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hurt. Sure I carry it around, but I use it to help

my kids. Now, I am in no way comparing myself

to the Christ, but at that moment, that’s all I

could think of.” I surprised myself by speaking

these words out loud.

“That’s what I’m taking about,” Garland

continued, “You took that moment to reflect

while everyone else was into the movie. Most

people don’t think that way, but what you have to

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think about in that same sense is once that scene

was over and Christ was nailed to the cross - that

burden was lifted. You need to let that burden

go!” His emphasis and message were clear. I

excused myself to get some laundry. In the

laundry room I wrote down what he had said and

stuffed my notes in my pocket. I returned with a

basket of laundry, and we continued talking as we

folded.

“Man, I’m not comparing myself to you in any

way cuz I was never abused, physically or

sexually, but I was drug through the mud

mentally. My dad left when I was two years old.

My grandmother raised me. I came out here, like

you did, to get away from it all. Then my dad

tried to come back into my life when I was

making a name for myself in football. But then I

ended up not playing ball my junior year in

college because of something my mother did. She

went about her ways and kept on doing her thing.

I was the one that was hurting. I carried a lot of

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anger toward my mother for a lot of years. I went

a whole year without seeing my mom. Sitting

here, I see me in you. We’re just two guys that

had some stuff that went on in the past, and it just

so happened that I was able to lay it to bed, while

you’re still carrying it around. You are not

responsible for these kids in here. You aren’t

responsible for the kids in your classes. You can’t

walk around everyday thinking you have to make

up for the past. You can only do what you can do

in the present to make your own life better, and if

you make other lives better in the process, like

you’re doing, then that’s even better.” He spoke

to me like I speak to my kids, but also like

psychiatrists and counselors had spoken to me for

years, but coming from a peer it came across

more sincerely. His words broke through to me.

Sitting there I felt as if he could see through me

and see the baggage I carried, and he understood.

Our conversation went on like this for hours,

comparing notes with each other about people we

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had hurt and the reckless lifestyles we had lived

before turning our lives around. Tre would

interject here and there, but it was mainly

Garland and me having the most honest

conversation I’d had in a long time. Talking to

him was emotionally exhausting, but I felt

refreshed and energized at the same time. By his

tone and manner, I could tell that Garland

understood what I was saying in a way no other

person had before. My spirit felt renewed, much

like when I left my counselor’s office after our

therapy sessions.

The conversation was somehow more real than a

therapy session because, as we talked all night, we

mopped, cleaned, and folded laundry. Working

side by side with this wise, insightful man made

his words take on more meaning than he could

have imagined. And his words kept coming at me.

There was an urgency in his message to me, just

as there is an urgency in my message to the kids.

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“You don’t owe anyone anything. You can’t walk

around with this burden on your shoulders,

carrying the weight of your past. You have no

one you have to do right by except yourself. I

learned that the hard way, as I’m sure you have

too. I’m sure you know all this stuff I’m saying;

you just have to put it into action. When I put my

anger aside and forgave my people, I decided I

was going to be a positive light for other people.

We all just gotta try to find our way.” His words

rang true in me, and I excused myself again to

run to the bathroom to take more notes.

I never told Garland how much his words meant

to me, or how they changed me. When I emerged

from the bathroom with my pocket full of notes, it

was nearly six in the morning. It was time, I was

told, to get the guys ready for their showers. I had

taken plenty of new detainees for their intake

shower, but I had never done morning showers

before. This experience made me realize that I

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did not have the full understanding of the job that

I had thought I had.

Morning showers consisted of waking up the

block before breakfast to let each detainee take a

shower. Each block had two showers in one large

shower stall located at the top of the block. The

shower stall was separated by a curtain hung

about six feet off the ground and was just large

enough to provide privacy from the person next

to you. There was no privacy from the staff

member assigned to watch. Staff were required to

monitor showers because some kids would not use

soap, others would not use deodorant, some

would stand by the running water but not step

into the shower at all. I discovered all of these

tendencies that first morning.

With Sergeant Henley’s words racing through my

mind, I flipped the light switch at the top of the

block. The florescent lights flickered on, slowly,

but blindingly, illuminating the block. I walked

through the small corridor behind the showers to

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turn the water on. Both showerheads erupted

with loud, powerful streams, as I pulled the ball

valves open. The detainees had no control over

the temperature, pressure, or direction of the

water. The ancient steel door slammed, despite

my best efforts to close it gently. If the water

hadn’t woken the guys, I was sure the echo of the

slamming door had. I was wrong. Being in

Detention for long stretches had made most of

the detainees immune to the noises of the

building, just as the constant noises of the

building had become nothing but white noise to

me. I walked the block announcing “Shower

Time” in a conciliatory tone. The boys woke

wearily and began to sit up on their bunks, as I

made my way back up the block continually

announcing “Shower Time” in my kindest tone.

