The reason I am writing this story is because the other night another blogger put up three statements about herself, one of which was a lie, in order to attract enough bloggers and enough interest to keep her awake during her night shift.
You can check her out at:
http://misslouella.wordpress.com/2013/12/07/help-wake-me-up/
As I mis-read the instructions, as is my want, I wrote two lies and one truth. The one truth is the basis for this story as Miss Lou suggested I should post this story so here goes.
One of the stories I tell my students is that I have been in gaol three times.
This is true and thankfully I was only visiting at he time, and didn’t get to stay over at night.
The first time was when I was about nineteen. It was the practice back then that the local St Vincent de Paul men would go to the gaol each Sunday as part of their fellowship mission to visit the men in gaol and play tennis with them.
This particular Sunday they were a player short and knowing I could hit a tennis ball invited me to go along with them.
So I went and I should point out that at nineteen I was very naive and un worldly to say the least. The gaol was part of my neighbourhood, I grew up living just below it and as the gaol in those days had its own garden where they grew a lot of their own crops it was common practice for me to be going to school just as the guys from the gaol were coming down to work in the garden. We’d always say hello and off they’d go and I would go.
This particular Sunday was a warm and sunny one and I was looking forward to having a game, as I liked tennis despite my great lack of ability.
You had to sign in to get in the gaol and leave anything you had in your pockets at the gate. The walls of the gaol are very high, probably close to twenty feet high. There were barred gates to go through and at the last gate that led into this huge exercise yard was a guard that I thought at the time would have fitted very neatly into any World war two Gestapo role.
‘Get in there son, you’ll be right,’ he said to me as he slammed the gate behind me. One of the disturbing things I discovered about the gaol in the few visits I made was that the guards loved to slam door and gates behind you, probably as a sign to you that this was the final stop, there was no getting out. Anyway I found it disturbing every time I heard a door slam.
The main exercise yard in the gaol was a big as a football field. It was packed with men, all dressed in green. In one corner of the yard was the tennis court, the lines painted on the concrete.
I should point out that concrete was everywhere.
One of the first things that struck me was the uniformity of colour. Men in green, against the grey concrete, blue sky above, they were the only colours.
The tennis was played fiercely. The guys from the gaol were very competitive and as I was not the best player around I did what I came to do, make up the numbers and hit as many balls as I could back over the net.
Between games you stood around, me plainly terrified by where I had found myself, and the guys were only too happy to talk to you.
And the tales they told were sad I thought afterwards. One guy I remember told me how on the outside he could get himself into jobs where he became the manager of various places, like in one case a motel. He would work there doing a good job and earning the trust of the owners until he thought it was safe to take the money from the till and go off to have a good time with it, only to find the police after him, arrest him and back into gaol he would go. He lived a vicious circle, but seemed resolved that this was his place in the world.
Thankfully the morning went by quickly and it was time to leave. I didn’t mind going home that day. Behind the tennis courts was a vast area where men in twos paced back and forwards in earnest conversation, other guys just sat about, some men were working out on weights and some I’m sure were eyeing me off as a young and vulnerable young man. I never found out, and it never occurred to me that might be the case until much later.
Again the huge iron gates were opened and we departed. We collected our things from the gatehouse and left the gaol. At the entrance to the gaol, beside the main gate a single tree grew. It was the first thing you saw when you left the gaol, your first glimpse of nature. I have never forgotten that image and how grateful I felt to see that tree. I have always felt after that day an affinity with trees.
That day I decided that being in gaol for one day would be one day too many. It is a gloomy place, filled with monotony, boredom and depression. Though sadly for some men it is the only home they know.
Morpethroad 
I’m so glad you wrote this account of your experience.
When you shared that you felt the guards really enjoyed the slamming of the doors and gates with force to instill fear and gloom, it painted a very solemn picture. These words helped me really picture the story, focusing not just on your surroundings but the emotion as well.
It seems the guys were very keen to speak and connect with people (as one could imagine) and the tale you told of the guy who worked so diligently for the sole purpose of gaining trust to rob people – you’re right. That was sad. I wonder what his journey had been, to put him in the place within his own mind where he felt like that is what needed to take place.
Imagine the rewards for him in his life if he had of continued with his hardworking ethic, how much he could have achieved 😦
Seems for a time you were able to experience the emotions of what it really felt like to be ‘in Gaol’.
I know for me, after reading this, I have that sense of gloom you mention. The hopelessness, darkness. Concrete. Sky Green uniforms.
Thank God for the tree.
Look forward to the next installment
Miss Lou
x
Thanks so much Miss Lou (such a formal title) that is a wonderful comment and thank you for spurring me on to write this. Once I started the memories came flooding back like it was yesterday. Thankfully since the gaol closed much of the place has changed, there is now grass growing in places where there was none before.
The guy who spent his time getting into positions of responsibility I think was resigned to a life in gaol. To me he would have enough of the outside and commit the crime knowing he would return to gaol.He had become well and truly institutionalized by the time I met him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he died in gaol.Thanks again for the great comment. Michael
Part two maybe tomorrow.
You’re welcome and it does sound like he wasn’t coping being in Gaol. I recall seeing something recently (though cannot for the life of me remember exactly what it was called) but there was a character who had been in Gaol for such a long time, and when he got out he had no idea how to be in the world. 20 years had gone by and the world had changed. How challenging it must be for someone who experiences freedom after having a life built around routine.
One has to wonder when surrounded by violent and continuous negative experiences, how difficult it must be to think positively and work hard to be rehabilitated into living a meaningful life.
Also Michael, I;ve been calling you Tommy.. *groans and slaps my own forehead* Apologies!
Look forward to reading part 2 when you have the time.
ML
x
Reblogged this on Bastet and Sekhmet's Library and commented:
An interesting experience lived by a young 19 year old…a visit to a Jail (gaol in British English)…sombering.
Really fascinating view into a side of life that is thankfully only experienced by few….looking forward o reading part 2 next!! 🙂 🙂
Thanks Helen only three parts as thankfully I only went there three times. But its an experience I have not forgotten.
I can imagine the loneliness and devastation that these ‘in-mates’ must experience, and I am probably going to get whacked over the head for saying so – but as we are all aware, they have been put in there for a reason, as sad and as desolate their lives must be – do the crime – serve the time. watched a doco last night on the Old Bailey in England. Where the men being taken for execution had to walk the long mile – brick walls surrounding and like an Alice in Wonderland Movie, the openings or doors as they walked further became narrower and smaller in height. It was made this way to play on the prisoners minds, knowing that their life was getting smaller and they weren’t returning… they had no tennis courts..
It’s a running joke in gaol that every guy is innocent….and I agree its a desolate life.. no whacking necessary
phew…thank you 😉
Come on Jenny, its Christmas, time to rejoice in ones fellow man, or something like that.
oh…yeah…that 😉
I can’t imagine a place like that being anything but grey & depressing.
Sad that for some it’s all they know. Sad – that they end up there in the first place. I know a few. For some it’s a cycle, a way of life & for others – lesson learned & there’s no going back.
Thanks RoSy, yes it is as you say sad and depressing and some people live in those places for years.