I hired a laundry man yesterday. Reggie, the same guy who talks to the trash cans. We have building laundrymen who do our laundry once a week (there are 2 washers and 2 driers in each building. Inmates get one wash each week with detergent provided by the prison; all other washes are on your own with your own soap).
Reggie is crazy – certifiable. But, he also does a great job on laundry and his job is in the building so he’s here all day. The only times I can get another wash in is weekends because of my schedule. So I hired Reggie to do my laundry – wash, dry, and fold – twice a week for $2.57 a month (price of one bag of coffee), plus I provide the detergent ($1.98 for an 8 load bag).
Almost every guy has a hustle – a way to earn a few extra bucks each month. I’m considered “upper-middle class” because I make the compound high 45 cents per hour. Average month I make a whopping $54.00. Housemen (the guys that clean the dorm) only make 23 cents an hour. You want to eat well from commissary, buy personal clothing (you need more than three pair of boxers!), get CD’s, you hustle.
A guy in our building – KC – used to make furniture. He needed a divorce. I handled it for him (I don’t charge for legal work. I abhor uneducated guys who “sell” jailhouse lawyering). To thank me he built me a CD case. It’s made out of cracker boxes glued one on top of the other (glue courtesy of the prison) until it forms an almost fiber board thickness. It’s sturdy, painted white, with a shelf, and holds 16 CD’s. KC sells the boxes – and all sorts of other storage containers for $5 to $20 worth of commissary. He also does handmade cards. I got a father’s day card for my dad with a perfect replica ’57 T-Bird painted on it.
There’s a guy in another building who makes jewelry – cross necklaces, bracelets, all out of wire and wood he lifts from the on site factory. There are a couple of Kitchen guys who sneak out onions, peppers, spices, fresh fruit and deliver them.
Malik has a catering business. You give him the ingredients and he’ll prepare you a pizza, calzone, apple pie.
Then there’s the illegal stuff (technically, all hustles are illegal. You can’t barter or sell any item or service). You want drugs? For the right price, you can get them. Just last week, a dealer and seven of his customers were busted with weed and pills.
Tobacco? A whole pack of Newport 100’s can be had for $75 to $100, cash. Cash on the compound? You can find it.
Sex? Just last month a gay prostitution ring was broken up in another building. The “pimp” was shipped elsewhere.
How does all this go on in prison? As recent firings and arrests of CO’s shows, with their active participation. But, what do you expect? Everyone has a weakness. A great many of the CO’s are young, uneducated, poorly paid, and poorly trained.
There’s a massive underground economy in here. Need your glasses or headphones repaired? See Miguel. Sneaker soles need re gluing? E’s the man. Need an extra blue shirt, blanket or sheets? See Ray. He’s got the laundry hook up. Want a woman? There are a couple of female CO’s who “like a man in uniform” (one guy in my building actually married a CO in prison – after she was fired for fraternizing).
This entire system is maintained by the underground economy, guys working on the side for a little “somethin”. Sounds a whole lot like the U.S. economy, doesn’t it?
Sunday, August 29, 2010
8/18
This past Wednesday marked the second anniversary of my arrest. There are so many dates I vividly recall: the first time I saw the woman I married; the birth of both our sons; the day I found out I passed the bar exam. Those were all amazingly, wonderful days. August 18, 2008 was not one of those days. Yet, everything that happened – every second of that day – is etched in my psyche.
It had started out well enough. It was a Monday morning, typical hot, humid August morning. My folks had come up for the weekend. I had cooked all weekend – a passion of mine: fillet kabobs Friday night; lamb with rice pilaf Saturday; pasta with a sausage Bolognese sauce Sunday. It was a relaxing, carefree weekend. My wife and I even found time alone and made love.
I left for the office at 5:00 that morning as I did everyday. Everything was normal, in sync. That is, until the call from upstairs, the company president, who asked to see me. The time was 8:32. I will never forget the time.
I won’t go into detail here about that morning (Hint: you can read all about it and more in my book. Literary agents – it’s a good story!). Suffice it to say, I was asked about one $30,000 check, admitted I had been gambling and going on spending sprees for family, friends, and coworkers, and asked for help. Instead, within minutes law enforcement arrived. I was arrested, arraigned, and denied bond (the prosecutor argued I was a flight risk).
At 1:36 pm, I made the worst telephone call of my life. I called the woman I loved, the woman I had dreamt of spending my life with, and broker her heart. I unleashed consequences I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
I was transported later that day (6:00 pm) to the Henrico County Jail. I was placed in an “observation cell” by intake because of fear that I would try and end my life. I spend the remainder of that night staring at the walls of my new home, my mind racing as I tried to come to grips with what I’d done.
At one point, I looked at my watch and realized it was 8:30. Trying to regain my equilibrium, I decided to calculate my “living space”. I counted each concrete block, deducted space for the commode cut out, and concluded there were 326 blocks making up my cell and approximately 62 square fee of total floor space. Satisfied with my calculations, I looked back at my watch. It read 8:35.
I was crushed, despondent. I lost all hope. I spend the remainder of that night in the hell I created.
I’d like to be able to write that within a day or so I found my bearings. But I didn’t. As bad as things were on the 18th, they got worse. My marriage completely unraveled in the days and weeks ahead (though looking back now, I wonder what really kept us together anyway. She obviously didn’t love me). My court appearances brought newspaper articles. I was threatened by inmates on at least two occasions. The court – with me in handcuffs and shackles – sentenced me to more time in prison than the typical second degree murder case.
Within weeks of sentencing – almost 30 days to the date that the court rejected my motion to reconsider and I had signed everything over to my wife – I was served with divorce papers.
I was shipped by DOC on August 12, 2009 to a hellhole called Powhatan Receiving Center and placed in a 8’ by 10’ roach infested, leaky toilet cell with a 24 year old psychotic gang member who was beginning to serve 76 years for the murder of two rival gang members.
My divorce was signed by the court on September 4th. Ironically, I didn’t learn of it until the 22nd at 3:30 a.m. when an officer brought the papers to me. “We misplaced them.” The 4th – the day of my divorce – was significant. It was exactly 29 years after my wife’s and my first date.
Throughout those months my darkness began, albeit slowly, to be replaced by light, by hope. I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point I knew I would overcome this.
There had been a night shortly after my arrest, when I believed I couldn’t go on. I determined then and there I’d end it all and planned out taking my life. I began to carry out my plan, and then paused. As I closed my eyes and prepared to step off my bunk and hang myself, I saw someone, an angel perhaps. At that precise moment I promised God I wouldn’t quit.
There were so many days those past two years when I really thought I couldn’t go on. But, somehow I did. I memorized scripture and would recite them over and over.
It’s odd really. You think you can’t live without certain things. You think your life is all about the people beside you. Then, everything is taken away. The love you thought people had for you, you learn is really fiction. You find yourself alone, broken and empty. And, at that precise moment you realize you can overcome. You realize no matter what, God loves you and is with you. You find faith, and in faith – hope, and with hope you endure.
This past Wednesday – my second year imprisoned – I went outside and ran 13-150 yard sprints then walked 3 miles. I went to the law library and put the finishing touches on a young man’s pardon application.
And, I prayed a great deal, mostly thanking God for seeing me through this. Prison can’t break you. Only you can break yourself. Faith, I’ve learned, can overcome these walls.
It had started out well enough. It was a Monday morning, typical hot, humid August morning. My folks had come up for the weekend. I had cooked all weekend – a passion of mine: fillet kabobs Friday night; lamb with rice pilaf Saturday; pasta with a sausage Bolognese sauce Sunday. It was a relaxing, carefree weekend. My wife and I even found time alone and made love.
I left for the office at 5:00 that morning as I did everyday. Everything was normal, in sync. That is, until the call from upstairs, the company president, who asked to see me. The time was 8:32. I will never forget the time.
I won’t go into detail here about that morning (Hint: you can read all about it and more in my book. Literary agents – it’s a good story!). Suffice it to say, I was asked about one $30,000 check, admitted I had been gambling and going on spending sprees for family, friends, and coworkers, and asked for help. Instead, within minutes law enforcement arrived. I was arrested, arraigned, and denied bond (the prosecutor argued I was a flight risk).
At 1:36 pm, I made the worst telephone call of my life. I called the woman I loved, the woman I had dreamt of spending my life with, and broker her heart. I unleashed consequences I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
I was transported later that day (6:00 pm) to the Henrico County Jail. I was placed in an “observation cell” by intake because of fear that I would try and end my life. I spend the remainder of that night staring at the walls of my new home, my mind racing as I tried to come to grips with what I’d done.
At one point, I looked at my watch and realized it was 8:30. Trying to regain my equilibrium, I decided to calculate my “living space”. I counted each concrete block, deducted space for the commode cut out, and concluded there were 326 blocks making up my cell and approximately 62 square fee of total floor space. Satisfied with my calculations, I looked back at my watch. It read 8:35.
I was crushed, despondent. I lost all hope. I spend the remainder of that night in the hell I created.
I’d like to be able to write that within a day or so I found my bearings. But I didn’t. As bad as things were on the 18th, they got worse. My marriage completely unraveled in the days and weeks ahead (though looking back now, I wonder what really kept us together anyway. She obviously didn’t love me). My court appearances brought newspaper articles. I was threatened by inmates on at least two occasions. The court – with me in handcuffs and shackles – sentenced me to more time in prison than the typical second degree murder case.
Within weeks of sentencing – almost 30 days to the date that the court rejected my motion to reconsider and I had signed everything over to my wife – I was served with divorce papers.
I was shipped by DOC on August 12, 2009 to a hellhole called Powhatan Receiving Center and placed in a 8’ by 10’ roach infested, leaky toilet cell with a 24 year old psychotic gang member who was beginning to serve 76 years for the murder of two rival gang members.
My divorce was signed by the court on September 4th. Ironically, I didn’t learn of it until the 22nd at 3:30 a.m. when an officer brought the papers to me. “We misplaced them.” The 4th – the day of my divorce – was significant. It was exactly 29 years after my wife’s and my first date.
Throughout those months my darkness began, albeit slowly, to be replaced by light, by hope. I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point I knew I would overcome this.
There had been a night shortly after my arrest, when I believed I couldn’t go on. I determined then and there I’d end it all and planned out taking my life. I began to carry out my plan, and then paused. As I closed my eyes and prepared to step off my bunk and hang myself, I saw someone, an angel perhaps. At that precise moment I promised God I wouldn’t quit.
There were so many days those past two years when I really thought I couldn’t go on. But, somehow I did. I memorized scripture and would recite them over and over.
It’s odd really. You think you can’t live without certain things. You think your life is all about the people beside you. Then, everything is taken away. The love you thought people had for you, you learn is really fiction. You find yourself alone, broken and empty. And, at that precise moment you realize you can overcome. You realize no matter what, God loves you and is with you. You find faith, and in faith – hope, and with hope you endure.
This past Wednesday – my second year imprisoned – I went outside and ran 13-150 yard sprints then walked 3 miles. I went to the law library and put the finishing touches on a young man’s pardon application.
And, I prayed a great deal, mostly thanking God for seeing me through this. Prison can’t break you. Only you can break yourself. Faith, I’ve learned, can overcome these walls.
Common Fare
This prison has a special diet tray available to inmates who are religiously “qualified”. More on the qualifications later. The tray is prepared with kosher (and proper Islamic) dietary requirements. Every tray features fresh fruit and vegetables. There is no processed meat. It is an extremely healthy, vitamin rich, daily food service. And, much to the Commonwealth’s consternation, expensive to provide.
The United State Constitution (1st Amendment) and federal law (“The Religious Lands Use and Incarcerated Persons Act”) specifically requires states to provide for inmates’ “religiously motivated dietary needs” unless a penological concern (i.e. breach of security) is shown.