I opened the first cell, and two half-awake young

men emerged, shivering in their underwear. They

walked up the frigid block in their underwear and

Detention Center-issued flip-flops. One had

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another pair of underwear in his hand, the other

shuffled behind him empty-handed. I greeted

them with a quiet, “Good morning gentlemen,”

and they responded with equal respect. They

stepped forward and undressed before me. I

stepped to the side, trying to give them as much

privacy as was allowed.

Not having been shown how to ready an entire

block of 12 to 18 boys for showers, I did my best.

I brought warm towels straight from the dryer

and hung them on the single wall of bars that

surrounded the shower stall, creating a secondary

curtain between the kids and myself. I placed an

empty clothes hamper on the floor to catch the

used towels. Before each set of guys came to the

showers, I placed a clean towel on the safety rail

on the wall just outside each shower stall, and a

can of spray deodorant just below. In the center

of the showers, I placed a large bottle of lotion.

The lotion and deodorant were normally kept in

the lock box.

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The guys came up the block and showered

quickly and quietly. Some had to be directed to

use soap or deodorant, but before I knew it, I had

completed showers for the first block. Some of the

boys came up the block more awake than others,

and they strolled up the block half-naked, without

any visible sign of self-consciousness. However,

the guys that had been students in school walked

up the block with their heads down and passed

me in conspicuous shame, as our two worlds of

school and Detention collided.

The next block of showers also occurred without

incident, but the kids were more awake, having

been woken by the opening and closing of the

cells on the opposite block. Being more awake,

the guys on the second block thanked me for their

warm towels and for the deodorant and lotion

already being set out for them. Again, the guys

that I had taught in school walked up the block

with their heads down without making eye

contact with me throughout the shower process.

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When the showers were complete, it was time for

breakfast. Another officer and I passed out the

trays of food. The guys started to make the

connection that I had been there since the night

before, and many of them called me crazy for

having been there all night, though many staff

members pulled double shifts frequently. As their

words sank in, Garland’s words worked

themselves deeper into my psyche. While I

walked around collecting their empty breakfast

trays, I gleefully laughed with the guys as they

kidded me for working so much, asking if I had

slept in one of the empty cells. As we joked, the

16-hour shift became a reality.

Descending the stairs, I could hear the buzzing of

the secure doors. Before I could see them, I could

hear the staff of first shift arriving and readying

the morning’s work assignments. I had never seen

Monday morning first shift, and when I did I was

amazed and overwhelmed by their manic furor,

especially that of Officer Bobby Hall Jr. whose

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whirlwind of activity seemed to energize the

whole shift. Everyone was working in unison,

preparing for court, school, transfers and

transports, all experiences I was unfamiliar with.

It was too much to take in with my mind still

trained on my nightlong conversation with

Garland and Tre. Watching the immediacy and

efficiency of the first shift staff brought exhaustion

washing over me, and suddenly I could not get

out of the building fast enough. When at last I

made my way outside, the sun blinded me after

nearly a full day in the dank building. I tramped

to my Jeep and climbed lazily into the seat,

excited to be going home to the comforts of sleep,

relaxation, and later, reflection.

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Debbie, Matthew and I were setting up the

kitchen, eagerly awaiting Bobby’s return. He was

out on a big score. He had excited Debbie with

promises of the money he was going to make, in

addition to his promise that she would not have to

work any more cold nights on the streets.

Everything was laid out in the kitchen to divide

the heroin into smaller, street-ready packages.

The three of us had gone through this process

many times for Bobby to shorten the time it took

to get the dope to the people that would come

over and buy the smaller, yet still large, packages

from him. When the door opened, Bobby strutted

pompously to the kitchen table and sat into the

nearest chair. Dumping the package in the clear

spot on the table, his pleasant attitude changed to

one of irritation. He spread the brick-like bundles

of heroin onto the table, scattering the prepared

scales, powder, and bags onto the floor.

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Something had gone wrong. As Bobby surveyed

the bundles, he became increasingly furious and

began to yell. Something was missing, he said. He

had been shorted a large amount of dope.

Standing up, he sent the cheap wooden chair

crashing against the front door. Stomping to the

phone just a few feet away, he cursed and

threatened Debbie as she tried, in vain, to calm

him. Within seconds of grabbing the phone, he

spewed his rage through clenched teeth at the

person on the other end, some middleman

somewhere. He slammed the phone down and

prowled the kitchen and living room in a

menacing fury. Again Debbie spoke to him,

attempting to calm his temper, but her words

only seemed to further enrage him.

He picked me from the floor and threw me

against the wall. I crumbled to the ground, my

arms and legs splayed out. His fury was unleashed

when he picked up the baseball bat that was

always positioned by the front door. He grabbed

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the bat and bashed my legs, chest, and finally my

head before I was unconscious.

I was blind when I opened my eyes. The glare

from the lights slowly faded, and I could make out

shadowy forms. I heard voices, but I could make

no sense of the words. I felt warm, wet lips against

my ear.

“Can you hear me, honey?” The voice sang,