In doing risk assessments on inmates the "why" can go on forever. When you don't have access to infinite data from an individuals past, it is difficult to make any kind of exacting conclusions. Self-reporting by an inmate versus prison records is a wholly limited view that can and usually is; askew.

It is incredibly unfortunate, in my opinion; that alot of the people that contribute to the information in an inmates file were not qualified to make the assessments that are there.

For example; an inmates disciplinary history while incarcerated is subjective to the officers and staff involved in an incident and those making the report. There is an incredible amount of bias involved being made by people with a very limited amount of education and perspective.

I have found that in doing risk assessments alot of what you read in inmate files has to be taken with this grain of salt, so to speak. An inmates interpretation of a sanction placed on them for bad behavior versus what an officer's statement; who may be right out of the academy is just about worthless.

Then there is the situation in Alabama which is currently under a legal microscope for cruel and unusual punishment towards the state's inmate population. https://share.google/mIcjkCJKQNlnHLt8N Where you have officers that have repeated charges of excessive force and inmate deaths.

These same officers with state lawyers defending them and in some cases being shuffled from one prison to another and even being promoted contribute to these files.

uses the Ohio risk assessment system, otherwise known as ORAS https://share.google/L7Ku2tTAXVORwFJry ,to do risk assessments. It relies heavily on self-reporting by inmates. As well as disciplinary records of an inmate. It requires certification of the assessor and to use discernment in these records. The class they offer consists of three days of an instructor explaining what the answers should be. With a fourth day of testing.

In self-reporting by inmates you have just as much conflicting information of what's an interpretation versus what is fact. What is manipulation and what is a credible re-telling of an event. Self-reporting; in general has always been problematic. Alwan NA. The Stigma of self-report in health research: Time to reconsider what counts as "Objective". PLOS Glob Public Health. 2026 Jan 28;6(1):e0005521. doi: 10.1371/journal.pgph.0005521. PMID: 41604362; PMCID: PMC12851462.Take it into a population that may be criminal and your at risk of incredible creative histrionics. Getting to the bottom of an inmates "problem" so that you can determine what treatment they need...Well let's just say that in the criminal justice system it is not an exact science.

A whole lot of underpaid, uneducated, biased, coercive, manipulative, and mental health between inmates and staff alike are making very consequential decisions.

Looking at my own experience of the way I was treated during the first prison I worked at leads me to be very concerned of what my "file" would contain.

I have found that more than most of the administration had great difficulty separating how they handled staff versus inmates. The tactics or strategies that you use to deal with a criminal are not the same as those you use with a person that has average judgement and no criminal background.

In other words, you don't generally assume the average person is lying or trying to con you. Just as the average person takes into consideration what they have seen in someone's character, versus what someone else may have tried to persuade them into believing to further their own agenda. Such as the case of my boss who was charged with sexual harassment. Who in turn told everyone that I disliked him purely because I was "a racist."

I would hate for that 'file' to be the sole decider on my judgement day anymore than an inmate would want their file used to determine parole.

If there is to be 'justice' in criminal justice then you would have to start with a total overhaul in hiring practices and equivalent pay. Which in itself would be a very good start but, a very oversimplified solution.

Speaking of oversimplified...the number one most common response that I see when you speak to the average person about the problems in prison is: " if you don't like it, don't commit a crime." This dismissive way of assuming all inmates are guilty is 1) indicative of a person who justifies their own mistakes as insignificant to the totality of another's. And 2) representative of someone who dismisses external judgement on the basis that they are "a good person."

I think if more people have had the experience of being falsely accused or arrested in the U.S.A. this reaction would be very different. I personally am very aware that it happens way more in 2026 than it used to.

If you look into the history of crime and punishment to the days of repenting for your sin, solitary confinement, incarceration in the hulls of ships, to its rehabilitative period versus now...you will find that it has shifted backwards.

Today's ICE objectives with its brownshirt tactics and 1940's type concentration camps is a direction that all citizens should be fearful of and putting a stop to. Because if you haven't committed a crime, you may just do the time anyways if someone thinks you are unworthy of freedom by their own estimation.

With the system being what it is today, you may not want to be found guilty by a jury of your "peers" or an extremely corrupt system that either doesnt like the way you look, your politics, or your lifestyle.

In my experience 99% of inmates will say they are innocent, or at the very least don't deserve the sanctions they've received. Would you want to be the one who decides their fate? -Thank you for reading my series.

I started experiencing balance issues especially when using peripheral vision. Driving and walking, when looking left or right. I noticed that I would veer sideways slightly. Falling off the curb so to speak. As days past the symptoms worsened.

I noticed that I was very easily distracted by lights, sound, and movement. Driving at night was impossible. Car lights coming towards me were blinding. It wasn't just single headlights, it was an aura of lights.

Then I started having great difficulty focusing on details and forgetting what I was saying or thinking about. It all came on gradually, but once the symptom was there; combined with others...thing became very confusing. I had never experienced anything like this before. I went to a neurologist and he sent me to be checked for meneires disease. Which of course I didn't have.

Then the Doctor sent me to balance therapy. When I got there I noticed that almost all the other patients were in their 80's. They strapped me on to a line that was connected to a pulley system that went across the room. Then guided me through obstacles.

An exercise that most people could do blindfolded was extremely difficult. Certain movements made me crash to the left or right followed by severe nausea. I would lose vision as I had to close my eyes to correct the dizziness.

It was clear to me very quickly that working in the prison was going to be very problematic. You have to be able to observe that which is going on around you at all times. I didnt tell anyone at work what was happening to me. I just kept hoping that the symptoms would subside.

