I work as a tutor for Correctional Education (that’s a real state agency) in the pre-GED program. I help prepare other inmates to take and pass Virginia’s General Equivalency Diploma exam. Depending on which class period I’m in, I work with guys who read at less than a first grade level and don’t know their multiplication tables; other guys are at a high school level.
There are a lot of ironies in my current lifestyle. In my outside life I had graduated both college and law school. My then wife was a college professor with a PhD. My oldest son just graduated from a prestigious private liberal arts university. My youngest son has been taking piano lessons for seven years.
Strange, I feel a deep connection with these men and they have told instructors and the principal what a great teacher I am. The school even let me design and teach a creative writing class that now has a waiting list for the next year. I took education for granted then I came in here and watched men bust their butts to learn simple measurement concepts (like pints to quarts). My wife and I stressed education. My kids were expected to do well in school. So many of the guys in here never had the opportunities I had or my family had. Yet, to see the look on a 70 year old man’s face when he figures out Pythagoreans theorem on his own is astounding. To hear a 40 year old man read aloud from a Harry Potter book with a sense of pride and then tell you “I’ll be able to read to my grandkids” overwhelms.
I have a student – “Ryan” who is 25. He has been incarcerated since he was 12 years old (my youngest son’s age) for a joyride. While in a juvenile detention center, he was attacked and fought back, seriously injuring another juvenile offender. He has been locked up all but 8 months in the last 13 years. He still has 6 more years to go.
His family has abandoned him. He is completely alone. In all the time he has been locked up, no prison official ever saw fit to get this young man on track. He is bright, outgoing, and has barely a fifth grade education. His is a life that has been wasted; a life that is dangerously close to being permanently lost.
I look at Ryan and think of my youngest. He is so bright and full of life and a wonderful young man. From the moment I was arrested, he pitched in and began bearing more of the load at home.
I wonder how I was so blessed with such sons. I wonder how Ryan somehow missed out and how far off his life went at such an early age.
My boys were so disappointed in me following my arrest. I went from a wonderful husband and father in the blink of eye, I let them down. For my youngest, I simply wasn’t there anymore.
I spend every weekday working with these men in here so they have a chance at a better life when they get out. Is it penance for being a convicted embezzler? Yes, partly.
But, I also teach because I want my sons – my youngest especially – to one day look at me with pride that their father may have done something’s wrong, but at the end made a difference in some disadvantaged men’s lives.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Quirky, just Quirky - May 22, 2010
Living in close proximity to so many men in this dormitory environment you soon realize everyone has an idiosyncrasy or two. We all like things done certain ways; we all repeat certain behaviors, whether it’s folding a shirt or making a bunk. But, some guys are just off the chain quirky.
I originally thought I was one of “those quirky guys”. After all, my need for organization borders on OCD. For example, my friends in here screw with me because I insist on having my footlocker lined up exactly straight with the bunk frame. I line my shoes up the same way. These guys “bump” the stuff while I’m at work. I come in and get red faced, muttering under my breath while I get everything lined back up.
But, this is minor in comparison to some of these guys. There’s “Double O” who insists on bringing his personal “spork” to chow each day. It’s not because he thinks the chow hall sporks aren’t clean; no, he just “likes” the way food tastes on his spork. Here’s the thing – his “better tasting spork” is identical to the ones used in the chow hall. Yet, I’ve seen him get out of line at chow and walk all the way back to the dorm to retrieve his spork before he’d ever consider getting a tray.
Then there’s “Flo” (nicknamed because he’s from Florida) who keeps his bunk area in the “Fred Sanford motif”. Flo refuses to throw anything away – toilet paper tubes, empty peanut butter jars, scraps of paper, magazines. Crap is piled up from the floor to his bunk frame and jammed in every crevice on his bunk and locker. He gives the appearance of trying to be profiled in A & E’s “hoarders” series (how many empty plastic peanut butter jars are enough for any inmate?).
The leader in “quirkdom” however, is “Clyde”. He is in a category of his own. Clyde strips his bed and washes his sheets every, yes, every day. After they are dried, he irons them, remakes the bunk then folds his blankets in precisely and exactly the same way with the fold pointing away from his pillow.
Clyde washes and irons his workout clothes immediately before he works out; then he heads out the door to lift weights, get sweaty and dirty. He keeps the dirty clothes under his bunk until the next day when he washes them again right before he goes back out for his workout.
Clyde scrubs his sneakers every evening at the same sink in the bathroom precisely at 9:00 pm. He uses an old wash cloth and scrubs 35 wipes per side per shoe (we’ve counted). Then, he wipes the sink out wiping exactly 35 times.
No review of quirky can be complete without introducing you to “Reggie”. Reggie is, to borrow a phrase, “a piece of work”. He can’t go past the bathroom mirror without stopping and flexing. Reggie completely (I mean everything comes off) disrobes when he uses the bathroom. He works out from 2:00 to 4:00 pm every night in the bathroom. He does dips on the half walls separating the commodes from each other; he does incline and decline push ups using the handicap bench in the shower area.
Reggie is a coffee drinker. What he does is makes a large (travel mug size) cup with warm water. He pops it in the microwave for 30 seconds then removes it and walks the dorm 5 times. Back to the microwave for another 30 seconds, then 5 more laps. This goes on for about 45 minutes, three or four times a day.
Yes, guys with quirks are everywhere. Each man has a particular “style” he employs to make his bunk, organize his bunk, line his chair up at his bunk. Even the most disorganized, out of sync guys – slobs would be an accurate description – have quirks which lead to funny results.
Max is a great guy and a horrendous slob. His locker is nothing but all his stuff – food, clothes, and books – jammed in together. Dirty clothes lay on the floor (or his bed) until wash day when he takes the ball of clean stuff and forces it in the locker.
