Bob Marley had a wonderful moving song called “Redemptions’ Song”, with imagery of slavery, hatred and the ultimate capacity of man to overcome. With the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar in the background, Marley over and over with his Reggae lilt sang “Redemption’s Song”.
One of my closest friends in here is DC. I’ve written a good deal about him over the months. He is the gentlest man I ever met. I consider it an honor to have him as a friend. I’ve hinted at scenes from his life in blogs: his boxing skills, his excessive sentence (39 years served to date), his marriage.
With his permission, I tell you the rest of the story. Redemption is not just a word. I have learned from watching this remarkable man, no heart is truly beyond redemption. No one is beyond God’s grace.
In 1972 DC – as an angry 18 year old black boxer from the District of Columbia – was arrested for multiple armed robberies of banks and convenience stores. At least two people died during these crimes. He was ultimately convicted of one robbery and sentenced to twenty years. When he started his “bid” he was just nineteen, recently married and the father of two little girls.
“I was angry and I loved to fight”. I have a hard time hearing DC say that. He has a very soft voice and always smiles. But, the fact is, he was brutal and merciless.
For the next 13 years, 1973-1986, DC preyed on weaker inmates in the system and added time to his sentence. Twice he was arrested for attempting to rape female officers. Five convictions for assaults. He was one of the most vicious, brutal men in a brutal prison system. He spent years in “the hole”. He had years added to his sentence. Yet, every available visitation day, his wife and daughters would arrive for visits.
In 1985 he murdered a fellow inmate during a prison riot. His release date was pushed back to 2022. His wife arrived for her visit. DC looked me in the eye and said: “She cried softly and said I know the man I love wouldn’t do these things. If you aren’t going to fight for that man, tell me and I’ll give up and move on.”
DC was angrier than ever. He told her, “I don’t give a shit what you do”, and he stormed out of his visit.
Something happened over the next few days. The man, the real man, the one his lay minister mother prayed about every day, the one his father remembered by a baby picture he carried in Korea when he was stationed there, began to fight back.
DC began to fast and meditate. He began to fight the anger and bitterness within. In a tearful reunion with his wife, he vowed to never strike another person again.
That was 25 years ago. In 25 years, DC has never broken even the smallest, most insignificant rule. He is a committed pacifist. He is a man of peace.
I’m not sure when DC will be released. Last week he had his “annual” parole hearing. He shows no worry. Even after 38 years he says, “When the time comes for my release, God will make it happen.”
His wife? Every month his wife comes to see him, just as she has for 39 years. Now she is joined by her daughters, their husbands and grandchildren.
His mom and dad come down quarterly. His father told him a month ago “I didn’t miss a day prayin’ for you all these years.”
It’s not a pretty story, but it is one of the most amazing and inspiring stories I’ve ever heard. That’s what redemption is: powerful, overwhelming and possible for anyone. Don’t think a man like DC can be redeemed? The success of the entire Christian church rested on the shoulders of a man whose life work was to persecute believers. Then, one day he suddenly was redeemed. If God could redeem Paul, He can redeem anyone.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Letters
I’ve been writing a number of letters this week. Some I’ll mail, some I need to think about.
It all started after writing class the other day. We finished the fall term and I was presenting certificates to the guys. I was urging them to keep writing because “words matter”. I told them two brief stories. First, I mentioned German Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I told the class at 39, Bonhoeffer was executed by the Nazis for his part in challenging Hitler’s regime. He wrote extensively while held in a concentration camp. I keep his “prison prayer” taped in my locker along with a quote from him – “it’s easier to suffer in obedience”.
I explained to the class Bonhoeffer’s words changed the way committed Christians looked at their moral obligation to confront evil. His words, written in a prison, mattered.
I then told the class the story of Dr. King writing his famous Birmingham jail essay on toilet paper and smuggling it out. I told them his words “freedom is a gift from God” echo through every prison in the world. Every person under the yoke of oppression takes comfort in Dr. King’s words.
That evening, as I was working a crossword puzzle, Dom came over to see me. He’s a huge black man who looks capable of squashing a car in his hands. He is a college student and a member of the writing class. He handed me a stack of papers. It was a copy of Dr. King’s “Letter from the Birmingham Jail”.
Dom told me he’d never heard the story behind the letter or even read the letter. But, after hearing me talk about it he asked one of the GED teachers to print him a copy.
I laughed and told him it was the first time anyone had ever listened to me. Dom turned serious: “Don’t ever say that Larry. We all listen to you. What you say matters. You inspired me to read this and you were right. It’s the most powerful essay I ever read.”
My words mattered. That rolled around in my mind for a few minutes. Every week I write my youngest son and get no response. Twice in the last six months I’ve written my ex, nothing. I can’t get my own parents to read what I write. “It’s nobody’s business you’re in prison. What will people think?”
This week, I wrote my folks. I told them this experience has changed me forever. I then wrote this: “you may find it hard to believe, but God loves the people in prison with me; the murderers, rapists and thieves just as much as He loves the people you go to church with.” Hard concept to swallow when you’re following all the rules, but most of God’s message runs counter to our normal way of thinking.
Then, I wrote my youngest son. I explained to him that a man can’t be judged by a series of acts or failings, but by his heart and character. I then told him Bonhoeffer wrote that too many Christians follow “cheap grace”. We say God loves us, God forgives us, but we don’t think how powerful a message that really is. “You have to love and forgive the way God loves and forgives us.”
I don’t know if my folks will get what I’m saying. I don’t know if my son – or his mom – will understand. But, at least I put on paper something real, something true. I owed it to them – and myself – to try.
I then started a letter to my ex. I realized all these months I’d been hoping for a miracle, hoping that she would magically decide to write me or show up for a visit and say “I’ve always loved you”. That’s never going to happen because she’s incapable of that. She can’t be what she isn’t.
I always wanted her to love me the way I loved her. I would have crawled across broken glass for her. There was nothing she could have done to stop me from loving her, to make me give up on her.
That isn’t the way she felt about me. That’s not how she defines love, marriage and commitment. I’m sad about that, but I can’t make her love me. I can’t make her say “our marriage is worth fighting for; you’re worth fighting for.”
I realized as I wrote that letter, if she couldn’t feel that way for me, she won’t ever feel it. She’s probably lonely and wants companionship. I understand that and hope she finds it. But, she won’t find love because love is tough; sometimes it’s difficult, but it’s always courageous. Love means loving “in spite of”. She, I regrettably have realized, isn’t capable of that. I, however, will always love her even as I know that love won’t be returned.
That letter is not being mailed. The other thing I’ve learned about words is, while they can inspire and illuminate, they can also hurt. My letter to her is the truth. But, sometimes the truth needs to be put in a drawer. The only thing such a letter would accomplish is hurt her. That’s never a good reason for any words.
It all started after writing class the other day. We finished the fall term and I was presenting certificates to the guys. I was urging them to keep writing because “words matter”. I told them two brief stories. First, I mentioned German Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I told the class at 39, Bonhoeffer was executed by the Nazis for his part in challenging Hitler’s regime. He wrote extensively while held in a concentration camp. I keep his “prison prayer” taped in my locker along with a quote from him – “it’s easier to suffer in obedience”.
I explained to the class Bonhoeffer’s words changed the way committed Christians looked at their moral obligation to confront evil. His words, written in a prison, mattered.
I then told the class the story of Dr. King writing his famous Birmingham jail essay on toilet paper and smuggling it out. I told them his words “freedom is a gift from God” echo through every prison in the world. Every person under the yoke of oppression takes comfort in Dr. King’s words.
That evening, as I was working a crossword puzzle, Dom came over to see me. He’s a huge black man who looks capable of squashing a car in his hands. He is a college student and a member of the writing class. He handed me a stack of papers. It was a copy of Dr. King’s “Letter from the Birmingham Jail”.
Dom told me he’d never heard the story behind the letter or even read the letter. But, after hearing me talk about it he asked one of the GED teachers to print him a copy.
I laughed and told him it was the first time anyone had ever listened to me. Dom turned serious: “Don’t ever say that Larry. We all listen to you. What you say matters. You inspired me to read this and you were right. It’s the most powerful essay I ever read.”
My words mattered. That rolled around in my mind for a few minutes. Every week I write my youngest son and get no response. Twice in the last six months I’ve written my ex, nothing. I can’t get my own parents to read what I write. “It’s nobody’s business you’re in prison. What will people think?”
This week, I wrote my folks. I told them this experience has changed me forever. I then wrote this: “you may find it hard to believe, but God loves the people in prison with me; the murderers, rapists and thieves just as much as He loves the people you go to church with.” Hard concept to swallow when you’re following all the rules, but most of God’s message runs counter to our normal way of thinking.
Then, I wrote my youngest son. I explained to him that a man can’t be judged by a series of acts or failings, but by his heart and character. I then told him Bonhoeffer wrote that too many Christians follow “cheap grace”. We say God loves us, God forgives us, but we don’t think how powerful a message that really is. “You have to love and forgive the way God loves and forgives us.”
I don’t know if my folks will get what I’m saying. I don’t know if my son – or his mom – will understand. But, at least I put on paper something real, something true. I owed it to them – and myself – to try.
I then started a letter to my ex. I realized all these months I’d been hoping for a miracle, hoping that she would magically decide to write me or show up for a visit and say “I’ve always loved you”. That’s never going to happen because she’s incapable of that. She can’t be what she isn’t.
I always wanted her to love me the way I loved her. I would have crawled across broken glass for her. There was nothing she could have done to stop me from loving her, to make me give up on her.
That isn’t the way she felt about me. That’s not how she defines love, marriage and commitment. I’m sad about that, but I can’t make her love me. I can’t make her say “our marriage is worth fighting for; you’re worth fighting for.”
I realized as I wrote that letter, if she couldn’t feel that way for me, she won’t ever feel it. She’s probably lonely and wants companionship. I understand that and hope she finds it. But, she won’t find love because love is tough; sometimes it’s difficult, but it’s always courageous. Love means loving “in spite of”. She, I regrettably have realized, isn’t capable of that. I, however, will always love her even as I know that love won’t be returned.
That letter is not being mailed. The other thing I’ve learned about words is, while they can inspire and illuminate, they can also hurt. My letter to her is the truth. But, sometimes the truth needs to be put in a drawer. The only thing such a letter would accomplish is hurt her. That’s never a good reason for any words.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Just When I Thought You Couldn’t Get Any Dumber
One of my favorite movies of all time is the Jim Carrey, Jeff Daniels comedy “Dumb & Dumber”. In one particularly absurd scene, Lloyd (Jim Carrey) having traded away the pair’s van for a moped to save money and fuel, comes rolling down a two lane highway where he meets back up with Harry (Jeff Daniels). Lloyd explains how he traded the van straight up for the moped. Harry then utters this amazing line:
“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any dumber . . . you go out an redeem yourself!”
That movie and that quote rolled through my mind as I read this morning’s Richmond Times Dispatch editorial praising then Governor Allen for implementing no parole.
http://www2.timesdispatch.com/news/2011/jan/18/TDOPIN01-results-ar-780195/
The editor then cites as “facts” a number of statistics that are contrary to DOC’s own data.
What was the main reason for his “love letter” to George Allen? Virginia has a brand new, $100 million prison in Grayson County sitting empty. Ipso facto (ain’t Latin a grand language) Virginia has plenty of bed space to lock up criminals. And, he concludes, Virginia’s inmate population actually shrunk 2.8% last year.
