Pictured Perfectly

I have been inspired this week of readings about elegance, Bukowski, travel, strippers, and murder.  Not nearly even close to that order.  Many people have a taste for knowledge in matters that vary from what is prim and proper to bordering darkness, and even depravity.  Some are openly intrigued, while others hide behind glowing screens in secret delightful fascination.  I prefer open discussion on most matters, even when others scoff I am being  “inappropriate”.  Historically I was sensitive to ridicule about such things, but as I age I learn the secret joy that one gains as they near the grave.  I don’t give a shit.  Another life lesson, most of us are also full of shit.  Hiding on some level within us all, are depths of insecurity and fear so beyond our reach we operate dutifully in accordance with the simple notion we can avoid their terrible outcome and risk their very exposure.  What is the fun in that.  I run towards my fears as fast as I can because once we collide I find, they were not worth the power I allowed them to hold over me.

We are existing in an era of illusion that technology has helped to create.  People exist behind social media posts, pages, and photographs that advertise lives of perfection.  Perfect happiness, perfect relationships, perfect vacations, perfect plates of pasta, and it is all perfectly bullshit.  Please do not mistake me for a cynic.  Sure, I have had perfect pasta, but not  every plate is perfect. Not everything in anyone’s life is.

Take me for example.  My life is perfectly messy.  I get stressed out at work, I have bad hair days, my family annoys me at times-and I them.  My house needs to be cleaned right now, but here I sit on my arse writing honestly about it. I am a perfect mess, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

In conclusion; be yourself, embrace your bullshit as well as your imperfect life, and enjoy all of it.  The pain makes us grow, and growth prepares us and leads to things that are even better.

 

Criminal Comprehension

It was the end of a great class.  An inmate turned the tables on me.  He asked, “Do you feel differently about convicts since you began working with us?”

I am stunned by this, and told him I need a moment to think before responding.  As I am deliberating, an inmate can be heard in the background humming the Jeopardy song.

I do. I used to suffer earlier in life from a bleeding heart. All people could be rehabilitated… I believed.  Any issue could be addressed. I feel that way no more.

Some now to my understanding, are just inherently evil.

Yet deep down I still believe in the beauty of rehabilitation, encouragement, and forgiveness. I share my thoughts on this with my classroom full of inmates. I know they worry about being judged on the outside of those walls.  I remind them I am there to represent the portion of society that will forgive them, give them opportunities, and support them.  My role is to reassure them that they can change, and if they do, many will believe in them again.

As they file out of the room, an old G turns to me and says…”You passed!”, before leaving the class. I understand what he means by this. Prison has taught me how to comprehend more with less verbal communication, and more through tone and body language. Especially by a gangster that has spent the past 20 years locked up.

 

Prison Snow Angels

Snow…at a prison in the south. Can you imagine the chaos?  In a state totally unprepared…

I could hear the giggles of inmates before I even walked onto the yard.  Many had never seen snow before.  They were instantly reverted into small boys…behaving as we did as children when we got a snow day and didn’t have to go to school.

One inmate didn’t believe it was snow, he was in such a state of shock.  I instructed him in the recipe of snowball making and advised that if it was possible, he would see that yes, in fact, it was SNOW.

I have spent more than half of my life surrounded by snow, I couldn’t imagine a person not knowing what a snow angel is.

I offered to buy a cheeseburger for any inmate willing to catch paperwork for making one. I had no takers.

 

Secret Listening

I am pretty sure Mr. H hated my class.  After they graduated and he handed in the first negative evaluation I had ever received, what other obvious answer was there?  Despite all of his cheerfulness and politeness towards me the 2 months of our class, what else was I to think?

I was shocked, but business is business. These are big prison boys, I can’t reach them all.

Then he appeared out of the blue this week.  He asked to speak with me in private. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, but I could tell he was in emotional turmoil.  I smiled and said of course, my door is always open.  I secretly wondered and was upset….this a**hole gave me a bad review and now he needs my help.  Sigh, that is why I am there.  Time to tighten up and continue to be the professional I strive to be.

He is a tough white supremacist.  He is in prison for kidnapping, false imprisonment, and torture. Pause.  What are you thinking…assuming?

A man Mr. H knew brutally raped his wife and left her for dead.  When the court sentenced the man to probation, Mr. H took the law into his own hands.  Ethical? Nope.  But what would you do? What would your loved one do?  Take it to that extreme? Probably not.  But one never knows until it happens to them.

Mr. H looks to the floor. He attempts to speak but his voice cracks.  After being incarcerated for seven long years, his son who had disowned him, flew into town to be here when he gets released next week.  He is ready to accept his dad back into his life.  The night after his son arrived in town, his car was struck by a drunk driver.  He is in critical condition, on a respirator, and in a coma.

