Topic 177: Making up one's mind

Carol:

Eenie Meeny Miny Mo

Megan and Marc and have taken the dogs on an extra early morning walk. They are both trying to increase their exercise and decrease their protein intake while taking a nutrition class at the college. Meanwhile, I am feeling a little bit of pressure to get this essay underway before Megan gets back and starts asking me how far along I am. It isn’t that I don’t have any ideas or that I am particularly slow as a writer. It’s just that I often have a problem making up my mind about what to write about.
 

For instance, the first thing that came to my mind for today’s essay was coin flipping. What was the history of using “heads or tails” to determine an outcome? Or, even “rock, paper, scissors,” which I usually played with someone to decide who had to take out the trash, or the dog, or do the dishes.  Drawing the short straw is another “device” for helping people make decisions.
 

Another idea that came to my mind was hung juries. Megan had to report for federal jury duty yesterday, which she used as an excuse for not writing her essay even though she got herself eliminated by 10:30 a.m.  A few years back I made it all the way to the final jury selection and opening arguments because the judge, prosecutor and defense attorney—all of whom I knew—thought I could be fair and impartial.  When they were conducting the “voir dire” on the panel of prospective jurors, they didn’t ask what I think is one of the most important questions, “Do you have trouble making up your mind?”  I thought about that at the time as I had a certain fear that we would end up in a Twelve Angry Men-like protracted deliberation while 11 men and women stared at me as I tried to decide “guilty” or “not guilty” Luckily, the case settled in one day and we were excused from jury duty.
 

Just as a point of interest, my intensive research on Wikipedia uncovered an unusual trial that used “rock, paper, scissors” to determine an outcome. In 2006 a federal judge in Florida who apparently got tired of the protracted and petty bickering between the opposing sides over where a deposition should be held.  Judge Gregory Presnell subsequently crafted an elaborate ruling that the two sides should meet in a kind of “hand duel” using rock, paper, scissors to determine the location of the deposition. According to Wikipedia, the ruling was intended to “shame” the litigants by showing just how extreme their dispute had become (source: “Rock-Paper-Scissors”).
 

Currently, being retired, I don’t have a lot of pressure on me to make up my mind on anything other than a choice of restaurants and menu items.  I get around that by letting the other people in the car hash out where we will eat, and then by always ordering last so that I have just that little cushion of a few extra minutes to “eenie, meenie, mo” the menu options—burrito or taco, burrito or taco.
 

The dog walkers are back, and I can hear the sound of spoons hitting bowls as Marc and Megan consume their healthy morning helpings of oatmeal. I like oatmeal, but for me it’s a winter breakfast and I can already tell this is going to be a hot day. When they asked if I wanted some, I didn’t really have a problem making up my mind.  “No thanks,” I yelled down, “I’m too busy right now to eat. I can’t make my mind up what to write my essay about.”

Source:
Rock-Paper-Scisorrs. Wikipedia.

Megan:

I Changed My Mind

I thought we’d written on this topic already. I searched the archives and although this is a new topic, I’ve already written on it a number of times. When we started this website, I didn’t want to call it a blog because I associated it with online journaling and this wasn’t supposed to be a journal. Except that writing familiar, personal essays by its very nature involves writing about the familiar and the personal, so it’s sort of turned out like a journal anyway (well, my essays have).

So, I’ve already written about how I made up my mind to quit the job in the prison, how I decided to move back to the USA (one year ago today), how I made up my mind to write The Book, to apply for an MFA, to get a puppy, to become a vegan and get in shape.  I make up my mind a lot. I also change it a lot. Sometimes after it’s too late.

I’ve been having more days where I changed my mind about quitting that job and moving back to the States. I found out that there was a surprise inspection of the prison back in January, and that the report had just been published this week. I downloaded it and skipped right to the part about the library. There were no recommendations for improvement. I’m not going to say that I’d hoped the library had failed in my absence, but since I’m having such a difficult time finding a new job, I sort of wished there was evidence that my old one missed me.

I’ve changed my mind about writing because I’m not in the mood, changed my mind about the MFA because I’m afraid of not getting in. I’ve changed my mind about going vegan because even though I watched a very compelling video last night in class about how dairy proteins cause cancer, I came home and ate cheese and crackers at 11 at night because the garbanzo bean salad I had for dinner was not adequately filling.

I changed my mind about the puppy because she’s causing problems in the family. I want to blame the set back in her housetraining because we were gone for four days and although my father walked, fed and watered her, he’s just not a dog person and she probably didn’t get the level of attention she needs. But the fact is, she wasn’t completely trained before we left on our trip. Also, she’s weird. I can walk her for an hour in the morning and she won’t squat once, but in the hour before bedtime she has to go every five minutes.

Anyway, I’ve been changing my mind a lot. And I’ll change it back again. I’m still going to do all those things (and keep the puppy).  And maybe some day I’ll look back on this frustrating and transitional point in my life and think of it as the point where I finally got it together.

Topic 172: Female Orators

Carol:

“From Many, One”

When I hear the word “orator” I think of the old-time speechifiers who used  rich language, powerful intonations, and carefully orchestrated pauses to persuade and captivate. The first one I remember as a child was Illinois Republican Senator Everett Dirksen in the 1950. I didn’t agree with his politics generally, but I loved to hear him speak.
 

Oratorical skill is more than the use of voice; it is a command of language, and that I can appreciate whether demonstrated in a bass or soprano voice. Of course, a captivating voice and a good vocabulary don’t make up for lack of substance. Firstly, a great orator must have a strong message and a commitment to that message.
 

The first time I heard Texas Democratic Congresswoman Barbara Jordan speak was in 1976 when she gave a keynote address at the Democratic National Convention.  I didn’t know who she was at the time, but as she began her speech, I know I stopped my multi-tasking and drew closer to the television. I thought to myself, so this is what is meant by “a commanding voice.” I also remember thinking at the end of her speech that this was a woman whom I would support for the Presidency.  She invoked Thomas Jefferson at the beginning of the speech and ended with Abraham Lincoln, pretty powerful orators themselves, but this essay is about female orators, so I will quote her words from that speech:

a spirit of harmony will survive in America only if each of us remembers that we share a common destiny; if each of us remembers, when self-interest and bitterness seem to prevail, that we share a common destiny. (source: American Rhetoric. Top 100 Speeches)
 

I guess I wasn’t the only person awe-struck by Barbara Jordan’s power as an orator. University researchers who polled leading American scholars to compile the Top 100 American Speeches of the 20th century list Jordan’s 1976 speech at #5 and her 1974 statement on the articles of impeachment for Richard Nixon as #13. That list, by the way, includes a significant number of speeches by women of varying politics and eras: Eleanor Roosevelt, Ann Richards, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Margaret Sanger, Margaret Chase Smith.

