Author Archive

“But I’m not broken.”

Posted: May 20, 2013 in jail
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4

“Sure you are. Everyone is.”

“Only a broken person would say that,” I said. I was not enjoying the turn of our conversation.

He shook his head, moved his spaghetti around on his plate with his fork and sighed. I sat back and watched. I didn’t want this meeting but had agreed to it. It was the best way to get some business done when phones weren’t constantly ringing and the running into the dreaded voicemail everyday. At least this way we could figure everything out and move onto the next step, whatever that was.

He looked up and took a sip of his water. “Is that why you want referrals from me? You think you can really help these people?”

“No, I think I can harm them greatly. You found me out…” I said.

“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“Very. Of course I think I can help them. No, strike that. I know I can,” I said and reached into my briefcase and pulled out several letters from judges all praising my program. I pushed them towards him.

“I’ve seen these. You faxed them over, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. So let’s cut to the chase. Why did you want to meet?”

He leaned forward and looked at me for a moment. “Because I wanted to put a face with the voice and see who you are.”

“Well, here I am and I’m not broken,” I said and stared back.

“But most people who do the work you do are. I mean, that’s why they do it. To help themselves, really. You know, to keep themselves straight by talking to others. You sure you don’t have a record or been in jail before? Any stints in rehab or anything like that?”

“Look, I’ve had my security clearance for years. I’ve been run through the system many times. You can find that out anytime you want, so you asking me that just doesn’t make any sense. You’re a probation officer. You know better than I how the system works. You have the option of sending your parolee’s to me or not. It’s very simple. It’s not rocket science and unfortunately, I can find plenty of clients without you, so where are you going with this?”

“I guess I just don’t buy your premise these guys can be helped. Nobody can be, really,” he said.

That made me sad. “It’s too bad you feel that way. Ever thought of getting out of your line of business and into something else?” I asked. “Maybe work at McDonald’s or Wendy’s?”

He laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, so you think people can be helped?”

“Most, yes,” I said and sipped my iced tea. “But you have to know what you are doing.”

“And you do?”

“Yep.”

He shook his head, smiled and looked out the window. “Are you usually this confident?”

“Yep.”

“Are you going to keep saying ‘Yep’?”

“Yep and you walked right into that one,” I said.

He looked sad and worn out. His food had gotten cold as we talked.

“What can I help you with? What is it that is troubling your soul?” I asked.

For the next 1.5 hours, I listened and occasionally said something. He poured out his soul to me.

When he was done, he wiped his eyes.

“I can’t believe I told you all of that,” he said. He seemed embarrassed. I was used to that.

“So, you still think help isn’t possible?” I asked.

A sheepish smile crossed his face. “Well…maybe…”

I picked-up a dinner roll and threw it at him. My aim was perfect. It hit his forehead and bounced onto his spaghetti.

“Wow, so very immature of you,” he said.

“Very.”

He brushed the crumbs off of his forehead and threw the dinner roll back at me. His aim was perfect also. I now had crumbs in my bangs.

“So let’s get to work on you,” I said.

“How so?”

I reached back into my briefcase and pulled out a binder. I slid it across the table to him. “Here. You are now officially enrolled on my program. Please read the first 5 pages and then call me when you are done,” I said and got up. “Oh, and by the way, you’re paying for lunch.”

“But I’m not a criminal. Why do your program?” he asked.

“Because it’s never been, or ever will be about criminals.”

“It’s not?” he asked and began to flip through the pages.

“No. It’s about broken people, like you. It’s about good people who have lost their way, some of which got caught and some did not. You in?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Help is not betrayal,” I said.

One month later, I had a happy and cheerful person who had quit quitting on himself.

I love helping the helpers.

“Oh no! The black people are a-coming! The black people are a-coming!”

Posted: May 13, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,
6

“What?” “What the hell is she talking about now?” was all I could think.

I looked up from the glass shelf I was cleaning. The manager of the store was suddenly jumping up from the stool she was sitting on behind the register. She briskly walked to the front of the little boutique I was working in and stared out into the parking lot through the glass where the mannequins were modeling our latest fashions for the season.

Yes. There were black people approaching the store.

There were 6 of them.

It was an entire herd of black people heading for our front door!

Two other employees looked up and then at each other. None of us knew why the manager was in such a tizzy. Granted, she was a lot older than us and moved a bit slower, but now she was acting as if she was Scarlet O’Hara and had just spotted Yankees on the front porch of Tara. I’d never seen her move so fast.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. She was wringing her hands as she watched them come closer and closer.

