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Staci Backauskas

When I couldn’t find a job after getting my journalism degree, I went back to school and got an EMT license – a pivotal choice that created the set point for my life. I caught a lot of flack for putting the employment search on hold. Some said I was impatient; others accused me of being too ar...

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Your words don't matter-I listen to what you do-You have made me deaf

Staci B

This blog is part of series sharing the stories of my eighteen months working as a life coach in an ex-offender re-entry program.

In eight months of dealing with felons, I’d not ever felt afraid.  Until I met Jimmy.  Dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt silk-screened with a rapper whose name I didn’t recognize, he was animated and polite.    

 He reported his diagnosis was schizophrenia, but said he’d refused to take medication while incarcerated because “all they wanted to do was make me a zombie.”  He’d been in prison for battery on a law enforcement officer and resisting arrest with violence.  I knew  that even spitting on a cop was considered battery, and reminded myself the program didn’t accept “violent” offenders.

 During our conversation, he ranted his fear of “getting homosexuality through osmosis” because he had to sleep in the same cell with another man and how one of the Corrections Officers had it in for him because he was the nephew of someone who’d bullied the CO in middle school.  After an hour, I was conscious of the uncomfortable feeling under my skin.  I told myself I was imagining things and did my best to focus on his responses to the questions I asked. 

When I got to the release of confidential information, I explained that all clients had to sign one for the department of corrections.  None of us ever really knew why, except that it was the rule.  No one ever balked – until Jimmy.

 I’m not signing that,” he said shaking his head.

 “But you’re not on probation,” I responded.  “The only reason someone would be interested in your chart is to make sure we’re doing our job.”

 “They have me on the radar.”  He reached behind, pulled a comb out of his back pocket, and began picking at his afro.  “I can’t take any chances.”

 Someone trained in the symptoms and behaviors of paranoid schizophrenia would have recognized what was happening.  To me, still not fully hatched from my cocoon of ignorance, I believed I could convince him the rule wouldn’t affect him.

 “I’m not going to be able to admit you to the program unless you sign it,” I told him. 

 “They watch me.”  He rocked his chin back and forth.

 “If you won’t sign it, I can’t admit you,” I repeated.

 “Then we’re done here.”  He stood up and I walked him out to the lobby.  As he left the building, I felt grateful he wasn’t going to be one of my clients.

 That night, I took the neighbor’s dog for a walk.  I hadn’t planned for it to be long, just enough for Daisy to do her business, but there was a beautiful breeze and being outside felt good after being cooped up all day.

 We headed for the park nestled beside the river, and as we walked along the fishing docks, I saw a man walking down the grassy hill from the road.  I argued with myself that it couldn’t be Jimmy.  He wasn’t staying anywhere near here.  After I realized it was him, I kept walking, hoping different clothes and my hair pulled into a ponytail would keep me from being recognized.

 “What kind of dog is that?” he called as he approached.

I had a split second to decide whether to answer or ignore him.  Afraid not responding would anger him, I said, “A Labrador Retriever.”

 “You need to walk that dog back to your office and get me some money,” he ordered, his head cocked.  I kept walking, trying not to panic that I hadn’t brought my cell phone or pepper spray. 

 Twenty minutes later, after turning around every time Daisy stopped to sniff the grass to see if he was following me and taking a different route home, I put the key in the door and collapsed.

The following day, in our team meeting, I recounted what had happened. I heard my voice grow louder and my tone more harsh and I became aware of how angry I felt.  The program had been up and running for eight months and none of us had received any training in how to handle a potentially violent situation.  All this time, I had been driving clients to doctor’s appointments, taking them shopping, and getting them to job interviews.  I realized how lucky I’d been.

The program director told us there was no money for de-escalation or self-defense training.  She promised to contact the department of corrections to see if there was anything we could do and advised me to keep my eyes and ears open.  I never heard back from her and I never saw Jimmy again.

All names and some details have been changed to protect both the innocent and guilty.