What I didn’t know when I heard Barbara Jordan speak at that 1976 convention was that she had already been diagnosed 3 years earlier with multiple sclerosis. She hid it well, but in 1979 she retired from politics and became an academic who taught ethics at the University of Texas Austin.  I saw her speak again, 4 years before her death, at the 1992 Democratic Convention where she touched on many of the themes from 1976 that had made her a significant force in the Civil Rights movement,  equal rights for all Americans and a firm belief in national community and civility:
 

Our strength in this country is rooted in our diversity. Our history bears witness to that fact. "E Pluribus Unum" -- "from many, one". It was a good idea when it was founded, and it's a good idea today. From many, one. That still identifies us still identifies us. (Source: American Rhetoric.com)

A fundamental principle of good writing is the notion of “show not tell.” What better way to end this essay than to let Barbara Jordan speak for herself. (We aren't able to embed the video. Not sure why.)


Sources:
Barbara Charline Jordan.  Democratic National Convention Keynote Addresses American Rhetoric. Online Speech bank.
    1976 Speech 
    1992 Speech
Top 100 American Speeches of the 20th Century.

Megan:

In the prison library, I once got a written request for a "bok that teeches you how too do oritory." For this prisoner, speaking clearly and well was a skill he wanted to develop as he was appealing his conviction and representing himself. I found him a book on making speeches and reminded myself that intelligence is not always dependent on literacy although I did not have high hopes for the success of his case. This same prisoner also asked me for a list of every law book ever published, because he wanted to buy them all.

Anyway, I grew up performing in Christmas pageants and participating in the Liturgy of the Word at church, so public speaking was never really a problem for me.  I did it without thinking. As part of my final thesis requirement in college, I had to read some original writing in front of a large group of my peers and I got nervous for the first time I can remember.  The writing was personal and I thought I might start crying. It always annoyed me when other people got emotional while reading out loud and I was mortified. My voice shook and no one could hear me. 

In library school I had to do several group presentations, and in the Management class I was part of a group that imploded mid-semester due to personal conflicts, bad tempers and mental illness. Standing unprepared in front of the class with no one in the group willing to look at or speak to each other was probably the most awkward and embarrassing moment I’d ever experienced. I’d known it was going to happen though and warned the professor (and also checked that failing the presentation didn’t equal failing the class).

So, I suppose those experiences were in the back of my mind when, after I’d become a professional librarian, I was asked to introduce a speaker at a national conference. I wasn’t the speaker, mind you, I was only supposed to introduce him. I went to the chair of the committee and asked if I could switch tasks with someone else. The Chair interpreted my request as an admission of a full-fledged phobia, and not as the lazy-don’t-really-feel-like-it mumble that it was. His concern was so great that for the rest of the conference he kept passing me information about public-speaking courses and practical exercises in overcoming fears. I couldn’t correct him because I knew how unprofessional it was to back out of an assignment for any reason other than extreme terror.

He left the committee after that conference and by the time the next one rolled around no one remembered my “phobia” of public speaking. By that point I was more confident professionally anyway. I gave a series of lectures around the county on prison librarianship and, as long as the subject is libraries, I’m fine speaking in groups of any size. But put me in a social setting with people I don’t know, and I’m lucky if I can remember my own name.

Topic 171: Judging by Appearances

Carol:

The “Judging By Appearances Pink ‘N Blues”

In the late 1960’s, Virginia Slims used a logo to capture a new niche, young and hip women smokers. I’d like to think the slogan “You’ve come a long way, baby” was more than a catchy marketing gimmick, that women—people—had come a long way toward breaking stereotypes and moving beyond superficial appearances, but recent news  show that we still make judgments  based on gender stereotypes.
 

Take the story of Storm Witterick, the Canadian baby whose parents decided not to reveal the gender of their third child, delivered at home last January. Their decision twittered and Facebooked into an international controversy, a heated and polarizing debate about gender bias and child-rearing. Some people argue that “social experimentation” on children is tantamount to child abuse; others praise the family for defying stereotypes  that go beyond pink and blue wardrobe choices.  Not that it matters to Storm with his/her beautifully, chubby cheeked smile in photos. Not that it matters to Storm’s older brothers who also look happy and content even though, omigod, they  express their individuality with gender-bending clothing, colors and hairstyles. The Witterick children certainly looked happier than my friend’s son who came home crying from kindergarten in 1986 because the teacher wouldn’t let him cook in the play kitchen with the girls.
 

Or, what about the “SlutWalk Protests,” a global reaction to an April 2011 comment by a Canadian policeman who suggested to a group of Toronto law students that women could avoid being “victimized” if they stopped dressing like sluts. The idea that women are “asking for it” if they dress a certain way is not a new one, but  this particular remark set off a wave of protests around the world after it found its way onto Facebook.  SlutWalk marches have been held in Canada, the United States, Australia and Great Britain. Rallies have attracted all manner of folks in all manner of attire.The “in your face” reactive tone of the SlutWalk movement now includes rallies with workshops on stopping sexual violence and educating law enforcement and public agencies about sexual assaults. Five thousand people were expected to show up at a rally planned for London.
 

I’ll end with a favorite recollection from teaching at a community college where the rich mix of students simply defies stereotyping. I overheard an early morning conversation between two women and a man in my composition class. One of the women was probably in her late 30’s and wore the typical “uniform” of generic blue jeans, tank top and sweater, no flash or boobage . The other was younger and much edgier, with vivid maroon hair, the generic blue jeans, tank top but no coverage so that the head and wings of the large, intricate and quite beautiful dragon tattoo on her back spread out from underneath the straps of the shirt. The man was a bit older, a Vietnam Vet with a scruffy beard and generic blue jeans, a Harley Davidson tee-shirt covering the beginnings of a beer belly. The Vet was doing most of the talking. The women punctuated the conversation with clucks of agreement and nods of understanding, full of compassion for a fellow single parent’s frustrating efforts to get his three little girls to sit still long enough to brush the tangles out and braid their hair.
Gotta run, She Who Must Be Obeyed wants to see Kung Fu Panda 2, and we know who is top dog in this household.

Sources: “SlutWalk’ Marches Sparked by Toronto Officer’s Remarks.” BBC News US & Canada. 8 May 2011.

Stampler, Laura. “ 'Genderless' Baby Raises a Storm of Controversy.” Parentdish.com 26 May 2011
  

Megan:

The Appearance of Being Judged

You might have noticed yesterday that I’ve changed my avatar in the cartoons to reflect my haircut. A few weeks ago, in an impulsive and emotional mood, I went into a local discount hair salon and cut off nearly 24 inches of hair. I guess I was thinking, “Change my hair, change my life.” I have a friend who, after he split up with his long-term girlfriend, cut his hair and shaved his incredibly bushy beard. It’s a common enough ritual. Thing is, I thought having shorter hair would mean less time spent on styling it, but it actually requires more work. This is a lesson I have forgotten and  learned again and again.

