I spend my Fridays in jail.
Voluntarily.
Without being paid.
And I enjoy it. Really.
Ahh, jail banter...
Today was my last Friday at the jail. I have been helping out with the GED program, grading TABE (Test for Adult Basic Education), which tell the GED teacher what grade level the student (or ''offender'') is on for each subject. The school year is winding down, the students are testing over the next few weeks, and after that, well, let's just say I may be busy with a new professional opportunity.
Some students - ''offenders'' - had as low as a 2nd grade reading level.
How are we ever going to prevent recidivism (re-entering back into the system) if a person is expected to return to society with a 2nd grade reading level? I mean, is it any surprise they revert back to their old ways and end up right back in jail again?
Perhaps it is because of spending a lot of time visiting jails during my formative years, but I do not find the environment uncomfortable whatsoever. I visited my father in jail from as early as 5 years old. I still remember lining up early on a Saturday morning, waiting in the bitter cold with snow on the ground, and the warmth of the trailer when they would finally let us in to check our ids and birth certificates and push us through like cattle into the building. I learned from an early age how to quickly to go through the metal detector and make sure my pockets were empty. I still remember my father wearing a jumpsuit, sometimes orange, sometimes green, and his off-brand Chucks. I still remember how happy he was when he saw us. It was like we brought a piece of home with us straight to him.
Not surprisingly, my brothers ended up in jail, too. And rehab. All for petty, stupid bullshit. They were products of their environment. I saw my environment and decided I was going to go the total opposite route; I've traveled the world, graduated from a University, and have done lots of other things my parents only dreamt of doing. So I am very familiar with various institutions of incarceration, county jails, state prisons, rehabs.
That being said, my father, the ''criminal'', was as kind as could be. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He was so funny, and incredibly smart. He always told me to look up a word in the dictionary and use it in a sentence, every single day. I would see him and he would say, ''Well, what's today's word?''. That's probably one of the reasons I have such an expanded vocabulary and make regular use of words like serendipitously in ordinary conversation. My husband jokes that one day my future boyfriend will also have a vocabulary like mine, and we will talk to each other using ''big words.'' (It still seems weird to me that my husband talks so casually about my ''future boyfriend'', but that's another story.)
My father, the ''criminal'', would see someone stranded on the side of the road and go out of his way to turn around and offer help. I can't tell you how many times we were late for this or that because he would fix a flat tire, or jump someone's car.
Yep, that was my father. The ''criminal''. He made mistakes, and had a heroin addiction, and made more mistakes. And so the cycle went. He wasn't a bad person, in fact, he was genuine and real and thoughtful. But he was branded as a ''criminal'', and that stuck with him. It changed him. Just as being branded as a ''cancer patient'' has changed me.
He died in 2003 from kidney failure; he had stopped using heroin, but the damage was already done.
One of my brothers died in 2013 from an accidental heroin overdose. I went to visit him at the rehab where he lived for a few years, and one day he was allowed to go with me for coffee. We went to a Starbucks that overlooked the bay, and he ordered a cappuccino. We used to talk about all things philosophical, and on that particular day we discussed signs from the Universe. ''They aren't really signs'', he said. ''It's just that your mind is aware of it now, and you are noticing it. They were there all the time, you just didn't know it''. I often wonder what he would have to say to me now, about my current situation of watching my marriage dissolve and eking out a new life for myself after cancer.
I really miss talking to him.
My other brother is now out of jail and goes to the methadone clinic, as he, too, has battled heroin addiction. He is enrolled in college in the fall to become a substance abuse counselor and help other people like him. Like our brother. I asked him what his thoughts were and he said, ''Would you be happier as you are now, or divorced? Which is the better of the two?''. ''I am not sure, that's the problem'', I replied. ''I guess I won't know until I try it, will I? And then I will always wonder, 'What if?' if I don't.''
My stepfather was in and out of jail, too. He was what was called a ''weekend warrior''. He was able to work during the week, and surrendered himself to jail on the weekend. He was able to do so because he showed he had a family to support, and we would lose our house if he couldn't pay the mortgage.
I had a good friend who was sentenced to 8 years in 2000 when he was 20 years old. He asked the judge if he could be sent somewhere near the city, because his mother died of cancer, his father had terrible M.S., and he wanted his family to be able to visit him. They sent him 8 hours away, up by the Canadian border. ''Don't worry, I'll visit you'', I told him. ''You will? Really? You're not just saying that?'', he said. Every few months, for years, I would board the bus at Columbus Circle in NYC at midnight, and it would drive all night until it reached the prison in the morning. I would sit with mothers, wives, children. The children were so excited to see their fathers. I could relate; that was me once. We would play uno and eat vending machine pizza and I would regale him with stories of what was going on at home, and learn all about prison lingo, like what a teardrop on someone's face means, and then I would board the bus and head back down to the city again. That was that. I moved far away to England before he was released and we lost touch, but I thought about him on his release date; July 3, 2008. Many years later he tracked me down and said how much it meant to him, me going to see him. I asked what his first meal was when he got out that day, because I always wondered. He said he stopped at a diner with his father, and when he went to dry his hands he was startled by the electronic dryer as they didn't have those back in 2000. He said he lost his appetite because when he went back to the table he felt like everyone was staring at him. It's funny, because when I would go out to a restaurant when I wore my headscarf, or my bald head, or my wig, I felt like people were staring at me, too. So in a strange way, I can relate to that. To the feeling like you are the odd one out, and something is wrong with you. Feeling different from everybody else.
Before I was diagnosed with cancer, when it was determined that I would stay at home with the baby for another year, I told my husband that I wanted to work with students at the jail.
''What if a 'nice school' won't hire you because you've worked in a, in a...jail?''
''Why do you want to be around people like that?''
