by Louweeze

Created on: September 08, 2009   Last Updated: September 09, 2009

The 8" x 10" thick acrylic window is all that separates me from this dark soul gone astray. Where did we fail this individual; a question asked every day by those working in a profession replete in lost lives and deep depression, on both sides of the fence. And the grass isn't green on either side. Where's the fix, the solution? I know there isn't one. There is no clear answer. That knowledge begins to tear at my fragile coating of safety. This caged creature that I must babysit for 10 hours butts heads with a system set up to ensure his failure.

The sergeant in charge of our officer training class two years earlier told us that they were all "sons 'a bitches," even below the lowest of animals, and that not one deserved any thought on our part, completely unworthy of any consideration. My responsibility, once I stepped on any state prison property, was to do everything in my power to maintain control of my assigned area, and in the small possibility that I lose a measure of it, my immediate goal then is protecting my fellow officers; after that, and only then, self-preservation. Each time a heavy metal door slams shut behind me, I lose a small iota of that control, my own freedom inhibited, yet I steal from some inner reserves somewhere to prepare myself for the night's briefing. After our duty assignments and a brief update on the status of the unit during the previous shift, we collect our "tools" - radio and keys, and proceed in small groups through a series of locked gates and fenced-in passage ways. Strategically positioned cameras record our arrival, the yard activities during shift, and in the morning 10 hours later, our departure.

Also an irony is that my small cramped workspace is called a "control room," an area no larger than a standard bathroom centered between two pods each angled at 90 degrees from the other, and each containing bunk areas housing 33 inmates. They are all identical in the seven different units that encircle the yard, which is split into two by a razor-wired 25 foot high fence.

As I enter a different unit each night I am presented with a different set of society's problem "children" within its walls. No matter that many of them seem asleep, the darkness hides clandestine activity. I do not leave my assigned control room for the duration, except to perform two head counts - a walk down each pod. On an hourly basis, one of the yard officers does a check of each "house," walking down each pod counting heads, and I note the time of

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