A Col. Major and a warden are patrolling the D.O.C. educational hall. First they hit the chapel, toss and take random petty little shit. Then the law library, then our main library. The Col. doesn’t even give my boss the decent courtesy of a polite word or warning. Instead the prick starts going through her cabinets willy-nilly. He opens her frig, pries through the drawers by her desk and takes off his “trooper hat” to stick his head in a cupboard and peer up at the shelves. The guy takes Styrofoam cups, plastic silverware and a small box-load of other things. All of it has been approved previously, however it seems the rules here are subject to change on a whim or with the wind.

The good warden tells my boss, a 63-year old southern gal, “Well, Ms. Leahy, you’ve managed to create an oasis in the middle of a prison.” Her dry monotone carries the thinly veiled contempt of her words through the office door and into the library. Ms. Leahy looks struck, as if slapped by the utter disdain that permeates the air of this short dark-haired warden in a pantsuit.

I watch from across the room as the two women converse. My boss had all the strength and intimidation of a field rabbit being backed down by a pack of dogs. The lady warden continues the peppering of accusatory questions fired like so much buckshot. Ms. Leahy withers under the fire. I am still standing far off at this point, only able to make out bits and snippets of conversation. Yet the body language speaks volumes. The Major and Col. stand tall and to the sides, behind their boss. All the dark colored uniforms and similarities in stance can’t help but conjure a gestapo unit.

I watch my boss, this sweet little old country lady, defend herself. She is doing little if anything. In fact, her posture and red rimmed eyes shining behind her glasses like blood in the air. The two uniformed dogs seem to sense it, stand taller and prowl the office. They finger through papers and push supplies to the side as if still searching for something. Their blank faces coupled with their almost flippant attitude suggest otherwise. I faintly hear something mentioned about the plants by the warden. She doesn’t like that they rest in pots on the tables.

Plants are visible everywhere. They’re on the shelves, in the windows, hanging from ceiling hooks in the office and even from the barred window on the fire exit door in the back. (The door leads to a fenced-in grass patio to nowhere. Were there ever a fire from which to escape and should we be forced to that patio, it is so close to the building we’d probably cook.) Point is the plants paint a green lively brush against the institutional canvas. The air even smells a certain way, like a greenhouse or an open field, especially after a watering. The library serves as a soothing balm to the irritating and coarse. For most patrons, the place serves as a sanctuary. That library gives a 90-minute reprieve of serene silence in stark contrast to the echoing chaos of the concrete and steel pods.

With the “healing environment” motto that recent administration heads had declared policy, one would hope for a change. Yet the same shift would be a cynical one, as their words prove to be nothing more than propaganda. Words on a report made to look like progress, their courageous change is a paper lion.

This thought hits me as a single wave, and I clench my fists as I grit my teeth, bracing against the helpless frustration of it all. I hear my boss say, “well everything here has been approved and cleared through all of the proper channels.” If you have the sense for it you can hear the alarm and rising panic creeping into her voice. The warden coldly replies, “well that is subject to change.” It’s like they’re twisting everything into a rope to hang us by.

By the time the gestapo leave, Ms. Leahy is reduced to tears. I watch from across the bookshelves as she plops down into her chair and sobs once. I wonder how people in their position could be so cold, so callous. I am baffled by their indifference, and shocked at the levels of their hypocrisy. Those so-called authorities have the unique position to change men’s lives. They have the power to shape and change into something else the blunt stone that many are reduced to here. What they teach is resentment of authority. Mistrust and anger are your garments to be worn, or it seems to be the way they’d have it. Or worse still, they show how to bully another person. How power and might make right. In a place of corrections, how can that be the way?

This is above my pay grade and my status. I am just a prisoner with mild eloquence and an observant eye. Maybe one day I can do something about it. Maybe not. Only time and trial will tell. Hopefully, I won’t be eaten by anger or devoured by rage and resentment. I hpe tha I can get past the cynical thoughts that hang around my neck.