A good use of star power

This story is a chapter of a memoir focused on the insights I gained from interactions with certain notable people. All these stories are true. I admit, however, my memory may not be flawless.

Dith Pran – A Good Use of Star Power

           

On a cold day near the end of 1984 I took the D train from Kings Highway, Brooklyn, straight to W. 4th St. in Greenwich Village. I emerged above ground on busy 6th Avenue. It took me a minute to get my bearings. A taxi sprayed icy water in my direction as I headed downtown on 6^th then crossed at Carmine.

I was going to be late. Maybe I should have tried to catch the #1, but at this hour that may have taken even longer. I quickened my pace then turned downtown again when I reached 7th Ave. I still had 5 minutes to spare. I vaulted the piles of partly frozen slush in the middle of Houston Street.

Now, where the hell was Varick Street? I was looking for the two hundred block, so I continued on downtown. At the next corner the street sign informed me that I was already on Varick. The number of the building on the corner was in the three hundreds. I missed it somehow. I doubled back only to instantly slide to my knees on a patch of wet ice. 

201 Varick St. is a massive, undistinguished gray stone building. A small plaque next to the entrance said simply “Immigration and Naturalization Service.” I was only two minutes late.

A few days earlier my then girlfriend, Anne, told me that a causal friend of ours, a graduate student in her department, had been detained by INS when he tried to re-enter the US after attending an academic conference in Europe. He was now at the Varick Street Detention Center. His family was not allowed to visit him or communicate with him by telephone.

I met Hiroshi [not his real name] at a cocktail party at the home of a psychology department faculty member out in Stony Brook on Long Island the summer before I started law school. Like Anne, he was doing graduate work on cognitive mapping. I liked him at once. He was friendly, smart and open. After a long conversation focused on Japanese food and poetry, he invited Anne and me to come to dinner with his family the next weekend.

Midweek Anne told me that she had talked to Hiroshi in the psychology lab. He asked her if I might be interested in helping him prepare the meal. Since she knew how much I enjoy Japanese food, she accepted on my behalf.

Saturday afternoon at about 3:00 we knocked on the proper numbered door in a nondescript apartment building. Hiroshi introduced us to his wife and two small children. Anne disappeared with his wife and kids while Hiroshi led me to the kitchen. First, he showed me how to correctly sharpen a knife the Japanese way. We rolled out dough for gyoza and prepared the filling as we started the rice. We carefully chopped and shaped a mountain of vegetables. I received a detailed lesson in how to select and carve fish for sashimi. We assembled and rolled five or six types of sushi. It was going to be a feast.

Through it all the four of us joked, told stories and drank a few thimblefuls of very good saki. Hiroshi began calling me "Edo." He explained that since Japanese names always end in a vowel, he had to add one to my name in order to pronounce it. He said he chose that name for me because it was the name of a 250-year era of peace in Japanese history and also the historic name of the city now called Tokyo. He said my new Japanese name was an auspicious one because it was easy to remember.

Now Hiroshi was in trouble. I wanted to help. Anne said, "His wife told me they were going to hold him until a deportation hearing can be scheduled."

"Any idea how long that may take?"

"They told her it could be three or four months."

The Christmas holidays were about five weeks away. His kids missed him. His wife missed him. The uncertainty was killing them.

I said, "Maybe they should hire an immigration lawyer."

"She already looked into that. They can't afford it. She's trying to borrow enough money from their families back in Japan, but it doesn't look good."

I agreed to try to find someone the next day at law school that knew something about deportation hearings. I asked around and found two faculty members willing to help me understand the situation. It did not look hopeful. The first professor I spoke to told me that detainees represented by counsel could sometimes speed up the process, but the unrepresented could wait as long as a year for their case to appear on the docket. The second professor I spoke with conveyed essentially the same message. After commiserating about my friend's situation, she looked up with a smile.

"I just thought of something. You don’t have to be a lawyer to represent a person in an immigration hearing. Why don't you do it? You can file an application for an expedited hearing. It’s easy."

"But, I don't know a thing about immigration law. I don't even know why they are holding him."

"You could just represent him until the family is able to raise enough money to hire a lawyer. You can get the ball rolling. Prepare affidavits with the facts. Stuff like that. I’ll help you."

And so on that cold wet winter day I found myself checking in on the fourth floor of 201 Varick Street. After clearing security I was led to a small, airless interview room where Hiroshi sat at a bare table. As soon as the door closed behind me, he stood and bowed formally to me.

"Edo, it is so good to see you. How did you get in here? They told me I was supposed to meet with my lawyer."

