. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P A R O L E . C A L L

Our local rehab, recovery and treatment centers recently competed in Olympic-style games. In my opinion, the methamphetamine addicts clearly have an edge over the heroin users, but the crack team is definitely in the running. The guy who smoked too much PCP — he’s off fishing, hates this kind of thing. My student Yvonne brought home the gold in track and field. I thought she was going to run from the community today, she was so wired from the games. I heard we also took some kind of medal in chess. Yes, the recovery games also feature chess.  Some of my students spent time in prison playing chess and they are very good players. Most of my students just went to hang out. One remarked they ran into someone they haven’t seen in many years, also back in treatment.

Several of my students are complaining to me about how messy their roommates are. They have to cohabitate in very small dorm rooms. Why not make cleaning a competition? Who will take the gold in running the vacuum? Or how about a triathlon of vacuuming, dusting and cleaning windows?

On Sundays, I am not at the Rehab. The residents wake up to a sweet roll and coffee at 8am to hold them over till the big Sunday Brunch. They then receive visitors and can do activities such as read, play dominoes, shoot hoops, or watch the game on one of several jumbo flat-screen TVs. Chain gang or Sunday Brunch, there needs to be something in between. Shouldn’t rehabilitation involve more giving back? Break into a house then you have to help build a house for someone else. Steal a car, then you have to repair a hundred potholes. Deal drugs? Plant and tend a community garden. You get the idea. To my students’ credit, they are all required to give volunteer hours at the rehab — kitchen, groundskeeping, cleaning. So at least they’re whipping up those mile-high pancakes themselves.

Sunday Brunch

I love the quirks of my job. For instance there are many things that happen here that simply wouldn’t happen in a regular adult education classroom. I used to teach in a more traditional setting inside of a parole office and there was always a sense of tightened security. It got to the point where my students were occasionally searched and scrutinized without warning. German Shepherd dogs were brought in to sniff for dope. Instead of drug-sniffing dogs, we are likely to be visited by Anthony, a resident here who gives shoulder massages to my students who have been working hard at the computer all day.

Several of my female students wrote letters yesterday that target a painful memory. They told me they were going to read them and burn them the following day as a way to release the pain. All this is part of the process of recovery here. I wonder if they may also be writing about the painful memories they caused others?

Today is Friday and it feels like the week has already left the room. Most of my students are at a handball/basketball tournament, playing against another rehab. It’s the last day of the week in this month and somehow I feel entitled to just relax. On my way to the dining hall to warm up last night’s leftovers for lunch (stuffed red pepper), I saw William sitting on the ground. He was surrounded by at least five staff. One went into the kitchen to get a cold towel for his forehead. I just walked by, didn’t say a thing or ask how he was, like the car accidents on the highway I often ignore. Now I feel bad. Maybe William noticed me breezing by without out a care to his fall. They took him away to have his head examined. I’m sure he will be fine, at least I hope so.

I called Victoria to ask how William was. She said, “When the paramedics came, they assumed the 911 call was for Jensen.” The paramedics had come so many times to rescue Jensen. They were expecting to take him to the hospital again.