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Friday, December 31, 2010

What a Place

My first full week in the “college dorm”. It won’t be a full college dorm for about another five weeks. So far, all the academic aides and mentors have moved in as have about 20 students. Three quarters of the building is left to go.



I’m fine anywhere, but I’ve seen things in here I hadn’t experienced in my old building.


Thursday morning two guys got into a fight (a real fight) right in the bunk cut. Blood went flying and both guys were drug out and CO’s packed their stuff. They’re celebrating Christmas and New Years in the hole. They won’t be back. Neither guy is in the college program. Two more open bunks.


We have one of the most flamboyant black gay guys in the compound still in here. “She” should be moving this week. “She” sits to pee. No joke. “She” swivels into the bathroom lisping “excuse me fellas”, then drops a squat.


The other day another gump was mad because she didn’t come out for “girl talk”. The young lady was deeply offended. “I’m out here freezin’ my titties off and KK – that bitch – is toastie.” Without missing a beat, the CO on duty on the rec yard said “honey, all women lie, even ones with balls.”


At least six times a day guys fire up little roll up cigarettes in the bathroom. For $2 of commissary you get a rolled up cigarette that gives you at most two quick puffs.


Then there’s the tattoo artist who’s putting sleeves (an entire arm) on guys with a homemade tat gun. He’s working ten hours a day on tats making a few hundred dollars a week.


There’s a barber operating shop on the floor. Cutting hair in the building is prohibited, except, apparently, in here. The guy is cutting hair with his radio wired into his TV speaker. Rap music blasting away (another prohibited act).


Then, there’s the “thug” smoking weed while he’s sitting on his bunk. No one says a word.


A friend of mine – Craig – discusses life on the “Eastside”. Craig has a Masters from Ohio University. A high school science teacher and assistant football coach, he did something needlessly stupid (a man after my own heart!). He’s almost 40 and eight years into 14 to serve.


He’s as quirky as I am (perhaps quirkier) and funny and brilliant. He’s also survived his entire eight years in one of the worst building sides here.


“I never spoke to anyone. For eight years I sat in my cut working crosswords.”


He said he never tried to move buildings even though he was the school principal’s assistant.


“I wanted to wake up every day and remember how despicable this experience is.”


So many of the guys on this side run scams, don’t work, and in general don’t care because to them prison is just another lousy life experience. So far, nothing DOC has done has changed their outlook, given them a reason to say “I hate this. I want a better life.”


Perhaps putting the college dorm over here will work. Perhaps the Governor’s re-entry directive will turn these men’s lives around. One thing is for certain, what DOC is doing currently isn’t working. It’s clearly entertaining over here. But, more is at stake than my amusement.

Opie

There’s a college student in the cut next to me who goes by the name “Opie”. He’s a goofy 23 year old white kid who raps nonstop. “Word, Prison Larry. Yo Yo!”



Its Christmas night and we’re talking. I like the kid. I can’t help it, but as obnoxious and off the chain as he is, he’s my older son’s age.


Here’s the thing. He showed me his paperwork. He’s been locked up since 1997. Let me write that again: 1997. He was born in 1987 and at the age of 10 was sent to “juvi” for the first of multiple trips.


“I’d been in trouble since I was eight but never sent to juvi until I was 10. I got drunk, stole five cars from a 7-11. Then, I broke in another store and stole the register.”


Ten years old and drunk and stealing cars. Why, I wondered, would a ten year old kid steal a car?


He was in and out of juvenile hall the next eight years. In fact, since he turned 10, he’s been out “on the street” less than eighteen months.


Juvenile hall is a hole. A few months ago a Department of Justice study listed a number of Virginia Juvenile Detention Centers as significant areas of sex abuse and violence. Some of the centers listed were Bon Air and Beaumont. Opie said “I spent time at both”.


He committed an armed robbery at 18 and went to Sussex, a DOC level 4 prison. “I knew how to sell weed when I went in. Four years later, I knew how to sell coke.”


Six months after being released in 2009, he had a dirty urine. His probation officer “violated” him and the court gave him five years.


He’s enrolled in college, pulls B’s and C’s. He got serious with me for a minute. “I hate this shit. I don’t want my life to be like this.”


No child should have lived like Opie. There was a song when I was young by Ray Stevens – “Everything is Beautiful”. It started with the Sunday school verse: “red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight; Jesus loves the little children of the world.”


Somebody needs to give a damn about Opie.

Future Prospects

The January/February issue of the magazine The American Prospect is devoted to criminal justice reform. Try these facts on for size:



1. Nearly 1% of the American population is imprisoned.


2. Approximately $70 billion is spent annually on the nation’s local, state and federal corrections system ($1.1 billion in Virginia alone).


3. Between 1972 and 2008 the state inmate population grew 708 percent.


4. In 2001 (the last year data was available) the cost to incarcerate an inmate for one year averaged $22,650.


5. Spending on corrections has grown 300 percent in the past 20 years.


6. The United States accounts for 25 percent of the prisoners in the world, but only 5% of the global population.


7. In 33 of 50 states (include Virginia in this) more was spent on corrections-related costs than education spending.


As Michelle Alexander, Associate Professor of Law at Ohio State University wrote:


“Crime rates have fluctuated over the past 30 years and are at historical lows, but incarceration rates have consistently soared . . . crime rates and incarceration rates have moved independently of each other; incarceration rates have skyrocketed regardless of whether crime has gone up or down. . .”


And she concluded with this telling pronouncement:


“As a nation, we have managed to create a massive system of control that locks up a significant percentage of our population . . .into a permanent, second-class status. . .we have all been complicit in the emergence of mass incarceration in the United States.”


Virginia, a state that did away with parole in 1995 and then saw its prison population climb from 9,000 to almost 40,000 in 15 years, elected Robert McDonnell Governor a year ago. McDonnell, a Republican and former Virginia Attorney General, was known as a tough on crime candidate. But, McDonnell is also an evangelical Christian.


Leaders of Prison Fellowship, a Christian outreach organization include former Virginia Republican Lt. Governor Mark Earley as a senior staff member. The group is making inroads in the conservative Christian movement by urging their members to take a serious look at inmate re-entry and alternatives to incarceration. It is, they argue, a moral obligation for Christians to care for the incarcerated. “Jesus would not have turned away from the prisoners and neither should his believers”.


Powerful words. But, it will take more than words to correct the problems associated with mass incarceration. Governor McDonnell has made a start with a re-entry initiative. Beginning January 10th, 40 at risk inmates (at risk means they are within 18 months of release and have a high probability of re-offending within a year of release) will begin an intensive eight month information technology certification program. Over those eight months they will earn 37 credits toward a college degree: 15 hours in general education courses (2 English, 2 Math, 1 Social Science) and 22 hours in information technology. They will have a counselor in here helping with job placement and a counselor “on the street” sponsored by Goodwill Industries to help them tackle work and community issues. Basically, help them adjust to freedom.


