THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 30, 1994 TAG: 9410280080
SECTION: HAMPTON ROADS WOMAN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ELIZABETH SIMPSON, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 250 lines
BARBED WIRE loops around the perimeter of St. Brides Correctional Center. The aging buildings are a maze of concrete, metal and iron mesh. And the smell of sweat mixes with the pungent odor of disinfectant.
This is a man's world if ever there was one - 508 convicted felons to be exact - but it's a woman who's calling the shots on running the place.
``Ms. Edge, Ms. Edge,'' inmates call after a woman in a red suit who's striding through a sea of men in denim and work shirts.
That would be Patricia A. Edge they're yelling requests to, one of three women wardens in the state's prison system, and the first woman to run St. Brides Correctional Center, a medium-security prison in south Chesapeake.
``I think the initial response of the inmates was, `Man, a woman has got me locked down?' '' said Edge, who has been warden since May 1993. ``And I said, `Hey, I didn't lock you down. You did that.''
Breaking ground for women in the correctional field isn't high on Edge's priority list, even though she's done plenty of that.
Her first objective is running this miniature city on the outskirts of Chesapeake: making sure the inmates have opportunities that will help them back into life on the outside. Making sure employees feel safe without losing their sense of being on guard. And finding ways to make the operation run as smoothly and securely as possible.
It's a job with risk, responsibility and 12-hour days. ``I'm responsible for everything that happens here and everything that doesn't happen that's supposed to,'' said 40-year-old Edge, whose manner is both professional and warm. ``I have a captive audience and I'm responsible for their lives. I'm entrusted to keep them here safely.''
Her job entails realms of paperwork and hours of phone work in her office outside the main compound, but it also includes going ``out on the yard'' to talk with inmates and see how the prison yard is running. ``I need to know what their concerns are. It's the other piece of knowing what's going on.''
When she does, she carries a two-way radio, a pager and a small bag with gloves and a surgical mask in case there's an emergency where she's exposed to blood. ``The more people know where I am, the better,'' she says, checking in at the front desk before going through three locked doors to the interior of the prison. The omnipresent towers where employees man high-powered rifles are constant reminders this is not a job where you're supposed to get comfortable.
As she strides through the yard, a few of the men are half-dressed. Others are yelling obscenities out the windows. Another is preaching the gospel.
``A lot of women get teased, guys trying to touch on them,'' said inmate Stephen McClelland as Edge goes through his unit. He is serving a 25-year sentence for a cocaine conviction. ``They don't do that to her. No one talks bad to her, I don't why.''
Edge does. ``They know I mean business,'' she said. ``I'm not here looking for romance.''
What she is looking for is opportunity. That's been her guiding force since she was a child.
An only child who was taught by her parents, Rufus and Mary Edge, to walk the straight and narrow, Patricia Edge grew up knowing she would go to college and make something of herself. ``There was never any question,'' said Edge, who grew up in Norfolk.
A childhood friend, Inez Blount-Mason, said Edge was always a leader, even in elementary school. She was always heading up activities and social groups, always trying to get people motivated and involved.
``She always spoke her mind. She was always the one saying, `Wait a minute, this is what's happening,' '' said Blount-Mason, a Norfolk school principal.
The two went to Norfolk State University together where they both majored in education. Edge later changed her major to social work. ``I couldn't see being in a room for six to eight hours with a bunch of kids,'' Edge said.
After graduation she took a job as a probation officer with Chesapeake Juvenile Services. After seven years, she moved on to the Interstate Corrections Compact, where she arranged the transfer of parole and probation cases, a job that put her in constant contact with Department of Corrections officials.
That's how she came to apply for a job in a prison. To Edge, prison work didn't sound oppressive - it sounded exciting. In 1988 she took a job as treatment program supervisor at Powhatan Correctional Center.
The first day on the job was sobering. She remembers the sound of the heavy metal locks clicking shut behind her. Having to be let in and out of wherever she wanted to go. Mingling with men who were serving life sentences, others who were on death row, others who had killed people since they had been at the maximum-security prison. ``That's not a good feeling,'' she said.
