Thinking About an eBook

The other night, I read an interesting piece in USA Today about a recent Barnes & Noble eBook “daily special” of Eric Metaxas amazing biography of martyred German Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  Selling as an eBook for $1.99, Bonhoeffer’s amazing life story sold tens of thousands of copies in a short time and thrust the book to number 19 on the paper’s weekly bestsellers list.

I read (and wrote about) the Bonhoeffer book months ago.  I found it a difficult read, very cerebral, theologically driven, and yet one of the most powerful books I’d ever read.  Bonhoeffer was a brilliant, serious Christian who, I believe, would offer scathing criticism of 21^st century American faith trends.  I wondered, as I read the article, if all those readers knew what they were getting into.

Inside my wall locker I display two small items.  The first is a color drawing of the Archangel Michael.  A friend, and Episcopal Rector, sent it to me shortly after my arrival at the receiving unit.  “Michael is the archangel who protects us,” his letter stated.  I kept “Michael” under my pillow, looking at him daily as I dealt with the filth and inhumanity of DOC’s Powhatan Receiving Center.

The second item is a poem penned by Bonhoeffer while imprisoned by the Nazi’s and awaiting his execution.  Simply titled “On Waking in Prison”, it is a powerful testament to this man’s undying faith in his Lord even as the hangman’s noose drew closer.

Bonhoeffer felt compelled by his faith to challenge the Nazi regime, the status quo.  He became a leader of the Covenant Church movement, separating a number of Lutheran parishes away from the mainline German Lutheran churches which, at best, quietly acquiesced to the Nazi’s rule of terror and, at worst, actively participated in Hitler’s dreams of ethnic cleansing and world domination.

Lest we too quickly applaud Bonhoeffer for his deeds; let’s remember the Nazis were a legitimately recognized political organization.  Hitler’s rise to power came about by the force of political calculation and legitimacy.  There was no government overthrow.  The Nazis entered politics, Hitler was asked to form a government and the German people – a majority at least – willingly followed along as law after law was passed.  There was no coup, there was simple acquiesce by the German people to fear and economic despair and the deep-seated desire to have simple answers to complex societal issues.

And what of Bonhoeffer?  He willingly broke the legitimate laws of his nation because he believed God called humankind to a higher order than the laws on the books.  Bonhoeffer was willing to fight the legitimate government of his nation, challenge the conventional wisdom of his people and be imprisoned and executed to remain true to his God.  An amazing man.  A true Christian.  I wonder how many of us would be willing to do the same; give up job, family, freedom, our lives for our faith.

Bonhoeffer challenged the conventional wisdom of his day – and our day – that found faith to be an easy exercise.  It’s not.  It’s painful and lonely and it involves suffering but you press on anyway because God requires you to do so. You are His child; your eternity is secure.  You are compelled, therefore, to do right even in the face of unwinnable odds.

I wonder what Bonhoeffer would say to modern American Christians; white, upper-income families believing they are blessed because they have two cars, a half million dollar mortgage, a recovering 401k.  What would he say about our reaction to 9/11, to the denial of rights to “enemy combatants”, about our step by step dismantling of personal freedom in the name of security?  What would Bonhoeffer say about the rights call for a wall to “protect” the border?  What would Bonhoeffer say about America’s staggering incarceration number (2.3 million) and supervised probation and parole number (almost 5 million) at a cost of $200 billion per year (criminal justice spending) most of which goes to arrest, try, convict and incarcerate nonviolent offenders?  What would Bonhoeffer say about 46 million Americans using food stamps while our defense budget continues to grow and unemployment exceeds 9%?

I may be mistaken, but I think he would simply ask each believer “What does the Lord require of you?”  As I said earlier, this fast selling eBook will be a difficult read.  But, if we truly believe, we will take heart.  We will get involved.  We will demand justice, seek mercy and forgiveness. 

Ultimately, our power, our future lies not in the military, economic or legal system of this country.   Ultimately, it rests with the Lord who “gives the solitary a home and brings forth the prisoners to freedom”.  What would Bonhoeffer say?  He’d say what I see every morning when I read his poem.  As the psalmist said, “be strong and let your heart take courage.”