The amount of time and effort I put into my appearance varies depending on my mood, where I’m going and whether I expect to meet someone I would like to impress. I get dressed up to go to lunch by myself, but not to go to the grocery store. I put more effort into my appearance before a softball game than I would if I was going to a movie. I’ll still be wearing yesterday’s makeup when I meet a friend for coffee and then die a little inside when we run into a friend of her husband.

In the prison, appearance was very important to the inmates. Most of them spent hours in the gym cultivating body-builder-type physiques. They saved their small salaries for months to purchase the newest and flashiest looking trainers (or tennis shoes). They put enough pressure on themselves and each other that it was fairly obvious that they ones who didn’t take care with their appearances were either bullied, mentally ill, or incapable of dealing with prison life. The habitual self-harmers, and the ones who didn’t wash or clean their cells were generally shunned by their peers because, frankly, they were awful to be around. For some, maintaining an aura of filth (ala Pigpen, but not cute) widened their circumference of personal space in an institution where privacy of any kind is nearly impossible.

It always seems to me that the importance one places on others’ appearances corresponds to the effort one puts into one’s own. My grandmother never steps foot outside her house without being fully dressed up. In fact, it wasn’t until a couple weeks ago, when I went to her house without calling first that I had ever seen her without makeup on (that includes the time she was in the hospital recovering from a hip replacement). She makes comments to me about what other people are wearing, and I know that being well-dressed is important to her – that she considers it a measure of success.

And of course, the reverse is also true. I had a college friend in England who saved money on food by dressing in her worst clothes and going to the farmer’s market at the end of the day. By giving the appearance of poverty and homelessness, she got free food from the stalls. Judging (and being judged) by appearances is part of life. You get better service if you look nice. People take you seriously. I both resent and appreciate this fact, depending on my mood. Sometimes I enjoy the boost in confidence I get when I know that I look good. Other times I resent the fact that I know I am more interesting than I appear, and that’s really hard to convey without being superficial.

Topic 138: My Taskmaster -- Duty

Carol:

Did You Hear The Joke About the Lawyer Who…

Duty is kind of an old-fashioned word. In our house, the word mostly revolves around The Law. I use capital letters here because my children and I have had ample opportunity to observe the legal system from all angles.  That exposure came from living with a husband and a father who has been an attorney for 37 years.
 

Most attorneys don’t make as much money as the high-profile celebrity lawyers whose cases hit the newspapers. Most attorneys don’t take the ethical short-cuts that are portrayed on weeknight crime shows.  And, most attorneys don’t have exciting cases worthy of a John Grisham novel. Most attorneys do put in long hours, generate loads of  paperwork, listen to complaints and anguish, and attend a lot of training seminars. They also accept other professional duties of which most people are quite unaware.
 

“Officer of the Court” is one part of the job. On several occasions I have been with my husband when he spotted someone on the highway or local roads who appeared impaired or just reckless. He called the Sheriff’s Department, identified himself and reported the location and description of the vehicle. Some people might say, “It’s none of my business,” or, they might make an anonymous phone call so as to avoid the hassle of being called as a witness.  I have also overheard phone conversations where my husband said, “No, I can’t do that. That would be lying, and I’m an Officer of the Court.”

“Civic Educator” is another part of the job. Attorneys visit schools to talk about the legal system, represent their profession at career days, or answer questions in civics and government classes about rights and responsibilities. They also provide guidance and assistance in student mock trials or Teen Court diversion programs. State bar associations promote community education resources through Speakers Bureaus that connect organizations with volunteer lawyers, the Arizona State Bar listing over 20 topics. Attorneys act as representatives of a legal system that works best when the public is educated—and educated early—about the democratic principles and legislative underpinnings of the legal process.
 

“Public Servant” is also in the job description, even for private attorneys. Sometimes this means adjusting fees or working “pro bono” for clients who can’t afford the usual cost of “justice for all.” Sometimes it means fielding questions to legal hotlines such as Arizona’s “Lawyers on Call” program, or sitting tables at Veterans Services events. Or it can mean participating in Law Day, a May 1 event that was proclaimed by President Eisenhower in 1958 to promote public awareness of not just the effect of the American legal system on our lives but how it operates. Last year the Yavapai County Bar Association and Community Legal Services honored  the occasion by providing a free, day-long legal clinic at the Prescott Public Library.
 

Our legal system operates around the hard work of every “Officer of the Court,” whether a lawyer, judge, court clerk, or legal assistant. It is a task-master not only to those who make their living in legal professions but also to the people this system serves. As American citizens-- whatever our political affiliation, income bracket, or educational background--we have duties as well. Democracy is a participatory system.
 

One of these civic responsibilities is jury duty. I finally got called for jury duty about three years ago and made arrangements for a substitute teacher. I didn’t have a high expectation that I would actually be seated on a jury. After all, Prescott is still a fairly small town and my husband has been a defense attorney here for 25 years. Although the case eventually settled, I was chosen for the jury. I knew the judge, I knew the prosecutor, and I knew the defense attorney. There wasn’t a shark in the bunch.

Sources:
American Bar Association. Division for Public Education.  

State Bar of Arizona homepage.

Megan:

A Duty of Care

In the prison, all members of staff have what is called a “duty of care” towards the prisoners. It’s sort of a vague expression, but it basically covered the need to treat them humanely – to provide food and water and an hour’s exercise, access to showers and healthcare and information (via the Education department and Library).  It also extended to breaking up fights, identifying those at risk of self-harm and suicide, and isolating troublemakers and bullies.

My responsibility was to provide a library service comparable to the one used by the public, which included not just reading materials, but audio/visual resources, IT access and information on everything from prison rules to career training. UK prisoners are lucky that the government deemed quality library services managed by actual librarians a legal requirement, especially since there is currently some question about whether they have the same obligation (duty of care) to the public.

One of the first things I did after I started working in the prison was try to identify and eliminate any obstacles prisoners had in gaining access to the library. Some were fairly easy to fix – such as rearranging the schedule to make sure that the library times didn’t clash with the gym or their time on the yard. Occasionally it was pointed out to me that in real life, people have to make choices about how to spend their time, which is certainly true. But in real life, most people have access to a public library more than one hour a week. In prison , when almost every minute of unlocked time is designated for a certain purpose, there is really only ever one choice – to participate in the activity or not.  And that was the only choice I wanted them to have to make about the library.

