashamed that I don’t know until he was dead. I should find him last mouth and I shouldn’t support him on his motor thing. His mother told me the date and place of his funeral. I plan to take Huata with me. He’s the only friend left in this city. How can I ask him to go? At dinner time, I tell him the news of Ben and I tell him I don’t want to go his funeral alone because I am so sad. Then I beg him to go with me. He says, yes, without any doubts and unwillingness.

The morning of the burial day is cloudy, both my mood and the weather. I pick a black suit to wear and a sunglasses even that there isn’t sunshine outside. When I finish dressing, I go to the drawing room to wait for Huata. And few minutes later he comes out and I find that he is in a shorts and T-shirt. I can’t stand it and the most making me crazy thing is the colors of his wearing, yellow T-shirt. I can’t go with this kind of “him”. I can’t understand why he wears like this. He doesn’t take this serious or he really thinks this is not an issue? I think I have to talk about the wearing of this kind of serious situation.

“Come on, change your cloth. Hurry up.”

“I am in my cloth.”

“Don’t you think the place we are going today is a much serious occasion?”

“Yes, I go with my heart. I am sorry for your lost. But why you make me to change another cloth? It is meaningless. The feel of regretting and remembering is the aim, doesn’t it?”

“It is rules. What you said is right. But we need to follow the rules of showing respect. You need a black suit!”

“Ok…..”

The voice of Huata is becoming small from at first to now. It seems to be that he doesn’t agree with what I said. I hate that.

The fight between me and Huata finally happens after the funeral. I start yelling at him and trying to stop his ridiculous action, which is trying to touching Ben when is on the farewell ceremony. I can’t bear his silly activities any more. So, we have a fight when we just walk out of cemetery.

After I clam down, I rethink what is going on. I figure that he is an uneducated person and as his friend, I should teach him the potential rules in the life.

I thought it should be harder to ask Huata do this or do that. Obviously, I am wrong. He seems like the life around by film, concert, bar and part time jobs. He is totally into my social circle. However something happened last week, giving me some new cognition with him. I prefer the word “no character” to describe that.

We were in the bar that night and a rude man came.

“Hi, bro. You are so tough, man. Can you show your muscles?” The rude man said to Huata.

Huata thought that he was drank and friendly showed to him forearm.

“Cool, man. Your Maori people are the same as you?”

“It depends.”

“Come on, man. You guys are fucking monster. Do you fight a lot, don’t you?”

“That is not true. Not everyone have violent issues. It is the same as your people.”

“liar. You guys call you warriors. I prefer shit. You just can beat your bitches in your home. What a shame.”

“What’s wrong with you? If this is words after drink, I would forgive you.” Huata is a gentleman.

“Fuck you, go back to your mothers.” I can’t stand the conversation here, so I said.

“You are idiot, too. You know that? Look at this place, Maori didn’t come here. You and Your ‘buddy’ are in a wrong place. This is the world of White. You can’t bring him here. Stupid asshole.” The rude man yelled to me.

“What is your business? I go anywhere I want and with anybody I like. What’s your problem? Do you want a fight?” I said.

At that time, I really wanted to kick his ass. However Huata stopped me. I didn’t know what’s in his mind. I thought he would fight but I am so wrong. Huata left.

He is such a coward.

After this, I look him down.

I begin to use his “kindness” to help me. For instance, do the laundry, bring the food back and clean the room, some stuff like that. I am a little out of friend level. I totally use him as my servant except two things. One is that it is free and the other is that he is willing to do those things for me. I think that the reason of doing those things is that he takes me as his friend. What a pathetic facts. On the other hand, I am trying to let him change his habits, language and even living style. I don’t notice that something in my heart is gone.

Life is such thing. If you don’t control it, it controls you. Force is such thing. If you don’t use it, it is used by other people.

I believe that people is same as animals. Someone is the sheep and someone is the wolf, which means that sheep are learning how to run away from wolves, and wolves are learning how to catch sheep and how to eat them, which is like a nature laws. The best sheep is just running fast, not a big deal. Huata is a sheep.

Look at Huata now. He is eating sandwiches and drink coke. He uses the Standard English with a little British accent. He likes paly my ipod. He also believes in God some ways. I like to say that I am a good teacher.

“My brother wants to come and live for few days. Are you OK with that?”Huata asked.

“Sure. I mean, it is up to you. By the way, which brother? The gangster or Mark?”

“Mark.”

“When is that?”

“Next Saturday.”

“Cool.”

“Thanks. If you have problems, you tell me.”

“Ok”

This can’t be good news. I remember Mark. He is a confident, a strong-minded and a remorseless young man. He will find out what I am done to his brother. The good part in this news is only for few days. I need to be silence.

It was a dark evening, when I first met Mark. With the history of Mark and his family that Huata told me, I can totally understand the expression in his eyes, which is full of firm belief. Mark is more mature than Huata, and I have to say, he doesn’t talk much. It had a lot of embarrassing moments at the first few days. I thought he might be having some scars in his heart. Whatever, I don’t care. On the other hand, Huata is seems to have some conflict with his brother. Huata has some habits which is weird in Mark’s eyes. I am pretending a person who is just Huata’s roommate.

Few days after, I feel I can stand any more. I get some problems. I can’t stand Mark make requires to Huata, which I do the same thing all the time. I feel I lose the right. I need to make some changes. One day, when Mark is absent, I talk to Huata.

“Hi, Huata. There is an interesting book called The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Did you read it before?” I asked.

“No”

“I am happened having one. Do you want to read it?”

“Sure, why not.”

“And I have some DVDs, if you want see, you can ask me.”

“Thanks.”

Mark is incompatible with Huata. Mark has faith, purpose, the sense of self and the honor of being a Maori. Well, Huata is changeable and he likes the DVDs and books that I give him. He like playing and drink with my friend. However, Mark isn’t enjoying it. After Hart died, Huata takes his place in our group except he is Maori.

I make some confession. I take the defeat of Huata’s character and change him into Hart like in every single thing.

The silence days are suddenly over cause of the fight between me and Mark. The reason of fighting is that Mark asks Huata to help their brother Nig, ganger. It seems that Nig has some problems, which can be implied that he infuriate someone. Although it is not my business, I still want to say something against Mark.