The neurologist eventually gave me a diagnosis of post-concussion syndrome, or PCS. He told me that it will either get better or it won't. In researching it I found a documentary called "I AM." It was a film about a man who had PCS. While he was enduring it, he had many profound life changes and questions that led him on a unique journey. The film was very helpful to me as it gave me hope.

I continued to go to work but minimized walking around as much as possible. Some staff apparently witnessed my struggles; as I was drug tested several times. No one asked me what was going on. This was very typical of my experiences there.

I started receiving hang-up calls on my home phone, it was odd. I would pick-up and say hello and there was a long pause and then a click. It was always on my landlines and not on my cell phone.

One afternoon I came home to a handwritten letter in my mailbox. I didn't recognize the return name on it. I opened it and inside was a one-page handwritten letter that said "I know where you live." I gasped and continued to read..."My family has a trailer through the woods behind your house. I know the trail from it to your house. I used to hunt back there when I was a kid. When I get home I'm going to walk that trail and watch you through your windows. Then I'm going to make you mine. I can't wait to see you again."

Terrified is the only description I can give. I had no idea who this person was, other than an inmate. Or someone pretending to be an inmate. Mail from a prison is usually stamped with the facility it came from. This letter did not have a stamp.

I had a male roommate and I shared the letter with him. He and I went for a walk on the trails in the woods behind my house. We found that one of the paths did indeed lead to a trailer in another subdivision.

My roommate was a security guard and was always armed. He knew about the inmate that lived next door and now the letter. I told him about the hang-up calls. He also knew about the officer that had followed me on several occasions. He became very protective towards me and was constantly checking in on me.

We talked about the fact that this could have something to do with officers and inmates thinking that I knew who was smuggling suboxone into the prison. I thought that was a stretch. He thought they were definitely linked.

Thanks for reading, stay tuned.

Maybe it was just to create a paper trail in case something needed tracking. However, I had spent so much time in offices being reprimanded and gaslit by my boss I didn't trust that anyone was looking out for my best interest.

With the exception of Montgomery. Drug treatment and mental health directors knew exactly how I was being treated, and seemingly had my back. So I did not report that I was being followed locally. Reporting an officer of misconduct is like putting a target on your back.

The very people that were supposed to be looking out for my safety had become the people I was most concerned about. It is to be expected that every inmate is potentially dangerous. It seemed though that as a female AND an advocate for rehabilitating inmates I was a target anyways.

As if I was somehow messing with their(ADOC), bread and butter by keeping inmates in line. Helping them improve their lives somehow became me being an "inmate lover." I was always happy to have "eyes on me" staff wise, but it had gone from protection to something else.

In their infinite wisdom admin. decided that if Montgomery had me writing a new curriculum; that I needed a classroom for it. They chose an unused storage area that was back behind the honor dorm. This building was in the furthest back corner of the prison.

When they sent me back there to look at it I had an officer with me. I noted that it didn't have cameras inside or out. The officer stated they would install them. I also noted that the area was not in view of the tower. There were two rooms and a bathroom back there. It was wall to wall and to the ceiling with file boxes.

The next day I made my concerns known to admin. and they told me to start moving the files out on carts. I should've been excited that they wanted to give me a place of my own to do my work. It didn't feel like that though. It felt like a set-up. Working in these environments can make one paranoid. So I was always challenging myself to what was reality.

I sent an email to Montgomery to update them on the current events on a Friday. The following Monday admin. put an immediate halt on my moving files and gave me an office, basically a closet, in admin. to continue working on my curriculum. No one told me why, and no one from Montgomery emailed me back.

One afternoon as I was walking to re-entry to teach a class I noticed that an inmate who had been in my SAP class, was handcuffed outside of the shift office. Beside him was a cart with totes that were filled with snacks. He nodded at me with a look of foreboding.

I thought on this for hours. This was the same inmate that had admitted to being under the influence of suboxone in SAP. I remembered that day vividly. The day when my clerk told me about suboxone being smuggled in and families being exploited to pay debts.

No matter how much I tried to mind my own business and ignore things I was not a part of, thing kept coming my way. I felt like I couldn't win for losing. A feeling of dread hit me every morning when I would wake and prepare for another day at work. Outside of writing a curriculum there was very little that I looked forward to. Spending the weekends with my kids was my biggest respite, and they were teenagers...so that should tell you something.

It's not at all unusual as a female to feel like you are being watched everywhere you go in a prison, you are. When it follows you home is another story. That Saturday I went to a nearby low-budget market. It had been raining when I went in. When I went to leave I noticed that the car belonging to the officer who had followed me weeks before was two cars away from mine.

I unloaded my purchases and headed out. The roads were wet but, the sun had come out. Steam was rising off the road as the hot sun beat down drying up the cool rain that had appeared randomly. The humidity was intense and not uncommon in Alabama. My windows fogged up when I turned on the AC.

I sat at a traffic light waiting for the light to change. I looked in my rear view mirror and there he was. The same officer behind me again. He looked down and seemed to be avoiding my gaze in the mirror. The light changed and I sped forward driving much faster than I should on a wet road with the sun boiling the rain and oils on the road.

I looked in the mirror again to see if he was keeping up. Just as I looked back to the road ahead of me the cars in front of me had all stopped. I slammed on the brakes and my car slid sideways. I corrected it but had no time to avoid a collision. I braced myself for the hit.

I was going at least 35 mph and hit my head on the steering wheel. My knees slammed into the dash. The car came to a stop and I sat there in a daze. I don't recall much after that, but the ambulance ride.