This proved more difficult for prisoners who were not held on the main wings.  Separate library service was already provided to prisoners in segregation (solitary confinement), but prisoners  who were long term patients in the health care centre did not have the chance to attend the main library. Cambridgeshire Library Services had a system in place for visiting the smaller villages and providing for the housebound and disabled – called the Doorstep service.  When I was first hired, I went with the program facilitator to deliver books to a housebound couple in one of the southern villages. The facilitator had a file on each person, with their likes and interests and selected about 12 (large print) books to deliver personally to their homes. I remember being greeted by a couple in their 90’s, who were so excited to see us. The wife made us tea, while the husband showed me a letter they had received from the queen on their 70th anniversary. They were absolutely delighted with the service, especially because there was no way either of them could get to the public library in the next town.

In the prison, because it was my duty to provide a comparable service, I arranged a small mobile library service for the health care centre, including weekly visits by library staff to take requests and reference inquiries. There were never more than a couple guys in there at a time, but often they were injured or unable to leave their bed and they certainly appreciated the visits.

That’s the part I miss about working -- interacting with people who depend on the service, people who appreciated that public libraries provide more than just books, but also a companionable social element that improves their quality of life.

Topic 133: Dream Adventures

Carol:

Our House is a Very, Very Fine House

I’m not by nature an adrenaline junkie—that’s the term, right? I don’t go for those X-sports like bungie jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge or flying on a zip cord through the canopy of a Brazilian rainforest.  Once Marc signed up for an X-Treme Day Tour in Costa Rica; he came back to the hotel exhilarated but stinking from his soak in a volcanic mud bath. I had opted to stay behind and read Bel Canto on the hotel balcony.  When I imagine a dream adventure, it is almost always about traveling somewhere distant, isolated and beautiful where I can have Un-ventures .
 
After my year of study abroad in France, I would often dream about returning someday to rent a little apartment overlooking the Cote D’Azur, maybe in Antibes.  I had seen a woman there once, standing on the small balcony of just such a place, enjoying the breeze on her face and watching the people below stroll along the stone promenade above the rocky shore. The image of her white shirt and sun-tanned face next to the faded turquoise shutters of the balcony door is still vivid in my mind after 40 years. I wanted to be that woman…in that place. I still do.

The Antibes Dream

 My imagination adjusted to the reality of getting married, having a job and moving to southern California. I started dreaming about having a cabin somewhere in Mexico.  I was a fan of Jack Smith’s columns in the LA Times, and he would often write about his ongoing, frustrating but comical experiences building a little beach house in Baja California.  He eventually turned it into God and Mr. Gomez, a 1974 book that Marc gave me as a gift, signed by the author after a lengthy wait. Jack Smith’s detailed catalogue of mishaps and delays did not deflate my dream of my own little beach casita with turquoise shutters.
 

When we actually traveled to Baja California in 1986, on several occasions we pulled our old motorhome into isolated beaches along the Sea of Cortez The only other signs of life were  the sand crab trails leading down to the water and  the sound of lowing cattle behind a sand dune. Just watching the fish jump out of the water and listening to the waves was enough to make me feel content. 
 
After years of 10 years of living within easy distance of the Pacific Ocean, we moved inland to the Arizona high desert.  We bought a small plane and started taking trips down to the Bahia San Carlos on the opposite side of the Sea of Cortez. Although we found an affordable hotel with its own protected beach, I still dreamed about having our own tiny little house away from the tourist areas where the condos were bunched together and noisy.  I took a little peek at the real estate ads this morning. Apparently, the Mexican government designated  the Sea of Cortez and the “Mayan Riveria”  to become  “the axis on which the country’s tourist development would hinge… and will consolidate the Sea of Cortez as a world-class tourist destination” (Source: Mi Casa-Su Casa Realty Group). So much for my dream of a little retirement casita in Mexico.
 

The Mexico Dream

I haven’t totally given up on the idea of my dream adventure.  With my husband inching towards retirement, building our own little get-away home sounds even more appealing. And, I have found the perfect place already.  A small house, durable materials, low-maintenance yard, privacy wall. Now if we can just find exactly the right piece of property, nothing large mind you.

The Retirement Reality

  
Sources:
Image of Antibes Bord de Mer
Image of Bahia San Carlos. Ocean View Realty.

Megan:

In my more dramatic moments, I tell people that the reason I quit the job in the prison was because I felt like the evil was seeping into me.
 

I had that idea – that the “evil was seeping in” -- a few different times while I worked there – and it sort of became an excuse in my mind for some of the ways I found to cope with the stress. Anyone who has worked in that sort of environment – high stress and dangerous – whether it is a prison, or the military, or juvenile detention, or law enforcement – there comes a point where you think the only people who understand are the people you work with. And the only way to cope with too much stress, too much danger, is to act too much in other ways – too much drinking, too much exercise (never my problem) too much anger, too much sleep. 

I mentioned to one of my library officers about my fear, but she was offended by the idea. “If you feel this way after 3 years, what does that mean for me? I’ve been here 10.” And there were others who had been there for 20 or 30 years, had spent the majority of their lives in prison, on purpose, doing a job that no one appreciates and no one understands.

But, unlike me,  they had lives outside of work, spouses and interests unrelated. In social situations, they were used to lying about their jobs  -- claiming to be an electrician, or the accurate but vague “civil servant.”   I could say, “I’m a librarian.” But I had the feeling that there was an unspoken just in there – I’m JUST a librarian. So, I always followed it with the qualifier, “at the prison” because it was novel, because it was interesting, and because I felt like I was owed some sort of recognition for working in such a miserable environment.

But what I didn’t mention was that it was my dream job. That because my supervisors didn’t have the same clearances that I did, they rarely came into the prison. That I was on my own, in charge by myself, isolated yes, but this was MY LIBRARY and to this day, the idea that I have been replaced grates on me. By the end, I was so ready to leave, so exhausted and used up and sick of it all. But even now, nearly 10 months later, I still have dreams about MY LIBRARY --  the way I did when I began working there.

A couple times in the past few weeks I have a thought – it’s the end of the financial year, I hope they remember to…  don’t forget the… what are the stats like? Has attendence increased or decreased? Is it inappropriate to ask that them to send me a copy of the end of year report? I’m unemployed now, but despite the "evil," I did some good there – made quantifiable, justifiable progress. I want to know if it held up. I want to know how it’s going. And sometimes, even though I wake up in Arizona, with Milo curled into my back, I still have a moment while still half asleep and I’m planning the day – planning what needs to be done in MY LIBRARY .

Topic 127: Mental Shock Absorbers

Carol:

  Soothing the Savage Breast (and Brain)

In Williamson Valley  the wind pretty well blows everyday. I love that sound just as I love the sound of rain falling on our roof.  I guess other people find these nature noises soothing too because there is a good market on the Internet for downloads of ambient sound.