During the winter a field mouse found his way into the building. He’d run around and then mysteriously disappear. Everyone wondered where the mouse went. One day we found out.
Max was looking for a second clean sock and reached in to the back of his locker. There, between a knit cap, boxer shorts and pieces of saltine lay the mouse, curled up warm and snug in the spare sock.
I originally thought I was one of “those quirky guys”. After all, my need for organization borders on OCD. For example, my friends in here screw with me because I insist on having my footlocker lined up exactly straight with the bunk frame. I line my shoes up the same way. These guys “bump” the stuff while I’m at work. I come in and get red faced, muttering under my breath while I get everything lined back up.
But, this is minor in comparison to some of these guys. There’s “Double O” who insists on bringing his personal “spork” to chow each day. It’s not because he thinks the chow hall sporks aren’t clean; no, he just “likes” the way food tastes on his spork. Here’s the thing – his “better tasting spork” is identical to the ones used in the chow hall. Yet, I’ve seen him get out of line at chow and walk all the way back to the dorm to retrieve his spork before he’d ever consider getting a tray.
Then there’s “Flo” (nicknamed because he’s from Florida) who keeps his bunk area in the “Fred Sanford motif”. Flo refuses to throw anything away – toilet paper tubes, empty peanut butter jars, scraps of paper, magazines. Crap is piled up from the floor to his bunk frame and jammed in every crevice on his bunk and locker. He gives the appearance of trying to be profiled in A & E’s “hoarders” series (how many empty plastic peanut butter jars are enough for any inmate?).
The leader in “quirkdom” however, is “Clyde”. He is in a category of his own. Clyde strips his bed and washes his sheets every, yes, every day. After they are dried, he irons them, remakes the bunk then folds his blankets in precisely and exactly the same way with the fold pointing away from his pillow.
Clyde washes and irons his workout clothes immediately before he works out; then he heads out the door to lift weights, get sweaty and dirty. He keeps the dirty clothes under his bunk until the next day when he washes them again right before he goes back out for his workout.
Clyde scrubs his sneakers every evening at the same sink in the bathroom precisely at 9:00 pm. He uses an old wash cloth and scrubs 35 wipes per side per shoe (we’ve counted). Then, he wipes the sink out wiping exactly 35 times.
No review of quirky can be complete without introducing you to “Reggie”. Reggie is, to borrow a phrase, “a piece of work”. He can’t go past the bathroom mirror without stopping and flexing. Reggie completely (I mean everything comes off) disrobes when he uses the bathroom. He works out from 2:00 to 4:00 pm every night in the bathroom. He does dips on the half walls separating the commodes from each other; he does incline and decline push ups using the handicap bench in the shower area.
Reggie is a coffee drinker. What he does is makes a large (travel mug size) cup with warm water. He pops it in the microwave for 30 seconds then removes it and walks the dorm 5 times. Back to the microwave for another 30 seconds, then 5 more laps. This goes on for about 45 minutes, three or four times a day.
Yes, guys with quirks are everywhere. Each man has a particular “style” he employs to make his bunk, organize his bunk, line his chair up at his bunk. Even the most disorganized, out of sync guys – slobs would be an accurate description – have quirks which lead to funny results.
Max is a great guy and a horrendous slob. His locker is nothing but all his stuff – food, clothes, and books – jammed in together. Dirty clothes lay on the floor (or his bed) until wash day when he takes the ball of clean stuff and forces it in the locker.
During the winter a field mouse found his way into the building. He’d run around and then mysteriously disappear. Everyone wondered where the mouse went. One day we found out.
Max was looking for a second clean sock and reached in to the back of his locker. There, between a knit cap, boxer shorts and pieces of saltine lay the mouse, curled up warm and snug in the spare sock.
Love Lost - May 22, 2010
I was happily married to my soul mate, the only woman I truly ever loved for almost 28 years. I shouldn’t use the words “happily married”. After all, I’m here because I betrayed her trust for 12 years embezzling from the company I worked for. But, I loved her, always have, always will.
I said happy wasn’t the correct word. I thought we were happy. Yet, looking back I know I wanted to feel loved by her and many times I didn’t. I’m not saying she didn’t love me. She just didn’t love me the way I so wanted to be loved. She wasn’t one to kiss me; she didn’t like holding hands. That doesn’t excuse or justify what I did. I just know I expressed to her how much I loved her and would get “I love you too” back.
Our divorce was final about 8 months ago. I haven’t seen her since the week I was arrested – almost 22 months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from my sons in almost the same time period.
There are things I regret and things I don’t. I regret all the pain, hurt, anger and anguish I caused that beautiful woman and my precious sons. I wish – knowing through this experience how strong I really am – I had avoided temptation and not acted in such a self-centered, reckless way.
I don’t regret any moment I spent with her. She made me feel things I didn’t know were possible. I saw beauty and hope and joy every time I looked in her eyes. I only wish I could go back “go back to the time when God and her were born” as Bob Dylan mournfully sang. I wish I could go back and replay every hateful, hurtful thing I did in all the years we were together.
When you’re in here, surrounded by a thousand other men, you find a sense of solitude you never knew existed in the “real world”. You find yourself alone with your thoughts. Memories flood your mind. You try to reconcile all the damage you’ve done while seeking to understand the pain and emptiness in your own heart.
I struggled with losing her. I hurt; I was angry; but, I learned. I learned what love truly meant. Love means accepting a person even when they hurt you, let you down. It means forgiving them. And, love means surviving. If you really love someone you see it through.
I thought I had that with her. I thought the vows we took would carry us through. Funny, but I’m at peace. I can’t judge her for giving up on us. In her mind I gave up on us when I decided to steal.
I’ve learned so much these past 20 months. I’m a better man than I was those years I was stealing. I know what’s most important: love, family, faith. Has it come too late? For she and I, probably.
