Memoirs of a Prison Intern Part 3 – Battling the Social Stigmas

*** In case you missed Part 1 or Part 2 check them out by clicking the links. 

He was thrashing and screaming, throwing himself at the bars.  It reminded me of a caged animal.  Watching it made a knot form deep in my gut.  I could barely choke the sight down.  All I could think was what did a human have to go through to end up here?  What had he lost?  What had he given up?  What had to be taken from him in order for his very humanness to slip through his fingers?

I spent a week working in the Segregated Housing Unit (SHU pronounced shoe) and that was more than enough for me.  The SHU is were those who have lost everything go.  It is where we put the inmates we want to forget.

The philosophy behind segregated housing is that you take everything from the inmates and then slowly reward those thing back as they behave.  Only you start taking things and pretty soon you take their dignity, then their humanity, and what are you left with?  A ghost of a human thrashing around in a cage like an animal.  Let me tell you – it isn’t pretty. 

There are some who think that prison is too soft.  There are also some who think that it is too harsh. To be honest I don’t know where I stand on the spectrum, but I do know what I saw.  Prison should help rehabilitate one’s humanness, not rob them of it.

In my last post, I talked about the day that I finally stood up for myself.  Ever since that day, the inmates started to take me more seriously, and dare I say even respect me.  A couple months later I would have a surgery to remove a cyst from my jaw.  I came back in pain, barely able to talk.  But I also came back to find lots of get well notes waiting for me in my box.  No matter what kind of trouble they got themselves into, I never once believed they were bad people.  These notes proved to me that I was right.

The hardest thing for me about working in the prison was actually not the inmates themselves, but rather the way that everyone on the outside talked about them to me (hold on let me climb onto my soap box).  I was told over and over again by so many well meaning people that the inmates I worked with deserved to be there.

The sociologist in me was screaming.  It is easy to judge and stigmatize inmates when they are a collective group.  It is a lot harder when you know them as individuals who come from backgrounds that would turn even the best person into a criminal.

Sometimes we have to fight like hell to combat the things that don’t sit well with our soul.  Sometimes we have to speak up for those that can’t talk.  

I want to shake those people and tell them to open their eyes to their life free of hardship and then ask them again if they want to point their judgmental finger.  Maybe I should, but I don’t.  Mostly because I use to have similar thinking, and I don’t know how to explain everything that I have experienced while working in a prison.

I don’t know how to explain to them that there is a difference between doing bad things and being bad people.  I am allowed to believe this – to be this naive, because I am not naive. I have seen the worst and still believe in the best.

If you have your health, if you have your family, if you have safety and have the luxury of enjoying a semblance of freedom, then you owe it to those that don’t to make sure that they know that there are people in the world that give a damn about them. Not a group or country that pretends to care about them simply to gain something for themselves, but by people who realize that beyond governments, religions, ideologies, and agendas, there is a commonality that cannot be exploited. Not by greed, nor tyranny, nor terror, nor the propaganda of powerful nations. That people simply give a damn about those that, were the world spinning differently the day they were born, might have been them.” – Matthew Good (Originally post on Of Whiskey and Words)


Photo Credit: Sean Kernan

**** I was talking to a good friend who I asked to give me feedback on my blog.  He told me, “Its good but I am left feeling like I want to know more about you.”  Huh I guess I didn’t realize people would care about that stuff.  So I decided to write a series of memoirs about my life experiences, because I some how find myself doing things like catching chickens in Africa or running to stop a fight among inmates.  

Thank you for reading,  and please feel free to comment below.  If there are any stories you have that you would like to share, or any stories from my life you would like to read about please let me know.

Memoirs of a Prison Intern Part 2 – the Good, the Bad, and the Crazy

A weird thing happens to me in life.  People either don’t take me seriously at all (I blame the blonde hair), or they hand me the keys to an entire unit of inmates.  I wish that was just a metaphor, but no they literally handed me the keys.  Because why not put a 20 year old white girl in charge of a unit of inmates?  What could possibly go wrong?

One of the COs came to me to tell me that they were short kitchen staff.  It was apparently my job to walk into the commons filled with hungry inmates and tell four of them that they needed to serve in the kitchen line.  Don’t worry we will pay you a whole $0.25 an hour.  I don’t understand who wouldn’t love to do that.  I am of course oozing with sarcasm as kitchen duty is hated by all.

“I have to do that?”

“Well you are the big boss.”

Yes that is me, the big boss.  Watch out, big boss is on the move.  Don’t mess with me.  I mustered as much confidence as I could, and then walked into the commons.  I told the first four guys I saw that they were on kitchen duty and then left before anyone had the chance to argue with me.  I thought I had made it out alive, when the room erupted into whistling.  I was not in the mood for this today.  Well any day really, but especially not today.

