“I was kicked out of Anthony.”

I turned in my chair to see who was speaking. It was a Monday afternoon in August 2016 and the school day was nearly over. I’d been reading a kite from the psych department. In the trial for my parental rights, I thought my psych test results from Sex Offender treatment might help me in court. I had asked the psych department for a copy. I read their answer – “We will need to make you an appointment so a psychologist can go over your results with you.”

Frustrated, I’d written a new kite explaining, “I don’t want to review them with anyone, I just want a copy.” This had become an ongoing, bizarre battle with the psych department and I was baffled and upset. Why couldn’t I have a copy? They kept insisting I meet with a counselor to “discuss” it. Time was running out.

“What happened?” Ms. Jerry asked Vikki as she set down her work, giving Vikki her full attention. The P.A. system burst to life, drowning out her answer. “Two-thirty movement is open! Movement is open!” I watched Ms. Jerry console Vikki and made a note to talk to Vikki after class. Vikki was a small person, shorter even than my 5-foot frame and older than me. She told me she’d left school permanently at age 9. I didn’t know such a thing was possible these days.

She lived, or had lived, in the Anthony unit – also known as the parenting unit, as a helper for mothers. The parenting program included all-day Saturday visits inside the prison for children whose moms were in the Anthony unit. These fun visits often included special holiday parties. Kids were allowed to wear Halloween costumes, for example, and special decorations were made by the Anthony unit to celebrate.

Catching up to Vikki after class I walked beside her out of the Core building. “I heard you mention moving to a new unit,” I began. “What’s going on?”

Vikki lifted her shoulders and sighed as she answered, “They did room inspections and found an extra pillowcase in my linens.” She shook her head ruefully, adding “I didn’t realize that was so serious or I wouldn’t have done it.” Vikki, like many women, had probably hidden extra linens so she could wash them herself, in her own preferred brand of detergent, disliking the harsh industrial smelling soap used by the DOC. While one could receive permission to do this, most women didn’t ask, simply breaking the rules.

Vikki’s comment drew me up short with a shock.  I had an extra blanket and pillow. I’d gained the extra blanket from a past roommate. She gave it to me when she went home. I had stolen the extra pillow outright a year or two afterwards. I recalled that incident clearly. “What’s all of that?” I had asked someone near me in the dayroom, pointing to a pile of pillows, blankets and tubs at the bottom of B wing’s stairs. “Missy is moving,” was the reply. I noticed there were several plump pillows amid the jumble.

“Why does she have so many pillows?” I then asked and was told Missy had M.S. so she had medical permission. The stack of items, while at the bottom of B wing’s stairs, was also near the guard desk. My own pillow was neither plump nor soft. ‘I could use another one,’ I thought.

Storing up courage I made my move, walking past the pile and grabbing a pillow on the way to my room. I figured since she had special permission, she’d be given another. I’d kept the pillow and extra blanket ever since.

My “rules don’t matter” attitude had blinded me to what many rules were, I realized now! “And,” Jesus interrupted, walking beside me, “it probably didn’t help that you thought the rules were impossible to follow!”

I laughed. That was true. “Can you show me what else I’m doing wrong?” I asked Him.

Now He laughed. “A dangerous question!” I smiled too. ‘Yes, be careful what you wish for,’ I remembered someone saying. With a quieter tone Jesus said, “But seriously, yes, I will. Be ready.” I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

Returning to my room I folded the extra blanket and grabbed the pillow. Officer Letcher was at the guard desk when I came back downstairs. I briefly considered leaving the items without a word, embarrassed. Jesus nudged me forward. “I have these extra items,” I said quietly, “I’ll leave them here.” Letcher appeared surprised, uncertain of how to respond. I quickly turned and hurried back upstairs.

Time slowed down yet sped away as the trial loomed ever closer. Checking my mailbox a few days later I saw another response to my kite from psych. After weeks of wrangling with them to receive a copy of my tests, they had relented, with a caveat. They insisted a therapist be in the room with me while I reviewed it myself. The therapist named was one I’d had issue with in the past.

The prison often hosts interns, including people studying to be psychologists. The previous year I’d asked for counseling sessions and been paired with an intern. Our first session was our last. Seated in a small room in the mental health unit, I’d faced her, my new therapist. Between us lay a table and windows facing out toward the guard desk.

“How can I help you today?” she’d asked.

“I want to be well prepared for my release,” I answered. “I do not know what to expect for reentry, but I want to do well. I have a question for you,” I added. Nodding, she waved to me to continue. “How much experience do you have with inmate reentry and the possible stresses one might experience?”

Her eyes narrowed. Crossing her arms over her chest she leaned back and demanded, “What do you mean by that?”

Confused by her reaction I tried to explain, “Well, I do not know what to expect when I’m released. I imagine it could be difficult for me, however I don’t know in what ways. I’d like to prepare. I’m asking if that’s something you can help me with.”

Her eyes had grown dark with anger as I spoke. Sucking in a breath she spit out, “How dare you question my education and skills! Who do you think you are?” Spit flew onto the table as she raised her voice higher, “What gives you the right to question my abilities?” She finished shrilly.

