Most everyone supports the premise that teaching is one of
noblest and most important professions. At the age of 21, I embarked on my
chosen career path as a high school Spanish and English teacher in the small
town of Brasher Falls in upstate NY. During this interval, I added a Master’s
Degree and an administrative certificate to my resume. Years later on the
opposite side of the country in Wenatchee, Washington, I found myself endowed with the
dubious title of “correctional educator.” This change required an additional
endorsement -- special education. For 20 years, I would practice the art of
teaching at the Chelan County Juvenile Justice Center, a maximum-security
facility.
It didn’t take me long to discover that this new direction
came with its own set of specialized demands, challenges and mandates set forth
by the Department of Corrections. My traditional classroom management style of
the past would not be effective in this environment. It was like entering
another world -- a subculture of society. I felt like I had become the
Cinderella of the educational biosphere, “Cinderella do this, Cinderella do
that.” People often asked me if I was an authentic teacher, and my fellow
colleagues in the “real” schools did not show me the respect I deserved. At
times, I felt professionally ostracized and devalued just like Cinderella.
Most
teachers enter their building through the main entrance. Not me! Every morning
I had to stand outside a secure metal-monitored door and push a buzzer. I would
be asked to identify myself and required to hold up my county issued ID for the
camera. After this routine, the door would stridently buzz and unlock. The
beastly gate required all my upper body strength to tug it ajar. It would then magically slam shut behind me
with a deafening and chilling clanking clamor. I had to repeat this procedure
at two more doors before I was in the actual bowels of the edifice. A short
hallway brought me to my first destination -- the control room or as it was
fondly known: the command center. Inside this room were the switches to every
door and camera in the building. Its strategic placement and elevated stature
gave it a panoramic view of all zones. The darkened one-way glass contributed
to its ominous appearance. I then pushed a buzzer and a metal drawer would
slide out delivering my keys and the daily roster.
My keys did
not give me access to my classroom. Once again, I had to push a buzzer and have
the door opened for me. I was virtually locked in my room and needed to buzz to
exit, too. The unlocking instruments were strictly for my desk, cupboards,
closet, and the interior office area. Everything had to remain locked at all
times. My room was crafted from ceiling to floor with bulletproof glass windows
on two sides and drab institutional yellowish cinder blocks on the others. It
was like working in a fishbowl-on display at all times. The room was outfitted
with multiple cameras scrutinizing your every action. The space was also wired for sound meaning
that someone heard every word uttered. Four bright red buttons tactically
placed added a much-needed pop of color to this bland background. They were
smartly embossed in bright white letters that said PANIC providing yet another
possibly lifesaving resource if needed. Next order of the day was to retrieve
my two-way radio from the inner office. I was required to have it on my person
every minute that I was in juvenile -- another lifeline.
Mundane items
that most teachers take for granted like pencils, paper, staples, paperclips,
pens, etc. now had new monikers -- deadly weapons and instruments of
destruction. Writing utensils were used in several stabbings of inmates and
staff during my resident stay. To minimize the risk, I was required to
personally hand out and retrieve individual pencils. If they needed sharpening,
I did it. If the lead went missing at any point then the student was obligated
to crawl around on the charcoal color carpet to find it. If that did not
happen, the students were removed one at a time from class and searched. Being
caught with the evidence resulted in a three-day confinement to their room. Pencil
lead can be used to stick in veins and tag cells. During art class, the kids
were handed a clear plastic container of assorted supplies. An inventory of the
contents was prominently displayed on the front. I had to regulate this constantly
and recount every item in the box upon its return. It was very time consuming.
If anything came up missing, the kids knew the drill. Gang Graffiti antics was always
a concern.
I previously
mentioned the evils of staples, paperclips and paper. Staples and paperclips
could be used to pierce veins or other body parts such as eyes or ears or used
as a last resort to keep holes open for tongue and nose rings etc. They could
also be adeptly fashioned into makeshift tattoo devices and therefore not
allowed in the classroom. Paper was my archenemy.
We had to have it to do our work, but it was the catalyst for my biggest source
of classroom disciplinary infractions. Tagging or defacing a paper in any way
resulted in a time out and loss of school points for the day. Consequently, that
affected their overall program score in detention and resulted in the loss of
certain privileges. Missing corners or other torn off pieces meant a classroom lock-down and staff search. These could be used to exchange phone numbers, make
threats or plot heinous crimes within the facility.
