In any long-term human relationship—with best friends, family members, spouses, students, community members—we invariably experience times that are “bumpy.” Although uncomfortable for brief or perhaps longer periods of time, I suspect these moments of potential volatility occur as a way of realigning, rebalancing, our relationships. One person might present a statement or do something with which we do not agree, one person might say something and that person’s intent is misunderstood, or one does or says something that is hurtful or harmful. These points of tension provide us with imbalance in our feelings and physical being. The person on the “receiving” end often meets the “misdeeds” with anger, frustration, mistrust, fear, or disappointment. The person on the “giving” end of things might temporarily (or unrelentingly) feel vindicated or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, ultimately feel guilty or remorseful. I believe that all parties in a relationship consciously (or subconsciously) create and contribute to the conditions that lead to the emblazoned situations. Ideally, however, these tension points can also present themselves as opportunities for the relationships to grow through renewed understanding, compassion, and commitment.
The other week, one of the OMAG members gave me a multi-page, handwritten letter to “read after rehearsal, not now” before rehearsal began. I put it in my clear plastic music bag, and promptly forgot to read it until three days later, just before OMAG was to perform during lunch for the Vera Institute of Justice Visitation Day. Why did I think it a good idea to read the letter during the Visitation Day opening remarks? Sitting and reading the letter, I felt my face get hot and tears forming in my eyes. I thought I could control them, but alas, the waterworks began. In the letter, that ungrateful critic called into question my commitment to OMAG, given how “busy” I am. His main beef was that OMAG didn’t have any rehearsal time in addition to the established Friday afternoon time. Futhermore, his complaints included that there was too much time spent on physical stretching warmups before singing, a lack of seriousness among some of the other singers (imagine that they want to be in choir for the social aspects!), and that there were several advanced musicians in the group who needed to be challenged by singing in a chamber group (note that this group would rehearse during an additional meeting time during the week). The letter felt so oppositional. Let’s just say that I was so angry and hurt that I couldn’t look at him during our Visitation Day performance.
Fast forward to the conclusion of the next OMAG rehearsal. I told the letter-writer that we needed to talk. He took me to a room where we sat across from one another. Now, amidst stewing and brewing in between our performance and the rehearsal, I was able to remember that this person is a trained musician. He describes music as his “heartbeat.” Prison is made somewhat tolerable for this person only because he has access to an instrument, and he teaches a music class. He has been a source of recruitment, communication, and musical expertise from OMAG’s inception. Frankly, I rely on him to do extra brush-ups on parts with some of the insecure singers and to arrange musical parts to fit the singers’ voices. Anyway, I once again realized that he would try everything in his power to have extra rehearsals and time away from “prison life”, by engaging in music. Ok, so the raging fire in my heart was repurposed into a fire of occasional compassion.
Our conversation ensued. I firmly told him how angry and offended I had been. He acted surprised. I told him that I could not give more to OMAG than I already was. I work full-time and that’s my primary gig. I spend lots of time each week preparing, researching, writing about, and presenting information to others about OMAG and prison reform! How dare he! I told him that I understood if he needed to leave the OMAG choir, because of his dissatisfaction with its current operational policies (i.e., anyone who wants to sing in the choir will be accepted into the choir). I told him that I appreciated his contributions, but clearly the letter reflected opposition and that I would not have that in the OMAG choir. He back-pedaled. He was complimentary and restated that he had “no intention” of being offensive. He was just being helpful by giving a list of suggestions. I asked if we could move beyond this, and he said we could. Ok, that went fairly well. Except….
Unknowingly, the room in which we spoke was adjacent a prison administrator’s office. The door was open. The administrator overheard every word of our conversation. They said they needed to speak with me in their office. I felt sick to the stomach. The resident looked like he was sick to his stomach. This wasn’t going to end well.
“Dr. Kerchner, take control of your choir!”, commanded the prison administrator. My knees began to shake. I told them that my conversation was between the singer and me. They “corrected” my statement by saying it was between the singer and the prison, since they were responsible for my safety and volunteers being treated well. They were not mad at me, but their face was fire red and the tone of their voice was clear: they wanted this singer out of OMAG. I stated that I wanted to work with him and that I had told him my “piece,” but the administrator was completely incensed that he—a prisoner—would have the nerve to criticize something for which he should be “just grateful.” After all, what is he? An offender. Had he made the right choices on the outside, he wouldn’t be on the inside now. Again, the administrator was on my side, talking about respect and boundaries and that they, too, would be speaking with this singer that same evening. At one point, they pointed their index finger on their desk and asked, “Do you understand me?” I felt my lips freeze, but a soft child-like voice emerged from inside of me, saying,”Yes.” “What did you say?” “Yes, ma’am!” They lightened up when our conversation was over. Did I mention that my lips never moved?
My student assistant waited outside the rehearsal area. She saw me and asked, “Are you ok, Dr. Kerchner?” I responded, “I think so, but I don’t know!” I hadn’t been spoken to in “that tone” since I was about 5 or 6 years old. I felt sick, really sick from worry. I had been mad at the letter-writer, but in no way had I wanted harm to come to him. It was clear that he would be “spoken to,” if not worse. I feared he would be sent to “the hole”—solitary confinement. And, I wouldn’t know until the middle of the next week, if anyone had seen or heard from him. What if I had caused something awful to happen?
As it turned out, he was spoken to (in no uncertain terms) about staying in his place within the OMAG chain of command. Wait? Is there a chain of command in my group? In prison, ultimately, there “must” always be a chain of command. Everyone knows who is at the top and who is at the bottom of (or below) the heap. This singer had crossed boundaries, and I responded accordingly. He was surprised at the intensity of my fire. I had been surprised by the intensity of the prison administrator’s fire. Amazing how the singer’s fiery frustration, ignited my flaring emotional response, and ultimately the prison administrator’s fully engulfed response. There was nothing spontaneous in this combustible relationship. We each contributed our individual and collective prior history, ego (a wise sage defined it as “camouflaged fear”), style of engaging people, and our (mis?)interpretations of intent. For now the flames have been mostly exhausted…only future interactions will determine if the flames are extinguished or ready for ignition when another source of fuel is added. For now, we know each other’s positions. New understandings. Return to balance. Or?
Singing Behind Bars 