The Complexities of Violence
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By Lauren Barack -- School Library Journal, 9/16/2008 2:10:00 PM
Author and photographer Susan Kuklin’s new book, No Choirboy (Holt, 2008), weaves a narrative of four young men in prison for murders committed in their teens, exploring the effects of these choices not just on them, but also on their families. We asked her what pulled her toward their stories.
Why this book? Why these men?
I knew that I wanted to write for teenagers, and I knew that I wanted to deal with the complexities of people who do really terrible things. Are they the sum total of their worst acts? Maybe they are. Maybe they aren’t. I wanted to get a sense of that. But in order to bring a story of somebody in such a dire situation to a page, you need pretty articulate people. So I worked with lawyers who said, "I think this person is really very introspective, very articulate, has grown, and is able to discuss those changes." I wanted to have people who had committed murder, or who were accused of murder, and who had been on death row. But then I found this fellow who had murdered someone at age 14, and his story was so interesting and it was so important to include, that all of a sudden the whole tenor of the book changed. And even when I was writing the book, the law in the country changed. So I had to constantly revise my thinking about what this whole book was about.
What kind of reaction have you received from readers?
I have gotten a few emails and letters from [teens] and basically their main thing was, “I couldn’t put it down and it made me think.” Which is the whole point. They can put it down, but I want them to think. And what was interesting was that I’ve also heard from adults who have read the book. And they have more trouble reading it right through because they’re very taken and upset by these stories, and seem to be willing to say how emotionally involved they got. Whereas the younger people seem to say, "This is making me think about things."
And what do you hope teens take away from the book?
Basically, I want to open a conversation. I want to give them information and then I want them to think. I want them to realize that the human condition, and human beings, are very complicated, these laws are very complicated and shouldn’t be taken lightly. Some of this is very ambiguous. Some of these guys and families did wonderful things, and some not so wonderful things. One thing [the book] does show is how people can get sucked into really evil acts by unthinking conduct, and I think that’s a great lesson for kids. Some of these things were really unthinkable. Now this is the extreme. Obviously there are less extreme [situations], but it gives pause.
Do you think young adults are too protected from subjects like this?
I think it’s a question of teaching. It’s one thing to let every bit of information go out. But it’s another for a librarian, teacher, or writer to try to give strong material to young people so they can start making decisions, so they can rationalize, and really think. Now if a parent does not want their child to read the kind of books I write, that’s the parent’s right. But I certainly am against that parent not letting anybody else’s children read it. It’s the librarians that I’ve always believed are on the front line of this. They’re the ones who put their jobs on the line, their extra work on the line. So some of my books, they have to really fight for.
Your topics are often dense: AIDS, suicide, now prison. Do you insulate yourself as a writer to have perspective? Or do you lose yourself to the emotion?
When I’m doing the interview, my focus is so heavily on the person I’m interviewing, that I’m almost devoid of emotion, and I’m just going with the person. If the person is crying, I’m crying. If the person is laughing, I’m laughing. It’s not about me at all. My entire being is devoted to [them.] So much so that when I get out, I’m exhausted. When I left every person in my book, we were hugging and crying except for the ones I couldn’t touch because we were separated by Plexiglas. And that was very hard to not be able to touch them because they so much have touched my soul. Afterwards, when I reflected, I would get very down. But I was also exhilarated because I saw these kids who had done such terrible things, and who changed. They became much better persons, and that was very uplifting.
What prompted you to put yourself into one of your stories this time?
This journey was so important to me, and I saw things that I never expected. So I thought it was time for me to bite the bullet and get out there and let me be in it, too. Surprisingly, it was fun. As a writer you don’t want to be doing the same thing every time. There were lines [in the book] where the inmates use my name, which I never would have kept in. I left all that in. And because I was there, in a way, it felt more honest.
Will you continue to stay in contact with these men?
I am pen pals with three of the inmates, and when I go out and speak, I plan to read some of their letters because they’re extremely profound. I just received a letter from Nanon Williams, he’s in the third chapter, and he said, "I just read the book and this must have been very hard for you, emotionally." And I was so touched that he would understand that. Here’s a guy in maximum security now, in a terrible situation and for him to be able to say that in a letter is amazing.
What’s next?
I want to be able to talk about this book, because it was from my heart. I’ve also just finished illustrating someone else’s book called Beautiful Ballerina, a poem by Marilyn Nelson that’s just stunning. I worked with the Dance Theater of Harlem and these kids are just so delicious and gorgeous. And that will be out next year.
Could you have imagined a career this eclectic?
No. But I did say I wanted to live a life that would give me a wide scale of experiences. I first thought photography was going to do it because you go into so many different venues. I started in Appalachia taking pictures, and when the South Bronx was burning taking pictures, and then photographing George Balanchine, and I thought, "Well, that’s a nice range." And then I started writing for magazines so they would publish my photographs. And I loved writing. And sometimes the writing overtakes the photographs and it doesn’t matter because I love both. I feel so incredibly privileged that I’ve been allowed to do this.
