Learning and Mentoring

As a correctional officer, you must learn how to recognize these methodologies as a means to communicate without saying the exact words that may trip the conversation into a stalemate or confrontation. Offenders often trick the officers into a routine pre-planned by individuals who share common ground where they are housed. Inmates scheming to do something bad and that will require extra time and detail tamper with security rounds in the pod or cellblock by keeping the officer away from the production area and by bombardment of ridiculous or useless questions just to keep the person occupied with non-relevant issues that are both drawn out and difficult but in reality not necessary. Burdened with a faux task such as going to the supervisor to see why their mail is always late, the inmates assure themselves an extra hour of illicit activity as the officer is now pre-occupied with the task delivered by inmates. Another method is to make the round through a pod or cellblock so bothersome, the officer will hesitate to conduct their rounds on the hour as required and skip the rounds in lieu of not being bothered by the masses. Such ploys work well on rookies and often result in the manufacturing of a weapon, the passing of contraband or a serious assault. The intoxicating foul smell of feet or sweat marks the making of a unit with inefficient air circulation which generally results in inmates showing poor personal hygiene and lethargic behaviors. The smell is more common in mental health or psychiatric treatment units where some inmates are unable to dress themselves properly due to being under the influence of a psychotropic drug or even to the extent of being chemically restrained to avoid dealing with their constant self destructive behaviors or suicide attempts. Officers often smell the urine on the floors and walls as they were thrown at them or others passing to or from the showers. This environment is detrimental to your sanity as you begin to feel more emotionally estranged or disconnected as your feelings towards others becomes impaired and callous. Eventually, if you let it, you begin to associate the smell with your thoughts as alienation takes over and your mind adjusts to deal with whatever comes your way.

This is an important part to remember as you go home for you cannot afford to alienate your family and friends just because the mechanism works in the workplace. Disassociating yourself leads to isolation and depression. Your habits become altered to an unplanned event and your life as you know it has been interrupted where you feel you are losing control over your thoughts, emotions and sometimes, reality. Fortunately, for many officers who have begun to endure this stressor, the re-enforcement of loved ones (spouse and children especially) other officers and counselors, have a tendency to reduce this thinking to some degree. The important things said, there are other considerations you must realize about working inside the prison walls. Everyday, as you get in your car at the end of the shift, you unknowingly track contaminants into your house on your clothes, shoes or hair. The events of the day may have been a discharge of chemical agents which you were exposed to and failed to wash out of your face or hair. Lice, or other insects impregnated into the bodies of the inmates that lay there in filth exist and thrive on making a new home somewhere else. Last but just as important, the shoe soles that track every step during the day over fecal matter and urine track onto your carpet and contaminate its layers with microorganisms or bacteria. Taking your shoes off before entering will keep you from having sick children or family members as you reduce the contamination that occurs when you travel from work to your house. Stocking up on alcohol based hand soap or liquid sanitary soap in the bathrooms both at work and home, also reduces illness as the confinement of a prison breeds meningitis, flu symptoms and other viral bacteria conditions transferred by hand or skin unknowingly. Your clothing should be washed separate from your non-work clothes as the cross contamination of chemicals and blood or body fluids exists and can, if conditions are perfect, inflict a sickness of the most severe degree. Hepatitis* C is believed to be carried by over forty per cent of the prison population and is considered to be the deadliest of them all. It can be treated but inmates are not always tested to validate their illness as the tests are extremely expensive and money is hard to come by for medical treatment. It is projected that soon, this disease will kill as many people as AIDS does today. Handling drug users daily, Hepatitis C is already the most common disease of its sort in the United States. Described as a “silent killer”, this is a chronic, life-threatening, blood-borne infection most commonly linked to infected needles used for drugs, though prison tattoos with non-sterile * http://www.msnbc.msn.com equipment are also risky. As you recognize additional stressors in your life, you become paranoid to some degree to ensure your phobias are not interfering with the rest of your life away from the joint. Taking the proper protective procedures as you come home will reduce the majority of chance you will transmit a disease into your home and inflict harm on anyone of your loved ones.

You’re now a matured enabled correctional officer who knows the job so well, you can recite policies and procedures by heart. As you have grown into a highly skilled professional craftsman, you are still not ready to make all the decisions you will be faced with in the upcoming years. It is now time to decide whether you want to move on or move out. The thrill of the joint drives your adrenalin daily and you’re hooked on the way prisons are run. To switch to another agency would take time to make another transition and you have established yourself to be good at what you do. A decision is due whether you stay or go on and apply at the nearest police academy to become a street cop or stay and go for a promotion and become a supervisor mid level where you are now in charge of a shift and hundreds of inmates at one time. Taking control or having control is a powerful pressure on your mind and soul. Selecting the right decisions in making things work out for the better of all your staff and inmates under your care, is a technique developed over time and its now time to decide your fate. You know who you are and you know what to do, your personal life is settled and you bought a house filled with nice stuff you bought earned with the check you bring home religiously as your perfect attendance has shown others your dedication and loyalty to the agency. A responsible person by every means, you have elevated yourself into a special status where you are now the role model everybody looks up to. This, with the fact of being good at what you do, may assist you into settling on your next step with the question on your mind if you want to start over somewhere else or settle in and make a career of what you are doing now.

You’ve worked hard to seek the promotions and demonstrated you wanted the extra responsibility; you aren’t content to remain where you are at and mostly, you sought to work in a place that has black and white rules which hold a high degree of structure. You enjoy a fair degree of control over others and the fact you wear a uniform shows you like the fact your job is regimented and rigid in arrangement. The mutual relationship from man to man is one of the incredible miracles in the cosmos.† The fact remains that corrections has a valid function in conforming behaviors that are either right or wrong. The officer, the administration and the system has to balance life on the inside to allow them to return to a normalcy when released from prison. The challenge to keep them from returning is not just the burden that falls on the corrections professional. It takes a team of professionals to ensure the person coming back into society is a lower risk than before he or she entered and reformed to the point where the offender can successfully sustain a life outside of prison within the culture they grew up in and exist. Social support, economic support and community support increases the chances of success and allowing an inmate to be successful and stay out of prison. A correctional officer, in the best case scenario provided can be instrumental in allowing this success to occur. His or her patience towards the latter days of serving the inmate’s time can determine good or bad outcomes and provides a support link for inmates to rely on till they walk out of the front gate with their gate money and a bus ticket home.

