Building a Channel

[dedalus_1947]

Make me a channel of your peace
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned
In giving to all men that we receive
And in dying that we’re born to eternal life.

Oh, Master grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console
To be understood as to understand
To be loved as to love with all my soul.
(Prayer of St. Francis: 1182 – 1226)

I was greeted by the loud and confusing sounds of roaring engines and squealing tires coming from a large bus yard filled with rushing vans, trucks, and busses, and police cars whizzing in and out of the driveway. Stepping back for a moment into the quiet stairwell of the multi-level parking structure I was leaving, I took out my letter and rechecked the written instructions. I’d made it into the safety of the parking structure at the end of San Francisco Street by explaining to the civilian attendant that I was attending a training class for prison volunteers. Now I needed to get my bearings. Looking past the bus yard, I saw an array of pale and ominous looking structures made of concrete and reinforced steel, with areas surrounded by high fencing, topped with concertina wire. The courts and arraignment area was to my right and the Detention Facility to my left. I was to walk to the first building and go inside. The meeting room would be on the second floor. The directions sounded simple, but there were multiple buildings all around me, and the cacophony of sights and sounds added to my confusion. Steaming vents pierced the beige, stucco walls, and thick pipes of corrugated steel and iron projected skyward like a soaring boiler room. Police officers looked down from overhead walkways looming above me, connecting one building to another. I’d driven into intimidating and confusing building complexes before, but this one reminded me of a nightmarish medical center on steroids. The facility seemed overly muscled, overly aggressive, and oppressively sullen. Instead of seeing ambulances and brightly lit lobbies, with helpful men and women in loose-fitting and rumpled scrubs and medical whites, I saw police cars and barred entrances with grim-faced officers in starched and fitted uniform shirts and cornered trousers. Resolved to find my meeting room and get this experience over with, I walked steadily toward the central flagpole, planted in a patch of green grass, in the central cluster of buildings, praying that I would find the meeting room nearby.

I was in the middle of a huge prison complex that houses two large entities, bisected by San Francisco Street. On one side of the street was the Detention Facility, composed of a medical services building, and the Jail Ward, and on the other side, the courts and holding areas. I was there an hour early to navigate the grounds and locate my meeting room so I could receive training in the policies and procedures governing religious and volunteer services in all state correctional facilities. Once certified, I would be authorized to serve as a volunteer for the Religious Detention Ministry. I had participated in some of these services at the Golden State Detention Center as an observer on three occasions (see Abandon All Hope), and I was now advancing to the next level of participation – an authorized volunteer, free to enter and leave detention facilities, and provide services to inmates. At the conclusion of my last visit, Gavin, the Director of Chaplain Services at the facility had put the deciding question to me:
“Well, Antonio, what do you think? Do you wish to continue?”
Without really deliberating, or asking for more time to consider, I simply responded, “Yes,” and here I was. Now I was forlornly wandering along San Francisco Street, looking around in bewilderment, trying to figure out which of all these structures was “the first building”, and asking myself why had I said “yes” in the first place?

The official name of the program I was joining was Chaplain Services, or Detention Ministry. Ministry - that word had been troubling me all month. In the United States (as opposed to England or Canada), a ministry is defined as the profession or duties of a minister of religion, a priest, or a rabbi. I really had a problem thinking of myself as a MINISTER of anything. I was just a guy who worked in schools as a teacher and administrator, and had some instructional skills and a lot of experience listening to students and adults. I considered my 3 earlier visits to the jails as mitzvahs, as our Jewish brethren would say in Hebrew – “acts of human kindness”. Catholics don’t have a word like that, so we call them Corporal Works of Mercy. Every time I entered the jail, I never thought that I was ministering to the inmates in a religious way. I was only trying to be helpful in some human way. I finally had to call a halt to all my mental doubts and second-guessing. I was over-thinking this whole experience and letting my HEAD get in the way of my HEART. I’d done this to myself before. I almost let my irrational fears of the term father figure torpedo my friendship and relationships with Mary’s sons, Eddie and John, after the death of their father (see Gethsemane). I already had two children of my own, I insisted to myself, and couldn’t imagine acting like, or being someone else’s Dad. I was at the point of denying all my honest feelings and emotions towards these two boys whom I’d grown to love, and halting all interactions with them. Was that stupid, or what? Talk about almost cutting off your nose to spite your face! Thankfully, I came to my senses and decided that I just loved these boys and would let my natural actions continue as before. My over-reaction to the term father figure and my current agony over the word ministry seemed very similar. So, without really understanding why I was volunteering for prison ministry, I decided to just continue doing what I’d begun. Since the moment Rick, an assistant chaplain, called inviting me to observe the volunteer services provided to inmates, I felt compelled, or led, to go along. Curiosity was certainly a factor. Prisons, jails, and inmates were foreign to me and I wondered how they looked, operated, and acted? I also wondered how I might help? The prison setting and my interactions with inmates had been new, scary, and challenging, but also strangely satisfying. I’d acted honestly and openly in all my prison encounters, and saw no reason to stop, even though I couldn’t explain why. It was like when a person helps a stranger in distress, and feels good about it later. Visiting prisons and interacting with inmates didn’t seem like a one-and-done stunt for me, like skydiving or running a marathon. I was helping an incarcerated group of people whom no one thought about or contacted. Prison and jail inmates are los desaparecidos, the vanished ones - men and women who, because of their criminal choices, were ostracized, locked away, and forgotten. They are modern-day unthinkables or untouchables; one could almost call them lepers.

