When you miss the learning that others have value. When you are raised with so little love and caring that you believe the basic premise is to meet your own needs. When you act on impulse regardless of how it effects others. When you use kittens for shark bait, and don’t understand why I want to kill you for even considering that.
Is it hopeless? Should I shunt you out of my office?
But what if your desire is art and true love? Two of the closest meanings to my heart?
He has an art beyond card making or hobby shit. He makes beautiful things. He had a woman he loved beyond his art, whom he gave everything up for. He gave up his art. And then he started the prison/jail cycle, and left her at home for years on end. She gave him a disease. She crossed the line he had set. She became worthy of death and dismemberment.
He asks me if romantic love is possible. And he tells me about the violent acts he has done to get money for his drugs. He is skilled at his art and does beautiful work, intermixed with violent expression. What do I do?
He will never understand why I do what I do. He can grasp my feeling for him, but he will never understand in some internal way why I come to work and try to find a thread to lead him and his (hated) brethren out of hell. I think I can help him see his choices lead him away from that which fills his immediate need and find the long term goal. Otherwise, he could stay in prison for the next fifty years and practice his craft in this very limited way. He could decide to abide by societies rules and give up that desire for immediate gratification?
Is it worth my time and energy? Will I just help him leave and destroy somebody else? Smash their face in for the $50 in their wallet? Or do I just sigh and decide to support him through my tax dollars through the next fifty years in the prison system?
Will these questions destroy my marriage? Will they destroy me?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Omission or Comission?
Today was weird. One of my guys is apparently in prison for strangling his mother to death. As I have mentioned, I don’t review my guys’ crimes. It doesn’t feel so important to me. He is not clear if he is responsible for this by omission or commission. His memory of that day is poor – too high. He has decided that either way, he is responsible.
I would wish that his thought that somebody stalking him, came into the house and killed his mother because he was busy at his girlfriend's house. But it is not clear that he didn’t do it himself. Raped as a child by the brother of his mother’s lover is the motivation of his anger. She did nothing, and did not protect him.
This is such a common theme in child abuse: women who feel weak, and are not able to think of the possibility of alienating the man who takes care of them to protect a child. Very common. Very frightening.
In my experience, the primary caretaker’s response to this forms the child’s response. If they take the child’s side, and prosecute and protect, the damage is actually minimal. The child understands they are not responsible, and the caretaking adult protects, as is expected. If the primary adult chooses to ignore, because they are scared, the child become alienated and isolated. They learn that they are the only person that will protect them, and an antisocial personality is born.
He believes he is responsible for his mother’s death whether he is or not. Can over twenty years have actually effected change?
So, my question is about my own vulnerability. What do I believe? Is it important that I take a side?
My husband worries that the first time one of my guys I am attached to comes back with a horrible crime I will freak out. He is right. I will. And yet, I can’t detach. That is what nearly everybody else does.
What if he were my brother? What if I had raised him as a child, with 12 years between our ages? Do I just give up? Do I just stop caring? Grrrrrr. This job is making me buggy.
I would wish that his thought that somebody stalking him, came into the house and killed his mother because he was busy at his girlfriend's house. But it is not clear that he didn’t do it himself. Raped as a child by the brother of his mother’s lover is the motivation of his anger. She did nothing, and did not protect him.
This is such a common theme in child abuse: women who feel weak, and are not able to think of the possibility of alienating the man who takes care of them to protect a child. Very common. Very frightening.
In my experience, the primary caretaker’s response to this forms the child’s response. If they take the child’s side, and prosecute and protect, the damage is actually minimal. The child understands they are not responsible, and the caretaking adult protects, as is expected. If the primary adult chooses to ignore, because they are scared, the child become alienated and isolated. They learn that they are the only person that will protect them, and an antisocial personality is born.
He believes he is responsible for his mother’s death whether he is or not. Can over twenty years have actually effected change?
So, my question is about my own vulnerability. What do I believe? Is it important that I take a side?
My husband worries that the first time one of my guys I am attached to comes back with a horrible crime I will freak out. He is right. I will. And yet, I can’t detach. That is what nearly everybody else does.
What if he were my brother? What if I had raised him as a child, with 12 years between our ages? Do I just give up? Do I just stop caring? Grrrrrr. This job is making me buggy.
Am I Dude?
One of my guys I am particularly fond of, and who is working in individual weekly, tends to call me “dude” when he gets excited about what he is relaying to me.
I really don’t care to be called, “dude.”
The fact that I need to wear pants, and be mildly non-sexual is irritating. Although I don’t feel any particular way about lesbians, I don’t care to appear as one. And “dude” seems to deny my ultimate femininity.
S (the husband) points out for the younger set, this is a type of honorific. I need to give it up. So I try to do so.
But last Thursday, we were in group. Mr. R. takes what I’m saying to another guy that doesn’t get my point, and says, “No, that’s not what Ms. M. means, she means….”
And I feel unaccountably recognized. I know this is silly, but I am so relieved that he knows who I am…
Although I’ve never been Ms. M. before, I’ve always used my first name. Names are so important. I am who I am. Am I ‘Dude?’
I really don’t care to be called, “dude.”
The fact that I need to wear pants, and be mildly non-sexual is irritating. Although I don’t feel any particular way about lesbians, I don’t care to appear as one. And “dude” seems to deny my ultimate femininity.
S (the husband) points out for the younger set, this is a type of honorific. I need to give it up. So I try to do so.
But last Thursday, we were in group. Mr. R. takes what I’m saying to another guy that doesn’t get my point, and says, “No, that’s not what Ms. M. means, she means….”
And I feel unaccountably recognized. I know this is silly, but I am so relieved that he knows who I am…
Although I’ve never been Ms. M. before, I’ve always used my first name. Names are so important. I am who I am. Am I ‘Dude?’
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Harmony Deconstructed
Reading Mr. R.’s thoughts on Harmony is how we started group. Of course, I needed to do a bit of interpreting or simplifying for those listening. His thoughts are huge and dense. After the first paragraph, I asked Mr. R. if he was quoting something or somebody. He looked at me with total confusion… I then asked if these were the thoughts in his head, and he nodded solemnly, as though the thought of plagiarizing had never entered his mind.
