Prisoner in Disguise

[dedalus_1947]

The city is no place to hide in,
Everybody knows your number,
And you know that you could never be alone if you tried.
You just run like a man with no reason to run,
And no place to ever arrive.
You must be a prisoner,
Look just like a prisoner,
Well you must be a prisoner in disguise.
(Prisoner in Disguise – written by John David Souther; song by Linda Ronstadt)

There was a crew of 9 volunteers and chaplains present in the office as Gavin wrote the duty assignments for the evening on the white board. Suddenly he turned around to look at me and asked, “Tony, can you do the Spanish program with Esperanza?”
“Sure,” I replied, stunned by my automatic response. Where did that quick reply come from, I asked myself in a panic? Even Esperanza looked surprised.
“You told me you didn’t speak Spanish,” she exclaimed, staring at me.
“¡Tony es bilingue, Esperanza!” Justin, a Spanish-speaking volunteer with whom I worked with on many occasions interjected, as he walked out of the supply room carrying a pile of bibles in his arms. “¿Comó no supieste?”
“I’m far from fluent,” I conceded, “but I manage. I don’t really get many opportunities to speak Spanish any more. My vocabulary has become limited to educational terminology and simple sentences, but I can speak and understand fairly well”.
“Would you like to lead the group tonight?” she teased.
“No thanks, Esperanza,” I responded with a laugh. “I’d rather just sit and listen to you. I’m still on probation as a volunteer”.

Gavin continued listing the rest of the assignments. I saw that Esperanza and I would be going to the 500 dorms, Jaime and Justin to the 600’s, Thomas to the 800’s, and Enrique and Father Charles would be moving around, hearing confessions. Rick and Gavin would stay in the office finishing up official reports and responding to calls. I was surprised by how calmly I reacted to this new assignment. I always knew there was an all-Spanish component to the Catholic Chaplain’s program in the jail. Every week I came to volunteer, I saw a bilingual team gearing up with Spanish bibles, meditation books, and lesson pamphlets. I was also aware that there were a total of 3 foreign-born, and 3 Hispanic-American chaplains and volunteers who provided these services in Spanish. All of them were more fluent in Spanish than I, so I never considered accompanying them. At most, I assumed that in an emergency I might be called upon to translate for a chaplain or inmate. Nervously, I began anticipating the problems that might arise in the course of the evening. I would be facing a new jail vocabulary, filled with unfamiliar legal phrases, slang, and jailhouse words, and I would have difficulty hearing what was said. Spanish is a softly spoken language with rolling consonants and purring vowels that don’t travel far. I hadn’t been fitted with my hearing aids yet, and the acoustics in the prison dayrooms were awful, with sounds bouncing all over the place and then suddenly diving into the floor beneath the men speaking. Yet somehow, I sensed that everything would work out fine. The whole day had gone remarkably well, and I couldn’t believe that this new assignment would be a bad experience. In fact my entire journey to jail had, for the first time, been incredibly routine! The drive was quick and easy. The route had finally become familiar and predictable, and the jail security stops and clearances were fast and friendly. I realized that I was finally feeling safe and relaxed in this strange prison environment, and couldn’t believe that my speaking ability, no matter how poorly in Spanish, was going to change it. I would speak if I had to, and since Esperanza was such a naturally talkative and personable leader, I wouldn’t have to say much.

We walked through the cavernous corridors of the prison to the 500 dorms. These were the minimum-security cellblocks, where the prisoners wore pale green smocks, held trustee status, and were allowed to work in many of the maintenance jobs in the facility. These inmates were short-timers, men who were serving minimal sentences for minor offenses, or awaiting release. Esperanza told me that they tended to be more vocal than the men in the maximum-security dorms, and liked to discuss religious topics and themes, rather than talking about their crimes and sentences. She repeated the prison protocol of requesting permission of the duty officer to conduct services in the dayroom, and then asking the dorm guard for permission to solicit participants at the bars, and then releasing them for services. As we approached the bars to make our radio call, Esperanza turned to me.
“Would you like to make the announcement?” she asked. “Usually the guys go to the bars to make them”.
I didn’t know if she was kidding or not, so I laughed nervously and said, “No thanks, I’d prefer listening to you first, so I can hear the phrases and the terms you use”.
“Buenas tardes,” she began, “venimos de la oficina de capellanes Católicos. Vamos a tener servicios en el dayroom. Si quieren participar, vengan enfrente para que salgan tres de ustedes. Gracias, y que Dios los bendigan”. The invitation was simple enough. After listening to Esperanza’s delivery one more time, I volunteered to make it for the next six dorms.
“Good afternoon,” I said in Spanish. “We’re here from the Catholic Chaplain’s Office to conduct services in the dayroom. If you are interested, please come forward and the deputy will release three of you. Thank you, and God bless you.”

