Today I went to prison.

Around nine this morning I called my sister, the former cop, and told her "I'm on my way to the Big House." She asked me who was dead, husband or teenager. We got a chuckle over the fact that she first assumed that I had finally murdered someone in my family instead of remembering that son and I were going to the Angola Prison Rodeo today. Hmmmm, ya think those two members of my family might be stressing me a little lately?
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Random questions/comments from my 10 year old son:


"Wouldn't it be scarey to live near a prison, what if the prison guys escaped?"

"Do they have that wire that cuts you up around the prison?" (He had visited my sister at her old office near the local prison before and had seen razor wire there)

While driving through the rolling hills on the way, (cut me some slack about "rolling hills" in south Louisiana):
"It is so pretty here, I am glad that the prisoners get to see this, maybe it will help them be nice again."

"Can I talk to the prison guys?" (I told him yes but that they are all adults and humans and deserve to be treated with respect and dignity.)

"I am going to be really nice to the prison guys and smile at them. Maybe that will make them want to do right next time."

"I waved and smiled at the inmates. They all waved back and gave me a thumbs up. I wasn't scared of them like my friends."

And after the rodeo: "If I go to prison, I want to be one of those prisoners that chases the bull to get the poker chip off his nose. That looks fun. Maybe I'll go to prison just to do that." After I finished hyperventilating over that train of thought, we had a chat about other ways to get to chase a bull.

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I had never been out to Angola. My husband went to the infirmary there while he was in medical school, but when I was in school they were still not sending female medical students out to the prison. It really is in a beautiful part of the state and the grounds are kind of pretty in a working farm sort of way.

The inmates sell crafts and art that they have created. There is lots of leatherwork and woodwork along with paintings, plants and even matchstick sculptures. Most of the stuff is not cheesy, artsy/craftsy creations but is instead art with a captital A.

I saw two pictures I want. One is a Degas inspired ballerina tying her toe shoes. The ballerina is a stunningly beautiful black woman. The other picture is a pencil work of a young boy sitting on steps with his face hidden as he hunches over. His jeans are torn, his body language is that of defeat. The title of the piece was "Abandoned".

Many of the artists and craftsmen were gray haired. Every one that I spoke to was polite and proud of their work. As I was leaving I could understand how people can choose to work in a prison. What I saw today were signs of redemption and that is something that would be worth dedicating a life of work toward.