Those guys make up half the college guys in the newly created college dorm I’m now living in as an academic tutor.


The Governor appears willing to change Virginia’s prison model. He must do more. Give inmates like me – nonviolent offenders serving our first sentences – the opportunity for early release (say 25% to 50% sentence time); implement restorative justice and community corrections programs and remove the stigma attached to felons.


Do nothing and, in the future, corrections spending will completely overwhelm state and federal budgets. Do the right things, the moral things, and broken lives can be restored. Governor McDonnell has a choice and future prospects for correcting corrections hang in the balance.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Christmas Day 2010

Christmas in prison is always an interesting experience. This is my third Christmas behind bars. I deal better with it than I imagined that very first year.



Up early – 4:00 am. I did yoga and read the Bible. I’ve started a “tradition” of sorts on Christmas. I read Jeremiah 29 (“For I know the plans I have for you.”) and 1 John 5 (“God is love”). I worked on a short story and waited for breakfast.


After breakfast Big S and I went outside to workout. I ran my sprints on the frozen track humming Christmas carols to myself. It began to flurry. We were walking and I told Big S about my first married Christmas. She and I were both in school. We didn’t have much and were living in a one bedroom apartment. We had a little tree and just a few ornaments. We strung the tree with popcorn. I loved that tree. I loved that woman.


Besides the occasional guy shouting out “Merry F---in Christmas”, most guys just chilled out. E’s aunt and uncle came for a visit so he missed our huge Christmas lunch which was delicious. Huge slabs of roast turkey and pork ham, mashed potatoes, greens, dressing, gravy, cranberry sauce, rolls, cake and pie.


The COs were all in a pleasant mood. Many wished guys “Merry Christmas”. Big S called home and spoke to his little girl. She’s eight and excitedly told him all about her gifts. Only two more Christmases and he’ll be heading home.


I thought about my ex - it’s so tough to call her that – and my sons. I wondered how they were doing. Was their Christmas good? I wondered if they thought about me, about how our family was before my arrest. They were going to a friend’s home for Christmas dinner. We always did that. The three couples doing Thanksgiving, Christmas, July 4th together. Our kids all together. Now, the husbands – my two closest friends – visit me and urge me not to give up. Their wives, my ex’s best friends – listen to her talk of her difficulties and loneliness, and sadness. I wonder: Will anyone mention me? Will my friends dare to say “he still loves you”?


I received a copy of a minister’s recent sermon about the joy of Christmas. Ironically, it was a message I discovered on my own two years ago.


Christmas, he concluded, was about the deep seeded joy you feel knowing God loves you. It’s real love, not based on some conditions such as “I’ll love you if . . . .” It’s just God saying “I love you because you are mine.” It is a joy that broke through the dark and fear as shepherds sat on a cold hillside 2000 years ago.


And it is a joy that pierced the walls of a jail cell as a 49 year-old former lawyer contemplated sentencing, prison and divorce.


Happiness – that concept we all seem to strive for – is fleeting. It’s that feeling you get when you think you have everything. Happiness never lasts.


Joy does. Joy survives arrests and imprisonment. Joy survives divorce. Joy endures.


Big S and I were drinking coffee a little while ago. We both agreed today was OK. We’d both rather be somewhere else, but we both have so much to be thankful for.


It’s the joy I feel that keeps me going, keeps me believing things will change. Someone once said you should “be joyful, even though you considered all the facts.”


Christmas is about God’s gift of joy. It doesn’t deny the sorrow and loneliness I feel, but it sustains me through it. There will be a day when I’m free; there may be a day when I’m reconciled to those I love. There will always be the Joy of Christmas.

Waiting Room

My two closest friends from home came by for a visit this past weekend. These guys stuck by me through this entire episode. Their wives are my ex-wife’s best friends. The three couples traveled together, spent holidays together, celebrated and mourned together.



When I was arrested they were there, not just for me, but for my wife and my sons. I got a little emotional the other day while they were here. I told them how much I appreciated what they did for me – and for my family. I also told them I’m not sure if the “old Larry” would have gone to the lengths they did to help me. I know the “new Larry” would. As bad as this experience has been, it has opened my eyes to a great deal. I’m not the pompous, self-absorbed ass I was in the past.


The guys filled me in on all of the happenings back in my hometown. They told me when I get out I can hold my head high. “People know you made a mistake, but they also know you’re a good man.”


A “good man”. Funny, but I never really felt like that pre-arrest. A lot has changed these past couple of years. My priorities, my outlook, my patience, have all changed for the better. My circumstances are much worse, but my faith is much stronger.


As I talked to my friends and told them about working with men in their 20s, 30s, and 40s who read at a third grade level, they looked surprised that impatient me could reach out to these guys.


Fact is, I was not a patient man, I liked things done now (at the latest) and I liked them done my way. That’s not me anymore.


In here patience isn’t just a virtue, it’s critical. And, surprisingly I’ve actually become patient. Shortly after my arrest, I was speaking to the jail chaplain. He was a kind man and he listened as I broke down and told him that I was in danger of (1) losing my wife and kids; (2) losing everything I had legitimately worked for for almost thirty years; (3) losing my freedom; and (4) losing my sanity.


He listened as I wept and went through my litany of fears. He then told me something that I’ve never forgotten. He said:


“I can’t tell you all that won’t happen. I can tell you God loves you and is with you. If you’re patient and trust Him all will work out as it should.”


It took me a long time to understand what he meant. But, every day thereafter I began reciting verse 14 from Psalm 27. “Wait for the Lord. Be strong and let your heart take courage. Yes, wait for the Lord.”


I did in fact lose my wife and kids, all my worldly possessions, and my freedom. I didn’t, however, lose my sanity. I found instead, my soul.


After my friends left I wanted to write my ex-wife a letter. I wanted to tell her I still loved her deeply and missed her. I wanted to tell her that nothing compares to the loneliness I feel, that she was my soulmate and I will always hold her in my heart.


I wanted to write my sons and tell them what I’ve learned about people from helping the men in here. I wanted to tell them we are all interconnected; we can learn something from almost anyone; we are all children of God who deserve respect, and compassion and help. I wanted to tell them how much I loved them and their mother.


I didn’t write either letter. This wasn’t the time. For too long, I did things when I wanted to. If and when my ex wants to hear from me, I’ll know. If and when my kids want to know what I think, it will be clear to me.


For now, I wait patiently. I don’t have to rush things. I know all will work out as intended.

Movin' Around

Lunenburg began the moves this week to have a college building set up by January. Governor McDonnell has made a big push for inmate re-entry programs. I like to think that the Governor is beginning to understand that $1 billion a year to punish people is immoral. I like to think the Governor – a self described “Christian” – will put his faith in action and lead Virginia into an age of rehabilitation and restorative justice.