“Dumb & Dumber” should be the name of the Times-Dispatch editorial page.
Allow me to point out the facts for the editor. I would also challenge him to get off his ass and see what’s really going on in Virginia’s prisons.
In 1995, when then Governor Allen proposed, then signed, abolition of parole, there were approximately 9,600 inmates held by DOC. In 2010, there were approximately 37,000. That is a 400% growth in prison population in fifteen years. DOC’s budget exceeds $1 billion annually. The department employs over 13,000 people, the largest state agency in Virginia.
It costs Virginians approximately $25,000 per year to house an inmate. It costs about $25 million per year to operate a prison. Want to know why the new Grayson County prison isn’t being used? It’s money. Virginia can’t afford to operate more prisons. What the editor failed to recognize is that prisons drain money from other pressing needs, like education and medical care and help for the handicapped.
No less a conservative pundit than Newt Gingrich has spoken out about the excessive incarceration rate in the U.S. As this blog previously noted in his recent Op Ed piece in the Washington Post, contrary to what the editor wrote, states with aggressive parole and liberal release actually have seen greater reductions in crime.
If Allen was such a genius, why has the recidivism rate in Virginia remained relatively constant while the number of inmates and the cost to house them has skyrocketed? Good questions to ask Mr. Editor. It’s a shame you didn’t think of it.
Let me also say a brief word about the false statement the editor makes about “available beds”. Fact: Virginia’s prisons are overcrowded. Virginia fails to comply with ACA (American Correction Association) standards for inmates per officer and living space per inmate. In the dorm I live in, two officers (one in the booth and one on the floor) are responsible for 192 inmates. The standard is one officer for every 40 dorm inmates. Instead, 96 inmates are jammed into a building made for half that many with each man having less than ten square feet of living space, rather than the required 25.
Think it doesn’t matter? Tell that to the families of inmates murdered at Nottoway, Greensville and Red Onion prisons this year. Tell it to the thousands of inmates exposed to Hepatitis C and other diseases.
I challenge the editor to read DOC’s own December 2009 “Task Force Report on Nonviolent Offenders”.
http://www.justicefellowship.org/images/AlternativesforNonViolentOffendersReportfinal_3.pdf
Better yet, get off your ass and come out here and see the Virginia prison system in action.
I challenge the editor to invite George Allen to come with him and sit down with me and listen to what’s really going on in the “corrections” system. It ain’t pretty. In fact, it’s immoral and should be seen as an embarrassment to any semi-intelligent person.
Neither the editor or Mr. Allen will take me up on my invitation. It’s far too easy to hide behind the fiction than face the facts.
“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any dumber . . . you go out an redeem yourself!”
That movie and that quote rolled through my mind as I read this morning’s Richmond Times Dispatch editorial praising then Governor Allen for implementing no parole.
http://www2.timesdispatch.com/news/2011/jan/18/TDOPIN01-results-ar-780195/
The editor then cites as “facts” a number of statistics that are contrary to DOC’s own data.
What was the main reason for his “love letter” to George Allen? Virginia has a brand new, $100 million prison in Grayson County sitting empty. Ipso facto (ain’t Latin a grand language) Virginia has plenty of bed space to lock up criminals. And, he concludes, Virginia’s inmate population actually shrunk 2.8% last year.
“Dumb & Dumber” should be the name of the Times-Dispatch editorial page.
Allow me to point out the facts for the editor. I would also challenge him to get off his ass and see what’s really going on in Virginia’s prisons.
In 1995, when then Governor Allen proposed, then signed, abolition of parole, there were approximately 9,600 inmates held by DOC. In 2010, there were approximately 37,000. That is a 400% growth in prison population in fifteen years. DOC’s budget exceeds $1 billion annually. The department employs over 13,000 people, the largest state agency in Virginia.
It costs Virginians approximately $25,000 per year to house an inmate. It costs about $25 million per year to operate a prison. Want to know why the new Grayson County prison isn’t being used? It’s money. Virginia can’t afford to operate more prisons. What the editor failed to recognize is that prisons drain money from other pressing needs, like education and medical care and help for the handicapped.
No less a conservative pundit than Newt Gingrich has spoken out about the excessive incarceration rate in the U.S. As this blog previously noted in his recent Op Ed piece in the Washington Post, contrary to what the editor wrote, states with aggressive parole and liberal release actually have seen greater reductions in crime.
If Allen was such a genius, why has the recidivism rate in Virginia remained relatively constant while the number of inmates and the cost to house them has skyrocketed? Good questions to ask Mr. Editor. It’s a shame you didn’t think of it.
Let me also say a brief word about the false statement the editor makes about “available beds”. Fact: Virginia’s prisons are overcrowded. Virginia fails to comply with ACA (American Correction Association) standards for inmates per officer and living space per inmate. In the dorm I live in, two officers (one in the booth and one on the floor) are responsible for 192 inmates. The standard is one officer for every 40 dorm inmates. Instead, 96 inmates are jammed into a building made for half that many with each man having less than ten square feet of living space, rather than the required 25.
Think it doesn’t matter? Tell that to the families of inmates murdered at Nottoway, Greensville and Red Onion prisons this year. Tell it to the thousands of inmates exposed to Hepatitis C and other diseases.
I challenge the editor to read DOC’s own December 2009 “Task Force Report on Nonviolent Offenders”.
http://www.justicefellowship.org/images/AlternativesforNonViolentOffendersReportfinal_3.pdf
Better yet, get off your ass and come out here and see the Virginia prison system in action.
I challenge the editor to invite George Allen to come with him and sit down with me and listen to what’s really going on in the “corrections” system. It ain’t pretty. In fact, it’s immoral and should be seen as an embarrassment to any semi-intelligent person.
Neither the editor or Mr. Allen will take me up on my invitation. It’s far too easy to hide behind the fiction than face the facts.
You don't get women
I was having a conversation with “L” the other day. That’s a bad way to describe it. Really, I was drug into a conversation L was having with four other guys in the college IT program.
L is a 27 year old convicted drug dealer. He’s also the highest ranking member of the “Bloods” street gang here on the compound. He doesn’t meet your normal idea of a gang banger. He’s extremely respectful and polite (“Heh, Mr. Larry, could you please review my essay?”) and is working hard in the college program (“I have two little boys that don’t need their father locked up.”). But, he is a gang leader and could, if need be, act ruthlessly.
As I do with most guys on the compound, I move easily in the gang’s circle. Four of the members were listening as L was telling them “so and so’s girl” is “nothin’ but a ‘hood rat’ (i.e. she’ll hook up with a dealer who’ll get her an apartment, drugs and a yorkie). “No”, one of the other guys said. “She’s a ‘duck’ (that’s a girl that has slept with every guy in the crew until she settled on the one dopey guy who’d take care of her).”
I chimed in and said “in my world, women aren’t like that”. They all laughed. So I had to tell them a story.
It involved a trip to Vegas. I was out there with my two closest friends. I had hit a big win one morning at the craps table (largest I ever hit - $70,000 plus). I called home and told my wife. I then spent the rest of the day drinking, eating and spending my winnings.
That night, after a huge late dinner with my two buddies and way too much alcohol, I headed back to the craps table. As I was gambling, a young lady tapped my shoulder and asked me to explain the game. I’m an extrovert. I’ll talk to anybody, plus she was beautiful. She looked like Halle Berry. I still know exactly what she was wearing and how her perfume smelled.
I spotted her a few chips and we started winning. An hour or so passed and I was ready to unwind with a drink. I wished her well. “Mind if I tag along” she asked. We headed to a well-lit bar and I ordered a few drinks. I found out she was 23; told her about my wife and kids.
A little while later, I told her good night. She placed her hand on my leg and quietly whispered “I’d love to come upstairs with you”. She then “offered” to be my girlfriend for the weekend for $1500. She was a “working girl”.
What did I do? All the guys sat there waiting to hear about my wild night. I disappointed them. I went up to my room, alone and then three hours later called home and told my wife.
I then heard a rousing chorus of “you dumb ass. You coulda had her.”
Prison warps your mind about relationships with women. Guys read and re-read pick up books. They exchange porn. A guy with a subscription to “Playboy” or “American Curves” (an amazing magazine with nothing but hot women in bikinis and lingerie) is a hero.
Now, I don’t profess to know a great deal about women. The one meaningful relationship I had I blew by lying (a no no with women). But, the vast majority, I told the guys want the same thing we do. “Sex?” they said. No, sex isn’t as important as love and commitment.
I know this: one of the best days of my life was when I looked down the aisle that November afternoon as the woman whom I loved walked toward me to become my wife. I thought that I was the luckiest guy alive. Nothing that has happened since has changed that memory.
“You don’t need money or drugs or pick-up lines, to connect with women. You just need love.”
L looked at me and smiled. Then he said “you’re the smartest man I’ve met, but you don’t get women”. All the crew laughed and agreed.
L is a 27 year old convicted drug dealer. He’s also the highest ranking member of the “Bloods” street gang here on the compound. He doesn’t meet your normal idea of a gang banger. He’s extremely respectful and polite (“Heh, Mr. Larry, could you please review my essay?”) and is working hard in the college program (“I have two little boys that don’t need their father locked up.”). But, he is a gang leader and could, if need be, act ruthlessly.
As I do with most guys on the compound, I move easily in the gang’s circle. Four of the members were listening as L was telling them “so and so’s girl” is “nothin’ but a ‘hood rat’ (i.e. she’ll hook up with a dealer who’ll get her an apartment, drugs and a yorkie). “No”, one of the other guys said. “She’s a ‘duck’ (that’s a girl that has slept with every guy in the crew until she settled on the one dopey guy who’d take care of her).”
I chimed in and said “in my world, women aren’t like that”. They all laughed. So I had to tell them a story.
It involved a trip to Vegas. I was out there with my two closest friends. I had hit a big win one morning at the craps table (largest I ever hit - $70,000 plus). I called home and told my wife. I then spent the rest of the day drinking, eating and spending my winnings.
That night, after a huge late dinner with my two buddies and way too much alcohol, I headed back to the craps table. As I was gambling, a young lady tapped my shoulder and asked me to explain the game. I’m an extrovert. I’ll talk to anybody, plus she was beautiful. She looked like Halle Berry. I still know exactly what she was wearing and how her perfume smelled.
I spotted her a few chips and we started winning. An hour or so passed and I was ready to unwind with a drink. I wished her well. “Mind if I tag along” she asked. We headed to a well-lit bar and I ordered a few drinks. I found out she was 23; told her about my wife and kids.
A little while later, I told her good night. She placed her hand on my leg and quietly whispered “I’d love to come upstairs with you”. She then “offered” to be my girlfriend for the weekend for $1500. She was a “working girl”.
What did I do? All the guys sat there waiting to hear about my wild night. I disappointed them. I went up to my room, alone and then three hours later called home and told my wife.
I then heard a rousing chorus of “you dumb ass. You coulda had her.”
Prison warps your mind about relationships with women. Guys read and re-read pick up books. They exchange porn. A guy with a subscription to “Playboy” or “American Curves” (an amazing magazine with nothing but hot women in bikinis and lingerie) is a hero.
Now, I don’t profess to know a great deal about women. The one meaningful relationship I had I blew by lying (a no no with women). But, the vast majority, I told the guys want the same thing we do. “Sex?” they said. No, sex isn’t as important as love and commitment.
