Never in a million years, as a grandmother, did I ever believe I would begin my teaching career in a women’s prison. It was not my first choice, but fresh out of college and separated from my spouse, my limited options and looming debt reminded me that I could not be picky. While I enjoyed living in a rural community, teaching opportunities did not come along often. And my old truck was on its last legs. Whenever I traveled outside the county, we rumbled along on a wing and a prayer. So, after subbing for three months, I jumped at the chance to work evenings at the women’s prison.
Before I could begin teaching, I had to spend time at the training academy. Days were spent in class, listening to lectures on law. Others were spent in the old dormitories of the former boy’s school, searching for contraband. When the day came to begin self-defense classes, I was more than a little nervous. The instructors paired the class with people of the same height, and my partner was a young kid half my age. I told him, “Be gentle with me; I’m a grandma.”
Nodding his head, he sweetly smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before we began sparring.
Listening to our instructor, we threw punches and kicks until I just wanted to find a secluded corner somewhere to hide and rest before I collapsed from exhaustion. Although I lifted weights and worked out, this granny was no match for the young man.
To add to the commotion, the instructor began barking orders like a crazed drill sergeant. He marched right up to me and screamed in my face, “Hit him harder!”
Flabbergasted by his order and demeanor, I stepped back and replied, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
He loudly laughed, and the room grew quiet. Everyone stopped to watch the trainer as he criticized and mocked. In true military fashion, he began to berate his student, me. He cooed in a sickly, sweet little voice, “Oh, is that what you’re going to tell your little inmates? Huh? I don’t want to hurt you?”
Everyone laughed, and I fumed. I pushed all doubt from my mind, ready to prove my mettle. I ignored the aches and pains; at that moment, I was determined to show Ole Sarge that I was more than capable of defending myself.
The young man and I began exchanging jabs again as everyone watched. The trainer continued to shout instructions to block, jab, and kick. Although I did my best, Ole Sarge didn’t think I was up to par. With more conviction, he again started screaming in my face, “Hit him harder.”
At that moment, all I wanted to do was punch the instructor. He was relentless. I was tired and hot and sweaty, but he continued to scream at me. In frustration, I finally gave all I had and punched the kid square in the face.
To my absolute horror, he went down and didn’t move. And he did not respond to any commands. In shock, I realized I had knocked him out! Frozen, I stood motionless as people rushed to the young man’s side. Although he was not out for long, time had slowed to a crawl, and my heartbeat quickened, and I began to tremble when he finally responded, “I can’t see.”
At that moment, I wanted to disappear as all eyes turned to look at me. Tears welled. What had I done?
Within seconds that seemed like an eternity, his sight returned, and the angry young man jumped to his feet. He glared at me, and through clenched teeth, he growled, “A grandma, my ass!”
Relief washed over me. The young officer stormed off, refusing to work with me. The “drill sergeant” mumbled, “I should take a break.”
Before Ole Sarge could change his mind, I rushed from the auditorium, found a dark corner, and slumped to the floor. While I listened to echoes of grunts and Ole Sarge barking orders, I tried to relax as I again questioned my sanity. At least this round was over, and soon it would be forgotten, or so I thought until I showed up for my first day of teaching.
Walking along a path to the school building, a smiling officer approached. “Are you the new teacher?”
“I am,” I replied, returning his smile.
“Glad to have ya here, teach, or should I say Bruiser?”
He laughed as I groaned.
A group of inmates overheard our conversation, and one of the ladies asked, “Why do you call her Bruiser?”
Laughing, he told the woman, “You don’t want to mess with her. She knocked out a kid half her age…”
I sighed. Well, if nothing else, my teaching career was clearly not going to be dull. I had walked into the women’s prison as an uncertain, newly minted teacher, hoping simply to survive the job. Instead, I had earned a nickname, a reputation, and an unforgettable introduction to a world I never imagined entering. As I unlocked my classroom door that first day, I realized this unexpected journey might just shape me as much as I hoped to shape my students.
Photo by Johnson Wang on Unsplash
Tales of a Family 