This is not allowed. Beyond that, it is illegal, a felony in and of itself. The Boss-Guy believes this is the most important piece of information to pound into my head. “I think everything will be just fine as long as you don’t fall in love with an inmate,” he mentions. We were walking out after my first day when he put forth this conversational sally. Fortunately, my mouth wasn’t full of anything, and all I spewed was air. Immediately I recognized this as the second most bizarre thing a boss of mine had ever said to me, and easily the most stunning thing spoken on the first day. I assured him I had no intention of going down that particular path. Apparently, it’s a problem. Women with savior complexes are attracted to those they perceive as helpless boys, just needing a good woman to re-mother them and set them straight. And although there are some helpless boys, and every man needs a good woman, and I’m good at setting people straight, sex in prison is not for me.
The fifth time he mentions this thought to me, I’m beginning to get a little peeved. I’ve been a therapist for decades and have yet to wander into this trap. And although I don’t wish to disrespect my patients, if I were to cross this professional and personal boundary, it would not be with a prisoner. This is not to mention my husband of three decades of whom I am quite fond. This answer seems to shut down his impulse to warn…but it makes me look at the other female staff and wonder.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Alone on the Yard: Instant Messaging
The Psych: I can walk the prison yard alone, now
Mr. Bill: Wow...
The Psych: I was walking out the other evening during count, when the guys are restricted to bunks
The Psych: and somebody yelled, "yo bitch" out the window, followed by a more up to date "hubba hubba" kind of comment.
The Psych: so I stopped and stared at the window/bunk it was coming from, and it stopped and that was that
The Psych: I figured if it happened the next day, I would turn around and ask the officer if that were necessary. But apparently the stare worked
Mr. Bill: And you do have the authoritative glare...
The Psych: well, I had sunglasses on, and I didn't slink, which I think was expected, and I know exactly which bunk it was
The Psych: and apparently there is a rule about "unsolicited communication"
Mr. Bill: No slinking allowed.... ever.
The Psych: absofuckinglutely
Mr. Bill: Wow...
The Psych: I was walking out the other evening during count, when the guys are restricted to bunks
The Psych: and somebody yelled, "yo bitch" out the window, followed by a more up to date "hubba hubba" kind of comment.
The Psych: so I stopped and stared at the window/bunk it was coming from, and it stopped and that was that
The Psych: I figured if it happened the next day, I would turn around and ask the officer if that were necessary. But apparently the stare worked
Mr. Bill: And you do have the authoritative glare...
The Psych: well, I had sunglasses on, and I didn't slink, which I think was expected, and I know exactly which bunk it was
The Psych: and apparently there is a rule about "unsolicited communication"
Mr. Bill: No slinking allowed.... ever.
The Psych: absofuckinglutely
Catch Up
The last months have been fraught with change and adjustment. I’ve taken a bit of a break from the blog as well as cleaning the house as I adjust. So I’ve uploaded the blogs I’ve done, and am now ready for some backtracking to get me up to date. Don’t think for a moment I’m ready to put four entries a day into this thing.
Contraband
My second day, and now I have my little red card with my chubby picture on it. A little piece of me dies each time somebody compliments me on this photo, and its excellent resemblance…
The card is like my prison passport. I can get neither in, nor out without it, and it gets me my handy dandy PPD (Personal Protection Device). Because I’m still a temp, I have to be walked in and out of the perimeter (through the Yard with over a 1000 prisoners, some of them assuredly depraved). Our secretary, Dustie, is this petite woman a few years older than me. She is capable of being my safety belt, apparently. Makes the same sense as my mother-in-law who used to insist her 30- and 40-something year old sons sleep separately from their girlfriends (me) at the cottage. That theory didn’t keep us safe from pre-marital wickedness.
Okay, I just reread the last paragraph, and I would like to clarify. Me and my now sister-in-law. I wasn’t sleeping with BOTH brothers and you who thought that need to wash your brains out with anti-bacterial soap.
Anyhow, Dustie walks me out, and I get to the gate, and NO ID. Doesn’t matter that count is going on (all the prisoners are in their areas and being counted to make sure none have slunk out over the 20 foot razor wire fences) and the yard is deserted. I MUST be walked back to the office. Good thing the weather is perfect and I’m not dragging her through the rain.
