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| A second helping |
| By Sarah Etter, News Reporter |
| Published: 01/15/2007 |
As you read last week, we were overwhelmed with the fine assortment of entries in response to our Corrections Expressions contest ( Corrections Expressions Winners, 1/3/07). The winning submissions detailed family traditions, the humorous side of working in parole and probation, and the very definition of corrections.
Much like sweet potatoes at Christmas dinner, we just couldn't resist a second helping of your expressions. The following three honorable mention entries were so terrific at highlighting other aspects of the field that we just had to share them with you. Thanks again for taking the time to participate. Keep up the great work, corrections! Major Bordelon offers an in-depth look at a corrections agency that completely changed philosophies and procedures for the better. Major P.J. Bordelon, CCM R.E. Barrow Treatment Center, Louisiana State Penitentiary Angola, Louisiana In 1982, at the age of 20, I took a job at the Louisiana State Penitentiary as a correctional officer. At the time I was majoring in computer science at the Northwestern State University, and I wanted to get married but I needed to earn some extra money. I already had several family members who were employed by the Louisiana State Penitentiary (LSP). LSP, better known as Angola, had a sordid past. The prison was once a slave plantation whose occupants were from Angola, Africa; hence the name Angola. Angola had an international reputation as being America's Bloodiest Penitentiary.' When I arrived at LSP, the violence and brutality, though not as bad as in the 1970s, was still quite extreme. The public opinion of correctional officers was pretty low. Friends often attempted to dissuade me from working at Angola, questioning, “What if something happens to you? What if one of those prisoners tries to hurt or kill you?” I even had one man at a convenience store comment that those that prisoner guards are just as bad as the prisoners themselves.' Needless to say, beginning my job in corrections was a daunting task. At the close of my first summer working at Angola, I had begun to enjoy the camaraderie my fellow officers and I shared. It was at this time I decided to pursue corrections as a career. I found I had an affinity towards this type of work. I was able to talk to the offenders placed beneath my supervision and make them understand the tasks that needed to be completed. I rarely had to raise my voice or discipline inmates because I listened to what they had to say and kept them in line. From the psychology classes I had taken in college, I knew that often people just want to be heard, want to voice their feelings and opinions. I would give the offenders the opportunity to sound off and, as a result, they came to me with problems they were having with other inmates, trouble they were getting into, and personal problems. Keeping the violence down in my area was one of main responsibilities my job dictated. Over the next five years I worked in several areas of the prison. The violence continued across the prison mainly due to lack of self-help programs or training for the inmates. In 1987, I was transferred to the mental health/transitional unit. There I worked in unison with social workers assigned to mental health patients. Again, the ability to listen was a distinguishing factor. In time I became a supervisor over the mental health / transitional unit. Working with special cases, like inmates with mental health problems, made me realize that some of the men incarcerated here have real problems. I doubled my efforts and made myself spend time with as many of the inmates on my unit as possible. I wanted the inmates in my custody to know that even though they had broken the law and would have to serve out their sentences, they would still be treated humanely. In 1995, Warden Burl N. Cain transferred to the LSP. As with every new warden, both employees and inmates viewed his coming with an elevated level of anxiety. Little did we know the entire prison was about to do a complete 1800. Warden Cain brought with him a true desire to change the face of corrections in Louisiana. Employees received raises. Inmates received vocational training. The prison's standard of living shot through the roof. The New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary launched, at Warden Cain's urging, a college extension center for the inmates who desired to receive college degrees. Inmate ministries were started and, within seven years, Warden Cain was shipping inmate ministers to all of the prisons in Louisiana. Certificate programs for faith-based education were started. Public speaking courses were started to better prepare inmates to communicate with others. The violent death rate in Angola declined drastically along with rapes, drug use, and assaults on staff. Inmates could be found holding prayer services on the yard, in their dormitories, and on their work sites. Warden Cain brought about a moral awakening in the inmates that had never been seen before, as well as a sense of pride for the position of correctional officer. We, the employees, were the first to witness the changes in the inmate population. Seemingly overnight the inmates went from negative to positive. There was something