Redue Recidivism

There are 52 concrete steps down to the access street. It takes 8 footsteps to cross the access street. I scan through the wire meshed window, looking for a face, until, “buzzzz, (metallic) click.” I pull the door towards me. Manila, cinder block, walls form the rectangle room. I autograph the access log before exiting the room.
A 12 foot gate blocks the classroom entrance. A man in navy blue pants and steel blue shirt pulls out a ring of several dozen brass keys. He patiently waits as I walk through the gate, and then slowly pulls the gate back to its original position.
“Thanks,” I say.
About 15 minutes latter students begin to shuffle into the room. The rectangle room formed by pallid, cinder block walls. A lone window looks out from my left. Behind me is a blank white board, empty except for a mute glint.
Stephen is the first to be seated. His brown hair is beginning to make attempts at mimicking the pallid t-shirt he wears. Stephen sits down and begins to arrange his pencil and paper on the faux-wooden table before him. His manila arms slide across the table top, just as his manila pants move beneath the table. Once he establishes himself at the front of the room he speaks.
“Hello, Mr. Woodson.”
“Stephen. Are you doing well today?”
“Yes. Yes I am,” he pauses to laugh at another student entering the room with a boisterous story concerning his immediate past.
“Man, Reid kaint count,” Keith’s declaration drew Stephen’s laugh.
“I enjoyed the story you had us read,” Stephen continued.
“Sau-re Wouldson,” Keith interjected.
The last to enter the room; Johnny. His dreadlocks hung below the collar of his pallid shirt, and swayed when he walked.
“Yeee. I know you was wait’n on me Woodson. Go ahead now,” Johnny looked at my eyes to see I heard him. He sat in the back of the room, removed a yellow pencil from the pockets of his manila pants and snapped it on the table.
“Tell me about the essay you read,” I addressed to the class.
“I like the name of the man who wrote it,” Walter shared. (The writer’s name: Walter). “He is tired of being called a convict.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hates people calling him a convict.”
“Who is calling him a convict, in this essay?” I want to know.
Barry says, “Nobody is calling him a convict. He has to check the box on applications, the one asking if you are guilty of a felony. “
“Does the writer think of himself as a convict? Does he want others to call him by this title?” I want to know.
Barry’s blue eyes examined my question. His close cropped brown hair seemed to stand at attention as he thought. His pallid shirt was pulled out of his manila pants (as always).
“Society calls him a convict. He can’t beat the system,” Walter finally interjected.
“Nobody is calling him a convict. He just has to tell his boss he got convicted for a felony,” Barry gave back.
“It’s just another attempt of a white man trying to keep a black man down,” Ibrahim spoke up.
“How do we know the writer isn’t white?” I wondered.
Ibrahim glanced at the essay, looking for his answer.
Wolf’s gravelly voice (which pinned him as a smoker) entered the discussion. “This guy ain’t black. Well, we don’t really know because this story don’t say. What difference does it make?” Wolf pulled his wild beard as he spoke. The perimeter of his beard sprinkled onto the collar of his pallid shirt.
“White men own the businesses. The question about being a felon is to keep the black man from getting a job,” Ibrahim stated.
Walter echoed similar sentiment, “It’s all a conspiracy. The government wants to track everybody. It’s a part of the ‘New World Order.’”
“Ibrahim, the writer does mention a higher minority incarceration rate; however, are you suggesting that only black men are felons?” Pause. “Does it matter what crime the writer is guilty of?” I tried to change the subject.
“If this guy committed murder he should have to tell on himself forever,” Stephen looked at me as he spoke.
“Is that what the writer is asking for, distinctions between types of felonies?”
Stephen held the essay in his hand. “He does say ‘exclusionary criteria’ in the last paragraph.”
I find the place Stephen is talking about. “Keith, do you think this writer wants to be able to treat different types of felons differently on job applications?”
Keith had been shuffling for something in the pockets of his manila pants. I repeated the question so Keith could answer: “Yeee. Dem chil mo-les-sers gots ta be real. I on’t care ow long go dey screw up.”
“What crime has this writer been convicted of?” I raised.
Most of the eyes in the room shoot down, past their pallid shirts, to the essay.
“The essay doesn’t say,” Stephen submitted.
“So, is type of crime important to this writer?” I egged on the conversation. “Johnny?”
Johnny gave me a blank stare; not the one that says ‘I don’t know’ but the one that says ‘Why are you asking me to speak.’ He spoke. “It ain’t any of our business what he did. That’s the point. He says he is a better man now, so forget what he did 30 years ago.”
“Thank you Johnny,” I smiled. “How do you know his crime was 30 years ago?”
Johnny points to the top of the essay.
“Then exactly what does this writer want us to do? Does the writer not want to be asked about his felon status?”
After a few moments of reflection Barry jumped in with, “He says 10 years is the limit. The question should read, ‘Have you committed a felony within the last 10 years?’”
“Do you agree with the writer?” I inquired.
The argument was on. Felonies involving loss of life should get no reparations. Felonies involving ‘soft drugs,’ like marijuana, should be free from admitting to such a felony if that felony happened over a decade ago. Other ideas got debated.
“This writer says he is a changed man. What evidence of his change does he give?”
Walter explained, “He got a Asian wife. He got respect in his community.”
“What does that prove? What is the significance of his marriage? What is the respect he talks about?”
“He has moved back into society,” Stephen offered. “The people where he lives can accept him as a good person. He wants to show he has become a model citizen.”
“Who is his audience? Who does he want to understand that he is a good guy?”
“Us,” Walter knew. “This guy is writing to us, to show us there is life after death.”
“Why does the writer need to convince you? What can you do about changing the felony question on applications?”
Walter: “Write our congressman.”
Johnny: “He written to bosses. The people dat can change the question. We can’t do nut’n.”
“And the crowd goes wild.” I spice this statement with a falsetto cheer.
The class continues to discuss the essay under the guidelines previously discussed for essay writing. We finally had to move from the room to the outside.
Sergeant Reid stood in front of the gate. He flipped through every student’s books and any other carried items. Then each student had to stand with hands on head, feet shoulder width apart. Sergeant Reid tapped his hands down the sides of each student. I waited for the process to end, talking to those who were in line.
“Woodson,” Walter called. “Where do you find these essays?”
“Just come across them when reading.”
“I liked the essay we talked about today. I thought the guy was talking to me. It made me think a lot about where I am and where I want to be.”
Walter’s word echoed in my ear as I walked through the gate. I made my way back to the manila, rectangle room so I could sign out. The metallic buzz gave me my goodbye.
There are 52 concrete steps leading up from Brown Creek Correctional Facility. The steps out are harder to traverse than coming in. From the parking lot I can see the various yards, sectioned by link fence and a barded wire fringe. There is no doubt I will be back inside the grid. There is hope that one student may not.