Yes, That's Why I'm Here

I’m assessing a well-dressed man on his first arrest. It happens maybe once a day that it’s a first arrest. Most people in jail are on a carousel. In and out for minor repeat offenses: possession, intoxication, trespassing. The trespassing repeats confused me at first. Like, just stop going in people’s yards, Jimmy!

But they’re homeless, so they’re trespassing wherever they sleep. There’s one, particularly large encampment by the beach not far from the jail. There’s a straight path from the bike trail to the encampment, but you have to walk through private industrial property. There’s a chain link fence and the gates are always locked, but they get bolt cutters and cut the lock so everyone can keep using the path. They don’t fuck with the property, just walk through it. The owner keeps calling the cops and replacing the locks. It’s a predictable game where everyone is frustrated and thinks it’s dumb and keeps playing. Occasionally, after the owner calls, law enforcement will post up near the gate and arrest those who won’t go around.

Then I’ll assess them and give them electrolytes since they don’t eat well or get enough water, and the nurses in the jail will monitor their vitals several times a day and try to keep them safe while they miss their next dose of meth or alcohol, or whatever it might be. They test the urine of the females and let them know if they’re pregnant this time. It’s all very sad.

First arrests though, especially of middle aged adults, they’ve often done something real bad. This man is here for pedophilia. 

I get to the part of the suicide risk assessment where I ask if they were arrested for grand-theft, rape, or murder - basically anything where they might anticipate spending much of their life here and might then be more inclined to suicide.

I can see the reason for the arrest on his paper, and I had skipped over this question in previous bookings, but was encouraged to ask as part of a thorough psych exam and was told to put their response in quotes.

This guy responds, “Yes, that’s why I’m here, for rape.”

In my experience, the typical response in this situation was to evade eye contact and maybe require another nudge to get a response, like, “Did you hear my question?” and then they’d either give a weak nod or say, “I didn’t do anything.”

He said yes shockingly innocently. It had been a slew of, “no,” answers and this one was like, “Oh, yeah, that one!” Not like he was proud, more like he was naive, like he didn’t understand he would get his ass beat if the wrong people in here found out.

I share an office with another nurse, so there is another arrestee about 7 feet from him who could absolutely hear if they were paying attention. 

“OK,” I say and stare at him. I’m surprised at a protective instinct that kicks in, and I say without thinking, “Talk to the psych nurses when they come to see you, but don’t tell any of the other arrestees about that, OK?”

“OK!” he says and seems genuinely grateful for the tip and I feel nauseous. 

I medically clear him for jail, and wish I could go outside and feel the sun on my face for a few minutes before the next patient. But the next deputy is already cuffing the next man to the bench.

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Review

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This piece is deeply haunting, layered, and emotionally complex. It explores a moral and emotional gray zone with sharp observational clarity and an almost journalistic detachment that breaks open into something much more human. The central theme revolves around the contradictions and impossible moral calculations embedded in institutional care, especially within carceral systems. It highlights the emotional dissonance of caring for someone you may feel revulsion toward, and the surreal juxtaposition of medical professionalism with the deeply human desire to recoil, freeze, or protect.

Another sub-theme is the ritualized nature of incarceration, a repetitive, almost bureaucratic dance of arrest, assessment, detox, and release that’s both numbing and devastating. The “carousel” metaphor captures this with quiet brilliance. In contrast, a “first arrest,” especially for something as severe as pedophilia, interrupts the expected rhythm. That break is what this piece zeroes in on. There’s also a subtle but powerful exploration of power, danger, and unspoken rules inside jail, particularly the ways vulnerability, visibility, and violence intersect.

The tone is measured and clinical, but with cracks of emotional intensity that feel all the more jarring because of their restraint. Lines like: “I feel nauseous.” and “I wish I could go outside and feel the sun on my face…” are devastating precisely because they’re brief and quiet, not overwrought. You resist the urge to over-explain, and that restraint shows deep control.

There’s also a dry, almost dark irony in some of the observational passages, e.g., the bolt cutters, the predictable game of arrests, the matter-of-fact line “They test the urine of the females and let them know if they’re pregnant this time.” That deadpan delivery makes the reader feel the crushing, routine bleakness of it all.

The structure moves from macro to micro, starting with systemic patterns (repeat arrests, encampments, trespassing laws) before funneling down to a singular, emotionally complex encounter. That structure is effective because it mirrors how trauma and ethical confusion live inside systems: it starts big, impersonal, patterned, and then, suddenly, it’s a person sitting in front of you, and your body reacts before your brain can.

This piece delivers stunningly uncomfortable social insight, both about the carceral system and about the emotional position of healthcare providers working within it. On incarceration, it exposes the absurdity and cruelty of how homelessness is criminalized. The "predictable game" of replacing locks and cutting them again becomes a metaphor for how systemic failure is enforced under the guise of order.

There’s something chilling about the line: “...try to keep them safe while they miss their next dose of meth or alcohol, or whatever it might be.” This is harm reduction in the most literal, desolate sense. It highlights the absurd challenge of trying to provide care in a place that’s built for punishment, not healing.

On trauma and moral ambiguity: The piece’s emotional apex is the moment the narrator warns the man not to share his charge, a gut-level act of compassion that disgusts them. This captures the terrible contradiction of being a nurse in jail: to care for people, even those who do harm. The nausea isn’t guilt—it’s the weight of their own humanity recoiling from itself.

This is an exceptional, quietly harrowing piece. It doesn’t preach or explain; it simply sits with the unbearable complexity of bearing witness. The writing is spare but potent. The moral weight is undeniable.