I like to think things will change and parole or some form of early release will be reinstated and I’ll get out sooner than expected. The best bet for change is the economy. For the next couple of years forecasters are predicting the economy to sputter along with high deficits and unemployment. States will continue to reduce spending. More than anything else, the poor economy sounds the chimes of freedom for thousands of incarcerated people like me.


DOC is changing, perhaps not on its own accord. But, it is changing. They’ve lost too many lawsuits this year, they spend too much money. They show too little success. DC is being drug into the reality that is 21st century America in economic upheaval.


Governor McDonnell is pushing inmate re-entry. Lunenburg will play a major role in establishing a re-entry model. Inmates already here with more than a few years remaining on their sentence will be shipped elsewhere unless they are actively involved in a program. Other inmates in the system will be moved here to begin programs. Thousands will be shuffled from prison to prison.


I experienced that with my own move from 3A to 4A this week. I agreed to be part of the “college dorm” experiment. I knew I’d be moving, along with Big S and E, in the “first wave” of ten guys. Still, I was apprehensive.


Lunenburg has two distinct sides: West side and East side. Buildings 1, 2, 3 and 7 are West side. The other three – 4, 5 and 6 are East side. The East side is known as a dumping ground, a pit. Most of the fights, thefts, and drugs generate on the East side. A majority of the East side guys are either in GED classes or on the waiting list. Many guys on the East side don’t work.


3A, by contrast, was the upscale dorm. Of the 96 men in the building, 94 had TVs. Every man was employed. We had ten vocational or academic aides, three head cooks (out of seven on the entire compound), and fourteen furniture factory workers. Guys bought what they wanted, when they wanted it.


The administration decided to place the college dorm on the East side, a “gentrification” project in the heart of the projects as E said (that college sociology class did come in handy!). Wednesday, immediately after 11:30 am count, they called me (and Big S and E) to pack up. By 1:00 we were pushing our carts down the boulevard to 4A.


4A was considered the best dorm on the East side. That’s like winning a beauty pageant because all the other contestants are a lot uglier than you. We walked in and realized we weren’t on the West side anymore. First, no one had bothered to tell “the locals” they needed to pack up and move. We stood around (with seven other guys from 2 building) while guys bitched and moaned and demanded to see the “Sarge”. “I ain’t leavin’ this mo fo!” was a common refrain.


All the 4A ten did eventually pack up. For all the bravado these guys throw out, the fact is, this is a low custody facility. You buck or pull a charge and they can move you to a higher level prison – a “real” prison with stabbings and rapes.


We moved in, unpacked and checked out our new surroundings. The first thing we noticed was the number of TVs. Prior to the new ten coming over, there were 26 TVs. The reason: guys don’t work in 4A. There were only ten or fifteen guys employed outside the building and another ten working house jobs inside. The guys in 4A, we soon discovered, were lazy, uneducated and poor.


E and I were given a good cut. We have the same bunk numbers from our 3A days, but now we are on the wall and we have a window. Our cut mate is a goofy college kid name “Opie” who reminds me of a yellow lab. He’s an easy going kid without any sense.


Big S, on the other hand is ten bunk slots away surrounded by guys who know their days in 4A are short. He’s miserable, but we know each week the chemistry in the building will change. Next week twenty more guys will move. By January 10th the switch should be complete.


Things could have been worse. Given my legal background, most guys here know me so I was greeted warmly in 4A. Still, change is always worrisome, especially in prison. Guys like routine. You never know how people will react to change. And, in here during the holidays the stress level is even higher.


The stakes are significant for this college program. Studies suggest that inmates who earn college degrees while locked up have a substantially lower risk of committing another crime. It makes sense. Educate a person; assist them with job placement, and remove the stigma of incarceration and the chances are that person will never return to prison.


The annual cost for an inmate to get a college education? About $5000 a year. The cost to house an inmate? About $25,000. The math is simple. The program makes sense. Eventually, so will all the moves. Virginia is slowly moving in the right direction. Like the 4A transition, it will take some time. But, education and restoration to society work better than incarceration. Perhaps in 2011, Virginia will finally complete all the moves necessary for prison reform.

Madoff, Mandatory, Mandela and the Magi

Bernie Madoff – convicted con man currently serving a 150 year federal prison sentence for the theft and loss of billions – received some devastating news this week. His elder son, Mark, estranged from him since his arrest, committed suicide the other day. Mark took his own life while his two year old son napped in an adjoining room. His death was staged on the second anniversary of Bernie Madoff’s arrest.



It was a tragic ending to a family drama that has played out on the pages of business journals, daily papers, and celebrity rags. Mark, as I noted, was estranged from his father. He was a party to numerous lawsuits by the Madoff trustee seeking to recover part of the billions lost in Bernie’s scheme. He was also the subject of an ongoing federal criminal probe into his involvement in the Madoff con.


Mark Madoff always professed his innocence, always said he knew nothing of his father’s wrongdoing. He couldn’t forgive his father for destroying his career, his future. He couldn’t forgive his mother for standing by his father. “That’s what you do when you love someone. That’s what my vow means”, she told him.


Mark told anyone that would listen that he was innocent. “My dad lied and betrayed me as well,” was his common refrain.


Yet, people talk. It’s painful and embarrassing to be the fodder of community gossip. It’s stressful to see your name in the paper and have every purchase you ever made, every decision you ever took, scrutinized. Over and over Mark heard “you were paid over $400 million working for your dad. You really think you were that good an investment counselor?”


I feel for the Madoff family. In many ways, my own circumstances parallel theirs. Almost every person who hears my story begins with the same question “How can she [my ex] claim she didn’t know? She sure enjoyed it while it was going on.” I tell everyone that will ask she knew nothing. It doesn’t matter. What she knew – or suspected – is between her and her conscience. But, people whisper and she couldn’t handle the public evaluation. So unlike Mrs. Madoff, she fled.


I used to worry a great deal about what other people thought. I was raised by parents – a mother especially – who obsessed on what other people thought of my actions. After my arrest, every time I appeared in court an article showed up in the paper. Within days of the article, a “love” letter arrived from my then wife – “you a—hole. People are talking about us . . . .”


Here’s what I learned. People love to talk a whole lot about other’s misfortunes. We’re somehow wired to feel better about ourselves when other folks’ indiscretions come out. Perhaps that’s why so much time is spent in the New Testament warning believers’ gossiping is a sin.


I learned through my own experience not to give a damn about what other people think. We all screw up. Even my ex, who I still love dearly, needs to face the fact she isn’t perfect. Same goes for my sons. They are wonderful, strong, loving boys, but, it’s time they “nut up”. At the end of the day, what my ex and sons need to learn, what Mark Madoff couldn’t quite grasp, is it doesn’t matter what they say or write about you. What does matter is we all screw up and we all need those people, who in good times claim to love us, to love us when the world seems out of control.


