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Friday, November 19, 2010

November Bridge

November is a very difficult month for me, perhaps the most difficult. November 28th was my wedding anniversary. I married the woman of my dreams on that day back in 1981. She had just turned 19. I was just past 22. As I stood at the front of the church and watched her walk down the aisle, I thought I was the luckiest man alive. I was in love with a woman who made my heart skip a beat each time she stood next to me. She was simply, the most beautiful woman I ever saw.



Throughout our marriage, through good and bad, loneliness, heartache, and joy, she always took my breath away. She grew more beautiful to me each day. She blessed me with two healthy, outgoing, intelligent sons. I thought God had blessed me with a perfect life. I had my health, education, personality and a picture perfect life.


For a number of reasons that I’ve documented in the therapy sessions known more simply as my writings, my life was completely out of control. I loved my spouse more than life itself, yet her detachment, her coldness, her lack of expressing love for me hurt me more than I could even admit to myself. I embarked on a self-destructive course that led to the loss of the three people I loved more than anything.


A minister I deeply respect spoke recently about adversity creating in people of faith either an insurmountable burden or a bridge to a closer relationship with God. I’ve thought a great deal about what he said and have reflected on his words in the light of a few recent conversations I’ve had with inmates.


“It’s all about attitude. If you believe He loves you and is faithful, you will trust Him to never give you more than you can handle and never abandon you.”


There’s an inmate named Jeff in here whose wife wrote and said she was leaving him and moving in with another man. He had been to the psychologist and gotten meds to help with depression. He briefly had suicidal thoughts. A couple of guys told him to speak with me. “Larry’ll understand.”


I listened intently as this man broke down, suffering and in pain. I told him I understood. I told him there was nothing he could do to stop what she was doing. He had to remain strong and see this through.


The minister had said through adversity, through suffering, we learn how to truly comfort. Too often, we say “I understand”, when in truth, we don’t. Through my struggles, my loss, I have become a better listener than I ever was. I was quick to tell my wife exactly how to handle any problem, quick to tell her to “get over it” when she’d get upset.


Having gone through this, I can now understand another’s pain. Nothing has hurt me; nothing has caused me such pain and heartache, as the loss of my wife and sons. There are no words that can adequately describe the sadness I felt and continue to feel when she wrote and said “I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t loved you for a long time.”


Each night I pray that someday she and our sons make contact with me and say they did in fact love me. Yet, the likelihood of that looks more remote with each day.


That pain I feel has given me new insight into the frailty of people; it’s given me compassion. I wish I could have learned that lesson without the suffering, without the loss of those three. I feel blessed by the changes I’ve experience.


“At your lowest you are at your closest to God.”


I lost my wife and sons. Friends betrayed and abandoned me. The people I worked with were so angry they sought 100 years of confinement for me. I was written about in the papers, talked about, attacked, slandered, cast off. Everything I had was taken from me: money, property, reputation, freedom, and love. Nothing, no vow, or commitment, or promise was kept.


I remember sitting in my cell at the jail crying uncontrollably, not being sure I could survive another day. I thought my death was the only option left. I couldn’t go through with it. At that precise moment I knew everyone else may abandon me, but God was with me.


We tend to think we are blessed when things are good, when all in our life is going right. The truth is, we are never so blessed as when we are at our lowest, when everyone we loved and trusted has let us down. At that precise moment we learn we really do matter, we really are loved.


November is a very difficult month, perhaps the most difficult month, for me. In this month, more than any other, thoughts of the loss of my wife, separation from my sons and the loss of our family run through my mind.


I have changed as a person through this experience. I may be sadder and the sadness may never heal, but I am also more patient, compassionate and caring.


I have paid a terrible price for my behavior, yet I have been blessed. If I could go back and redo everything I would. But things will get better. I know they will. November is difficult, but it’s not impossible. And, that really is a blessing.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

A Cougartown Nightmare

I work for corrections education. This past week the school principal – Ms. C – called me to a meeting with the two teachers I work for: Ms. H and Ms. W. All three women are older than me and, in a bizarre twist; all three enjoy talking to me and having me work for them. I hate to admit it, but I’m charming.



The meeting was to discuss me developing a writing lab for all the students enrolled in GED classes. Currently, with Ms. W’s supervision, I teach two creative writing classes each week. I was thrilled with the prospect of working with all the guys in the school. But, then the fun began.


“Which teacher do you want to be assigned to full time?” Ms. C asked. I was between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, there was Ms. H, a gravely voiced, early 60’s divorcee from Hilton Head, South Carolina. She was educated at a private catholic boarding school, then earned a Masters in English from Virginia. To offend her alcoholic mother she gave up teaching at a private school to become a prison teacher over 23 years ago. She lives near my former home and socializes with a good number of people I know. On more than one occasion she’s told me “If I ever meet your ex-wife out I’ll be sure to tell her she was wrong”.


Then there is Ms. W, another early 60’s woman with a Masters in Geology from the University of Colorado. Prior to moving here five years ago to buy a horse farm, she had worked as an adult education instructor at a Canadian Indian reservation school. One day she knew I was pre-occupied with my own thoughts. “What’s the matter?” she asked. I told her about my ex’s objection to my blog postings and her refusal to even communicate with me about our younger son. The diminutive Ms. W jumped up, pointed at me and said, “She knew what you were doing. She loved the fancy life; loved all the gifts. She divorced you to play the role of innocent spouse. She’s got to live with her decisions and be honest about her feelings and behavior!” As you can probably tell, I really love working at the school!


