Matt the Vet

I saw Matt arrive a few months ago from another prison. He’s a vet – Post 9/11 – and served two tours in Afghanistan on the Hindu-Kush Range, the mountainous region dividing Afghanistan from Pakistan. I recognized Matt when he walked in; he and I had been at the jail together. He sat there awaiting sentencing – and DOC transfer – for bank robbery. He used a shotgun and robbed two banks in the greater Richmond area of a little over $50,000. “When I mustered out, I couldn’t find a decent job,” he told me back then. For those two robberies Matt received 9 years each – two sentences to be run “consecutively,” i.e. one after the other. Eighteen years, a PTSD rating, a purple heart (shrapnel wound to the leg) … “Thank you for your service to your country.”

            When I first met Matt he was very angry and bitter. He had enlisted after 9/11 to defend his country. Then, he climbed to the ranks of Sargent and did multiple deployments while people at home waved flags, put bumper stickers on new cars that said “we support our troops” – yet less than 1% of the population had anyone in uniform – and the country knew nothing of the places their sons and daughters were sent to fight and die. They cared even less about the ramifications of America’s political decisions being made which effected lives of those troops. Benjamin Franklin said, “Patriotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel flees.” Old Ben understood modern America.

            This generation of vets – the post 9/11 young men and women – are no different than the Vietnam vets. America talks a good game about service, but the political consensus, the political will is “fuck them.” Harsh? Yes. But 9/11 vets have higher PTSD rates, higher homelessness, unemployment, suicides, and incarceration rates than other returning vets … and still no one seems to care.

            Matt’s not the bitter, angry young man he was when I met him in 2009. And he’s here to take advantage of his VA education benefits, earn his degree and move on with his life. Matt mellowed – prison will do that to you. You see how screwed up this place is; you realize how much worse off others have it; and you find your faith. For Matt, that was converting to Islam. For me, it was believing that Sunday school song “Jesus loves me, yes I know …”

            In the weeks to come I’m going to profile Matt and the other vets. I want people to see there is more to some of the felons in here than we might assume. There are fourteen young men in here who served their country after 9/11. For eight of them, they were in harm’s way, saw combat multiple times. Does that excuse their crimes? No. But, there is more to the men in here than just their criminal records.

Race...Again (2)

I’ve been thinking a lot about race once again. It seems as though there is always something going on that puts this country’s bipolar response to our racial make up front and center. Recently we’ve had an elderly NBA team owner spout some of the dumbest things I can recall hearing. And why? Because he was jealous that the surgically enhanced tart he was bedding (thank you Viagra!), 50 years his junior, was posting Instagram photos of herself with Black athletes.

            Not to be outdone, we had a Black congressman refer to a Black Supreme Court Justice as “an Uncle Tom.” We can’t even have a legitimate conversation about immigration and our borders because – for so many on the right – it boils down to skin color. The left is no better. Like so many friends from my prior life who toil away in academia (the proverbial salt mines!) they talk of racial equality yet work at institutions, attend churches, and live in neighborhoods devoid of any racial diversity.

            Not so in here. You want a front line experiment on the effects of race in America? Come to a prison. On its face, race matters. We naturally gravitate toward our comfort zone and we find comfort in what we know. If we live segregated lives, we apply those memories when we are thrown into a new, uncharted area – that’s race relations in prison.

            One of the worst things “inside” is watching how race ends up separating men, how it leads to violence. But I also know our preconceived notions of race can be overcome. What’s inside matters a hell of a lot more than one’s color.

            So last week I found myself in the midst of a racial dispute. On one side, “Tan Chris.” If ever a guy deserved an ass kicking, it would be TC. Simply put, he is an arrogant prick. He also makes blatantly racist comments. On the other side is a 32 year-old muscular vet, Kemp. Kemp did two tours in Afghanistan. One of the results of his service was a 20% disability rating for injuries (a purple heart recipient) he suffered.

            Anyway “TC” makes it a habit of launching racist jokes daily. He sleeps across from me, and each day I hear him mutter some disparaging remark, always directed at color. The other day, he told me he didn’t like the turnover in the building. “All that’s coming in are more of them,” he said. To which I replied that in “my experience” it was always “white guys” who - 1. don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom; 2. don’t regularly do their laundry; 3. are disrespectful. In fact, I told him, it was the young Black guys who always showed me the most respect.