She started to say something and then stopped. I still wasn’t sure I had heard her right.

“We need to keep an eye on them!” she whispered as the door opened and in they walked.

Black people. Right in front of me. At Stanford Shopping Center where all the “right” people shopped, including but not limited to celebrities, the wives and children of famous Stanford professors (who were some of the biggest shoplifters I had ever seen) and people who were too rich to shop so sent in their assistants to lower themselves to actually talk to the help, such as myself.

I said hello and smiled at them. There were 3 men and 3 women. They were dressed impeccably. They all smiled and walked over and each of them shook my hand.

“What can I do for you?” I asked as the manager gave them a tight smile and walked over and stood guard over the jewelry case.

“For Gods sake, it’s locked!” I thought.

“We are all going on a trip and since the ladies here love this store, we thought we would stop in here first and see what you have. They all need new clothes for the trip, so here we are,” said one of the men. The other two men nodded and rolled their eyes at their wives. The ladies were already looking around, pulling the clothes off the rack and commenting.

“OK, fair enough. Tell you guys what; sit down, be quiet and we’ll take care of them,” I said and started laughing.

“That’s what we’re afraid of,” one of them said and grinned. They did as they were told and soon we were all running in and out of the dressing rooms with clothes. Some were kept, some were discarded and some were put in a pile to be determined later.

It was one of the best afternoons could recall since working there. The shopping center was very prestigious, but to me it was just a job to make the money to pay my rent. I would leave every evening, walk across the expressway (in shoes that were amazing and I couldn’t afford but had to “look” the part) and sit in the dark and wait for the bus. I didn’t have a car and I had bills to pay. I learned how hard retail people work for the money they make.

I learned that too many people thought they were better than others because they made more money than them. I learned that people who don’t earn their money, don’t appreciate it or those who work hard for what they earn. I learned that some women thought themselves too good to have their delicate and precious bare feet touch the carpet in the dressing room and required that I find tissue to place on the floor for them to step on.

But these women had me in stitches. They were gracious and appreciative of all the hard work we were doing. They helped us haul the clothes in and out, place them back on the hangar and not throw them on the floor for us to pick-up. They hugged me, constantly thanked me and made all of us feel as if we were important.

The men sat quietly and waited. One nodded off but the manager never stopped watching them.

They were well aware of her and never said a word. They just smiled.

They were nicer than I would have been if the positions had been reversed.

By the end of the day, they had each purchased several outfits and many pieces of jewelry. The manager helped them with the jewelry. Her smile was false, her tone was clipped and she actually kept her glasses perched on her nose and looked down at them.

When it came time to pay, one of the gentlemen handed the manager his credit card. She checked it against the log (the Internet hadn’t arrived yet) and spent a long time checking and double checking his account. We all stood by and waited.

She asked him for some ID.

He smiled and handed it to her.

She inspected it for a few minutes and handed it back to him.

She asked for another piece of ID. He handed it to her and she again inspected it.

Our policy was to only ask for one valid form of ID. I looked at him. He smiled and shrugged and winked.

She hesitated as she handed it back to him. We had packed all of their clothes perfectly. We made sure they weren’t wrinkled. I asked them if they wanted hangars for a few of the pieces.

“No, we don’t give out hangars,” the manager said.

This was not true.

I looked at her for a moment. I wasn’t going to argue the point.

“We do now,” I said and began hanging up their clothes for them. The other employees pitched in. The manager glared at us and didn’t lift a finger to help.

I asked if they wanted help out to their car. They looked as if they had purchased the entire store.

“That would be great, but let me go get the car, OK?” one of the men asked. He left the store. We stood and chatted with them until he pulled up.

It was a gorgeous car. We all took an armful and placed everything in the trunk. They hugged us and waved as they drove away.

We walked back into the store. It looked like there had been a war, but it was fun. We started to clean-up and put things away. The women had offered but we wouldn’t let them. They had been kind enough.

“Why did you give them those hangars?” the manager asked me.

The room got quiet. I thought about it for a moment.

“Because I’m not a racist bitch like you,” I said. I figured I was about to get fired and couldn’t afford to lose my job, but the words just came out and there they were.

She turned around, grabbed her purse and left for the day.

I leaned against the counter. I felt sick and worried. The other employees came over and hugged me.

Three days later I got another job and quit. The manager never said a word to me when I gave her my notice.

One of the happiest moments of my life was when I walked out of there and never looked back.

“But I AM entitled!”

Posted: May 2, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,
4

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you just…lost it?