The organization has grown and your growth within it has made you a better, stronger person. Your looking for more challenges and ask your supervisor for a diverse change of duties to keep a sphere of qualifications at hand to be proficient at what you do and who you do it for. Your leadership ability develops as other cadets out of the academy seek your guidance and your mentorship to lead them on their individual road of development and enlargement to bigger things and opportunities. Seeking opportunities to diverse and proceed a variety of tasks will make you a subject matter expert and soon, you will be asked to travel to other institutions to help them develop better and more practical correctional practices and procedures. Your confidence has grown and you’re ready to look at the next step of becoming a supervisor. Six years of experience and your feel like you’re on top of your game. You have answers for those who seek advice and you perform with the consistency which demonstrates the “walk the walk and talk the talk” mentality. You’re looking at your role models and it inspires you to make a change in your routine.
† Wilker –

Although the roles you played at the facilities have been good to you, its time to change your work habits and join the instructor team at the Academy in Santa Fe. Your request for a transfer is approved and you become a new instructor at the most modern academy in the Southwest. A new resource center, an indoor shooting range and new classrooms makes this the focal point of law enforcement training centers in the state. The mere presence at such a unit is an elite status topped by none others in the state. Just six miles down the road from the State Police Academy, its design was to officer services to both the state law enforcement officers and corrections. Between the two agencies a dream was born where anyone wearing a badge could in fact receive professional state of the art training provided by state federal and local law enforcement officers. Task forces comprised of K9, State Police and narcotics teams were often briefed and trained out of this academy. Cadets were run through three classes at a time. The shortage for correctional officers never stopped. The turnover was immoral but the need to supply more staff kept the academy at full swing five days a week. Its time for a change and by now your home routine is pretty much settled into a sea of normalcy for you to huddle in for both comfort and tranquility. You have weekends off with a partner who tries to understand you, slowly, as you share your growth with your family; they too feel the need to belong to someone. Your kids return to the state of understanding as you renew your connection with them after pursuing such a hectic work schedule for the past several years. Slowly, the relationship begins to blossom as it once did before and you realize this was the best step you ever made to seek some sort of harmony or tranquility in your life. Being competent and being confident in how you do your job are pre-requisites to becoming a first class instructor or supervisor. The development will follow if you stay on the course for personal and professional development but if you stray, your chances of failure may cost you your reputation, credibility and position.

Leadership courses are offered for both pre-applicants and those already in the position. Only the wisdom of your inner thoughts allows you to choose the better method of self-improvement, attendance of specialized classes and self study lesson. Eventually, on line computer classes would make up a significant portion of the training required to stay with the current technology and development of staff. Seeking advice from others is also a good tool but the best lesson plan provided is the self-study courses available through training which will allow you to see clearer and better when problem solving or faced with a complex decision. Decision making especially during traumatic or serious incidents takesits toll and often shakes your confidence if “your incident” is Monday morning quarterbacked by pencil pushers and former wardens who do not hesitate to send you a list of “what if ’s” to your supervisor or senior manager regarding the manner you handled the situation. Fear not, you will be second-guessed daily even when you demonstrate or displayed both courage and wisdom. It appears others, once in similar positions as those currently held, often want to second guess a scenario and ask you to change your decision making or management style. While at the academy, supervisors were skilled into better decision makers and problem solvers. Giving them the confidence needed to execute during “table top” exercises, their minds develop with better habits and better thought processes. You have to be careful and remember what brought you to the edge of being a competent leader and supervisor. Regardless, you need to maintain your own ideals, skills and methods and mix them with new tools provided by those who offer to help and participate as a benefactor to the problem as well as the solution.

Taking the cadets to the facilities often enhances their ability to see things in a real way. For example, working along side as an OJT, you can learn many things from those who have already grasped the concept of direct supervision of the inmates on the yard. The day is calm and you are almost ready to take the cadre team back to the academy. Without warning, an officer shouts over the radio he has a fight, the voice, breaking up barely giving the location of the fight and who is involved. Immediately you recognize it’s racially related and call for a response team to meet with you there as soon as possible. Not knowing if a weapon is involved, you run to assist the other officer in need. Your arrival gives the officer a boost of as you overhear her screaming verbal commands to stop fighting. Realizing the danger at hand, you yell at the other officer to disperse gas at the combatants as you and the other officer yell at the top of your voice for them to stop fighting. Without regard of your own safety, you rush in and you actually try to break them up, separating them so they can be restrained and taken to a holding cell. Quickly you pat search both fighters and you find an elongated sharp metal piece of steel hidden inside his pants waistband. Your hand quivers with both fear and anger as you remove the “shank” and you admonish the fighters for ruining your day. Suddenly, your realize this was a mixed race fight which often means trouble is right around the corner as others began grouping according to their color of skin. Slowly growing into numbers you cannot handle, you chokingly and trembling with a broken voice pick up the walkie talkie and call for assistance as a shift supervisor arrives at the scene with more officers and relieves you from command. This time the battery was good and the radio works. How often has it been the opposite when they handed you a radio that didn’t work. The throng of the crowd is now a mob and both sides are armed with baseball bats, weights and horseshoes. Armed with nothing but a radio, you look to a supervisor for guidance and direction. A calm voice inside your head, directs you to circle with each other keeping the two combatants within the circle. Buying time, you begin to initiate eye contact with the mob and realize these aren’t the same individuals you were kidding around with just months ago before you left to go work at the academy. Their anger revealed in their red eyes, you prepare yourself for a fight.

Realizing your situation is doomed (at least that’s what your thinking), you glance out of the corner of your infuriated eyes to see a welcomed relief of a six man DART‡ team assembling on the rear of the backlot armed with shotguns and gas launchers. Needless to say, your heart is pounding and the sweat burns your eyes as the heat got hotter. Re-enforcements trickle in and commands are given for all inmates to sit down and cross they legs. Identification cards are picked up by investigative staff and interviews are set up to divulge the reasons for the fight and the tension it created. Your first real taste of personal trauma which may have resulted in serious body injuries or even death, your hands are shaking as you hold on to the tiny piece of real estate you temporarily conquered hoping the fear you feel does not show to those standing in front of you, not a mere twenty yards away. Maintaining eye contact and secretly trembling inside your boots, you take names and faces for your report that will be due after this situation is over. Now seated and calming down, the mob transforms into a large peaceful group as their voices returns to chatter among themselves as escort officers arrive to secure their housing elsewhere until interviewed. Your team is re-assembled and taught how to write information reports that will support the main report filed by the shift supervisor. As you receive the official word your cadres of trainees are released, you make arrangements to head back to the academy. It was a good day for the team to show up on the yard for the extra officers on hand surely made a difference on the outcome of the situation. Regardless, they all felt satisfaction as they walked away. Slowly walking off in a semi-unyielding formation, you glance over your shoulder and take your last view of was almost a melee from hell with many possible injuries if it had gone bad from the first moment. Leaving their armory of bats and recreation gear behind, inmates return to the assigned areas as order is restored. The weapon, still in your hand, is quickly given to another officer who offers to do the evidence bag and maintain a chain of custody on the evidence of the inmate possessing a weapon, an act not readily acceptable on any yard or custody level. The fact you faced the possibility of death plays a game with your mind as you adjust your thinking to stay calm and connected. For some, it is the beginning of having strong startle reactions and being edgy while on the job; for others, it instills unnecessary worries about coping with these every day situations and works on destroying their own personal confidence or in this case a lack of confidence with possible difficulties leading up to being unable to focus on the job.