So the group is concentrating very hard, except two or three of them, who I can tell I’ve lost. I think they freaked out at the thought of their own disharmony. And I stashed that in my head to address in a moment.
“What indicates harmony in a person?” I ask.
Here is what the guys come up with:
First they say that I’m harmonious, and I can hear the husband cracking up… “How?” I ask
“You’re nice.”
For those of you reading this blog, I need to tell you ‘nice’ is not a word often associated with me.
“Great,” I say, and write it on the board. “The next thing I suspect you’ll say is that I’m ‘cute,’” a word I hate.
“Oh no, Ms. M., we couldn’t possibly say that to you…,” grinning. It is inappropriate conversation to give me a compliment…but apparently just fine for them to be smart asses.
So they come up with a list of personal attributes that make harmony:
Harmony can be detected through the following characteristics.
Empathy
Adaptability
Passion for life
Being “real,” not using “masks”
Humor
(I got rid of the niceness thing…)
Then they come up with:
Harmony can be destroyed through
Bullshit
Nervousness
Blaming
Harmony is blocked when negative feelings are unreleased; when they are allowed; when they are fed and encouraged.
Mr. I. announces our group is a fine example of harmoniousness. I get chills; he understands exactly what I am fishing for, and is two steps ahead, nailing an idea I’d yet to consider myself.
But I still know we have lost a few, and I ask about group members that might not feel any harmony in themselves? I asked what we do when some of the group members are not connected to the conversation? How does that work? How can that be harmony?
One of the guys points to Mr. Pink. (I’m going to start giving them pseudonyms instead of initials, I think it is less confusing. Mr. Pink is a white guy from the country, who has nothing in common with my inner-city guys. He is slow in his thinking, but often has useful stuff to contribute.)
In painfully slow speech he says, “What if some guy has trouble following what is being talked about, and he needs to think about the words? And what if some guy has to work out what is meant? And what if some guy looses track of what is being said while he’s thinking?”
Mr. Phillips (previously Mr. P), is writhing in his seat. “I can’t stand listening to him. How can the rest of you just sit there while he, while he…”
“Mr. Phillips, why is it hard for your to listen?” Mr. Phillips with that question has pushed us the edge of harmony, and the group wavers before falling off. Mr. Pink is often almost identified as the scapegoat, someone at whom anybody else can take a pot shot. But he always saves the situation by laughing with them, diffusing the nastiness and reasserting harmony. Mr. Pink is a strange note in the group, and I can’t remember why I added him. The same reason we put salt in baked goods, I suppose, and he is equally important.
Mr. Innes (previously Mr. I.) observes that Mr. Phillips wants to care take everybody, and because of that, can’t stand the time it takes for an idea to emerge from Mr. Pink. He wants to drag the words out in a less painful way.
Mr. Phillips acknowledges this, and the moment of difficulty flows into the harmony of the group.
“But still, how can we have harmony in the group when individuals feel unharmonious?” They can see it happen, but can’t conceptualize it. Maybe I’m asking too much. But I need the guys that feel incapable of the harmony to understand it is not critical.
Silence.
“The greater function of the group brings us into a higher aspect of being?” For most of them, I might as well been speaking Portuguese with that statement.
“Do you know what carding wool is about?” Nope, although more familiar than Portugal.
Somebody suggests untangling threads. Good enough. He wins a free trip to South America…
We decide as a group, we all come in with tangled threads, and as group unknots them, leaving them clear and smoothed out. And we leave feeling stronger and informed, not like some freak on the outside of humanity.
************************
This group piqued tremendous discussion over the course of the next few days as I made my friends read Mr. Phillips' treatise. The most notable additions were:
Failure to assert self thoughts and ideas is not harmonious (in response to Mr. Stewart, aka Mr. S.’s fear that harmony meant giving up.)
When you want something, give away what you want.
Did Mr. Phillips swallow a lawyer?
Additional aspects of harmony might include cooperation, acceptance, and gratefulness.
Hey, Maclean, you’re quite the bug swatter…
And then the whole integration with my concept of shiny bits.
So the group is concentrating very hard, except two or three of them, who I can tell I’ve lost. I think they freaked out at the thought of their own disharmony. And I stashed that in my head to address in a moment.
“What indicates harmony in a person?” I ask.
Here is what the guys come up with:
First they say that I’m harmonious, and I can hear the husband cracking up… “How?” I ask
“You’re nice.”
For those of you reading this blog, I need to tell you ‘nice’ is not a word often associated with me.
“Great,” I say, and write it on the board. “The next thing I suspect you’ll say is that I’m ‘cute,’” a word I hate.
“Oh no, Ms. M., we couldn’t possibly say that to you…,” grinning. It is inappropriate conversation to give me a compliment…but apparently just fine for them to be smart asses.
So they come up with a list of personal attributes that make harmony:
Harmony can be detected through the following characteristics.
Empathy
Adaptability
Passion for life
Being “real,” not using “masks”
Humor
(I got rid of the niceness thing…)
Then they come up with:
Harmony can be destroyed through
Bullshit
Nervousness
Blaming
Harmony is blocked when negative feelings are unreleased; when they are allowed; when they are fed and encouraged.
Mr. I. announces our group is a fine example of harmoniousness. I get chills; he understands exactly what I am fishing for, and is two steps ahead, nailing an idea I’d yet to consider myself.
But I still know we have lost a few, and I ask about group members that might not feel any harmony in themselves? I asked what we do when some of the group members are not connected to the conversation? How does that work? How can that be harmony?
One of the guys points to Mr. Pink. (I’m going to start giving them pseudonyms instead of initials, I think it is less confusing. Mr. Pink is a white guy from the country, who has nothing in common with my inner-city guys. He is slow in his thinking, but often has useful stuff to contribute.)
In painfully slow speech he says, “What if some guy has trouble following what is being talked about, and he needs to think about the words? And what if some guy has to work out what is meant? And what if some guy looses track of what is being said while he’s thinking?”
Mr. Phillips (previously Mr. P), is writhing in his seat. “I can’t stand listening to him. How can the rest of you just sit there while he, while he…”
“Mr. Phillips, why is it hard for your to listen?” Mr. Phillips with that question has pushed us the edge of harmony, and the group wavers before falling off. Mr. Pink is often almost identified as the scapegoat, someone at whom anybody else can take a pot shot. But he always saves the situation by laughing with them, diffusing the nastiness and reasserting harmony. Mr. Pink is a strange note in the group, and I can’t remember why I added him. The same reason we put salt in baked goods, I suppose, and he is equally important.
