JAIL HEALTH STAFF WHO DON’T CARE
J. Grant Swank, Jr.
Slips from inmates kept piling up in my Inbox. The reason? I cared about them.
As substance abuse counselor to several hundred inmates, I truly cared about their welfare. I went to work excited about the day. I left work excited about a day completed. I felt I was on a mission to help people. Just because they were incarcerated did not make them less important. In fact, in my opinion, because many came from warped situations, I felt they needed the help all the more.
But alongside me was a fellow who was hired to do "psych work on the inmates." I never did get his official title. It seemed to change from week to week. But if an inmate had an emotional or mental problem, Jack was on call. Supposedly. On paper.
Yet he wasn’t actually on call for their good. He bragged to medical staff that he really didn’t care if inmates rotted in their cells. That’s why my Inbox was filled with inmate requests every morning when I reported in for work. I became the alternative help to "psych."
I recall visiting a woman suffering from anorexia. She put in split after split to "psych." However, "he won’t come to see me," she told me more than once. "And when he does come, I know he doesn’t listen to what I tell him. The bottom line is that he really doesn’t care about me."
I knew that to be true. He didn’t care.
To make up for his callous laxity, he spent a lot of time trailing the health care administrator. In other words, political kiss-up was his modus operandi. Sadly, the administrator, himself new to the job, was taken in my "psych." It was difficult to fathom; but that’s exactly what happened.
"Psych" and administrator joked, exchanged personal experiences, shared news headlines and drank coffee together a lot. A bureaucratic bond was sealed between them. Consequently, over time "psych" could get by with anything other than work.
One thing that was not in my favor was that I was not only substance abuse counselor but had earned a Masters of Divinity degree. That is, I was not only hired by the county jail as substance abuse counselor. I was also a minister of 40 years standing.
"Psych" and administrator were not religious. They were secular to the bone. Consequently, my caring for inmates did not align with their "professional philosophy" of being on the job solely to get a paycheck. Hard-hearted was smart. Compassion was weak.
I visited inmates from the moment I got into the jail until I left to walk across the parking lot to my car. I wrote up my reports. I filed my reports. I checked back with inmates. I followed up with their requests. I counseled their relatives when appropriate. I tried to be as efficient as I could be.
But the substance abuse counselor with whom I shared an office did not like work. He liked talking on the phone. And he talked a lot with women, though he had a woman called his "wife." He got so with his phone conversations that I could be in the room and yet was invisible to John. John just took for granted that I was deaf, dumb and blind. The compulsion to chat constantly with women on the phone can do that to a brain, obviously. At least that’s what happened in John’s case.
I went off to counsel inmates. John stayed back in the office, feet up on desk, phone in hand. I held one-hour sessions daily in seminar classes for inmates. John stayed back in the office, feet up on desk, phone in hand.
Once in awhile he’d venture out to see an inmate, write up a report and file it. Of course, he had a way of smiling broadly when officials walked the hallways, doffing his gestures toward his brow as if saluting a general. Those officials took to that kind of adulation. I didn’t resort to that sort of mannerism. Instead I did my job.
One day the administrator left for another job outside the jail. The prison health care company hired by the jail brought in a female administrator. She was particularly enamored by John. She also let me know that she did not take to clergy — not at all. "Secular" was her middle name.
Now what follows is the old injustice of a person doing the job so well that he gets fired. John and the new woman in charge, Alice, became fast buddies — coffee clutches, laughing in the office, joshing about this and that, sharing snide remarks about inmates.
In a staff meeting, the woman new to the admin block tried to out-bad any on staff. She let loose with directives like: "Sucks to be you." That was her reference to the inmates — en total.
"Sucks to be you"? I thought. So that was the administrator’s philosophy. It "sucked" to be a prisoner? Tough luck, in other words. Too bad, rot in the cell.
In the same staff meeting she said that if inmates didn’t appreciate the services they got from health department, they "could service one another." That was her stark reference to inmates providing sex for one another.
I took notes. I had a feeling I’d need them.
It was not long after woman administrator looked over my files. She concluded I didn’t know how to make out my reports properly. She called me into her office — repeatedly.
I was asked why I wrote this sentence and that sentence. How could I come to that conclusion and this conclusion. What did I mean by this phrase? Didn’t I realize that that paragraph was not appropriate?
I became so frustrated. I knew the required format. I was doing it right. I had filed my reports correctly all along — that is, until she came on board.
Of course, she was up to the old game of proving a staff person incompetent — that is, the staff person who was also a minister and who was despised by the secular woman administrator. Also, despised by John who didn’t like to do his work.
One day I walked into my house after a day’s work to hear a message on my answering machine. It informed me that I did not need to report to work the next day for John, under whose accreditation I worked as a substance abuse counselor, had removed his supervision credentials from my position on staff.
In other words, I was no longer recognized by the state as a qualified substance abuse counselor in that county jail.
John and woman administrator had surely bonded. And in that secure sealing I lost my job.
I felt sorry for myself, of course, but I felt more sorry for inmates. They not only had "psych" who didn’t care if they rotted in their cells. They had John who enjoyed chatting with women instead of doing his job. And then there was the new woman administrator who saw through daily the incompetence of the staff.
I sent my documentation of all of the above to the Tennessee headquarters office of the health services hired by the jail. In short order, the administrator, "psych" and John were not to be found on the staff roster at the county jail.
That gave me a certain sense of justice. But it has never consoled me regarding the inmates who needed proper health care and did not receive it.