For years, Virginia provided these special trays at almost all their prisons. However, with the rapid growth of inmates since parole was abolished, the number of “religiously motivated” inmates is going through the roof. To make it more difficult for inmates to get the “common fare” tray, Virginia reduced the number of prisons that offer it to about a half dozen. Then, they instituted an arbitrary (and as I’m actually arguing) and illegal process for inmates to be approved for healthy food.
Why would Virginia not want to provide healthy meals to its inmates? Cost. Virginia can feed inmates for a few dollars a day. The food is bland – cabbage at least once a day; 2 or 3 starches every meal; low grade meat; little in the way of fresh fruit and vegetables.
Is it cost effective? Probably not. Medical costs per inmate are through the roof. Of the approximately 1200 inmates here, roughly 200 are diabetic; another couple hundred have high blood pressure. We’re talking guys in their 20’s with high blood pressure! I’m 51 with a normal range BMI (22), perfect blood pressure (120/74) and no diabetes.
Now, I can eat anything. There is absolutely no meal I will pass on. There’s a famous story from my married days. We had just gotten married. My wife, while I was out on a long run one day, decided to make us supper - tuna casserole. I came back, cleaned up, and we began to eat. She looked puzzled as she ate. I, on the other hand shoveled it in. She looked over at the counter and realized she had left the tuna out!
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she burst into tears.
“But, honey, it’s delicious!” I replied.
“You don’t count. You’ll eat anything!”
And so it went. I’d try anything. No food was “beneath me”.
Prison food is supposed to be lousy and truth is, guys in here complain way too much. Want to eat better meals? Don’t get locked up! Plus, there are people world wide who wish they have the food we inmates get (I started saying “grace” at every meal while in jail when a young Guatemalan man told me his entire family of six in his home country ate less than he received on his three jail trays each day).
Back to “Common Fare”. I read my Bible, pray and meditate almost an hour each and every morning. The C.O.’s talk to me about my “discipline” (it’s actually my favorite time of the day). I decided – during my study – that I need to be more conscious of what I eat. I avoid meat and processed food (I eat “bean trays” every day).
The prison has a policy that in order to “qualify” as a religiously observant diet participant, you must attend “approved religious services” for six months. The prison then gives you the list of “approved services”. These include:
• Non –denominational Evangelical Protestant
• Roman Catholic
• Messianic Jew or Orthodox Jew
• Sunni Muslim
• Shia Muslim
• Nation of Islam
• Moorish Society
• Rastafarians
• Jehovah Witness
• Native American “Mother Earth” worship
I filed a grievance objecting to being forced into a service that doesn’t represent my faith. I’m going to rely on case law from federal courts around the country. Here’s the test an inmate must meet to be religiously eligible:
1) A deeply held religious belief;
2) that allows participants to keep a special diet;
3) that doesn’t pose a penological concern for the prison. The prison (the courts have ruled) can’t establish that concern if they already provide the diet tray.
More importantly, under the 1st Amendment, the prison can’t compel inmates to participate in their church services.
The other problem here is the chaplain. He is a rude, maniacal, egotistical ass. He runs the religion programs “his way”. He technically isn’t employed by the prison. Chaplains are provided to prisons in Virginia by a non-profit organization that funds the offices through inmate funds (abut $750,000 worth) and donations from churches.
The “good chaplain” puts down Muslims, Jews, and Catholics. He is trying to prohibit my friend’s church from doing a “Celtic Vesper service” (“we don’t do that there”). He refused a Koran to me – “you ain’t got no need for that; you ain’t Muslim.” A great Christian leader!
I’ll push the issue, not just for me, but for the guys in here who carry on their faith in quiet. They don’t need to beat their chest in front of 200 guys about God. They just say their prayers, read their Holy Scriptures, and act decently to the staff and the other inmates.
Plus, doing the right thing has its own reward: fresh broccoli, cauliflower, tuna, and cottage cheese.
The United State Constitution (1st Amendment) and federal law (“The Religious Lands Use and Incarcerated Persons Act”) specifically requires states to provide for inmates’ “religiously motivated dietary needs” unless a penological concern (i.e. breach of security) is shown.
For years, Virginia provided these special trays at almost all their prisons. However, with the rapid growth of inmates since parole was abolished, the number of “religiously motivated” inmates is going through the roof. To make it more difficult for inmates to get the “common fare” tray, Virginia reduced the number of prisons that offer it to about a half dozen. Then, they instituted an arbitrary (and as I’m actually arguing) and illegal process for inmates to be approved for healthy food.
Why would Virginia not want to provide healthy meals to its inmates? Cost. Virginia can feed inmates for a few dollars a day. The food is bland – cabbage at least once a day; 2 or 3 starches every meal; low grade meat; little in the way of fresh fruit and vegetables.
Is it cost effective? Probably not. Medical costs per inmate are through the roof. Of the approximately 1200 inmates here, roughly 200 are diabetic; another couple hundred have high blood pressure. We’re talking guys in their 20’s with high blood pressure! I’m 51 with a normal range BMI (22), perfect blood pressure (120/74) and no diabetes.
Now, I can eat anything. There is absolutely no meal I will pass on. There’s a famous story from my married days. We had just gotten married. My wife, while I was out on a long run one day, decided to make us supper - tuna casserole. I came back, cleaned up, and we began to eat. She looked puzzled as she ate. I, on the other hand shoveled it in. She looked over at the counter and realized she had left the tuna out!
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she burst into tears.
“But, honey, it’s delicious!” I replied.
“You don’t count. You’ll eat anything!”
And so it went. I’d try anything. No food was “beneath me”.
Prison food is supposed to be lousy and truth is, guys in here complain way too much. Want to eat better meals? Don’t get locked up! Plus, there are people world wide who wish they have the food we inmates get (I started saying “grace” at every meal while in jail when a young Guatemalan man told me his entire family of six in his home country ate less than he received on his three jail trays each day).
Back to “Common Fare”. I read my Bible, pray and meditate almost an hour each and every morning. The C.O.’s talk to me about my “discipline” (it’s actually my favorite time of the day). I decided – during my study – that I need to be more conscious of what I eat. I avoid meat and processed food (I eat “bean trays” every day).
The prison has a policy that in order to “qualify” as a religiously observant diet participant, you must attend “approved religious services” for six months. The prison then gives you the list of “approved services”. These include:
• Non –denominational Evangelical Protestant
• Roman Catholic
• Messianic Jew or Orthodox Jew
• Sunni Muslim
• Shia Muslim
• Nation of Islam
• Moorish Society
• Rastafarians
• Jehovah Witness
• Native American “Mother Earth” worship
I filed a grievance objecting to being forced into a service that doesn’t represent my faith. I’m going to rely on case law from federal courts around the country. Here’s the test an inmate must meet to be religiously eligible:
1) A deeply held religious belief;
2) that allows participants to keep a special diet;
3) that doesn’t pose a penological concern for the prison. The prison (the courts have ruled) can’t establish that concern if they already provide the diet tray.
More importantly, under the 1st Amendment, the prison can’t compel inmates to participate in their church services.
The other problem here is the chaplain. He is a rude, maniacal, egotistical ass. He runs the religion programs “his way”. He technically isn’t employed by the prison. Chaplains are provided to prisons in Virginia by a non-profit organization that funds the offices through inmate funds (abut $750,000 worth) and donations from churches.
The “good chaplain” puts down Muslims, Jews, and Catholics. He is trying to prohibit my friend’s church from doing a “Celtic Vesper service” (“we don’t do that there”). He refused a Koran to me – “you ain’t got no need for that; you ain’t Muslim.” A great Christian leader!
I’ll push the issue, not just for me, but for the guys in here who carry on their faith in quiet. They don’t need to beat their chest in front of 200 guys about God. They just say their prayers, read their Holy Scriptures, and act decently to the staff and the other inmates.
Plus, doing the right thing has its own reward: fresh broccoli, cauliflower, tuna, and cottage cheese.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Dr. Doolittle
Don’t get sick in prison. You learn that the moment you get locked up. Two weeks after my arrest, routine blood work was done. A short while later I was called back down to the medical unit and greeted by these words “you have leukemia”. Fortunately, the moronic doctor had misread the results. After six more tubes, he “discovered” his error.
Virginia has contracted out inmate medical care and the company with the contract makes money by seeing high volumes of inmates each day. As a result, the care sucks.
Our “physician” here is flat out incompetent. You wouldn’t let him treat your family pet. A sampling of his recent diagnoses:
Corey – went to medical with severe lower abdominal pain. For four days he was denied treatment. His family called; he was seen and rushed to MCV (Medical College of VA in Richmond) where they discovered his appendix had burst.
Softball Larry – a great young athlete. Larry dropped 40 pounds in less than a month. He couldn’t keep food down. The doctor’s diagnosis: “You need vitamin D. Get outside.” One evening a C.O. saw Larry shaking uncontrollably. He demanded medical see Larry. They found him with a 104 fever and rushed him to MCV. After a four week hospital stay he returned. He was found to have ulcerative colitis.
Ray – a 62 year old inmate. He complained for weeks about pain and numbness in his arm. It took repeated calls into the prison before he was given an EKG. Shortly thereafter he was taken to MCV for two stents to open up blocked arteries.
These are just three examples. I have dozens. The truth is medical care in prisons is atrocious. Every issue of Prison Legal News reports dozens of cases throughout America each month where incompetent medical care led to million dollar awards to inmates (or, in most cases, the deceased inmate’s family).
In Portsmouth, Virginia last month PHS (Prison Health Services) agreed to settle a deceased inmate’s suit for $1.6 million. The inmate died in his cell of dehydration.
For inmates to get adequate health care they have to fight. Almost every diagnosis, every request for treatment only comes about after filing repeated grievances and – in many cases – getting family and friends to call the prison and demand adequate care.
Some may say “you guys get what you deserve”. That’s not the law. When society incarcerates a person they assume the obligation to provide for that person’s basic needs. California currently is under federal court order to release 46,000 of their 172,000 inmates. Why? Because they are at 200% capacity and medial care and housing has completely collapsed. California has this case on appeal to the US Supreme Court, but the writing is on the wall! You want to “lock criminals up? Pay for it!” It is against the law to deprive incarcerated persons of adequate health care. Ironic, isn’t it. The same Commonwealth that prosecutes criminals is itself breaking its own laws in its treatment of convicts.
But, every so often an inmate “wins one”. Flo has wanted a bottom bunk for months. He got one last Wednesday. How? He went outside and faked passing out in the heat. Rushed over to medical the doctor “checking his vitals” asked if he was OK. “What can we do for you?”
As Flo was moving into his new bunk he yelled out “don’t hate the player. Hate the game!”
Virginia has contracted out inmate medical care and the company with the contract makes money by seeing high volumes of inmates each day. As a result, the care sucks.
Our “physician” here is flat out incompetent. You wouldn’t let him treat your family pet. A sampling of his recent diagnoses:
Corey – went to medical with severe lower abdominal pain. For four days he was denied treatment. His family called; he was seen and rushed to MCV (Medical College of VA in Richmond) where they discovered his appendix had burst.
Softball Larry – a great young athlete. Larry dropped 40 pounds in less than a month. He couldn’t keep food down. The doctor’s diagnosis: “You need vitamin D. Get outside.” One evening a C.O. saw Larry shaking uncontrollably. He demanded medical see Larry. They found him with a 104 fever and rushed him to MCV. After a four week hospital stay he returned. He was found to have ulcerative colitis.
Ray – a 62 year old inmate. He complained for weeks about pain and numbness in his arm. It took repeated calls into the prison before he was given an EKG. Shortly thereafter he was taken to MCV for two stents to open up blocked arteries.
These are just three examples. I have dozens. The truth is medical care in prisons is atrocious. Every issue of Prison Legal News reports dozens of cases throughout America each month where incompetent medical care led to million dollar awards to inmates (or, in most cases, the deceased inmate’s family).
