Last Monday classes resumed for both the regular associates degree students and the specialized IT/college students. For the IT guys, the week was especially overwhelming. Each of the two groups of twenty are enrolled in ten credit hours of classes. They are in class six hours per day, every Monday to Thursday afternoon and evening (almost every guy holds down a job so they work in the morning). Each class has numerous reading assignments, worksheets, essays. We returned from class at 9:15 pm, caught our breath, had evening count, then started reading. I do all the assignments with the guys so I’ll know what the “correct” answers are.
By mid-week, tempers were fraying. Guys were up late studying; they were going to classes and getting new assignments (“for tomorrow, read chapters two and three” – sixty pages). A number of guys were ready to quit. One of my “strengths” is I apparently can cajole and goad guys to “man up”.
Thursday, the President and various Deans from the Community College gave a “pep talk” to all the college guys.
“You guys are making history. This is a test program. Nowhere else in the county is this happening.”
It was moving what the college president said. He urged all of us to endure, to not accept defeat, to fight for our futures. He then said this: “and the Governor believes in this. He wants his re-entry initiative to become a model for corrections.”
I thought a good deal about that comment. It’s a laudable goal the Governor has put forth. Unfortunately, until he gets his “rank and file”, front line staff to buy in, it amounts to nothing. The fact is, until Governor McDonnell and DOC Director Clarke kick their wardens and officers in the pants and demand change, nothing in the Governor’s initiative will succeed.
The truth is, DOC doesn’t want re-entry to become the model, doesn’t want an incentive based policy that allows for rehabilitated inmates to be released early without the stigma of incarceration branded on them.
Until Governor McDonnell and Director Clarke compel DOC to change their antiquated approach to housing, movement, programs, and treatment of inmates, this program – no matter how well these guys do – will not be successful. Simply put, the rank and file who work at DOC don’t give a damn about these guys succeeding.
Each day, the men going to college in here (the “campus behind walls”) deal with difficulties not faced by any other college student. That’s understandable. We broke the law. Rules have to be in place to preserve security. But, many of the rules have absolutely nothing to do with security. Many of the rules are enforced to simply make it more difficult on the guys trying to get an education.
Case in point: Evening classes are to begin immediately after count clears (every inmate has been accounted for). Every college student is in building 4A. Every evening, Monday through Thursday, at least seventy guys head to the program building for classes. The total number of inmates in programs those nights other than college students is perhaps thirty from the rest of the compound.
What do they do? They call “college and programs West side” first. Then, after those few guys find their way up to the building, they call “college East side”. A mad rush out of our door ensues and finally – around 6:45 pm – classes get underway.
The exact same principle holds for lunch service. Guys have to eat before class. But, the way they call “third period school lunch”, the 12:30 classes usually don’t begin until 1:00, the guys are being shortchanged (they can’t stay in the building after 3:30 – another rule).
Each college student has a stack of five to eight textbooks. Add notebooks to that and you have a huge stack. Dorm rules prohibit more than two books on your locker shelf. Dorm rules prohibit any personal items being left in chairs or under lockers. Where does DOC want these guys to keep their books?
Shortly after the school year began, the principal sent three long wooden tables into the building. Most buildings have heavy circular tables that barely allow two men to sit at comfortably. The new tables allowed six men to spread out comfortably and study. Within two hours, the tables were removed (forget the fact the assistant warden OK’d their use). The reason? Security: “Guys could break table legs off and use them as weapons.” There are fifty items in the building that can be used as weapons and not one word is said.
I sat there and listened to the college president speak and noticed no one from the prison administration was there. Not once has any warden, assistant warden, or senior officer ever spoken to the college group and said “we are behind this program”.
The annual cost to hold a prisoner in Virginia is $24,667. In fiscal year 2008 Virginia taxpayers spent 7.6 percent of the state’s general funds on corrections. Virginia’s percentage of adult correctional population behind bars is the fourth highest rate in the country. The state’s imprisonment rate per 100,000 residents is nine percent higher than the national average for all states. Those are the facts.
Yet politicians and DOC and their contract benefactors continue with the myth of having to keep prisoners locked up longer to ensure “public safety”. Corrections today isn’t about public safety – it’s about money.
As I sat there listening to the college president, he suddenly called my name and the other academic aides’ names to stand up.
“These guys work with you daily. They are putting you first to give you a chance. Without them, this program won’t succeed.”
It was nice to hear. After twelve and fourteen hour days working with guys who have never known academic success, it was a nice change to know somebody appreciated the effort I was putting forth. I like to think Harold Clarke and Governor McDonnell are paying attention and will say “this guy deserves out of here. Look how he’s worked to improve the lives of those around him.” I like to think that. But, the truth is, unless Bob McDonnell specifically looks at my situation, and Craig's and a host of other guys, we will continue to languish in here.
If Governor McDonnell and Director Clarke really want their initiative to succeed, come up her to Lunenburg and meet with a few of us. Let us sell the program. Give us a second chance. That’s the challenge I’ll set out.
I have a set of English papers to read, then computer worksheets. The guys are working hard. Hopefully, it’s not in vain.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Contacting Larry
There have been several requests to contact Larry directly.
If you would like to do so, please send an email to: lhb729@gmail.com and I will send you his mailing address at the prison. I will also include the restrictions on sending mail to the prison.
Thank you for your support of Larry and his blog.
If you would like to do so, please send an email to: lhb729@gmail.com and I will send you his mailing address at the prison. I will also include the restrictions on sending mail to the prison.
Thank you for your support of Larry and his blog.
Writing Inside
Every Saturday morning for at least four hours, I sit in my cut and write. I begin shortly after 6:00 am count is taken and continue nonstop until noon count, pausing only for the occasional coffee refill and bathroom break.
I’ve been asked almost every weekend “What do you write about?” That’s an easy question to answer. I’ll describe current blogs I’m preparing, or a short story I’m writing, or discuss a chapter outline or edits for a book I have underway. As I said, the question is easy. The tougher question follows. “Why do you write in here?” That question goes to the heart of who I am in this place.
It began three days after my arrest. I found myself in a totally alien world. People like me, I told myself, don’t go to jail. I was surrounded by people completely different from those I knew “in the real world”. I hated where I was, hated who I was. Everything I knew, everything I worked for, everything I believed in, was taken from me. I was lost, alone, scared and depressed. I had lost all hope. I wanted out and was willing to do whatever I had to to end the pain, fear and disappointment I felt.
As I sat there making all the necessary plans I thought had to be made, I heard my name called over the pod intercom. I left my cell and checked in with the duty officer who directed me down the hallway to the counselor’s offices. A middle-aged, well dressed black woman stepped out of one office and waved me in.
I sat down in a hard plastic chair in front of her desk. I looked around. Her walls were covered in rainbows adorned with the words “faith”, “believe”, and “hope”.
“I saw the article about you in the paper” she said and she handed me the prior day’s newspaper where details of my arrest were spelled out.
“I’ve watched you since you arrived. You may not know it yet, but you’re here for a reason. You have something to say, something to give. Your life isn’t over because of this.”
I listened intently as she spoke. A few moments and a phone call later, I had a job working in the jail’s GED program.
For the first time in three days I felt a glimmer of hope, a reason to go on. That afternoon, I walked down the hallway to the classrooms and began working with inmates as they studied for their GED. That evening, I sat down on my bunk and made my first diary entry. Every day since then, for thirty-one months, I’ve written.
Why do I write in here? Because every day, no matter how dark it may seem, writing gives me hope, gives me a purpose, gives me a reason for going through all this. There are stories I need to tell, blogs I need to write. Sitting in my cut, every morning, words roll out. Some are better than others.
Last week, I received a blog response from a person whom I’ve never met. She came across my writing a few months ago. She writes a newsletter for her church’s prison ministry. She wrote the following:
“You have much to say that I haven’t read anywhere else and I read at least two books a week. Just now reading all your entries the Holy Spirit spoke to me several times, and I even tweeted one of your excerpts – ‘How you accept those who hurt you says more about you than any single trait in your character.’”
I don’t remember writing that, but I know it was written during one of my Saturday morning writing sessions. I also know writing in here has made me a better writer. Somehow, I girded up the emotional courage to make that first journal entry which enabled me to glimpse beyond that black hole of my circumstances and offer me a glimmer of hope.
I’m reminded of the poem “To Althea”, by Robert Lovelace:
Stone walls do not a prison make,
nor iron bars a cage;
minds innocent and quiet take
that for a hermitage.
If prison is my hermitage, I’ve become a better writer and a much better man for it.
I’ve been asked almost every weekend “What do you write about?” That’s an easy question to answer. I’ll describe current blogs I’m preparing, or a short story I’m writing, or discuss a chapter outline or edits for a book I have underway. As I said, the question is easy. The tougher question follows. “Why do you write in here?” That question goes to the heart of who I am in this place.
It began three days after my arrest. I found myself in a totally alien world. People like me, I told myself, don’t go to jail. I was surrounded by people completely different from those I knew “in the real world”. I hated where I was, hated who I was. Everything I knew, everything I worked for, everything I believed in, was taken from me. I was lost, alone, scared and depressed. I had lost all hope. I wanted out and was willing to do whatever I had to to end the pain, fear and disappointment I felt.
As I sat there making all the necessary plans I thought had to be made, I heard my name called over the pod intercom. I left my cell and checked in with the duty officer who directed me down the hallway to the counselor’s offices. A middle-aged, well dressed black woman stepped out of one office and waved me in.
I sat down in a hard plastic chair in front of her desk. I looked around. Her walls were covered in rainbows adorned with the words “faith”, “believe”, and “hope”.
“I saw the article about you in the paper” she said and she handed me the prior day’s newspaper where details of my arrest were spelled out.
“I’ve watched you since you arrived. You may not know it yet, but you’re here for a reason. You have something to say, something to give. Your life isn’t over because of this.”
I listened intently as she spoke. A few moments and a phone call later, I had a job working in the jail’s GED program.
For the first time in three days I felt a glimmer of hope, a reason to go on. That afternoon, I walked down the hallway to the classrooms and began working with inmates as they studied for their GED. That evening, I sat down on my bunk and made my first diary entry. Every day since then, for thirty-one months, I’ve written.
Why do I write in here? Because every day, no matter how dark it may seem, writing gives me hope, gives me a purpose, gives me a reason for going through all this. There are stories I need to tell, blogs I need to write. Sitting in my cut, every morning, words roll out. Some are better than others.
Last week, I received a blog response from a person whom I’ve never met. She came across my writing a few months ago. She writes a newsletter for her church’s prison ministry. She wrote the following:
“You have much to say that I haven’t read anywhere else and I read at least two books a week. Just now reading all your entries the Holy Spirit spoke to me several times, and I even tweeted one of your excerpts – ‘How you accept those who hurt you says more about you than any single trait in your character.’”
I don’t remember writing that, but I know it was written during one of my Saturday morning writing sessions. I also know writing in here has made me a better writer. Somehow, I girded up the emotional courage to make that first journal entry which enabled me to glimpse beyond that black hole of my circumstances and offer me a glimmer of hope.
I’m reminded of the poem “To Althea”, by Robert Lovelace:
Stone walls do not a prison make,
nor iron bars a cage;
minds innocent and quiet take
that for a hermitage.
If prison is my hermitage, I’ve become a better writer and a much better man for it.
On Writing Inside
The school principal recently asked me to oversee the creation of a literary magazine with the intended purpose of giving budding writers in here an avenue to share their stories and poems with larger prison communities.
As part of that undertaking, I thought a fair amount about why I write. I’m frequently asked by guys not just “what are you writing” but “why do you spend so much time writing?” The following blog, “Writing Inside” tries to briefly explain the reason behind all this.
I frequently am deeply moved by the responses I receive from readers of the blog. As you’ve noticed, sometimes I even respond. Every time, I take what is written to me to heart.
This past week I received two very moving, thought provoking response from an “Anonymous” reader (I’m not sure if they are from one or two different readers). Both entries deeply moved me in ways that will remain personal to me for the time being. But, I want “Anonymous” (or Anonymi) to know how much those two pieces meant to me.