So here was my dilemma. I had to pick one of these instructors to go to work for full time and abandon the other. “I enjoy working with both”, I said, trying to maintain complete neutrality. Then the conversation deteriorated as Ms. H accused Ms. W of playing “middle school games”. Ms. C stepped in. “The writing program will be under Ms. W. If you want to head up the writing program you’ll go to Ms. W full time.”


Decision made and like everything else in prison, I was told what to do. Ms. W was “thrilled” I was going to work with her. Ms. H told me “I don’t blame you. You’ve always got a job with me if things don’t work out with her.”


I headed back to the building and hung out with Black and Big S and told them what happened.


Then Black said: “So you got two sixty year old white women fighting over you?”
My reply: “Yeah. And the one woman I want to be interested in me – my ex – wishes I was dead.”
Black: “That’s prison.”


They never explained that part in orientation!

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

ACA update

The American Corrections Association was on-site for three days last week as part of Lunenburg’s ACA accreditation process. They went over this place from top to bottom. Here are some preliminary findings”



1) The facility is overcrowded and understaffed;


2) Inmates don’t have the minimum required 25 square feet of individual living space (if you want to understand how large that is, measure 5 feet to the right and 5 feet up. Inmates at Lunenburg have less than 10 square feet);


3) Insufficient space for education and law library.


According to DOC, there are “plenty of beds” at the prisons. Here’s a simple rule: you can tell if DOC is lying by seeing if their spokesperson’s lips are moving!

Epiphany

The definition of an epiphany is “the sudden striking understanding of something”. I felt that this week. In one sudden burst of consciousness, I realized a great deal about my own life. It happened innocently enough. I read a story that was explaining forgiveness.



A father was very concerned with his son. His son would screw up and say “I’m sorry”, the father would then forgive him. The boy would then go and do the same wrong thing again and the pattern of “I’m sorry-You’re forgiven” repeated over and over. Finally, the father took the son to the garage. He hammered a nail into the wall. “Pull the nail out”, he told his son. The son took the hammer and pried the nail out without a problem.


“Wow”, the father said, “remove the hole”. I understood the point immediately. Even when we are forgiven, the hurt we caused, the betrayal leaves a hole. The writer had a powerful message. And, it was a message all of us need to be reminded of from time to time. It’s easy asking to be forgiven. But, for the person hurt, forgiveness goes beyond just “pulling the nail out”. It also means filling the hole.


I thought a great deal about my failed marriage and here was where the epiphany occurred. For perhaps the last forty years I’ve been dealing with people who always demanded more of me, never accepted me just doing what I could. My folks love me, but constantly pushed me to live up to their demands, their wishes. I was brow beaten and guilt driven to be what they expected. Even today, my mom’s modus operandi is to “guilt” people into doing what she wants.


Then, I met “her” – the woman I had always dreamt I’d meet. It was love at first sight, for me anyway. And, I began doing with her what I’d done with my folks, friends, you name it. I would do anything to make her happy. I wouldn’t say “no” to anything.


I should have realized there were problems. At our wedding, her aunt told her she was acting like a “self-centered bitch”. A few years after that, her grandfather told her to “quit patting yourself on the back”.


After I was arrested she wrote me and said “my marriage was my most important accomplishment”. I hi-lited “my” twice. It wasn’t “our” marriage; it was, I discovered, always “hers”.


Years ago she told me “I don’t need you. I’ve got my own money, own job. I can make it on my own.” Funny, when I was arrested she made sure to tell me she needed everything.


I believe in love at first sight, believe in true love. On reflecting on my marriage I came to realize everything I did, every decision, every concession fed her needs, not ours.


She’s too full of pride, too self-assured to think I ever mattered, we ever mattered. I realized this week she would never admit she missed me; never tell me she needed me. She’ll never say “I’m sorry”. She simply doesn’t believe any of those things.


And that was when I had my epiphany. For years I wanted her to love me, really love me. I wanted her to light up, tell me (and mean it) that she was happy, happy about us. Wanting that drove me to do terribly self-destructive things to myself and, ultimately our relationship. Of course, “our” relationship was the way it was because I gave everything.


Don’t get me wrong. I was a pain in the ass at times. I was compulsive, surly at times and didn’t like to discipline the kids. But, I was also a very loving husband. I was so in love with my wife. I would have done anything for her.


I realized my “marriage wall” was full of holes. Twenty-eight years of never being told I was loved, twenty-eight years of being told I wasn’t needed, twenty-eight years of never being told “I’m sorry”, or “you matter, we matter”.


I started patching the wall this week. I still love her. In spite of it all, I love her.


My cousin and her husband came for a visit this past weekend. One of the blessings in this experience (and yes, there are many blessings) has been developing an amazing relationship with them. Thanksgiving 2008, as I sat suffering in jail with my whole life spinning out of control they sent me a card, no “why’d you do it”, no “we’re disappointed in you”, just a simple message that said “we’re there for you”. Since that time, they write weekly and visit every couple of months. They’ve kept me stocked with magazines, books and most importantly, hope. Candidly, I’m not sure I could survive this without their love and support.


While we were talking I told them how I’d love to see my ex, love for her to walk through the door and tell me she made a mistake divorcing me. Then, after a couple of bites of microwavable sandwich, I said “of course, that will never happen and if it did, I couldn’t go back to her without changing. And she’ll never see any need to change.”


I’ve changed a great deal these past two plus years. I’ve learned a lot about myself and why things happened the way they did. I learned what love really means, what makes a true friend, and how important forgiveness, compassion, and faith are.


I’ve also learned I’ll always love my ex-wife, but it’s OK we’re not together. My life was too full of holes because of her. I deserve better.