It’s not about being right and well regarded. It is about love and forgiveness.
_________________________________________________________________________________


There are approximately 8,000 inmates in Virginia still covered under the “old law” (pre – 1995 when parole was abolished). Each year these guys come up for a parole hearing. That is really a misnomer. There is no “hearing”. Guys are called into the lead counselor’s office and sit in front of a TV. On the screen, a young woman with her face buried in a laptop, confirms the name and DOC number, then asks four or five silly repetitive questions:


“You’re still in here on a first degree murder charge?”


“You were rejected for parole last year?”


Approximately two weeks later, a letter arrives from the board. In all but 2% of the cases the letter reads “denied”. The reason: “severity of crime”. There was no hearing. The parole examiner (the pretty young bureaucrat with the laptop) sent email summaries of the cases to board members. No “blood and flesh” face to face with the inmate, just electronic summaries and, in most cases, denial.


Prior to parole being abolished an inmate in Virginia made early parole in about 50% of the cases. Today, parole cases almost always have to wait for their mandatory date.


How does it work? Take my fifteen year sentence. Had I been “parole eligible” I would have had a parole hearing after two years. Even if I was rejected, odds were better than 50-50 I’d be out at my next anniversary. With earned good time credits applied (30 days good time for 30 days served) my mandatory release would occur after less than eight years.


There has been a lawsuit going on in federal court over Virginia’s parole board. The inmates lost the initial battle but an appeal is underway. The case focus revolves around the argument that the board denies parole candidates their due process rights by the lack of hearing and relying on rubber stamped grounds (“severity of crime”).


A few guys make parole every year, but they aren’t “violent” inmates. DC has done 38 years. He has 5 more before he mandatories on his murder 1 sentence; Black’s done 16 years. Three to go to mandatory on his murder sentence. Tyrone: 30 in, 7 to go on his armed robbery sentence. Powers: 14 in, 14 to go on his murder 1 sentence. Malik: 23 in, 4 to go. The list of guys I know who can’t get out early because of the severity of their crimes goes on.


Here’s a question to ponder: If all these guys committed crimes so serious that they can’t be released early, what are they doing at a low custody corrections center? Each one of the men I mentioned deserves another chance. They deserve parole.
______________________________________________________________________________________


Nelson Mandela, as I’ve written before, is an amazing man. He survived over 26 years in South African prisons. He was no saint, he’ll tell you that. He was a serial adulterer, fathering numerous children out of wedlock. He committed and supported acts of violence against the apartheid regime in South Africa.


Yet, this man maintained his dignity throughout his imprisonment. He did not become an icon, a revered hero, for his actions before his arrest. He became so by the example he set in challenging apartheid from his cell. He held strong, he endured, he overcame, he defeated the prison.


For many of the men I’ve met in here Mandela is living proof that you can never be broken by prison if you keep your mind free.


Time Magazine got it wrong with its choice for “Man of the Year”. In the hearts and minds of prisoners around the world, Nelson Mandela set the example for properly enduring prison. As long as I remain behind these fences, he will always be my man of the year.
____________________________________________________________________________________As you enjoy your holidays, remember that the Magi found the light of the world in a broken down barn. He didn’t come into the world in wealth and power, but in poverty and humble origins.


And the word was spread by outcasts and nonconformists, most of whom ended up in prison and executed. The good, decent, law abiding society rejected Him. It was the prostitutes, the possessed, the lepers and the tax collectors that flocked to Him.


The Magi went to find the new King, but it wasn’t as the folks in power expected. He came for the broken, the troubled, the oppressed, the law breakers. He brought salvation, forgiveness, redemption and hope to those in dire need. That may be a boring message when you think you have everything, when you think you’re “livin’ the good life”. But, for a guy in prison, it’s the most amazing liberating message ever received.


John 1: 1-14. Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Holiday Packs, Holiday Surprises

Tuesday evening holiday packs were delivered. Twice a year families and friends – or inmates themselves – can spend up to $100 on special foods sold by the commissary contractor, Keefe. Packages filled with microwavable bacon, pulled pork, jerk chicken, corned beef, and blocks of provolone and mozzarella, show up. There are huge packages of cashews, mixed nuts, thin mints, raspberry shortbread cookies, and candy of every shape and description. For guys on a fixed meal plan of small, bland portions repeating every eight weeks, it is a gourmet delight.



Almost everyone gets something. Guys with strong family support line up guys without and use them to receive a second, or even a third package from their family at a small fee of $10 in delicacies from the package. DOC insists that no more than $100 be spent on any one inmate. But, as is shown everyday in here, rules are made to be broken. Guys find other guys. Additional packages are ordered and another DOC mandate is bypassed.


The packs are “the holidays” for most guys in here. Getting something from “your people” reminds you somebody still gives a damn. Like books coming in or a surprise money order being received, you know somebody cares about you, somebody’s worried about you, somebody loves you.


We ate well Wednesday night. Big S, E, and I moved from building 3A to 4A at noon Wednesday. We were part of the first ten going into the new “college dorm”. Over the next three weeks almost every man in 4A will be moved out and approximately 90 guys will move in, all involved in college studies. Seven – me included – serve as academic mentors.


We got to our new building, unpacked, and tried to get acclimated to our new surroundings (I’ve written more on the move in another blog). I threw two pizzas together on Ritz cracker crusts: one full of barbecued beef with peppers and onions and mozzarella cheese and the other a jerk chicken pizza with green olives, cashews, and Velveeta. We stuffed ourselves and for awhile we were just guys eating, not inmates or convicts, or offenders, or any other word that comes into fashion to describe those behind bars.


Two guy’s holiday packs intrigued me. The first was received by DC. DC moved to 4A the same day I did. Also an academic aide, DC is one of the men I’ve come to deeply respect and admire. As I’ve written before, DC has been locked away since 1972. He has remained a vegan his entire time down and has become a devout practitioner of Hindu meditation and pacifism. He is one of the most spiritual and insightful people I have ever met. I wonder how the parole board can still keep a straight face (or look themselves in the mirror) and continue to deny DC parole because of his past serious, violent crime – murder 1 at the age of nineteen) while housing him in a low custody, dorm-style facility. Am I the only one who sees the disconnect with that?


Anyway, because DC is a vegan, his holiday pack choices are quite limited. But, there he was, in the bunk directly across from me, putting away $100 of nuts: pistachios, cashews, mixed nuts, trail mix and dried fruit.


Before we left 3 building “P” came up to see us. He had holiday pack stuff in his hands. There were bags of nuts, garlic shells in cream sauce, cookies, meatballs and mints. He gave the bags to Big S, E and me.


