Test Results

The IT students, 27 of them, sat for the National A+ certification exam last week.  That the test held inside, here at Lunenburg, was because of the efforts of our school principal and the community college.  This national exam is normally only given at authorized testing centers.  It took a great deal of coaxing and advanced preparations to get the prison facilities approved (and the OK of DOC representatives all the way up to the director).

Each day, for four straight days, in groups of seven (six the last day), the guys sat for the four hour test (two separate sessions; two parts). 

The results:  three full passes; four partial passes; twelve tests within ten points of passing.  Were the results all we wanted?  No.  But, these guys – many of whom have never used a computer – take classes without hands on examination of computer components (a major part of the IT certification is repair and service); they miss classes during lockdowns.  They work on their classes without daily access to laptops and no access to the internet.  They are seeking a college education under conditions few students deal with.

Only three may have received certification – this test period – but 27 succeeded. 

Cal

There’s a young, skinny kid in here who goes by the name Cal.  He’s 22 but might as well be 12.  He’s immature and very naïve.  I took an interest in Cal early last January.  We were in English class and a paper was due.  Cal was asleep in his chair, leaned back against the wall.  The chair slid out and he crashed to the floor.  The teacher was startled, inquired if he was alright then noted “I didn’t receive your paper”.  Cal fumbled around and then sheepishly said “I forgot it”. 

We took a ten minute break and – I’m still not sure why – I pulled up beside him and let him have it.  “You need to get your head out of your ass.  You’re getting a free education.  Blow this chance and you’ll be back.”  I was furious that this skinny kid who looked remarkably like Waldo (of “Where’s Waldo” fame), who was back for his second trip to prison, was sleeping in class and couldn’t remember to bring an assignment with him.

Later that afternoon I felt badly about calling him out.  I approached him in the building, told him I was sorry I lost my cool, and that I should have handled my remarks differently.  “You don’t have to apologize.  You’re the first guy ever cared enough to tell me to shape up.”  Since that time he’s been hanging around me, telling me about his life, his future plans.  As Big S and DC have pointed out, I’m playing the role of father for this goofy kid.

I look at him and know he’s had a lousy life.  He’s been beaten up, picked on, and abused his entire life and, I fear, never had anyone care about him.  One afternoon he told me “I’ve been degraded every way you can.  They can’t do anything to me that hasn’t already been done.”  He was in a beef with a gang member.  I knew the guy and asked him to lay off and he agreed.

Cal is like an awful lot of young guys in here.  They come from lousy homes where no one cared about them.  They are abused and neglected.  They turn to drugs (using and selling) and eventually move to other stuff (Cal committed credit card fraud on the computer after being released his first time for selling drugs).  If he was at a higher level prison he’d be victimized sexually.  Nothing in prison has been changing his life.  So I come along and befriend this kid. Does it matter?  Who knows?  But I’ve learned this the past few years:  you have to care.  I’m accused quite frequently by well-meaning friends in and out of caring too much.  Maybe that’s how I do my time; maybe that’s how I compensate for being separated from my sons.  Prison is no place for young, non-violent felons.  Kids like Cal deserve better.  You want to punish him for breaking the law?  Ok, but do it so he’ll become a productive citizen.  Prison doesn’t do that.

Guest Blog – The Will to Walk (Jay)

I’ve asked some of the guys in here to contribute blogs.  “Write about anything you want”, I told them.  This medium – the blog – fascinates the guys.  Whether there is one reader, or a thousand, the guys believe somehow my blog is reaching someone, maybe changing someone’s mind or heart.  When I started this blog a year and a half ago it was to give me something to do.  That it’s a source of communication with the outside world and hope to dozens of men in this place was beyond my original intention.

I write blogs to tell my story.  What I’ve discovered is it’s not my story.  It is the story of literally anyone who’s screwed up, suffered unforeseen consequences, and tries to do right and live with hope.  And I’ve learned that is the story of most of the people I meet in here. 

“Jay”, my guest blogger, is one of those guys.  Just turning 40, he’s been incarcerated since 1996.  He shot and killed a man during a drug deal gone bad.  He was selling and the “two customers” tried to rob him, shooting him twice.  He returned fire, killing one man.

Jay is a leader in our college building.  His earliest release will come in 2024; still, he pays his own way for college (murderers are precluded from Federal grants).  He’s thoughtful and well read.  Five years ago he began tithing (one tenth of his factory salary) to an orphanage in Kenya for children whose parents died of AIDS. 

The famous British playwright Oscar Wilde said, “What seems to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise”.  Meeting guys like Jay bear that out for me.

In 1981, at the tender age of ten, I found myself in the fight of my life.  Unbeknownst to my family and myself, I would be diagnosed with a rare form of cancer called “Astrocytoma”.  Through an uncountable number of prayers and superb team of doctors, I would overcome this life changing ailment to regain a clean bill of health.  Welcome to my story of tragedy and triumph.

The Will to Walk

With everything in me, I fought to take that first step.  I can remember my mom saying “Come on, John, you can do it”, with that piercing voice.  With that, and the motivation to play basketball again, I took that first step.

Life was good for me in 1981.  I had a loving family of two brothers and three sisters along with a jump shot that would not quit.  It was late fall in Baltimore when my basketball team, the “Calloway Tigers” were undefeated.  We were in the fight of our lives.  Down by two points with the clock running out, my coach, Mr. Davis, yelled “John-John to the basket”.  With hoop-dreams of basketball gods Magic, Bird, Dr. J. and a future of my own, I dribbled past the first defender and moved toward the rim.  As I left my feet to take the shot I didn’t know this jumper would be the beginning of a life-changing event.  Crashing down on the defender’s foot, my ankle twisted as I fell to the floor.  “Count the basket”, the ref yelled.  As I lay there on the floor looking up at my teammates, I could tell something was seriously wrong with my ankle.

I hobbled to school the following day with one thing on my mind; the loss the team suffered because of my injury.  I had left the game and we were unable to come back.  As I entered my classroom, Mrs. Bloom my homeroom teacher asked, “John what’s going on with your leg?”  I answered, “I hurt my ankle playing basketball”.  Later, Mrs. Bloom sent me to see the school nurse.  Upon examination, the nurse informed me that I needed a test for scoliosis (curvature of the spine).  A notification letter was sent to my mom revealing the medical exam results.  Surprisingly, the diagnosis for scoliosis was positive.

