I was blind-folded. My ankles were chained and secured with a padlock. I wore handcuffs. I was tied to large oxygen and acetylene tanks. Many rioters demanded my death. "We're gonna blow you up, and you're gonna go up lak Mighty Mouse, Mutha Fuckah," one rioter yelled. Other rioters laughed. A cadre of men protested killing me because every inmate involved in the riot in that prison school would be charged with first degree murder.
I was that close to meeting death at Wisconsin's maximum security male prison in Waupun. Thankfully, a convicted double-murderer, a black man, stood on top of a steel table and warned the others what a life term meant. He was doing two. "You're only camping here. This is my home. This is every murderer's home."
"Amen to that, brother," a half dozen convicted murderers yelled, "Do you really want this prison to be your home?"
As if he knew what was taking place in the school, Correctional Officer Major Randy Kahelski, a big Polack known for his fairness and candor, stood on the concrete below and gave rioters the ultimatum: "Come down, one at a time, with your hands up, and we won't kill you."
"What do you mean by that?" a rioter screamed.
"I mean," said Kahelski, "you either stop this bullshit right now or face your imminent death."
Most rioters chose life. The minority had to go along, or they faced death—not at the hands of correctional officers, either.
The next morning, I felt a strong need to talk to anyone about what happened, but who could I talk to? Nobody. Nobody would understand.
About two weeks passed when a state psychologist in Corrections, assigned to deal with hostages, approached me. I didn't know who he was. Dark eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, a murky beard, he wore a warm smile. “Are you Mister Hoffman, the Education Director?”
"I am."
"You were a hostage in the riot, weren't you?"
"Who are you?"
He introduced himself. Showed me his state identification card.
"Yes," I told him, "I was a hostage."
"So, how are you doing now, Mister Hoffman?"
"Not so well."
His eyebrows twitched. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Nervous. Can't sleep. I'm drinking too much."
"How much is too much, Mister Hoffman?"
"Gordon. My name is Gordon."
"Okay, Gordon. Sorry about that."
"No problem. This past weekend, I polished off a fifth of Jack Daniels and then started another."
"You might want to talk to a counselor."
"How about you?"
"No, but I have someone in mind. Do you care if the counselor is female?"
"No, why?"
He shrugged and smiled. "Just asking."
Three weeks later, I was in her Madison, Wisconsin, office. She told me she had a straightforward down-to-earth approach to problem solving. Besides that, I found the brunette, brown-eye woman to be engaging. We chatted for a while about my riot experience when I said, "They shouldn't have done that to me."
"Who shouldn’t have done that to you?"
"My parents."
Neither of us said another word for a troubling time. Finally, she spoke. "Gordon, did you say, 'My parents'?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. I wouldn’t answer. 'Why did I say that?'
So, I said aloud, "Are you certain I said, 'My parents'?"
"Yes, I’m certain, Gordon."
"That's not what I meant. What I really meant to say were the inmates. The inmates. They shouldn't have done what they did to me."
"No, Gordon, you didn't say that, and I don't think you meant it, either. When I asked who shouldn’t have done that to you, you said, 'My parents.' It’s as simple as that."
After waiting in mucky discomfort, I finally said, "I guess they shouldn't have done what they did to me, either."
"What did your parents do to you, Gordon?"
I couldn't tell her. I wouldn't tell her. It was too long ago. Besides, who in his right mind would continue digging when he was already in a deep hole and couldn't get out? I had neither ladder or someone above to toss me a rope. "I'll have to think about that," I said.
I laughed. Why did I laugh?
"You’re laughing."
"Yeah, sorry about that."
"Why are you sorry, Gordon?"
I sat in the electric chair, waiting for the henchman to throw the switch. "You're pressuring me," I said.
She waited.
“I feel like a hostage again.”
"Yes, Gordon, I am pressuring you. I think you gave me that unfiltered answer because—"
“Why'd you stop?”
"Gordon, I think you need to talk about what your parents did to you."
"I'm forty-three years old, for Chrissake. Why would I would I want to talk about them? I have three kids of my own. My father, a medical doctor, died when I turned twelve years old. My mother's still living. We get along fine. Pursuing a past relationship with them doesn't make any sense."
I thought she was going to cry. She didn't. "It could make sense to you, Gordon, if you'd be willing to talk about them, but I think that's enough for now."
She reached over to her desktop and grabbed what turned out to be an appointment book. She wrote in it and looked up to me. "How about the same time next week?"
"We're finished already? Seems awfully short to me."
"It's been over an hour, Gordon."