In Portsmouth, Virginia last month PHS (Prison Health Services) agreed to settle a deceased inmate’s suit for $1.6 million. The inmate died in his cell of dehydration.
For inmates to get adequate health care they have to fight. Almost every diagnosis, every request for treatment only comes about after filing repeated grievances and – in many cases – getting family and friends to call the prison and demand adequate care.
Some may say “you guys get what you deserve”. That’s not the law. When society incarcerates a person they assume the obligation to provide for that person’s basic needs. California currently is under federal court order to release 46,000 of their 172,000 inmates. Why? Because they are at 200% capacity and medial care and housing has completely collapsed. California has this case on appeal to the US Supreme Court, but the writing is on the wall! You want to “lock criminals up? Pay for it!” It is against the law to deprive incarcerated persons of adequate health care. Ironic, isn’t it. The same Commonwealth that prosecutes criminals is itself breaking its own laws in its treatment of convicts.
But, every so often an inmate “wins one”. Flo has wanted a bottom bunk for months. He got one last Wednesday. How? He went outside and faked passing out in the heat. Rushed over to medical the doctor “checking his vitals” asked if he was OK. “What can we do for you?”
As Flo was moving into his new bunk he yelled out “don’t hate the player. Hate the game!”
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Discipline
Ramadan began Wednesday. Over the past two years I’ve come to gain a great deal of respect for the large number of men who participate in the month-long Ramadan fast. For those who don’t know, during Ramadan, Muslims fast the entire day - no water, nothing - from sunrise to sunset.
Breakfast is served to the observants at 4:00 am. In our building, a group of 10 to 15 guys quietly wait for the door to open so they can make their way to the chow hall in the early morning for a meal that has to sustain them until 8:45 that evening when they walk back to chow for prayers and dinner.
These same guys still go to work during the day and still work out For almost a full month, day in and day out, they will fast. I’m amazed at friends and family who, when they learn I associate with Muslims quickly state “but do they condemn terrorists”; as though Islam is a monolithic block.
These same people would be deeply offended if a Muslim said “how can you call yourself a Christian and support military action or the overriding rampant materialism in America?” The painful truth is, by and large, we’re all pretty lousy when it comes to following our faith dictates. Fortunately we have a God who loves us in spite of our arrogance, and ignorance and self-centeredness.
I’ve discovered during this process that the guys that learn from this, that grow, and find meaning, are the ones who have self-discipline.
In this environment, it’s easy to lie in bed for hours (a popular prison myth is, sleeping 12 hours a day cuts your bid in half). Guys will give up jobs and school (“I don’t need a GED. I’ve done great without it.”) so they can “get their head right” for their release in 5 more years.
I’ve always been disciplined and regimented. I’m more so now. Every morning at 4:45 I naturally wake up. Every morning the same yoga, reading, and prayer routine. Every afternoon at 3:45 on workdays, I blow off chow and run. Four nights a week, law library for an hour or two; write two hours each day.
Last Friday evening they served “steak um” steak sandwiches for dinner. Guys couldn’t believe I’d rather go run than eat. I can’t understand guys not seeing the “big picture”.
I found a great quote by Winston Churchill. He said:
“Success is the ability to go from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.”
Prison – rather than rehabilitating and reforming a person – breaks a man down. You become lazy; you focus your energy on weight lifting, rather than developing the muscle called your brain. Oh, you may cuss at an officer (“I’m a grown ass man!”) but deep down you’ve given up. You worry more about what you’ll mix in your ramen noodles than what’s going on in the world. You become nothing but grease that keeps the correction system lubricated.
There are guys who challenge that, who paraphrasing Dylan Thomas “rage, rage against the light.” They discipline their minds and bodies and in doing so prove the mystery and magnificence of the human spirit.
A Muslim friend ends every conversation with the expression “God willing”. You forge ahead and have faith. God hears our prayers. When the time is right – His time – He answers them.
I read about a spectacular set of falls on the Argentina-Brazil border. At the top of the falls etched into the rock are these words from Psalm 93.
“Mightier than the thunders of many waters, mightier than the waves of the sea, the Lord on high is mighty!”
And at the bottom:
“God is always greater than all of our troubles.”
When you consider that, missing a few meals isn’t such a big deal.
Breakfast is served to the observants at 4:00 am. In our building, a group of 10 to 15 guys quietly wait for the door to open so they can make their way to the chow hall in the early morning for a meal that has to sustain them until 8:45 that evening when they walk back to chow for prayers and dinner.
These same guys still go to work during the day and still work out For almost a full month, day in and day out, they will fast. I’m amazed at friends and family who, when they learn I associate with Muslims quickly state “but do they condemn terrorists”; as though Islam is a monolithic block.
These same people would be deeply offended if a Muslim said “how can you call yourself a Christian and support military action or the overriding rampant materialism in America?” The painful truth is, by and large, we’re all pretty lousy when it comes to following our faith dictates. Fortunately we have a God who loves us in spite of our arrogance, and ignorance and self-centeredness.
I’ve discovered during this process that the guys that learn from this, that grow, and find meaning, are the ones who have self-discipline.
In this environment, it’s easy to lie in bed for hours (a popular prison myth is, sleeping 12 hours a day cuts your bid in half). Guys will give up jobs and school (“I don’t need a GED. I’ve done great without it.”) so they can “get their head right” for their release in 5 more years.
I’ve always been disciplined and regimented. I’m more so now. Every morning at 4:45 I naturally wake up. Every morning the same yoga, reading, and prayer routine. Every afternoon at 3:45 on workdays, I blow off chow and run. Four nights a week, law library for an hour or two; write two hours each day.
Last Friday evening they served “steak um” steak sandwiches for dinner. Guys couldn’t believe I’d rather go run than eat. I can’t understand guys not seeing the “big picture”.
I found a great quote by Winston Churchill. He said:
“Success is the ability to go from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.”
Prison – rather than rehabilitating and reforming a person – breaks a man down. You become lazy; you focus your energy on weight lifting, rather than developing the muscle called your brain. Oh, you may cuss at an officer (“I’m a grown ass man!”) but deep down you’ve given up. You worry more about what you’ll mix in your ramen noodles than what’s going on in the world. You become nothing but grease that keeps the correction system lubricated.
There are guys who challenge that, who paraphrasing Dylan Thomas “rage, rage against the light.” They discipline their minds and bodies and in doing so prove the mystery and magnificence of the human spirit.
A Muslim friend ends every conversation with the expression “God willing”. You forge ahead and have faith. God hears our prayers. When the time is right – His time – He answers them.
I read about a spectacular set of falls on the Argentina-Brazil border. At the top of the falls etched into the rock are these words from Psalm 93.
“Mightier than the thunders of many waters, mightier than the waves of the sea, the Lord on high is mighty!”
And at the bottom:
“God is always greater than all of our troubles.”
When you consider that, missing a few meals isn’t such a big deal.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Chronicles Part II: "If God so loved us, we ought to love one another"
Perhaps nothing in this experience has rocked me, wounded, and scarred me as the loss of my wife. I have spent months contemplating the meaning of our divorce. Frankly, what I’ve concluded probably won’t sit well with most folks, but so be it.
As I’ve written before, I love her, always will. But, as I’ve endured this experience I realized we both had weaknesses, failings as spouses. Neither of us was perfect. We both said things we shouldn’t have said, hurt each other when we should have been a comfort. I have realized, however, that I was a pretty good husband. She can never say I didn’t love her.
We were married in the church, in a religious ceremony. We took vows, to each other and before God. We were one. Except, we really weren’t. Those vows meant something, or they were supposed to. Ultimately, in the eyes of my wife, they didn’t matter. I’m sure there is a sociologist somewhere who will offer a detailed justification for divorce. Yes, divorce is legal, but it isn’t moral, at least to those of us who believe in a higher power.
I read this week Jesus’ teaching on divorce in Mark 10. “Moses permitted it because of the hardness of your hearts.” “Hardness of your hearts,” what powerful, eye-opening words. We are all – each and every one of us – created in God’s image. And God loves each of us. He never gives up on anyone. He never divorces Himself from us even when we do the most unspeakable acts.
God continually loves us. He loves us unconditionally; loves us even when we sin. He expects the same from us, especially when we become “one” with another.
I have a minister friend who visits me. During one visit we discussed Paul’s statement in 1 Corinthian 13 about love (“it is patient, kind . . . it endures. . .”). He told me something interesting. He said: “I counsel young couples who want to use that verse in their wedding to think very carefully about that. That is a high bar. It expects you to love unconditionally, the way God does”.
Love unconditionally. That means you endure – even if your spouse cheats on you, even if she’s anorexic, or depressed, or he steals $2.1 million. You are one. Just love; in spite of the failings, you are called to love.
But, we are a throw away culture. We bail out when things get tough, when we don’t feel “happy” or “fulfilled”. We set expectations for others, yet want a free ride for ourselves.
God loves each and every one of us. We are precious in His sight. He loves the lame, the autistic, the rapist, the terrorist. He loves us even when we are nothing but self-centered, vicious bastards.
When we profess love for another we need to mean it. Look past the blemishes, the quirks, the sins.
1 John 4 describes in simple, beautiful words, our obligation.
“We love, because He first loved us. If someone says ‘I Love God’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for if you hate your brother who you see, you cannot love God, who is not seen.”
In spite of the divorce, I love my ex. I may never see her again. That’s OK. I pray for her and our sons daily. Who would have thought prison could teach you anything about love.
Somewhere up above, John Lennon’s singing. Perhaps he really was right – all you need is love.
I learned my favorite blog critic -“Dan” responded – again – to my “Dee” posting.
Dan – you’re a bright young man. Re-read the blog (s). From day 1, I accepted full responsibility. Do I think I didn’t deserve prison? No. Do I think my sentence was just? No. Do I think the criminal justice system is corrupt, broken, and lacking justice? Yes.
As for “Dee” – he was definitely guilty. But, as I pointed out in my blog. HSC had a choice. They could have done the merciful thing; they could have done the “Christian” thing, and made a difference in that man’s life. They chose otherwise.
You argue just like my oldest son!
As I’ve written before, I love her, always will. But, as I’ve endured this experience I realized we both had weaknesses, failings as spouses. Neither of us was perfect. We both said things we shouldn’t have said, hurt each other when we should have been a comfort. I have realized, however, that I was a pretty good husband. She can never say I didn’t love her.
We were married in the church, in a religious ceremony. We took vows, to each other and before God. We were one. Except, we really weren’t. Those vows meant something, or they were supposed to. Ultimately, in the eyes of my wife, they didn’t matter. I’m sure there is a sociologist somewhere who will offer a detailed justification for divorce. Yes, divorce is legal, but it isn’t moral, at least to those of us who believe in a higher power.
I read this week Jesus’ teaching on divorce in Mark 10. “Moses permitted it because of the hardness of your hearts.” “Hardness of your hearts,” what powerful, eye-opening words. We are all – each and every one of us – created in God’s image. And God loves each of us. He never gives up on anyone. He never divorces Himself from us even when we do the most unspeakable acts.
God continually loves us. He loves us unconditionally; loves us even when we sin. He expects the same from us, especially when we become “one” with another.
I have a minister friend who visits me. During one visit we discussed Paul’s statement in 1 Corinthian 13 about love (“it is patient, kind . . . it endures. . .”). He told me something interesting. He said: “I counsel young couples who want to use that verse in their wedding to think very carefully about that. That is a high bar. It expects you to love unconditionally, the way God does”.
Love unconditionally. That means you endure – even if your spouse cheats on you, even if she’s anorexic, or depressed, or he steals $2.1 million. You are one. Just love; in spite of the failings, you are called to love.
But, we are a throw away culture. We bail out when things get tough, when we don’t feel “happy” or “fulfilled”. We set expectations for others, yet want a free ride for ourselves.