Thank you for reading my series. Stay tuned.

Personnel took my report about my new neighbor and advised me that there was nothing I could do about it. I already knew that, but it had to be reported nonetheless.

That afternoon when I got home, I went to the backyard to fix Coal’s run. I pulled with all my strength on the wrought-iron shepherds hook that coal had bent over. When I did, the hook turned with shocking speed in my hand and hit me in the left temple with such force it knocked me out.

I am not entirely certain how long I was laid out in the yard. When I came to I was dizzy and had a massive welt on the side of my head. I went inside and looked in a mirror. The welt was already black and blue and was affecting my vision on that side.

I drove myself to the ER. They said I had a concussion and treated me for the headache. They sent me home and I took a couple of days off. I felt very foolish for causing myself such an injury. It was not my first concussion. I’ve had several as I’m not very wise when it comes to taking risks.

I returned to work with a bruise still visible. Of course this caused great speculation amongst the inmates. One thing I can certainly say about a men’s prison when it comes to gossip… they’re worse then women ever thought of being. Words spread like wildfire there. I could say something at one end of the camp, and in the time it took me to walk to the other end-it would already be there. Twisted like the telephone game.

There was an officer that took particular interest in my injury. He came to my class and inquired. I told him what had happened and twice he asked me if I was sure. I told him I was positive. He remarked “well if you’re sure, wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

This was particularly odd; as this officer had never spoken directly to me in 6 years. I brushed it off and went on with my work.

Working in re-entry was very different from crimebill and SAP. The life skill classes were the same but the inmates were very different. They were almost all under 30 years old, short-timers. Gang bangers, drug seeking robbers, and serial thieves.

They knew little about me and saw me as a road bump between prison and release. The entitlement among them was a burden and irreparable. I only had six weeks to work with them. What kind of radical change can you make in six weeks?

Most of these inmates saw their charges as a part of life. Just a layover between their lifestyle and another crime. Occasionally I would get an inmate that had done 20 plus years. Those inmates were extremely grateful for anything you helped them with.

I really disliked these classes. It felt more like high-school detention. The inmates were especially rude and callous. I had no hope for their success. It was just a matter of time before they returned with a new list of victims attached.

The rest of my day was spent writing a new curriculum. It was the one thing I did everyday that kept me going in a positive manner. I had tremendous hope for this new program. I was also exceedingly grateful that I had Montgomerys’ support, even though I knew that they were getting the best I had to offer for a very cheap price.

That weekend I was enjoying a few days off as it was a three day holiday with Monday off. I was out shopping when I ran into the officer that had inquired about the bruise on my head. He made small talk and then I went on, thinking nothing of it.

On my way home however, I noticed that he was in the vehicle behind me. No matter where I turned he was still there. I went to a 12 step meeting. They usually last about an hour. When I went to leave I felt certain that the officer had moved on.

Unfortunately within about a mile he was there again. I couldn’t for the life-of-me figure out why he was following me. I drove to an empty parking lot which he bypassed. Then I took off before he could turn around and lost him in a series of rapid turns.

Thank you for reading my series. Stay tuned!

Against my morals I did what they said. Two days later I found out that after I left they all went inside instead.

When I arrived for work the warden called me into the conference room. The nappers, 3 wardens and two captains were already seated. The warden preceded to question me on why I went home and filed per diem for a conference that ended early.

The smug look on the nappers faces was just too much. The warden wrote me up and took points off my next evaluation, which took away my eligibility for a two step raise.

My boss had now managed to keep me from getting raises for almost 5 years in a row. How they let a man that has been charged with sexual harassment against you remain your boss is insane.

From that day on the only time I was in our shared offices was to get coffee and paperwork in the morning, and to pack up in the evening.

I spent the rest of my hours in my classroom in the treatment dorm. I preferred being there. It gave me alot of opportunities to learn more about the people I was helping.

There came a time when I had several inmates not showing up for class. It came to me that they were high, and knew I would be able to tell. So they took absences instead. One of the men had been doing really well in Crimebill for many months.

I called him into the classroom and sat with him along with my clerk. I warned him that he couldn’t afford anymore absences and would be removed from crimebill. He looked rough. Dirty clothes, unshaven, hair not cut. I asked him what was going on.

He broke down and confessed that he had been using subxone. He said he was in debt all over the camp. That they (inmates that he owed), would hurt him. He said his family had been contacted and would put money on his books to resolve the debt.

I told him that if he would get off the suboxone he could stay. He claimed that he would and I excused him. I asked my clerk “How the hell is he getting suboxone?” My clerk said ” not from other inmates.”

Then he said “have you ever seen that big lock box in the shift office?” I shook my head, no. He said “it’s full of coffee and cigarettes. Families get called and threatened if they don’t send money they can’t do anything to protect their inmate.”

Wrapping my head around this, extortion. Now knowing something I shouldn’t know. I told my clerk “we’re not having this conversation.” I dismissed him. I can imagine he spent several days worried that he should’ve kept his mouth shut.

I spent many days worried as well. In prison if two people know something, it’s way more than two who know. A lot of times it’s a set up just to see what you will do with the information. Telling is bad, sitting on it is bad. It was a no win situation.

*

However many of you may have read part 10 of this series. I have to ask; how many of you understood the gravity of what took place?

A single brief conversation between a counselor and her inmate clerk. Discussing a class members’ relapse. Turned into a counselor asking a question she didn’t want the answer to.

Had I not asked this question out loud. Things would’ve been very different, for a while, anyways.