To my surprise 27 inmates entered the dayroom, which resembled a large shower room without spray nozzles. I had gotten used to groups of 8 or 12 from the 800 dorms, but Esperanza told me that groups this size were common in these cells. I noted that every chaplain has his or her own style, personality, and preferences when conducting a group session. Thomas and Justin prefer sitting apart in the circle, with the leader facing the exterior windows and clock, and beginning the session with introductions. Esperanza wanted me to sit next to her, skipping the introductions with such a large group, and going directly to prayer petitions and a survey of discussion topics. The petitions were varied prayer requests for family and loved ones, or for favorable court hearings. The unusual topic of finding true love was the only one proposed by an inmate for later discussion.

After the opening prayer, Esperanza asked for a volunteer to read from a pamphlet that is part of a series that the Chaplain’s use in jail, called “Finding THE WAY in Jail”. It was a story of an inmate who enrolls in a prison drug recovery program, but finds himself overwhelmed by all the things he needs to work on, and fix with other people and himself, in order to change. He had spent 16 years in and out of jails, never lasting longer than 7 months on the outside. He suddenly realizes that he is returning to prison because he doesn’t have the herramientas, or tools, to face life on the outside. At that point Esperanza stopped the reading and asked the men if they found this story to be true, especially the idea that some inmates find it easier to exist in prison because they lacked the tools necessary to solve the problems that arise in life. I had been following most of the session until then. Suddenly with so many wide-ranging responses and reactions to this question my comprehension level dropped to about 65%. I was getting the gist of what the men were saying, but not the specifics. One man’s story was especially hard to follow. I understood his problem to be an inability to find a faithful and caring woman to love. Despite the low volume of his speech and my unfamiliarity with many of his words and phrases, I managed to construct a general outline. It seemed this man would meet a woman, go clubbing and drinking with her, get arrested when trying to raise more money, learn that she was unfaithful to him while in prison, and then begin taking drugs upon his release to make him feel better. At that point he began the whole cycle of searching for love again
“What advice can you give me,” he pleaded with Esperanza, “to help me find true love with a woman?”
Esperanza clearly heard and understood more of the story than I, because she quickly answered him. Thank God she was there, because my first reaction to the man’s plea for advice was panic. I hadn’t understood half of what he said, and I wasn’t sufficiently trained in drug recovery or romantic counseling to give any type of advice – especially in Spanish! Miraculously, in the middle of this confusion, I felt a blanket of calm descend and envelop me. There was nothing for me to say – in English or in Spanish. I had been in these types of group sessions before. I’d observed the unique dynamic of brother inmates coming to the rescue of another by sharing their problems and solutions. They helped each other. All I needed to do was be present, listening and reacting honestly, and saying nothing unless compelled to do so. So I continued listening to the Spanish around me, understanding as much as I could. Sure enough, once Esperanza finished her comments, another inmate gave more advice about his relationships with women, and shared a story of struggling with drugs.

The Spanish-speaking inmates were pretty much directing the rhythm and issues of this discussion. There were about 7 or 8 regular contributors to the flow of conversation. Even though 3 or 4 appeared bored or distracted, all seemed to follow the undulations of the talk, stories, and advice. However, I couldn’t detect any specific point to the discussion. The suggestions were all over the place. One inmate stressed self-respect or self-love as being essential in a loving partnership. One spoke of needing a plan or routine in order to change. Another recommended Alcoholics Anonymous as a recovery program that helped him stop using drugs and alcohol. Another said that prison was a good deal, because he ate and lived better in prison than on the outside. He thanked God for his place here in the 500 dorms, where work was available and treatment was humane. I was becoming a little uneasy with this chaotic, free-flowing discussion, when a longhaired, young man of 23 or 25 years, leaned forward in his chair and raised his hand. He sat a few feet from me and seemed urgent to speak.

