I hate it. I just flat out hate it. I hate that I have to stand by and observe the verbal and emotional abuse of defenseless women—and in so many cases not be able to lift a finger to help. My husband used to call me Crusader Rabbit because I was a champion for the downtrodden, a brave soldier for justice, marching for equal rights in college, going to court about zooming laws in Jackson County when that neighbor attempted to start a rodeo arena directly across from our home outside Lee's Summit, taking on the whole Holden school board or the mayor or the Chamber of Commerce when necessary. I wonder if Bill would be ashamed of me now.
We BLAST girls and Recreation offer an aerobics class at 4:00 every afternoon. During that hour-long class there is not one but two prison counts. At approximately 4:20 officers march in and give the exercise class instructor the high sign. The instructor, who's on mic, hollers, "Count time. Line up by House."
In translation, this means for each inmate in the gym to cease exercising and position herself in the count lines according to which Housing Unit her cell is assigned. Since we have new participants nearly every day, I always add directions as to which House lines are where and add, "If you don't know what House you're from, raise your hand and someone might recognize you." Now and then I actually get a laugh, like an old comic who relies on time-tested material.
As soon as the officers are done walking up and down the four lines, we resume our class, only to be interrupted again in about 10 minutes for another count—only this count is not by House. We all line up on the red line around the basketball court and count off, "One, two…."
Thursday I wasn't teaching but I was a participant of the step aerobic class. During the warm-up Janiece asked if anyone was new to step aerobics, and I raised my hand kiddingly. That also gets a chuckle from girls who know that this old clown never misses a class. As usual Janiece ignored me, but she did acknowledge a young girl on the back row, "Are you really new? You'll catch on." I whirled around and gave the new kid thumbs up, "Don't worry. We'll get this together." The kid gave me a weak grin. She was not so sure that she'd get this so easily.
Class progressed, we stopped for the firs by-house count, resumed, stopped again for the count-off count, and resumed. After we finished, cooled down, and stretched out, we all put up our platforms, risers, and hand weights, and broke up into chatty groups waiting for count to clear. I did get a chance to catch the new kid and assure her of how well she'd caught on and promise that it will get easier each time she is. In a few minutes officers scurried in and call a recount by House. As we groaned to our lines (no one appreciates a recount) the female officer stated, "I don't know what happened, but I have the wrong number in the wrong House." That's when it happened.
The new kid, young, thin and tall with her light brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, stepped forward and with remorse dripping from her thin voice came clean, "It's me. I was in the wrong line for the first count. I'm so sorry, but I didn't realize. I don't know anyone and didn't know." Her small hands were outstretched with palms up in surrender.
In that instant all we inmates exhaled in defeat. We knew the end of this sad story—the punishment for this honest mistake. In that same instant the officer inhaled in triumph and coldly ordered, "Come with me." Kris felt compelled to blurt out a quick warning to our new girl, "oh, sweetie, you goin' to the hole," as the child was culled from the herd.
Our honest gal was escorted out of the gym as if she were an escapee from Gitmo. We lamented: "Honesty is NOT the best policy." "I hate this!" "The truth sure WON'T set you free." "She didn't know." "I've never seen her before." "That kid is just out of R&O. She didn't know to keep her mouth shut." "I hate this!" "She's going to the hole for not knowing what she was supposed to do." "I feel so badly for her." "She seemed like a good kid, too." "I hate this!" "Man, she's being cuffed right now." "She was working out in her uniform and is sweaty. They don't give no showers for days in the hole." "Well, welcome to prison, newbie. It ain't at all like the brochure." "She's just a baby." "It's written up as an attempted escape—Lord knows from your House. Why didn't you get her in the right line, dummy?" "Jeez, I wasn't paying no mind. I don't know that white girl." "That little girl just got into population." "Did ya see how happy the guards was? They was scared it was on them." "Yeh, now they have someone to punish. They's happy." "I hate this!"
I'm the one who kept repeating, "I hate this!" There is nothing I can do in cases like this. I am not allowed to plead her case or even look like I want to. Some consider Kris brave to have blurted out the one line, but I knew it wasn't bravery; it's compassion that forced that warning from her mouth in the face of danger. A verbal protest can buy you a ticket to the hole, too.
Count cleared, and we uncharacteristically exited the gym somberly in near silence as we filed past a gaggle of officers surrounding our sobbing red-faced handcuffed girl who hung her head in shame and sorrow. I had to push emotion down to the bottom of my heart and remind myself that there is nothing I can do for her. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, nothing is as it should be. Honesty is a sin. Truth is used against us. We are helpless. Hopeless.
Internally I lift my arms and scream to the god of bad girls, "I HATE THIS!!!!"
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