Abandon All Hope

[dedalus_1947]

“All hope abandon, ye who enter here.’
Through me you pass into the city of woe.
Through me you pass into eternal pain.
Through me are the people lost.”
(The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri: 1235)

The buildings looked like giant, grey cinder blocks with projecting tinker toy rods. Except for their size, there was nothing to differentiate the buildings in one section of the grounds from the buildings in another. I had a momentary surge of panic that Rick was driving in circles, going around and around in an endless loop. When passing the entrance gate, with the guard station made of reflective one-way glass, the view at first looked pastoral. I saw a faded garage and a shingled house, followed by rolling fields. White corral fencing ran along the paved road and a large garden was visible on a sloping hill. We passed a rustic looking bungalow with a wooden sign over the door, reading CLASSROOM.
“That’s all for show,” Eric said, as he made a right turn and drove deeper into the hills, past the curious eyes on the main highway and the nearby beach community. “The vocational facilities haven’t been used in years. The inmates are housed and confined all the time, with only 3 hours of exercise a day”.
“That’s a shame,” I replied. “Those facilities looked nice”.

Deeper in the hills, the scenery changed into the appearance of a repetitive loop around a stark, Soviet block, eastern European city. The cement buildings and plastered barracks were functional, but colorless, with no exterior landscaping or ornamental facades. We then passed a series of long, rectangular bungalows, encircled by the sturdiest chain link fencing I’d ever seen.
“That’s the minimum security area,” Eric explained. “It contains the inmates who work in the print shop, laundry, and the other employment operations in the jail.”
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a soaring forest of concrete towers, twisting girders, and braided conduits and cables.
“That’s the jail’s power plant,” he replied. “It generates all the heat and electricity for the jail and the laundry. That’s the laundry there”. He pointed at a mammoth jumble of hissing, steaming pipes and vents that emanated from giant block of cement.
“Wow,” I whispered, impressed by the monumental size of the building, and shocked by the sheer ugliness of its blockish design.

I never thought of the word “institution” as frightening, until I experienced the layout and design of the Peter Pitchess Detention Facility in Castaic. The visual effect of the facility was so sterile, so cold, and so lifeless, that I was intimidated into numbed silence. I am an “institutional man”, a person who was raised and nurtured in ordered and structured environments. I’ve been in schools all my life, as a student, teacher, and administrator, and I even did a brief stint in the military; but those experiences never came close to jail. Even with its rigid military code of conduct and utilitarian barracks and buildings, military bases and schools never evoked the barren, desiccated feel of incarceration. Those places teemed with life, laughter, and free movement. None of that was visible in this new, strange environment I was visiting. Arriving at the parking lot of the main building after the tour of the facilities was a relief. The familiar black asphalt, painted white parking  spaces, and budding, island greenery gave me a momentary respite before walking into the jail’s mammoth entrance made of gunite and glazed glass. Once the door closed behind me, I entered a world of barred and thickly windowed checkpoints, gruff security checks, and tightly guarded prisoner bays. For the first time in my life, the words of Dante’s inscription over the gates of hell seemed appropriate for the journey I was taking: “All hope abandon ye who enter here.”

I meekly followed Eric as he approached the Security Station in the lobby and spoke through the glassed partition to the two uniformed officers watching us enter.
“Good evening officers,” he began, dropping his identification badge into the transfer slide at the base of the glass. “I’m with the Chaplain's Office, and we’re here to conduct some services with the inmates. I have a volunteer with me who was cleared for the visit. Here’s his authorization”. The first deputy smiled and took the letter Eric offered, while inspecting the identification badge.
“Okay Chaplain,” he said, calling him by the generic title given to all personnel working in the Chaplain's Office. “Let me have your friend’s driver’s license and we’ll issue him a temporary badge for the evening”. His burly partner muttered something I did not understand as he brought over an orange, volunteer badge for me, and a white Chaplain badge for Eric. The first deputy laughed and said, “Don’t mind him, Chaplain, he doesn’t believe in God and he likes giving you a hard time”.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in God,” the deputy protested, “I’m Christian. I just don’t see the need for all these services”.
“Thank you officers,” Eric said, smiling patiently as he directed me to an adjacent wall to await the mechanical hissing and sliding of the thick, metal door. We walked through and did not speak until we had gone a considerable distance down the hall.
“It safer not to engage the deputies in too much conversation or joking,” Eric said softly. “It’s hard to know where they stand on the services we provide, and we don’t want to offend them. We always ask for permission before working with the inmates, and accept all the directions the deputies give. We’re here only by their severance, and have no independent authority. Each deputy has the power to revoke our authorization if they believe we are not following the rules or are too friendly with the inmates”.