“P” – code name for “penitentiary Pete” – has been incarcerated almost 20 years. A graying, 42 year old African American man, he was one of my favorite guys in 3A. He did a five year sentence in the federal system and was then transferred to the state system. He came in a young man convicted of smuggling cocaine. He received a lengthy sentence to prove America was tough on crime and would win the “war on drugs”. Ironically, just this week USA Today reported a dramatic increase in the number of high school students smoking marijuana. Like so many other “wars”, this one hasn’t achieved its desired results. You don’t solve societal problems by locking people up; that just adds another casualty to the body count.


P had something to tell us. He leaned in close. “Don’t say anything, but I go home tomorrow. I made parole a year before mandatory.” He hugged each of us.


I always felt close to P. He was a bright, decent guy. People think prison makes you a better person. That is a lie. Prison doesn’t make anyone better. It can only make them worse. Decent people can survive the hell of prison because their goodness, their decency, their light, shines through even in the darkness of incarceration.


The great twentieth century German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer said (shortly before his execution in a Nazi prison camp):


“It is infinitely easier to suffer in obedience.”


That was P’s prison experience. That is the experience for thousands of other men and women behind bars.


Thursday morning, on the way out of breakfast; Big S, E and I saw P being escorted by two CO’s to the front gate. His family was waiting to take him home: home for Christmas. I couldn’t help but think of the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Somewhere an angel just earned his wings because P saw it through and was free.


Last night to celebrate, Big S, E and I made a huge corned beef and bacon calzone. It was delicious!

Through the Deep Waters

For months as I’ve run around the yard here I’ve prayed for divine intervention in my broken marriage, with my kids, and in my case. It dawned on me a few weeks ago that I was missing the big picture. It all made sense in my writing class a few weeks ago.



I was sharing a story with my advanced students. It concerned the call I had placed to my wife from the Goochland Sherriff’s Department. By the time of the call, I’d been arrested, booked and denied bond. I was waiting to be transported to the Henrico Jail. I remember every detail of the call from the precise time it was made, to pushing the buttons on the detective’s desk phone, to the painful exchange of words between my wife and me. It is a conversation that I will never forget. Each detail will stay with me for the rest of my life.


Something else struck me as I shared yet another story with the guys. My wife and sons showed tremendous resilience and courage getting through this trial. I’ve always known they were strong people. But, this situation which was thrust upon them could have broken each of them. Instead, they found the strength to go on.


For all the explaining and dissecting I do of the twists and turns my life has taken, the disappointments and failures, the simple fact is I knew what I was doing was wrong. I justified my behavior in a thousand ways. I’ve come to understand what led me to this behavior, but still, I can’t escape the fact I was wrong.


My ex is a remarkable woman. Yes, I am deeply hurt and pained by her abandoning me. However, she did an amazing job keeping our sons and herself going after my arrest. Our older son still was able to leave, three weeks after my arrest, to study at a university in Scotland. She handled all those details.


Last May, he graduated college with honors. The effort my ex put forth to ensure his college education moved forward was astounding, especially given the daily crises that popped up and her own emotional ups and downs.


She made sure our younger son had counseling. His piano lessons and other after school activities continued without interruption. She insisted that he would continue to live his life as he had before my arrest. Friends from home tell me he is the same happy, outgoing young man he was when our life came crashing down. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for her to tell our kids I’d been arrested. I know as bad as things were for me, I never had to tell our sons their mom let them down.


She dealt with a wide array of fears and concerns that I couldn’t even begin to understand as I sat in my cell at the Henrico County Jail. Jail isolates you from “the real world”. I never dealt with calls from creditors and nosey people in town. I was self-absorbed with my personal problems in the jail. My wife, on the other hand, faced newspaper articles about me. She spent dozens of sleepless nights worrying about our financial situation. Would she lose the house? How would she pay the monthly bills? How would she provide for our sons?


What I did to her and those boys was, well, shitty. Yet, she handled it with steely resolve. Most people saw her strength as she moved forward day to day. I bore the brunt of her anger, and frustrations, and tears. I shouldn’t have expected otherwise. I was the catalyst for the crisis that overwhelmed my family.


Throughout this trial I’ve seen my wife (sorry, I can’t help calling her that) and sons in a new light. As I’ve grown and been changed by this, I noted the changes in them as well. They are stronger and more resilient than I ever could have imagined. Their capacity to survive, to succeed in spite of great heartache, anger, and turmoil, was profound. I only wish they had the same level of commitment to forgive and love.


My ex has a favorite hymn – “How Firm a Foundation”, from chapters 41 and 42 in the Old Testament of Isaiah. In one verse these words appear:


When through the deep waters I cause you to go,
The river of sorrow will not overflow.
For I will be with you
Your comfort to bless
And sanctify to you
Your deepest distress.


Those are words of deep comfort and hope, knowing that whatever confronts us, our God is there and will see us through. I know there were terrible days for my wife and two sons, days they thought were impossible to survive, days when tears and fears and sadness and pain appeared to overwhelm each of them. But, it didn’t. They are three people of amazing faith and courage. I love them more having seen them weather this storm.


I read an interesting devotional take on Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. In a play on the often used chapter regarding love, the writer encouraged you to substitute the word “God” every time love appears in the chapter. “God is patient, God is kind . . . .” On and on the verses in Chapter 13 sing out with a beautiful melody about the elements of God’s feelings for His children.


Then, the writer suggested, insert your own name in place of love. My eyes welled up with tears as I recited: “Larry is patient, Larry is kind, Larry does not act unbecomingly . . . he does not take into account a wrong suffered . . . Larry bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things.”


I want to be that “Larry”. I owe it to the people I love deeply, in spite of all this: to my ex and my sons who acted with such grace and strength in a terrible situation. I owe it to my God, who saw me through my mistakes and gave me hope when all seemed hopeless.

Dog People

My ex and I were dog lovers. From the moment we bought our first home we had a dog. Emilee, a sweet, tri-colored basset hound, was soon paired up with Emerson, a black and white basset. Then, we had Tami, an amazing brindle colored Scottie. After a couple of years of Tami alone, we added George to the mix. George was a lovable little westie. He drove Tami crazy, but she eventually learned to tolerate him.



After Tami passed away, we were at a fundraiser. My ex fell in love with a floppy-eared German short-haired pointer pup – Clinton. He may have been the smartest dog we ever owned, but he was stubborn, not easily trained (he grew to weigh around 60 pounds and would never avoid leaping on people). He was high energy. A “sporting” dog, he needed to be run miles every day to wear him out.


Weeks after I was arrested I learned my wife had returned him to the farmer who had given him as an item at the fundraiser. She just couldn’t manage to get him the exercise he needed and deal with all the turbulence created by my arrest and pending trial. It tore me up to learn she had given our dog up, a dog I took running in the woods every weekend.