As a person in recovery; being reflective on what my part is in any particular problem. Well, let’s just say it’s one of the main tools in my personal toolbox. I teach this method, as well as using it in my own life.

It helps me to narrow down the field of what I can change, or what I need to accept.

Many that read part 10 will find the problem is with the inmate. That he also should not have volunteered the information that he gave.

The proverbial cat is out of the bag. There’s no going back to ignorant bliss. I could play-off the whole thing: as being a clueless, 50 something, white lady and spin the narrative into naive oblivion…

However, I am not that woman. My clerk had been working for me directly for a year. He knew I was not that woman either.

Outside of my classes this problem consumed my thoughts and concerns. Being a recovering addict enabled me to see the dark and manipulative side of things. Where this problem could go- was endless.

I had studied the criminal mind in depth thanks to practically living amongst it everyday. All the books I was constantly reading helped also, but nothing compared to conversing with the element itself.

An author named Stanton Samenow was a constant resource for me. His understanding of the need for a “Commitment to Change,” created many breakthroughs for me and my students.

Another major resource in healing the mind was a book called “The House of Healing: a prisoners guide to inner-freedom.” This book not only helped a multitude of the incarcerated, but it helped heal me as well.

No matter what resources I found, or discovered…nothing was going to help me get out of the new situation I found myself in.

Looking back at it now…I avoid the would’ve, could’ve, should’ve thinking and chalk it up to the lessons’ learned category. While I was in the middle of it though…I just kept plowing forward as a survivor does. Thinking that there is a light at the end of the crazy tunnel…or should I say rabbit hole that was before me.

There comes a time for some people that when things get too difficult they make a decision to remove themselves from the situation. Looking at some of my own personal relationships, I can see now where I stayed too long.

This was definitely one of those times. I think most people sit themselves down and have a rational conversation with themselves. That everything is pointing to the universe saying “not today.”

I on the other-hand, have an internal monologue that says, This too shall pass and I will perservere. Part of me stayed for the right reasons, the rest of me stayed because I had dropped out of school to care for my father; and therefore hadn't finished my bachelor's degree. It was highly unlikely that I would find another counseling position without going back to school.

This perserverance had sometimes left me in the worst sort of predicaments. Other times its been a test of endurance that rewarded me with inner strength.

One of the things that I teach is: Fear is an emotion. However, danger is very real. This new problem was definitely dangerous. Keeping my wits about me and not succumbing to the fear would be the tricky part.

There is an intelligence quotient: IQ, and there is an emotional intelligence: EI. Having both in ample quantities is a necessary element while working in a maximum security prison.

It’s not just having common sense, as much as it is understanding emotions: yours and others. Why people feel the way they do…and the often corresponding behaviors that come with those emotions.

There is one other resource that I discovered , actually stumbled on… was the universal language of certain facial expressions. Dr. Paul Eckman originated the theory. Many have gone on to broaden it’s horizon through the study of micro-expressions vs macro-expressions.

I say that I stumbled on it; because it was already in my personal repertoire of observation skills. Learning it though gave me a whole new understanding of why I am able to read people. Specifically people practicing deception.

It was an extraordinary tool to my advantage in working with inmates and addicts. Unfortunately though, it was a curse in my personal life. Mostly with people that I deemed as not a threat, or people that I cared about.

This skill was about to be put into overdrive.

*

Things had reached the point where no matter how good I was at my job, I was a problem for certain staff and the nappers.

I wanted to make a difference, its why I chose to work in prisons. The group of people mentioned above saw my success as a threat. A threat to their status quo of no news is good news. As if they had gotten a job they wouldn’t normally have. Anything that stood out would get them noticed. Cost them their cushy position of nap taking on the clock. Force them to do something.

I spent more and more time in administrative offices answering to lies told about me, and less time enjoying raises that my co-workers came by naturally.

I finally had enough and went over the prison’s head to administration in Montgomery. I developed a rapport with the head of drug treatment there. He and I were definitely on the same page. He emailed me that my boss should never had been allowed to continue being my boss after the sexual harassment charge.

He chose to move me to the re-entry program. I was crushed to be removed from what I thought I should be doing. He assured me that it was a good move for me. He said it would give me more time to do a thing that, in his estimation was a better fit. He wanted me to write a new program for the state of Alabama.

An evidenced-based program that could be used in all of the state’s prisons and would work for all education levels.

I was super excited to take this on and went about it everyday. Between my new classes I poured everything I knew onto a flash drive. I didnt appear to have a boss anymore. There was the head of re-entry that was supposedly supervising me. However, we never spoke.

Weekly I would hear from Montgomery. Just a check-in type email asking how it was going. I always had good news about how the new program was coming along. It was very encouraging.

Then I had a series of events outside of work that shook me. The first event that happened took place when I arrived home one day. I had a great dane named Coal. Everyday when I got home I would take him to the backyard and put him on a run. Then go back inside and get out of my work clothes, have a snack, and then take Coal for a walk.

While I was fixing my snack Coal started barking in such a way that I knew something was not right in the backyard. I looked out the back window and Coal was lunging at something and had pulled the wrought-iron post that held his run line over.

I ran out back and when I got to Coal he was frantic and aggressive. I looked in the direction he was lunging and there was a large man standing there.

I calmed Coal down and got him into a sit. The man said “Hi Ms. C.” Before I could even look up fear flooded me. No one but inmates called me Ms. C. My eyes met his and I recognized him as an inmate who had taken my class a couple of years prior.

I said “What are you doing here!” He said “I live here,” and pointed at a trailer that was behind my next-door neighbors house. ” I was just admiring your dog.” He claimed.