I don’t mean in a bad way, such as physically harming someone or being cruel.

I mean what would happen if you just looked people in the eye and told them EXACTLY how you felt and what you thought?

Pure and complete honesty without any concern for the fallout.

Well, I tried that experiment recently and it was liberating.

There is a bit of a back story (of course) that lead up to this.

It all began with getting a phone call from a friend who had, once again, gotten into a fight with her boyfriend. They have been going at it for as long as I can remember. Each time she would call, I would listen patiently and tenderly. “She’s my friend and I’m always there for my friends” is my train of thought.

“Well, come over here if you want,” I said one day. I have said this a few times before.

“No I can’t because of blah blah blah….”

“OK then. How about we go out to dinner…?”

“No, because of blah blah blah…”

“Where is he now?” I asked. He had quite a temper but had never hit her. He yells and throws things around. She yells back, runs out of the house, calls me and/or her mom, goes back to him, etc.

I realized that no matter what solution I came up with, she would reject it.

The light bulb went on.

She likes this problem.

“He’s in the living room, watching TV. He’s being such a dick tonight…”

“That’s because you let him,” I said. Enough was enough.

“WHAT?” she said. “What do you mean I let him?”

I had just finished a 7-day work week along with 15 hours of volunteer work. I had also worked with 25 inmates, listened and counselled them and did the best I could. I had dealt with a difficult client, been slammed by a few sales prospects here and there for good measure and had received some bad news about the health of a friend.

Not once, during the week or for months prior to that, did I ever raise my voice.

I never once remained anything other than professional and interested.

Never once did I complain even though I was dead tired and wanted to cry at night when I still had to write in order to hit a deadline.

Have you ever tried to write when your brain was mush? If not, you haven’t lived until you’ve done so.

I dealt with the trolls as best as possible online when I would get slammed for posting something positive or blogged something that I thought was great. What the hell was I thinking?

I looked at the phone in my hand and thought for a moment.

“You let him because….I don’t know why and I don’t care anymore! Do I LOOK like your whipping post? No? Didn’t think so…”

“Whoa Suz, are you OK?” she asked.

“I’m fine, but you know what?”

“What?” she asked very quietly.

“I AM entitled to a bad day! I God damn DESERVE A BAD DAY!” I said.

God that felt good. So good.

“I am sick and tired of remaining cool, calm and collected and dealing with crap, but you know why I do?”

Silence.

“I can’t HEAR you if you are shaking your head!” I said.

“No! No, I don’t know why,” she said rather quickly.

“Because I don’t run my life thinking I am ENTITLED to not pay my bills or not fulfill my responsibilities. It has never entered my mind that I am ENTITLED to break my word or not be there for someone. I am NOT ENTITLED to rip people off or do a lousy job.”

“No, of course not…”

“Stop talking. For once in your life, just shut-up,” I said.

“OK,” she said.

“From now on, you are going to start acting like an adult. I don’t give a rats ass if you two yell and scream at each other. It is no longer my problem. You need to start being accountable for your relationships and not me,” I said.

Silence again.

“I love you but I’m hanging-up and I don’t want to hear anymore of your whining. Buck-up, buttercup and start acting like an adult,” I said and hung-up.

Her complaining to me stopped. Life was better again. She likes the drama so she can keep it to herself. She later thanked me for being so…blunt.

I didn’t do it for her.

I did it for me.

Finally.

You ARE entitled to your emotions and if someone doesn’t like them, so what?

Who died and left them in charge of you?

The eyes of a murderer

Posted: April 27, 2013 in jail
Tags:
2

They were soft and amber. I had never seen amber eyes before. They had small flecks of gold that you could only see when the light hit his eyes just right.

His face was smooth and flawless. I envied his skin as it seemed pore less. His hair was thick, pure black and cut short. His build was slight but strong.

He sat quietly and listened as I spoke to him. He was calm and I found myself relaxing as I talked. He nodded at the appropriate times and once in a while a slight smile would cross his face. He was a sponge and was trying to absorb every piece of information and advice that I could give him.

Looking at him, I began to realize that my words carried a great deal of weight with him. I found that realization unsettling and a bit disturbing.

I could not recall anyone listening to me so intently and politely before.

I cleared my throat and stopped talking. If my words were going to mean so much to him, then I needed to take more care in what I said.

“Does that make sense what I just went over?” I asked. The room was noisy as the other students worked and talked with each other. I would get to them soon enough, but right now Jose had my attention.

He nodded and smiled. His teeth were white and perfect. “Yes Ms. Susan, that does make sense to me. I appreciate you taking the time to help me,” he said.