"I'm sorry to tell you, Hiroshi, your family can't afford a lawyer right now. Your wife and your friends are trying hard to raise enough money for a lawyer. I'm here to try to help you until they do."

I knew he was quite disappointed. I know I would be if I were in his place. He had hoped a good lawyer would appear to quickly help him return to his family. Instead, he got a first year law student with zero experience in immigration law and procedure.

His disappointment faded a little as we began work on the affidavit we needed for the application for an expedited hearing. We reviewed his family situation, his need to return to his studies and the merits of his claim that he should not be detained or deported.

I learned that since coming to the US on a student visa Hiroshi had traveled abroad on numerous occasions before this recent trip to Europe. He had been back to Japan on several occasions. He had attended a conference in Canada only six months earlier. He had no reason to believe this trip would present a problem.

He had no difficulty when he departed the US and no difficulty entering or leaving Europe. It came as a complete surprise then that he was pulled aside when he presented his passport at immigration on his return to Kennedy Airport in New York. At first they would not tell him why they were holding him, but since he was fully cooperative and totally confused, an INS agent eventually told him that his name showed up on a watch list of possible terrorists.

Hiroshi had no idea why his name would be on such a list. The agents who questioned him didn't know either. Hiroshi told me when he was still in high school in Japan he had participated in a peace march against the Vietnam War. He considered himself a pacifist and had attended some meetings of a local peace group since coming to America. He assured me there was nothing in his record that would raise any suspicion that he might be a terrorist.

Before I left that day I assured him that I would contact his family to let them know he was OK and to fully explain what I was doing. I worked on his application for an expedited hearing for the next two days and filed it with the immigration court.

I visited Hiroshi a few days later to tell him that his application had been successfully filed. He was not hopeful. He had talked with other detainees who heard nothing for many months after submitting an application for an expedited hearing. In the blue neon light Hiroshi seemed pale. He had lost weight. He told me he couldn’t eat. He missed his family terribly.

I tried to cheer him up, but he knew I had no objective basis for optimism.

Routine news from his family was all I had to offer on my next visit a week later. Hiroshi looked sick. He had developed a persistent cough. I was worried.

I called the immigration court early the next morning only to be told my request would be addressed in due time. It was impossible for me to believe Hiroshi would be released before Christmas. He had even asked me if I could arrange to get him deported back to Japan, or anywhere, just so he could be reunited with his family. I urged him to try not to lose hope.

Everything had changed by the time of my final visit the next week. Hiroshi appeared in the interview room smiling and in clean clothes. He bowed very slowly then unexpectedly reached out and eagerly shook my hand.

"Edo, a miracle has happened."

"What? Tell me. Have you heard something from the court?"

"No, no word from the court."

"So, tell me."

The day after my last visit, a New York Times photographer somehow obtained permission to tour the INS Varick Street Detention Center. During the course of this visit the photographer took a few minutes to talk with Hiroshi. It seems the photographer decided to approach Hiroshi on a whim simply because he was a fellow Asian. Hiroshi briefly related his story. The photographer seemed genuinely moved. He promised to speak with “a friend” to see about getting some help to speed the process that would correct the mistake that sent Hiroshi into limbo.

Two days later the photographer returned for a second visit. He told Hiroshi that he had spoken to his friend, the artist Yoko Ono. When she heard the story she was outraged that a Japanese student would be held incognito because of the government’s error compiling the watch list. It was unthinkable to her that Hiroshi might be considered a subversive simply for believing in world peace. She made some calls, then contacted the photographer and told him to let Hiroshi know that things were going to be all right.

The very next day Hiroshi received word from the guards that he would soon be released.

Hiroshi told me the Times photographer was named Dith Pran. The name did not mean anything to him.

I knew who he was. Only a month earlier I watched the chilling documentary, The Killing Fields. The film recounts Dith Pran’s experiences during the reign of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia from 1975 until their overthrow by Vietnamese forces in 1978. Pran saw it all. In 1975 he was working in Cambodia as a translator and guide for New York Times reporter Sydney Schanberg. When the Khmer Rouge took power, foreigners were forced to leave. Pran, on the other hand, was forced to stay.

At first he worked as a taxi driver, dressed as a peasant, and tried to hide the fact that he was an educated person. Pran was discovered and sent to a forced labor camp. During their reign the Khmer Rouge summarily executed anyone who had more than a grade school education or who wore eyeglasses, perfume, makeup, a watch, or other evidence of Western influence. In their Maoist attempt to return Cambodia to its agrarian past, the Khmer Rouge killed or starved nearly two million Cambodian citizens. Three of Pran’s brothers and a sister died in the camps. In all he lost fifty family members. Eventually he was able to escape and make his way across the border to Vietnam. He coined the phrase “the killing fields” to refer to the piles of corpses and skeletal remains he encountered during his 40-mile trek to Vietnam.

