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.

Comments

[Julie]

Thank you for sharing this and please continue to share your thoughts. I have in the past few years become more aware of the unfair conditions within the judicial and prison systems (the book Just Mercy about put me over the edge...)
Good luck on the job switch, they are lucky to have you.
Julie A

[Sara D.]

What a beautiful heart you have, Christy! How lucky for your students to have you! I look forward to reading more about your journey as a teacher :-)!

[Sara Sutton]

Wow, what a brave career transition, Christy. I can't imagine how difficult parts of it must be, but I deeply admire your ability to see past the outside layer(s).

Also, I want to pass along this resource in case if could be of use -- https://defyventures.org/. I have met the founder, and would be happy to do an intro if it's of interest.

Big hugs, and best of luck!

[Christy]

I look forward to checking out the book Mercy--thank you Julie. And Sara thanks for your words, youmade my heart blush;) Sara I peeked at the link briefly and look forward to checking it out more and yes I'll be in touch about a possible intro soon--thank you my friend!

[Kate]

What an exciting new phase for you! I think you'll find more often than not that you will see glimpses of the boys these men were befor a lifetime of trauma changed all that. Can't wait to hear all about it. Wonder if you'll be able to lead a creative writing class or similar. Hope kids transition back to school going well.