“You cannot ask that. He is one who has manner. He’s not savage like you.” I said. This word angers Mark. In fact, I think I have potential purpose to say that, which is strongly cross the human line.

“What?”

“I said that you are savage.”

I think the thing happened next is can be easily inferred. We had a real fight and Huata was trying to stop us. He is much strong than me. So, depending on level of injuring, there are two explanations. One is Huata helped me a little bit and the other is Mark take easy on me. I think the first one has possibility.

Mark goes back to his place. The relation between me and Huata is slowly fading away. I hate this. So I begin to give Huata a lot of benefits like I take the bill or something. I need him as one who can always listen to me and as one whom I can always make an order. Do I have some kind of psychopathology?

The Unbelievable thing is that he is more domesticated that before, after I make an apology. He forgives me like nothing happened, which I feel boring and unchallengeable. I think my life will keep going for at least half a year. However, just one mouth great time like happy hours is passing away. And this time, I become to a guy who just know the violent.

As usual, I am with Huata in a bar and drink. There is a pretty lady who is ogling me. And the guy who likes her came and said some ugly words. I don’t know what am I think that day. Maybe because of alcohol and hormone, I asked Huata to fight against him. And Huata was trying to make peace between me and that guy. I said to Huata, “shit, don’t be silly, you can fight for me. We are friends like a family. He is nothing but trash. Don’t you Maori guys dance Haka and say you are warriors, like savage, does it? ”

When I woke up at the next morning, I found Huata was gone.

I didn’t know what happened in that crazy night until I found the mail that Huata left.

Hi, Andrew

I decide to move. It was not because the crazy speech you said that night, but for a real reason that I was helping you and you didn’t feel grateful and take it granted. You never truly respect me as your friend.

I am thankful that you teach me a lot of your culture thing. So, I beat the guy at that night as a last gift for you.

Our people once were warriors. We have faith, pride and manner. We got the spirit of fighting against enemy to protect our land, our friend and our family.

I am so stupid that I trust you for a long time.

Good Luck.

Huata Jake

There are some people dancing Haka outside, when I reading this mail.

Ka mate, ka mate
Ka ora, ka ora
Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru
Nana i tiki mai whakawhiti te ra
Upane, upane
Upane kaupane
Whiti te ra.

It is death, it is death
It is life, it is life
This is the hairy man
Who caused the sun to shine again for me
Up the ladder, up the ladder
Up to the top
The sun shines.

PS: it is hard to write a re-write in second language. Once were warriors is one of famous New Zealand films. Based on some points of it movies, I am trying to take Andrew as colonist and Huata as one who is colonized by some else. The point I want to say is that colonist always want more. Using forcing to find labor, using culture to assimilate them or Using economic to take advantage of them, these are all the same. The indigenous friendly people are changed by powers. However, the spirit of them doesn’t lose. On someday, in somehow, the spirit will touch the colonists’ heart and become the national spirit. In case of New Zealand, it is Haka and it is protecting something that is important to them.

Kirsty's Final Rewrite- Mission Island

My rewrite is based on the movie Australia. I am writing from the point of view of the aboriginal boy Nullah. In the movie he gets taken away to Mission Island but we do not see what happens to him there.

I Nullah. My grandfather King George. He take’em me walkabout. He teach’em me black fullah way.
But I not black fullah. I not white fullah either.
They call’em me mixed blood.
Creamy.
My grandfather tell’em me I important. I magic man. But I not feel important. I belong no one. That why I on the Mission Island. Dem white fullahs they make’em place for the Creamies to go to learn’em white fullah ways. When I at Faraway Downs, dem coppers always come to take’em me away. Fletcher, he send dem for me but they never catch’em me there. Fletcher, he my father. He bad man. The last time he send dem coppers to Faraway Downs for me, that when my mama die. She drown in water tank, try to hide me from dem coppers. I not allowed to say her name no more. I miss her. I miss that Mrs Boss too and the Drover and my grandmother. Even Sing Song. He make’em good food. Everybody get taken away from me. I get found when I on walkabout. They take’em me from my grandfather and send me here. They put King George in the Lock Lock. Now I got nobody. So I tell’em story. I tell it to myself, but it not matter. I not want to lose the most important lesson my grandfather teach’em me. So I tell’em story.

That first day I come here I cry and cry. The boat take’em me away from Mrs Boss and it like losing my mama all over again. I find’em corner of the boat and cover my head and cry. That Father Benedict, he tell’em me I going to good place so I can learn’em be better. What better? I not good? They teach us to be like’em white fullahs. I not want to be like’em white fullahs. I want to be back at Faraway Downs helping the Drover break dem horses, and drove dem big cheeky bulls. I want to go walkabout with King George and learn’em magic song. This place not like Faraway Downs at all. Here we stay inside a lot. Too much.
It feel like I not breathing.
For one month I been here. I not run. I not climb trees. I not catch’em animals to play with. I not make’em magic.
For one month I not breathe.

The island run by dem priests. We call’em dem Father. I not know why, they not our real fathers. Every morning we get up and wash. Then we pray. It what dem white fullahs do. They pray to a fullah they call God. I not hear bout’em God from King George. Dem Fathers on the Mission Island tell us God made all the land, the water, the sky. Just like black fullah spirits. But he also make’em rules for everyone to follow. So many rules. The Fathers, they always tell’em us the rules. There lot of rules on Mission Island. The Fathers say if we don’t follow dem rules, we get punished by God. It seem like I always breaking dem rules. I always getting punished. Especially by that Father Benedict.

Our first day on Mission Island, the Father Benedict he talk to us all. He tell’em us why we here and tell us the rules. He tell’em us that we Creamies are not the will of God, that we insult to him. I not know what will or insult mean, but it sound very bad. Father Benedict he tell’em us not to worry. That there be hope. That on the island we learn’em good ways. God’s ways. Then we can go back to the mainland and be treated like proper people. That day I not like what he say. I tell’em him I good and I get treated proper.
I say to him, “That Mrs Boss she treat’em me good. She take care of me. She love’em me. I not need to be here”.
That be the first day that Father Benedict hit me. He walk’em right up to me and hit my face. It so loud all the other boys jump. Even the other Father’s get shock. One of dem Fathers, Father Thomas, he move to help, but Father Benedict stop him with one look; like a king snake dat gonna bite. I never see anybody scared from just a look. But that Father Thomas he get’em scared. My face it hurt so bad I wanna cry. But I not show that Father Benedict. It make’em him happy to see that I think. I look right at him and he slap me again.

