I noticed a tall, bit-stooped-over black man walking across
the pod room on Friday when I brought the law cart down. Looked familiar.
Watched him a bit. Looked like KW—a big kid I’d had in day treatment back in
DCH, where I first worked when I’d moved to Denver. Big teddy bear he was—the
biggest kid in treatment, but he didn’t seem to quite know it, or use that fact
to intimidate like other kids might have. He liked joking around, was just
looking for the fun in the moment. He was able to mimic RB’s shuffling, Chaplain-esque
walk pretty well. Well enough that I had to chuckle into my sleeve so other
kids wasn’t think I was laughing at a kid being made fun of. (RB was a white
kid, borderline IQ, big tummy, reacted quickly when he thought others were
making fun of him—).
I watched him a bit while taking care of some things related
to law-library, then asked the deputy his name. “Hell if I know—want me to look?” Yes, if you don't mind...
The name was the same—it was him. Here he was, in jail now,
exactly twice his age at the time I’d last seen him, I realized when I counted
the years.
I thought about calling him over, saying hello, but ended
not. I had already run into students of mine from other facilities that had
been transferred on writs. I had a different and more familiar relationship
with them as students in my class; the parameters at this job included keeping
things businesslike and professional. “Friendly, not familiar” is the
catch-phrase. It wasn’t standard for a librarian to call someone over and
re-establish a connection. Figured I’d just think on it a bit more.
Mentioned it to my brother a day or two later. “You know,
Tob,” he said. “If some of the people in the department knew what I did in
therapy… Well, they wouldn’t approve. ‘Too close,’ they’d say, ‘crossing
professional boundaries’—that sort of thing. But we’re kind of in the same
work, you know? If there’s a chance to make a connection—to relate on a human
level—that’s what’s important. I encourage you to make the connection. Who
knows, it might give him a boost, might help him through the weekend.”
On Monday I came across a book I’d added to the collection—a
graphic novel I teach in a different facility. I threw it on the pod Z shelf
and made a note to add it to KD’s holds. I found another book for him by the
end of the day and added it as well.
Wednesday came and we pulled into pod Z mid-morning. I had
the books set aside and even felt a tad giddy about calling him over.
We went through the holds and I dispensed books to those who
had requested them, trying to keep pace with the different activities and
requests going on. Books coming in, going out, books overdue, needing to be
found and re-checked in. Then I saw his books and hollered out his name: “Mr W!
Mr. W! I have some books for you.”
“Aw, he shore
aint coming to da cart,” responded a nearby patron. “He my cellie—he out cold.
Fool can sleep.”
So I let it go, disappointed. But two minutes later my
inmate worker—an inmate that works daily in the library and helps with the
library cart service-- motioned upstairs: “There go Mr. W up there; he’s up.”
Shore nuf. I called him down. He began making his way down
the metal stairs, somewhat perplexed, still sleepy. Then proceeded over to
another cart.
“Y’all call my name? I didn’t order no books,” he said
politely to the lady running the other cart.
“That would be with Mr Toby over there,” she motioned him
over my way.
“Y’all got some books
for me? I didn’t order no books,” he said again, looking my in the eyes.
“Yessir, Mr W,” I said. “I took the liberty of putting aside
a coupla books aside for you. You remember me? I taught in a program you were
in, a long time ago.”
He looked at me again. “Man, I thought you looked familiar,” he said. “What’s your
name?”
I told him. It didn’t quite ring a bell for him, but that
was ok. “That place still going?” he asked.
“Oh yeah,” I told him. “Checked their website the other
day-- going strong.”
“Hhmm. Well aint that something. I appreciate the books,
man. Appreciate it. I’ll check em out!”
“Ok, sounds good—tell me what you think of em.”
“Alright then. Alright. Well thanks again. Appreciate it.”
He smiled. I smiled. That was it.
One week later:
Mr W. came down to the cart on time. Turned in one of the
books, then said he wanted to check the other out for another week. That it was
pretty good, he needed to finish it.
New library patron! He kited (in-house jail email) later in
the week for a book on working out.
His buddy is the
scholar—asked me for Aristotle, David Hume, Descartes. “How you say that guy’s
name?—Dez-cart-ez?” I told him. Told him it was French, the name. “Yeah—always wondered
bout that. Can you get some of his writing in here?”