Nothing left
the classroom with the kids. At first, I naively let them borrow books but soon
found out that they would be desecrated with graffiti, sexual slurs or even
ripped apart and used to back up the toilets and flood their cells. I learned
that lesson the hard way. One thing I did not have to fret over was inappropriate
dress. Inmates were required to wear a hospital scrub like uniform. The boy’s
was a dark drab army green while the girls donned a dowdy khaki tan. Everyone
wore a short sleeve white cotton tee shirt under their top and white socks
sheltered their feet. Shoes were deemed potential weapons and banned. During
the winter months, the building remained quite cool and the kids sat in class
shivering while trying to do their schoolwork. I always felt guilty wrapped
cozily in a warm sweater. When I first
started the journey, the students were allowed to wear sweatshirts but after using
them to clog toilets, choke staff and other inmates and for self-harming
purposes they took on the nomenclature of dangerous liability and the privilege
of warmth relegated to the past.
Something as
simple as taking my class to the computer lab always turned into a big,
involved production. I had to make a request and wait until staff was available
to escort us the 10 feet. It required being buzzed in and out of both rooms.
The computer lab was similar in design to my classroom with the bulletproof
glass and cinder-block walls, mirroring the same color scheme. I jokingly asked
one time if a gun had ever made it into the secure area and was surprised by
the response. “Yes! Several times.” Eventually
they were recovered during a cell search. Many knives and other contraband
occasionally circumvent the intake process too. “The staff member glibly added,
“You may not be as safe as you think back here.”
Custodial staff
uniforms consisted of jeans, blue-collared polo shirts imprinted with the
justice center logo and sneakers. They also donned the required utility belt
housing mandated items. They were issued embossed navy blue sweatshirts.
Although I was employed by Wenatchee School District, I was operating on the
county owned property of the Justice Center and the inter-agency agreement
between the two entities required me to comply with all rules, regulations and
mandates set forth by Juvenile. Therefore, I was given a dress code which was
similar to staff, but it allowed me the flexibility of not wearing the exact
same thing every day. It made it easy to get ready for work, and I loved the
causal and comfortable attire.
The innards
of the detention edifice were windowless. It was like working underground.
There was no natural light to brighten your day just the oppressive glare of
fluorescent. The minute you set foot in the building, you felt cut off from the
outside world, isolated -- quarantined. There was no stepping out for a breath
of fresh air or the touch of the sun to warm your soul. The fortress seemed
impenetrable. The classroom itself was an anomaly in comparison to its stark
surroundings. It was like an unexpected oasis. It was typical of what you would
see in a “regular” school setting. There were the standard student desks, overflowing
bookshelves, student artwork plastering the walls and motivational posters
purposefully placed. It was bright, cheery, warm, cozy, colorful and most
importantly welcoming and comfortable a direct contrast to the rest of the
monotonous institution decor. The students loved classroom #2. Every one of them,
in some way, had contributed to the ambiance and with ownership came pride.
There is
also the teaching component that needs to be addressed. My coed charges ranged
in age from 8-18. Most of them were academically-behaviorally challenged
requiring serious remedial intervention. Those that still actively enrolled in
school were provided their own work. This last group was the minority. For the
majority I was required to design individualized curriculum based on their
performance levels derived from a battery of tests. Many of my students were in
special education and I was responsible for revising their IEPs (Individualized
Education Program) while they resided in my program. Trying to get parents down
to the juvenile facility for IEP meetings was a nightmare. The average class
size was around 14, but fluctuated on a daily basis. The faces changed
constantly. Some kids were there for two hours before going to court and being
released and others remained for months on end. It was like a revolving door --
round and round, in-and-out, in-and-out. There are also many interruptions to
deal with during school time. Staff is constantly calling for kids to go to
court, or to meet with lawyers and probation officers. More of the in-and-out,
in-and-out syndrome. It is very disruptive and impedes the already questionable
focus of others. All communication is done via the two-way radios. This
frequent chatter is another problematic concertation buster that you learn to
endure.
Upon
departing at night, my morning routine is reversed. I enter the inner office
and secure my two-way radio. I check to make sure my desk, closet, cupboards,
and office door are locked. I then buzz my door, approach the control room,
deposit my keys, and school points sheet in the waiting drawer. I retrace my
footsteps and buzz through three doors, and each time the aftermath of the
banging metal clamor resonates through my body. Finally, out on the street I
take a deep breath of fresh air and remind myself how lucky and thankful that
at the end of the day I am able to regain my freedom and go home to my family.
My students are not as blessed.
The working
environment of a correctional educator is definitely unique. You are constantly
juggling your teaching duties with the safety and security demands dictated by
another agency. It is an extreme sport, of sorts, with danger lurking around
every twist and turn. There is never a dull moment and no two days are ever the
same. It is addicting. How many people can say that after 20 years on a job? In
the end, all I can say is that yes, I would do it all over again in a
heartbeat. I do not regret one moment of that amazing experience. I loved that
job, and it made me a better human being. I was blessed.
A special
thanks to all my students. I will never forget you!
Valerie S.
August 14,
2016
Thank you Valerie for sharing a very interesting and unique teaching position. It surely makes my teaching experience a cake-walk!
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