I know this: one of the best days of my life was when I looked down the aisle that November afternoon as the woman whom I loved walked toward me to become my wife. I thought that I was the luckiest guy alive. Nothing that has happened since has changed that memory.
“You don’t need money or drugs or pick-up lines, to connect with women. You just need love.”
L looked at me and smiled. Then he said “you’re the smartest man I’ve met, but you don’t get women”. All the crew laughed and agreed.
Blind but Now I See
It never ceases to astound me what insight I gain in this place. There are two men I’ve written about before who I have the highest regard for. DC, who has been incarcerated since 1972 and Ty, who has been locked up since 1980. Both men are simply decent, compassionate, gentlemen. While they both committed acts of violence that led to their imprisonment, neither deserves to still be here. Justice demands otherwise. Mercy demands otherwise.
I began reading John Grisham’s latest bestseller the other evening. The Confession is the story of an innocent man on death row. It is also the story of a young Lutheran minister who feels called by God to do something, anything, to stop the execution. It is the story of hypocrisy as church members, “good, Christian” men and women miss the fundamental message of their professed faith.
What would Jesus do? I asked in a recent blog the rhetorical question what kind of director of corrections would Jesus be? Throughout much of these past two and a half years I’ve read and prayed and tried to understand what God requires of me. What was I to do with my life after I so badly mangled it up to this point?
I thought about my own church involvement. I was an active member of my church, but I was a lousy Christian. Then again my church wasn’t much better.
After my arrest my own minister refused to visit me at the jail. He didn’t want to get caught up in my marital and legal troubles. With the exception of a close friend who’s a member of the congregation and an elderly farmer who testified on my behalf at my sentencing, not one member of my church “family” has even stayed in touch with me.
Even though I’m still a member, my birthday is left off the calendar. The new minister has never written me or visited. Not one member of our church family ever suggested to my then wife what Jesus taught about marital love and commitment.
As the young man on death row confessed to his loss of faith, the Lutheran minister stated “God’s people are often wrong Donte! But God is never wrong. You can’t blame Him.”
What would Jesus do? I’ve watched with much bemusement as talking heads on both sides of the aisle offer sound bites about the tragic shooting in Arizona. I’ve heard much about the victims and still more about the twisted mind of the shooter. Here’s what I didn’t hear: God loves the young man who did this horrible thing – what’s more, He expects His people to love him as well and show him mercy and forgiveness.
What would Jesus do? Would Jesus approve of the death penalty? I doubt it. Would Jesus approve of Virginia’s “corrections” department? I don’t think so.
Fact is, I’ve come to understand that most of what we consider as characteristics of successful church membership and citizenship has absolutely nothing to do with being a Christian. In fact, our mileposts of “good living” are contrary to what the Lord requires of us.
I believe Jesus judges us by the kindness in our hearts, the love, compassion, mercy and forgiveness we show. Under that standard my friends DC, Ty, Saleem, Big S and thousands of other incarcerated persons would be free. “Then neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”
Yesterday morning with tears rolling down my cheeks, I said my prayers in the silence and darkness of the building. For the first time since my divorce was final, I thanked God for all that has happened to me since my arrest. God wasn’t responsible for my arrest, I was. God didn’t divorce me. My wife did. God has loved me every step of the way. Friends bailed out; my wife really didn’t love me, she didn’t believe in the vows we took, But God stayed with me.
I thought about the men I’ve met in here, thought about how my entire world view has been turned upside down.
I sat in the law library the other night at a loss to come up with the words to help a young man on his case. I don’t know where it came from, but I suddenly found myself typing out a section from the Gospel of John, trying to argue that we must look in a person’s heart, their soul to understand remorse.
Ty was working that night. In his deep, bass monotone he told me I was inspiring men here who long ago had given up hope. How ironic, I thought. The woman I loved – and still love – never once told me I was inspiring. My kids never felt inspired by me. I was just “there”. They’ve shown these past two and a half years I wasn’t that important in their lives. I’m sad about that, but so grateful for what I feel about them.
I read Paul’s conversion experience this morning, how he was struck blind then three days later could “see”. I love that imagery.
“I once was lost and now am found; was blind and now I see.” My eyes have been opened. God loves the incarcerated. He loves terrorists and terror victims. He loves the self righteous as they sit in their church pews on Sundays. He loves my ex-wife even though she divorced me and He loves me even after stealing $2 million.
He loves and forgives us all. What would Jesus do? Look around and tell me. We all could do better. God always does His best.
I may be wrong, but I think He’d tell you to work for justice, end suffering, forgive, reconcile and love. Pretty simple, straight forward message. Like most things with God, it all comes down to seeing things His way.
I began reading John Grisham’s latest bestseller the other evening. The Confession is the story of an innocent man on death row. It is also the story of a young Lutheran minister who feels called by God to do something, anything, to stop the execution. It is the story of hypocrisy as church members, “good, Christian” men and women miss the fundamental message of their professed faith.
What would Jesus do? I asked in a recent blog the rhetorical question what kind of director of corrections would Jesus be? Throughout much of these past two and a half years I’ve read and prayed and tried to understand what God requires of me. What was I to do with my life after I so badly mangled it up to this point?
I thought about my own church involvement. I was an active member of my church, but I was a lousy Christian. Then again my church wasn’t much better.
After my arrest my own minister refused to visit me at the jail. He didn’t want to get caught up in my marital and legal troubles. With the exception of a close friend who’s a member of the congregation and an elderly farmer who testified on my behalf at my sentencing, not one member of my church “family” has even stayed in touch with me.
Even though I’m still a member, my birthday is left off the calendar. The new minister has never written me or visited. Not one member of our church family ever suggested to my then wife what Jesus taught about marital love and commitment.
As the young man on death row confessed to his loss of faith, the Lutheran minister stated “God’s people are often wrong Donte! But God is never wrong. You can’t blame Him.”
What would Jesus do? I’ve watched with much bemusement as talking heads on both sides of the aisle offer sound bites about the tragic shooting in Arizona. I’ve heard much about the victims and still more about the twisted mind of the shooter. Here’s what I didn’t hear: God loves the young man who did this horrible thing – what’s more, He expects His people to love him as well and show him mercy and forgiveness.
What would Jesus do? Would Jesus approve of the death penalty? I doubt it. Would Jesus approve of Virginia’s “corrections” department? I don’t think so.
Fact is, I’ve come to understand that most of what we consider as characteristics of successful church membership and citizenship has absolutely nothing to do with being a Christian. In fact, our mileposts of “good living” are contrary to what the Lord requires of us.
I believe Jesus judges us by the kindness in our hearts, the love, compassion, mercy and forgiveness we show. Under that standard my friends DC, Ty, Saleem, Big S and thousands of other incarcerated persons would be free. “Then neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”
Yesterday morning with tears rolling down my cheeks, I said my prayers in the silence and darkness of the building. For the first time since my divorce was final, I thanked God for all that has happened to me since my arrest. God wasn’t responsible for my arrest, I was. God didn’t divorce me. My wife did. God has loved me every step of the way. Friends bailed out; my wife really didn’t love me, she didn’t believe in the vows we took, But God stayed with me.
I thought about the men I’ve met in here, thought about how my entire world view has been turned upside down.
I sat in the law library the other night at a loss to come up with the words to help a young man on his case. I don’t know where it came from, but I suddenly found myself typing out a section from the Gospel of John, trying to argue that we must look in a person’s heart, their soul to understand remorse.
Ty was working that night. In his deep, bass monotone he told me I was inspiring men here who long ago had given up hope. How ironic, I thought. The woman I loved – and still love – never once told me I was inspiring. My kids never felt inspired by me. I was just “there”. They’ve shown these past two and a half years I wasn’t that important in their lives. I’m sad about that, but so grateful for what I feel about them.
I read Paul’s conversion experience this morning, how he was struck blind then three days later could “see”. I love that imagery.
“I once was lost and now am found; was blind and now I see.” My eyes have been opened. God loves the incarcerated. He loves terrorists and terror victims. He loves the self righteous as they sit in their church pews on Sundays. He loves my ex-wife even though she divorced me and He loves me even after stealing $2 million.
He loves and forgives us all. What would Jesus do? Look around and tell me. We all could do better. God always does His best.
I may be wrong, but I think He’d tell you to work for justice, end suffering, forgive, reconcile and love. Pretty simple, straight forward message. Like most things with God, it all comes down to seeing things His way.
Thinking about King
Today is the Federal holiday observance of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday. I’m not sure if his “birthday as holiday” can adequately inform Americans of the nobility of this man. Too many Americans have never read what Dr. King actually wrote. That is a shame because his views on justice, on freedom and on equality are timeless.
On Good Friday, 1963, Dr. King found himself in solitary confinement in the Birmingham, Alabama jail. His crime? He failed to apply for a parade permit before leading a protest march.
A number of prominent ministers in the Birmingham area wrote a public statement condemning King’s actions in organizing protests. Calling his actions “unwise” (their word), they urged King to seek compromise and conciliation with the civil authorities.
Kings was provided a pen (a violation of jailhouse rules) by a sympathetic guard. He then began writing, on scraps of newspaper and sheets of toilet paper, a 7000 word essay that would be smuggled out of the jail and receive international attention. Soon to be known as “Letter from Birmingham Jail”, King eloquently described the God-given right of freedom and justice every person was granted.
In a direct challenge to the minister/critics who chastised his actions, he wrote:
“Injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere . . . freedom is not granted by the oppressor . . .”
When I was sixteen years old, I read Dr. King’s essay. Though young and being raised by conservative Republican parents who weren’t overly thrilled with the civil rights movement, I was enthralled by his words. In 1975, I had my whole life ahead of me. I hated injustice; I loved freedom. In other words, I was a dopey teenager.
I went to college, then law school and became a lawyer. I had a wife, then a house with a mortgage, then kids. I knew “right from wrong” (at least out in public; inside I knew what I was doing wouldn’t pass my own litmus test), had a definite opinion on any political or social issue. I went to church, voted and participated in community service because that’s what “good people” do.
I was, and I hate to admit it, just like the right-thinking preachers that questioned Dr. King. And then, my whole life fell apart. I was arrested, divorced, alone. I sat in the county jail and pondered my future. While there, I rediscovered Dr. King’s letter.
In my favorite Bible verse (and the focal point of my prison tattoo), the prophet Isaiah in Chapter 40, writes:
Why do you say and assert your way is hidden from the Lord
And the justice do you escapes the
Notice of your God. . .
Isaiah goes on telling God’s people to have faith. God does not grow weary or tire. Justice shall prevail.
Dr. King’s words in his jailhouse essay were much like Isaiah’s. He called on believers to have faith, confront injustice, demand freedom. For a guy sitting in a jail cell, broken and feeling hopeless, Dr. King provided a testament to press on.
Dr. King reminded me that regardless of what we do, we are endowed by our Creator with freedom. And government must tread carefully when depriving one of their freedom, lest they become oppressors.
I, like hundreds of thousands of other incarcerated people deserve to be imprisoned for a time. But that does not allow government to act unjustly. Today, the criminal justice system is just that. It is unjust.
Go online and read his “letter”. http://www.stanford.edu/group/King/frequentdocs/birmingham.pdf
Think about the message. Celebrate the messenger by contacting your state representative and demand prison reform.
On Good Friday, 1963, Dr. King found himself in solitary confinement in the Birmingham, Alabama jail. His crime? He failed to apply for a parade permit before leading a protest march.