“Me llamo Esteban,” he said in Spanish. “I’ve been sitting here listening to what you said, trying to make sense of it. I heard much that I agree with, and I know you all want to help one another.” He spoke louder and more slowly than the other men. His pronunciation was not fluent, but strangely awkward and accented, hinting at a linguistic transference to English at an early age. He occasionally substituted English phrases when he was unsure of the word in Spanish. This was the type of bilingual Spanglish I was used to hearing in my grandparents’ and relatives’ homes in Lincoln Heights and East L.A. His speech was incredibly, clear and understandable, and he painted an eloquent picture of what the other men had been struggling to describe. I remembered it as going something like this:

“I suppose I see all of the problems you mentioned as results of the cycle of addiction. We are all addicted to something – to drugs, alcohol, sex, luxury, power, or control. We use these addictions to fill a huge hole or a longing in our heart. We don’t know what that longing is, so we find substitutes to fill it, or distractions to keep us from searching for answers. Everything you mentioned here, all the addictions we have, and the actions that put us in jail: theft, violence and drugs. All these things keep us in a cycle of addiction and despair, so that nothing seems to matter – especially here in prison. Even though we are separated from our neighborhoods, gangs, and companions, the addictions continue to work on us in prison. The same vices and distractions we had on the outside, can tempt and enslave us in jail – if we let them. Just watching a female deputy walking by the bars can trigger sexual thoughts, despair, and frustration. These thoughts can send your mind spiraling down and out of control. I was at that point. Only when I lost hope and believed I had nothing left, did I turn to God. I was serving my time in the 700 dorms, and I prayed. I told God that I believed in him and that I wanted to change – but only HE could help me. I promised that if he would open a door, I would do the rest. The next week I was moved to the 500 dorms. It was only here, among you, mi hermanos, that I saw prison as a blessing. God wasn’t punishing me with jail - he was giving me a gift. God wrenched away all of my addictions and distractions – alcohol, dealing drugs, and sex, so I could finally concentrate on Him. It wasn’t until I acknowledged that only His love could heal me that I began taking the steps to change. It’s a lot easier to change in jail than on the outside. Here you have nothing and everything – because here you can find God.” He stopped to gaze around the room surprised to see that everyone was intently listening to his every word. Searching for the thought he had held back, he seemed to look directly into my eyes, and the pause stretched even longer.

“I also believe,” he continued, “that it is not enough to SAY you have faith in God. If all you are doing is praying to be released, God won’t answer you. He’ll let the judge’s sentence take care of that. You need to HAVE FAITH and TAKE ACTION, by praying, working, learning, and helping others. This dorm was my opportunity for all these things. When I saw the lady chaplain coming to the bars, I acted!” He leaped from his chair, hopping three times, and stood rigidly at attention in the middle of the circle of men.
“I jumped out and I was the first in line. I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity to come out, listen, and learn. And I don’t just look for Catholic chaplains. You can learn from all denominations. A couple of weeks ago the Armenian chaplain came to the bars. When I saw him I jumped into the line to go to the service. The guard told me to step out because I didn’t speak Armenian and couldn’t go, but I stayed there, standing at attention and praying. Then just as the guard was closing the gate, he said, ‘All right, you can go”.
“¡Nuestro hermano habla arminio! Our brother speaks Armenian! An inmate shouted from across the room, causing the entire circle of men to laugh.
“No,” laughed Esteban, “I don’t speak Armenian, but there were men there who spoke English and we all worshiped the same God. I made new friends and new connections that day. I also learned about Saint Stephen, the patron saint of Armenia from the chaplain who translated my name, and told me about him. The important thing is to take action. Don’t just wish for good things to happen – do the good things. Do the things that make you feel better, things that make you healthy and strong”.
“¡Nuestro hermano habla la verdad! Our brother speaks the truth!” Shouted the same man as before, only this time with more sincerity and respect. “¡Aplauso todos!” He commanded, clapping his hands furiously in applause. All the men followed his example and broke into a sustained ovation for Esteban who was blushing as he returned to his chair.
“Miren,” he said. “Look, changing isn’t easy, but it can happen if you do it little by little. Prison has separated us from our vices and addictions. Pick a good habit and practice it little by little. I wanted to be in better physical condition, but I didn’t waste my time wishing for a gym or equipment. I found a high bar and started doing chin-ups. I started with two and kept increasing the repetitions so that now I can do 25. That’s how we become strong, little by little. The same is true with every good habit. We became addicted little by little. But I’ve talked too much, let someone else speak”.
“Gracias, hermano,” came a call from another man in the circle. “Tus palabras son fuertes y buenas. ¡Aplauso para nuestro hermano!”