This ain't prison

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Monday, November 15, 2010

A Father's Letter

To my precious sons –



I haven’t heard from either of you in an extremely long while. For me, it feels like a lifetime. Your mom censors what I write to you. I pass no judgment on her decision to do that. Ultimately, she will have to decide in her own conscience if her behavior throughout this time has been appropriate.


I use this posting to put on paper some thoughts I’ve had about our circumstances, what we’ve been through, what I’ve learned. My intention is not to justify “why” this happened. If you want the whole story you know where to find me.


No, my purpose is to share with you some life lessons I’ve learned throughout this process. I won’t criticize you or your mom. Fact is, I love you three deeply, more deeply than any of you can imagine. Not a day goes by that I don’t pray about you three. I only hope and pray that your lives are joyful and peaceful. If that means life for you goes on without me, I can live with that. From the moment I was arrested, every decision I made was to protect you and mom. I’m not proud of the decisions and behavior that led me here, but I look myself in the mirror every morning with a clear conscience knowing at the worst moment in my life, I did the truly selfless, loving things necessary to take of you three. You may not realize it now, you may never admit it to me, but it’s the truth.


And, truth is a funny thing. I’ve heard a great deal about lying and how important honesty is. Ironically, the people who talk the most about honesty, the people who tell you over and over how truthful they are, end up being the very people who can’t deal with honesty and who lie to themselves.


This experience has, in many ways, been liberating for me. Everything about my life is now an open book. Most people can’t say that. They hide behind secrets and pray no one finds out. Here’s the thing – everyone lies, everyone keeps secrets. Honesty is hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.


I’m not suggesting it’s OK to lie. But, before you hold your head up proud as a peacock and tell everyone how important honesty is, think back on all the little white lies you’ve told.


There are however, five traits that I think matter a great deal more.


They are courage, mercy, forgiveness, love and hope.


Courage means doing the right thing, doing the selfless thing, when everything is on the line and you’re afraid, so afraid that you can’t even see straight; yet, you still find the inner strength to do what has to be done even if it costs you everything. And, you hold no grudge. You don’t look back.


And boys, there are damn few people who are courageous. If you want to learn about courage, read about people who have been on the brink of losing all yet didn’t give up. It’s not courageous to get up, go to work, and be an honorable person. That’s expected. What is courageous is admitting when you’ve done wrong and willingly accept the consequences. It may not always seem fair, but no one ever said life was fair.


Courage means fighting through and overcoming fear and despair. My hope and prayer for you is you never have to come face to face with your or your family’s entire life at stake. But if you do, I know you’ll act courageously.


I never considered myself courageous. Fact is, I always felt like a chicken. But when things mattered most I found courage, I took more than my share of punishment. Almost everyone that claimed to love and care about me abandoned me. And still, I stood up and made sure you guys and mom would be protected. A great many people think I was foolish handling things the way I did. Even having gone through this, I’d still do the same thing today.


Mercy is so important and in such short supply. It literally means showing compassion to an offender. Here’s the thing. We all offend. We all hurt someone we care for. Mercy boils down to kindness, simply treating someone the way you’d want to be treated if you were in their shoes.


When I was in the jail, a young black man (your age “D”) came in strung out on heroin. I didn’t even know heroin addiction existed. I thought it was a 60’s and 70’s problem. Anyway, this kid was sick, as physically ill as anyone I’d ever seen. They couldn’t put him in a cell because he was constantly vomiting and losing bowel control. They left him on a cot in the middle of the day room with a bucket to puke in and soiled sheets.


His body physically craved heroin. It was, perhaps one of the saddest things I’d ever seen. This young man, shivering and sweating, unable to hold any food down, covered in his own waste. I sat daily with that kid. I made sure the staff got him clean linens and the nurses brought his medicine to him.


I’m not quite sure why I did it, I just know we spend way too much time judging and condemning each other when we should be offering a helping hand. I’ve spend a good deal of time reading and trying to understand the Bible. A great deal in there is about how we treat others is how God will ultimately judge us. I’ve learned it’s easy to think yourself superior, free of human failings and weaknesses. The fact is, we all screw up and we all need someone to lean on.


And mercy goes hand in hand with forgiveness. Boys, if you never listen to anything else I say, listen to this: always forgive. It is the toughest thing to do, and the most necessary, at least if you truly believe you’re a Christian.


When Jesus told Peter to forgive his brother seventy times seven, He meant it. Don’t hold anger, don’t be bitter. Forgive. We always want to condition our forgiveness, “If you do this, then I’ll forgive you”. Or, we say “I forgive, but I’ll never forget”. That’s not forgiveness, boys. Forgiveness is letting go, saying its over and forgotten. It’s about restoration and reconciliation of broken lives, broken relationships. It’s damn hard, probably the hardest thing you’ll ever do – I know. It’s also necessary.


For me, it boils down to this: “as God forgave you, so forgive others”.


Love goes hand in hand with all of this. But be careful. We say “I love you” way too easily when we don’t mean it. Love can overcome anything. Ultimately, life comes down to love.


I don’t buy the line “I used to love you, but I don’t anymore”. If that’s the case, it wasn’t really love. People we love hurt us. I’ve been on both ends of that as well.


I returned my wedding ring to mom. She told me I could keep it, but I didn’t see the reason. A wedding ring has no beginning, no end. It is given to represent complete, whole love. There’s a reason Jesus spoke over and over about not divorcing. Couples are supposed to love each other the way God loves us – unconditionally, even when we screw up. That’s what the vows mean.


Can you imagine God ever saying “I don’t love you anymore?” God wouldn’t do that. He loves us in spite of our failings. He never gives up on us. And, if we believe in Him, we are supposed to love the same way.


