“It’s um, I’ll start with the keyboard,” she said, casting around for a piece of chalk.She found a small chunk on the floor beneath the blackboard.There was no eraser.
“The keys are arranged based on how frequently we’re going to use them, for the most part.Also, so that letters we often use one after another are spread out a little across the keyboard, so we avoid our fingers getting tied up.Here.”
She sketched out the keys on the blackboard.
“Kwerty?”someone piped up.Emily turned.
“What’s your name?”she asked the inmate.
“Betty.”
Emily smiled wryly.“I know a Betty.I’m sure you’ll be a better typist than she is.And yes, the top left row starts with Q, and we do actually call it the QWERTY keyboard.All the letters are there, plus punctuation.”
“What’s punc—punctulation?”Betty asked.Emily hesitated, surprised, then a little embarrassed at herself.She was going to need to cover off the basics here.She couldn’t assume these girls knew them.
“Uh, here,” she said, drawing a period, comma, colon, and question mark on the blackboard.“These symbols are punctuation.I’m sure you’ve seen them.We use them in writing, and typing, to convey certain information about the way the sentence is being said.A period means a sentence has ended, a comma is a brief pause, et cetera.”
A girl in the front row frowned.A couple of others were snickering.
“You use a lot of big words for a Mercer girl,” one of them said.
Emily shrugged.“I read a lot of books.”
“And those always get used when somebody writes?”another inmate piped up, pointing at the blackboard.She was sitting at the back of the room.
“A lot of the time, yes,” Emily said.She hadn’t intended to get into a basic English lesson.She examined the group; so many were young, not much older than Eliza, and Emily wondered then whether Eliza was literate.She knew she herself had had more opportunity than other women to stay in school, but it was a shock that so many clearly didn’t have even a basic education.She swallowed hard as an uncomfortable realization settled on her.This was actually what most women’s lives were like.She was privileged to know how to write and read and type.She never would have considered literacy a privilege.Until now.
“Why are you bothering with this?”Thelma drawled.She was slouched down low in her chair.
Emily fought to keep her contempt in check.“I just think…” She felt the entire group’s gaze on her now, penetrating and curious.Judgmental.“I mean, aren’t you all just bored to death?”she exploded.“Don’t you want to at least spend this hour doing something interesting?So much of what we do here is utternonsense.Cleaning floors that were cleaned by another shift fifteen minutes before, scrubbing each other’s clothes until our hands bleed on them and we have to start all over.”Her voice rose in anger.She thought of her grandmother again, and the words tumbled out.“My nana worked in a laundry for decades, working her body to the bone, and she could hardly spell her own name.I got to…uh…” She caught herself before she spilled about being university educated.“I got to finish high school, and learn how to type, because she wanted more for her daughter, and my mom wanted even more for me.So all I’m saying is it’s okay to want something more, toworkfor something more.Women’s opportunities are so limited, and I think it’s important to find them and grab them and try tomake something of themany timeyou get the chance.”She was breathing hard.“So if you want to leave this damn place knowing how to type, with a real skill, I’m willing to teach you.That’s all I’m saying.”
She glanced at Thelma, who rolled her eyes dramatically and sank even lower.Everyone else was quiet for a moment, and then several people nodded.Others still looked skeptical, or amused.Emily cleared her throat.
“We’re going to need paper,” she said.“So you can all—or anyone who wants to learn—have one of these ‘keyboards’ to practice on.There are only two actual typewriters,” she said, glaring at the dusty old Remingtons on top of a cupboard in the corner.No one had bothered to cover them, and who knew if the ink ribbons were fresh.But paper would suffice for now.
She managed to find a few sheets along with some crayons in the store cupboard.She tore the sheets in half so they would have enough, then distributed them, instructing each girl to copy the chart on the blackboard.She had spent so much time in classrooms her whole life, and it felt odd, though not unpleasant, to be on the teaching end now.But she was galvanized.She had enough for her article, and it vexed her that she couldn’t go home, hole up in her bedroom and hammer it out.She had to wait, she had to get healthy, and then she would blow the lid off this godforsaken place.In the meantime, maybe she could effect some kind of positive change in these women’s lives.
At the end of the class, Emily gathered the sheets and stuffed them, face down, into the back of the store cupboard until next time.
Based on my experiences to date of both the ineptitude and punitive disposition of the Mercer prison’s administrative staff, I felt compelled to conceal from the warden and matrons that the women were now actually learning the skill they were ostensibly meant to be acquiring during the unsupervised typing class hour.Only time would tell what their reaction would be if they were to find out about the clandestine education occurring right under their noses.
“Ow!”Emily gasped as a bead of blood bloomed on her index finger.She set down the offending needle and winced.
“Here, I’ll do it,” Gertrude said, leaning over to help with the sewing machine.They were on factory duty on a scorching afternoon at the end of August, baking in the sun that poured through the barred windows.It was a large open room, a little bigger than the dining hall, with rectangular tables set with outdated and mismatched sewing machines.The Mercer used the women’s labour to produce bedsheets; piles upon piles of plain white cotton sheets, which were shipped to hospitals across the province, as well as to the national military bases.
“Thanks,” Emily said, sucking on the blood until it slowed.She watched Gertrude fit the new needle into the machine in a flash, as effortless and automatic as tying her shoes.“How do you know so much about sewing machines?”
Gertrude didn’t look up, just returned to her own work, threaded a bobbin.“My mom’s a seamstress,” she said.“I pretty much learned how to use one of these before I could even talk.Certainly before I could read.Small hands are useful.Why should they hold a book when they could be working instead?”
Emily thought uncomfortably of her own childhood, spent surrounded by as many books as she could devour.She’d helped with household chores, of course, but not so that her mother could pay the bills.
“Anyway,” Gert said, “it’s askill, at least.”She looked over at Emily and smiled shrewdly.“Speaking of skills, you gave quite the speech in typing class a couple of weeks ago.I’m still thinking about it.”Emily swallowed, nodded.“Don’t worry,” Gert muttered.She didn’t need to drop her voice, though.The room was a cacophony of whirring machines, and they wouldn’t be overheard.“I like your style, Em.I won’t rat you out.Besides, I’m not sure how you could get in trouble just for teaching us what we were supposed to be learning, but that’s not how this place works.God, I can’t wait to be out of here.Five more months.”
“What are you going to do after?”Emily asked, returning to her work with the fresh needle.
Gertrude kept her eyes on her seam, and Emily noticed she never blinked when she worked.Her seams were straighter than a ruler.“Not sure.I guess I have to go back home, for a while at least.Figure out where I’m gonna go.I’ll need some work, though.I can’t stay at home anymore.And if I want any chance of seeing Susie again…” She bit her lip.“I don’t even know if she’ll be waiting for me.She says she will be, in her letters.But they come less often now.”
Emily knew Gertrude was in the Mercer because she was homosexual, and Gert didn’t deny or dodge the reality.But Emily was still adjusting to the blatant way she talked about it.She’d heard mutterings, though, about these sorts of things; her mother speaking in low tones to her father about two neighbour women who spent rather a lot of time together.But it was always whispered about, never openly stated.