Esteban’s words were powerful and there was no mockery in the applause and shouts of thanks that erupted from the men. Even the men who never spoke joined in. I wished that I could have added something at that moment, but I had no place in that circle of prisoners. What advice could I give these men who had lost everything? Which of my experiences could compare with theirs? My worst days were when people criticized, condemned, or rejected my decisions – that couldn’t compare with incarceration. Even if I spoke to these men in English, there was nothing I could add. Other inmates then began picking up the discussion thread that Esteban had begun and spoke about other practices that were important to insure success upon release from prison. I missed an occasional word or phrase but I understood the main points being made. The man who had called for applause mentioned that his biggest fear was returning to the haunts and the habits that had put him in jail. He hoped that he would receive help on the outside. Then Esteban again raised his hand and elaborated on this new topic:

“ I believe there is another blessing that God affords us in this place. When I was moved to this dorm, I discovered that there were other men who could help with advice and encouragement. There are men in this circle who have helped me, men like Sergio, Claudio, and Adan. They helped me get a job in the jail. Showed me how things worked here and kept me out of trouble. Now I want to help others. I want to help myself get better, but I also want to help others too. These meetings are good because they get us out of the cell, they allow us to speak freely and openly, and I can score a free pencil or calendar from the chaplains.” He smiled playfully at Esperanza who was holding the box containing these items.
“Seriously, I truly appreciate the chaplains who make these meetings possible. If they didn’t visit us, we wouldn’t be able to escape from our cells for this brief time. I learn a lot from them and from their willingness to come. There are a hundred more important things they could be doing at home rather than visiting us in jail. I don’t know if I could do such a thing.”
“¡Aplauso para los capellanos Esperanza y Tony! Shouted Sergio from across the room.

Esteban’s words touched me deeply, not because they were flattering, but because they helped clarify my role there. For the first time that night I urgently sought an opportunity to speak. When there was finally a pause between speakers, I interrupted the flow of conversation to speak in my badly accented Spanish.
“You know,” I began, “I did not intend to speak tonight. First, because my Spanish is so bad, but mostly because I don’t have any answers that could help you with the problems you face in prison or changes you need to make on the outside. Yet, I struggle with the same vices and addictions you mentioned tonight. Like you, I’ve tried to change them many times and failed– but the consequences for my failures did not put me in jail. I come to these meetings not to tell you what you should do, but to listen and learn from the advice and help you give each other. Whenever I come to this jail, I learn something new about God and about the men who are seeking Him. Tonight I learned three things: jail is a traumatic event that forcibly separates us from the vices and addictions that enslave us in the outside world; jail can be an opportunity for hope and change, or for falling back into anger, despair, and new addictions; and finally, that God is present in jail and only He can help us to change. God is present when you pray and in the men around you – if you open your eyes to see. God is present in our words and actions. God is present when you help each other, when you are kind to each other, and when you support each other. I thank you for teaching me this today.”

Later when Esperanza was concluding the service and getting ready to release the men to their dorms for roll call, she asked if anyone wanted to lead the prayer.
“¡Que nos dirijé nuestro hermano, Tony!” exclaimed Sergio.
“¡Sí, sí,” the group chimed in, “let our brother Tony lead us in prayer!”
Following the same compulsions that made me say “sure”, when Gavin asked if I’d go to the Spanish group, made me announce the radio call in Spanish to the dorms, and made me speak up in the group session, I grasped the extended hands of my Spanish-speaking brothers and led the prayer:
“Padre nuestro,” I began, “watch over these men and protect them and their families. Bring them peace and hope for this night and the next day. Help them to see your presence in their lives and actions. Let them take what they heard tonight and use it for their spiritual growth. Especially help them to see that You are present in them, and in their actions with each other. Amen”.
“Amen,” the men repeated, and the Spanish session came to an end.

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Tony,

You are doing God's work. At my meeting last night discussion was about prayer and meditation. I am good with prayer but find meditation so difficult. Listening has always been hard for me. But God speaks through others for me and reading this is yet another example. I have heard a few people over the last 14 years who have gotten sober in prison. God works in mysterious ways his wonders to behold.

PKO

levels

[(Anonymous)]

Hey Tony,
I'm leaving 2 comments...
1. I am reprinting this blog because I realized that there are many levels to this one and I need to spend more time getting to each one... sort of like a building that looks like it is only 3 stories high, until you get on the elavator and realize that there are several levels below the "L"
2. The second NY installment was a tribute to your marriage and to what an excellent team you two make.
You are blest and are a Blessing,
Mary

[el-dorado-58.livejournal.com]

Hey Tony,
Nicely done! For years I've known that God is present among us but not always where you expect to look. Kudos to Esteban for being able to find the God who awaits us in the quiet, detached places. This is a terrific lesson of faith coupled with action. As we always say in retreats (sincerely!), "thanks for sharing".
-Eddie

[(Anonymous)]

Fantastic, Tony. Your curious mind is truly inspirational! Yours is a great and wonderful journey.

TRH