Following Elias

We Can Not Look Away

What happens to a man in prison?

Does he harden like concrete, turn grey with indifference? Brew in his own bruised ego like a tornado of loathsome regret? Does he pace the same worn line of crimson anger, like a record needle stuck on revenge, as the flames of his future burn down?

Or does he use the time to transcend, to rise again an altered man, the phoenix that flies from the razor wire, from the orange jumpsuit, from incarceration, with clear eyes?

Does he emerge more than the man that committed the crime, more than the history that led to the moment before the arrest, more than this previous self, does he walk from his cell on his final day, more than the sum of his parts?

Does he see himself as someone who is capable of more than violence, more than deceit, more than vulgarity, more than corruption, more than someone who takes what isn't his?

Does he see a possibility for beauty, for art, for nature, for redemption, for love?

Who does he become?

Who do we allow him to be as we label, judge, forever brand him by his very worst day, or week, or month, or even years of atrocities committed?

Can we as a society forgive?

Can we look him in the eye or do we want to endlessly hide these men away?

Do we believe in redemption?

Can we allow these men to reenter our communities as our neighbors, co-workers, friends, or do we expect them to wear a FELLON sign around their neck, like a noose, so we can pull it tight at the first trembling of fear?

Do we tattoo prisoners with our judgement and never let them try to be someone other than their worst day? 

And what about the victims these imprisoned men left behind, the lives halted, the nightmares acted out in real time, is it possible to accept time-owed as enough?

A beloved member of our family raped, tortured, murdered, can our shattered heart ever look at the offender and see an injured man?

Or will a veil of evil forever shroud our sight?

I don’t have answers, only questions, after ten days within a male prison, the start of a career shift from a public school counselor to an Education Coordinator at the Spring Creek Correctional Center, Alaska’s only maximum security prison across Resurrection Bay.

“There's some similarity to public school,” I said to one of the Correctional Officers who asked me what I thought.

He chuckled and replied, “But here we can pepper spray the students.”

And strip search them, cuff them, and lock them in a cell. So yes, different, and yet…

The word teacher holds the same seven letters whether found within the concrete blocks of a windowless prison classroom, the student-art-decorated hallways of public school, or the ivy-lined brick castles of an elite boarding school.

Learning is learning wherever it takes place.

As a counselor at the third most diverse elementary school in the nation, where 100% of students received free and reduced lunch, where the children told me stories of abuse and neglect, in words and behaviors, stories of poverty and racism, stories of parents imprisoned, murdered, shot by police, found unconscious on the bathroom floor, I feel as though I’ve worked with younger versions of these incarcerated men that now sit before me with their muscled shoulders and faces tattooed, with their pasts that limited their pathways till all arrows pointed here, a closed security male prison, with a glacier backdrop and only one road to the door.

How do we offer retribution to the injured child that became the villainous man?

Do we see the potential for monstrosity within us all?  Are we born with the same basic ingredients for survival that simmer when circumstances hinder our development, until one day they combust?

So many questions and so much I don't know.

But I know this---when it comes down to it, we are all human beings broken, we are all hearts and lungs pumping, all skin frayed and scratched, we all hold our breath sometimes as we will our heart to keep beating, or to stop, or to make it through the night, to just once have something go right, we have all failed somewhere along the track and wanted to lie down before the horn and yet…

The connection of one to another, words delivered as if on angel wings, a compassionate pair of eyes that refuses to look away, this is the thread that pulls us from our holes, and maybe, just maybe, we can make a difference, even for the darkest of souls.

At the very least, we can bear witness.

We can not look away.

I will not look away.

I know, I know, where did the summer go?

How is it possible that school starts this week? Weren't we just dreaming about the long warm days to come? 

And here we are with fresh snow in the mountains, leaves turning gold, and the dawning of months of snow and darkness on the horizon. 

While I’ve neglected writing, our family has been soaking up the final weeks of our short-lived Alaskan summers. Building, hiking, gardening, camping, walking along the black rock shores of Resurrection Bay.

Nick and I spent four nights away from the kids at Salmonfest, a music festival that supports the sustainability of wild salmon, camping with friends, dancing under sunny skies. When the music stopped, we sat on the edge of a field and listened to the wind, no demands for our attention, no requests to please, no obligations, only a familiar hand to hold as our feet rested on the two extra chairs.

Elias stayed even longer with grandparents, a total of twelve nights away, and during that time we took Olive camping on Fox Island with friends, where she kayaked for her first time and made her own paddle boat out of the lid of a fish box that washed ashore. We kayaked to a small cove called God’s Pocket, with cliffs that dwarfed our small crafts, as if to remind us there is always something greater than us with our worries and hopes, our fears and joys.

Elias rafted the Kenai River with Bruce and Kathy and barely missed us during his longest time away. 

And if I’m honest, I loved my kid-free time. I’m not one of those parents who pines for their children when out of sight. And the ease of interactions going from two kids to one, from a child with special needs in the mix to only a typical daughter, is almost a tangible thing, as if the air suddenly becomes easier to breathe.

Less on guard, more able to say yes to social invitations, more free—and yet not the whole of this family I’ve grown to love, challenges and all. Even though I enjoyed not being a parent for a bit, not being a special-needs parent for a bit longer, and even though the kids started picking at each other within hours of our reunion, I’m not ready to sell either of them down the road. 

I’m not looking to run away, just hoping to carve out more times during the year to breathe.

This summer we’ve seen days of sunshine mixed with deluges that fill buckets right from the sky. We’ve witnessed winds bring down tree limbs and days where the bay seems more like a placid lake. 

We continue to live in our trailer, hauling water, showering and laundering where and when we can.

(Today I even packed my dishes in my Honda Element and drove them to my cousin Liz's house because I didn't want to heat water and wash dishes in tubs on the picnic table in the heavy rain.)

“Its so nice to be in a house!” Elias said when I dropped the kids at their grandparents’ place in Palmer.

“Mom,” Olive said, “We can get water right from the sink!”

“And you don't even have to go outside to go to the bathroom,” I responded with a wry smile.

Oh the joys of camping full time for five months our second summer in a row.

Another day I will tell the story of why our house project derailed for so long, why it seems we will be living in another rental cabin this winter, as we slowly piece together the dream of our home up here on this hill.  

Today I'll just end with a picture. Imagine Nick and I sitting here at Salmonfest after the last band finished playing, with one last night away from the realities of our life, feet up, hands laced, with nothing we needed to say and nowhere else we'd rather be:

May you all sink your teeth into summer before she slips away.