God loves each and every one of us. We are precious in His sight. He loves the lame, the autistic, the rapist, the terrorist. He loves us even when we are nothing but self-centered, vicious bastards.
When we profess love for another we need to mean it. Look past the blemishes, the quirks, the sins.
1 John 4 describes in simple, beautiful words, our obligation.
“We love, because He first loved us. If someone says ‘I Love God’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for if you hate your brother who you see, you cannot love God, who is not seen.”
In spite of the divorce, I love my ex. I may never see her again. That’s OK. I pray for her and our sons daily. Who would have thought prison could teach you anything about love.
Somewhere up above, John Lennon’s singing. Perhaps he really was right – all you need is love.
I learned my favorite blog critic -“Dan” responded – again – to my “Dee” posting.
Dan – you’re a bright young man. Re-read the blog (s). From day 1, I accepted full responsibility. Do I think I didn’t deserve prison? No. Do I think my sentence was just? No. Do I think the criminal justice system is corrupt, broken, and lacking justice? Yes.
As for “Dee” – he was definitely guilty. But, as I pointed out in my blog. HSC had a choice. They could have done the merciful thing; they could have done the “Christian” thing, and made a difference in that man’s life. They chose otherwise.
You argue just like my oldest son!
Chronicles Part I: "David Mourns Absalom"
In many ways, this has been a very good week in here. But, there’s been a great deal on my mind and in my heart concerning my sons and my ex. (Part. I. My sons)
I start each day at 4:30 a.m. with yoga and then 30 minutes of Bible reading and meditation. I am constantly astounded how mornings when I’ve had fitful sleep, when questions and concerns have dogged me the prior day, I turn to my daily lectionary and verses for the day directly relate to my current state.
This week, I’ve had a series of those experiences. Most everyone knows the story of David and Bathsheba. How David took another man’s wife and, upon learning she was pregnant with his child, went to extraordinary lengths to hide his sin, first with lies and deceit then ultimately giving directions to his military officers that led to the husband’s death.
David was confronted by the prophet Nathan and told “God saw what you did”. David falls apart. His sins before God were so great, Psalm 51 was written by David as he poured out his heart to God. God forgave David’s sin. But, as Nathan pointed out, even with forgiveness there are consequences for our wrong doing. David’s family was in turmoil. He suffered numerous losses. Yet, he never lost faith in God.
One such loss had to do with his beloved son, Absalom. Absalom avenged the rape of his sister Tamar at the hands of his half-brother, Amnon. He fled from his father and later, led an open rebellion against him. However, David never stopped loving Absalom. As 2nd Samuel points out numerous times “David wept over Absalom”.
I have two sons, young men who are amazing. We had a wonderful relationship. That all changed the moment I was arrested. I haven’t heard from my oldest son – who graduated college last spring and begins law school any day now – in almost two years. I haven’t heard from my youngest – who just began 8th grade – since Christmas, 2008.
For my sons, news of my arrest was particularly painful. I was “the best dad”. I was “their hero”. I played baseball at night with my youngest, talked politics, philosophy, women with my oldest.
They looked at me as the perfect husband, father, man. They wanted to be like me. Instead, they heard all about the dark secrets I had carried. They rallied around their mom – my ex – which I was so proud to see.
Yet, they couldn’t – they still can’t and ultimately may never – see beyond their anger, their hurt, their disappointment, to come see me, or write me. I realized that as a parent I failed them; not for committing the crime. Yes, that was horrible and wrong and I deserved to be imprisoned for doing what I did.
No, I failed them because I let them think life was black and white and our judgment matters more than our mercy.
This has been a difficult experience for me. My “sins” were played out in public. My crime – stealing $2.1 million from my employer was “news”. Friends – I now know they really weren’t – abandoned and condemned me. My soul-mate, my one true love, couldn’t wait to demand I sign everything over to her and then divorce me (but that’s the subject of Part II). And my sons, my beloved boys, disowned me.
There were times I was angry. Yet, I learned through this to temper my anger. Truth is, nothing my sons do can stop me from loving them. Yes, there were days much like David’s, where I’ve wept over the separation from my sons. Yet, I know God is good. Someday, I have faith my sons will understand, not what I did but what led me down this path. I also have faith that they will see their father as a man, who, in spite of his flaws, loved, forgave, and endured.
I start each day at 4:30 a.m. with yoga and then 30 minutes of Bible reading and meditation. I am constantly astounded how mornings when I’ve had fitful sleep, when questions and concerns have dogged me the prior day, I turn to my daily lectionary and verses for the day directly relate to my current state.
This week, I’ve had a series of those experiences. Most everyone knows the story of David and Bathsheba. How David took another man’s wife and, upon learning she was pregnant with his child, went to extraordinary lengths to hide his sin, first with lies and deceit then ultimately giving directions to his military officers that led to the husband’s death.
David was confronted by the prophet Nathan and told “God saw what you did”. David falls apart. His sins before God were so great, Psalm 51 was written by David as he poured out his heart to God. God forgave David’s sin. But, as Nathan pointed out, even with forgiveness there are consequences for our wrong doing. David’s family was in turmoil. He suffered numerous losses. Yet, he never lost faith in God.
One such loss had to do with his beloved son, Absalom. Absalom avenged the rape of his sister Tamar at the hands of his half-brother, Amnon. He fled from his father and later, led an open rebellion against him. However, David never stopped loving Absalom. As 2nd Samuel points out numerous times “David wept over Absalom”.
I have two sons, young men who are amazing. We had a wonderful relationship. That all changed the moment I was arrested. I haven’t heard from my oldest son – who graduated college last spring and begins law school any day now – in almost two years. I haven’t heard from my youngest – who just began 8th grade – since Christmas, 2008.
For my sons, news of my arrest was particularly painful. I was “the best dad”. I was “their hero”. I played baseball at night with my youngest, talked politics, philosophy, women with my oldest.
They looked at me as the perfect husband, father, man. They wanted to be like me. Instead, they heard all about the dark secrets I had carried. They rallied around their mom – my ex – which I was so proud to see.
Yet, they couldn’t – they still can’t and ultimately may never – see beyond their anger, their hurt, their disappointment, to come see me, or write me. I realized that as a parent I failed them; not for committing the crime. Yes, that was horrible and wrong and I deserved to be imprisoned for doing what I did.
No, I failed them because I let them think life was black and white and our judgment matters more than our mercy.
This has been a difficult experience for me. My “sins” were played out in public. My crime – stealing $2.1 million from my employer was “news”. Friends – I now know they really weren’t – abandoned and condemned me. My soul-mate, my one true love, couldn’t wait to demand I sign everything over to her and then divorce me (but that’s the subject of Part II). And my sons, my beloved boys, disowned me.
There were times I was angry. Yet, I learned through this to temper my anger. Truth is, nothing my sons do can stop me from loving them. Yes, there were days much like David’s, where I’ve wept over the separation from my sons. Yet, I know God is good. Someday, I have faith my sons will understand, not what I did but what led me down this path. I also have faith that they will see their father as a man, who, in spite of his flaws, loved, forgave, and endured.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Place Your Bet
Last night was the final game – the championship – for the “over 40” summer softball league. Our building – as it had in the regular softball season – went undefeated the entire season, got cocky and lost. Not only did they lose the game, but the main four players lost about $100 cash.
These four guys are all ringers. They’ve all played softball for years in the “prison leagues”. One guy – M & M – will tell you “I’ve played ball at every prison in the system since 1986”. That’s something he can put on his resume!
So these four guys in the spring just “happen” to all get moved into our building. I had thought about playing, but once I saw these four gems in action, I decided against it. They hand-picked who would play. They taunted and criticized their teammates and their opponents. And, they got cocky. “Pride goeth before the fall.” I learned that in my own situation. These clowns learned it with their bets.
Gambling is illegal in prison, yet we have one of the most sophisticated bookies here I’ve ever seen. He could work in Vegas at a casino’s sports book operation.
C is a young guy, 24. Ironically, his brother is a rising senior majoring in history at the University my ex teaches at. He’s been locked up for almost three years with seven to go. He ran his own “chop shop” in the Harrisonburg-Winchester area. He must have had a pretty large operation because he still owes in excess of $800,000 in restitution (for all the stolen cars he disassembled).
C has a great math mind. He knew of my gambling background and we hit it off. I don’t gamble. For awhile, I thought I suffered from a gambling addiction. Through therapy I realized it wasn’t gambling that was a problem, it was my wanting to be everything to everybody. In fact, I was a pretty good gambler. I had a positive win-loss rate in both Vegas (the Mirage) and Atlantic City (The Borgata) for the five years I played high limits craps.
Anyway, C and I routinely discuss odds and sports book. He runs a sheet on anything and everything: Baseball; NASCAR, WNBA; the World Cup. He clears $500 on a good week, then pays his “runners” (guys in every building who accept bets and collect) based on their intake.
He ran book on the softball league. Our “fearsome foursome” all decided to bet on themselves to win it all and to win big. As Pete Rose can attest, the cardinal rule in baseball is “no betting on the game.”
You would have thought they learned their lesson when they lost the regular league championship. No, these guys – while sitting around doing Bible study – also plotted how to run the action up to maximize their winnings.
Back to the game. The “Fab Four” squad is getting killed. One of the unique aspects of “prison sports” is the unbelievable amount of crap thrown at the players. Heckling is not an art form in here; it’s a way of life. And, everyone – even the guys in our building – is rooting against these four scumbags.
Right fielder makes an error, M & M explodes. Runner tagged out at home, Max hurls insults at his teammate; talking about his mother, his wife, his sexual orientation. Guys on the sides of the field hoot and holler. Every other word is profanity.
Then, ever so gradually, the tide begins to turn. The game gets closer, only one run down and last at bats. Two quick outs and the bottom of the order still to bat.
“Cheddar Bob” somehow places the ball just right to get a single. “Carolina” hits one in the gap and Cheddar moves to third. The crowd is going wild. Bettors hold their tickets waiting to see which way it goes.
Moore – the 10th place hitter – is due up. Max, M & M and Elliott are huddled by the bench. M & M whispers to Moore and then M & M retrieves his bat. M & M, the “Sultan of Swat”, “the Great Bambino” steps up to the plate. No one notices he’s batting out of order; no one notices the best softball players in the history of DOC are cheating. No one – that is – except for Jimbo – the other team’s first basemen.
“Walk Him”, he yells to his pitcher and, on three straight balls, M & M walks and heads to first. Max steps up to the plate.
Jimbo leans over and whispers to the first base ump. He pulls out the lineup card, looks at the bench, looks at M & M and yells out:
“Batted out of order; runner on first is out. Game over!”
Pure pandemonium breaks out. M & M is screaming; Elliott has to restrain him. Guys are laughing and cussing the “losers”.
I see C sitting at a picnic table. He smiles as I approach. “Made over $600 just on the game.”
I want to give a “shout out” to a guy who left this week and a guy who’s still here. “Boston” went back to the regional jail for “transition home” in 90 days. He hated a couple of guys he lived near. His final “see ya” – he left feces covered shorts on one guys bunk; urinated in another guy’s cup, and filled “friend number three’s” boots with used tissues and toilet paper. He made a sign for the C.O.’s that said simply “you clowns all suck. Die scum!” A beautiful farewell from a real gentleman.
Then, there’s Reggie who really is crazy. He’s our morning trash man who literally talks to his trash cans. He said something very enlightening to his trash cans the other day after an alleged Christian called him a “mental a—hole.” He looked at his trash can and said “wonder what Jesus would say to him for talking to me that way?”
I had to agree with his trash can: that was a hell of a good question!
These four guys are all ringers. They’ve all played softball for years in the “prison leagues”. One guy – M & M – will tell you “I’ve played ball at every prison in the system since 1986”. That’s something he can put on his resume!