I was told recently by one of the teachers with whom I work that I have “a fascinating life story”. I told her the truth is we all have fascinating life stories. I have met so many remarkable men (and women) during these past three years. I’ve even co-opted some of their stories for short stories I write (Hint to any literary agents: I have a series of short stories available).
Life, I’ve learned, is not static. It constantly moves forward and each day brings new challenges. As “Anonymous” reminded me last week, we have to remember how blessed we are everyday, even in our trials. I found a brief, anonymous prayer the other day that really made me think: “Lord, help me to accept those things I don’t always understand.”
One final thought. In Big S’s Modern Language Bible I stumbled across a passage that stopped me. As Jesus was explaining his objection to the Pharisee’s reliance on Moses’ Certificates of Divorce (how ironic I stopped there!), it said the following: “You rely on man’s law rather than God’s moral requirement.”
I try and live righteously in here. I realize this is a tough environment to live that way. But, it’s perhaps tougher outside. Rationalization may help us sleep (I used it for twelve years), but it doesn’t change what the Lord requires from us – to love, to forgive and to live in righteous obedience.
As part of that undertaking, I thought a fair amount about why I write. I’m frequently asked by guys not just “what are you writing” but “why do you spend so much time writing?” The following blog, “Writing Inside” tries to briefly explain the reason behind all this.
I frequently am deeply moved by the responses I receive from readers of the blog. As you’ve noticed, sometimes I even respond. Every time, I take what is written to me to heart.
This past week I received two very moving, thought provoking response from an “Anonymous” reader (I’m not sure if they are from one or two different readers). Both entries deeply moved me in ways that will remain personal to me for the time being. But, I want “Anonymous” (or Anonymi) to know how much those two pieces meant to me.
I was told recently by one of the teachers with whom I work that I have “a fascinating life story”. I told her the truth is we all have fascinating life stories. I have met so many remarkable men (and women) during these past three years. I’ve even co-opted some of their stories for short stories I write (Hint to any literary agents: I have a series of short stories available).
Life, I’ve learned, is not static. It constantly moves forward and each day brings new challenges. As “Anonymous” reminded me last week, we have to remember how blessed we are everyday, even in our trials. I found a brief, anonymous prayer the other day that really made me think: “Lord, help me to accept those things I don’t always understand.”
One final thought. In Big S’s Modern Language Bible I stumbled across a passage that stopped me. As Jesus was explaining his objection to the Pharisee’s reliance on Moses’ Certificates of Divorce (how ironic I stopped there!), it said the following: “You rely on man’s law rather than God’s moral requirement.”
I try and live righteously in here. I realize this is a tough environment to live that way. But, it’s perhaps tougher outside. Rationalization may help us sleep (I used it for twelve years), but it doesn’t change what the Lord requires from us – to love, to forgive and to live in righteous obedience.
Bend, Don't Break
DC came by to talk to me the other night. As I’ve written before, DC is one of the most interesting guys I’ve ever met. Though we are from completely different worlds, I feel a kinship with him I’ve seldom felt. Prison is terrible, but survivable because of the friendships I’ve been blessed with. I count DC as one of those blessings.
He knew I’d been struggling in a valley these past few weeks. He knew I felt beaten down and abandoned by friends whom had been there for me, yet now when I so desperately needed to hear from them, utter silence. He knew I was dealing with another round of rejection from loved ones that had set me back months, if not years. He came by and sat down and never once mentioned my situation. Instead, he told me something his father told him when he was sitting in the hole years ago.
His father, a Korean War infantryman, told him “take every day at a time. Bend, don’t break. When you lay down at night, thank God He saw you through.” DC then stood up, headed back out of my cut. Before leaving, he looked at me, told me he respected my courage, my compassion for these guys and my decency and simply ended “just bend”.
I went to bed that night like I do every other evening by reciting the words to the 103rd Psalm, by praying that my ex find someone she can love and trust and in turn loves her unconditionally, that my sons are joyous, secure, forgiving and loving. I prayed for my parents, for my cousin and her husband who have been so steadfast in their love and support for me, and for friends – even as some pull away from me. Those are difficult prayers at times for me as I struggle with issues like rejection and abandonment. Still, I pray. That night I added one additional prayer: “Please don’t let me break, God. I know you’re listening. Let me bend, not break.”
There’s a lot going on right now. I am working an extraordinary amount of hours, close to twelve a day, helping guys with their college studies. I’m paid forty-five cents per hour for thirty hours of work. The money isn’t necessarily the issue. No, I’m working my butt off to keep guys motivated who have an initial reaction to difficulty to quit. I’m working my butt off for guys who are all going home in the next one to two years (max), many of whom are here for their second or third time. Meanwhile, I still have ten years remaining on my sentence.
As I lay in bed I began to think I must be crazy. Everything I knew, everything I built, everything I longed for, was gone. And, here I was putting out all this effort and I had nothing to show for it. All night I tossed and turned. I finally got out of my bunk at 3:30 and began to pray. “Please let me bend, not break today” I prayed. I noticed my devotional was from the Sermon on the Mount. As I read the Beatitudes I wondered what they really meant. “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” I reached for Big S’s modern language Bible.
“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His role.”
“Your blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.”
Those words rolled through my brain. “At the end of my rope.” I’d been there almost every day the past six weeks. Not a day had gone by that I didn’t wonder what was my breaking point. I was hanging by a thread, reaching for a small light that grew dimmer each moment. “Lost what is most dear to you.” Let’s see, rejected by my wife and kids, loss of my freedom, loss of my wealth, abandonment by friends. Things were so bad I’ve had crack addicts doing their fourth bid tell me “damn, your life sucks.”
“Bend, don’t break.” Those words kept hitting me between the eyes. I remembered an anonymous quote I picked up shortly after my arrest. It said simply,
“Pain is synonymous with spirituality. When you’re in the most pain you are closest to God.”
The simple fact was, I realized, that there was absolutely nothing I could do that day to get me out of prison right then, or make my ex-wife love and forgive me, or make my kids tell me they loved and missed me, or make a close friend take five minutes out of his day to write me back. But, I could make a difference in these guys’ lives.
So that afternoon, I led a review session in the dayroom for a group of English students on critically evaluating a social science piece called “Can Money Buy Happiness?”
He knew I’d been struggling in a valley these past few weeks. He knew I felt beaten down and abandoned by friends whom had been there for me, yet now when I so desperately needed to hear from them, utter silence. He knew I was dealing with another round of rejection from loved ones that had set me back months, if not years. He came by and sat down and never once mentioned my situation. Instead, he told me something his father told him when he was sitting in the hole years ago.
His father, a Korean War infantryman, told him “take every day at a time. Bend, don’t break. When you lay down at night, thank God He saw you through.” DC then stood up, headed back out of my cut. Before leaving, he looked at me, told me he respected my courage, my compassion for these guys and my decency and simply ended “just bend”.
I went to bed that night like I do every other evening by reciting the words to the 103rd Psalm, by praying that my ex find someone she can love and trust and in turn loves her unconditionally, that my sons are joyous, secure, forgiving and loving. I prayed for my parents, for my cousin and her husband who have been so steadfast in their love and support for me, and for friends – even as some pull away from me. Those are difficult prayers at times for me as I struggle with issues like rejection and abandonment. Still, I pray. That night I added one additional prayer: “Please don’t let me break, God. I know you’re listening. Let me bend, not break.”
There’s a lot going on right now. I am working an extraordinary amount of hours, close to twelve a day, helping guys with their college studies. I’m paid forty-five cents per hour for thirty hours of work. The money isn’t necessarily the issue. No, I’m working my butt off to keep guys motivated who have an initial reaction to difficulty to quit. I’m working my butt off for guys who are all going home in the next one to two years (max), many of whom are here for their second or third time. Meanwhile, I still have ten years remaining on my sentence.
As I lay in bed I began to think I must be crazy. Everything I knew, everything I built, everything I longed for, was gone. And, here I was putting out all this effort and I had nothing to show for it. All night I tossed and turned. I finally got out of my bunk at 3:30 and began to pray. “Please let me bend, not break today” I prayed. I noticed my devotional was from the Sermon on the Mount. As I read the Beatitudes I wondered what they really meant. “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” I reached for Big S’s modern language Bible.
“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His role.”
“Your blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.”
Those words rolled through my brain. “At the end of my rope.” I’d been there almost every day the past six weeks. Not a day had gone by that I didn’t wonder what was my breaking point. I was hanging by a thread, reaching for a small light that grew dimmer each moment. “Lost what is most dear to you.” Let’s see, rejected by my wife and kids, loss of my freedom, loss of my wealth, abandonment by friends. Things were so bad I’ve had crack addicts doing their fourth bid tell me “damn, your life sucks.”
“Bend, don’t break.” Those words kept hitting me between the eyes. I remembered an anonymous quote I picked up shortly after my arrest. It said simply,
“Pain is synonymous with spirituality. When you’re in the most pain you are closest to God.”
The simple fact was, I realized, that there was absolutely nothing I could do that day to get me out of prison right then, or make my ex-wife love and forgive me, or make my kids tell me they loved and missed me, or make a close friend take five minutes out of his day to write me back. But, I could make a difference in these guys’ lives.
So that afternoon, I led a review session in the dayroom for a group of English students on critically evaluating a social science piece called “Can Money Buy Happiness?”
A Death at Lunenburg
Wednesday (March 23) afternoon, an inmate working as a staff cook suffered a massive heart attack and died. He was under forty. Could he have been saved? I don’t know. I only know medical care inside prison is atrocious.
Yesterday morning a young man in our building passed out while climbing out of his upper bunk. He lay on the ground while “Ivana” stood over him saying “get up”. Over the next ten minutes three other officers stood over him. Finally, a nurse arrived with a stretcher.
Even criminals deserve better.
Yesterday morning a young man in our building passed out while climbing out of his upper bunk. He lay on the ground while “Ivana” stood over him saying “get up”. Over the next ten minutes three other officers stood over him. Finally, a nurse arrived with a stretcher.
Even criminals deserve better.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
New Tatts and a Shaved Head
The tattoo artists have been busy the last few days doing full sleeves (arms) and backs in color on some of the young guys.
Go Chez had a picture of his girlfriend (deceased) tattooed above his heart with his entire arm done in flowers. The tat is an exact duplicate of a photo of the girl. She was a beautiful young girl who died much too young.
Bades has an entire alligator – from his neck to his waist now tatted with every year he’s been locked up on the scales in Roman numerals.
And E – he’s in the middle of getting on an entire red Chinese dragon wrapped in bamboo and orchids on his back. It’s red, white, yellow and green.
Tattoos are forbidden, but talented artists get $200 or more. There’s a warning system as they sneak guys into their building and work between counts (Bades tat took two days, a total of six hours).
No tattoos for me. I shaved my head. I was tired of “combing over”. Shaved it myself. Go Chez said I look scary. Ty and DC told me they were glad I accepted my “thinness” up top. I’ll get used to it. I just have to remember sunscreen when I run!
Go Chez had a picture of his girlfriend (deceased) tattooed above his heart with his entire arm done in flowers. The tat is an exact duplicate of a photo of the girl. She was a beautiful young girl who died much too young.
Bades has an entire alligator – from his neck to his waist now tatted with every year he’s been locked up on the scales in Roman numerals.
And E – he’s in the middle of getting on an entire red Chinese dragon wrapped in bamboo and orchids on his back. It’s red, white, yellow and green.
Tattoos are forbidden, but talented artists get $200 or more. There’s a warning system as they sneak guys into their building and work between counts (Bades tat took two days, a total of six hours).
No tattoos for me. I shaved my head. I was tired of “combing over”. Shaved it myself. Go Chez said I look scary. Ty and DC told me they were glad I accepted my “thinness” up top. I’ll get used to it. I just have to remember sunscreen when I run!