I smiled back. “No problem. Now, let’s get back to this point right here…” I said as I turned the book around for him to read. I pointed to a paragraph.

He looked down. His eyes scanned the page and he nodded and looked up. “Yes, I understand,” he said.

“OK, then tell me what it means to you, in your own words,” I said and waited.

His brow furrowed and he sat back and put his hands in his pockets. He looked around and then back at me.

His calmness was gone and was replaced by a slight degree of annoyance. The smile disappeared and then suddenly reappeared.

“No, that’s fine. I got it,” he said and smiled.

A perfect smile. On a perfect face.

How could anyone look at that face and not believe what he said?

I thought for a moment about what to say.

“Can’t we just go onto the next part?” he asked. He began tapping his leg under the table.

I knew what was wrong.

“No, we can’t,” I said. “It’s very important that you understand this book in your own way. Not the way I say it is. Not the way you THINK you should. You need to understand this for YOU. Not me. So, tell me what you think about what you just read,” I said and sat back.

He was being held, without bail, for first degree murder. He had been incarcerated for over a year. He wanted to learn and had signed-up for the class.

For a brief moment, I saw rage and hate cross his face and then he caught it and looked away. He was agitated and nervous. He began looking around the room as if he needed to escape. His calmness was gone.

“What’s wrong Jose?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me what is really going on?”

His head snapped back at me. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Nah, it’s OK. I just don’t feel like reading tonight.”

“You can’t read, can you?” I asked as quietly as possible. It was a whisper that only he could hear.

Shame crossed his face. He rubbed his eyes and leaned forward. I leaned towards him until our noses were almost touching.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Please,” he said and leaned back. His eyes were pleading.

“I won’t,” I said. I realized that up until now, he had been gliding along in the lectures and this was the first time I had sat down with him and asked him to read.

And so began my adventure of tutoring someone to teach them how to read. I had never done it before, but we learned together. I bought children’s books and we struggled together quietly while the other students worked with my staff.

It was our little secret.

One night I showed up and he was gone. I knew his trial was coming up. He had been moved to another facility to hold him during his trial for his safety.

I knew I would never see him again.

That murderer was eventually convicted and sent away.

That face that I grew to know and like belonged to a murderer. The person that I tutored and mentored was now gone.

That face belonged to a 13-year old kid.

“Oh, so you think rape is funny? Interesting…”

Posted: April 13, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

“You said that to him?” I asked. My drink stopped midway to my mouth.

I was proud of her.

“Yes I did. And you know what happened after that?” Nancy asked.

I raised up my hand to tell her not to tell me yet. I needed another sip of my gin-and-tonic. I took a large sip, put it back down on the table and motioned for her that I was ready now.

“He looked at me as if there was something wrong with ME! As if I’M the one without a sense of humor!”

I shook my head. Yes, I had heard that too many times to count. I heard it when I told someone I didn’t think it was funny. I heard it when I cringed at racial slurs and then had it explained, in great detail, why it wasn’t really a slur and I just misunderstood them. I heard it when I had been told to “lighten up” about human trafficking.

I had also been told I was on my period or suffering from PMS.

Yes, of course, it’s always MY fault when I call out an asshole.

I know this and I’ll never get used to it.

“Then he said ‘What do you say to a woman who has two black eyes.?’“

I waited.

“Nothing. Some man has already talked to her,” she said and then chuckled. “He actually said that and laughed.”

“I am assuming you left the date right about that time?” I asked and gave her a stern look.

“You KNOW I did, so lighten up. You must be on your period,” she said and started laughing.

It was good to hear her laugh. After all she had been through, to hear her laugh was beautiful

She had survived a gang rape by 6 men as a 13-year-old girl. She knew one of her attackers. He was a friend of her brothers. When he showed up at her house with 5 other boys, she let them in. She was home alone and he said her brother told them to come over.

Before she knew what was happening, a gun was pulled out and placed against her forehead. They dragged her into her bedroom and took turns for an hour. Over and over, they raped her, laughed at her, spit on her, ridiculed her and kicked her anytime she made a sound.

Fortunately her father came home. He heard them and peeked into her bedroom. When he saw what was happening, he grabbed his shotgun and busted into the bedroom.

Let’s just say, he handled it and she got out alive.

The judicial process was another gang rape for her, 6 more times.

Now sitting across from her, knowing how much that must have hurt to hear someone laugh about it, made me teary eyed and proud.

