Mom's Help Maintain Mental Health

Nearly eleven years ago as I was sitting in the county jail awaiting my eventual transfer to prison, my mother asked me if I was worried about prison. I remember telling her that I was mostly worried about becoming jaded. She asked me what "jaded" meant, so, remembering her sage advice when I asked what a word meant as a child, I told her to look it up in the dictionary. She didn't think I was very funny. 

Since coming to prison, I discovered that the concern I had about becoming jaded (which, by the way, means fatigued by overuse or too much stress) was similar to being what is called "institutionalized." It is common for long-timers to become so adapted to the "norms" of prison that they become, well...normal. For example, prisoners can get so adapted to the routine of chow time that they must be the first out the door. That's institutionalized. Or, prisoners get a new bunkie and expect them to conform exactly to their routines or preferences. That's institutionalized, too. It's also institutionalized to develop general animosity towards authority figures, to expect family to take care of you, to become dependent upon the state, and a host of other examples. 

I've fought hard against becoming institutionalized, and for the most part I think I've been successful. Undoubtedly, though, I'll have to correct some things when I leave prison. So, this week imagine my surprise when I found myself reacting to a situation in a very institutionalized way. New corrections officers have lately been training, which means we have to put up with "green" officers who don't yet understand prison culture. It's rarely a problem, but occasionally these officers take their training a bit far, attempting to assert authority to make a name for themselves. Perhaps you'd understand if I reacted to one of these situations...but I didn't. 

I had followed the herd to the chow hall, waited patiently for my tray of what passes for food, and made my way to my seat. Several officers in training dotted the chow hall landscape, so I expected the usual treatment--"over here!" they'd point, as if I can't figure out on my own where I'm supposed to sit. That's not what I encountered, though. Instead, as I started to sit down, the new officer standing a few feet away said, "How are you doing sir?" My head jerked up, and I found myself glaring at the officer. "Excuse me?!" I asked. I was sure I hadn't heard him right. 

He looked smiling and friendly, and it disarmed me. I've been treated like a human being with dignity by other authority figures in prison, but not usually by officers who didn't know me. And I found myself feeling, well...resentful. How dare this officer be nice to me! Doesn't he know there's a wall of separation between officers and prisoners that's thicker than the wall of separation between church and state? These weren't exactly my thoughts, but they they reflect how I how felt for a few seconds. 

I sat down and began eating, a trace of irritation mixed with perplexity. I wasn't perplexed by the officer's kindness, though. I was perplexed by my reaction to his kindness. And I was irritated with myself. My reaction was the epitome of being institutionalized. I had become jaded. 

Although she no longer tells me to look things up in the dictionary, I'm fortunate to have a mother who challenges me to check these senseless thoughts. What better antidote to the infection of institutionalization? Thanks, Mom!

Happy Mother's Day, to you, and to all the mothers of prisoners. Thanks for keeping us sane.