hurt. Sure I carry it around, but I use it to help
my kids. Now, I am in no way comparing myself
to the Christ, but at that moment, that’s all I
could think of.” I surprised myself by speaking
these words out loud.
“That’s what I’m taking about,” Garland
continued, “You took that moment to reflect
while everyone else was into the movie. Most
people don’t think that way, but what you have to
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think about in that same sense is once that scene
was over and Christ was nailed to the cross - that
burden was lifted. You need to let that burden
go!” His emphasis and message were clear. I
excused myself to get some laundry. In the
laundry room I wrote down what he had said and
stuffed my notes in my pocket. I returned with a
basket of laundry, and we continued talking as we
folded.
“Man, I’m not comparing myself to you in any
way cuz I was never abused, physically or
sexually, but I was drug through the mud
mentally. My dad left when I was two years old.
My grandmother raised me. I came out here, like
you did, to get away from it all. Then my dad
tried to come back into my life when I was
making a name for myself in football. But then I
ended up not playing ball my junior year in
college because of something my mother did. She
went about her ways and kept on doing her thing.
I was the one that was hurting. I carried a lot of
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anger toward my mother for a lot of years. I went
a whole year without seeing my mom. Sitting
here, I see me in you. We’re just two guys that
had some stuff that went on in the past, and it just
so happened that I was able to lay it to bed, while
you’re still carrying it around. You are not
responsible for these kids in here. You aren’t
responsible for the kids in your classes. You can’t
walk around everyday thinking you have to make
up for the past. You can only do what you can do
in the present to make your own life better, and if
you make other lives better in the process, like
you’re doing, then that’s even better.” He spoke
to me like I speak to my kids, but also like
psychiatrists and counselors had spoken to me for
years, but coming from a peer it came across
more sincerely. His words broke through to me.
Sitting there I felt as if he could see through me
and see the baggage I carried, and he understood.
Our conversation went on like this for hours,
comparing notes with each other about people we
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had hurt and the reckless lifestyles we had lived
before turning our lives around. Tre would
interject here and there, but it was mainly
Garland and me having the most honest
conversation I’d had in a long time. Talking to
him was emotionally exhausting, but I felt
refreshed and energized at the same time. By his
tone and manner, I could tell that Garland
understood what I was saying in a way no other
person had before. My spirit felt renewed, much
like when I left my counselor’s office after our
therapy sessions.
The conversation was somehow more real than a
therapy session because, as we talked all night, we
mopped, cleaned, and folded laundry. Working
side by side with this wise, insightful man made
his words take on more meaning than he could
have imagined. And his words kept coming at me.
There was an urgency in his message to me, just
as there is an urgency in my message to the kids.
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“You don’t owe anyone anything. You can’t walk
around with this burden on your shoulders,
carrying the weight of your past. You have no
one you have to do right by except yourself. I
learned that the hard way, as I’m sure you have
too. I’m sure you know all this stuff I’m saying;
you just have to put it into action. When I put my
anger aside and forgave my people, I decided I
was going to be a positive light for other people.
We all just gotta try to find our way.” His words
rang true in me, and I excused myself again to
run to the bathroom to take more notes.
I never told Garland how much his words meant
to me, or how they changed me. When I emerged
from the bathroom with my pocket full of notes, it
was nearly six in the morning. It was time, I was
told, to get the guys ready for their showers. I had
taken plenty of new detainees for their intake
shower, but I had never done morning showers
before. This experience made me realize that I
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did not have the full understanding of the job that
I had thought I had.
Morning showers consisted of waking up the
block before breakfast to let each detainee take a
shower. Each block had two showers in one large
shower stall located at the top of the block. The
shower stall was separated by a curtain hung
about six feet off the ground and was just large
enough to provide privacy from the person next
to you. There was no privacy from the staff
member assigned to watch. Staff were required to
monitor showers because some kids would not use
soap, others would not use deodorant, some
would stand by the running water but not step
into the shower at all. I discovered all of these
tendencies that first morning.
With Sergeant Henley’s words racing through my
mind, I flipped the light switch at the top of the
block. The florescent lights flickered on, slowly,
but blindingly, illuminating the block. I walked
through the small corridor behind the showers to
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turn the water on. Both showerheads erupted
with loud, powerful streams, as I pulled the ball
valves open. The detainees had no control over
the temperature, pressure, or direction of the
water. The ancient steel door slammed, despite
my best efforts to close it gently. If the water
hadn’t woken the guys, I was sure the echo of the
slamming door had. I was wrong. Being in
Detention for long stretches had made most of
the detainees immune to the noises of the
building, just as the constant noises of the
building had become nothing but white noise to
me. I walked the block announcing “Shower
Time” in a conciliatory tone. The boys woke
wearily and began to sit up on their bunks, as I
made my way back up the block continually
announcing “Shower Time” in my kindest tone.