This was sobering advice, and ran counter to my previous relations with law enforcement personnel. As a citizen, and in schools as a principal, we were equals and on the same side: following the law, protecting students, and working together when criminal actions needed investigation and prosecution. That relationship was different in this place. Evidently, in jail as a volunteer member of the Chaplain Corps, I was thought to be on the inmates’ side.

“Always walk to the right of the hallways, and it’s best not to greet or look too closely at the inmates or guards as they go by. If you hear a siren going off, just stay where you are. It’s the Lock Down signal and it means there’s a riot or fight going on somewhere. Guards will arrive to direct and hustle you out right away.”
I moved closer to Eric as he walked through the tunnel-like hallway. I had no idea of the direction we were traveling. The hallway we traveled seemed endless, and the corridors that branched off to the right and left were all identically featureless. Suddenly we passed a series of large plate glass windows that peered into classroom bays with tables, desks, and computer stations. It was the first scene that appeared normal to me.
“Who does the teaching here?” I asked. “Do the deputies give the classes?”
“No,” Eric replied. “They contract out to the Evergreen Adult School District. That outfit provides the teachers for the GED and ESL classes some of the inmates take, and the few vocational classes they offer”.
He turned left and I saw the reassuring sight of directional arrows and wall signs directing us to the Chaplain's Office. We had arrived at our destination.

About three weeks ago Eric called to introduce himself and ask if I might be interested in shadowing the volunteer program of Detention Ministry for prisons and jails. My wife, Kathy, had alerted me to the call, so it was not a surprise. She already knew Eric, a retired businessman, through his wife, a retired schoolteacher. Learning that I had recently retired from education, Eric was calling to ask if I would consider visiting and observing the services they provided inmates in the L.A. County jails. In a soft-spoken and deliberate style he described the volunteer work as something that suited some people and not others, so it had to be experienced first hand. He would act as my guide for the first few visits and then determine if I was suited to the program. His low-key manner assuaged my initial apprehensions that he was recruiting me or trying to sell me on some evangelical ministry. In fact his emotionless descriptions of the guards, the inmates, and their violent crimes almost sounded like he was trying to scare me away. I listened wordlessly for about 20 minutes. When he asked if I would like to visit the jail, for some odd and inexplicable reason, I simply said, “Yes, what do I need to do?”

In the Chaplain's Office, I met Gonzalo, the Director of Chaplain Services, seven assistant chaplains and volunteers, and another observer. After brief introductions, I was assigned to shadow Thomas, an assistant chaplain, and a volunteer, Martin. They were going to conduct a “faith sharing” session in Cellblock M, the maximum-security dormitory for violent offenders and long-term inmates. Thomas took us to the office of the Watch Sergeant to ask permission to conduct the session in the day room. From there, we followed him down a cold and barren hallway that ended at a hexagonal lobby. In the center of the lobby was a darkened guard station with two deputies standing behind a tall, circular desk. Beyond the station were thickly meshed openings to three large, twin-leveled, dormitory bays. In the foreground of the garishly illuminated bays were three bolted, metal tables and benches, giving it a nightmarish picnic look. In the background, there was a line of bunk beds projecting from the wall. Another row of bunks embroidered the upper level of the cell. Thomas informed the deputies of our authorization to use the day room next to the lobby for a group session, and asked if he could invite the inmates to join us.
“Fine,” the deputy said, shrugging. “Go ahead."
Proceeding to the first bay, Thomas approached the reinforced steel wire meshing and called out “Radio!” in a loud voice. With that entreaty, the volume of an overhead television set was eventually lowered, and Thomas made his announcement.
“Good evening gentlemen. Some of you know me, we’re here from the Chaplain's Office, and we’d like to invite you to a prayer and sharing service called Finding The Way.  All faiths and denominations are welcome to the session. We’ll be in the day room. Thank you for your attention, and God bless you”.