Bologna sandwich again. I think it is comforting for me. It is also indicative of my lack of interest in cooking when I get home as I am hoarding leftovers for later-in-the-week-dinners. I’m going to give the Unnamed Temp Agency a little ringy ding and discuss they’re lack of accurate information in the sex department. (Again, your mind is a dirty place. REMEMBER?? They told me it was a woman’s prison, and it is a MEN’S prison). As I mentioned, we can’t bring either food or cell phones into the perimeter, so I left my phone with my lunch. I took it, strolled out front of the building into the sun and called my little friend at the Temp Agency. She was appropriately appalled to hear about her confusion and my edification and was apologetic to hear how long it took to get my husband off of the ceiling. Mission accomplished, and I strolled back into the building, apparently waving my cell phone around oblivious to the fact that I was ineffectively smuggling contraband into the prison.
My erstwhile friend, Officer Eagan, smiled at me, than blanched as she caught sight of the phone. “You can’t bring that in HERE!” And the blood flooded back into her face. I explained I wasn’t going to bring it into the perimeter, but just leave it with the remains of lunch to be removed that afternoon when I left. Her color did not return. Apparently, I didn’t get it. Food is okay in the front of the building, cell phones, like weapons, are not welcome at all. It hadn’t occurred to me that the guys that cleaned – “Porters” - were allowed outside the perimeter and cleaned this area of the prison. They must have a higher level of trust, but probably not one that could resist a ringing cell phone coming from a lunch bag. As all of this is being explained to me, I’ve gathered a peanut gallery. Or maybe they’re more of a Greek Chorus. Three or so other women hanging around gleefully start razzing me about my sad attempt to smuggle the cell in. I have a police magnet, and this is a perfect example.
I explain to Officer Eagan that my car keys are in my desk. What would she like me to do with the phone?? Well, I suspect she would have liked me to vaporize it, or teleport it up to the Enterprise. Or maybe just jump up and down on it until it was pile of harmless plastic and metal, no longer an instrument of seduction for hapless prisoners. But, she agreed to let me leave it at the desk. I set it down, and she literally took a step back from it as though it might bite her and infect her with a dread strain of Hepatitis. “I’d prefer you turned it off.” I have no idea why, but I immediately did so. Women in uniforms can be scary.
So, my little friend, Dustie, had appeared by then, watching the proceedings with no appreciable expression on her face. She walked me in AGAIN, and walked me back AGAIN. The Boss-Guy met us half way back and sent her back to the office. He attempted to comfort me. He still seems to believe I’m fragile. As he came back from lunch, one of the Custody guys that drives the outside of the perimeter watching for suspicious activity, had seen my suspicious activity, and told Boss-Guy. Apparently, by my second day, I am known…
I just finished my eighth day of work, and I am still getting cell phone comments from perfect strangers…
The card is like my prison passport. I can get neither in, nor out without it, and it gets me my handy dandy PPD (Personal Protection Device). Because I’m still a temp, I have to be walked in and out of the perimeter (through the Yard with over a 1000 prisoners, some of them assuredly depraved). Our secretary, Dustie, is this petite woman a few years older than me. She is capable of being my safety belt, apparently. Makes the same sense as my mother-in-law who used to insist her 30- and 40-something year old sons sleep separately from their girlfriends (me) at the cottage. That theory didn’t keep us safe from pre-marital wickedness.
Okay, I just reread the last paragraph, and I would like to clarify. Me and my now sister-in-law. I wasn’t sleeping with BOTH brothers and you who thought that need to wash your brains out with anti-bacterial soap.
Anyhow, Dustie walks me out, and I get to the gate, and NO ID. Doesn’t matter that count is going on (all the prisoners are in their areas and being counted to make sure none have slunk out over the 20 foot razor wire fences) and the yard is deserted. I MUST be walked back to the office. Good thing the weather is perfect and I’m not dragging her through the rain.
Bologna sandwich again. I think it is comforting for me. It is also indicative of my lack of interest in cooking when I get home as I am hoarding leftovers for later-in-the-week-dinners. I’m going to give the Unnamed Temp Agency a little ringy ding and discuss they’re lack of accurate information in the sex department. (Again, your mind is a dirty place. REMEMBER?? They told me it was a woman’s prison, and it is a MEN’S prison). As I mentioned, we can’t bring either food or cell phones into the perimeter, so I left my phone with my lunch. I took it, strolled out front of the building into the sun and called my little friend at the Temp Agency. She was appropriately appalled to hear about her confusion and my edification and was apologetic to hear how long it took to get my husband off of the ceiling. Mission accomplished, and I strolled back into the building, apparently waving my cell phone around oblivious to the fact that I was ineffectively smuggling contraband into the prison.
