Prison Chaplains

[dedalus_1947]

Thus I began:
“Poet, you who must guide me,
Before you trust me to that arduous passage,
Look to me and through me –
Can I be worthy?”
(Dante Alighieri’s question to Virgil in the Divine Comedy, Canto II, 10-13)

“You just missed the Chaplain escort,” the female deputy said through the security glass of the control booth. “It will take a few minutes to reach her by phone and have her come back”.
“Thank you, deputy, that’s fine,” I said, attaching the red “Escort” badge on my shirt. “I can wait.” There was no place to sit or lean in the sally port. It was a stark, isolation chamber with three metal security doors leading to the lobby, the outside prison yard, and the jail. Only two deputies, behind the opaque, armored glass window could open those sliding doors.
I must have just missed a whole group of volunteers going in, I thought to myself, noticing the entry times and printed names of Abby, Father Charles, and Justin on the sign-in sheet for Catholic Chaplains. They must have just gone in. Shifting my feet from side to side, I inspected the lone bulletin board on the grey colored wall, containing pictures of a department picnic. After a long wait, I spied Esperanza entering the anteroom through the sally port window. The sliding doors rumbled into motion as I waited to step through.
“Hi Tony!” Esperanza said, giving me a hug in greeting. “Sorry for the delay. Thomas and I are the only Assistant Chaplains here right now, and he was out of the office. I just returned to the office with Diane when they called saying you were here.”
“What about Justin?” I asked. “I saw his name on the sign-in list.”
“No, he hasn’t arrived yet,” she said, pausing in mid-step. “Wait a minute, he might have been stopped by the Lockdown. We had a Lockdown at about 5 o’clock that was just lifted. The deputies wouldn’t have let him into the jail if it were still in effect. You just made it.”
“Was there any trouble?” I asked, wondering if it was a fight or an accident.
“No,” Esperanza added, nonchalantly. “We think it was just a training exercise. We’ve been having a lot of them lately.
Esperanza was a tall, athletic looking young lady with shoulder-length, black hair. She appeared to be about 26 to 28 years of age and spoke with a breezy, East Los Angeles, Chicano accent. I had joined her in a Spanish-speaking session the week before and was impressed by the fluency and naturalness of her Spanish (see Prisoner in Disguise). She was the most cheerful of the Assistant Chaplains at the jail, always joking and kidding the others. She worked three days a week, running groups and making visits on Mondays and Wednesdays, and doing office work on Fridays. She wore a distinct Assistant Chaplain badge, which qualified her to go about the jail and the prison grounds unescorted, but also made her a babysitter for volunteers with red badges, like me.

When we arrived at the Chaplain’s Office, Thomas and Diane were talking, waiting for our arrival.
“Well it looks like it’s just the four of us so far,” Thomas announced. I’d worked with him the longest, accompanying him on many occasions to conduct group sessions (see Abandon All Hope, Can You See My Eyes,  and Just Like Paul and Silas). He was a solidly built, short, barrel-chested man, who walked with a pronounced limp. Only the light grey, speckled into his sandy blonde hair, hinted at his mature age. Thomas was a member of Alcoholics Anonymous who worked and volunteered all day, Mondays and Wednesdays, in the M dorms, the maximum-security cellblocks of the jail. Diane was a volunteer who was already coming to the jail on Mondays before I arrived in February. She was a tiny, blonde haired lady who spoke in a high-pitched voice. She was an anomaly in this setting, appearing fragile and bird-like in this over-sized world of thick walls and bars, big, tattooed men, and slow, monotonous movements.
“Abby must be here someplace,” Diane trilled. “I saw her car parked when I drove in. Can we reach her by phone? Does anyone have her phone number?”
As Esperanza inspected the Rolex telephone directory in search of Abby’s number, Diane checked the answering machine.
“Hi Gavin,” came a familiar voice from the machine. “This is Father Charles. When I arrived at the lobby they told me that a lockdown was in effect and it would last about 45 minutes. So I decided to get something to eat at Mickey D’s and I ran into Abby and Justin. We’ll wait here and come back at about 5:45 pm. If you want to call me, my number is…”
“Well, that solves the mystery of the missing chaplains,” said Thomas, looking up at the clock. “They should be here soon.”
I looked across the office at the small white board used for posting assignments and listing volunteers. There were 3 cellblock letters written, followed by three names, the names of the Assistant Chaplains:

