Scenes of Prison
31. To Impact Emotional States
E motion and mood are critical features of prison life, and all front-line staff are expected to notice and monitor the emotional states of the inmates in their facilities. It is an ongoing function which staff pursue all day every day. It begins when we wake inmates in the morning for breakfast and notice their moods and their reactions to us when we greet them, and it continues throughout the day. But it isn’t enough just to monitor an emotional state. Front-line staff also need to influence emotional states when we recognize a need to do so. When people are upset, they need to be calmed down. When they are angry, they need to take a step back. When their spirits are low, they need to be raised. When people are perplexed and confused, they need someone to help them clear their minds and understand their challenges. Positively contributing to the emotional states of prisoners is both rewarding and makes our jobs safer and easier. It was something I did every day, and one of my most successful tactics to raise spirits was humor.
I used humor to help inmates manage their emotional states. I told humorous stories every day. I practiced them, and I tried them out on friends and relatives before I used them in the prison.
I used humor so often with inmates that they often seemed to expect it, and they looked forward to it. When I spoke to inmates and said “Have you heard the story about . . .?” I knew I would have their full attention. I also discovered that an inmate who was expecting a humorous story and listening closely would be very compliant, and he would complete any request that I made of him without resistance or delay, for example, completing a strip search. He was compliant because he didn’t want to interfere with the telling of the story by arguing with me. He wanted a good laugh, and he wanted to know how it ended.
In thirty-five years, I told a lot of humorous stories. A few that I remember will make you laugh, and they will make inmates laugh if you repeat them. Here are a few.
Once upon a time, two young men sat close together at the defendant’s table in a county courtroom. They were standing trial for an armed robbery, but their attorney insisted they hadn’t done it. A witness to the robbery was on the stand being questioned by the prosecuting attorney.
“Were you present at the time of the robbery?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
“And you witnessed the robbery?” he asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“Other witnesses have said that two men are responsible for this crime. Did you see two men carrying out this robbery?”
“Yes, I did.”
With a grand, slow turn and a few steps, the prosecutor moved until he stood directly in front of the two young men at the defendant’s table. He raised his right arm and addressed the entire courtroom. In a booming voice, he said “Are those two men present in this courtroom today?”
There was a dramatic pause. No one spoke. The two young men, with their heads lowered, glanced at each other. Then, slowly, they raised their hands.
A story from the life of Olaf and Olga:
One day, Olaf became very sick, and Olga took him to the doctor. When the doctor had finished examining him, he asked Olaf to step into the waiting room. He wanted to speak to Olga alone.
“Olga,” he began, “your dear Olaf is very ill. He may die, but you can save him. He needs special care. He needs home-cooked meals three times a day. He needs soft clothing against his skin. You’ll need to iron all his clothes, even his underwear. And he needs lots of lovin’. You’ll need to give him lovin’ whenever he wants it. Olga, Olaf’s life is in your hands. I know you can do this.”
Olga thanked the doctor, and slowly, thoughtfully went to the waiting room. She found Olaf nervously watching as she approached.
“Olga, Olga, what did the doctor say,” he asked. “Will I get well?”
“Olaf,” she said softly, sitting beside him and holding his hand.
“You’re going to die.”
One day, Jasmine and Sylvia were playing in the backyard of their house when their big old mongrel dog, Cassidy, loped into the yard to join them. Cassidy had been in Miss Frank’s backyard next door, and, to their horror, they saw that Cassidy had something big, furry, and black locked in his jaws shaking it vigorously back and forth.
The girls caught up with Cassidy, and they recovered the black, furry, and now very still body of Miss Frank’s much-loved, loppy eared, pet rabbit, Fluffy.
“Oh, no,” they both said together. “What are we going to do?”
“Mom will know,” offered Sylvia, and off they went to report Cassidy’s crime.
Their mother listened to the story and examined the corpse.
“Does Miss Frank know what’s happened to Fluffy?” she asked.
The girls had seen Miss Frank leave earlier, and they hadn’t seen her return. They reported this to their mother.
“Good,” said the mother, and she started issuing instructions. They all got to work. Fluffy got a bath and a good brushing. If he hadn’t been dead, he would have looked pretty good.
“Now, go and put Fluffy back in his hutch, and make him look like he is just taking a little nap,” she said. “She’ll think he died peacefully of natural causes.”
The girls followed these instructions, and then they waited for Miss Frank to return. When she did, they watched to see what she would do. They didn’t have to wait very long.
Miss Frank looked at the hutch as soon as she stepped out of her car, and she saw that Fluffy was inside. She went immediately into the backyard, still staring at Fluffy, and she stopped halfway to the hutch, and let out a blood-chilling scream. Neighbors poured into the backyard asking what had happened, and could they help. Miss Frank pointed to the hutch with Fluffy inside.
“It’s Fa Fa Fluffy,” she cried, stammering to find her words.
The girls’ mother had joined the neighbors trying to console Miss Frank, and she spoke up now.
“It’s all right, Miss Frank,” she said. “Sometimes rabbits just die.”
“I know,” stammered Miss Frank as she pointed a trembling hand at a newly dug patch of dirt nearby. “Fluffy died two days ago, and I buried him right there.”
Jake Smiley was a little worried as he stepped into his garden one cold April morning. He carried a spade and a sack of seed potatoes, and he hoped to plant them by lunch. He looked at the cold, wet, hard, dirt, and he had some doubts that he would be able to dig in it. After a few trials, he gathered his tools, went inside, and wrote a letter to his son.
“Dear Arnold,” it began. “I tried to plant the potatoes this morning, but I’m afraid the job has gotten away from me. I’m just too old. I know you would help if you weren’t locked up. I’m looking forward to your release, so I can get the garden going again. Maybe next year. Love, Dad”
Several days later, Jake noticed some unusual activity outside in front of his house. First one police car, then another, then another, then a State Patrol truck, then a K-9 SUV with an eager German shepherd inside pacing back and forth slowly drove by. Soon, they had all pulled up near his house, and they parked up and down the block. On a cue, they assembled in front of his house, and everyone had a shovel. They all went into his backyard, and they set to work digging up the whole garden. They didn’t miss a spot. By early afternoon, they’d finished their work and were all gone. Jake went into the backyard and was surveying the scene when he noticed that the mail had arrived, so he went out to the mailbox and found a letter from his son Arnold.
“Dear Dad,” it began. “Do not dig in the garden! That’s where I buried the bodies! Your loving son, Arnold.”
Jake smiled as he read it. Now he knew why the police had dug up his garden, and he would be able to plant his potatoes after all. He sat down and jotted a note to his son.
“Thanks, son,” it said. “I should have known you’d find a way to help me get these potatoes in the ground. Love, Dad”
Discussion
- Do you ever feel a responsibility to manage the moods of others? Is that what we do when we raise children?
- Is it part of a marital relationship?
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