People like who? My father? My stepfather? My brothers? My friend? Those kinds of people?
I am still tremendously bothered by that conversation. In fact, it was probably little things like that comment that brought me to where I am today in terms of my feelings.
Fast forward to present-day. My time at the jail. I always asked the guys who were being released soon what they plan on doing first. They almost all said the same thing, something to the effect of, ''I am starting all over again. I just want another chance at my life.''
Whether it is someone who has faced incarceration or a life-threatening disease, isn't that what we all want...another chance at our lives?
I found this resonated with me a lot, especially as I am finding myself again after cancer.
I, too, know what it's like to want another chance at life. More than anything.
Voluntarily.
Without being paid.
And I enjoy it. Really.
''Didn't you wear that last week?''
''Didn't you wear that last week. In fact, don't you wear that everyday?''.
Ahh, jail banter...
Today was my last Friday at the jail. I have been helping out with the GED program, grading TABE (Test for Adult Basic Education), which tell the GED teacher what grade level the student (or ''offender'') is on for each subject. The school year is winding down, the students are testing over the next few weeks, and after that, well, let's just say I may be busy with a new professional opportunity.
Some students - ''offenders'' - had as low as a 2nd grade reading level.
How are we ever going to prevent recidivism (re-entering back into the system) if a person is expected to return to society with a 2nd grade reading level? I mean, is it any surprise they revert back to their old ways and end up right back in jail again?
 |
| A creepy statue across the street from the jail. Is it Paul Bunyan? Jesus doing a fist bump? It shall remain one of life's great mysteries, along with the Bermuda Triangle and what happened to the Lindberg baby. |
Perhaps it is because of spending a lot of time visiting jails during my formative years, but I do not find the environment uncomfortable whatsoever. I visited my father in jail from as early as 5 years old. I still remember lining up early on a Saturday morning, waiting in the bitter cold with snow on the ground, and the warmth of the trailer when they would finally let us in to check our ids and birth certificates and push us through like cattle into the building. I learned from an early age how to quickly to go through the metal detector and make sure my pockets were empty. I still remember my father wearing a jumpsuit, sometimes orange, sometimes green, and his off-brand Chucks. I still remember how happy he was when he saw us. It was like we brought a piece of home with us straight to him.
Not surprisingly, my brothers ended up in jail, too. And rehab. All for petty, stupid bullshit. They were products of their environment. I saw my environment and decided I was going to go the total opposite route; I've traveled the world, graduated from a University, and have done lots of other things my parents only dreamt of doing. So I am very familiar with various institutions of incarceration, county jails, state prisons, rehabs.
 |
| The first college graduate in my immediate family |
My father, the ''criminal'', would see someone stranded on the side of the road and go out of his way to turn around and offer help. I can't tell you how many times we were late for this or that because he would fix a flat tire, or jump someone's car.
Yep, that was my father. The ''criminal''. He made mistakes, and had a heroin addiction, and made more mistakes. And so the cycle went. He wasn't a bad person, in fact, he was genuine and real and thoughtful. But he was branded as a ''criminal'', and that stuck with him. It changed him. Just as being branded as a ''cancer patient'' has changed me.
He died in 2003 from kidney failure; he had stopped using heroin, but the damage was already done.
 |
| My father ''the criminal'' and I, and my double chin, November 1983 |
I really miss talking to him.
 |
| My brother and I after we won a giant Easter bunny, March 1991 |
 |
| Visiting Day at the rehab, April 2008 |
I had a good friend who was sentenced to 8 years in 2000 when he was 20 years old. He asked the judge if he could be sent somewhere near the city, because his mother died of cancer, his father had terrible M.S., and he wanted his family to be able to visit him. They sent him 8 hours away, up by the Canadian border. ''Don't worry, I'll visit you'', I told him. ''You will? Really? You're not just saying that?'', he said. Every few months, for years, I would board the bus at Columbus Circle in NYC at midnight, and it would drive all night until it reached the prison in the morning. I would sit with mothers, wives, children. The children were so excited to see their fathers. I could relate; that was me once. We would play uno and eat vending machine pizza and I would regale him with stories of what was going on at home, and learn all about prison lingo, like what a teardrop on someone's face means, and then I would board the bus and head back down to the city again. That was that. I moved far away to England before he was released and we lost touch, but I thought about him on his release date; July 3, 2008. Many years later he tracked me down and said how much it meant to him, me going to see him. I asked what his first meal was when he got out that day, because I always wondered. He said he stopped at a diner with his father, and when he went to dry his hands he was startled by the electronic dryer as they didn't have those back in 2000. He said he lost his appetite because when he went back to the table he felt like everyone was staring at him. It's funny, because when I would go out to a restaurant when I wore my headscarf, or my bald head, or my wig, I felt like people were staring at me, too. So in a strange way, I can relate to that. To the feeling like you are the odd one out, and something is wrong with you. Feeling different from everybody else.
Before I was diagnosed with cancer, when it was determined that I would stay at home with the baby for another year, I told my husband that I wanted to work with students at the jail.
''What if a 'nice school' won't hire you because you've worked in a, in a...jail?''
''Why do you want to be around people like that?''
People like who? My father? My stepfather? My brothers? My friend? Those kinds of people?
I am still tremendously bothered by that conversation. In fact, it was probably little things like that comment that brought me to where I am today in terms of my feelings.
Fast forward to present-day. My time at the jail. I always asked the guys who were being released soon what they plan on doing first. They almost all said the same thing, something to the effect of, ''I am starting all over again. I just want another chance at my life.''
Whether it is someone who has faced incarceration or a life-threatening disease, isn't that what we all want...another chance at our lives?
I found this resonated with me a lot, especially as I am finding myself again after cancer.
I, too, know what it's like to want another chance at life. More than anything.
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