TRAINING OTHERS

When you’ve been dead for far too long, your eyes turn to stone and the new archaeologists studying the lines on your face determine that you’ve become another common fossil, compressed and hardened, as far as you can go.

—Do you ever look up your students’ criminal records?

—I’m not here to judge them. Our judicial system has already done that.

—Have any fights broke out in your classroom?

—Nope.

sigh

I try to be more entertaining. I tell them about the gay convict in my last class, how he giggled and told another student that he was acting like a little schoolgirl.

—What happened? What did the other guy do?

—He said he’d beat his muthaf*^%*ng ass, and I told him to do it on his own time.

silence

—How many years have you been working for the department?

—Too many.

—Do you let them take books back to their cells?

—It depends. If they work in class, I don’t have a problem with it.

I walk around the room, as if I’m truly interested in making my students smarter, as if they’ll some day become productive citizens. I’m trying to show the new teachers what to do.

—Have you ever heard about one of your students paroling and turning his life around?

—No. I only hear about the ones who return.

I’ve piqued their interest. They want to know more about the failures, as if my story, my longevity, doesn’t count. I give them what they want.