Sinner or Saint
I began reading Nelson Mandela’s recent best seller Conversations with Myself the other day. It is a remarkable text based on his letters and diaries written during his nearly 27 years of incarceration. Mandela entered prison at a fairly young age of 46. He never tasted freedom again until after his 72nd birthday.
I paused as I read an insightful passage in a letter he mailed to his wife, Winnie in February, 1975:
“…the cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself…Honesty, sincerity, simplicity, humility, pure generosity, absence of vanity, readiness to serve others – qualities which are within easy reach of every soul – are the foundation of one’s spiritual life…At least, if for nothing else, the cell gives you the opportunity to look daily into your entire conduct, to overcome the bad and develop whatever is good in you…Never forget that a saint is a sinner who keeps trying.”
I thought about Mandela’s words as I tried to come up with a conciliatory response to a letter I received. Over and over I heard his words roll around in my head, “a sinner who keeps on trying.”
I smile as young men in here gravitate to me, asking for whatever advice I can offer on a wide range of subjects. I enjoy their company. Somehow, having them around me makes the sting of separation and alienation from my own sons more manageable.
I found an anonymous quote that really hit home. “Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.” The key, I realized, was enduring in the right spirit. That’s the tough part. I still struggle with accepting other people’s failures, weaknesses. Ultimately, that is what creates a forgiving heart.
I have a number of bad habits. One is to immediately respond to any attack. I know I screwed up; I know I risked and lost the people I loved most by my impulsive, greed-driven behavior. I live with that every day. Still, when someone you love blasts you in a letter, my gut tells me to point out their flaws. Wrong approach.
I’ve received a fair amount of news the past few weeks that has made me question God’s infinite wisdom. I’ve actually come to appreciate Job’s argument with God, his “what are You doin’ to me,” discussion.
It hit me that I’d come so far. My heart is broken, yet today, after a very difficult visit, I prayed asking God to just let someone be happy and feel loved.
Forgiveness and love are painful. I have done so many reckless, hurtful things that cost me more than at times it seems I can bear. Yet, in the quiet of my bunk, as I prayed, I placed my trust in God that it will all work out. I keep trying. Right now that’s all I can do.
I paused as I read an insightful passage in a letter he mailed to his wife, Winnie in February, 1975:
“…the cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself…Honesty, sincerity, simplicity, humility, pure generosity, absence of vanity, readiness to serve others – qualities which are within easy reach of every soul – are the foundation of one’s spiritual life…At least, if for nothing else, the cell gives you the opportunity to look daily into your entire conduct, to overcome the bad and develop whatever is good in you…Never forget that a saint is a sinner who keeps trying.”
I thought about Mandela’s words as I tried to come up with a conciliatory response to a letter I received. Over and over I heard his words roll around in my head, “a sinner who keeps on trying.”
I smile as young men in here gravitate to me, asking for whatever advice I can offer on a wide range of subjects. I enjoy their company. Somehow, having them around me makes the sting of separation and alienation from my own sons more manageable.
I found an anonymous quote that really hit home. “Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.” The key, I realized, was enduring in the right spirit. That’s the tough part. I still struggle with accepting other people’s failures, weaknesses. Ultimately, that is what creates a forgiving heart.
I have a number of bad habits. One is to immediately respond to any attack. I know I screwed up; I know I risked and lost the people I loved most by my impulsive, greed-driven behavior. I live with that every day. Still, when someone you love blasts you in a letter, my gut tells me to point out their flaws. Wrong approach.
I’ve received a fair amount of news the past few weeks that has made me question God’s infinite wisdom. I’ve actually come to appreciate Job’s argument with God, his “what are You doin’ to me,” discussion.
It hit me that I’d come so far. My heart is broken, yet today, after a very difficult visit, I prayed asking God to just let someone be happy and feel loved.
Forgiveness and love are painful. I have done so many reckless, hurtful things that cost me more than at times it seems I can bear. Yet, in the quiet of my bunk, as I prayed, I placed my trust in God that it will all work out. I keep trying. Right now that’s all I can do.
Full of It
One of my favorite holiday comedies is “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation”. In one particularly hilarious scene, Clark (Chevy Chase) looks out his front window and sees his half-wit cousin Eddie (Randy Quaid), wearing an obviously too short robe and boots, draining his motor home commode directly into the rain grate at the curb. Eddie looks up, sees Clark watching him and shouts “shitter’s full”. I thought about the scene as I read the March 13th entry in Virginia Statehouse News discussing prison overcrowding.
“Virginia’s state prisons are so packed that nearly 3,700 state remanded inmates are being housed in local jails,” per DOC spokesman Larry Traylor.
Traylor further added, “state prisons are filled to 165 percent design capacity. The number of prisoners at each state prison facility is limited in part by water and sewer capacity…”
Heh, Virginia, shitter’s full.
Less than two months ago the Richmond Times Dispatch wrote a glowing editorial about then Governor Allen being a genius for abolishing parole. The editorial talked about “a glut of beds” in DOC facilities. Mr. Traylor, curiously, was silent.
I wrote a scathing rebuttal to the editorial. I’m no genius, but just by spending an hour inside the wire and you quickly recognize the prison system is grossly overcrowded, incompetently managed and a significant drain on the Commonwealth’s resources. Do I feel vindicated that DOC has finally admitted the obvious? A little. But, vindication won’t come until a politician (take a hint Governor McDonnell) has the courage to push for early release. Without sentencing reform, the system will never be fixed.
Last term, the United States Supreme Court heard an appeal from California over their overcrowded prison. Ten years ago inmates won a federal lawsuit against California arising out of the abysmal living conditions present in prisons holding inmates at 177 percent of capacity. The Federal courts ordered California to alleviate the overcrowding problem. For ten years, California did nothing.
Finally fed up with the state ignoring the rule of law, the court ordered that 40 percent of the system’s inmates be released. California reacted with shock. “You want us to do what?” Virginia isn’t far behind. There is absolutely no reason for the vast majority of inmates currently housed in Virginia’s prisons to remain there for the life of their sentences. The prison system does absolutely nothing to correct the behavior that led to the crime. It is nothing more than a warehouse; providing inadequate care, treatment and living conditions for 38,721 adult inmates (as of September 30, 2009). Virginia’s prisons are, in fact, criminal.
But, admitting the system is full isn’t easy. Consider this “brilliant” insight from Virginia Delegate David Albo (R-Springfield), “there are no nonviolent offenders in prison.” Really? So drug users are classified violent? Probation violations? Driving charges? Grand larceny and embezzlement? Never knew that Del. Albo. Apparently neither does the Virginia Sentencing Commission or the Virginia Courts who specifically classify those listed crimes as “nonviolent”.
For giggles and grins, let’s agree with Del. Albo. Every “bad person” in prison is here for a violent crime. Why then, do states with more progressive sentencing and early release options show: (1) lower crime rates and (2) the same recidivism rate as Virginia? What is clear on its face is Del. Albo points out, the hypocrisy of Virginia’s current prison system. There’s no “correction” in this system. There’s only punishment, pain and retribution. And, those three things belong in the sewer, not as government policy.
I heard Peter, Paul and Mary sing “Where have all the flowers gone” the other night. As they sang the chorus again (“when will they ever learn?”) I thought about Mr. Traylor’s admission and Delegate Albo’s ignorance. When will Virginia learn? Prison reform – early release, effective rehabilitation programs – must be implemented. The system is full!
“Virginia’s state prisons are so packed that nearly 3,700 state remanded inmates are being housed in local jails,” per DOC spokesman Larry Traylor.
Traylor further added, “state prisons are filled to 165 percent design capacity. The number of prisoners at each state prison facility is limited in part by water and sewer capacity…”
Heh, Virginia, shitter’s full.
Less than two months ago the Richmond Times Dispatch wrote a glowing editorial about then Governor Allen being a genius for abolishing parole. The editorial talked about “a glut of beds” in DOC facilities. Mr. Traylor, curiously, was silent.
I wrote a scathing rebuttal to the editorial. I’m no genius, but just by spending an hour inside the wire and you quickly recognize the prison system is grossly overcrowded, incompetently managed and a significant drain on the Commonwealth’s resources. Do I feel vindicated that DOC has finally admitted the obvious? A little. But, vindication won’t come until a politician (take a hint Governor McDonnell) has the courage to push for early release. Without sentencing reform, the system will never be fixed.
Last term, the United States Supreme Court heard an appeal from California over their overcrowded prison. Ten years ago inmates won a federal lawsuit against California arising out of the abysmal living conditions present in prisons holding inmates at 177 percent of capacity. The Federal courts ordered California to alleviate the overcrowding problem. For ten years, California did nothing.
Finally fed up with the state ignoring the rule of law, the court ordered that 40 percent of the system’s inmates be released. California reacted with shock. “You want us to do what?” Virginia isn’t far behind. There is absolutely no reason for the vast majority of inmates currently housed in Virginia’s prisons to remain there for the life of their sentences. The prison system does absolutely nothing to correct the behavior that led to the crime. It is nothing more than a warehouse; providing inadequate care, treatment and living conditions for 38,721 adult inmates (as of September 30, 2009). Virginia’s prisons are, in fact, criminal.
But, admitting the system is full isn’t easy. Consider this “brilliant” insight from Virginia Delegate David Albo (R-Springfield), “there are no nonviolent offenders in prison.” Really? So drug users are classified violent? Probation violations? Driving charges? Grand larceny and embezzlement? Never knew that Del. Albo. Apparently neither does the Virginia Sentencing Commission or the Virginia Courts who specifically classify those listed crimes as “nonviolent”.
For giggles and grins, let’s agree with Del. Albo. Every “bad person” in prison is here for a violent crime. Why then, do states with more progressive sentencing and early release options show: (1) lower crime rates and (2) the same recidivism rate as Virginia? What is clear on its face is Del. Albo points out, the hypocrisy of Virginia’s current prison system. There’s no “correction” in this system. There’s only punishment, pain and retribution. And, those three things belong in the sewer, not as government policy.
I heard Peter, Paul and Mary sing “Where have all the flowers gone” the other night. As they sang the chorus again (“when will they ever learn?”) I thought about Mr. Traylor’s admission and Delegate Albo’s ignorance. When will Virginia learn? Prison reform – early release, effective rehabilitation programs – must be implemented. The system is full!
Lifer
I had breakfast with Saleem today. We spoke quietly over turkey sausage, gravy and biscuits. Not the best meal, but it beats being hungry. Saleem is one of my favorite people in here. He has a kind face, somewhat rubbery. His look reminds me of the Pooh character “Tigger”. Saleem is the leader of the Muslim inmates. He is deeply respected by both inmates and staff.
About six weeks ago, after receiving the first in a series of letters from my ex, my “balance” went off. I became extremely nervous, lost hope, withdrawn. It was Saleem who quietly came up to me and called me to his cut. With his face scrunched up and his eyes staring straight at me, he told me how much he admired and respected me. He then asked me a rhetorical question that has seen me through this difficult patch. “If you believe in God shouldn’t you be confident He hears you and will handle your situation?” That was it. No moral, no offering his opinion about how I was feeling; just a simple statement about what faith means.
And, I took it to heart. I had to. Saleem, you see, is a “lifer”. He’s been locked up thirty years. Though he receives a parole hearing every year, he has no mandatory parole date. Absent the parole board granting him discretionary parole, he will live out his days, and die, an incarcerated man.
Saleem is tall; broad shouldered and carries himself with great dignity. Even at fifty-eight, he still heads out to the rec yard to jog. In his twenties he played in an adult basketball league in Petersburg. Just watching him slowly trot around the track reminds you this guy was an athlete.
More than thirty years ago, Saleem – a Vietnam Vet and a small business owner – made a decision. He wanted more money. The easiest way to get the extra cash was to run a side business, an illegal business, drugs. Something went horribly wrong one night and Saleem killed a man. Saleem – a peaceful man (a medic in the military), a man who’d never been in a fist fight in his life – killed a man. It was labeled capital murder. There was talk of seeking the death penalty. The papers reported on his case; his family was in turmoil.
