Tripping to Riker’s Island
Nobody chooses to go to Riker’s Island . Practically every subway line that goes to Queens stops at Queensboro Plaza Queens ’ bus stops on every corner across from the subway station. But the bus to Riker’s is two blocks away and around the corner to the left.
Of course there’s no sign indicating that the bus actually stops there. It’s lying on the ground on the sidewalk on Jackson Avenue
When the bus actually arrives around 1:30 PM I am surprised to discover how friendly the bus driver is. He’s talking to one of his regular passengers about her family.
“My daughter also goes to a Charter School
I noticed that the area around Queensboro Plaza Queens – little two family homes, trees and garages.
As soon as we get close to the causeway that separates the prison island from the rest of the Queens , the atmosphere abruptly changes. No more trees and residences – just a bridge, fences, and more concrete.
* * * *
It is business as usual when I walk into the Control Area. Nobody seems to know who I am or why I’m there. The office was supposed to fax a form confirming my visit, but the officer at the desk couldn’t find it. I call my Peace Corps Fellow at the school to tell her I’m here. Unfortunately, she has to get someone to take over her classroom in order to fax the form and see to it that I get safely to her classroom.
This is what you have to do to get the school at Riker’s where she teaches: You have to give your ID to the guard officer in the Control Room and sign in. Then he stamps your hand with an invisible mark and gives you a tag to get on bus #1. The bus driver looks at your tag and lets you off at one of the countless cement block buildings that encompass the area. In the lobby of the school, you are once again asked for your ID and stamped on the hand. If you’re lucky, someone will be there to escort you. If not, you have to call them to come pick you up. (I was lucky they somehow allowed me to keep my cell phone. My teaching fellow later told that they usually confiscate it when they know you are going to be in the same place with the inmates.)
I can’t describe how depressing the hallways and classroom are. Every room is locked. There are bars on every window, but most rooms don’t have any windows. The desks are bare and hard and the seats are attached to them. (They remind me of the old desks we used at the high school I taught at in the Bronx that was built in 1927.) That building was remodeled in the 1990’s and more modern furniture (separate chairs and tables) were installed in most classrooms.
There are no bells or buzzers to signal the end of most classes which last for about an hour and a half. The teacher has to keep track of the time or she is interrupted by the next class or a guard entering to take her group back to the Unit.
The students are all male. They look like they might be from 17 to 21 years old. (They are being taught a high school curriculum with adjustments for the language ability of the students in both the ESL and GED classes.)
The teacher never knows from day-to-day who might be in the classroom. She has taught approximately two to fifteen students any odd day. Sometimes the population diminishes because someone has gotten into trouble on the unit and is being disciplined by not allowing him to leave the cellblock. Sometimes new inmates join the group before the teacher receives information about when they arrived at the prison.
You can imagine what that does to lesson-planning. The teacher almost always calls her lesson contingency – something that requires patience and ingenuity on her part. I have never seen such creative lessons in my lifetime of teaching and mentoring!
Today Melanie is teaching approximately 12 young men in her afternoon GED class. They are reviewing a story about a neer-do-well polygamist named Carlyle, who lives in Harlem and shuttles amongst his three wives in Manhattan Brooklyn , and the Bronx .
The students really like the story because Carlyle is a something like the man they aspire to be: sexually promiscuous, a father of illegitimate children, and a lover of the weed! However you would never know that they really understand anything about characterization, point of view, or plot (what Melanie was trying to teach them to prepare for the GED test) because they are busy talking to each other. Their choice of language is consistent with what you might expect 17 year olds in the hood might use. In fact, it sounds much like Carlyle’s dialogue throughout the story.
I realize I’ll probably never see these students again but I try to make some contact with them during the application part of the lesson. I discover by walking around the room that some of them are perfectly capable of reading and writing on their own, and others can barely interpret some of the easiest vocabulary.
The lesson end when the correction officer appears at the door to escort the inmates back to their unit. Everyone leaves with scowls on their faces, except for the few who have earned the privilege of staying behind for individual tutoring.
Leaving Riker’s Island is almost as difficult as getting in. I have to wait until Melanie can walk me through the maze of the hallways to the exit. And then I have to show my hand stamp, retrieve my ID, and take the Island bus back to the main entrance and public transportation to Queens .
I’ve escaped from Riker’s Island , but the memory of my sojourn has been etched in my mind forever!
