The Quiet Power of Boo

Many years ago, when I was just a young college student, I began teaching women in prison through a program sponsored by the Literacy Council.

Teaching in prison was far different than any other teaching environment I’d experienced. Upon entering the prison, I had to wade through a lobby filled with family members waiting to see their loved ones. On the other side of the crowded lobby was a sturdy wooden desk, which resembled a barricade of sorts. After signing the log-in sheet for the day, the callous security guard would go through all of my bags, looking for anything that could be turned into a weapon. Even crayons and craft glue had to be viewed with a discerning eye.   

Once I cleared the front desk, I made my way to the next obstacle: the sally port. For those who aren't aware, a sally port is a controlled entryway to an enclosure such as a fortification. In this case, the fortification was a prison. This particular sally port was similar to a glass booth, which served as a gateway to the living quarters of the prison. With a hint of attitude, that same callous security guard would buzz me into the sally port. I was then captive, waiting patiently in the sally port until the security guard from the living quarters side of the prison buzzed me through. Having others in charge of my freedom was a nerve racking experience. No matter how many times I went through that sally port, it never got any easier.

After making it to the living quarters, I was promptly escorted to my classroom, which was equipped with a few long tables and some basic plastic chairs. The only window was cut into the thick steel door, providing a glimpse of the prison maze. The window was barred and the floor was bare. Yet, despite this austere environment, the students seemed to bring this sterile room to life. 

During one of our lessons, each student was assigned to make a tape recording of themselves reading the book “The Snowy Day” by Ezra Jack Keats. While a majority of the women in my class were mothers, many of them were unable to see their children. However, this recording would allow these children to hear their mothers reading them a story, even if they couldn't be with them in person. In preparation for this assignment, we read this classic children's story numerous times as a class. 

One by one, the women made their way to the small room at the end of the dimly lit hallway. The room was all but empty, except for a standard round table, a plastic chair and a tape recorder, which was set up beforehand. With their copy of "The Snowy Day" in hand, as well as a new cassette tape, each woman took turns recording this beloved story for their child. 

Boo was the last person in our class to do so. With a physique that filled a door frame, I had no doubt there was an underlying meaning to her name. Her very presence was ominous, stirring up feelings of anxiousness and, at times, fear. Beyond towering over the other women, Boo had a hardened look that quietly revealed a lifetime of pain. Despite my best efforts, I simply couldn't break through the barriers Boo had created to protect herself . 

As our session was wrapping up for the day, I suddenly realized that Boo never returned to class. I began asking the other women if they’d seen her. Nothing. Concern quickly turned to alarm. After all, it's never a good thing to lose a student; but even more so in this particular environment. I couldn't even comprehend how someone with the stature of Boo could just slip away unnoticed. As I prepared to push the button for the security guard, Boo slowly sauntered back into the classroom. I felt like the weight of the world was off my shoulders as I breathed of heavy sigh of relief. It was then that I noticed her tear stained cheeks and red, swollen eyes. Clear evidence that she had been crying. 

I’ll never forget the change that came over Boo that day. As she started recording this lighthearted story for her child, the hardened facade melted away, revealing a tender hearted mother. Reading that story aloud brought back a flood of emotions, even more overwhelming than Boo’s stature. As she stood before me with sorrow etched into her face, Boo was no different than any other Mother I’d known. She loved her children dearly and yearned to be with them, but her circumstances kept her from doing so. 

Boo wasn’t just a prisoner to the walls that held her captive, day after day. Boo was a prisoner to her emotions, as well. Until that day, she was never able to properly process the pain she felt by being separated from her child.

This experience taught me that any one of us can be captives in a prison of our own choosing. Only by looking beyond these prison walls are we able to truly see others for who they are, not what they are.