My erstwhile friend, Officer Eagan, smiled at me, than blanched as she caught sight of the phone. “You can’t bring that in HERE!” And the blood flooded back into her face. I explained I wasn’t going to bring it into the perimeter, but just leave it with the remains of lunch to be removed that afternoon when I left. Her color did not return. Apparently, I didn’t get it. Food is okay in the front of the building, cell phones, like weapons, are not welcome at all. It hadn’t occurred to me that the guys that cleaned – “Porters” - were allowed outside the perimeter and cleaned this area of the prison. They must have a higher level of trust, but probably not one that could resist a ringing cell phone coming from a lunch bag. As all of this is being explained to me, I’ve gathered a peanut gallery. Or maybe they’re more of a Greek Chorus. Three or so other women hanging around gleefully start razzing me about my sad attempt to smuggle the cell in. I have a police magnet, and this is a perfect example.
I explain to Officer Eagan that my car keys are in my desk. What would she like me to do with the phone?? Well, I suspect she would have liked me to vaporize it, or teleport it up to the Enterprise. Or maybe just jump up and down on it until it was pile of harmless plastic and metal, no longer an instrument of seduction for hapless prisoners. But, she agreed to let me leave it at the desk. I set it down, and she literally took a step back from it as though it might bite her and infect her with a dread strain of Hepatitis. “I’d prefer you turned it off.” I have no idea why, but I immediately did so. Women in uniforms can be scary.
So, my little friend, Dustie, had appeared by then, watching the proceedings with no appreciable expression on her face. She walked me in AGAIN, and walked me back AGAIN. The Boss-Guy met us half way back and sent her back to the office. He attempted to comfort me. He still seems to believe I’m fragile. As he came back from lunch, one of the Custody guys that drives the outside of the perimeter watching for suspicious activity, had seen my suspicious activity, and told Boss-Guy. Apparently, by my second day, I am known…
I just finished my eighth day of work, and I am still getting cell phone comments from perfect strangers…
This is Her First Time in Prison
First day at the new job. My workplace was at the end of a winding drive. I was told to follow the signs and come in the main door. OK. At the end of the drive, and there are a couple of buildings and parking lots and nothing that looks like a main door. I’m early, cause I’m anxious. This is not helping. There’s a woman walking up, and I roll down the window and ask her.
“Are you the new psych?” “Yup, that’s me.” I get walked in. There is a tiny, rusted sign that says entrance that is visible about ten yards from the sidewalk. I could have wandered around for quite a while looking for it as I gazed at the twenty foot fences topped in rolls and rolls of razor wire. And there is a guy with a very large weapon. Don’t piss him off. And look, there is a group of men dressed alike behind the wire, carefully watching my every move.
The helpful person with me notices tampons in my clear purse thing (I was told to bring my purse stuff in this way). She suggests I might want to wrap them in a tissue. What is that? We’re all women? She explains there are “sex fiends” out there and apparently tampons are devices of sexual stimulation. Very confusing. Again, we’re all women, how exciting is a tampon? Maybe the guards are the fiends?? That doesn’t make sense, but I hide the tampons nonetheless… No reason to start an argument before I even officially start.