If I did have the chance to talk to her I’d tell her I’m sorry; I’d tell her how much I love her, that I understand and forgive her for the divorce. I’d tell her I never had a second thought about giving everything to her.
Love means sacrifice. It means giving everything up for those you love. Perhaps someday she’ll remember what it was she felt for me almost 30 years ago.
I remember getting a letter from her shortly after I was arrested. She wrote “I don’t love you anymore”. I was heartbroken when I read that. The love we had – I thought – was unconditional. We were striving to “be one”.
I realized after that we saw love and marriage differently. She hurt me, disappointed me, frustrated me, angered me, but she never heard me utter the words “I don’t love you”.
I found an amazing quote from 17th Century Cardinal de Retz. He wrote:
“The man who can own up to his error is greater than he who merely knows how to avoid making it”.
Each day I try to overcome what I’ve done. Maybe, just maybe, that will make a difference in the future.
I said happy wasn’t the correct word. I thought we were happy. Yet, looking back I know I wanted to feel loved by her and many times I didn’t. I’m not saying she didn’t love me. She just didn’t love me the way I so wanted to be loved. She wasn’t one to kiss me; she didn’t like holding hands. That doesn’t excuse or justify what I did. I just know I expressed to her how much I loved her and would get “I love you too” back.
Our divorce was final about 8 months ago. I haven’t seen her since the week I was arrested – almost 22 months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from my sons in almost the same time period.
There are things I regret and things I don’t. I regret all the pain, hurt, anger and anguish I caused that beautiful woman and my precious sons. I wish – knowing through this experience how strong I really am – I had avoided temptation and not acted in such a self-centered, reckless way.
I don’t regret any moment I spent with her. She made me feel things I didn’t know were possible. I saw beauty and hope and joy every time I looked in her eyes. I only wish I could go back “go back to the time when God and her were born” as Bob Dylan mournfully sang. I wish I could go back and replay every hateful, hurtful thing I did in all the years we were together.
When you’re in here, surrounded by a thousand other men, you find a sense of solitude you never knew existed in the “real world”. You find yourself alone with your thoughts. Memories flood your mind. You try to reconcile all the damage you’ve done while seeking to understand the pain and emptiness in your own heart.
I struggled with losing her. I hurt; I was angry; but, I learned. I learned what love truly meant. Love means accepting a person even when they hurt you, let you down. It means forgiving them. And, love means surviving. If you really love someone you see it through.
I thought I had that with her. I thought the vows we took would carry us through. Funny, but I’m at peace. I can’t judge her for giving up on us. In her mind I gave up on us when I decided to steal.
I’ve learned so much these past 20 months. I’m a better man than I was those years I was stealing. I know what’s most important: love, family, faith. Has it come too late? For she and I, probably.
If I did have the chance to talk to her I’d tell her I’m sorry; I’d tell her how much I love her, that I understand and forgive her for the divorce. I’d tell her I never had a second thought about giving everything to her.
Love means sacrifice. It means giving everything up for those you love. Perhaps someday she’ll remember what it was she felt for me almost 30 years ago.
I remember getting a letter from her shortly after I was arrested. She wrote “I don’t love you anymore”. I was heartbroken when I read that. The love we had – I thought – was unconditional. We were striving to “be one”.
I realized after that we saw love and marriage differently. She hurt me, disappointed me, frustrated me, angered me, but she never heard me utter the words “I don’t love you”.
I found an amazing quote from 17th Century Cardinal de Retz. He wrote:
“The man who can own up to his error is greater than he who merely knows how to avoid making it”.
Each day I try to overcome what I’ve done. Maybe, just maybe, that will make a difference in the future.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Graduation - May 12, 2010
It’s Mother’s Day. This is my first Mother’s Day since my wife divorced me after my conviction. We would have been married 29 years this year. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – divorce hurts. It scars deeply and wounds in ways you can’t imagine. But I’m not writing this about my divorce and the love I still have for my ex. That is for a later entry.
No, this is about my oldest son graduating college today. The school he attends always graduates on Mother’s Day. My sons have always been at the forefront of my thoughts since I was arrested. This week has been especially tough.
D and I had a wonderful father-son relationship. He considered me more than a “Dad” – we were best friends. He wanted to be a husband, a father, a lawyer, just like me.
The shock of my arrest overwhelmed him. He was devastated. Everything he believed, everything he relied on was destroyed. A few weeks after my arrest, he came to see me in jail. Jail visits were “non-contact”. Simply put, you spoke to your visitor looking through Plexiglas and by use of telephone receivers that worked slightly better than two soup cans and a string. Anyway, he told me that day “Dad, I love you. We’re going to be all right”. That was 20 months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
I remember the day he was born. I held him just seconds after he entered the world. I leaned in close to him and quietly sang Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young”. That song means more to me than just about any piece of music I know. After that morning it became more ingrained in my soul.
I’ve thought about all D and I have been through. His college graduation is something I always assumed I’d be at, holding his Mom’s hand, feeling a father’s pride. But, life goes in different directions at times. Sometimes it is because we’ve allowed our pride and arrogance to get the best of us. Other times, it’s a path we wouldn’t have chosen, but outside forces cause us to go that way. Either way, we are ultimately defined by our response to those “bumps in the road”. Do we give up, or do we fight back, endure, persevere, overcome?
If I was with D, with the benefit of this experience, I’d tell him the following:
If I was with him, I’d tell him these things. I’d hug him, kiss him and make sure he knew I loved him. Happy Graduation Son!
No, this is about my oldest son graduating college today. The school he attends always graduates on Mother’s Day. My sons have always been at the forefront of my thoughts since I was arrested. This week has been especially tough.
D and I had a wonderful father-son relationship. He considered me more than a “Dad” – we were best friends. He wanted to be a husband, a father, a lawyer, just like me.