I’ll always love your mom and every day I’ll thank God for the time we had together and I’ll pray she is happy. I wish she hadn’t divorced me, wished she thought we could survive this. But, loving her means accepting what she’s done even when it broke my heart. She’s a wonderful woman and I feel truly blessed to have had her in my life.


Love is wonderful, but it’s also tough, the toughest thing there is. It requires patience, understanding and commitment. Most of all, it never gives up.


Finally boys, there’s hope. Hope is the same as faith. It’s knowing when you go through the valleys of life’s disappointment, failures, heartache, and loss that you’re not alone and you’ll get through.


I’ve had amazing experiences in my life. Some days seemed better than I could have ever imagined like the days you both were born. But other days have been worse than I can even express. And I won’t kid you and say I just got through them. I didn’t. I wondered how I’d make it and even if it was worth it. It was in those darkest, loneliest moments I found my faith and hope.


There’s a great Bible verse from Paul’s letter to the Romans in chapter 5, that I recite daily. It goes:


“…we also exult in our tribulations knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character, and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint . . .”


I try to live each day by those words.


No matter how bad things appear, no matter how lost everything seems, there is always tomorrow. You take each day as it comes and keep fighting, keep praying.


I have found so many blessings through this experience. I wish things were different, wish we were together as a family, wish mom and I were still married. Yet, still I am blessed.


Nothing that has happened, nothing that you do, will stop me from loving you. I’ve always loved you and always will. Just as with mom, even though we are apart, you remain in my constant thoughts and prayers.


Be kind to each other. Love and care for each other and your mom.


You are the greatest blessing and joy in my life.


Love,


Dad

Trilogy

A good deal of interesting stuff has been happening here this past week. Here are the top three.



I. “Meet the New Boss”


The new warden is kicking ass and taking names and, so far, it’s OK because it’s all directed at the CO’s.


The former warden, Ms. Runion, was all about “therapy”. She had made a big push to make the COs a little kinder and gentler. Respect was her mantra. Officers were to treat inmates (sorry “offenders”, that’s the new word for being locked up) with respect.


Discipline was lax. The COs rebelled. “Screw that. We ain’t talkin’ nice to the inmates.” A number of COs began filing grievances against the warden.


Ms. Runion has been in the “system” since the 70’s. She has frankly spent too many years working in corrections to put up with whiny officers. The Department of Health’s civil commitment sexual predator facility needed a warden and she transferred. CO’s who were being made to “play nice with the inmates” celebrated. “We got rid of that bitch” I heard from a few COs.


Then enter Ms. Avent, a small, middle age African American woman who also has been in the system for years. She’s not “touchy feelie”. No, she’s about following the rules and being professional. And the CO’s are walking around in a daze.


“Officers will look professional.” She’s sent dozens home to shave and clean and press their uniforms. No longer do senior officers – Sergeants, Lieutenants, and Captains – joke around with CO’s. “You are their superior officers. Start acting like it!”


Rules are being enforced about movement on the compound and living standards in the dorms. I heard our building lieutenant (a woman) mutter as she walked by my bunk “I hate that bitch”.


The officers are, simply put, being made to earn their pay. Most old heads will tell you they can live under any set of rules as long as they know what they are. I agree. There’s too much crazy stuff that can happen in here when rules go by the wayside.


She’s tough, but so far, she’s fair.


II. “Rumors”


DOC has a new director. He comes from a state with a low inmate population and aggressive parole and re-entry programs. This week, Virginia’s Governor announced all departments must prepare budgets with a 6% decrease in funding. DOC is bracing for more cuts.


I met with the school principal this week. We are exploring expanding my creative writing program to a school wide writing lab for all GED students and community college enrollees. She told me our prison is being considered for a re-entry facility. Governor McDonnell has made inmate re-entry a priority. There is “talk” out there that a number of prisons will be modified to focus on getting inmates close to release properly prepared for re-entry to society. I’d stay here as an academic aide. A large number of inmates here (those not working as academic or vocational aides) would go to other prisons.


Is it a viable plan? I’m not so sure. If you want to bring DOC costs down and improve re-entry programs, re-introduce parole. Governor McDonnell could save billions over the long haul by returning Virginia corrections to a parole system with inmates being made eligible for early release based on performance in educational and vocational programs.


Think how enthusiastic an inmate would be to earn his GED if he was told “you become parole eligible with your degree”.


Every year around this time rumors run through prisons that “the Governors gonna bring back parole.” Perhaps this year, it won’t just be rumors.


III. “Man Down, Man Down”


The other afternoon our building called a medical emergency. As “Flo Rider” likes to shout out, we had a “man down”.


Briscoe, a gentle giant of a guy, was in the shower. His towel fell off the shelf. As he reached for it, he slipped and fell. Briscoe’s a big guy: 275 lbs. He hit with a “thud”. His head split open and he bled profusely.


Fortunately, within two minutes (a record for medical emergencies here), three COs and our new cute, young, blond nurse showed up with a wheelchair and emergency kit. As they stopped the bleeding and wheeled Briscoe down to medical, the nurse gently held his hand and said “hang on Mr. Briscoe. I’ll take care of you.”


Briscoe turned toward me and gave a big “thumbs up”. I started trying to figure out how I could slip and get the compassionate young nurse to hold my hand.


Briscoe’s back. His head is wrapped in a white bandage. He still has a huge smile on his face.