One of my gifts is the ability to give someone a look that shuts them up faster than any words could.  I don’t really do it on purpose, nor do I have any idea what it looks like.  But my siblings have told me it exists, so I believe them.  This look came out in full force the moment I turned around.

For the first time since I started working there, I think I saw slight traces of fear in their eyes.  I had my finger up pointing it like a disapproving mother. I put on my big girl pants and yelled, “The whistling stops here!” and then turned around and walked out.  One inmate had the audacity to bark at me, but never again did they whistle.

Luckily for me, there were no more naked inmate fights.  However one day I would arrive at the scene of a fight to find that someone had already loosed their entire can of pepper spray.  Oh that burns, that literally burns everywhere.  My eyes, my lungs, everywhere.  I turned around and ran straight outside.  It didn’t help.  I was coughing up pepper spray for the rest of the day.  So were the rest of my co-workers.  Weirdly enough those were that type of mutual suffering were the things that bonded us together.

Needless to say, there was never a dull moment. Here is an example of a “normal” conversation:

Let’s call him Fred.  Fred was a nice guy in his 50s.  He came to my office first thing in the morning before my brain had enough coffee to wake itself up.

Fred looked like he was going to ask me about something, but then got distracted and said, “You look like you should be barefoot and pregnant somewhere.”

“Excuse me?”  My under-caffeinated brain was trying to process if I heard what I think I heard.

“I just mean that you look like the type of girl who shouldn’t be working in a job like this.  You should have a husband who goes to work for you as you sit at home barefoot and pregnant.”

It takes quite a bit to leave me speechless.  This was one of those moments.  I could tell Fred was not trying to malicious, he was just making an observation.  Fred was also old enough that he probably came from an era when that was normal for a woman to do.  I just stared at him for a while.  Once my brain caught up to what had just happened, I muttered something about female rights and how I wanted to be working.

Fred just said, “Well anyways have a good day miss Lori.”

Did Fred come into my office just to tell me that?  Yes, yes he did.

I survived all of it – the good, the bad, the crazy – all of it.  I am not sure how, but I know that I did.  During my first month there, one of the veterans told me that this place would change me.  I will never forget that conversation.  He was right, but it didn’t change me in the way that either of us expected it to.  It forced me to look at the world with eyes wide open, and I have always been grateful for that.  


Photo Credit: Francois Delbar

**** I was talking to a good friend who I asked to give me feedback on my blog.  He told me, “Its good but I am left feeling like I want to know more about you.”  Huh I guess I didn’t realize people would care about that stuff.  So I decided to write a series of memoirs about my life experiences, because I some how find myself doing things like catching chickens in Africa or running to stop a fight among inmates.  

Up next is Memoirs of a Prison Intern Part 3.  I was only planning on doing two parts, but part 1 brought up some very good discussion on social stigmas of criminals.  This is something that I am very passionate about, and I simply could not fit it into this blog.  So Part 3 will be more serious, but something I believe is important for everyone to understand.  

Thank you for reading,  and please feel free to comment below.  If there are any stories you have that you would like to share, or any stories from my life you would like to read about please let me know.

Memoirs of a Prison Intern Part 1 – Jump In and Don’t Drown

When I was a sophomore in college, just barely 20 years old, I accepted a internship in a state penitentiary.  I had been a criminal justice major for all of three semesters.  Obviously I was ready for this (that is sarcasm in case you missed it).  Apparently my professor thought I was because he is the one who encouraged me to apply for the internship.

It all happened very quickly.  Within about a weeks time I applied, interviewed, and got the job.  I didn’t have a chance to stop and think about what it would be like to work in a prison.  I didn’t stop to wonder if this was something I could even handle.  I had absolutely no idea what I had just signed myself up for.  

Working in a prison was very hard.  One should expect that, but I didn’t.  I didn’t know what I expected, because like I said I didn’t have a lot of time to build expectations.  Still, I was naive enough to think that it would be easy.

That the job would be easy.

That working with inmates would be easy.

That it would be easy to walk away every day and just be fine.

How very wrong I was.  It was anything and everything but easy.  And yet working there was one of the best decisions I have made so far.

Walking through the prison gate is something that becomes normal very quickly, and yet is a feeling that you can never quite get use to.  The gate slams behind you as you walk into the prison, and the despair is palpable.  It hits you like a wave, and it is suffocating.  It is if the very oxygen you breathe has been replaced with every regretted decision and unheard cry for help.

And how can one naive girl walk into that feeling prepared?  The answer is, you can’t.  There is nothing that could have prepared me for something like that.  Just as there is nothing that could have prepared me for every hard decision I would have to face.

How to help those which you cannot help.

How to show mercy without showing weakness.

How to fake enough confidence that I don’t get eaten alive.

How to stop the whistling, the tears, the fights.

How to pick the black and white answer when everything around you seems to be a swirling mass of gray.