The charge was eventually reduced: first degree murder with a life sentence and parole eligibility. Saleem began serving his sentence. He left a wife and family at home. He went to a high level facility. He saw stabbings, rapes, murder. He never lost his humanity. But for that one night of violence, he remained a peaceful man.
Saleem did, and continues to do, his sentence. Every year he comes up for parole; every year he is denied. He has been a model inmate: no charges; earned a degree; serves as an academic aide; leads a Muslim community of about one hundred men. Yet, every year he is turned down.
Imagine knowing today that every day for the rest of your life you will be in the same room. Whether you live one year more or forty years more, your destiny is exactly that existence. Would you remain hopeful? Would you remain faithful? Saleem received his rejection with stoicism and strength. “When the time is right, God will find a way.”
There is no doubt Saleem committed a horrible crime. He took a life. The question to be asked is, can a person ever show enough remorse, enough regret, enough evidence of redemption to be able to overcome taking a life? Why tell Saleem he is parole eligible if nothing he does will make him deserving of parole?
As I thought about our views of justice and mercy I stopped to do my afternoon devotional. I read Mark 2: 1-12. It contains the story of the paralyzed man lowered through the roof to be healed by Jesus. Jesus takes one look at the man lying on the cot before him and says simply “your sins are forgiven.”
The local community leaders – the good, moral folks – react with outrage. “Who are you to forgive someone’s sins?” That accusatory question led Jesus to an amazing teaching moment. “Which is more difficult, to forgive one’s sins or to make one walk?” And with that He commanded the paralyzed man to rise and walk. When the man did indeed walk, the crowd stood awestruck.
Forgiveness, reconciliation, mercy, justice; they are such commonly used words yet the reality is; actual forgiveness, actual reconciliation, mercy and justice are so seldom exhibited.
I don’t know how many years a man must serve for taking a life. I do know this, if we profess we believe, and accept the gift of God’s grace to forgive us, we can do no less for Saleem.
Postscript: As I was writing this piece DC came in the building. He had been called to the counselor’s office and given the written parole decision denying him parole for another year.
With a smile on his face he showed me the letter. “They used five reasons this year.” I choked up. As much as I want out of here, I would do every single day with a smile on my face if they’d just let DC go. See, I know the guy. I believe in the guy. I believe in the power of redemption. I believe in the power of forgiveness.
“It’s OK Larry. My day will come. You have to stay strong, focused and remain hopeful. I put myself in here. When the time’s right He’ll get me out.”
Every morning I recite a series of Bible verses as I prepare for my devotional reading and prayers. One particular verse stands out:
“Wait for the Lord;
Be strong and let your heart take courage.
Yes, wait for the Lord.” (Psalm 27:14)
Those words came to mind as I watched DC head to the phones and call his wife of forty-one years – “not this year, honey. We’ll try again next January.”
“Which is more difficult, to forgive someone of their sins or make them walk?”
Powerful question. God knows the right answer. Do we? Saleem and DC deserve to know.
About six weeks ago, after receiving the first in a series of letters from my ex, my “balance” went off. I became extremely nervous, lost hope, withdrawn. It was Saleem who quietly came up to me and called me to his cut. With his face scrunched up and his eyes staring straight at me, he told me how much he admired and respected me. He then asked me a rhetorical question that has seen me through this difficult patch. “If you believe in God shouldn’t you be confident He hears you and will handle your situation?” That was it. No moral, no offering his opinion about how I was feeling; just a simple statement about what faith means.
And, I took it to heart. I had to. Saleem, you see, is a “lifer”. He’s been locked up thirty years. Though he receives a parole hearing every year, he has no mandatory parole date. Absent the parole board granting him discretionary parole, he will live out his days, and die, an incarcerated man.
Saleem is tall; broad shouldered and carries himself with great dignity. Even at fifty-eight, he still heads out to the rec yard to jog. In his twenties he played in an adult basketball league in Petersburg. Just watching him slowly trot around the track reminds you this guy was an athlete.
More than thirty years ago, Saleem – a Vietnam Vet and a small business owner – made a decision. He wanted more money. The easiest way to get the extra cash was to run a side business, an illegal business, drugs. Something went horribly wrong one night and Saleem killed a man. Saleem – a peaceful man (a medic in the military), a man who’d never been in a fist fight in his life – killed a man. It was labeled capital murder. There was talk of seeking the death penalty. The papers reported on his case; his family was in turmoil.
The charge was eventually reduced: first degree murder with a life sentence and parole eligibility. Saleem began serving his sentence. He left a wife and family at home. He went to a high level facility. He saw stabbings, rapes, murder. He never lost his humanity. But for that one night of violence, he remained a peaceful man.
Saleem did, and continues to do, his sentence. Every year he comes up for parole; every year he is denied. He has been a model inmate: no charges; earned a degree; serves as an academic aide; leads a Muslim community of about one hundred men. Yet, every year he is turned down.
Imagine knowing today that every day for the rest of your life you will be in the same room. Whether you live one year more or forty years more, your destiny is exactly that existence. Would you remain hopeful? Would you remain faithful? Saleem received his rejection with stoicism and strength. “When the time is right, God will find a way.”
There is no doubt Saleem committed a horrible crime. He took a life. The question to be asked is, can a person ever show enough remorse, enough regret, enough evidence of redemption to be able to overcome taking a life? Why tell Saleem he is parole eligible if nothing he does will make him deserving of parole?
As I thought about our views of justice and mercy I stopped to do my afternoon devotional. I read Mark 2: 1-12. It contains the story of the paralyzed man lowered through the roof to be healed by Jesus. Jesus takes one look at the man lying on the cot before him and says simply “your sins are forgiven.”
The local community leaders – the good, moral folks – react with outrage. “Who are you to forgive someone’s sins?” That accusatory question led Jesus to an amazing teaching moment. “Which is more difficult, to forgive one’s sins or to make one walk?” And with that He commanded the paralyzed man to rise and walk. When the man did indeed walk, the crowd stood awestruck.
Forgiveness, reconciliation, mercy, justice; they are such commonly used words yet the reality is; actual forgiveness, actual reconciliation, mercy and justice are so seldom exhibited.
I don’t know how many years a man must serve for taking a life. I do know this, if we profess we believe, and accept the gift of God’s grace to forgive us, we can do no less for Saleem.
Postscript: As I was writing this piece DC came in the building. He had been called to the counselor’s office and given the written parole decision denying him parole for another year.
With a smile on his face he showed me the letter. “They used five reasons this year.” I choked up. As much as I want out of here, I would do every single day with a smile on my face if they’d just let DC go. See, I know the guy. I believe in the guy. I believe in the power of redemption. I believe in the power of forgiveness.
“It’s OK Larry. My day will come. You have to stay strong, focused and remain hopeful. I put myself in here. When the time’s right He’ll get me out.”
Every morning I recite a series of Bible verses as I prepare for my devotional reading and prayers. One particular verse stands out:
“Wait for the Lord;
Be strong and let your heart take courage.
Yes, wait for the Lord.” (Psalm 27:14)
Those words came to mind as I watched DC head to the phones and call his wife of forty-one years – “not this year, honey. We’ll try again next January.”
“Which is more difficult, to forgive someone of their sins or make them walk?”
Powerful question. God knows the right answer. Do we? Saleem and DC deserve to know.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
New Flip Flops
My flip flops finally broke; my shower shoes – the cheap plastic shoes I was given on the night of August 18, 2008 on my arrival at the Henrico Jail. I kept those cheap shower shoes all this time. Yesterday, the strap finally broke. My friend Jackson (a yard trustee) got me a fresh pair from property.
That day was one of the worst days of my life. There’d been others: the night I cried as I begged my new wife to get help when she let her weight drop dramatically just six months after we married; the miscarriage on my 26th birthday; the final decree for divorce signed 29 years to the day of our first date; my sentencing. Bad days. Days I wondered if I’d make it.
I looked at the broken flip flop. That cheap shoe and I had been through a great deal. It held up through some tough days. So had I.
That day was one of the worst days of my life. There’d been others: the night I cried as I begged my new wife to get help when she let her weight drop dramatically just six months after we married; the miscarriage on my 26th birthday; the final decree for divorce signed 29 years to the day of our first date; my sentencing. Bad days. Days I wondered if I’d make it.
I looked at the broken flip flop. That cheap shoe and I had been through a great deal. It held up through some tough days. So had I.
News Flash – “Fish” the Cat is captured!
We had a cat running around here for a few weeks. The guys named him “Fish”. Like the two ducks who settled in a few months ago, or the dogs in the training program, Fish became instantly popular with the majority of the inmates.
But, some guys complained. It only took one guy to push paper and a trap was set. Fish was snagged in a sting operation. He was hauled to the local animal shelter. Some guys will push paper on anything. They forget this is prison and any connection to the world outside is a good thing.
But, some guys complained. It only took one guy to push paper and a trap was set. Fish was snagged in a sting operation. He was hauled to the local animal shelter. Some guys will push paper on anything. They forget this is prison and any connection to the world outside is a good thing.
And They Call Me OCD
I’ve written before about my penchant for things being in their proper place. I’m more tolerant now of “sloppiness” than I ever was in my real life. Out there, the mail being haphazardly set on the kitchen counter threw me off. I once referred to our home as a “crack house” because my then wife had left five boxed candles sitting on our dining room table (I told that story the other day to enormous laughter. One drug dealer then said “you’ve never been to a crack house have you?” No, I haven’t. But, I’m sure I’ll find boxed candles covering the dining room table!).
Anyway, I still need things to be “just so”. I fold my laundry a certain way, line my shoes up, keep my lockers in a particular order. One of the worries about a shakedown is knowing the assigned CO will rifle through your stuff and leave it in disarray.
As previously mentioned, one of my close friends in here is Craig. He is the other main college aid and works for the school as an administrative assistant. He also likes everything to be “in just a certain way” to the point he makes me appear to be “Mr. What the hell!” Like me, he keeps lists. Unlike me, he codes his socks (1L + 1R; 2L + 2R) so the pairs “stay together”. In between talking about school, we exchange organization tips and horror stories when our friends screwed with us because of our “condition”. My favorite recent Craigism – how his buddies used to sneak into his kitchen pantry and turn his soup cans and mix the tomato with the chicken noodle – “dirty bastards!”
Yes, we’re constantly picked on for our neatness. But, we’re not in the same league with Randy – the personal trainer. Randy is a laundry nut. He buys ten to fifteen bags of laundry detergent every commissary. He washes his bedding – sheets and blankets – every morning. Five loads of laundry each day, seven days a week.
Randy gets up at 3:00 am. He cleans the floors until 4:00, then showers, prepares both washers (they turn on at 7:00), then reads until breakfast. I rise each day at 4:00, shave and teeth brushing, mediation and devotions until 5:15, then shower and write until 7:00 am breakfast. Craig hits the bathroom at 4:10. We are men of structure. There are about a half dozen of us that organize our days to the “nth” degree. There are probably fifty who have little or no structure other than what the prison requires.
I need the structure. It’s my way of exerting individual control over my life in here. I know every morning from 4:15 to 5:15 I’ll be sitting in the lotus position on my bunk reading the Bible and praying. I’ve learned, however, that there’s a lot more important things than order. I’d rather have the candles on the table and the people in my life.
Anyway, I still need things to be “just so”. I fold my laundry a certain way, line my shoes up, keep my lockers in a particular order. One of the worries about a shakedown is knowing the assigned CO will rifle through your stuff and leave it in disarray.
As previously mentioned, one of my close friends in here is Craig. He is the other main college aid and works for the school as an administrative assistant. He also likes everything to be “in just a certain way” to the point he makes me appear to be “Mr. What the hell!” Like me, he keeps lists. Unlike me, he codes his socks (1L + 1R; 2L + 2R) so the pairs “stay together”. In between talking about school, we exchange organization tips and horror stories when our friends screwed with us because of our “condition”. My favorite recent Craigism – how his buddies used to sneak into his kitchen pantry and turn his soup cans and mix the tomato with the chicken noodle – “dirty bastards!”
