In trying to decide how to best explain my current situation... I found few answers. So, I'll just start where any good writer would... the beginning.
To best understand where one is, one must know where they've been. A long time ago I was an eighteen year old girl, full of spunk and ready to conquer the world. Now, really that meant I was ready to conquer the immediate world around me, as I was too terrified to leave the twenty mile radius around my hometown.
Therefore, my college years were spent at a small religious college a mere twenty minute car ride from home. There, two profound things happened to me.
My university offered several volunteer groups for students to join. The most popular was "Baby Holding." Once a week, students loaded into the university van and went downtown to hold sick babies. These babies were born drug addicted, some were born HIV positive, and others had serious medical issues. The students who joined this volunteer group rarely lasted more than three weeks. Who could blame them? I knew, without ever boarding that van, that was not the group for me. There was no way I could go, hold a sick baby for a few hours, and come back any better of a person. I'd have come back an emotional mess.
Therefore, I opted to join a group that once a week went to the Cook County Jail to tutor inmates working towards their GED.
Yes, all five foot of my spunk and sass waltzed into the Cook County Jail every Tuesday night for a year. I thought nothing of it. I hardly noticed the dilapidated buildings, dirty streets, and high cement walls surrounding the jail. I could not understand why one of my uncles told me I was nuts when I explained to my family over Thanksgiving break what I'd been doing with my time. And, I became upset that more university students did not join this volunteer group.
A typical Tuesday night went as follows: Approximately seven of us arrived at the jail by six o'clock. It was extremely important to be prompt, as tutoring sessions were held only between certain hours. We went to Division 5 and waited in a hallway with this old ornate stairway that wound up to a (not kidding) dungeon looking door. I'm quite positive both the stairway and door had been there since the jail was built in 1928.
Once that dungeon door was unlocked (with a skeleton key), we stepped inside a waiting area. Everything had to be left there, everything. We were patted down, looked over, and ushered to a seating area. When given the "ok" another old, steel door was unlocked and we were in the jail. We were told to walk only on the thick line painted on the floor. We were told to not move off the line nor to speak to any inmates. We walked past hallways that led to cells. I remember groups of inmates sitting at the end of the hallway, watching tiny television sets, craning their necks to see what people were walking by. The trip down this hallway lasted only a few seconds. It never once made me uncomfortable.
The classroom area was located downstairs. I remember the first time I went, the director went over very specific rules and information. He assured us none of the inmates were considered "dangerous". Most were there for drug offenses and petty theft. They had to apply to be part of the program and had been carefully screened. The director reminded us to not share any personal information with any inmate, other than our first name. Our job while there was strictly to help with any homework they had from their daily classes.
So, that was what we did.
Over the course of that year, I helped two inmates who struggled with their English classes. James was an older guy (and by older I mean he was in his thirties) who had a gruff voice and a low laugh. He told me he'd stolen a car. I didn't really care what he'd done, I just wanted to help him with his homework. That's why I'd joined this group. I wanted to help people who needed it. I longed to encourage people that education could provide them a good life.
It often bothered me that James just wanted to chat. He could talk about anything... television shows, the weather, sports, daydreams, the numerous times he'd been in jail... anything but course work. I was too naive to understand that these tutoring sessions provided James with much more than homework help. They were a gift from "the outside". The only other thing I remember about James was that he once told me he'd rather be there than where he was from. I can still hear his voice saying that. I still wonder how bad where ever his home was that he would rather be at the Cook County Jail.
The other inmate was a young guy named Paris. We were probably very close to the same age. Paris enjoyed flirting with all the female tutors. He was quite charismatic and had the smoothest skin I have ever seen. He was smart, beyond smart. I could not understand why his high school hadn't tracked him into advanced classes. He told me he rarely went to high school.
The school year came to an end, which also meant the end of tutoring sessions. Summer vacation loomed in front of me, where as another day at the Cook County Jail loomed in front of James, Paris, and countless others. I left and proceeded to live my life.
I have no idea what happened to either James or Paris. They've come to mind often over the years. I can only hope that education did, in fact, set them free.
My days as a Cook County Jail tutor helped me to understand the numerous students that would one day share with me their stories of visiting loved ones there. It helped me affirm that education is vital to being a productive citizen. It also opened my eyes and made me realize that the "system" was not perfect.
As for the other profound thing that happened to me in college, well, that is for the next blog.