Mr. Innes (previously Mr. I.) observes that Mr. Phillips wants to care take everybody, and because of that, can’t stand the time it takes for an idea to emerge from Mr. Pink. He wants to drag the words out in a less painful way.
Mr. Phillips acknowledges this, and the moment of difficulty flows into the harmony of the group.
“But still, how can we have harmony in the group when individuals feel unharmonious?” They can see it happen, but can’t conceptualize it. Maybe I’m asking too much. But I need the guys that feel incapable of the harmony to understand it is not critical.
Silence.
“The greater function of the group brings us into a higher aspect of being?” For most of them, I might as well been speaking Portuguese with that statement.
“Do you know what carding wool is about?” Nope, although more familiar than Portugal.
Somebody suggests untangling threads. Good enough. He wins a free trip to South America…
We decide as a group, we all come in with tangled threads, and as group unknots them, leaving them clear and smoothed out. And we leave feeling stronger and informed, not like some freak on the outside of humanity.
************************
This group piqued tremendous discussion over the course of the next few days as I made my friends read Mr. Phillips' treatise. The most notable additions were:
Failure to assert self thoughts and ideas is not harmonious (in response to Mr. Stewart, aka Mr. S.’s fear that harmony meant giving up.)
When you want something, give away what you want.
Did Mr. Phillips swallow a lawyer?
Additional aspects of harmony might include cooperation, acceptance, and gratefulness.
Hey, Maclean, you’re quite the bug swatter…
And then the whole integration with my concept of shiny bits.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Housing Unit
Three times I’ve walked through the housing units here on the facility. As desperately as I want to stop and peer in, it feels so wrong. It is not a zoo. I can’t just stop and take in the reality. So, instead, I set up with one of my guys in my building, to do a visit. I explained to him my dilemma, and asked him to check with his cube mates to allow me a visit. He came back, and told me it was cool.
We set up a time during count for me to come in. I arranged with a friend to accompany me; I promised the boss buy not to go into a unit by myself. Well, the friend had disappeared during our arranged time. Promises are so important, and I knew I needed to honor this one, so I trolled down the hall to find somebody to provide me a chaperone.
I found the lieutenant from Bad Bad Bad in an office, and shanghaied him to come. He was quite gracious about it, and of course, I then foolishly realized that I didn’t know quite where I was going. I was pretty sure he was in a certain unit, and I knew he was up by the front desk. The units are an open dorm set up, with a couple of hundred guys in a single room. Rather than an open barrack set up, it has smaller partitioned areas with six guys in each. I stride/slink along the rows of cubes, making quick eye contact, thinking I will find my guy in a minute. How stupid, to not understand my destination.
And in a moment I find relief. I see Mr. Phillips lying prone on his bunk, grinning at me. God knows what he would have done if I’d wandered by without seeing him. I am suspicious he would have just let me wander onwards.
I smiled and walked in, expecting him to do a bit of introduction and explanation. Clearly he is not on that wavelength, and he continues to lie there pleased I’ve come and curious about the next bizarre behavior I will perform. So I explain why I am there to the group in general. The guy in the middle bunk, unknown to me, sits up and starts to take control of the interaction. He is interested, but apparently confused. I get that sinking feeling of voyeurism.
“Mr. P. told me it was okay to visit your house…that you had all agreed.”
“Yeah, he did, but I didn’t believe him,” he tells me, eying Mr. Phillips balefully.
So I address my questions toward him. There are three bunks and six lockers, a row of hooks to leave your coats in a space about 8x12. How do you get into the top bunks? In college, there was a ladder-like thing built into the head and base of the bunk. Not here. You apparently have to levitate yourself from the chair three feet into the bunk. I’m not the most unatheletic person, but that leap fills me with a bit of trepidation. Plus, there are clothes and things on the chair. How do you elevate yourself without tromping on somebody else’s shit? I got no good answer to that question. The top bunks have the completely useless privacy screen of the partition wall. it appears exactly three inches higher than the mattress, so if you lie on your back without a pillow, you can’t see the guy six inches away. I’m sure you can hear him, though, not to mention smell his particular funk. I understand flatulence is a high art in the housing units, partly due to the diet probably.
Each bunk has a shelf the width of the bunk and about 16 inches deep for televisions or writing or whatever you might wish a shelf to provide. No bookshelves, no desks no tables. I realize I’m leaning against the most westerly bunk, and somebody I don’t know is lying within. I ask for an introduction. He gives me the freaked eyeball, his street name, which sounds like Dharma something, but can’t possibly be that… and I decide to leave him alone. At that moment, I scan the larger room. Every single guy in the top bunks of the unit is sitting up watching us. The minimal partition walls not only provide little privacy for sleep, but apparently I can’t have this conversation without a rapt audience. My only option is to pretend I’m oblivious.
Mr. Phillips’ lower bunk mate is also one of my patients. He is the guy who didn’t want me to walk through the snow, insisting I walk ahead of him. He is sooooo excited I’m there. So after initially greeting him, I return to chat him up a bit.
The lieutenant is beyond his ability to contain himself at this point. He explains I am mistaken, this is not Mr. Grand, and he’s known this prisoner for years, “this is Mr. Johnson….,”
“No, lieutenant, she’s right, I’m Mr. Grand.” The lieutenant just gives me the eyeball and we end the visit.
We set up a time during count for me to come in. I arranged with a friend to accompany me; I promised the boss buy not to go into a unit by myself. Well, the friend had disappeared during our arranged time. Promises are so important, and I knew I needed to honor this one, so I trolled down the hall to find somebody to provide me a chaperone.
I found the lieutenant from Bad Bad Bad in an office, and shanghaied him to come. He was quite gracious about it, and of course, I then foolishly realized that I didn’t know quite where I was going. I was pretty sure he was in a certain unit, and I knew he was up by the front desk. The units are an open dorm set up, with a couple of hundred guys in a single room. Rather than an open barrack set up, it has smaller partitioned areas with six guys in each. I stride/slink along the rows of cubes, making quick eye contact, thinking I will find my guy in a minute. How stupid, to not understand my destination.
