Lockdown.

The facility is on lockdown.  Class is cancelled.  I'M crushed so I can't even imagine how the guys feel locked in their cells for an undetermined amount of time - sometimes hours, sometimes days.  The guys had an inkling this lockdown was going to take place.  Evidently there are periodic long-term lockdowns to "turn the place upside down." R had it marked on his calendar of it having taken place at this time last year.  (No comment on the fact that R is STILL awaiting trial a year later, nor that he logged the date of a facility lockdown.)

I'm more than a little disappointed.  All week I wait.  Mondaaaaaay.  Tuesdaaaaaaaay.  Wednesdaaaaaaaaay arrives and I'm getting excited because I have to submit my "lesson plans" to my supervisor and the deputy warden.  Truth be told, the lesson plans are perfunctory and more of a exercise in due diligence.  One of the conditions of my return was to submit plans weekly.  As I don't wish to have the class derailed for a second time, I am happy to comply with such a simple request.  Besides, just sending the short email with the ideas for the evening gets me thinking about the boys in the box - not that they are ever too far from my mind, really.

Thursday finally arrives.  My friends, my colleagues my (day job) students - everybody knows it's Thursday.  There must be a little spring in my step because I know I'm going to jail.  Funny, right?  And still I have to wait.  Wait for the right hour to leave to avoid the worst of the traffic.  Wait in the reception area of the facility for my supervisor to escort me to the gym.  Wait for the guys to be called down from the blocks.  Those who know me well would not put my name in the "patient" column (at least not when the word is used as an adjective; the noun - that's a whole other story!), but it is worth it when the guys stroll into the gym with their folders under their arms or in their hands or in their waistbands or...  Good, I think.  At least they look like they're prepared for class, a feat my 9th-grade boys have yet to master.  It's exciting.  And inspiring.  

So I have to wonder (though I think I can guess the answer as some have alluded to it): if this is how I feel about going to teach at a correctional facility, how must it be for the participants in the class?  Sure, it's time off the tiers and out of their cells, away from the clamor that is their daily existence (even at night from what I understand), but it also seems to be a time to be taken seriously, as people who still want to matter.

Boys, I'm on vacation next week so I can't say, "See you next week." I will, however, be rarin' to go in a fortnight.  Make sure you are, too, eh?  You have a big assignment due: the final draft of your essay that I will include in my correspondence to the powers that be.  Don't let me down.  Better yet, don't let yourselves down.

See you in two weeks.

Clearly I was absent...

...the day, no, the years that my generation was to have learned about internet-ty things.  What I wanted to do was copy and paste the FB posts that started this whole blog so all ideas would be easily found in one place.  For what reason, I have no idea, but it seemed like a good idea.

Well, the whole "copy and paste" from FB to Google blog?  Yeah, they're not friendly, or at least their friendship isn't fully formed (or maybe it's the third party who is not facilitating the relationship - that seems most likely).  Anyway, the posts look a little suspect.  Elementary school-ish.  Sorry about that.  I'll try to figure it out.

Yeah, yeah.  I know "presentation is half of it." I'll be posting straight to Google from now on so it all looks nice-nice.  

My supervisor is working a double tomorrow JUST so we can have class.  He's a great guy.  A real human.  He gets it - that the guys look forward to the hour and a half of class and how they modify their behavior so they can attend.  True, only about one percent of the total population is "enrolled" in the class,(makes it sound so official; really the guys just sign up with the supervisor!), but as one of the guys wrote in his essay: "it's worth it even if it helps just one guy."  

Stories I'm sure there will be.  Stay tuned... 

FB Post from 3/31/16

Now begins my second-favorite time of the week: telling all of you about the goings-on with the boys in the box. And speaking of you, I have a confession. Tonight I told the guys about you. Well, not each one of you individually, but as a collective. I explained to them how inspired I have been by them and their work that I felt compelled to share, at least in a small part, my jail experience. So I told them of my FB posts. And I would be remiss if I didn't also thank you. Thank you for reading, for reacting and for commenting. As much as the guys are buoyed by my showing up for class and I am for having the privilege to learn more about life unknown to me, I am further jazzed by the opportunity to share this newfound knowledge with others, if for no other reason than to bring some humanity to a situation that is everything but humane.

D was the first to arrive at class. Once in the gym where class is held my supervisor locks the door behind us while he calls the guys down from the tiers. Without fail I heard banging on the door but saw no one. "D's here," I thought. I was right. D must not have far to travel to get to the gym because he's always the first one. And I knew it was him because I didn't see anyone there. D is in a wheelchair. He's trying to get his new prosthetic to work for him, but doesn't seem to have it mastered yet. D was not his usual self, so when I asked what was going on he told me was sentenced this week. "Jen, they gave me 15 years. Harsh. For 7 bags of dope." Fifteen years is a long time for a dude who just last week was remembering the good old days of the early 90s when he was first incarcerated. And I kid you not, he referred to the early 90s as 'the good old days'. "Dem days were good. Doing 10 years was easy cuz you could go out with a crew sweeping the streets and stuff, but at least you could be outside. Not like now."

