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An oversized cello case looks exactly like a coffin, so as I pushed mine through L.A.'s Central Juvenile Hall, I attracted plenty of attention. I was on my way to the chapel, after getting roped into performing for the young inmates by Sister Janet Harris, who coordinated volunteer activities. The project closest to her heart was a writing program that she helped create, and in which I had recently started teaching. My students were HROs, or high-risk offenders, who had been charged with murder or armed robbery and were waiting for their cases to be tried.Somehow Sister Janet had learned that I played the cello as a hobby, and asked me to perform. I tried to reason with her, recalling the last time I played the cello for a group of kids. It was at a birthday party where the birthday boy kicked the end pin of my instrument and declared that the cello was stupid. Only the accordion is more uncool.
"Sister Janet," I said, "have you ever been to a school assembly where classical music is on the program? It can get ugly."
"Ah," she had replied, smiling, "but that was school. The kids here would never behave like that."
After passing through a maze of chain-link fencing, I reached a building with a cross on its roof. Over the roar of amplified music coming from inside, I introduced myself to someone with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie, and he leafed through a schedule until he found my name. "You're up next."
He led me to the chaplain's office, where I could unpack my cello and warm up. "When we call you, go through that door and you'll be right on the stage," he explained.
After he left, I decided to open the door just enough to peek in; I was curious to see what kind of act I would be following. It was a hip-hop group; their music was heavily amplified and the audience of prisoners was swaying and clapping along. One of the performers was an attractive young woman wearing tight jeans and a shirt that revealed her bellybutton. Although she did not sing and her use of the tambourine suggested a minimum of training, a glance at the all-male prisoner audience confirmed that she was the star of the show.
I closed the door and slumped into the chaplain's chair. "Am I disturbing you?" a voice asked from behind me. It was Sister Janet.
"I don't think having me play was such a good idea," I told her.
"Why not?"
"Listen to what's going on in there! They're stomping their feet and working up a sweat, and that's just from watching the girl in the bikini, never mind the music. Can you imagine the letdown when I go out there?"
"They've got a girl in a bikini?" Sister Janet asked.
"It might as well be a bikini. This isn't going to work."
"Have a little faith," she urged.
At precisely two o'clock, the amplification was unceremoniously turned off and the group left. Unlike most concerts, where people cheer and yell for encores at the end of a performance, this audience had to sit quietly. But no one looked happy.
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