Prodigal Sons
Sep. 22nd, 2010 12:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947While he was a long way off,
His father caught sight of him,
And was filled with compassion.
He ran to his son, embraced him,
And kissed him.
His son said to him,
“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you;
I no longer deserve to be called your son.”
But his father ordered his servants, saying,
“Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him;
Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.
Take the fattened calf and slaughter it.
Then let us celebrate with a feast,
Because this son of mine was dead,
And has come to life again;
He was lost,
And has been found.”
(Luke 15: 20-24)
“Delgado!”
There it was again, for a third time, and it sounded like my name! I stared intently into the barred dorm room from where the sound seemed to emanate. Then I saw a hand go up in the air and wave. I let go of the doorknob I was holding and walked slowly toward the cell. As I did so, a figure rose up from a bolted table in the dorm room bay, and also started moving toward the bars. The caller was a young man, large, about 6 feet tall, muscular, and with a round, child-like face.
“Hello deputy,” I said to the guard looking up from behind the circular desk that lay between the caller and me. “I work in the Catholic Chaplains Office, and I was wondering if I could approach the bars to speak with one of the inmates?”
“Sure,” the guard said, checking my badge and waving me forward.
Looking through the thick, steel bars, more and more of the features of the unknown caller slowly materialized. A beaming smile glistened on his guileless face.
I know this man, I realized. A man? He can’t be more than a boy! That’s when it hit me - the boy was one of my former middle school students.
“Mr. Delgado,” the man-child said, grinning through the bars. “I knew it was you. I saw you walking by and I thought, ‘That’s my principal’, and so I called out. It’s me, Jesus, Jesus Diaz, Kirby’s brother!”
“Jesus,” I exclaimed, tenderly, reaching through the bars to touch his cheek. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at seeing this child I used to greet and joke with in the cafeteria lines of Shangri-la Middle School, so many years ago. “How did you come to this terrible place?” I groaned, before I could stop myself.
I wasn’t supposed to be in jail on that day. I came to the prison on Mondays only, joining nine or ten other volunteers in the Chaplains Office, in conducting group discussions, or visiting with the prisoners in one-on-one conversations. However, when I told Gavin, the week before, that I wouldn’t be coming on Labor Day Monday, the Head Chaplain suggested an alternative.
“We could use you on Wednesday,” he said graciously, in Colombian-accented English. “You know, Tony, you are always welcome here.”
Actually I hadn’t considered doing so, but once planted, the suggestion kept growing in my mind, and sprouting more questions and ideas. Who worked in the Chaplains Office on Wednesdays, I wondered? Was it the same crew or new people? Did they go to different dorms and cellblocks, and conduct different programs? But mostly I felt guilty about taking a holiday from volunteering! It wasn’t as if I worked for a living. I suspected that the inmates I visited never begrudged volunteers for using holidays to be at home with their own family and friends, but inmates never got holidays, or three-day weekends. On Tuesday morning, after a busy but relaxing holiday weekend with Kathy, my wife, I decided that one consistent evening a week was the least I could do for these abandoned and forgotten men who faced long, endless, and holiday-less years of confinement. If a holiday interfered with my Monday commitment, I would simply switch to another – it wasn’t a big deal for a retired middle school principal. So I called Gavin and said I’d be there on Wednesday.
The Wednesday crew of volunteer chaplains was a mish-mash of old and new, and one big, happy surprise. Some members of the Monday staff were there, Esperanza, Justin, Alfredo, Giovanni, and Rick, along with two other people I’d never seen in the jail before. I was introduced to Sam, an Assistant Chaplain who had been volunteering for 15 years, and Teresa, who happened to be the mother of my brother-in-law, Johnny. I never expected to encounter a family relative working in the jails.
“I can’t believe I never heard that you volunteered here,” I exclaimed to Teresa, giving the petite woman a hug. “You’d think someone would have mentioned it at some family get-together.”
“I suppose” Teresa admitted, laughingly, “that prisons and jails aren’t regular topics of conversation at family or social gatherings.” We chatted quietly about her son and daughter-in-law Tootie, and their daughter (and my niece) Maria, who was a senior at Villanova University in Philadelphia (see Secular Sacrament), until Gavin called the chaplains to attention and announced the teaming assignments for the evening.
“Tony,” he said. “You’re new to this group, so why don’t you team up with Sam and go to the 600 dorms.”
“That’s fine,” I replied, leaving Teresa’s side to stand next to the heavy-set man who was seated in front of the computer, as Gavin continued with the pairings.
Later, as the two of us walked down the long corridor leading to the cellblocks, Sam began speaking.