I first heard about ambient sound in the 60’s although it didn’t have such a fancy name back then. It was called “white noise.”  My dentist began experimenting with white noise as an alternative to pain-killers like novacaine.  I would put on earphones and listen to what sounded like TV snow while he filled my cavities, directing me to turn up the sound if I needed more decibels to block the pain.  I can’t really say how effective the earphones and white noise were as I have a really high pain threshold and an almost perverse ability to relax in a dental chair.

I didn’t really think about what happened to those white noise machines until I saw today’s topic.  Turns out that white noise was not only found to be  ineffective but also potentially harmful because of the high decibel range needed to distract from the pain (source: Tekavec). It is almost never used anymore although the use of ambient sound  to “sooth the savage breast” has become quite common. Most popular are natural noises like ocean waves or steady rainfall.  Ambient sound probably works better to alleviate anxiety than pain.

Music therapy is a profession that I don’t think existed when I was listening to white noise in the dentist chair, but brain studies and new research about how we learn support the positive effects of music. Music therapists are clinically trained, licensed professionals who tailor “interventions” to the individual, depending on whether the need is pain and stress reduction, or memory and learning enhancement.  The website for the American Music Therapy Association includes testimonials from patients who have benefitted from working with a music therapist, including Alzheimer’s patients, children with autism, and people rehabilitating from both physical injuries and substance abuse.  Apparently, the type of music used in these individualized therapeutic programs varies considerably.

Educational research in the last 20 years has also shown the positive effects of music for increasing memory and cognition.  I quit nagged my son about turning off his music to study after his high school teacher shared with me the results of  a learning styles inventory he had taken showing he could actually concentrate better and study more efficiently with music in the background.

I have my own musical tastes and habits to suit particular needs. I  clean house much more efficiently with a little music to set the rhythm, something fast and peppy like Saturday Night Fever although more recently I have taken to using traditional Celtic music. The Old Blind Dogs or Jim Malcolm perks me right up for loading the dishwasher.  On a car trip, I either use classical music to buffer the road noise or I find an “oldies but goodies” station and sing along to lessen the tedium of a long ride.

I don’t think we really needed a lot of scientific research to tell us about the physical, emotional and spiritual benefits of music and sound. And, I think William Congreve said it best in 1697:

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

Today is my day to serve coffee after our dog walk. I have just the right background music,  something with a little Irish lilt to it. Top ‘O the Mornin' to Ya.

Sources
American Music Therapy Association.: http://www.musictherapy.org/
Congreve, William. Quote from The Mourning Bride. 1697.  
            http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/252000.html
Tekavec, Mel. M. “Nitrous Oxide Sedation with Auditory Modificaiton.” 1976
            http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2515814/pdf/anesthprog00144-0015.pdf
 

Megan:

Mental Shock Absorbers 

When I was 16, I crashed my car at an intersection just outside of Prescott Valley. I was going about 45 mph at the time, but the car I rear-ended was stopped at a red light. I remember slamming on the brakes and hearing the sound of the impact, but despite (or maybe because of) the fact that my forehead shattered the windshield, I did not feel anything. I opened my eyes and the entire front end of my car was folded up like an accordion – but the car I’d hit had only the slightest dent in its rear bumper.

My passengers and I walked away with bruises and a bloody nose, while an ambulance took the back-seat passenger of the car I hit. I remember she screamed and screamed while we waited for help and I didn’t understand. My car was totaled, and theirs was fine. Why was she hurt? The answer, according to my friend’s mechanic father, was the difference in our bumpers. Mine was full of Styrofoam, which then spilled all over the road. Their car had a steel bumper, which protected the car but absorbed none of the impact.

In addition to insulating car bumpers, packing electronics, and containing take-out food, Styrofoam is also used in bicycle helmets – another mental shock absorber. I’ve never had a serious cycling accident, probably because I never took to the sport, but almost everyone I know who rides on a regular basis has a story about how a helmet saved their lives. 

But not all shock absorbers are physical. The mind has its own way of protecting itself from a shock. I believe “going into shock” is actually one of them. Sometimes, depending on the trauma, the mind suppresses it. Or the trauma leads to a fractured personality or post-traumatic stress. If a mind is repeatedly subjected to disturbing  or stressful events, then it acclimates. It tries to cope, through meditation, or alcoholism, or exercise, or humor.

In the prison, whenever something bad happened, I always asked if any books had been damaged in the incident. This was not because I cared about the books (although I did), or because I knew that no one else gave a damn about them (which they didn’t), but because I thought it was funny. Someone gets beaten or stabbed in their cell, someone starts a fire or a flood, someone goes on dirty protest – whatever… are the books ok?

Maybe you had to be there.

The first time I asked, I was serious. There had been a flood in a cell in the segregation unit. The prisoner’s property had been bagged up to be disposed of, and I could see one of my books through the plastic. I asked if I could get it because I wanted the barcode to withdraw it from the library catalog. One of the officers handed me a pair of gloves and watched as I dug through the damp clothes and papers to reach the book at the bottom of the bag. “By the way,” he said. “That’s toilet water.”  I swore at him and threw the dripping book in the trash.  But after that came the jokes.

Topic 122: Repenting at Leisure

Carol:

What Leisure?

The above expression actually comes from a William Congreve play The Old Bachelor (1693) “Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.”  But, if you google “repenting at leisure,” you will find that almost anything can be plugged in with it :  invest in haste, move in haste, hire in haste, retire in haste, even tweet in haste.
 

Well, I am not a particularly spontaneous person, so doing anything in haste isn’t my style. I am a tortoise, not a hare.  Although I  wouldn’t mind having  a bit of whimsical unpredictability in my life, I am generally  happy with the results of being “slow and steady” in my choices. Take for instance, retirement.
 

For about three years, my college experimented with the “phased retirement” concept.  Faculty who met certain criteria (length of employment, recommendation by a supervisor) could apply for a maximum three years’ phased retirement contract that allowed us to work half-time but still receive all of the benefits of full-time employees. The idea behind  such plans is that the employer benefits from retaining the expertise of seasoned employees, and the employee benefits by being able to ease out of full-time careers and transition more smoothly into retirement.
 

At the time, I was so burned out that I would have quit working completely if the phased retirement option had not been available.  I took advantage of the whole three years and left my job feeling like I had done some of my best teaching during my final year. I allocated myself Tuesday as my day off; no matter what meeting came up, what project, if it landed on a Tuesday, I was unavailable. Then, I began to play in other activities gradually. By the third year of my contract, I was ready to fully retire. That was also the year the experimental option was discontinued by the College because it wasn’t economically feasible to pay benefits for half-time employees.
 