Strangely, when asked to remember the events as they took place, your temporarily suffer from memory loss as you can’t bring yourself to focus on the events as they actually occurred. Most certainly a traumatic event you’re never experienced before, you begin to self doubt your ability to recall the facts as they occurred and someone offers you a cold drink of bottled water to allow you to re-compose yourself. Slowly the events were remembered and your report is submitted to your supervisor at the end of the day. The end of the shift comes to mind and its time to go home and relax for awhile. Today’s events are just a beginning in the journey of deciding whether to use this position as a stepping stone or to endure the entire task of retirement from this job. One thing was for sure, your stay at the academy was suddenly shortened by your distinct will to return to the unit where your presence felt needed. Not only for the thrill of the yard activities but he fact that if felt better knowing where you belong in this business. Purposely, you avoid talking about the trauma and you go through the day not talking to anyone about how you feel or how it affected your health. Spending the last two and a half years at the academy makes your heart long for the action of the line. Your heart, asking to be satisfied, tells you to come back to the madness. At the same time, while purposely avoiding the subject, you withdraw from others to avoid conversations which may reveal your true feelings about the traumatic day’s events. Not feeling so sure of yourself some of the times, you begin to question every decision, or tactic you did during the incident and become your own worst critic on how to handle yourself in a critical situation such as what happened that day. Regardless how well it turns out, you will always think of the other “what if ” to see whether or not the outcome would have been different. Not everyone executes well under pressure, and there are no certain rules which say who will and who wont. Even those with years of experience, slowly wither away some of their effectiveness and are having difficulty maintaining their professional standards as they begin to take shortcuts to make it easier for him or her at the end of the day.

Mandated hourly checks are often neglected if the officer thinks their supervisor will not check on them. The supervisor, dedicated but overworked and tied to a desk to conduct journal checks and other shift paperwork, has also engaged in taking shortcuts as he or she often finds it convenient to accept things as they are and not push the issue with someone higher in their chain of command. Somewhere in between the good and the bad are the officers who diligently performs their duties as required and when given a chance, often criticize their peers for doing a careless job while on the job thus causing a rift often irreparable as it is a choice between ethical conduct and non conformity to the job duties and responsibilities. You as a supervisor know the advantage of the open yard and how it gives you an advantage as inmates will often remain silent about your incompetence or misconduct. In fact, they’ will praise you in the beginning as a person who has common sense and no need to worry as they “got your back” when it comes to making sure the dorm or yard is in order. Trusting them would be a fatal flaw in your career as it will come back to haunt your reputation someday.

Without consultation, it was time to put in a transfer request to go back to the line. The academy was a good experience but being on the line was more important than the specialized positions gained at the most elite unit in the state, the academy. Being a captain and well versed in the field, you take your new assignment in stride and look forward to the shift camaraderie that often molds individuals into teams.

The assignment was Investigation Captain at the Main Facility. This job was to investigate staff misconduct and inmate complaints of unlawful use of forces and misconduct. Not actually believing every inmate that lodges a complaint, you have to take the information with a bit of salt to ensure a fair and balanced report to the Warden. Being assigned to Internal Affairs is not the most popular position to be in. Most of the time, you sit alone, eat alone and work alone due to the nature of your business. Many friends of the past shun you as you walk down the corridors of the prison seeking out information not so readily available as anyone, staff or inmate who talks can be considered a rat. It is not unusual to find a piece of cheese in your locker when you talk to IA. This assignment didn’t last very long as most cases were being choreographed by the deputy warden who used this position to “get even” with staff he personally disliked. After failing to meet one of his personal vendettas, I was removed from this assignment and placed on graveyard shift at a max custody unit out of his span of control.

Your work, when done right, is more enjoyable as you reap the benefits of the fruits of your labor which are often measured with positive impact on behaviors and the reduction of negative events on your shift or in your area of responsibilities Strangely, your position as a leader is secured based on your own actions, your own decisions and your own conduct. Perhaps, after assessing your successes and accomplishments, its time to turn the silver badge in for a gold badge and become a supervisor at this point of your career. Time is a true indicator whether you are ready or not. Often you feel your alone in the mist of your problems but as your about to find out, you successes have been noticed by those who can promote you into a more structured and more complex position of management which will launch you to a new destination in your career. True intrusive thoughts will enter your mind as you become accustomed to worry about everyday activities and as you begin to associate your thoughts with the sounds of the workplace, your coping skills begin to understand the world you chose as a career better and with clear insight of the daily events as they occur around you and your co-workers. You’re developing those skills everyone was talking about when you were in the academy and without warning your ability to assess a situation by observation, making an analysis of what you see and responding accordingly, your assessment will be clear and concise which have a direct impact on your effectiveness and collect my experience. Unfortunately these skill development lessons do not come without a side effect. Police stressors, regardless whether you are on the inside of a prison or out on the street in a patrol car, can play a significant part of your life.

The first and most common stressor is the pressure of mid level supervisors and administrators micro managing and interfering in what you perceive to be your area of responsibility. Dealing with such factors as excessive absenteeism, pressure from co-workers and supervisors, sexual harassment at the work place all play into the fact this type of work is not easy to deal with and many find alcohol as a reliever to reduce their stress. Every now and then you will work with an employee who demonstrates poor hygiene, tardiness, low self-esteem and wonder what in the world is wrong with them. Truly, you begin to suspect the person is under the influence of alcohol and your first instinct is to help them get through this crisis. Wanting to be a friend, you must realize this person is in dire need for professional counseling and a referral may be in order to preserve their career, life or someone else’s. Their uniform array and wrinkled, you witness them redirected by the supervisors to “shape up” or face disciplinary action. On another note, I have seen significant changes in staff who were held hostage at one time and who never fully recovered from the trauma and eventually get divorced, move away or drown themselves in self pity or sorrow. Your world is becoming more universal as you grow with the organization and reveal your true identity as a professional correctional officer ready to take the next step to become a supervisor.