And in a moment I find relief. I see Mr. Phillips lying prone on his bunk, grinning at me. God knows what he would have done if I’d wandered by without seeing him. I am suspicious he would have just let me wander onwards.
I smiled and walked in, expecting him to do a bit of introduction and explanation. Clearly he is not on that wavelength, and he continues to lie there pleased I’ve come and curious about the next bizarre behavior I will perform. So I explain why I am there to the group in general. The guy in the middle bunk, unknown to me, sits up and starts to take control of the interaction. He is interested, but apparently confused. I get that sinking feeling of voyeurism.
“Mr. P. told me it was okay to visit your house…that you had all agreed.”
“Yeah, he did, but I didn’t believe him,” he tells me, eying Mr. Phillips balefully.
So I address my questions toward him. There are three bunks and six lockers, a row of hooks to leave your coats in a space about 8x12. How do you get into the top bunks? In college, there was a ladder-like thing built into the head and base of the bunk. Not here. You apparently have to levitate yourself from the chair three feet into the bunk. I’m not the most unatheletic person, but that leap fills me with a bit of trepidation. Plus, there are clothes and things on the chair. How do you elevate yourself without tromping on somebody else’s shit? I got no good answer to that question. The top bunks have the completely useless privacy screen of the partition wall. it appears exactly three inches higher than the mattress, so if you lie on your back without a pillow, you can’t see the guy six inches away. I’m sure you can hear him, though, not to mention smell his particular funk. I understand flatulence is a high art in the housing units, partly due to the diet probably.
Each bunk has a shelf the width of the bunk and about 16 inches deep for televisions or writing or whatever you might wish a shelf to provide. No bookshelves, no desks no tables. I realize I’m leaning against the most westerly bunk, and somebody I don’t know is lying within. I ask for an introduction. He gives me the freaked eyeball, his street name, which sounds like Dharma something, but can’t possibly be that… and I decide to leave him alone. At that moment, I scan the larger room. Every single guy in the top bunks of the unit is sitting up watching us. The minimal partition walls not only provide little privacy for sleep, but apparently I can’t have this conversation without a rapt audience. My only option is to pretend I’m oblivious.
Mr. Phillips’ lower bunk mate is also one of my patients. He is the guy who didn’t want me to walk through the snow, insisting I walk ahead of him. He is sooooo excited I’m there. So after initially greeting him, I return to chat him up a bit.
The lieutenant is beyond his ability to contain himself at this point. He explains I am mistaken, this is not Mr. Grand, and he’s known this prisoner for years, “this is Mr. Johnson….,”
“No, lieutenant, she’s right, I’m Mr. Grand.” The lieutenant just gives me the eyeball and we end the visit.
Not So Harmonious
Those of you new to the site, should perhaps skip the next blog. It is still a concept in progress. So if you have thought or insight, give it to me, otherwise, I entertain the notion that this blog is a bit beyond the pale. So next, I'll write about my visit to the Cube...
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Harmony: The Presentation
Mr. R. spoke of Harmony as the thing he found most meaningful in life. This is the follow up to the discussion.
I had asked him to prepare a presentation to the group about what he believes about harmony. And he came in with the following (I’ve put it in as he wrote; we will work on some clarifying. His thoughts are so run-on it can be difficulty, but do persevere.)
Harmony
A Mutual State of being in Accord or Agreement as in regards to Feelings and Opinions; Whereas, a pleasing combination which prevents a person from being in a Predatory State of Mind, then any Natural Predator which consist of a persons Instinct of natural abilities from their Motivation or Impulse; as well as, a persons Intuition of knowing as, if by instinct but without a Conscious Reasoning which is a sharp insight of the True Nature.
Even though, we were created in the best of Moulds and Fell from being in Accord when our Will’s became twisted from the Correct Path and chosed (sic) the Crooked Path that lacked Harmony in Tones Sounded together, which allow the following to take course such as: Sorrow, Pain, Selfishness, Degradation, Ignorance, Hatred, Despair, And Unbelief which Poisoned a persons Life, as one see shapes of Evil in the Physical, Moral, and Spiritual World; as well as, Inside of Self.
However, Harmony has a much wider Signification that includes a Sense of Security and Permanence, which is Unknown in this life with Soundness – Freedom from ALL Defects and Welcoming by Gestures or Words in Accord with those around us; while demonstrating Patient Submission in the sense that we are Satisfied and not Discontent or Committed to Anger or Ignorance, which also departs from the True Concept of Treaty of an Agreement and Unison that is in the Same Motion which is the Foundation of Harmony and being in Accord with a Balance of Potentiality and Actuality, which is the results of what a person becomes from the Possibilities only at Birth; because it is not known of what State will be the True Reality from being Endued (sic) with a Understand and Purifying one’s Affectations; as well as, Embracing our own Spiritual Insight as one Understand Nature and Understand Self as well.
In addition, Harmony is Inclined towards promoting Peace and Tranquility that involves Friendly Relations that are not Hostile for the Fulfillment of this Great Trust that a persons Will allows their Acts to Reflect upon Universal Will and Laws, as one’s Mind Freely chooses; as well as, experiencing the Sublime (Supremely) Joy of being in Harmony with the Infinite (Comprehension), with the great Drama of the World around You and I with our own Spiritual Growth that Creates a Holy Residence.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Bad, bad, bad
S (my husband) says to me, why are you surprised? You’ve set yourself up in an environment where it is ILLEGAL for you to touch. You are looking to find connection through verbal means…
I walked into work this morning, and as always, I scan the board of who is in Segregation; which of my guys is in the Hole. Mr. Rose’s name is on the board, he is in for a major aggressive-type infraction. Another guy of mine is in for personal protection – he has done something to put himself in debt he cannot meet.
I hate mornings when two of my guys are in Seg.
But the real problem is Mr. Rose. I don’t even need to read the ticket, I don’t have to collect information, I know this is going to be a mess. He spent the first 20 years of his adult life in maximum security. I don’t remember why; I don’t care. Almost half of those years were in solitary. When I first met him (on his second bit) he told me how many assault charges he had on staff. He is the only person I’ve had in my office who actively sought to scare me. It worked, I pushed my chair backwards and checked my emergency button. But I didn’t disconnect from him. In retrospect, I suppose I was being tested.