A number of prominent ministers in the Birmingham area wrote a public statement condemning King’s actions in organizing protests. Calling his actions “unwise” (their word), they urged King to seek compromise and conciliation with the civil authorities.
Kings was provided a pen (a violation of jailhouse rules) by a sympathetic guard. He then began writing, on scraps of newspaper and sheets of toilet paper, a 7000 word essay that would be smuggled out of the jail and receive international attention. Soon to be known as “Letter from Birmingham Jail”, King eloquently described the God-given right of freedom and justice every person was granted.
In a direct challenge to the minister/critics who chastised his actions, he wrote:
“Injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere . . . freedom is not granted by the oppressor . . .”
When I was sixteen years old, I read Dr. King’s essay. Though young and being raised by conservative Republican parents who weren’t overly thrilled with the civil rights movement, I was enthralled by his words. In 1975, I had my whole life ahead of me. I hated injustice; I loved freedom. In other words, I was a dopey teenager.
I went to college, then law school and became a lawyer. I had a wife, then a house with a mortgage, then kids. I knew “right from wrong” (at least out in public; inside I knew what I was doing wouldn’t pass my own litmus test), had a definite opinion on any political or social issue. I went to church, voted and participated in community service because that’s what “good people” do.
I was, and I hate to admit it, just like the right-thinking preachers that questioned Dr. King. And then, my whole life fell apart. I was arrested, divorced, alone. I sat in the county jail and pondered my future. While there, I rediscovered Dr. King’s letter.
In my favorite Bible verse (and the focal point of my prison tattoo), the prophet Isaiah in Chapter 40, writes:
Why do you say and assert your way is hidden from the Lord
And the justice do you escapes the
Notice of your God. . .
Isaiah goes on telling God’s people to have faith. God does not grow weary or tire. Justice shall prevail.
Dr. King’s words in his jailhouse essay were much like Isaiah’s. He called on believers to have faith, confront injustice, demand freedom. For a guy sitting in a jail cell, broken and feeling hopeless, Dr. King provided a testament to press on.
Dr. King reminded me that regardless of what we do, we are endowed by our Creator with freedom. And government must tread carefully when depriving one of their freedom, lest they become oppressors.
I, like hundreds of thousands of other incarcerated people deserve to be imprisoned for a time. But that does not allow government to act unjustly. Today, the criminal justice system is just that. It is unjust.
Go online and read his “letter”. http://www.stanford.edu/group/King/frequentdocs/birmingham.pdf
Think about the message. Celebrate the messenger by contacting your state representative and demand prison reform.
Still Runnin Against the Wind
I can’t seem to tire of the movie “Forrest Gump”. Perhaps it’s because it seems to be shown on TV every weekend. Perhaps the backdrop of American society through the decades of the 60s, 70s and 80s speaks to my memories of growing up. Or maybe it’s just an entertaining movie. Whatever the reason, I keep flipping the channel back to good ol’ Forrest whenever I notice it playing.
Last night was no different. I was watching the NFL playoff game and occasionally checking out the news when I came across Forrest. He had just met Jenny and his legs were kept straight by heavy metal braces. I watched for what seemed to be the thousandth time as bullies began to chase little Forrest, bent on hurting him. Jenny yells “Run Forrest. Run!” he takes off stiff legged, straining against the braces, then suddenly in a burst of energy his knees bend, the braces break into dozens of pieces and he begins to run. He runs with speed and abandonment. He runs. “Once I started to run, I just kept on running.” In almost every scene in the movie, Forrest always comes back to running.
Forrest always loved Jenny. From the moment he met her, he knew they were like “peas and carrots”. But Jenny kept going her own way. Dealing with her pain, her disappointment, she’d come in and out of Forrest’s life. Forrest still believed in Jenny. Even as she left him over and over again.
There is an especially poignant scene where Jenny returns to Forrest. On a rainy Alabama night they make love. Jenny leaves again. Forrest does what comes natural. He began to run. Over three years he ran. “Mama said you always have to outrun your memories ‘til you can stop.”
In the background, Bob Seger is singing “Runnin Against the Wind”. It’s a song I know well. I hear the song in my mind:
“Years keep going past
found myself alone . . .
farther from my home”
Seger laments his struggles in his life, how he’d been let down by friends, taken wrong turns, finds himself alone, a long way from his home.
“still runnin against the wind,
I’m older now and still runnin
against the wind.”
I find myself putting my life experiences into that movie, that song. I’m not sure if I’m Forrest or Jenny. Both ran. Both ran to outrun their memories and their pain. At the end, they were together. Their home was with each other.
I run almost every day. As I run my mind replays the days and nights with my ex. We too, were like “peas and carrots”. Like Seger’s song, there were times when I “guess I lost my way”. But, I always found myself home. I don’t have that anymore. Like Forrest I’m running alone, trying to outdistance the memories of my life with the only woman I’ve ever loved. No matter how many steps I take, how many laps I run, how fast I sprint down the backstretch, I can’t outrun my memories and my broken dreams.
I know there will come a day when my run stops. They’ll be a day when I don’t have to keep striding down the track to stay a few steps ahead of my memories of her, of our life together.
So I keep running. I’m free when I run and life is as it should be. The fences here no longer exist. The painful memories fade. The wind is at my back.
Last night was no different. I was watching the NFL playoff game and occasionally checking out the news when I came across Forrest. He had just met Jenny and his legs were kept straight by heavy metal braces. I watched for what seemed to be the thousandth time as bullies began to chase little Forrest, bent on hurting him. Jenny yells “Run Forrest. Run!” he takes off stiff legged, straining against the braces, then suddenly in a burst of energy his knees bend, the braces break into dozens of pieces and he begins to run. He runs with speed and abandonment. He runs. “Once I started to run, I just kept on running.” In almost every scene in the movie, Forrest always comes back to running.
Forrest always loved Jenny. From the moment he met her, he knew they were like “peas and carrots”. But Jenny kept going her own way. Dealing with her pain, her disappointment, she’d come in and out of Forrest’s life. Forrest still believed in Jenny. Even as she left him over and over again.
There is an especially poignant scene where Jenny returns to Forrest. On a rainy Alabama night they make love. Jenny leaves again. Forrest does what comes natural. He began to run. Over three years he ran. “Mama said you always have to outrun your memories ‘til you can stop.”
In the background, Bob Seger is singing “Runnin Against the Wind”. It’s a song I know well. I hear the song in my mind:
“Years keep going past
found myself alone . . .
farther from my home”
Seger laments his struggles in his life, how he’d been let down by friends, taken wrong turns, finds himself alone, a long way from his home.
“still runnin against the wind,
I’m older now and still runnin
against the wind.”
I find myself putting my life experiences into that movie, that song. I’m not sure if I’m Forrest or Jenny. Both ran. Both ran to outrun their memories and their pain. At the end, they were together. Their home was with each other.
I run almost every day. As I run my mind replays the days and nights with my ex. We too, were like “peas and carrots”. Like Seger’s song, there were times when I “guess I lost my way”. But, I always found myself home. I don’t have that anymore. Like Forrest I’m running alone, trying to outdistance the memories of my life with the only woman I’ve ever loved. No matter how many steps I take, how many laps I run, how fast I sprint down the backstretch, I can’t outrun my memories and my broken dreams.
I know there will come a day when my run stops. They’ll be a day when I don’t have to keep striding down the track to stay a few steps ahead of my memories of her, of our life together.
So I keep running. I’m free when I run and life is as it should be. The fences here no longer exist. The painful memories fade. The wind is at my back.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
School Days
College classes began this week. For the forty guys enrolled in the IT certification program it was trial by fire. I wasn’t sure how everyone would respond. This is a very course intensive program: 37 college credit hours (15 toward the general education requirements for an Associates degree, 22 in computer science) earned in 8 months. Approximately three-fourths of the participants have never taken a college class before. Now, they are taking four over an incredibly strenuous eight weeks
I’m the academic aide for English composition and American History. Besides my regular job duties working with GED students and teaching creative writing, I’m now sitting in on two three hour English classes, reviewing essay drafts, and tutoring on American History. By Friday, I had a head cold and was worn out.
This may surprise you, but these guys are working their butts off to succeed and with good reason. A college degree is the single most important deterrent to recidivism. Throw all your misconceptions out. These guys are more dedicated than the vast majority of college freshman going to a nice, sterile university on mom and dad’s check. The results, if they don’t succeed, are so painful that these guys collectively are pouring their hearts and souls into their work.
I may be worn out from reading and rereading essays explaining branches of government, but in many ways, I’ve never been more alive.
A few years ago a book came out called “Reading Lolita in Tehran”. The author recounted her efforts to educate young girls in Iran under the nose of the theocratic regime which was hell bent on controlling what its citizens were exposed to. The book pointed out the length people will go to to read and get an education.
This isn’t Tehran, but the conditions under which these men are attending college is a far cry from what occurs in the classrooms at some notable colleges and universities just a few miles from Lunenburg’s fences.
I wonder how many of the “professors” at those schools who bitterly complain about their course loads and nine month academic calendars could hold up under the academic conditions here.
It’s early Saturday morning and every table in the dayroom is packed with guys studying. A small group is gathered around the microwave discussing Thursday evening’s math worksheet. In front of my cut, five guys are nervously waiting for me to edit their essay drafts. This is not typical of a Lunenburg Saturday morning. Usually there are only five or ten of us out of bed before 11:30 am count. This morning the building is alive. No one is asleep. A few guys are outside working out. The rest are hitting the books.
Imagine attending a night class (6:30 to 9:30) where you aren’t allowed to leave for class until “count” has cleared. You then stand outside in the cold and rain waiting for your turn to enter the building and be patted down. Then, you go through the same process when class is over. Need to use the bathroom? Get permission.
In the math class, students need calculators to solve various trigonometric and exponential problems. They aren’t allowed to use calculators in the building. Any machine with memory capabilities is forbidden: “security risk”.
The instructor for the intro to economics class brought copies of the Wall Street Journal in for her students. They were to read the paper and answer worksheets about various sections. Chief of Security pulled the instructor aside and told her “no more papers”. Apparently, giving out papers is a form of fraternization.
Yet, these guys persist. There are 40 IT students, 47 associate degree students. Eighty-seven men on a compound of 1200 with three academic aides and a handful of dedicated teachers working with them.
Tehran doesn’t seem so far away. Still, they go to school. They try and earn their degree.
Some readers may wonder why they should care about inmates earning a degree. Forget the facts about recidivism. It costs $4,000 for a year of college in prison. It costs around $25,000 to house an inmate. The economics are so simple.
No less a commentator than Newt Gingrich endorsed dramatic prison reform. In a January 8th Washington Post Op Ed Gingrich wrote:
“We can no longer afford business as usual with prisons. The criminal justice system is broken and conservatives must lead the way in fixing it. . . It is time to fundamentally rethink how we treat and rehabilitate our prisoners.”
In Virginia, that means massive efforts at education and drug and alcohol counseling in the prisons and restoration of parole for almost all inmates. Make education a basis for earning parole.
In “Reading Lolita in Tehran” fear permeated every class meeting. Teachers feared a student making a slip of the tongue, leading to the school being raided by the police.
That fear should not exist for inmate students. Teachers should be free to exchange ideas – and newspapers – without risking the wrath of security. Education means too much to these men and the future of Virginia corrections. These school days matter.
I’m the academic aide for English composition and American History. Besides my regular job duties working with GED students and teaching creative writing, I’m now sitting in on two three hour English classes, reviewing essay drafts, and tutoring on American History. By Friday, I had a head cold and was worn out.
