THE DO-SI-DO

Before I tell you how I ended up in the prison gymnasium during a karaoke contest discussing the ass-kicking one of my 7-Block student’s suffered, or why I had to drive a young convicted-murderer into a classroom computer hutch, or why I sought out the 7-Block resident unit manager for an explanation during a prisoner’s lousy rendition of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing,” before all that, before taking entertainment to a whole new level, I should probably give you some type of background information regarding the whole volatile situation that took place in my area of control.

Now that I’m comfortably situated in my temporary living-quarters pounding out the words: Haldol, Mellaril, Prolixin, Thorazine, Seroquel, Lithane, Lithobid, Celexa, Paxil, Zoloft, Adapin, Sinequan and Prozac on my computer keyboard—not because I’m on any of these medications (although I have been accused of refusing to take these type of meds), not because I have dysthymia or bipolar disorder—no, not me—I type these words because a guy from 7-Block bartered his “drugs” for another inmate’s store goods.

So when this here 7-Block prisoner sits himself down near the entrance of my classroom after being absent for well over a month, and a 4-Block prisoner discusses nonpayment with him, it’s only a matter of time before someone gets pieced-up. The 7-Block prisoner takes a punch to his left eye and no matter how hard he tries he somehow gets turned around and can’t find the exit. There isn’t much I can do. I’ve learned that most of the time when you send an inmate to get help they will take that as their cue to leave and not return. And if I leave, I’m thinking the rest of the prisoners might beat the 7-Block prisoner to death and I do not, absolutely absolutely do not want to return to a dead body in my classroom, in my area of control.

Anyway, when the 4-Block inmate tires from pummeling the 7-Block inmate’s face into the condition of a badly bruised tomato and the 7-Block inmate no longer knows where he is, I make my move, I wrap up the aggressor’s arms and shove him into the computer hutch. Not long after that the corrections officers arrive and handcuff both prisoners.

“So,” I say to the 7-Block resident unit manager, “I thought Prisoner D wasn’t going to come to school anymore.”

“I’m no longer in 7-Block,” he replies—all of this while prisoners wait their turn to sing their favorite songs during a karaoke competition.