by Beth Harden
“Go on! Miss needs to get out of here,” he orders. “I don’t know why you all gotta bother this poor lady. You ain’t boys when you did your crimes, so quit cryin’ and do your time like a man.” He turns to me with an ingratiating wink and I know that he is hoping I have a new parole hearing date for him.
“No news today,” I tell the proud man who has no remorse for the bad checks he parlayed for years to help with the medical bills when the hospital came after him for payment on his wife’s third round of breast cancer treatment. Even the banker whose branch bore the brunt of this siphoning saluted the man for taking care of his dying spouse in the best way he knew how and then turning himself in when she passed.
“I don’t know, Counselor,” says the young Latino with tight-knit braids. “You must go home with a fuckin’ headache every day. Why you want to work this job?” He gathers his workbook and fist pumps Mr. Vines on his way out the door. After they all clear out, I drop into the chair.
No, I don’t hail from the barrio or the Bronx. And yes, I am white. This statement is not an apology. In some ways, it makes it all the more amazing. I am here to peddle hope and with that earnest intent, I give them my word. That is the sole tool I bring to this compound of radios and towers and circlets of thorny steel. Behind the grinding bump of the sally port doors that usher in and seal out, it is all I have to defend me.
#
“Okay, who has some words of wisdom to share with us?” I ask. My question goes out to the men who have filed in and taken the same seats as they did last week. For them, this assembly of random souls is a unique configuration but for me, it is a dance that is passed down class to class like a cultural tradition. They believe there is safety in numbers and so the men quickly find allies in the mix, thinking they won’t be singled out or targeted if the buddy system is at work. Human nature is predictable when it comes to group dynamics. Over the next two weeks, the personalities will surface. Each man will take his place in a classic tale that’s been aired time and again with stand-ins and stand-outs, a variety act that is always entertaining and keeps us on the edge of our seats.
“Anyone?” I repeat. Dead silence, typical for a Monday. They’re in bad need of a jumpstart. Amazing what can be lost over two days of idle time.
“The assignment was to describe the impact of your control and abuse on others. It could be a quote, an insight. Something you learned from the reading. And by the way, anything that you offer is in confidence and I trust the rest of you will keep that pledge and not take this back to the blocks. This is your group and I am here to help you guys create a place where it is safe to share.”
“Miss A. In our addiction services class, we call that cheese and crackers. The teacher gives us the basics, the crackers. Us guys have to come up with the cheese.” Curious analogy but I go with it.
“Why don’t you go first, Mr. Dent?” I suggest. “Since you already have our attention.”
“Kenny needs to take care of Kenny. If Kenny’s got his eyes on getting high, then Kenny cannot love hisself and he certainly can’t love anyone else.” I doubt third-person Kenny has the capacity to look too far beyond his own simple sphere to extend over-reaching empathy to others.
“Good. Thank you. Anyone else?”
“Jesus loves you…but everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.” I can’t contain the smile that breaks out despite the seriousness of the topic at hand. “Okay, but if I said that to you, Serge, what would be your reaction?”
“Nuthin’. Cuz I know I’m an asshole.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Magrini. Extra points for that.”
The dark-haired kid in the front row still has not looked up or spoken once. His tangled mob of curls falls across his face and he keeps his head averted. I check the roster.
“Mr. Bowman, do you have anything for us?” He shakes his head. At least it’s a sign that he’s listening. “I’ll give you a little more time to come up with something brilliant.” A hand goes up over to my right.
“Yes, Mr. Willis. Please.” He must be about forty or so, a striking black man with a composure that belies a rare inner peace. Likely he’s a Muslim that has made a pact with his Mohammed. Willis is an imposing physical presence but his posture and manner tell me that humility has found a foothold in his life.
“When I first came in, I thought like a boy. I woke up angry every day and I let that anger pull me out of character. But as I’ve matured, I realized that it is on me. Blame is anger focused outward; guilt is anger turned in on one’s self. I needed to own up to my choices. So I learned to fall back and do the time, not fight it. I brought this on myself. We need to think like men now.”