“Gavin was kind enough to assign me to the 600’s because they are the closest dorms to the office. I don’t move around as quickly as I did once,” he said, lifting his left trouser leg to show a metal prosthetic device extending from his shoe.
“I noticed your leg in the office,” I said. “What happened?” I asked automatically.
“I had a motorcycle accident 16 years ago that crushed my left leg. Although an operation saved the leg, a staph infection developed and they had to amputate it from the thigh. That ended my Harley riding days, but I managed to keep working and stay active.”
The pace and rhythm of his tale was a sharp contrast to his life-long passion for Harley Davidson motorcycles. We strolled glacially down the hallway, around corners, and through doorways. He drawled on and on about his youth and college days in New Jersey, joining the Navy during the Vietnam War, moving to California to work in telecommunications, marrying a nurse in Manhattan Beach, raising a family in Santa Clarita, and preparing to retire in two months. The saga was finally interrupted when he was forced to address two deputies about locating a dayroom and getting permission to release the men for the service.
I impatiently tolerated the narrative, hoping that at some point Sam would mention the work he had been doing in the jails, and sharing some insights about the prisoners. But that wish was in vain.
He’s a character, all right; I mused to myself, and full of contradictions. Although from his tale we appeared to be contemporaries in age and experiences, Sam looked and sounded like a tired old farmer who was ready to hang up the plow, and take a seat by the cracker barrel at the country store, trading tall tales and gossip with the customers. I concluded that the chopper accident and amputation had taken a huge physical and emotional toll on Sam, but he still seemed determined to stay active and engaged.
Who rides Harley Davidson motorcycles in there 50’s, anyway? I thought. It seemed a dangerous hobby for a middle-aged man, and one that delivered tragic consequences. People make some poor choices, I concluded, as we made our way up the elevator to the second floor dayroom.
The arrival of the prisoners from the different dorms was a relief, because they halted the flow of Sam’s storytelling, and finally focused his attention on them. As the men grouped themselves in the encircled chairs, Sam started the service.
“Gentleman,” he began. “Tony and I are here from the Catholic Chaplain’s office to involve you in a Christian program called Finding THE WAY in Jail. The program helps you to assess your spiritual condition in prison, and develop strategies to change the behaviors and addictions that resulted in your incarceration. We do this by facilitating group discussions with you. The unit we will be reading and talking about tonight is titled Let’s Talk About God. Tony,” he added, “could you close the door to the dayroom after the men have their reading material?”
I left the circle of men and walked to the doorway of the room, looking out toward the hexagonally arranged cellblocks. That’s when I had heard Jesus’ cry from behind the bars.
“Aahh, Mr. Delgado,” Jesus moaned in response to my question. “I was a knuckle head! I got involved in an armed robbery. I didn’t do it myself, you know,” he added, hurriedly, “but I took the rap.”
“Whew, armed robbery is serious, Jesus,” I said, shaking my head, and really wanting to say, how could you do it? That was a question I might have asked a 12 or 13-year old student caught stealing, or extorting money from other children at school. Instead, realizing where I was, and the futility of the question, I looked at the face of the young man and asked, “What was your sentence?”
“I got a year in this place,” the 18-year old boy said, looking down, embarrassingly at the floor of the prison.
“One year isn’t bad,” I replied, optimistically. In fact it was a remarkably light penalty for such a serious offense. Other inmates had told me of receiving sentences of 3 to 15 years for the same type of offense. It indicated that it was probably Jesus’ first offense, and other considerations, such as youth, lack of a criminal record, and family support, had inclined the prosecutor toward leniency. “Okay, so let’s not dwell on how you got here,” I said encouragingly. “Let’s look forward from here and see how I can help you get through this. How are you doing? How long have you been here? Are you getting along with the other men? Have you had visits and help you’re your family? Am I going to fast with all these questions?”
“I’m doing okay, Mr. Delgado,” he said, laughing softly at the barrage of personal questions. “I got here in July and I’m getting along okay with the men. They’ve helped me find my way around, giving me advice, and showing me what to avoid. The first couple of weeks were scary, but I’m better now. My parents and family have been great and they visit me every weekend.”
“That’s good, Jesus,” I said, remembering for the first time that I had abandoned Sam and the other inmates in the dayroom to answer Jesus’ call. “Look, I’m a volunteer in the Chaplain’s Office and I come to the jail every week on Mondays. We’re conducting a program in the dayroom right now so I’ll have to leave soon, but I promise I’ll come see you Monday, and every week I’m here.”
“Do you ever see Mr. Mouette or Mr. Cuervo?” he asked suddenly, mentioning the Dean of Students and the Counselor with whom he had interacted so much while at Shangri-la Middle School during his three years there.