Kernan Hospital is a place that specializes in spinal cord and brain injuries.  Mom and I arrived early one morning and were greeted by wall-to-wall people in the waiting area.  “Sign in, take a number and a seat”, said the nurse.  Scanning the room from side to side, I noticed people with all sorts of injures.  “John Hinson” announced the nurse, “please follow me”.

As we made our way through the crowd at the end of the hallway the doctor stood waiting to greet us.  “Hello” said Dr. Johnson.  “I’ll be performing a variety of test on you today, such as x-rays, c-scans and MRI’s”.  After all the tests were performed, Dr. Johnson returned to the room with a blank look across his face as he said, “Ms. Hinson, I hate to inform you and your son with this bad news, but we have located a tumor on John’s spine.”

“John, welcome to Johns Hopkins Hospital”, I’m Dr. Smith.  “I’ll be one of your doctors during your stay with us.”  Nervousness started to set in as more doctors and nurses filled the room.  From my hospital bed, I watched as my mom began to cry.  I remember saying to myself, “Mom, don’t cry, I’ll be alright.”

As the anesthesia wore off, a cold hand rubbing my head awakened me.  “Hello, my baby”, Mom said.  “How do you feel?”  In the hours that followed, Mom would share the news with me about the surgery.  The doctors advised that my chance of a successful surgery was 50/50; not only was this percentage given in reference to removing the tumor but also in me regaining the ability to walk again.  The news crushed me.  I could not imagine never playing basketball again.

After the surgery, I was awakened by the soft voice of my mom saying, “John-John, can you hear me?”  There I lay on my stomach crying from the pain caused by the surgery.  Hours turned into days and days into weeks.  One day, as I attempted to sit up, I was unable to turn over.  I asked my mom why I couldn’t move my legs.  To my surprise, her response was simple “Fight, Baby, Fight”.  Those words defined my will to walk.  I may not move as swiftly as before, nor run or walk without a severe limp, but I am able to play the game I have always loved, “Basketball”. 

The RH Factor

When I was at the Henrico jail I became friends with a young black man named Corey.  Corey was 24, a former gang leader, and back in jail for a simple drug possession charge.  He was waiting for admittance to Henrico’s drug court program, an alternative to incarceration.

Corey was an interesting kid.  He was bright, well-read, and extremely polite.  He and I would talk each day, for hours some days, about politics, history, religion.  Corey was a loner with the exception of dealing with me, and feared by a good number of the young Richmond inmates.

Every day, Corey would do 500 pushups in his cell, then sit lotus position for an hour meditating.  He left the gang life before his last arrest and had visions of completing drug court and going back to school to finish his degree.

On the day I was served with divorce papers I lay on my bunk and covered my face so no one could see me cry.  I was as distraught and full of despair as I’d ever been in my life. I was alone and felt completely hopeless.  I don’t know why, but later that afternoon I walked down to Corey’s cell.  He was on his bunk reading.  “Mr. Larry.  What’s up?”  I entered his cell, leaned on the sink and in a choking voice using all my willpower to not breakdown, told him my wife had filed for divorce and I had decided to not contest it.  I felt like a fool, I told him.  I’d voluntarily signed everything over to her 30 days earlier against the advice of my lawyer, my therapist, and numerous friends; all of whom said “she’ll drop you as soon as you give her the assets”.

Corey looked at me and simply asked “do you love her?”  When I said yes, he told me I did the right thing.  He then reached under his mattress and pulled out a book.  “Read this”, he said to me, “and remember you’re too smart ant too decent to give up.  You can come back.”

The book he handed me was by Dr. Charles Stanley, senior pastor of the First Baptist Church in Atlanta and it contained his message that God had a plan for each of us.  He never gave up on us.  The beginning of the book detailed Dr. Stanley’s own experience with divorce.  That night I read the book cover to cover.  I began listening to Dr. Stanley’s radio broadcasts Sunday evenings at the jail.  When I arrived at this facility and purchased a TV I began watching his church service every Sunday morning at 6:00.  Corey’s conversation with me that day and the book he gave me may have, quite literally, saved my life.  I’ve aged in this place and known deep despair, but I return often to what Corey and I talked about that day and Dr. Stanley’s book.

I thought about that this week – about enduring and fighting back – as a number of the young guys came up to check on me after learning of my brother’s death.  These guys reached out to me because; as one young kid told me “you cared about us when no one else did”.  It reminded me of one of my favorite movies, “The Natural”.  Robert Redford portrays Roy Hobbs, an aging baseball player who suddenly appears on the scene and leads a perennial loser to the pennant.  Hobbs, however, has a secret.  Years earlier, as the rising young hitter in baseball, he’d had an encounter with a woman.  She shot him, leaving him for dead in a hotel.

I think a good deal about Roy Hobbs.  You come to prison and you’re written off.  People let their real feelings show.  Love isn’t really love.  Friendship, loyalty don’t matter.  It’s as though you are shot and left for dead.

But then, you try to be yourself, give a damn about guys who others have written off, and occasionally it crosses your mind good can come of all this.  I felt that the other day talking to the guys after my brother’s death.  And I thought back to my conversations with Corey.

And Roy Hobbs?  He hits the game winning homerun and then left for home, back to the woman who really loved him and the son he never knew he had.  Of course that’s a movie.  They’re always happy endings in movies.

Amanda and Virginia

It seems as though Amanda Knox’s struggle and eventual overturning of her murder conviction by an Italian appellate court still has the country’s imagination.  How could such a cute, “all-American” girl get railroaded by a prosecutor who felt “in his gut” she was guilty when the evidence said likewise?  Even more mysterious was an appellate process that actually allowed the prosecutor to argue for an increased sentence.  When Amanda stood in court awaiting the judge’s ruling there was the possibility that her twelve year sentence would turn into life.