Stress on the job has high ramifications as a correctional officer. It can impede your decision making and can lead to organic diseases or difficulties. Besides alcoholism, broken marriages or personal relationships, emotional instability and suicides, it is often the beginning of the end of someone who does not manage it in a constructive and agency established manner. Although frowned upon by both cops and correctional staff, the employee assistant programs allow you to recover from such stressors and return back to work without penalty or loss of the job as long as you follow the rules established by your agency or employer. There is no shame in asking for help when you have exhausted all means to handle it yourself. Not everyone is strong enough to individually or with family or church support. There have been many great men and women who endured the stressors of the job to become role models and leaders in their own fields. Perseverance, courage, strength and wisdom will allow you the tools to make the right decision for you and being a correctional officer inside a world where felons prey on others. There is no way you can be flawed in taking care of business and seeking help to remain focused in the mission assigned as trained and depended on as a law enforcement officer of an agency within the criminal justice system which hardly gets the respect it deserves and is always in the cross hairs of the media as they paint corrections an evil animal that was created to keep the streets safe by locking away the predators, thieves and killers.

The Journey

Recovering from the cold winter of ’78, Ohio became a bitter place to be. Frozen pipes in our basement already lined with extra insulation to keep the walls and floors warm, the idea of suffering though another winter entered my head. January of one978 will go down as the worst winter storm that ever hit Ohio as the snow and freezing rain caused the roads to close down, schools and businesses to close up for business and heating bills go through the roof. Starting as a light rain and foggy morning, the weatherman the night before, had no idea what type of storm was brewing and coming up from the Gulf of Mexico until it was too late. The morning sun, hidden by the dark grey clouds, barely shined. As the snow fell, accumulating up to two0 foot high drifts in some areas of our city, Carlos my brother, and I eagerly jumped into the ’67 Willy four wheel drive Jeep and headed for the Interstate where we pulled stranded strangers out of their snowbound vehicles, lodged in huge wind created snow drifts that strangled city streets and freeways. Driving in hurricane force wind helping others, we watched the National Guard trucks and helicopters handle our state’s worst emergency. Semi-trucks, fully loaded but helplessly stuck along the state’s freeways, were halted in their attempts to delivered food and other commodities to the store shelves as people rushed to stock up for the bad weather that snuck up on us like a thief in the night and eventually killing at least twenty two people.

The wind, gusting and shaking our Jeep side to side, as we traveled in risky miserable weather making a buck or two for doing the Good Samaritan deed of helping stranded strangers to the designated sanctuaries, drilled a chill through my spine as I thought of better days and warmer weather. Postcards from my parents in New Mexico came to mind and a dream was born. Picturing the deserts of White Sands in my mind, I thought about moving my family to a warmer and better climate. Disrupting my thoughts of the desert heat, I chilled as I parked the Jeep for another night without power and heat as the sun, never showing its face for two days now, set in the West where my thoughts have begun to wander. Unemployment at a high 5.8 percent and rising, the cost of gasoline and the alleged oil shortages that created long waiting lines at the pumps a couple of years ago, prompted me to look for another place to live for my family and me. Working part time as the community college put a paycheck in our pocket but it barely paid the house and the necessities. Being a rent-a-cop making six fifty an hour, I was working as many hours as possible to stretch the check. Seeking a better way of living, my mind was yearning for a change and as the thoughts laid heavy on my brain, I searched my ethics for what was best for me to follow, my heart or my mind, regardless, it was clear I had to get out of here if life was going to be better.

Looking at the map, I carved a route with a red crayon to lead me to the way convincing my wife and our three year old son, Neil, this would be the best thing we could do in order to give us a better life. Overcoming prescription drug abuse and dealing with a severe drinking problem, my days of searching for a job had come to an end as had pretty much exhausted every employer in the Franklin County area for a job and then throwing the chance away by not showing up due to a heavy hang over
or drunken curse.

For years, I blamed my personal problems on my Vietnam War days and how the government had screwed up my mind. Angry, with no social conscience of right or wrong, I acted out in a pattern of self-harm and destroyed both people’s lives and massacred their feelings. Grasping with the living and ever existing mind-influencing elements of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), I slowly began to understand my own behaviors as the events unfolded before me with much more clarity now than ever before. Hiding behind my war related emotions for almost ten years, it was time I took responsibility of what I had done and what I had said to my family and my friends.

Striving hard to make a significant impression on my family and myself, I wanted to better myself to ensure survival and better care of my loved ones. Reminiscing and reflecting its meaning, those words from the Yardbirds as they sang their song, “We gotta get out of this place” struck a nerve that set me on track to make a move, after a brief discussion at the dinner table with the wife I packed my gear into my nylon backpack and strapped it tightly on my re-painted fire engine red nineteen seventy five Kawasaki 500 cc Triple motorcycle. A racer and not designed for over the road traveling, I felt comfortable it would take me thirteen hundred miles west into the hot and sandy deserts of New Mexico if I didn’t push it too hard. A two stroke three cylinder engine with a top speed of one hundred and twenty two miles per hours, the three carburetors provided plenty of power down the road. The Mach III was the first real superbike in production as it weight seemed to just right for the power it provided.

The morning air was vigorous that April day in April, 1978. Wrapping a woolen scarf around my head and muffling the front of my face, I started the bike and headed south to Cincinnati. The chosen route would be all interstate via the Interstate 71, to the I-64 and these head west to the I-40 westbound into Missouri and Oklahoma arriving an estimated thirty four hours later in Albuquerque New Mexico. The bike was well tuned and it sounded smooth. The backpack strapped to provide me something to lean on when tired, I waved goodbye to my family and spectators who rose up early to see me off. Streaking down the interstate, I weaved in and out of the highway to make the best time I could. The bike, although fast, was light weighted and suffered slightly with the passing of every semi trailer I passed at neck breaking speeds. The visor was tinted to shade my eyes from the blinding winter sun and the helmet was a shiny black globe with gold thunderbolt stripes. Wearing my favorite and only brown comfy duck down feathered jacket, I streaked across the state line without incident with thoughts of prosperity when I arrive in New Mexico. Avoiding any slick areas from the left over April rain, I stopped for gas to continue my trek to the west. Spotting a small puddle of hot brown oil near the crankcase of the bike, I hurriedly inspected to assess the damage. Fearing a major oil leak, I pulled the bike over to a stall near the owner’s garage and asked the attendant for a couple of tools. The tool kit I took with me under the seat, did not fit the bolts I needed to tighten before heading down the road again. I suspected the constant vibration of the motor resulted in the wear and tear of the engine where the oil leak originated and my fear of going any further was amplified by the distant thunder as dark clouds gathered near the Louisville, Kentucky city limits. What seemed to be a half a day of time riding on the bike, it had only been a little over three hours on the road while traveling only a couple of hundred miles towards my destination. My arms weary and my ass sore, I debated whether or not the ride west would best be reconsidered while eating a meal at the local truck stop at the next exit.