to achieve, to work towards. Hope was alive in the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Warden Cain adamantly supported training programs for the employees and opened the door for supervisors who wanted to take the American Correctional Associations certificate programs. Warden Cain has raised the moral of this institution. The employees are more professional and are proud of the work they do for the public. The image of correctional officers at the Louisiana State Penitentiary has changed significantly since Warden Cain has come to the prison. Even the public has come to see the service rendered by its correctional officers. I have been able to be part of the change from negative to positive. I am now a certified corrections supervisor and manager. I actively sponsor the boxing program and the Louisiana Juvenile, Youth Association (an inmate club that targets high-risk youth and attempts to steer them away from crime and prison). I am currently Security Supervisor at the R.E. Barrow Treatment Center (LSP) where the first prison hospice in America is located. The old adage, “If you want to see the dregs of society, watch the changing of the prison guard” no longer applies to the correctional officers of Louisiana. I love that! We chose this piece because it focused on a unique part of corrections - education. Larry Doan Institutional Teacher Miami Correctional Facility Miami, Florida In the popular movie, Forrest Gump, there is an infamous combat scene which takes place in the Vietnam jungle. While his entire platoon is under attack, Forrest saves each solider, one at a time, carrying them from danger. Without regard of their previous treatment of him, he enters thick, humid undergrowth, placing himself at risk to help his fellow man. His fatigue builds as the daunting task before him repeats itself over and over. In the end, the last man he rescues berates and chastises Forrest for his efforts. He spews anger and hatred toward his savior, overlooking the monumental effort it must have taken, when he could have only saved himself. Working at a prison within the Department of Corrections is as often as thankless and misunderstood. I started teaching at an adult facility in 2003. My intention was to supplement my teacher retirement since I had chosen a different road to education; eight years of military service and seven years working my way through school. Although public school proved rewarding, there was no pay during June, July, and August. Having received an e-mail application one day from the state and knowing it's easier to find a job when you have one, I completed it. After all, since it was my understanding that many people in the country work year round, I had nothing to lose. Besides, they are just criminals, murderers, rapists, child molesters, drug dealers and other dregs of society. No one, I believed, would care if they ever got an education. Trust is not an easy thing to foster in a correctional environment. The realization that an adult offender student, by his nature, does not trust became one of the first major hurdles I faced. Truth and passion for education, however, wreak havoc on the walls that a man can build around himself. For those of us who consider ourselves observant watchers of people and human nature, an incarcerated individual senses, smells, and tastes deception. As I stand before them daily, espousing the virtues of learning and importance of reading, writing, and arithmetic, their eyes judge, assess, and search for weakness. I have come more to understand myself as an educator by teaching in a prison. Education is the most important aspect of one's life. More importantly, these guys are more than social castaways. I wonder, at times, who is teaching whom. Each is as unique as each man that Forrest carried from that jungle. Not a day goes by without conflict in my classroom. To make a spark one needs only to rub vigorously. These are hard pieces of wood. I will never trust my students fully, nor they me. Generally, it is a constant struggle. Although they say they want an education to save themselves, I need trek into the line of fire many times a day and attempt to guide them to safety. They often curse me when I make them do an assignment over and constantly query them to see what they have truly “learned.” I am paid what I am worth. It's not easy dealing with people like these while the outside world questions why they must pay a second time to provide the education that “those people” should have gotten in public school. It's rewarding. I probably won't see it, but I hope that through my work a Lieutenant Dan emerges from this concrete jungle and one day walks on his own. Life truly is a box of chocolates. You never know what you might get. CO Treichel showed us exactly how rewarding it is to help someone in corrections. Joel Treichel Corrections Officer Cowlitz County, Washington Do you remember your first job? Mine was busing tables at a local restaurant that served greasy food and had a "specialty" of seafood. I liked it - the job, not the seafood - but there were always the harder days. Sometimes things just went wrong. Sometimes I had to deal with that especially annoying customer who just had to have their coffee from a "fresh pot," or I would accidentally spill a tray of water glasses on a table full of patrons. However, I