So these four guys in the spring just “happen” to all get moved into our building. I had thought about playing, but once I saw these four gems in action, I decided against it. They hand-picked who would play. They taunted and criticized their teammates and their opponents. And, they got cocky. “Pride goeth before the fall.” I learned that in my own situation. These clowns learned it with their bets.
Gambling is illegal in prison, yet we have one of the most sophisticated bookies here I’ve ever seen. He could work in Vegas at a casino’s sports book operation.
C is a young guy, 24. Ironically, his brother is a rising senior majoring in history at the University my ex teaches at. He’s been locked up for almost three years with seven to go. He ran his own “chop shop” in the Harrisonburg-Winchester area. He must have had a pretty large operation because he still owes in excess of $800,000 in restitution (for all the stolen cars he disassembled).
C has a great math mind. He knew of my gambling background and we hit it off. I don’t gamble. For awhile, I thought I suffered from a gambling addiction. Through therapy I realized it wasn’t gambling that was a problem, it was my wanting to be everything to everybody. In fact, I was a pretty good gambler. I had a positive win-loss rate in both Vegas (the Mirage) and Atlantic City (The Borgata) for the five years I played high limits craps.
Anyway, C and I routinely discuss odds and sports book. He runs a sheet on anything and everything: Baseball; NASCAR, WNBA; the World Cup. He clears $500 on a good week, then pays his “runners” (guys in every building who accept bets and collect) based on their intake.
He ran book on the softball league. Our “fearsome foursome” all decided to bet on themselves to win it all and to win big. As Pete Rose can attest, the cardinal rule in baseball is “no betting on the game.”
You would have thought they learned their lesson when they lost the regular league championship. No, these guys – while sitting around doing Bible study – also plotted how to run the action up to maximize their winnings.
Back to the game. The “Fab Four” squad is getting killed. One of the unique aspects of “prison sports” is the unbelievable amount of crap thrown at the players. Heckling is not an art form in here; it’s a way of life. And, everyone – even the guys in our building – is rooting against these four scumbags.
Right fielder makes an error, M & M explodes. Runner tagged out at home, Max hurls insults at his teammate; talking about his mother, his wife, his sexual orientation. Guys on the sides of the field hoot and holler. Every other word is profanity.
Then, ever so gradually, the tide begins to turn. The game gets closer, only one run down and last at bats. Two quick outs and the bottom of the order still to bat.
“Cheddar Bob” somehow places the ball just right to get a single. “Carolina” hits one in the gap and Cheddar moves to third. The crowd is going wild. Bettors hold their tickets waiting to see which way it goes.
Moore – the 10th place hitter – is due up. Max, M & M and Elliott are huddled by the bench. M & M whispers to Moore and then M & M retrieves his bat. M & M, the “Sultan of Swat”, “the Great Bambino” steps up to the plate. No one notices he’s batting out of order; no one notices the best softball players in the history of DOC are cheating. No one – that is – except for Jimbo – the other team’s first basemen.
“Walk Him”, he yells to his pitcher and, on three straight balls, M & M walks and heads to first. Max steps up to the plate.
Jimbo leans over and whispers to the first base ump. He pulls out the lineup card, looks at the bench, looks at M & M and yells out:
“Batted out of order; runner on first is out. Game over!”
Pure pandemonium breaks out. M & M is screaming; Elliott has to restrain him. Guys are laughing and cussing the “losers”.
I see C sitting at a picnic table. He smiles as I approach. “Made over $600 just on the game.”
I want to give a “shout out” to a guy who left this week and a guy who’s still here. “Boston” went back to the regional jail for “transition home” in 90 days. He hated a couple of guys he lived near. His final “see ya” – he left feces covered shorts on one guys bunk; urinated in another guy’s cup, and filled “friend number three’s” boots with used tissues and toilet paper. He made a sign for the C.O.’s that said simply “you clowns all suck. Die scum!” A beautiful farewell from a real gentleman.
Then, there’s Reggie who really is crazy. He’s our morning trash man who literally talks to his trash cans. He said something very enlightening to his trash cans the other day after an alleged Christian called him a “mental a—hole.” He looked at his trash can and said “wonder what Jesus would say to him for talking to me that way?”
I had to agree with his trash can: that was a hell of a good question!
Searching for Meaning
I was asked to teach an advanced writing class for the guys who completed the introductory writer’s workshop. The faculty advisor and I decided to put a summer reading list together of classics. We chose The Grapes of Wrath, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Call of the Wild, and about eight more. One of the only two non-fiction books we chose was Dr. Viktor Frankl’s amazing book Man’s Search for Meaning. I read this book as a senior in college writing my undergraduate independent study. It made somewhat of an impression on me then; it is seared in my conscious thought now.
Frankl was a Jewish psychiatrist living in Vienna, Austria during the Second World War. He ended up surviving Auschwitz and three other camps. His pregnant wife, his parents, and a host of other family members perished at the hands of the Nazis. He somehow survived and found meaning in his suffering. He also found the inner strength to fight to live and later, to love and forgive.
He wrote: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”
He watched as seemingly healthy young men gave up, surrendered and died. Yet, there were others, suffering terribly, they still remained eternally optimistic.
I see the same thing and understand what Dr. Frankl meant. Men in here on their second, third or even fourth “bid” who lie around on their bunks, wasting their minds, their futures, away. Then, there are the men who enroll in college, read everything they can get their hands on. They strive, not just to survive prison, but overcome it. These men understand who they are. They accept the punishment handed down for the wrongs they committed. But, they challenge the illogical conditions of this environment.
“No man should judge unless he asks himself in absolute honesty whether in a similar situation he might not have done the same.”
I have a young friend in here who tutors with me. Corey is 25. He is completing the final 18 months of a five year sentence for reckless driving resulting in death. Corey went drag racing against two friends. His girlfriend – a passenger in his car – was ejected from his vehicle when he lost control and crashed. She died at the scene.
Sending Corey to prison has done nothing to make him a “reformed person”; it’s done nothing to bring the girl back. He struggled for the first three years of his imprisonment, without therapy, to deal with his guilt and remorse.
Does Corey deserve condemnation, punishment, or forgiveness? A person whom I love dearly – more so after my incarceration, wrote me saying “I prayed you would die in jail”. Her anger, bubbling on the surface, led her to utter this prayer. Should I cry out and condemn her? I can’t.
This past week, a drunk driver – an illegal immigrant – struck and killed a nun and seriously injured two others. While the newscasts raced against each other for interviews with prosecutors and immigration advocates politicizing this tragedy, the driver’s parents travelled to the sisters’ convent to offer their apology and explain their son’s raging alcoholism. The sisters prayed with them. They prayed for the young man, and forgave him. Remarkable, yet the exact right thing to do: God’s gift of grace in action. Could any of us do the same? Should any of us accept less from ourselves?
“Man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered the gas chambers upright, with the Lord’s Prayer or the Sherma Yisrael on his lips.”
We are capable – each of us – of self-centeredness, of recklessness, of not caring, not being kind, not loving or forgiving; yet, we also can love, can forgive, we can endure.
An amazing man; an amazing book. All the reasons to hope, to endure, to find solace and meaning in your darkest day.
“Et lux in tenebris lucet.” And the light shineth in the darkness.
Frankl was a Jewish psychiatrist living in Vienna, Austria during the Second World War. He ended up surviving Auschwitz and three other camps. His pregnant wife, his parents, and a host of other family members perished at the hands of the Nazis. He somehow survived and found meaning in his suffering. He also found the inner strength to fight to live and later, to love and forgive.
He wrote: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”
He watched as seemingly healthy young men gave up, surrendered and died. Yet, there were others, suffering terribly, they still remained eternally optimistic.
I see the same thing and understand what Dr. Frankl meant. Men in here on their second, third or even fourth “bid” who lie around on their bunks, wasting their minds, their futures, away. Then, there are the men who enroll in college, read everything they can get their hands on. They strive, not just to survive prison, but overcome it. These men understand who they are. They accept the punishment handed down for the wrongs they committed. But, they challenge the illogical conditions of this environment.
“No man should judge unless he asks himself in absolute honesty whether in a similar situation he might not have done the same.”
I have a young friend in here who tutors with me. Corey is 25. He is completing the final 18 months of a five year sentence for reckless driving resulting in death. Corey went drag racing against two friends. His girlfriend – a passenger in his car – was ejected from his vehicle when he lost control and crashed. She died at the scene.
Sending Corey to prison has done nothing to make him a “reformed person”; it’s done nothing to bring the girl back. He struggled for the first three years of his imprisonment, without therapy, to deal with his guilt and remorse.
Does Corey deserve condemnation, punishment, or forgiveness? A person whom I love dearly – more so after my incarceration, wrote me saying “I prayed you would die in jail”. Her anger, bubbling on the surface, led her to utter this prayer. Should I cry out and condemn her? I can’t.
This past week, a drunk driver – an illegal immigrant – struck and killed a nun and seriously injured two others. While the newscasts raced against each other for interviews with prosecutors and immigration advocates politicizing this tragedy, the driver’s parents travelled to the sisters’ convent to offer their apology and explain their son’s raging alcoholism. The sisters prayed with them. They prayed for the young man, and forgave him. Remarkable, yet the exact right thing to do: God’s gift of grace in action. Could any of us do the same? Should any of us accept less from ourselves?
“Man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered the gas chambers upright, with the Lord’s Prayer or the Sherma Yisrael on his lips.”
We are capable – each of us – of self-centeredness, of recklessness, of not caring, not being kind, not loving or forgiving; yet, we also can love, can forgive, we can endure.
An amazing man; an amazing book. All the reasons to hope, to endure, to find solace and meaning in your darkest day.
“Et lux in tenebris lucet.” And the light shineth in the darkness.
Classification Blues
Every inmate in the DOC system is basically nothing more than a number, or a series of numbers. Numbers mean everything in prison.
When I arrived at DOC receiving in August of 2009 I was immediately given a six digit number and told I needed to “use it on all transactions”. That meant: calls-press in your ID number; order commissary – write your number on the sheet; have a request, an inquiry, a grievance? Need to see medical? Place your number on the form.
By November ’09, DOC came out with “new numbers” – a seven digit number to replace your six digit one. “Begin using your seven digit number on 11/2” the memo announced. Problem was, the phones weren’t converted by that date so a second memo came out – “use six digit for phone; use seven digit for all other transactions”.
By the first of December the phones were converted. But, not the accounting system. So, inmates use their six and seven digit numbers for accounting requests. We still use our six digit number for school (Department of Corrections Education), but we now use our seven digit number for commissary. Who knows when DOC will get it fixed. They prove, day in and day out, the old adage “anything that can be done half-assed can be done by the government (there are a couple of Obama digs I could slide in here now, but I’ll let the reader fill their own in)”.
Numbers matter. Every guy talks in numbers: “I get out 6-1-11” (I wish!); “I earn at 4 1/2 .” “Really? I’m under the old system. I earn 30 for 30” (good time credit). Guys still under parole – pre 1995 convictions earn good time at various rates up to 30 days good time for every 30 days served. Inmates convicted after 1/1/95 – like me – can only earn a maximum of 4 ½ good time days per month).
Then, there is your security level. DOC has 4 security levels (there is fifth level, but that is reserved for the worst of the worst, like guys who kill corrections officers while in prison). Level 4 inmates are maximum security. They are “under the gun” (officers patrol the catwalks with loaded weapons). I’m at a level 1 to 2 prison. My classification (based on categories of violence; age, education, employment history) is 1, 1 – security level 1, good time credit level 1 (4 ½ days per month).
DOC is under a severe budget crunch. No wonder. They abolished parole so inmates now stay incarcerated substantially longer. Add to that judges who sentence with significant years. Then, DOC has been forced to close a number of facilities the last few years (8 at last count) with another level 2 and two level 1 prisons slated for closing in this budget cycle. You have a system beginning to collapse under its own weight.
