IN PRISON, SESAME SHEET T-SHIRT GOT SHUT DOWN
J. Grant Swank, Jr.
While making a pastoral call on a murderer in Walpole (MA) Prison, now known as Cedar Junction, I could not help but notice the inmate wearing the SESAME STREET T-shirt.
I was surrounded by a lot of visitors that day. It seemed most of the free peoples in the surrounding towns decided to visit inmates that day. The room was packed, including children. Boys and girls were dodging one another, playing hide and seek around adult legs, and having a grand time of it.
Mainly guards looked on at the circus with a benign neglect. After all, the visitors were polite. Most of them were chatting softly. And the children weren’t bothering anyone.
I wondered at the connection those youngsters had to the inmates. The mind can run havoc on that subject. It’s sad. Very sad. What do those boys and girls think of daddy being in that building? What do nieces and nephews decipher about the man in that prison whom relatives are talking to?
In one corner of the visitors’ room was an inmate wearing a T-shirt. On it were large letters reading SESAME STREET.
I said to the fellow I was visiting: "How quaint. Is that man paid something for overseeing the children in that corner over there?"
The corner was filled with castoff toys. No doubt they had been contributed to the prison just as persons contribute toys to the Salvation Army. So a play area was made for them and the large, hulky male taking charge.
"Yes, he gets a few cents an hour, just like the rest of us who have jobs in here," the man replied. So the muscular inmate’s smile was willingly accepted by those under his care and the T-shirt lent to that camaraderie with boys and girls. How pleasant. Just like daddy on the outside going to playground with offspring for an afternoon on swings and see-saw.
Well, not exactly, but we could use our imagines. And in prison using one’s imagine goes on a lot on a variety of themes.
The next time I visited the murderer, I could not help but note that the SESAME STREET T-shirt and hulk were missing. So were the toys. The boys and girls were left with no other pastime but running around adult legs, playing with candy wrappers on the floor and making some squealy noises from time to time.
"What happened to the inmate who oversaw the play area?" I asked.
"Oh, he got canned. He won’t be back, not on a long shot. You see, one day while he was playing with the boys and girls, a guard became suspicious. So checking things out, it was found that SESAME STREET T-shirt fellow was confiscating drugs. The drugs were smuggled in by a visitor. T-shirt knew all about it. It was a set-up job."
"Drugs? What do you mean, T-shirt was into drugs with the kids? What do you mean?"
"One of the children had drugs stuffed in a plastic bag stuffed in his rectum. T-shirt knew that. A visitor had hidden the drugs. Got it?"
I got it. So with that, SESAME STREET shut down.
While making a pastoral call on a murderer in Walpole (MA) Prison, now known as Cedar Junction, I could not help but notice the inmate wearing the SESAME STREET T-shirt.
I was surrounded by a lot of visitors that day. It seemed most of the free peoples in the surrounding towns decided to visit inmates that day. The room was packed, including children. Boys and girls were dodging one another, playing hide and seek around adult legs, and having a grand time of it.
Mainly guards looked on at the circus with a benign neglect. After all, the visitors were polite. Most of them were chatting softly. And the children weren’t bothering anyone.
I wondered at the connection those youngsters had to the inmates. The mind can run havoc on that subject. It’s sad. Very sad. What do those boys and girls think of daddy being in that building? What do nieces and nephews decipher about the man in that prison whom relatives are talking to?
In one corner of the visitors’ room was an inmate wearing a T-shirt. On it were large letters reading SESAME STREET.
I said to the fellow I was visiting: "How quaint. Is that man paid something for overseeing the children in that corner over there?"
The corner was filled with castoff toys. No doubt they had been contributed to the prison just as persons contribute toys to the Salvation Army. So a play area was made for them and the large, hulky male taking charge.
"Yes, he gets a few cents an hour, just like the rest of us who have jobs in here," the man replied. So the muscular inmate’s smile was willingly accepted by those under his care and the T-shirt lent to that camaraderie with boys and girls. How pleasant. Just like daddy on the outside going to playground with offspring for an afternoon on swings and see-saw.
Well, not exactly, but we could use our imagines. And in prison using one’s imagine goes on a lot on a variety of themes.
The next time I visited the murderer, I could not help but note that the SESAME STREET T-shirt and hulk were missing. So were the toys. The boys and girls were left with no other pastime but running around adult legs, playing with candy wrappers on the floor and making some squealy noises from time to time.
"What happened to the inmate who oversaw the play area?" I asked.
"Oh, he got canned. He won’t be back, not on a long shot. You see, one day while he was playing with the boys and girls, a guard became suspicious. So checking things out, it was found that SESAME STREET T-shirt fellow was confiscating drugs. The drugs were smuggled in by a visitor. T-shirt knew all about it. It was a set-up job."
"Drugs? What do you mean, T-shirt was into drugs with the kids? What do you mean?"
"One of the children had drugs stuffed in a plastic bag stuffed in his rectum. T-shirt knew that. A visitor had hidden the drugs. Got it?"
I got it. So with that, SESAME STREET shut down.
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