This may surprise you, but these guys are working their butts off to succeed and with good reason. A college degree is the single most important deterrent to recidivism. Throw all your misconceptions out. These guys are more dedicated than the vast majority of college freshman going to a nice, sterile university on mom and dad’s check. The results, if they don’t succeed, are so painful that these guys collectively are pouring their hearts and souls into their work.
I may be worn out from reading and rereading essays explaining branches of government, but in many ways, I’ve never been more alive.
A few years ago a book came out called “Reading Lolita in Tehran”. The author recounted her efforts to educate young girls in Iran under the nose of the theocratic regime which was hell bent on controlling what its citizens were exposed to. The book pointed out the length people will go to to read and get an education.
This isn’t Tehran, but the conditions under which these men are attending college is a far cry from what occurs in the classrooms at some notable colleges and universities just a few miles from Lunenburg’s fences.
I wonder how many of the “professors” at those schools who bitterly complain about their course loads and nine month academic calendars could hold up under the academic conditions here.
It’s early Saturday morning and every table in the dayroom is packed with guys studying. A small group is gathered around the microwave discussing Thursday evening’s math worksheet. In front of my cut, five guys are nervously waiting for me to edit their essay drafts. This is not typical of a Lunenburg Saturday morning. Usually there are only five or ten of us out of bed before 11:30 am count. This morning the building is alive. No one is asleep. A few guys are outside working out. The rest are hitting the books.
Imagine attending a night class (6:30 to 9:30) where you aren’t allowed to leave for class until “count” has cleared. You then stand outside in the cold and rain waiting for your turn to enter the building and be patted down. Then, you go through the same process when class is over. Need to use the bathroom? Get permission.
In the math class, students need calculators to solve various trigonometric and exponential problems. They aren’t allowed to use calculators in the building. Any machine with memory capabilities is forbidden: “security risk”.
The instructor for the intro to economics class brought copies of the Wall Street Journal in for her students. They were to read the paper and answer worksheets about various sections. Chief of Security pulled the instructor aside and told her “no more papers”. Apparently, giving out papers is a form of fraternization.
Yet, these guys persist. There are 40 IT students, 47 associate degree students. Eighty-seven men on a compound of 1200 with three academic aides and a handful of dedicated teachers working with them.
Tehran doesn’t seem so far away. Still, they go to school. They try and earn their degree.
Some readers may wonder why they should care about inmates earning a degree. Forget the facts about recidivism. It costs $4,000 for a year of college in prison. It costs around $25,000 to house an inmate. The economics are so simple.
No less a commentator than Newt Gingrich endorsed dramatic prison reform. In a January 8th Washington Post Op Ed Gingrich wrote:
“We can no longer afford business as usual with prisons. The criminal justice system is broken and conservatives must lead the way in fixing it. . . It is time to fundamentally rethink how we treat and rehabilitate our prisoners.”
In Virginia, that means massive efforts at education and drug and alcohol counseling in the prisons and restoration of parole for almost all inmates. Make education a basis for earning parole.
In “Reading Lolita in Tehran” fear permeated every class meeting. Teachers feared a student making a slip of the tongue, leading to the school being raided by the police.
That fear should not exist for inmate students. Teachers should be free to exchange ideas – and newspapers – without risking the wrath of security. Education means too much to these men and the future of Virginia corrections. These school days matter.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Great Calculator Caper
Nothing is worse in a prison dorm than stealing. 96 guys are living in close proximity to each other. Metal lockers are easy to “peel back”; combination locks can be pried open. You have to trust who you’re living with. It’s ironic that trust is so important to inmates given that so many of us are locked up for breaches of trust and snitches run rampant. Yet, a thief in the dorm stirs more hostility than shakedowns or bad medical care. A thief in the dorm destroys everyone’s comfort.
Guys have been moving in and out for weeks as the college dorm takes shape. Everyone is suspicious of the “new guys” coming in. The building I moved from never had any stealing. The building I moved to was the same way. So, imagine my surprise when I came back from work the other day and E announced “some a—hole got my calculator.”
It was the night before commissary day and E was putting his order together. He finished the form and calculated the cost. Then, he set the calculator beside his TV. The next morning he went to work. When he came back he looked at his TV and discovered the calculator was missing.
We looked everywhere around his cut. We went through his book shelf and under his mattress. The calculator was nowhere to be found.
We start looking at “the new guys”. There were a couple of young gang members – “bloods” – who had moved in. Fairly nice guys, polite by prison standards. But, they were new and they belonged to a gang so chances are they were responsible.
Rumors started flying through the building. “Bed 19 heard a guy in the rec yard tryin to sell a calculator.” “Bed 40 is missin $70 worth of stamps from the parlay.” Bed 22 had a state shirt stolen”
I tried to keep my perspective. Perhaps, I wondered, E just misplaced it or let someone use it.
“No f—in way! It was on my bed.”
Every guy we didn’t know became a suspect. Locks were checked and rechecked. Suspicions were running rampant.
That evening I returned from work. E had a big, goofy grin on his face.
“I found it, but it’s not my fault.” He explained he had given a friend of ours – Biades – a few CDs to check out. He had the CDs on his bunk while he was folding t-shirts. He “accidently” folded the calculator in a t-shirt.
All I could say is “dumbass!”
There are no thieves in our building. In fact, the guys preparing for the college program are enthusiastic and, well, decent.
I learned something. You can’t jump to conclusions in here. Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Too often I would react, take a position and run with it. “I’ve got to do something” I’d think. I’d act impulsively, blindly weighing pros and cons without having all the facts.
Patience matters. Being thoughtful, not reactive, getting all the facts and carefully weighing options beats going out hell-bent.
It’s a lesson I should have learned years ago. It might have kept me out of here. It’s a lesson I apply each day as I struggle with my incarceration, my divorce and my sadness over my separation from my sons. Patience matters; it’s crucial. Faith, hope and endurance are built on patience.
E learned a lesson also. Check your clothes thoroughly before accusing someone of stealing your calculator!
Guys have been moving in and out for weeks as the college dorm takes shape. Everyone is suspicious of the “new guys” coming in. The building I moved from never had any stealing. The building I moved to was the same way. So, imagine my surprise when I came back from work the other day and E announced “some a—hole got my calculator.”
It was the night before commissary day and E was putting his order together. He finished the form and calculated the cost. Then, he set the calculator beside his TV. The next morning he went to work. When he came back he looked at his TV and discovered the calculator was missing.
We looked everywhere around his cut. We went through his book shelf and under his mattress. The calculator was nowhere to be found.
We start looking at “the new guys”. There were a couple of young gang members – “bloods” – who had moved in. Fairly nice guys, polite by prison standards. But, they were new and they belonged to a gang so chances are they were responsible.
Rumors started flying through the building. “Bed 19 heard a guy in the rec yard tryin to sell a calculator.” “Bed 40 is missin $70 worth of stamps from the parlay.” Bed 22 had a state shirt stolen”
I tried to keep my perspective. Perhaps, I wondered, E just misplaced it or let someone use it.
“No f—in way! It was on my bed.”
Every guy we didn’t know became a suspect. Locks were checked and rechecked. Suspicions were running rampant.
That evening I returned from work. E had a big, goofy grin on his face.
“I found it, but it’s not my fault.” He explained he had given a friend of ours – Biades – a few CDs to check out. He had the CDs on his bunk while he was folding t-shirts. He “accidently” folded the calculator in a t-shirt.
All I could say is “dumbass!”
There are no thieves in our building. In fact, the guys preparing for the college program are enthusiastic and, well, decent.
I learned something. You can’t jump to conclusions in here. Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Too often I would react, take a position and run with it. “I’ve got to do something” I’d think. I’d act impulsively, blindly weighing pros and cons without having all the facts.
Patience matters. Being thoughtful, not reactive, getting all the facts and carefully weighing options beats going out hell-bent.
It’s a lesson I should have learned years ago. It might have kept me out of here. It’s a lesson I apply each day as I struggle with my incarceration, my divorce and my sadness over my separation from my sons. Patience matters; it’s crucial. Faith, hope and endurance are built on patience.
E learned a lesson also. Check your clothes thoroughly before accusing someone of stealing your calculator!
Are the Times Changin?
I received New Years wishes from a dear relative the other day. She told me to think about Bob Dylan’s song “The Times They Are a Changin”. She told me to keep the faith. Perhaps 2011 will be the year when DOC changes, when lawmakers find the courage to do what is right and give the incarcerated a second chance. She included an article about the new DOC director, Harold Clarke. The son of a Baptist preacher, he sees his work in corrections as a calling: to change the lives of those in prison before they are released.
I’d love to sit down with Mr. Clarke and face to face tell him exactly what is going on in his ministry, believer to believer. I’d start with John 8, Jesus was confronted by the Pharisees and the scribes who present a woman caught in the act of adultery. The law was clear: adultery was punishable by death. Jesus didn’t say the law was wrong or cruel. He simply drew in the sand and quietly stated “he that is free of sin” carry out the law. No one in the crowd remained. Every “law abiding” man there realized they could not judge by that standard. The rest of the story is equally compelling. Jesus looked at the woman and asked “Where are those who condemn you?” When she replied that they had all left, Jesus said the following: “neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”
If Mr. Clarke is serious about his faith (which I believe he is), then that is the message he needs to carry forward. I challenge Mr. Clarke: you cannot profess belief and obedience in the saving grace and forgiveness of the Savior and direct an organization that deprives almost 40,000 men and women of an opportunity for redemption.
Salvation doesn’t occur on a set date and neither should a person’s release from prison. DOC should evaluate every incarcerated person yearly for release. Has the person been reformed? Have programs been attended, education and training received to change the offender’s behavior? “Truth in sentencing” (the catch phrase for Virginia’s abolition of parole) is immoral and un-Christian. It is directly contrary to the call to believers to forgive, show mercy and love.
If Mr. Clarke came to speak to me I’d tell him faith in action is worth more than words.
I was given 30 years for embezzling $2.1 million. Even with suspended time, even with “earned good time”, I will be incarcerated into the next decade. That is immoral. Should I have broken the law? No. But, I can’t make restitution from inside this prison. My sentence had repercussions beyond affecting me. My ex-wife has to struggle as a single parent. My 13 year old son has no father in his daily life. Did I deserve to be punished? Yes, but not to the extent the Circuit Judge carried out. There are no winners in my case. There is no justice, no redemption, no mercy. There is just punishment. And punishment, I would tell Mr. Clarke, is left to God.
This week on the news it was reported Virginia has a $17 billion unfunded pension liability. 6,500 Virginia families with disabled children can’t get state services because of budget cuts. Yet, Mr. Clarke presides over a department that will spend over $1 billion this year to basically house and feed 40,000 inmates. Money is not going to “rehabilitate” or educate. It’s going to maintain, to keep things “as is”. I’d tell Mr. Clarke, Jesus came precisely to challenge that mentality. He came to turn the world upside down and change our human heart.
I’m no preacher, but it seems to me there’s a reason the dirty, the sick, the criminals and the outcasts flocked to Jesus while the “decent folk” stayed away. His message was uncomfortable for all those so sure of their place in society and their own self-worth and self-righteousness.
“You who is free of sin cast the first stone. . . .”
“Forgive seventy times seven!”
“As you treat the least of my brothers so shall you be treated.”
