Letting Go

For two years behind prison walls I spent as much waking time as was possible in the library. Being surrounded by books was a panacea to counteract the moments of insanity and aggravation that often characterizes prison life. The solitude was a balm to soothe my scarred psyche. When my supervisor dubbed me “Senior Library Clerk” it was a meaningless title that came without any perks or other tangible benefits. I couldn’t have been more proud.

Then it was all over. Library closed.

I transitioned to a position as a clerk in the legal library where I quickly made myself a valued asset. It wasn’t the same. I always felt like I was just filling and killing time. I managed to “sneak” back into the library on occasion to try keeping it in order since as soon as it was shuttered it became a dumping ground for all manner of printed ephemera. Mostly trash. Literally. Despite the fact that the law of the land requires that inmates have access to library materials, it would be over three years before anyone was hired in the position.

New Low

During those three years I endured a number of injustices. Legal, physical, psychological. I experienced levels of pain and despair that I hadn’t felt in many years, and time had largely dulled those recollections. The immediacy of the moment had a catastrophizing effect on me. I felt like blameless Job, King David, Christ on the cross – My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I had largely made it through the worst of my trauma, and with just a few months remaining on my sentence I noticed a change. People were becoming more annoying. That, or I was simply losing grasp of the ability to ignore and let slide all kinds of annoyances.

New Boss, New Opportunity

When I heard that someone had been hired to open the library again, I thought, perhaps a bit arrogantly, that I’d be able to show this new person how things are done. I figured at the very least I could explain how her predecessor and I performed all the minutia of running a library since my supervisor had actually been trained and earned her Master’s Degree in the Library Sciences. (I was tickled to learn that the “Library Sciences” is a real thing.) The new librarian on the other hand was a correctional officer transitioning to the job and not necessarily entirely qualified. Or at least not accredited. I asked certain staff to vouch for me and make an introduction. Working in my library again (and, yes, that’s how I thought of it, as mine) would be reward all it’s own. However it would also have the added benefits of giving me time away from people and making my last chunk of time move more swiftly.

Uninterested

Despite the glowing recommendation and strenuous advising to accept whatever help I offered, she wasn’t interested. As I briefly mentioned a few things about how we had operated the library, some of the difficulties we’d had to negotiate, and offered my assistance in getting it up and running again before I went home, it was obvious to me that she wasn’t listening. She was waiting for me to stop talking so she could say what she wanted. And then she did.

Are you done?

She criticized our filing system, how we labeled and shelved books, how we arranged different book collections. She outlined her plans to revamp the whole system with an air of superiority, as if she were the first librarian in the history of curators to ever imagine implementing these plans and policies. After she had already side-stepped, rebuffed, or ignored my offers of assistance numerous times I didn’t bother to inform her that her plans were naive at best. Her big design included ideas that had already been denied, were contrary to established law, or were a complete waste of time because they didn’t take into consideration the transitory nature of prison. I said nothing. I thanked her for her time and left.

Rankled

This encounter bothered me for days. Her criticisms were unwarranted and came from a lack of understanding about the many hurdles and roadblocks we’d had to negotiate. I took great pride in transforming that library from a dumping ground to a smoothly run operation where books were clean, repaired, labeled properly, and everything was in it’s right place. A place where people came to learn and be lifted, if only momentarily, out of the drudgery of their prison life. In many ways, turning that into what it became was my life’s work up to that point. I could refer to it as a mark that I’d left in this world. To have it dumped on so effortlessly, with seeming callous abandon felt mean and unfair. The more I stewed about it the angrier I got.

What did you say!?

“Who was she to say anything? She doesn’t even know what she’s talking about!” That was my mentality.

After a few days of lost sleep and mental grumblings over her behavior I came to the realization that she was, in her own way, doing exactly what I had done when given the latitude. She was organizing and doing things her own way. I dimly recalled people scoffing at some of the policies my supervisor and I had implemented. The thought dulled the edge of my ire. Then came a revelation. As revelations go it’s actually rather elementary, a no-brainer really, but it rocked me back on my metaphorical heels with all the efficacy of a sucker punch.

Lesson

I would never see my library again. My strong sense of ownership was offended by this notion. I was just under two months from my release date, and it was finally dawning on me with the slowness of a winter’s sunrise that I was actually going home. The day that I had so longed for and daydreamed about was right around the corner and about to become a reality. An actuality. Tangible. This would mean letting go. Learning to let go.

Letting go of my library, my routines, my defenses. My friends who I’d known and seen nearly every day of my life for almost four years. Men who I’d come to think of as family, brothers. Men who I could never again contact, for a period of up to six years in some instances, in accordance with legal mandate or else risk violating the terms of my release and potentially being remanded to prison.

Strange Sensation

It was bizarre. The strangest of sensations. To think that the place which had confined me and restricted my freedom in a thousand ways, both legal and illegal, would hold certain aspects that I would miss when I was gone. I’d hated it for so long, for all it had taken from me or kept me from, but on the precipice of being rid of it forever I knew I’d miss it.

I wouldn’t miss the harassment or the violence and bad food, the confinement and pettiness. But I’d miss people. I’d miss the sense of self-worth that came from being trusted and relied upon and whose opinion was valued. Inside I knew how to navigate prison life and politics, and it was rare when a day passed without someone seeking my input on some legal issue they were wrestling with.

Outside of prison a thousand things baffle me. Even once I’ve gotten answers to my questions I’m often still in a state of confusion. Most recently I was confounded by an automatic paper towel dispenser. I was so accustomed to paper towels being a cherished and hoarded commodity behind prison walls that I was momentarily stupefied by the sudden embarrassment of riches. I could have as many as I wanted. I didn’t know how long to hold my hands, waiting, how much would be sufficient for the job. I ended up with a wad that was much more than I needed. I guess I’m still having trouble letting go.

Parting Insult

I was down to single digit days, and I noticed that the new librarian hadn’t been around in a while. I assumed she was diligently at work in one of the other library collections around the facility that she’d be tasked with maintaining. That wasn’t the case. I was informed by two different staff members that she was no longer the librarian, but had instead become the newest counselor. The consensus was that she had merely used the librarian position as a stepping stone to get the coveted counselor gig that she had wanted all along.

To my knowledge the inmates still have zero access to library materials and current periodicals despite the fact that the law requires the prison to provide inmates with access to these.

I am still learning to let go, but letting go doesn’t include turning a blind eye to injustice.

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