Sunday Morning
E-Mail   by Russell Day   Bio/Address

    It's shortly before nine in the morning. The snitches and child molesters gather at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the chaplain and outside volunteers to come inside the walls. At the top of the stairs is a locked door. A guard stands there smoking a cigarette. He's overseeing the services this morning. The door leads to the Education Department. In the back is a set of swinging doors which opens into a chapel with its podium, pews and hanging cross. To the right, off in the corner, a mobile chalkboard stands, Biblical scripture written out in chalk. During the week this chapel doubles as a classroom.
    Outside where the inmates wait, a light drizzle has started this morning. It's cold and damp. People are eager to get inside. It'll be another five minutes before the ministers from the streets come roving in. The intercom blares into life, announcing Sunday services have begun. Those attending already wait in the damp air. There'll be a few more stragglers from the yard, from the blocks, but not many. Out of four-hundred inmates about twenty attend. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends on what else is happening that day.
    Child molesters and snitches are the most despised people in prison. Crimes against children are seen as the most despicable of offenses. Many men here were victimized as children, or have children of their own. The everlasting scars such acts leave on a child are difficult for anyone to tolerate. Me, I have to look at it a bit differently. These people deeply injured a child, but I wiped out a life all together. What right do I have to condemn them? We all fall short of perfection. I find myself asking what right any of us have to condemn anyone.
    Snitches, well, the dislike for them runs just as deep. The mind set is that we're all in this together, that you don't make it harder by turning somebody over. It goes back to the honor-amongst-thieves thing, a concept that escapes me as there's no honor in crime to begin with. I stay away from drugs and gambling, and all such prison scenes that can get me in trouble. Snitches aren't a threat to me, but they are to many people. Most guys can't figure out why I look at things the way I do. Most of it is because I don't want to think like a prisoner, but also because I've made terrible mistakes too. I don't want my entire life judged on those mistakes so I try not to judge other peoples' either.
    Child molesters and snitches are harassed and tormented constantly. They're terrorized and outcast from every sector and group of the prison population.   They never get a day's rest. I look out the barred window and see them ascend the stairs, mingling and interacting with the handful of volunteers. It appears pleasant enough, but I can't help but feel troubled that these men make up the majority of that crowd. I know drug dealers, arsonists and burglars who believe in God. Why don't they go to services? Because prison is like any other social order. Nobody wants anything to do with the outcasts.
    Churches, chapels and cathedrals have always been known as safe havens, places where one can feel under the protective care of the Divine. Those who detest the molesters and snitches don't go as to do so would invite conflict within this haven. Some inner part of themselves tells them to respect this and stay away. For those who attend, it's a moment of peace, one morning once a week where they can sigh and not feel threatened. The chapel is their haven away from this man-made hell.
    This afternoon I'll be down to the yard. I'll see some of the guys who attended the morning service. They'll be clustered in isolated groups of three or four. I won't approach them, but I won't harass them either. Every other word out of their mouths will be vulgar, a false front of strength to keep others at bay. They'll talk about the porn star who was on the Jerry Springer show last night. They'll talk about sports, the war in Kosovo or their old days doing drugs. They'll talk about anything but the service that morning. I can't help but wonder if they missed the point. Many of them have been baptized, but only a very few really know their God. I wonder if any of them came a step closer to the convictions they profess. Then I think of all the churches I attended on the streets, of how so many people were unchanged once they left the comfort of these havens. How much value do we place in our convictions? How many people only seek out God on Sunday morning?
    A friend walks up as I stare out the window. "You know that fag that lives next to me," he asks, "He made a pass at me yesterday."
    "Did you knock him out?"
    "Nah. I just told him to beat feet."
    "I would've knocked him out," I reply. The comment just hangs in the air.  It's a typical prison exchange. It's the very mind set I seek to avoid, but here it is from my lips. Nobody wants to be separate from the society they live in, even when that society gets as ugly as those in prisons. It's a dead kind of existence, and it's a hard thing to overcome when all you want to do is live. Snitch, fag, child molester, what's the difference? Each is a judgment to knock the other man down, but that's how prison works. Everyone gets knocked down. It's a matter of whether you can get back up or not. Standing there, a steady rain has begun as hymns resonate across the way from the chapel. I think of my own Higher Power, my personal convictions, and can only question how much value I place in them.

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