The shock of my arrest overwhelmed him. He was devastated. Everything he believed, everything he relied on was destroyed. A few weeks after my arrest, he came to see me in jail. Jail visits were “non-contact”. Simply put, you spoke to your visitor looking through Plexiglas and by use of telephone receivers that worked slightly better than two soup cans and a string. Anyway, he told me that day “Dad, I love you. We’re going to be all right”. That was 20 months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
I remember the day he was born. I held him just seconds after he entered the world. I leaned in close to him and quietly sang Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young”. That song means more to me than just about any piece of music I know. After that morning it became more ingrained in my soul.
I’ve thought about all D and I have been through. His college graduation is something I always assumed I’d be at, holding his Mom’s hand, feeling a father’s pride. But, life goes in different directions at times. Sometimes it is because we’ve allowed our pride and arrogance to get the best of us. Other times, it’s a path we wouldn’t have chosen, but outside forces cause us to go that way. Either way, we are ultimately defined by our response to those “bumps in the road”. Do we give up, or do we fight back, endure, persevere, overcome?
If I was with D, with the benefit of this experience, I’d tell him the following:
- Your graduation is a special day, a wonderful accomplishment. Enjoy it, but remember the people who helped get you to this point. Nothing, no one’s life, occurs in a vacuum.
- You have two parents who love you. Your Mom picked up the slack in ways she probably shouldn’t have had to; but she did it willingly. You have a younger brother who looks up to you. You have a responsibility now to be the best you can for him.
- There are a lot of people who haven’t had the same opportunities you have. Always remember that and give folks a break. Help when you can. Compassion, kindness and empathy count for more than any amount of money or fame.
- People make mistakes. They screw up, disappoint, let you down. But, a real friend stands by, no matter what. Ultimately, we all fall short of the mark, we all sin, we all hurt people we love. How you accept those who hurt you says more about you than any single trait in your character.
- Love and forgiveness matter more than anything. Real love can overcome any failure, any hurt. People talk about love, but real love doesn’t fail. It struggles, it fights, it overcomes.
- Forgiveness. You were raised in a family that believed God forgives completely. You are required to do the same.
If I was with him, I’d tell him these things. I’d hug him, kiss him and make sure he knew I loved him. Happy Graduation Son!
Honorable Men - May 12,2010
Who would ever guess that you’d meet any honorable person while in this place? I’ve been fortunate to have met a group of them. In many ways, I think, that represents what I saw when I was on the street. There were people out there – on their face honest, law abiding, “pillars of the community” – who were busy cheating on their spouses, on their taxes, ignoring the plight of those in need around them. Same is true in here.
There are four men in here who have all done extensive time for serious crimes – murder and armed robbery. Each of these men has been incarcerated at least seventeen years (one is approaching his 20th anniversary in prison). All are under the “old system” (meaning parole eligible) except Virginia’s “Three Time Loser” statute prevents one from parole (he committed 7 armed robberies in a 3 day period to get money to support his drug habit) and the other three are denied every year on the rote ground “due to severity of the crime” (Note: In early spring a federal class action lawsuit was filed by 11 named inmates alleging Virginia’s parole board violates their due process rights by routinely using standard, blanket denial such as “severity of crime”).
Here’s why these “criminals”, these violent men, are so honorable: they have changed; they are different; they have a capacity to overlook other’s faults and forgive beyond that of most self-described good Christians.
I read and re-read Jesus’ admonition in 7 Matthew 1 through 5: “Do not judge so that you will not be judged. For in the way you judge, you will be judged . . .” These men quietly go about their days, waiting patiently for release to come. They all acknowledge their wrongdoing (which is different from most guys in here who view themselves as victims). But, they have all been changed by this experience. You see it in their eyes. They – more than any men I’ve ever met, have a sadness that has been molded into compassion. They overlook so much from the men around them and the institution.
Do they long for justice? Of course. But, they carry themselves with dignity, with a masculine grace I have never seen before. Psychologically they are stronger than any man I’ve met. They help me stay focused.
I also include “Big S” as a truly honorable man. He actually is innocent. He didn’t commit the crime he was convicted of. But, he accepted the conviction to protect others.
He told me one day “it was Karma for all the bad stuff I was doing. I needed this to mature and become a better man, a better friend, a better father to my daughter”. Big S is a gentle giant – strong, tough, but a real peacemaker. He steps in whenever a fight appears ready to break out.
There is such a sense of “what the hell?” that goes on in a place like this. You meet guys who because of drugs, anger, whatever, acted out in a horrible way and received significant punishment. Rather than becoming embittered, these men have discovered that there is a purpose to their circumstance. They have grown spiritual, philosophical. They persevere, they endure, they find meaning and hope.
They accomplish all this while others bitch and moan incessantly about a three year sentence; while others lie, cheat, and steal their way through their sentence.
You want to solve the problems of prisons? Figure out a way to judge those incarcerated by what’s truly in their hearts.
There are four men in here who have all done extensive time for serious crimes – murder and armed robbery. Each of these men has been incarcerated at least seventeen years (one is approaching his 20th anniversary in prison). All are under the “old system” (meaning parole eligible) except Virginia’s “Three Time Loser” statute prevents one from parole (he committed 7 armed robberies in a 3 day period to get money to support his drug habit) and the other three are denied every year on the rote ground “due to severity of the crime” (Note: In early spring a federal class action lawsuit was filed by 11 named inmates alleging Virginia’s parole board violates their due process rights by routinely using standard, blanket denial such as “severity of crime”).
Here’s why these “criminals”, these violent men, are so honorable: they have changed; they are different; they have a capacity to overlook other’s faults and forgive beyond that of most self-described good Christians.