Another DOC Week

Time moves on.  Days roll into other days.  The world goes on and so does DOC.  This past week the Virginia Attorney General announced settlement was reached with a Muslim inmate at Greensville (a high level 2 and a low level 3 facility) to allow him to receive Islamic CDs.  For seven years this inmate fought DOC for the right to receive audio discs of Islamic services.  He continued to win and DOC continued to balk until finally, after expending thousands of taxpayer dollars defending an indefensible position, they settled and agreed to reimburse him for all his costs.  As I’ve written in here before, you take a man’s freedom and you force him to think, really think about everything.  And thinking can be dangerous.  Guys figure out novel ways to challenge the system.

Society wants to lock people up; that’s their prerogative.  But there is still a little document called the United States Constitution and little words like “due process” that dictate how government can treat people.  And those rights don’t all cease when you are incarcerated.  I never stop being amazed by the people that will wave the flag and tell you how great this country is, but forget the founding fathers were deeply suspicious of over-reaching governmental power.  And no power is more dangerous than the power to arrest and imprison a person.

DOC would rather fight inmate suits than admit their policy is arbitrary and bears no legitimate relation to security of the facility.  As I’ve written before, DOC has a sweetheart contract signed with Jones Express Music (JEM) that requires all CDs purchased by inmates to be purchased (1) through the inmate’s account and (2) from JEM.  The Muslim inmate has now won a battle against the JEM exclusivity arrangement (they don’t carry spoken word CDs or foreign language CDs or religious CDs).

This week, a relative sent me a CD from Barnes & Noble.  “Barenaked Ladies Live”.  Property advised me I couldn’t have the CD.  That afternoon, I filed a grievance challenging the department’s CD purchasing policy.  It’s a fight I’m willing to bring.  BNL tunes hit me emotionally.

Try this from their song “Adrift” about a broken relationship:

            Ever since we said our goodbyes

            The onion rings, the phone makes me cry
            Something isn’t right
            Like the Deep Blue without the Great White.

            In the morning open your eyes

            The waterfalls, the fire flies
            You’re an abacus
            And my heart was counting on us.

            Crescent moon sings me to sleep

            The birches bark, the willows weep
            But I lie awake
            I’m adrift without a snowflake.

Per instructions from DOC, disciplinary rule III (“stealing”) now includes inmates re-moving food from their own trays to take back to the building (this is to prevent fresh fruit and vegetables finding their way into inmate meals in the building).  This has always been treated as a 200 series contraband charge.  100 series charges lead to raised security level (meaning you are moved from a level 2 to a level 3 prison) and loss of good time. With a series 200 charge, an inmate who has never been in trouble before can receive an “informal resolution”, meaning a letter goes to your file.  Six months charge free and the letter is removed from your file.

But here at Lunenburg, the new Assistant Warden has decreed that informal resolutions can no longer be used even though they are a part of the DOC disciplinary process.  More significantly, he has decided to not consider charge reductions on appeal.  What does that mean?

Todd is a 28 year old white Jewish kid finishing an eight year sentence in 2012 for drug distribution.  He gets Kosher meals which include onions.  For his entire bid he has never had a charge.  Three weeks ago, he attempted to sneak his onion out of the chow hall to use in a Passover meal he was preparing with two other Jewish inmates.  He was caught and turned the onion over.  Todd was cited with a III and convicted.  His punishment?  A written reprimand.  Here’s the problem.  Three days before Todd’s incident, six black inmates were also charged and convicted of III violations.  They all appealed to the warden who promptly reduced the charge to a 224.

Todd appealed to the warden who rejected his request for a reduction.  “You know the rules”, was the basis for the denial.  So, Todd now faces transfer and loss of nine months of good time.

I filed an appeal for him and raised race and religion grounds.  The simple fact of the matter is the warden treated black and Muslim inmates differently.  If the prison wants to enforce this rule, the inmates can’t complain.  It’s in the disciplinary handbook.  But that doesn’t mean the rule can be enforced selectively.

Finally, there’s the story of “Zippy”.  I won’t use his real name to protect him from further embarrassment, but one of our “distinguished” college aides was tucking his shirt in his pants the other day at work when he hit a snag.

Craig and I looked over to see him doubled over.  “I’m hooked”, he kept saying.  And hooked he was.  He had to walk to medical, doubled over and climb on a gurney while the horse doctor and a cute nurse gave him an injection to numb the area and remove the zipper from the non-named portion of his anatomy.

Once he returned, standing erect (no pun intended) we named him “Zippy”.  Funny, but without telling the nursing staff they came up with the same name.  It makes a great story:  “so how’d you get your prison handle Zippy?”