Her scars would never be gone and she knew that. But she dealt with it graciously and effectively. She would talk to me about it and I listened.

“Right! Every time a woman doesn’t laugh about rape or prostitution or a number of other crimes against us, it’s because we have no sense of humor or are on our periods. I forgot that scientifically proven fact,” I said.

She got quiet and I let the silence lay there and nibbled on the stale bar pretzels and looked around. It was a very nice bar in a beautiful hotel. Nancy and I would meet here every few months to catch-up and relax before going home from work. It was convenient and in a nice part of town.

We had attracted some degree of attention from the men, but it was as if we put up a shield around us that said “Approach at your own risk.” We were just two women who wanted to sit back and have a drink together. The fact that we were dressed conservatively didn’t seem to matter.

I made sure not to make any eye contact with anyone but our waitress. It shouldn’t have to be that way, but that was the reality of some. Two women in a bar = looking to get laid.

“I still hear them almost every morning as I wake-up,” she said.

“I know.” The same was true for me. The man who had attacked me was long gone but his face and voice was always in my mind. He seemed to appear between being asleep and starting to wake-up. I called it the “Twilight Zone.” That seemed to be my most mentally vulnerable time. Not quite asleep and not quite awake and disoriented.

“Their voices I can hear. But you know the worse part than their voices?”

“Their laughter,” I said.

“Yes, the laughter,” she said.

I reached over and squeezed her hand.

“I have a theory. It’s just a theory and may not be true, but I think it is for the most part. Want to hear it?”

“As if I could stop you,” she said and squeezed my hand.

“I think that men that joke about rape and hurting women have either done it in the past, and maybe continue to do so in the present, or want to do it.”

She thought about it for a moment. “It’s a good theory,” she said. “You might be right.”

“I don’t know if I’m right or not, but I’ll tell you this. Let them joke and be defensive when we call them out. Let them say whatever horrible things they want to say about us. It shines a light on them and then we know. We know and knowledge is power.”

“Knowledge IS power. You’re right,” she said.

“And you know what else I know?” I asked.

She shook her head.

” I KNOW we need more gin.”

She laughed. It was music to my ears

“Lewis, when you’re right, you’re right!” she said and called the waitress back over.

Happy Birthday Billie Holiday

Posted: April 8, 2013 in Uncategorized

Billie Holiday and her dog, Mister — Happy birthday, Lady Day, born April 7th, 1915, in Philadelphia.

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“It’s my time to go.”

Posted: March 28, 2013 in Writing
Tags: ,

“No it’s not,” I said and squeezed her hand.

“Yes, it is and I’m ready.”

“I’m not,” I said and brushed her hair away from her forehead.

Even at her very old age, her eyes were still crystal clear and a beautiful shade of blue. They really were piercing and I had not looked into them for too many years to count.

She had been my 5th and 6th grade teacher over 30 years ago and even then, I remembered her as old. I was 10 years old when I first met her. She was old-fashioned, kind and strict. The thought of talking back to her never entered your mind. You learned in her classes. You sat up straight. You said “Yes ma’am” and you turned your homework in on time.

When you received an “A+” you knew you had earned it. The same with a “C-.” Each and every piece was returned with her markings from her red pencil. You knew by her comments that it had been thoroughly read and critiqued.

She missed nothing.

She was my salvation when the math teacher I had decided she hated me and began her 2-year cycle of bullying me and another girl.

It was Mrs. Aronson who stepped in when she could. It was Mrs. Aronson who spoke-up and tried to stop it. It was Mrs Aronson who would tell me not to listen.

It was Mrs. Aronson who convinced me to write.

When she asked me to stay after class one afternoon, I gulped and nodded while I held my breath. I couldn’t think about what I had done wrong and tried to ignore the giggles of my classmates as they chanted “Susan’s in trouble! Susan’s in trouble!”

One look from her and they shut-up and scurried out the door.

I slowly walked up to her desk and waited until she looked up at me. She smiled and asked me to sit down. She was holding my paper in her hand. I racked my brain trying to remember what I had written and why I was in trouble.

I sat down and waited. Each second felt like a week while I watched her read it again. I could see some red marks on it. I was suddenly convinced that it was so bad, she was going to kick me out of her class. The fact that she couldn’t do that was beside the point. I had finally crossed some unknown line that kids aren’t supposed to cross.

I had written something that was bad and it was going to get me into trouble.

She turned and looked at me as she handed me my paper. I took it in my hand. The paper shook. I looked down and read her notes on it.

They were praising it. She commented on what she liked, along with her corrections on my grammar and sentence structure.