"It has? Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Okay," I said. Sighing, I stood. "See you next week, then."
“Good,” she said.
Nervousness. Sleepless nights. Drinking. They continued. I didn't keep my appointment the next week. I didn't need counseling.
I was that close to meeting death at Wisconsin's maximum security male prison in Waupun. Thankfully, a convicted double-murderer, a black man, stood on top of a steel table and warned the others what a life term meant. He was doing two. "You're only camping here. This is my home. This is every murderer's home."
"Amen to that, brother," a half dozen convicted murderers yelled, "Do you really want this prison to be your home?"
As if he knew what was taking place in the school, Correctional Officer Major Randy Kahelski, a big Polack known for his fairness and candor, stood on the concrete below and gave rioters the ultimatum: "Come down, one at a time, with your hands up, and we won't kill you."
"What do you mean by that?" a rioter screamed.
"I mean," said Kahelski, "you either stop this bullshit right now or face your imminent death."
Most rioters chose life. The minority had to go along, or they faced death—not at the hands of correctional officers, either.
The next morning, I felt a strong need to talk to anyone about what happened, but who could I talk to? Nobody. Nobody would understand.
About two weeks passed when a state psychologist in Corrections, assigned to deal with hostages, approached me. I didn't know who he was. Dark eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, a murky beard, he wore a warm smile. “Are you Mister Hoffman, the Education Director?”
"I am."
"You were a hostage in the riot, weren't you?"
"Who are you?"
He introduced himself. Showed me his state identification card.
"Yes," I told him, "I was a hostage."
"So, how are you doing now, Mister Hoffman?"
"Not so well."
His eyebrows twitched. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Nervous. Can't sleep. I'm drinking too much."
"How much is too much, Mister Hoffman?"
"Gordon. My name is Gordon."
"Okay, Gordon. Sorry about that."
"No problem. This past weekend, I polished off a fifth of Jack Daniels and then started another."
"You might want to talk to a counselor."
"How about you?"
"No, but I have someone in mind. Do you care if the counselor is female?"
"No, why?"
He shrugged and smiled. "Just asking."
Three weeks later, I was in her Madison, Wisconsin, office. She told me she had a straightforward down-to-earth approach to problem solving. Besides that, I found the brunette, brown-eye woman to be engaging. We chatted for a while about my riot experience when I said, "They shouldn't have done that to me."
"Who shouldn’t have done that to you?"
"My parents."
Neither of us said another word for a troubling time. Finally, she spoke. "Gordon, did you say, 'My parents'?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. I wouldn’t answer. 'Why did I say that?'
So, I said aloud, "Are you certain I said, 'My parents'?"
"Yes, I’m certain, Gordon."
"That's not what I meant. What I really meant to say were the inmates. The inmates. They shouldn't have done what they did to me."
"No, Gordon, you didn't say that, and I don't think you meant it, either. When I asked who shouldn’t have done that to you, you said, 'My parents.' It’s as simple as that."
After waiting in mucky discomfort, I finally said, "I guess they shouldn't have done what they did to me, either."
"What did your parents do to you, Gordon?"
I couldn't tell her. I wouldn't tell her. It was too long ago. Besides, who in his right mind would continue digging when he was already in a deep hole and couldn't get out? I had neither ladder or someone above to toss me a rope. "I'll have to think about that," I said.
I laughed. Why did I laugh?
"You’re laughing."
"Yeah, sorry about that."
"Why are you sorry, Gordon?"
I sat in the electric chair, waiting for the henchman to throw the switch. "You're pressuring me," I said.
She waited.
“I feel like a hostage again.”
"Yes, Gordon, I am pressuring you. I think you gave me that unfiltered answer because—"
“Why'd you stop?”
"Gordon, I think you need to talk about what your parents did to you."
"I'm forty-three years old, for Chrissake. Why would I would I want to talk about them? I have three kids of my own. My father, a medical doctor, died when I turned twelve years old. My mother's still living. We get along fine. Pursuing a past relationship with them doesn't make any sense."
I thought she was going to cry. She didn't. "It could make sense to you, Gordon, if you'd be willing to talk about them, but I think that's enough for now."
She reached over to her desktop and grabbed what turned out to be an appointment book. She wrote in it and looked up to me. "How about the same time next week?"
"We're finished already? Seems awfully short to me."
"It's been over an hour, Gordon."
"It has? Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Okay," I said. Sighing, I stood. "See you next week, then."
“Good,” she said.
Nervousness. Sleepless nights. Drinking. They continued. I didn't keep my appointment the next week. I didn't need counseling.