Family and friends worried. ``They thought I was crazy,'' she remembered.
``I wasn't real comfortable with it at first,'' said Mary Edge, her mother, who lives in Norfolk. ``But I know she's the kind of person who thinks about what she's doing. I trusted her to make the right decision.''
Once past the initial discomfort of working behind bars, Edge found the work to be both challenging and interesting. Reviewing the inmates' files was as compelling as any best-selling novel. She'd try to figure out why they had made the decisions they did. What in their history led them to Powhatan. And she tried to figure out how best to help them through counseling and education.
Many of the prisoners came to treat her with equal respect. Some even let her know when trouble was brewing, telling her not to go certain places at certain times.
``Inmates will treat you like you treat them. Just because they're incarcerated doesn't mean they're not compassionate and human.''
Edge never stopped itching for new opportunity though. After a year and a half at Powhatan, she took a job with the interstate compact in Washington, where she administered parole and probation transfers. It was an important job, but there was one problem: Edge was bored.
``There were days when the phone wouldn't ring all day, not just for me, for anyone in the office.'' She missed the variety of prison life, the face-to-face contact with people.
After one month, she moved on to a job at Southampton Correctional Center in Capron, where she became the first female assistant warden.
``No one believed a women could handle the job,'' said Paulette Flowers, office manager of records there. ``I think everyone felt like they needed to treat her with kid gloves at first. But then we realized she could handle it. She went right to work and did the job. She did everything a man would do.''
There was no part of the prison, no matter how tough, that Edge wouldn't visit on a regular basis. Inmates and employees alike respected that.
After 18 months in that job, Edge applied to be the assistant warden of operations at St. Brides, a position she thought would put in her in the running for a job as a warden. Less than two years later, she became warden of St. Brides after the former warden moved to Indian Creek Correctional Center in Chesapeake.
Since then, it's been long hours and long days. ``I'm finally to a point where I can get a life outside of here,'' said Edge, who is single and lives in Chesapeake.
Edge is one of three women wardens in the state; two other women are field unit superintendents of smaller units.
``It's been slow for women to get into the field because women aren't aware of the opportunity that's available,'' Edge said.
But more and more women are entering the field, and Edge sees women making important contributions and moving into higher positions. ``Women bring a different point of view,'' she said. ``They see things from different angles. I can sit in a room full of men, and it'll seem like they all understand everything. And I'll ask a question, and no one will know the answer. I think women are more inclined to ask questions, to be more thorough.''
With Gov. George Allen's no-parole proposal putting corrections in the public eye, the opportunities are going to be even greater as prison officials look for ways to keep inmates motivated during longer sentences.
``I look at this as my piece of community service. You do not throw these people away. They do matter. The majority of incarcerated people are not going to die in prison. They are going to be out there. They will be our neighbors. My piece of the puzzle is to help them learn to make better choices before they are.''
guiding force since she was a child.
An only child who was taught by her parents, Rufus and Mary Edge, to walk the straight and narrow, Patricia Edge grew up knowing she would go to college and make something of herself. ``There was never any question,'' said Edge, who grew up in Norfolk.
A childhood friend, Inez Blount-Mason, said Edge was always a leader, even in elementary school. She was always heading up activities and social groups, always trying to get people motivated and involved.
``She always spoke her mind. She was always the one saying, `Wait a minute, this is what's happening,' '' said Blount-Mason, a Norfolk school principal.
The two went to Norfolk State University together where they both majored in education. Edge later changed her major to social work. ``I couldn't see being in a room for six to eight hours with a bunch of kids,'' Edge said.
After graduation she took a job as a probation officer with Chesapeake Juvenile Services. After seven years, she moved on to the Interstate Corrections Compact, where she arranged the transfer of parole and probation cases, a job that put her in constant contact with Department of Corrections officials.
