Reading behind Bars

by Jill Grunenwald

  I leaned down to inspect the CD player, my eyes following the route of the cord as it wound its way back behind the printer. The prong at the end vanished from my sight line, but the CD player was operational, so there was an outlet back there somewhere.

  The outlet, it turned out, was directly behind the printer. The same heavy, large printer that was pushed almost as far back against the wall as it could go. It was a tiny, narrow room and the printer had effectively claimed most of the territory. Whatever real estate it required was backed up against the wall.

  Gripping the cord, I traced it with my hand, following the plastic line back behind the printer. Eventually it stopped at the wall, the plug in my palm. I pulled.

  Nothing. The printer was so far back, it had wedged the plug into place.

  Next plan of attack. Bracing myself against the machine, I wrapped my arms as wide and as tight as I could around the printer, embracing it in a hug, and gave one big pull. It didn’t move. Not even an inch, which is all I needed really, just enough room to narrowly remove the plug from the wall and pull it out of the dark space.

  All the while, Kim stood there, silently observing.

  I channeled my frustration towards attempting to pull the wooden table the printer sat on. Because if one heavy thing doesn’t move on its own, then surely another heavy thing, carrying the first heavy thing, was sure to budge, right?

  (Wrong.)

  Finally, after watching me push and pull the printer this way and that, Kimberly stepped in. She grabbed hold of one side of the printer while I grabbed the other and together we managed to nudge it just enough to give me a gap large enough to pull the plug from the outlet. I put the now free CD player on the desk in the corner, and Kimberly and I pushed the printer back against the wall.

  “The pizzas are ready,” Dr. Harald called from his desk as he hung up the phone. I was so invested in the stupid CD player that I hadn’t heard it ring. “You all go over. I’m going to collect our graduates.”

  Never having been to this part of the prison before, I let myself be led away. Breezing through the double doors, I looked around; it reminded me of the lunchroom from my school days with its long plastic tables and metal stools. Everything was attached to the floor with thick bolts and brackets.

  Kimberly, our default leader, led us to the counter up front. Part of her role was handling all of the documents and files for the inmates in the GED program, so she knew these men better than anyone else on staff.

  The counter also reminded me of my school days, the triple row of thick metal bars running parallel with the counter to allow trays to easily slide down. Stacked beside the trays, at the head of the counter, were dark red plastic cups, the kind of imperfect plastic that created an array of bubbles and ridges on the sides of the cup, reminding me of childhood trips to Pizza Hut.

  Inmates behind the counter were starting to set out empty warming trays in preparation for lunch. A woman in a maroon chef’s coat came out, her red hair held back with a hair net. Her ruddy skin was flush, presumably from the heat in the kitchen in the back.

  “You here for the pizza?” she asked Kim, who nodded.

  The woman returned a nod of acknowledgement, then turned and disappeared in the back.

  A few minutes later the woman returned, followed by two inmates each carrying a stack of heat-and-serve pizzas from Wal-Mart. The inmates came around the counter and handed one each to Nancy and me.

  “Thanks Pam,” Kimberly said. Pam just nodded.

  We turned to leave but Kimberly paused and looked at Pam. “Can we get a knife for the pizzas? Just in case?”

  Pam waited a beat, her eyes carefully trained on Kim. Graduation Day disrupted everyone: from the Quartermaster, who had to make sure the reusable caps and gowns were clean and ready to go; to the correctional officers in the housing units who had to know which inmates were being let out right after count; to food service here. While Pam was preparing the meal for all the other inmates, we also took over some of her equipment so that the pizzas could be kept warm until we were ready to pick them up. It was an inconvenience, so I could see why she wouldn’t be bending over backward for us.

  Finally, though, she once again disappeared in the back. She came back wielding a knife, which she handed to Kimberly. In exchange, Kimberly removed one of the small bronze chits from her key ring and handed it to Pam as collateral.

  We took the pizzas next door and dropped them onto the circulation desk. Spreading them out buffet style, we matched up duplicate flavors so one cheese, one sausage, and one veggie sat on top of three small stacks. Near the door was a large, bright-orange cooler full of fruit punch. It sat on a rolling cart, the lower shelf full of cups, plates, napkins, and a box of latex gloves.

  Nancy handed me a pair of gloves from the box. I slipped them on and stationed myself behind the circulation desk while she set out the cups and plates. We took turns with the knife, cutting through the cheese and crust to make sure the slices could easily be removed without holding the line up.

  After about fifteen minutes of waiting, the library door opened and Dr. Harald walked in, followed by a long line of inmates.

  “Yo, Ms. G!” an inmate I didn’t know but who clearly knew me called out in greeting. His eyes widened. “We got pizza?!”

  I smiled indulgently. “Take a seat, first.”

  The tables in the library soon filled as the graduates found open spots. There were about twenty in all, nearly over the library’s seating capacity. Some even had to sit behind the law library desk to make sure they had a table in front of them for their food and drink.

  Dr. Harald reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “As I call your name, come up to the desk. You get two pieces of pizza. If there is more after everyone’s gone through, we can let people come back for seconds.”