A final thought – the American Corrections Association will be here this week to evaluate the prison to see if this place operates as a prison within their standards. ACA’s certification matters to DOC. Funny thing is, you put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig. You can repaint buildings and press CO uniforms, but it doesn’t change the fact that this is still a prison. And prisons are dark, depressing, inhumane places and no certification can change that.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Shelter from the Storm

I’ve had another lousy week. That’s not completely accurate. I had another terrible week through Friday. The constant bombardment of bad news received almost every day has been wearing me down.



In the last few weeks I discovered my attorney screwed up my 401(k) surrender (I used my 401(k) to make partial restitution). I had to hire an accountant to handle my 2009 income tax returns. He arranged a filing extension through October 15th. I learned about ten days ago I owe an additional $7,000 in Federal and State taxes. Let’s see, at 45 cents an hour . . . .


I had to file my appeal to the Virginia Supreme Court after the trial judge dismissed my initial Habeas petition. I had my initial “annual review” with my counselor. Just seeing my release date so many years in the future brought me down.


I read daily about embezzlement cases where the sentence is a mere fraction of mine. The most recent, a Federal Judge in Harrisonburg, Virginia sentenced a corporate manager who stole just under $1 million to 30 months in prison. I took $2.1 million but paid more than $500,000 in restitution the day I was sentenced, yet still received over five times that other man’s sentence.


Then there’s my ex and kids. I sent her a card telling her how sorry I was and how much I missed her and our sons. Did I expect a response? No. But then, I guess I secretly did hope she’d write back. As I have for the last year, I again heard nothing.


I couldn’t shake the thought that everything I had was lost and there was no way out. I’d been busting my butt trying to help guys in here to the point that I felt like a trauma room surgeon at the scene of a natural disaster. Hundreds of people are lined up and I’m alone, with no medication, no bandages, nothing but a rusty, dull saw. I go to chow and guys stop me. “Heh lawyer Larry (my prison tag) can you look at my papers?” or “Heh double L, can they really take my good time?” “Kites (notes)” are sent to me daily. Guys stop me on the boulevard asking for “just two minutes of time.” I was in a place for substantially longer than I deserved. I had been abandoned and betrayed by people I thought loved me. I had years left to do. Guys were pulling me in a hundred directions.


I had done everything I could to make this right. I protected my family. I stood up, faced the court and admitted everything, no excuses, no buts. And everything I did right was used against me.


The teachers I work for, the old heads I’m close to, Big S, all said the same thing: “you matter to people here and you did the right thing. You’re gonna get through this.” I had a hard time believing that.


As I’ve said before, I love Bob Dylan music. One of my favorites from Blood on the Tracks (an album Dylan wrote to deal with a painful divorce) has always been “shelter from the storm”. I always equated that song with my wife.


“I came in from the wilderness
A creature void of form
Come in she said
I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”


Over and over I would think of that song and others and feel down. I was close to giving up, ready to drop my case and just be like so many other locked up guys and just move from day to day not giving a damn about anyone or anything.


And just when you think no one’s listening, something happens to convince you otherwise. A guy in my building came by Friday afternoon with a card from his mom. This young black kid – late twenties – is in here on a serious crime. He’s been locked up nine years already and has seven more to go. I agreed to help him after sitting with him and talking about what happened. He let me read his transcript and see all the evidence. It wasn’t pretty, but he was honest and remorseful. The card his mom sent had one paragraph in it he wanted me to see. It said the following:


“Our prayer circle is praying for your lawyer fried. He’s the first man we’ve felt understood what this means. May God help and bless him.”


He told me his mom “knew in her heart” something positive would happen. “She believes God put you here for a reason” he told me.


I was stunned. My wife and kids gave up on me. Friends turned away. Yet here was this woman I didn’t know who felt moved to believe in me. I went out and ran and thought over and over what does it mean? I came in and read my afternoon Bible verse. Jeremiah 29, verses 4 through 14. God, through Jeremiah spoke to his captive people in Babylon. “For I know the plans I have for you . . ..” The whole passage is about God reminding his people that even though they’re in captivity He has not forgotten them. He will restore them. Let your life go on with faith. He will deliver you.


That night I made pizzas with Jerry Lee, Black and Big S. They know what I’d been going through. I asked them what they thought about my situation, the letter, and Jeremiah. Jerry Lee thought a moment then told me that sometimes we forget just how courageous, just how faithful we really are in the midst of difficulties. “Give yourself a break. You’re a tough, righteous man. You have positive energy. Guys see it.”


I still don’t know why all this is happening to me. But, I do believe that I matter, maybe not to the woman and sons I love, or the supposed friends I lost. I matter to a large group of people that society seems to have given up on. And, I matter to my God. One way or the other I’m going to get through this.


I’m still finding shelter from the storm. It’s just coming from a more reliable source.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

All About Race

This is an uncomfortable issue for me to write about. It’s all about race, black and white. In my other life, my “on the street” life I had a good number of opinions about race issues. Growing up, our family only knew one black couple in our church. I still recall my mom commenting on more than one occasion “they are such a credit to their race”. Even at a young age I knew my mom’s comment was ignorant and wrong.



By the time I became the company’s in-house claims attorney, I had the most black employees working for me of any manager: five women. They’d come to my house for outings. I thought I was “color-blind”.


Yet, our family had no black friends. My wife, for all her liberal leanings, had no black professors working with her. Our church was all white, our friends the same.


Our kids were somewhat different. The schools they went to – Prince Edward County Public Schools – were part of the four consolidated cases that made up the historic Brown v Board of Education decision. Virginia’s history of school integration is as clouded as it’s handling of criminal justice and prisons. Rather than integrating the schools, Virginia politicians instituted a policy called “massive resistance”. Public school systems shut down. White children attended newly opened private academies. Black kids were deprived of school. An entire generation of black children failed to be educated.