“You do not belong with that woman”, he tell’em me. “There is no way she could love you, or else you would not be here. I suggest you remember that dear boy” I want to shout at him. I know he wrong. Mrs boss, she tell’em me that she will find’em me. That day on the dock, she wave me goodbye and cry for me. I know she love’em me. But I not tell him that. I just look’em at my feet so he not hit me again. But he still keep talk’em me.

“This is where you are, and this is where you will stay until you learn the proper ways of good, godly men. You will leave all thoughts of that barbaric place you lived”. He turn to all the Creamies and he tell’em dem, “That goes for all of you. Your new life begins here and now boys. You will get used to it. If not, we’ll teach you”

That when he look back at me and smile. He make’em smile look mean. My stomach get a funny feeling inside.

Later I find out what that smile mean. It mean I get’em punished. That smile I know very well, from when I live on Faraway Downs. It the same one Fletcher give me when he beat’em me. That night the Father Benedict he not give me dinner. He make’em me sit with dem other boys who eating and watch’em dem. He tell’em me this is what happens when a children speak when he not asked. That was the first rule I learn’em on the island. There many after that.

***
“Nullah, Nullah. Wake up. You’re gonna be late for morning prayer”

I open my eyes little bit, groan cos I still so tired. By my bed is Johnny. He the whitest creamy on the Mission Island and all the Fathers they like him. He always do good, always nice, always listen. Sometime I not like him cos he seem too good. He never do nothing wrong and I always get in trouble. All this time I been here, three months, almost everyday I do something wrong. I get punished. I not understand why. Cos them other boys they don’t get’em in trouble as much as me, and I hate it. Make’em me mad. But then I can’t be mad at Johnny for long cos he do them things like this so I don’t get’em punished from that Father Benedict.
I sit up on my mattress. It hard and many nights I not get’em sleep cos it hurt me all over to lie on it. I stretch’em my arms and all over my body make’em ‘click, click’ sounds. I look round and see that all the other creamies gone. They made’em beds and folded their night clothes, like they supposed to. Johnny look’em me, his eyes very big, try to make’em me move faster. I look down at the floor and see he already got’em my shoes out for me, and he hold’em my day clothes out to me. See, I can never stay angry at Johnny. I quickly put’em clothes on, say “Thank you Johnny. You good man”, then we run out.

We just make it to the church hall and stand in the back row when that Father Benedict he walk into the hall. When he walk into any room, it all go silent. Some boys look like they holding their breath so they don’t make’em sound. He stop right in front of Johnny and me and look’em me in the eye like he know I done something wrong. I look away. He stare too scary. He walk on to the front. He go to stand behind his big stand. It what they call pulpit. He look out to everyone. Look each boy and all of the other Father’s in the eye like he tell’em them that he boss and nobody should ever forget that. He do this every morning when we do the prayer, when he come to teach a class, when we have meals, or evening prayer. Any chance he get to use that look, he take’em it. I think it the only thing that make’em him happy. He don’t smile. No. Not that kind happy. Just happy like he know he doing the right thing and it feel good to be powerful and in charge of everyone. He always make’em us stand til he looked at everybody, then he tell’em us to sit. He clear his throat and start to talk. Every morning Father Benedict, he tell’em us the same thing. He go over all the rules like we too stupid to learn them already. He tell’em us again and again that what they do on the island is try to help us be better people. Then he pray to God that he help save our souls, be kind to us he ask, show mercy and spare us eternal death in Hell- that place where them bad fullahs go- for being born barbarians cos we have no choice. I always think why he pray like this to God. The Fathers tell’em us god created everything, even us. So what I not know is why God be angry at us for being the things he created. If he made all the people in the world, why he want to kill what he make. Maybe he make’em mistake and want to fix it.

As Father Benedict carry on I look out the window behind him and see them trees dancing in the wind. The window it open and I see a fat black spider come through it and crawl down the wall. I laugh inside my head cos I think of the spider running up Father Benedict’s robes, make’em him tickle so he do funny dance, and maybe even bite him bum. I start’em laugh out loud, but Johnny he poke’em my arm, make’em me stop. So I look back out the window. The sand on the beach it white. Not like at Faraway Downs where it red and stick’em to you. This sand it soft, and sometimes when the Fathers they let us out to play, I like’em take my shoes off and dig’em my feet into it, let it get in my toes.
Father Benedict he still talking. It very boring. I close’em my eyes, think bout that feeling when the sand it warm and fine as I walk on it. It the only time I feel’em free. I know it a lie cos it only last for little bit. Then I have to put my shoes back on and go learn’em be a white fullah. Father Thomas, he always tell’em me off. He tell’em me good gentlemen don’t put them feet in the sand. It not clean. I wonder why else God make’em that sand so nice then.

“Nullah!” I open my eyes quickly.
Father Benedict he glaring at me from the pulpit. All the boys they turn in their seats to look’em me as well. Next to me Johnny he sink low in his seat, bow his head and cross his arms. There bit of red come into his cheeks. I think if I was white like him, my face also be pink right now. But I not white.

“Are we disturbing your little nap Nullah?” Father Benedict ask’em me. I don’t say nothing. Sometimes the Father he leave me alone if I don’t tell’em him anything. But this time I know it wrong to not give him answer. His face it also change colour, but not the light red colour that come to Johnny. No the Father’s face it red red. Look all hot. I know he very angry.

“Do you think you’re smart boy, not answering me?”

I want to say no, to make’em him stop looking at me with them eyes, but my lips not move. I look’em down at the floor. That when I see it. A snake. It fat and light brown, move’em fast on the floor. I watch’em it as it move to the front of the hall.