  Opening the piece of paper up, he began to read down the roster. “Adams. Atkins. Blake. Burke.”

  As instructed, the inmates came forward, giddy to the point of bouncing. Going through the line, each grabbed a plate and held it out to me, requesting two of whatever slices they wanted.

  Plates loaded with pizza, they returned to their seats and dug in. After the inmates had all made their way through the line, we staff had the opportunity to get some. Dr. Harald sat at the circulation desk, and I took my usual spot behind my main desk. Everyone else was relegated to standing.

  A jovial hum filtered across the room, the inmates excited for their brief respite from the rigid rules and structure of prison life. Rules were not completely suspended, however. The afternoon was still structured, there were still rules that would need to be followed, and the inmates would still be wearing their prison blues under their cap and gown. After the ceremony was over, and the cake and punch had been consumed, they’d have to say goodbye to their families and watch them leave, a razor-wire fence between them.

  But in that moment, there was pizza and punch. While their peers were being ushered from dorm to chow hall, the soon-to-be-GED-graduates had an hour to relax in the library and chow down on pizza.

  Dr. Harald cleared his throat. He raised his right hand and motioned towards the front of the room. “If anyone wants some more pizza, you can come up now.”

  Politely, inmates came up one at a time and loaded their plates up with more slices of pizza. When your slices of pizza are few and far between, any pizza is good pizza. Even take-and-bake pizza from a big box superstore. By the end of lunch, every single box was empty.

  Once everyone had finished, going through seconds, thirds, and fourths in some cases, Dr. Harald stood up from his spot at the circulation desk. “We’re going to go down to Quartermaster to get your cap and gowns, then head over to Visitation to practice. So if you’ll all follow me.”

  The inmates stood up and vacated the tables and chairs, forming a single file line that followed Dr. Harald out of the library. The rest of the staff stayed behind to clean up their plates and napkins.

&nb
sp; “The punch is coming with us,” Nancy said after we were all finished and the library looked relatively clean and organized, as we had found it.

  We maneuvered the cart out of the library and over the thick metal transitional piece and out onto the main walkway.

  The large orange cooler bounced against the sides of the cart as I pushed it down the sidewalk. My pace was uneven, all of my attention focused on the cooler and making sure it didn’t topple over. I was fairly certain Deputy Warden Francis would not approve of bright pink fruit punch staining her walkway.

  Nancy walked beside me, directing me where to push the cart. We glided past the Admin building, rounding the corner to a path I had never noticed before that ran between the lobby and the far side of the Administration building.

  The Gwendolyn Davis Visitor Center was named after the previous Warden, who had died only a few months before I came on board. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had arrived during a time of transition. Her death threw the prison’s staff leadership roles into upheaval as people suddenly bolted up the hierarchy and were placed into positions they may or may not have really been prepared to take on. It was like dominos in reverse: instead of pieces falling down, they fell forward and upright, suddenly standing in positions no one had anticipated.

  “Coming through!” Nancy yelled. Spring had sprung, the sun rose high in the sky and inmates were outside in the yard taking full advantage of one of the first warm days in a while. The mob of inmates parted at her voice and I pushed the cart through the gap.

  Rounding the corner of the building, I had to stop the cart from accidentally plowing into a group of soon-to-be graduates hovering near a door at the back. “Coming through!” my companion repeated. The inmates moved to form a half circle that curved along the sidewalk, forming a natural path to the door.

  The cart was heavy with a wide steering range. Turning it to match the shape of the human curve required pushing against one side and slightly lifting the other to maneuver it in the new direction I wanted it to go.

  “Stop!” Nancy called out, her voice higher than normal. I pulled back on the handle of the cart abruptly, my eyes watching the cooler to make sure it didn’t fall off.

  I looked over my shoulder. “What?”

  She hurried up beside me and pointed to a door farther ahead, parallel to the one right by us. “We’re going up there.”

  With a shrug, I pushed the rolling cart through the huddled inmates.

  Once we were out of earshot, she lowered her voice. “That’s where they go to get searched before going into Visitation.”

  “Okay?” I didn’t see the relevance here.

  “Strip searched.”

  My cheeks warmed. Well that would have been awkward. I looked over my shoulder to see the group of inmates joking and laughing, a few throwing glances in my direction. Great, I thought. Now I’m going to be the staff member who almost walked in on the inmates naked.

  A large rectangle-shaped room, the Gwendolyn Davis Visitor’s Center was bright and airy. The entire exterior wall was lined with windows that overlooked the control center and parking lot. For today’s purposes it had been transformed: the bulk of chairs faced the front, classroom style. Nancy held the door open for me as I awkwardly pushed the heavy cart over the threshold.

  I had never been in here before, having had no reason until this point. The perimeter of the room was lined with vending machines. Inmates were not allowed to handle money, but their visitors could buy snacks for them. The options weren’t much different than the packaged chips and candy bars that could be purchased through commissary, but food always tastes better when someone else buys it for you, especially when funds are limited.