What does DOC do – beside spend over $27,000 a year just to keep an inmate locked up (after all, as DOC Director Gene Johnson has finally acknowledged, the $1 billion DOC budget is insufficient to provide rehabilitation programs)? They decide each week to transfer level 2 inmates – well behaved, decent guys, to other level 2 institutions. There’s no rhyme or reason to who moves. Corey – enrolled in college under a federal grant program and working as a teacher’s aide – is on the transportation list. Yet, other guys who don’t work, don’t go to school, aren’t on the list.
It’s all the luck of the numbers. Your life in prison, every movement, is nothing but numbers. Cost is irrelevant (it is expensive to move an inmate). Count every inmate six times a day; make sure every bed number is used.
Viktor Frankl wrote that the Nazis reduced every prisoner to nothing but a number. Thank God we’re not like the Nazis – or are we?
When I arrived at DOC receiving in August of 2009 I was immediately given a six digit number and told I needed to “use it on all transactions”. That meant: calls-press in your ID number; order commissary – write your number on the sheet; have a request, an inquiry, a grievance? Need to see medical? Place your number on the form.
By November ’09, DOC came out with “new numbers” – a seven digit number to replace your six digit one. “Begin using your seven digit number on 11/2” the memo announced. Problem was, the phones weren’t converted by that date so a second memo came out – “use six digit for phone; use seven digit for all other transactions”.
By the first of December the phones were converted. But, not the accounting system. So, inmates use their six and seven digit numbers for accounting requests. We still use our six digit number for school (Department of Corrections Education), but we now use our seven digit number for commissary. Who knows when DOC will get it fixed. They prove, day in and day out, the old adage “anything that can be done half-assed can be done by the government (there are a couple of Obama digs I could slide in here now, but I’ll let the reader fill their own in)”.
Numbers matter. Every guy talks in numbers: “I get out 6-1-11” (I wish!); “I earn at 4 1/2 .” “Really? I’m under the old system. I earn 30 for 30” (good time credit). Guys still under parole – pre 1995 convictions earn good time at various rates up to 30 days good time for every 30 days served. Inmates convicted after 1/1/95 – like me – can only earn a maximum of 4 ½ good time days per month).
Then, there is your security level. DOC has 4 security levels (there is fifth level, but that is reserved for the worst of the worst, like guys who kill corrections officers while in prison). Level 4 inmates are maximum security. They are “under the gun” (officers patrol the catwalks with loaded weapons). I’m at a level 1 to 2 prison. My classification (based on categories of violence; age, education, employment history) is 1, 1 – security level 1, good time credit level 1 (4 ½ days per month).
DOC is under a severe budget crunch. No wonder. They abolished parole so inmates now stay incarcerated substantially longer. Add to that judges who sentence with significant years. Then, DOC has been forced to close a number of facilities the last few years (8 at last count) with another level 2 and two level 1 prisons slated for closing in this budget cycle. You have a system beginning to collapse under its own weight.
What does DOC do – beside spend over $27,000 a year just to keep an inmate locked up (after all, as DOC Director Gene Johnson has finally acknowledged, the $1 billion DOC budget is insufficient to provide rehabilitation programs)? They decide each week to transfer level 2 inmates – well behaved, decent guys, to other level 2 institutions. There’s no rhyme or reason to who moves. Corey – enrolled in college under a federal grant program and working as a teacher’s aide – is on the transportation list. Yet, other guys who don’t work, don’t go to school, aren’t on the list.
It’s all the luck of the numbers. Your life in prison, every movement, is nothing but numbers. Cost is irrelevant (it is expensive to move an inmate). Count every inmate six times a day; make sure every bed number is used.
Viktor Frankl wrote that the Nazis reduced every prisoner to nothing but a number. Thank God we’re not like the Nazis – or are we?
Ordinary People
I’ve thought a great deal recently about the Academy Award winning movie “Ordinary People”. People close to me know it’s on my list of five favorite movies.
For those who haven’t seen the movie (and I won’t give it away) it’s the story of a young man in therapy after a suicide attempt brought on by the accidental drowning death of his older brother. The movie is set against the backdrop of a “perfect” upper middle class family (perfect by all outward appearances) that is slowly self-destructing.
Like the main character in the movie, I’ve spent a good deal of time in therapy following my arrest. Like him, I struggled to understand why, why I did what I did and threw my life, and the life of those I love, into such chaos. Like that young man, I stared into the blackness of the abyss and wondered if it was all worth it. And, like him, I found in an “ah hah” moment (props to you Oprah!) meaning in all this.
Here are a few things I’ve learned. I always believed in love at first sight. I still do. I remember vividly every detail when I first saw my then wife. She took my breath away. I found her to grow more beautiful each year we were together. To me, she always was, and always will be, the most beautiful woman in the world.
But, in this process of understanding me, I’ve seen weaknesses and failings in her that caused me such turmoil that I was willing to risk my own well-being to make her happy. And, I’ve learned happiness is fleeting, and external, and overblown. Joy, on the other hand, that feeling that comes when you know by faith you matter, is internal and permanent.
Shortly after we met, she learned her parents were divorcing. Her father was a serial philanderer; her mother, cold and aloof. She was devastated by the news. I remember the afternoon she came back from visiting her family to learn of the impending divorce. She clung to my neck, crying deeply over the knowledge of her father’s betrayal and her mother’s inertion.
We pressed on with our relationship and married young. She, just nineteen and a college sophomore; me, barely twenty-two and a first year law student.
I was always the jokester, the funny guy, and I could make her laugh. We loved each other and that was enough to keep us happy, so I thought. But it wasn’t. She suffered with an eating disorder; she cried weekly. It was all brought on by the stress she put on herself to be damn perfect and the difficulties she experienced dealing with two self-absorbed parents.
I hung in there through our early years because, well because I loved her. Later, during all the turmoil surrounding my arrest, she wrote me a revisionist version of our early years and said “I just felt the newlywed blues; it was normal”. That she chose to rewrite what we endured, discount what I felt, hurt me deeply.
A few years later, living in our first home, she and I learned we were going to have a baby. I was as happy as a man could be. She glowed. Then, tragically, she suffered a miscarriage on my 36th birthday. The loss of “our baby” devastated her. She wept for months. Whenever we’d go out to eat and she’d see a pregnant woman drinking or smoking she’d get overwhelmed. “Why? I did everything right. I ate right; I exercised. Why?”
How do you answer those questions? How do you love someone enough to get them through the pain?
Her parents’ relationship swirled in and out of our marriage like a gigantic weight tossed in a pool. Her father’s love and support, which she so desperately craved, was repeatedly denied her. Months would go by without any word from her dad. Her mother, hating her status as a mid-forties divorcee sought numerous relationships. She was needy, pathetic, and demanding.
So, I did something stupid, and reckless, and wrong. We were walking one day and she saw a beautiful, brand new, custom built home. “It’s the house I always dreamed of,” she told me. I was a young, struggling lawyer, barely making $18,000 a year. I wanted her to be happy, so I took money from a trust account I managed. I signed a promissory note and used the money for a down payment. She beamed. She got pregnant. We had our first child – a son – healthy and beautiful.
It came crashing down a year later. I didn’t face criminal charges, but I turned myself in to the bar and was disciplined. We stayed together, but she told me “I’m only staying because there’s no place else for the baby and me.”
Devastating words. Yet, somehow we managed to put our life back together. I learned a terrible lesson. I became the guy than never said “No”. My wife, my kids, parents, in-laws, friends, the church – I could make anything happen. First Class travel? Absolutely. Church budget short? I’ll make the donation. I relished being the “good guy”. I never let anyone down.
Problem was, I knew it all was a lie. It ate away at me. I began to get a short fuse, began to drink heavily. My life was crashing in around me and I had no way to stop it. I seriously contemplated suicide, figuring it was better than having to face myself in the mirror. I tried reaching out to my wife, but her view of love, of the craving I had just to have her hold my hand and tell me she loved me, wasn’t there.
Arrested; jailed; publicly humiliated. I suffered for almost a year, signing everything over to my wife, pleading guilty and being sentenced to 30 years. I hit bottom the day I received the divorce papers. That same day, a letter arrived with these words: “I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t loved you for a long time.”
I couldn’t get any lower. Then, I somehow found the faith and the strength to hang on. Like the young man in “Ordinary People”. I refused to drown.
Prison sucks. The loss of the only woman I’ve ever loved, devastating. Separation and alienation from my sons, traumatic. But, I can look myself in the mirror and like what I see. The old me, the hopefully, joyful, kind, and decent me, is back. There really can be good that comes from all this.
For those who haven’t seen the movie (and I won’t give it away) it’s the story of a young man in therapy after a suicide attempt brought on by the accidental drowning death of his older brother. The movie is set against the backdrop of a “perfect” upper middle class family (perfect by all outward appearances) that is slowly self-destructing.
Like the main character in the movie, I’ve spent a good deal of time in therapy following my arrest. Like him, I struggled to understand why, why I did what I did and threw my life, and the life of those I love, into such chaos. Like that young man, I stared into the blackness of the abyss and wondered if it was all worth it. And, like him, I found in an “ah hah” moment (props to you Oprah!) meaning in all this.
Here are a few things I’ve learned. I always believed in love at first sight. I still do. I remember vividly every detail when I first saw my then wife. She took my breath away. I found her to grow more beautiful each year we were together. To me, she always was, and always will be, the most beautiful woman in the world.
But, in this process of understanding me, I’ve seen weaknesses and failings in her that caused me such turmoil that I was willing to risk my own well-being to make her happy. And, I’ve learned happiness is fleeting, and external, and overblown. Joy, on the other hand, that feeling that comes when you know by faith you matter, is internal and permanent.
Shortly after we met, she learned her parents were divorcing. Her father was a serial philanderer; her mother, cold and aloof. She was devastated by the news. I remember the afternoon she came back from visiting her family to learn of the impending divorce. She clung to my neck, crying deeply over the knowledge of her father’s betrayal and her mother’s inertion.
We pressed on with our relationship and married young. She, just nineteen and a college sophomore; me, barely twenty-two and a first year law student.
I was always the jokester, the funny guy, and I could make her laugh. We loved each other and that was enough to keep us happy, so I thought. But it wasn’t. She suffered with an eating disorder; she cried weekly. It was all brought on by the stress she put on herself to be damn perfect and the difficulties she experienced dealing with two self-absorbed parents.
I hung in there through our early years because, well because I loved her. Later, during all the turmoil surrounding my arrest, she wrote me a revisionist version of our early years and said “I just felt the newlywed blues; it was normal”. That she chose to rewrite what we endured, discount what I felt, hurt me deeply.
A few years later, living in our first home, she and I learned we were going to have a baby. I was as happy as a man could be. She glowed. Then, tragically, she suffered a miscarriage on my 36th birthday. The loss of “our baby” devastated her. She wept for months. Whenever we’d go out to eat and she’d see a pregnant woman drinking or smoking she’d get overwhelmed. “Why? I did everything right. I ate right; I exercised. Why?”
How do you answer those questions? How do you love someone enough to get them through the pain?
Her parents’ relationship swirled in and out of our marriage like a gigantic weight tossed in a pool. Her father’s love and support, which she so desperately craved, was repeatedly denied her. Months would go by without any word from her dad. Her mother, hating her status as a mid-forties divorcee sought numerous relationships. She was needy, pathetic, and demanding.
So, I did something stupid, and reckless, and wrong. We were walking one day and she saw a beautiful, brand new, custom built home. “It’s the house I always dreamed of,” she told me. I was a young, struggling lawyer, barely making $18,000 a year. I wanted her to be happy, so I took money from a trust account I managed. I signed a promissory note and used the money for a down payment. She beamed. She got pregnant. We had our first child – a son – healthy and beautiful.