“How long have you been living there?” I asked. “A few weeks,” he stated. “Welcome to the neighborhood” I said.

I got Coal off the run line and took him inside. My mind was screaming W.T.F. I called my sponsor and just dumped on her. I recalled that his name was Demetrius and he had been in prison for voluntary manslaughter. Code for killing someone while driving under the influence, in most cases.

We discussed whether he was really admiring the dog, or was he trying to gain access to my home, or look in a window. I knew that I was going to have to report this at work. I had no expectation that I would have a sympathetic audience. Stay tuned for more of this series.

Of course there were inmates who were unconstitutionally capable of grasping these concepts and would continue to try me and their peers. However, they often found themselves back in trouble in the program or the system and weeded themselves out of treatment. The majority of the men though grew from this experience. Which in turn helped them tremendously to grasp future concepts that I would teach them. This was usually my favorite turning point in the program. Once I could get them out of the childish phase of saying whatever to get people off their backs, gave everyone alot of hope. It opened the door to honest conversation and self-reflection. They became experts at catching themselves mid-phrase and correcting their words into factual statements. Practice, practice, practice made the next topic of Criminal thinking errors feasible.

Denial may be real but once you know the truth but stick to your old ways denial is just a lie.

Thank you for reading my series. Stay tuned!

Now let me explain that; I has been living in that area for over 10 years. All the landmarks were gone, the houses were gone. I was a mile past the school before I realized where I was. When I arrived my kids came running to me in tears. The roof of their gymnasium had been torn off. When they saw me and the car they all broke down. We hugged in the parking lot. A hug that said everything we were feeling. For them, the relief that their Mom was o.k. but not entirely.

We had to drive many miles before we could find a gas station that still had gas. The one we found had a line over two miles long. They gouged the price while we were waiting by 2$. The ride home was traumatic. Flash flooding and total destruction. When we arrived I was so very grateful that the home I rented was brick and still standing. The power was out over a week. Everything in the refrigerator had to be tossed. We finally drove two hours to a hotel just so we could shower and watch the news.

After a week I was finally called back to work. Upon arrival in my classroom I found that I was very unprepared for the trauma that I found there. The thing is though it wasn’t the trauma that I was expecting. Which would’ve been similar to my own. No, the trauma was from the way the inmates had been treated during that powerless week.

The C.E.R.T. team had been brought in. Which stands for certified emergency response team. If you look up the definition of C.E.R.T on the internet it would leave you to believe that they are an elite group of officers with specialized training. Training for hostage situations, gang fights, cell extractions and things of a very serious nature.

They’re also supposed to be trained to remain calm and de-escalate volatile situations. They come into the facility dressed like S.W.A.T. and sometimes marching in formation with shields. They can appear very intimidating. For whatever reason they were not visible to me during my extraction, and we’re leaving the facility when I came back to work.

According to the inmates however it was one of the most brutal weeks that they had endured. I allowed my classes to vent and get their feelings off their chests. I heard about a cat that the tornado has thrown into the razor wire and how it took four days for it to die. One inmate in particular was in tears talking about it howling all day and night, and how nobody took it out of its misery.

They talked about having peanut butter sandwiches three times a day for a week. They talked about C.E.R.T. coming in and throwing their boxes and mats on the floor. They talked about brutality and beatings. They talked about their hygiene products being destroyed and that the showers didn’t work for days.

The biggest complaint was how they had no communication with the outside world. Many towns were completely destroyed during the tornado outbreak and the inmates had no idea if their families had survived.

It was hard as a person, a woman, a mother, to listen to so much and not want to just hug some of them. It was hard to remain stoic as if their treatment was somehow part and parcel to being in prison. To remain professional and loyal to the facility and it’s protocol was what was required of me. I did all this but when I got home that night I had to call my sponsor and vent as well.

It was a rough week or two but eventually classes got back to a new normal. The phones came back on and the inmates got the answers they were looking for. The families were finally able to get their answers too. And as usual the news reports said nothing and the statement from the prison was vague and not entirely accurate.

Since this incident I have witnessed multiple C.E.R.T. situations that leads me to believe that the training they’re supposed to receive must be quite diminished. I find them to be straight bullies and aggressively abusive In situations that do not call for it. Mostly cell extractions and contraband hunts is what I have witnessed. They appear to treat everyone with complete neglect of dignity in any shape or form. Mind you, Iam 100% rehabilitation minded so my perspective comes from treating people with respect and dignity regardless of their past.

As a person in recovery, who also needed that dignity and respect to become whole again… Well I really can’t be any other way and be an advocate for people to get another chance at life.

As always, thank you for reading my series. I look forward to part 8 and sharing with you what I learned about the vocabulary of denial. STAY TUNED

It began as an ordinary spring day in Alabama. We go straight from winter to a week-or-three of spring to-relentless heat. If you turn around too fast you will miss spring all together.

I went to work, gave my badge to the officer posted between the switchback doors and walked unescorted to the office I share with the “nappers.” I don’t even call them my co-workers anymore, as working isn’t something they do.

I met up with my inmate clerk and we had the obligatory cup of coffee as we printed out the days worksheets. Then we stepped outside for a cigarette while we waited for an officer to open the gate.

Sometimes the wait was a good 20 minutes, other times the gate was open and unattended. I never thought much about it being open as there were two more manned gates ahead of us. Often times that 20 minute wait was a conversation with the clerk. Usually about how the class members were doing.

