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Reflection Essay

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A red shirt with black jeans. As I approached the building's entrance, I thought nothing of my clothing. Neither did the officers who checked my identification, patted me down, and escorted me. The program coordinator had instructed us not to wear green shirts, to make our clothing distinct from the forest green uniforms of the "inmates." I sat in the classroom, preparing for class, going over readings for the lecture, thinking about possible debate topics, and conversing with the students. A correctional officer entered, glanced around, and declared to the instructor, "There should only be five inmates in here. I'm counting one extra." "He's a teaching assistant." He paused. "Oh...he's wearing a...oh, ok." He quickly left, with no demonstrated concern for his error. The event was innocuous-producing only an awkward moment for myself, the instructor, and the officer. Yet, it was difficult to forget. As the class began, I feigned engagement, still upset by the officer's mistake. Later that night I laid on my bed, my thoughts racing. I was wearing the red shirt. It held no meaning in the confines of my room. But, black men compose a disproportionate share of Auburn Correctional's population. The officer formed a generalization; if a black man is in a correctional facility, he is an inmate. This provided me with no relief, only a surface understanding of what occurred. On Thursdays, we debated one another on topics like punishment, protest, and the value of

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