Fast forward. I’ve been checked into Personnel, and the ID machine is not working so I’m still a non-entity. I could be a prisoner…. The boss-guy and I go in through the gates. Unlike the exciting TV shows, the gates are glass not bars. I walk past the “bubble,” show my visitor pass, go through the metal detector, two more doors and we’re in. No problem
Where do you think we go first? Boss-guy and I? The Hole: it’s called Seg (short for Segregation). How many folk here are on our caseload? Three. And they’re all men. Well, there are three different facilities in this complex. My boss must have some responsibility for the guys. So we stop, and talk to the inmates through the meal slot in the door. Each cell has a cement bed thing, with a small mattress pad that looks like about two inches of cotton batting. There is a small corner table, again made out of cement in the corner and a column of cement blocks for a “chair.” I assume there is a toilet on the wall out of the general view. I’ve decided craning my neck and looking in is both unprofessional and impolite, so I’m still assuming about the toilet. There is NOTHING in the cell but two Styrofoam cups the mattress, and a couple of sheets, one wrapped around the waist of the prisoner. Where his pants were remains a mystery, but he doesn’t flash me, so I’m relived. OH, did I mention the VERY LARGE metal rings on the four corners of the “bed?” clearly where you tie the restraints. And at about hand level on the wall by the bed-thing, the paint has been worn off by the busy fingers of anxious inmates. It doesn’t have an appreciable odor, which is good, but what in Heaven’s name must you do here hour after hour? Except, of course, become more insane? But I’m projecting. I would become more insane; it might offer some kind of relief to be in a quiet controlled environment for a while if you’re incarcerated.
We’re done, and I’ve been introduced to my 20th person. No chance I’ll remember names. They’re introduced with first, last and rank. The name tags have only last names, and I call them by those when prisoners are around, but first names otherwise. I have the first initial for help…. What is the difference between a lieutenant, sergeant and captain? Who knows? But I’m sure it is important…. Damn.
Before we went into Seg, we stopped at “Control,” the central place that tracks the safety and general safety processes of the facility. It’s where the “Custody” hive mind lives. Custody is the euphemism for guards. I like guards, they are my friends. I try to look benign and competent simultaneously. I’m not sure I succeeded. I now have, on the belt of my brand new casual pants, a PDD. My first acronym. Personal Protection Device. I learn shortly that the button, when pushed, vibrates madly and gives my location via GPS. And I am assured that within sixty seconds three or four or five Custody will appear, out of breath, and ready to save me. This is reassuring. I’m especially pleased as now we are walking across the Yard. This is the MEN’S yard. Suddenly the tampon issue becomes clear. Apparently the Mental Health building opens onto two of the facilities.
I had imagined one large pile of cement, not walking through the open to get to my office, but oh well. The buildings are all older and made of brick, rather pretty. The grounds are lovely with verdant grass, large trees and a large greenhouse structure for growing annuals. The flower gardens are weeded impeccably. It is raining, so not too many people are out and about. I ask, and boss-guy says eye contact is fine, but don’t look down after you make it. I live in a community that is very racially mixed. The worst thing you can do is NOT make eye contact with the young African American men in town, or they follow you and harass you trying to scare you. I’m trying to balance this impulse but not gawk. Sunshine would be better as I could hide a bit behind my sunglasses.
The rest of the morning is pretty innocuous. I hang with the boss and see some of his male inmate/patients. Nothing too scary, some sexual criminals, and one murderer, but they just seemed like normal patients. Now it is lunch. We can’t bring many things into the perimeter. Obviously no weapons or drugs. But also no food except for factory wrapped snacks and a liter of sealed liquids in plastic (no glass or metal). No cell phones, one lipstick, one nail clipper one hairbrush and a day’s worth of sanitary products for women only. (Were men trying to smuggle in tampons?? Why did that bit of detail need to be in the policy?) So we stroll out across the yard again to eat lunch OUTSIDE the perimeter. Everybody is extremely friendly and amusing in the lunch room, even though none are from my unit. The boss introduced me before he left with the caveat, “She’s never been in prison before.” This is really rather an appealing place in many ways I didn’t expect. But as I finish my bologna sandwich, little pieces of information start to settle in my mind, and a suspicion starts to surface.
Third trip across the yard, and I ask the boss-guy where the women are… “Oh, we haven't had women here in years.”
“Are you the new psych?” “Yup, that’s me.” I get walked in. There is a tiny, rusted sign that says entrance that is visible about ten yards from the sidewalk. I could have wandered around for quite a while looking for it as I gazed at the twenty foot fences topped in rolls and rolls of razor wire. And there is a guy with a very large weapon. Don’t piss him off. And look, there is a group of men dressed alike behind the wire, carefully watching my every move.
The helpful person with me notices tampons in my clear purse thing (I was told to bring my purse stuff in this way). She suggests I might want to wrap them in a tissue. What is that? We’re all women? She explains there are “sex fiends” out there and apparently tampons are devices of sexual stimulation. Very confusing. Again, we’re all women, how exciting is a tampon? Maybe the guards are the fiends?? That doesn’t make sense, but I hide the tampons nonetheless… No reason to start an argument before I even officially start.