We finally made it to the dorm and settled into class. The first class came and went without incident. I stepped out on the yard for a smoke break. I never had an escort there. The yard was mostly grass, with two sidewalks. To the left was a concrete pad that had freeweights and benches as well as a pull-up bar. At the end of the main sidewalk was a locked gate. 20 feet from that another locked gate that went to the cafeteria or the shift-office.

The 235 man dorm had one officer. He was rarely in the officer’s cubicle next to my classroom. He was either manning one of three gates, wandering around in the bunk area, or out of view completely. This had been common place behavior for the last three years.

By this time I had taught almost everyone in that dorm and knew who the typical trouble makers were, I knew the places to avoid, which was sitting anywhere in plain sight of the bunks or the bathroom. The bathroom area was the only place in the building that had concrete blocks around it. The entire building was originally a large sheet metal-walled factory for inmate labor. It had been made into a treatment dorm after the crimebill act had been put in place. The act put all the inmates in treatment together.

While on my smoke break I always stood in the exact same place. I didn’t know if anyone had an eye on me, but if they did, they could always find me in the same place, doing the same thing. With all the hard times that my boss had attempted to give me, it was important to me that I was extremely predictable.

It was also important to be predictable around inmates. That way if anyone should say I was doing something I shouldn’t, I had many eyes on me that knew exactly my routine. I should really say ” when someone said something” It was never an “if.”

When I finished my smoke break my clerk said to me

“Doesn’t the sky look weird?”

I looked around and in fact it did look odd. Very greenish. Very cloudy. The clouds were high and moving fairly quick, yet it wasn’t windy.

I said “it’s kind of green isn’t it?”

We went inside and went to the classroom where I teach crimebill. It’s a much larger class of 30 + men. I never liked that room as it’s in the front corner, out of sight from the officers cube. It had windows facing into the TV area, but I never felt comfortable in there. I had been teaching this class for about two months, so I knew all the inmates and my clerk was always there, but still…not my favorite.

About half-way into the class the wind had picked up outside. The sheet metal walls would rattle and the ceiling would lift up and down slightly like there was an updraft. The room had two caged windows in it. One facing the yard, the other facing the canteen.

I looked out the front window and saw the officer lock the yard gate then turned and ran inside waving wildly at everyone to go in.

I looked towards the TV area and the wind was blowing the double doors so hard that inmates were getting pushed in and out. The officer ran into the staff bathroom. Which was the only room with a lock. It then suddenly became loud as hail began pelting the metal walls and roof.

I shouted, “everyone get out! GO to the center of the building!” No sooner had I gotten the words out of my mouth, the metal roof pulled back from the corner like a sardine can, and I could see the sky. I jumped under my desk and found my clerk already there. We stared at each other as the walls rattled and shook.

It was crazy loud. Not the train sound that everyone says. Explosions is what I heard. Then it was gone as fast as it came.

We crawled out from the desk and made our way to my regular classroom. The TV area had around 50 large wooden church pews that had been tossed into a pile blocking the doors to the yard. The power was out and pieces of the ceiling were hanging down and swinging.

I sat down at my desk in shock and my clerk took up a stance like superman facing the door, daring anyone to try to come in.

After about 30 minutes another clerk came to the door and said that there was an eighteen wheeler truck on top of the canteen.

There was no way out. I was stuck there until officers came to extract me. Every possible worse case scenario ran through my mind. After an hour went by power from a generator came on. At the very least it was better than sitting in the dark. An inmate approached the door and handed my clerk two coffees and a prison burrito. We split the burrito and he said “Don’t worry Ms. C. there is not a single person in here that is going to hurt you. We ALL know that you are one of the few people in here that care about us.”

Four hours went by before the C.E.R.T. team came and walked me out to the parking lot. The head warden and a few Captains were standing there.

They truly looked disappointed to see me alive and well. One of the Captains said to me, “all non-essential workers will be called when you can come back.” No mention of we’re glad youre ok or even a ARE YOU OK? One of the officers walked me to my car. Almost all the windows had been blown out.

Stay tuned for pt. 7 Thanks for reading.

The first two years were more than I could have hoped for. I was given free rein to develop the classes as I saw fit. We studied the biopsychosocial model, denial and grief, criminal thinking, and emotional intelligence, and we read from a fantastic book called *Houses of Healing*. I learned the vocabulary the inmates used that kept them stuck. We broke barriers regularly and had genuine progress. My boss was super supportive and made me feel like a real asset to the state. We went to ASADS conferences that were very informative.

The only thing lacking was in my co-workers: a general indifference to rehabilitation. They were clearly interested only in a paycheck and their institutional nap time. I wondered what it would be like to have other counselors around who wanted to talk about what was working and what wasn't. I longed for that kind of interaction, but it did not exist.

Then the other shoe fell — you know the one, when everything seems to be moving forward and then something stops you dead in your tracks. I came into work and my boss was cleaning out his desk. He was leaving to work in the non-profit world, and the person replacing him was not an ambitious person like myself, but the full-time napper who insisted on keeping the lights off in the office from noon to four.

In the first week of the new world order, I came home to a voicemail on my machine that was incredulous. The voice said: "I drove by your home today and saw you bent over in short-shorts in your garden. You shouldn't do things like that where people could take a picture of you. I wonder what all the guys would think of that picture. You should be glad I didn't take one."

The voice was none other than my new boss.

I sat in stunned silence. I cried briefly over the betrayal. Then I agonized over how disgusting it was, and how unbelievably stupid he had to be. Then I recorded it onto my cell phone to save the evidence.

