To say I was unprepared for arrest and jail would be an
understatement. I was taken to the jail –
in shackle and handcuffs of course – wearing my navy blue blazer, oxford
collared shirt, khakis and Kenneth Cole dress shoes. As opposed to most guys who know they’re
about to get picked up and have on four pair of t-shirts, boxers and socks, I had
one v-neck tee and a pair of green Italian silk boxers.
They took everything from me except my underclothes. I was given two sets of puke green, elastic
waist scrubs and a set of “Jackie Chans”, jail lingo for the 99 cent shower
shoes they give out. I was told by the
property C.O. I could order my own sneakers, boxers and t-shirts from
commissary. And, feeling sorry for me – I
was a pathetic mess – the officer helped me fill out my first “store”
order. I’d shown up in jail with $400.00
in my wallet that was immediately taken and put on my “account”. I ordered three sets of white tees, boxers
and socks and a $20.00 pair of Velcro sneakers.
“You’ll be able to get your stuff next Monday”, the officer told me
shortly before I found myself in my first jail pod with no daylight, no quiet,
and no hope.
That first week was horrendous and I fought desperately
against self-destruction even as my whole “real” life was crashing around me. I
barely survived that first weekend, had my moment of begging God to not abandon
me, and somehow made it to Monday morning.
And, shortly after 9:00 that morning, the intercom called me to
commissary. That entire first week I lived
in the same t-shirt and underwear. Each
night in my cell, I’d wash those clothes out with my state issued bar of soap
and hang them to dry. And I’d sleep “commando”
in that uncomfortable jail-issued scrub set.
The sneakers. I put
them on at the commissary window and headed back to the pod. It was the first moment of normalcy I’d
enjoyed since my arrest. Back in my cell
block I walked around feeling – well – better than I had in a week. Then I saw him.
He was a young, muscular black kid, no more than
eighteen. He was sitting on a table,
saw me and climbed down and began heading toward me. I noticed his smile, devious is a good way to
describe it, and also noticed the ten or so other guys in the dayroom suddenly
moved toward the walls.
“Nice shoes”, he said. Before I could respond he added, “Give em to
me or else”. My mind raced a thousand
miles an hour. I was forty-nine and
wanted to die – or so I thought. But,
his words did something to me. I put
myself in a fighting stance, on the balls of my feet, hands fisted. Then and there I decided I might get my ass
kicked, but I’d always keep my dignity.
Divine intervention?
At that precise moment the young, female psychologist walked by our pod
windows in a silk blouse and jeans that accentuated her petite frame. My would-be assailant saw her and turned his
attention to her. In one of those
tragic-comic moments you only see in prison, he began uttering lewd, grunted
words to her while exposing himself. In
a matter of seconds the dayroom door sprang open and three beefy officers
lifted “Casanova” off the floor and out of the pod. I never saw him again.
There have been other situations where I’ve been threatened,
sometimes by guys for whom violence has been a way of life. It’s funny, but I don’t worry about it. As I told a friend one time, it’s better to
get beat up and keep your dignity intact than live with yourself out of
fear. But, those experiences have
convinced me of the needless waste that is violence.
The other night a fight broke out in here. Like most fights this one arose out of a
stupid thing, a wager gone awry, and one skinny loudmouth telling a much larger
guy “you ain’t gonna dispect me, bro.”
Within seconds the big man had lunged at skinny, landed at least six
heavy “Whumps” to the head and chest, then began to choke him out.
And as with most fights in here, we all stopped and tried
not to look, but also didn’t intervene.
In a minute or two it was over.
Skinny slinked off to his bunk gasping for air, only the blackness of
his skin hiding his bruised and bloodied face.
I’ll never get use to the violence in here. It jolts me and offends my sense of dignity
and compassion. And the more I see of
it, the more I realize it’s just a stupid, stupid waste.
Were it only in here, I’d write it off as some depraved
state of the incarcerated; you know “what do you expect from criminals?” But then you watch the news; Syria, Egypt,
Afghanistan, Chicago, Richmond, on and on the news details fighting and killing. Gandhi once said “with an eye for an eye the
world will soon be blind.” Gandhi was a
very smart man.
Violence is never the answer. Violence begets violence. I have watched too many men beat each other
senseless in here. Then again, I saw too
many young men die and kill in the rice paddies of Vietnam and the sands of
Iraq. “When will they ever learn?”
I shared with a friend in a recent letter how much prison
has changed my outlook on life, on people, on things in general. Years ago, after that initial confrontation
over my sneakers, I began getting up at 4:00 and reading the Bible. I guess I wanted to understand why, why God,
why things were the way they were. I
found more questions than answers. But, I
began to come away with a deep sense of awe over the infinite mystery that is
God.
And I began to understand that we are all flawed. Perhaps that’s why I keep thinking it all
boils down to kindness, mercy, and forgiveness.
When will they ever learn?
After the fight, the big guy came up to me to talk. Everyone else was joking on him, he
said. “Not you.” And he told me he felt like crap about doing
that, pummeling the loudmouth, skinny guy.
“I hate that. Hate getting so
angry. Hate how I feel afterwards.”
When will they every learn?
Maybe never, or maybe….
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