Doing a Nickel

I knew it would come out eventually. Camille here, confessing that in the 70's, I did a nickel at a women's prison in Massachusetts. (If you're not a TV junkie like me, you may not know that "a nickel" means a 5-year sentence.)

I did the whole nickel, no parole. My accomplices served with me.

For 5 years, two other Sisters and I traveled from Boston to the outskirts of Massachusetts once a week, to bring college to selected inmates. Our crime, you might say, was the desire to teach—anyone, anywhere, anything.  

Sister AC, a crackerjack English professor worked with the women to produce a newsletter. Sister JM, an art teacher, lugged supplies through the gray halls and led a drawing workshop. I taught math for GED prep.

Our students were mostly young women and mostly serving time for  prostitution and/or drugs. They were in a medium-security prison, usually with sentences of a dime or less. Their stories are for another time. This is about their jailers.

Some days were scarier than others—not because of the inmates, but because of the administrators. I can still picture the female warden who ran the place. Her wardrobe was less colorful than the prisoners' uniforms; her manner more dour. She did everything she could to discourage us and to let us know we were Nothing But a Nuisance to her and her guards. They had to bother inspecting our bags, unlocking the gates, unlocking the classroom, ushering the students to the room. And then reverse the process 3 hours later.

I remember one day, let's say it was a Tuesday. We arrived as usual, after about an hour's drive, ready to be searched, growled at, grudgingly admitted.

"Nuh-uh," the guard said. "No classes today."

"Why not?"

He gave us a duh gesture. "Today's a holiday. It's the 4^th of July."

Of course we knew that, but figured our students probably wouldn't be with the free people, sitting by the Charles River watching fireworks while the Boston Pops belted out the 1812 Overture.

 "The students are here, right?" Sister AC, the senior member asked.

"Yeah, they're here."

"And it's Tuesday," I said.

"Yeah."

"Class day," Sister JM said, hoisting her art supplies onto the inspection table.

"You people are a nuisance," the guard said.  

We smiled and went to work.

We learned a lot during our nickel. Enough to convince us to go straight.

 

 

Comments

[Priscilla]

And a belated thank you for doing this, Camille. I suspect there were some of those women who were very grateful to you "nuisances".

[Camille Minichino]

Thanks, Priscilla. I often think of the women, a couple in particular who made a big impression on me.

[Liz]

Are any of your confederates still actively engaged in such efforts?

[Camille Minichino]

Not that I know of, Liz. The number of younger Sisters in the order is approaching single digits. At one time, there were 2000+ of us in the Boston area alone.

[Camille Minichino]

I should add that the Sisters who are still active do many similar types of volunteer activities all over the world.

[Susan Shea]

Leave it to you, Camille, to have yet another fascinating piece of personal history to share. I know some writers and artists who work with prison classes here and they say it's a great experience.

[Camille Minichino]

You definitely learn as much as you teach, Susan - though that's almost always true.

[kathy a.]

camille, you know this story warms my heart! thank you. i'm sure that it made such a difference to the women. and to bring art and learning to such a grim place was surely a miracle.

i particularly love how you framed this -- that the administrators/jailers were scarier than the inmates -- because that is true, but not how most people would guess.

[Vinnie]

Hats off to you, Camille! I enjoyed learning about another facet of your life. Fortunately, the folks at San Quentin were much friendlier.

[Camille Minichino]

They didn't think of you as a bad influence on the residents, Vinnie!

[Andrewson]

Great.