  At the front of the room stood a raised wooden platform, which served as the guard station for the correctional officers assigned to visitation days. Like the crow’s nest on a ship, the higher perch gave them a vantage point to see everyone and everything.

  I pushed the cart towards the table on the far wall, setting the punch at the end next to the sheet cake that sat on the table, still in the box from the bakery. Through the plastic film of the box top, I read Congrats, Graduates! in blue script across white icing.

  “Here, let me,” I heard, just as I bent down to remove the leftover plates and napkins from the second shelf of the cart. I turned to see Laura, the person in charge of payroll, hurrying over. I handed her the plates and napkins, and she set them on the table near the cake.

  Free from other duties, I walked around the room. The high ceilings and tall windows brought in enough natural light that the overheads seemed almost unnecessary. Windows are hard to come by inside prison, and even those that work inside the Administration building aren’t afforded much view to the outside world. It was like living permanently in a Las Vegas casino—the lack of clocks, when combined with the dearth of windows, could make people temporarily forget where they were and how long they’d been there. Without a view to the seasonal changes happening out in the yard—the growing of the grass, the piles of snow drifts, the presence or absence of birds depending on the time of year—no one inside could watch time marching on.

  The buildings themselves were built in such a way that all windows that did exist pointed away from the closest fence. From my spot in the library, the only fence within my view was all the way on the other side of the yard. On a clear, bright day it nearly blended into the backdrop of the forest on the other side, rendering itself invisible.

  On a clear, bright day, even I sometimes forgot I spent my days behind bars.

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a flash of color, a kaleidoscope of a room that stood out against the stark white walls. Tucked below the guard post was a room full of picture books, all of varying degrees of use and wear, although most landed closer to the falling apart side of the spectrum. The children’s reading room. Each institution in Ohio had one, per state policy. They may not all be a separate room like ours, but each facility had an area for visiting kids.

  The children’s reading room was there for fathers or grandfathers who wanted to use their visitation time for playing or reading to their children. In here, away from the other inmates and visitors, it would be easy to convince a child that everything was normal, at least for the few minutes it took to flip through a picture book. The room also offered crayons and coloring books, and tables and chairs for the children to sit at.

  Most of my life, my mom had worked as a preschool teacher. I’d grown up in a house full of picture books and when I worked at the library in my hometown, I loved perusing the shelves of the children’s room in search of an old favorite. When I just needed five minutes of downtime between tasks, flipping through a worn copy of Corduroy or any of the books by Dr. Seuss was an excellent way to give my brain a break and my spirit a boost. The titles here in the reading room were all familiar, if also a little worse for wear. I made a mental note to see if my mom had any picture books at home she could donate to refresh the small collection.

  Awoken from my reverie, I was called back out into the main room to help with rehearsal. As the person in charge of music, I kept skipping the CD back to the start of the song as Dr. Harald appeared and led the inmates into the room and to their seats. After a few rounds, he took them all to the back room, and staff waited and mingled as the room began to fill up with visitors and attendees.

  The program was simple and mimicked all graduation programs I myself had attended, including my own. Warden Garcia and Deputy Warden Francis made speeches, commending the inmates for completing their GED, even while incarcerated.

  Each inmate grinned as he went up to receive the diploma. Even the ones who were trying to play it cool couldn’t suppress the pride they felt, cheesy grins spread wide across their faces. From the audience, family members hooted and hollered as their relative accepted his diploma.

  After, as we stood around eating cake and drinking punch, I thought back to my own graduations. For both high school and college, the graduatio
n ceremony was more of an annoyance than anything else. Having to dress up and put on the scratchy polyester cap and gown. Having to sit in uncomfortable chairs for hours, while listening to adults offer life advice. For my undergraduate degree, my creative writing friends and I had stayed out late on a bar crawl the night before. In retrospect, probably not the brightest idea when we had a 9 a.m. graduation the next morning (thanks a lot, College of Arts & Sciences. Couldn’t give us one of the afternoon slots, huh?), and I definitely showed up in my black cap and gown slightly hungover. And hell, I didn’t even bother going to my graduation for my master’s degree. The work was done, the grades turned in, and I’d already passed my final comprehensive exam. I wasn’t even going to be getting my diploma that day anyway—the university would be mailing it later.

  But as I stood there, a paper plate with a piece of white cake in hand, watching the inmates, I realized how much I had taken my own educational experiences for granted. I’d gone to good schools and had walked away with an advanced degree with very little debt. Graduating from high school at age eighteen was, well, just kind of a given.

  What I watched that day wasn’t just a graduation ceremony. It was a symbolic dedication and commitment. I went to high school because I had to, and while some of the men were young enough that they were forced into the GED program per state policy, just as many were my age or older. Their decision to get their GED was a conscious choice. They put the work in because they wanted to. They studied and took the test because they saw the value in that education, in that certificate they held in their hands.

  The familiar graduation march song, “Pomp and Circumstance,” takes its name from the play Othello, written by none other than William Shakespeare. The context and meaning of the phrase basically translates to a magnificent ceremony full of splendor and importance.

  In this case, I think Shakespeare nailed it.

  Chapter 7