A Tough Call Pt 1

This is a post I have been hesitating to write. Try as I may I know that it is part of my experience I need to be honest about. It will be difficult to write it as I have drawn up many roughs but in the end I just have to wing it. Three weeks ago I was ‘asked out’ on a ‘date’ by a prisoner whom I’ve suspected to have feelings for me for over a month now. I cannot relay how difficult a situation this is to broach but how can I be true to my work otherwise?

I have found that being a woman in an all male prison is a position of vulnerability, power, distinction, and makes me a greater emphasis in the eyes of men than I ever thought I could be. As a tutor I already opened myself up on a more personal and academic level, an interaction they don’t experience every day. The winks, stares and side comments leave me feeling uneasy, like a girl who keeps getting accosted at work or on her way to get coffee. I know that for most of them it is the situation, the prison-life that leaves them aching to see the opposite sex. Before this incident I tried to distance myself, creating a firm line between them and me. But it wasn’t long before I saw that I was a class onto myself and that as long as I attended each Thursday I could not distance myself away from them completely.

(More to come)

With Liberty for Some

With Liberty for Some is a history of the prison system and imprisonment in America. Reading through the book I have learned a great deal about the continuity of human nature when dealing with society’s cast-offs. This land was a melting pot of people who came in shackles, on slave ships, and exiled to a rough new world with unforeseeable dangers. Our country was built on the backs of slavery, child labor, and human rights abuses. That was nearly 400 years ago. Today, we are not the transit stop for prisoners of Europe or slaves, unless you count cases of human trafficking. However, we still use prisoners to test vaccines, work for slave wages and leave them to rot in a cell.

One quote from a prisoner last week sums up my feelings perfectly: “we are all still barbarians, barbarians with ipods.”

When systems of government fail, and stock markets come crashing down all we have are each other. And that notion scares me to death after looking at pictures of genocide and war but it also creates a certain hope because I know that even incarcerated men can show compassion.

Race and my place in prison

Potato Salad Drama

As I sprawl out in the backseat of Nick’s new Audi, I suddenly felt my stomach do another spinning back kick on my organs.

“Drive home quickly Chris, my stomach is killing me. I think grandma is losing her touch on the potato salad.”

“Okay, but lunch was fine. I think you are just recovering from your virus last week.”

Almost every Sunday Chris takes the train into Brooklyn to have grandma’s Sunday lunch. This week our youngest brother Kevin and I wanted to tag along so Chris drove in.

The flashing lights and sirens behind us were almost too much to bear after the Long Island silence settled in. Chris stepped out the car. Then the officers told us to get out.

To the boys: “Pop your trunk and put your hands on the hood. I need to check you out.”

Kevin turns to Chris, eyes wide and face gaunt with fear. But he quickly complies. Legs are spread and bodies bent over the hood of the car waiting to be patted by a stranger.

“Open the glove compartment.”

I clumsily open the glove compartment filled with maps, coupons, and receipts for pizza.

Had anything to drink? No sir.

Carrying a firearm? No

Drugs? No

Why are ya here? To get dinner.

Where ya comin’ from? Brooklyn.

Why were yous in Brooklyn? Grandma’s potato salad.

Do you live in LI? Yes we do.

What do ‘ya do? Graduated and working, High School, Middle School.

The light flashed on my face and the officer continued.

How do you know her? It’s my sister.

‘Ya sure? Yes.

Parents names? Kermit and Wichittra Card.

‘Ya sure? Yea.

Where do you live? Deer Park, NY 11729.

Apartment right? No, house.

So you own? Yes.

After re-checking my brother’s license, our trunk, my purse, their pockets and giving us breathalyzer tests, he told us to head straight home, no more stops.

We go home in silence. Kevin’s cracking voice breaks and asks: “why?”

Black.

After reading this piece to the prisoners Alonna asked how they felt about it. The prisoners reacted with comments like “typical day in a black man’s life” or “DWB driving while black”. When she asked if they could guess the author, they all seemed surprised when she disclosed my name.

Then the questions poured in: are you black? No, I am not. Did this really happen to you? Yes. Where in Brooklyn are you from again? Oh yeah that’s a tough place, you know you’re probably a lot tougher than any of us give you credit for. How long have you been family? 14 years.

One gentleman said to me “it is not the shade of your skin; it is the love in your heart.” And I couldn’t agree more. Whether I think of my Thai family, my English/Canadian roots or my black family I know that there is love and acceptance. This conversation about home, race and family love was on the lighter side.