“Wonderful. Thanks for sharing,” I say, impressed. “Research says that anger is often a substitute for another emotion. In other words, it is a symptom of something else. So when we lash out and abuse others, what could be the hidden cause behind that, do you think?”
“Stress?” guesses a white guy who has slipped into the classroom and taken a seat on my left. It’s not uncommon to have stragglers who, when a program is announced, take the chance and press their block officer to let them out. And despite movement policy that prohibits anyone to be released outside their housing unit without a pass or a name on a list, some of them make it undetected to the door of my room. I’ll deal with him later. It takes me a moment to register that it is Tommy Pisano in the flesh despite his paranoia and social phobia. I nod in hearty agreement.
“Depression?” offers Euclid. I smile with approval.
“Fear, “says an anonymous contributor. I spin around with my arms extended.
“Yes, who said that?” The guy from Guatemala who claims to have twenty-seven kids and speak no English sheepishly lifts his hand.
“Gold star, Crespo! As we now know, abuse is all about control, and those that abuse others are often afraid. Of what, do you think?”
“Losing control. Losing everything,” says Zimmer.
“Fuck that. If you ain’t in control of yourself, then you’re a pussy,” seethes a baritone voice. The others flick glances at one another and then at me, waiting for a reaction.
“Mr. Noble, you are free to express yourselves without censorship, but not if your choice of words offends anyone in here and that word offends me.” I turn back to Crespo. “Go on…” But before he can speak, Noble interrupts again.
“Listen, my niggas, if anyone disrespects you, you gotta put your hands on them. Guy or broad, no difference.”
“Does anyone take offense to this?” I ask.
“I do,” says Mr. Zimmer, perhaps the lone Jew in a prison of twenty-three hundred men. “Maybe you could say Ninjas instead.” The group laughs in unison, all except Serge, the Italian from New York who is iconic to anyone within the Department. He’s outlasted the average retiree by a good ten years in accumulated time and he’s only in his early fifties. His ties to the Persico family are well-known and inmates give him wide berth. Serge is getting perturbed. He folds his hairy arms across his chest and locks eyes with Mr. I AM, who is not in the habit of falling back.
“He’s pissin’ me off right now,” hisses Serge. He’s talking to me but looking at Noble. “I’m trying hard not to do what I normally do when I’m angry. I’m tellin’ myself, maybe this guy’s got a problem. I gotta try and be patient with his shit.”
“I hear you, my brother,” says Rev. “I study vocabulary in my cell. My father and I used to challenge each other with a chosen word of the day. I do that in here still. Each morning, I shout it out to the block. Just before breakfast. Like for example, this morning. It came to me overnight in a divine dream and I announced, Guys, the word today is tolerance. There’s no coincidence or random chance here. This is the word we need to hear in this class today. I used to be ignorant and self-serving. Everyone else irritated me with their childishness but God gave me the gift of speech and has impressed it upon me to speak to you today. It’s pride, my son that governs …”
�
��Shut the fuck up,” says Noble.
“I get it. The hostility I’m seeing. The devil doesn’t like the truth. I speak for all of us when I tell you…” and another ten-minute sermon threatens to ensue before I can wrench the conversation back to topic.
“Aren’t we supposed to be using the talking stick?” asks Dent. “Maybe others have something they want to say.”
“If the others don’t have the balls to speak up, then fuck ‘em,” says Noble.
“Anyone else want to add anything?” I ask.
“So what, now you think your shit’s more important than our shit?” Serge shouts. He’s risen to his feet and stepped his six-foot-two inch height a few paces out into the center of the classroom. He is genuinely trying to control his anger, but a half-century of living on impulse is not an easy thing to tame. Noble pushes his desk away and stands up. He has a bellowing voice but is much shorter in stature. The disparity between the two alpha males is more noticeable now that they are staring one another down.