That's how she came to apply for a job in a prison. To Edge, prison work didn't sound oppressive - it sounded exciting. In 1988 she took a job as treatment program supervisor at Powhatan Correctional Center.
-
The first day on the job was
sobering. She remembers the sound of the heavy metal locks clicking shut behind her. Having to be let in and out of wherever she wanted to go. Mingling with men who were serving life sentences, others who were on death row, others who had killed people since they had been at the maximum-security prison. ``That's not a good feeling,'' she said.
Family and friends worried. ``They thought I was crazy,'' she remembered.
``I wasn't real comfortable with it at first,'' said Mary Edge, her mother, who lives in Norfolk. ``But I know she's the kind of person who thinks about what she's doing. I trusted her to make the right decision.''
Once past the initial discomfort of working behind bars, Edge found the work to be both challenging and interesting. Reviewing the inmates' files was as compelling as any best-selling novel. She'd try to figure out why they had made the decisions they did. What in their history led them to Powhatan. And she tried to figure out how best to help them through counseling and education.
Many of the prisoners came to treat her with equal respect. Some even let her know when trouble was brewing, telling her not to go certain places at certain times.
``Inmates will treat you like you treat them. Just because they're incarcerated doesn't mean they're not compassionate and human.''
-
Edge never stopped itching for new opportunity though. After a year and a half at Powhatan, she took a job with the interstate compact in Washington, where she administered parole and probation transfers. It was an important job, but there was one problem: Edge was bored.
``There were days when the phone wouldn't ring all day, not just for me, for anyone in the office.'' She missed the variety of prison life, the face-to-face contact with people.
After one month, she moved on to a job at Southampton Correctional Center in Capron, Va., where she became the first female assistant warden.
``No one believed a women could handle the job,'' said Paulette Flowers, office manager of records there. ``I think everyone felt like they needed to treat her with kid gloves at first. But then we realized she could handle it. She went right to work and did the job. She did everything a man would do.''
There was no part of the prison, no matter how tough, that Edge wouldn't visit on a regular basis. Inmates and employees alike respected that.
After 18 months in that job, Edge applied to be the assistant warden of operations at St. Brides, a position she thought would put in her in the running for a job as a warden. Less than two years later, she became warden of St. Brides after the former warden moved to Indian Creek Correctional Center in Chesapeake.
Since then, it's been long hours and long days. ``I'm finally to a point where I can get a life outside of here,'' said Edge, who is single and lives in Chesapeake.
-
Edge is one of three women
wardens in the state; two other women are field unit superintendents of smaller units.
``It's been slow for women to get into the field because women aren't aware of the opportunity that's available,'' Edge said.
But more and more women are entering the field, and Edge sees women making important contributions and moving into higher positions. ``Women bring a different point of view,'' she said. ``They see things from different angles. I can sit in a room full of men, and it'll seem like they all understand everything. And I'll ask a question, and no one will know the answer. I think women are more inclined to ask questions, to be more thorough.''
With Gov. George Allen's no-parole proposal putting corrections in the public eye, the opportunities are going to be even greater as prison officials look for ways to keep inmates motivated during longer sentences.
``I look at this as my piece of community service. You do not throw these people away. They do matter. The majority of incarcerated people are not going to die in prison. They are going to be out there. They will be our neighbors. My piece of the puzzle is to help them learn to make better choices before they are.'' ILLUSTRATION: LAWRENCE JACKSON/Staff color photos
``I have a captive audience and I'm responsible for their lives,''
says St. Brides warden Patricia A. Edge of Chesapeake.
Edge chats with inmates in the juvenile cell block. She wants to
help them make the right choices.
Edge listens to the inmates' concerns, but they don't address her
with disrespect. ``A lot of women get teased...They don't do that to
her. No one talks bad to her,'' said inmate Stephen McClelland,
above.
Photo
LAWRENCE JACKSON/Staff
Warden Patricia A. Edge talks to an inmate through his cell door.
KEYWORDS: PROFILE BIOGRAPHY PRISONS by CNB