Smoke On the Water

I’d waited for this moment all week.

Over the past two years or so I’ve been leading a guitar class for incarcerated youth at the Metro Regional Youth Detention Center. Every Thursday from 3-4:30, I meet with three to six incarcerated boys ranging in age from 12 to 20, teaching them guitar.

When I first began this class, I didn’t know how to play guitar. I’ve learned right along with my students. I’m not half-bad (my roommate who hears me practice would argue otherwise – thanks bro!).

C (name redacted) was one of my first guitar students. He learned for six months or so until he was transferred to another youth facility. He’d played in his middle school’s band and had some natural talent. C was a quick learner and became my star student. About three months ago, C was transferred back to Metro and he resumed his lessons. He still remembered how to play Ode to Joy from over a year ago. He became the star student once again.

C had finally progressed to the point where he was ready for the next step – the switch to electric guitar. For two weeks, I brought our amp and electric guitar for him to play. For two weeks, the guard refused to unlock the closet that had a working outlet. She kept saying she didn’t have a key. It was a lie. We all knew it. But we couldn’t complain. We continued with our acoustic lessons.

Finally, I’d had enough. I ordered a battery powered portable amp for us to use. No guard could stop us this time. We were going electric.

I was so excited for C.  

I tuned the guitars while waiting for the boys to be let out of their cells. They came bounding down the stairs, eager to play. They grabbed their guitars and took their usual spots in our circle. But one guitar remained on the rack – C’s. I asked the other boys where he was.

“Transferred. Don’t know where. Left this morning.”

I wanted to swear I was so angry. All that work, all those lessons, all that investment, seemingly wasted. And to make things worse, C was eligible for release. He had been this entire time. His mom wouldn’t pay his bail, so he languished in the Center. Rumor had it that she was an adult film star. She definitely had the money. Yet he was stuck, wasting his days away in a chaotic, dangerous environment.

The boys could barely pay attention that day. Across the room from me, one boy sat for over an hour, mindlessly chatting away into the wall-mounted phone. We had ten minutes of class left when he walked up to me.

He is what we call a “shotcaller.” I suspect he’s a high-ranking gang member. No one’s allowed to use the phone uninterrupted for that long. They all must take turns and someone hogging the phone for duration of the whole recreation period would normally result in violence.

“Can I play?” he asked politely.

“You ever play before?” I asked.

“Nope. But I been watching.”

“No you haven’t.” I was in a sour mood. “You’ve been on the phone when you could have been sitting here learning.”

He gave me some excuse. I just wanted to go home. Only ten minutes left.

He picked up C’s guitar. He began to play. Smoke on The Water. 

He had been watching. It wasn’t perfect, but for a newcomer, it was the best I’d seen.

The other boys were being locked back in their cells. He kept playing, over and over, smiling in wonder at the music he made. The guard yelled at him to hurry up. He told her he would be up there when he was ready. She complied. Like I said, a shotcaller.

I handed him the electric guitar. I turned the amp’s volume and distortion up. It made a piercing, heavy-metal sound. His face erupted in delight. He kept playing. I tapped my foot along, thinking of the day and all its frustrations. I gave thanks for this small moment of joy.

As the facility’s doors banged shut behind me, I thought of C. I prayed that he was safe. I prayed that he knew that if he ever got sent back to Metro, HeartBound would be there waiting for him. I prayed that they had a guitar wherever he was. I prayed he could make music.

Have a blessed day.