Conversations

I had a number of conversations this week that gave me much to think about. Four, in particular, stood out.



Two of the guys from the exercise crew tried to explain prison life to me. They were both concerned I put too much of myself out there for guys that, simply put, aren’t like me, won’t change and will use my “good heart” to take advantage of me.


“These guys are scumbags. They always have been, they always will be. You’ll help anybody. You’ll listen to and counsel any dirtball who sits down. They’ll run a hustle on you.”


I let the guys know that I see through the line of crap most guys try and feed you. My entire life I’ve dealt with people more intelligent, more sophisticated than these guys in here can ever hope to be. Fact is, most of the guys in here are so ignorant they become transparent. I try and help because I feel called to do it and because it may make even a small difference in somebody’s life.


Dr. Albert Schweitzer said “constant kindness can accomplish much. As the sun makes ice melt; kindness causes misunderstanding, mistrust and hostility to evaporate.”


I try and live that way and deal with people in here in that manner. Sometimes, it blows up in my face. Overall, it’s the only way I can think of surviving this.


The other day “7½ mile” came to speak with me. I named him that because he’s an Eminem (“Eight Mile”) knock-off. He’s sloppy, slovenly, wears his jeans below his butt. He’s also lazy and unmotivated, two characteristics that describe almost every guy in the college IT program.


7½ mile was one of five students who failed math. Craig began a remedial program for those five guys. He busted his butt two afternoons a week for the past month teaching these guys basic math so they could retest for the course. 7½ mile quit going to the review sessions. “I can’t learn this. They’re askin’ us to do too much.” He then sent the school principal a note telling her he was quitting. She called him up to the school to discuss his withdrawal (more on her later).


He came back from the meeting and stood outside my cut. It was obvious he wanted, he needed, to talk so I invited him in for a seat. I asked how the meeting went. “She let me have it. Told me I’d quit my whole life. If I quit now I’d be back and never have anything” (I love our principal’s bedside manner!).


He asked me what I thought. First, I asked him about his life. In and out of prison since ’94; four kids living with relatives; an ex-wife in prison (drug problems). He’d never spent more than a year out of prison all those years.


I gave him my overview. I told him everything I had “on the street”, everything I lost when I was arrested. Then I told him as much as I lost, I had more heart, more determination than anyone in the program. “You get faced with a little work, a little difficulty, and you’re ready to quit. She’s right. You are a quitter. You’ve given up, you’re a loser and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison until you get a set of balls and decide you deserve better and you’re willing to work for it” (apparently, I’m no Mother Teresa either!).


He put his head down and told me I was right. A short while later, he told me he was going to stay in the program. “If you think I can make it, that means a lot.”


Later that day I met with the principal, Ms. C. She’s an interesting lady. Transplanted from the Bronx and a life-long Yankee fan (I’ll overlook that particular character flaw), she and her husband spent their lives in education. She is a fierce advocate for inmate treatment and rehabilitation.


We were talking about the college program. Even though the semester ended and there is a ten day break before classes resume, I’ll be teaching four, three-hour grammar and writing classes to help the guys with English deficiencies. I told her 7½ mile was surprised by her conversation with him. “I’m not paid to be nice to these guys. I’m paid to tell them the truth and get them an education.” We then talked about the program and the fact so many in DOC think educating and training inmates is a big waste of time.


She then told me she knew Craig and I were working our “butts off” for these guys. “They might not appreciate it, but I do.”


Then, there was my conversation with Go Chez. It was just he and I sitting in the cut. He started telling me about the auto accident. “I never knew how she died,” he told me, “until the day of my trial.” He had been medflighted on the accident date, coding a number of times on the flight to the hospital. And no, he doesn’t recall seeing a bright light.


At the trial, the State Police accident reconstructionist was allowed to present scene photos. “We didn’t have on seatbelts. She went through the sunroof and landed on her head.” Blood and brain tissue were everywhere. “I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind.”


Twice after the trial, while his case was on appeal, he attempted suicide. Twice he had to be hospitalized. His voice remained at a constant low tone. He looked down, but his eyes and his voice gave away his pain. As I listened, I wondered what good did it do to send this young man to prison? He isn’t getting the psychological help he needs to deal with the consequences of his action. He can’t undo what’s been done. What is the purpose behind his incarceration? Will it make any difference to the dead girl’s family? Will he be a better person when he’s released in a year?


All the answers I came up with led me to believe, like the car accident that killed the girl, nothing good has come of this. The girl is dead, Go Chez lives each day with that. Nothing happening in here will change that.


Four conversations this week. So much to think about.