Been thinking about walls.

I'm sure I'm not the only one.

In the New England woods of my childhood, stood crumbling stone walls built by weathered hands, long before my time, before the Pine, Oak and Maple took over the fields, before the wild animals returned, the fox, the coyote, the black bear, migrating through overgrown pastures, where farms once attempted to tame the land.

I loved climbing and walking along these organized rocks stacked in a meandering line; I often made up stories about the people who built them or imagined myself as a pioneer tending the fields. I'd walk along the tops as far as they travelled, often ending near a pond or a creek or in a pile of old stones.

As an adult, I'm often tearing down the walls I built around my authenticity, as I shed layers of who I thought I was suppose to be. I strive for honesty and a return to a younger version of me, preadolescence Christy, the girl with the active imagination, bold ambitions, and grass-stained scraped knees.

The men I teach in prison are often surprised by my candor and willingness to share my experiences. 

"Do you ever worry about sharing too much?" a young prisoner asked me on Thursday. He sat in my office telling me  about his hopes and fears for his upcoming parole. He wants to support prisoners with their legal cases when he gets out but worries he may be too emotionally close after five years on the inside. I told him about returning to work in the NICU to support other parents with premature babies, and how even though I was two years out, I'd still get triggered mid-conversation, and find myself staring at my own sick child instead of theirs.

Do you ever worry about sharing too much?

Yes, especially when I only see you for the crime you committed or through my fantasies of future crimes you might commit.

"Yes," I responded, "I do. And yet I don't know how to teach without being real and sharing part of me with all of you. I believe we learn through relationships and if I always kept walls around me, I'm not sure how effective I'd be."

He nodded and said he appreciates that I'm real.

I'd never share my address or phone number. I don't share intimate details about my family. But I share my humanity. My flaws. My hopes. My fears.

I share pieces of this story I walk--with a pen in one pocket, a camera in the other-- on the free side of the cement walls that keep these men from the rest of society.

I deliver snippets of my life on the outside, often raw but carefully wrapped.

Most of the incarcerated men tell me that contact with citizens benefits them more than the prepackaged programs in place for their betterment. Opportunities to talk with people who are not prisoners, not "cops", not embattled in the "us verse them" mentality that Spring Creek Correctional Center is working to change-- by providing more opportunities for the men and women in blue and the men in yellow to see each other as human beings.

It seems simple and yet within the prison system is also a bit crazy and complex. A running club where officers and prisoners jog around the yard as athletes instead of labels. Easy and complicated all at once. I've joined a few times and found a comfortable rhythm around the track, talking with whoever happens to be at my speed, convicted murderer, sergeant, drug dealer, parole officer.

One morning I ran my laps before the sun rose, the only staff outside with a handful of prisoners, when two officers led a shackled man in red to one of the four cages along the track. A man in segregation getting his hour of fresh air. The officers returned inside after locking the prisoner's door.

I couldn't look his way as I ran past, as he held the bars staring out at me, aware suddenly of my thighs, my ass, I stripped myself bare in his imagined mind as I only saw the shackles, not the man.

And I became just a female body running, not me.

Simple and complex.

I guess what I'm thinking about today is all the various ways we wall ourselves off from each other. Out of fear. Stereotypes. Ignorance. Assumptions. Past history. Greed. A desire to protect. To define what is ours. To say what we aren't. For security. To keep us safe.

Walls.

And suddenly I'm nine again. Discovering the old stone walls in the woods. Moss-covered and crumbling, under the canopy of tall trees,  artifacts of another time, a stage for creative play, for discovery, for extending my reach, no longer a boundary between us and them.

Won't all walls crumble eventually? Won't the forests reclaim the artificial borders? The sea slowly swallow the shore's edge? 

Won't we all return to humanity's essence before our last breath?

What if we didn't wait so long?

Comments

[Traci]

Wow. I have loved seeing your new career. The comment about visits from the community really struck me. I'm a retired teacher and have some time available. What can a person like me offer at a jail or prison? I'm also on chemo and can't be there every single week, but could be a regular presence. (The issue of consistency is why I hesitate to volunteer at a school; I just don't think kids have the same flexibility and understanding.) Is it just contact? A real person? Tutoring? I'm curious....thank you!
Traci

[Christy]

Traci, all of it. I would contact a jail or prison near you and ask about volunteer opportunities for a retired teacher. Most have GED programs where tutoring would be super valuable. Also the prisoners I work with are hungry for new classes bc many have taken all that has been offered. I started a creative writing class and an public speaking/communication class. Oh and theres even been requests for a book club.

We held a community conversation at the prison here where folks from Seward came to the visiting room and sat in a circle with staff and prisoners and what struck me the following week is how many men couldnt stop talking about how thankful they were that regular people wanted to take time away from their schedules to talk to them. And that was just one evening.

And dont worry about not being able to be there every week. The schedule is often interupted in a prison due to lock downs so they get use to missing classes and programs. I also know there are some national pen pal programs to write letters to prisoners which is another way to connect.

[Greta]

I can only imagine how grateful these men are that you interact with them as humans. Most moments for them carry the reminders that they are prisoners, defined by their crimes and made to feel lesser and unfree in society's eyes. You are a gift to them 😊

[Traci Shimel]

Thank you, Christy! All of those ideas are within my capabilities. I'm an English/Spanish bilingual, which might also be useful. I will get on this on Monday!
Traci

[Linda]

Christy, I too believe that outside contact with prisoners can be beneficial... to both the incarcerated and the visitor. I gained a new understanding of the inmates my co-worker and I met with for six weeks to train them to coach others in a literacy program. The training schedule did not allow for much exchange of personal experiences, but I think the trust generated in that shared effort made a positive impact on the lives of all of us.

[Christy]

Yes, Linda to the visitor as well--after our community conversation whenever I ran into folks in town who attended they said they were still thinking about the impact of the dialogue. Even if you didn't share personal stories just the connection around a subject is meaningful. I'm glad you had this opportunity.

Greta so true that their crimes define them and they do not get the opportunity to be seen as humans.

Traci being bilingual is super useful. let me know if you are able to get involved:)