Behind the Walls

I think I went into the wrong profession. I believe that I should have been a psychologist or a clergyman or something. I say this because I have been getting the life stories lately of many of my inmates dropped on me, unsolicited. I guess I've always been the kind of person who listens well. Sometimes this is a fault. Too much listening and not enough talking can lead to significant difficulties in life's little relationships.


So it should come as no surprise to me that when dealing with society's cast-offs, I would lend such a good ear as a listener. Stamp it on my forehead: TELL ME ALL ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS.


Understand that I am not in any way advocating for these men. While I work in a maximum security prison, and while I am around these men all day, I have not developed any sort of a bond or connection with them. I see them as criminals, men who are justifiably incarcerated for crimes committed against society. They have hurt people, total strangers, their families and friends, their employers, and in the most extreme and abhorrent cases, children.


With that caveat stated, realize that it IS my job to act as a counselor to these men. Not in a mental health or a spiritual way, but in a way that transcends mere advice or quick solution. I am their life counselor, in a way. My job involves me in these men's lives from the time they enter prison to the time they leave (and, yes, most people who go to prison WILL one day leave).


I classify every aspect of their lives, from what their custody will be, to how we will manage their behavior, to where they will sleep. I assign them their jobs, determine what kinds of programs they will have, discipline them when they violate the rules. I transfer them closer to their families when their behavior warrants it, assist them when they transition back to life on the outside, and help them maintain their ties to the outside world.


I guess in a weird, dysfunctional way I am like a father figure to some of these guys. I can understand this, as a goodly number of them have never had any sort of strong male presence in their lives that was not in an adversarial role. So when they are faced with one, I believe they cling to him in a familial sort of way.


I tell you all of this to set the scene for the point of my post. Friday I am down in the disciplinary confinement cell block making my rounds. I have to do this every week with inmates under my supervision. I go by their cells and address any concerns they may have, answer questions, and check on their well being in general. I have a good rapport with the security staff on the compound. All of us in classification do, which stands to reason, as we all have to work pretty closely with them. We depend on each other. I am sitting at one of the rec tables in the cell block, as all the disciplinary inmates are locked down. The officers are complaining about a particular inmate who has been giving them trouble for the past week. Not BIG trouble; just being a pain in the neck.


I suggest to them that I go talk to him. This inmate is not on my caseload, but I know him. His officer was out that day, so I figure I can help him out if there’s something wrong. I go to his cell front and talk to him. This guy is spending the next 35 years of his life in prison for a string of armed robberies. He’s been in and out of prison since he was a teenager. Now he’s 45. He will most likely die in prison.


He has caught a disciplinary report for being disrespectful to a female officer. He contends that he was giving hell to another inmate and that she overheard him and assumed he was talking about her. I don’t know the truth cause I didn’t sit on his disciplinary hearing team. But I listened to him anyway. And for the next 20 minutes, I listened. I think it was really cathartic for him. After he stopped, I talked to him some more. We exchanged ideas and stories, and, in the end, I think he really benefited from it. When I left his cell front, I turned my attention to my thoughts of other work I had to do. He called back to me and simply said, “Thank you.” I smiled back at him and said “you’re welcome.” And I left that cold cell block of concrete and steel feeling like I had actually done something worthwhile.