After his first incarceration, he went back out into the world and constructed a new life. He found a regular job, a second wife, a child, an income, and I suppose he might even have been paying taxes. But he left the berserker response of maximum security behind him. Then, he got pulled over, and all that old behavior kicked in and he got in the face of the arresting officers and got himself a ticket. Because of his history, he was slammed back into prison. And eventually he came to me.
He came to my facility because he was dying. He had contracted Hepatitis C, and it was killing him. He had started the chemotherapy that might save him, and the horrible side effect of Interferon is that it makes you depressed. Suicidally depressed, kill yourself depressed, done with the world depressed. It was working, but they pulled him off of it because he was getting scary with his desire to die. They moved him to our facility for psychiatric support. We put him on a prophylactic antidepressant. And he restarted the Interferon. I was in charge of keeping him not-so-scary.
I failed him. Twice. I failed him. He was sent to the psychiatric hospital facility a couple of months ago. I had not kept close enough track of him and what was happening. I had given him too much latitude to let me know. I had trusted too much. We shipped him out to the psychiatric facility, and he came back a few weeks later feeling better. But the force of being back in prison was twisting him back to his previous behavior.
He is another beautiful boy, I suppose a man now. I can but imagine being put into a maximum security setting at 17 made him a huge target. He will never be a target again. Now, in his early middle age he is “sculpted from ice,” as my friend Sarah mused. He is completely capable of destroying one or two guards forcing him in a direction he doesn’t want to go. Nobody will rape him in the shower. They will not put him in the humiliating bam-bam sit. Bad, bad, bad.
He is in an observation cell, large bullet proof windows, no privacy, with the toilet up against the wall so I at least need to lean in to breach that particular space.
I lean over and put my face in the meal slot. “Mr. Rose? Hello?” He is huddled under the blanket on the slab of cement. Fortunately he is facing me. “What happened?”
No response. He slits his eyes at me, but nothing crosses his face. “Would you get up and talk to me?”
He closes his eyes and doesn’t move.
“Mr. Rose, I need you to tell me what is going on.”
Nothing.
“Mr. Rose, are you safe? Can you keep yourself safe?” Last time he was in Seg it threw him back to the bad years, and instead of giving into the impulse to destroy and strike out, he tried to kill himself. I don’t believe he is safe.
He half opens his eyes and give a slight shrug. He is not safe.
I am so angry I am vibrating. I am afraid and angry and more angry. I am responsible. I am the only person who suspects what is going on. If I could I would open that huge metal door and smack him upside the head. He is crashing and burning. He was supposed to tell me when this was happening. He had blown his appointment with me the previous day, and instead of calling to find him, I just rescheduled. I should have called and had them haul his happy ass over to me. I am angry at him; I am angry at myself.
So I leave. I tell custody he needs to go on suicide watch, based on the shrug. I call my boss-guy, and he asks me why I’m doing this. I tell him about the shrug, and I get a moment of silence. Then I tell him it is my gut, and bless his soul, he steps up and supports me. He is the best boss in the world.
Suicide watch means he eats his meals with his fingers. He needs to cough up his regular clothes, such as they are, and his sheet and blanket. He gets put into suicide wear, known as a bam-bam suit: a sleeveless, below the knee garment that Velcros at the shoulder. He also gets a quilted blanket. Both are designed to keep him from tearing and using the fabric to hang himself. He gets his underwear and toilet paper. Nothing else. He is alone in the cell with his thoughts and impulses, and I suspect his self loathing.
I type away on my computer, and do the paperwork. Boss comes in; he has heard from the Deputy Warden. They don’t really want to go into his cell and force the bam-bam on him. He is verbalizing a huge intent to resist, and he has the history to back it up. I want neither my custody folk nor him hurt. I don’t want him to have an opportunity to regress to the wounded monkey state of thinking.
I cancel the first half of my morning appointments. I slog back across the yard with the necessary paperwork and get the signature thing. We have modified the requirements to allow no change of clothing in place of constant observation. The Deputy Warden tells me this guy has been a problem all night, necessitating two calls to him after hours. This is information I didn’t have. It means he is reaching around his humanity back to the thoughtless days. Bad, bad, bad.
I have 45 minutes until my next appointment. Paperwork is in place. I evict the current custody woman from the 1:1 (direct observation) chair and pull it up to the huge, reinforced metal door. The meal slot is about 4x14 inches. The lock on the slot is a dead bolt ¾ of an inch in thickness. I need to lean down to speak through it. I’m past my first flush of anger now, and am just feeling desperate. I am afraid he is just working toward death. He has a three year old child he wants to go home to.
“Mr. Rose, I have the next 45 minutes free, and I intend to sit here and talk at you until you respond. I am easily as stubborn as you.” And I natter away at him.
It takes three minutes to break him. Or rather three minutes and giving up my anger. He shuffles across the room with the blanket and sits by the door. I have to be wary of being grabbed, even though I don’t believe he would do such a thing. I’ve already taken my decorative scarf off as an easy, deadly snatch. I can barely hear him he is talking so quietly. What he tells me is horrible, all the things you might imagine to say when you simply wish yourself dead. When it feels so appallingly bleak, you can’t remember your children, or the fact that physically, you are recovering from a death sentence. He wants to die; he wants it to stop.
“Will you please put on the bam-bam, and let us help keep you safe?” He agrees. If I could, I would crawl through the slot and just hold him as he cries. He is so alone and so hopeless, and needs the connection. Instead, I leap to my feet and go into the office to get the bam-bam and blanket. They slide through the slot, and I move away to give him his modesty and respect as he changes. He passes a wad of clothing out through the slot, and the guard covering Seg that day takes them. I remind him to get the blanket, and he goes back for that. I sit back down, and talk for a moment more. He is a wreck, but he is talking. And I ask him what he has in the cell to hurt himself with.
And from under the pathetic excuse for a mattress on the cement, pulls a coiled roll of fabric. It is the hem of his tee-shirt, ripped, and held as a weapon of self destruction. He passes it out the slot to me.
“Anything else to hurt yourself with?” He denies it. I fail him, yet again.
Back to my office, and one of my serious therapy guys. It was a great session; we made progress toward that trust and truth issue.
I coordinated with Medical so I could be in seg when Mr. Rose’s meds circulated again. He needs them. He will take them if I need to shove them down his gullet. Don’t fuck with me, I’m on it now.