I’d ask Mr. Clarke what kind of director of corrections Jesus would be. Would He oppose parole? Would He challenge “truth in sentencing?” Would He favor second chances? I think Mr. Clarke already has the answer to those questions.
I pray every morning and evening for Mr. Clarke. I pray that he be granted wisdom and courage to do what is right. Interviews are great. You can say what you want. “I’m a Christian” has a nice ring, but being one takes great courage and effort. Imagine a DOC director going before the Virginia legislature and stating “God demands we do better. We must give these women and men a second chance. We must educate and rehabilitate them and let them go home as soon as possible.”
The college IT program begins Monday, January 10th. We had our introductory meeting last week with the principal and all the aides and students. Forty students have a chance to earn certification in information technology along with 37 college credit hours. After the meeting, one of the students came up to me. Though he’s only 32, this is his third time in prison. All his convictions involve drug dealing.
“They always send me to a road camp. I cut weeds, pick up trash, do my bid. Get out and can’t find work so I sell to make it by. This is the first time I’ve ever been given a chance to make something of myself.”
That opportunity shouldn’t be just for 40 guys at Lunenburg. Almost every incarcerated person deserves another chance. Are the times changing? Will Mr. Clarke put his faith in action? I pray he will. I’d love to discuss it with him, but it seems he’s busy running DOC.
If he wants, he can come out to Lunenburg and talk. I’m here every day tutoring and writing.
I’d love to sit down with Mr. Clarke and face to face tell him exactly what is going on in his ministry, believer to believer. I’d start with John 8, Jesus was confronted by the Pharisees and the scribes who present a woman caught in the act of adultery. The law was clear: adultery was punishable by death. Jesus didn’t say the law was wrong or cruel. He simply drew in the sand and quietly stated “he that is free of sin” carry out the law. No one in the crowd remained. Every “law abiding” man there realized they could not judge by that standard. The rest of the story is equally compelling. Jesus looked at the woman and asked “Where are those who condemn you?” When she replied that they had all left, Jesus said the following: “neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”
If Mr. Clarke is serious about his faith (which I believe he is), then that is the message he needs to carry forward. I challenge Mr. Clarke: you cannot profess belief and obedience in the saving grace and forgiveness of the Savior and direct an organization that deprives almost 40,000 men and women of an opportunity for redemption.
Salvation doesn’t occur on a set date and neither should a person’s release from prison. DOC should evaluate every incarcerated person yearly for release. Has the person been reformed? Have programs been attended, education and training received to change the offender’s behavior? “Truth in sentencing” (the catch phrase for Virginia’s abolition of parole) is immoral and un-Christian. It is directly contrary to the call to believers to forgive, show mercy and love.
If Mr. Clarke came to speak to me I’d tell him faith in action is worth more than words.
I was given 30 years for embezzling $2.1 million. Even with suspended time, even with “earned good time”, I will be incarcerated into the next decade. That is immoral. Should I have broken the law? No. But, I can’t make restitution from inside this prison. My sentence had repercussions beyond affecting me. My ex-wife has to struggle as a single parent. My 13 year old son has no father in his daily life. Did I deserve to be punished? Yes, but not to the extent the Circuit Judge carried out. There are no winners in my case. There is no justice, no redemption, no mercy. There is just punishment. And punishment, I would tell Mr. Clarke, is left to God.
This week on the news it was reported Virginia has a $17 billion unfunded pension liability. 6,500 Virginia families with disabled children can’t get state services because of budget cuts. Yet, Mr. Clarke presides over a department that will spend over $1 billion this year to basically house and feed 40,000 inmates. Money is not going to “rehabilitate” or educate. It’s going to maintain, to keep things “as is”. I’d tell Mr. Clarke, Jesus came precisely to challenge that mentality. He came to turn the world upside down and change our human heart.
I’m no preacher, but it seems to me there’s a reason the dirty, the sick, the criminals and the outcasts flocked to Jesus while the “decent folk” stayed away. His message was uncomfortable for all those so sure of their place in society and their own self-worth and self-righteousness.
“You who is free of sin cast the first stone. . . .”
“Forgive seventy times seven!”
“As you treat the least of my brothers so shall you be treated.”
I’d ask Mr. Clarke what kind of director of corrections Jesus would be. Would He oppose parole? Would He challenge “truth in sentencing?” Would He favor second chances? I think Mr. Clarke already has the answer to those questions.
I pray every morning and evening for Mr. Clarke. I pray that he be granted wisdom and courage to do what is right. Interviews are great. You can say what you want. “I’m a Christian” has a nice ring, but being one takes great courage and effort. Imagine a DOC director going before the Virginia legislature and stating “God demands we do better. We must give these women and men a second chance. We must educate and rehabilitate them and let them go home as soon as possible.”
The college IT program begins Monday, January 10th. We had our introductory meeting last week with the principal and all the aides and students. Forty students have a chance to earn certification in information technology along with 37 college credit hours. After the meeting, one of the students came up to me. Though he’s only 32, this is his third time in prison. All his convictions involve drug dealing.
“They always send me to a road camp. I cut weeds, pick up trash, do my bid. Get out and can’t find work so I sell to make it by. This is the first time I’ve ever been given a chance to make something of myself.”
That opportunity shouldn’t be just for 40 guys at Lunenburg. Almost every incarcerated person deserves another chance. Are the times changing? Will Mr. Clarke put his faith in action? I pray he will. I’d love to discuss it with him, but it seems he’s busy running DOC.
If he wants, he can come out to Lunenburg and talk. I’m here every day tutoring and writing.
Commonwealth Attorney Blues
The Washington Post reported on December 30th that the Virginia Supreme Court will soon be ruling on a defendant’s right to use an antiquated writ (writ of Coram Nobis) to reopen their conviction.
The issue has arisen out of Justice Stevens’ majority opinion in Padilla v. Kentucky (“God bless JP Stevens!”) holding that a criminal defendant’s attorney fails to provide effective assistance of counsel when failing to disclose deportation risks to foreign defendants offered plea bargains.
The writ in question is used by inmates to reopen their cases. I’ve filed some for guys. It’s almost impossible to get a criminal case in Virginia reopened. Under Virginia Supreme Court Rule 1.1 a judgment (including a conviction) is final and not subject to review unless timely appealed or challenged within 21 days of entry.
Commonwealth attorneys around the state are whining about defendants trying to get conviction “do overs”. I have a response to those self-righteous political hacks: FU ! (Sorry, that was prison Larry talking).
Mistakes happen daily in court. Prosecutors and police lie, witnesses make false identifications, defense attorneys screw up.
“Freedom is a gift from God.” – George W. Bush.
No person should ever be denied access to the courts when their freedom is at risk. Whether the conviction was entered 21 days or 21 years ago shouldn’t matter. Freedom is more important than a date certain.
The issue has arisen out of Justice Stevens’ majority opinion in Padilla v. Kentucky (“God bless JP Stevens!”) holding that a criminal defendant’s attorney fails to provide effective assistance of counsel when failing to disclose deportation risks to foreign defendants offered plea bargains.
The writ in question is used by inmates to reopen their cases. I’ve filed some for guys. It’s almost impossible to get a criminal case in Virginia reopened. Under Virginia Supreme Court Rule 1.1 a judgment (including a conviction) is final and not subject to review unless timely appealed or challenged within 21 days of entry.
Commonwealth attorneys around the state are whining about defendants trying to get conviction “do overs”. I have a response to those self-righteous political hacks: FU ! (Sorry, that was prison Larry talking).
Mistakes happen daily in court. Prosecutors and police lie, witnesses make false identifications, defense attorneys screw up.
“Freedom is a gift from God.” – George W. Bush.
No person should ever be denied access to the courts when their freedom is at risk. Whether the conviction was entered 21 days or 21 years ago shouldn’t matter. Freedom is more important than a date certain.
Biades
One of my advanced writing students has become a close friend. His name is Biades {pronounced “Bidez”} and he’s a 25 year-old from LA. He’s lived a tough life. Born in LA, he grew up in some of the toughest Hispanic neighborhoods in Southern California. A number of his relatives have done or are doing, prison sentences. His mom kept him clear of MS-13, the notorious Salvadorian gang, but not the police.
He did jail time in the LA county jail. He moved east, settling in Northern Virginia, met a girl and had a daughter who is now five. Three years ago he was busted for transporting ten pounds of weed. He has one more year to go and is enrolled in the college/IT program.
I can tell a lot about the guys in here by how they behave with their kids. Biades’ little girl comes down here monthly to see him. He calls her twice a week. I’ve seen him interact with her, seen him light up when he shows me pictures. He loves his daughter and even though miles and a fence separate them, he’s still “her daddy”. He still is actively involved in her life.
He writes amazing poetry, mostly dark poems about street violence. But then, he writes a poem for his daughter on Christmas and on Halloween, sweet lyrical poems about pumpkins or snowflakes.
He and I were talking the other day. He’s committed to not coming back. “I don’t want to ever miss another Christmas with her.”
Guys like Biades deserve another chance. He’s doing all he can to overcome his mistakes. His little girl deserves her daddy back.
He did jail time in the LA county jail. He moved east, settling in Northern Virginia, met a girl and had a daughter who is now five. Three years ago he was busted for transporting ten pounds of weed. He has one more year to go and is enrolled in the college/IT program.
I can tell a lot about the guys in here by how they behave with their kids. Biades’ little girl comes down here monthly to see him. He calls her twice a week. I’ve seen him interact with her, seen him light up when he shows me pictures. He loves his daughter and even though miles and a fence separate them, he’s still “her daddy”. He still is actively involved in her life.
He writes amazing poetry, mostly dark poems about street violence. But then, he writes a poem for his daughter on Christmas and on Halloween, sweet lyrical poems about pumpkins or snowflakes.
He and I were talking the other day. He’s committed to not coming back. “I don’t want to ever miss another Christmas with her.”
Guys like Biades deserve another chance. He’s doing all he can to overcome his mistakes. His little girl deserves her daddy back.
A Message for a Reader
I learned last week that a regular reader of the blog has had a family crisis erupt. She has been deeply supportive of one of the true good guys in here, a guy who is like my own son.
I won’t put her personal situation out here. It’s one thing for me to spill my guts about my life, my experiences. It’s entirely different to put someone else’s life in these pages.
I did want to let her know she, her husband and especially her daughter, are in my prayers. This too shall pass. I’ve learned our character is most evident in times of turmoil and crisis. Your daughter is strong. With your unwavering love and support, she’ll see this through.
Life tests us, yet we can see it through. It took me a long time to realize what James meant when he wrote “consider it all joy . . . when you encounter various trials knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. . . .”
I won’t put her personal situation out here. It’s one thing for me to spill my guts about my life, my experiences. It’s entirely different to put someone else’s life in these pages.
I did want to let her know she, her husband and especially her daughter, are in my prayers. This too shall pass. I’ve learned our character is most evident in times of turmoil and crisis. Your daughter is strong. With your unwavering love and support, she’ll see this through.
Life tests us, yet we can see it through. It took me a long time to realize what James meant when he wrote “consider it all joy . . . when you encounter various trials knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. . . .”
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Second Chances
I’m not one to say much positive about the current President, but this week he came out and said Eagles quarterback Michael Vick rightfully deserved a second chance. Obama applauded the Eagles organization and owner for recognizing that Vick “paid his debt” for his crime and now deserved an opportunity to be a productive member of society.