Not like now at all.

Class started with another guy De, a low talker - not good for this hard-of-hearing teacher - explaining to me why he didn't have the essay and how difficult it was and... well, you get the point. I listened. Listening is very important in our class. The guys say that most of the inmates simply jabber on all day about nothing so when there's an intelligent audience, it's a boon for them. So back to De and his prattle. We all listened to what he had to say and I even made comments and suggestions as to how he could improve his writing process when I finally figured it out. "So, De, basically you're just explaining why you don't have your assignment done tonight, right?" The guys laughed. I call them on EVERYTHING! Our class is a no BS zone. Ain't nobody got time for dat!

As a reminder, the focus of our writing at the moment is to appeal to the powers that be for more programs that could benefit the inmates while they are awaiting trial and sentencing. In one piece I read recently, one man wrote that society might not care how they [inmates] are living on the inside, but it sure will care how they behave, present and function when they are released. True dat.

B, who is usually loud and effervescent, was a bit solemn. Perhaps it was because I called him out on his comment of "Bullshit" to the guy who waxed poetic about not having the assignment, or the fact that I made him back up his declaration with something more meaningful. (I don't REALLY know how to teach writing, but I am sure earning my own PhD in psychology during these classes!) Anyway, it finally came out: "Jen, I been listening to the news. There are cutbacks all over the place. We ain't never getting funding for no programs." The enormity of the statement hit me - not that our letters wouldn't arrive at their destination, but that they wouldn't have the desired effect. In his voice I could hear how earnest he was about wanting to affect a change and to have a voice. We then talked about how sometimes doing the best you can with what you've got has to be enough. And when it got too deep, I cracked wise with, "Listen, I know I'm not curing cancer by coming to BCC every week, but..." B cut me off immediately. "But you ARE curing a cancer." Yeah, my eyes, got sweaty. Still no tissues. Thanks, B.

On the way out of class, Mac stopped me. "Jen, this gotta be your passion, huh? I mean, you got all your own papers to correct but here you are on a Thursday night hanging with us. There needs to be more people in the world like you."

No, Mac, there needs to be more people before me to interact with people like you so you don't end up in the place where you are. Humanity.

With that, we shook hands which is every bit as a requirement upon leaving class as putting away the chairs.

Mac, thank you. See you next week.

FB Post from 3/24/16

Class was shorter tonight as the PC (protective custody) guys who have rec with my supervisor after our class were having a big bowling activity in the gym so we had to end early. Evidently there was some serious betting of commissary items about to go down for this tourney... Someone was looking out for me with the shorter class because my day job exhausts me, especially on the shorter weeks that turn out to be the longest.

Getting down to the business of class in a jail setting is not unlike a high school classroom as I've said before: the guy who shows up without his work done, the comments about my outfit ("Looking fresh, Jen." was tonight's), and the private conversations while I'm trying to start class. Save for the realization that there are bars everywhere and the fact that I'm the only one in a different threads, it's pretty similar to public school. And as a shout out to the little bit of 9th-grade boy in all of us, we even talked about urinating tonight, but without the snickers and the laughs and the physicality between boys that goes on when seemingly inappropriate comments are made in class. Instead, it was a single line in H's piece (the one that he finished at the beginning of class because he arrived unprepared!) that started the whole conversation this evening. Hang tight. I'll get to that.

"You know what I'm sayin'?" The phrase is an overused, but very popular verbal crutch amongst the guys in the class. I know it is meant as a space-filler in the most rhetorical way. But many times I DON'T know what they're saying. I am a white woman of a certain age (not middle aged yet, but no spring chicken) with economic means. The participants in my class are most decidedly not. Unlike my day job, my volunteer job sports the token white male, sometimes two, while the rest are black. Education background is a mystery (though I could hazard a guess) and not one of the guys is a man of means. If he were, he wouldn't be stuck in jail as he would have been able to make bond. So sometimes I really don't get it and I have to ask for clarification. Bring on the peeing. The conversation about peeing, that is (although every single man who spoke in answer to my question used the term "urination". Take from that what you will.)