When I come back after lunch to supervise his physical assessment and his meds he is compliant. But when we talk he makes a funny face at me and says, “I should give you this.” And another noose comes out, and the tee-shirt it is ripped from. The guard had not counted the clothing coming out, and had left him those objects. Shit. Bad, bad, bad. He tells me he has been experimenting with asphyxiating himself, and has come on the verge twice under the blanket. I take them, and I leave. Both nooses are pinned to my cork board in my office as a reminder.
When I take it, I ask if there is anything else, and he denies it. I slog across the yard yet again. He needs to be upped to the highest level of suicide watch and I need to act quickly to get him hospitalized. He knows this and agrees it is his best option.
Typing, more paperwork, more slogging. Signatures, and he is direct observation again as I arrange what I need to make it formal. How many times have I leaned over this slot today? I no longer know. The asshole across the hall thinks this is the best movie he’s seen in a while. I slam the slot in his door closed and shut the blinds. He is on his own for entertainment.
I have discommoded another custody guy I know visually, but not otherwise. He leapt up from the seat where he was speaking to Mr. Rose and gratefully gave it to me. “Mr. Rose, we’re sending you back to the hospital. I’m going to do the work and get you in today.” But I have just learned from the Captain that he will not return to me. He has made a number of threats on yard, and other inmates are claming sanctuary. I believe this is his last moment with me, and suddenly I am overwhelmed.
I sit across from him and start to cry quietly; thank god I didn’t give into full sobs. I cannot continue to channel his pain and not give into it. I’m not supposed to tell him where he is going or what is happening. This is a security issue. “Mr. Rose, I need you to take care of yourself. I need you to make the right decisions.”
“I’m not coming back here, am I?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Rose, you need to find somebody, wherever you go that you can connect to. You need to do that to hold on to your humanity…. You cannot let yourself give into the dark parts”
And he cries with me. The guard is standing to the side. This is so not what I want to project with custody. Stupid female emotion. I look at the guard and threaten his life if he tells my secret.
As I finish my day, the custody guy who watched me weep shows up in my office. I am ashamed I can’t remember his name. He has arranged to have his post covered and come to find me. He is awkward, and I wave him into my office, and he closes the door. He tells me Mr. Rose had been discussing with him the intention to shit and wipe the feces over the window just before I arrived. This is the only act of defiance left to him. The officer had reached the end of his skill, with only the promise Mr. Rose would wait until he was off shift before he gets the monkey urge to wipe his shit on a window to keep his privacy or to express his rage.
The custody guy tells me as soon as I sat down with Mr. Rose he could see it all change. He has worked over twenty years in the prison and tells me he has never seen anything more powerful and touching, and all I do is cry again.
I stay that night until we get him safe and out. All the custody people are incredible with me. They let me lurk and help. They keep me fed and entertained as arraignments are made. They let me know that somehow, my caring is not wrong to them. It does not keep them from their jobs. This is my first real time with this shift, as they come on as I leave most days. I am so grateful to them to let me stay until he is safe away. I would have never imagined that support.
Mr. Rose is not just a story, it is a man’s life. He has to make the right decisions, and he is so not able to do this now, and I can’t go with him. I have left him as safe as I may. May the Goddess go with him.
I walked into work this morning, and as always, I scan the board of who is in Segregation; which of my guys is in the Hole. Mr. Rose’s name is on the board, he is in for a major aggressive-type infraction. Another guy of mine is in for personal protection – he has done something to put himself in debt he cannot meet.
I hate mornings when two of my guys are in Seg.
But the real problem is Mr. Rose. I don’t even need to read the ticket, I don’t have to collect information, I know this is going to be a mess. He spent the first 20 years of his adult life in maximum security. I don’t remember why; I don’t care. Almost half of those years were in solitary. When I first met him (on his second bit) he told me how many assault charges he had on staff. He is the only person I’ve had in my office who actively sought to scare me. It worked, I pushed my chair backwards and checked my emergency button. But I didn’t disconnect from him. In retrospect, I suppose I was being tested.
After his first incarceration, he went back out into the world and constructed a new life. He found a regular job, a second wife, a child, an income, and I suppose he might even have been paying taxes. But he left the berserker response of maximum security behind him. Then, he got pulled over, and all that old behavior kicked in and he got in the face of the arresting officers and got himself a ticket. Because of his history, he was slammed back into prison. And eventually he came to me.
He came to my facility because he was dying. He had contracted Hepatitis C, and it was killing him. He had started the chemotherapy that might save him, and the horrible side effect of Interferon is that it makes you depressed. Suicidally depressed, kill yourself depressed, done with the world depressed. It was working, but they pulled him off of it because he was getting scary with his desire to die. They moved him to our facility for psychiatric support. We put him on a prophylactic antidepressant. And he restarted the Interferon. I was in charge of keeping him not-so-scary.
I failed him. Twice. I failed him. He was sent to the psychiatric hospital facility a couple of months ago. I had not kept close enough track of him and what was happening. I had given him too much latitude to let me know. I had trusted too much. We shipped him out to the psychiatric facility, and he came back a few weeks later feeling better. But the force of being back in prison was twisting him back to his previous behavior.
He is another beautiful boy, I suppose a man now. I can but imagine being put into a maximum security setting at 17 made him a huge target. He will never be a target again. Now, in his early middle age he is “sculpted from ice,” as my friend Sarah mused. He is completely capable of destroying one or two guards forcing him in a direction he doesn’t want to go. Nobody will rape him in the shower. They will not put him in the humiliating bam-bam sit. Bad, bad, bad.
He is in an observation cell, large bullet proof windows, no privacy, with the toilet up against the wall so I at least need to lean in to breach that particular space.
I lean over and put my face in the meal slot. “Mr. Rose? Hello?” He is huddled under the blanket on the slab of cement. Fortunately he is facing me. “What happened?”
No response. He slits his eyes at me, but nothing crosses his face. “Would you get up and talk to me?”
He closes his eyes and doesn’t move.
“Mr. Rose, I need you to tell me what is going on.”
Nothing.
“Mr. Rose, are you safe? Can you keep yourself safe?” Last time he was in Seg it threw him back to the bad years, and instead of giving into the impulse to destroy and strike out, he tried to kill himself. I don’t believe he is safe.