As a result the Prince Edward schools were majority black. Our sons had black kids in every class, every grade. And, in another unfortunate twist, many of the black families in Southside Virginia, besides being under-educated, are also under-employed and poor.


After I was arrested, I learned rather quickly what it meant to be a minority. At the jail and here at prison, whites account for only about 30% of the inmate population. Blacks make up the vast majority of the men incarcerated here as well as the staff that works here.


I used to think blacks just needed to “get over it” – the whole “I’m a victim of slavery” mentality that seemed to me to permeate the black community. “Work hard; get an education, quit bitchin. You’ve got great opportunities. Get over it.”


I was wrong. I have gotten to know a large number of black men in this prison experience. A fair number I am fairly close to. I count them as friends. Almost my entire creative writing class is black. To a man, when they open themselves up, there is a self-hatred, a feeling of alienation that comes from their perception of being less than equal. It is a feeling that is generational and is a direct result of this nation’s abysmal record of dealing with blacks.


Whites don’t get it. But, for blacks there is no escaping the fact that they were brought here in chains and were deemed chattel, not persons.


White liberals, in their quest to show they “get it”, end up being condescending. Conservatives don’t even attempt to think race has anything to do with class status, crime, employment.


Fact is, America is hung up on race, whites and blacks don’t talk the same, think the same. There’s a funny song in the musical “Avenue Q” called “Everybody’s a little bit racist”. The sad truth is, it’s true.


Blacks are suspicious of whites. Whites suspicious of blacks. On the “street”, whites are in charge. In prison, blacks control and they take a good deal of frustration out on whites. As one of my students told me:


“You’d get a pass at a higher level ‘cause you’re a lawyer, but other white guys get their asses kicked.”


I sit in class and listen as guys describe childhood experiences. “My you are dark.” I’ve come to empathize with their comments about the police and the courts. As one guy in class told me after hearing about my experience with the detective and the judge: “Welcome to our world. You just became an honorary black man.”


I don’t think I’m responsible for slavery. But I know I have to be open to understand exactly what the slave experience has meant to black Americans. And, I have to be willing to call it as I see it. You start a sentence with “I’m not racist, but . . .” you are racist.


Everyone has prejudices, preconceived notions of how people act, how they are. We’ve all got to learn to see people, not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.


The sad truth is, blacks are disproportionately ill treated in the criminal justice system. Crack cocaine convictions are predominately a black crime. Until recently sentences for crack cocaine were significantly greater than for powder cocaine (a “white” crime). Child porn sentencing (another white crime) carries lesser sentences than crack.


I’ve been made an “honorary” black both in jail and prison after guys heard and read about my case. It’s taken that experience and hearing the stories these guys tell to know things have to change about race.


We’ve got a long way to go and it starts first with just listening and sympathizing and understanding.

Monday, November 8, 2010

I Don't Need To Read No Damn Books

I had an incident this week in one of the creative writing classes I teach. For those that don’t know, last February I asked the school principal for permission to begin a writing program. I learned shortly thereafter that one of the teachers I worked for had tried, unsuccessfully, five years earlier to develop a writing program here.



We outlined a writing course with heavy emphasis on reading great authors. Over a fourteen week period, three hours each Wednesday afternoon, I lectured on a “nuts and bolts” issue (grammar or story development) and in group discussion covered the “genre” of the week: two weeks devoted to poetry; two weeks for short stories; six different genres in all.


Our initial class had twelve students. I was the “front man”. Ms. “W” helped with syllabus development, editing student works, and getting the class materials. From that small group we expanded to two classes; the basic program and an advanced class with more emphasis on writing material fit for publication. We now have 30 students enrolled and a winter term waiting list of another 30. The guys enrolled love the class, love to hear my stories, and love to read and write. It is an all around success.


My reasons for proposing the writing program were not all altruistic. Yes, I saw a deep need for guys in here to open their minds and express themselves constructively. But, I was looking for a way to present my own story. A week after my arrest I began keeping a journal. In these two plus years of incarceration I’ve written over 900 pages. My soul, my heartache, my hopes, my simple observations about days, are contained in those pages.


I’ve written in excess of 200 pages of my story centering on my arrest with flashbacks of trips to Vegas, the Caribbean and Atlantic City. I’ve written the first three chapters of a legal thriller. I’ve completed ten short stories. I write daily. It keeps my grounded and sane.


Back to this week’s class and “GT”. He was a student in the writing class. I say “was” because he quit the class.


GT is 34. He comes from Camden, New Jersey. His mother was a crack addict and he moved repeatedly from public housing unit to public housing unit. He never met his father.


He’s had a difficult life. He’s halfway through a ten year sentence for dealing heroin. He “decided” six months ago that he would write a “Gangsta novel” about life in the ‘hood. He signed up for the writing class to get editing help and feedback on his book.


Each week I ask the guys to read handout copies of short stories, poems, chapters from novels. We’ve put a reading list on reserve in the library and ask each student to commit to read three books during the term. The list includes works by Steinbeck, Hemingway, Harper Lee, Jack London, Melville, Wright, Hughes and Crane to name a few. Each week GT comes in and refuses to read. “I ain’t joinin’ no book club; I ain’t here to read no damn book. I wanna write my book, make money, buy a Benz, get me a ho’ and some ‘Henney’ and live.”


I switched tactics. Ms. W and I found essays by black writers, poems by Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes. All to no avail.