If this essay sounds hurried, it is. I am glad—feel lucky—that I could retire at the age of 62. Mostly I choose how to spend my day, and today I choose to work at the College. I will spend my morning grading writing portfolios with my long-time English Dept. colleagues and the afternoon at my mythology class. I was going to use all that as an excuse to opt out of T122 because, like I said, I don’t really like to do anything in haste.

But, I have to have something for Megan to hang a cartoon on.

Megan:

Repenting at Leisure (in Prison)

Before I realized the actual beginning of the proverb, I thought it was “Act in haste” so of course, that brought to mind the prison and how it is a place designed for  “repenting at leisure.”

Most of the guys in my prison, or at least the ones who were in for murder, had committed their crimes on impulse but some were the result of days or weeks of planning. Some killed with their fists or their feet or improvised weapons from materials nearby. I know of at least 3 who each strangled a woman with the scarf she was wearing and that is why the officers wear clip on ties and the use of dental floss is forbidden.  Others used illegally obtained guns. One poured gasoline through the letter box in the front door of his ex-missus and tossed a match in after. Some of the crimes were motivated by hurt and jealousy – crimes of passion; or perverse opportunity, or gangland revenge over perceived disrespect or drug deals gone wrong. Some were motivated by racism and hate.

I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t spend much time exploring their crimes unless they worked for me, or if they’d caught my interest for another reason. But as a member of staff with regular prisoner contact , I was expected to contribute observations about their behavior to their files, and in doing so I learned their crimes.

If a prisoner wants to progress from a high-security prison to a lower one, he must follow a sentence plan which is designed by the Offender Management department, and reviewed on a semi-annual basis. In addition to staying drug-free, out of trouble and employed, the prisoners are set a series of other targets to achieve including taking a series of reducing re-offending classes. These classes are a key part of the “rehabilitation” process and are supposed to promote Enhanced Thinking Skills, anger management and victim empathy.

That latter requires that the prisoners discuss at length the circumstances surrounding their offense, their motivation and their thoughts and feelings about it now. Their interviews take meticulous notes and the information is accessible to any member of staff who may need to be aware of the contents or contribute to the files.

For prisoners who are appealing against their conviction or their sentence, it is not in their interest to discuss the crime with the staff, even though this perceived lack of cooperation may stall their progression through the system for years.  And unless they took some sort of plea agreement, most of the guys start out on appeal. This is probably why it takes a few years for the new prisoners to settle down into the routine of prison life.

Whatever their circumstances, those guys have plenty of time to think about how they got to prison. During the day, every measure is taken to occupy their time, to educate them or to elicit some kind of productive and purposeful activity, but still they spend at least 14 hours locked alone in a 6X10 concrete and steel box. For first timers, adjusting to this isolation is difficult. And for some, especially the mentally ill, coming to terms with their crimes can have a devastating effect. They lose their hair, double their body weight or halve it. They may harm themselves for attention, stop bathing, refuse medication, or stop communicating all together. 

But others take a more proactive approach. They read, learn a trade, earn some qualifications and mentor other prisoners. Their goal, in the words of one such prisoner, is to “be something other than older, when [they] get out.”

Topic 110: On Knowing When to Stop

Carol:

Stop in the Name of Love   

 I guess I have a problem with not knowing when to stop. Frankly, I didn’t consider it a problem until other people started complaining, mostly …well, mostly my daughter. I spent quite a few years doing whatever I wanted before SHE was born.
 

 My husband was easy going and had his own interests in the pre-kid years. So, it wasn’t a big deal during summer vacations that I might start a book, not get dressed, not cook dinner until I had finished that book. Who could put The Exorcist down in the middle, or The Omen or even The Amityville Horror? Marc would arrive home, greeted by the promise “ I just have a few more pages, then I’ll get up and make dinner.” He would usually laugh, shrug and make a sandwich. 
 

After I gave up horrifying myself into insomnia, I was introduced to videogames at the Belly Up Tavern on the weekends.  It was pretty exciting when we bought a Pac-Man for our new television so that I could play as long as I wanted without having to hang out at a bar.  We set up the TV in the spare bedroom, which also housed our clunky stationary bicycle, and I soon perfected the technique of cycling and playing Pac-Man at the same time. I was getting the best work-out of my life because I would get so excited gobbling up the power pellets in the videogame maze that I would pedal faster and faster.  Marc would head off with his stack of running magazines after I promised, “One more game, then I’ll come to bed.”
 

Things changed when child #1 came along. Megan was so much more demanding than my patient husband.  When she was six weeks old, I decided to re-start my Pac-Man/bicycle schedule and laid her on a blanket on the floor while I exercised. Just as I was getting into the rhythm of the game, she began to whimper. I couldn’t stop then, could I, just when I was racking up the points for a new record? Fifteen minutes later, I was pumping full-speed on the bicycle when she escalated the whimper into a full-out tantrum. I looked down at that sweet, little, puffy red face  and promised, “Just 5 more minutes, kiddo. I’ll feed you when I get to the next level.” Neither the love in my eyes nor my soothing tone satisfied her. Volume and pitch of the screams went up another notch. This kid just didn’t know when to stop.
 

It has pretty well been that way ever since. When we bought the Game Boys for her and child #2, I had to try out the Mario Brothers, didn’t I, to see how long the batteries would last? She got soooo cranky after the third hour even though I promised her, “Just one more level, kiddo, then you can have your Christmas present back.” I did have a few years of peace when she moved to England. Marc and I got back into our comfortable, pre-kids routine. I would spend 6 or 7 hours at the computer working on my family history book.  He would head off with his stack of motorcycle magazines after I promised, “Just 20 more minutes and I’ll have this section finished.”
 

Megan doesn’t throw screaming tantrums anymore, but she gets this tone in her voice when she thinks I’ve been working on something too long and she wants to go to the movies, or eat dinner, or post the daily theme. She hates it when I break a promise. My daughter just doesn’t know when to stop.  Here she comes now. “Megan, I promise, just 5 more minutes and I’ll be done with essay 110. I just need one more perfect sentence to…..”

Megan:

On Knowing When to Stop

I don’t know whether you noticed but I added a search bar to our site yesterday. I could say I did it for your convenience, but really, I did it for mine.  Some of these topics are so similar, I’m starting to repeat myself. I think. I’m not sure yet. I need to go through and re-tag all the entries, which will also make navigating easier. And then maybe we can add one of those word clouds where the key words get bigger depending on how often we mention them. I am 100% sure that the biggest word will turn out to be MILO, followed closely by Prison.