Even though H (his name is too identifiable) had only finished his piece mere moments before he pulled himself into the group, his thoughts were clear, well-formed and beautifully put (and since I saw him writing it, I know the work was his, unlike one of the other dudes who might have lifted a paragraph or two...like I said, the comparisons!). H talked about how being incarcerated conditions a person, so much so that his behaviors are forever changed (for good or bad), upon release. He made mention of the fact that, even on the outside he continues to put cake in his oatmeal and flushes the toilet while urinating. (The reasons for this are many and varied. Suffice it to say that the act of flushing helps maintain a cleaner sink/toilet area.) Or that upon becoming angered about something beyond his control leads his mother to ask him, "What's wrong with you?"

So, in thinking like a complete outsider (which I am), I had to ask about the "flushing while" because I figured if I didn't get it, there may be others similarly in the dark. The guys are all to happy to explain to me EVERYTHING about being incarcerated. Of course there are some who have very trivial complaints such as the food or other items in the commissary or that one of the C.O.s looked at them in the wrong way, but mostly they are interested in telling their stories and providing suggestions to help a system that is so clearly broken and stacked against them in so many ways. Again I'll add that none of them, not even once, has made an excuse for his butt having landed in the facility, several on repeat visits. Like many, they would like reform and assistance to reform themselves. Happily, though, the conversations about change do not just revolve around them, but around other guys that the changes could benefit.

I had chills while H read his essay. It was good. It was powerful. And dang it, he didn't give me a copy to read tonight because he said, "Jen, I'm not done with it yet. You know what I'm sayin'?"

Yeah, H, I know what you're sayin'.

See you next week.

FB Post from 3/17/16

Class count this week 9. Plus-3 from last week, minus one who was in court. We hold class in center court of the gymnasium in a circle. (Why not a circle closer to where the molded plastic chairs are stored, I don't know). One difference that will never cease to amaze me is how many more guys I think there are in my class because they are so big compared to my 9th graders. And equally as mature at times.

Take for instance the two guys writing notes to each other across the circle. I can't remember what the notes said, but I can remember thinking and then uttering, "Really, guys? I do this all day long. How 'bout you cut me a break?"

Comments on my attire are also fair game. Last week I was wearing a pair of street sneakers with no laces - a purposeful fashion choice by the person who designed them. Without even saying hello, one guy said, "Jen, they took your laces, too?" They all laughed. I didn't quite get it immediately. Apparently upon entrance to the facility one's laces are taken for the first 30 days, presumably for safety. How they couldn't be used for harm on day 31, I have no idea.

Today's footwear was also cause for great hilarity. My footwear that is. Well, theirs too. I had on a plain black, slip on sneaker with a white sole. B said to me, "I see you have on your BCC shoes, Jen." I laughed out loud. Seriously. It was funny. I looked down at his feet and he had on the same type of shoe (though created by Bob Barker of the "Price is Right" fame. I guess when he wasn't dabbling in helping control the pet population he was designing prison footwear...). It's good to laugh before class starts.

So I laughed. You know, we always laugh. At least when it's appropriate. Lately, though, the class has become serious as it never has before. Serious in a good way. The men in my group are smart. They are articulate (and there's no judgement there, just awe as I am a horrible speaker). They are thinkers and they are listeners. And they are respectful of one another and encouraging. When I wrote to the warden to thank her again for the opportunity to teach at BCC as it made me a better high school teacher, I wasn't kidding.

One new guy even used the pronoun "whomever" properly. As a grammar weenie, I could barely contain my excitement. But after he spoke (commenting so beautifully on what his classmate had just read and providing insightful constructive criticism after only hearing the piece once), I just had to stop the group. I commented on their collective intelligence first and then said, "So it causes me to wonder, what in the heck are you all doing in here?"

'True dat' guy from last week said, "Jen, we may be smart guys, but we made bad choices." Ok then. We're working on that too.

Along with the laughter tonight came the first tears. Mine, of course. This week was emotional anyway as my day job and my volunteer job collided head-on in a real way, so perhaps the waterworks pump was already primed. But when David read his essay to the group, I just couldn't help it. And no, I had no tissues available. Son of a...

In a 4-page handwritten letter addressed to the powers that be (the focus of the class right now is to create pieces of writing to be sent to the state capitol to perhaps address some deficiencies in the correctional system), David wrote personally and from the heart how a program, specifically the class he's in with me, caused him to change his outlook. I'll let him tell you:

"[T]here was a course that started up named creative writing. It didn't cost BCC nothing because the lady volunteered to come in her own time. In this class we are taught to think with an open mind and to put the words on paper so they mean something to us and other people. We learn to express ourselves with the power of the pen."

He goes on, "I also can't tell you enough the feeling it can give you when you look forward to something that takes you away from life in [BCC] even for a moment. If something so simple as writing on a piece of paper can have this effect on someone than imagine the effects other programs or courses...could have on someone.""

Proper English? Not so much. From the heart. No doubt about it.

