Dak and the Big Smile

Dak wore a big smile on his face.

It was one of those smiles that can’t be faked.

The only word I have for it is glee. Dak was full of glee. His race radiated joy.

I smiled back. And to think, just a few weeks ago I’d completely written him off.

One Tuesday morning Dak wandered into our horticulture classroom. Because of construction, our classroom had been moved to the prison’s library. The library is located next to the medical offices. That means that anyone in line for a doctor’s appointment could gaze through the library’s plexiglass window and watch us. After several weeks, we’d accrued an audience at the windows – men curious to know what exactly we were learning.

Since I started working for HeartBound nearly five years ago, I’ve learned that the most effective way to teach inside prison is with visual aids. I load up PowerPoints with photo after photo and graph after graph, avoiding bodies of text as much as possible. We start every class the same way – a “Rebus puzzle” to help the students warm up their brains and build self-confidence, followed by photos from my life – whether it’s a meal I cooked or a hike I went on. These photos allow me to show my students the world outside their prison while teaching them a few skills along the way -- how to prepare Vietnamese cuisine, where to enjoy nature in Georgia, how to budget and plan for a vacation. One student, Angus, once said his favorite part of class was my photos. “It’s like I’m seeing the world right with you, Spence.”

Dak had recently turned 18 and been transferred to the prison’s adult population. As a policy, I welcome all recent “juvenile rollovers” to our horticulture class, regardless of if they were enrolled in our class as a 17-year-old or not.

Dak had never come to class as a juvenile. He was on a unit that is locked down nearly 24-7. The kids on his unit are rarely ever able to attend any classes.

One day he finished his medical appointment and strolled into the class. We were almost done with the day’s lecture and I wanted to turn him away. Then, a thought occurred to me, “Jesus wouldn’t turn this kid away. He’d let him stay.”

Looking at Dak, I knew I was taking a risk. He was on that locked-down juvenile ward for a reason. His face was tattooed – and not with pretty flowers or Bible verses. He was a child of the streets, neglected and abused, hardened by prison, prone to violence and recklessness. His life had probably been one misfortune after another. For boys like him, life is about survival. Finding your next meal. Carrying a gun to protect yourself from the other kids carrying guns. Selling drugs to help pay your parents’ rent. If you want a good illustration of Dak’s life, read Chris Wilson’s “The Master Plan.” I knew Dak’s story because I had seen it in the other 200 or so kids I’ve worked closely with.

In prison, they call Dak’s type “crash dummies.” They are either already in a gang or join one inside prison. They do so for protection – there’s strength in numbers. Shortly after their initiation, they are told to perform a certain task by the gang’s leadership, usually a beating or stabbing. This act is called “crashing out,” hence, the name “crash dummy.” They are then sent to a maximum-security prison and placed in administrative segregation where they are locked down for 23 hours a day.   

Dak was on the path to becoming a crash dummy. I could see it by who he was hanging out with in the doctor’s line and on the walk back to the dorms after class. He strode with a swagger that only gang members carry. They think they’re untouchable.

He showed up for a few more classes but slept through each one. When I called him out for his lack of effort, he claimed he was tired from fasting for Ramadan. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. I wanted to kick him out of class. After all, he was taking up a desk that someone else could use, that one of the other 800 inmates at that prison would give an arm and a leg to have. Our wait list fills several pages.

But something kept reminding me, Jesus would let him stay. So, I did. And I hated it. The other students hated it too. They knew he was trouble. They knew he had no respect for the class, that at the first chance, he’d do something stupid and put the whole program in jeopardy. I listened to their complaints and tried to assuage their fears. “Just give him time,” I said. Finally, one elderly student confronted me angrily, “How long are you willing to sacrifice the 99 for the 1? How long?”

“As long as it takes,” I replied.

On the drive home that day I wondered how much longer I could last.

Finally, Dak skipped class. I had my out. We have a zero-tolerance policy for unexcused absences. I could remove him from the roster.

The next week we were planting in the garden. Two generous supporters, Emily and Jared, had collaborated with high school students in North Carolina to prepare okra, peppers, tomatoes, and cucumber seedlings for our garden. They’d driven all the way down to Atlanta to hand deliver them to us. The different ways that people support this ministry and those in prison never ceases to amaze me.

Dak wasn’t in the garden when we started planting. I figured the prison’s administration had gotten wise to his behavior and transferred him.

After some time, I noticed Dak watching me carefully. He’d wandered into the garden somehow.

His hands imitated mine; softly squeezing the pots to loosen the soil. He gently prodded the outer edges of the soil to pry the roots loose. He dug his hole by hand and gently placed the seedling in the ground. He was careful to not compact the soil too heavily.

The song and dance continued, me working, Dak watching, imitating, both of us sweating in the hot sun.

The class finished one bed and decided to move on to the next. I told the students to continue while I watered what we’d just planted. The men gathered up their tools and moved behind the greenhouse where I couldn’t see them.

I was alone. A rainbow glistened in the mist from the watering hose. A sign of God’s promise.

I walked to the back of the garden. Dak was on his hands and knees, brow bathed in sweat, uniform dirtied by red clay. He was showing another student with developmental disabilities how to plant okra. He was patient and kind with the young man who was struggling to catch on.

Later, we washed our tools, collected our pots, and made our way back up to the library. Dak insisted on carrying the empty pots for me.

I paused to talk to a staff member about an upcoming Mother’s Day program we’re planning. Dak waited patiently in the background. When I turned back around to tell him we were good to go, I caught him smiling. His face was turned up towards the sun.

“Dak!” I said. “You look like you had fun today!”

His voice was soft, “I did. That was my first time ever planting a plant.”

“And you did a great job,” I told him. “I’m proud of you.”

On my way out the door later that day I stopped to speak to the Deputy Warden. I asked if she knew Dak. Her face dropped. She expected the worst.

I told him how well he did. How hard he worked. How proud of him I was.

“That’s funny,” she said. “He was named student of the week last week. Something has come over him.”

I nodded along. I knew what came over him. I suspect you do too.

There’s God all around us. In prison. In the soil. In a seedling. In a rainbow.

May we have the eyes to see Him.

Have a blessed day.

Spencer