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.
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