The room echoed with silence as I stared at her in shock. She’d scooted further back in her chair. She began tapping her toe. She challenged me to respond. I began slowly in a near whisper, “I wasn’t doing that at all. I had already assumed that your assignment here today means you are qualified for the work of a therapist. I’d have no reason to think otherwise. I was asking how familiar you are with the incarceration experience and reentry.” Her posture remained tense.

Looking around the small room I felt the walls closing in. I was intimidated by her outburst. I wanted to leave but didn’t know how. Tentatively I spoke up, “I am very uncomfortable,” I started. Her toe tapping sped up. “I’d like to return to my room please,” I finished. Waving a hand at the door she said nothing. After a moment’s pause, I fled.

Still desiring help I wrote a kite to the intern’s supervisor asking for a new therapist. I explained the issue. The supervisor’s response was brief, “No. You can resolve your issue with the intern I gave you or have no therapy at all.”

Now I re-read the answer from mental health services – this supervisor was the appointed person to sit with me while I reviewed my psych tests. I sighed, certain this kite battle had not increased her like for me.

A week later I found myself at Monahan, the mental health unit, sitting in another small room. The door opened and the supervisor entered, holding a file. She set it before me and sat against the wall quietly. The room seemed tense with her in it.

I flipped it open, not sure what to expect. Inside was a 15-page report, written years ago by the treatment staff. I flipped through it, hoping to quickly find what I was looking for – positive statements about my mental health. After a few minutes of scanning I realized I need to review each page. The first 9 pages were written reports based on interviews I’d had with staff. I skipped to the bottom of page 10 and found the results of my written assessments.

It began well enough, stating, “Ms Aho did not exaggerate or approach the test in a guarded manner. She did not attempt to portray herself in either a favorable or disfavorable light. Results suggest that she was cooperative, attentive and focused.”

‘Oh good,‘ I thought. ’This sounds promising!’ Relaxing a little, I continued to read and was immediately stopped short. It said, “Results suggest that Ms. Aho tends to be self-centered, insensitive, lacks empathy and demands attention and affection.” Slowly I read the rest of the paragraph which included phrases like “irresponsible, unreliable, moody and resentful.” I set down the report and took a breath. Cautiously I peaked at the next page and found more of the same. Another page turn and more of the same. I was horrified, but at the same time I felt a giggle rising. “Well, Jesus,” I said to Him quietly, “You sure deliver on a promise! When I asked You to show me what I do wrong, I didn’t expect a type-written list several pages long.” Turning another page I shook my head ruefully.

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint!” Jesus said with an amused lilt.

 I reached for my notebook and pen, which I’d brought with me. I began taking notes, page after page, as time ticked away. I thought, ‘Who gets an answer to prayer like this? I ask Jesus to tell me my sins and He delivers a literal printed list! Incredible.’

After a bit I wondered how much time I had left. There was still a lot to take in. “Um, can I take more notes?” I asked the supervisor, who had remained sitting quietly. Xerox copies might take more than a week to receive so I’d brought pen and paper to record anything important just in case.

With a look of sympathy she nodded, responding, “I know these can be difficult to read.” I turned to face her and replied with certainty, “Oh this is all true. Or it was.” Surprise lit up her face as she read my eyes. I nodded at my pen and paper adding, “I’ve been praying for God to show me my own sin. Here’s an entire report about them. I want to start doing better today.” I returned my gaze to the table, lifting the report.

The supervisor thought for a moment, her features and body language suggesting an attitude change. The report included the statement, “She will never admit she has any problems to fix.” I wonder if she knew that as she stood and held out her hand. “Would you like me to make copies for you? I can do that right now.” She smiled. Now it was my turn to be surprised. I looked up into her face, now open and kind. I nodded eagerly and handed her the pages.

Later in my own room I puzzled over the conclusion of the report, which started, “she will likely resist psychological interpretations of her problems and when the reality of a situation is pointed out, she may be unable to see her role in it and claim the clinician simply doesn’t understand her.” I had not read this report when it was first created in 2012, but I knew if I had, I would have been angry and hurt, fiercely defending myself. The report added that I was unlikely to admit anything negative about myself. It finished with the statement, “Treatment prognosis is poor, as her problems appear characterological and not readily amenable to change.”

I’d never seen the word “characterlogical” before and wondered what it meant. Not finding the word in a dictionary I went to the guard desk for help. I found Officer Letcher sitting at his computer and explained the problem. Would he look the word up online? He did and I learned something important. I learned it meant “relating to character.” In essence it meant – born that way. The report was saying I was born with all these bad things and the person writing the report obviously believed a leopard doesn’t change its spots.

Considering, I lifted my eyes again to the paragraph above, reading again, “She will never admit she has any problems to fix… she will likely resist psychological interpretations of her problems.” Well that was not true anymore, was it? Jesus opened my eyes to the truth here on every page, an accurate description of my life and myself. What did that suggest? He was changing me already. He had made me into a new creature. I smiled at the thought.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” I Corinthians 5:17