Yes, we’re constantly picked on for our neatness. But, we’re not in the same league with Randy – the personal trainer. Randy is a laundry nut. He buys ten to fifteen bags of laundry detergent every commissary. He washes his bedding – sheets and blankets – every morning. Five loads of laundry each day, seven days a week.
Randy gets up at 3:00 am. He cleans the floors until 4:00, then showers, prepares both washers (they turn on at 7:00), then reads until breakfast. I rise each day at 4:00, shave and teeth brushing, mediation and devotions until 5:15, then shower and write until 7:00 am breakfast. Craig hits the bathroom at 4:10. We are men of structure. There are about a half dozen of us that organize our days to the “nth” degree. There are probably fifty who have little or no structure other than what the prison requires.
I need the structure. It’s my way of exerting individual control over my life in here. I know every morning from 4:15 to 5:15 I’ll be sitting in the lotus position on my bunk reading the Bible and praying. I’ve learned, however, that there’s a lot more important things than order. I’d rather have the candles on the table and the people in my life.
Monday, March 28, 2011
An Imperfect Man
I had an interesting letter exchange this week. I was accused of not giving someone I’ve known intimately the benefit of the doubt. I’ve been thinking about a sermon I’d recently heard. It was all about trust, trusting in God’s plan in your life even when, on the face of it, you can’t see any good coming your way.
This minister began by telling a story when his career hung in the balance. He wanted out and “knew” he didn’t belong in the mess he found himself in. As he prayed, as he lay his burdens before his God, he was overcome by an overwhelming presence.
“Don’t argue.”
“Don’t defend yourself.”
“Trust and wait.”
He followed the voice. It wasn’t easy. He continued to be attacked. Gradually, however, he won his congregation over. He recently celebrated his 40th anniversary with that church.
He made another interesting comment as he concluded the story. He said, “God is on the side of all his children. The real issue is which of His children are actually listening to Him.”
I’ve spent the last few days pondering that minister’s remarks. I landed myself in prison; I hurt the people I love and who loved me more deeply than I can still comprehend; I came in here with all sorts of preconceived notions about people that were completely wrong. I was, I am, a sinful, imperfect man who longs for forgiveness and reconciliation. Yet, I haven’t been willing to wait, wait patiently and trust.
As I thought about what the minister said, I realized my situation isn’t unique to God. After all, God is, well God, and He’s seen it all before. Nor was it unique how I was acting. Every shot at me had to be met with a response. I realized I hadn’t learned anything, hadn’t gotten anywhere, by reacting.
Trust is a tough thing, even when it involves God. Fact is, I didn’t give the letter writer the benefit of the doubt. I had in the past. I made giant leaps of faith years ago when I hung in with her and on the eve of my sentencing trusted completely. As I looked back I thought “and you let me down”. But God is different.
This past week, a well-meaning friend in here warned me to “be on guard. You’re surrounded by scumbags.” Maybe so, but what I learned from that sermons says just the opposite. We have a choice. We can fight, confront and challenge everyone and put ourselves first. Or, we can trust God. For too long I did the former. I’m trying to follow the latter.
I don’t know if the letter writer will write back. I hope she does. For once in my life, I think I can just listen.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m a sinful, imperfect man prone to mistakes. Thankfully, I’m also a child of God.
This minister began by telling a story when his career hung in the balance. He wanted out and “knew” he didn’t belong in the mess he found himself in. As he prayed, as he lay his burdens before his God, he was overcome by an overwhelming presence.
“Don’t argue.”
“Don’t defend yourself.”
“Trust and wait.”
He followed the voice. It wasn’t easy. He continued to be attacked. Gradually, however, he won his congregation over. He recently celebrated his 40th anniversary with that church.
He made another interesting comment as he concluded the story. He said, “God is on the side of all his children. The real issue is which of His children are actually listening to Him.”
I’ve spent the last few days pondering that minister’s remarks. I landed myself in prison; I hurt the people I love and who loved me more deeply than I can still comprehend; I came in here with all sorts of preconceived notions about people that were completely wrong. I was, I am, a sinful, imperfect man who longs for forgiveness and reconciliation. Yet, I haven’t been willing to wait, wait patiently and trust.
As I thought about what the minister said, I realized my situation isn’t unique to God. After all, God is, well God, and He’s seen it all before. Nor was it unique how I was acting. Every shot at me had to be met with a response. I realized I hadn’t learned anything, hadn’t gotten anywhere, by reacting.
Trust is a tough thing, even when it involves God. Fact is, I didn’t give the letter writer the benefit of the doubt. I had in the past. I made giant leaps of faith years ago when I hung in with her and on the eve of my sentencing trusted completely. As I looked back I thought “and you let me down”. But God is different.
This past week, a well-meaning friend in here warned me to “be on guard. You’re surrounded by scumbags.” Maybe so, but what I learned from that sermons says just the opposite. We have a choice. We can fight, confront and challenge everyone and put ourselves first. Or, we can trust God. For too long I did the former. I’m trying to follow the latter.
I don’t know if the letter writer will write back. I hope she does. For once in my life, I think I can just listen.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m a sinful, imperfect man prone to mistakes. Thankfully, I’m also a child of God.
Another Lockdown Goes By
Monday morning the announcement came. “The facility is on lockdown. Cease all movement.” Rumors had been swirling the entire past week that it was coming. Rumors in prison come at you by the dozens and they’re almost always wrong. This time they were right.
In the college building we figured it was a perfect week for a lockdown. Classes were on a ten day break. With the exception of the grammar review session I was leading, the guys were on break. Funny thing is, the prison system doesn’t care about scheduling around school. “Security trumps everything”, is the standard operating procedure. They’ve scheduled lockdowns during GED testing, college finals, anything.
The compound thought it was coming for other reasons. First, the new warden showed up a week ago. He’s the warden from the soon to be closed James River Corrections Center, a level 2 facility sitting on the banks of the James in rural Goochland County. That prison, built in 1896, was dilapidated and crumbling, a visible reminder of the “old prison” model: red brick and foreboding, not the new “kinder yet still behind wire” design so popular around Virginia’s correction establishment. James River was known as an “easy bid”. Tobacco was still plentiful; cell phones were all over the compound. Sounds like a perfect guy to take over this facility!
The assistant warden here, a round belly fellow who actually believed in rehabilitation, promptly stepped down. He wanted the warden’s job. Being turned down a second time, he finally decided to move on. His next stop: Mecklenburg, currently used for receiving. The assistant warden at Nottoway (a level 4 just up the road and the site of a significant stabbing incident six months ago – one officer seriously injured, one inmate dead, couple others seriously hurt) decided to come here. A former senior officer here, he loves buildings to shine. “Fresh paint is a must.” I’ve got news for him. Cologne on a turd doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a turd.
So, the new bosses are at work and a fresh shift began Monday. Perfect time to lockdown! The premise behind a lockdown is relatively simple. You hold every inmate in their building, limit access around the compound including access by inmates to guys in other buildings. You then swoop in with a sufficient force of highly trained officers to search out drugs, tobacco, weapons and assorted contraband. It should work, in principle at least. But principle doesn’t have much relevance in the modern DOC.
First, there are insufficient numbers of officers to conduct a fast-paced sweep. Lock down was announced at 8:15 am Monday. Our building wasn’t “shook down” until Tuesday afternoon at 4:00. E and I are bunkmates. We lucked into two female CO’s from our building. They knew we were “good guys” so our search (going through our lockers and personal effects) took less than five minutes. “We miss you guys over in 3.” Truth is, neither of us had anything (other than a few extra t-shirts and an extra pair of running shoes) but we could have hidden a kilo of weed in our lockers and it wouldn’t have been found. These two young female officers are good, hardworking ladies, but they lack the time to actually do the job properly. Instead, they play the odds “they’re cool; we can overlook them.”
Second, a fair number of officers are corrupt. They buddy up to the inmates and for “the right price” get stuff in. This compound is currently overrun with “spice” – synthetic weed that is undetectable in urine tests. The Virginia Legislature rushed a bill through – already signed by the Governor – to make the sale of “spice” illegal. Yet, here on the compound it’s everywhere. How, do you suppose it gets in?
Three days before we locked down, CO’s gave Big S and DC a “heads up” to move extra CDs, books and sneakers. Where does the extra stuff go? Vocational and educational buildings. They only run drug dogs through those buildings so, under the watchful eye of the building officer, bags of CDs and extra clothes are placed in cabinets in the school.
It’s all form over substance. The results from our building shakedown: about 30 empty plastic jars. All the extras are still in place. Meanwhile, the officers are exhausted. They’ve worked extra hours; COs that are off this week are called in and paid extra for additional shift work. The shakedown costs a great deal and accomplishes virtually nothing.
If that’s true, why do them? Great question with a simple answer: because that’s what’s always been done in prison. Why fix what hasn’t worked for decades? DOC is a tired, outmoded, outdated department still investing precious resources in a prison operation that fails miserably day in and day out. Shakedown’s just another example of that broken paradigm.
I sit in my cut. The sun is shining. I’m reading and writing and looking forward to a run at the end of the week. Meanwhile, the COs are struggling to finish buildings 5 and 6 before tonight. They could try a new approach, but they won’t. Six months from now we’ll do it all over again.
In the college building we figured it was a perfect week for a lockdown. Classes were on a ten day break. With the exception of the grammar review session I was leading, the guys were on break. Funny thing is, the prison system doesn’t care about scheduling around school. “Security trumps everything”, is the standard operating procedure. They’ve scheduled lockdowns during GED testing, college finals, anything.
The compound thought it was coming for other reasons. First, the new warden showed up a week ago. He’s the warden from the soon to be closed James River Corrections Center, a level 2 facility sitting on the banks of the James in rural Goochland County. That prison, built in 1896, was dilapidated and crumbling, a visible reminder of the “old prison” model: red brick and foreboding, not the new “kinder yet still behind wire” design so popular around Virginia’s correction establishment. James River was known as an “easy bid”. Tobacco was still plentiful; cell phones were all over the compound. Sounds like a perfect guy to take over this facility!
The assistant warden here, a round belly fellow who actually believed in rehabilitation, promptly stepped down. He wanted the warden’s job. Being turned down a second time, he finally decided to move on. His next stop: Mecklenburg, currently used for receiving. The assistant warden at Nottoway (a level 4 just up the road and the site of a significant stabbing incident six months ago – one officer seriously injured, one inmate dead, couple others seriously hurt) decided to come here. A former senior officer here, he loves buildings to shine. “Fresh paint is a must.” I’ve got news for him. Cologne on a turd doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a turd.
So, the new bosses are at work and a fresh shift began Monday. Perfect time to lockdown! The premise behind a lockdown is relatively simple. You hold every inmate in their building, limit access around the compound including access by inmates to guys in other buildings. You then swoop in with a sufficient force of highly trained officers to search out drugs, tobacco, weapons and assorted contraband. It should work, in principle at least. But principle doesn’t have much relevance in the modern DOC.
First, there are insufficient numbers of officers to conduct a fast-paced sweep. Lock down was announced at 8:15 am Monday. Our building wasn’t “shook down” until Tuesday afternoon at 4:00. E and I are bunkmates. We lucked into two female CO’s from our building. They knew we were “good guys” so our search (going through our lockers and personal effects) took less than five minutes. “We miss you guys over in 3.” Truth is, neither of us had anything (other than a few extra t-shirts and an extra pair of running shoes) but we could have hidden a kilo of weed in our lockers and it wouldn’t have been found. These two young female officers are good, hardworking ladies, but they lack the time to actually do the job properly. Instead, they play the odds “they’re cool; we can overlook them.”
Second, a fair number of officers are corrupt. They buddy up to the inmates and for “the right price” get stuff in. This compound is currently overrun with “spice” – synthetic weed that is undetectable in urine tests. The Virginia Legislature rushed a bill through – already signed by the Governor – to make the sale of “spice” illegal. Yet, here on the compound it’s everywhere. How, do you suppose it gets in?