I read and re-read Jesus’ admonition in 7 Matthew 1 through 5: “Do not judge so that you will not be judged. For in the way you judge, you will be judged . . .” These men quietly go about their days, waiting patiently for release to come. They all acknowledge their wrongdoing (which is different from most guys in here who view themselves as victims). But, they have all been changed by this experience. You see it in their eyes. They – more than any men I’ve ever met, have a sadness that has been molded into compassion. They overlook so much from the men around them and the institution.
Do they long for justice? Of course. But, they carry themselves with dignity, with a masculine grace I have never seen before. Psychologically they are stronger than any man I’ve met. They help me stay focused.
I also include “Big S” as a truly honorable man. He actually is innocent. He didn’t commit the crime he was convicted of. But, he accepted the conviction to protect others.
He told me one day “it was Karma for all the bad stuff I was doing. I needed this to mature and become a better man, a better friend, a better father to my daughter”. Big S is a gentle giant – strong, tough, but a real peacemaker. He steps in whenever a fight appears ready to break out.
There is such a sense of “what the hell?” that goes on in a place like this. You meet guys who because of drugs, anger, whatever, acted out in a horrible way and received significant punishment. Rather than becoming embittered, these men have discovered that there is a purpose to their circumstance. They have grown spiritual, philosophical. They persevere, they endure, they find meaning and hope.
They accomplish all this while others bitch and moan incessantly about a three year sentence; while others lie, cheat, and steal their way through their sentence.
You want to solve the problems of prisons? Figure out a way to judge those incarcerated by what’s truly in their hearts.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Losers - May 10, 2010
It's hard to imagine in this place full of convicted felons, where each of us is in here for our immense capacity to screw up to the "Nth" degree, that a core group can stand out for being low in even our eyes. The funny thing is, guys in here tend to be pretty open to "unique" personalities. When you're living 96 to a building, you tend to overlook a great many idiosyncrasies of your neighbors. Still, some guys stand out for being complete pains in the ass.
"Ron" ranks as a perfect "10" of the inmates I'd most like to see banished to the far ends of the world. He is the stereotypical "institutionalized" inmate. "State struck" is another term. Ron gets up early (4:30 am) and starts his music blaring so loudly that you can hear it reverberate out of the headphones. You can do a great deal to guys in the penitentiary. You can subject a man to strip searches, listen in on his phone calls, serve him lousy food. But, don't interrupt his sleep!
Ron also believes whites are the devil. He subscribes to that modern prison-created religion called "Nation of Islam". He believes whites cause all the ills in the world and that they alone are responsible for the high divorce rate, drug rate, and incarceration rate among blacks. That is ironic because he is in here on his second felony conviction for crack cocaine distribution. He believes Africans are the original "Hebrews" and are God's chosen people (funny, I didn't know black Africans were a Semitic people). Yet, when he needs help with a grievance or a complex legal argument, he comes to me - as mayonnaise and white bread a guy as you'll see.
I watch Ron doing his third "bid" in prison and realize he is destined to spend more and more time locked up. He is ignorant. He has no concept of self-respect, no concept of respect for others.
Then there are the "D and D" boys. "D and D" meaning the role playing game dungeons and dragons. There are six middle age white guys who play "D and D" every Saturday for hours. Then, during the week they talk about "battle strategy" - how to defeat warlocks and monsters. Here's the common denominator for these guys: they are all convicted sex offenders. Any adult man who watches "Strawberry Shortcake" cartoons and plays "D and D" has pretty much announced "I'm in here for kiddie porn!"
Worse still - if being a sex offender isn't bad enough - these guys are all self righteous pompous asses. They "aren't" legally guilty of any crime, they tell you. Morally, maybe it's wrong - they say (one guys who was abusing his daughter even goes so far as to claim government is censuring his relationship with her and his receipt of porn) but they don't belong here. They aren't "criminals" like the drug dealers, murderers, and armed robbers. No, they are worse. They exploited children in the worst way and are protected in here. I don't advocate violence, but the prison ensures these guys stay safe, while nothing is done to correct their predilections.
So, in the end, they will do their time and get out without any sense of shame or remorse. As my friend "E" says, they'll head out to Chucky Cheese to celebrate and pick up chicks! SICK!
There are other guys as well: Guys who refuse to shower; guys with anger issues; guys who have obvious mental defects. There are "she men" (guys who make homemade bras, shave their legs and prance around like Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall).
Somehow, in the midst of this flotsam and jetsam of deviant human behavior are the relatively normal inmates, guys who will tell you candidly they broke the law and they're just trying to do their sentence the best way possible.
Life with losers goes on.
"Ron" ranks as a perfect "10" of the inmates I'd most like to see banished to the far ends of the world. He is the stereotypical "institutionalized" inmate. "State struck" is another term. Ron gets up early (4:30 am) and starts his music blaring so loudly that you can hear it reverberate out of the headphones. You can do a great deal to guys in the penitentiary. You can subject a man to strip searches, listen in on his phone calls, serve him lousy food. But, don't interrupt his sleep!
Ron also believes whites are the devil. He subscribes to that modern prison-created religion called "Nation of Islam". He believes whites cause all the ills in the world and that they alone are responsible for the high divorce rate, drug rate, and incarceration rate among blacks. That is ironic because he is in here on his second felony conviction for crack cocaine distribution. He believes Africans are the original "Hebrews" and are God's chosen people (funny, I didn't know black Africans were a Semitic people). Yet, when he needs help with a grievance or a complex legal argument, he comes to me - as mayonnaise and white bread a guy as you'll see.
I watch Ron doing his third "bid" in prison and realize he is destined to spend more and more time locked up. He is ignorant. He has no concept of self-respect, no concept of respect for others.
Then there are the "D and D" boys. "D and D" meaning the role playing game dungeons and dragons. There are six middle age white guys who play "D and D" every Saturday for hours. Then, during the week they talk about "battle strategy" - how to defeat warlocks and monsters. Here's the common denominator for these guys: they are all convicted sex offenders. Any adult man who watches "Strawberry Shortcake" cartoons and plays "D and D" has pretty much announced "I'm in here for kiddie porn!"
