Randall had been at the rehab for years. He was a youthful-looking African-American in his forties who dressed like a kid. To me, It looked like his mom had picked out his clothes, typically plaid shorts, a crisp white polo shirt, and tennis shoes. His clothes always looked new, right off the rack. His drug of choice, heroin. He had worked his way up the ladder in the community, making sure, during hourly monitoring, that everyone was accounted for; manning the reception desk; answering phones; and eventually becoming a role model. In order to advance to intern, he had to have his GED and he studied sporadically in my school to take the test.

Randall is bright and he worked hard, passing the pre-GED in all five subjects. I recommended he be funded by the program to take the test, and he registered for for it. The morning of his test I saw him smoking out in front of the rehab. He told me he went to the testing center but was the only one who showed up, so they rescheduled the math and writing for next week. The odd thing is I believed him. After ten years working with parolees I somehow didn’t have my “cheater meter” up and running. Two days later coming in to work I saw his name on the board that lists the names of residents who split or were kicked out. Randall had left in the middle of the night. I called the GED testing center and they told me they’d had a full house for that week’s math and writing exam. Damn. My heart dropped.

It’s common for prisoners to mess up right before their release or to work toward a goal and sabotage it. They say success is the hardest thing for this population. Increased expectations, increased responsibility, increased fear. About the same time Randall left, most likely relapsing on heroin, I received a new student, Geraldo. Geraldo scored 100% on four of the five pre-GED tests. This is unprecedented in my experience. I immediately recommended him for the full test and he is set to take the GED next month. this time I’m not keeping my fingers crossed. Geraldo exceeds my expectations and I have no fear that he will succeed.

Yesterday marked one year since I started Parole Call. My goal was 100 posts; counting this one I wrote 77. Anniversaries are funny things in my line of work. Mostly everything my students — all felons on parole — recognize as a milestone is followed by the statement, on the outside. “This is the first birthday/Christmas/Thanksgiving I’ve spent on the outside in X many years.” I’ve never heard anyone say, “This is the first anniversary of my not stealing.” Maybe we should honor the passage of time from iniquity as well.

So this is my first anniversary of blogging. I have learned a lot about my work through this process of written reflection. I realize I spend all day helping people see their potential, celebrate small victories, and recognize incremental growth in themselves. But I also see humanity in turmoil, locked into destructive patterns, unable to break away from drugs, poverty, and the grip of mental illness. My work environment is never boring. On any given day when I walk into the greater rehab, there is likely someone yelling, getting yelled at, crying, laughing, ready to walk, steaming mad, or heartbroken. I see people in survival mode, working the system for food and shelter. Some students leave without completing the program and come back years later, fresh out of prison all over again. I might see a former student sitting on the couch near the intake desk, black-eyed, thin and homeless. “Welcome back,” I say. “I hope you will come back to school, we missed you.” It’s about a thimble of hope.

It’s the week of Thanksgiving and the community is busy cooking more turkeys in a week than most of us will in our lifetime. Many of these are being prepared for a local homeless shelter. All the women were missing from my class today. Someone said they were out together getting their hair done. I wonder what beauty school they went to or if a salon donated their services. It’s the first I’ve heard of this in my many years teaching at this site but no field trip would surprise me. Sometimes this place does feel like summer camp for felons. One wonders why anyone would ever leave.

Bart left this weekend. He didn’t seem restless on Friday when he was in my class. Sometimes a resident will leave just before a holiday to try to see their family or their dealer. Last week Bart drew me a lizard resting on a melting eyeball for the small gallery I have of student artwork. He might still be using his drug of choice, LSD. Bart claims to have taken LSD more times this year than the number of turkeys we are cooking.

One of my former students returned this week. Bart was in my class in 2008. I remember him getting close to taking his GED right before taking off. Everyone likes Bart. Barely out of his twenties, he makes eccentricity seem cool right down to his blond mohawk that turns into a long pony tail. Since I last saw him Bart has been working on expanding the holes pierced in his ears. Yesterday he walked in with two AA batteries in each lobe.  “Have a look in your junk drawer, Ms. P, ” he said. He wanted me to find him something else to put in the holes now stretched to nearly an inch in diameter.  “Inside I used chess pieces,” he said of his time in prison. “Queens because the kings were too big.”

I try to withhold even the simplest supply request lest word get out in the community that I am soft and can be milked for goods. I never let parolees use my office phone or borrow money, not even a quarter. If you give an inmate a paper clip in prison you can lose your job. It’s a matter of safety and security. Here are some items I did give out this week: pencils to do math problems, an envelope to send for official GED transcripts, a rubber band to hold together a student’s dreadlocks so they don’t fall in his eyes during computer work.

Stuffing your ears with batteries can’t be good. So I found a dried-out orange highlighter in my desk and gave it to Bart. The next day he came in to class with the highlighter’s plastic orange barrel neatly cut into fat, hollow pegs that he proudly wore in each earlobe. Then he watched a skateboard video on Microsoft Encarta. I saw it was too late to ask for my highlighter back.

