All in Your Head

It was bitterly cold here the other morning.  The temperature, in the upper thirties, along with wind gust hitting thirty-five miles per hour made it feel even colder.  But like so many other days with lousy, frigid weather, my friend DC and I went out to run and workout.  Neither of us wore sweats.  And it was cold.  Once I got moving, I forgot about the chill, but it still took awhile to get use to.

We both headed in on a door break and guys looked at us like we were crazy.  “How can you go out there like that?” one guy asked DC.  He smiled and said “It’s all in your head”.  His words got me thinking.

Perhaps there is no better known Hymn in America than “Amazing Grace”.  That song crosses generations, races and denominations.  Something about the words, “saved a retch like me” – most of us don’t even know what a retch is – just resonates with us.  We claim it corporately; it’s a deeply personal, moving song that somehow makes sense to everyone.

Yet, the history behind the song is more profound.  John Newton was a British slave ship captain.  He’d made a number of cross-Atlantic trips from Africa, to the Caribbean, to the Eastern seaboard of the American colonies, then finally back to London.  Each trip was the same:  human cargo piled in cramped, filthy ship holds to the islands and colonies, and then crops and products back to England.

It was a good life.  He was paid well and regarded with respect by this peers.  In the eyes of society he was a success.  His life, however, took an abrupt turn on one return trip from the colonies.  Off the coast of Carolina, near Hatteras, Newton’s ship was caught in a horrendous storm.  The ship was forced onto the rocks and began to break apart.

It was dark.  The wind howled.  The rain poured down.  And, Newton’s ship cracked and tore open as the sea’s waves slammed it over and over against the jagged rocks.  Newton knew he was going to die.  This life-long member of the Church of England, a good loyal subject of the King and country, knew he would drown.  In those hours of fear and desperation he prayed not just to live through the night but also he faced God with his life.  He realized what a sinful life he led.  And, he asked his God to forgive him.

The next morning, he awoke to find calm seas and his ship still there on the rocks.  The sky around him was blue.  The sun shone.  He realized God had spared his life.  He wasn’t sure why, but he knew, God’s hand was in his life.

Sometime later, Newton penned the song “Amazing Grace”, built around his survival that night in the storm.  He returned to England, resigned his ship captaincy, and began a career as a church worker.  He was one of the driving forces in Britain’s decision to outlaw slavery.  For the remainder of his life he tried to understand the mystery that was his God.  He was saved for a reason.

This past week, I finished reading major league pitcher RA Dickey’s autobiography, “Wherever I Wind Up”.  It is not a typical sports story.  Dickey’s career has had more than its share of ups and downs.  To describe him as a journeyman pitcher would be an understatement.  He went from Olympic team member and first round draft pick to the minor league circuit, barely hanging on, occasionally getting called up.

He carried great secrets, baggage.  Sexually abused as a child, he presented the image of a happy, faithful husband and father.  Infidelity almost cost him his marriage.  An inability to throw effectively almost cost him his dreams.  He was separated from his wife, on the minor-league circuit, barely making enough to support himself and his family when he bet some teammates he could swim across the Missouri River.  He tried…and almost drowned. 

It was the beginning of a new life for Dickey.  His pitching improved. His marriage began to rebuild as he dealt with the pain and torment caused by his abuse.  Last year, Dickey won 20 games and the National League Cy-Young award.   Dickey’s book opens with the Latin maxim.  “Dum, spiro, spero”, which means “While I breathe, I hope.”

The human mind is indeed a funny thing.  It is capable of great thoughts, powerful, merciful, healing thoughts.  It is also capable of great evil.  “It’s all in your head”.  My friend DC doesn’t understand how truly insightful his words are.

In “Forever Young”, the classic ballad written by Bob Dylan, a father tells his children all his wishes for their future.  As I’ve written before, just moments after both my sons were born, as I held them for the first time and looked on the God-given miracle that is life, I whispered Dylan’s words to them as though by reciting them they would be imprinted with those characteristics of righteousness, mercy and courage.  One line, “May you always know the truth and see the light surrounding you”, would cause me to choke up, perhaps because I wanted desperately to feel that light around me.

I have come to see life in a new way in here, surrounded by men with lives so broken, angry, and lost.  In reality, they’re no different than anyone else.  We all have baggage and it builds up, weighs us down, and eventually we find ourselves pushed against the rocks.

