To Build A Clean Mirror
To Build A Clean Mirror
It takes work. And you’ll get cut, and you’ll bleed, but there’s no other way.
Luis was the quietest guy in D-block. And the deadliest.
Muerte Silenciosa (silent death) tattooed across his Adam’s apple. Mi vida loca (my crazy life) tattooed across both his eyelids.
His quiet demeanor and tightly muscled frame carried massive authority, built through months in solitary, years on the yard, and day after day after day locked in a cell.
Luis came down at 17—just old enough to be sentenced as an adult.
MR, the Michigan Reformatory, “Gladiator School,” they called it. An ominous white, high-walled, razor-wired, 15th-century-looking castle. Housing for over 1,000 rapists, robbers, murderers, and thieves out in the middle of a Michigan cornfield.
Gladiator School was wild, dangerous, and deadly.
Determined never to be a victim, Luis became the aggressor inside. Dominator. And eventual leader of the largest and most powerful prison gang in the Michigan system.
But that was an entire lifetime ago.
Now, nearly twenty years later, Luis was one of us. Just a guy trying to make his way back home. For good.
I met Luis in the Chance For Life (CFL) program
“…be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind…” was their motto.
“Empowering people to do for themselves through education and opportunity.”
The weekly classes were self-administered, meaning it was prisoner-led. After successfully completing the program, participants (prisoners) were given the chance to teach other prisoners.
Each one, teach one.
That meant we took turns reading, leading, and working through lessons from a patched-together curriculum.
Pro-Social Communication
Personal Development
Conflict Resolution
Mediation Training
Leadership Training
Home and Family
Parenting 101
The program was a positive change in the deadly routine of prison life, but there was tension on the compound—it had been that way for months, and it was hot that night. All of us dressed out in our mandatory blue-pressed uniforms.
No one was really listening as our instructor read through that night’s lesson plan.
The room was fidgety. Agitated. Angry.
Luis was seated at the back of the room, observing. But as the room got louder and less interested in the night’s lesson, he stood and slowly, silently made his way to the whiteboard at the front of the room.
With his broad back to us, Luis sketched a grand, full-length mirror on the whiteboard. The mirror, outlined in bold, inky black, featured an intricate, rope-like frame, giving it an elegant look.
Luis turned to face us.
He had our attention.
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” Luis asked.
We sat in a long, uncomfortable silence.
“A man,” someone finally called out.
“Muslim!”
“A Christian!”
“A Blackman, the original man!” someone shouted.
Luis stood silently, wrists crossed at the waist. He waited.
“Failure,” someone said.
“Addict—a recovering addict,” one guy said.
“Drunk.”
"Thief," one mumbled.
"Survivor," said another.
"Lost," a voice from the back added quietly.
"Warrior," came a confident reply.
"Nobody," someone whispered.
"Father," another spoke with a mixture of pride, uncertainty, and sorrow.
"Monster," a voice cracked.
"Broken," someone else murmured.
“That!” Luis pointed. “That!” he yelled again, turned, and slammed his hand against the whiteboard.
Bang! echoed through the building.
When Luis turned back to face us, he’d drawn a small crack across the upper left corner of his mirror.
Pointing back at the split, Luis spoke.
“I was 15. I broke into our neighbor’s house and stole his gun. I told myself I was protecting my family, me, my mom and dad. The guy was a drunk, always starting fights, running his mouth, and waving his pistol around the neighborhood. I was scared.”
Bang!
Luis slammed the whiteboard again and drew another crack, connecting it to the first.
“I started carrying my courage everywhere I went,” he said. “One night, at a high school party a few blocks over, things got heated. I pulled the piece and shoved it in this guy’s face. He backed down right away.”
Bang!
Luis slammed the whiteboard again and drew another crack connecting it to the other cracks bleeding toward the center from the upper left corner.
“Two weeks after my 16th birthday, my girl told me she was pregnant. Our child,” Luis choked, “she was having our child. My girl’s moms was cool with it. But her stepdad wanted her to get an abortion. Called her a stupid little slut and said she was too young to be a mother.”
Luis paced in front of the whiteboard.
“I went to the house to confront him,” he said. “Tell him that I was the father and I was going to take care of my own and that he didn’t have to worry about any of it and to mind his own business.
“We fought.
“I shot him dead.”
Bang!
Luis slammed the whiteboard again and drew another crack.
This one zig-zagged diagonally, erratically etching its way down across the entire surface to the lowest opposite corner of the mirror.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang! Luis continued to document his journey behind bars.
Bang!
The fights and stabbings.
Bang!
Attacking a prison guard known for raping inmates.
Bang!
Hurling a microwave oven at the head of a sergeant, a little too high on his own power and authority.
Bang!
Missing a visit from his daughter because he incited a riot that got him transferred to a facility in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang! Luis slammed the whiteboard again and drew another crack—a final crack when it seemed there was no more room for cracks.
Luis stood with his broad back to us, facing his mirror for what seemed like an eternity.
Still facing his mirror, Luis spoke.
“How can you see yourself clearly when all you see has been shattered?” he asked.
“Deadly shards reflecting your broken past back at you. Day after day after day after day.”
Luis turned to face us.
“We’re giving you a chance here,” he said. “We’re giving each other a chance to build a clean mirror.
“But it’s not easy,” he went on.
“It takes work. And you’ll get cut, and you’ll bleed, but there’s no other way,” he said.
The bravest people I’ve ever known have also been the most broken.
I want to thank my friends—the ones who cultivate compassion and practice compassionate inquiry.
Luis, Vicky, Anne, Ashley, Dave…and my beautiful wife, Keylea Ann.
Thank you for the generous work you do. Each and every one of you.
We need it. I need it. And we’re all grateful. 🙏
I love you guys! ❤️🔥
Stay safe. ☺️
-Paul
Thank you for sharing this one. It can seem impossible to build a new mirror, especially if you've been told over and over that the broken one is the only possibility. It's an act of creative courage to push back and to do the work to build a new mirror.
This was moving, Paul. Thank you for sharing.