CFL AWARDS CEREMONY

Someone from Programs invited me to a CFL Awards Ceremony. “They’re having hot wings and fries. It’s okay if you cancel class. Your tutors can come too.”

When is it not okay to cancel class? How many students in the prison would actually complain? “CFL,” I repeat. “What’s that?” And before an answer is provided, I take a stab, “Canadian Football League?”

During our laughter, she says, “Chance for Life.” Prisoners, I’m told, are trained to be mediators. They deal with their hostile peers. It’s an intervention type program where inmates iron out their differences. The mediators are advisors, referees, and Mommy and Daddy all rolled into one; they offer brotherly advice. I’m also told that they’re allowed to have these types of meetings without custody staff standing over their shoulders. Closed door sessions? I raise an eyebrow.

So I bring my posse of tutors to the shindig. Five to be exact. As we approach the greeting table, two prisoners start filling out our name tags. A third prisoner, his hands gesticulating in the distance, runs up to the table. “We’re not going to have enough food,” he says.

“That’s okay,” I reassure him. “I already ate.”

He’s referring to the posse. He rephrases his statement, turns it into a question, as if he’s having trouble with his eyesight. “How many tutors do you have?”

I can take a hint. I turn around and instead of using my index finger to count, I point. “You, you, and you, leave.” Then I tell him, “Two.”

As my lower seniority tutors exit, one of them says to the uptight-don’t-know-how-to-count inmate, “You’re a whiny little bitch.”

I walk toward the seating area, wondering if a closed door session is needed before the CFL Award Ceremony begins. I’m sure they’ll work it out at a later date.