Every day my work brings sweet surprises. I rely on volunteer tutors to help my students. They tutor in the classroom and sometimes outside of class, so students get  all the benefits of a private boarding school in parole housing. I’ve had many tutors over the years and most of them have been amazing.  One of my class tutors came back to say hi. She had one of my former students with her and they had news — they are now engaged and living together. They seemed stable, found jobs, were saving for a car. Though it is highly discouraged during recovery, relationships are formed in rehab, even here in my little one-room schoolhouse.

I recently lost my volunteer math tutor and found a new one in the community. A recovering cocaine addict, Khadim was raised in West Africa, speaks fluent French, Spanish and Yoruba. He went to universities in Africa and New York and has a degree in economics. He leaves early on Friday mornings to attend a Mosque dressed in beautiful African attire. He is over a foot taller than I. Very quiet, he waits for students to ask for his help. “Jump in,” I tell him, or I just call out his name, “Khadim!” Once he sits down and gets started, he’s one of the loudest people in the room, and I have to remind him, “Use your whispering voice.”

All new residents come to see me in their first week, and yesterday I met Viva. Since Viva has her GED she won’t have to attend my class. But we talked awhile and I was struck by how many tattoos she has, often a sign of long-term incarceration. If you’re never getting out then it doesn’t matter how the “outside” world sees you. What’s unusual about Viva is that the tattoos are all over her face. Her eyebrows look like the stylized waves one might see in a Japanese ink drawing. Tattooed words that I can’t make out form a proper mustache and goatee. Women’s names are written in red and green on her cheeks. She told me she has started the long process of having the tattoos removed by laser. “I put them on to fit in, I put them on to keep people away,” she said of the tattoos. “It’s complicated.” Yet her friendliness and social ease belie all self-consciousness.

What does any of us put on to fit in, to keep people away? It’s an interesting question.

The females are required to eat lunch together as part of their recovery and bonding. Today Z asked if I would join them for my half-hour lunch break instead of my usual retreat to my classroom to read the newspaper online. No sooner had we sat down than trays appeared with sandwiches. “Who had the idea to make a BLT on cinnamon toast?” one of the women said, laughing. “It’s marble rye, ” I told them, “a real treat, something you might get in a New York Deli.” Then Z said Grace. The women were giddy over the unusual fare. Z somehow ended up with triple bacon. I also enjoyed some chicken soup and iced tea.

It’s very communal in our cafeteria. A handsome young Latina woman just out of prison with a shaved head got seconds and cut her sandwich in half with a spoon, giving half to her friend. I even gave my hot pepper away to my neighbor. Yet I felt conspicuous eating in front of my students. Z must have sensed that and smiled at me, saying, “You picked a good day to sit with us Ms. P — great sandwiches.”

I can’t count how many math tutors I have had on board over the years but one always seems to show up in the form of a smart student shortly after another has split.  My last teacher’s assistant was great. Not only was Byron willing to help, he genuinely loved learning, and he was on deck to take his own GED.

When he arrived at the rehab, he asked me if I had a book on Origami. I bought him some Origami paper in a Japanese gift shop and printed the instructions for the crane off the Internet. He sat and made the most beautiful birds and taught others to make them as well. Soon my room had colorful Origami cranes tucked among the books and on the computer consoles. Then the cranes started to disappear. I asked one of my students if he knew where the green crane went?  ”One minute Ms. P.,” he said as he ran to his room to get the green crane that he had sprayed with very strong men’s cologne. “It’s the color of money,” he said as he returned it to its flock, “my favorite.”

Over the next couple weeks, the cranes Byron made vanished one by one. I always gave a crane to anyone who asked. Then last week, Byron didn’t show up to help tutor.  He split two days before his own GED exam, left without permission. He probably neatly folded his few belongings and took flight.

Z passed the GED!! She ran into my room holding her scores in front of her, her hand on the paper shaking in excitement. I’m not supposed to hug my students, but after working with her for two years and close to 500 hours of preparation, I couldn’t help myself.

I wanted to take her picture. We dressed her in the black cap and gown I keep on hand. For my students, getting their GED and having their picture taken holding their diploma is monumental. For the better part of their lives they have faced the camera for mug shots holding their name and a number just below their face.

Z was invited to speak to the community. She said earning her diploma was the second greatest achievement in her life next to having children. Her children are all adopted out, I’m not sure of the circumstances behind this. I told her no one could take away her diploma but it was not in itself a destination. “It’s a stepping stone,” I said.

You don’t go into teaching to change people’s lives. You work in sales. I sell confidence, hope and determination. No guarantees.

I gave a few students copies of the American Sign Language alphabet. I had no idea they make use of signing inside prison when they are in lockdown. They said they sign larger so someone else can see it from far away. These are the hazards of my job — any well meaning comment or teaching tool can be misconstrued. Soon every new arrival from prison will be asking me for the sign language alphabet. So for now I put the sign language worksheets away and go back to teaching long division.