            “I figured you’d side with them,” he said. My retort: “I hate everyone equally regardless of color.” Back to Kemp. The other day, he catches old TC muttering about Blacks. And, it pisses him off. So he approaches TC and tells him, “If you have a problem with people like me, then I have a problem with you.” Now Kemp would pulverize TC and I’d love to see it happen except … except beating up a guy solves nothing.

            So I pull Kemp aside and ask him to refrain from knocking the a-hole into next week. And Kemp, a guy I’ve helped some with college and other stuff, he smiles and says “ok. I’ll do it because I respect you.” He adds a “But.” “But, if that racist MF keeps it up, I’m not promising anything.”

            So it goes in here. It’s all ignorance really. One ignorant guy making stupid comments about people and pretty soon there’s turmoil. Maybe prison isn’t that much different from the world “out there.” Maybe one of these days race won’t matter.

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….

Ghosts

The other day during lunch one of the vocational teachers came into our chow hall and pulled two of his aides aside.  He told them that two hours prior a recently retired officer had committed suicide.  Mr. Townsend was a thirty year veteran of DOC.  He was a good, kind, decent man.  His death caught many of us by surprise.  We had no way of knowing the pain he carried.

We learned that Mr. Townsend’s wife was terminally ill.  Near death and hospitalized she would soon leave her husband alone.  The retirement had taken away his day to day purpose; he couldn’t bear to lose his wife as well.  Mr. Townsend’s son is in Afghanistan, again, in a war – like all wars – that has lasted much too long, caused more death and pain than success, and causes you to wonder, when will we learn?

Ghosts.  Mr. Townsend had ghosts.  And I prayed about him that night knowing that we all have ghosts, and we can’t let the ghosts rule.

On a recent documentary about James Meredith’s admission to the then all-white University of Mississippi, the narrator asked, “What is the cost of knowing our past, and what is the cost of not?”  I thought about those words a good deal the past day as I wondered why Mr. Townsend felt that all was lost.  His demons overtook him, and that is a tragedy.

We all have things that weigh us down.  In here, I see it everyday.  The vast majority of men in prison come from dysfunctional, uneducated, economically depressed homes.  Abuse:  alcohol, drug, home violence are common almost daily occurrences.  Stability is a concept alien to their life as is self respect and love.  And crime, feeling victimized, lacking remorse and empathy is the only way many of these men cope. 

So, they do horrible things, violent things, impulsive, reckless things and the carnage continues.  It’s strange when you hear someone explain shooting another person or beating them senseless.  And you wonder how do they live with the guilt, the shame, of their actions?  You look at the dullness in their eyes, the repeat trips to prison, and you realize they don’t.  Unlike Mr. Townsend, who placed a gun beside his head, these men kill themselves slowly.  And the results are the same.

Ghosts.  I lived with mine for a long time and my friends, they couldn’t tell.  That’s how it is with ghosts.  We see them every day, the guilt and self-loathing knowing we weren’t being true to ourselves, our better nature.  But no one else can see them.

There’s a great verse in the book of Isaiah.  The prophet tells the beleaguered, desperate citizens of Israel, “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.” (Isaiah 60:1)  It took me a long time to figure out what he was getting at.

It’s a simple message:  get going.  You can’t sit back in pain and self-pity.  Fight on, even when you’re hurting because God is with you.  No matter what, God has your back.  It is a wonderful, powerful message of hope. I wish someone had taken the time to share it with Mr. Townsend.

I write a great deal about this broken, desperate prison system full of broken, desperate men and the rubble that is their lives.  It is not a place to find much solace and hope.  And that, I think, is precisely the people and the place Isaiah was sending his shout out to.

I’ve had a weird week in here.  Amidst the polarization of the election, the damage of Hurricane Sandy, the fights and thefts and lies in this place, and the officer’s suicide, I felt as calm and at peace as I can ever remember.  Ghosts, I’ve learned, can be let go.  And, the past – and the present – don’t define your future.  Even for the guys in here, there’s hope.  Life doesn’t have to continue as it was.  And prison – not prison with walls and counts and years – the prison of our guilt, and actions, and fears, can be put behind us.