“Talking heads” (those banal, self-described experts who pop up daily on “news shows”, not the ‘80’s rock band) decried the Italian justice system.  And, a few noted the appearance of a large crucifix behind the appellate judges, peering down on the defendant as the court’s decision was rendered (I wondered, as I saw that, if the Italians ever thought of actually applying the “true” justice of calvary and forgiving her for any sins she may have committed).  We Americans are an interesting lot.  We think our system is somehow superior until, that is; we get caught up in its wheels and get slowly grounded down by the arcane unfairness of the American judicial system.

Take Virginia’s criminal appellate process.  Suppose you’re a criminal defendant, unschooled in the law, poor and therefore unable to hire counsel.  You transfer from the county jail to the custody of DOC and end up at their receiving unit where you meet another inmate who tells you about an evidentiary ruling that your attorney (court appointed) overlooked.  You immediately hand draft a motion with the trial court to re-open your case.

Sorry, you lose.  Virginia law holds that once a defendant is transferred to DOC custody that trial court loses jurisdiction over the case.  The inmate can’t get his case re-opened.  Simply put, there is no court that can hear this case.

What, you might ask, happens if the man or woman is actually innocent?  You mean like Thomas Haynesworth who spent 17 years in prison for rapes DNA conclusively proves he didn’t commit?  Yet, as I write this blog, Haynesworth – released 6 months ago by a conditional pardon that commuted his sentence but did not exonerate him – still waits for the Virginia Court of Appeals to overturn his convictions and rule him “innocent”.  One of the reasons for the delay:  Virginia law permits “extraordinary appeals” based on writs of actual innocence.  However, the evidence establishing your innocence must be discovered and presented “within a year of conviction”. 

And then there’s the entire habeas corpus process.  The Sixth Amendment to the United States Constitution specifically guarantees all criminal defendants facing jail time, the right to the “effective assistance of counsel”.  That right is one of the fundamental bedrock constitutional guarantees of our system.  Yet today it is as difficult to negotiate the meaning of that clause as a treasure map written in Aramaic.

First, there are numerous procedural prerequisites (filing in state court for example) before you ever reach Federal Court.  Then, even if you have overcome the procedural hurdles you have to meet the “test” set out by the U.S. Supreme Court in Strickland v Washington:  1) the attorney didn’t meet an objective standard of effectiveness and      2) had the client had an effective lawyer a different result would be reached.  How can you ever prove the second part of the test?  You very seldom can which is why each year thousands of inmate cases are thrown out.  Unfortunately, habeas actions are the only recourse inmates have once their appeals are exhausted.  Does effective assistance of counsel truly exist?  Sadly, no.

And, Amanda at least had public opinion on her side.  Americans overwhelmingly think prosecutors and police are there to “protect and serve” and play fair.  A defendant who has been convicted had the extra burden of establishing his innocence.  We presume the law wouldn’t have wrongly convicted anyone even though we see otherwise.

Amanda Knox’s family spent their life savings carrying the message of her mistreatment at the hands of the Italian judiciary.  They nearly bankrupted themselves getting justice.  I ask you how many innocent men and women rot in American prisons who deserve justice?  How many were over-sentenced and deserve another chance at freedom?  Tell me, would Amanda Knox be free today if she’d been convicted in Virginia?

In Memoriam (MAB)

Wednesday morning at 8:00 I was called into the counselor’s office.  “You need to call home”, Ms. G told me.  I knew immediately why.  It was a call I’d anticipated having to make for months.  It was a call no one ever wants to make especially from in here.

My brother, my only sibling, passed away at 5:50 am in the Duke University Hospital Oncology wing.  My Mom and Dad were with him as he took his last breath.  He would have been 49 this November.  He leaves a wife and two daughters.

Mark did not have an easy life and he was not an easy person to get along with.  For much of our life growing up he lived in my shadow.  School came easily for me; I made friends.  Mark had learning disabilities and a caustic personality that rubbed people the wrong way.  And, bullying isn’t some modern phenomena.  Kids were cruel in the 60’s and 70’s and Mark was always the kid that got picked on.

I didn’t let people pick on Mark, but I was, honestly, embarrassed by him.  And I was a lousy brother.  He deserved more from me.  That he and I weren’t close, that for much of his life he resented me was no great surprise.  He didn’t know what I was going through.  He just saw his older brother, successful in school, successful in a law career, married to a beautiful woman and thought “this guy gets all the breaks”. 

And Mark and I grew further apart.  There were horrible fights.  He brought out a side of me I didn’t know existed, a rage and a disgust that made me look at myself in the mirror.

Mark was diagnosed with cancer years ago.  My initial reaction?  Of course he was.  After all, he had tried every religion, every lifestyle, done anything he could to fit in, why would sickness surprise me?  Around that time, my own life was coming apart.  I was completely over my head with embezzling money and knew I couldn’t get out; my wife was further from me than I could ever remember, absorbed in her career and being supermom while I knew I was just a check, just a guy put in place to complete her life.

I read Lance Armstrong’s book about his battle with cancer and learned even mean, negative people can overcome the disease and I thought damn, Mark’s not that unique. My wife told me to make peace with him.  “You’ll regret it if something happens and you hadn’t”, she told me as he underwent a stem cell replacement.

I listened to her and went to Durham.  He was the same old Mark; bitter, demanding and negative.  And, I’m not sure why, but when I got ready to leave I leaned over, kissed his forehead and told him I loved him.

Years ago my mother came across a book she asked me to read.  “Brother to a Dragonfly” by Will D. Campbell.  She told me it would help explain the difficult relationship I was having with Mark.  I was too arrogant and headstrong to read it.  I didn’t need someone explaining to me how frustrated I was over my brother.  While at the jail, going through daily crises like divorce, stories in the paper about me, and my kids and friends turning their backs on me, I found an excerpt from the book.  And, it did explain a lot. 

Last year I was sitting here one weekend when my brother drove up on his Harley.  The sound from his bike stopped inmates in their tracks.  “You know that guy Larry?”  “Yeah”, I told the guys, impressed and awestruck that I’d know a Harley owner.  “That’s my brother”.

We spent almost four hours together that day just talking.  Before then, I don’t think he ever understood my situation.  I know I didn’t completely understand his.  After that we exchanged a few letters.  He always said “I’ll be back up”.  About three months ago Mark was hospitalized.  The cancer was spreading and his liver was shutting down.  He was angry, afraid, abusive at times.  I prayed a great deal about him these past weeks and months.  I knew he deserved, like everyone, some peace.  He hadn’t had much of that in his life.