A - Esperanza,
B - Abby,
M - Thomas,

“How many assistants and volunteers do you think we’ll have tonight?” I asked, wondering how we would be divided.
“Gavin is going to be late,” Esperanza said. “So it looks like three assistants and at least 4 volunteers, including Father Charles. We can divide up the dorms between us tonight.”
“Who is going to escort Father Charles?” I asked. “I don’t think he has a green badge.”
“You’re right, Tony,” Thomas chimed. “Someone will have to go with him if he’s hearing confessions tonight.”
“Maybe we can leave a couple of you to run a session,” Esperanza said, looking at Diane and me. “Then we could escort Father and come back later to pick you up.”
“You know,” Diane said, warningly. “The guards told me we weren’t supposed to be left alone. They said we must be accompanied at all times.”
“Alex used to drop me off all the time,” said Thomas, speaking of a former Assistant Chaplain. “He’d leave me in a dorm with a group of men and then go off and do other things.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to do that,” repeated Diane.
At that moment I saw a band of multi-colored shirts and blouses moving down the hall through the office window. Soon four more people joined us: Father Charles, Abby, Justin, and Jaime. The Lockdown victims had arrived. The noise level and activity in the tiny office shot up immediately with greetings and hugs, and the details for their delay.

Jaime and Justin were middle-aged volunteers whose distinct accents sounded of foreign birthplaces in Argentina and Mexico. Jaime had worked at the jail the longer, and was very familiar with the floor plan and layout of the jail, even though he could only travel with an escort. Justin had just finished his county training when I met him on my first visit to the jail in January. Despite their similar ethnicity they were very different in manner and appearance. Jaime was a quiet, slender man, who looked and moved like a dancer. Justin was a large and gregarious fellow, always greeting you with a big smile and a hug. Father Charles was also a volunteer, even though he performed the sacramental functions that many people ascribed exclusively to Chaplains. He was a full time pastor of a Valley parish, donating his time and services to the jail. He was a round, jovial man, with short-cropped white hair and a spiked beard. Father loved telling stories and jokes, and once wound up, he was difficult to restrain.
“Okay, gang,” interrupted Thomas. “It’s already 6 o’clock, so we better decide how we’re going to divide up.” We all turned our heads to gaze at the assignment board and it became quickly apparent that we had a problem. We had more services available tonight than the personnel to deliver them, and no director in charge of making decisions. The arrival of the last four people only muddied the water.  Our heads then pivoted to look at Abby, who was the ranking Assistant Chaplain in the office, for some guidance. She was a tall, angular, bespectacled woman, with long, dark hair that belied her age. Abby spoke with a hearty mid-western twang, and conveyed an air of brisk confidence. Yet Rick, the only other Assistant Chaplain with more tenure, described her as always getting her way with guards and inmates because of her demur manner and naïveté. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious. At that moment, with all of us awaiting instructions, no decisions were forthcoming.

If I were to describe the Chaplain’s Office in terms of a formal organization, I’d start with Gavin at the top. He is the official Chaplain assigned to this county facility, and he is the only lay minister paid by the archdiocese. The next level comprises the Assistant Chaplains. These men and women are volunteers who, because of their interest, experiences, and abilities, provide the same services to the inmates as the Chaplain. They would be ranked on the basis of length and constancy of service. So far, I’ve only met the Assistant Chaplains who show up on Mondays: Rick, Abby, Thomas, Esperanza, Enrique, Giovanni, Wilma, and Rafael. I had interacted with most of these people in other stories (see tag: jails), but had yet to work with Wilma or Giovanni. All the Assistant Chaplains had their own identification badges, or were issued green, “Non-escort” badges upon their arrival at the jail. This level of authorization allowed them access throughout this jail. But it also shackled them to the next level of service providers, the volunteers. These were the individuals, like myself, who had received the basic county training and were permitted to interact with inmates as long as they were accompanied by the Chaplain, or one of his assistants. Our names were printed on an Access List and we were wore red “Escort” badges. At the very bottom of the organization were the visitors, who received limited access to observe the Chaplain’s program in jail. Once cleared by the police, the names of these guests appeared on a dated letter, allowing them to enter the jail for a month. In that time, a decision was made about their compatibility with the program, and whether or not they should receive the county training. There were two other visitors with me when I first came to observe in February. I had not seen them since, nor had any new visitors come to the jail to observe. I came to the conclusion that new participants in this ministry weren’t so much recruited and tested, as they were revealed. Rick once told me that first-time visitors knew immediately if they were suited to meeting, talking, and interacting with felons and criminals. There was no official probationary process or period. New volunteers were simply observed in their interactions and conversations with inmates and other volunteers. I suppose the only criterion used in their selection was the ability to be honest and accepting of the inmates.