So, I added the search bar so I could see if I’d written about why I quit working at the prison.  I got 8 pages of results – each page having 4 entries, and I’m not really in the mood to read 32 essays right now. Also, I’m writing this from a coffee shop, using their internet and ISP, and every time I click on an entry, it inflates our stats. Those numbers go up enough from my mother’s visits (on days I’m particularly funny, she will revisit the site several times to read the essays. I know this because I can hear her crying laughing). Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’ve alluded to quitting several times, and talked about some of the bad things and now that I think about it, I don’t really have a “why I quit working at the prison” story that would tie in to the topic of knowing when to stop.

I still have my ups and downs about leaving the prison and England, lately more downs than ups. This is probably because I still haven’t found a job.  It has been 8 months. I have been trying to take some of the advice I got from the conference last month by increasing my professional online presence. I’m now on Twitter and try to tweet at least once a day about something library or information related. I have 8 followers, which is the same as the number of people who subscribe to this website (different people though). Sometimes I forget why I’m there, and I spend most of my time laughing at my favorite celebrity tweeters (Steve Martin, Sarah Silverman, Stephen Fry).  I’m also trying to be more involved on LinkedIn – keep meaning to involve myself in some of the discussions happening there. The problem with that is that for some reason, CILIP (England’s library association) is far more active than the ALA, so all the stuff I’m reading about has to do with England and then I get a little sad.

While all that is going on, trying to be more involved in the library world, I am also thinking about giving up and trying another career. Yesterday’s ideas involved becoming a nun or a mortician. I don’t really want to be a nun and the mortician idea is ridiculous because of my phobia of all things dead, but for a second I thought maybe I should just face my fear. When I was little I was afraid of wolves, so I decorated my room with posters and pictures of them and got over my fear. Maybe becoming a mortician would be the same thing. Probably not though. I saw The Rite yesterday, that’s where I got both those ideas… and it was the 4th movie I’ve been to in the last week, so I thought again about being a movie critic. But all I can think of to say about The Rite was that it was not very good.

So, this essay is once again all over the place and only semi-related to the topic. I’ve never been very good at knowing when (or how) to stop. Mom complains I rarely have a good conclusion. Usually I just look down at the word count and think, crap, I’ve gone over the limit by 164 words.

Topic 94: An Apology for Bores

Carol:

   An Apology for Schmucks

Dear Family:
 

I have been distracted from my daily theme responsibilities, what with Christmas preparations, having family home for the holidays,  taking the California trip, acting as tour guide for my Canadian visitors, and… yada-yada-yada. Some might call my routine boring, but I like knowing where I will be on Monday through Friday at 7:15 a.m. (walking the dog) and Monday through Friday at 9:15 a.m. (writing the daily theme).
 
Writing takes concentration and quiet, which I have not had. My work has suffered, the typos left unattended and my standards slackened. I am beginning to sound like a bore, worse yet a bore who can’t  spell. Not so today. I am back from (walking the dog), all is quiet, and I have 2 hours to devote to my writing. I am setting a new standard,  no banal or boring attempts to address the topics.  I am a writer, not a hack.
 

First, I do want to remind you that the word “essay” comes from the French,  meaning” to attempt.” And, an apology by definition  is more than an “I’m sorry.” It is also an argument, a logically-constructed  defense of a position. The professors who assigned topic #94 to their Ivy League students in the 1920’s expected these future politicians, tycoons, and academics to apply formal philosophical principles to the debate of any topic, no matter how seemingly inane.  In fact, the challenge would be to elevate the banal by the skillful use of vocabulary, logic, and appropriate humor. One might even  write an “An Apology for Boring Topics,”  arguing that anyone can write an interesting essay about a unique or challenging topic but it takes extraordinary skill to “essayer” an essay about something boring: hairpins, dogs, bank accounts.

Dear family, you may be wondering at this point why I have addressed topic #94 specifically to the people who know me best when there must be at least 8 people outside the family and our college roommates who regularly read “The Daily Theme.” Well, I’m just going to come out and say it. I don’t want to write an apology for bores today, I want to write a confessional.  I apologize.  I am supremely, contritely sorry for having myself become the biggest bore you know.
 

I intended to write a carefully researched essay on the world’s most famous bores, or a clever comparison of the delightful 1998 French film The Dinner Game-- as the French called it Le Diner de Cons-- and the 2010 American yawner Dinner for Schmucks. But,  as my brain is wont to do when I take the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc. 7:15 a.m. walk with the dog, I realized  in mid-stride at 7:20 a.m. that the only person I know who would  be invited to a diner de cons or  dinner for schmucks is… ME.

I hope that my zeal for language,  literature,  movies and books has been equally interesting and entertaining for my family and friends. In retrospect, I realize that my passionate enthusiasm for learning can be overbearing and, yes, overboring.   I have begun to intuit that my latest passion, three years of intensive family history and genealogical research, has stretched your patience to its limits. I seem to punctuate all of my dinner-table revelations with “I know you get tired of hearing about this, but…” or “Can I just tell you one more thing I learned today about…”
 

So, family and friends, I have used today’s essay not to craft an apology for bores but to profess an apology from a bore. After all these years of carefully explaining the nuances of language, the importance of, nay the beauty of, linguistic precision, I hope that you appreciate the difference between the two.
                    Your humble wife, mother, sister, and friend
                                                       C. H.  

 

Megan:

I don’t think I know any boring people. Sometimes I am bored by what interests other people, but that’s not the same thing. I don’t hold it against them. It bothers me when people don’t get to the point fast enough—when they are more concerned with accuracy than telling a good story:

“Six years ago… or was it 5? Bush’s first term it was, so that must make it… Junior was still in college so …” That makes me crazy. I’d rather tell a good story and sacrifice any semblance of accuracy. I believe the technical term for this habit is exaggeration.

Anyway, I had a prisoner who worked for me who told the longest winded stories ever and it was a real chore not to completely zone out. Sometimes he would tell the entire plot of a TV show, and it would take longer to listen to him than to watch it live. I could always tell when he was gearing up for a long one when he would lean against the counter, take off his glasses and run his fingers through his cropped short hair.
    “Well, Megan, did you uh happen to catch last night’s episode of True Blood on BBC One?
    “No Joe. I don’t have a TV.”
    “Oh that’s right you told me that before. Don’t know why I can’t remember. But you are familiar with the show?”
    “Yes.” This is the fatal mistake.

We always let him talk though because he didn’t fit well into the prison. He was older than most of the other inmates, but only recently been convicted. His wife had killed herself and his children did not visit him, and in an alcoholic black-out he beat to death his 87 year old neighbor who had refused to loan him money.

I once overheard him discussing his crime with the other orderlies who worked in the library – the only time he didn’t go into detail. “I can’t remember doing it, but the evidence was there. It must have been me.”

