My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun: Adolescents at the Apocalypse: A Teacher's Notes

This book keeps getting beaten up for not being science or pure sociology, and reviewers keep missing what is excellent about it--the intersection of the writer's own reflections, aspirations and ideas with the violent, dull, and endless world of incarcerated young men. Padnos's honesty about his own motives and feelings give this book a rare freshness. In his attempts to connect the books he loves to the real and brutal world of these men, he illuminates much about the struggles of growth, the uneven progress of our ambitions, and the enduring power of stories to shape all of our lives.

Jailhouse literature is a rising trend these days, and it is producing some of the toughest, most original, most disturbing nonfiction on the market. From the lost souls at Guantanamo Bay to the terrifying Aryan gangs that kill and terrorize from behind bars to the dread-soaked life of a Sing Sing guard, a composite portrait is emerging of the mostly invisible Hell that is the American prison system and the dehumanizing effects it has on inmates and their keepers alike.Theo Padnos has made a quirky, but brilliant and unforgettable contribution to this literature. From his vantage point as a part-time English teacher in a gothic juvenile detention center in Vermont, Padnos draws us--almost against our will--into a collection of scary, wretched, lost young men who have been obliterated from the view of "respectable" society. In terse, electric, revelatory prose, sparing neither his subjects nor himself, he obliges us to see them for who they inescapably are: versions of ourselves, versions of an America drifting toward apocalypse.This is a book that demands attention--more attention, by the way, than it received from the prissy, careless Publishers Weekly reviewer quoted above. In garbling the name of one of the chief characters in this book, Laird (not "Lance"!) Stanard, the PW scribe unwittingly represents the blindness and indifference of a society that is a lot more complacent about its incarcerated alter-egos than perhaps it can afford to be.