I took the news in stride on Wednesday.  The guys here those “bad men” who “deserve what they’ve gotten” – huddled around me:  dozens of words of condolence, pats on the back.  It reminded me that we miss the humanity that exists in all of us.  There is a soul that flickers, even in the worst.  None of us are beyond redemption.

The night before his death my aunt sent me a picture of my brother and me.  I was perhaps 8, he 5.  We were smiling.  After I learned of his passing I prayed that God welcome him and give him the peace he so longed for.  I closed my eyes to sleep and wept because, well I loved him.  He was my only brother.

Worth Reading

This past week I came across a number of articles worth mentioning. 

Want to understand why we should be offended over the government’s assassination of an American citizen/terrorist in Yemen?  Read law Professor Jonathan Turley’s Op Ed in Wednesdays (10/5) USA Today.

As the professor noted:

“No republican can long stand if a president retains the unilateral authority to kill citizens whom he deems a danger to the country.  What is left is a magnificent edifice of laws and values that, to quote Shakespeare’s Macbeth, is ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’”

Be afraid when government, with the power to imprison or kill, unilaterally exerts that power without so much as a whimper about law or justice.

In that same day’s paper, the editors of USA Today, noting Amanda Knox’s release, drew a cogent comparison to the Casey Anthony case. 

“How did Knox end up under arrest, held without bail and imprisoned for four years?  Perhaps one part of the answer is that her case had more in common with Anthony’s than first impressions would suggest.  A rush to judgment in any language is a dangerous thing . . . So which system is worse?  One that might let a killer go free or one that puts an innocent person in jail?  Put yourself in Knox’s shoes, and the answer is obvious.”

Two very powerful points.  Here is the simple truth:  prosecutors and police make mistakes.  They want to close cases and get wins.  I have literally met hundreds of men who were lied to, cajoled; you name it, to get a conviction.  Were they guilty?  In most cases, yes.  But when the police are allowed to lie, to distort the truth, justice suffers.

And finally, don’t think Virginia needs prison reform?  Read about the success in Texas with early release, alternative sentencing for non-violent felons, and emphasis on programs.  The Texas Public Policy Foundation reports in its September 2011 newsletter of significant money savings as well as reduced inmate population and lower crime rates.  Perhaps Governor McDonnell could learn a few things from Texas Governor Perry.

Finally “The Daily Press” (Hampton Roads newspaper) called for prison reform on September 26^th.  How many more editorials have to be written before the Governor and the General Assembly finally do the right thing?

Correlations

Webster’s defines correlation as “connections in a systematic way”.  A few things struck me this week that brought that word home.

I was helping “Fitty” with a self-awareness paper for his philosophy class.  “Fitty” (named for the rapper 50 cent) is a 21 year-old kid who earned his GED just last spring.  We were able to get him tested and into the college program.  Nice kid; shy (I wrote his graduation speech and helped him prepare for it); decent.

As I read his paper I was suddenly surprised by what I read.  Fitty, two years into a four-year bid, has five kids by three different women.  Five children?  That I was surprised is in itself surprising.  I am, in more ways than my color, a minority in here.  The simple fact that I was married and only had children with one woman (my then wife) stands out.

There’s “Dre” with seven kids by four women and “7 ½ mile”, four kids, two women.  The biggest?  “Mouse”.  He just turned 36 and is finishing up nine years. He has ten (that’s right, ten) kids by five women.

Want to know the correlations?  Every one of these guys came from single parent homes. Every single guy had half-brothers and half-sisters.  Everyone has uncles, brothers, cousins in prison.  And each guy who has fathered multiple children with multiple women has left these women to get support for their kids from government aid.

Their fathers abandoned them; their mothers ran around; they did the same thing.  It’s a vicious cycle and nothing going on in prison is going to break it.  In fact, prison exacerbates the situation.  I don’t know what the answer is, but I know neither liberals nor conservatives have the solution.

These young guys need to get in committed relationships and support their kids.  If they don’t, their sons will, undoubtedly, end up here as well.

Here’s another correlation I discovered this week:  stupid remarks based on religious ignorance.  Saturday was Yom Kippur, the most somber Holy day of the Jewish faith, a day of fasting and atoning for your sins.  The Jewish community here – real Jews, not “carrot stick eating” Jewish guys (guys who sign up for Jewish services to get on the kosher meal plan) number less than ten.  To have any service you must have 5 percent.  Four were available for Saturday services – service cancelled.  As bad as that was, two guys in the building got upset because our laundry connection – Jewish guy – couldn’t go to laundry Saturday and get new sheets.  “Dumb ass Jew” these two geniuses spouted off.

So I had to explain how Sandy Koufax missed a World Series start because of Yom Kippur.  Guys only know what they know and are ignorant to other religions, other views. 

Which leads me to the genius preacher introducing Rick Perry this past weekend who declared Mormonism a “cult”.  I’m no theologian, but I seem to recall in my Bible reading something about a few thousand people belonging to a group called “the way”.  These folks believed an itinerant preacher was the son of God; they believed He made the lame walk, the blind see.  They bought into some goofy notion about forgiveness and mercy and compassion.  Oh yeah, and they believed this crazy preacher died for their sins and somehow in the greatest miracle ever, was resurrected.

Unfortunately, for too many American Christians, we’ve forgotten our “cult-like” roots.  We’ve forgotten our way.  We condemn other faiths.  We create idols out of National symbols and justify assassinations and war.  We sit in our pews in church while 17 million children in this country go to bed hungry.  We condemn 2.3 million to prison thinking they had it coming, they broke the law, not realizing God’s ordinance requires mercy, forgiveness and compassion.

We are ignorant of our own religious roots.  Perhaps we could all use a day of atonement.

Opie, Amanda and WM3

Opie fought the law – again- and, as usual, the law won.  As I write this blog, Opie is sitting in the “dry” holding cell in 7 building, a/k/a “the hole”.  What is a “dry” holding cell?  Glad you asked.  A dry cell is a bare cell.  There is a mattress placed on the floor.  A commode is also there.  However, there is no water in the commode; there is no sink, no toilet paper; nothing.  The inmate is placed in the dry cell and “observed”, until he defecates.  Then the stool is examined for contraband.