Most of the time people get bored because they do not understand the details, and the topic does not inspire their imagination. Sometimes the language gets in the way; the jargon can be distracting. I don’t understand the language of geneology, which is why its sometimes hard for me to get excited about 9th great-grandfathers. I’m never sure how related we are. In England, I didn’t have a TV so I was never able to participate in the daily recaps of popular shows with my colleagues. Instead, we found other things to talk about, like books and movies, and the prisoners we served.

Sometimes its hard for me to talk about my job, because librarianship does not seem like an interesting occupation. For many incarcerated people, prison is their first experience with libraries. That’s why it was so important to be friendly and welcoming and professional.  Most people’s opinions on librarianship have been shaped by their experience as a patron, and whether or not the staff were helpful. In many libraries, it is often impossible to distinguish the librarians from the assistants,and from the pages and volunteers;  a library is judged by the quality of its customer service as much as its resources. This makes sense, but it limits the general public’s awareness of the variety of duties and the skills required to perform them. Mention a cataloging problem to anyone but a librarian and it’s like hitting a snooze button. I try to get around this problem by reeling my audience in with a prison anecdote and then I hit them with the library.

Sorry.

Topic 92: The Futility of the Practical

Carol:

                 Papa, Mama and Baby Bear Go Shopping 

Look for the Best Deal
When I first met Marc he was driving a Volkswagen Beetle like most of our college friends, but the car taught him a hard lesson.  Marc had found a job right after receiving his student loan check, so he decided to buy the VB with cash. He chose a year-old model expecting a better deal but didn’t do his research. Soon after, he found out he could have paid less for a new model. A couple of days later he was fired from his job and evicted from his apartment. He became a master at frugal living out of necessity.
 

Marc is still motivated by finding the best deal, but he carefully researches major purchases and is an expert negotiator. Nobody gets better deals on vehicles or appliances than Marc. I try to remember that when he comes home from a trip to Costco.  He is a sucker for buying in bulk. If we need a quart of milk, he will buy two gallons because they are “a better deal.” Our hall closets contains gigantic  boxes of crackers, gallon-size containers of juice and stacks of tuna cans that won’t fit in the kitchen pantry.  The humongous packs of paper towels, toilet paper and Kleenex are stuffed onto shelves in our laundry room. What the heck, they were the best deal.

Save on What You Need to Buy What You Want
My parents paid for my education and gave me an allowance so that I didn’t have to work in college. When I started dating Marc, I realized pretty quickly that if I let him pay for everything (still common in 1969), I would never get to go anywhere. Going Dutch was the practical solution.
 

I have my own consumer philosophy.  On big purchases, I know exactly what I want and am willing to wait until I find it, whatever the cost. But, I have an almost obsessive, prideful frugality about daily necessities.  I collect store coupons and carry cloth bags so that I can buy expensive cage-free eggs from happy chickens. I own an expensive, extremely comfortable desk chair and a brand new computer, but my books are stored on a  wobbly bookshelf that Megan helped me put together. The kits were so cheap that I bought three. I put the first one together by myself, but when Megan helped me put the second one together, she got so mad at the complicated instructions and the poor quality of the materials that she refused to help me with the third. It’s in the garage next to the huge bag of dog food Marc buys in bulk.  

What About Common Sense?
Megan is one of the smartest consumers I know, which makes her the most practical. When she was younger, she would never ask us to buy her anything until she had researched it  and created an argument to go with the research. When she started college, she talked us into letting her have her own credit card to pay off $10 purchases each month that would allow her to build up credit in her own name. By the time she was living in England, she was able to broker a sensible car loan. Maybe she listened to her Dad’s VW story.
 

Megan recently bought her own bathroom scale. She was tired of weighing herself on the heavy, ugly, inaccurate one Marc bought at Costco. She found a sleek and accurate model in the mid-range cost. Baby Bear has taught Papa and Mama Bear that common sense consumerism is NOT futile.

Megan:

This topic makes me think of the prison. My staff and I did a lot to try to make the library feel un-prison-like (and in some ways, un-library-like). We painted the walls a bright blue. We played loud music, we shouted across the room. Once we had a contest with giant rubber bands, trying to knock books off the shelves.  We did this as much for ourselves as for the prisoners, if not more so. When I say the prison could be a depressing place to work, most people nod their heads like they know what I mean. They don’t, but it doesn’t matter. But when I say it was also a lot of fun, they assume there’s something off about me. My anecdotes sometimes come off as unprofessional, but those antics were part of coping with the environment, just like gallows humor, and keeping your back to the wall.

A lot of my responsibilities took me outside the library and around the rest of the jail. I enjoyed this because it gave me a chance to remind the rest of the prison that there was a library, and me a chance to find out what was happening in other areas. I sat on several committees with members of the senior management team. The management structure of a prison is complicated, and I’m not going to waste words here with a detailed explanation. Simply put, the head of the prison is the Number One Governor. He (or she) is responsible for everything, if there was an escape, or a murder he would lose his job. Under the Number One is the Dep(uty), and then there are governors (managers) of each area – Security, Operations, Health & Safety, Diversity, Learning & Skills etc. All rules and policies put in place by the senior management team are implemented by the uniformed staff – the Officers and Senior Officers, and the civilians contracted in like me, the education staff and the nurses in the healthcare department. That’s as brief as I can describe it.

In a prison, the biggest gap in communication is between the SMT and the officers. The officers and the prisoners are closer. Some of the prisoners and staff had been living and working together since the jail opened in 1992. For the most part, they had good relationships. You’ll find the odd prison officer who hates the prisoners and treats them that way, and vice versa – there are prisoners who do not communicate with staff. That relationship, between prisoners and staff, is complicated and dangerous. Prisoners, understand why they are there and why the staff are there. Most of the inmates are murderers, arsonists, gang members, drug addicts and mentally ill. Keeping that environment calm and safe for everyone involved is the biggest part of everyone’s job. Over time, years I mean, one develops what is known as jail craft, the ability to assess a person or a situation, evaluate risk, negotiate and if necessary, use force. My four years was nothing – especially for a civilian; a well-run prison trusts the experience of staff to uphold its primary duty which is to protect the public.
 

In the time I was there, we had three Number One Governors, and four Deps. The rest of the SMT shuffled responsibilities every few months at the whim of the Number One in an effort to meet whatever performance targets or audit requirements had been set by the Ministry of Justice. Shortly after I left, the third Number One resigned under allegations of serious professional misconduct involving swapping difficult prisoners with other jails during inspections to improve  scores. One of those difficult prisoners committed suicide.

Prisons are an unfortunate, but practical neccessity of civilization. But the idea that anyone is really protected or helped in a prison is an illusion, an exercise in futility.