May 11, 2018 -- Thinking for a change
May 11, 2018
I got assigned to a new class. I’ve been trying to get into as many classes as I can before I get out. Problem is there are no classes on this yard. Even the A.A. guys gave up on us. The class I was assigned to is called “Cognitive-Behavioral Curriculum/Thinking For A Change.” It’s one of the few classes that D.O.C. requires inmates to take. It’s their shrug and sigh attempt at rehabilitation.
At first I was excited about it. I thought maybe we’d go to a classroom where a trained professional would come in with lesson plans and all that. Of course not. Our teacher isn’t a teacher; she’s a corrections officer, our COIII counselor — an overworked, underpaid woman who barely speaks English. And our classroom isn’t a classroom; it’s an old storage room with bare walls and a cement floor. Since the electrical sockets don’t have covers on them, the wires stick out of the wall like dead tarantula legs in festive stockings.
During our first class, after we had all taken our seats, she told us that this class was required and if we missed a class there would be disciplinary action, loss of privileges, and phase one for a year. Everyone grumbled. She told us that we were only going to get out of it what we put in.
“But you’re forcing us to be here,” someone pointed out. “If I’m going to get something out of a class, it’s because I want to be there. Not ‘cause you’re threatening me.”
Everyone laughed.
I thought about the old saying of leading a horse to water. She had said we were only going to get out of this class what we put in. While that might be true, I felt it necessary to point out that it goes both ways. We can only get out of a class what they put in, also.
“Do you have training to teach this class?” I asked.
She said that the prison gave her a one day training course.
“One whole day?” I said.
Everyone laughed, again. I saw her cheeks flush. Immediately I regretted asking her. I had embarrassed her, and she was just trying to do her job. I was making it worse.
“I already took this class,” someone else said. She asked the rest of us who had already taken this class. About half the people raised their hands. They had taken it anywhere from one to four times.
She smiled big and told them they get to take it again.
“It’s ‘cause they get a paycheck every time we take it,” said one guy. He had his feet kicked out in front of him, and an arm hooked over the back of the chair.
She said she definitely didn't get a paycheck every time.
“Not you. The prison,” the guy said, waving his hand at the air around him, at the omnipresent enemy.
She asked the guys who had taken the class what they thought about it. The guy next to me sat up. “It’s bullshit.” He tapped the book in his lap, This book is written by a bunch of college professors and doctors who don’t know shit. They never been through the shit I’ve been through. They don’t know my life.”
I thought about the title of the class. Cognitive-Behavioral Curriculum/Thinking For A Change. How condescending can you be? On one side of the title the authors [read: society] employ these Latin-based, cerebral-sounding, champagne-toting, monocle- wearing words, looking down their noses at us. Then there’s a slash — a solid dividing line — where on the other side of the title they offer us simpletons a simple translation in some nice simple working-man words. Thinking for a change. But even in these simple words lies a hidden rib-shot, a witty yet demeaning turn of phrase that insinuates, “Hey stupid, why don’t you try thinking for a change, like us much more intellectually superior people.” I subscribe to the theory that the way you treat someone influences their behavior. If you talk down to people like they’re dumb criminals, they act like dumb criminals just to piss you off: “you think your thinking is so much better than mine? How ‘bout I just rob your ass, Einstein?”
“What about you?” The COIII pointed to a young Mexican man with a pair of headphones around his neck.
“I don’t even know why I’m in this class,” he said. “This book, this class, they try to teach you how to act, and it’s cool if you want to be a part of society. It ain’t going to help me in here. It’s a different world in here, different rules. I’m 14 years in on a 42 year sentence. Is there anything in that book that’s going to change that? I got real problems. This stupid class ain’t going to help fix those. I need help. Real help. You’re supposed to be a counselor, right?”
“Not that kind of counselor,” she said.
He barked a laugh. “Well, I need some real counseling. You don’t give a shit about me. No one does. At the end of the day you go home. I’ve been in here since I was 14, and I’ll be here ‘til I’m 56. And you want me to start thinking for a change? I’m trying not to think at all.”
The class went quiet, but everyone gently nodded their heads, lost in their own thoughts. His anger seemed to reverberate off the walls like a tuning fork.