It came crashing down a year later. I didn’t face criminal charges, but I turned myself in to the bar and was disciplined. We stayed together, but she told me “I’m only staying because there’s no place else for the baby and me.”
Devastating words. Yet, somehow we managed to put our life back together. I learned a terrible lesson. I became the guy than never said “No”. My wife, my kids, parents, in-laws, friends, the church – I could make anything happen. First Class travel? Absolutely. Church budget short? I’ll make the donation. I relished being the “good guy”. I never let anyone down.
Problem was, I knew it all was a lie. It ate away at me. I began to get a short fuse, began to drink heavily. My life was crashing in around me and I had no way to stop it. I seriously contemplated suicide, figuring it was better than having to face myself in the mirror. I tried reaching out to my wife, but her view of love, of the craving I had just to have her hold my hand and tell me she loved me, wasn’t there.
Arrested; jailed; publicly humiliated. I suffered for almost a year, signing everything over to my wife, pleading guilty and being sentenced to 30 years. I hit bottom the day I received the divorce papers. That same day, a letter arrived with these words: “I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t loved you for a long time.”
I couldn’t get any lower. Then, I somehow found the faith and the strength to hang on. Like the young man in “Ordinary People”. I refused to drown.
Prison sucks. The loss of the only woman I’ve ever loved, devastating. Separation and alienation from my sons, traumatic. But, I can look myself in the mirror and like what I see. The old me, the hopefully, joyful, kind, and decent me, is back. There really can be good that comes from all this.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Dear Gene
The Director of the Virginia Department of Corrections, Gene Johnson, gave a speech the other day in which he said the following:
“At some point in time we need to stop locking up people we’re mad at and lock up people we’re afraid of . . .”
http://www2.timesdispatch.com/news/2010/jul/28/priz28-ar-352503/
WOW! Who would have guessed Mr. Johnson reads my blog (I used the exact same quote a week ago). Knowing the DOC Director is a fan of the blog, I thought I’d write him directly about his speech. So, here goes.
Dear Gene:
I read with great interest your remarks about the current state of Virginia’s prisons. So, Virginia spends too much money locking up nonviolent offenders and not enough on programs to help criminals transition into life after prison. You also said Virginia should stop doling out lengthy prison sentences to nonviolent felons. Brilliant! Problem is, those of us in here knew all that already.
You want to fix the system? Try this – go to the General Assembly and seek repeal of “85%” (in 1994 Virginia abolished parole and instituted that an inmate serve a minimum of 85% of their sentence). Recommend a sliding scale from 20% to 60%. Give inmates an incentive to rehabilitate.
Maybe, just maybe, Virginia could imitate “progressive states” like Mississippi where in 2007 they set nonviolent felon sentences at 25%. Who would have ever thought that Virginia could learn something from Mississippi?
Second, go to the next judicial conference and tell judges to “get real” with their sentences. Yes, I embezzled $2 million. But giving me 30 years, with only 15 suspended, explain that? A man in Richmond who, in a high speed pursuit eluding police, struck and killed a well-known black minister was sentenced to 13 years. A child pornographer was given 8 years. Where is the rationale to justify keeping me behind bars for almost twice as long as a child pornographer?
Mr. Johnson, read the July 22, 2010 Economist (not what you call a “bleeding heart” publication) for an excellent analysis of what’s wrong with sentencing in America and what can be done to change it.
http://www.economist.com/node/16636027?story_id=16636027
http://www.economist.com/node/16640389?story_id=16640389
Urge the Governor to implement restorative justice programs across the board for almost every crime. Demand alternative sentencing for all but violent offenders. And, suggest to the Governor that he begin to use his conditional pardon power with a flourish when judges refuse to give realistic sentences.
You oversee a broken system. $1 billion that could be used for roads, education, poverty and medical care is being used primarily to hold inmates. What does it cost per year to keep me – a low custody, well-behaved, 51 year old inmate locked up? $20,000? $30,000? $40,000? Each year the Commonwealth flushes millions down the “corrections” commode.
You want to fix the system, be creative, be daring.
You want help, just ask. I’m more than happy to go to work at DOC. Oh, I forgot. Convicted felons can’t work there.
All joking aside, Governor McDonnell and you could bring real change to corrections and make Virginia a leader in prison reform. Have faith and go forth. The time is now “And the people said Amen!”
“At some point in time we need to stop locking up people we’re mad at and lock up people we’re afraid of . . .”
http://www2.timesdispatch.com/news/2010/jul/28/priz28-ar-352503/
WOW! Who would have guessed Mr. Johnson reads my blog (I used the exact same quote a week ago). Knowing the DOC Director is a fan of the blog, I thought I’d write him directly about his speech. So, here goes.
Dear Gene:
I read with great interest your remarks about the current state of Virginia’s prisons. So, Virginia spends too much money locking up nonviolent offenders and not enough on programs to help criminals transition into life after prison. You also said Virginia should stop doling out lengthy prison sentences to nonviolent felons. Brilliant! Problem is, those of us in here knew all that already.
You want to fix the system? Try this – go to the General Assembly and seek repeal of “85%” (in 1994 Virginia abolished parole and instituted that an inmate serve a minimum of 85% of their sentence). Recommend a sliding scale from 20% to 60%. Give inmates an incentive to rehabilitate.
Maybe, just maybe, Virginia could imitate “progressive states” like Mississippi where in 2007 they set nonviolent felon sentences at 25%. Who would have ever thought that Virginia could learn something from Mississippi?
Second, go to the next judicial conference and tell judges to “get real” with their sentences. Yes, I embezzled $2 million. But giving me 30 years, with only 15 suspended, explain that? A man in Richmond who, in a high speed pursuit eluding police, struck and killed a well-known black minister was sentenced to 13 years. A child pornographer was given 8 years. Where is the rationale to justify keeping me behind bars for almost twice as long as a child pornographer?
Mr. Johnson, read the July 22, 2010 Economist (not what you call a “bleeding heart” publication) for an excellent analysis of what’s wrong with sentencing in America and what can be done to change it.
http://www.economist.com/node/16636027?story_id=16636027
http://www.economist.com/node/16640389?story_id=16640389
Urge the Governor to implement restorative justice programs across the board for almost every crime. Demand alternative sentencing for all but violent offenders. And, suggest to the Governor that he begin to use his conditional pardon power with a flourish when judges refuse to give realistic sentences.
You oversee a broken system. $1 billion that could be used for roads, education, poverty and medical care is being used primarily to hold inmates. What does it cost per year to keep me – a low custody, well-behaved, 51 year old inmate locked up? $20,000? $30,000? $40,000? Each year the Commonwealth flushes millions down the “corrections” commode.
You want to fix the system, be creative, be daring.
You want help, just ask. I’m more than happy to go to work at DOC. Oh, I forgot. Convicted felons can’t work there.
All joking aside, Governor McDonnell and you could bring real change to corrections and make Virginia a leader in prison reform. Have faith and go forth. The time is now “And the people said Amen!”
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Responding to Dan
Dear Readers: I never expected to have anyone actually read this blog. I’ve been quite surprised by the warm response I’ve received and I appreciate the comments. One recent comment, posted by “Dan” has led me to write this particular blog.
Dear “Dan” – I received your comments on my recent blog “Morali-Dee” a few days after you submitted them. Thank you for reading the blog and taking the time to respond. I obviously struck a nerve which is good.
You are, by all appearances, a highly intelligent young man. Like my oldest son, you probably attended a prestigious liberal arts college. You’d make a hell of a lawyer if you choose to pursue that profession. I am sure both your mother and father love you deeply and are very proud of you.
“Thou shalt not steal.” Great commandment; I’d put it in my top ten, right next to “Honor your father and mother”. It is clear you have been taught by your parents to live by a strict moral code. That is commendable. But “Dan”, I hope you realize by the end of this response that life is beyond black and white. We are called to be so much more than merely living - and judging - according to a set of rules.
Jesus dined with the tax collectors and prostitutes. His following was among the outcasts – the sick, the possessed, and the criminals. He told his followers not to be so self-sure when it comes to the commandments. You may not have murdered someone, he said. But if you dishonored your parents, you broke a commandment. A violation of one is a violation of all.
Jesus accused the Pharisees and Sadducees of hypocrisy and condemned them to never reach the Kingdom of God because they put obeying the law ahead of the fundamental truths of His Kingdom – we all sin, we all fall short of the mark. It is better to be compassionate, merciful, kind, loving, and forgiving. The way you treat others is the way God will ultimately treat you.
I’ve learned over the past two years that holding yourself up as a moral rock is dangerous. Society has a great many laws and it’s easy to step outside of them. I understand your response, but ask yourself if you would have ended up as the same college-educated young man had you lived Dee’s life.
A young man I know who is like a son to me thought much like you. Like you, his parents taught him the difference between right and wrong. But, his behavior still wavered. As a senior in high school he joined in with a group of friends to break in to his school late at night. Sounds like a harmless prank, except the Code of Virginia list six felonies (one of which is classified as a violent felony) that directly relate to this “harmless” prank.
This same young man went to college and willfully violated the Commonwealth’s alcohol laws by drinking before age 21. Finally, this young man – with his fraternity brothers – lied to a hotel to get the facility booked. Innkeeper fraud is also a felony (I know a young man who was sentenced to three years for that very crime).
How much time does this young man deserve for his willful law breaking? Or, should my young friend thank God every day that his indiscretions weren’t discovered and he can pursue his life’s dream? Perhaps my young friend’s story is precisely why Jesus told us not to point out the splinter in your brother’s (or father’s) eye, until you remove the plank from your own.
As you correctly point out, I did indeed steal $2 million. I accept full responsibility for my actions and the consequences that resulted. One thing I’ve learned is your true character comes out when you hit rock bottom: when those who professed to love you abandon you; when friends scurry away; when you are face to face with your failures and you choose not to give up. You find meaning in the pain and the suffering. You also learn how important it is to empathize with your fellow man. As the theologian and author Dr. Greg Peck put it:
“You realize, ultimately we are all broken, sinful bastards, but God loves us anyway.”
So “Dan”, yes, we do have an obligation to the broken in society, even criminals like Dee and me. We are all broken, sinful creatures who are destined for a great fall if not for the overwhelming love and forgiveness of God.
Society is imperfect. Man’s laws are not infallible. Politics, pride, self-interest, greed, all play a role in law’s creation and enforcements.
You may be the smartest, most honest, lawyer to ever live – a man Atticus Finch would say “damn, he’s good” – but if you don’t learn to love and forgive it’s all for naught.
You sound like a wonderful young man. I know how much your parents love you. Write back or better yet, track me down. I’m sure we have much more we could discuss.
As Sheldon from “The Big Bang Theory” says – Bazinga!
Dear “Dan” – I received your comments on my recent blog “Morali-Dee” a few days after you submitted them. Thank you for reading the blog and taking the time to respond. I obviously struck a nerve which is good.
You are, by all appearances, a highly intelligent young man. Like my oldest son, you probably attended a prestigious liberal arts college. You’d make a hell of a lawyer if you choose to pursue that profession. I am sure both your mother and father love you deeply and are very proud of you.
“Thou shalt not steal.” Great commandment; I’d put it in my top ten, right next to “Honor your father and mother”. It is clear you have been taught by your parents to live by a strict moral code. That is commendable. But “Dan”, I hope you realize by the end of this response that life is beyond black and white. We are called to be so much more than merely living - and judging - according to a set of rules.
Jesus dined with the tax collectors and prostitutes. His following was among the outcasts – the sick, the possessed, and the criminals. He told his followers not to be so self-sure when it comes to the commandments. You may not have murdered someone, he said. But if you dishonored your parents, you broke a commandment. A violation of one is a violation of all.