After spending time in a refugee camp in Thailand, Dith Pran made his way to the United States. He came to New York City where he was reunited with his friend Schanberg and started to build a new life. In 1980 the New York Times hired him as a photojournalist.

Dith Pran survived the genocide in his home country due to a combination of sheer chance and his own wits. He knew what it meant to be a refugee. He knew how disorienting it was for someone from Asia to try to live in America. The day he came to Varick Street he knew the decisions of a faceless government could be completely unpredictable.

What he did for Hiroshi was a small thing. He did it without hesitation and with only faint hope that it might save one family from greater grief. He employed what power he had. His power was outside of and unacknowledged by what we like to call our system of justice.

It is not fair that Hiroshi was saved from grief while others without star power to help them sat for months and months on end in that windowless jail at 201 Varick Street. In a just world, they all would have their cases carefully considered and decided in a timely fashion.

We do not live in such a world.

A week or so after Hiroshi was released I received a Christmas card from him and his family. It was addressed to Edo, spelled out in Japanese characters. They formally thanked me for all my efforts on their behalf and wished me a happy holiday.

江戶

Regarding Dith Pran, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dith_Pran

Regarding Yoko Ono, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yoko_Ono

The Power of Hats

This story is a chapter of a memoir focused on the insights I gained from interactions with certain notable people. All these stories are true. I admit, however, my memory may not be flawless. 

Rockview SCI - The Power of Hats

Before my time at Rockview I knew nothing of the power of hats.

As I entered the final stages of my graduate work at Penn State I found an enjoyable way to pay my tuition was to teach an undergraduate class each semester. I began by teaching a class in the School of Education, but I really wanted to gain some experience teaching philosophy. Unfortunately, there were no openings at the time.

A helpful professor on my dissertation committee suggested if I really wanted to teach philosophy I should consider teaching in the undergraduate program at Rockview State Correctional Institution, a medium security prison a few miles outside of town. Inmates with a record of good behavior could take two years of a full-time undergraduate degree inside the prison. If they maintained at least a "B" average they qualified to take the final two years of college on campus living in a supervised halfway house in town.

In the up-coming fall semester the only philosophy class being offered at Rockview was "Introduction to Logic." I had never taken a single logic course but my professor assured me that teaching logic would be a snap. "Just find the right textbook and you will be all set."

When I showed up for the job interview, the director of the Rockview program seemed relieved. She told me that she was worried the logic course might need to be cancelled because no one else applied to teach it. She never asked me if I knew anything about logic, much less teaching logic. I was hired on the spot.

In the two weeks remaining before the beginning of the semester I devoted full time to class preparation. I started by reviewing the textbooks commonly used in the intro to logic courses on campus. They were uniformly terrible. I cornered philosophy grad students who had experience teaching the intro logic course. They assured me that students almost always found the course deadly boring and only took it because it offered an easy grade. My fellow grad students also appeared to lack personal enthusiasm for the course, describing it as “a slog," "purgatory," "dispiriting," or "a reason to quit grad school."

I was starting to have second thoughts.

In desperation I made an appointment with a senior professor whose logic courses I knew to be well regarded. I sheepishly admitted my situation. Rather than laughing at me or showing me the door, he suggested I consider some recently published textbooks designed for teaching logic to high school students. I left his office with a couple of new paperback textbooks in my briefcase.

The next week I drove six miles north up the valley toward Bellefonte to attend orientation at the prison. There were only six new instructors, all Penn State graduate students. We arrived nearly simultaneously at the prison gatehouse. We presented our IDs, our names were checked against a list, and we were buzzed into a small locked reception room. Our briefcases were searched. We took off our coats, emptied our pockets and finally we were patted down.

The director of the program and an armed corrections officer escorted us across a windswept central exercise yard to the education building. The place reminded me a little of my old high school, except every door was always kept locked and every room had an observation window. In a small "student's lounge" we met the prison psychologist who explained the ground rules of prison education.

We first year instructors would all use the same classroom. There were eighteen inmates in the first year class. Only one teacher would be there at a time. We would each teach one three-hour class a week. We would be left alone in the classroom but we could call for help if there were any disciplinary problems. We were assured there would be no problems.

My first class was the next Wednesday morning. I arrived about fifteen minutes early. The routine at the gate was the same but this time I detected a not-so-subtle hostility from the two correction officers who searched me. They took their sweet time and exchanged no pleasantries. Finally, they opened the inner door and let me into the prison yard.