She had given me an “A+” and I thought it was a joke.

I looked up at her. She was smiling.

“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Tell stories. Is this story true?”

“Yes!” I said. “This really is what happened on our vacation and my brother Jeff really did throw-up all over me in the back seat of the station wagon. My Dad was driving…”

“It’s OK, I believe you,” she said and chuckled. “I read your story and it’s wonderful.”

I nodded my head. I no longer felt as if I was going to vomit.

“You still need to work on your grammar, but that will come in time. But I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” I said. I loved her and always had.

“Promise me you’ll always write.”

“Who? Me?”

She laughed and put her hands on top of mine and pulled them towards her. “Yes, you,” she said and held them tight for a moment and then let go.

“Ummm….”

“No, you do NOT say ‘Ummmm.” That is not the proper way to speak. You either say “Yes” or “No.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Now go home and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and began grading lessons. I got up and walked home, stunned.

Thirty years later, I saw her at a park. I recognized her immediately and felt a huge smile cross my face.  She could barely walk and someone was holding her hand as they walked around the lake. I stopped and just watched her for a moment and then walked up to her.

The woman she was with turned around and smiled. She tapped Mrs. Aronson on the shoulder and she stopped walking. I held out my hand and told her who I was. We looked at each other for a moment. Her hair was still in a bun, she was wearing the same perfume and she had her gloves on because that was the proper way for a woman to dress when she was outside.

She was very frail , but she was walking around the lake anyway.

“You probably don’t remember me, but I wanted to tell you how much you helped me.”

The woman with her hugged me. She was her great-great granddaughter.

I could see she was reading my lips. She smiled and nodded and took my hands in hers. “Yes, I remember you. Your eyes haven’t changed. Are you still writing?”

Her question floored me. “No, I never really…”

“You must,” she said. “You promised me you would, didn’t you?” she said and raised her eyebrow.

I was suddenly back in her class.

“Yes ma’am, I did.”

“You are not the type of person to break promises,” she said.

That’s all she needed to say.

“I will start right away,” I said and looked down and kicked some dirt.

“You start tonight, you hear me?” she said.

I kept looking at my shoes.

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

“Good,” she said and chuckled. She put her hand under my chin and lifted my face to hers.

“I don’t have much time left and I always wondered about you and how you turned out. I’m glad I got to see that you turned out just fine,” she said.

“Yes I did,” I said.

“I’ll be gone soon. I’m ready.”

I wasn’t. I had just found her again. I still heard her voice telling me I was good enough, that I could write, that I must write no matter what, that I didn’t deserve to be bullied.

It has always been her voice in me that kept me going, through unbearable heartache and loss, through all the rejection.

It’s her voice I hear when I make a typo or write a sentence wrong.

I cringe and fix it because she believed in me and loved me and cared about me enough to push me and never accepted a reason why it couldn’t be done.

She saw the best in all of us and never accepted anything less.

And that’s what we gave her. Our best because we knew she was right. No matter where we went or what happened to any of us, she forced us to know we were good and worthy.

It’s her voice I hear that I can do it and I will do it.

She’s the reason I teach.

She’s the reason I write.

She’s the reason that teaching is a noble profession and no one can take that away from me.

She is who I write for.

Inmate with Asperger’s and no one knew it.

Posted: March 14, 2013 in jail
Tags: ,

“I don’t get this,” Eddie said. “You’re not making sense.”

I quickly counted to 3 before responding. I often had to do this with him. He was so blunt at times.

“OK Eddie, where did I lose you?” I asked. A few of the other student’s snickered and sighed. Eddie looked around quickly and then shook his head.

“No, it’s OK. I get it now,” he said and nodded his head.

No, he wasn’t understanding but as soon as he heard the others chuckle, he shut down. He looked like he was about to cry. I decided to ignore it for now and continue with the lesson.

He didn’t utter another sound the rest of the evening.

Afterwards, I asked him to stay for a moment. I again heard some snickering.

Eddie’s face turned red.

“Did I do something wrong again?” he asked.

“Nope, not at all. You’ve done lots of things right. I just want to talk with you for a moment,” I said.

Eddie was in his mid-30′s and the entire time I had known him, he always seemed to struggle with expressing himself. He seemed swallowed up in the class and unsure of himself. Subtle comments were lost on him. He had been incarcerated 6 months ago for burglary and didn’t seem to understand why he was here.

I pulled up a chair next to him after everyone had left. He would make quick eye contact with me and then look away.