This week I tried a different tact. I edited a section of his book. I pointed out all the misspelled words, the sentence fragments, and improper punctuation. I showed him how his story was just one cliché after another. I came in with facts and figures on writers’ income and the unemployment rate for African-American males lacking college degrees. I handed out articles on publishing tips indicating that being well-read and writing properly matters. It fell on GT’s deaf ears.


Ms. W told me afterwards “you can’t make him do what everyone knows he needs to do. He’ll stand and fall on his own.”


I thought about both my sons and our family. When our oldest was about five (he’s now 22 and in law school), my wife began reading him “Where the Red Fern Grows”. It is an amazing story about a boy’s love for his two dogs - “Dan ad Little Ann” – and their love for each other. That story, I thought for a long time, captured the essence of the love my wife and I shared. After our divorce I can’t help but choke up as I think of “Dan” and “Little Ann”.


I took turns reading the story to my son. At the story’s tragic climax I was asked to read. I remember I began describing the scene and then reading about death, and devotion, and grief, and love. I felt tears roll down my cheeks as I read aloud what became of “Dan” and “Little Ann” and the boy. My wife sobbed. Our son sat transfixed, listening intently to the words, gauging our emotions.


Reading was always a part of our family’s life. Each night, my wife read to our sons when they were small. Our youngest heard aloud the “Harry Potter” series. Vacation driving featured books on CD. Both boys came to expect regular stops at Barnes & Noble. Books, magazines and newspapers were always present in our home.


Terry McMillan, author of “Waiting to Exhale” was recently interviewed on TV. When asked to give advice to upcoming writers she simply said “read, read, read”. I wish GT understood that.


So many men that end up behind bars do so out of ignorance and the pitiful circumstances of their lives. Mine was a crime of opportunity. I knew right from wrong but miscalculated – through pride and arrogance – the true cost of crossing the line. Of 1200 inmates here, around 50 are college educated, 50 enrolled in college, five with advanced degrees. Over half the compound lacks a high school diploma or GED.


Reading matters. Writing matters. Education matters. Perhaps someday GT will realize that, before it’s too late.





Monday, November 1, 2010

Conviction

Hillary Swank stars in a new movie based on the true story of a woman who returns to school, gets her high school and college diplomas, then goes to law school and passes the bar; all to take on her brother’s case and have his conviction for first degree murder overturned.



She was interviewed this past week with lawyer Barry Scheck, director of “The Innocence Project” (http://www.innocenceproject.org/). In a poignant scene from the movie, Swank’s character visits her brother in prison shortly after he attempts suicide. “I’ll go to school, become a lawyer get you out of here. I promise. But you have to promise me you won’t give up, you won’t kill yourself.”


The brother was, in fact, innocent. DNA testing proved it. In the same interview, twelve recently exonerated men from Texas, men who had served sentences from 10 to 26 years before DNA testing proved their innocence, appeared on screen. To a man they spoke of the isolation they endured, the inhumane treatment, the loneliness, the despair – almost each man had tried suicide – loss of family and friends. Yet, each man said the same thing. “I survived because I had faith. I knew God was with me.”


Until you are incarcerated, until you hear the cell door close, you cannot fully understand, fully empathize with these men. Prison changes you. You lose so much, suffer so deeply. If you are lucky, in your loss and despair you find faith and meaning. Still, there is a sadness that always remains.


I used to believe that justice was indeed just. I used to believe that you were “innocent until proven guilty”, that courts were fair, prosecutors honorable, defense attorneys dedicated, prisons places for rehabilitation. I know now my beliefs were all myths. I have dedicated myself to speaking out about what I see each and every day.


The vast majority of inmates are guilty, but they do not deserve the treatment they receive. The criminal justice system and prisons in particular, has become a giant machine with its gears being continually greased by the men and women convicted, their families, and their victims. Prisons warehouse inmates then release them feeling more bitter, more alienated, more lost.


How do you explain to a man that he deserves six years in prison for a driving violation? How do you tell a woman she must serve 10 years for embezzling $2 million, while a woman in Maryland only gets 18 months?


The system perpetuates itself. Virginia DOC maintains 22 facilities, employs 11,500 and holds between 32,000 and 38,000 (both figures provided by DOC themselves). DOC’s 2010-11 operating budget exceeds $1.1 billion. That does not include DCE’s (Department of Correction Education, a separate agency) budget, or that of Probation and Parole. Virginia has one of the ten largest inmate populations in the country, though its population is not in the top ten.


On October 18th a new director of DOC will take over. The outgoing director, Gene Johnson, on the eve of his retirement began speaking candidly about the failures of Virginia’s current sentencing and incarceration practices. His sobering statements should give all conscientious Virginians pause.


The newly appointed Director – Harold Clarke – was previously head of the Massachusetts’s Department of Corrections; he oversaw an inmate population of 9,000. Massachusetts, with a state population of 6.5 million, has only one fourth the prison population of Virginia, a state with a population of approximately 7.6 million. Why the vast disparity?


One of the men I count as a friend is “Black”. When Black was eighteen, he killed a man in a drug deal gone bad. He turns 40 in two months. He’s still under the “old system” (parole; his crime occurred before 1995). For the last ten years he has been “parole eligible”. Ten straight years he has been denied parole. Two days ago he had his annual “parole hearing”. That term doesn’t fit what occurs. Black sits before a video conference hookup. A young female investigator stares at her laptop and asks three questions: Name; DOC number; mandatory parole date. Hearing concluded.


For ten years Black has received the same parole denial form letter. Its reads in part: “parole has been denied due to the severity of the crime”.


