Change of Plans

A few weeks ago, I took a required refresher course for prison volunteers. This mostly involved watching movies. There was a new one about maintaining boundaries, which featured the mugshots and stories of former prison employees. They’d all committed crimes that lost them their jobs, ranging from smuggling in contraband to inappropriate relationships with incarcerated individuals.

Some of the former correction officers appeared in the film as part of their plea deal, warning others not to make the same mistakes that they did. The officers detailed the slow breakdown of professional boundaries and how their infractions escalated. The movie even featured an incarcerated individual talking about how he targeted employees, then worked in small steps to build their trust and manipulate them.

I rewatched some other films as well – about spotting suicidal prisoners, required reporting on sexual abuse, and more.

I’m not gonna lie – the refresher course is important. It’s easy to start to take your surroundings for granted, and also to make emotional connections with the people that you teach week after week, or month after month, or even year after year.

Shortly after the training, I got an email with the subject matter, “Great News!” A prison which had been closed for months to outside programs had finally reopened, and I was being offered a teaching position – my choice of class – journalism or memoir.

We scheduled a meeting for me to go into the prison and meet with the leadership of the group to discuss which class might be of the most interest and benefit for those who would participate.

And then my mother died. It was not unexpected. My mother was quite old and had not been well.

But still, my mom died.

I was all ready to go and teach anyway. I’d made a commitment. And I’d waited a long time to get back in the classroom.

Three people whose opinion I highly respect – including my adult daughter – said, “No.” As in, no, you can’t teach this fall.

Me: “But I said I would.”

Them: “You are not in a good state to teach.”

Me: “It would distract me from my sadness and mourning.”

Them: “You need to grieve.”

Me: “I may not have another opportunity to teach anytime soon.”

Them: “You are not yourself. You are vulnerable. You should not be teaching in a prison right now.”

Me: (Small voice) “Yeah.”

Last night would have been the start of my new class. But those people who told me to wait – all of whom care about me – were right. I know in my heart they are. I am off. I’m doing careless things. Im emotionally volatile. I’m exhausted. I keep stopping short in the middle of sentences – no idea where I was going with a thought. I’m so sad.

Today I’m remembering a memoir class I taught on the inside when the men wrote about being incarcerated when a family member died. If they given an opportunity at all, it was to choose between being at their loved one’s bedside or at the funeral. Either/Or.

I was at my mom’s bedside for her final hours (and many, many hours before that). I am surrounded by family. And we will all be together at her remembrance service. Never before would I have understood these painful last few weeks as a privilege.

And that’s sad too.