I walked up to the gate, and tried to very confidently hand them my ID badge to let me in.

They just gave me a look, “Who are you?”

I mean seriously, this happened about every day for my first month working there.  I know I don’t look very intimidating, but my badge says Unit Manager Intern.  So I would have to embarrassingly stand there (again) as they called around to confirm that yes, this girl is our intern.  Thanks for the confidence boost everyone.

Today was my first day actually working inside the prison walls. I had maybe been there an hour when a Code Red, Code 3  was called for our unit.  Which meant that somewhere two inmates had started fighting.

I headed towards the scene, only half running because lord knows I was not going to be the first one to arrive there.  Correctional officers were flying by me like lightening bolts, yelling at me to move out of the way.  Each time I tried, I would almost run into a different CO that was sprinting down the hallway.

When I arrived at the scene, I just saw a huge pile of men.  I am sure somewhere under that pile of COs were the two inmates that started fighting.  One by one they started to peel themselves off of the pile.  They handcuffed the two who started the fight, and started to walk them out.

And that is the moment when I realized, oh that man is not wearing any clothes.  He got into a fight naked, and now that very naked man is walking right towards me.  In that moment the only thing I could think was what the hell have I gotten myself into. 

I learned that life is 98% of having absolutely no clue what you are doing, but doing it anyways.  There are somethings  Most things in life are impossible to prepare for.  I learned to not be intimidated by those things, because those were the moments that I found out what I was truly made of.   Most of the time we don’t know what we are capable of surviving until we do.  However, this was only the first of what I would experience.  So until next time.


**** I was talking to a good friend who I asked to give me feedback on my blog.  He told me, “Its good but I am left feeling like I want to know more about you.”  Huh I guess I didn’t realize people would care about that stuff.  So I decided to write a series of memoirs about my life experiences, because I some how find myself doing things like catching chickens in Africa or running to stop a fight among inmates.  

Coming soon is part 2 of Memoirs of a Prison Intern. 

Thank you for reading,  and please feel free to comment below.  If there are any stories you have that you would like to share, or any stories from my life you would like to read about please let me know.

The Good, the Bad, the Ugly, and the Beautiful

It is weird to say that I am sad to leave prison, but as I left on my last day I found myself tearing up a bit.  Most of that is probably because I am just a sap who will tear up at anything.  It is weird how something can be so awful and so wonderful at the same time.  How something can change us for the better, but maybe also change us for the worst too.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I accepted the internship over a year and a half ago.  I thought, oh it is just prison what is the worst that could happen.  Then next thing I know I am surrounded by inmates who are all staring and whistling at me, guards are flying on their way to break up a fight yelling at me to get out of their way, and naked inmates are being walked out in handcuffs.  And I am just a little college sophomore in a little Baptist college from a small conservative town wondering what on earth I had just committed to.  Lori you stupid idiot, did you expect working in a prison to be easy?  It is not like you can just play with puppies all day (oh wait. . .)  I almost quit multiple times, but I am not a quitter.  I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t handle it.  So instead I just cried, because I am a crier.  During my first couple of weeks there one of the trainers took my under his wing and gave me some real honest advice about what I was about to go through.  However the most important thing he told me was, “This place is going to change you. It might change you for the better, it might change you for the worst, but it will change you so you might as well accept that now.”  And he was so right.  This place has changed me so much, and it has taught me so much.

You would think that working in a prison would have made me less naïve. It did, but not in the way you might expect.  It has taught me that the “good” guys are not always so good, and that the “bad” guys are not always bad.  People at their very core are all pretty much the same.  We are all a little  crazy, we are all a little evil, we are all a little good, and we all laugh to keep from crying.  At their very core people just want to know that they are appreciated, valued, and listened to.  Like I said I am a sap, don’t say I didn’t warn you. When I first imagined myself getting changed, I imagined myself ending this internship hardened against all inmates as I saw many of the employees act towards the inmates.  However to my surprise, I came out on the other side of the spectrum.  The more I worked there, the more I saw the inmates as people.  Inmates are often stigmatized by society, holding the view that they deserve the punishment they received and more.  It is easy to stigmatize inmates when they are just a collective group, but that view changes once you have not met the inmates and know their stories.  Knowing the life situations that the inmates come from makes it harder to believe they are getting what they deserved.  I wish that you could have had the chance to meet a few of them, and hear their stories.  They are by far the craziest stories you will hear, and the most unique people you will meet.

That is not to say that it was easy.  There were many times I became extremely frustrated and discouraged while working with inmates. There were some days when I just wanted to give up on humanity, and I found myself changing in a bitter person.  I did not like that part of me changing, and I had to work really hard to hang out to it.  Sometimes we have to fight like hell to combat the things that don’t sit well with our soul.  Not being naïve and not believing that the world is a place is one of those things worth fighting for.  Because if I hadn’t fought for it, well that would have been like not being me, and I was just not okay with that.

