About J-
August 14, 2007 - 11:00pm
I’d met J-- at admissions and orientation class. I was the inmate facilitator, he was a student. My job was to introduce various members of the correction facility’s staff to new inmates and to also explain some of the programs and services that were offered.
After a few months on the job, I’d become pretty keen at assessing new inmates as they came into the classroom. There was the ‘fresh fish’; scared and worried. There was also the disinterested. They’d been here before and felt no need to go through the class again. Usually within moments, I could pigeon-hole just about any inmate that crossed my path.
J-- was different.
I pegged him at about sixty five or seventy. He wore thick glasses and had the kind of face that showed years of hard labor. He looked weathered, beaten and hollow; however he projected he was accepting of his situation.
J-- sat quietly in the three-hour class. He had neither the swagger of a veteran, nor the deer-in-the-headlights look of a rookie.
As the class let out, my curiosity peaked, I pulled him aside.
“You have any questions?”
“No. No questions.” He spoke in a low voice, just above a whisper.
“Well if you think of any, I’m in D-Unit.”
“Okay.” His chin dropped down to meet his shoulders and he sulked away.
Over the following weeks, I broke past his shell…he was never getting out and believed he’d never adjust to prison. “This is no way to live”, he said.
“You’ll adapt”, I replied, “You’ll get a radio, maybe a T.V. after a while, you’ll see it’s not too bad.”
He shook his head. “Not me. I’ve done too many good things in my life, seen so much more than this.”
At times J-- showed glimpses that he’d be okay. I got him to smile a bit and I even remember him cracking a joke or two. At one point, I gave myself a pat on the back over how well he was doing.
But today, when he went to pick up his items, he found out that the DOC had taken the money his daughter had sent and applied it to his fines. He walked down to the canteen and received nothing more than a slip telling him that he was left with six cents on his books.
I guess J-- decided enough was enough. His cellie found him in a pool of blood, his neck slit; J-- was already unconscious and fading fast. They carted him away and within hours he became nothing more than a footnote in the collective prison memory.
I don’t know if he’ll live. But if his body quits, if his primal instinct for survival flickers out, I wish him a safe trip home and hope he finds peace.
Safe journey J--, where ever it leads you.
NJ is thirty-three years old and is currently serving a seven and a half year sentence. He looks forward to starting life anew once he completes his sentence.
After a few months on the job, I’d become pretty keen at assessing new inmates as they came into the classroom. There was the ‘fresh fish’; scared and worried. There was also the disinterested. They’d been here before and felt no need to go through the class again. Usually within moments, I could pigeon-hole just about any inmate that crossed my path.
J-- was different.
I pegged him at about sixty five or seventy. He wore thick glasses and had the kind of face that showed years of hard labor. He looked weathered, beaten and hollow; however he projected he was accepting of his situation.
J-- sat quietly in the three-hour class. He had neither the swagger of a veteran, nor the deer-in-the-headlights look of a rookie.
As the class let out, my curiosity peaked, I pulled him aside.
“You have any questions?”
“No. No questions.” He spoke in a low voice, just above a whisper.
“Well if you think of any, I’m in D-Unit.”
“Okay.” His chin dropped down to meet his shoulders and he sulked away.
Over the following weeks, I broke past his shell…he was never getting out and believed he’d never adjust to prison. “This is no way to live”, he said.
“You’ll adapt”, I replied, “You’ll get a radio, maybe a T.V. after a while, you’ll see it’s not too bad.”
He shook his head. “Not me. I’ve done too many good things in my life, seen so much more than this.”
At times J-- showed glimpses that he’d be okay. I got him to smile a bit and I even remember him cracking a joke or two. At one point, I gave myself a pat on the back over how well he was doing.
But today, when he went to pick up his items, he found out that the DOC had taken the money his daughter had sent and applied it to his fines. He walked down to the canteen and received nothing more than a slip telling him that he was left with six cents on his books.
I guess J-- decided enough was enough. His cellie found him in a pool of blood, his neck slit; J-- was already unconscious and fading fast. They carted him away and within hours he became nothing more than a footnote in the collective prison memory.
I don’t know if he’ll live. But if his body quits, if his primal instinct for survival flickers out, I wish him a safe trip home and hope he finds peace.
Safe journey J--, where ever it leads you.
NJ is thirty-three years old and is currently serving a seven and a half year sentence. He looks forward to starting life anew once he completes his sentence.