look back now and think how trivial my problems were in contrast to the daily trials we face as officers. Let me start by saying that I never thought I would ever end up "visually inspecting" body cavities for drugs. When I was in high school, I had no clue what I wanted to be. I remember my graduation party as approximately one thousand explanations of my inability to decide what I wanted to do with my life. However, I distinctly remember NEVER saying that I might want to be a corrections officer, and I am quite sure that wrestling with drunks, disciplining grown men about hygiene, and cleaning the occasional fecal matter from walls was also not in the plans. I think that most people, at least those I have talked to, don't actually make a conscious decision to become a corrections officer. Have you ever heard a child tell their parents "Mom, Dad, I wanna be a corrections officer when I grow up."? I haven't. Since it's not exactly a glamorous job, it's rarely in the top ten. There aren't many jobs that have the assaultive danger potential that a job in corrections does; there is nothing like the feeling of walking into an area that has just been locked down for unruly behavior or walking by the same window of the inmate who just got locked down for disrespect. The ill will is like one of those days when the air conditioning quits working - hot and oppressive. However, I think there is pride to be taken from this job too, not just hate and discontent. I try and take pride from the work I do; not the yelling, or disciplining, or even the "keeping the bad guys locked up" image that the general public sees, but more of a personal pride. Like they say, "It's all in the little things." For instance, when I am asked by an inmate if I am able to get something for them and I say that I will get it for them, I take pride that I will do my best to do what I say. If there is a situation that warrants an open ear, I will try and lend one. When someone needs to just "vent a little" about how crappy they feel, if I am able, I listen. I am not always able to do these things, but that is how I gauge my day. I gauge it by not how busy I was, how frustrating the inmates were, or how tired I am, but with the question "Did I do the best job I could today?" I know that every job has its ups and downs. I also know that this job has its pros and (pardon the pun) cons (hold the applause until the end of the show), but I don't think that the type of job a person has really makes any difference. I think that it (meaning fulfillment, or job happiness, or whatever you seek in a job) comes from completing each day knowing that you did the best you could. Recently, I had to deal with a mouthy inmate. We have to drive inmates to court on certain days of the week. We have a brand new court room in our jail, but it isn't used yet, so until then, we take our felony docket inmates to court for certain court dates. This inmate is a female who has been in a couple of times before, and she always swears that she won't come back when she leaves. (Don't they all?) Anyway, this particular female is sort of hardened now, and she likes to portray herself that way in front of other inmates. On this particular day, she was causing her usual ruckus, and I confronted her and told her that I would not put up with it. She said something back to me under her breath, but I let it go since she was now being quiet. After about an hour or so into the court docket, I heard her again, and noticed that she was making a point of telling everyone how she didn't care about the new charges she "caught" and that the judge could (well, you can imagine). When it came for her time to sit in the hall and await her turn in the court room, I asked her if she remembered what I had told her earlier. She said that she did, and that she was actually just really nervous about what the judge was going to do. She began to cry. Ok, let me just say that tears don't faze me anymore unless they come from my wife or kids. Even then, it had better be serious. So when this girl began to cry, my first instinct was to just "roll my mind's eye," and move on, but I decided to listen instead. Basically she just needed to talk about how she felt and that she was scared of what was going to happen. When she was talking, I asked questions, and my interest seemed to calm her a little. After a couple of minutes, she seemed to calm down enough to be able to gather herself, and soon it was her turn in the court room. She never said "Thank you for listening" or that she was grateful, but I don't expect that. If I only did things for inmates so they would thank me, I would be sorely disappointed. I don't do things for gratitude and I don't really even do them because it is my duty. I usually just do them, because if I didn't I wouldn't be doing a good job. I think that there are people who just do the minimum. When I was in the service, we called them empty uniforms. I am sure we can all think of someone who might fit into this category. I only know that I don't want to ever feel like I am one of these empty uniforms. The only way I can achieve this is to constantly try and have a better day than the one before. If I fail, and find that at the end of a day, I didn't do the best I could, I always know that there is tomorrow. |
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