“Are you even listening to me Nullah?” The Father say. But I keep’em watch the snake. Just as it reach the step up to the pulpit, Father Benedict step down to keep’em yell at me. The snake get’em fright and it lift its head to bite. Father Benedict only just see it, and his face change from angry to scared. I not think what I doing, but I get’em up and run to front of the hall. Something inside me come out. Set free. Magic song come to me. I not have it all this time, but now it come. I sing them words to the snake. It stop look’em at Father Benedict and turn’em me. It black eyes stare at mine. I keep singing, lift me hands like King George teach’em me. The snake move to me, then stop. It drop it head, then turn around and crawl out’em window. It work. My magic still work.
I look'em up and smile at Father Benedict. He not smile back. His face even angrier than before. I see he sweat on his face. He don’t say nothing to me, but he grab my arm and pull’em me through the room. All the boys they look’em me. They scared. I not want to make’em scared. I just wanna help.

Father Benedict keep pull’em me. He pull’em me so hard I think my arm will come out of my shoulder. He take’em me down a hall, past the kitchens, past the bedrooms, open a door I never seen before and keep going. After long time we get’em to small room. There nothing much in here, just few chairs and a table. Everything covered in dust. There a ‘drip drip’ sound come from above, from the roof. I think he gonna leave me in this room but he not stop there. He still hold’em my arm and drag’em me to a small door. It shorter than me. He open it, and I see it just a small hole in the wall. He tell’em me get in. I look’em him and my eyes go wide.
“You heard me Nullah. This is your punishment for that evil display you exhibited back there. You have the devil in you. I knew it from the day you got on that boat. What with your grandfather being a murderer, it’s not surprising how you turned out. And that woman who kept you, she just let you carry on in this manner. It’s sickening. But I know how to fix you”

“But I save you” I tell’em him.

“You did not! The only thing that saved me was God. It was probably you who called that snake you filthy demon. Now get in!” He push’em my head down so I on my knees then kick’em my bum, force me to get in the small space. Then he shut the door and I in darkness.
I not believe he do this to me. Did his God tell’em him be so cruel? The dark it scare me because it so full. I not see a single thing. It get’em hard to breath, and I feel’em like I choking. I push’em myself right up against the wall, make’em myself small. The ‘drip drip’ of the water so loud in here. I close’em my eyes. I see the day my mama die.

She hold’em me up in that water tank.

Drip. Drip.

Cover my mouth so them coppers don’t hear me.

Drip. Drip.

Her head go under the water.

Drip. Drip.

Then she stop moving, and there only silence.

That when I start’em cry. I not cry since that first day on the boat. But it all come now. I not able to stop it. I try make’em music, sing that rainbow song Mrs Boss teach’em me. But I got no magic in here. No song. So I cry.
I feel’em like I locked in there forever, and just when I start fall’em off to sleep, the door open and light come into the dark. That Father Benedict, he stand there, big and tall. He see I been crying, and I feel’em shame. He look’em like he got smile on his face, glad he see me weak.

“Get up boy” he say softly.

I get’em up. My backside got no feeling and my legs cramped cos I sit so long. I think I rather he beat’em me than put’em me back in there, and he know it. He look’em like he won big somthing. He know how to get’em me. I will never do nothing bad, cos I never want be put in that cupboard again. Outside I see it almost sunset. The Father let’em me walk past him and tell’em me to walk on. I do it, keep my head down.
Then I hear him scream I turn’em round and see the Father on the floor. Next to his leg is the snake. It bite him. The Father he move’em away but the snake follow. Bite him again. Then again. The Father scream each time. Then it look’em me. I stay very still. It crawl to me and I think it gone bite me to. But it don’t. It move’em past me and out the door. The Father Benedict he try to get up but that snake poison it work fast.

“Don’t just stand there you stupid boy. Go get help” He shout’em me.

I turn and run. I run fast all the way to first classroom I find. Father Thomas he there and I tell’em him come quick, Father Benedict get bit by snake. Father Thomas he move faster than I ever seen him. I follow him. When we get’em back to that old room, Father Benedict he on his back. The room dark cos the sun almost set. I know it already too late. One bite he can get away. But three, he never survive. Father Thomas he go sit beside him. He know too. That Father Benedict he die right there. His eyes close’em slowly. He not say anything. He just go. Father Thomas say a prayer and then he get up to go get the other Fathers. He not tell’em me anything. It like I not there.

I look back at Father Benedict’s body. His face, even when he die, it still angry. But the room feel different now. Cos I know he gone. I not happy he died, no, not like that. But I feel’em...free. I feel’em hope. I not get punished no more. Maybe I get’em off this island too. Find Mrs Boss and the Drover. Get King George and go walkabout. Live happy ever after like Mrs Boss teach’em me from that story with the girl with red shoes and the rainbow serpent and that magic man. Yeh. Happy ever after.
I smile.
I Nullah.
I magic man.

Sara's Final Re-write-Thou Shalt Not Steal

I never intended to interview Kev Carmody. When I started my project at school, I had never even heard of the old folk singer; his name sounded like a used-car salesman to me. But, whatever, I guess fate had something to in store for me. If you were of a different disposition, you could call it something else.

I should start at the beginning. The real beginning. I was born on a bright Sunday, the 18th of March, at a small-town on the outskirts of Melbourne. Soon after, my parents decided to move into a central-city suburb. They had always intended to live out there in the wop-wops, but you have to follow where the jobs are, especially when you have a little mouth to feed. A concrete jungle was my playground growing up, as opposed to little creeks and weeds. I particularly enjoyed it, but hey, I had nothing to compare it to, did I? My formative years passed without much of a mention, apart from a particular scathing accident where I choked on a lollipop in kindergarten-I still can’t swallow a pill to this day. My teenage years began with entrance to Melbourne Central City High School (quite an imaginative name, in any book), which is where I met Rob.

Rob was one of those hippy-dippy, conservation types. His parents were divorced, and he lived with his dad, whose face peered out from many newspaper photographs displaying protests and picket lines in Melbourne central, lying around in their apartment. I fell for him, hard. One day in our Social Studies class, we were put together for a social justice project. I just wanted to talk to the local police officer, but of course Rob took it to the extreme. He went through a mental list of his; forest hippies, ocean freaks, ol’-timey anti-Vietnams, anti- establishment, anti-bomb, anti-homophobic, equal-rights loving electric car-driving Australians, seemingly an endless list of people that his father knew through one way or another. He was a bit exhausting. Every few days he would approach with some new hippy to talk about, confused about whether to choose Susan McDuff, the pro-choice campaigner or Lenny Brown, former motorcycle gang head-turned politician. Eventually I had to put my foot down and tell him we MUST choose.