Sitting at the counter, drinking a warm cup of cocoa and a mini breakfast tray, I eavesdropped on the waitress and the truckers as they laughed loudly amongst themselves. Suddenly, it became very clear to me the bike ride west would impose a significant beating on my body. The ride back to Columbus was uneventful and somewhat boring. Perhaps about an hour from my mother’s house I noticed my chain began to chatter and a slight wobble in the rear wheel as I slowed it down to a crawl to inspect the damage. Somewhere, in the last hour, the adjusters worn loose and wheel had become unsteady due to the slack in the chain and the axle where the wheel hub was secured. The dark clouds that hovered over Kentucky had followed me back to Ohio and sure enough, I felt the sprinkles fall out of the sky as I approached the city limits of Columbus Ohio. Shaking off the nightmare of my last journey, I sold the motorcycle to a young fanatic who wanted to race it on the drag strip. Calling my parents in Belen New Mexico, I explained to them my obstacles and told them of my plans to take a flight out there after earning some traveling money. The ticket would be cheaper than what my bike repairs would have cost and it would be so much faster as my ass was still sore. Raising the funds to fly out there would take awhile and during this phone call, my mother expressed to me some good news where she had the opportunity to talk to a fellow Mormon Church member who would be willing to hire me for a security guard position if I could get there before the end of April. She said he would help me find a place to live once I bring the family down here to live. Tempted by this offer for to have a steady full time job, I sat down with the wife and discussed our plans as the reality of moving west appeared to be a little bit closer than before. The thought of working full time with a full paycheck determined the decision to get there as fast as I could since I had been only able to gain part time employment on and off in the past two years. A ticket to ride the Greyhound bus would be bought the next day with a departure time of late in the afternoon making the plans complete.

Boarding the silver and blue bus, I immediately detected the stinking smell of the unkempt and filthy port a potty of a toilet as the door was hinged open. Flashback of bad memories drifted back in my mind to those days when I traveled via the bus while in the Army. Begrudged to the world, I slung my travel bag on the overhead rack and closed my eyes to catch a nap. Situating myself into a more comfortable position, I shared the bench seat with an old man and his wife of Asian decent and the ethnic smell of the foods and incense they use to cover up their body odor brought back memories of the time I spend living in those hootches made of semi wooden, semi thatched huts in Quang Ngai province, South Vietnam and where I spent almost a year waiting to return back to the real world. No doubt, this trek was going to be a smorgasbord of aromas, where the stench of marijuana smoke, BO and the filthy baby diapers were going to drive me insane before I get to my destination.

Sleeping was difficult enough to say the least when traveling with sixty other strangers. Dressed warm for the cold weather east of the Mississippi, it because obvious I was overdressed for the weather west of the state of Missouri. Snoring loudly and ignoring the loud intrusive rock and roll music of Jimmy Hendrix and his band, I kept my cool and stayed away from controversy and confrontation as most persons on the bus were in very similar situation of just wanting to reach a destination. I remember an angry man boarding the bus looking for his wife and children as he yelled that it seemed they had ran away from him and never told him where they had gone. I saw the police as they arrived and talk to the man who was now waving a large knife in his hand demanded to see his wife and children. At an instant, we all heard gunshots and saw the man fall to the pavement as the bus drove away separating it from the violence and confusion. Arriving in Muskogee, Oklahoma, we all got out for a dinner break and as we stretched our legs and washed our faces, I realized I was down to my last fifteen bucks to eat and drink the rest of the way. Eating a local dish, I realized life in eastern Oklahoma near the Arkansas River was as laid back as described in a country song as this town seemed normal and a quiet place flooded with large official green and white highway signs indicating it to be the home of the “Five civilized Tribes” in America. A thirty-two hour drive across this beautiful country, the trip was well worth the sixty six dollars spending on the ticket.

Stopping and refueling in every one of the more than a million locations nationwide, I clearly remember our stops in Nashville, Little Rock, and Amarillo and finally, crossing the state line into Tucumcari, New Mexico. Multiple souvenir shops filled with Route 66 paraphernalia, I kept my sparse funds inside my Levi pockets spending only a dollar or two for a cold drink or hamburger. Vendors, selling everything from lucky pennies to rattlesnake hat bands, the colorful Indian beads and feathered dream catchers designed by weavers to reflect their tribe’s believe of instilling good health and good luck charms into someone’s life. Scattered and displayed over all the counters inside every truck stop west of the Mississippi, the Native American culture was well advertised and well accepted by most persons who rode with me on that bus. Never realizing the amount of beggars who ride the Greyhound bus across country, I felt threatened only a few times in the past three days, especially in one instance when I turned a scraggly looking fellow down on his luck asking me for cash to get some smokes. The problem was he demanded the money in such a manner, I could not help but feel threatened thus his conduct warranted a physical response from me as I tried hard to avoid conflict and walk away from him.

You might ay this trip put me in submission or perhaps remission to my propensity to be angry within all my personal feelings and allowed me to reduce my own stress and I saw and watched others stress within their own personal problems and situations. Never wanting to ride the Greyhound bus again, I focused on my arrival in Albuquerque sometime the next night. Perhaps a good night sleep would refresh my ability to enjoy the rest of the journey with those surrounding me. I closed my eyes to the music of Simon and Garfunkel as they sang their song “Bridge over Troubled Waters”. Getting close to Albuquerque, I saw the landscape change from rolling green hills to jagged red rocks.

Driving into Tucumcari, I noticed the Route 66 landscape with cowboy hats donned on many a young person or man. Pick up trucks had replaced the four door sedans and roads were wider but no street lights were in place to light them up at night. The bus stop was smack in the middle of this one horse town and as the driver had demonstrated in a steady pattern before during this trip, he stopped every forty miles or so in the past two and a half days, stopped again just outside of Cline’s Corner, remote stagecoach relay station in the Old West and no revamped as a Greyhound bus stop where the décor and setting was the most interesting part of the tour. Here, live rattlesnakes were being sold to anyone crazy enough to buy them. Belt buckles with cowboy rodeo designs made out of silver and dotted with a natural gem called turquoise, the jewelry was plentiful and popular with everybody on the bus. The bus, refueled and loaded with new passengers, headed west onto the interstate when the bus driver announced we were an hour away from Albuquerque. The sky ahead of us had a strange illumination that showed the presence of civilization in the middle of the desert. The sky, lit up with a golden reflection of the millions of bright city lights was clear and filled with several thousand stars.