She and I loved our dogs, though our personalities with them were different. She trained them, housebroke them, disciplined them. I never did. I was too impatient (“why is this dog still peeing in the house?”) and I just wasn’t good at saying “no” or disciplining and being firm. Yet both of us cried our eyes out the day we had to put Tami to sleep. She was racked with cancer, barely able to stand or get to the steps. I dug her grave in our flower garden. With our younger son participating (our older was at college) we buried Tami with her favorite chew toy and ball.


I learned this week from a friend that our westie – George – is ill. There is a story about George I never shared with anyone, but I’ve thought often of it as I deal with broken men and broken relationships.


My ex, as I’ve indicated before, was a perfectionist. She accepted as her personal mission that George would be housebroken in record time. I contributed nothing to the process other than point out how many wet spots were on the carpet.


One evening I came home from work and found her holding George, his left rear leg in a splint. She was crying deeply. “Oh Larry. I got frustrated. He wouldn’t go out. I kept taking him out and he wouldn’t go. Then right in front of me, sitting in the living room, he squatted and peed.”


She told me she picked him up, carried him down the stairs and gently tossed him on the grass. But, he landed awkwardly and immediately took weight off the leg. She drove him to the vet and lied about what happened. An x-ray determined the leg was fractured.


“I’m a terrible person, a terrible mom. I hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. The kids will hate me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. I put my arms around her and gently kissed her cheek. “It was an accident, honey. You didn’t mean to do it.”


I looked at George. He was snuggled up to her. He certainly was in no fear. He was contentedly lying in her arms, his tail wagging. “I love you and know you. You aren’t a terrible person. George is fine.”


I never said a word about how George broke his leg. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt him. It was a careless, impulsive act by a decent, loving person. Funny, she forgot that family story as she decided I intentionally hurt her, I was despicable, I deserved to go to prison.


I realize as I work with guys in here, whether it involves school or legal issues, that I find the good in almost all of them. I’ve heard and read some horrendously violent descriptions of murders and assaults. But, I’ve also looked these guys in the eye. I’ve seen the regret and the scars and pain these guys carry over their actions. And, I’ve been in the visitation room and watched them with their small children. As with my ex-wife, I know good people are capable of bad decisions, bad actions.


This may seem odd, but my year in jail, my four months in the most despicable, unsafe, poorly run facility know as “Powhatan Receiving”, and my thirteen months here, have confirmed for me what I long suspected: people, by and large, are good. We all make terrible mistakes (sometimes more than once). We all will resort to a lie to keep our shame or embarrassment hidden. And, we all live with regret over the consequences of our decisions.


I knew the kind of woman my then wife was. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt that cute, stubborn, little white ball of fur. I knew she felt terrible about what happened. Why should I jump on her, condemn her, get angry with her.


We are all fallible. I try and remember that when I’m dealing with the men in here. Sometimes, it’s easier to judge someone else’s failures without realizing you’re capable of the same behavior, or worse.


Over and over in the Bible we are reminded “though the righteous man stumbles, He will not let him fall”. We are told “the righteous man falls seven times but he gets up again”. There is a message about our fallibility.


Righteousness isn’t about being perfect. It’s about sitting on a porch crying with regret because you hurt your dog accidentally and it’s about not condemning or judging that person.


There are a large number of people locked away in Virginia, close to 40,000. The vast majority, like me, are guilty. But that doesn’t make them any less righteous, any less deserving of compassion and mercy, than good people, like me ex. Ultimately, our righteousness is measured not by our judgment, but our mercy.


George knew my ex loved him. That’s why he sat so peacefully with her. We can learn a good deal about love and mercy from our dogs.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

The "At Risk" Grant

Within the next few weeks, I’ll move from my current building to another one on the compound. My new “home” will look exactly like my current home. There will be the same number of bunks (96), same number of showers, sinks and commodes; same dimension building. The difference will be the guys residing there.



I’m one of seven “dorm mentors” for a college/technical training dorm. All seven mentors have Bachelor’s degrees at a minimum. Two of us have law degrees; one has his masters in chemistry. Approximately half the men are enrolled under a federal grant as students pursuing an Associate’s degree through the local community college. There are five terms during the year, three or four classes per term. Instructors come in from the “outside world” to teach their classes. It normally takes an inmate three full years to earn his degree.


The other forty inmates are enrolled in a new initiative aimed at “high risk” offenders. These are men who have had repeated run-ins with law enforcement – usually involving drug dealing and using. They scored “high” on a profile test indicating there is a significant likelihood these guys will get out (all are within two years of release) and return to the same criminal behavior that led to their imprisonment because (1) the deck is heavily stacked against felons, and (2) these guys have limited, marketable skills.


The program – funded by a $750,000 grant and operated by the community college – combines a college general studies curriculum with intense IT training. Four days and evenings a week (Monday through Thursday, 12:30 – 3:30 and 6:30 – 9:00) these guys will be in class.


When they are released there will be resources available to assist them with job placement, dealing with probation issues, and staying clear of the environments and impulses that put them in here.


It’s a laudable, worthy goal and I was excited when the principal asked me to be a mentor.


This program should be the standard for prison rehabilitation for almost every inmate. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t even be considered had the economy not sunk into this long, painful recession. For too long, the public has been told a huge lie by politicians: “You can lock people up for long periods of time without repercussions”.


That lie has led to Virginia’s explosion in its inmate population and the geometric growth in cost and manpower to operate its prison system. $1 billion plus annually. Think about that. $1 billion to operate a system that holds slightly less than 40,000 offenders. And that $1 billion doesn’t include the cost to operate DCE (the Department of Corrections Education, the largest school district in the Commonwealth). It doesn’t include the millions of dollars spent each year by the Attorney General’s office defending (and losing a fair number this year) lawsuits brought by and on behalf of the incarcerated. It does not include the millions spent on welfare, mental health services, community outreach projects; to monitor and maintain broken men and women released from the meat grinder known as corrections who have received little in the way of actual rehabilitation and training while locked up.


While people are busy thanking George Allen for abolishing parole as Governor (a decision I too applauded at the time), someone should ask him if it was worth the cost, in dollars and lives damaged. If he was honest, he’d have to answer no.


This new program is a good first step. But, it is merely a band aid on a severed artery. The entire system is broken. Every man and woman that comes under the control of the Department of Corrections is at risk. Prison reform must become a reality. The cost to do otherwise is astronomical.

Don't Give Up the Fight

This week I did something in a legal pleading I never considered doing before. In my Petition to the Virginia Supreme Court challenging my sentence on Sixth Amendment grounds, I deviated from mere arguments on the application of the law. In my conclusion I quoted from both Bob Dylan and Bob Marley and urged the Judges on the court to address the unjust results that are so prevalent in multitudes of cases involving the incarcerated.