A week after the assignment was handed out, we were at his dad’s apartment, with me sitting on the edge of their sofa precariously, trying not to spill any of my soda, with his dad (“Call me Alan”)’s folk record from the seventies blaring. Rob refused to turn the volume control down below 13. I wanted to impress this guy, so I was nodding along like I thought music fans did, every now and again anxiously looking over at him sitting cross-legged on the floor amongst a mess of paper. His tongue was poking out as he carefully cut out, arranged and re-arranged newspaper clippings onto our presentation board. “Now all we need is our interview!” he said brightly.

His father came in and turned a song up. A big, booming, male voice spoke over the stereo.
“Australia’s answer to Bob Dylan” Alan grinned.
“That’s it!” yelped Rob suddenly. “We could interview Kev!”
“Kev?” I turned to Rob. He ignored me.
“I don’t know, kid…I know him, but, he’s a busy man. I’m not sure he’d be willing to help a high school project.” He pushed his full-moon glasses up his nose as he peered down at Rob.
“I’ll do the dishes for a week!” Rob spluttered.
Rob’s dad grinned, despite himself. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Rob whooped.

So, that’s how I found myself, a week later, travelling in a car driven by Rob’s dad, to meet Kev Carmody. Rob had gotten sick over the week so there he was, unrepentantly stuck in bed with strict instructions from his dad to “REST!”, and snotty tissues surrounding him. Just before we left, Rob sniffily offered up his research notes and questions while showing a sudden interest in the pot plant beside his bed. He played with it as he mumbled something akin to “Have a good day” as he played with it. I beamed. “You too! I mean….as much as you can! Yeah…” Alan coughed in the hallway.
It was the heat of summer, and the countryside flowing past the open windows of the 4-wheel drive seemed to match my mood. The drier and drier the land outside got, the drier my mouth got. Soon I could hardly see any sprinkle-enhanced green and blotched sidewalks, just various shades of yellow-green and iridescent blue of the sky. Judging by the dust that was being picked up and thrown into the wind by the tyres, the ground was getting redder, too. I put my hand out of the window, riding the wind, but stopped. What a cliché! “This will certainly get you in the mood to talk to talk to Kev!” Alan yelled over the sound of the motor. I just laughed. Man, I felt sick.

We arrived, bumping along towards what looked like a collection of shacks. “Kev Carmody lives here?” I exclaimed “This looks like no place for a rock star.” “Kev Carmody is not a rock star.” Alan opened my door “He’s a folk singer”. I jumped out from the high seat to the dirty ground. A red mist came up to my ankles. “Ugh” I said involuntarily “This isn’t a good start.” A round-faced Aboriginal man with a red headband tied around his head approached us. “Hi, I’m Kev” he said to me, shaking Alan’s hand and then mine. “Now, let’s get cracking, shall we?” he said, a grin splitting across his face. “We can head over to the Inn”. I followed in his footsteps as Alan fell into step beside him, two old friends catching up on shared conquests. I was amazed at Kev’s clothes; they looked like real, old pioneering clothes, but actually used, as opposed to those stiffly starched collars of the British you saw in black and white photos.

We pulled up pockmarked chairs in the wood-paneled inn –it reminded me of a saloon. I half expected Clint Eastwood to arrive, guns blazing.
“Would you like some tea, dear?” Kev asked me
“Do you have Earl Grey?”
“We sure do!” Kev grinned. “Barkeep, an Earl tea and a soda, please” The bartender nodded. “What would you like, Al?” Kev added.
“I’ll get something for myself, you guys have fun…I’ll be over there in the corner if you need me” Alan headed over to the bar and had himself poured a long, cold beer. My eyes followed him.
“Bit of a card, that one.” Kev chuckled. “So! What would to ask me? Ask away” Kev relaxed back into his chair.

I killed time by asking general questions, and sneaking looks at Rob’s painstakingly thought-out queries every now and again. “Where did you grow up?” “When did you decide you want to become a singer?” and, “What, in your opinion, has the most recent economic policies effect been on the sub-standardisation of the Aboriginal race, and the representation of them in today’s media?” I knew I only had half an hour to go before I could, respectfully, call off the interview. The wooded inn was giving me the creeps. Kev, however, wheedled out of me that yes, it was a social justice project my friend and I were working on. “Tell you what, I’ll tell you a story” he said. I looked up, surprised, and made eye contact with him for the longest since I’d got there. His eyes were shining.

“There was a woman who lived in London in the 1780’s. She was 20, so, not much older than you. She was engaged to be married to this guy called Thomas Miller, who, it had to be said, was more of a movement on the part of her parents, than on hers. She loved kids, she wanted to teach, but it was looking like she would just be a wife and mother, and nothing more. She consoled herself by thinking she could teach her kids, behind enough closed doors, mind you. So, she was very keen to get on with this engagement, and get married. But something would set her back several months on this intention. Her husband-to-be, who her parents were so keen to marry her to, as they were a lower-middle working class family, and he was moving up in the ranks,! Well, he made a surprise exclamation to this woman and her family. He had been called up to go to this new land called Australia, with the other Marine Corps officers, to start a new penal colony there.

Well, this woman had no choice but to go, didn’t she? Thomas kept raving about exploration and service to their country, ya de ya de yah, and it kind of infected her. She would repeat a stoic chant many times during the 8 month journey to Australia; exploration, service to country. She was on board with hundreds of convicts; most for what we would now call menial charges, mind. She thought they must be ecstatic to have life sentences or death penalties transferred to seven or fourteen years, and a new country! A new start for them. She had no sense of challenge or opposition to the system, what was the norm. She just accepted it. And Thomas, Thomas could look after her. Well, that was what she was telling the other woman in the free-woman section, how she couldn’t wait to settle down on a nice patch of land with him.

