A Captive Audience
by Myra Yeatts
I don’t have to listen to you! This ain’t even a real school. If you’re a real
teacher, how come you’re here? Couldn’t you get a job in a real school?
Teaching in a correctional facility includes a unique set of challenges. First, you
must demonstrate your qualifications laced with the kind of authority that a street thug
will respect and meet half-way. I often visualized myself as Matt Dillon, striding down
Main Street in Dodge City, staring them straight in the eye and matching their draw.
My students at Wateree River Correctional Institution were not so different from
public school boys, except they “hadn’t made it on the outside.” Most of them were like
the kids that sat in the back of the room, asked for a hall-pass every day, made sarcastic
remarks to the learners, and when called down, slept through the remainder of the class.
Our typical student didn’t make it in high school because his mama was a crackhead, his daddy was in the “big house”, and even if he did graduate, he’d be working
somewhere for minimum wage when he could be on the corner scoring a Rolex in a
single night. Once introduced to “the life”, it takes a lot of drama to make him change.
I generally had my students for only eight weeks because our facility served as an
orientation camp. We broke them in, so to speak. We prepared them for a ten-month stint
behind bars. Part of the Young Offender Intensification Program revolved around
military regimentation to show them discipline. I maintained that discipline in the
classroom, initially. When the rough edges were smoothed away, the students were
treated as adults. They were, in fact, seventeen to twenty-five years old and had been on
their own for years.
Education was only one component of the young offenders’ rehabilitation. Most
weekdays, they had to work in the field for several hours. That might mean picking up
trash off the highways, clearing brush from the forest, chopping vegetation out of ditches,
or harvesting beans, corn, squash, or okra from the vast farmland of Wateree. I mention
this only because many times students came to our classrooms after four to five hours of
hard labor.
In short, my students came to me as angry, culture-shocked, exhausted, and
defeated throw-a-ways. My job was to rebuild their self-esteem, motivation, and goals.
No small task in eight weeks, if ever. Yet, my staff at Wateree had the second highest rate
of GEDs acquired in the South Carolina Department of Correction for several years.
How did we do it?
As the lead teacher, my focus had to be on the whole school. Three subjects had
to be taught: reading, writing, and arithmetic. Each subject area had the same goals.
First, help the student feel good about himself. Second, give him a reason to try. Third,
let him to glimpse a future without a cubical-mate. THEN the subject area could be
addressed.
In writing, I gave them daily prompts that allowed venting about the anger and
pain of being incarcerated. While listing their woes, they passionately expressed
themselves. For most, this daily exercise stepped nicely into other expressions of
personal interest. Sharing their papers with peers became competitive, fostered pride in
many, and developed community where none had existed before.
The school participated in a merit system based on good behavior. Our students
received grades everywhere: the dorm, for keeping their area clean; the field, for working
hard without disciplinary incident; the cafeteria, for maintaining courtesy and
promptness; and movement between locations, for staying in formation without “horseplaying”.
In school, B papers garnered points, as well as quiet conduct during bathroom
breaks. Argumentative behavior towards prison personnel or other students could result
in a loss of points. Those students exceeding in areas of discipline and completed work
qualified for Wateree High School Student Council. These twelve seats were
competitively sought because each month a meeting was held to discuss problems and
progress. Refreshments: doughnuts, bananas, juice and colas. Our menu compared
positively with the normal breakfast: boiled eggs, grits, and biscuits without butter.
We used these meetings to mentor our student leaders. Since male role models
were not a part of the majority of our students’ lives, guest speakers were enlisted. The
coach, a councilor, as well as a pastor participated; however, the associate warden was
used most frequently because of his numerous years in the military and his forceful
fatherly approach. He never had to say much because he punctuated everything with
quips that seem to touch a deep nerve: “Failure is not an option,” “Man-up,” “It is what
it is,” “Just do it.” His charismatic authority melted many hard-ass corner entrepreneurs.
The student council then passed the “word” to their dorm mates.
Each week a behavior modification team would meet to review points earned and
points lost. Having an acceptable score meant seeing a movie and eating popcorn. Also,
certificates were awarded at the end of their stay at Wateree to the most successful
students. These certificates, presented at graduation, brought out the competitive spirit in
the students.
This spark of competition had much to do with striving for good results on the
practice GED. Students consented to study together in the dorm for selfish motives.
However, the “I’m going to win” attitude developed into “We’ll be on that bus to go take
the test TOGETHER.”
What transformed my captive audience? A part of it was competition. Another
part: privileges and something good to eat. A major factor, however, was that the school
became an island of caring in a world of indifference. Our community of students
recognized that the staff wanted them to find a way to begin their journey out of the
prison system and into normal society. The most logical route was an education. No, not
everybody made it. But there were few that did not try.