David said, "By just one letter that I wrote to someone who wanted to know about jail, something inside me became alive." David wrote 9 responses to anonymously posed questions by my high school students. (Yeah, that was one of the reasons for my suspension. Minors and all. Even though it was anonymous. Just questions on an index card, no names, anonymous. Whatever. I'm glad to be back.)

David now volunteers to talk to at-risk high school students and to students in criminal justice programs.

David, your letter made me cry (and not just because of the spelling! Ha!) because of the change you made in yourself. You keep on, David. When you get out, you'll have spell check. And a new outlook.

See you next week.

FB Post from 3/10/16

Last week at my jail class only 2 of ten students had the assignment completed. Not so different from public school teaching after all, I thought. But then I let them have it: why should I battle traffic for 45 minutes in rush hour to come here just so they could have some time off the cell block? Then I said, "Not for nothing, but what in the hell else you gotta do all week?"

"True dat," one guy said. "I feel ya, Jen."

Does he? Did he? He did not. He couldn't possibly as he showed up tonight without his homework AGAIN! Oh my god my life IS "Groundhog Day"!!! All day with the teenagers and then on Thursday nights with the incarcerated men who act like teenagers!

If you're wondering if the guys did their homework tonight, the majority did not. And one guy was so scared to come to class because he DIDN'T do the work that he stayed in his cell. Ok then.

The one guy who did do something was one that I prejudged. For two weeks he sat next to me with a scowl on his face and attitude exuding from his every pore. He said at one class, "I just take what [the time] they give me." Sad. He didn't trust me (yet), nor I him. I thought tonight would be the same. And yet, he surprised me. Shocked me, really.

Mac (and that's only one of his nicknames; the other being too identifiable) was the only one to have completed the assignment. (In the guys' defense, they thought I was going to be a no-show tonight because my supervisor was supposed to be on vacation, hence the no homework...) I asked if Mac would read his essay to the group. He demurred. But then he relented, but only if I read it. And read it I did. All four handwritten pages.

And it was good.

No, it was really good.

From the guy who barely spoke in the past two weeks I read a complete five-paragraph essay (shout out to the teachers!!!), well formatted, organized and laden with awesome vocabulary. And this is from the guy who said he hated English in high school. Hmmm...

The guys in class loved it. So did I. They said it was "good." I told them to reach beyond that adjective, and they did. And then D read his piece: a long verse poem about his struggles inside and "inside." Holy sh...

And from there the discussion came. One of the guys made mention of the level of intelligence in the class - an exact echo of my thoughts: what are these guys doing in the box?

There was so much more that I took from our discussion, but for now, suffice it to say that there ARE inmates looking to "do their time" well, instead of having their "time do them." That is why I go every week and wait, sometimes an hour or more, in the "reception area" to be escorted to the gym where our class is.

Mac pulled me aside after class tonight. "Jen, I knew you didn't think I was serious about being here. I had to prove to you that I was that's why I wrote what I did."

How it all started...for the second time. FB Post from 2/25/16

Last week I finally went back to jail. To teach my favorite class of the week. After a sort of short hiatus. Let's just say that I was temporarily fired from my volunteer job. Something about rule following - a skill I've yet to master. I must be pretty good at groveling, though, because they let me back in.

Anyway, I'm glad to be back teaching a writing class to a select group of men at Bridgeport Correctional Center. BCC is a pretrial facility so my roster changes from week to week, depending on who's in court that day, who's been sentenced and transferred out to a state or federal prison or who has erred behaviorally during the week and subsequently is not allowed off the block to attend class. Regardless of who shows up, however, the men are focused. As a group they have decided that a collective project of telling their stories is where they want to focus their efforts. Not once has any of them declared innocence or otherwise made excuses for their presence in jail, some of them for the second, third, fourth time. What they would like, however, is the opportunity to be productive while serving their time.

Of course it is great to be so well received and be genuinely thanked for coming every week (one new guy learned I was a VOLUNTEER and he damn near fell out of his seat - I got a fist bump for that! Ha!), but I think the words of one of the guys says it all:

"Having always been a problem prisoner, always in some sort of trouble doing most of my time in segregation or ticket blocks, on loss of all privileges or just not participating for anything, I took an interest in this writing program. After the first few weeks I realized that I wanted to continue with the group and looked toward the next group at the end of each. In order to continue along in the weekly group I had to regulate my behavior in order to stay involved. That meant no more problems, seg or tickets. I modified my behavior because I had something to look toward that was positive for a change. That one hour, maybe a bit longer, would turn into many hours of writing on some chosen subject for the next group."

There is a reason that the large majority of inmates are not in my class, as not all are candidates for correction - if that is the goal of the system.  However, I think the stories these men have to tell will be worth reading.

I'll keep you posted. Literally.