Scenes of Prison
58. Being Afraid
I n my last six months before retirement, I met an inmate who frightened me, and that seemed very odd. I’d known many, many inmates in the decades I’d worked inside the prison, and I’d known two inmates who really should have frightened me. They had left our prison, committed heinous crimes, and returned to us on Death Row. I hadn’t been aware of being afraid all those other mornings when I walked into the prison. Was I really afraid all along but in denial? Was I covering it up in my own mind to keep going back day after day? Had I been fooling myself? Some days, I'd even thought that I should be more afraid. Maybe I was missing something. Perhaps there was something wrong with me, deep wounds I refused to acknowledge, unrecognized trauma that festered deep in my unconscious where fear resides, but now, six months from retirement, here was Hankins, and here was real fear. It visited every morning as I walked in, and it nagged at me incessantly throughout the long days before I could go home. Fear is a very uncomfortable companion.
Hankins, the source of my fear, was housed in our Mental Health Unit. He was mentally ill, but I never knew his diagnosis. He was above average in size and strength, and he was distant. If I spoke to him, he didn’t reply. Often, it seemed that he wasn't even listening. He didn’t make eye contact, but his most unnerving feature was his constant movement. He reminded me of a shark, endlessly moving and circling behind me, seemingly watching for an opportunity to attack.
Occasionally, he would suddenly move toward me from behind like he was going to attack me, and at the last moment, he would veer off to one side or the other, and I would be left with a racing heart and a sense of danger that my co-workers dismissed as my overly vivid imagination. They did not experience Hankins in this way. They smiled when I spoke his name. I did not smile when I thought of him.
I tried to be mindful of his location and movements when I worked nearby. I tried to keep large objects between us, like desks and tables. The days passed. My retirement drew closer, and I watched out for Hankins.
Hankins didn’t have friends. He didn’t hang out with anyone. He didn’t speak to other inmates, and they didn’t speak to him. His prowling and his apparent efforts to frighten me could have been explained if he had sought some advantage for himself, like a special privilege he otherwise didn’t deserve. However, he made no effort to press an advantage. It was just his way of being with me, and I couldn't get comfortable with it.
Hankins caused me to think about mental illness and how we dealt with it in our prison. Nearly everyone in the Mental Health Unit was helped by our efforts, so it perplexed me that our elaborate efforts didn’t seem to have any positive effects on Hankins.
Hankins showed no interest in his Baseline or in receiving any of the privileges good behavior could earn for him. Hankins would not be modifying his behavior regardless of the number of checks he received on his Baseline.
More time passed, and my retirement date approached. Not quickly enough, but the day finally arrived.
When I retired, I said goodbye to the Mental Health Unit and to Hankins. I was glad to have helped the mentally ill inmates who lived there, but I was also glad to be free of my daily companion of fear when Hankins was nearby.
Discussion
- If you had been the author’s supervisor, what would you have said or done to help him manage his emotions? Have you had experiences with people who frightened you?
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