Opie was on the ball court.  There were about five of us out there.  For some “weird” reason our rec yards have been opened infrequently the last two weeks.  The decent officers tell us they’re short-handed.  See, DOC is facing a money crunch.  They have almost 40,000 of us locked up and Virginia can’t afford it.  DOC’s director, Harold Clarke, sent a message to the employees on September 30^th that Pennsylvania was ending their $20 million lease of a Virginia prison.  “It puts”, wrote Clarke, “DOC in a difficult financial position.”

Anyway, Opie’s shooting basketball when the officer spies a blue-bagged lump in his sock.   “Bring that over here”, the officer demands.  “F--- You” replies Opie who proceeds to take the bag out of his sock and ingest it.  So Opie is taken out in handcuffs, his bed area cleaned out, he’s thrown out of college, and, as I write this, he still hasn’t gone.

Opie, as I’ve written before is a good kid deep down.  But, he is heavily institutionalized.  All he has known since he was a child is juvenile hall, courts and prison. He runs game in here because, well that’s what prison does to you.  It teaches you to be hard, to be dishonest, to snitch, to prey on the weak, to mistrust society.  And unless and until the politicians have the guts to admit that corrections is nothing but a scam, there won’t be real rehabilitation.

Opie is a poster-child for how screwed up this entire system is.  When I met Opie in December, 2010 (ten months ago) he had a 2.0 GPA and was regularly getting in fights.  Now, he has a 3.4 GPA.  With the exception of smoking, wine-making and tattoos, he’s a model inmate.  Opie is at a crossroads.  He tries to do right and still skirt the rules a little and they add time.  He is on the fringe of being that guy I see in here who eventually loses all hope, gets out, comes back and spends the rest of his life locked up.  The system has failed the Opies of the world.

Which leads me to Amanda Knox and the West Memphis Three.  In this country there is an immediate, general consensus that if a person is found guilty “they must have done it”.  Over and over we see evidence of police malfeasance, prosecutorial corruption, incompetent counsel.  We see a system where over 2.3 million are locked up, the vast majority for nonviolent offenses, and we turn a deaf ear.

If even 1% of those incarcerated are actually innocent, that is 23,000 men and women whose lives have been unjustly stripped from them.  Imagine 5%:  that’s 115,000!  Amanda Knox’s family has practically bankrupted themselves to get her free from an Italian prison.  Who is going to give that young girl her four lost years back?  If it wasn’t for certain Hollywood celebrities caring about their cause, the West Memphis Three would still be on death row.

This past weekend a family member remarked during a visit with me how unfair my sentence is and how depressing the prison is.  And I told her prison has always been like that.  It’s just until you know someone going through it, you turn a blind eye to the despair and filth and violence present in the state’s prison system.  “After all”, you rationalize, “bad people go to prison and they get what they deserve”.

Here’s a life lesson:  even good people can do stupid things.   And sometimes those stupid things break the law.  But that doesn’t justify what passes for “corrections”.

Don’t wait for a friend or loved one to get caught up in the system before you react.  Demand your elected representatives do something now.  Push for prison reform, real reform.  Opie is someone’s son.   He’s more than a number.

Attica at 40

In September 1971, the worst prison riot in U.S. history concluded with an all-white force of New York State police and Department of Corrections employees retaking the prison at a cost of 39 (28 inmates and 11 prison employees) shot to death.  What was initially reported out of Attica as the causes for the inmate takeover and the inmates’ behavior subsequent to the takeover to justify the rampant excessive use of force by the police was fully discredited. The simple fact is this:  39 men died in Attica as a result of Governor Rockefeller’s decision to retake the prison.  Don’t take my word, read the McKay Commission report issued years later.

This blog isn’t about Attica per se.  It is about the lessons we should have learned from Attica, but didn’t.  What happened at Attica forty years ago could happen again.  As the old adage goes “those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it.”

When Americans reacted with revulsion to the photographs of conditions inside Iraq’s Abu Ghraib prison, it is hard to remember that for the men at Attica those same conditions existed.  And in the 40 years since the riot, conditions throughout America’s prison system are not noticeably better.

In 1971 there were approximately 400,000 men and women behind bars.  Today, there are over 2.3 million with another six million under supervision with parole or probation offices.  America spends roughly $70 billion annually to maintain its prison apparatus.  Another nearly $200 billion is spent sustaining courts, prosecution and policing.  The vast majority of those who go through the “criminal justice” system have committed non-violent offenses.

America, “The land of the free and the home of the brave” has created a massive gulag system that dwarfs any created by Stalin.  America oversees a massive criminal-industrial complex that makes millionaires out of the owners of CCA, GEO, Keefe Foods and Global Tel-link while exploiting the incarcerated and their families.

And what did the men at Attica riot over?  They believed that even while incarcerated the Constitution guaranteed fair and decent treatment, that abuse and brutality at the hands of a prison administration and all-white guard force was illegal.  They believed that inmates deserved basic medical care, an end to prison slave labor and wages, a fair parole process, and a grievance system to address their complaints.  Doesn’t sound so radical does it?

Within the last few months inmates throughout the California prison system engaged in a hunger strike to draw attention to the inhumane practice of long-term isolation of inmates, many of whom are merely under investigation.

As Fyodor Dostoevsky profoundly noted “a society is judged by how it treats it prisoners”.  Nothing, it seems, has improved in America’s attitude about the incarcerated since those fateful, bloody days in September 1971.

With the American economy in free fall, many states are revisiting their failed corrections paradigms that suck up millions of badly needed dollars.  Yet, politicians will still not be honest with the voters.  Candidates continue to be elected exploiting the lie that increased incarceration rates make citizens safer.  Virginia spends $1 billion annually to keep approximately 40,000 men and women behind bars.  On their release they are not better; they are not “corrected”.  Prisons are places of despair, hopelessness, abuse and violence.  And people of faith who allow such a system to flourish should be ashamed.

Has anything changed since Attica?  You be the judge.  As Prison Legal News recently stated:

“Prisons should be reserved for only the truly dangerous, always with the goal of rehabilitation and release, and with adequate resources provided to achieve those objectives in positive ways.”