Watching the three Assistant Chaplains deciding on the assignments was strangely complicated. Abby was clearly the senior assistant, but she was being extremely sensitive to the wishes and preferences of others.
“Where would you like to go?” She kept asking.
“I’m fine going anywhere I’m needed.” We all replied.
“With whom would you like to work?” She would add.
“It doesn’t matter.” We responded.
Magically, it was collaboratively decided that Jaime and Justin would go to the A dorms with Esperanza; Diane and I would join Thomas in cellblock M; and Abby would stay with Father Charles to hear confessions and await Gavin’s arrival. Ultimately, this arrangement was changed. Abby found that there were no requests for the sacrament of Reconciliation (Confession) that night, and she brought Father Charles to our session and exchanged him for Diane, so the two women could conduct a session in the B dorms. Gavin stayed in the office to do one-on-one’s with inmates and conducted one death notification.

Typically, our group sessions with inmates usually lasted from 60 to 90 minutes, depending on when we began, and how long it took for the guards to release the men from the dorm cells. All programs ended by 8 o’clock when inmates were returned to their dorms for bed count. The volunteers then regrouped in the Chaplain’s Office where Gavin conducted a de-briefing session followed by a prayer. The de-briefing could be as simple as going around the office and asking each volunteer to describe their session, or formal announcements about rules and procedures. That evening Thomas, Father, and I met with a group of five young prisoners. The small number allowed for intimate conversations, giving each man plenty of opportunities to share their thoughts about the choices they made that landed them in jail. This group was unique because they were so young, and three of the men carried bibles. One man in particular touched on some themes I had heard from other prisoners on other occasions. His story would be the basis for my reflections at the debriefing session.





Aaron was one of the young men carrying a bible. He was 23 years old, with a wispy goatee and heavy tattoos on both his arms and around his neck. He was serving a seven-year sentence for two counts of robbery. He had gone to Catholic schools as a child, but had been kicked out of all of them. Prior to his current incarceration, he had already served 7½ years behind bars, in Youth Authority (Juvenile Hall) and another prison. He described his life and behaviors during these brief periods of time out of jail, as “wild, evil, and wicked”. He used and sold drugs, hurt and exploited women, and was violent and brutal to other men. While in prison he joined a white supremacist gang and continued his “violence and wickedness” there. It wasn’t until his last arrest that he wised up. He could have been sentenced to life imprisonment for the armed robbery and home invasion, but since no one was hurt he received only seven years. He admitted deserving life imprisonment for all the things he had done and gotten away with during his life of crime and addictions. He felt empty and broken, having lost everything with this last conviction - his drugs, job, home, girlfriend, and possessions. He had hit bottom. He was 23 years old, and had nothing to show for his life. He said he finally recognized how “evil and wicked” he had been, and how stupidly he had acted as a white supremacist. It was like finally waking up in prison after a long nightmare outside.
“God uses people, and he works through them,” he concluded. “ I took a look at my life and saw that prison finally separated me from drugs and temptations. I finally saw the people around me – the good and the bad. I saw how some men put away their hate and anger, and reached out to help me. They were black and some were brown, but they were the same as me. They looked past the color of my skin, the tattoos, and all that hate shit I used to believe in. They accepted me and forgave me.”

At the debriefing, I told the other chaplains about this session with the five young men, and how I’d heard those same ideas from other prisoners, on other occasions: That God acted through other people – through the judges and prosecutors who sentenced them, and the inmates and chaplains who were willing to reach out and accept them; that prison stripped everything away from prisoners, leaving them with nothing but each other; and that jail could be an opportunity for discovery and change, if they saw it as such, and helped themselves and each other.
“All those things are true,” Gavin concluded, “and you will hear them said many times. Yet, we cannot be the ones who say those things to the men. We can listen to them, and point to them, but the insights and the words must come from the men who are imprisoned. Our job is show up, listen, and let God act.”
That seemed a very simple and succinct description of what we chaplains, assistant chaplains, and volunteers did in that place of correction.