As the silver bus headed down the twisted Sandia Mountain asphalt laid roads leading into the city, a sense of relief came over me as I could see the lights of Albuquerque while still many miles away but close enough to feel the trip is over now. The chance to begin a new life has become an actuality and the opportunity to get back on my own two feet and support a wife and a son would no longer be a senseless ideology. The bus glided to a slow crawl as I breathed my first real breath of fresh air at fifty three hundred feet above sea level. Never been down this way before, I immediately went for the restroom and sought a clean stall and toilet place to sit and reflect back to the last thirty two hours of hell with nothing but total strangers clinging on to their last and only personal possessions halfway across America, the most beautiful country in the world. Resting reclined and reading the graffiti on the stall, I laughed out loudly and decided to go into the lobby and call my mom to let her know I made it. Geez that was a long trip and my ass is still sore from sitting on the bus so long.

Albuquerque is most definitely a cowboy town where pick up trucks and cowboy hats sets the fashion trend down main street. The town split between the Dallas Cowboys and the Denver Broncos love their sports and every weekend sports bars are filled with fans that go crazy during their tailgate parties. The phone call was sort and sweet, it’s a little after one in the morning and my parents were on their way to pick me up. Living approximately thirty one miles away, I figured they should be here about one hour. Again, taking advantage of the break, I sat calmly in the lobby listening to the bus schedule as departures and arrivals continued to cycle what seemed like every fifteen minutes. Listening to the music in between the announcements, I began to sense this town was going to be one of my favorite places to be at night.

Two o’clock in the morning and I know my mom and father had agreed to pick up but it was late and I really didn’t want them out there driving so late. I wasn’t aware of the fact there was thirty one miles of desolate highway between Belen and Albuquerque and I didn’t realize someone could disappear from the fact of the earth if a criminal wanted it to be that way. Someone would later say to me, while always joke around, about how you could bury a body in the desert and not find it for many years. The intercom announced the arrival of the two thirty bus as my parents walked through the double doors of the bus station. Looking weary and but happy, they came over and greeted me with hugs and kisses. My mom hugged and kissed me; my father shook my hand and asked me if I was ready to go. I grabbed by bag and headed out to the parking lot with them and let out a sigh of relief. Now, it was officially over and I was headed to my new home in New Mexico.

The drive home was a real experience; the car was a seventy five Buick Rivera two door sedan with a loud muffler that hit the road every time it hit a bump in the road. The first thing I noticed was the auto’s air conditioning was off and the windows were down as my mom tried to explain the weather here in New Mexico. Leaving the cold Midwest weather and falling into to warmth of the southwest was beginning to clear my head somewhat.The winter weather was made up of very cold evenings with warm days during the spring and warm evenings and hot days in the summer.

On the other side of this desert landscape were mild rains during the spring and mean monsoon wind and rain during the late summer days. Thinking the windows were open on the car cause the weather was nice soon led me to realize the power windows in the Buick no longer worked and had to be rolled up manually, something my mom had no interest in doing thus they stayed down. The drive was uneventful except for my need to use the restroom along the dark two lanes roadside somewhere between Albuquerque and Belen. Never an interstate or freeway driver, my father took the side roads wherever he went and to say he obeyed the local traffic laws would be a lie. We arrived at the house and were greeted by a herd of small mixed breed dogs and a Chihuahua.

The house was enormous and the yard was landscaped southwest with native plants and cacti. Although still dark, I could see the beautiful effort put into the yard and the circular driveway as the bright yellow light from the sodium security light came on with the motion detector installed for safety and convenience. The house, built with traditional slump rock painted white and traditional wrought iron framed windows with full arches and Spanish wooden doors, felt comfortable as I laid my head down to catch a full nights sleep. Always an early riser, my mom was up at sunrise to feed her animals and prepare the breakfast meal. A heavy sleeper, I was in a comatose stage when a strange noise awakened me and found me reaching and stretching my arms out to turn off an old fashioned alarm clock with a loud bell like ring put there earlier in the morning before my mom went to bed. This unwanted intrusion was followed up with a yell from outside the room telling me I have to get and shower to meet some people for an interview in about an hour and a half from now. Having no idea what she was talking about and being of foot with no ride of my own, I staggered into the kitchen and asked her what this was all about. She said calmly, you have an interview today with the Mormon business man who is interested in hiring you as a security guard at a campus twenty five miles from here.

Lacking formal dress clothing and dress shoes, I felt like I needed at least another day to look good enough for an interview. The interview was smooth and short. The man, dressed in a business suit and tie combo sitting across the desk from me asked me for some of my personal qualifications and decided I was the right man for the job. He was exactly what I didn’t expect him to be, as he was a well educated Native American who spoke three languages very fluently. What a surprise as that decision appeared to have been made a week or so ago. The job was better than expected, as the pay went up every 6 months with satisfactory or improved performance and as the wages went up, so did my position in the company as I gained supervisory status in hardly no time due to my boss quitting to start a propane company on his own as he sold propane part time as he worked at the campus.

A lucky break for me, it was time to show the boss what I could do to make the program better. Seeking better applicants and screening for intelligence versus brawn, the team became solid as we provided a 24/7 security program for the campus during regular school, summer school and festivities. After spending a couple of years working for the Bureau of Indian Affairs as a Chief of Security on a 60 acre technical vocational school in Albuquerque, the security program had successfully attained the quality of a sound campus security program well within the satisfaction of the school president who was never keen on having contract workers on this campus. A contract employee, we are at beckoned call and subject to termination or dismissal for either contract deficiencies or termination of contract. Supervising two4 men and women, we attained a well respected status among the county deputy sheriff’s who backed us up during our disturbances or misdemeanor arrests allowable under the commission provided by the county. The contract, running seven years in a row now, was finally terminated and the entire crew was laid off.

