If Walls Could Talk

Randall Charboneau

Waywaymegwun – Swaying Feather

With tear gas burning my eyes, the screaming sound of silence echoed off the cold steel walls. Just another murder, just another lock down, just another day. The irony is that there is no safety or security for the inmates in a violent maximum security institution if one is wanted dead. I was prisoner 596482B serving a sentence of seventeen years for robberies with violence, aggravated assault, and weapons.

Another morning upon me and plenty of time to pass, I said to myself why not try to draw something. I was tired of reading and watching the same old scenes filling the television screen. I remembered I had an old piece of Bristol board, stained with coffee, behind my desk. I pulled it out. I dusted off the tear gas that settled on my desk. With every move I made, the tear gas would rise to burn my eyes once again. As I sat there, wondering what to draw, I looked down at my tattooed arms. The images of skulls excited me, then. That was where I was at in my everyday thinking. I was a young man filled with anger and hatred. No one could comprehend what I felt. I hated the world. I hated myself. With pencil in hand, I slowly traced through the outline of a skull. Then as I continued to draw, I added whatever looked cool, whatever looked violent.

Outside my door, the Goon Squad appears, dressed like aliens in black bullet proof vests, hard helmets and goggles, shields, tear gas canisters at the ready. The door slides open six inches and a small brown lunch bag lands on the floor beside the toilet. Inside the bag is a squished bologna sandwich signed with the footprint of a guard’s boot, a badly bruised apple, and a warm, passed-date, small carton of sour milk. My meal for the rest of the day is served.

The final touch to my drawing was a border of barbed wire surrounding a bunch of skulls and bones. It was an image of a cemetery. It was my vision of what this prison looked like from within. Death surrounded me every moment. If only these walls could talk.

After weeks of being locked down, we were finally released to pursue our everyday life events in this world within a world. I had shown my friends what I had drawn and guys would say, “Wow man! Why don’t you do that on glass? That would look great!”

I thought about it and decided to go down to the purchasing clerk to order materials. I ordered six pieces of glass, frames, and special ink pens. My journey into the art world had begun. I traced, drew from memory, and created images that seemed to bring orders from people all around me. I become known as a great glass painter in this small prison world. I was proud; I had found something that passed my time. It supplied me with extra money to buy materials, increase my canteen spending, and buy my small pieces of hashish or a joint.

Time passed between numerous lock downs, murders, suicides, mini riots, and demonstrations. The anger within me grew. I became the cold steel walls that surrounded me. I lost hope. Who cares???!!!!

One day I returned to my cell from being out in the yard to discover my cell turned upside down. Photos of my family had been ripped in half. The guards had obviously searched my cell while I was outside. I was enraged!!!

I walked down to the tower and yelled at the guard who sat in there. “You bastards! There’s no need for that! “

“Someone’s going to pay for this!” I said to myself.

The next morning, the anger burning within me, I walked through the hallways on the way to my job within the prison. Someone was going to pay for destroying my cell. The Warden happened to be standing in the centre of the prison area, surrounded by eight guards watching the prisoners’ movement early Monday morning. I knew this Warden and he knew me. I was once on the committee that represented the prisoners. I recalled what he said to me one day. “If you ever have a problem, then tell me and hopefully we can work it out.” He was referring to problems with the general population, not individual problems. I walked through the metal detector and stormed between two guards standing in front of the Warden. ”Good morning, Mr. Charboneau.”

"It’s not a good morning! One of your goons went in my cell and ripped it apart on the weekend."

“Well, this is a maximum security institution.”

Instantly I felt insulted. First of all, I knew exactly where I was, and secondly, he had said it loudly in front of his guards to show his authority by belittling me.

“Is that right?” I pushed him away allowing me to get the space to punch him. The first punch landed on his nose, breaking it. He started to go down and with an upper cut I snapped his head upwards. Then there were hands and bodies grabbing, smothering me. I was pulled up by my hair and pushed against the wall. A set of handcuffs snapped my wrists together behind my back. Quickly I was escorted down to the segregation area, the Hole.

The lead guard looked at me. ”Charboneau! We have no problem with you, do you have a problem with us?” As they surrounded me.

“No, I got who I wanted” I said.

“We are going to take the cuffs off. If you get undressed so we can search you for weapons and then go directly into the cell, there will be no problems.” The guard said.

“OK.” And away I went.

I was charged for aggravated assault and received an extra five months. Then I was placed in the Special Handling Unit (the SHU) in Quebec. When you go to the SHU there is a label that attaches to you. I was now considered one of Canada’s most dangerous offenders. I was surrounded with Canada’s most dangerous men. “Killers.” Some killed one man, some killed many men. Mostly they bragged about how they enjoyed the look on their victims’ faces. They were to never see the outside of a prison. To bring excitement to their everyday state of boredom and hopelessness, they plotted to kill other inmates and rationalized their deeds.

I lived with these men and everyday we would spend hours together in a very small cement yard, training, boxing, running, and doing push ups. I knew I would have to get to their level of thinking in order to avoid becoming one of their victims. One day I confronted the boss of one of the crews, a dangerous man and a violent killer. He could clearly see the seriousness of my anger. “You’re a crazy guy,” he laughed, “there’s no problem.” That day I gained much respect from the rest of the guys.

I don’t remember the day, but I was walking back and forth passing the time. Suddenly, I stopped in the middle of the yard. It was like an aura had come over me. I looked up to the sky, then looked down and stared at the barbed wire fence. I said to myself, “Is this what you want with your life?”