I felt my heart breaking for this man standing before me.  All of his pain culminating into one final backhanded slap against what his family has endured the past seven years.  I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t burst into tears.

I sat and listened and reassured him the best I could.  That was what he was seeking.  An ear and an open heart.  This man had been listening all that time in class….and he had hidden it so well behind his tough as nails exterior.  And he got it.  I am here for them.

I let him talk until he had no more to say.  I gave all the encouraging words I could think to share, and then made a suggestion.  Get a pen, sit down, and write.  Write until you have nothing left. Organize your thoughts and feelings, prepare yourself for what is ahead, and let the truth surface.

He asked if the next few days he can attend my classes, just to get away from the drama of the dorm.  To get one more dose of the positive light that comes from my class.  I told him whatever I can do, I will do it.

This morning as scheduled, he came and sat in on my new class.  He listened, he flipped through the book, and he waited.  After everyone filed out of the classroom he came up to my desk.  He said he had good news.  His son was awake, and breathing on his own.  He was coherent and wanted to leave the hospital.  Hallelujah!

He put his closed fist on my book and dropped something covered in tissue.  He told me it was something for me.  To keep in my office, to put in my car, or whatever I wanted to do with it.  He thanked me again.  Then he left.

I was so curious as to what he had left with me, but I waited until I was alone in my office to see. It was beautiful. A handmade prison cross. It had beautiful coloring and clearly had taken hours to make.  It was made most likely from newspaper and floor wax.  These guys are so creative.

The lesson for me, was a nudge from above.  A reminder that no matter how checked out an inmate may seem, don’t give up on them.  I have no idea the impact my message makes, or how far it can reach. It can be a struggle, but it is a challenge I gracefully accept.  An honor I am grateful to have the responsibility to pursue.

Never underestimate the power behind your message.  You never know who might be paying attention.

 

Prison Cartwheels

I began getting very nervous.  My stomach started to do flips inside me.

Samuel my lifer assistant kept asking me what was up.  I told him I always get like this on the first day of a new class.  Maybe it is lucky it wasn’t until I had 6 months under my belt that they assigned me a class with half of the inmates being sex predators.  By now I have become much more thick skinned…perhaps I was ready and didn’t know it.  God’s plan never ceases to leave me amazed in its perfection, timing included.

Slowly they began to trickle in.  God was taking it easy on me.  Not overwhelming with them all arriving at once like they usually do.  I was kind and gentle.  My nerves began to calm down.  The first inmate to arrive was the one I had been fearing the most.  He has the most violent history with a bonus of charges that include aggravated stalking.

They were calm and even-tempered. They waited quietly and patiently for the rest of the students to arrive.  I passed out puzzles and brain teasers to keep them occupied until we could get started.  Number 1 on the agenda is always introduction followed by the RULES.  Samuel had even suggested I dip out briefly so he could give them the most important rule man to men.  No bathroom, no touching their junk, no messing with me.  Period.  I could say it, but being told to them by a respected fellow inmate serving 3 life sentences for a triple homicide seemed much more effective.

The class ran beautifully.  It was nothing short of pure magic. I felt like doing cartwheels across the prison yard when it was all over.

It’s always fascinating to see how the inmates will react to me.  They are so used to being yelled at all day and treated like animals, when someone patient and kind addresses them they are always caught off guard. Some become suspicious, others relieved.  It takes many of them time to adjust and learn to trust me, while still more take to it like a long-lost relative resurfacing to offer them love and support.

We had real talk today.  I didn’t hesitate to start asking them how long they have been incarcerated, if they have been locked up before, and what their plans are for release. There are 2 students who are old enough to be my grandfather, and one of them is mentally handicapped…he has been in prison for 25 years.  I cannot describe how much that hurts to witness.

Part of my challenge is to always keep up a strong exterior. These are grown men in prison.  There is no time for a sad teacher.  They need a strong leader who will encourage them and strengthen them.  Guide them and confront their erroneous thinking.  There is no room for my fears.

 

My Prison Angels

I get so caught up in my teaching sometimes I take my safety for granted.  It would only take a moment for things to go terribly wrong for me there.

An inmate shared counsel with me this morning about my safety. How he observed my behavior when a male staff member approaches me and how it made him concerned. I hadn’t even realized that I back up every time this man gets close to me, until this lifer pointed it out. Wow.

Then a Sergeant on security staff alerted me to his concern for my safety today due to that VERY same staff members lack of security measures. That he is angry because that persons actions are putting me in jeopardy.  He was absolutely right, and I had not even realized it.

When I left work, I prayed so hard with a heart full of thankful gratitude about the angels the Lord places around me to keep me safe inside that prison. I am sure they are there in such mass numbers and to such an extreme degree I could never even imagine them all.  However, I know without any doubt in the universe they are there. Loving me, lifting me up, and keeping me safe so God’s work can be done.