Ten Years After (2)

It is one week until the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attack of 9/11, “the day that changed America”.  As I sit here in this prison dormitory I recognize how much my own life changed.  On 9/11 I was an in-house attorney for a large, Virginia headquartered property and casualty insurer.  I was “happily” married to my college sweetheart.  We were the stereotypical upper income, white American couple with two “perfect” sons, a “perfect home”, a “perfect” life.  After the attack, all that would be tested.  I was sure what our country needed to do.  I was equally sure what I needed to do.  Ten years after, I confess I was wrong on almost every count.

Just as I sold my soul to prove some vague, abstract point about love, commitment and family, so too did America after 9/11.  We are not a better nation for our reaction to 9/11.  America has lost its moral framework.  We were wrong in our reaction to the evil foisted upon us; we are wrong for our behavior – at home and abroad.  I fear the lives lost that day and in the years since in Afghanistan and Iraq will be for nothing.  As Judy Collins mournfully sang, “When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?”

Luke, in his Gospel, recounts Jesus speaking to the multitudes.   Over and over the Savior says “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you; give to everyone who asks you… “He calls on his followers to forgive, show mercy.  And then He brings forward these words:

“You call me ‘Lord, Lord’, and do not do what I say.” 

In other words, we talk a good game, but we don’t put our money where our mouth is.

 A few years ago a deranged gunman broke into an Amish schoolhouse and shortly thereafter brutally murdered a number of young Amish girls.  What was the reaction in the Amish community?  They prayed for the dead gunman and wrapped his family in compassion and mercy.

I was all in favor of obliterating Afghanistan.  I bought into the doctrine that you are either “with us or against us”.  Arrest foreign nationals and hold them without trial?  No problem.  Torture to get information?  I’m OK with that.  Kill thousands of men, women and children in Afghanistan and Iraq – “collateral damage” – in the name of winning the war on terror?  Small price to pay for “safety”.  That was all “PI Larry” (pre-incarceration Larry).  Now I see my country:  the one $17 trillion in debt where 46 million people need food stamps, where over 2.3 million people are behind bars, the vast majority of which are locked up for nonviolent crimes – and I ask what of our founding declarations that all “men” are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?  Wonderful words, but just words if we are willing to sell our collective soul for safety and fail to show mercy.

Politicians get standing ovations for demanding that the Ten Commandments be posted in schools and offices to remind us of our “Judeo-Christian” heritage.  But, I wonder what would Jesus say about our reaction to 9/11?  What do we make of His Sermon on the Mount, His call to forgive “seven times seventy”?  We talk a good game but we fall way, way short.

On 9/11, as I detailed in other blogs, I consoled my then wife as she sobbed, worried our sons would be drawn into some worldwide conflagration.  We made love that night, two people trying to cling to innocence in a world seemingly gone mad. Shortly after, in an attempt to “prove” our life would be better after the attack, I began stealing increasingly larger sums of money.  I had stolen before – then always to gain some psychological response of love and appreciation from my “soulmate” who deep down – I knew didn’t feel for me what I felt for her.  After 9/11 I was determined to have it all!

Ironically, as I sit in here I see the same convulsive behavior in my country.  Why did they hate us so?  We asked after 9/11.  And then immediately we retaliated, launching attacks aimed at eliminating the danger. 

But danger can’t be totally eliminated.  We will always face the risk of someone – anyone – trying to do the unthinkable.  Much like I had to learn that I couldn’t make someone feel what I needed, we need to learn there is not absolute safety.  There is pestilence, natural disasters and the occasional sociopath lurking.  But if we truly believe in God, then we know we are called to be strong and courageous.  We are not to fear, though “the mountains fall in the sea”.  God is our help; not B1 bombers, not drones, nor laser technology.  We can’t violate our own core principles in the name of security.

I read a piece in the September issue of “Esquire” concerning a Sudanese man captured and held at Guantanamo Bay for ten years.  He was held chained and naked in a freezing cell for days on end; hands chained above his head, hands and feet chained to the floor; denied access to counsel.  Is this justice?  Is this an appropriate response?  Should this be tolerable in America?  This alleged “mastermind” (who coincidentally is uneducated and speaks no English) was eventually given a 34 month sentence (that’s right – 34 months).  

I have witnessed firsthand the barbarism and unjust circumstances of prison.  A just, compassionate society can do better.  As I sit here, I wish we as a nation had done things differently.  I wish I had acted differently.

