I work in a prison. I wrote a PS about it. Thoughts?
Posted: Wed Jul 18, 2012 10:27 am
Hey gang. I just finished my first draft. It feels... I don't know, cursory? I suspect the opening paragraph takes up too much space. I'm also unhappy with the ending, so any advice there is much appreciated.
As you'll note, I've omitted my institution's name here.
Thanks in advance!
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Between the batting cages and the poultry wholesaler squat a pair of orange brick highrises in a square of chewed-up asphalt. Their slender windows, spaced evenly in otherwise featureless walls, are tinted to discourage curious eyes. These buildings are as obtuse, solid, and dull as eggs. Only the lone guard lazing through a crossword in the curbside hut suggests anything noteworthy inside. Indeed, most local residents are surprised to learn that roughly 3,000 of the Federal Bureau of Prisons’ estimated 217,690 inmates live in their neighborhood. I spend forty hours a week among these men and women, each of whom--like their undesired residence--is a testament to the humanity that our assumptions often obscure.
The inmates call me “Library Man.” As a member of <A PRISON>'s education department, I oversee a mobile leisure library, traveling from housing unit to housing unit to loan out books and collect handwritten requests. Most days, my job is easy. To the crushingly bored and anxious prison populace, the service a staffer provides becomes his identity. This is how staffers earn respect: By representing something more specific than authority. Establishing myself within this unique environment, however, was a trial that challenged my attitudes toward the justice system as a whole.
Having--like most of society--previously preferred to think of inmates as a monolithic, featureless criminal bloc, I was surprised to find the population at <THE BIG HOUSE> to be as diverse and vibrant as the city in which it stands. The facility is unusual in that it houses mostly pre-trial inmates who, having not yet been sentenced, cannot be applied a security designation and thus are not separated. Latin King enforcers mingle with video pirates. Those facing death row play dominoes with those waiting for the judge to free them on served time.
How was an upper-middle class suburban Georgia transplant to react to such a startling and unlikely mixture? By hardening into an artificial authority, stern-faced and detached, in the mutual interests of fairness and security. The cannier inmates saw through the act immediately, and for several weeks fast mouths challenged my mettle at every turn.
No easy answer came; no light bulb snapped to life over my head. Eventually, I simply got tired of fighting to maintain a facade that wasn’t getting my anywhere, and stopped. I was surprised to find that when I relaxed my front, the inmates reciprocated. Our became civil. Personalities emerged, allowing for greater cooperation. I accomplished more, reforming the mobile library program, establishing guidelines for correspondence courses, and organizing GED tutorships on several housing units.
Working in a prison is a daily reminder that the giant oblique laws under which we all labor have real consequences for real people, and as such must be approached with an interest in the individual. My interest in criminal law, then, is really an interest in human beings--in the truth behind the numbers, the rulings, the labels we all believe we must wear. During my initial struggles at <THE JOINT>, defensiveness and generalization were the enemy. The solution was humanity. That’s a lesson I intend to carry with me as I study law.
As you'll note, I've omitted my institution's name here.
Thanks in advance!
---------------------
Between the batting cages and the poultry wholesaler squat a pair of orange brick highrises in a square of chewed-up asphalt. Their slender windows, spaced evenly in otherwise featureless walls, are tinted to discourage curious eyes. These buildings are as obtuse, solid, and dull as eggs. Only the lone guard lazing through a crossword in the curbside hut suggests anything noteworthy inside. Indeed, most local residents are surprised to learn that roughly 3,000 of the Federal Bureau of Prisons’ estimated 217,690 inmates live in their neighborhood. I spend forty hours a week among these men and women, each of whom--like their undesired residence--is a testament to the humanity that our assumptions often obscure.
The inmates call me “Library Man.” As a member of <A PRISON>'s education department, I oversee a mobile leisure library, traveling from housing unit to housing unit to loan out books and collect handwritten requests. Most days, my job is easy. To the crushingly bored and anxious prison populace, the service a staffer provides becomes his identity. This is how staffers earn respect: By representing something more specific than authority. Establishing myself within this unique environment, however, was a trial that challenged my attitudes toward the justice system as a whole.
Having--like most of society--previously preferred to think of inmates as a monolithic, featureless criminal bloc, I was surprised to find the population at <THE BIG HOUSE> to be as diverse and vibrant as the city in which it stands. The facility is unusual in that it houses mostly pre-trial inmates who, having not yet been sentenced, cannot be applied a security designation and thus are not separated. Latin King enforcers mingle with video pirates. Those facing death row play dominoes with those waiting for the judge to free them on served time.
How was an upper-middle class suburban Georgia transplant to react to such a startling and unlikely mixture? By hardening into an artificial authority, stern-faced and detached, in the mutual interests of fairness and security. The cannier inmates saw through the act immediately, and for several weeks fast mouths challenged my mettle at every turn.
No easy answer came; no light bulb snapped to life over my head. Eventually, I simply got tired of fighting to maintain a facade that wasn’t getting my anywhere, and stopped. I was surprised to find that when I relaxed my front, the inmates reciprocated. Our became civil. Personalities emerged, allowing for greater cooperation. I accomplished more, reforming the mobile library program, establishing guidelines for correspondence courses, and organizing GED tutorships on several housing units.
Working in a prison is a daily reminder that the giant oblique laws under which we all labor have real consequences for real people, and as such must be approached with an interest in the individual. My interest in criminal law, then, is really an interest in human beings--in the truth behind the numbers, the rulings, the labels we all believe we must wear. During my initial struggles at <THE JOINT>, defensiveness and generalization were the enemy. The solution was humanity. That’s a lesson I intend to carry with me as I study law.