There are days in here when I just can’t make sense out of what these men do.  I see utter mayhem in Syria, I see the tiny white coffins in Newtown, and I wonder what is going on.  None of it – my own feelings included – makes sense.   It is as if the whole world is drowning.  Then, I remember the season, Christmas, a time of hope, and I think RA Dickey was right.  “Dum, spiro, spero.”

“It’s all in your head.”  After finishing my workout I always stretch.  I lay down on the concrete, close my eyes, and recite Bible verses as I loosen my legs.  I lay there, eyes closed, saying in a whisper the words from the final four verses of Isaiah 40.  I memorized those verses my first week in jail as I struggled with my very survival.  They are words of hope and encouragement for a people who thought their God wasn’t seeing their loss and pain.  Isaiah reminded his people that God heard their cries.  “The everlasting God, the Lord, does not grow weary or tired….”  And then he reminded everyone that those who wait on the Lord will be given new strength.  “They will soar on wings like eagles.”

“Look at that, Larry.”  It was DC.  Directly overhead was a huge eagle, wings spread wide.  He was floating on the air currents circling round and round our ball court and rec yard.  He never flapped his wings; just soared.

Was it a sign?  I don’t know.  I know there are a lot of things wrong right now.  People are hurting – in here and out there.  So many are suffering.  Lives out of control with divorce and rejection, war, violence, loneliness.  But at this particular moment in time I choose to look elsewhere.  “It’s all in your head.”  There is good news.  Dum, spiro, spero.  While I breathe, I hope.  And hope will see us through.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

 

Circumlocution

Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary defines “circumlocution” as, “the use of an unnecessarily large number of words to express an idea.  An evasion of speech.”  A third definition could be, “how guys in prison talk”.  Never in my life have I seen so many guys sitting around saying so much that amounts to so little (unless, of course, you include Congress!).

“It is what it is.”  Almost from the moment you set foot behind bars some pod Aristotle will utter those five simple words.  They are usually spoken after some dispute, some slight – real or imagined.  One party will call out the other, demand atonement, or an apology.  The second party will look, sneer, and then say, “It is what it is.”  In other words, it means absolutely nothing.

In my job as college tutor I spend a great deal of time cajoling guys into doing the right thing.  I play the role of in loco parentis (Latin pays off again!  I’m not a “loco” parent; I play the role of parent).  “You need to go to school.  This education will keep you from coming back.”  Over and over I’ve been met with, “Larry, it is what it is.”  They might as well say “F--- you.”

Guys talk like that because it’s easier saying that than admitting they’re too irresponsible or too scared, or lack too little self respect to try.  “It is what it is”, is just tired, empty, mindless chatter.

Not to be outdone, guys will also say, “You do you, and I’ll do me.”  That greasy little expression is used when someone does something incredibly stupid, like risking his college education to run a parlay sheet and make five dollars in stamps.

It means, in prison-speak, to live and let live.  “I’ll do me.”  So what if that leads to the building being shook down because some genius wants to smoke weed in the bathroom.  It’s the individual over the group no matter how stupid, harmful, or reckless the individual is.

Years ago, comedian Dennis Miller did a rift on wildebeests pushing the crazy loner out of the herd to be eaten by the lions.  Funny, but prison is made up of a lot of those crazy wildebeests.  Yet, in here all you have to say is “let me do me” and everything’s cool.  You don’t need to be responsible, just be you.

There’s a reason the English writer and poet John Dunne’s immortal words “no man is an island totally unto himself” resonate with the collective conscience.  We are our brother’s keeper.  We are collectively responsible.  We cannot “just do” our own thing.

It’s odd really.  We are a nation of individual rights and liberty yet none of that matters if we don’t collectively love our “neighbors as ourselves”.  It’s a lesson that prison-speak tries to ignore but it matters more to an individual’s – and society’s – ultimate success.

Inmates spend hours pontificating about “ultimate truth” (instead of working, getting an education, and atoning for their wrongs).  The ultimate truth, however, is right before their eyes:  we are in this together, not alone.

Why?

I had half dozen topics to write about this week.  Then, as I returned to the building after a long run and workout on a day off, I noticed the eerie quiet.  Dozens of guys were huddled around their TV’s watching as the news broke about the tragic and senseless shooting of children at a Connecticut elementary school.