During his imprisonment he has earned his college degree. He is active in the Rastafarian Church, a vegetarian and a pacifist. He reads voraciously and writes eloquently. He and I discuss politics, philosophy, religion, music, food. I have no doubt, however, that he will receive the same form denial letter in a month. That is the nature of the amoral system of “corrections” that lives and breathes in Virginia.


In March 2014, Black will be released on mandatory parole. As much as the system has tried to break him, this man survives. What he did was wrong. What Virginia did, and continues to do to him is worse.


DOC reported that last quarter 14 inmates were granted parole. There are approximately 6000 inmates parole eligible. That means on average each quarter 1500 inmates have an opportunity for parole. In practical terms, parole doesn’t even exist for parole eligible inmates.


Despair, loneliness, hopelessness, fear. Each day, inmates fear those emotions. Many quit. They give up. I choose not to. This isn’t about retribution or revenge. It is simply about justice. And justice is, in the end, about fairness, mercy, forgiveness. As President Lincoln noted: we, as a society are to act as the “better part of angels”.


Sometime all it takes is for just one person to believe in you, to love you, to pray for you, to fight for you. The movie “Conviction” is about that. The present state of Virginia’s prisons convicts all well-meaning citizens. Make a difference. Demand change.

Broken Glasses

My glasses are broken and battered. Before my arrest I wore contacts daily. I had a nice pair of glasses to wear occasionally. They were expensive designer frames. In here, I can get a pair of “Clark Kents” (black plastic frames) for $15.00. Eventually I’ll have to do that.



My glasses are scratched and scraped just from daily use. Everything in here is metal or concrete. My glasses are the only “non-DOC” issued item I have. I’m trying to keep them as long as I can. It’s my last physical reminder of my other, my free, life.


I looked at my broken, battered glasses and couldn’t help but think about my broken battered relationship with my ex-wife. We both had baggage, I’ve concluded; we both were scratched and marred a bit. I had always believed in her I had found love, and peace, and completeness. As I look back on us, with the prism of pain and failure removed, I still see and feel all the love. But I know I never felt complete and at peace.


Her family had an affect on her, scarred her from almost the moment we met. Her philandering father announced he was divorcing her mom just weeks after we met. I so much wanted to rescue her and be her hero.


At the same time, I was approaching college graduation. I was third in my class and found the academic exercise easy. I was trying to decide what direction I should follow. I wanted to be a lawyer but also was considering graduate programs.


Every decision I made was against the backdrop of well-meaning parents who reminded me (1) you haven’t accomplished anything yet; and (2) any additional education would be your personal responsibility (ironically my undergrad degree already had me $20,000 in debt; not a small sum in 1981).


And then, I was hopelessly in love with a girl whose father had betrayed the family (as soon as he announced the divorce, he moved in with his lover; his assistant from work) and who’s mother had major psychological hang ups. I found her whole family circumstance absurd. Her father, trying to be “hip”, took her to New York and Canada and gave her marijuana. He spoke openly to her about her mother’s sexual shortcomings.


As our relationship progressed quickly – we were talking about marrying within two months of beginning to date – I focused all my decisions on us!


After we became engaged things didn’t get any easier. Her father, who wouldn’t even communicate regularly with her, told her “you can go to college or get married. I’m not paying for both”. (She was on fully academic scholarship; he paid nothing for her college. He gave us $500 for our wedding).


Her mother obsessed on being alone. She met a despicable man whom (1) she stood up at the altar; then (2) married and refused to consummate the relationship, then (3) divorced. Every issue, every date, every bill, became a crisis for her mom and I was thrust into the middle of it all.


Her younger brother became a discipline problem and began heavy drug use. He suffered: his sister away and married, moved from his mom’s home to his dad’s after he threatened the mom with a baseball bat.


We were young, both in school, struggling financially, working our butts off. I loved my wife but she was a perfectionist and her family’s lunacy always interceded into our still forming marriage. Through that, we bonded.


I knew all her fears, all her disappointments, all her weaknesses. And, she knew mine.


I thought for a long time trying to understand why I lied. After all, there really was no excuse. I shouldn’t have lied to her. I didn’t have to lie about how I felt about her; I never wanted to cheat on her. I lied to be perfect, to have a perfect relationship, perfect family, perfect life. The more I lied, the more I resented my own weaknesses and her weakness; the more I resented her father’s behavior and her mother’s coldness. I felt adrift from her family our entire marriage. Her parents were so self absorbed I was made to feel like an interloper. As I lied I began to feel adrift from her.


In the aftermath of the divorce I began to heal. Funny how a broken heart gives you the ability to see clearly.


I realized that even in spite of all the hurt I loved her deeply. Even in spite of all the crap we both carried with us, we were good together; we created two beautiful, loving sons.


Could we have overcome my crime? I honestly believe we could have. It would have taken extraordinary love, patience, and commitment. Perhaps that’s too much to ask from anyone, especially one you love. I also wondered if I would have found healing and meaning in this struggle without going through the loss of her.


I know for a number of months I was deeply resentful and angry at her. I felt wronged. I had given so much for her and she abandoned and betrayed me. As I’ve healed I’ve found a deep sense of forgiveness, and love, for her. My anger at her pull toward self-preservation has faded. I’ve overcome my bitterness. I discovered a kinder, more patient and forgiving man through this trial. I realized that man was always there – he was the reason I stayed early in our marriage when she suffered from anorexia and depression and her family’s problems interfered regularly in our relationship.


I may not have found that man again if not for the loneliness and the despair and finding the will to overcome all of it on my own.


We are all broken is some way, scarred and battered. But even in that condition we can love, can hope, and can forgive. I put my glasses on. They are chipped and scratched, yet I still see clearly.