It was a shock to finally arrive in Australia. She had sent 8 months on the ship and she couldn’t imagine life without the rocking seas-they had become a sort of comfort. The first bay they pulled into seemed tantalizingly close, viewed on board the ship, but like a mirage on the horizon, never touched. They soon moved on to another bay, more suitable, farther along the coast, and this one they did disembark at. It soon got the name of Port Jackson, and because of the hustle and bustle of the new settlement, she was in the unique position of being an unmarried woman being put in a house by herself, and having some servants thrown at her. Her husband-to-be stayed in the barracks with the other marines. Waiting to be married, she was cut off, as the other, married, woman put about the rumour that she was a harlot. She grew into a sort of reckless independence; the worst had been said about her already. She started talking to and befriending the servants. The ones that trusted her told her stores of the penal colony; how drastically low on food they actually were, how, if workers choose not to obey orders, they would be put in leg braces or flogged publically. She had seen what the marines called the natives, little brown faces of more curious children appeared sometimes. She had never seen people so dark.

There was a school for children began by one of the priests who had come over from England, and she decided to ask around and see if she could help there. One of her servants told her it was a school for convicts and aboriginals children. Those that wanted to move up in life, they were being brought up as Protestants. In appearance, anyway. That was the whole colony. They were all, on sight, Protestants. She went to this school one day, and met Keith, an aboriginal teacher who had quickly become ingrained to the ways of his colonisers. They started working together, all hours. He was gentle, and kind, to the kids. Soon, she began to adore him, and him her. They had many talks exploring each other’s roots and what they wanted to do. “It’s a new country, we could do anything!” He would always say to her. He never wanted to go back to the old ways. Until that is she went to the school one morning, and saw Keith sitting on the verandah, clutching a bottle of spirits. His right eye was black, and there was blood matted into his hair. Some of the Marine Corps had gotten him blind drunk, and then he set upon him. He stayed there for the day. She asked her fiancé, Thomas about this, and he laughed and said he’d “seen it”. A few weeks later the woman and Keith ran away and settled somewhere remote.”

Kev looked down at the dregs of his soda, and placed the bottle on the table.
“Did that give you enough material for your social justice project?” Kev smiled “I think it’s always good to start local, and know the social justice of the area”
“Wow “I said, staring at him “That woman was so brave…. Who was she?”
“That was my grandmother” Kev said quietly.

Well, my social justice project ended up being different from what I thought. I researched the colonization in Australia aboriginal history, Rob ended up ditching class that day and I learnt the basic chords to play on guitar to the class “Thou Shall Not Steal”.


In 1788 down Sydney Cove
The first boat-people land
Said sorry boys our gain’s your loss
We gonna steal your land
And if you break our new British laws
For sure you’re gonna hang
Or work your life like convicts
With chains on your neck and hands

CHORUS
They taught us
Oh Oh Black woman thou shalt not steal
Oh Oh Black man thou shalt not steal
We’re gonna civilize
Your Black barbaric lives
And teach you how to kneel
But your history couldn’t hide
The genocide
The hypocrisy to us was real
’cause your Jesus said
you’re supposed to give the oppressed
a better deal
We say to you yes whiteman thou shalt not steal
Oh ya our land you’d better heal

Your science and technology Hey you can make a nuclear bomb
Development has increased the size to 3,000,000 megatons
But if you think that’s progress
I suggest your reasoning is unsound
You shoulda found out long ago
You best keep it in the ground

Job and me and Jesus sittin’
Underneath the Indooroopilly bridge
Watchin’ that blazin’ sun go down
Behind the tall tree’d mountain ridge
The land’s our heritage and spirit
Here the rightful culture’s Black
and we sittin’ here just wonderin’
When we get the land back

You talk of conservation
Keep the forest pristine green
Yet in 200 years your materialism
Has stripped the forests clean
A racist’s a contradiction
That’s understood by none
Mostly their left hand hold a bible
Their right hand holds a gun

Nick's Final Rewrite for American History X

Before I begin I would like to give a background of this piece because while it is quite famous, not many people have seen or know of its existence. The film I am rewriting is one called ‘American History X’ and I decided on this piece because of its relevance in modern times. While many texts focus on post colonial prejudices that took place hundreds of years ago, ‘American History X’ is an extremely powerful film which highlights and brings attention to racism, neo-Nazism and xenophobia in America in today’s world. It is about Derek Vinyard (played by Edward Norton) who is a self confessed member of the white power movement in Los Angeles and his younger teenage brother, Danny (Edward Furlong), who narrates the film and seems to be following in Derek’s footsteps. In the film Derek shoots and kills two black men who are trying to steal his car and it explores his three years in prison as he comes to the realisation that everything he believes is a lie as well as following his life once he is released and his mission to get Danny out of the environment he was once part of. My rewrite is an extension of the film; at the end of the movie Danny is shot and killed by a black teenager at his school, which is a sad irony as Derek has just made him realise the errors of their ways. My rewrite will focus on Derek’s future as a councillor in a juvenile prison where he works to re educate teenage boys destined to become what he was in the sense of white power movements, I will be writing in first person from Derek’s point of view. I realise that this piece and film deals with some pretty horrendous themes but I think it is important to bring an awareness to it because as sick as it is, it is part of the world and if it can be combated, the better this world would be. Also here is a link to the trailer of the film.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXaZENPQrsw

American Future: Derek’s Redemption

Ten Years Later

I awoke to my alarm clock yelling at me. Reaching across my body and rolling on my side, I shut the noise off and stared at the digital red 6:00 flashing back at me. The first thing that came to my mind was Danny. It has been ten years since he had been taken away from us but Danny was the always the first I thought about when got up. But I didn’t remember him as when I last saw him. I didn’t remember holding him in my arms, his body pierced with bullets, lifeless, as his blood soaked my shirt and as I screamed in agony on the bathroom floor of Venice Beach High. No, I didn’t remember him like that at all, even though that image had haunted me so many mornings before. When I awoke I remembered Danny’s cheeky grin flashing up at me, his eyes that used to dance with excitement and his laugh, oh that laugh, so infectious you couldn’t help but laugh with him even if you didn’t have a clue what was so funny. I smiled to myself as I remembered his laugh, I always did and that included the times in which I cried.

