try, try again

Realizing that you're sitting in a puddle of blood is always a bit dramatic. When you're pregnant, it’s especially dramatic. When you're pregnant with someone else’s child, it's a valid reason for a panic attack. 

The student in front of me droned on about the short story he was writing, and I bit my lip and nodded agreeably, trying to focus on his words through the adrenaline and the pain and the need to make a plan.

Half an eternity later, he smiled and stood up, and I fled from the classroom.

Teaching in prison puts you in the awkward position of often witnessing the kind of inhumanity most people have only ever imagined. Hostility flows freely between officers and inmates, and the “us versus them” line is etched deep in the sand. As a civilian who sees her students as human and full of potential, I often get lumped in the category of “lesser others” by officers, officers who make it clear that I am a guest in their house and that it’s only by their grace that I’m allowed to teach writing and instill passion and cultivate relationships. 

“Can you call me an escort?” I asked the school officer quietly.

“Sure, sure.” She was mildly dismissive but not unfriendly. “You are not feeling well?” she asked conversationally in her thick accent.

I leaned toward her, my voice low. “I think I’m having a miscarriage.”

Her eyes widened and sympathy came into them. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Do you need something? Here. Do you want this seat? I will call right now.”

I went back to the classroom to gather my supplies, offered an explanation to the next student waiting to meet with me, and hurried back to the officer’s desk. 

While I stood waiting, shaking, the student passed word to his classmates, who all offered sad, encouraging smiles as they filed down the hall. One met my eyes and put his fist over his heart, his face somber, his eyes full of pain and love. 

I expected nothing less. I had known some of these men since their first semester and we’d grown with the program together. I blinked and swallowed and steadied myself on the edge of the desk.

When my escort arrived, we climbed the stairs into the fresh air and the bustle of the rest of the prison. He asked if I was all right and I mumbled that I was having a miscarriage. 

I strode up the walkway with big, fast steps, desperate to get out of there and to my car, to my phone, to people who would understand and soothe me and cry with me.

“Hey.” The officer’s voice was firm, but disarmingly gentle. “I don’t have anywhere to be. Take your time.”

I nodded but didn’t slow down. I had to get out of there. I had to get to the doctor. I had to call my mom. I had to tell Joe and Alex. 

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my back. “It’s okay.”

I exhaled and slowed and almost lost it right there. It was not okay. 

But his protection and compassion passed from his hand into my heart. I stopped shaking. I stopped racing for a way out.

His voice was soft when he spoke again, not just in volume but in another way. “My wife and I just started fertility treatments,” he said, slowly taking his hand back. “I know how you feel. I really do. I’m so sorry.”

Time slowed down. My panic faded as solidarity and sorrow took over. 

I drew another breath and nodded. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I, um, I’m a surrogate, actually. It wasn’t mine. I was carrying it for friends. They’ve had...fertility issues...of their own.” I paused. “The worst part is that I have to tell them.”

He said nothing.

He was probably thinking of what a weirdo I was. Maybe even regretting that he'd opened up to me. My mind started to speed up again, and I made a list of the calls I would have to make from the parking lot. There would be panic and frustration and tears. So many tears. 

His voice was quiet when he spoke again, almost enough to disguise it cracking at the end. “That’s—that’s beautiful.”

I looked over. I might have imagined the gleam in his eye but I’ll never be sure. 

I have never felt love from a corrections officer. I’ve been doing this for eight years and I can say that unequivocally and without hesitation. Kindness, sure. And honestly, it’s not even all that rare. But friendly conversation and occasional jocularity are as good as it ever gets. And the division between us is always there, too. The “otherness.” The feeling that I am, at best, someone to tolerate.

But solidarity? Compassion?

I don’t even know his name and I’m not sure I’d remember his face. But that moment--the hand on my back and his broken voice—they got me through that ugly day, and reminded me that there are always glimmers of light in even the darkest places.