There is a Bible parable I return to often as I struggle to make sense of my life.  At the end of Luke’s version of the Sermon on the Mount he records the savior telling His followers to hear the words and act on them.  They will be “like the man who dug his foundation on the rocks. And when the flood came and the torrents burst against the house” it could not be shaken.

The part that so intrigues me in the story says “when the flood” comes, not “if”.  Faith is like that house on the rock.  Troubles are inevitable in our individual and collective lives. But by faith, we are sustained.  My marriage, I realized, was not built on a strong foundation.  Love and commitment were mere shifting sand.   The rule of love, opposition to torture?  Those deeply held “virtues” of America’s psyche were also cast in sand.

Ten years later and what have we learned?  Is war ever justified?  Is torture ever acceptable?  Does safety trump freedom?

A poet/songwriter once wrote a piece comparing America, his America, to a wayward love.  She was breaking his heart because she couldn’t see how beautiful she was; she didn’t understand how her behavior was killing him.  Ten years after 9/11, divorced, alone in prison, I look at my country and I understand what he meant.  The past ten years have not been kind to her.

Memorial Day

It’s Memorial Day weekend, a time when the nation turns its thoughts to veterans, especially those who’ve paid the ultimate price on the battlefield.  Post 9/11 much has been made about the respect this country now shows those who served.  “The country has healed from Vietnam”, is a common refrain heard in the popular press.

Yet that perception doesn’t match reality.  It is a disturbing truth, but veterans of this nation‘s wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have higher levels of suicide, homelessness, PTSDs, drug and alcohol abuse, than the general population.  And, they end up in prison and judges don’t care that they risked their lives oversees.

Of the 96 men in my side of the building, 34 served in the military.  Twelve of those served in Iraq or Afghanistan.  Two older inmates are combat veterans of Vietnam.   For those fourteen who served in combat “defending this nation’s freedom” as so many commentators like to point out – meant little to them as they faced significant prison sentences.  Judges, juries didn’t care that they fought in Fallujah or Helmut Province.  But for some hardworking volunteers from the American Legion who come out and meet with these vets and assist them with access to benefits they earned, they are largely forgotten.  Like their homeless brothers suffering from PTSD and drug and alcohol problems, there are no thank yous for these vets.  America should be ashamed.

One of my students is a bright New Yorker named Pauly.  He served two tours with the Marines in Iraq and was in the bloody battle of Fallujah.  His photos of unit friends, two of whom were killed, line his locker.

Pauly returned to Virginia (his wife’s home) after his second tour.  He began taking pain pills (“help me sleep”). When he couldn’t get enough, he forged four prescriptions and four checks to cover the cost.  Convicted, a Chesterfield Circuit Judge told him “you survived two tours in Iraq; you can do three years in prison.”  Nice comment your honor.

There’s Rick.  His wife left him while he was in Afghanistan for a second tour.  He returned to Southwest Virginia with no job, no wife and a house he couldn’t afford.  He took an unloaded shotgun to a local bank and got $6000 (“I didn’t care if they shot me”).  The judge told him “a lot of men went to war and didn’t rob a bank” as he sentenced Rick to ten years.  I’m not sure what the judge knows about being in a combat zone; he admitted from the bench “he never had the privilege of serving.”

There are dozens of stories like that in here and hundreds of pages of trial transcripts confirming the words.  Then there’s Saleem.  He served as a medic in Vietnam.  He risked his life daily to save the lives of dozens of wounded men.  Why was he a medic?  Because he was a pacifist.  Rather than seek conscientious objector status, he agreed to serve.

Later, during a drug deal gone bad – a drug habit that began in Indochina in that war zone – Saleem killed a man.  He received a life sentence with parole eligibility after twenty years.  Every year, since his twentieth year in, he comes up for parole.  Every year, for twelve straight years, he has been denied parole.  It is possible Saleem will never leave prison.  That is wrong.

DC’s father served in Korea as a black infantryman.  He fought in some of the bloodiest campaigns there and endured terrible racial hostility.  “I went because that’s what I was supposed to do.”  DC’s older brother, a baseball star drafted by the Phillies, died in Vietnam.

All these men who fought bled and in some cases died, did so because they believed in the ideals this nation espouses.  They deserve the same. They deserve second chances.