I normally shy away from political statements in the legal documents I draft. Perhaps it was because of my legal training or it may have been reading “jailhouse lawyer” documents that were heavy on flowery language about freedom but lacked basic knowledge of statutes and case holdings. In either case, I urge guys to focus on what the law says rather than go on some self-serving “it’s all about me” tirade that focuses on using big words without making a point.


I changed my rule with my own pleading. I did so after two guys spoke to me about my incarceration. The first guy is one of my GED students. He’s 22 and an extremely bright kid. His last grade completed: 8th. He was in and out of alternative school and juvenile detention. Yet, placement testing indicates he reads at a college level. He always has a book with him, philosophy mostly. This week we were discussing Immanuel Kant.


He told me “you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met”. I told him, if I was so smart, I wouldn’t have done what I did and risk my family and my freedom!


But then he said this: “You’re smart enough to tell these people prison isn’t the answer.”


The second man who spoke to me was one of the law librarians. “Ty” has been locked up since the mid-eighties for a series of store robberies to support a drug habit. In his early sixties now, he is ineligible for parole because of his multiple offenses. He has six more years before he’s released. Ty is one of the men I hold in deep regard. He is a kind, wise gentleman who has seen and overcome a great deal of brutality in the prison system. I trust his opinion and value his friendship.


He was watching me craft my arguments for the court when he told me that “so many of the men in here fighting their own cases take their cues from you. They hear you talk about changing the system, speaking out, not losing hope. They’re starting to believe things will get better”.


There is a Bob Marley song called “Get Up Stand Up”. Over and over, with the reggae beat moving on, Marley sings “don’t give up the fight.” I listened intently to that song the other evening as I put the finishing touches on my brief.


Supreme Court Justice Steven Breyer in a television interview with Fox News said the following:


“Judges are not politicians. You can’t hold your finger up to the direction of the political wind to judge with justice.”


I have made that point to the Virginia Supreme Court. Whatever politicians may say, the simple fact is the current level of incarceration and the length of sentences handed down is neither just nor moral.


In all likelihood, the court will reject my Petition. That’s alright. I will fight on; next step will be the United States District Court. Too much hinges on my situation: my own personal freedom and the hopes of a great many men in here that the system isn’t completed corrupt.


In an article recently in Sport Illustrated, Saints quarterback Drew Brees was profiled as “Sports Person of the Year”. He and his wife have worked tirelessly for New Orleans recovery from Hurricane Katrina.


His road to success wasn’t easy. He faced numerous obstacles and disappointments. He was counted out many times. But, he never gave up. He always had faith.


At the end of the day, faith is a good enough reason to keep fighting for what’s right.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Christmas in Prison

I’ve been thinking a great deal about Christmas. John Prine, a truly gifted songwriter and storyteller, has a deeply moving song called “Christmas in Prison”. It never meant a great deal to me until I actually found myself behind the fence.



For so many in here, Christmas is the saddest of all days, a painful reminder of what has been lost. 2008, I suffered terribly as I spent Christmas alone at the Henrico jail. The meal was terrible; I was depressed, disoriented, and feeling without hope. It was the worst Christmas I ever experienced and I found it hard to believe that there were any “tidings of great joy” in store for me.


Perspectives have a way of changing. Last Christmas wasn’t quite as bad. A minister friend sent me a fold out nativity scene. I unfolded it and displayed it through the holiday season. Each day, I saw that cut out with the gold banner above the manger that said “for God so loved the world”. It didn’t matter to me that my wife had divorced me, that my sons had broken off communication with me, that most of my friends had abandoned me, or that I had been treated harshly by the courts. I felt a sense of hope just by looking at that small, cardboard manger.


I put my nativity scene up the other week. Since then, guys – a few dozen – have stopped and looked at it. “That’s beautiful man.” “He lives brother.” “Thanks for reminding me we gonna be alright.” I smile.


I’ve really thought a great deal about the meaning of Christmas. I used to love Christmas. I’d buy dozens of gifts for my wife and kids; I’d buy gifts for all my employees. We’d entertain, have dinners out, enjoy the season with family and friends. Every holiday season I’d watch my favorite Christmas movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. I’d choke up and get teary-eyed, as I’d watch Jimmy Stewart contemplate taking his own life rather than face criminal prosecution and bankruptcy. The movie always had a happy ending. Jimmy Stewart’s wife, knowing the kind of man he was, rallied to support him. Friends and neighbors poured into his home and helped him. At the end, his “guardian angel” left him a simple written message: “No man is unsuccessful who has friends.”


Movies are wonderful, that movie especially. Unfortunately, movies don’t mirror life. My wife certainly didn’t play Donna Reed (of course, she’d tell you I’m no Jimmy Stewart). The number of my friends who stood by me dwindled from my arrest to my conviction. Today, even some of those few stalwart friends from early in my incarceration have also fallen away. Unlike Mr. Stewart’s guardian angel, mine left me a message that said “suck rocks loser!”


Still, I’m looking forward to Christmas this year because I’ve had an epiphany. That may not be the correct word. I didn’t suddenly discover some exciting truth. Rather, for the past few weeks I’ve come to a few profound (in my mind anyway) conclusions.


The first thing I realized is that sometimes we get so hung up and worried about what’s going on that we forget the good circumstances right before us. I read an interesting piece the other day that used the story of Moses being told by God to return to Egypt and lead His people to the promise land, initially reacted with fear and trepidation.


“Look at what is in your hand.” God told Moses and at that his shepherd’s staff turned into a snake. The point was we fear moving forward, doing what is right (notice I didn’t say doing what we want or what’s expedient) because of our worry and fear of the future and our regret about the past. Yet God tells us “Trust me. You have everything you need to get through today.” And don’t forget Moses had fled Egypt years earlier after killing a man.


It is difficult to let go of regret over past failures, past hurts, and heartbreak. But, each day I now remind myself no matter how bad things seem, I’m not alone. I’ve figured out, by fits and tears and so much heartache, I have a purpose in being here. No matter what happened “BA” (before arrest); no matter the pain over the divorce and my sons, and my continuing court struggle, I know what is in my hand.


The second thing I’ve learned these past few months is “shalom”, peace. The whole world seems to be going crazy with war, rumors of war, economic upheaval, turmoil in the lives of individuals, and communities and nations. Somehow, I meditate each morning and sleep soundly each night.


Guys ask me almost daily how I can seem so content, so easy going and relaxed in this environment. “Man, you’ve lost more than any guy I ever met yet you’re always smiling.” There’s a wonderful story about the Apostle Peter, on the verge of being executed, he was in a prison cell fast asleep. “An angel of the Lord” sent to break him out had to first wake him.