Forty years and it seems like yesterday.

I See Chuckleheads

I use various terms to describe the behavior of guys in here.  At the most polite end is the term “chucklehead”.  On any given day I will let loose with a “why are you acting like a chucklehead?” at least three or four times a day.  Normally, it’s over stupid stuff:  removing a piece of fruit from the chow hall; getting a second tray (“beating the deuce”); being caught with a gambling ticket – I utter the term.  This week a record was set for chuckleheads.  And, for five guys at least, it was “bid” altering.

The IT grant students are in the final 3½ months of their one year program.  Classes are completed.  There are only two remaining tasks:   1) to sit for the IT certification exam (being given onsite here – no small feat); and 2) attend sixteen weeks of “Goodwill Wednesday” group sessions.  “Goodwill Wednesday” is the term I coined for the re-entry classes held on Wednesdays (6 hours each week) and conducted by Goodwill.  Goodwill is a partner in the grant program.  They are providing re-entry services when guys are released.  Over the next 16 months, 32 of the students will be released.  How they do “out there” in their first six months will largely determine if they stay out or return for their third, fourth and sometimes fifth sentences.

The classes are important and they are mandatory.  With the exception of four “ringers” (guys added to the program who never came to prison before this trip) the guys in the IT grant program are all “at risk” – they are young (less than 30) with multiple trips to prison, jail, juvenile hall and they are more than likely to reoffend.  They are also extremely impulsive:  Act now and the hell with the consequences.

Three weeks ago the first Wednesday group session was held.  By the first break, a half dozen guys had bailed.  They had “good” reasons to leave:

“It’s boring.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about my f---in feelins.”
“I need to get out to rec.”

The principal came in and reminded the guys at the beginning of week two that the sessions were mandatory.  That led to the general consensus that “we signed up for school, not sharing”.  During the second week’s class, another half dozen walked out.

Now there’s a problem.  One of the biggest issues guys at risk have in successfully maneuvering through “the real world” is playing by the rules.  Almost every day I have to tell one of my guys you can’t put your hands on someone just because they “pissed you off”.  You can’t cuss someone out just because they tell you you have to do something.

So, the principal sends every student a memo.  It said simply “you are required to attend.  If you leave early you will be dismissed from the program and administratively reassigned.”

This past Wednesday, “Goodwill Wednesday”, five guys left early.  They all had the same “valid” reasons as previously detailed.  Things were different this time.  Wednesday afternoon the principal enforced her memo.  Five students – within weeks of taking their certification exam and months of graduating – were moved out of the college dorm and into other buildings.  They will all be moved to other prisons within the next two weeks.

Shock was the emotion exhibited by most guys throughout the building.  Guys kept coming to me saying “I can’t believe she did that…it’s so unfair.”

“Unfair?”  I replied and pointed out she did exactly what her memo said.

No, these guys were chuckleheads.  They knew the penalty beforehand and still walked out.  They threw almost a year’s worth of hard work away.  And, I feel for them.  I worked with these guys, praising and cajoling, building up and tearing down, to get them through.

Will that be the end of chuckleheadedness in the building?  I doubt it.  But, I’m pretty sure no one will miss next Wednesday’s meeting.

Justice?

I’ve spent a good deal of time the past two weeks working with guys in the American Lit (pre-1890) class.  They have research papers due in another week and have been laboriously reading works by Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Melville and Douglass.  The paper assignment is to identify a significant cultural change in America that took place in the 19^th century and discuss various writers in context with that change.  It’s a rather heavy topic, especially for guys who’ve never before been exposed to writers of that era.  So many of the young guys in here see life solely in terms of their experiences.  History, other places, other ideas, are as far away as the sun.

So I had a few guys gathered the other afternoon to discuss a couple of their topics.  I explained the philosophical basis for Thoreau’s essay titled “On Civil Disobedience”, how Thoreau refused to pay taxes to support a war against Mexico and instead willingly went to jail.  Your conscience, your moral compass, Thoreau argued, requires you to say no at times even when everyone else says yes.  It was Thoreau’s challenge to the “band wagon” effect:  right and wrong are not defined by popular opinion.

We read Lincoln’s second Inaugural Address where the 16^th President noted both sides believe God supported their interpretation of His word regarding slavery.  And Lincoln went on to note the bloodletting arose from those firm positions.  Yet, he said, no country could survive where one out of eight were enslaved.

We read Frederick Douglass who quoted the Declaration of Independence and then simply asked – how does America espouse such ideals and then fall so short?

Unfortunately, the disconnect these writers saw in America is not confined to the 19^th century.  Thoreau, Lincoln and Douglass are as relevant today as they were in the 1800s; perhaps more so.

This week the Obama Administration announced that a CIA drone had killed a wanted terrorist in Yemen.  Shortly after the announcement Congressman Ron Paul issued his comments.  He said the dead terrorist was a United States citizen (true), who had never been arrested, tried or convicted (true) of any crime.  And he said it was wrong for America to sanction assassinations.

Ron Paul may be a lot of things, but he is clearly a man of conscience.  He may be the only courageous politician in Washington today.  His comments go against everything this country has espoused and committed since September 11, 2001.  That his comments about justice and law are so rarely heard today should give anyone pause who believes in American exceptionalism.

An exceptional country does not kill – assassinate – with drones.

An exceptional country does not put security ahead of justice.

This week I read an interview with the recently released hikers home from prison in Iran.

“In prison”, they said, “we lived in a world of lies and false hopes”.  I found those words ironic.  Everyday 2.3 million men and women languish in prison cells around the country.  Everyday they – no, we – are subjected to violence, filth and degradation.  Everyday in prison is a battle against lies told by officers and treatment counselors.  Everyday is a battle against hope.  And nothing these two male hikers experienced is any different than what the incarcerated in America go through every day.

An exceptional country would not tolerate a prison system as corrupt and poorly managed as America’s.

As I spoke to the guys I saw the power of Thoreau’s words, the intellectual truths of Lincoln and Douglass’ words register.  What those men wrote is not confined to the 19^th century.  Their words are relevant today.  America can do better.  America cannot be a county that approves of assassination in the name of national security.  America cannot be the country of 2.3 million incarcerated and 46 million living below the poverty line.