He half opens his eyes and give a slight shrug. He is not safe.
I am so angry I am vibrating. I am afraid and angry and more angry. I am responsible. I am the only person who suspects what is going on. If I could I would open that huge metal door and smack him upside the head. He is crashing and burning. He was supposed to tell me when this was happening. He had blown his appointment with me the previous day, and instead of calling to find him, I just rescheduled. I should have called and had them haul his happy ass over to me. I am angry at him; I am angry at myself.
So I leave. I tell custody he needs to go on suicide watch, based on the shrug. I call my boss-guy, and he asks me why I’m doing this. I tell him about the shrug, and I get a moment of silence. Then I tell him it is my gut, and bless his soul, he steps up and supports me. He is the best boss in the world.
Suicide watch means he eats his meals with his fingers. He needs to cough up his regular clothes, such as they are, and his sheet and blanket. He gets put into suicide wear, known as a bam-bam suit: a sleeveless, below the knee garment that Velcros at the shoulder. He also gets a quilted blanket. Both are designed to keep him from tearing and using the fabric to hang himself. He gets his underwear and toilet paper. Nothing else. He is alone in the cell with his thoughts and impulses, and I suspect his self loathing.
I type away on my computer, and do the paperwork. Boss comes in; he has heard from the Deputy Warden. They don’t really want to go into his cell and force the bam-bam on him. He is verbalizing a huge intent to resist, and he has the history to back it up. I want neither my custody folk nor him hurt. I don’t want him to have an opportunity to regress to the wounded monkey state of thinking.
I cancel the first half of my morning appointments. I slog back across the yard with the necessary paperwork and get the signature thing. We have modified the requirements to allow no change of clothing in place of constant observation. The Deputy Warden tells me this guy has been a problem all night, necessitating two calls to him after hours. This is information I didn’t have. It means he is reaching around his humanity back to the thoughtless days. Bad, bad, bad.
I have 45 minutes until my next appointment. Paperwork is in place. I evict the current custody woman from the 1:1 (direct observation) chair and pull it up to the huge, reinforced metal door. The meal slot is about 4x14 inches. The lock on the slot is a dead bolt ¾ of an inch in thickness. I need to lean down to speak through it. I’m past my first flush of anger now, and am just feeling desperate. I am afraid he is just working toward death. He has a three year old child he wants to go home to.
“Mr. Rose, I have the next 45 minutes free, and I intend to sit here and talk at you until you respond. I am easily as stubborn as you.” And I natter away at him.
It takes three minutes to break him. Or rather three minutes and giving up my anger. He shuffles across the room with the blanket and sits by the door. I have to be wary of being grabbed, even though I don’t believe he would do such a thing. I’ve already taken my decorative scarf off as an easy, deadly snatch. I can barely hear him he is talking so quietly. What he tells me is horrible, all the things you might imagine to say when you simply wish yourself dead. When it feels so appallingly bleak, you can’t remember your children, or the fact that physically, you are recovering from a death sentence. He wants to die; he wants it to stop.
“Will you please put on the bam-bam, and let us help keep you safe?” He agrees. If I could, I would crawl through the slot and just hold him as he cries. He is so alone and so hopeless, and needs the connection. Instead, I leap to my feet and go into the office to get the bam-bam and blanket. They slide through the slot, and I move away to give him his modesty and respect as he changes. He passes a wad of clothing out through the slot, and the guard covering Seg that day takes them. I remind him to get the blanket, and he goes back for that. I sit back down, and talk for a moment more. He is a wreck, but he is talking. And I ask him what he has in the cell to hurt himself with.
And from under the pathetic excuse for a mattress on the cement, pulls a coiled roll of fabric. It is the hem of his tee-shirt, ripped, and held as a weapon of self destruction. He passes it out the slot to me.
“Anything else to hurt yourself with?” He denies it. I fail him, yet again.
Back to my office, and one of my serious therapy guys. It was a great session; we made progress toward that trust and truth issue.
I coordinated with Medical so I could be in seg when Mr. Rose’s meds circulated again. He needs them. He will take them if I need to shove them down his gullet. Don’t fuck with me, I’m on it now.
When I come back after lunch to supervise his physical assessment and his meds he is compliant. But when we talk he makes a funny face at me and says, “I should give you this.” And another noose comes out, and the tee-shirt it is ripped from. The guard had not counted the clothing coming out, and had left him those objects. Shit. Bad, bad, bad. He tells me he has been experimenting with asphyxiating himself, and has come on the verge twice under the blanket. I take them, and I leave. Both nooses are pinned to my cork board in my office as a reminder.
When I take it, I ask if there is anything else, and he denies it. I slog across the yard yet again. He needs to be upped to the highest level of suicide watch and I need to act quickly to get him hospitalized. He knows this and agrees it is his best option.
Typing, more paperwork, more slogging. Signatures, and he is direct observation again as I arrange what I need to make it formal. How many times have I leaned over this slot today? I no longer know. The asshole across the hall thinks this is the best movie he’s seen in a while. I slam the slot in his door closed and shut the blinds. He is on his own for entertainment.
I have discommoded another custody guy I know visually, but not otherwise. He leapt up from the seat where he was speaking to Mr. Rose and gratefully gave it to me. “Mr. Rose, we’re sending you back to the hospital. I’m going to do the work and get you in today.” But I have just learned from the Captain that he will not return to me. He has made a number of threats on yard, and other inmates are claming sanctuary. I believe this is his last moment with me, and suddenly I am overwhelmed.
I sit across from him and start to cry quietly; thank god I didn’t give into full sobs. I cannot continue to channel his pain and not give into it. I’m not supposed to tell him where he is going or what is happening. This is a security issue. “Mr. Rose, I need you to take care of yourself. I need you to make the right decisions.”
“I’m not coming back here, am I?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Rose, you need to find somebody, wherever you go that you can connect to. You need to do that to hold on to your humanity…. You cannot let yourself give into the dark parts”
And he cries with me. The guard is standing to the side. This is so not what I want to project with custody. Stupid female emotion. I look at the guard and threaten his life if he tells my secret.