I opened the first cell, and two half-awake young
men emerged, shivering in their underwear. They
walked up the frigid block in their underwear and
Detention Center-issued flip-flops. One had
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another pair of underwear in his hand, the other
shuffled behind him empty-handed. I greeted
them with a quiet, “Good morning gentlemen,”
and they responded with equal respect. They
stepped forward and undressed before me. I
stepped to the side, trying to give them as much
privacy as was allowed.
Not having been shown how to ready an entire
block of 12 to 18 boys for showers, I did my best.
I brought warm towels straight from the dryer
and hung them on the single wall of bars that
surrounded the shower stall, creating a secondary
curtain between the kids and myself. I placed an
empty clothes hamper on the floor to catch the
used towels. Before each set of guys came to the
showers, I placed a clean towel on the safety rail
on the wall just outside each shower stall, and a
can of spray deodorant just below. In the center
of the showers, I placed a large bottle of lotion.
The lotion and deodorant were normally kept in
the lock box.
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The guys came up the block and showered
quickly and quietly. Some had to be directed to
use soap or deodorant, but before I knew it, I had
completed showers for the first block. Some of the
boys came up the block more awake than others,
and they strolled up the block half-naked, without
any visible sign of self-consciousness. However,
the guys that had been students in school walked
up the block with their heads down and passed
me in conspicuous shame, as our two worlds of
school and Detention collided.
The next block of showers also occurred without
incident, but the kids were more awake, having
been woken by the opening and closing of the
cells on the opposite block. Being more awake,
the guys on the second block thanked me for their
warm towels and for the deodorant and lotion
already being set out for them. Again, the guys
that I had taught in school walked up the block
with their heads down without making eye
contact with me throughout the shower process.
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When the showers were complete, it was time for
breakfast. Another officer and I passed out the
trays of food. The guys started to make the
connection that I had been there since the night
before, and many of them called me crazy for
having been there all night, though many staff
members pulled double shifts frequently. As their
words sank in, Garland’s words worked
themselves deeper into my psyche. While I
walked around collecting their empty breakfast
trays, I gleefully laughed with the guys as they
kidded me for working so much, asking if I had
slept in one of the empty cells. As we joked, the
16-hour shift became a reality.
Descending the stairs, I could hear the buzzing of
the secure doors. Before I could see them, I could
hear the staff of first shift arriving and readying
the morning’s work assignments. I had never seen
Monday morning first shift, and when I did I was
amazed and overwhelmed by their manic furor,
especially that of Officer Bobby Hall Jr. whose
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whirlwind of activity seemed to energize the
whole shift. Everyone was working in unison,
preparing for court, school, transfers and
transports, all experiences I was unfamiliar with.
It was too much to take in with my mind still
trained on my nightlong conversation with
Garland and Tre. Watching the immediacy and
efficiency of the first shift staff brought exhaustion
washing over me, and suddenly I could not get
out of the building fast enough. When at last I
made my way outside, the sun blinded me after
nearly a full day in the dank building. I tramped
to my Jeep and climbed lazily into the seat,
excited to be going home to the comforts of sleep,
relaxation, and later, reflection.
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Debbie, Matthew and I were setting up the
kitchen, eagerly awaiting Bobby’s return. He was
out on a big score. He had excited Debbie with
promises of the money he was going to make, in
addition to his promise that she would not have to
work any more cold nights on the streets.
Everything was laid out in the kitchen to divide
the heroin into smaller, street-ready packages.
The three of us had gone through this process
many times for Bobby to shorten the time it took
to get the dope to the people that would come
over and buy the smaller, yet still large, packages
from him. When the door opened, Bobby strutted
pompously to the kitchen table and sat into the
nearest chair. Dumping the package in the clear
spot on the table, his pleasant attitude changed to
one of irritation. He spread the brick-like bundles
of heroin onto the table, scattering the prepared
scales, powder, and bags onto the floor.
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Something had gone wrong. As Bobby surveyed
the bundles, he became increasingly furious and
began to yell. Something was missing, he said. He
had been shorted a large amount of dope.
Standing up, he sent the cheap wooden chair
crashing against the front door. Stomping to the
phone just a few feet away, he cursed and
threatened Debbie as she tried, in vain, to calm
him. Within seconds of grabbing the phone, he
spewed his rage through clenched teeth at the
person on the other end, some middleman
somewhere. He slammed the phone down and
prowled the kitchen and living room in a
menacing fury. Again Debbie spoke to him,
attempting to calm his temper, but her words
only seemed to further enrage him.
He picked me from the floor and threw me
against the wall. I crumbled to the ground, my
arms and legs splayed out. His fury was unleashed
when he picked up the baseball bat that was
always positioned by the front door. He grabbed
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the bat and bashed my legs, chest, and finally my
head before I was unconscious.
I was blind when I opened my eyes. The glare
from the lights slowly faded, and I could make out
shadowy forms. I heard voices, but I could make
no sense of the words. I felt warm, wet lips against
my ear.
“Can you hear me, honey?” The voice sang,