I’ve found a sense of inner peace amidst the storms and chaos of my incarceration and divorce. It’s bizarre really, but like Lt. Dan confronting God during the hurricane scene in “Forrest Gump”, I had my argument with God. I told him exactly how I felt about all the crap and obstacles I’d faced growing up, all the desires I had to be loved that were ignored, all my dreams I had put aside for others (I’ve written a short story about a guy having this argument with God though I’m not quite ready to share it with my “editors”) and at the end of all the yelling, all the “why did this have to happen”, I experienced a sense of peace I had never known.


Things might not be as I want, but I have faith, in the end, all will turn out right.


And finally, I realized Christmas really is “for God so loved” us. I always equated God as a super-Santa: “He knows when you’re sleeping; He knows when you’re awake . . . so be good for goodness sake.” I heard a young minister recently say “we think God thinks about us the way we think about us.” In other words, when we’re having a good day, God’s happy with us. And when we lie, steal, decide to end our marriage, He’s upset with us. I realized nothing was further from the truth. God loves us, period, no matter what.


More than that, I now understand that on my worst days, when I stole and then came home and lay beside my sleeping wife in tears knowing my entire life was falling apart, at that precise moment God had compassion for me. He loved me, He loves me, unconditionally.


That realization has allowed me to look at the men in here, and folks outside, in an entirely new way. God doesn’t prioritize sins. He doesn’t say “stealing is level 15, murder level 55”, and anger at our spouse, “level 3”. We all sin, we all screw up, we all hurt each other and ourselves. Even Mother Teresa admitted in an interview “I’m far from perfect”.


Yet, God loves us. He loves us no matter what. I think that is what Christmas is really all about. From the beginning of our existence here on this orb we’ve been screwing up. And for years, our Creator watched it all and got upset because His children were wayward. Then He did something inconceivable, and illogical, and irrational. He loved us, in spite of ourselves, He just loved us.


My favorite Bible story is the parable of the prodigal son. There’s one particular verse that stands out. The son has lost everything. His life is over. He decides to return home and beg for forgiveness. “And while he was still a long way away the father saw him and ran to him and kissed him.” The father didn’t need an apology. He didn’t need to pile on and refuse to forgive his son. He just kissed him and loved him.


That story sees me through every day. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done, God still loves me. He loves all of us. There is always hope, always tomorrow. Christmas really is an amazing day, even in prison.

Bob's Singin: Is Anyone Listenin?

My cousin wrote me and mentioned her stepson and his wife had been to see Bob Dylan in concert and he was “unintelligible”. I’m a huge Dylan fan and used to say you could understand anything in life with a Dylan song or baseball.



I think about Dylan lyrics quite frequently in here. Somehow a great deal of what Dylan wrote makes sense when you’re locked up, deprived of your freedom.


Here’s a thought: incarceration is an inhuman punishment. With very few exceptions (sociopathic personalities), the vast majority of men and women in prison could be rehabilitated without incarceration or substantially shorter sentences.


For most men and women locked up, prison is a debilitating mind breaking, soul breaking experience. I read an interesting article recently by an African American Washington Post writer bemoaning the fact rappers who have done time talk about how “bad” they were in the system. Fact is prison alters you in so many ways; for most men and women, the changes are for the worse.


“How many roads must a man walk down
Before you will call him a man
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand
How many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they are forever banned . . . .”


There are some who fight the despair and refuse to give up their freedom of self, of consciousness. They fight against becoming institutionalized.


I have had the privilege of meeting a small group of men like that. They accept responsibility for their crimes, yet never give up learning, never give up striving, never give up hoping for freedom. Though some are murderers, some armed robbers, and drug dealers; they are more humble, compassionate, and caring than any other men I’ve known. They have become more than brothers to me.


Prisons are poorly run and insufficiently equipped to handle the vast majority of societal ills that are comingled behind their walls. Even at a place like this, a lower custody, dormitory style center, the inmates act with each other and staff in a Darwinian ballet. The strongest prey on the weakest; intellect only sometimes overcomes physical strength; the sick and infirmed get worse.


But, prisons are big business. In 2011 it is estimated the federal and state prison systems will spend over $55 billion to operate its prisons. That is more than is projected to be spent by U.S. Forces in Iraq.


“How many years can a mountain exist
Before it is washed to the sea
How many years can a people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free
How many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn’t see . . .”


We claim to be a moral country, a moral people, yet we maintain a criminal justice system that leads the world in the number of people behind bars. I wonder how a nation, so committed to spreading freedom and justice worldwide can fail so miserably ensuring it within its own borders.


A majority of Americans consider themselves “Christian”. They fail to realize that the religion they profess to follow is diametrically opposite the lifestyle they lead. Consider that the vast majority of the New Testament, that portion of the Bible dedicated to spreading the word about the resurrected Jesus was written by men in and out of prison. Almost every one of Paul’s Epistles were written behind bars. An elderly John wrote the Book of Revelation while imprisoned on the Island of Patmos doing hard labor. Peter, Stephen, James and hundreds others were imprisoned, tortured, and killed by the powers that be.


We forget that those men who today we consider saints, were “back in the day”, criminals, human garbage, troublemakers. They challenged the societal norms and domestic order of the world’s only superpower, a nation-state more dominant than any in the history of humankind. They challenged a religious order and doctrine that placed greater emphasis on law than grace, a religious establishment that arrogantly held its followers superior to any other.


Do you every wonder why Jesus told his disciples to forgive “seventy times seven?” Do you ever wonder why He told the crowd how they treat “the least of my brothers” is how they shall be judged (and He included those in prison)? Do you ever ask yourself why Paul, in prison, told the Ephesians to “forgive as Christ forgave you?”


These men, these saints of the faith most Americans profess, were societal outcasts, misfits, problems. It was easier for the Roman and Jewish authorities to imprison them, stone them, hack them to pieces, or crucify them than deal with them.


I live with twelve hundred misfits, degenerates, drug addicts, murderers, drunks, mentally challenged men. We are part of 40,000 Virginia outcasts, part of three million criminals, losers, problems, kept confined in despicable conditions. Most have given up and accept that being treated like this for what they did is Karma, their fate. But some refuse. They don’t sit quietly. They shout out “I am a child of God, I will be free!”


“How many times must a man look up
Before he sees the sky
How many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry
How many deaths will it take ‘til he knows
Too many people have died
The answer, my friend is blowin in the wind . . . .”


Bob’s singin and I’m hearing every word. It is a call to action, a call to change, a call to address the ills we see. Prison reform must occur. Too many lives are being squandered; too many resources being wasted. The choice is up to each person. Do we do what we profess and ‘trust in the Lord with all our heart” or do we keep doing the same thing, locking people up, damaging them, making them worse. There has to be a better way.


The price we will pay for keeping things “as is” will be more in prison, more broken families, more children raised without fathers, more disparity.


Bob’s singin. I wonder how many are listening. We need to change now or “a hard rain’s gonna fall.”