As I finish my day, the custody guy who watched me weep shows up in my office. I am ashamed I can’t remember his name. He has arranged to have his post covered and come to find me. He is awkward, and I wave him into my office, and he closes the door. He tells me Mr. Rose had been discussing with him the intention to shit and wipe the feces over the window just before I arrived. This is the only act of defiance left to him. The officer had reached the end of his skill, with only the promise Mr. Rose would wait until he was off shift before he gets the monkey urge to wipe his shit on a window to keep his privacy or to express his rage.
The custody guy tells me as soon as I sat down with Mr. Rose he could see it all change. He has worked over twenty years in the prison and tells me he has never seen anything more powerful and touching, and all I do is cry again.
I stay that night until we get him safe and out. All the custody people are incredible with me. They let me lurk and help. They keep me fed and entertained as arraignments are made. They let me know that somehow, my caring is not wrong to them. It does not keep them from their jobs. This is my first real time with this shift, as they come on as I leave most days. I am so grateful to them to let me stay until he is safe away. I would have never imagined that support.
Mr. Rose is not just a story, it is a man’s life. He has to make the right decisions, and he is so not able to do this now, and I can’t go with him. I have left him as safe as I may. May the Goddess go with him.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Ice Skating
Driving to work today, I hear the winter weather warning on the radio, set to go into effect at 0700. As usual, the weather keepers were wrong. At 0657, it starts to rain. I turn on the wipers and guess what? None of the splattered raindrops on the windshield move, they have frozen solid to the windshield. Fortunately, there is almost nobody out on the roads.
I stop twice to pound the ice off the wipers and windshield.
When I get to work, I slide my feet across the parking lot, afraid to remove one feeble point of contact to the glare and go donw on my ass.
as I come back from lunch. The main walkway is lightly salted, and I can now step carefully as opposed to doing the less than attractive slide step. I pass the guys going to chow, also stepping carefully. I pass one of the housing units where a 150 foot cement walkway connects to the main path. It has a mild, but distinct slope. The guys are starting at the top, and sliding/skating down the incline to chow in their little orange watch caps, orange coats and dark pants. They start at the top, give themselves a little push, and slide on their feet down the incline, arms outstretched and most with small amused looks on their faces. The go one at a time in case somebody crashes.
I stand and watch for a bit and cheered them on. It would have been absofuckinglutely hilarious on Youtube, but no recording devices in the facility, you know….
I stop twice to pound the ice off the wipers and windshield.
When I get to work, I slide my feet across the parking lot, afraid to remove one feeble point of contact to the glare and go donw on my ass.
as I come back from lunch. The main walkway is lightly salted, and I can now step carefully as opposed to doing the less than attractive slide step. I pass the guys going to chow, also stepping carefully. I pass one of the housing units where a 150 foot cement walkway connects to the main path. It has a mild, but distinct slope. The guys are starting at the top, and sliding/skating down the incline to chow in their little orange watch caps, orange coats and dark pants. They start at the top, give themselves a little push, and slide on their feet down the incline, arms outstretched and most with small amused looks on their faces. The go one at a time in case somebody crashes.
I stand and watch for a bit and cheered them on. It would have been absofuckinglutely hilarious on Youtube, but no recording devices in the facility, you know….
Custody: Keeping Us Safe
I need to talk to Lionel. He is high up in the custody hierarchy, but we had some kind of connection when I first started working. He is real. This is what the guys say about me… but he also seems deeply into the whole issues of us and them. I have to find a way to connect to the custody folk. My job is not just limited to what happens in my office. Somewhere, we have to find a way to make the inmates function and responsible. I can’t do this alone. An hour a week is not enough.
So I think tomorrow, I will hunt him down. And I will just put it out there. His job is to keep us safe; all of us, not just the staff, but the prisoners, also. I believe part of that is to find the humanity where it exists and exploit it. My guys are not just dealing with being in prison, they are trying to work through serious mental issues.
I have lots of years working with a multi-disciplinary team. Everybody needs to be on board. It doesn’t need to be warm and fuzzy, it doesn’t need to go too far out of boundaries, but custody needs to somehow be pulled into what works. Aren’t we here to bring these guys back into the mainstream? God knows, what happens in prison is not mainstream. When was the last time you went to take a shit and two guys were practicing the fine art of sodomy in the stall next to you? When was the last time you took a shower afraid for your safety?
If my boss is reading this now, he is having a heart attack.
Today, another guy popped up in my radar. He is maxing out in a couple of months. He will return to the sticks, not the metro area of our state. Mr. Klark, has a serious flaw somewhere. He is wound tightly, and is ready to take out anybody seen as a threat. But under it is a person. A shiny bit. He is in there, but he doesn’t know how to get out. If nobody shows him, if he can’t find the essence of himself, he is doomed to return. How do you reach out amongst the twists and turns and find a love and a connection that comforts his soul; that make him want something more? It is not just drugs and music and numbness.
How can custody help me instead of just backing up against rules and regulations? How can I help these men and women in custody find a way to be in charge without abusing?
So I think tomorrow, I will hunt him down. And I will just put it out there. His job is to keep us safe; all of us, not just the staff, but the prisoners, also. I believe part of that is to find the humanity where it exists and exploit it. My guys are not just dealing with being in prison, they are trying to work through serious mental issues.
I have lots of years working with a multi-disciplinary team. Everybody needs to be on board. It doesn’t need to be warm and fuzzy, it doesn’t need to go too far out of boundaries, but custody needs to somehow be pulled into what works. Aren’t we here to bring these guys back into the mainstream? God knows, what happens in prison is not mainstream. When was the last time you went to take a shit and two guys were practicing the fine art of sodomy in the stall next to you? When was the last time you took a shower afraid for your safety?
If my boss is reading this now, he is having a heart attack.
Today, another guy popped up in my radar. He is maxing out in a couple of months. He will return to the sticks, not the metro area of our state. Mr. Klark, has a serious flaw somewhere. He is wound tightly, and is ready to take out anybody seen as a threat. But under it is a person. A shiny bit. He is in there, but he doesn’t know how to get out. If nobody shows him, if he can’t find the essence of himself, he is doomed to return. How do you reach out amongst the twists and turns and find a love and a connection that comforts his soul; that make him want something more? It is not just drugs and music and numbness.
How can custody help me instead of just backing up against rules and regulations? How can I help these men and women in custody find a way to be in charge without abusing?
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