Juggling inside the wire at a local prison

Hey juggler!" I hear, stepping out of the car in the parking lot of Huntersville Prison. The 160 men inside the wire keep a close watch through the twin 12-foot fences. There really isn't much else for them to do.

During the day they mostly mill about the half-acre yard front yard, smoking cigarettes, talking, listening to the radio or playing basketball. Men lounge against the rock wall of the dining hall, waiting to make a phone call at the dozen outdoor booths. I've been told it's the second busiest toll station in the county, following the airport. Through the phones, they can reach outside the wire, to where they'd rather be.

Juggling with them, I've observed their situation and the gross inequity of prisons. The difference between inmates and 'out-mates,' if you'll pardon the grammar, is very often a matter of being caught or uncaught, rather than guilty or innocent. That's unfair. I, too, have sinned, and they bear my guilt, serving my time.

In return, I unzip my prop bag on a hard concrete bench in the visitor's yard to juggle clubs, baIls and cigar boxes. They encourage my work­out and clowning, asking me to repeat tricks again and again. As many as a dozen men will make a good effort to learn for themselves. Invariably, someone else always tries to turn a ball and club into a game of baseball. The administration has let me juggle torches, which are an overwhelming favorite. I'm happy to report that no props have been stolen.

They treat me with courtesy and respect, so that I see increasingly our similarity as humans rather than differences in the eyes of the law.

It was during a depressing two-month period of unemployment six years ago that I learned to juggle. For me, it built some pride, and still gives me something positive with which to associate an otherwise bad time. Shouldn't prisoners, equally humiliated by their situation, benefit from juggling?

Naturally, the answer is "yes and no." Several factors, including the lack of props

and rapid turnover of the population (the unit .serves as a holding center during diagnostic testing of inmates), means that no one keeps juggling after I leave.

I think that the sinister, depressing atmosphere of prison and the hard-edged attitude of many prisoners don't tolerate as joyous an activity as juggling for too long. Remember, misery loves company, not joy.

Still, for the hour or two I stay, the tension subsides and a handful of men smile on my presence. That convinces me it's a good thing to do, no matter what happens when I leave.

I love sharing the moment an inmate unlocks the simple riddle of the three-ball cascade in his own arms. I like to think; though I have no proof, that for a moment they forget the wire and feel new and free.

I recommend teaching juggling in prisons. Juggling - or many other activities for that matter - provide a bridge to cross the gaps between our drastically different lives.  When I see poverty, or war-dead corpses on the evening news, I can't help but think that there, but for the grace of God, go I. I get the same uneasy twinge when I travel to Huntersville prison, a clear message reminding me of the unity of humanity, and my uncommon luck.

As that sinks in, I feel more like helping those less fortunate. I stubbornly resist making sacrifices that would cost my comfort.

However, I have broken through a thin spot of my self-interest to devote a tiny bit of time and share a wonderful activity with a group of men who probably remember the effort more than I realize. St. Matthew, who wrote the following statement, would probably approve:

"For I was hungry and ye gave me meat,

I was thirsty and ye gave me drink,.

I was a stranger and ye took me in,

I was naked and ye clothed me,

I was in prison and ye came unto me.

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of my brethren,

ye have done it unto me. "