Dana Gioia, "The Present" & Destry McKinney, "The Magic of Having a Glass Mirror in Prison"

You need to be able to see yourself.

It sounds like the most basic truth, but I know those who deny it is a need. They aren't only wardens or guards. Some think any use of a mirror is vanity; seeing yourself means having to deal with how you look. One family I was acquainted with screamed bloody murder about the kids having haircuts or shaving. It wasn't a religious thing. The mother at the time was overwhelmed and didn't want to take the kids for haircuts. The father didn't want anyone to shave because that meant he had to show how that was done. Mirrors, I was told, weren't terribly popular in that household.

But you need to be able to see yourself. It is a need related to taking care of yourself. And in a weird way, it goes beyond the practical necessities of the body. I was thinking about this when reading Destry McKinney's "The Magic of Having a Glass Mirror in Prison," where a glass mirror is a significant improvement over the "metal reflectors" which produce a "carnival funhouse reflection" of their user. I should step back and let Mr. McKinney talk more about this:

I... wondered how long it had been since I saw myself undistorted. I knew it must have been decades ago, before I came to prison. I’m currently at William E. Donaldson Correctional Facility, and every jail or prison I’ve been to in Alabama has used the same cloudy mirrors. 

I leaned closer to get a better look at myself. The mirror — about the size of a large cookie sheet — revealed lines etched deep into my face from 26 years of serving hard time for a murder charge. The younger guys here like to harmlessly joke about my gray beard. I always shoot back that it’s “platinum,” which amuses them. But this was the first time I saw what they saw. In the clear mirror, I liked my platinum mustache and beard.

I'm thinking about remembering the comments made about one's appearance because you have to. There were times I didn't want to look at myself in the mirror. I hung on to every single glance fired at me, not just every word said about me. If for some reason you can't or won't see yourself, you instinctively hold on to whatever is out there about you. And the mirror, while it can be terrifying, offers something grounding: a starting point. One not tied to others in any way.

It's going to take me some time to come anywhere close to comprehending how dehumanizing a lack of a proper mirror can be. This brief anecdote, from Mr. McKinney's reporting, illustrates the stakes:

Or, as 75-year-old Grady Bankhead, of Mobile, chimed in: Those mirrors, for grooming purposes, are as effective as “trying to shave using an old hubcap.”

Bankhead said he has experienced detachment issues, or trouble connecting with others, while in prison. He said he had only seen himself through metal mirrors during his 39 years of incarceration before the glass one arrived. 

“I thought I looked worse than I actually did,” Bankhead said of his clear image in the new mirror.

The horrors of our criminal justice system, our desire to lock people away and pretend they never were, open existential questions in multiple ways. The incarcerated speak about having to make a choice to live when it feels like they have been completely abandoned. Those perpetrating injustice in the name of justice aren't merely hypocrites. There are crudities about truth and human being driving the system, crudities combining conflicting concepts. E.g. add "punishment" to "security" to "scientific policing," then look and see. Is anyone is actually free? Are we just forcing people to suffer for no reason?

At this juncture, I want to explore a more abstract theme. I'm always reading poetry, and I came across this lovely poem by Dana Gioia, "The Present." We've talked about how essential it is to see yourself. Aren't there things essential to us, though, which don't need to be seen? What about a gift that can be assumed to be lovely, because the love that generated it is constant?

The Present (from Poetry)
Dana Gioia

The present that you gave me months ago
is still unopened by our bed,
sealed in its rich blue paper and bright bow.
I’ve even left the card unread
and kept the ribbon knotted tight.
Why needlessly unfold and bring to light
the elegant contrivances that hide
the costly secret waiting still inside?

Gioia gives us this poem which combines traditional elegance with a bit of syrupiness. It isn't as cloying as it could be in part because its play on the word "present" has a philosophical edge. If "The Present" is full of love and trust, then why open "the present?" Gioia: "The present that you gave me months ago / is still unopened by our bed, / sealed in its rich blue paper and bright bow."

On the one hand, we might feel this is a magnificent gesture for a perfectly stable relationship. I can imagine a couple which gives each other so much all the time that a wonderful gift gets unopened and unused. Maybe it even becomes a mini-monument to their love. "Unopened," "sealed," the card "unread" and the ribbon untouched. Gioia's narrator says the present "is still unopened by our bed," and I'd like to believe that the internal audience of the poem understands "our" in a kindly way, not one requiring a restraining order.

On the other, Gioia has constructed a poem with a dark, unsettling ending. "Why needlessly unfold and bring to light / the elegant contrivances that hide / the costly secret waiting still inside?" People read cards from their loved ones and open gifts. They don't assume love is constant, but rather build that constancy. They delight in trust, they seek growth together. "The Present" takes an assumption about what is beautiful and pushes until it breaks. Maybe true lovers don't have to open gifts from each other; maybe they respect each other's privacy so deeply that secrets need never be unearthed. This sounds good until you look at how things actually work. If you don't read the card your partner has given you, you probably shouldn't be in a relationship.

I'll add that I do believe, because of this poem's use of "our bed," there is a serious chance someone thinks the gesture of not opening a gift is true love. It has all the markings of the most intense romance, or of couples who have lasted and may have not-terribly-great advice for more recent pairings. And that brings me back to the question of what must remain unseen. We know that mirrors aren't inessential: you need to see yourself. But what's secret in love that "The Present" is pointing at?

Mirrors are useful for seeing ourselves, and gifts that are genuinely received are necessary for revealing ourselves. You don't leave the gift unopened and the card unread because you love how someone is changing. You're not scared of accepting that. That change is the biggest secret of them all. You can't ever be sure how you've impacted someone except when you do abusive, bullying things. Then you can be quite sure of justice, at the very least.