The central building with the flagpole in front was not the right one, but the uniformed deputy receptionist, behind a thickly plated window, was able to help. He directed me back to the boiler-looking building I had passed, next to a small parking lot, where I would see a two-story, glassed bubbled edifice.
“Push the button next to the door and identify yourself,” he advised. “When they let you in, you can proceed upstairs to the classrooms.” Sounded simple, right? Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing is ordinary or simple in a prison setting. I went through the security doors, walked upstairs to a small lobby with vending machines, and then I entered a narrow and oppressively lit corridor, with locked doors on both sides. I didn’t know how far to proceed, and the hallway didn’t invite casual exploration. I interrupted a pair of deputies and asked where I could locate the training class for volunteers. They pointed me to the Complex Center, which was halfway down the hall, and looked like a bank vault room behind tinted, bulletproof glass. As I came up to it, I was momentarily confused by the absence of a doorknob or push bar at the entrance, until I recalled their scarcity in jails. I searched the wall for a speaker grill or buzzer of some kind, and spotted a black button. I identified myself to the disembodied voice from the grill and then waited for the door wall to slide open. The Complex receptionist couldn’t help me, and advised me to telephone my contact person for a room number. As I returned to the lobby to make my call, a chubby faced deputy in a rumbled uniform caught my eye as I passed him and followed me to the end of the corridor.
“Are you here for the volunteer training?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, sighing with relief at finally being recognized.
“You’re a little early,” he said, smiling. “I hadn’t opened the classroom up yet. If you’d like, you can wait here in the lobby or in Classroom A. It’s cooler out here and there are vending machines. The training begins at 6 o’clock”.
“Thanks,” I replied, starting to relax for the first time since my arrival. “I’ll wait here for a while.”With a bottle of orange juice in hand, I sat down, calmly catching my breath and carefully observing the situation I was in, and the people who came and went into the building. The question that kept arising was whether this place was really as intimidating and confusing, as it seemed, or was I simply overreacting? Maybe it was the strangeness of my surroundings that disoriented me, but travel and movement sure seemed limited and controlled in this place: windows were barred, there were no doorknobs or push bars, only security grills and door buzzers, and the hallways and corridors were claustrophobically dark and narrow. All the people were in uniform, and they seemed to inspect me as they walked by. I was immensely relieved that I’d decided not to wear jeans to this training. Khaki slacks, with a collared, dress shirt, and a blue blazer looked sober and professionally appropriate and, I hoped, above suspicion. When I saw two women entering the classroom, I gathered my materials and followed. Soon, six more volunteers and a lead deputy with a secretary joined us for the training.

The training officer was the first deputy to appear sincerely happy to see us, and he acted like he wanted us to feel at home. His manner lacked the martinet formality I’d observed from younger deputies, and he smiled and laughed when he spoke. He explained that this was the official training for all religious and volunteer services in jails and prisons, and his purpose was to give us a clear understanding of the policy and procedures that dealt with our interactions with prison inmates. He wanted to prevent any inappropriate actions or behaviors that might harm the inmates or us, and jeopardize the programs we worked for. He candidly warned us that volunteer services were viewed as peripheral operations, not directly related to the primary mission of the correctional department, which was to provide secure long-term housing and services for men and women convicted of felonies. The professional officers and deputies who completed this mission were greatly outnumbered by the inmates they guarded, so there was always tension and attention to rules and procedures. All the vocational and rehabilitation programs that existed in the detention centers or jails were run by outside contractors and volunteers, and they were considered nonessential.
“If you remember a few important things, you’ll be fine,” our trainer stressed. “First of all, be aware that you are entering a jail environment. Be careful what you carry on your person and in your car when you come into a jail environment, because you are subject to a search at any time”.
The expression, jail environment, and the way the deputy enunciated and explained it, unlocked the mystery that had puzzled me all evening, and on my previous visits to jails. A jail or prison was not a normal place of business. I had been comparing jails to the buildings and institutions I was familiar with – schools, government buildings, military bases, and huge medical centers. This was a jail, a prison, a unique setting where cunning and violent inmates outnumbered their jailers 100 to 1. A jail environment addressed the paranoia over security, control, and violence, by strictly observing, limiting, and curtailing the constitutional rights of property, access, and actions. We were meant to feel observed, inspected, and restricted in actions and movements while in this place.
“Just remember that you are providing a special and heartfelt service,” the deputy continued. “A service that the inmates will not receive if you ignore procedures, loiter about unsupervised, disregard directions, or go sight-seeing. Any deputy can ask a volunteer to leave the jail or premises, and an ejection for violating procedure jeopardizes your entire program and the vital services you provide inmates. Be careful and thoughtful in your actions and associations with inmates, and you’ll be fine”.
Those introductory remarks grabbed our attention, and we focused our efforts at reading the materials he distributed, listening to his explanations and examples, and noting the importance of certain issues.
“Volunteers want to help,” he explained, “but that same impulse can sometimes get them into trouble. Since volunteers come across as generous and kindly in their dealings with inmates, it’s easy for an inmate to request a favor or a service from you. These requests can be innocent and may not seem like a big deal – like lending them a pen, checking on a wife or mother, contacting a friend or relative. But sometimes they are tests to see if you can be used. How you respond to these tests will determine whether or not you will be a victim in the game of manipulation that goes on daily in a jail setting. Don’t be naïve, and don’t believe everything an inmate tells you. Remember you are entering their world, a world they know and manipulate. Don’t be excessively friendly and don’t share personal or financial information or problems with an inmate. If you think you are being asked to do something wrong, tell someone. Just be professional, follow the rules, and don’t go beyond your job assignment. Don’t be afraid to say ‘no, I’m not permitted to do that’. It’s the truth and it will be respected, especially coming from a volunteer”.
I’d heard many of these rules and procedures before, from Rick and other volunteer counselors during my observational visits, but not as concisely or methodically as the deputy’s presentation. The entire session lasted about 90 minutes, after which we signed off on various affidavits and received our certification letter allowing us escorted access to any custodial facility in the county.