As Thoreau wrote, “Let your life be a counter friction to stop the machine [of injustice]…do not lend yourself to the wrong….”

40 (A Short Story)

It’s the kind of sickness you can’t comprehend until you’re in the throes of it.  You can’t keep anything down, solid or liquid.  Even when you don’t eat or drink the very bile and acid in your stomach seeks escape.  You retch, dry heave, until your sides ache and your throat burns.

You lose bowel control. You defecate on yourself. You lay in your own filth, you own waste and try and sleep.  But, sleep escapes you.  Your mind is broken, but still manages to focus enough to keep you awake and in distress.

A wave of chills overtakes you, teeth chattering, bone numbing chills.  Your sheets, already soiled, are soaked in your sweat.  They stick to you.  Your sense of smell, unlike the rest of your body, still works.  You smell the odors, the stomach acid, the piss and shit, and the waves of nausea roll over you once more. 

For three days he’d felt like this.   All he had to eat or drink had been Ensure.  The nurse sent him one twice a day to make sure he had some nutrition.  He felt so bad he’d give them away, trade them for a Hershey’s bar.  God he craved sugar!

He started out in the drunk tank but was so ill they sent him up to medical.  Two more days and they had to let him go.  He hoped he could make it two more days.

His body craved it.  This wasn’t psychological; his body was in spasms and convulsions.  All the other guys with their crack and crystal meth had not idea.  He really needed it.  Heroin was the best, or worst.

Less than 48 hours to go.  If he didn’t die, he’d be back out and his craving relieved.  48 more hours.  It sounded like a lifetime.

“Feelin better?” 

“A little.”

“You can’t keep using.  You came close this time.”

He’d had conversations like this before.  Well meaning nurses telling him the fix would kill him.  He knew they were right.  He also knew he never felt such peace, such comfort as he did when he shot up.

He’d tried them all:  alcohol, weed, powder, crack, crystal meth, oxycontin, you name it.  None of them gave him the high heroin did.  His body craved it.  Coming off H was like nothing he’d ever experienced.  He needed more.  His body screamed for another fix.  This time, however, he bought purer black tar than he was used to.  It almost killed him.  He slowly walked back the corridor to his room.  Discharge in four more hours.

The release was easy.  Sign three or four sheets, collect your possessions and head back out.  For David, that entailed a worn wallet with $7.00, a state issued ID card, a library card, and a few folded scraps of paper with names such as “Tooky” and “B-dot” on them with cell numbers and a cheap track phone he bought at Walmart.

His clothes had been washed, but they still looked dirty.  Sweat stain outlines appeared on the t-shirt, his jeans tattered and torn.  He felt much like the jeans looked, ragged and ready for the trash heap.  He surely didn’t look like the blonde, blue-eyed 23 year old college grad he in fact was.  He looked aged, worn out.

He’d barely eaten the past few days.  But, detox at the jail clinic was limited.  Four days they could hold you, then back out on your own. 

David craved heroin.  His body physically wanted an injection.  The thoughts of that euphoric feeling flashed throughout his mind.

“I can’t; too soon, too weak”, he muttered under his breath as he headed down the block, away from the jail.

He knew all it would take was a call to “Tooky”.  He’d need more money.  He had that at his apartment and a needle.

As he walked along the sidewalk he noticed a small diner.  Two signs, “Side Street Diner” and “Eat” glowed against an awning overtop the doorway.  He stopped.  A sign on the door said “Breakfast Special – Blueberry Pancakes, Bacon, Coffee $3.99”.

“That sounds delicious.  I’ll eat and then call Tooky.”

David opened the door and walked in.  It was small, a counter with maybe ten red vinyl stools around it and another eight booths on the wall.  It was empty except for the gray-haired black woman behind the counter.

“Come in honey.  We’re open.   Morning crowd already came and went.”

David sat down at the counter.  The woman set down a napkin, utensils and heavy white coffee mug.

“Know what you want?”

“The blueberry pancakes, and coffee.”

“Comin right up.  Name’s Aretha sweetie.  If you need a refill, just shout out.”

With that, she poured piping hot coffee into the mug and headed toward the kitchen.  David noticed she was whistling.  He recognized the tune but couldn’t recall the name.  He’d heard the song before, he was sure of that.

He sat holding the cup, feeling the steam press against his face.  He hadn’t noticed, but Aretha had come back from the kitchen.  Standing before him she held a platter size white plate.  He saw pancakes stacked five high, covered in berries.  Slices of bacon piled one on top of each other, hung along the edge. 

“You looked like you could really use a good meal”, Aretha said with a laugh.

“You also look like you could use a friend.  Smile sweetie.  He’s watchin’ you.”

David looked at the platter of food, then up at Aretha.  She had a kind face, round, wrinkled.  But, her eyes were clear and sweet and for just a moment David felt safe looking at her.

“Smells great.  Tell him this is perfect, just what I needed.  Must be a good short order cook to worry about me enjoying the food.” 

“Abe?  He don’t care if you like his food or not.  I’m talkin about ‘Him’ [Aretha let out a hearty laugh], and He sees you.”

With that, she turned and headed back to the kitchen leaving David with more questions.  “Who’s she talking about” he wondered as he scooped up a huge fork full of pancakes and berries.

The pancakes tasted even better than they smelled.  The bacon, crisp and with a hint of grease, crunched as he bit down.  David couldn’t remember when he enjoyed a meal more.

David continued with pancakes and sips of the still hot coffee.  For those few moments he had forgotten about his cravings or the call he was preparing to make.

“Need more coffee sweetie?”

Aretha stood in front of him, coffee pot in her left hand, the book in the right.  He noticed gold lettering on the black cover.

“You’re reading the Bible”, he said out loud.

“Course I am; everyday.  You know the Word?”

“Uh no, I just wondered what you were reading. “

“Saved my life really did.  Y’ought to try it sometime.  Brought me home from drugs; gave me my life back.”

David lifted his head.  He saw Aretha’s eyes.  They were big and brown and clear.  She looked back at him and he felt her kindness and warmth in her stare.

 “He gives strength to the weary.”

“What?”  David lifted his head back up and looked directly at Aretha again.

