PRISON! How did I get here? What did I do wrong?

I was going to prison - ultimately for bombing Dr. Webber, my principal's office years earlier. I remembered that long ago Friday night of the junior high school prom banquet, when my lockermate was up to some mischief in the main building. As he opened our locker, my bottle of Louisiana Hot fell out and rolled across the hall, under the principal's door, into his office, and broke.

By the following Monday morning, the entire main building sported the gentle pungent aroma of Louisiana Hot. As Mrs. Toussaint was chewing me out about scoring a 12 on a world history test, they came for me. Dr. Webber and his assistant entered the room with that countenance which must have taken several administrative courses to develop. Each took one of my arms and escorted me to the office -- the interior of which I had seen on only one previous occasion , the day I wasted the school bully who had attacked me. But, that had been months earlier, and I was no hero today! What can they do, send me to prison? Little did I know the fate that awaited me! "Now, Bob, about this '12' on the history test - you'll never make it to high school, let alone college, with grades like this!" This marked the turning point in my academic career.

"Now, Bob, we make no claims about the quality of the food here, nor do we have any objection to your attempts to spice it up a bit; however, we must insist that you confine your hot sauce to its container until such time as you apply it to your food." I feebly presented my defense that I had gone no place near the academic building that night. They pretended to accept my excuse on the premise that I would exercise more caution in the storage of my condiments, but I knew they held a deeper malice.

Sixteen years later, upon completing my master of education degree, I learned that Dr. Webber had become president of Alvin Community College. Recalling his admonition of years past, I gave him a call to share my fortune. "That's wonderful, Bob. You obviously made better than '12's' in graduate school. What can I do for you?" When I told him I was looking for work, be invited me to fill out the paperwork in personnel and assured me he would give my name a rousing recommendation to his English department chair. "We'll be glad to have you on the team," he added, remembering my position back in junior high on the first undefeated team in the school's history.

A week later I received a call from the English chair. "What we do here, Bob, is to go into prison units and deliver an Associate degree." Prison? "Congratulations! You've passed FBI clearance, and you're on the team. These gentlemen will fill you in from here. Good luck."

"We don't honor hostages. If you get caught, it's your ass!" the prison liaison cheerfully informed me. "However, we've never lost a teacher. In fact, we've had teachers leave prison, get jobs in the inner city, and come back. They said the city was too dangerous." I told them my full-time was chair of the language department of the biggest, blackest high school in Houston, and my most recent part-time gig was head bouncer of McGee's, the largest nightclub on the north side of Houston.

"Sounds like you're our boy." Dr. Webber had finally sent me up the river.

A shudder ran through me as the iron gate clanged behind me. (Fifteen years later, it still does.) I inquired about the lack of armed guards. "Oh, guns aren't allowed inside the walls; inmates might take them away, you know."

Entering class, I empathized with a steak dinner in a soup kitchen. They were hungry all right. Having yet to learn that for which they hungered, I began calling roll. "Mr. Adams - Mr. Anderson - Senor Alvarez." I marveled as each student sat up, eyes growing wider upon hearing his name called. Completing the roll, I asked what the deal was.

"Ain't nobody called me mister before," offered one inmate.

"Since you've been here?" I asked incredulously.

"Ever," responded another.

That week a fascinating array of stories materialized; from tragedies of content as well as mechanics to soap operas. Certain elements seemed obligatory: broken borne, single or step parent, drugs, dropping out, and military. That one threw me. I learned (when Reagan took away incarcerated veterans' benefits) that about 70% of inmates were vets.

The next week's discussion of Sophocles' Oedipus the King began. "That Oedipus was a baaaad motherf--er, wasn't he, prof?" I stormed out of the room to the consultant's office, complaining of the language a student was using in my classroom.

"What? In my college? I won't stand for that! Which one of those a--h--es? I won't have any of that g--d--- bulls--t around here! What did that motherf---ing s--o--b---- say , anyway?" I said that I would rather not repeat it, and that I would warn the students against such future outbursts. "Good work. Keep those @# $%&~ in line!" he commended. I returned to my class and continued my lecture on the motherf---er.

Over the past decade and a half, countless modern tragedies have unfolded in my classes. Often students on the verge of tears would beg for additional time on a composition because their cells had been "shaken down" and their property confiscated. Some had simply had their goods stolen. "You mean they let crooks in here?" I tried to ease the tension with irony.

"Yeah, prof, sometimes even on our side of the bars." I hate being out-ironied!

Perhaps the greatest tragedies occurred on those occasions on which I encountered students I had previously taught in high school. On each such occasion, I swore not to fail - that is, not to be a failure to - that student again.

Along with the tragedies have come the rewards. One inmate from remedial through sophomore English made me a leather pocket protector. Some send me Christmas cards - one hand-lettered and painted, another from UCLA where he was working on his Ph.D. in environmental science. One alum later served me at Home Depot. He was continuing his education at U of H and starting a family. At commencement ceremony, students in cap and gown and ball and chain (figuratively speaking) receive their degrees, usually in the chapel where the stained glass windows hide the bars.

Gospel choirs sing their accolades, which block out the sounds of imprisonment. Graduates are given a reception including a rare hour for contact visit, an opportunity to visit with two loved ones without glass between them. Some inmates have taken some of this precious time to introduce me to their wives or parents. I have been paid few greater compliments as a teacher.

I would trade nothing for my experience in teaching behind the walls. I would continue this work even if as a teacher I did not need to moonlight. I am not a do-gooder, for I am paid reasonably well. I am not a liberal reformer, for I am just as demanding in prison as in the free world. I teach behind the walls as one who likes his work just as he likes his food - hot and saucy!

I now realize that those inmates who looked so hungrily at me that first night were indeed starving - for knowledge. Through this experience, my own knowledge has increased tenfold as well. Let Dr. Weber and Mrs. Toussaint be avenged.