I never really think about it—the routines set forth in my medium security classroom. I just roll with it. I’m certainly not influenced by the status quo. Prisoner management, to me anyway, is like chaos theory: Chaos breeds order and vice-versa. Prison life, if you really think about it, is all about routine; Upset that balance, that state of equilibrium, and there’s bound to be a fall-out. What comes afterward is more of the same: Routine.
I don’t know why, but for some reason I always give the absence slips to the older black tutor, and he, in turn, walks the long corridor and drops it off on the officer’s podium. My students never say anything about it, and this tutor delivers with his usual aplomb.
One day, without thinking of the repercussions, I gave the absence slip to a young white tutor. Why not? It’s part of his job description too. Besides, the older black tutor is heavily engaged in a crossword puzzle. Next thing I know, a young black gang-banger with adjustment issues is vocalizing his displeasure. “You’re a rat,” he announces to the white tutor upon his return. “How ‘bout some cheese, Rat.”
I warn him about the inappropriateness of his comments.
“He’s a snitch,” he continues.
I try to reason with him. “Look,” I say, “you never had a problem when Mr. Terrance ran the slip up front.”
He makes no allowances, “They’re all a bunch of rats.”
I make no allowances: I throw his ass out and drop him from my roster.
A day later he’s at my classroom doorstep. “I see the judge in two weeks and if he finds out that I’m not in school …” he stares at the floor, at his feet “…What I’m trying to say is: Can I come back?”
I think about it for a hot second. “Not a problem. Here.” I hand him an absence slip.
He holds it like it’s a piece of rotten, stinky cheese. And why shouldn’t he? His mellow’s on it. The tutors and I chuckle. “I’m not sure he’s up for the job,” Mr. Terrance says.
Now he has to prove himself. Sure enough, by the time he gets to the end of corridor, he’s changing his mind. He re-enters my classroom, places the slip on my desk and says, “I can’t do it.”
“That’s what I get for sending a kid to do a man’s job,” I say loud enough for the whole class to hear. “Kick rocks.”
“You’re all a bunch of rats,” he yells on his way out.
6 comments:
The chains that people put on themselves. How bizarre.
One way to get parole time, I suppose, is to do the little joe jobs.
Charles said it better than I ever could
I agree with Charles
And in a way, you have to feel sorry for the poor guy. Some people just seem to be born losers.
This is a really straight, no chaser post -- right on, man.
"Allowances" is an excellent word.
Chaos/routine: library & info. theory.
Check for a couple of trivial typos -- I say this especially because it's A grade, no question.
Excellent writing, JR. As always, I'm impressed by what you do and how well you tell it.
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