For more: http://conservativeposts.us/ <http://conservativeposts.us/>
Slips from inmates kept piling up in my Inbox. The reason? I cared about them.
As substance abuse counselor to several hundred inmates, I truly cared about their welfare. I went to work excited about the day. I left work excited about a day completed. I felt I was on a mission to help people. Just because they were incarcerated did not make them less important. In fact, in my opinion, because many came from warped situations, I felt they needed the help all the more.
But alongside me was a fellow who was hired to do "psych work on the inmates." I never did get his official title. It seemed to change from week to week. But if an inmate had an emotional or mental problem, Jack was on call. Supposedly. On paper.
Yet he wasn’t actually on call for their good. He bragged to medical staff that he really didn’t care if inmates rotted in their cells. That’s why my Inbox was filled with inmate requests every morning when I reported in for work. I became the alternative help to "psych."
I recall visiting a woman suffering from anorexia. She put in split after split to "psych." However, "he won’t come to see me," she told me more than once. "And when he does come, I know he doesn’t listen to what I tell him. The bottom line is that he really doesn’t care about me."
I knew that to be true. He didn’t care.
To make up for his callous laxity, he spent a lot of time trailing the health care administrator. In other words, political kiss-up was his modus operandi. Sadly, the administrator, himself new to the job, was taken in my "psych." It was difficult to fathom; but that’s exactly what happened.
"Psych" and administrator joked, exchanged personal experiences, shared news headlines and drank coffee together a lot. A bureaucratic bond was sealed between them. Consequently, over time "psych" could get by with anything other than work.
One thing that was not in my favor was that I was not only substance abuse counselor but had earned a Masters of Divinity degree. That is, I was not only hired by the county jail as substance abuse counselor. I was also a minister of 40 years standing.
"Psych" and administrator were not religious. They were secular to the bone. Consequently, my caring for inmates did not align with their "professional philosophy" of being on the job solely to get a paycheck. Hard-hearted was smart. Compassion was weak.
I visited inmates from the moment I got into the jail until I left to walk across the parking lot to my car. I wrote up my reports. I filed my reports. I checked back with inmates. I followed up with their requests. I counseled their relatives when appropriate. I tried to be as efficient as I could be.
But the substance abuse counselor with whom I shared an office did not like work. He liked talking on the phone. And he talked a lot with women, though he had a woman called his "wife." He got so with his phone conversations that I could be in the room and yet was invisible to John. John just took for granted that I was deaf, dumb and blind. The compulsion to chat constantly with women on the phone can do that to a brain, obviously. At least that’s what happened in John’s case.
I went off to counsel inmates. John stayed back in the office, feet up on desk, phone in hand. I held one-hour sessions daily in seminar classes for inmates. John stayed back in the office, feet up on desk, phone in hand.
Once in awhile he’d venture out to see an inmate, write up a report and file it. Of course, he had a way of smiling broadly when officials walked the hallways, doffing his gestures toward his brow as if saluting a general. Those officials took to that kind of adulation. I didn’t resort to that sort of mannerism. Instead I did my job.
One day the administrator left for another job outside the jail. The prison health care company hired by the jail brought in a female administrator. She was particularly enamored by John. She also let me know that she did not take to clergy — not at all. "Secular" was her middle name.
Now what follows is the old injustice of a person doing the job so well that he gets fired. John and the new woman in charge, Alice, became fast buddies — coffee clutches, laughing in the office, joshing about this and that, sharing snide remarks about inmates.
In a staff meeting, the woman new to the admin block tried to out-bad any on staff. She let loose with directives like: "Sucks to be you." That was her reference to the inmates — en total.
"Sucks to be you"? I thought. So that was the administrator’s philosophy. It "sucked" to be a prisoner? Tough luck, in other words. Too bad, rot in the cell.
In the same staff meeting she said that if inmates didn’t appreciate the services they got from health department, they "could service one another." That was her stark reference to inmates providing sex for one another.
I took notes. I had a feeling I’d need them.
It was not long after woman administrator looked over my files. She concluded I didn’t know how to make out my reports properly. She called me into her office — repeatedly.
I was asked why I wrote this sentence and that sentence. How could I come to that conclusion and this conclusion. What did I mean by this phrase? Didn’t I realize that that paragraph was not appropriate?
I became so frustrated. I knew the required format. I was doing it right. I had filed my reports correctly all along — that is, until she came on board.
Of course, she was up to the old game of proving a staff person incompetent — that is, the staff person who was also a minister and who was despised by the secular woman administrator. Also, despised by John who didn’t like to do his work.
One day I walked into my house after a day’s work to hear a message on my answering machine. It informed me that I did not need to report to work the next day for John, under whose accreditation I worked as a substance abuse counselor, had removed his supervision credentials from my position on staff.
In other words, I was no longer recognized by the state as a qualified substance abuse counselor in that county jail.
John and woman administrator had surely bonded. And in that secure sealing I lost my job.
I felt sorry for myself, of course, but I felt more sorry for inmates. They not only had "psych" who didn’t care if they rotted in their cells. They had John who enjoyed chatting with women instead of doing his job. And then there was the new woman administrator who saw through daily the incompetence of the staff.
I sent my documentation of all of the above to the Tennessee headquarters office of the health services hired by the jail. In short order, the administrator, "psych" and John were not to be found on the staff roster at the county jail.
That gave me a certain sense of justice. But it has never consoled me regarding the inmates who needed proper health care and did not receive it.
For more: http://conservativeposts.us/ <http://conservativeposts.us/>
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