“How are you getting along in here?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Is everyone treating you alright? Are you having any problems that I can help you with?” I asked. I leaned forward a bit and put my hand on top of his. He stared at it for a moment and then pulled his hand away.

“No, but I’m used to it,” he said and began to think very hard. “I keep doing things wrong, but I don’t know what they are. I just want to read my books, but they don’t let me.”

“Who is ‘they?’ I asked.

“The guys here. Don’t you understand anything?” he asked.

“Apparently not,’ I said and smiled. He looked at me for a few seconds and was once again in deep thought. Then he smiled back at me.

“Eddie, did you just think about whether or not to smile at me?”

His face turned red again and he nodded.

“You don’t know how to act, do you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I know you’re supposed to smile at people when they smile at you.”

“That’s OK. You don’t have to worry about it with me. Just say what’s on your mind and it will be fine,” I said.

He struggled through the program but when he turned in his lessons, they were amazingly intelligent and articulate. I could tell that a great deal of thought was put into each and every lesson.

He learned to not say anything in class but to talk to me afterwards. I tried as best as possible to explain things to him so he could understand them.

He wasn’t dumb; he was very bright. He just lacked social skills.

One night, he sat down and said he was distressed. He was getting released the following week and was scared.

“Why are you scared? Don’t you have any place to go?” I asked. I hated this part of my job.

“Yes I do. I’m moving back in with my parents. They want me back.”

“Well that’s great! What are you upset about?”

He turned red again and began to fidget. “I won’t get to talk to you anymore.”

I felt a lump in my throat. He was right, but I had already figured out what to do.

I reached into my purse and grabbed a pen and a piece of paper. I wrote down an address and handed it to him.

He looked at it. “What’s this for?”

I ruffled his hair. “It’s a PO Box that you can use to write me. They will make sure I get it, so no matter where you go, I’ll get your letter.”

“Really?” he asked. He looked like a child who had just been given a huge bowl of ice cream.

“Yes, really,” I said.

He stood up and shook my hand. “OK Susan, maybe I will write you.”

“That would be nice,” I said. He left and I never saw him again.

Three days ago, I got a letter from him. He said he was doing alright and had found out he had Asperger’s and didn’t know it.

It was a long letter, filled with his thoughts, ideas and what he does everyday, what books he is reading and anything else that came to mind.

He signed it “Thank you Susan for being the first person to listen to me. Please write back and let me know you are OK.”

I wrote my letter back that night and mailed it the next morning.

Life is good. I have a new friend.

Care for those around you. We all need it.

“How do you want to be remembered?”

Posted: March 8, 2013 in jail

I had never been asked that question before. I had never given it any thought at all. Ever.

I just figured you lived your life, did the best that you could and hoped people would think kindly of you if and when they thought of you.

I know my memories of people whom I had lost along the way became softer and kinder as time went by. Even the ones I didn’t care for no longer held my heart and mind hostage. I chose to remember the good about them, even if it was a stretch.

And some people can be a challenge to find anything good about them.

I took my glasses off and looked down at David. His question had stopped me dead in my tracks.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes.

His question deserved an answer, which I didn’t have.

“I guess I want people to think kindly of me. Maybe as someone who made a positive difference in their lives in some small way,” I said. That was all I could think of.

“Well, no one is going to think well of me. That’s for sure,” he said.

I liked working with this group of men but sometimes it got intense and I would feel that I was walking on thin ice. So much potential meaning behind simple words.

It was easy to stumble and fall.

“How so?” I asked. Might as well cut to the chase. Something was brewing with him.

“You gonna start your pussy whining again?” asked Fernando. “Let it go, will ya? We’re all sick and tired of hearing about it.”

I raised my hand and gave Fernando a stern look. “Watch your language,” I snapped.

He looked away and leaned back in his chair. “Sorry ma’am. It won’t happen again,”

“This is a valid question,” I said. “Where you going with this David?”

“I’ve done a lot of bad stuff in my life and..”

“Stop right there. I don’t want to hear it,” I said.

David was incarcerated for at least 25 years for manslaughter. He had a long way to go before getting released.

“But what I did…”

“Seriously David, I don’t want to hear it. I want to know what you are going to do today and maybe tomorrow. How are you going to make things better around here?”

My question startled him.

Like so many people, he kept dwelling on the past and wouldn’t budge. Maybe because the present was a bad place to be and the future wasn’t looking much better.

“I don’t know.”

“Then figure it out and tell me next week. Until then, stop being such an Eeyore.”

This made him and the others laugh.

But his question resonated with me for a long time.

