BEFORE ST. MATTHEW'S

I’ve been asked about my transition from a Catholic school to a prison setting, and before I tell you how seamless it truly was, I’d rather describe my days teaching in an old run down asbestos filled building the Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit leased out to the Michigan Department of Social Services. Can you say, SlumLord? My students were funneled into our program from the Wayne County Youth Home, housed in a leaky dormitory, and escorted by a youth-specialist in transportation mode (a single file line, arms crossed in front of them, and absolutely no talking) to an ill-equipped classroom.

Although they were young boys, their rap sheets were quite extensive—sexual assaults, armed robberies, car jackings, breaking and entering, possession of controlled substances, and even murder. The director, a school marm of Danish origin, rarely came out of her office. The boys scared the hell out of her. However, it wasn’t their demeanor that got under her skin so much as the cleaning service contractor with Turret’s syndrome who often screamed “You bitch!” as she stepped around the numerous buckets in the half-lit corridor.

Before my UAW representative negotiated the terms of my resignation, I had written a memo informing the director of my classroom windows not being properly secured. I even offered her a simple solution: change my classroom to the off-limits second floor, that way, if a student tried to escape he’d have to think twice about the impact of gravity. The director verbally assured me that the higher security level kids were properly screened and not to worry about escapes. So I didn’t.

The first day they arrived in the school building, they ran willy-nilly down the hallway, shoving one another and cussing like drunken sailors. The youth specialists never had them under control. As I prepared to greet them at my classroom door, two boys headed straight for the hand-cranked windows and in a matter of seconds slid their way to freedom through the narrow openings. After the investigation, I was told that I did not have control of my class—never mind that one of the escapees shouldn’t have been in my area. The director covered her own ass by claiming that I should’ve made her aware of the windows, and that I shouldn’t’ve let students into my classroom that didn’t belong there. I took my lumps, instead of mentioning the neglect of duty on behalf of my fellow coworkers.

Soon thereafter, I had a job teaching 7th graders at a Catholic school in the inner city. My main duty, according to the principal, keep the boys from pissing on the steam heat radiators in the lavatory, makes one hell of a putrid smell. By this time, I believe I was already prepared for teaching in a prison.