 

27 Years

“As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.” -Nelson Mandela

I always print out news articles for each class, to start our talking points of the day about current events. It usually sparks phenomenal discussions that I could never develop on my own.

Today, I discussed the passing of Mr. Mandela.  (Some of the inmates hadn’t even known he had died).

I thought it was very relevant and important to share his quote about freeing himself from the mental and emotional prison that would potentially follow him upon his release, if he didn’t let go of the 27 years of pain he garnered while rotting away in prison. I followed by highlighting how he was not only able to embrace goodness, but he went on to change the world because of it.  After prison.  I want these men to know that anything is possible for them, if they can let go and let God.

 

Trading My Fears for Tears

I am so stressed out I can barely write. Yet, knowing that when I do, it will release some of the steam inside my pressure cooker. So here goes….

Last week, one of my inmates had a heart attack and flat lined on the ground.  None of the officers would perform CPR on him and I don’t know how, thank goodness one of my other students did.  He rushed in and saved his life. I cried so hard that day I had to go to the beach after work and pray to clear my head before I could even face my family. Thank you Lord Jesus for answering my prayer and keeping him alive to see his release date in 8 days.

This morning the Bluebird bus came to take the transfers to other facilities…they took Papa Jay.  One of the most beloved inmates on the compound. A man serving a life sentence.  A man who found God in prison.  A man so respected and adored, that today I watched grown men openly cry to express their grief over it…in prison. The last place men want to openly grieve.  A man I will probably never see again, but I will certainly never forget.

Cut to the end of my Tuesday today, when I sponsor the inmate Art Club. This is something I volunteer to do so that there is something positive taking place in that wired covered hell.  Come to find out one of the LIFERS that scares the crap out of me was drawing sexual images of women, 4 feet away from me.  I feel violated all over again.  This time I can see how being institutionalized has influenced my growth. This time, I didn’t cry.  I got angry.  I still am. I don’t feel weakened, I feel empowered to make sure justice is served. Finally.

So much happens every day there.  This week seems to be an especially intense emotional roller coaster for me. Like yesterday, when one of my students pulled me aside to remind me of how rare it is to have someone be a part of that prison that cares so much. That gives so much just because my heart guides me to do so.  How important it is to not let anyone take advantage of how much I care, so that I stay safe. So that I can keep giving and supporting the ones that have no one, and nothing.

 

The Empty Chair

As a holiday very dear to my heart is only a few days away, it is hard not to think about the voids I feel this time of year, and more and more as the years pass.  It is strange that a time of the year that in childhood was filled with so much bliss, can now be filled with such sadness as I get older.  It is filled with my mourning of the memories and the loved ones passed…not here for another year to rejoice with.

On Thanksgiving this year, I will look around our table.  Then I will spy the empty chair.  The place where love used to sit…and love would laugh, share memories, and remind me of what family is truly all about. Now I have grown and have a family of my own…but the family of my childhood follows me like a ghost.  I miss it, I miss my loved ones that have moved onto the next realm without me. The Thanksgivings we shared that were the best day of every year of my childhood.  That I will cherish eternally.

My empty chair is not my own.  Every family has one or 2…and will also be elbowed with sadness when they see them this year. It is quite normal for families to experience this, especially when they mourn the dead.  But what about the families of the living dead?

The families that have an empty chair that belongs to someone in prison.  Someone that could be there…that should be there.

When you say your grace of thanksgivings this year, don’t forget about them. xxoo

 

Counting Sheep

This week I have had multiple dreams that lead me to being quite disturbed upon waking up.  So much so, I wonder if it is a message of some kind.  Some part of me, or something bigger then me…telling me to pay attention to this feeling.  This uneasiness. That I can’t seem to shake.

The dream I can recall the most vividly was a few days ago…I was in a giant classroom, reading.  The only other person in the room was a strange man in a suit.  As is my nature, when I am uncomfortable, I was going out of my way to be polite and break the tension with this stranger.  He smirked and got closer and closer to the chair I was sitting in, that I was reading from.  Until he was finally close enough to read over my shoulder. And then he got close enough that he was touching my shoulder…then he grabbed me.  He tied my arms so I couldn’t move.  I began screaming and trying to break free.

After struggling awhile, I finally broke free. I got up and ran as fast as I could.  I didn’t know where I was going, but I just RAN.  I ran down stairwells, through doorways…until I reached a dead-end.  And then I panicked. I screamed….I had nowhere else to hide!  He was going to find me.  And then what?

And then suddenly, my dream was over.

I don’t know how to process these nightly images.  And the fear they invoke in me.  It always comes down to my work. Am I unsafe? Is my subconscious aware of something my conscious brain isn’t ready to see yet? I just don’t know…this is where my faith steps in.