General William Tecumseh Sherman said “war is hell”.  So is prison.  These vets deserve our gratitude, our forgiveness for their wrongs, and their freedom.  

Thinking about Freedom

Every week my blog manager forwards reader comments to me. I read – and many times reread over and over – what the blog readers are thinking or reacting to what I write. I enjoy the feedback even when it occasionally and painfully hits close to home.



This week an “Anonymous” reader commented on my recent writings about freedom. And, those comments got me thinking about not just freedom, but our interconnectedness.


Ironically, and my ex would fall over to see me admit what I’m about to write, I’ve discovered through this experience, that we are all in this together. I use to ridicule then Senator Hillary Clinton for her book It Takes a Village to Raise a Child. I always thought my success, whether in school or relationships or work, was solely and directly due to my efforts. I bemoaned paying the way for others less ambitious than I. Oh, I did community work. It’s what we “successful people” did. Ultimately, I realized going through this that my logic was completely skewed. God has a way, His way of showing us how off kilter we are. Sometimes the way He shows us is unpleasant. But, if we pay attention, we learn exactly what He expects from His children.


Anonymous, I take issue with your posting for a number of reasons. Here goes. Freedom is derived from God. In one of the most powerful scenes in David McCullough’s incredible book 1776 he retells the story of a Presbyterian minister in New York City. Reverend Knox, on the eve of the British attack on Washington’s troops, uttered these powerful words from the pulpit: “God ordains that man live free”. So simple, yet so profound.


Freedom is God’s creation. It isn’t granted us by a benevolent government. It is from God and of God. That isn’t anarchy. God requires that we live under His rules and there are only two that really matter: “Love the Lord with all your heart” and “Love your neighbor as yourself”. When you steal – like I did – you violate God’s law. And society has an absolute right to correct that ungodly behavior and help restore me to a position of “law abiding”. But, society does not have the right to break God’s law to punish me. That, Anonymous, is ungodly.


It is ironic that at the entrance to the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz, Poland the following sign appeared: “Work Makes You Free.” I would caution Anonymous to be careful when you conclude you’re on one side and the outcasts are on the “other” side, like the Jews in 1930’s Germany, or the Christians in China, or the black school children in Prince Edward County, Virginia in the late 50’s when the public schools were closed rather than integrate them.


As Jesus pointed out to the Pharisees when he disapproved of divorce and protected the adulterous woman, God’s law is significantly different from man’s law.


Some people in prison clearly are sociopaths. They are a danger to others. Their horrendous deeds call for separation. That does not give society the right to treat them ungodly. “Be patient; be kind; be forgiving.”


And that leads me back to my new thoughts on our interconnection and my disagreement with Anonymous. Prior to Anonymous telling me about the effort put forth to earn his/her degree and how prison education cheapened the value of that education, Anonymous stated “the other day I was teaching high school…” so Anonymous teaches school – public, I assume, which is supported by taxpayers, many of whom don’t have children in school but have to pay nonetheless. And Anonymous works a school year (what, possibly 200 days per year?) and is eligible for tenure – guaranteed employment – and has little responsibility when his/her students do poorly. See, Anonymous, I used to think like you and public school teachers could always rile me up. And Anonymous, you may work in a good school. A lot of the guys I’ve been in contact with went to lousy schools, with lousy teachers, in lousy communities.


Your education: no one pays the full fare. Even when you pay the tuition, that tuition has been subsidized by alumni giving, Federal aid and state taxpayers (if you go to a state school). This myth that we “make it on our own” is just that, a myth.


While you were in college some of the dregs in here were filling potholes in your town and picking up your trash. A good number of these “criminals” were overseas fighting while you were “exploring” your major. One thing I didn’t know until I came in here was the large number of vets locked up, guys who fought in Vietnam, Panama, Grenada, both Iraq Wars and Afghanistan.


Your reference to a “free education” in prison is off base. First, the number one factor in keeping a felon from recommitting is – a college degree. You want to pay $25,000 to keep a guy locked up or $3,000 to enroll him in college?


Instead, let’s follow your lead, Anonymous, and gut prison programs. Why stop there. Handicapped kids? Screw ’em, why should I pay. It’s the parent’s job to take care of them. Public schools? Don’t need ‘em. Most of the teachers I knew weren’t qualified anyways. Let everyone home school.