“What is wrong with people?”  Those were the words of a twenty-eight year old father of two who just happens to be doing three years for drug use.  “Children?  Why?”  I wish I knew.

I have seen a great deal in prison and learned many painful lessons about human failings and the consequences of our behavior.  They have not been easy lessons.  And, I have seen a great deal of senseless violence.  I’ve written much about the fights – and worse – that I’ve seen.  Candidly, it’s my way of dealing with it.  But, children?  What, indeed, is wrong with us?

Were this an aberration, a once-in-a-lifetime event, you could rationalize that a crazed person, unhinged, brought such mayhem and destruction forward.  That is not the case.  Columbine, Oklahoma City, Aurora, Newtown.  Each name evokes images of fear, death and disbelief.  We are I am coming to believe, an angry, unempathetic mess. 

Last week I finished reading writer Wally Lamb’s powerful 2009 novel, “The Hour I First Believed”.  Set against the backdrop of the Columbine shooting and a survivor watching her life disintegrate, it was an amazing story of a family’s secrets, the seeming randomness of violence and crises, and ultimately about finding faith to go on.  I found the book both personally touching and difficult.  In an “afterward”, Lamb explained why he used so many factually accurate details about Columbine.  He saw the senselessness of it all and how violence begets violence.  That I finished his book less than five days before this murderous rampage is not lost on me.  Why?

This isn’t a platform for me to talk about gun control, or mental health issues, or locking down our schools, and locking up more people.  This is just the words of a guy who thinks we’ve collectively lost our way.  I do time with men locked up for murder and to a man they all sat stunned, wondering “What is going on out there?”

A few days ago, Ms. Jackson buried her son.  He was a player on the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys.  Driving to the church service with her was the man who killed her son.  He was driving drunk, lost control of his car, and crashed.  And Ms. Jackson’s son, a passenger in the car, died.  She asked the driver to go with her, to sit with her family to show anyone paying attention that God expects us to love, and forgive, and be merciful. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted;

Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth;
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied;
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy;
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God;
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”

I couldn’t think of anything else, so I turned to the Beatitudes, the Sermon on the Mount which tells us more about God with us, than us with us.

This blog isn’t about prison.   On second thought, maybe it is.  “Why?”  I’m not smart enough to know.  I do know there’s way too much senseless, tragic violence out there and in here.  And, we have to start doing better.

Budget Befuddlement (or, I thought Virginia was doing well)

This week the Governor announced Virginia’s Public Safety Department – whose two biggest units are DOC and the State Police – must shed $28 million in the current budget (and all state agencies must cut 4% in the next budget).  The news reported, “DOC is facing significant cuts including the possible closing of one facility and elimination of overtime for employees.”

The next day, the Governor announced that he was considering tolls on Interstates 64 and 95 to pay for Virginia’s increasingly dire roadwork needs.  That he doesn’t consider tolls a form of regressive taxation that affects the poor and middle class disproportionately more is another in the lexicon ironies of the Republican Party in 2012.

It costs approximately $25 million per year to run a dorm-style thousand man prison like the one I’m in.  It’s even more expensive to operate a “Major”, a high custody facility with weekly stabbings and worse.  Over one billion dollars every year goes to DOC and when the budget cuts come in, what suffers are the programs:  education, drug and alcohol counseling, mental health treatment, the very things that can keep a man or woman from coming back here.

For far too long Virginia politicians – Republican and Democrat alike - have told the citizens of the Commonwealth that the state’s economy was immune from recession and retrenching.  And, harsh sentencing laws were pushed and prisons expanded.  But, bills come due.

Governor McDonnell is beginning his last year in office.  He can be a great Governor by telling the truth about the cost of prison.  He can push for early release, better programs to rehabilitate inmates, alternatives to prison, and in the end save the Commonwealth millions in wasted dollars and lost lives.

Virginia’s budget is a befuddled mess.  The Governor can make a difference.  The time to do so is now.

When Will They Ever Learn?

As I was working out a few weeks ago, Pete Seeger’s song “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” ran through my head.  After each stanza, from flowers to girls to young soldiers, to graveyards, Seeger ends with the same refrain, “When will they ever learn?”