Fast forward. I’ve been checked into Personnel, and the ID machine is not working so I’m still a non-entity. I could be a prisoner…. The boss-guy and I go in through the gates. Unlike the exciting TV shows, the gates are glass not bars. I walk past the “bubble,” show my visitor pass, go through the metal detector, two more doors and we’re in. No problem
Where do you think we go first? Boss-guy and I? The Hole: it’s called Seg (short for Segregation). How many folk here are on our caseload? Three. And they’re all men. Well, there are three different facilities in this complex. My boss must have some responsibility for the guys. So we stop, and talk to the inmates through the meal slot in the door. Each cell has a cement bed thing, with a small mattress pad that looks like about two inches of cotton batting. There is a small corner table, again made out of cement in the corner and a column of cement blocks for a “chair.” I assume there is a toilet on the wall out of the general view. I’ve decided craning my neck and looking in is both unprofessional and impolite, so I’m still assuming about the toilet. There is NOTHING in the cell but two Styrofoam cups the mattress, and a couple of sheets, one wrapped around the waist of the prisoner. Where his pants were remains a mystery, but he doesn’t flash me, so I’m relived. OH, did I mention the VERY LARGE metal rings on the four corners of the “bed?” clearly where you tie the restraints. And at about hand level on the wall by the bed-thing, the paint has been worn off by the busy fingers of anxious inmates. It doesn’t have an appreciable odor, which is good, but what in Heaven’s name must you do here hour after hour? Except, of course, become more insane? But I’m projecting. I would become more insane; it might offer some kind of relief to be in a quiet controlled environment for a while if you’re incarcerated.
We’re done, and I’ve been introduced to my 20th person. No chance I’ll remember names. They’re introduced with first, last and rank. The name tags have only last names, and I call them by those when prisoners are around, but first names otherwise. I have the first initial for help…. What is the difference between a lieutenant, sergeant and captain? Who knows? But I’m sure it is important…. Damn.
Before we went into Seg, we stopped at “Control,” the central place that tracks the safety and general safety processes of the facility. It’s where the “Custody” hive mind lives. Custody is the euphemism for guards. I like guards, they are my friends. I try to look benign and competent simultaneously. I’m not sure I succeeded. I now have, on the belt of my brand new casual pants, a PDD. My first acronym. Personal Protection Device. I learn shortly that the button, when pushed, vibrates madly and gives my location via GPS. And I am assured that within sixty seconds three or four or five Custody will appear, out of breath, and ready to save me. This is reassuring. I’m especially pleased as now we are walking across the Yard. This is the MEN’S yard. Suddenly the tampon issue becomes clear. Apparently the Mental Health building opens onto two of the facilities.
I had imagined one large pile of cement, not walking through the open to get to my office, but oh well. The buildings are all older and made of brick, rather pretty. The grounds are lovely with verdant grass, large trees and a large greenhouse structure for growing annuals. The flower gardens are weeded impeccably. It is raining, so not too many people are out and about. I ask, and boss-guy says eye contact is fine, but don’t look down after you make it. I live in a community that is very racially mixed. The worst thing you can do is NOT make eye contact with the young African American men in town, or they follow you and harass you trying to scare you. I’m trying to balance this impulse but not gawk. Sunshine would be better as I could hide a bit behind my sunglasses.
The rest of the morning is pretty innocuous. I hang with the boss and see some of his male inmate/patients. Nothing too scary, some sexual criminals, and one murderer, but they just seemed like normal patients. Now it is lunch. We can’t bring many things into the perimeter. Obviously no weapons or drugs. But also no food except for factory wrapped snacks and a liter of sealed liquids in plastic (no glass or metal). No cell phones, one lipstick, one nail clipper one hairbrush and a day’s worth of sanitary products for women only. (Were men trying to smuggle in tampons?? Why did that bit of detail need to be in the policy?) So we stroll out across the yard again to eat lunch OUTSIDE the perimeter. Everybody is extremely friendly and amusing in the lunch room, even though none are from my unit. The boss introduced me before he left with the caveat, “She’s never been in prison before.” This is really rather an appealing place in many ways I didn’t expect. But as I finish my bologna sandwich, little pieces of information start to settle in my mind, and a suspicion starts to surface.
