I said goodbye to my students at the Juvenile Detention Center last
week (Tuesday). They had a day out from the prison at a local Catholic
University, a day of swimming, exercise, and enjoyment, capped off with
a prayer vigil in the university chapel.
The project is called "Tutores en Acción" (Tutors in Action) de San
Ignacio (our parish). I saw an announcement in a Sunday bulletin last
year that was calling for volunteers to tutor in a prison. It spoke to
me. Who among us is more lost than those that have fallen so far to the
wayside. If there is anybody that needs companionship, tutoring,
mentoring, or somebody to care, it is they. Anyway, I wanted to do it,
but hadn’t the time or the motivation to get off my ass and actually
execute. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, or so the
saying goes.
One Sunday, the sermon was about being ordinary during Ordinary Time
(season of the liturgical year). "Do you want to be ordinary?" was the
call. Hell no, and I signed up. As it turned out the semester was just
beginning on Tuesday, so it was fortuitous.
I ended up with two students, Manuel Nuñez and Juan Luis Rivera,
because there weren’t enough of us to go around. I helped them with
their english (just to do something), but mostly we talked, learning
from each other. I helped give them a perspective outside of the
streets, gangs, and limited opportunities that face them every day in
their ambient. Sometimes when all you see around you is a particular
behavior or life path, it doesn’t seem so bad, rather, it seems right.
It isn’t until you see how other people live, get a bit of perspective,
possibly step outside of your cultural limitations, see new vistas,
that you see how small your life has been… or rather how much bigger
it could be. I think once you take that first step outside of what you
have known, it creates a hunger that never ends. I want to know more. I
want to become more. Basically, we hit that point over and over and
over all semester.
At one point, Manuel got into some trouble with a urine test. Perhaps
he had reverted to drugs, or something, but bascially got caught
switching urine samples. Anyway, he received another 4 months of
encarceration for this. He nearly despaired completely. I noticed a
change in his demeaner, he became more withdrawn, melancholy, angry.
We had a long heart to heart in which he expressed his axiety of being
in this place. "No puedo," (I can’t) he would say, as if to say four
months more would break him. He expressed his anger, his weakness to
become enraged (as one week his black eye confirmed). It was costing
him more time in this purgatorial realm.
"Manuel, you need to stop thinking about the day you leave this place.
You will drive yourself nuts thinking about that year and four months
down the road. Your life is here now, isn’t it."
"Yes," he agreed.
"You can’t think about your life outside of here. Look around, what can
you do with your life right here? You have a year and four months to do
SOMETHING. What is it going to be? Sit on your ass and whine, or make
something of this time?"
"I dunno," he said as if it was the first time he had heard that before.
"Why do you think, Manuel, that this guy dissed you? Do you think he
was frightened or threatened by you? Do you think he had something to
prove to someone else? In either case, he needs something he doesn’t
have. He’s more lost than you are. He’s smaller than you are.
"Maybe…"
"Next time look at him as a tiny little lost child throwing a tantrum.
Try to help him, not maybe in the heat of the moment, but walk away and
then come back later and offer a hand of friendship. Make a project for
yourself. Manuel, there is much to do here. Take some of it upon
yourself."
"I’ll try," he answered skeptically. I didn’t hope for much, but maybe just a tiny bit sunk in.
In subsequent weeks we practiced tranquility, quiet words, peace, calm
in the face of the torment. I related to him my failings with my
temper, and how I should try to reflect more empathy before I lash out
with my words… try to put myself in the shoes of the other. "I fail
frequently," I told him.
"Claro, we can’t be perfect. Everybody fails from time to time," he answered.
"Yes, that’s for sure."