Seeking a job with the county as a deputy sheriff, it was clear my intentions were driven towards the long arm of the law. Learning the state statutes and those applicable to the role we performed in, we went to magistrate court to testify in serious cases and learned the more intricate aspects of law enforcement in the development of search warrants, arrest warrants, criminal complaints and citations of a minor level not considered felony but serious enough to impose a fine or jail sentence if the defendant was a no show for the case. My brother, Carlos, now a permanent resident of New Mexico, as he came out here right behind me, and now holding the rank of a lieutenant in the corrections structure suggested I apply for the job as a correctional officer in lieu of trying to become a deputy sheriff since the possibility to be hired were four times better due to a severe shortage within the prisons. Being candid with me at home and as we talked, he sharing his concern of my notorious bad temper. Ironically, I argued with him to drive home the point I had demonstrated a responsible behavioral record while working security and had no complaints filed on my behavior, conduct or performance. Still not convinced, he told me to chill out and not take the situations at hand too serious as to normalize the need to use force was not always necessary to control the situation. He lacked confidence in my ability of self control and believed he saw my temper as it was back a few years ago when I was still very angry and confused about my role as a soldier and how I handled myself in a most self-destructive manner due to my maladjustment from the Vietnam.

The Experience in Vietnam

Thinking back to your high school days and how you didn’t know what you wanted to be when you grew up changed quickly. Your school mates, some in college, some in the armed forces, somewhere in the world fighting communism or terrorism and others just jerking themselves around town doing nothing but hiding from the draft, are not in your plans right now. Those care free days of post high school were quickly dwindling into the thin air as your need to be self sufficient and survival outweighs the need to lay back and take it easy. Graduating and not having a steady job can be detrimental to your comfort and personal finances as you suffer each time you ask your parents for money. You and your high school sweetheart manage to get through by working odd jobs and unexpectedly, your whole live changes when you add another member to the family. A baby, although a precious addition to any family causes undue stress and more worries as your time has come to be drafted by your country and fight a war oversees where nobody cares about anybody who goes over there except immediate family.

Drafted into service, the trip to the reserve center where they did the physicals was a hard drawn out process for this young man. Already contemplating to run away, his morals and values force him to stay with the schedule, as well as his mind, already racing at the speed of light, which envisioned the worse case scenario as the doctor in authority of the exam process, pronounced everybody there to be fit to serve in the United States Army. A new born American citizen sworn to protect his nation form foreign enemies and domestic, I was drafted, inducted and kidnapped at the end of the day without the opportunity to call his family and notify them of the disaster which had just occurred within the last 8 hours the war was horrific and as a nineteen year old looking at the way people lived and died made no sense. The first eight weeks tear you apart both physically and mentally. They put into your body and spirit through such a rigorous routine, it literally changes your ability to think for yourself as subconsciously, you are taught you how to kill a man and take care of your buddy. Using the tools of intimidation and sleep deprivation to alter your mind, the army focused on the team concept from day one. The team concept was strong and it appeared to work when all odds were stacked against you in a firefight or significant battle. Wounds were multiple and blood was shared between races. No color lines were drawn on these battlefields as they all wore green and they all ate and shared the same food, shelter and mud. With every mission, your survival skills become sharper and your instinct to survive become better.

Your judgment and your eyes match the thoughts of your enemy and where you are now, enables your spirit to be prone to view and how to survive just because you can calculate your way out of this mess. The rain, endless and merciless, pounds your body day after day with no relief at night. A strange language, once strange and occasionally only seen on television during one of those Vietnam War news casts, has now become your second language for survival. Each word means something you need to know as you suspect the enemy is closer to you than you think. Nights are filled with intense neon flashes echoing along with a rolling thunder. This break in the stillness of darkness revealed distant detonation of bombs contained with a lethal custom designed effectiveness to rain from the sky to the ground miles away, dropping tons of destruction on unsuspected targets, killing everyone not fortunate enough to seek shelter underground where the tunnels and the hideaways are for the enemy. As you sit there, gazing in the sky in the direction of the thunder, you realize one thing you know for sure, those not killed tonight will live to fight another day and that day may be just around the corner as you spend your time away in a self-imposed psychological prison in the mind to keep from going crazy or losing your wits about the terrible things you are doing and the terrible things you have seen. The heat is unbearable as you stink in your rice paddies soiled uniform. Thinking back, it’s been a week or two since they dropped off any clean clothing or your mail. Free from leeches today, you enjoy a smoke as the long walk has a temporary stall to rest the weary bodies. Instead of taking a break with the rest of the group, you take this opportunity to check out everybody in your group, you rush from person to person to treat the wounded and to see if they are in need of any further medical attention as you job to keep them alive. Never volunteering to be a medic, it was destiny and bad luck this was the job and this job required alertness on two4/7 status a week required by both tradition and need. The pay is enough to send home and keep a small bill for personal items you can buy at the base PX when back in camp Never needing money to get through the day; it was something best sent home for the family who needed it more . . . The cigarettes are free and the drinks are on the house. A small bar on the beach provides you the social relief you are looking for after a couple of months away from the camp and the laughter turns into a drunk stupor as you drink your misery and sorrow, slowly drowning your mind with alcohol. Hot beer during the day and cold drinks during the evenings, the days passed systematically while your mind is changing to adapt for the moment.

Monsoon rains drench the day and covers the night fall. A little preplanning and digging ditches during the daylight hours, a proficiently dug water shed channel steers the torrential pouring rain the into pre-designed ditches to avoid flooding of key areas and the inside of the bunkers so the wetness stays away from your body as you experience another chilly night covered in wet clothing but a dry blanket.
The endless rains grounded all aircraft, and as the enemy uses this strategic advantage to provide them cover to re-position themselves for the upcoming fight, you find them in a totally new arrangement when the sun finally burned off the low lying fog as it busted through the clouds and within almost minutes, the heated clash was back on as fierce as ever before.

Friends come and go and never enough time is spent to get to know their names. Knowing where they came from gave them colorful nicknames of hometowns as long term relationship are discouraged and private matters are kept locked away where they can’t do any harm. A soldier can’t show fear, especially when it came to the loss or the misery of being away from home and his loved ones. This moment of weakness can only be done in a private moment when nobody else is looking your way. Solitaire while on bunker duty or sitting on the john gave an individual such a moment. Sadly enough, there weren’t enough moments to dwell on such feelings as the war was unforgiving and relentless in nature.