Weeks later when we approached the idea of race and cliques at Syracuse University they described similar scenes of allegiances and alliances. The Whites hung with whites, and Asians sided with Asians. After spending weeks tutoring and talking to these men I expected no less honesty and clarity into the human social condition. It is when we are faced with new environments, self-preservation and security (whether social or physical) that we ally and find safety in numbers.

When these men spoke to me they now knew that I had some insight to their world, to the environment they had to live through and their struggles as men of color. I began to think about the boys in my elementary school P.S 137 and how many of them are at a four year university. I am lucky to be on the other side of the cement walls blogging.

Race and racism is alive in society, whether it is in SU or Auburn Prison. People find security in gangs and groups. They have no choice because once you come into the system you are sorted and claimed by those that identify with you. Who are you to deny their protection? Who are you to deny the benefits of the group? And who are you to stray and make your own way? It’s a rough fragmented world we live in, behind walls and on the quad.

Folktales, stories, and oral history

Its interesting how we (Alonna and I) come up with the discussion topics to start of each week’s session. When I chose oral history and story telling it turned out to be a challenge. First Eliah and I put on a play demonstrating the Algonquin’s creation story. The men found it quite amusing but when I asked another man to read a story from The People Could Fly, the black vernacular and pace the story was read left the men distracted and uninterested. I felt a panic but I insisted that this would have a purpose. So I told them about how important oral histories and stories were. About the writing, and building of history by the culture of power. I wanted them to see how the writing and telling of limited history and experiences can marginalize people in the present. If histories are lost then so are cultures, identities and even a sense of self. Stories created and told by black slaves are a beautiful artistic part of American history, not just Black history. The moment it is divided the country is divided, peoples are divided, and any potential sense of ‘togetherness’ is lost.

This was when I realized that for most of these men’s lives the only pride they could find in their identity and communities came in the form of gangs, and ill-gained wealth. Since most of them dropped out and did not have stable families or role models they could not by told stories or be instilled with pride. Their identity became attached to their allegiances to friends, gangs, and material goods.

A basic knowledge in ones history can instil pride or at the very least a sense of who you are, and what you come from. An idea of the events and people have come before us. Perhaps this is naïve but I believe that through education we can be set free from the pettiness of gangs, and violence because there is something greater to achieve and learn. I hope this all makes sense. I suppose what I am trying to say is education, history, and stories can open someone’s eyes to a truth and way of thinking beyond the streets.

Reflection

I have often wondered what these men could have done to land in this desolate place.  In the classroom most of them seem like students ready to learn, discuss, and pay attention.  We have the average problems any class would deal with, talking over one another, noise level, getting everyone’s attention and coming up with material that will drive them towards conversation.  I was told that many of the people who come to prison are sentenced on drug charges, just regular Joes that get caught up in the wrong business. 

 

I have been reading prison writing from all over the country by both men and women of all ages and backgrounds.  It gives me a small insight to the inner workings of their motivation, and conditions that they might have faced outside the prison walls. 

 

In one session we discussed child soldiers and read some pieces describing a child soldier’s experience being taken from their home by force and made to kill, rape and torture.  One of the men was taken back by the numbers and pointed out how these children had no choice.  He was moved by the narrative and poem.  Another man made a very interesting point by asking the class and tutors what choice does a kid have if he is raised in the ghetto, is poor, doesn’t have parents, and is surrounded by the slums with no escape?  He is then a victim of his socio-economic class and must turn to a life of crime in order to survive. 

 

In the prison writing I have been reading I get a glimpse into these personal childhood hells, it is a world of corruption, violence, gangs, rape and complete insecurity.  I can see the lack of choice, and hope for a brighter future.  So many people can counter this by talking about the organizations, groups, and social structures that are set up to help and assist.  But how available are they?  And just how helpful are they?  I have worked in many public school settings to know that the system can and will give up on you.  That teachers, social workers and administrators don’t deal with a certain amount of ‘bad’.  This is especially true for poor minority children who don’t have stable homes, food, healthy lifestyles and support. 

 

It is not a funny coincidence that the majority of this classroom is African American and Latino.  I was asking some of the prisoners about Asian Americans and the response is that “Sing-Sing is like Chinatown” and prisons on the west coast are filled with Asian prisoners.  So for those who preach and push the model minority card there are obviously many Asian Americans that slip through the cracks.  I look into the faces of the men in my class and I wonder how many of them have had a comfortable bed to sleep in at night, a nice meal, healthcare, or caring/concerned individuals that reached out to them.  Yes there are the sickos in the world but I promise you that most of these men are just regular guys that made a mistake. 

Being around these men have altered the way I look at the world for the better.  I hope that

they will find new hope and intellectual freedom from what I teach them.