at 430pm yesterday (friday), i had a video conference with incarcerated male client. one could make a lot of assumptions just by his physicality: he is 6 foot six, 345 pounds, and all lit up face tattoos.
i wasn’t expecting to hear him speak with NO emotion, like a robot, or like he was reading lines at a casting.
picture this: video room at the jail has a small screen secured to the wall. on the screen, the inmates can have “visits”. i
am not certain if they know who will be in the room waiting for them on zoom, or if the deputies just bring the inmate to the room, saying nothing.
i hear him before i see him, voice loud and angry sounding. he stops right in front of the screen and stands in place, opting not to sit on the hard plastic white chair. all i can see is his shoulders, chest, and torso. and he is massive.
cut to: twenty minutes in, he’s sitting in the chair now, way more relaxed, and we’re having a pleasant conversation. but then:
“i first tried heroin when i was seven. my dad shot me up and i went into full cardiac something. i was in the hospital, and this mean white lady from Child Protective Services said CPS like chee-pie-ezzz.”
he then started SOBBING, hysterical, full of shame and sadness. i wanted to take his pain away; wanted to protect this man; wanted to get advice or answer questions, but instead, i just sat and listened intently, and held the space with him.
and this is what i can’t stop thinking about: At the end of the hour, he locked eyes with me and said: “you are the first person in my life who has ever really listened to me.”
my 6’6”, 345# client with the face tats wasn’t intimidating or scary. he is one of us.
my mom used to say: each one of us is carrying a hurt or is vulnerable over something that they have gone through, but we cannot see that hurt, so always be kind. that person could just have had a family member die.