A walkway with a high chain link fence on one side led toward the education building. I was surprised to see a long double line of inmates walking directly toward me. Guards carrying rifles flanked the inmates. They all passed without acknowledging me in the slightest.

I hurried on. A corrections officer opened the door to the education building and escorted me to the student lounge. He unlocked the door, let me in and left without saying a word. Inside my students waited. They all stopped talking the second I entered the lounge. I said "hello" too loudly; announced class would begin in two minutes and hurried into the psychological safety of the adjoining classroom.

The first hour was tense. Everyone already had the textbook. I selected a text that explained the basic principles of logic using illustrations from popular culture, political cartoons and comics. I plunged right in. I struggled to warm to my subject as I explained how the course would be organized, the tests, grading and similar matters. The class remained totally silent.

About a third of the eighteen students were African-American, a third Hispanic and a third Caucasian. They were older than typical college students. I was only thirty at the time and a few of the students were clearly older than me. All wore standard prison garb of a white tee shirt and orange pants. I was particularly aware of four black guys sitting in the back. They smiled more than the other students and seemed to be close friends. My nerves slowly returned to normal as I proceeded through my first lecture. I kept telling myself that this was just another first day in a typical undergraduate class. It was normal to be a little nervous.

After the first hour we took a break. I followed the students as they filed out to the lounge. The four black guys were already sitting together playing cards. When I walked over to them I noticed a small pegboard in the center of the table. I asked the guy nearest to me what game they were playing.

"Don't you know cribbage, man? That's all we play here."

"I've never played. What do you do with that board?"

"Well, you see, we use that to keep score."

"Right, but it's shaped like a race track, how do you know who wins?"

The large man across the table from me spoke up, "Hey, prof, you always got to remember where you are. Guys in here bet on everything, see? One cribbage game can just keep going on forever. You don't want to be playing any game where there are winners and losers. It's not healthy."

The other three guys nodded. I was aware that everybody in the lounge was listening. This was it: my first test. I took a deep breath and said, "Oh, OK, I get it. So, do you guys mind if I watch for a bit. I'd like to learn the game."

After an hour more of my lecture, we took a second break. I felt the tension lifting a little more. I got a ginger ale from the vending machine and watched as a couple of guys stepped out a side door for a smoke under the casual supervision of a correction officer. I would soon be calling the guards "COs" just like everybody else.

At the end of class a CO appeared at the door of the lounge and let me out. He searched my briefcase, handed me my coat and unlocked the door into the yard. I was about half way back to the gatehouse when I saw the double line of inmates again. They were piling out of the backs of a few farm trucks and heading toward what I would later learn was the mess hall. I noticed they were all wearing mud-stained boots, overalls and barn jackets.

Again, they all quickly filed past me without a word.

The pattern was basically the same the next Wednesday. Class seemed to be going well. I had learned the student's names. This allowed me to start to use the Socratic teaching method I like so well. At the end of class I conducted my first quiz. All of the students got a perfect score. They were all capable and diligent students.

As the semester progressed I got to know my student’s individual strong points and their weaknesses. A few did well with the logic problems but had problems reading. Quite a few were math wizzes and one guy, I swear, had a photographic memory. My overall best student was a guy I’ll call Bob. He always handed in perfect homework. He asked intelligent questions in class and aced every exam. Then right after the Thanksgiving break he was gone. No one seemed to know what happened to him. A week later on an unusually warm early December day I stepped out into the prison yard during the second break. A few inmates were playing basketball or working out. I spotted Bob over in the corner and waived to him. He trotted over.

“Hey, prof, good to see you. I’m sorry I’m not able to keep on with the class. I was enjoying it.”

“Yeah, Bob, I enjoyed having you in class, too. What happened?”

“Well, during the break most of the guys in the program qualified for a three-day pass so they could visit their family. I applied too, I mean, I qualified and I hadn’t seen my father for like four years. The bastards in the warden’s office turned me down. That little skunk of a shrink told them I have violent tendencies.”

“So did the shrink take you out of the college program?”

“Nah, what happened was the CO on our unit wouldn’t let it go. All weekend he teased me…asked me if I missed my dad…asked me what my family was having for Thanksgiving dinner, stuff like that. I couldn’t take it. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. I couldn’t help myself, I swear, next thing I knew, I had knocked him down and the COs were swarming all over me.”

            Crap. This bright guy loses it, with good reason, and his future blows up. I guess I expected the prison environment to be oppressive, but this was so unfair. The more I learned about Rockview, the worse it seemed. The place was managed by brute force.

