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Working in a prison school, in an assembly-line style of educational instruction—make them do the work and send them down the line—you develop a certain callousness, a certain uncaring attitude, after all, the student population is a malleable, unstatic mess; it’s dirt swept under the administrator’s rug. Old students leave; new students arrive. Keep them moving. Keep pushing that broom.

I need a bigger broom.

When I process Prisoner Walker’s enrollment papers, documenting that he has “officially” started my class, I tell him, “I need your John Hancock.”

The inmate standing to his immediate right helps out. He says, “Where my thumb is.”

Mr. Walker scrawls his name across the document.

I continue. “Mr. Walker,” I say, “I’m going to add a statement to this report. Don’t get offended, I’m not a doctor, I can’t make the diagnosis, but I’m going to write: Student appears to be blind. He wears dark sunglasses and is aided by a cane and guide.”

Two days later I pull his school file. I discover a copied email from a Health Care Supervisor stating that Mr. Walker is indeed legally blind and will not be able to participate in school unless accommodations are provided.

Did I miss a staff meeting? Can someone please tell me where we keep our Braille? Or did Mr. Walker have some kind of cornea transplant and is playing me for a fool?

I've truly seen it all.