The room is
empty, devoid of students. Chow in 100 comes early and always during literacy
class. Through the door I watch two female deputies work the tower, a raised
area in the center quad of three large dorms that house thirty women each, and
my classroom. Food carts squeak. Trustees push plastic trays through portals in
locked massive, metal doors. Women wave and mouth verboten greetings through heavy
windows laced with wire mesh. Phones ring. Walkie-talkies squawk. Voices loud
– laughing, scolding, praising, joking.
Fifteen
minutes – “Teacher’s waiting. Hurry-up.”
A wave of
women shuffle in, then another, back to their pencils and pages. Greetings and
gossip, all ages, races, average, normal – dressed in orange, INMATE stamped
on their backs. Each has a story, choices and circumstance – tragic or luck.
Lives pulled from poverty and privilege, sit side-by-side in search of change.
I listen and pray, glad I’m the volunteer and not the judge.
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