Pitch perfect.
I got assigned to a new class. I’ve been trying to get into as many classes as I can before I get out. Problem is there are no classes on this yard. Even the A.A. guys gave up on us. The class I was assigned to is called “Cognitive-Behavioral Curriculum/Thinking For A Change.” It’s one of the few classes that D.O.C. requires inmates to take. It’s their shrug and sigh attempt at rehabilitation.
At first I was excited about it. I thought maybe we’d go to a classroom where a trained professional would come in with lesson plans and all that. Of course not. Our teacher isn’t a teacher; she’s a corrections officer, our COIII counselor — an overworked, underpaid woman who barely speaks English. And our classroom isn’t a classroom; it’s an old storage room with bare walls and a cement floor. Since the electrical sockets don’t have covers on them, the wires stick out of the wall like dead tarantula legs in festive stockings.
During our first class, after we had all taken our seats, she told us that this class was required and if we missed a class there would be disciplinary action, loss of privileges, and phase one for a year. Everyone grumbled. She told us that we were only going to get out of it what we put in.
“But you’re forcing us to be here,” someone pointed out. “If I’m going to get something out of a class, it’s because I want to be there. Not ‘cause you’re threatening me.”
Everyone laughed.
I thought about the old saying of leading a horse to water. She had said we were only going to get out of this class what we put in. While that might be true, I felt it necessary to point out that it goes both ways. We can only get out of a class what they put in, also.
“Do you have training to teach this class?” I asked.
She said that the prison gave her a one day training course.
“One whole day?” I said.
Everyone laughed, again. I saw her cheeks flush. Immediately I regretted asking her. I had embarrassed her, and she was just trying to do her job. I was making it worse.
“I already took this class,” someone else said. She asked the rest of us who had already taken this class. About half the people raised their hands. They had taken it anywhere from one to four times.
She smiled big and told them they get to take it again.
“It’s ‘cause they get a paycheck every time we take it,” said one guy. He had his feet kicked out in front of him, and an arm hooked over the back of the chair.
She said she definitely didn't get a paycheck every time.
“Not you. The prison,” the guy said, waving his hand at the air around him, at the omnipresent enemy.
She asked the guys who had taken the class what they thought about it. The guy next to me sat up. “It’s bullshit.” He tapped the book in his lap, This book is written by a bunch of college professors and doctors who don’t know shit. They never been through the shit I’ve been through. They don’t know my life.”
I thought about the title of the class. Cognitive-Behavioral Curriculum/Thinking For A Change. How condescending can you be? On one side of the title the authors [read: society] employ these Latin-based, cerebral-sounding, champagne-toting, monocle- wearing words, looking down their noses at us. Then there’s a slash — a solid dividing line — where on the other side of the title they offer us simpletons a simple translation in some nice simple working-man words. Thinking for a change. But even in these simple words lies a hidden rib-shot, a witty yet demeaning turn of phrase that insinuates, “Hey stupid, why don’t you try thinking for a change, like us much more intellectually superior people.” I subscribe to the theory that the way you treat someone influences their behavior. If you talk down to people like they’re dumb criminals, they act like dumb criminals just to piss you off: “you think your thinking is so much better than mine? How ‘bout I just rob your ass, Einstein?”
“What about you?” The COIII pointed to a young Mexican man with a pair of headphones around his neck.
“I don’t even know why I’m in this class,” he said. “This book, this class, they try to teach you how to act, and it’s cool if you want to be a part of society. It ain’t going to help me in here. It’s a different world in here, different rules. I’m 14 years in on a 42 year sentence. Is there anything in that book that’s going to change that? I got real problems. This stupid class ain’t going to help fix those. I need help. Real help. You’re supposed to be a counselor, right?”
“Not that kind of counselor,” she said.
He barked a laugh. “Well, I need some real counseling. You don’t give a shit about me. No one does. At the end of the day you go home. I’ve been in here since I was 14, and I’ll be here ‘til I’m 56. And you want me to start thinking for a change? I’m trying not to think at all.”
The class went quiet, but everyone gently nodded their heads, lost in their own thoughts. His anger seemed to reverberate off the walls like a tuning fork.
Pitch perfect.
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