“No!” I said to myself.

From that moment on my life took a drastic turn. I returned to my cell and as I sat on my bed, I flipped through a book in which I had written many poems. As I read them, I shook my head in disbelief seeing, for the first time, where my head and thoughts were at. In every poem, images of killing, death, and hatred. I ripped up that book and proceeded to go through my cell and get rid of any negative material.

In the following months, I ordered books on Native culture. I wanted to read about my Ancestors. I wanted to know what had happened to our people. I had to keep in mind that what I was reading was written by non-natives, and most of the accounts were probably very false. But yet I wanted to read about my Ancestors. One book stayed with me: Returning to the Teachings by Rupert Ross. The child on the cover of the book has no face, but I could see my face in that painting. Many years later, I would sit with Rupert and share this story with him,. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that sitting, talking and sharing with Rupert would be possible.

I was returned to a maximum security institution. I started going to Native Brotherhood meetings and Ceremonies--Sweat Lodge Ceremonies, Pipe Circles, and sitting many hours with the visiting Elders talking about our lives and Traditional Teachings.

I was sitting in a common room with a Native Brother, my best friend, watching him paint. He was an excellent artist and painted only Native themes that were spiritually based. My friend said to me that he had some extra paint and a few pieces of wood. I started drawing images of things I had felt while in the sweat lodge. My friend saw some of my images and encouraged me to paint them.

He showed me how to make my own canvas. We took my bed sheet and cut it in half. For many months, I never had sheets to sleep on. Then we retrieved a few pieces of wood and made a stretcher. After I soaked the bed sheet, I stretched it across the wood frame and stapled it. While it was still wet, I applied a coat of white latex paint and allowed it to dry. When that was dry, I added another coat which would become my primed canvas. I didn’t have a paint brush, but quickly realized that I could make my own, cutting a piece of my long hair with a broken shaving razor and then taping it to a pencil.

My first painting was with a brush made of my hair on a canvas made from the sheet on which I slept. The paint was stolen from the paint shop. The initial images to appear on my canvas excited me. These images were of common animals, mostly the Eagle and the Bear. Many of images to come were ceremonial. No skulls, no violence.

As time passed I was again transferred to a lower security setting where I had a lot more movement around the institution. I became involved in The Native Brotherhood and was recognized as the Spiritual Coordinator. My job was to coordinate Sweat Lodge Ceremonies, Visiting Elders and Helpers, Healing Circles, and Drumming Sessions. As my strength grew spiritually, my artwork became vibrant, colorful, and pure. Everyone wanted my work.

One day, the Ministry Chaplin, Sister Marilyn, asked if she could talk to me. She had heard about me from another Minister who happened to be part Native. Sister Marilyn invited me into her office and asked me if I was interested in reading a book. I thought it was going to be God’s Prison Gang in which I had no interest. To my surprise it was called Healing the Child Within. For the next year I read this book and did the exercises in it. As each night passed, I cried into my pillow like a child, releasing all the pain, guilt, and shame built up within me.

The journey of healing has many paths and many doorways. A year before I was released, I met a few wonderful women at Native Brotherhood Socials, all of whom were willing to help me when I got out. The time was near for me to be released on mandatory supervision. Sixteen years of prison life under my belt, one year on parole left.

Within two weeks of being released, I had an interview with the Executive Director of an Art Gallery, thanks to those women who had promised to help me. Carol Hill, the Director, knew of my situation and said she was willing to give me a chance. For the next two years I was the gallery coordinator. I was involved in everything. My personal life in the art scene had taken a turn for the better. It seemed that I had learned so much in so little time. Life was for the first time truly becoming real.

In three years, I had accomplished so much. I received an Emerging Artist Grant from the Ontario Arts Council; I exhibited in over twenty group and Solo Exhibitions. I was doing artist talks; I painted a wall mural inside a youth prison. The newspapers stared calling, wanting to do articles on me. The first was the Hamilton Spectator, the largest was the Toronto Star. They did a page and a half feature on me for Canada Day (2004). A video documentary was started. I made presentations to Police Foundation students at community colleges.

My life is changing again as I focus on working to heal the at-risk youth through story-telling and art. I was invited to tell my story to the youth at the Strict Discipline School in Brampton. These kids have been expelled from regular school due to criminal activity. They range in age from thirteen to eighteen. I continue talk with them regularly. Some visits are individual sessions with the kids who want to share their private stories. At other times I work with a group. I make presentations on my life and my art. I explain what the images represent to me, and my healing journey through life. I teach about the Native experience through Native images. This presentation leads to painting workshops where the kids talk about their images. I have gained their trust and I encourage them to express themselves through the arts and the images they create.

Just as the image on Rupert’s book represents for me the child returning to the teachings, I too am continuing to return to the teachings. And one of the main themes of my talks is about peeling away the layers and masks to find the child within. I was a child that did not know love, a child that was abused, a child that knew neglect by the adults I trusted. And as I move upward in my journey, I realize that sharing voice is important. It is vital to everyone’s healing experience. Along this way, one voice that needs to be heard is the voice of the person who has been victimized by the forms of behaviour I personified.

I feel for the people I have harmed, and I want so much to tell those I have harmed that I am truly sorry. I need them to know that I want to hear their voice, hear their story. For when we can hear, truly hear one another’s voice, the healing, restoration and transformation can honestly begin, for all of us. We all have our stories, be they sad or beautiful. They make us who we are.

If these walls could talk, they would tell the story of healing.

Randall Charboneau

Waywaymegwun – Swaying Feather