Leaving the jail facilities, and walking to the garage took a lot less time than my arrival. In the cool twilight of the evening, with a red tinged sky softening the sharp angles and contours of the buildings, I drove through the downtown area heading home. I felt more confident in this volunteer undertaking, but still uneasy about my inability to express why I was doing it. As I drove along the freeway, an image from my second visit to the Golden State Detention Facility came to mind. That night I was again participating in a “faith sharing” session in Cellblock M, the maximum-security dormitory for violent offenders and long-term inmates. On this occasion Thomas was leading the group instead of Justin and we had a less responsive group of inmates than before. Three of the inmates were young Hispanics, heavily tattooed with shaved heads, who sat together laughing and whispering much of the time. A lone, young African-American sat on the opposite side, moodily examining everyone in the group, and never volunteering to answer a question or participate. The other five inmates were older, grey-haired veterans who were eager to listen, share, and contribute to a discussion on choosing a “road” after prison. One man in particular, by the name of Juan, tried appealing to the 3 younger Hispanics, telling them they had something to offer and encouraged them to be serious. I was silent throughout the session, not finding anything in this topic or the readings to prompt any comment. Getting no response from his three fellow Hispanic inmates, Juan looked me straight in the eyes, and then turned to Thomas.
“I’ve never met the new guy,” he said, raising his chin at me. “Can he tell us who he is and why he’s here?”
“Sure,” I replied hesitantly, surprised by the subtle interrogation. “My name is Tony, and I’m a retired school principal.” I took a deep breath and continued. “I was here two weeks ago as a visitor. Rick, one of the chaplains here, called me a month ago to ask if I would be interested in coming to the jail to observe and visit. I said yes, but I honestly couldn’t tell you why. I’m not a counselor or a minister. The only jail I’d ever been to before was Juvenile Hall. I was there twice on guided tours as a vice principal. The last time I went I met one of my junior high school students there. He saw me and called out my name, so I went to say hi and talked to him for a while. He just seemed happy to see me. His name was Jerry and I had suspended him from school a few times. I felt bad that he was in detention, because he wasn’t a bad kid, really. He just kept making bad choices that got him into trouble. What really surprised me though, was how happy he was to see me there. I couldn’t understand it, because I was always the guy giving him the consequences and the punishments for his choices. You know,” I said to the group, pausing for a moment. “Now that I think of it, maybe Jerry was happy to see me because I reminded him of school and his regular life outside of juvenile hall. We talked for a while and then I said goodbye and rejoined my tour group. I’m not sure why that story comes to mind. Maybe it’s the reason I said yes to Rick, and why I’m here. All I did was show up at Juvenile Hall, and it made Jerry’s day better. I suppose that’s what I’m doing when I come here. I’m just showing up”.
It sounded silly at the time, and I was embarrassed by its simplicity. However, Juan seemed to accept it and thanked me for coming. As I recalled that scene while driving home from the jail, I thought perhaps it was the best answer I’d ever have and decided to leave it at that.

Comments

[bikolives2001.livejournal.com]

Tony..Great story..If anyone can make a difference in the lives of these people it is you..good luck gcg

Making a Difference

[dedalus_1947]

Thanks Biko!

Isn't it funny how a 13th Century hymn (or prayer) can hold so much truth? It makes me wonder how far we've progressed in these 800 years. St. Francis may be the crazy man we all need to imitate.

Thanks for reading my stuff. Congratulation to Clay and Peter, and I'll see you this weekend.

P.S. I love you.

Tony

[(Anonymous)]

This is interesting, Tony. I look forward to future blogs about your experience here.

TRH