Why Jack Goes to Prison Every Month

Jack’s weekly guest blog, which he wrote before heading off to Scotland for the annual tour.

I am a member of the Prison Visiting Service (PVS) and I go, once a month, to visit two inmates at Lee Federal Prison. PVS is supported by a wide variety of faith groups as well as ex-prison staff and ex-prisoners. Four of us from the Quaker group that meets in the bookstore are on the PVS team visiting our ‘local’.

When I tell folk that I do this, reactions vary. Some say they couldn’t do it while others ask what it’s like; others don’t even know there is a Federal prison nearby. As for me, I admit I had some misgivings at first. There is rigorous vetting beforehand and a formidable folder of ‘dos and don’ts’ to be absorbed. The place itself is only ten years old and pretty intimidating at first sight, growing more so as you progress past security and deeper towards the visiting room, gates and doors clang-closing behind you.

Normally you visit with your inmates sitting across from each other at a table with little restriction, but sometimes he will be in the Secure Housing Unit (SHU) AKA ‘the hole’. If he’s in the hole then you talk through a plate glass window via a crackly telephone and he’s in handcuffs and leg shackles.

“Why on earth do you do it, you ask?”

Initially because it seemed a charitable thing to do. But having done it for a year now, I’ve been able to think a good deal more about it. I am only now beginning to get a sense of what it’s like to live in that environment and I cannot imagine how I would deal with it. These guys are human beings just like you and me – no, really they are! Some are sad young men who are not violent, just ‘illegal immigrants’ brought here as children, now waiting out their 5 to 8 year sentences before being dumped on the border. Others are in for much longer for serious crimes. It would be easy to categorize them as not-so-bad or very bad, but I resist that, for they are all humans who should be listened to, and that’s why I go.

Let’s call the two I regularly visit ‘Bill and ‘Bob’. Bob has been in for 33 years and (theoretically) is due out in another 14. Bill has been in ten years and has ten to go. Like many Federal prisoners Bill and Bob have no family near enough to visit and would have no-one to talk to from outside if we didn’t go. Yes, they’ve done wrong. Yes, they need to be away from people they could harm. And yes, they need to be listened to, because they’re humans.

Between us we see 8 inmates each month, but there are 11 more on the waiting list and more asking all the time if someone will visit them. Bob and Bill tell me they look forward to the visits – “you’re not staff and you’re not prisoners – you’re just ordinary folks.”

Why do I do it? Because I’m human too.

Surrounded Yet Alone

We saw you at the stop light, and Lexington’s afternoon traffic being what it is, kept pace alongside you for the next two miles. You cried the whole time. Not big heavy tears, but the steady sobbing of someone with nothing left inside.

It’s hard, these moments of human disconnection, when you can clearly see someone in despair, but can’t do anything about it except send up a quick prayer. I don’t know your name, but asking God to comfort “the lady with the blond pageboy in the silver Honda thing” was probably specific enough.

My husband said he hoped your crying was to do with the fender on the front of your car, which looked recently and only slightly crumpled, but he also thought what I did–that you looked as though you’d been weeping for a considerable amount of time. If you’ve lost something–a loved one, a marriage, a job–we hope you find solace as and when you can.

There isn’t much any of us can do in those moments when we’re caught in the cross-hairs of each other’s sight lines, when we see something we know we ought not to be seeing, but at the same time we can’t look away–not so much from voyeurism as the common instinct to comfort a fellow human in need.

In part we wanted to make you happier because we ourselves were so happy: four friends in a car, Jack and me with our Frankfort pals Charles and Mary, Mary and I both newly published authors with books doing well in the charts, on our way to give a signing and book talk at the massive and gorgeous Joseph Beth Bookstore in Lexington Green Mall–a place in which new authors dream of being allowed to sign.

We couldn’t do anything for you, and you never looked ’round. Likely the grief was too deep for you to care that you were being watched. If we had done as Jack suggested and hopped out to knock on your window, ask if you were okay, we probably would have scared the shit out of you. We didn’t want that.

So we left you, crying in your driver’s seat in the madness of the 5:30 Lexington traffic, surrounded by humans encased in steel, and you so utterly alone. We’re sorry, and we hope whatever it is passes quickly.

Sometimes, that’s the best we can do for each other, isn’t it?