Funny to See You in Here

Prison is a funny place to run into someone from your prior life. For some strange reason, it’s happened to me more than once. A few years ago, I was in the law library when a college sociology class was about to begin. I recognized the instructor. Likewise, he recognized me. And so began my conversation with “Jim.”

            “Larry, what are you doing?”

            “About ten more years. How are you?”

            “So so since the school (i.e. the university my ex works at) let me go. You know (insert ex’s name here) was head of the tenure committee that put me out.”

            “I didn’t know that. I’ve been handcuffed by own problems the past year and a half.” (bad joke)

            Funny how my old world collides with life in here sometime. A handful of counselors here are graduates of the university where she works and I played professor’s husband. And these people always want to tell me they remember seeing me at some dinner or event on campus. One guy even remembers me speaking to his Constitutional Law class (a favor to a History professor my ex knew). You would think these things would bother me. They don’t, not really anyway. Oh, there’s that briefest of moments when I can’t help but feel the emptiness and loss of so much from that “old” life. That quickly gives way to the reminder that I screwed up, big time, but I’ve tried since then to make it right. And, nothing about being in here lessens who I am.

            That theory was tested again last week when a new senior administrator started working here. He’s in charge of all re-entry services and programs, a very important job given this facility’s status as a “reentry center.”

            I’d come back from work and was lying on my bunk reading and waiting for rec call. The door opened and in came the Warden and his entourage: the Major, the Assistant Warden, the three Unit Managers, and a handful of counselors. And I see a new guy walking with the warden and the Major as the warden says “this is the college building side. B side is part one of the cognitive housing program.”

            “I know that guy,” I thought. At the same time that I noticed him, he noticed me.
            “Larry, what are you doing here?”
            “About ten years.” (My lines somehow keep repeating). I told him I was a college aide and worked in GED classes as well.

            “I’ll talk to you again soon, “he said and followed the group over to the other side of the building. He was my neighbor. He lived two doors up from me “BA” – before arrest. He still lives there only now there’s a different car in the driveway and it belongs to my ex’s fiancé.

            I ran into him the next day. He saw me in class and waved me out to the hallway. He shook my hand. “I wish I could give you a hug. The neighborhood has not been the same since you left.” I hate to say it, but that felt good in here. He asked how I was holding up and it was genuine.

            “I disclosed to security that I knew you. You have an outstanding record; no problems with you being here under my management.” And that was it. I returned to class; he returned to his job; our lives crossing paths a second time in a totally different way.

            Because this is a re-entry facility so many of the inmates are returning here with a home just a few miles from the front gate. The officers who work here are their neighbors. They went to school together, played little league together. A lot of them drank together and bought weed from the same sources. They hunted the same fields; some even dated the same women.

            But they find themselves in the same place. The roles are different, but the goal is the same. At the end of the day you want some place to call home.

            I don’t mind when someone here recognizes me. I can’t change what happened, I can only go forward. So far, the recognition has been good: “You were a good guy,” they all tell me. In my mind I say, “No, I am a good guy.” This place won’t change that – or me.