Christmas night 1967 inside the bunker was the loneliest feeling ever. Staring at the sky and realizing you are millions of miles away from home, a depression sets in that is as deep as the Grand Canyon. Rats as big as domestic kitty cats scurry as humans approach their nesting grounds. The helicopter rotor makes a noise nobody ever forgets. The engine winding up the blades tells you its time to go. Loading up and strapping in, the pilot tells you where you’re going and what you will be doing. A replacement soldier or medic, it was never said before the departure where your mission would be or who you would be fighting with. Not exactly a secret, these words were seldom shared as time was always precious and never enough. The sounds of fire and pain fill the air as the helicopter nears its destination. The pilot, a dedicated warrant officer is well seasoned and well skilled in flying this hover craft, yells out the landing zone is too hot to land and we’ll have to jump to make ends meet. The grass is at least seven feet tall and the ground is about ten feet down as we gaze down the grassy field and see the flames of orange blue and black dark smoke coming from the trees within a fifty yard distance. The green smoke delivered prematurely, was a signal allowing us to come in and land safely but as we came close, we saw the enemy with their eyes upon us, glaring us down with hate and disgust as they prepare to kill us when we land.

Holding their AK 47 at port arms and ready to fire at will as we were dropped off in the middle of nowhere, not knowing which side was more secured than the other, a mere group of ten men armed with small arms and one M60 machine gun, we were at the mercy of those who surrounded us in that grassy field remotely located near one of the main battles fought in the I Corps near the DMZ. The tall grass, a cover for some but not bullet proof, gave us an opportunity to escape the wrath that laid waiting for us if we chose the wrong side. We can’t say we hated everyone we saw that didn’t have round eyes but the emotion kept us on our high mental alert and suspicious of all.

Coming home from the war was not like anything you saw in the movies. Still dressed in your summer uniform from your last deportation point in Southeast Asia, you are now arriving in the winter months and the snow surrounding the Fort Lewis area of Washington State, the same point of departure a little over a year ago. Duffle bag with your equipment and focused on catching your next plane, you scuttle through O’Hare airport when you’re interrupted in your haste by a group of anti-war groupies who are covered with peace signs and flowers in their hair. Avoiding conflict and hurrying for the connection, they follow you and spit on your uniform as if to desecrate your presence right there right now. Spending time oversees does not improve your character. It destroys it. You’ve learned to escape structure from society’ rules and functioned on an adrenalin high from the kill and the loneliness as well as the misery seen by these young eyes when life was less valued as it was before you went to war. The reaction to return the assault with a hard fist was detained by the presence of a massive built but kind looking military policeman who simply asked this weary soldier if he wanted to fight or go home. The choice was obvious and the steps quickened as he feared in losing his connection to him hometown flight to freedom.

In a total of two year’s time of hate and hell, you found the adjustment too much to accept and to distrusting to deal with. Soldiers, coming home after being trained to be capable to work on killing the enemy whether alert or asleep, taught by the best of the best, without any forethought. The irony, these soldiers are at the top of their game, when they are suddenly released into a new environment where the rules of engagement have changed and their conduct and behaviors are now altered to meet society’s needs and regulations. All of a sudden, there was no need for those who were trained so well to fight in combat and who asked only a pad on the back for gratitude of serving their country and no more. Being left alone with no group or team to support you and your way of thinking, you react the way you were trained as you distrust everything and everyone. It’s going to be a hard long road to recovery and some will never attain success at returning back to normal as their minds have been altered to the point of no return. Many failed to become productive citizens and went to live on the streets, a mental health clinic or jail. Some died from the alcohol while others survived a miserable way of living out of a shopping cart and begging for food and water. Others, recognizing their immediate impairment, took steps to preserve their sanity and function, even partially, in a capsule of hope and promise things would get getter. Socially, those returning from the war were truly misfits trained by the government to kill foreigners and seek out the enemy of our state. They served well and many wore ribbons and medal to show their glory. Some walked away as others lost their eyes, their limbs or otherwise crippled in a wheelchair or prosthetic devices, and tried to function normally as normal could be. Some attended self-help groups while others flew solo and both had stories of success and failures. Myself, drowning in my self pity and untrustworthy to be near, I medicated myself with prescription drugs i.e. uppers, to sustain my habit acquired many years ago as a medic serving our unforgiving country.

Maintaining a twenty four seven stamina curve can’t be done without artificial stimulation and prescription amphetamines did it for those who wanted to stay up and deal with a distorted reality to them. The world had changed. The mind can only accept certain facts and when the mind is confused, it becomes a terrible machine that drives you crazy. Emotions run deep and values change. What was important ten years ago has been abandoned or thrown to the side for something new? Society, not very supportive of all those veterans who returned from oversees, calls out for reforms and better treatment. Laws are enacted giving veterans better educational benefits and opportunities to purchase a home through the GI bill. Following the rules was not simple nor was it common for a veteran to be anti-social in nature or behavior as their trust in our government has deteriorated to the point of hate. Still young in body and mind, you begin to search for an alternative to you way of living.

Obviously, your way has not worked for quiet some time now and changing your job every six months or so makes you a bad risk to the employer who hired you with a risk you will quit anyway. After completing your war related military service, you, a person with strong individual ethics and good family morals and values are pondering your thoughts in seeking a job change or a career plan where you feel it would best satisfy your craving to do something good and fulfill those societal needs you belief are lacking in this world.

Your uncontaminated thoughts of doing something first-class and promoting those same clean thoughts your parents tried to instill into you as their own is refreshing and as a rule turns into a fever. A fever to do something self-serving yet serving society’s needs as well. This behavior, often contagious as your exuberance rubs off the very people who are close to you in your personal life and who are substantial parts of your social support system. All of these years of growing up, struggling through adolescence and dreaming to be a breadwinner i.e. nurse, policeman, fireman or doctor come to reality when you begin to search your mind as to what you can do to attain the most personal satisfaction and reward in your life. Your batteries are charged and your mind. Realizing half your family is either a cop, fireman or another type of public servant, your goals are set to pursue a career in the ever expanding criminal justice system with endless possibilities of becoming a police or probation officer, a judge, parole officer or even, a jailer or correctional officer.

Coming out of your make believe blanket of in-security and lacking trust in anyone, you long for structure in your life as you have experienced it to be necessary to survive. Knowing in your mind, the only way you will change your ways it to move out of this state of self-pity and move into constructive scenery where family supports your efforts and the past is left behind. Never thinking seriously about becoming an officer of the law before, except when you were young and played cops and robbers, the thought becomes intriguing as there is so little insight on what a correctional officer does for a living. Not much glory in working inside a jail or prison where the culture is both secretive and murky. Heaven’s forbid, being a lawyer, judge or prosecuting attorney is so much more glamorous and even being a cop does not really attract the star status one attains when holding the office with a nameplate on your desk. But then, reality settles in and you realize working for a degree as an attorney is time consuming and expensive.