Walking across the eerily quiet, water-logged grounds of YTC made me feel like Robinson Crusoe shipwrecked on a deserted island. People coming from other programmes inside the facility passed me like ships in the night. The guard sitting in the back of my classroom seemed surreal, like someone on a distant shore. My own students, who faithfully attended English class, felt more like apparitions than young men. They were distant and reluctant to trust anyone. But I had Friday. Bubbly and enthusiastic, Sydney Marc Friday claimed he wanted to be a singer and a writer. For that one true sentence exercise inspired by the great American novelist Ernest Hemingway, Friday wrote: "I will feel proud of myself when I complete this CXC English language exam."
Friday asked for books by Maya Angelou. I gave him I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings, Gather Together in My Name and Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now. He hugged his books and smiled. Friday wrote about his life: "My mother and father were poor people; therefore, I too was poor. My mother was an explorer and she loved to travel-I think that's where I got my liking for adventure. My life has been an exciting adventure. In 1994 I was carried away to England but because of my troublesome ways I was sent back to T&T. When I returned in the year 2000 I was hailed as the prodigal son. My favour was lost and soon after I fell into a trap.
"I made a critical decision in my life at age 12 that would eventually change my life forever. This decision took me on a trip that I would love, but also regret. Crime and jail were an inevitable part of the road I chose. I could never say that it was not my fault. I would never dare blame my parents-they weren't around enough to blame. It was my fault entirely. Maybe I was led astray or maybe I was just stupid. I might take a while to figure that out, but until then let's say my life was the most extraordinary expedition anyone could endure." Like all writers, Friday would fight loneliness. "Sometimes I sit-either by myself or in a crowd-and my mind goes places too far to carry anyone else. Maybe if I could carry at least one person he might like it.
Words could never completely express my thoughts or feelings. I tried to tell a friend (friend is so uncomfortable to say) how I was feeling once and he thought I was mad. Maybe I am. "Tears fail to come to my eyes sometimes. I want them to, but maybe they're all dried up and have become sodium chlorine crystals in my eyes. They might fall and one day hopefully unclog the passage way. I wish they would. "There are a lot of things to cry about inside this big caged 'place.' It's not so bad, but sometimes it bites hard. I can't remember the last time I heard 'cockle-doodle-doo': the sound of a rooster. I mean, that's not really any big, fascinating thing, but the simplicity is the attraction. Weird huh?
"I am going all over the place; so would you if you were here. My thoughts could never be entirely focused: There are so much things to think and at the same time so little. Anyway, I finally got rid of my boredom. Thank God for writing." Friday was always searching for love and acceptance. When I gave him this statement to analyse: "Not everyone is healthy enough to love you," Friday wrote: "I live in a crazy country and sometimes I love it. Then on other occasions I don't. Where I'm from it seems like it's forbidden to show your feelings. Like I would be called a woman if I do or I might lose a woman if I don't. Thanks to three years of life skills classes in YTC, I understand now that not everybody is mentally capable of showing love."
Friday's class work barely scratched the surface of his writing talent. Safely hidden inside his well-guarded notebooks were sizzling stories of his chaotic life; an epic poem about the journey of a nerd who falls from grace, and the beginning of a bittersweet novel about a strong woman who served as the spiritual centre of a poor, crime-ridden village. A deep, dark and daring writing style, raw and honest, gave Friday his voice. Friday ambushed a reader by slapping soft and harsh images together for breathtaking results. He knew how to pace a story, create complex characters and string together hair-raising conflicts. But Friday also had to write mundane summaries for the CXC English language exam. I tried to guide Friday in the direction of his exam. After all, I was his Crusoe.
"You have to practise writing summaries," I kept telling him. I wanted Friday to feel success; I wanted Friday to pass his exam. I often thought: what if such a talented, young writer had to feel like a failure because of a test that could never measure his true ability? This was my fear for Friday, and it haunted me.
• Next week: Marley and me: I and I do battle with it