The next day I made an appointment to meet with the warden. I continued to work my job admirably but quietly until the day of our meeting came. I played the voicemail for the warden and he was visibly upset. He told me he would handle it directly, and to go back to work.

My new boss was gone for the next three days. I was never called back to the office or consulted about the outcome. My other co-workers said nothing either. When Monday arrived and he came back to work, not a word was said. Within a week, though, I noticed a stark change among the inmates in my class and among officers of different ranks across the compound. I did not know that my life was about to become a daily hell for the next several years — because my new boss had told everyone I was a racist, rather than admit that he had sexually harassed me and mentioned blackmailing me with photos.

---

There had been a few times in the past when an inmate overstepped boundaries and had to be reported to the Sergeant or Captain on duty. The inmates all knew I would not stand for it, so it rarely happened. When it did, paperwork was formally drawn up and the individual was removed from the program.

Now, though, the Captains' and Sergeants' responses were very different. They questioned me instead. What were you wearing? Where were you standing? Is there a witness? Did you report it to the officer? What were you talking about before this happened? I complied with their questions, but I couldn't help feeling that gaslighting was taking place.

As the days went on, I would find myself called to the warden's office and questioned about things I had supposedly said in class — things that were untrue or drastically taken out of context. For so long I had felt I was doing the next right thing, always. Now I felt like the target in a witch hunt.

Stay tuned for more of this series, and as always, thanks for reading. Click on my profile for past essays.

From the start, I decided to leave the past behind and focus on moving forward. The inmates’ crimes didn’t matter; what did was whether they were addicts and how we could help. I taught them the 12-step program differently than before. It wasn’t about dictating this is the only way. I believed recovery was a personal journey and each person had to find their own path, discover what worked for them, and what would sustain their sobriety.

With twenty inmates, I cracked open a 12-step book. We read it line by line, debating and discussing each sentence’s meaning. Armed with a dictionary, we deciphered outdated language that most of them struggled with since 70-80% lacked a high school education. Understanding the words and sentences became a key to unlocking their recovery.

Empowering Inmates Through Choice

What stood out about this approach was the freedom it granted the inmates—something they rarely experienced. I recall one of them asking, We get to decide? We get to choose? I responded, Yes, of course. This method wasn’t just enlightening for them; it also taught me a lot. It allowed me a glimpse into their minds, revealing their thoughts, values, and denials.

Each week, we delved into two or three steps, dissecting their meanings thoroughly. We wouldn’t move on until everyone in the room felt sure they understood and could relate the step to their own lives. That personal application was a major breakthrough.

The ability to laugh, debate, and truly comprehend each other brought us closer together and marked a significant step forward.

Exploring Morality and Identity

When we weren’t revisiting the steps, we dove into life skills and how the biopsychosocial model applied to each person. Right off the bat, I asked them, Do you believe children can be born evil? This question always sparked heated debates. The group comprised Christians, Muslims, Jews, non-denominationals, and atheists, creating a vibrant tapestry of opinions.

The discussions remained lively yet focused. Is it a biological issue? A social one? Personality or genetic? Were they born this way, inheriting traits from parents, or shaped by their environment? Was it cultural influences, ethnicity, or personal fears?

As a white instructor leading a predominantly black class, I constantly dismantled barriers. They learned to look past appearances and truly listen, deciding for themselves who I was beyond the surface.

It was just as important for them to learn who I was, as it was to learn who they were. I was always surprised and elated to find how eager the inmates were just to be heard.

Rarely during my internship did I have to deal with disrespect from inmates that were in the treatment dorm. The inmate clerk that was assigned to my class did an excellent job behind the scenes.

Correcting bad behavior, or inappropriate dialogue from the inmates was something he addressed when I was not around. I was grateful for his assistance and that I could just do my job and teach.

At the end of my internship I had already graduated with two associates degrees and was taking classes at another college to complete a bachelor’s in behavioral science.

On my last day the staff and inmates held a “come back” party instead of a going away one. I felt pretty secure that the prison would offer me a full-time position.

Stay tuned for future essays. P.S. I got the job…

After the meeting, I sat in the parking lot with my sponsor, reflecting on the day. 

She joked about how I went to prison in the morning, jail in the evening, and would sleep in my own bed that night. Isn't recovery amazing?

She laughed.

That night, I had much to ponder who I wanted to be, what kind of counselor I was becoming, and whether this would turn into a full-time job.

I realized I'm probably an unorthodox counselor. My vocabulary is rough, my attitude blunt. I've always been a tomboy at heart.

My main focus was teaching them what addiction truly is, how to navigate it, and find recovery.

The next morning, I learned I'd be shadowing other counselors for a few days.

I also had a lunch date with a woman who'd been a counselor at that very prison. She wanted to discuss how to manage working as a woman in a men's prison.

My first class that day revealed inattentive men, a different group from yesterday. The counselor wasn't using any workbook; he was telling stories similar to those you'd hear in a 12-step meeting.

The men seemed bored and disinterested.

In the next class with another female counselor, the same scenario unfolded. She read from the basic text of a 12-step group but offered no elaboration, just reading aloud.

It was tedious and uninspiring. This dry teaching style was definitely not how I wanted to teach.

Lunch with a Blunt Perspective

That afternoon I met with the woman who wanted to talk to me.

Right off the bat, she was very straightforward and blunt with her opinion of inmates.

She said things like, they're all scums of the earth, they're all out to take advantage of you, use you, lie to you, don't trust any of them for any reason whatsoever.

She told me what to watch for in their faces when they were touching themselves while I was teaching class.

She said they're called gunners or 38s.