It still does today.

I finally decided that all I wanted on my death-bed was the knowledge that I mattered. That I had made a difference and that the world was a better place because I had lived.

How will you be remembered?

If you don’t like the answer to that question, then change now.

It’s never too late to make a new beginning.

“Did I just hear you correctly? Did you really just ask me for my approval?”

Posted: March 2, 2013 in jail
Tags: ,

I was sure I hadn’t heard her right. Surely after all this time, hopefully she had learned something. Anything.

My voice was harsher and louder than I had intended. I looked down at her.

“Oh shit! Teach is pissed!” Suzanne said and looked up at me. She had a slight smile on her face.

I was amusing her. Suzanne was easily amused by others. I often admired that quality in her, but not right now.

Right now she needed to harness her talent for knowing when to shut-up.

“No, that’s not what I said…” Amber said. “I meant…what I wanted to say…I was asking you…”

I picked-up my pad of paper and slammed it down on the table.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The room was quiet. Even Suzanne had stopped talking.

After all this time, Amber still wasn’t understanding the whole point of the program.

I was failing her somehow.

I opened my eyes and looked at her for a long time. She couldn’t look at me. She was trying to fall through the floor and disappear.

“Amber, you just asked me if I liked what you were doing. You weren’t telling me about your progress because you are proud of yourself. You are telling me because you want my approval. You just asked me if thought it was a good idea…”

“That’s because I care what you think of me!” she said.

“Why?” I asked. “Who died and made me in charge of you?”

I heard Rita murmur “Amen” and chuckle. Suzanne started to say something, but the words never came out of her mouth because she saw the look I shot her.

Amber was young and had virtually no sense of worth or value. She looked to others for it.

She was easy for the pimp to turn out. As long as he approved, she would do what he asked. She was another “throw away” child who had ended up in my class because James had a soft-spot for first time felony offenders.

Amber sat up straighter. “I’m in charge of me!” she said and smiled.

The smile of a hooker. Empty, as insincere as you can get and the epitome of desperation and despair.

And people say it’s a victimless crime.

She was full of shit and we all knew it.

“Oh really? How’s that working out for you?” I said. “Did you forget where you are?” I said and stepped back. I folded my arms across my chest and waited.

I watched her struggle with trying to figure out what to say. All she knew to do was to repeat back what she had been taught to say. “Yes, you’re very attractive.” “No, that feels great.” “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

This list was endless and nauseating.

“No, I know where I am…”

“Then take a moment and tell me what YOU think and not what you think I want to hear.”

She blinked several times and looked around. She gave pleading looks to each and every woman in the class to help her. They all shook their heads and looked away.

She was on her own and no one was going to help her.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” she said. A slight panic was settling in.

“I want you to tell me what you think about yourself. Honestly what you think.”

She flashed her hooker smile at me. “I think I’m great!”

“Liar,” I said.

Back and forth we went. Every answer that she gave me, I called her out on it if I didn’t believe her.

When our time was up, I dismissed the class. Amber was still trying to figure out what to say that would get me off her back. She was frustrated and angry with me. The other women had kept quiet the entire time.

She was back the next week and we continued.

“I think…” she said and then burst into tears.

Finally.

I waited.

She wiped her eyes and bit her lower lip. She started to stand-up and then collapsed back in her chair and put her head in her hands and sobbed.

We all waited. Lucy started to get up to comfort her and I motioned for her to sit back down and be quiet. She did.

Amber took a deep breath and looked up at me.

“I think I am lower than pond scum and nothing more than a worthless piece of shit. I don’t have any value at all except my looks. That’s what I think about me. Happy now?”

“Yes,” I said and smiled. “Thank you for being honest.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

And then she laughed. Her words were out of the mouths of babes and when she heard herself say them and fly out of her mouth, they took with them the power they had over her.

For the first time in her life, she had been honest and no one yelled at her or hit her or told her she was wrong.

“I am partial to worthless pieces of shit,” I said.

“Welcome to the club,” Suzanne said.

Amber jumped up, ran over to me and gave me a bear hug. I held her tight and let her laughter turn to tears and then back to laughter.

“Amber, I am going to give you some homework. I want you to spend the next week writing down what you think about anything and everything. It doesn’t matter what as long as you are honest with what YOU think. That’s the assignment.”

The next week she gave me 10 pages. She beamed as she handed it to me.

“I didn’t know I had all these ideas and opinions that were my own,” she said.

“I did,” I said.

“Yeah, but I don’t care what you think.”

“Excellent,” I said.

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