Three days before we locked down, CO’s gave Big S and DC a “heads up” to move extra CDs, books and sneakers. Where does the extra stuff go? Vocational and educational buildings. They only run drug dogs through those buildings so, under the watchful eye of the building officer, bags of CDs and extra clothes are placed in cabinets in the school.
It’s all form over substance. The results from our building shakedown: about 30 empty plastic jars. All the extras are still in place. Meanwhile, the officers are exhausted. They’ve worked extra hours; COs that are off this week are called in and paid extra for additional shift work. The shakedown costs a great deal and accomplishes virtually nothing.
If that’s true, why do them? Great question with a simple answer: because that’s what’s always been done in prison. Why fix what hasn’t worked for decades? DOC is a tired, outmoded, outdated department still investing precious resources in a prison operation that fails miserably day in and day out. Shakedown’s just another example of that broken paradigm.
I sit in my cut. The sun is shining. I’m reading and writing and looking forward to a run at the end of the week. Meanwhile, the COs are struggling to finish buildings 5 and 6 before tonight. They could try a new approach, but they won’t. Six months from now we’ll do it all over again.
Conversations
I had a number of conversations this week that gave me much to think about. Four, in particular, stood out.
Two of the guys from the exercise crew tried to explain prison life to me. They were both concerned I put too much of myself out there for guys that, simply put, aren’t like me, won’t change and will use my “good heart” to take advantage of me.
“These guys are scumbags. They always have been, they always will be. You’ll help anybody. You’ll listen to and counsel any dirtball who sits down. They’ll run a hustle on you.”
I let the guys know that I see through the line of crap most guys try and feed you. My entire life I’ve dealt with people more intelligent, more sophisticated than these guys in here can ever hope to be. Fact is, most of the guys in here are so ignorant they become transparent. I try and help because I feel called to do it and because it may make even a small difference in somebody’s life.
Dr. Albert Schweitzer said “constant kindness can accomplish much. As the sun makes ice melt; kindness causes misunderstanding, mistrust and hostility to evaporate.”
I try and live that way and deal with people in here in that manner. Sometimes, it blows up in my face. Overall, it’s the only way I can think of surviving this.
The other day “7½ mile” came to speak with me. I named him that because he’s an Eminem (“Eight Mile”) knock-off. He’s sloppy, slovenly, wears his jeans below his butt. He’s also lazy and unmotivated, two characteristics that describe almost every guy in the college IT program.
7½ mile was one of five students who failed math. Craig began a remedial program for those five guys. He busted his butt two afternoons a week for the past month teaching these guys basic math so they could retest for the course. 7½ mile quit going to the review sessions. “I can’t learn this. They’re askin’ us to do too much.” He then sent the school principal a note telling her he was quitting. She called him up to the school to discuss his withdrawal (more on her later).
He came back from the meeting and stood outside my cut. It was obvious he wanted, he needed, to talk so I invited him in for a seat. I asked how the meeting went. “She let me have it. Told me I’d quit my whole life. If I quit now I’d be back and never have anything” (I love our principal’s bedside manner!).
He asked me what I thought. First, I asked him about his life. In and out of prison since ’94; four kids living with relatives; an ex-wife in prison (drug problems). He’d never spent more than a year out of prison all those years.
I gave him my overview. I told him everything I had “on the street”, everything I lost when I was arrested. Then I told him as much as I lost, I had more heart, more determination than anyone in the program. “You get faced with a little work, a little difficulty, and you’re ready to quit. She’s right. You are a quitter. You’ve given up, you’re a loser and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison until you get a set of balls and decide you deserve better and you’re willing to work for it” (apparently, I’m no Mother Teresa either!).
He put his head down and told me I was right. A short while later, he told me he was going to stay in the program. “If you think I can make it, that means a lot.”
Later that day I met with the principal, Ms. C. She’s an interesting lady. Transplanted from the Bronx and a life-long Yankee fan (I’ll overlook that particular character flaw), she and her husband spent their lives in education. She is a fierce advocate for inmate treatment and rehabilitation.
We were talking about the college program. Even though the semester ended and there is a ten day break before classes resume, I’ll be teaching four, three-hour grammar and writing classes to help the guys with English deficiencies. I told her 7½ mile was surprised by her conversation with him. “I’m not paid to be nice to these guys. I’m paid to tell them the truth and get them an education.” We then talked about the program and the fact so many in DOC think educating and training inmates is a big waste of time.
She then told me she knew Craig and I were working our “butts off” for these guys. “They might not appreciate it, but I do.”
Then, there was my conversation with Go Chez. It was just he and I sitting in the cut. He started telling me about the auto accident. “I never knew how she died,” he told me, “until the day of my trial.” He had been medflighted on the accident date, coding a number of times on the flight to the hospital. And no, he doesn’t recall seeing a bright light.
At the trial, the State Police accident reconstructionist was allowed to present scene photos. “We didn’t have on seatbelts. She went through the sunroof and landed on her head.” Blood and brain tissue were everywhere. “I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind.”
Twice after the trial, while his case was on appeal, he attempted suicide. Twice he had to be hospitalized. His voice remained at a constant low tone. He looked down, but his eyes and his voice gave away his pain. As I listened, I wondered what good did it do to send this young man to prison? He isn’t getting the psychological help he needs to deal with the consequences of his action. He can’t undo what’s been done. What is the purpose behind his incarceration? Will it make any difference to the dead girl’s family? Will he be a better person when he’s released in a year?
All the answers I came up with led me to believe, like the car accident that killed the girl, nothing good has come of this. The girl is dead, Go Chez lives each day with that. Nothing happening in here will change that.
Four conversations this week. So much to think about.
Two of the guys from the exercise crew tried to explain prison life to me. They were both concerned I put too much of myself out there for guys that, simply put, aren’t like me, won’t change and will use my “good heart” to take advantage of me.
“These guys are scumbags. They always have been, they always will be. You’ll help anybody. You’ll listen to and counsel any dirtball who sits down. They’ll run a hustle on you.”
I let the guys know that I see through the line of crap most guys try and feed you. My entire life I’ve dealt with people more intelligent, more sophisticated than these guys in here can ever hope to be. Fact is, most of the guys in here are so ignorant they become transparent. I try and help because I feel called to do it and because it may make even a small difference in somebody’s life.
Dr. Albert Schweitzer said “constant kindness can accomplish much. As the sun makes ice melt; kindness causes misunderstanding, mistrust and hostility to evaporate.”
I try and live that way and deal with people in here in that manner. Sometimes, it blows up in my face. Overall, it’s the only way I can think of surviving this.
The other day “7½ mile” came to speak with me. I named him that because he’s an Eminem (“Eight Mile”) knock-off. He’s sloppy, slovenly, wears his jeans below his butt. He’s also lazy and unmotivated, two characteristics that describe almost every guy in the college IT program.
7½ mile was one of five students who failed math. Craig began a remedial program for those five guys. He busted his butt two afternoons a week for the past month teaching these guys basic math so they could retest for the course. 7½ mile quit going to the review sessions. “I can’t learn this. They’re askin’ us to do too much.” He then sent the school principal a note telling her he was quitting. She called him up to the school to discuss his withdrawal (more on her later).
He came back from the meeting and stood outside my cut. It was obvious he wanted, he needed, to talk so I invited him in for a seat. I asked how the meeting went. “She let me have it. Told me I’d quit my whole life. If I quit now I’d be back and never have anything” (I love our principal’s bedside manner!).
He asked me what I thought. First, I asked him about his life. In and out of prison since ’94; four kids living with relatives; an ex-wife in prison (drug problems). He’d never spent more than a year out of prison all those years.
I gave him my overview. I told him everything I had “on the street”, everything I lost when I was arrested. Then I told him as much as I lost, I had more heart, more determination than anyone in the program. “You get faced with a little work, a little difficulty, and you’re ready to quit. She’s right. You are a quitter. You’ve given up, you’re a loser and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison until you get a set of balls and decide you deserve better and you’re willing to work for it” (apparently, I’m no Mother Teresa either!).
He put his head down and told me I was right. A short while later, he told me he was going to stay in the program. “If you think I can make it, that means a lot.”
Later that day I met with the principal, Ms. C. She’s an interesting lady. Transplanted from the Bronx and a life-long Yankee fan (I’ll overlook that particular character flaw), she and her husband spent their lives in education. She is a fierce advocate for inmate treatment and rehabilitation.
We were talking about the college program. Even though the semester ended and there is a ten day break before classes resume, I’ll be teaching four, three-hour grammar and writing classes to help the guys with English deficiencies. I told her 7½ mile was surprised by her conversation with him. “I’m not paid to be nice to these guys. I’m paid to tell them the truth and get them an education.” We then talked about the program and the fact so many in DOC think educating and training inmates is a big waste of time.
She then told me she knew Craig and I were working our “butts off” for these guys. “They might not appreciate it, but I do.”
Then, there was my conversation with Go Chez. It was just he and I sitting in the cut. He started telling me about the auto accident. “I never knew how she died,” he told me, “until the day of my trial.” He had been medflighted on the accident date, coding a number of times on the flight to the hospital. And no, he doesn’t recall seeing a bright light.
At the trial, the State Police accident reconstructionist was allowed to present scene photos. “We didn’t have on seatbelts. She went through the sunroof and landed on her head.” Blood and brain tissue were everywhere. “I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind.”
Twice after the trial, while his case was on appeal, he attempted suicide. Twice he had to be hospitalized. His voice remained at a constant low tone. He looked down, but his eyes and his voice gave away his pain. As I listened, I wondered what good did it do to send this young man to prison? He isn’t getting the psychological help he needs to deal with the consequences of his action. He can’t undo what’s been done. What is the purpose behind his incarceration? Will it make any difference to the dead girl’s family? Will he be a better person when he’s released in a year?
All the answers I came up with led me to believe, like the car accident that killed the girl, nothing good has come of this. The girl is dead, Go Chez lives each day with that. Nothing happening in here will change that.
Four conversations this week. So much to think about.
A Matter of Perspective
Last Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. Christians recognize it as a forty day period of atonement and spiritual renewal. Deprive yourself of something you enjoy, break yourself of a bad habit, focus on God and cleanse your heart. It coincides with the story of Jesus spending forty days in the wilderness being tempted by Satan. It culminates on Easter, when believers remember all things are possible with God.
I was never a big Lent guy before my arrest. Every year on Ash Wednesday my ex would go to a brief church service. She’d bring our sons and the minister would place ashes on their foreheads to symbolize our mortality, our spiritual brokenness, our eventual death. Every year she would give up something she loved (ironically, it was during Lent 2009 she decided to go forward with the divorce).
I never participated. Lent, it seemed to me, was one of those form over substance, ritualistic “churchy” things I didn’t have time for. Then, last year I read a Lenten devotional. I gave up meat for the entire forty days, bean trays only at chow, no microwavable burgers at visitation. I fasted one full day. From evening one day, through an entire day, until the next day’s breakfast. I had nothing but water. At the end of Lent I looked back and realized I had done it, I’d made it without breaking my vow. Still, something was missing. Other than the day I fasted, when I stopped five times during the day and prayed specific prayers I’d written down, it was more an exercise in willpower. I realized I’d missed the big point. Lent is about overcoming self and recognizing as humans without God we are nothing but ashes. We wither and fade away, but the spirit dwells forever.
As my blogs reflected the past few weeks, I’ve been in a very difficult trying period. I allowed the circumstances of my incarceration to overwhelm me. I felt hopelessness about the future. I felt utterly betrayed and abandoned by the woman I’d spent 28 years with, the woman I still deeply love. Many of my friends, even my own sons, had turned away from me, I was tired of beating my head into the wall helping guys in here who didn’t care enough about themselves to change. In short, I just didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything anymore.
That changed this week. I’m not sure exactly why, perhaps its God’s way of answering our prayers in not the manner we expect. The other morning I read from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Here was Paul, imprisoned and in chains in Rome, facing death alone, abandoned by almost every friend he had, and he writes this beautiful, impassioned letter to the church. Not once in the letter does he complain about his circumstances.
