1200

I hit a milestone the other morning. I completed twelve hundred pages in my diary. As I’ve written before, shortly after my arrest I began keeping a daily journal of my experiences in here. Each page has approximately three hundred words. So many times during the past thirty-two months I’ve been asked by guys “what are you writing down?” A little bit of everything.



I recently completed Nelson Mandela’s newest bestseller based on his diary and personal correspondence written during his twenty-seven years of imprisonment. I was surprised by a good deal of the book. Perhaps it was my preconceived notion of what thoughts would cross a great man like Mandela’s mind. I just assumed everything would be deep and profound. But it wasn’t.


Mandela wrote about powerful topics such as maintaining your dignity in the face of a system bent on breaking you. He also wrote about his commissary order, and his vegetable garden, his love for his wife and children, his health. He wrote about everything.


In one letter to his young daughter, he wrote the following:


“Spiritual weapons can be dynamic and often have an impact difficult to appreciate except in the light of actual experience in given situations…To put it bluntly, it is only my flesh and blood that are shut up behind these tight walls…”


As I think about all the pages I’ve written, the mundane and profound, the boring and insightful? I understand what Mandela was saying. They can put a man behind bars, but they can’t take his freedom if he still has his mind, his experiences, his faith.


I write a good deal about the day to day happenings in here that are life in prison. A lot of those happenings are things I never knew occurred. I write about men and experiences that were far removed from my apparently sheltered life. I write about my family and friends. My ex and my kids make my entries almost daily. I’ve been told numerous times to “move on” and “close that chapter”. Ironically, shortly after his release from prison Mandela and his wife of thirty years separated. A few years later, they divorced. Mandela knew of his wife’s indiscretions while he was locked up. He also knew he was no saint. The divorce shattered him. As the notes in the book reflect, he could never speak publicly about her. Yet, even after his release, after the divorce, he wrote about her.


There is hope in writing. There is despair. Many mornings and nights I’ve written letters directly to God telling Him I’m not quite sure I can do this. Then, two days later I’m writing about receiving my commissary. The day after that I’ll be running and hurry in to record some self realization.


Twelve hundred pages. Following receipt of the divorce papers the court appointed a lawyer to serve as my “guardian ad litem” – an ironic twist of incarceration: no suit can proceed against an inmate without the court being assured the inmate understands the nature of the action.


I was called to a lawyer visitation room at the Henrico Jail and was met by a stunning, mid-thirties blond who introduced herself as my court appointed lawyer. We spent three hours together and during that time she asked about my life, my circumstances, my marriage. I told her the story, my story. Near the end, she looked at me and said “you need to write that down, for yourself, for your sons, for others.” She was the first person I told I kept a diary.


Everything about this experience is documented. I guess I do it because I don’t want to forget even a day of what this is like. I thought I knew so much before my arrest. I realized these past few years just how little I really knew. It may not matter to anyone else, but these pages represent the struggles and successes, the joys and heartaches I’ve been through. And, Mandela was right. No matter what happens to me, these pages represent my freedom.