1989, a story--

I volunteered at Green Haven Correctional Facility, upstate New York, a 35 minute drive from my college. I met with inmates in the Pre-Release program-- a program designed to help inmates think about planning for life after their sentences, after release. How I might have any real expertise in this I have no idea. I'd never held a job outside of hosting at a barbecue restaurant in OKC, running the buffet on Sundays, shelving books at my college library, and escorting lone students home across the quad late at night (whew! that was a tough one-- they were about 100% female, and I was 18-- glad to escort, for sure.)

Anyway, I got to know some of the inmates pretty well. AJ was one of them-- solidly built black guy, early thirties maybe-- he told me about secret martial arts training sessions that took place during meditation class, after the guards had come to trust the group and their intentions and decreased supervision (martial arts training was forbidden for obvious reasons).

He also told me about the first time he did LSD, which took place in prison. That's another story...

There was another guy named Brian. He wasn't in the Pre-Release class but would meet us at one of the doors on our walk into the prison and through security (we had to pass through seven different locked doors and security screens. Green Haven is a maximum security prison.) It became regular after awhile-- he would look out for me and we'd walk together and chat for three minutes on my way to the class. One day he told me the story of his crime; he was in for 25-life: he'd already served close to 20 years. Here it is:

So, I was in Vietnam, and you know, basically it was my job to kill gooks over there. So that's what I did-- I killed a few. Did my job, you know? That's what the government wanted me to do. 

I get discharged, come home. First weekend I'm at a bar, living it up, feeling great, you know? I survived all that craziness in Nam, and here I was back home, drinking, looking at all the pretty girls. Hard for me to believe, I was pinching myself...

So I get to talking to this one girl. She's kind of flirty; I'm definitely interested. Turns out this other guy's interested in her too, though. He comes back from wherever and tells me to piss off. I says, "Hey, watch your manners. I'm talking to this lady here." 

"Not now you're not--fuck off soldier," he says, and pushes me off my bar stool. His buddies laugh at me. He was a big guy, you know, and look at me-- I'm all of 5'5", maybe. So anyway, am I gonna stand for that? Hell no. I walk outside, these guys jeering at me, but what they don't know is I got my shotgun right there in the truck. I get it, walk back in and BAM!-- blow that fucker right off his chair. 

See, I didn't get it. The rules changed on me-- that's what I'd been doing for the last two years, killing people for the government. But when I did it back home-- bam-- I end up here, 25-life. 

Inmates, like the rest of us, can take some liberties with their stories. Who knows if this was the truth-- it sounded like his truth-- but I didn't fact-check his story. He was in his mid to late forties, maybe 50 at the time.

I'm not teaching in prison now, but in jail. There's a difference. Jail is the holding pen-- to serve out short sentences sometimes, but also to hold inmates while their cases go to trial. Which allows for due process, meeting with lawyers, etc.

I don't ask about the inmates' crimes-- not my business. But I hear tidbits and details here and there. Crimes/indictments range from DUIs (lots of those) to attempted murder. And these are the same people that voluntarily sign up for class, come in and sit down with more attention and engagement than most middle schoolers, and work with us for 90 minutes through book discussions, creative writing endeavors, art and cartooning.