Awkward

The jail maintains two systems for tracking inmate housing assignments within the facility. The first is a high tech computer program allowing the user to access the location, legal status, and past criminal history of the inmate almost in real time. The other is a white magnetic board with a decision tree schematic of the jail and each inmate's mug shot and name printed on a tiny slip of paper the size of a fortune slip from a fortune cookie, slid into a small magnet, and arranged on the board the size of an indy theater projector screen. The intake PPD list is maintained visually on this board. On my way through intake to pick up booking sheets I went over the board to get a feel for how many PPD's I would be placing later in the evening when I saw a familiar face in the "Intake" Column. One of my most beloved college professors, a man who attended my wedding with his wife, was booked into cell 10. "Is he here?" I asked the Sergeant, "Is he really here?" I asked again in the asinine way one blurts things out in shock, putting my finger on his tiny mug shot face. "No, we just put that up for fun," the Sergeant replied. I glared at him and walked out of Intake, leaving six booking sheets at the officer's station.

Before I started working at the jail I thought about everyone I might run into there and thought carefully about how I would deal with seeing them on the other side of the bars. I thought about the drunk corrections officer ex-boyfriend from a few years back, maybe his mom, a few other people from the prison staff. I never really thought about seeing respected role models. I was pretty sure he hadn't seen me, but now I had to choose. Should I go over to his cell, just to day "hi?" Perhaps he would like to see a friendly face when he was in a tough spot. If his blanket smelled or something I could fetch another one. Or would he be embarrassed? Would he be embarrassed every time he saw me again around town? I decided to respect his privacy. Seeing your former students when you are in the black-and-white jumpsuit probably isn't what any professor wants. Besides, he was my music teacher and he'd probably ask if I'd been practicing and I'd have to say "no," andhe'd tell me that was a shame.

When I got back up to medical I told the other nurse. "Let's look him up!" she said, pulling up the computer program. I didn't really want to know why he was there, but I did need to know how long he would be there. She told me it was minor and he'd leave the next day. Then she started to go into his whole former rap sheet. "Stop, seriously, stop," I said, walking into the pharmacy. But like a jury who has heard testimony and judge sustains the objection from the defense attorney, I could not unhear what the other nurse had told me. I sat down in the secluded pharmacy, as far away from my professor as I could possibly get without going home. Classical music training is usually includes a hefty dose of trial-by-fire and public humiliation at an early age. I've never been impressed with the show American Idol because I'd endured much worse in my career as a violinist by the age of 12. I thought about the man down in Intake who I had often described as a bodhisattva in his kindness, patience, and and ability to help his students accomplish new things musically. He had the almost unique ability to suck all of the fear and judgement out of music, for him you could just get up and try something new and feel safe. I knew I never wanted to see him in the jumpsuit, behind the steel and plexiglass of the cell. Seeing the mini mug shot was bad enough. I thought about class with him and decided to play a little Bach when I got home.