Worse still - if being a sex offender isn't bad enough - these guys are all self righteous pompous asses. They "aren't" legally guilty of any crime, they tell you. Morally, maybe it's wrong - they say (one guys who was abusing his daughter even goes so far as to claim government is censuring his relationship with her and his receipt of porn) but they don't belong here. They aren't "criminals" like the drug dealers, murderers, and armed robbers. No, they are worse. They exploited children in the worst way and are protected in here. I don't advocate violence, but the prison ensures these guys stay safe, while nothing is done to correct their predilections.
So, in the end, they will do their time and get out without any sense of shame or remorse. As my friend "E" says, they'll head out to Chucky Cheese to celebrate and pick up chicks! SICK!
There are other guys as well: Guys who refuse to shower; guys with anger issues; guys who have obvious mental defects. There are "she men" (guys who make homemade bras, shave their legs and prance around like Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall).
Somehow, in the midst of this flotsam and jetsam of deviant human behavior are the relatively normal inmates, guys who will tell you candidly they broke the law and they're just trying to do their sentence the best way possible.
Life with losers goes on.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Shady - May 5, 2010
There are some guys that just make an immediate impression on you. I've met a few guys like that during my "stay" here but none quite as unique as "Shady". He was called that because he bore a striking resemblance to white rapper Eminem. Thirty years old with a New Orleans Saints logo tattooed on his neck, he is a repeat offender. Locked up on and off since age seventeen, I met him a few months ago as his current sentence (probation violation) was winding down.
Shady was/is the consummate "institutionalized" offender. Everything he did, everything he said, was to hustle you. He projected an "I don't give a s---" exterior which masked a great fear of getting out, of being unable to survive in the real world.
He was married to a stripper (not the kind of marriage normal folks think about. He constantly cheated on her; she was unfaithful to him; drug use and alcohol abuse was rampant). He had an adorable little girl, being raised by his wife in a trailer with drugs and booze and different men coming through their life. Shady accepted all that, provided his wife sent him money for commissary, which occurred less and less frequently the last few months.
He refused to get his G.E.D. He gambled to excess daily, usually losing what little commissary he had. He had no job. He had attempted suicide on a number of occasions and had been hospitalized for psychiatric disorders in prior prison stays.
He became in many ways the most frustrating guy I drew close to because his potential was so great, yet his motivation was virtually nil.
He was also hilarious. There were so many nights he had E, Big S and me rolling on the floor. He ripped on people, made funny sounds and faces, walked with his pants sagging below his butt.
The four of us played basketball one rainy afternoon. I may be the worst hoop player on the compound and we were bound to get our butts kicked by E and Big S, but having Shady yell instructions at me while not playing defense made the massacre even worse.
I also discovered during my friendship with Shady that he wasn't a U.S. citizen. The issue came up innocently enough when he told me he was born in England and lived there six years before his "mum" met his step dad and brought him to the states. He had a UK passport; never was a U.S. Citizen.
I casually mentioned to him I thought he could be deported to England (he had extended family there and his Mom and Step dad were moving over as well). "But I have 19 years of suspended time and probation over my head". "Who cares", I told him. Sure enough, a call and letter to the British Embassy and he was packed up by immigration officials when his sentence ended. He is flying back to England courtesy of the U.S. Government in a few days.
Here's my big fear about Shady. If he doesn't contest deportation, he'll be in England in less than a month. The suspended time will be a thing of the past and he will have family to help and support him. But, his stripper wife started visiting the last few weeks professing love for him. He started thinking about going "home" to the trailer, and the drugs and the booze, and the fights, and the lack of any job opportunity. If he does, he will end up getting picked back up within six months serving more time.
He is one of those all too numerous men in here who know more about "the system" than life on the outside. He is both a product and the waste of the American prison system.
Funny thing is E, Big S and I all liked Shady. He was a great guy. But we all realize he is and always will be an inmate. We all had lives outside this dump. We don't plan on ever setting foot back in here. Shady will, as the years progress, become just a fading memory to each of us.
Shady was/is the consummate "institutionalized" offender. Everything he did, everything he said, was to hustle you. He projected an "I don't give a s---" exterior which masked a great fear of getting out, of being unable to survive in the real world.
He was married to a stripper (not the kind of marriage normal folks think about. He constantly cheated on her; she was unfaithful to him; drug use and alcohol abuse was rampant). He had an adorable little girl, being raised by his wife in a trailer with drugs and booze and different men coming through their life. Shady accepted all that, provided his wife sent him money for commissary, which occurred less and less frequently the last few months.
He refused to get his G.E.D. He gambled to excess daily, usually losing what little commissary he had. He had no job. He had attempted suicide on a number of occasions and had been hospitalized for psychiatric disorders in prior prison stays.
He became in many ways the most frustrating guy I drew close to because his potential was so great, yet his motivation was virtually nil.
He was also hilarious. There were so many nights he had E, Big S and me rolling on the floor. He ripped on people, made funny sounds and faces, walked with his pants sagging below his butt.
The four of us played basketball one rainy afternoon. I may be the worst hoop player on the compound and we were bound to get our butts kicked by E and Big S, but having Shady yell instructions at me while not playing defense made the massacre even worse.
I also discovered during my friendship with Shady that he wasn't a U.S. citizen. The issue came up innocently enough when he told me he was born in England and lived there six years before his "mum" met his step dad and brought him to the states. He had a UK passport; never was a U.S. Citizen.
I casually mentioned to him I thought he could be deported to England (he had extended family there and his Mom and Step dad were moving over as well). "But I have 19 years of suspended time and probation over my head". "Who cares", I told him. Sure enough, a call and letter to the British Embassy and he was packed up by immigration officials when his sentence ended. He is flying back to England courtesy of the U.S. Government in a few days.
