I’ve often wondered why prisoners are some of the most creative people I know. Granted, I may have a distorted perspective because I’ve been incarcerated since I was seventeen years old, and I’m now forty-three. So most of the people I’ve ever known are prisoners, but it seems like a disproportionate percentage of them are highly creative compared to the general population. Prisons are full of extremely talented artists, musicians, singers, poets, writers, inventors, tinkerers, incredible chess players, legal minds, and a multitude of other skilled and talented people. Why? Why do so many highly creative people end up in prison?
I, myself, was an extremely independent and inquisitive child, always needing to know why, always needing to know how things worked, dismantling and reassembling things. I needed a reason for everything and could be excessively obstinate if told to just believe or do something without good reason.
I was nine when we moved to a small town in East Texas with more cows than people. I didn’t fit in and almost immediately became an outsider, a non-conformist, a rule-breaker.
“Welcome to parent-teacher night at ______ ______ school, where we want to encourage our students to be creative and independent thinkers.”
Oh, really? When my mother was repeatedly called because I was always drawing in class, she didn’t understand why it was such a problem.
“Is he doing his assignments?”
“Yes, ma’am, but it is distracting.”
“How is it distracting if he is sitting there quietly drawing?”
“It is distracting to the teacher.”
“How is it distracting the teacher?”
“Because he is not paying attention to her.”
“But if he is completing his assignments, then he must be paying attention!”
“It’s disrespectful to the teacher.”
“Why are you always so hard on my son if he’s not disrupting class or bothering anyone?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard on him if you sent him to my Sunday school class at my church.”
The outsider kid who is a little different winds up in a few fights with ‘the good kids’ who go to church and bully others, gaining a ‘reputation’ as a trouble-maker amongst teachers and school officials. Those teachers and officials all attend the same churches and local functions as local police who naturally view outsiders with suspicion… and now need to keep an eye on that kid with a reputation as he is a trouble-maker in school. That same kid is then labeled as defiant and disrespectful of authority when he refuses to submit to corporal punishment at school because: one, ‘you’re not gonna hit me and get away with it‘; two, the blatant hypocrisy of ‘I’m gonna hit you to teach you a lesson that fighting is unacceptable’; and three, even at that age I found it supremely creepy for a grown man to bend pubescent boys over a chair and spank them with a giant wooden paddle. You’re refusing swats? Okay, you’re staying after school for detention.
“Why are you drawing in detention? You’re supposed to be doing homework!”
“I don’t have any homework.”
“Don’t lie to me! Everyone has homework!”
“I finished it in class.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy, or I’ll give you more detention for insubordination!”
“What? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
More detention – which I refuse to attend on principle. It gets doubled… tripled… quadrupled. Which I find amusing… and get suspended… then assigned to alternative school for the remainder of the semester… where I breeze through my assignments and get into more trouble for drawing in class.
I finally return to regular school where an English teacher tells me, “You’re so smart and talented, but you’re not applying yourself.” So, I apply myself on a creative writing project only to be accused of plagiarism because, well, there’s just no way that rebellious little turd wrote that! More detention… for ‘cheating’ on an assignment. Seriously. For doing my assignment too well? Why bother anymore? More detention for refusing to do assignments. Lah-de-fucking-dah. More alternative school for refusing to attend detention. More problems at home because I’m ‘getting in trouble at school’. I come to hate school and start skipping it.
At some point Mom gets exasperated with all of it. “Why can’t you just be like other kids?! Why can’t you just do what they tell you to do?”
“Because it’s dumb. It serves no purpose, and I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I know. But it will make things so much easier for you if you just go along with it and do as you’re told.”
“Why is that a good reason to do something I disagree with?”
“What is wrong with you? Why are you so stubborn?”
Eventually they convince her that there might be something wrong with me. “What is wrong with you?” I stare at the floor and mumble that I don’t know. “If you don’t know, then who does?!” I continue to stare at the floor and shrug. “Look at me!” But no matter how hard I try, my burning eyes quickly resume studying the pattern weave of the carpet. “Why can’t you look at me? What is wrong with you?”
At some point I’m convinced that there is something wrong with me. I ponder this confusing question incessantly until it is internalized among all the other confusions I cannot yet unravel at that age.
“Are you even listening to me?”
How do I explain that my mind often wanders and pieces things together on its own while my attention remains captivated by something as simple as the gleam of light on the metal sleeve that joins pencil and eraser, studying how to recreate that metallic effect in a drawing? Do you really expect an eleven or twelve year old to understand how their mind works or be able to explain it?
“There is something wrong with you. You must be crazy or on drugs.” (Not yet!) “Why did you do that?!”