Jesus accused the Pharisees and Sadducees of hypocrisy and condemned them to never reach the Kingdom of God because they put obeying the law ahead of the fundamental truths of His Kingdom – we all sin, we all fall short of the mark. It is better to be compassionate, merciful, kind, loving, and forgiving. The way you treat others is the way God will ultimately treat you.
I’ve learned over the past two years that holding yourself up as a moral rock is dangerous. Society has a great many laws and it’s easy to step outside of them. I understand your response, but ask yourself if you would have ended up as the same college-educated young man had you lived Dee’s life.
A young man I know who is like a son to me thought much like you. Like you, his parents taught him the difference between right and wrong. But, his behavior still wavered. As a senior in high school he joined in with a group of friends to break in to his school late at night. Sounds like a harmless prank, except the Code of Virginia list six felonies (one of which is classified as a violent felony) that directly relate to this “harmless” prank.
This same young man went to college and willfully violated the Commonwealth’s alcohol laws by drinking before age 21. Finally, this young man – with his fraternity brothers – lied to a hotel to get the facility booked. Innkeeper fraud is also a felony (I know a young man who was sentenced to three years for that very crime).
How much time does this young man deserve for his willful law breaking? Or, should my young friend thank God every day that his indiscretions weren’t discovered and he can pursue his life’s dream? Perhaps my young friend’s story is precisely why Jesus told us not to point out the splinter in your brother’s (or father’s) eye, until you remove the plank from your own.
As you correctly point out, I did indeed steal $2 million. I accept full responsibility for my actions and the consequences that resulted. One thing I’ve learned is your true character comes out when you hit rock bottom: when those who professed to love you abandon you; when friends scurry away; when you are face to face with your failures and you choose not to give up. You find meaning in the pain and the suffering. You also learn how important it is to empathize with your fellow man. As the theologian and author Dr. Greg Peck put it:
“You realize, ultimately we are all broken, sinful bastards, but God loves us anyway.”
So “Dan”, yes, we do have an obligation to the broken in society, even criminals like Dee and me. We are all broken, sinful creatures who are destined for a great fall if not for the overwhelming love and forgiveness of God.
Society is imperfect. Man’s laws are not infallible. Politics, pride, self-interest, greed, all play a role in law’s creation and enforcements.
You may be the smartest, most honest, lawyer to ever live – a man Atticus Finch would say “damn, he’s good” – but if you don’t learn to love and forgive it’s all for naught.
You sound like a wonderful young man. I know how much your parents love you. Write back or better yet, track me down. I’m sure we have much more we could discuss.
As Sheldon from “The Big Bang Theory” says – Bazinga!
Birthday Observations - July 30, 2010
I turned 51 yesterday. It was my second birthday “behind bars”. This may sound strange, but I had a great birthday. Last year wasn’t so good. I was in the Henrico County Jail waiting and worrying about getting shipped to a prison. I was waiting for my divorce to be finalized. While I tried to tell myself my wife – my soul mate, the love of my life – would reconsider, I knew she was going to go forward and divorce me.
I remember that morning one of my closest friends came by. I was down, very down. He brought me an Episcopal Church Book of Common Prayer which contained multi-year devotionals. He and his law partner wrote inside “Happy 50th! Keep the faith.” I clung to the book and left visitation and returned to my pod. There to greet me were four friends, guys completely opposite of me. They were four young, inner-city black guys who all had earned their GEDs the month before thanks to my tutoring.
We headed into “Trinity’s“ cell. “JR” pulled out two joints – yes, marijuana. I smoked smuggled in weed with four young black guys to celebrate my birthday. I hadn’t smoked marijuana since 1982 with my wife, yet here I was, in a jail cell with my life completely unraveled, smoking weed.
I went back to my cell, head spinning, and opened the Book of Common Prayer. It opened right to Psalm 27, verse 18:
“Wait on the Lord,
Be strong and let your heart take courage,
Yes, wait for the Lord.”
Fast forward to yesterday. I woke up before 5:00 as usual, washed up, did yoga and then began my devotions. My Psalm for the day was 71, a Psalm by an elderly David seeking God’s deliverance. Verse 20, in particular, moved me:
“You have showed me great troubles and adversities, but you will restore my life and bring me up again from the deep places of the earth”.
Then, I read the story in Acts 16 where Paul is imprisoned and “an earthquake struck and the walls fell”.
I went running at noon in 100 degree heat, feeling renewed, invigorated. I was blessed, I thought by this experience.
That evening, I returned from the law library at 8:00 pm to watch “Big Brother” – or so I thought. Instead, Big S and E surprised me with “bowls” (tortillas covered in cheese and then crisped in the microwave. We then fill the bowls with rice, refried beans, and chicken, then top with lettuce and ranch dressing). Then, the guys pulled a whole package of Oreos out.
All these different guys from the building – guys I’ve tutored, guys in my writing class, guys I’ve helped with their cases – came up to wish me “Happy Birthday”.
I lay down last night, stuffed with food and realized just how much I really had to be thankful for.
Friends. Though a great many people abandoned me, I discovered who my real friends are. When you go through something like this you soon find out the “hangers on” and the people who really care for you. They stand with you in the worst of times. These people have done more for me than I can ever repay. They have taught me the real meaning of the word friendship. Then, there are the guys I’ve met along this path. Big S and E are like younger brothers to me. Big S, especially has becomes as close a friend as I’ve ever known.
I’ve figured out that deep down, we all want the same thing. People want to be loved. I always thought my wife was the loving, compassionate person in our relationship. I’ve discovered I, in fact, have a deep capacity to empathize, forgive and love.
My ex has cut off all communication with me. I have been told nothing about my sons. Ironically, I could go to court and compel monthly visitation, but I’d win a battle and lose the war. Instead, I still love her and my sons. I see them with their weaknesses and their failings and love them.
It’s tough loving and forgiving someone who has cursed you, attacked you, hurt you deeply. Yet, it has to be done. Every day I pray for her, our sons, and a whole group of folks who let me down along the way.
I’ve become a better person through this experience. I always thought I was a decent person, helping the community. But, in here I’ve discovered a capacity to help people I never would have given the time of day to. There is something rewarding beyond words when you see a 60 year old man beam with pride because he was finally able to write a letter to his grandchild.
I have never felt as humbled as when the terminally ill, elderly inmate, with tears in his eyes, thanked me for getting him a pardon so he could return home and die surrounded by his family.
Prison has changed me, but not in the way the judge or prosecutor intended. I have found the Godliness in even the worst of men. We were all created in God’s image and no one – I repeat, no one – is beyond redemption or forgiveness. Some may not deserve to be released, but all deserve compassion and mercy.
Before this experience I counted myself as a “good person”. That’s a funny expression and one I heard on more than one occasion from my ex and my mother right before they launched into a venomous, viscous attack on me (I’ve kept a “Top 10 “ list of inspirational quotes from both of them). Here’s the thing – I deserved anger from both of them. I let a good number of people down. But, we’re all prone to failure, all prone to commit wrongs – maybe not $2 million worth, but how about insensitive, hurtful comments we’ve all made? There is just about no “good person” who, when confronted by their indiscretions, their off-putting remarks, their mistakes wouldn’t be embarrassed and humiliated.
Turning 51 in here wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was pretty good. I’ve got my health, my passion to help others, friends, and some amazing family. I have hope each day.
“And suddenly there came a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison house were shaken; and immediately all the doors opened and everyone’s chains were unfastened.”
I remember that morning one of my closest friends came by. I was down, very down. He brought me an Episcopal Church Book of Common Prayer which contained multi-year devotionals. He and his law partner wrote inside “Happy 50th! Keep the faith.” I clung to the book and left visitation and returned to my pod. There to greet me were four friends, guys completely opposite of me. They were four young, inner-city black guys who all had earned their GEDs the month before thanks to my tutoring.
We headed into “Trinity’s“ cell. “JR” pulled out two joints – yes, marijuana. I smoked smuggled in weed with four young black guys to celebrate my birthday. I hadn’t smoked marijuana since 1982 with my wife, yet here I was, in a jail cell with my life completely unraveled, smoking weed.
I went back to my cell, head spinning, and opened the Book of Common Prayer. It opened right to Psalm 27, verse 18:
“Wait on the Lord,
Be strong and let your heart take courage,
Yes, wait for the Lord.”
Fast forward to yesterday. I woke up before 5:00 as usual, washed up, did yoga and then began my devotions. My Psalm for the day was 71, a Psalm by an elderly David seeking God’s deliverance. Verse 20, in particular, moved me:
“You have showed me great troubles and adversities, but you will restore my life and bring me up again from the deep places of the earth”.
Then, I read the story in Acts 16 where Paul is imprisoned and “an earthquake struck and the walls fell”.
I went running at noon in 100 degree heat, feeling renewed, invigorated. I was blessed, I thought by this experience.
That evening, I returned from the law library at 8:00 pm to watch “Big Brother” – or so I thought. Instead, Big S and E surprised me with “bowls” (tortillas covered in cheese and then crisped in the microwave. We then fill the bowls with rice, refried beans, and chicken, then top with lettuce and ranch dressing). Then, the guys pulled a whole package of Oreos out.
All these different guys from the building – guys I’ve tutored, guys in my writing class, guys I’ve helped with their cases – came up to wish me “Happy Birthday”.
I lay down last night, stuffed with food and realized just how much I really had to be thankful for.
Friends. Though a great many people abandoned me, I discovered who my real friends are. When you go through something like this you soon find out the “hangers on” and the people who really care for you. They stand with you in the worst of times. These people have done more for me than I can ever repay. They have taught me the real meaning of the word friendship. Then, there are the guys I’ve met along this path. Big S and E are like younger brothers to me. Big S, especially has becomes as close a friend as I’ve ever known.
I’ve figured out that deep down, we all want the same thing. People want to be loved. I always thought my wife was the loving, compassionate person in our relationship. I’ve discovered I, in fact, have a deep capacity to empathize, forgive and love.
My ex has cut off all communication with me. I have been told nothing about my sons. Ironically, I could go to court and compel monthly visitation, but I’d win a battle and lose the war. Instead, I still love her and my sons. I see them with their weaknesses and their failings and love them.
It’s tough loving and forgiving someone who has cursed you, attacked you, hurt you deeply. Yet, it has to be done. Every day I pray for her, our sons, and a whole group of folks who let me down along the way.
I’ve become a better person through this experience. I always thought I was a decent person, helping the community. But, in here I’ve discovered a capacity to help people I never would have given the time of day to. There is something rewarding beyond words when you see a 60 year old man beam with pride because he was finally able to write a letter to his grandchild.
I have never felt as humbled as when the terminally ill, elderly inmate, with tears in his eyes, thanked me for getting him a pardon so he could return home and die surrounded by his family.
Prison has changed me, but not in the way the judge or prosecutor intended. I have found the Godliness in even the worst of men. We were all created in God’s image and no one – I repeat, no one – is beyond redemption or forgiveness. Some may not deserve to be released, but all deserve compassion and mercy.
Before this experience I counted myself as a “good person”. That’s a funny expression and one I heard on more than one occasion from my ex and my mother right before they launched into a venomous, viscous attack on me (I’ve kept a “Top 10 “ list of inspirational quotes from both of them). Here’s the thing – I deserved anger from both of them. I let a good number of people down. But, we’re all prone to failure, all prone to commit wrongs – maybe not $2 million worth, but how about insensitive, hurtful comments we’ve all made? There is just about no “good person” who, when confronted by their indiscretions, their off-putting remarks, their mistakes wouldn’t be embarrassed and humiliated.
Turning 51 in here wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was pretty good. I’ve got my health, my passion to help others, friends, and some amazing family. I have hope each day.
“And suddenly there came a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison house were shaken; and immediately all the doors opened and everyone’s chains were unfastened.”
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