Slipping out of bed, I made my way to the bathroom for a quick shower before Ally got up. It was just us two now; Davina had moved to Washington and pursued a career with the Democrats just like we all knew she would, such a smart one that girl; and Doris? Well the smokes had finally claimed Mum, she said Danny had once told her that he would grow his hair back the day she quit smoking but Danny never got that chance. Stepping out the shower and wrapping a towel around my waist and stood on the freezing bathroom tiles and the cold shot through my body, mixing and cooling my body heat from the shower. As I stood on those tiles, I stared at my reflection through the misty, steam-filmed mirror. A Swartz sticker glared back at me from the left hand side of my chest. They had ways of removing tattoos nowadays but I would never get rid of it. It was a reminder. A reminder of who I was, who I had become and what it had cost me in the ultimate loss of my brother. All the other tattoos remained as well; the iron cross, the eagle, the words ‘white power,’ all reminders that I could not erase my past but that could better my future, my community, my world.

Ally was now the same age as Danny was when I was sent to prison. Smart like him, she had the same inquisitive hazel eyes and the same cheeky smile. She didn’t go to Venice Beach High like we did; I had instead enrolled her in a private girl’s school on the other side of town. The tuition was expensive but I worked long hours and it was better than her having to endure years in a building her brother had died. Pulling up to the front of the school, she started to go for the door,

“Hey!” I yelled.

Ally turned back and looked at me.

“Sorry, I forgot,” she replied and reached over giving me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I held her tight for a little longer and then let her go. It was something we did every time we left each other. Even though she could hardly remember Danny, she still felt the loss I did and it was important to us to have that hug, it was our thing. Restarting the engine, I sat there and watched Ally in my rear view mirror until she disappeared from sight. I did that every time as well, as long as she was in my sight, I had to know that she was safe.

The drive to work was long. Located an hour outside Venice Beach, Aldridge Juvenile Detention Centre contained the worst of the worst. It was the Chino of Juvi, the place where kids of the most horrific crimes went, the place of hate. But this is what drove me; helping people is hard but helping people who don’t want to be helped is even harder. It was my mission to make that difference and no matter what, I wouldn’t give up. Some have asked me, ‘what was the point?’ Kids don’t listen; they’re a law unto themselves. That always amused me, I thought, ‘what? So adults listen?’ Of course the answer was ‘no’ and the adults in Chino were too far gone and I didn’t feel safe in that environment considering my past. There’s an old saying, ‘cut off the head and the body will die.’ Well, that may be true, but I came from the reversed point of view, ‘starve the body and leave the head twitching.’ That was my aim, to get to these kids while they were still young, while they still had the mind to relearn, so the body couldn’t grow and feed the ignorant, hate inspired head which drew its minions. A wise man once said that we cannot completely destroy evil, but we can keep it at bay and that was my intention. I’m not going to save everyone, I’m no Jesus. Not that I saw it as saving. Saving implies that people are already lost. No, my role was more of a facilitator. I knew that goodness was in these boys; they just needed a shove in the right direction.

Turning off the freeway, I drove down the familiar gravel road leading to Aldridge. The centre was still more than a k away but already I could see the domineering monstrosity that passed as a home. I was not that it was uncomfortable or anything, these kids had it way better than when I was in Chino, it was just how it looked from the outside. Built at the turn of the century, Aldridge Juvenile Detention Centre stands tall and dark, made of jagged, misshapen stone which always looked wet. Just imagine a 16^th century English castle and you’ll get the idea. The building was formally known as Aldridge Penitentiary and housed from the most violent of criminals to the petty thieves. However with time comes change and of course a growing population. As humans increased in numbers and the likes of gangs began to become more sophisticated, Aldridge Penitentiary became too small for the criminal sect of Los Angeles. Through the fundamental basics of economics, supply met demand and Chino was erected, opening its doors for its most loyal patrons. Aldridge then closed for a number of years until, with the irony of history; Los Angeles needed a bigger space to house its wayward teens. In the late 80’s Aldridge was reborn and this time it was swallowing up younger cliental.

Finally I reached the end of the gravel road and turned left into the staff car park. Pulling into a spot, I cut the engine, grabbed my briefcase and stepped out into the consistent Californian sun. If case you’re wondering; it don’t rain in LA. Walking up to the security gate I tapped on the bullet proof window of Madden’s box. Officer Madden pulled his eyes away from a different kind of box and looked over his shoulder at me,

“Morning, Sam,” I called.

Madden scowled and pushed a button releasing the security gate.

“Why you gotta disturb me?” he grumbled, “you know you could just use your access card.”

“Oh but then I wouldn’t get to see your pretty face now then would I? Highlight of my day you know,” I replied smiling.

Madden muttered something under his breath something that sounded like ‘twat’ and turned back to whatever daytime, cable drivel he was rotting his brain with; probably something along the lines of Dr. Phil meets Fear Factor or whatever ridiculous muck they were churning out these days and the affect was clear on his IQ. Why didn’t I use a security card? It was simple; because I chose not to have one. Call me cautious cat, but I don’t think an unarmed councillor is the best person to carry a ‘freedom key’ in the vicinity of adolescent inmates; but that’s just me. So this concluded my routine morning conversation with Sam and I walked through the security gate on my way to the main building. Stepping through the doors, I waved greetings to the officers I saw and made my way to my office. I had only sat down for five minutes when there was a knock at my door.

“It’s open,” I called out and in came Warden Hughes.

“How are you today, Derek?” he asked.

I looked at him with a curious stare, “who do we have, sir?”

I always knew when the Warden was bringing me a newbie; he always asked me the very same thing before telling me so. Warden Hughes was not a man of expression but he gave me a subtle, awkward smile as if to guess I was making a joke.

“New kid,” he replied.

“Name’s Jeremy Owens, fourteen, armed robbery and assault. Oh and right up your alley,” he added.

“How’s that?”

“Take a look for yourself,” he said, dropping a manila folder on my desk.

Opening the file, I stared at a mug shot of skinny white kid with a head shaved to the skin like mine had been once before. Flicking through the sheets of paper I came across another photo, this one of a tattoo; an iron cross protruding from the inside of the boys forearm. I looked up at the Warden.

“How long?”

“All his life. Reckon he’s being a solider since birth, but that’s what they all say. I had a look into it, seems like only a six months or so.”