“Mr. Magrini, you need to please back off,” I state firmly. My thumb is on the red button of my body alarm. If this escalates one more notch, I’ll press it. Serge turns his head to acknowledge my request and relaxes his stance.
“I’ll see you out at Rec. I’ll deal with you there,” he mumbles to Noble before returning to his desk. I could easily throw them both out of the class but these are the kind of guys that need this program the most. The process of purging can get ugly.
“Thank you, both,” I say sincerely. The men settle back into a cautious peace. “Now, consider this. If you control your partner, you are threatening these following things. I’ll call them the three S’s. Her…Safety.” I scribble on the board. “Her Self-determination or the ability to make choices. And finally, you take away her Satisfaction. Look at these concepts in a different way. When we abuse others, we jeopardize their ultimate safety, or life. We take away their choices, which is their liberty. And we destroy their quality of life, or happiness. So what do we have here?”
“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” Dent announces.
“And where do those ideas come from?” I ask.
“The Constitution?” guesses Willis.
“Good guess. You’re very close,” I say encouragingly.
“The Gettysburg Address?” volunteers Serge. I do not want to curb his contributions. Accuracy is not as important here as authenticity.
“Good answer, Serge. You’re very close. Think Fourth of July,” I suggest.
“The Declaration of Independence,” Crespo says. Ironically Mr. San Salvador is the one guy who is not a natural-born citizen but actually knows something about our American history. Likely he’s studying for citizenship or his GED.
“Do you recall its most famous phrase?” I query. He shakes his head.
“Okay, here it is. You all ready?”I ask. The men politely tolerate my enthusiasm though their glazed stare communicates a larger wish to get this over with. “We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. So let me break it down for you. What this is saying is that we know that ALL men, including women, children, immigrants, people of color and different gender preferences are created equal. We all are guaranteed these same human rights. If any of us abuse or control another, we are taking away that person’s right to be independent. Does this make sense?” I ask.
To my great surprise and delight, it is one of those moments that bless an educator’s heart. I can actually see enlightenment radiate inside cerebral bulbs that have been dimmed by drugs or defective genes. Most of these men are addicts and are by necessity self-centered, manipulative people that only exist to get what they need. Other people in their lives serve that one clear purpose. Suddenly, it occurs to some of them that in their drive to feed their own twisted hunger, they have trampled over others.
“So that could mean calling them names or not giving them the money they need and shit like that?” asks Dent.
“Yes, abuse is a pattern of coercive control over another person’s will with the purpose of beating him or her down to where they submit to yours. And by whatever means necessary. What does coercion mean, anyway?” I ask. They know this one, since it has relevance to the world they operate in.
“Force,” says Euclid. He looks downright diabolical. This man is bright as they come. Too bad his genius has only been acknowledged for criminal implications.
“Never thought of it that way. I guess I am guilty then,” Dent admits.
“In what respect? Guilty of what?” I ask.
“Do I have to pick just one thing? Balls!”he grumbles. “Hold on.” He pauses and rubs the red bristle on his double chin. “Okay, here’s one. So, I was in the shop working on a customer’s car, right? I’ve got the whole engine pulled apart and the transmission suspended up in the air when the bitch comes driving up nagging at me. ‘When’s my husband’s car gonna be ready? You said five o’clock,’ she says. And I ignore her so I can get the thing tuned up and she keeps yapping so I tell her I’m closed and start lowering the bay. She jumps back into her car real quick and pulls it forward so the sensor on the door stops it automatically, and then she sits there laying on the horn until I come down off the lift and pay attention to her.”
“So, she was trying to get a reaction out of you.”
“Yep. Broads always know how to push my buttons,” Dent replies.
“And did it work?”
“Sure as shit did. I unhitched the transmission and threw it right through the windshield of her car. I said, ‘Here give this to your fucking boyfriend.” The other men snicker and grin.
“And who was this woman to you?” I ask.