“Yes,” I said with a laugh, amused that Jesus was recalling the two people who had either assigned him detentions for school rule violations, or helped him stay out trouble and graduate. “Neal Mouette became an assistant principal at another middle school, and he’s a principal now. I still see him and Mr. Cuervo every now and then. Marty Cuervo is still at Shangri-la as counselor.”
“That’s great,” Jesus said wistfully. “Say hi to them for me when you see them again. I always liked Shangri-la. I thought the teachers cared about me, even when I got into trouble. I still can’t believe I saw you here, though,” he added disbelievingly.
“I’m glad you called out,” I said, watching Jesus’ eyes begin to glisten with incipient tears as he nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. You are one of my kids from Shangri-la, and I’m not going to let you do this time alone. Is there anything you need, anything I can bring you?”
“I’m good, Mr. Delgado,” he said with a catch in his throat. “I have everything I need right now.”
“I know you’re good, Jesus,” I said, softly. “God bless you tonight and every day. Goodbye for now, and I’ll visit you on Monday.”
I remembered Jesus as big for his age, even in middle school. He was never much of a scholar, and he got into trouble often for talking, not studying, and arguing with others, but he was a good boy – open, friendly, and helpful. Now he was in jail. A flood of sensations swamped me as I walked thoughtfully back to the dayroom: agony at finding one of my former students in jail; sorrow at seeing such a young man in these saturated cells of anger and despair; joy at being recognized and called by name; and relief at being in a position to visit Jesus during his yearlong ordeal. I often wondered if I would ever encounter a former student in prison, and how I would feel. It had been a theoretical exercise on my long drives home from the prison - but now it was real, and it hurt. I was in pain because I felt that I had let a Shangri-la Middle School student down. I liked to believe that that particular school was a special place in my career as an educator - a place where the teachers, staff, and administrators really cared about the students, and wanted them to be more than academic achievers. Before the advent of the high stakes testing programs, forming critical thinkers had been the goal of our earliest mission statements, because we wanted our students to make good choices throughout their lives. I wanted to believe that during my ten years at Shangri-la, learning the names and faces of each student, and interacting with them countless times in lines, meetings, assemblies, and classrooms, that I, along with the dean, counselors, and administrators, were helping to do this. I tried greeting each child in the morning with assurances that they were good children and would receive a quality education from committed and caring teachers. And then Marty, their counselor, standing at his prescribed street corner, would quiz them as they walked home to make sure they were feeling fine and had made good decisions that day.
Returning to my seat in the circle of men, I couldn’t concentrate on the readings or the discussion Sam was leading. My mind kept wandering back to memories of my old school and the people I worked with there. I wondered how my assistant principals, Kandy and Sue, would react to learning of Jesus’ predicament. Picturing them in my mind, sitting along side Marty and Neal, I recalled long discussions over disciplinary matters, when we were deciding whether or not to suspend, arrest, transfer, or expel students for their actions. We always reached a consensus, because even tenderhearted and forgiving Kandy, was consistent in her belief that all student choices and actions had consequences, and students earned the consequences that corresponded to those choices. In countless grade-level assemblies Marty and I explained to the students that we weren’t judges handing down sentences. Disciplinary actions were not punishments or penalties, but simple consequences that were enforced fairly and compassionately, by a dean, counselor, or administrator. Believing that didn’t make it easier pulling the trigger on a consequence that meant suspending or transferring a student, but it eased the pain and the guilt. We had to believe that consequences were a learning opportunity for children. Just as students learned their classroom lessons by correcting the errors on their tests, we believed that they would make better choices by learning from their mistakes in life. However, we always found that it was easier to forgive bad decisions than guaranteeing good ones. The kids had to make the choices.
My sadness lifted a bit when I thought of Jesus’ call. He had not stepped back into the dark recesses of the dorm cell, or hidden himself in shame or embarrassment when he saw me. Instead he had called out, walked to the bars, told me what he had done, and was glad to accept my company and prayers. I suppose it always comes down to what Marty and I used to say to the children in assembly after assembly, year after year – choices, choices, and choices. Make good choices, because there are consequences for bad ones. It’s a lesson that has no age limit and affects everyone, even storytelling chaplains who decide to ride motorcycles in their middle ages. I hated some of the choices my students made, and it pained me to mete out the consequences – but I never stopped loving them, or giving up hope that they would eventually make better decisions. I never gave up on them and never will. Perhaps I was guided into coming to jail on this particular Wednesday because there was one more lesson to be learned by Jesus and me.
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Date: 2010-09-29 06:00 pm (UTC)TRH
WELCOME BACK!
Date: 2010-09-29 11:28 pm (UTC)