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….

Fiscal Reality

I’ve spent a fair amount of time this past week explaining the “fiscal cliff” to guys here in the college dorm.  I’ve given overviews of the President’s proposal and the counter-proposal from the GOP House leadership.  And, invariably after concluding my remarks someone will ask me “Why don’t they just realize you can’t spend what you don’t have?”  And me, the inmate with the huge restitution judgment, has to smile because they get it more than the politicians in DC or most voters.

Also, this past week the Governor of Virginia announced that he was asking all state departments to submit budgets for the next fiscal term at 4% less than the current funding allotment.  He went further, specifically calling on departments to find savings in their current budgets [Public Safety, which includes DOC, needs to find $165 million].

The fact that week’s before the election the Governor was touting the economic strength of the Commonwealth should come as no surprise.  After all, it’s tough getting elected to office and keeping the office telling citizens the cold hard truth:  government spending is unsustainable.  Tough decisions have to be made.

Virginia spends roughly $1.2 billion annually to maintain approximately 40,000 inmates in prison.  A majority of these men and women are nonviolent offenders being held in low custody facilities.  And “hold” is the operative word.  The Commonwealth lacks sufficient resources to adequately rehabilitate and retrain inmates.  The state oversees a literal cycle of crime, prison, return to the street, crime, prison; on and on it goes.

If Governor McDonnell is serious about the fiscal reality facing Virginia he can begin by addressing “good time earning” for inmates and consider reintroducing parole.  Community supervision – as many states are now finding – is more cost effective and causes less harm to communities and individuals than incarceration.

As I tell the guys in here, America, Virginia can’t spend its way out of this fiscal crisis.  The Governor can be a leader and make the tough call on the failure that is prison spending.  Or, he can be like all the other politicians punting the issue.

Why Use A Pen?

English students of all ages learn early on what “homonym” means:  two (or more) words that sound the same but mean entirely two different things.  Think “break” or “brake”.  I’ve been thinking about that concept as I wondered this week about writing about life in here.  What does it mean to use a pen in the pen?  OK, so it’s not really a homonym, but the meaning of the two is as wide as an ocean.

“The pen”, slang for the penitentiary.  Prison, a waste land of lost lives, failed people.  It’s dirty, dangerous, hopeless.  And, for most people, a world for “them” – you know, the bad guys which we want nothing to do with. 

Then there’s the “pen”, fancy or plain, it is known to be “mightier than the sword”.  It can express our collective dreams:  “we hold these truths to be self –evident…”; a source of comfort – “fear not, I am with you…”; and love, appreciation or desire, “And I will always love you…”.

This week, I was asked why I continue to write about this place.  Why don’t I write about travel and life outside, why focus on this prison, why use my pen to write about the pen?  A friend, a guy from a world as far removed from mine as is possible and yet who has become like a brother remembered a piece I shared with our writing class.  It was about writing from inside here.

The pen quite literally saved my life.  Imagine going in a few hours from the life you’ve lived your entire time on earth and being dropped into the middle of a completely alien world.  You looked out of place; you didn’t speak the language.  It appeared dangerous, dark and hopeless.  And, there was no getting out.  Everything you knew “before” was leaving you:  family, friends, wealth, status.  You were in a brave, new world and those familiar with both sides were betting you wouldn’t make it.

So, I began writing a daily diary recounting all I saw, all I felt and experienced, to keep my sanity.  There was pain and sadness, but also notes about meals and card games, and simple acts of kindness being shown.  It was cathartic and enlightening.  And after a short while, I realized I knew very little about the world so many I saw came from.  But, at the end of the day, most had the same hopes and dreams I had.  People, I began to realize, weren’t “us” or “them”.  It was “we”.  We all want to be loved and appreciated.  We all want a chance at happiness.

I started the blog almost three years ago as a way of bringing my two worlds together.  It began as a dream to let my family – and me – heal but also explain to those out in the “real world” what prison is all about.  Many times I write about very ugly things, people not being “the better angels in themselves”, to borrow from President Lincoln.  And the longer I’m in here, the more confused I become about our collective inability to see right from wrong, to do justice, and to walk humbly before our God.