Here's my big fear about Shady. If he doesn't contest deportation, he'll be in England in less than a month. The suspended time will be a thing of the past and he will have family to help and support him. But, his stripper wife started visiting the last few weeks professing love for him. He started thinking about going "home" to the trailer, and the drugs and the booze, and the fights, and the lack of any job opportunity. If he does, he will end up getting picked back up within six months serving more time.
He is one of those all too numerous men in here who know more about "the system" than life on the outside. He is both a product and the waste of the American prison system.
Funny thing is E, Big S and I all liked Shady. He was a great guy. But we all realize he is and always will be an inmate. We all had lives outside this dump. We don't plan on ever setting foot back in here. Shady will, as the years progress, become just a fading memory to each of us.
Hygiene - May 5, 2010
One of the most peculiar and disturbing things to observe in prison dorm life is the wide spectrum of hygiene prevalent among the "residents". We have one inmate living with us who has Crohn's Disease which causes him to empty his bowels upward of five or six times an hour. Yet, he refuses to wash his hands!
Then there is "Tim". He is one of the foulest men I've ever met. He is the epitome of a grumpy, nasty, old derelict. A few weeks ago, one of the "housemen" (an inmate responsible for cleaning the building) discovered someone had used the toilet, wiped, and instead of flushing the paper, stuck it on the wall. Later, we kept noticing the bathroom smelled like cat urine and there was always a puddle under one urinal. Just the other night we caught the culprit red-handed (or his hand somewhere!). It was Tim. The houseman caught him "dropping trough" on the floor. Tim had to cover his butt literally. He made a run to the sergeant's office for protection -- guys don't take kindly to pigs. He faced serious repercussions had he not "reported" his fear to the officers. Now he's off limits; a snitch who is being closely watched to see if he wets the floor again.
You learn to adapt. You don't shake hands with anyone you don't know extremely well. You "pound fists" instead. You only eat with certain people and share bowls and cups with even less.
Before using the toilet, you wipe the seat down with soap and tissue. Then, you line the seat double row with toilet tissue. You never sit on the seat "raw squirrel" (i.e. sans tissue). You push doors open with your shoulder, never your hands. And you wash your hands constantly.
Brushing your teeth becomes ritualistic for some, a nuisance for others. Guys concerned with their dental hygiene brush their teeth five, six times a day. They've heard horror stories about the dentist being a veterinary school reject. It takes over nine months to get a dental cleaning appointment. Guys with serious dental needs - gum infections, teeth needing extraction, root canals - wait weeks, sometimes months for treatment. Their only relief while waiting: Motrin.
It is astounding to see the vast number of young men with missing teeth, dentures, and rotten gum lines. Their breath stinks. They suck on candy mints rather than brushing the few teeth they have left.
Then there are the guys who don't shower. They go outside or play basketball and sweat and stink and then climb in their bunks. "The water makes my skin breakout". What? These are foul, disgusting guys who absolutely reek of b.o. They are mercilessly ridiculed by the "clean guys" and threatened to be beaten within an ounce of their smelly life. It leads to a quick shower and for a few days the stench is gone. But gradually the odor returns and the cycle of not bathing, threats, then quick showers begins again.
The rest of us - the "clean crew" use the showers daily (sometimes twice or more in a single day). Guys buy aftershave lotion, bath and body powder, lotion (aloe or cocoa butter) to help with dry skin. Soap - Ivory, Tone, Dial antibacterial, Irish Spring Sport - are purchased each commissary. We buy these products not just to remain clean but as our challenge to disgusting men we see living around us. It's our way of remaining even a little free and not institutionalized.
Then there is "Tim". He is one of the foulest men I've ever met. He is the epitome of a grumpy, nasty, old derelict. A few weeks ago, one of the "housemen" (an inmate responsible for cleaning the building) discovered someone had used the toilet, wiped, and instead of flushing the paper, stuck it on the wall. Later, we kept noticing the bathroom smelled like cat urine and there was always a puddle under one urinal. Just the other night we caught the culprit red-handed (or his hand somewhere!). It was Tim. The houseman caught him "dropping trough" on the floor. Tim had to cover his butt literally. He made a run to the sergeant's office for protection -- guys don't take kindly to pigs. He faced serious repercussions had he not "reported" his fear to the officers. Now he's off limits; a snitch who is being closely watched to see if he wets the floor again.
You learn to adapt. You don't shake hands with anyone you don't know extremely well. You "pound fists" instead. You only eat with certain people and share bowls and cups with even less.
Before using the toilet, you wipe the seat down with soap and tissue. Then, you line the seat double row with toilet tissue. You never sit on the seat "raw squirrel" (i.e. sans tissue). You push doors open with your shoulder, never your hands. And you wash your hands constantly.
Brushing your teeth becomes ritualistic for some, a nuisance for others. Guys concerned with their dental hygiene brush their teeth five, six times a day. They've heard horror stories about the dentist being a veterinary school reject. It takes over nine months to get a dental cleaning appointment. Guys with serious dental needs - gum infections, teeth needing extraction, root canals - wait weeks, sometimes months for treatment. Their only relief while waiting: Motrin.
It is astounding to see the vast number of young men with missing teeth, dentures, and rotten gum lines. Their breath stinks. They suck on candy mints rather than brushing the few teeth they have left.
Then there are the guys who don't shower. They go outside or play basketball and sweat and stink and then climb in their bunks. "The water makes my skin breakout". What? These are foul, disgusting guys who absolutely reek of b.o. They are mercilessly ridiculed by the "clean guys" and threatened to be beaten within an ounce of their smelly life. It leads to a quick shower and for a few days the stench is gone. But gradually the odor returns and the cycle of not bathing, threats, then quick showers begins again.