Third trip across the yard, and I ask the boss-guy where the women are… “Oh, we haven't had women here in years.”
It Begins: Just a Urine Drop and I was on My Way to Prison
As Some of You know, I have a new job. The stock market was just scaring me, and I thought I would bolster up that portfolio with a little gainful employment. About a week before I made this decision, a Temp Agency, who shall remain Nameless, called me about working in the prison system. Of course, being of sound mind, and hearing they wanted full time, I brusquely said, “NO.”
Then I thought about it. My mother actually encouraged it. Why not? Temp job, interesting stories… if I worked full time for three months, I could lolly-gag around for a while. So I called them back.
They had two jobs, one at a maximum security men’s prison for a month, and one paying slightly more at a woman’s minimum for three months. The second one paid better, but the first was closer. What the heck, said I; it should be interesting. I called them back.
Two weeks after my résumé, my references, my height, weight, eye color and the name of my first born, they called me back. And they offered me the job. Do you see what is missing here? AN INTERVIEW??? I must admit, even I was a bit freaked out. They had sent me a job description, but it was such a generic one, my mother could have written something equally informative. Actually, my mom would have done a more thorough and interesting job of it. So, please, let me speak to this guy who wanted to hire me without even talking to me…
Well, it was an informative phone call for me. Seems that the Nameless Temp Agency just pulled a generic psychologist job description out of their files. Not even close to the actual job. I would be monitoring the stable mentally ill population at the prison. Could do that with one hand behind my back and my left eye crossed. And the boss-guy sounded sane and reasonable if a bit exhausted. He thoughtfully provided me with the names of professionals we had in common. So IMMEDIATELY I called my best nurse, Fred, and checked this guy out. Fred has perfected the art of emotive restraint and understatement; frankly, he is not prone to excitement and is allergic to hyperbole. He described this potential boss-guy as, “Top Notch.” Praise beyond the pale from Fred. I was sold.
So, what do you wear to a prison?? I suspected that Emily Post wouldn’t be able to help me. So I asked. I got a bit of a silence from the boss-guy, and then in the most delicate “duh” tone, he suggested, “regular clothes.” OK, it wasn’t a stupid question. So I told him I would sashay in wearing heals, nylons and a skirt; I mean, that IS what I normally wear to work. Well of course, with a top and undies and things…. Again, a silence. Just a moment of silence, but then, “Uh, khakis, pretty much everyone wears casual slacks and sometimes jeans on Friday.” Apparently “new women” were especially under scrutiny, and pants were less provocative. I didn’t get it, I’d think the men would be more exciting, but what did I know…
Just a urine drop and I was on my way. Drive sixty miles to the Nameless Temp Agency, do my paperwork, drive another ten miles to pee in a cup. To facilitate, the Agency had me go on their website, download the 25 pages of forms, and fill them out the night before. I am nothing if not a form filler, so I did just that after dinner.
Have you EVER been in a temp agency? GRIMGRIMGRIM. I was dressed better than the screener at the front desk and I was planning to walk all day shopping. She BRIGHTLY shuffled through my papers, announced half the forms on the site were outdated, but comforted me that that was, “all right.” I didn’t believe her. I felt irritated, not, “all right.” She told me things were “all right” about four more times. Snow White kept telling me, “Oh, my goodness!” at Disney and she nearly died of it. This Sparkling Little Robin was treading a thin line.
I refilled out half the forms while leaning away from the poor young boy reeking of alcohol applying for a mechanic job. She questioned him about the 14 month lapse in his résumé, and he announced totally straight-faced he was, “on vacation.” I then questioned Sparkling Robin about the form saying Nameless Temp Agency could deduct the cost of the drug test out of my paycheck at their discretion. Seemed a dicey thing to sign to me. She assured me they wouldn’t do it unless I got fired. I raised my eyebrows. What were they thinking to write such a crappy form that didn’t say that AT ALL. Misreading the eyebrow flick, she assured me it was very difficult to GET fired.
I gave up, and slunk out of the office to go pee in a cup.
Then I thought about it. My mother actually encouraged it. Why not? Temp job, interesting stories… if I worked full time for three months, I could lolly-gag around for a while. So I called them back.
