((PHOTO CAPTION CONTINUED)) outside. After class, which took nearlyall day, Willimina King hugs Kathy Melvin and thanks her for coming.Patricia Geremia looks on. ((CAPTION ENDS))
Thirty-four women are sitting in a room, waiting.
They're dressed in sweatshirts and jeans; some are smokingcigarettes. There are only two or three tuna cans to use asashtrays, so many are standing their cigarette butts upright on thetabletop.
"What is this?" asks one. "How long this gonna take?" asksanother.
They are a tough crowd, but a captive audience - literally.
These are women from Dwight Correctional Facility who will bereleased in a month or two. They have been volunteered for amandatory program on AIDS education.
"You gonna tell people in your story nobody want to be here?"asks one inmate of the reporter watching. "Because people gonna say,`She sick, she has the AIDS,' if they see me in those pictures."
It is 11 a.m. Angela B. Sims, a public health specialist withthe Illinois Department of Public Health's AIDS Activity Section,stands to explain why everybody is here.
"As of right now, the cases of AIDS are gradually going down forgay men, and the numbers are gradually going up among minorities andwomen of childbearing years," she says.
Everybody in the room fits in one of the latter two categories.
"We are hear to talk, and we want to get your questions," Simssays.
Sims asks her partner, Kathy Melvin, project assistant with theIllinois Department of Corrections pre-release AIDS educationprogram, to pass out questionnaires.
Melvin is a trim, sharply dressed professional. She knows someof the "ladies," as she calls the inmates. She has been here before.In fact, she did almost a year here for drug offenses in 1987.
The questionnaire asks for intimate details of the women's sexlives. There are more grumbles.
"I can't remember the last time I told the truth," one womansays. A woman sitting next to her laughs and says, "Last time I toldthe truth, it landed me in here."
There are more questions. But Sims tells everyone to quietdown and gives the order of the day. First they will show a video,then break for lunch. After that there will be questions, and thenMelvin will speak.
At 11:31 a.m. the video begins.
"Is this going to last over a half hour, because we have to goto lunch," one woman says. Sims assures her lunch is on the schedule.
The video is rolling, but people still are talking and shufflingfor cigarettes. Nobody appears to be interested at first.
But five minutes into the film, the talking has stopped. As adoctor describes the effects of the three most common sexuallytransmitted diseases - syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia - all eyesare on the television set.
The experts go on to talk about herpes and pelvic inflammatorydisease. They explain there is an increase in sexually transmitteddiseases, including AIDS.
People, they explain, especially women, can have these diseaseswithout symptoms. Untreated, they can lead to sterility, organdamage, death to an unborn child and even death to the sickindividual.
The last 10 minutes of the film is about prevention - condoms.As the doctors on the television talk, Sims takes out an anatomicallycorrect water pistol and demonstrates, along with the film, how toput on a condom.
There are laughter and lewd comments about the unrealisticproportions of the pistol. But everybody is watching.
The women leave for lunch, relieved to get out, laughing andjoking.
During lunch, Sims and Melvin discuss the psychology of reachingthese women.
"It always starts out this way," Sims says. "But after a while,we win them over. Because we are telling them about taking care ofthemselves. . . . not many people have done that for them. And withKathy's presentation, it fits together like a glove."
Melvin nods. "And it helps that I'm white and she's black," shesays. "She has the health knowledge and degrees, and I have thestreet. It's a good combination, like a salt-and-pepper type ofthing."
This new program is the result of a one-year, $66,000 grant fromthe Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta to reach women ofchildbearing years at risk of AIDS.
The women inmates, many in for drug offenses, are at risk. Simsand Melvin shuttle between the four state facilities for women andgirls. They hope to reach at least 500 inmates this year.
"It has worked well because we came to the CDC," Sims explains."So we set the parameters of the program."
In fact, the program goes well beyond AIDS education. It is theonly counseling program women receive before leaving. And itattempts to fight the 40 percent recidivism rate.
It gives the women their only chance to discuss their fears witha counselor. They will talk about coping on the outside and stayingon the outside.
But the program may not exist next year. The grant has yet tobe renewed, and it is unlikely the state will help. It is aconservative time fiscally and morally - especially if sex educationis the issue.
The women have come back from lunch. Some who were shy now come up to the reporter.
"Use my name," says Betty Arnold, 44. "I got kids andgrandkids, and anything I can learn about AIDS so that I can teachthem is important. You write that in your paper."
Sims talks about condoms.
"You have to love yourself, ladies," she says. "You have tolove yourself enough to take care of yourself. And when you arewith a man and he won't put on a condom, you have to ask yourself,`Does he really care about me?' "
There is a flood of questions. Sims keeps the crowd with her bycasually blowing up a condom while she is answering.
"She's crazy," one woman says.
The pepper has spiced it up. But now it is Melvin's turn - timefor the salt.
"Some of you know me," she begins. "I was down here myself."
By the time she finishes, she has taken them through her earlyyears of drug use, her stealing, her heroin days and her manyarrests.
"Basically, I had no morals, I had no scruples," she says. "Ihad no regard for anyone, especially myself. When you're addictedto drugs as heavily as I was, that's how it is.
"I had to do a lot of thinking. A lot of people like me don'tever get out of this. . . . so I had to make a decision. I had todo whatever I could to get my life back together."
One woman in a pink sweatshirt gets mad.
"You're sitting there telling us it will be OK," she says."Well, that's fine for you. You got a job, but what you gonna do forme. You gonna give me a job?"
Melvin bristles: "I had to work for what I have. Ladies, I'mnot telling you this is easy. You gotta get up, get out and do work.Yes,I was lucky, too. But I didn't get any of these opportunitieswithout working for them. I had to prove myself. But don't nothingcome to a dreamer but sleep."
When she finishes, most of the women applaud. Some walk outstill angry at being there, but most stop to talk to Melvin and Sims.
Sharon, 26, a bright, articulate woman, knows Melvin.
"Don't you leave here without telling me something," she shoutsto Melvin, and Melvin smiles.
Sharon has been at Dwight four times. She will go home toPeoria shortly. She is asked what she thought of the program.
"This is the first time there has been any program like this forme, and it has given me some hope," she says. "But I tell you, whenI leave here, I leave with nothing but gate money (about $40) and anappointment with the Public Aid."
She continues, summing up the frustrations of many of the women: "Dwight is trying to do things for us, but there isn't enough helpfor us to get us back on our feet out there. There are no housing orjob programs for ex-offenders where I live. So, I just have towonder where that will leave me."
Melvin hugs Sharon. Sharon has to leave.
"You get out of here and don't come back," Melvin says.
Sharon answers, "I'm really going to try, girl."