Over and over he reminds believers that God is bigger than any hardship, any trial we face. It’s all a matter of perspective. The more we talk and complain about our circumstances, the worse they look. Eventually, the trial becomes larger than our faith. Paul was reminding the flock the trials of life can’t compare to our loving, powerful God who exercises His might to see us through.
Deuteronomy 8 is an amazing chapter of the Old Testament. In it, Moses reminds the Israelites of their wandering and struggles for the past forty years.
“You shall remember all the ways which the Lord your God has let you in the wilderness these forty years, that He might humble you, testing you to know what’s in your heart. . .you are to know in your heart that the Lord your God was disciplining you. . .for your God is bringing you into a good land. . .do not forget God, then you will become proud and will forget God who brought you out, who let you through the great and terrible wilderness.”
I realized I was truly blessed, even in this place. My beautiful wife and sons have been able to go on with life. They are happy, healthy, secure and well-adjusted. I am making a difference in a number of guys’ lives who have never had anyone give a damn about them.
Do I wish things were different? Yes, and every night I pray with a list of “miracles”. But, I discovered inner peace this week. My God is bigger than any difficulty I’m currently facing. Whether it’s the loss of my spouse and kids, or lack of progress on my sentence, He will see me through. Over and over this week I was reminded of that, in devotional readings and conversations with guys in here; I realized there is a good land coming.
Lent this year will be devoted to not giving something up, but rather gaining more perspective.
I was never a big Lent guy before my arrest. Every year on Ash Wednesday my ex would go to a brief church service. She’d bring our sons and the minister would place ashes on their foreheads to symbolize our mortality, our spiritual brokenness, our eventual death. Every year she would give up something she loved (ironically, it was during Lent 2009 she decided to go forward with the divorce).
I never participated. Lent, it seemed to me, was one of those form over substance, ritualistic “churchy” things I didn’t have time for. Then, last year I read a Lenten devotional. I gave up meat for the entire forty days, bean trays only at chow, no microwavable burgers at visitation. I fasted one full day. From evening one day, through an entire day, until the next day’s breakfast. I had nothing but water. At the end of Lent I looked back and realized I had done it, I’d made it without breaking my vow. Still, something was missing. Other than the day I fasted, when I stopped five times during the day and prayed specific prayers I’d written down, it was more an exercise in willpower. I realized I’d missed the big point. Lent is about overcoming self and recognizing as humans without God we are nothing but ashes. We wither and fade away, but the spirit dwells forever.
As my blogs reflected the past few weeks, I’ve been in a very difficult trying period. I allowed the circumstances of my incarceration to overwhelm me. I felt hopelessness about the future. I felt utterly betrayed and abandoned by the woman I’d spent 28 years with, the woman I still deeply love. Many of my friends, even my own sons, had turned away from me, I was tired of beating my head into the wall helping guys in here who didn’t care enough about themselves to change. In short, I just didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything anymore.
That changed this week. I’m not sure exactly why, perhaps its God’s way of answering our prayers in not the manner we expect. The other morning I read from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Here was Paul, imprisoned and in chains in Rome, facing death alone, abandoned by almost every friend he had, and he writes this beautiful, impassioned letter to the church. Not once in the letter does he complain about his circumstances.
Over and over he reminds believers that God is bigger than any hardship, any trial we face. It’s all a matter of perspective. The more we talk and complain about our circumstances, the worse they look. Eventually, the trial becomes larger than our faith. Paul was reminding the flock the trials of life can’t compare to our loving, powerful God who exercises His might to see us through.
Deuteronomy 8 is an amazing chapter of the Old Testament. In it, Moses reminds the Israelites of their wandering and struggles for the past forty years.
“You shall remember all the ways which the Lord your God has let you in the wilderness these forty years, that He might humble you, testing you to know what’s in your heart. . .you are to know in your heart that the Lord your God was disciplining you. . .for your God is bringing you into a good land. . .do not forget God, then you will become proud and will forget God who brought you out, who let you through the great and terrible wilderness.”
I realized I was truly blessed, even in this place. My beautiful wife and sons have been able to go on with life. They are happy, healthy, secure and well-adjusted. I am making a difference in a number of guys’ lives who have never had anyone give a damn about them.
Do I wish things were different? Yes, and every night I pray with a list of “miracles”. But, I discovered inner peace this week. My God is bigger than any difficulty I’m currently facing. Whether it’s the loss of my spouse and kids, or lack of progress on my sentence, He will see me through. Over and over this week I was reminded of that, in devotional readings and conversations with guys in here; I realized there is a good land coming.
Lent this year will be devoted to not giving something up, but rather gaining more perspective.
Stop Wining and Get Righteous
A couple of the young chuckleheads whom I associate with got the bright idea a month ago to make wine. The recipe is rather simple; you sneak as many oranges as you can out of the chow hall – even paying guys a stamp for their oranges – add ten bags of crushed jolly ranchers and wacky taffy, twenty orange juice bags and let sit in a plastic trash bag for ten days. Storage and smell are two problems easily addressed. No one wants to get caught with a bag of wine in their locker. Because the fermenting process builds up gas, the bag has to be burped. Open the bag and the air stinks like, well, like fermenting fruit.
The solution? Pay a guy to store the bag and dump cologne on the outside to kill the smell. The other major problem is secrecy. You don’t want people to know what you’re doing. The more people who know, the more likely you’ll get ratted out.
The guys asked me to participate. At first I was “alright; this will be great!” Then I had a conversation with DC unrelated to the wine, but completely related to my situation. As I’ve written before, DC may be one of the most unforgettable men I’ve ever met in my life. Into his 39th year of incarceration, he has an outlook, a peaceful presence I have never seen before. He behaved horrendously, violently in his early years of incarceration, but when I see him now I know there is a God, He does forgive, and you can be redeemed.
DC and I were talking about the guys in the college program not having hope. He sees me as a guy, like himself, who exudes hope. But, then he told me about his days at Buckingham (a level 3/4 facility).
“I was into everything. I ran the parlay for the entire compound. My take every month was over 500 packs (cigarettes). I wanted to get right, lead a righteous life. You can’t be 95% righteous.”
DC told me he quit every scam and hustle he had that day. That is courageous. You walk away in prison and the first reaction people have is “he’s turned. He’s workin’ for the po’leese.”
I thought about what DC said, “95% righteous.” I thought about a letter I received in which a deeply spiritual person told me “God understands your battles and your prayers. He may be pointing something out that you need to correct. Get right with Him first.”
I told Big S I was out. I wasn’t joining in on the wine or the food regularly stolen from the kitchen. The young guys looked at me like I was nuts.
Friday night rolled around. The plan was to let the mixture cook until Sunday, then strain it (through a kitchen hairnet) and pour it into collected empty peanut butter jars. The guys would carry the jars out to the rec yard, sit on a picnic table and get drunk. Great plan except for one little problem – the bag burst.
Around 8:00 pm, Monkey Pox (his name coincides with his complexion) came running over to E. The bag had burst in his footlocker. The entire cut stunk. The guys panicked. E scooped the bag up, ran across the pod and huddled by the wall against my locker. Fermented juice and orange chunks spilled all over the floor. My cut stunk. I was pissed. Meanwhile, every guy in the building knew what took place. The four lunkheads were running around, grabbing jars, and trying to stop the leak. Opie disappeared. E “was on lookout” (that’s a fancy way of saying he got as far away as he could!). Big S and Go Chez were busy pouring the remnants into the containers and helping clean my cut.
Around 9:30 it was cleaned up. Big S was doing laundry (the towels and clothes stunk). The bathroom still stunk, but was more like someone had gotten sick. 10:00 pm count came and went and the guys start kicking back jars. I went to sleep, but not before telling them they were a bunch of “f---in idiots!” Yes, I was still pissed!!
Saturday and I’m still angry beyond words. Big S and Opie pull up on me when I come back from visitation.
Big S: “So you’re still pissed?”
Me: “(expletives deleted) you guys are idiots! E disrespected me by bringing that crap in my cut, jeopardizing me. S, you could have been thrown out of college, lose your job, lose your good time, not see your daughter for months more. Was it worth it?”
Opie: “Larry, I’m a grown ass man. I know the risk. I’m willing to go to the hole. I’ve been locked up my whole life.”
Me: “You know the risk? How about the picture you showed be from last weekend holding your little niece and nephew? (Opie’s family surprised him with a visit last weekend. They came up from Florida. It was the first time he held his 18 month old nephew and 8 month old niece). You want to only see those kids in here?”
Opie: dead silence
I made my point. They both thanked me for caring. Big S admitted he screwed up. Opie admitted I made him think.
Would a jar of homemade wine be great? Absolutely. But, like DC pointed out, you can’t be 95% righteous. No one totally understands the risks you run until you actually screw up. Is a glass of wine worth six additional months away from your daughter? Is $2 million worth losing your wife and kids? “You can’t be 95% righteous.” You’ve got to be one hundred percent all day.
The solution? Pay a guy to store the bag and dump cologne on the outside to kill the smell. The other major problem is secrecy. You don’t want people to know what you’re doing. The more people who know, the more likely you’ll get ratted out.
The guys asked me to participate. At first I was “alright; this will be great!” Then I had a conversation with DC unrelated to the wine, but completely related to my situation. As I’ve written before, DC may be one of the most unforgettable men I’ve ever met in my life. Into his 39th year of incarceration, he has an outlook, a peaceful presence I have never seen before. He behaved horrendously, violently in his early years of incarceration, but when I see him now I know there is a God, He does forgive, and you can be redeemed.
DC and I were talking about the guys in the college program not having hope. He sees me as a guy, like himself, who exudes hope. But, then he told me about his days at Buckingham (a level 3/4 facility).
“I was into everything. I ran the parlay for the entire compound. My take every month was over 500 packs (cigarettes). I wanted to get right, lead a righteous life. You can’t be 95% righteous.”
DC told me he quit every scam and hustle he had that day. That is courageous. You walk away in prison and the first reaction people have is “he’s turned. He’s workin’ for the po’leese.”
I thought about what DC said, “95% righteous.” I thought about a letter I received in which a deeply spiritual person told me “God understands your battles and your prayers. He may be pointing something out that you need to correct. Get right with Him first.”
I told Big S I was out. I wasn’t joining in on the wine or the food regularly stolen from the kitchen. The young guys looked at me like I was nuts.
Friday night rolled around. The plan was to let the mixture cook until Sunday, then strain it (through a kitchen hairnet) and pour it into collected empty peanut butter jars. The guys would carry the jars out to the rec yard, sit on a picnic table and get drunk. Great plan except for one little problem – the bag burst.
Around 8:00 pm, Monkey Pox (his name coincides with his complexion) came running over to E. The bag had burst in his footlocker. The entire cut stunk. The guys panicked. E scooped the bag up, ran across the pod and huddled by the wall against my locker. Fermented juice and orange chunks spilled all over the floor. My cut stunk. I was pissed. Meanwhile, every guy in the building knew what took place. The four lunkheads were running around, grabbing jars, and trying to stop the leak. Opie disappeared. E “was on lookout” (that’s a fancy way of saying he got as far away as he could!). Big S and Go Chez were busy pouring the remnants into the containers and helping clean my cut.
Around 9:30 it was cleaned up. Big S was doing laundry (the towels and clothes stunk). The bathroom still stunk, but was more like someone had gotten sick. 10:00 pm count came and went and the guys start kicking back jars. I went to sleep, but not before telling them they were a bunch of “f---in idiots!” Yes, I was still pissed!!
Saturday and I’m still angry beyond words. Big S and Opie pull up on me when I come back from visitation.
Big S: “So you’re still pissed?”
Me: “(expletives deleted) you guys are idiots! E disrespected me by bringing that crap in my cut, jeopardizing me. S, you could have been thrown out of college, lose your job, lose your good time, not see your daughter for months more. Was it worth it?”