“My fourth wife. Well, soon to be ex if I can get out and finalize this divorce. I’m trying to get married,” he announces proudly. How this paunchy, less-than-hygienic guy has wooed multiple women is a mystery. “My new baby mama is expecting in two months, so I need to get out and take care of my kids.”
“How many children do you have, Mr. Dent?”
“Eleven,” he says proudly, rubbing his state-issued lenses on his filthy shirt. I’m thinking he’d make great sport on Jerry Springer with five women rampaging on the set to get a swing at him. But then I take stock of his violent tendencies and dismiss that thought.
“Have you ever taken a domestic violence class before?”
“Yeah, once before. It was held in the basement of a community center and the chick running it bugged out and told me to leave cuz I was too disruptive. She talked to me like I was some kind of dumb-ass so I told her, ‘Bitch, who’s the stupid one? Here you are locked in room with sixteen violent men. How fuckin’ bright is that?’ and I picked up my chair and threw it at her. I didn’t pass,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed.
The second bell rings, the mandatory dismissal for all inmates in the school unit. Dent lurches up out of his seat but his belly snags under the tabletop. He tugs hard and the desk lifts then slams down on wobbly feet, freeing him. The others hang back and allow him his moment. He has a bit more swagger than he did an hour ago. His confessions have earned him some clout among his peers and a good chest bump from Noble.
“You know how bitches get,” Dent says with a wink.
CHAPTER 4: BOYS TO MEN
A sub-contracted hazmat team has cordoned off the entire school unit with plastic, tape and orange traffic cones. It’s hardly a surprise to learn that asbestos has been drifting down on all of us for years. Splattering on the concrete floor when thunderstorms open up and rain leaks in streams into the cavernous hallways. Twenty years down the road, we’ll all be filing claims with infomercial attorneys such as Jacobs, Jacobs and Kirschbaum for contracting mesothelioma. They’ll probably turn us away saying, ‘Hey you’re the suckers who signed up for hazardous duty.’ As a result of the decontamination project, class has been re-routed to
the old package room at the far end of the south corridor. The principal has granted permission for us to borrow chairs from his wing and wheel them down on a heavy cart. He offers a few of his workers to help with the move, but Chulo insists on taking charge of setting up shop in our temporary quarters.
The morning started off rough. A confiscated stinger forced a cease of operations and then a facility lockdown. Since hot water can be used as a weapon, the faucets in the common areas eke out only lukewarm dribble. The inmates can order instant coffee through commissary but there’s minimal comfort in sipping piss-poor caffeine in see-through plastic cups. The more mechanically-inclined prisoners know how to rig up two wires lifted out of someone’s TV or headphones and secretly plug them into an outlet when the officers are busy taking bets on the Patriots. The electrical current will heat up the liquid when the homemade stinger unit is dropped into a cup. I can’t blame these guys for not wanting to eat cold soup, but when an all-thumbs crook takes a stab at it, it can short out the circuits for an entire housing unit, which in today’s case happened to be the food workers block. Counselors were summoned to the kitchen to fill in so feeding would not be interrupted. Three hours of sweat shop labor followed. Here’s the drill. On go the latex gloves and the hair net. Steam tables are pulled into two long lines facing one another and the assembly begins. The doggie-dish container begins its mad journey with a slap of watery baked beans dumped out of #10 cans into hotel pans. Pass fast. Add two slabs of mystery meat we think is slimy bologna. Pass. Two slices of wheat-less, tasteless bread. Pass. A scoop of purple, corn-syrup jelly and another knob of oily peanut butter. Pass. A bag of chips. Pass. One spork. Slam shut. Stack. Repeat process. After the first hundred, the temperature in the room has noticeably elevated as the Blodgett convection ovens heat up for afternoon chow. Sweat pools down the spine and the dream team begins to malfunction. Spoonfuls of beans spatter on the floor. Bread is flung and misses the tray completely. The line comes to a halt.