There is much to be discouraged about when living in here.  Guys do things that don’t make sense.  But, society is like that.  We all, I fear, fall short of the mark.  And even in this place I am constantly surprised by the decency, the humanity of men who “good people” think are beyond redemption.

Redemption.  Maybe in the end that’s what this is all about.  I’ve learned that society’s views on crime, punishment and rehabilitation are flawed.  We can, we must, do better.  Too many lives are being lost.  It’s a vicious cycle of hopelessness, despair, and ignorance.  Drugs, violence, prison, it repeats over and over.

Today is the first Sunday in Advent, the beginning of the “new” year for those of us touched by God’s grace.  Advent is a season of hope.  It’s a time when the word “Emmanuel”, “God with us”, stirs in our hearts and souls.  And the pen, this writing implement helps me record the hope I feel despite of what I sometimes see. 

The “pen” is a tragic, lost place.  Words, however, are stronger than any fence, wall or darkness in the human condition.  Perhaps that’s why it makes such perfect sense to read the Apostle Paul’s words of encouragement to the church at Ephesus.  “Rejoice”, he wrote, “in the Lord always.  Again, I say rejoice.” 

He wrote that from prison.

 

A Tale of Two Todds

There are two men in here named Todd.  I deal with both and their circumstances have taught me a few things about myself and the world we live in.

“Little Todd” has been locked up on and off for twelve years.  This is his longest “bid”, seven years straight.  He did three in Tennessee and was then transferred back to Virginia to do his sentence here.  Todd comes from a “good family”.  His dad was an Air Force pilot who then taught at officer’s school in Northern Virginia.  His mother was an elementary school principal.  But, Todd sold drugs, got in fights, and in general came in and out of the juvenile system and later, jail.

Todd is, for lack of a better term, socially inept.  He finds it difficult to get along with people.  As a child he was diagnosed as ADHD and was medicated.  I met him when he started in the college program and I found him to be both bright and frustrating.  He couldn’t, it seemed, keep himself out of trouble.  Almost weekly he would have words with another inmate and threats of a fight would hang in the air.  I’d pull him aside; tell him to avoid certain situations and lay low, “thanks Larry”, he’d tell me.  Then, two days later, it would start again.

Todd was impulsive.  He’d do and say whatever hit him.  And, that almost always landed him in hot water.  He lost months of what little bit of good time we can earn after getting caught stealing from the kitchen.

I realized dealing with Todd he was a lot like my brother.  He just couldn’t get along with folks outside or in here.  And I try to help him – maybe because I know I didn’t do enough to help my brother – but I realize Todd won’t change until he “gets it”. 

What’s it?  He needs therapy when he gets out.  Todd is a high risk recidivism candidate.  He’s ill-equipped to deal with the day to day requirements of getting and keeping a job.  Nor is he ready for a healthy relationship and life with another person.

And the sad part is, Todd is just as he’s always been.  He is emotionally immature.  Nothing prison has provided has prepared him for life outside.  He’ll be back because what he needs isn’t provided in here.  He hasn’t grown, he hasn’t matured, and he is destined for more prison, more failure, if society can’t figure out how to break the cycle.

Then, there’s “Big Todd”.  He’s a forty year old black man from Hickory, North Carolina.  He’s bright, witty and … he’s gay.  He makes no bones about it.  He’s gay; not “flaming” girl gay like a certain group of inmates in here.

Todd taught school, sold drugs and fled the Commonwealth when the police came after him.  And that led to his friendship with me.  Todd went on the run to San Francisco.  Well-read and well-traveled, he & I discussed the City by the Bay.  We’d talk restaurants, and wineries and the Golden Gate Bridge.

Todd isn’t your typical inmate.  He has an education and is bright and well-spoken.  He also doesn’t carry the baggage most of the men in here carry from bad families, bad environments, bad opportunities.

Big Todd is finishing up his seven year sentence in 2013.  He’s at low risk to re-offend and has plans and ambitions for the future.  A lot of guys in here stay away from Todd.  “You know, Larry, he’s a homo”, I’ve heard on more than one occasion.  And the funny thing is “pre-prison Larry” may have cared, but I don’t.  He’s an alright guy.  His sexual orientation has nothing to do with the kind of man he is.

I’ve learned that we spend too much time labeling people and making them fit into categories.  As both Todds have taught me, your success, your future, isn’t defined by a label.  Big Todd is gay; that’s his sexual orientation.  But he’s also capable of successfully transitioning into “the real world”.  He’ll never see the inside of a prison again.

