No one can ignore the tension felt in this environment. Passing through the gate sends a first signal to be alert. Standing with feet slightly apart, shoulder bones barely touching the back wall, I feel comfortable, yet ready to spring into action if I need to. This is as relaxed as I can allow myself to be. Guarding the prison classroom during this particular period is especially challenging since this teacher constantly puts herself at risk. My job is to protect her. So I stand and watch for first signs of trouble.
Something happens to the inmates when they enter the classroom door. These men, who usually spend their time fiercely defending whatever power they have gained within the prison walls, ignore each other when they reach this room. They seem to breathe differently, as if the others didn't matter anymore, as if this was a safe haven and each one was alone with Mrs. Tierney.
Just look at Jeff now. The way she says his name almost makes it sound soft. She doesn't know that he's in for breaking and entering and assault. Outside this room, this guy is the law. Not here. Tension is alleviated. He does more than react, he actually communicates with her. Without the uniform, he could appear to be in any adult high school course on career choices. What a joke, giving him hope that he or any of them could amount to anything elsewhere.
The way that she's pulling in a chair next to Jeff's computer station makes me nervous. If only I could tell her how he really is so that she wouldn't risk moving this close to him. I wish that I could hear what it is that they are sharing.
At the beginning of the class, she had helped the students recall how life experiences contributed to skills' development and that they needed to highlight their capabilities in the resume that they were learning to create. At first, the prisoners' reactions were almost of disbelief and their wisecracks had demonstrated their uneasiness. But Mrs. Tierney had seemed serious enough for most of them to keep their comments to themselves and to consider accomplishing this task.
This is as much interest as I've ever seen from this bunch. Having a computer in front of them helps; they don't have to deal with expected attitudes but rather can choose to face the non-judgmental screen.
I casually move to another wall and listen in. Jeff says he's handy with tools, small ones in particular. A few snickers from the others are quickly stopped when his eyes work the room. Mrs. Tierney prompts him with a nodding head and raised brows. Turns out his mother brought old furniture home and he had been the one assigned to open the challenging antique locks on drawers, doors, and chests. Damaged pieces cost money and this had simply not been acceptable. Jeff had soon become an expert, developing personal techniques and creating and shaping home-made tools mostly with an anvil, hammer, and torch.
The teacher scribbles a few notes that she shares with Jeff. I see him straighten up a little and catch a glimpse of his smile as he turns towards the computer. He seems to be copying, agile fingers picking up speed, moving with fragile confidence. As she strolls by, my eye catches a few words on her pad:
Skills- resourceful, problem solver.
Experience- antique locks, tool craftsmanship.
Big Steph has her attention now, but there's no way that she'll find anything to put in his resume. She's laughing and as she lifts her hand towards his shoulder, I prepare to intervene. No one touches Big Steph. Is he leaning in? I breathe more easily as the hand resting on his shoulder falls to her side. He starts typing with a grunt, seemingly of satisfaction. Most unusual. It's a good thing that this woman doesn't know her own power.
Fifteen minutes left of this 75 minute class: Freedom for their minds, but a challenge for mine. Mrs. Tierney acts as if these guys will eventually need these resumes. They talk to her, share bits of their life that I didn't know about, even though I spend much more time with them than she does. Watching her interact, laughing, treating these inmates as if they had a future, makes them look more human; not that I could ever develop such a relationship with them.
I wonder if she'd listen as intently if I approached her. But this is their sacred time. They know that I've witnessed what happens here, and so far, I've felt compelled to preserve silence, to respect that they accept to be vulnerable. In a way, I feel as if they have shared with me too.
Perhaps I should start writing down my list of skills when I get off my shift. Maybe I could show Mrs. T. before class begins.
Shuffles of chairs startle my thoughts and I stiffen. With the sliding of the metal door, carefully forged survival attitudes instantly reappear. The men walk out, their stride revealing their status, but their faces, no emotion.
Mrs. Tierney ceases to exist until the next class.