What the President said was long overdue and, given the public’s perception of crime and punishment, courageous. It also is every Christian’s moral obligation to forgive and allow a contrite, broken person the opportunity for restoration and reconciliation.
This week, I read President George W. Bush’s memoir, Decision Points. I have long had the utmost respect for President Bush. His memoir confirmed what I long ago realized: W is a man of deep faith and moral clarity. He’s not perfect, but he has tried his best to live righteously. There are not many people I can say that about.
Two stories in the book struck me. In the first, W explained why he seldom lashed out at his critics. He tried, he said, to live by the Biblical principle about not pointing out the speck “in your brother’s eye”.
The second story was even more telling. President Bush described his first meeting with Bono of the rock group U2. Bush had decided to pour billions into AIDS drug distribution and malaria treatment in Africa. Bono, a committed humanitarian who puts his “money where his mouth is” had a deeply personal conversation with the President about his faith. “We talked about Matthew 25, the only place the Bible speaks directly about judgment. . . .”
I read and reread Matthew 25 each week. It calls on believers to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, comfort the sick, visit the imprisoned. It commands this. It says nothing about passing judgment on “those people”, condemning “those people”. Matthew 25 ends with these words:
“to the extent that you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me. These will go away into eternal punishment. . . .”
That, is a significant punishment and makes mine pale by comparison.
I wasn’t a big fan of Michael Vick’s before, but he has gotten my respect as he busts his ass to make up for his past. He deserves peoples’ support and encouragement.
There are hundreds of men that I have met this past year in the same situation. They need a second chance. Some perhaps, need a third or a fourth chance.
C.S. Lewis wrote “if the will to walk is really present, God is pleased even with your stumbles.”
It took me getting arrested to realize we all fall short at times. No one is perfect. We hurt each other; we are selfish; some of us commit crimes. But, with very few exceptions, we are all redeemable and worthy of another chance. President Obama expressed his opinion on Michael Vick concluding “because my faith tells me to”. Perhaps others will feel the same pull from their faith.
In a few short weeks the Virginia General Assembly will convene. The oldest elected body on this continent will open with prayer. I’ll be praying, for myself and the vast majority of incarcerated men and women whom I’ve met these past two and a half years, for the General Assembly to do the courageous thing, do the just thing, and give us a second chance.
Judgment is a difficult concept. We struggle daily to be moral and just, yet we forget the simple admonition given by our Lord: as you treat the least of these, so shall you be judged.
40,000 men and women languish in Virginia prisons and regional jails. The vast majority could be released with few repercussions. We deserve a second chance. It’s a new year, a perfect time to give someone a second chance.
What the President said was long overdue and, given the public’s perception of crime and punishment, courageous. It also is every Christian’s moral obligation to forgive and allow a contrite, broken person the opportunity for restoration and reconciliation.
This week, I read President George W. Bush’s memoir, Decision Points. I have long had the utmost respect for President Bush. His memoir confirmed what I long ago realized: W is a man of deep faith and moral clarity. He’s not perfect, but he has tried his best to live righteously. There are not many people I can say that about.
Two stories in the book struck me. In the first, W explained why he seldom lashed out at his critics. He tried, he said, to live by the Biblical principle about not pointing out the speck “in your brother’s eye”.
The second story was even more telling. President Bush described his first meeting with Bono of the rock group U2. Bush had decided to pour billions into AIDS drug distribution and malaria treatment in Africa. Bono, a committed humanitarian who puts his “money where his mouth is” had a deeply personal conversation with the President about his faith. “We talked about Matthew 25, the only place the Bible speaks directly about judgment. . . .”
I read and reread Matthew 25 each week. It calls on believers to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, comfort the sick, visit the imprisoned. It commands this. It says nothing about passing judgment on “those people”, condemning “those people”. Matthew 25 ends with these words:
“to the extent that you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me. These will go away into eternal punishment. . . .”
That, is a significant punishment and makes mine pale by comparison.
I wasn’t a big fan of Michael Vick’s before, but he has gotten my respect as he busts his ass to make up for his past. He deserves peoples’ support and encouragement.
There are hundreds of men that I have met this past year in the same situation. They need a second chance. Some perhaps, need a third or a fourth chance.
C.S. Lewis wrote “if the will to walk is really present, God is pleased even with your stumbles.”
It took me getting arrested to realize we all fall short at times. No one is perfect. We hurt each other; we are selfish; some of us commit crimes. But, with very few exceptions, we are all redeemable and worthy of another chance. President Obama expressed his opinion on Michael Vick concluding “because my faith tells me to”. Perhaps others will feel the same pull from their faith.
In a few short weeks the Virginia General Assembly will convene. The oldest elected body on this continent will open with prayer. I’ll be praying, for myself and the vast majority of incarcerated men and women whom I’ve met these past two and a half years, for the General Assembly to do the courageous thing, do the just thing, and give us a second chance.
Judgment is a difficult concept. We struggle daily to be moral and just, yet we forget the simple admonition given by our Lord: as you treat the least of these, so shall you be judged.
40,000 men and women languish in Virginia prisons and regional jails. The vast majority could be released with few repercussions. We deserve a second chance. It’s a new year, a perfect time to give someone a second chance.
This and That This Past Week
Little things happen in here that when placed against the backdrop of “outside living” show how screwy prison life really is.
Prison is all about rules. There is a tension between the COs and the inmates over interpretation and enforcement of “the rules”. Inmates skirt them as best we can; officers look the other way (sometimes) or bust guys over the head.
The other day “Rock” – a vocational aide, was busted, sent to the hole and fired, all within about ten minutes time. His crime? He was caught listening to music CDs on his work computer. Rock was heading up the boulevard to work when he was pulled down by “13”. 13 is the number for the officer on boulevard duty. Every building, every location has a number to direct officers over the radio. Every inmate knows every code number as well.
This day, “13” was a real a—hole of an officer. As he patted down Rock, he discovered the CDs. Inmates are not allowed personal items not related to their jobs outside the building. 13 tells Rock to take the CDs back to his building; Rock tells 13 to go have relations with his mother. 13 calls the investigator. He goes to Rock’s desk in the classroom, sees the CDs and proceeds to haul Rock to the hole.
Here’s the thing. Every vocational aide has music loaded at work (things are different for academic aides). Rock forgot who he was dealing with. Most COs don’t sweat little stuff. 13 that day was one of the COs here who likes to throw their weight around. In a battle between officers and inmates, inmates almost always lose.
Officers and inmates hate paper pushers. There are some guys here who are notorious for “dropping paper” on everything. As I tell guys I work with, you have to pick your battles. Every day in here you face a set of illogical rules and regulations specifically in place to keep you contained and, in many ways, break your identity.
DOC lost a major censorship case a few months ago. As a result, inmates can now receive books and magazines paid for by friends and family. It used to be that every purchase had to go through property with about six different forms. I found ways back then to beat the system. My biggest way to “work around” DOC rules? I treat the officers with respect. I’m polite. Same with Big S and most of the guys I know.
Now, I get called to property (no paperwork filed) and the female officer says “Honey, looks like someone’s suprisin’ you with books.” But, not so for “breast pump” (called that because he has man boobs and insists on walking around in tank tops).
“Breast pump” is notorious for “dropping paper”. Anytime things don’t go his way, he sends in a grievance. He’s so bad about it, and considers himself “above the inmates” that one day Big S asked him “What’s your state number?” When BP gave it, Big S looked at him and said “So, you have a number just like everyone else.” The ironic thing about BP is, he’s in here for getting his eight year old stepdaughter to perform oral sex on him. He’s been persecuted (so he thinks); the rest of the guys in here are just scum.
COs hate paperwork. They have to respond and most COs, like most inmates, can’t write a simple sentence to save their lives. BP is a pain in their backsides. He files paper – they make his life miserable.
Breast Pump’s mom sent him books. Property won’t give them to him until he files “the proper forms”. As the officer told him “No request form, no books”. He’s pissed. He asked me what he should do. I told him, tongue in cheek, “file a grievance”.
The great fight in here last week proved once again that most inmates, for all their talk about hating snitches, will run their mouths to cover their own butts in a blink of an eye. Both guys were at fault. An argument turned into punches and BAM “Man” connects with a multiple combination to G’s face leaving it a bloody mess.
Fighting is usually a 200 series charge. Small penalty (10 days in the hole plus loss of visits). But, an assault is a 100 series (raised security level, removed from compound, loss of good time, possible street charges). You get in a fight you take the 200. That’s the rule – not for G. He wasn’t even to the hole before he told the investigator he was “minding his own buness” when he was jumped by Man. Result? G’s back in the barbershop working and Man is heading to a level 3 facility. Loyalty is in short supply, whether it be prison, marriage or just friendship. You find someone who will stick it out, “for better or worse”, and you hold on to them dearly.
G is a rat. Period. I knew the day I was arrested, it’s better to accept the blame yourself than spread it around. Every day you have to watch yourself in here for guys who will curry favor with the COs by talking. The system creates that mentality and it’s one of the worst things about prison.
Then there’s shopping. I had to order a new pair of running shoes. I kept the old pair over a year. “On the street”, I’d buy two new pair of $100 Asics every four months. In here, a $50 pair of Nike's does the trick. Making $54 a month, having 5% withheld (under a new state law requiring every inmate withhold that amount for court fines and restitution); 10% to savings and tithing 10% to a church, doesn’t leave me much. I’ve decided to get real boots, a pair of Levis, a denim shirt and a winter coat to replace the threadbare things DOC provides. Total cost: just under $300.
Back before my arrest I’d spend $300 in a day. I’d give my wife $1000 to go shopping with her friends; $200 for groceries at an upscale grocery; $100 to my son “for the weekend”. It will take over a year to get my clothes.
Money means something different in here. Now it’s to supplement a bland, poor diet and to get a few comforts of “outside living”. Things I used to take for granted – like a pair of Levis or Timberland boots – now matter. It’s an interesting way to learn the value of things.
I saw on the news this morning that a college kid was arrested at the Richmond airport for protesting TSA’s new aggressive pat down policy. He stripped down to nothing but running shorts. On his chest and back he wrote the words to the Fourth Amendment which says we are free from unreasonable searches. I found his protest encouraging, but misplaced.
After every visit I am subject to a strip search to make sure I’m not carrying any contraband. Every day going in and out of school, I’m subjected to pat downs. Leaving chow there is a random pat down.
Twice a year the investigators come in and shake us down and strip search everyone. You are subject to random drug screens with an officer standing directly beside you watching you urinate. Random locker checks happen each week.
It’s amazing what you learn to live with, including the loss of basic privacy and simple dignity. As I said before, I applaud the young man’s courage for challenging the TSA pat down. Yet, I expect this young man has a cell phone, a Facebook page, an email account. He probably uses credit cards. All these things allow someone to track you, invade your personal space.
In here I never have privacy. I use the bathroom in front of 95 other guys; same with the showers.
Privacy and freedom are wonderful concepts. I’ve realized how precious they are having lived in this environment. I’ve also come to realize folks “outside” don’t realize how little privacy and freedom they actually have.
Every week in here reinforces little pieces of the prison puzzle. Every week teaches me something I hadn’t given much thought to before my arrest. Every week offers a little more of this and that.
Prison is all about rules. There is a tension between the COs and the inmates over interpretation and enforcement of “the rules”. Inmates skirt them as best we can; officers look the other way (sometimes) or bust guys over the head.