They had two jobs, one at a maximum security men’s prison for a month, and one paying slightly more at a woman’s minimum for three months. The second one paid better, but the first was closer. What the heck, said I; it should be interesting. I called them back.
Two weeks after my résumé, my references, my height, weight, eye color and the name of my first born, they called me back. And they offered me the job. Do you see what is missing here? AN INTERVIEW??? I must admit, even I was a bit freaked out. They had sent me a job description, but it was such a generic one, my mother could have written something equally informative. Actually, my mom would have done a more thorough and interesting job of it. So, please, let me speak to this guy who wanted to hire me without even talking to me…
Well, it was an informative phone call for me. Seems that the Nameless Temp Agency just pulled a generic psychologist job description out of their files. Not even close to the actual job. I would be monitoring the stable mentally ill population at the prison. Could do that with one hand behind my back and my left eye crossed. And the boss-guy sounded sane and reasonable if a bit exhausted. He thoughtfully provided me with the names of professionals we had in common. So IMMEDIATELY I called my best nurse, Fred, and checked this guy out. Fred has perfected the art of emotive restraint and understatement; frankly, he is not prone to excitement and is allergic to hyperbole. He described this potential boss-guy as, “Top Notch.” Praise beyond the pale from Fred. I was sold.
So, what do you wear to a prison?? I suspected that Emily Post wouldn’t be able to help me. So I asked. I got a bit of a silence from the boss-guy, and then in the most delicate “duh” tone, he suggested, “regular clothes.” OK, it wasn’t a stupid question. So I told him I would sashay in wearing heals, nylons and a skirt; I mean, that IS what I normally wear to work. Well of course, with a top and undies and things…. Again, a silence. Just a moment of silence, but then, “Uh, khakis, pretty much everyone wears casual slacks and sometimes jeans on Friday.” Apparently “new women” were especially under scrutiny, and pants were less provocative. I didn’t get it, I’d think the men would be more exciting, but what did I know…
Just a urine drop and I was on my way. Drive sixty miles to the Nameless Temp Agency, do my paperwork, drive another ten miles to pee in a cup. To facilitate, the Agency had me go on their website, download the 25 pages of forms, and fill them out the night before. I am nothing if not a form filler, so I did just that after dinner.
Have you EVER been in a temp agency? GRIMGRIMGRIM. I was dressed better than the screener at the front desk and I was planning to walk all day shopping. She BRIGHTLY shuffled through my papers, announced half the forms on the site were outdated, but comforted me that that was, “all right.” I didn’t believe her. I felt irritated, not, “all right.” She told me things were “all right” about four more times. Snow White kept telling me, “Oh, my goodness!” at Disney and she nearly died of it. This Sparkling Little Robin was treading a thin line.
I refilled out half the forms while leaning away from the poor young boy reeking of alcohol applying for a mechanic job. She questioned him about the 14 month lapse in his résumé, and he announced totally straight-faced he was, “on vacation.” I then questioned Sparkling Robin about the form saying Nameless Temp Agency could deduct the cost of the drug test out of my paycheck at their discretion. Seemed a dicey thing to sign to me. She assured me they wouldn’t do it unless I got fired. I raised my eyebrows. What were they thinking to write such a crappy form that didn’t say that AT ALL. Misreading the eyebrow flick, she assured me it was very difficult to GET fired.
I gave up, and slunk out of the office to go pee in a cup.
I Am
I am a mental health professional, who, through a complete whim has ended up working in the prison system. I've been "in" for some months now, and my experiences have been heart breaking, hilarious and frustrating. In a quick review of the blogs available, most are by inmates; few by staff. I wonder if that is because we have difficulty viewing our jobs with objectivity. We have trouble staying human.
The Stanford Prison Experiment, something I remembered vaguely from my undergrad years, stands as a grim reminder of how easy it is to fall into an unhealthy, unprofessional stance in this type of environment. My goal over time is to remember my own fallibility and to treat each person as an individual. And for fear of becoming a bug myself, to remember to laugh.
The Stanford Prison Experiment, something I remembered vaguely from my undergrad years, stands as a grim reminder of how easy it is to fall into an unhealthy, unprofessional stance in this type of environment. My goal over time is to remember my own fallibility and to treat each person as an individual. And for fear of becoming a bug myself, to remember to laugh.
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