Opie: “Larry, I’m a grown ass man. I know the risk. I’m willing to go to the hole. I’ve been locked up my whole life.”
Me: “You know the risk? How about the picture you showed be from last weekend holding your little niece and nephew? (Opie’s family surprised him with a visit last weekend. They came up from Florida. It was the first time he held his 18 month old nephew and 8 month old niece). You want to only see those kids in here?”
Opie: dead silence
I made my point. They both thanked me for caring. Big S admitted he screwed up. Opie admitted I made him think.
Would a jar of homemade wine be great? Absolutely. But, like DC pointed out, you can’t be 95% righteous. No one totally understands the risks you run until you actually screw up. Is a glass of wine worth six additional months away from your daughter? Is $2 million worth losing your wife and kids? “You can’t be 95% righteous.” You’ve got to be one hundred percent all day.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Quick Hits this Week
DOC Loses Again
“USA Today” reported that DOC had “reached settlement with the National Lawyers Guild to allow distribution of the Guild’s Prison Lawyers Handbook to interested inmates.” This just another case brought, and won against DOC for censorship of publications.
In the last twelve months DOC has had their book censorship procedure declared unconstitutional and has agreed to change ordering procedures and allow inmates to receive both “Prison Legal News” (now available in the prison library) and the National Lawyers Guild self help manual.
All these settlements have come at a price to the taxpayers of Virginia. The state government bureaucracy refuses to concede anything to inmates. But, rights are rights.
You can lock someone up but you can’t take everything away from them. At least not yet anyway. Perhaps DOC should consider all the costs of their operation into the calculus.
Quitters and Whiners
I had an extremely frustrating week with the students in the IT program. The vast majority of these guys want A’s in their classes without putting in the requisite effort. They whine to the professors about how hard the assignments are and how much they have to do.
Here’s the thing, with the exception of 3 or 4 guys like Big S added to the program to improve the success rate, the vast majority of the students have no endurance and no motivation.
This program was designed to ensure at risk (most likely to recommit crime) inmates succeed. The problem is most “at risk” inmates are “at risk” because they lack not only the skills to succeed but the will.
I have pleaded, cajoled, praised and profaned many of these guys for the last two months. Our results after one “term” are encouraging: 36 students remain. Every student passed English lll and History; every student passed keyboarding. Five students are taking remedial math. The rest passed.
I am worn out! But at least I know Craig, DC and I made a difference. There’s no guarantee these guys will make it, but at least we gave them a shot.
Country Music TV
A few weeks ago a new digital channel was added to our cable network. “Country Music TV”. Big S has his set on it almost all day long.
I was never a big country music fan but now I find myself glued to the set asking Big S about the artist singing and writing down lyrics I hear. I have dozens of letters crafted in my mind to people I long to hear from; letters that I’ll never send using those lyrics to express my feelings better than anything I can write on my own.
But, too many of the videos, too many of the songs, hit too close to home. They remind me of love lost, of loneliness, of the family and life I miss so dearly. I watch in small doses. Sometimes it’s too painful.
Recently, I came across an artist named “Orianthi”. One of the guys had her CD and let me listen. In a letter I was told to listen to “According to You.” She sings about a new man who found her beautiful and witty. “Why aren’t you that man”, she asked? “According to you, I’m stupid. . .” I listened and my heart broke. I wasn’t the guy who said she was stupid, but somebody in their letter was telling me I was. Orianthi’s words pierced my soul. It was music as a weapon. I wanted to write the person and tell her “you know that’s not me,” but I couldn’t.
The second track began and I listened. Orianthi sang about “courage”. She described the effort it took to go on, to keep hoping. I turned the CD off, kept my mind off the videos.
I realized the answer wasn’t in a song lyric or video. I started to pray.
“USA Today” reported that DOC had “reached settlement with the National Lawyers Guild to allow distribution of the Guild’s Prison Lawyers Handbook to interested inmates.” This just another case brought, and won against DOC for censorship of publications.
In the last twelve months DOC has had their book censorship procedure declared unconstitutional and has agreed to change ordering procedures and allow inmates to receive both “Prison Legal News” (now available in the prison library) and the National Lawyers Guild self help manual.
All these settlements have come at a price to the taxpayers of Virginia. The state government bureaucracy refuses to concede anything to inmates. But, rights are rights.
You can lock someone up but you can’t take everything away from them. At least not yet anyway. Perhaps DOC should consider all the costs of their operation into the calculus.
Quitters and Whiners
I had an extremely frustrating week with the students in the IT program. The vast majority of these guys want A’s in their classes without putting in the requisite effort. They whine to the professors about how hard the assignments are and how much they have to do.
Here’s the thing, with the exception of 3 or 4 guys like Big S added to the program to improve the success rate, the vast majority of the students have no endurance and no motivation.
This program was designed to ensure at risk (most likely to recommit crime) inmates succeed. The problem is most “at risk” inmates are “at risk” because they lack not only the skills to succeed but the will.
I have pleaded, cajoled, praised and profaned many of these guys for the last two months. Our results after one “term” are encouraging: 36 students remain. Every student passed English lll and History; every student passed keyboarding. Five students are taking remedial math. The rest passed.
I am worn out! But at least I know Craig, DC and I made a difference. There’s no guarantee these guys will make it, but at least we gave them a shot.
Country Music TV
A few weeks ago a new digital channel was added to our cable network. “Country Music TV”. Big S has his set on it almost all day long.
I was never a big country music fan but now I find myself glued to the set asking Big S about the artist singing and writing down lyrics I hear. I have dozens of letters crafted in my mind to people I long to hear from; letters that I’ll never send using those lyrics to express my feelings better than anything I can write on my own.
But, too many of the videos, too many of the songs, hit too close to home. They remind me of love lost, of loneliness, of the family and life I miss so dearly. I watch in small doses. Sometimes it’s too painful.
Recently, I came across an artist named “Orianthi”. One of the guys had her CD and let me listen. In a letter I was told to listen to “According to You.” She sings about a new man who found her beautiful and witty. “Why aren’t you that man”, she asked? “According to you, I’m stupid. . .” I listened and my heart broke. I wasn’t the guy who said she was stupid, but somebody in their letter was telling me I was. Orianthi’s words pierced my soul. It was music as a weapon. I wanted to write the person and tell her “you know that’s not me,” but I couldn’t.
The second track began and I listened. Orianthi sang about “courage”. She described the effort it took to go on, to keep hoping. I turned the CD off, kept my mind off the videos.
I realized the answer wasn’t in a song lyric or video. I started to pray.
Gang Life
I’ve learned a good deal about the inner workings of street gangs and how they operate inside prison. While at DOC Receiving I was housed for over two months with a 24 year socio-path serving 76 years for a double homicide. He was the second highest ranked “crip” on the compound. Two cells down was the leader of the “bloods”. I did legal work for both groups and got to see how they operated. It soon became apparent to me gangs operated in relative freedom inside prisons. For all DOC’s talk about not tolerating gang behavior, they in fact flourish.
I’ve become close friends with the leader of the bloods. A “Tre’06” is one of the highest ranked gang leaders incarcerated in Virginia. He’s also one of the college students I tutor. He’s an extremely bright, articulate guy. He tends to come around a good deal on those days when I’m in the building available for tutoring. We talk about my situation, our kids (he also has two sons), and his “chief executive” dilemmas.
A few weeks ago “L” came to me after my meeting with the investigators.
“You want the snitch dealt with? No questions asked and he’ll get a beat down.”
I had to explain to him No, I didn’t need retribution handed out.
“Why not? Snitch deserves it.” Not in my world, I explained to him. Retaliation only breeds more anger and more trouble.
This week brought more interesting conversations. In the first, I learned a brash, loud young Asian guy had disrespected one of L’s men by calling him out on the boulevard (there are the same number of Asians as lawyers here). L’s solution? They broke into the guy’s locker and took his CDs. He then had to buy them back from the disrespected gang member.
In a more troubling incident, one of the gang members was caught in a romantic moment with a homosexual inmate. Gang rules specifically prohibit homosexual activity.
“I have no choice. I can’t be weak. Rules are rules. He’s getting beat and he’s out.”
I couldn’t get him to accept just letting the guy out of the gang. And, his orders are carried out. The other afternoon while sitting at lunch the offender was jumped. After a rain of fists, officers rushed in and broke up the attack. The victim and both attackers were taken to the hole. The victim will be transferred to a new compound for his own safety. But, the gangs are everywhere. “L” wants to get him and it only takes a call to the street. You find out what prison he’s at and send word to the bloods in there.
“L” wants out. He’s 27, bright, and the father of two small boys. He wants to rebuild his relationship with his ex-wife (they divorced six months before he came to prison because his wife found out he was having an affair; she still writes him weekly). There’s a way he can retire once he gets out. He’s put his time in. He hits the street and they wish him well. But, in here he can’t step down. He steps aside and there’s a battle. Different blood sects wanting their “06” in charge. So he stays in. He ok’s the scams, approves the beatings, and takes his cut from the hustles.
Having met a good number of L’s gang members, I’ve realized they are by and large guys who are looking for acceptance. Prison, contrary to most people’s understanding, is full of very weak overly-sensitive guys who act tough to hide their insecurities. That’s one reason guys are so intimidated by me. I’ve been told by numerous “thugs” that something I said hurt them. Who would have guessed that I’d be the alpha male?
In many respects, that may be why L and I get along. He is a lot more like me than the other guys he deals with. He just does his thing through the gang and I do mine through writing and working at the school.
I’ve become close friends with the leader of the bloods. A “Tre’06” is one of the highest ranked gang leaders incarcerated in Virginia. He’s also one of the college students I tutor. He’s an extremely bright, articulate guy. He tends to come around a good deal on those days when I’m in the building available for tutoring. We talk about my situation, our kids (he also has two sons), and his “chief executive” dilemmas.
A few weeks ago “L” came to me after my meeting with the investigators.
“You want the snitch dealt with? No questions asked and he’ll get a beat down.”
I had to explain to him No, I didn’t need retribution handed out.
“Why not? Snitch deserves it.” Not in my world, I explained to him. Retaliation only breeds more anger and more trouble.
This week brought more interesting conversations. In the first, I learned a brash, loud young Asian guy had disrespected one of L’s men by calling him out on the boulevard (there are the same number of Asians as lawyers here). L’s solution? They broke into the guy’s locker and took his CDs. He then had to buy them back from the disrespected gang member.
In a more troubling incident, one of the gang members was caught in a romantic moment with a homosexual inmate. Gang rules specifically prohibit homosexual activity.
“I have no choice. I can’t be weak. Rules are rules. He’s getting beat and he’s out.”
I couldn’t get him to accept just letting the guy out of the gang. And, his orders are carried out. The other afternoon while sitting at lunch the offender was jumped. After a rain of fists, officers rushed in and broke up the attack. The victim and both attackers were taken to the hole. The victim will be transferred to a new compound for his own safety. But, the gangs are everywhere. “L” wants to get him and it only takes a call to the street. You find out what prison he’s at and send word to the bloods in there.
“L” wants out. He’s 27, bright, and the father of two small boys. He wants to rebuild his relationship with his ex-wife (they divorced six months before he came to prison because his wife found out he was having an affair; she still writes him weekly). There’s a way he can retire once he gets out. He’s put his time in. He hits the street and they wish him well. But, in here he can’t step down. He steps aside and there’s a battle. Different blood sects wanting their “06” in charge. So he stays in. He ok’s the scams, approves the beatings, and takes his cut from the hustles.
Having met a good number of L’s gang members, I’ve realized they are by and large guys who are looking for acceptance. Prison, contrary to most people’s understanding, is full of very weak overly-sensitive guys who act tough to hide their insecurities. That’s one reason guys are so intimidated by me. I’ve been told by numerous “thugs” that something I said hurt them. Who would have guessed that I’d be the alpha male?
In many respects, that may be why L and I get along. He is a lot more like me than the other guys he deals with. He just does his thing through the gang and I do mine through writing and working at the school.
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