The other day “Rock” – a vocational aide, was busted, sent to the hole and fired, all within about ten minutes time. His crime? He was caught listening to music CDs on his work computer. Rock was heading up the boulevard to work when he was pulled down by “13”. 13 is the number for the officer on boulevard duty. Every building, every location has a number to direct officers over the radio. Every inmate knows every code number as well.
This day, “13” was a real a—hole of an officer. As he patted down Rock, he discovered the CDs. Inmates are not allowed personal items not related to their jobs outside the building. 13 tells Rock to take the CDs back to his building; Rock tells 13 to go have relations with his mother. 13 calls the investigator. He goes to Rock’s desk in the classroom, sees the CDs and proceeds to haul Rock to the hole.
Here’s the thing. Every vocational aide has music loaded at work (things are different for academic aides). Rock forgot who he was dealing with. Most COs don’t sweat little stuff. 13 that day was one of the COs here who likes to throw their weight around. In a battle between officers and inmates, inmates almost always lose.
Officers and inmates hate paper pushers. There are some guys here who are notorious for “dropping paper” on everything. As I tell guys I work with, you have to pick your battles. Every day in here you face a set of illogical rules and regulations specifically in place to keep you contained and, in many ways, break your identity.
DOC lost a major censorship case a few months ago. As a result, inmates can now receive books and magazines paid for by friends and family. It used to be that every purchase had to go through property with about six different forms. I found ways back then to beat the system. My biggest way to “work around” DOC rules? I treat the officers with respect. I’m polite. Same with Big S and most of the guys I know.
Now, I get called to property (no paperwork filed) and the female officer says “Honey, looks like someone’s suprisin’ you with books.” But, not so for “breast pump” (called that because he has man boobs and insists on walking around in tank tops).
“Breast pump” is notorious for “dropping paper”. Anytime things don’t go his way, he sends in a grievance. He’s so bad about it, and considers himself “above the inmates” that one day Big S asked him “What’s your state number?” When BP gave it, Big S looked at him and said “So, you have a number just like everyone else.” The ironic thing about BP is, he’s in here for getting his eight year old stepdaughter to perform oral sex on him. He’s been persecuted (so he thinks); the rest of the guys in here are just scum.
COs hate paperwork. They have to respond and most COs, like most inmates, can’t write a simple sentence to save their lives. BP is a pain in their backsides. He files paper – they make his life miserable.
Breast Pump’s mom sent him books. Property won’t give them to him until he files “the proper forms”. As the officer told him “No request form, no books”. He’s pissed. He asked me what he should do. I told him, tongue in cheek, “file a grievance”.
The great fight in here last week proved once again that most inmates, for all their talk about hating snitches, will run their mouths to cover their own butts in a blink of an eye. Both guys were at fault. An argument turned into punches and BAM “Man” connects with a multiple combination to G’s face leaving it a bloody mess.
Fighting is usually a 200 series charge. Small penalty (10 days in the hole plus loss of visits). But, an assault is a 100 series (raised security level, removed from compound, loss of good time, possible street charges). You get in a fight you take the 200. That’s the rule – not for G. He wasn’t even to the hole before he told the investigator he was “minding his own buness” when he was jumped by Man. Result? G’s back in the barbershop working and Man is heading to a level 3 facility. Loyalty is in short supply, whether it be prison, marriage or just friendship. You find someone who will stick it out, “for better or worse”, and you hold on to them dearly.
G is a rat. Period. I knew the day I was arrested, it’s better to accept the blame yourself than spread it around. Every day you have to watch yourself in here for guys who will curry favor with the COs by talking. The system creates that mentality and it’s one of the worst things about prison.
Then there’s shopping. I had to order a new pair of running shoes. I kept the old pair over a year. “On the street”, I’d buy two new pair of $100 Asics every four months. In here, a $50 pair of Nike's does the trick. Making $54 a month, having 5% withheld (under a new state law requiring every inmate withhold that amount for court fines and restitution); 10% to savings and tithing 10% to a church, doesn’t leave me much. I’ve decided to get real boots, a pair of Levis, a denim shirt and a winter coat to replace the threadbare things DOC provides. Total cost: just under $300.
Back before my arrest I’d spend $300 in a day. I’d give my wife $1000 to go shopping with her friends; $200 for groceries at an upscale grocery; $100 to my son “for the weekend”. It will take over a year to get my clothes.
Money means something different in here. Now it’s to supplement a bland, poor diet and to get a few comforts of “outside living”. Things I used to take for granted – like a pair of Levis or Timberland boots – now matter. It’s an interesting way to learn the value of things.
I saw on the news this morning that a college kid was arrested at the Richmond airport for protesting TSA’s new aggressive pat down policy. He stripped down to nothing but running shorts. On his chest and back he wrote the words to the Fourth Amendment which says we are free from unreasonable searches. I found his protest encouraging, but misplaced.
After every visit I am subject to a strip search to make sure I’m not carrying any contraband. Every day going in and out of school, I’m subjected to pat downs. Leaving chow there is a random pat down.
Twice a year the investigators come in and shake us down and strip search everyone. You are subject to random drug screens with an officer standing directly beside you watching you urinate. Random locker checks happen each week.
It’s amazing what you learn to live with, including the loss of basic privacy and simple dignity. As I said before, I applaud the young man’s courage for challenging the TSA pat down. Yet, I expect this young man has a cell phone, a Facebook page, an email account. He probably uses credit cards. All these things allow someone to track you, invade your personal space.
In here I never have privacy. I use the bathroom in front of 95 other guys; same with the showers.
Privacy and freedom are wonderful concepts. I’ve realized how precious they are having lived in this environment. I’ve also come to realize folks “outside” don’t realize how little privacy and freedom they actually have.
Every week in here reinforces little pieces of the prison puzzle. Every week teaches me something I hadn’t given much thought to before my arrest. Every week offers a little more of this and that.
Dreams
My mom sent me a copy of her minister’s sermon delivered the week before Christmas. Ironically, it was on a subject that I had jotted down in my notes a few weeks ago. I’d been thinking a good deal about the approaching New Year and how so many of the plans and dreams I had “BA18” (before August 18th) had been lost.
I’d been thinking during that time about Joseph. Here’s this guy. He’s about to get married to a young girl (he’d be her first) and start life as a newly married man handling his carpentry business. All of a sudden she shows up and says “I’ve got good news and bad news”. And Joseph finds out the woman he’s betrothed to is (1) favored by God, so much so that an angel paid her a visit; and (2) oh yeah, she’s pregnant.
Probably as bad as news can get for a Jewish guy living in Roman occupied Israel in 2 or 3 AD. Joseph is devastated, but he doesn’t want to hurt or publicly embarrass his bride to be (after all, announcing she was pregnant out of wedlock was a capital offense. She would have been stoned to death). Instead he decides to let her go quietly home.
All his dreams: the honeymoon, kids, his carpentry business; all are going out the window. But, an angel visits him and says “Keep her as your wife”. Joseph doesn’t argue. He doesn’t complain about the hand he’s been dealt. He does what he’s been told by God, not once, but again when he packs up and moves to Egypt to protect his wife and this baby he didn’t father.
There isn’t a lot written about Joseph, but he’s an integral part of the Christmas story. Every plan he’d made was thrown out the window when Mary told him she was pregnant. Yet, he trusted God and did the right thing and it made a difference.
As I’ve written before, early in my marriage I wondered why the beautiful young girl I fell so deeply in love with was so sad and depressed. I had changed every plan, every dream for my future to be with her and it wasn’t what I’d expected. I stayed because, well, that’s what you do when you love someone. You don’t bail out, you don’t give up on them, you stay and you trust and believe with all your heart because it’s the right thing to do.
Fast forward to 2010. Every dream I had growing old with that beautiful girl, watching my son graduate college, holidays with friends, my youngest son playing baseball and performing piano recitals, all gone.
You’d think I’d be bitter and depressed. I’m not. As I look back on this past year I’ve learned some amazing things about myself and realized I was wrong about so much in my life. I’ve made some friendships with men in this prison that I wouldn’t trade for anything: Big S, DC, Tyrone, Black, Craig and E to name a few.
I’ve had people outside and in here tell me how I’ve made a difference for them. I’ve learned to let go of many painful memories. And, I’ve learned patience and trust. Pretty ironic that all this took place in a cesspool like this.
It’s been a good year. All those times I was struggling, when I felt like I couldn’t go on, somebody was helping me. Maybe it was the day I got a letter from my cousin or my friends at home, or maybe it was the guy coming up to me and saying thank you, but those things happened when I needed them most.
I still have dreams. Maybe someday my ex will tell me she still loves me; maybe my sons will show up; maybe I’ll sell a book. I know this. God knows what I need. He’s got a plan for me.
I read a quote the other day:
“The black moment is the moment when the real transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light.”
2011 will be a bright year, even in prison.
I’d been thinking during that time about Joseph. Here’s this guy. He’s about to get married to a young girl (he’d be her first) and start life as a newly married man handling his carpentry business. All of a sudden she shows up and says “I’ve got good news and bad news”. And Joseph finds out the woman he’s betrothed to is (1) favored by God, so much so that an angel paid her a visit; and (2) oh yeah, she’s pregnant.
Probably as bad as news can get for a Jewish guy living in Roman occupied Israel in 2 or 3 AD. Joseph is devastated, but he doesn’t want to hurt or publicly embarrass his bride to be (after all, announcing she was pregnant out of wedlock was a capital offense. She would have been stoned to death). Instead he decides to let her go quietly home.
All his dreams: the honeymoon, kids, his carpentry business; all are going out the window. But, an angel visits him and says “Keep her as your wife”. Joseph doesn’t argue. He doesn’t complain about the hand he’s been dealt. He does what he’s been told by God, not once, but again when he packs up and moves to Egypt to protect his wife and this baby he didn’t father.
There isn’t a lot written about Joseph, but he’s an integral part of the Christmas story. Every plan he’d made was thrown out the window when Mary told him she was pregnant. Yet, he trusted God and did the right thing and it made a difference.
As I’ve written before, early in my marriage I wondered why the beautiful young girl I fell so deeply in love with was so sad and depressed. I had changed every plan, every dream for my future to be with her and it wasn’t what I’d expected. I stayed because, well, that’s what you do when you love someone. You don’t bail out, you don’t give up on them, you stay and you trust and believe with all your heart because it’s the right thing to do.
Fast forward to 2010. Every dream I had growing old with that beautiful girl, watching my son graduate college, holidays with friends, my youngest son playing baseball and performing piano recitals, all gone.
You’d think I’d be bitter and depressed. I’m not. As I look back on this past year I’ve learned some amazing things about myself and realized I was wrong about so much in my life. I’ve made some friendships with men in this prison that I wouldn’t trade for anything: Big S, DC, Tyrone, Black, Craig and E to name a few.
I’ve had people outside and in here tell me how I’ve made a difference for them. I’ve learned to let go of many painful memories. And, I’ve learned patience and trust. Pretty ironic that all this took place in a cesspool like this.
It’s been a good year. All those times I was struggling, when I felt like I couldn’t go on, somebody was helping me. Maybe it was the day I got a letter from my cousin or my friends at home, or maybe it was the guy coming up to me and saying thank you, but those things happened when I needed them most.
I still have dreams. Maybe someday my ex will tell me she still loves me; maybe my sons will show up; maybe I’ll sell a book. I know this. God knows what I need. He’s got a plan for me.
I read a quote the other day:
“The black moment is the moment when the real transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light.”
2011 will be a bright year, even in prison.
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