Looking back, I asked myself, “If I could go back would I stop myself from ever setting foot inside those walls?”  When I think about how much I have grown from working there, it is hard to imagine what my life was like before setting foot inside the walls.  I vaguely remember my first day and the person I was back before I started on my first day, but I know that back then I had no idea what was in store for me.  I did not know anything about the criminal justice system or what it would be like to work in it.  Here I was a naïve criminal justice major with no experience in the criminal justice field, and for some reason I thought it would be easy. As I said before, nothing about this internship was easy.  It was a constant battle, and some days I did not know if I would make it.  I still have a lot to learn, but as I finished up my last couple of days working there, I know that I enjoyed my time there and I will miss it.

The world is full of adventures to had, lessons to be learned, and memories to be made.  We tend to coast through life waiting for something amazing to happen to us, but we don’t realize that amazing things are happening all around us.  We simply need to open our eyes and take it all in; the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful.

Reclaiming the Word Pretty

Working in a male penitentiary,  I get gawked at and whistled at a lot.  It has gotten to the point that I hate the sound of whistling.  If I hear it and I instantly get angry.  Those simple two notes tell a girl that you do not care about anything about her besides that you like looking at her.  How is that ok?  I once yelled at a room full of inmates for whistling at me, and a couple of them actually looked scared of me.  Or so I thought, until I left and one stubborn inmate started barking at me.  But since then, not one inmate from that unit has whistled at me.  But my point is that it is hard being a woman in today’s society.  Who we are is not measured by how intelligent we as women are, how capable we are, how loving and loved we are, or our ability to be anything more than a pretty thing to be looked at.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   “This is about women who will prowl 30 stores and 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but have no clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy. This is about my own someday daughter, when you approach me already stung stained with insecurity, begging mom will I be pretty? I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer ‘No, the word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be.  No child of mine will be contained in those five letters.  You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely pretty.'” -Katie Makkai
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             We have become a culture that is obsessed with appearance.  Our entire society broadcasts this lie to us that to have worth, you have to be pretty.  Buy this product and have silky skin that will never wrinkle, use this conditioner to have long frizz free hair, make sure you whiten your teeth after drinking all the coffee, wear the right clothes but don’t you ever repeat outfits.  We have such high expectations for what women have to look like that is no wonder we wrap and warp our identity on who well we meet this standard.  But the thing that no one tells you is that being “pretty” is not something you can buy.  No one talks about how how until you learn to value yourself beyond without all of the glitz, you will never feel truly pretty with the glitz.  But can we really blame ourselves for believing this? What I mean, is that the message has been broadcast to us all throughout the awkward insecure years of our youth.  I am not saying it isn’t important for young girls to know that they are beautiful, but we have to be careful that we aren’t sending them the message that being beautiful is the only thing that is important.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 I’m in the middle reading Donald Miller’s book Searching for God Knows What, and out of no where he starts talking about Adam and Eve.  Miller talked about how Adam had between 10 and 100 million different animal species to name before he met Eve.  We just kind of assume that Adam spent a day or two making the animals and the boom there was Eve.  But in reality it would have taken him a hundred years to name everything.  Adam was lonely for a hundred before Eve came along.  “I think it was smart of God because today, now that there are women all around and a guy can go on the Internet and see them naked anytime he wants, the whole species has been devalued.  If I were a girl in America, I would be a feminist for sure. I read recently where one out of every four women, by the time they reach thirty, are sexually harassed, molested, or raped.  And then I thought about how very beautiful it was the God made Adam work for so long, because there was no way, after a hundred years of being along, looking for somebody whom you could connect with in your soul, that you would take advantage of a woman once you met one.  She would be the most precious creation in all the world.  Adam was seeing a person who was like him, only more beautiful, and smarter in the ways of love and encouragement, and more deliberate in the ways of relationships” – Donald Miller.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Needless to say, I respected Donald Miller a lot more after reading that.  I have been very blessed to have a father, many brothers, and even more guy friends who care for me and love me for who I am.  But I wish that every girl could have someone like Donald Miller come along and tell why they are precious and how they need to never let anyone take that away from them.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Please don’t think this is a blog about how awful I think men are.  Women are just as responsible, because let’s be honest we want guys to like us.  And somewhere along the line we got it in our head that the only way a guy will like us is if we are pretty.   Isn’t about time that we as women decide to take back our right to be valued above our appearance?  Isn’t about time that we start teaching our daughters not how to put on makeup, but how to believe in their dreams and their abilities?  Isn’t it time that we taught our sons that girls are a precious gift God has given them, and that girls need to be valued for who they are?  Maybe we as women need to stop spending so much time in front of a mirror obsessing on whether or not we are pretty enough.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes.  Rather, it should be that or your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” 1 Peter 3:2-4