They're disgusting and will take every opportunity to disrespect you.

I wondered to myself about this woman, was she being this brutal to scare me or was this really who she was? 

How can you be a counselor and be an advocate for people when this is your opinion of them?

I thought about the fact I would be working with men whose crimes were the same as ones that had been perpetrated against me.

How was I going to feel about it and still do my job?

She said don't trust anyone, not even the people that you work with, and take notes, keep documentation on everything, and don't leave it laying around.

I walked away from this meeting, my head spinning, trying to discern whether this woman was just bitter or if this was really the way things are.

Disillusionment with Alabama Rehabilitation

For the rest of the week, I shadowed counselors, read manuals and handbooks, watched DVDs and videos that we had on file, and quickly became very disillusioned with rehabilitation in the state of Alabama. 

I realized that the state had never really put any money into this program, and that it was mostly just recovering addicts without a whole lot of actual counseling experience working in these prisons.

As I was the same, a recovering addict, I had been to college, and what they had taught me and what I was seeing in the flesh were two different things.

Everything that I had read about rehabilitation from the 1970s forward seemed to be a very systematic approach, but here it was still very much 12-step oriented with no actual handbook of evidence-based scientific practice.

I went home that week with more questions than answers, but determined to get to the bottom of it and learn what would actually work in this environment.

I knew what I didn't want to be, a bunch of bitter people who don't care about the outcome of their efforts.

If I was truly the best counselor in the state, as my boss had claimed, I had to figure out how to make it a fact.

Yes, sir, I replied.

Why are you here? he asked with evident skepticism.

Um, I’ve been clean for a year now and I wanted to thank my counselor, I explained.

His eyes widened with surprise. Really? That’s a story I want to hear, he said, inviting me into his office. He settled behind his desk, feet up casually, and asked, So what happened to you over the last year?

I recounted my journey: moving from one halfway house to another, enduring homelessness, surviving a brutal beating and being left for dead beneath a bridge, finding refuge in homeless shelters, crashing on sponsors’ couches, and attending countless 12-Step meetings. When I finished, he looked at me intently.

Young lady, your sobriety has been sorely tested, he acknowledged.

Yes, sir, I agreed.

After a pause, he offered with a smile, How would you like a job?

Yes, sir, I said without hesitation. And that was the moment everything changed.

For seven years, I worked as a counselor’s assistant and learned to be an advocate for addicts and alcoholics. I worked with kids aged 11 through 18—some were just experimenting, while others had the severe addictions of adults.I was grateful for this job, especially since my own children were taken from me during my battle with addiction.

When the opportunity to work with kids came up, I wasn’t sure it was right for me. But then my supervisor said, Maybe God has given you these children until you’re ready to take care of your own. That thought struck me deeply. Missing my children every day, this work was both healing and rewarding for me as I helped guide other people’s kids. 

After seven years, I felt that being a counselor’s assistant wasn’t enough. I needed more. So, at 45, I decided to return to college full time. 

As a single mom with weekends dedicated to my children and working night shifts full time, I went back to school during the day—it was an exhausting yet exhilarating journey.

In my final year of college, I enrolled in a criminal justice class that offered an internship. While many opportunities included security positions or roles as 9-1-1 operators and in police departments, I wanted to make a real difference. I chose to work in prisons and specifically wanted to help men.

Having always connected better with men than women and drawing from my addiction experience and personal recovery, it seemed like the perfect fit. So, I interned at a men’s prison in Alabama.

I became the state’s first female drug treatment counselor intern, working for three months without pay. The director ended up being the best boss I’d ever had. He said I could read between the lines of b.s. better than anybody and gave me complete freedom to design my curriculum.

Some days, I taught classes with 30 inmates; other times, there were 50. From early morning until late afternoon, only pausing for lunch, I spent time in that classroom getting to know these men on a therapeutic level.

My first day walking into the prison felt like a scene from a gritty movie. The heavy doors clanged back and forth, echoing down the hallways, while guards bustled about, barking orders. Inmates in stark white uniforms lined up like obedient soldiers. To my surprise, the grounds were cleaner than I imagined.

I shared a cramped office with three others. In the mornings, inmate clerks would shuffle in, brewing coffee and organizing paperwork for our classes. We’d spend some moments chatting with them, exchanging stories from what had happened in the dorm the night before, prepping for the day ahead.

One vivid memory stands out: my boss led me to a sprawling drug treatment area housing over 200 inmates. On the way, a glint from a razor blade caught my eye on the ground. Unease crept in as I glanced at him, wide-eyed. He shrugged it off, saying, This isn’t rehab; this is prison. Pointing to gouges in the concrete, he explained they were from inmates sharpening toothbrushes and pencils into makeshift weapons. It was both shocking and eye-opening. 

About 50 men sat in church-like pews, eyes glued to a television. At the center of the room stood a large brick-and-glass cube where the officer presided. To the left were classrooms with windows peering inward, while concrete barriers on the right led to showers and toilets. In the back, 200 bunk beds stretched into the distance.

The men were either seated or standing at attention when I was introduced.Their glares pierced through my uneasy exterior, but I’d been toughened by life’s storms. After introductions, he guided me to my classroom, showing me the desk and saying, This is where you’re going to teach.

He added he would send a clerk and 20 inmates for my first session before turning to leave.

Are you leaving me alone? I asked.

He replied, Yeah, you got this. You’re one of the best counselors in the state. If you need anything, the officer in the cube will help, and if there’s any trouble with the inmates, tell your clerk to fetch him. 

“Okay, sir. Thank you.” I said.

And so it begins…