I could go on and on but I won’t. I think you get my point. We all get something from someone else’s hard work, money or grace. We all need to give a helping hand from time to time to a brother or sister in need, even when that brother or sister did something horrendous.


“No man is an island unto himself”. That’s what justice is about. That’s what mercy is about. That’s what freedom is about. That’s what God is talking about.

Empathy 101

The prison’s warden, a 56 year-old African American woman, was killed in a two vehicle accident in a small town, ten miles from here, Thursday evening. At 6:00 am Friday the entire compound knew. First, the details of the accident made the morning news. Initial reports indicated the warden ran a stop sign and was struck broadside by the second vehicle. The warden was dead at the scene. The two people in the second vehicle were seriously injured.



At 6:00 am count, the day shift officers arrived with black tape on their badge. By 8:00, a memo was up in the building from the assistant warden. As with so many “Dear Offender” memos, this one also misjudged the mood of the prison population.


It began: “We regret to inform you. . .” Honestly, there weren’t a great deal of regrets being expressed around the compound.


“Maybe we’ll get chicken and ice cream tonight. . .”
“Karma’s a bitch man. . .”
“F--- her and all the cops. . .”


Harsh? Yes. Shocking to your senses? Absolutely. But, before you get indignant, consider that on the day Ms. Lewis was executed in the Virginia death chamber less than four months ago, pro-death penalty advocates applauded. Consider that it was recently reported that 70,000 Iraqi civilians were “casualties” of our nation’s war effort with little if any public remorse exhibited. I write that in embarrassment knowing I supported both the war in Afghanistan and the war in Iraq.


I pass no judgment on your view of capital punishment or use of military force. I have come full circle on both issues. My prison experience has taught me faith in God means an avoidance of violence in all forms. But that’s my view.


No, I point these things out because I’ve come to the conclusion we have become woefully lacking in empathy. We refuse to seek understanding of someone else’s feelings. “Screw them. Nobody cares how I feel.”


Guys in here use macabre humor and downright gloating when bad things happen to people they blame for their circumstances. Four cops shot in Detroit, guys cheer. Almost every inmate has a story of how the police took advantage of them. Stories of crooked police appear almost nightly in the paper. USA Today ran a series of stories on prosecutorial misconduct. Yet, guys in here continue to struggle to get their story told.


A young kid in the building showed me a picture the other night. He was at a party. There was a girl in the picture. She was obviously high and she was hanging on him. I recognized her. She has filled in here as a CO.


“I met her at Nottoway (a level 4 prison) on my last bid. She was on duty up there. I got out and started dealin’ coke. Got called to a party. Sold a lot of eight balls (3.5 grams). She saw me. I banged her for three days and kept her in coke.” He then got busted on a probation violation – dirty urine. She’s still working as a CO, eight ball and all.


There’s a senior officer here who’s had four (yes four) DUIs. He pulled no jail time and is still working here. Guys here see that and realize the system’s rigged.


Meanwhile, the people on the street demand politicians “get tough on crime”. After all, criminals aren’t good people; criminals are scum.


We live in a course, degraded world and it’s getting worse. Funny thing is prisons just mirror society. Some of the most popular magazines sell precisely because they expose our human foibles. We love when people fail. We love other’s misery. Pretty sick, yet pretty prevalent.


To guys in here the warden represents the machine that is keeping them in this hell. She represents, she controls, the officers that shake us down, strip search us, watch us urinate. Is it rational? No. But then again, neither was my glee when I heard Saddam Hussein was hung or my sentence.


Later in the day I overheard guys say “you know she wasn’t that bad a warden”. Other guys were contemplating the suddenness of her passing. “Man, when your number’s called, it’s time.” The initial jokes passed, most men thought about the “what if” in here. “What if I get a call about my family? My parents?”


Empathy is an interesting thing. You suddenly gain understanding of a person’s problems. You’re more likely to show mercy and forgive.


Two and a half years ago I thought I knew right from wrong. I was quick to pass judgment on others (quick to ignore my own sins). Then, I started meeting murderers and armed robbers. I talked to drug dealers and drug addicts. I discovered no two men were the same. I found some I grew to care deeply about. They became friends. Others I just couldn’t stand. But, I learned to listen. I learned to hear.


There is evil in the world and we should confront it and defeat it. But, we should never gloat over anyone’s suffering. At least, that’s the lesson I’ve learned in here.