"Do You" Was the Challenge Issued

We hold monthly peer-review meetings at my work—which may not be the kind of thing you expect from a prison job. Sweeping rat droppings out of kitchen kettles? Sure. Stuffing bagged undergarments into an industrial washing machine? Yeah, that too. But engaging in a closed-door, round-table critique of coworkers' on-the-job performance? Let's just say that my coworkers and I pride ourselves on not fitting the penitentiary mold.

Every third Wednesday, our eight-man team coordinates to buy ingredients for an agreed-on recipe, which one of us cooks. The meals have been good: angel hair pasta with Alfredo sauce, chicken bacon ranch burritos, pizza bagels.... Usually, someone also makes fudge. We set up a couple of folding tables in our studio, sit down to a shared meal, and get down to business.

The review consists of two elements, applause and a challenge. Each of us takes a turn, giving everyone else a compliment on some aspect of their job performance that month and providing a concrete and measurable way that each peer might try to grow or expand their skill set. The process is meant to foster camaraderie, accountability, and empathy. To some degree, it even works.

When a coworker at our August meeting challenged me to "do you," I didn't at first understand. His applause had been for my displays of authenticity, loyalty, and meaningful criticism. Then he added, "You're always doing so much for everybody else. Take some time and do something that's just for yourself. Take a couple days off, do some reading, watch you a series on TV.... Whatever it is, just make sure it's something only Byron benefits from."

An instruction to be selfish ignores the satisfaction I get by doing things that benefit others. At this point in my life, "doing me" means doing for the community, which I find far more enduring than anything done solely for ego fulfillment. And it's not as if I live like some saintly ascetic. I am far from selfless. Last weekend I binged the entire first season of the post-apocalyptic videogame adaptation "Fallout." Yesterday I finished a Flannery O'Connor novel. Between those two events, I single-handedly scarfed an eleven-serving bag of corn chips in one sitting. The number of things I do purely for myself feels sufficient. And isn't contentedness the yardstick by which "enough" should be measured?

I certainly wasn't going to argue with my well-intentioned coworker. He sees me holding doors for people, giving my time, and tolerating endless incivility and imbecility, so of course he assumes that people walk all over me. Not so! If anything, I feel widely respected and well liked. There are shitheads everywhere; prison's no exception. But overall, my daily interactions are decidedly more positive than negative.

They're not just more, either. They're also greater. I get smiles, waves, fist bumps, handshakes, back pats, and even the occasional hug from the other residents of this institution. That's worth so much to me—way more than a few hours of zany TV, time with a good book, or bites from a bag of salty snacks.

I'd say my challenge was complete before it was even given to me.