The Warden then turned and exited the office to leave me to my thoughts. I leant back in my chair and pondered the necessary course of action to take. After a few minutes, I picked up the phone and called through to the front desk.

“Hi, Marlene, it’s Derek. Could you check out the schedule for an inmate for me? Inmate 785344. Yeah, Owens, that’s the one. Available at 2:30 is he? OK. Can you get one the officers to bring him down to my classroom then? Excellent, thanks Marlene.”

I hung up the phone. Yes, it does sound strange for a prisoner to have a schedule, but these are still kids we were dealing with and kids, prison or not, still had to go to school. 2:30 was fine with me anyway. It gave me time to look into this kid in a little more detail and decide what method to use on him. Based on his age and short term affiliation; I was thinking ‘shock value’ would be the way to go and then some good old fashioned re-education.

2:30 came quickly and before I knew it I had a new student in my classroom. It was big for two people but my office would not accommodate the resources I needed to do my work. Also, I only worked one on one. I found this way was easier; you couldn’t have a group egging each other on; especially when it came to the seriousness of the themes involved.

Jeremy Owens was your typical teenager and then again, obviously, he was not. Skinny and with a shaved head, he possessed the same detest for authority as any other inmate at Aldridge and expressed this with a sneering facade. We sat in silence for a while, him at a student’s desk and me directly opposite him, my rear end parked on the front of the teacher’s desk. We did not speak a word and as the time passed I could tell he was becoming more uncomfortable, more edgy, but most of all, he was becoming unsure of himself; which is exactly what I wanted.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he exclaimed, his uncertainty reaching its climax.

“You’re here because your ideologies are being brought into question.”

“My what?”

“Your ideologies, your doctrine, your beliefs,” I replied.

To this, Jeremy sniggered.

“What’s wrong with my beliefs?”

“Well, you tell me. Seems like you’ve gone through some changes in the half year, am I right?”

“What are you talking about?”

Standing up, I made way round the desk and pulled open one of the draws. Removing a book, I made way back to where Jeremy was sitting and dropped the text in front of him. Jeremy looked down at the copy of Mein Kampf.

“Care to explain that?” I asked.

“It was found in your cell.”

“So? Can’t read, can I?” he snarled back.

“How long have you been part of the movement?”

“No of your business. Anyway, why do you care?”

“Because I’m here to show you what a dangerous path you’re travelling down.”

Jeremy began to laugh, “Yeah, you? What? A pen pusher for the pigs, what makes you so bloody qualified?”

With this statement, I walked staunchly up to him, ripping off my tie and unbuttoning my shirt. Standing before him, my chest bare, I pointed to the Swartz sticker embedded in my flesh.

“That’s what makes me so bloody qualified,” I said coolly.

That whipped the smirk from the adolescents face. I re buttoned my shirt and tucked it into my pants.

“So made you join the white power movement?” I asked him.

Jeremy face contorted with anger.

“Black guys reckon they can walk all over us. Robbing us blind and laughing in our faces. Same with the Spics and the Chinks, if it ain’t white it ain’t right,” he said smiling at his clever little rhyme.

“What about Jews?” I asked.

“They’re the same,” he answered. “Bunch of money grubbing, lying bastards.”

“Oh, really?” I replied. “But what about the fact that they’re white?”

“Yeah but...”

“It doesn’t matter what you’re about to say. The fact of the matter is they are white. You’d think you’d need their help with your support not having mammoth proportions.”

Jeremy stayed silent but I could tell his mind was beginning to tick. With this I pushed my advantage.

“You mentioned Latinos and Asians or Spics and Chicks as you so delicately put it. What’s the problem?”

Of course I knew what he was going to say but I let him speak anyway. A key part of my re education process was to let the student say what they thought and then for me to counter and make them see how ridiculous their arguments actually were. His answer did not disappoint.

“The Spic come in here illegally and steal real Americans jobs,” he answered. “And the Chinks, Koreans and stuff come in and get a green card with it. Pisses me off even more.”

“So you have a problem with immigrants? That’s pretty dumb.”

“How’s that dumb?” he shot back.

“Don’t you know immigrants made this country? Mine and your ancestors were immigrants themselves and it wasn’t too long ago either.” I reasoned.

“These immigrants you despise are the people who keep this country ticking over and they do it for some pretty lousy wages as well.”

Jeremy frowned. It seemed my words were having their desired effect. I continued to press, pushing my agenda further.

“But the crux of the matter is, your racism is largely directed at black people. Well let me ask you this: What happens when their mixed blood? Black and white? They’re not one or the other so to hate their blackness makes you justified but to hate their whiteness makes you a hypocrite.”

I could see that this had really stumped the boy and knew he was now beginning to question himself.

Placing a pad and pen on Jeremy’s desk I turned and switched on one of my most important pieces of equipment; the projector. But it was not one of those fancy ones you hook up to the computer; no, the state couldn’t afford pricey things like those. Anyway I preferred it this way; it was more authentic. Clicking in the first slide, a picture of Martin Luther King snapped into view.

“You know who this is?”

“I dunno,” Jeremy replied. “Some black dude.”

I smiled. This was what I encountered most of the time; ignorance. Ignorance of the unknown, however education could soon see that right.

“Yes, he was some black dude. He also led the civil rights movement so that African Americans could be free of injustices and segregations.”

“Looking after his own kind then?” Jeremy retorted.

“Yes and no. What he strived for was equality, equality of all man no matter their race, religion or sexual orientation. He was a man of peace and man of love.”

“I want you to write me a paper on Martin Luther and his life and journey. Write down these references as I give them to you; it’ll help with the research and you can get what you need from the prison library.”

As reluctant as he seemed, Jeremy wrote down the books as I dictated them.

“Alright, you may leave Mr Owens.”

Jeremy got out of his seat, picked up the pad and made his way to the door. As he reached it, I called out to him.

“Mr Owens”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to leave with this simple question a great man once asked me: Has anything you’ve done made your life better?”

Jeremy looked at me, frowned and exited the room. I now could really see the penny was starting to drop with this one but he still needed nurturing. It didn’t usually take solely one lesson to bring the boys around but I would get there in the end although there was never a guarantee I would succeed. But I would try and try again to work and improve this boy like many I had before and the many that would be sure to come. All for a better future, all for an American future.