Teaching Behind Bars Begins

 

I gave up on teaching. I said never but that word never lasts. I ended up working at a church and teaching their non-religion religion (other story).  Then I decided to finally get my English Second Language endorsement.  I went back teaching adults and loved it.  I also got a class teaching GED at the jail.  Then I decided the way to work is to be a school counselor. I went back to grad school and was almost endorsed when I filled out applications. I did at least 60 applications and only one interview for a school counselor. I thought I was sure to get a job offer being bilingual in Spanish, but nada.  I had no idea how competitive it was and how almost being endorsed is not as attractive as an actual license to counsel. So, I begrudgingly started applying for teacher jobs and got more interviews. I really really really really didn’t want to be a classroom teacher again even if I did enjoy teaching life skill lessons during my counseling internship.   

Low and Behold I got a job.  I even tried to get out of that and applied for a clinical counselor there too but that was already filled so I stuck with teacher. I came in kicking and screaming into the juvenile detention facility (Like some of the kids) but I ended up LOVING it.  All those years arguing with honor roll kids and misunderstanding rural kids, I had no idea that my real calling is the at-risk kids. The ones most  people fear.

I wasn’t afraid. I had taught at the local jail.  Sure, it was only women and most had disappointing sentences like “conspiracy” or “theft”.  I complained that  I didn’t get the murderers. Then, I got one. A child murderer. I stopped complaining.

I loved teaching at the jail. I liked the women, They were motivated. Got to work. Wanted their GEDs or something to do besides sit around all day. They were nice. Took care of each other.  

I thought this juvenile jail would be the same but right away I was noticing differences.  The training mentioned a million things we couldn’t give to the kids.  Count your pencils.  The last five minutes you can’t teach, you have to stop, collect the pencils, count the pencils, have the staff (guards) outside the room double check and count the pencils - all while still keeping the kids learning something.  In the adult jail, the women came in with their own pencils. What could be so dangerous about a pencil?

Staples. I knew those were bad from the adult jail.  Necklaces?  The kids could choke you with it.  Plastic spoons? The kids can water it down to a shank.  What have I got myself into? Are these kids that scary? Am I in danger? Maybe I should have taken that job as a school counselor which I just finished my degree in, but it’s 90 miles away and paid  20,000 dollars less and I hadn’t actually ever applied. 

The first month we couldn’t even meet the kids. A new law had come into effect.  PREA.  Prison Rape Elimination Act.  That meant all your fingerprint results had to come back from the state and they were overwhelmed by all the new hires of teachers over the summer in the normal schools.  Plus, your child protection services report had to be returned too (saying you have never had a report or explain what happened if you did - like another teacher whose son had a bad burn as a toddler so that generated a report to them),

So, we just kept hearing more to do and not to do and how rough these kids were.  About five weeks of pure training.  One was in self-protection and how to gently restrain a student who is trying to beat you or another student up.   My apprehension built up like riding the first hill on a roller coaster.

We were a team of new hires.  Me and two others who could only enter the kitchen lounge so that way we wouldn’t see the kids and vice versa until we were proven harmless, even if the kids could never prove that on their end.  Wendy was the other teacher.  We knew each other casually from the gym.  We bonded over being Spanish teachers.  We even ran a Spanish camp together one week.  I still didn't know her that well but I saw we had different teaching styles that week.  And she was like an angel in my life.  When I couldn’t find an internship to finish my school counseling degree, she suggested a school district across state lines where she had started her career. That did work out - I was competing with all the local college students who later would make it impossible to get job interviews. I noticed a pattern in teaching - they love to hire young, peppy recent grads. Not old housewives returning to the job market who have some years of teaching experience (and therefore get paid a little more).

Wendy and I applied for the job at the same time without knowing it until we spoke at the hot tub at the gym.  Later we talked about the interviews and she was basically hired right away. So I thought they were toying with me by keeping me on as an interview. Why should I take a day off my precious hours of getting my counseling degree for a job that they already hired?  I didn’t know that they had two positions opened.  Wendy even put a good word in for me.  So I got it and was slammed by how much they were offering me. And it came on a day when I was crying - figuring I could never become a counselor because a sexist was the principal at the school with an opening and I wasn’t young and do-able for him so he wouldn’t even look me in the eye.  Then, this call came in. I got the job. I liked jails. Maybe this is the job for me. Maybe God wanted me to work here.

The other woman in our kitchen lounge was  Beth.  I met her on the day the principal, Linda, showed us around and gave us a short tour. She seemed nice. She had never worked in education before but she had a special position - translator and teacher assistant but she would run a book club and a technology club since she had just returned from Dominican Republic after being an expat for years and previously worked in a tech company.  I was curious to see what she would think of our education world after being in the private sector.

We bonded - us, three amigas, working in the kitchen. Having to leave at lunch time so the staff and counselors could eat. We found out we weren’t allowed to eat with them. I”m not sure if that was a center rule or just happened. That was the first clue that there was a division.  I didn’t understand it. The only reason I could see for it was so that they could talk and complain about the education department.  We weren’t even allowed to eat the salad bar set up for them until this year - some new privilege. And we were never allowed to eat the creative new recipes that one staff would make for them. We could smell the pizza with jalapenos but never taste it no matter how much he urged - he didn’t know he was breaking the rules.

Everyone worked for the center except us. The education department were guests in the building.  The law was that juveniles had to have 6 and half hours of education. So, the teachers were paid and managed by the local school district.  I had no idea this division makes things worse, in my opinion.

My past as a teacher :

I went into teaching like everyone else. I was going to be that first year teacher that changes the world.  I’d win over all my minority students and have some A list actress play me in the movie version.  One big problem, almost all my students were white.

And very privileged. Honor students who would literally kill me for an A.  One parent scared me, some lawyer, over the phone yelling at me because his son was failing. I patiently said his son wouldn’t do his homework but was a wonderful person and an artist at heart. He would have none of that. Lawyer or bust.

A swarm of kids would gather around me in the Foreign language teacher office as I looked at their grades and swear my paperwork was wrong - that zero for a homework assignment was really a 10.  Sometimes they had proof of the paper with a stamp on it of a teddy bear saying “tarea” (homework in Spanish) other times they didn't but I went along with them instead of yet another argument.  I only lasted a year.

I cruised in a small school in Minnesota. Again all white but not all privileged. All rural..  Some were pretty poor. But again, I didn't feel a calling or like I was making any difference.  Just teach Spanish or I would get in trouble if I tried any other topic.

My last year was the worst. In a divided community in rural Maryland. Racially mixed but very split.  I taught Spanish. No problem. The problem was an English class for the “underachievers”. I had no idea how to teach English Lit and if it was so easy as one of the many non supportive teachers said then why are they licensed in it? 

The principal felt “these kids“ needed discipline. I was always doubtful about that and later learned science has discovered that paternalistic attitude happens a lot when white people are in power like she was over non white people.

Finally after 5 years and not wanting to teach ever again I found out I love teaching, if I have the right students.  I don’t want the honor kids that would kill me for their college entrance, I want the kids who already have killed.