Men Don't Wear Red

Three months ago, I had a youngster come into my office on a parole violation. Although he was not antagonistic, he was withdrawn and unwilling to trust. Not so very strange. I told him to think about what he wanted, and if therapy was the answer, raise his hand and we would do such.

Two weeks ago or so, I came in on a Wednesday morning, and he was in the Hole on a fighting charge. My job is to check and make sure they are not secretly suicidal. Mr. Sotheby claimed he was not and gave the Prison Dead Eye. This is my own slang, and it means when you look at somebody, nothing looks back at you. It is a very unnerving experience and not one that does not makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

This week he appears back in my office. Now, after seeing him in the Hole, I was somewhat confused. My very intricate tickler file tells me I like him and would schedule him at the end of the day as a positive way to leave work. And yet he was totally unavailable emotionally last I saw him. It is Friday, so I am not as contained and appropriate as I am at other times in the week.

He is fairly perky and interactive. I tell him, as I might not have on a Tuesday, that he is marked as somebody I like in my very detailed tickler system. He doesn’t appear to absorb this as interesting information.

I ask him about the Fighting ticket, and he politely avoids the question. He does tell me a couple of staff have tried to get the truth out of this occurrence. I don’t really care about the legalities of what happened, but generally understand he has taken a stance, and doesn’t want the reality in his chart. I do care about what he is generating with Custody, and he allows as to how he got some flack for having an “attitude.”

Yes, he had a clear attitude when I saw him in the Hole. Suddenly he is engaged, and his previous casual, oblique body language becomes taut. “I didn’t give YOU an attitude,” he insists. He is right, he didn’t. Instead he gave me prison dead eye. After initially being shocked at this suggestion, he agrees he did do this to me.

But, nonetheless, great, he feels better. Let’s downgrade him to remission status. This allows me to follow the rules and only see him once every three months. I don’t mean to dismiss his hurt, but I know that dragging somebody kicking and screaming to therapy does nothing for him and makes me tired and angry.

When I suggest this, his face starts moving around as though there was a small, persistent animal caught behind the skin. I watch this and apparently make a strangled guffaw. Insulted and suspicious, he looks at me, “What did that mean?”

Again, it is Friday, so I am more up front than other times in the week and simply tell him, “You are either thinking up a really good lie to tell me, or you are struggling to find the way you want to express something.” I am tired and amused. I am not invested in his answer. I’m sure he is working up to some outrageous lie.

Instead, after a fairly notable pause, he says, “I think I need to talk to you about my emotions,” and blushes furiously. “My mother said that men don’t talk about their emotions.” And suddenly, he morphs from a liar to a small, sad child.

“My mother told me a bunch of things about men. Men don’t wear red.” Blush, blush, blush.

And he grabs my attention. He has climbed the wall of my Friday indifference. He is asking for therapy. He is writhing in his request.

Crap, I’ve not scheduled enough time for this contingency. But a dyke has opened. He is now pouring information out to me.

I stop him, and note what he has told me, and assure him I will put him on my regular schedule.

He is content, and leaves, and I take a quick look at my tickler. I had no memory of his history up to this point.
He went into prison at 17 for a non-violent crime. His juvenile record was such the courts were just frustrated and tired with him, so tried him as an adult. He had run away at 14 from a horrendously abusive step-father. While he was in on his first bit, at 19, his stepfather murdered his mother and his younger half sister. Mom was trying to leave him and save her daughter from his abuse. Mr. Sotheby knows in his heart, if he had been home, he would have helped his mother safely leave. He was in prison for a series of stupid, adolescent choices, and because of that, his mother and beloved sister are dead.

He has emotions he needs to talk about.