“Because I was…”
“Did you do it or not? Yes or no? I don’t want excuses!”
“I’m trying to explain!”
“Don’t talk back to me! What is wrong with you? Do as I say, not as I do. Because I said so. Don’t you dare look at me that way!”
I silently wonder – what way? Is it the confusion that bothers you? The pain? Or the contempt?
“What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you?!”
What is wrong with me? Why am I so different? Why do I always feel alone even among friends? Why is it that the only time I’m at peace is when I’m drawing or writing? Except now my drawings grow increasingly disturbing, and I often destroy them. The same with my writing. I destroy it before anyone reads my innermost thoughts, the ones preoccupied with despair and misery. I destroy it before they have evidence that something truly is wrong with me. Destroy it all. Destroy everything and withdraw farther into myself.
“Ma’am, have you considered taking him to a psychologist?”
“Ma’am, I think our son has ADHD and needs to be on medication.”
Hey, kid, take your meds. Take your drugs. Take drugs so people will like you, so they will accept you, because there is something wrong with you that drugs will fix. People don’t like you unless you take your drugs because who you are is unacceptable, not good enough.
“Doctor, the Ritalin isn’t working!”
People fear what they don’t understand. Now my own parents are afraid of me. “Son, you can’t live here anymore, we don’t want you here. We’re going to put you somewhere where you can get the help you need…” somewhere that you’ll be beaten and hospitalized twice, sexually abused, and placed on Thorazine because nothing transforms a confused thirteen-year-old boy into a drooling obedient little zombie like horse tranquilizers! At least until insurance runs out and stops paying for the institutionalization. (Yes, my thirteenth birthday was a suicidal tendencies song.)
Nowhere else to go but home (if you can call it that), even though they don’t want me there. But if I run away, they report me to the police. Now the police are always looking for me because I’m a ‘troubled kid’.
“Take your meds! Why aren’t you taking your meds?” Why do I need to be on drugs for people to like me? Or to like myself? Is that even me? Hmmm… I wonder what those drugs are like? The drugs don’t fill the void, I simply no longer care about it, no longer care about all the confusion in my head from all the fears, shame, and self-doubt I‘ve internalized; numb that pain; it’s easier to be numb, to shut off all my emotions and pretend I don’t care about anything. It doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a bus anyhow. At least I’m accepted by others, even if I can’t accept myself. I can at least tolerate myself from one day to the next.
I find myself drawn toward music and imagery that explores the angry dark depths within. It is safer and more cathartic than opening a vein. And less of a mess. And I haven’t quite succumbed to that demon yet, but it’s breathing down my neck. I no longer bother to conceal my drawings or writings; maybe it is a subtle cry for help or to be understood?
“Son, why are you drawing such vile things? You used to draw such beautiful things… now it is all darkness, death, pain, and depressing drawings. Stop drawing that stuff! Why are you listening to that kind of music? You’re not allowed to listen to that! You’re not allowed to draw that! You’re not allowed to express that! You’re not allowed to think that!” Yeah… because trying to control a highly creative but very confused and depressed nonconformist by dictating what they are allowed to think or how to express themselves is really going to work out well. Hmmm… maybe if you beat him into a bloody mess that will cure the anger and resentment, make him more submissive? And when the local cops see the bloody results and laugh about it, or a teacher tells that kid he probably deserved it, that won’t result in any further resentment or rage or lack of respect for authority, will it? Nahhh…
“Son, why are you so full of rage and self-destructive nihilism? Why don’t you care about anything? Why are you on drugs? What is wrong with you?!”
Is it really so difficult to figure out why so many highly creative people self-destruct and end up in prison? Does our culture really value highly creative kids who have difficulty conforming with the other ninety percent?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Aaron Striz is a first time writer for WITS, and he also won the most recent writing contest asking people to share what they felt was a significant factor in their incarceration. Aaron was a juvenile when he was first incarcerated and he is now in his forties – which gives him incredible insight. His ability to express that should go further than this creative writing platform, and would be beneficial in the field of social work as well as criminal justice.
Aaron Striz has also used his gifts to advocate for himself and those he lives with regarding issues such as solitary confinement. I feel it is important to note that Aaron was originally incarcerated at the age of 17, which would not be long after the experiences shared in this essay. Not long after his incarceration, he did try to escape and he has spent a great deal of his time in solitary confinement. He was sentenced to life, he won’t be eligible for parole until he has served thirty years, and although I am not familiar with his case, a quick search indicates there was no loss of life.
Aaron Striz can be contacted at:
Aaron Striz #838215
Wynne Unit
810 FM 2821
Huntsville, TX 77320