“Isaiah 40 sweetie.  It starts with ‘Comfort my people’, and ends with God giving us the power to soar on wings like eagles’; you know, overcome whatever’s weighing us down.  It’s beautiful and powerful.   I’m not preachin’ to you.  I’ve been there.  I know.”

With that, she poured David more coffee and headed toward the kitchen.  David sat there.  Aretha’s words hung in the air.  He was dealing with so much crap and pain.  The heroin had taken a toll.  He was barely hanging on to his apartment, his life.  He’d almost died last time, yet here he was thinking about getting high again.

He heard the whistling then saw her come back through the kitchen door.  He wasn’t sure what he should do, but he knew something had to change.  He didn’t want to be sick again, didn’t want to die.  He was eaten up inside with pain.  The heroin eased it, but it always came back.

“Can you really promise this will solve my problems?”  David pointed to the open Bible on the end of the counter.

“Read Isaiah 40, then we’ll talk.  I’ve got as much time as you need.”

Aretha handed him her worn Bible.

David began to read.

40 - An Introduction

One of the eye-opening moments of my jail stay occurred when a young man was brought into the pod late one Thursday evening.  He was going through heroin withdrawal.  I had never been around someone addicted to drugs.  Oh, I’d seen my fair share of middle-aged women – wives of friends – who would be given prescriptions for anti-depressants by the town GP.  But a drug addict?  Never.

I’d always assumed drug addiction was a product of lack of willpower.  Drugs, I believed, were merely emotionally addictive.  Then, I was arrested.  I saw young men strung out from powder and crack cocaine, crystal meth and heroin.  I saw guys who’d willingly sniffed formaldehyde (undertaker chemicals are popular these days).  I realized I knew so little about so much.

The young man addicted to heroin stuck with me.  I frankly had never seen anyone as physically ill as he was as his body reacted to the loss of heroin in his blood stream.  He was, quite simply, a mess.  He would lose bowel control and vomit anytime he ate even the slightest amount.  He shivered nonstop and was soaked in sweat.  The jail placed him on a cot in the middle of the pod day room with a bucket.  No one would tolerate him in a cell.  There was no special soft diet available.  He at the same slop we did:  rotten potatoes, brown gravy, ground low grade chicken, white bread.  The food was difficult to digest and only served to worsen this young man’s illness.

I watched this kid suffer and I would go and sit with him and talk to him.  No one, I knew, deserved what he was going through.  That young man altered my views on drug addiction and a host of other issues.

I write a fair amount.  “40” is one of a handful of short stories I’ve written. It’s loosely based on my meeting that young heroin addict.  Like all my stores, the germ of the story comes from something I’ve experienced or been told, but its still fiction.  Like most fiction, there more truth in this story than any nonfiction I could write.

Ramen

There is no staple of food held more dearly by inmates than Ramen noodles.  Ramen is the manna of this lost tribe.  Ramen forms the basic food block of any meal.  It is also currency.  Twenty-eight cents each, three put you in the weekly NFL pool.  A trim from the dorm barber?  Five soups.

Lunenburg limits inmates to a max of 40 “soups” per store day.  There are just three choices:  chili, Texas beef and chicken.  And yet, from these three flavors, from these little packages of dried noodles and seasoning packet, come almost every recipe known to inmates.  Ramen is, in sum, the perfect food.

Every pizza crust begins with two packages of crushed, swelled Ramen mixed with one sleeve of crushed saltines.  “Crushed and swelled”?  You ask.  Noodles are not normally eaten like spaghetti, long and tossed.  No, they are crushed, pulverized into small flakes.  You get used to, early on, the sound of Ramen being thrown against the wall and/or the floor.  After the initial “break” the chef continues the delicate work of crushing, always aware that even the slightest over-exertion of pressure will lead the bag to split, spilling thousands of Ramen pieces.

Ramen is an amazing noodle.  Add cups and cups of water, bring noodle chunks and water to a boil in the microwave, then remove and cover and within fifteen minutes those tiny snow flake size bits absorb all the liquid, “swelling” in geometric proportion.  It is rumored in prison circles that the 5 loaves Jesus used to feed 5,000 were actually Ramen loaves, so amazing is their power to expand.

Noodles are then mixed with chili or mackerel, clams, kippers, sausage, refried beans and cheese.  The mixture becomes a spread for crackers, or kept looser, poured over tortilla chips to create a heaping pile of nachos.  Or, men just eat their Ramen concoction straight from their plastic bowls on their beds, headphones on with TV helping pass the time.

Then there are the “wraps” and “truck stops”.  Huge bowls of Ramen and meat, veggies, fish and the like poured into individual flour tortilla wraps, slid into used potato chip bags, then double wrapped in newspaper and placed in the microwave (the paper stops the aluminum lined chip bags from sparking).  The result?  Crispy Ramen burritos.  Or, six tortillas layered in two rows, three each, slightly overlapping and slathered with tub cheese.  Mounds of Ramen composition poured down the middle and then the sides folded up and tightly rolled in newspaper and taped shut.  Twenty minutes in the microwave, twenty minutes to rest and then sliced into thick gooey segments of “truck stop” the supreme Ramen based wrap!

For international cuisine, combine two spoonfuls of melted peanut butter, a Ramen chili soup seasoning pack, mackerel or tuna, chopped jalapeno peppers and pour over rough crushed swelled Ramen.  The result?  Thai food (sort of).

Ramen is amazing.  It is the dietary lifeblood of the inmate population and to a man everyone says the same thing:  “I’m never eating another soup after I get out of here”.

Funny thing.  In my former life, Saturday mornings I’d go for my run, return home and then my younger son and I would begin a “father-son” day of hanging out, running errands, maybe a movie or wiffle ball in the back yard.  Those mornings always started the same way.  My son – not a breakfast food kid – would request grilled cheese with ranch dressing (“for dipping dad!”) and Ramen noodles.  We’d watch cartoons or Sports Center:  me with my coffee, him with milk, grilled cheese and Ramen.

I eat a lot of “naked” Ramen.  Noodles with just seasoning and refried beans.  Almost every bowlful I think about those Saturdays, my son, and my life that was.  And I wish, wish for another day, another bowl of noodles, and my son and me together.