Martin and I proceeded to the day room where we arranged 15 plastic patio chairs into a discussion circle and placed a photocopied booklet on each one. One by one the inmates appeared at the open doorway entrance in their bright blue prison garb and black slippers. After surveying the room and chairs, each man took a seat, filling the circle. Eventually nine inmates joined us, and Martin, taking a long, deep breath, began the service with a prayer. He was a probationary volunteer, and this would be his first solo session. He started by inviting the group to look at the cover of the booklet and share their feelings about the scene. The picture depicted a rainstorm with a car that had gone off the road and was stuck in the mud. Next to the open door of the car was the wailing figure of a man, holding his head with both hands and looking to the sky. Under the picture was the heading, “The Way I Am Feeling Now”. This image seemed to strike a resounding chord with these men, because each one had something to say. One by one, they all told personal stories of their arrest or the actions that put them, or kept them, in jail. Two stories stood out for me.

The first man to speak leaned back confidently in his chair and inspected the circle around him before starting. He was a wiry, eagle-faced, middle-aged man with neatly combed, slightly graying hair. He said that the picture showed how he felt when he was arrested and returned to jail.
“I didn’t deserve it,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything to violate my parole, but they busted me anyway. I was staying with my mom and being very careful about parole. I checked in regularly and stayed out of trouble. I even made sure she got rid of all the weapons and guns in the house. I told her that even if they weren’t mine, finding weapons in the house would violate my parole. Even with all that, they still violated me.” He explained that he had gotten into a heated argument with a friend in a bar, and that he might have said a few threatening things. A woman who was sitting nearby thought his comments were directed at her and took offense. She called the cops and they arrested him for violating parole.
“Man,” he moaned, “I wasn’t even talking to the lady, and they still violated me”.
“Yeah,” another inmate chimed in. “That reminds me of my case”. He was a much younger man, and obviously Anglo, despite the cholo gang tattoos that decorated his neck and forearms. “I was out on parole too, and really working at staying out of trouble. I was clean, man, and not hanging with the homies, or any of my friends. I’d gotten back together with my girl and was trying to make good choices. I cleaned out the house for weapons, and was riding my bike to drop off a gun at my girlfriend’s when they busted me. Man, that was stupid! I tried ditching it when the cops came up behind me, but they spotted me and found it after a search. It was enough evidence to bust me. Man, even when I was trying to do the right thing, I still got violated. I felt like I just couldn’t win.”

The precise and passionless manner in which each man articulated his tale was shocking. The picture in the booklet was the perfect device to get an honest response. I recognized the common themes of self-pity and helplessness the inmates were describing, but the substance of their woeful stories was startling. I’d never heard such graphic details, or such harsh self-criticism about their own actions and choices. Everything they did resulted in their going, or returning to jail. Just as I was thinking of the light years of distance that separated my life from theirs, Justin looked into my eyes from across the circle and addressed me.
“Tony, is their anything you’d like to share about the picture?”
Suddenly, all heads turned and their eyes focused on me. I hadn’t expected to be called on. I assumed I would speak if I had something valuable or constructive to say, and so far I hadn’t felt compelled to do so.
“Uhhh,” I began, stalling for time. I was on the verge of passing, when I felt an uncontrolled impulse to be respectful and sincere with these men who were being so honest with me. “As I mentioned before,” I began, “I’m a retired junior high school principal. When I look at this picture it reminds me of how I felt on many occasions. I remember leaving school and thinking I had the worst job in the world. The decisions I made in my job made everybody unhappy. Teachers were unhappy with the test scores and student results I told them we had to achieve. Students were unhappy with the rules and consequences I had to enforce and apply. And parents were unhappy when I didn’t agree with them or give them what they wanted. I was sure everybody hated me and that I had good reasons to feel sorry for myself. But I have to tell you, all that seems pretty silly now, when I compare it to your stories and your situation here. I was feeling sorry for myself over what I thought people were thinking or saying about me. All of my worst days don’t even come close to spending one day in jail.”

Heads nodded when I finished, and one or two inmates commented that they hadn’t considered how unpopular the job of a principal could be. Justin called on another man, and the session continued around the circle. I listened to the men around me for the remainder of the evening. At 8 o’clock, Justin concluded the session with a prayer for the inmates and their families, and we walked back to the Chaplain's Office for a de-briefing meeting before driving home.