By talking to my students during the breaks in class I learned that Rockview SCI operated a large farming operation on the nearly 5000 acres surrounding the fenced central prison complex. All inmates had to work on the farm or other outside manual labor projects everyday, regardless of the weather. The only exceptions were those with medical excuses and the students in the college program.

The lines of men I passed as I entered and exited were inmates headed to or from their work details. As I drove home after class one day it dawned on me that the inmates I encountered in the yard knew exactly who, or at least what, I was. To them I was just a guy who was helping some other inmates get out of working. As they filed past me they were forced to think about the handful of lucky inmates sitting on their butts in a warm room who didn't have to do anything but listen to me talk. It made sense that they would harbor at least some resentment about the unfairness of the situation.

The next week as I was being searched at the gate on my way in one of the COs looked directly at my face when handing back my briefcase.

"You still coming back to this hell hole, prof? Well, let me tell you, I don't get it. They give these punks a college education, but they don't pay me enough so I can afford to send my own kids away to school."

As I slid past him out the door to the yard I muttered something about how I didn't think it was fair either. So, the inmates resented me and the COs resented me. What fun.

At the end of the third class as I was packing up my stuff, the group of four black guys I noticed on the first day lagged behind in the classroom. As the other students left they came up to my desk and one of them, Jackson was his name, I believe, stepped up to me. He was a big guy, maybe 6'3" and at least 250#.

"Say prof, I'd like to talk for a minute."

"Sure, what is it?"

"I got to tell you prof, I never did do well in school. I never did like school one bit. The teachers I had were all dumbasses. So, anything I ever learned, I learned running the streets."

He paused. I was not sure where this was going so I just nodded. In my mind I involuntarily reviewed the emergency procedure for contacting a CO for help.

Jackson continued, "I never have liked any of my teachers. I wouldn't ever even be taking your class unless I had to."

"Yes, I know that. I doubt anyone in their right mind ever volunteers to take a logic class."

Jackson smiled, "You got that right, prof. Well, I just wanted to tell you, from me and all the guys, we know you want the best from us. I never got that before. I like you."

Before I could react they turned and were gone.

I walked across the yard mad at myself for harboring racist stereotypes. I had no real reason to be scared of Jackson. Well, yes, he was bigger than me. I was sure he had deliberately appeared to be ambiguously threatening to drive his point home. But, what a speech. Maybe this was going to be worth it.

As the line of inmates returning from the farm silently filed past me, I devised a plan I hoped would break the pattern just a tiny bit. To fight prejudice it is necessary to find a way to be recognized as a unique individual. I didn't have much to work with, but it was worth a try.

It was cold the next Wednesday with a stiff breeze. It was the day before the opening of deer season. The air smelled of snow and dry leaves. I put on my blaze orange, down-filled trooper's hat with the fake orange fur.

The CO who checked me in remarked about how he was planning to take a few days off the next week for deer season.

The next Wednesday I wore my old Baltimore Orioles cap. It turned out the CO at the education building was a huge Yankees fan.

I decided to really go crazy the next week so I wore my Boy Scout cap. The CO at the gate held up three fingers and recited part of the scout pledge.

I alternated randomly through my fairly large hat collection for the rest of the semester. Every hat got some sort of reaction from one of the COs I encountered. They stopped glaring at me. I also noticed that some of the guys in the line of inmates would smile ever so slightly at some of my hats as they filed past. My plan seemed to be working.

As the tension started to ease both with the COs and with the inmates in the line, I found I was able to pay more attention to the guys in my class. My feelings of apprehension faded. There were no further incidents with racial overtones. I genuinely came to like these guys. Yes, they were all convicted criminals, but that was the past. In my class they were just some hard working students with some extra motivation to do well.

One snowy winter's day I wore the orange trooper's hat again. As I passed the line heading out to the farm, a couple of guys quietly said, "Yes!" and slapped hands.

In the lounge between classes I asked one of the students if he could explain the meaning of the reaction to the orange hat.

"I would guess that one of the guys just won a bet."

Wait. What? The guys in the line were betting on when I would wear the orange hat again?

I kept up the hat rotation until the end of the semester. The guys in the line now seemed to look forward to my appearance every Wednesday. At least they smiled when we passed.

After one semester at Rockview, I never taught logic again.

I still own that blaze orange hat.

Wikipedia entry: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_Correctional_Institution_–_Rockview

Official Pennsylvania Department of Corrections site: http://www.cor.pa.gov/Facilities/StatePrisons/Pages/Rockview.aspx#.VlYR0YQry-9