The same can’t be said for Little Todd.  His labels weigh him down.  He’ll drown in a continuous cycle of prison bids and failure unless someone gets to him and his core problems.

Two men with the same name, in the same prison building, yet their futures will be quite different.  What’s in a name?  What’s in a label?  You decide.

Thanksgiving 2012

I just “celebrated” my fifth Thanksgiving behind bars.  The fact that I can use the word “celebrate” to describe anything in here should tell you how far I’ve come since that first November at the Henrico County Jail.  “In all things, give thanks.”  I never felt at ease with the Apostle Paul’s admonition until this year.  Now, looking back, it makes perfect sense.

In November 2008, I was barely hanging on to my sanity and, quite candidly, my life.  I’d been in jail over three months by the time that first Thanksgiving rolled in.  I was pale.  My muscle tone had deteriorated and I’d lost almost thirty pounds.  The weight wasn’t an issue.  For the past year I’d binged on rich meals and booze in a state of guilt and depression knowing I’d inevitably lose everything.

But as Thanksgiving approached, I was in an alien place, with little or no control over even the most rudimentary aspects of life.  The week before, I’d appeared in court and plead guilty to all six counts presented against me.  A reporter from the local Richmond paper wrote about my appearance in court – as she did every other hearing – and once again I was big news.  Don’t believe the old adage “any publicity is good publicity”.  I was constantly hounded by other inmates begging for help with any and all issues.  And, to a man, none could honestly assess their lives, their problems, or their futures.

Friends by the dozens bailed on me.  My church neglected me.  My spouse wrote vindictive, hateful letters all the while demanding I give her everything.  I was embarrassed, ashamed, and defeated.  There was no hope.  And the worst part?  I’d done it all to myself.  I knew long ago what was coming.  But, I somehow thought it was easier to give in to everyone else’s dreams and ambitions.  Everyone would like me if I just delivered.  Who cares if I knew what I was doing was wrong?

There I was, Thanksgiving day, with a disgusting, mostly inedible meal, and I wished I was dead.  There is nothing worse than being alone, without hope.  “In all things, give thanks.”  Paul had no idea what he was saying.  He wasn’t me.

2009 brought even more difficulties.  I was sentenced.  The sentence shocked everyone who had come to court, a handful of friends and former coworkers.  The ink on the sentencing order wasn’t even dry and I was served with divorce papers.  I’d already signed everything over to my wife (our property settlement was a chief piece of my asset settlement agreement with my employer).  I was going to prison for thirteen years, divorced, penniless, and with the exception of a handful of family and friends, alone.

As bad as jail was, it didn’t equip me to handle DOC’s Receiving Unit.  For over four months I saw the worst in men:  stabbings, beatings, extortion.  That I moved in and around such utter violence and chaos unscathed never registered as a “blessing”.  I was just trying to survive.

Then, the Friday before Thanksgiving 2009, I left receiving and came here.  This facility wasn’t even on my “suggested” correction center list.  Two days after arrival I was hired as a teacher’s aide.  Two days after that I ate my first real turkey in over sixteen months.  The meal wasn’t “like home” but it was hot and tasty and filling.

I have eaten four Thanksgiving meals at this prison.  A few weeks ago I found myself wondering how it was that I came to a prison on the cusp of beginning a college program and I would discover a gift, that I could teach.  How was it that I moved so easily, so safely among so much violence and difficulty?

I remembered the words to the old Scottish Psalter, the Doxology, the “Old Hundred”.  It was a song of my childhood and comfort to me in difficult days.  I went for a run and found myself singing, “Know the Lord your God is good, His love for us is ever sure, we are his flock He doth us feed, age to age He shall endure.”

“In all things, give thanks.”  That doesn’t mean you have to jump for joy when your world is falling apart.  It does mean “have faith” God knows what He’s doing, even when we can’t figure out His ways.

Thanksgiving morning 2012, I ran in thirty degree weather in short sleeves.  And the words to the “Old Hundred” played through my head.  And, I thought of other Thanksgivings – good and bad.  Barefoot on the cold concrete, stretching, I thanked my Maker for this journey.  There really are blessings in trials.