The rest of us - the "clean crew" use the showers daily (sometimes twice or more in a single day). Guys buy aftershave lotion, bath and body powder, lotion (aloe or cocoa butter) to help with dry skin. Soap - Ivory, Tone, Dial antibacterial, Irish Spring Sport - are purchased each commissary. We buy these products not just to remain clean but as our challenge to disgusting men we see living around us. It's our way of remaining even a little free and not institutionalized.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Food - May 4, 2010
Food, next to women, is the most desired object in here. Men spend hours upon hours discussing foods they miss, what they plan on eating when they get out, and meals they're preparing in the building.
You can tell a great deal about guys by what they eat. There are the junk food eaters who plow through honey buns, candy bars, and Mountain Dew. Then, the nominal cooks who eat their "noodles" (ramien sold for $.28 per package) "naked" - noodles cooked and "swelled" up with crushed Cheetos and then eaten on crackers. Then, there are the elaborate meal makers that I've been fortunate to connect with.
Take my friend "E" for example. E has access through his job to the kitchen storeroom. He has helped us create a "spice rack" by "borrowing" basil, cinnamon, oregano, and garlic. The funny thing is, none of those spices are used in the inmates' food, but are regularly added to the staff meals to make them more palatable.
Anyway, E lifts the seasonings and gets "Big S" to help us store them off site. Big S is the gentle giant of the group. He looks tough, but has the disposition of Gandhi. He's a peace maker in our building (as opposed to E who will fight anyone at anytime).
We decide to fix nachos after working out and blowing off evening chow (the way meals and rec work, we get off work at 3:30; if we want to workout we have to miss dinner). Six or Seven noodles; grated block of hot pepper cheese (E made the cheese grater at work); a cheese mix of cheese spread, garlic powder and ranch dressing powder (E also got that from the kitchen); hot chili with beans (seasoned with basil and oregano) and then mixed with the swelled noodles and nacho pepper rings. Every item - not stolen from the kitchen -- was purchased from the commissary (our cost - about $2.00 each).
Chips are spread out and then the chili/noodle mix poured on top. Cheese mix added next. Then, grated cheese and nacho peppers. If E was able to get an onion and lettuce out of the chow hall, those were also added.
We stuff our faces and for awhile we aren't in prison. We're at TGI Fridays or Applebees eating nachos and talking, laughing about women and sports.
We plan more meals. E is going to lift soy sauce. I used to cook on the outside. I describe fried rice with onions, peppers and mackerel (a staple on the commissary list). I think I can make spaghetti with pizza sauce, fresh veggies and beef tips. We'll keep the ramien whole so it looks more like spaghetti noodles.
Big S tells us he is a meat and potato guy -- only ate Chinese food once in his life. I've got a dozen recipes in mind to expand his culinary horizons.
E is getting self rising flour for us, real pizza dough (not a noodle/saltine mix); add pepperoni, sauce, and cheese and we have pizza that can challenge Dominos.
Brownie mix just appeared. Big S adds water and alternating stirring and microwaving he makes a wonderful smelling lumpy brownie. E adds heaping scoops of peanut butter and a chopped up Snickers bar. Stirred up and scooped equally into 3 bowls. It looks a mess but smells and tastes better than anything I've eaten since I've been here.
You can tell a great deal about guys by what they eat. There are the junk food eaters who plow through honey buns, candy bars, and Mountain Dew. Then, the nominal cooks who eat their "noodles" (ramien sold for $.28 per package) "naked" - noodles cooked and "swelled" up with crushed Cheetos and then eaten on crackers. Then, there are the elaborate meal makers that I've been fortunate to connect with.
Take my friend "E" for example. E has access through his job to the kitchen storeroom. He has helped us create a "spice rack" by "borrowing" basil, cinnamon, oregano, and garlic. The funny thing is, none of those spices are used in the inmates' food, but are regularly added to the staff meals to make them more palatable.
Anyway, E lifts the seasonings and gets "Big S" to help us store them off site. Big S is the gentle giant of the group. He looks tough, but has the disposition of Gandhi. He's a peace maker in our building (as opposed to E who will fight anyone at anytime).
We decide to fix nachos after working out and blowing off evening chow (the way meals and rec work, we get off work at 3:30; if we want to workout we have to miss dinner). Six or Seven noodles; grated block of hot pepper cheese (E made the cheese grater at work); a cheese mix of cheese spread, garlic powder and ranch dressing powder (E also got that from the kitchen); hot chili with beans (seasoned with basil and oregano) and then mixed with the swelled noodles and nacho pepper rings. Every item - not stolen from the kitchen -- was purchased from the commissary (our cost - about $2.00 each).
Chips are spread out and then the chili/noodle mix poured on top. Cheese mix added next. Then, grated cheese and nacho peppers. If E was able to get an onion and lettuce out of the chow hall, those were also added.
We stuff our faces and for awhile we aren't in prison. We're at TGI Fridays or Applebees eating nachos and talking, laughing about women and sports.
We plan more meals. E is going to lift soy sauce. I used to cook on the outside. I describe fried rice with onions, peppers and mackerel (a staple on the commissary list). I think I can make spaghetti with pizza sauce, fresh veggies and beef tips. We'll keep the ramien whole so it looks more like spaghetti noodles.
Big S tells us he is a meat and potato guy -- only ate Chinese food once in his life. I've got a dozen recipes in mind to expand his culinary horizons.
E is getting self rising flour for us, real pizza dough (not a noodle/saltine mix); add pepperoni, sauce, and cheese and we have pizza that can challenge Dominos.
Brownie mix just appeared. Big S adds water and alternating stirring and microwaving he makes a wonderful smelling lumpy brownie. E adds heaping scoops of peanut butter and a chopped up Snickers bar. Stirred up and scooped equally into 3 bowls. It looks a mess but smells and tastes better than anything I've eaten since I've been here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