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A final, non-DOC thought –

            In the past few weeks I’ve been asked by guys in here and family outside, about my capacity to remember minute details of events in my life:  meals, outfits my ex wore, words spoken.  It’s something I’ve always been able to do.  But, this week, reading a book about a writer’s marriage, I came across an amazing quote by the Roman poet Ovid that helps explain it”

“Parsque est meminissee doloris.”

“It’s part of grief to remember.”

Wants

I’ve been thinking a great deal about all the things I wanted in life. I’m not talking about material things. I had all the stuff, all the crap we buy and accumulate to feel good, feel our life is successful and blissful.



I was a big buyer of stuff. Anything my wife and kids wanted, I got them. She’d plan a shopping day with “the girls”, I’d hand her $500 dollars. Every weekend I’d go to Walmart and come home with DVDs for my younger son. A couple of times a month I’d run by Barnes & Noble and bring home stacks of books and CDs.


Our refrigerator was packed with fresh high-priced foods. The wine rack full of expensive reds and whites.


Our home was packed full of brand name things. We were real consumers. No one lacked for anything; no one went without. There was no want. Or was there?


There was so much I wanted. I’ve come to realize, that I never got. The strange thing is the people I most wanted from never even bothered. I’m sure if they read this they’d say “why didn’t you tell us”? They don’t read the blog (my ex “it’s despicable!” my folks “why do you have to write about all this?”) and anyway, how do you explain to someone you doubt their feelings for you.


I watched an interview the other night with former President Bush discussing his newly released memoir, “Decision Points”. In it, he reprints a letter he received from his father on the eve of his inauguration as Governor of Texas. The letter (which W can’t read himself because he chokes up reciting the words) spoke of his father’s love for him. It was about the pride his father had in him.


My own father has never written me, never told me anything. He has always been remote and distant, never sharing with me any insight. The only time I ever was rewarded any emotion from him was when I screwed up.


Even now as I sit in this place he visits and complains about “the Democrats” or who’s been a pain in his ass, or his new windows. He’s never said a word to me about this situation, never asked about the hole in my soul over the loss of my wife and sons, never told me if he thought I did the right thing in confessing and giving everything away.


I’m 51 years old and I know nothing about my father. My entire life he shared his opinions, but never said a word about who he really is. In the past six months, I’ve learned more about my father and his family from his estranged sister – my aunt – than I ever knew. The facade of Protestant morality, of Christian virtue, has been lifted. As I suspected, my grandmother was vindictive and opinionated (I knew long ago she wasn’t particularly fond of my wife; she thought I could have done “better” and should have married someone who put me first). I’m OK knowing all that. At least the family isn’t pretending to be something it’s not.


All a child wants is to be loved by his mother. My wife was wonderful with our kids. I watched her nurse them, comfort them, caress them. I’m not sure they know how lucky they are having a mom so loving.


I wanted that. Instead, my mom required me to conform. Everything was about appearance. “What will people say, what will people think?”


Independence was wrong. I had to be and act the way she expected. Discipline was more important than love.


My mother to this day believes someone is “screwing her” out of something. She is overwhelmingly angry and negative. I can’t even recall all the times her insensitive remarks hurt my wife. Imagine having to explain over and over again to your spouse “that’s just mom being mom”.


She’s better about her church, her younger son (she speaks horribly about my brother then wonders how he “ended up” the way he did), the way I was treated in court (though, everyone else deserves to be locked up), her life. She thinks everyone blames her for everything and yet, every situation depends on her feelings.


My mother has never been happy, never been carefree. She is judgmental and difficult. And with the exception of my ex-wife, her attitudes, her disappointment in my life hurts me more than anything.


All I ever wanted in a soul mate was a woman to love and appreciate me. I thought I had that. Perhaps (sorry, but Freud may be right about a few things) I was so willing to do anything, undergo any disappointment, for my wife because I was so starved for affection from my mom.


All I know is, when she and I first met it was magical. But, I told her “I love you” first. I pursued her. My life, my career decisions, my impulsiveness, and my refusal to ever say “No” to her about anything, all began early on. Her family, candidly, didn’t give a shit about me or even her. Her parents were, are, self-centered narcissists. They did nothing for us as a young, married couple. Every problem our relationship suffered early on was a direct result of them. I found I married a perfectionist, a woman who couldn’t just be happy being in love with me.


It’s difficult to admit that all you want to hear is “I love you; I miss you; I need you”. My wife said over and over she didn’t need me to be happy. Ironically, that was my overwhelming obsession.


I wanted to hold hands walking on the beach. I wanted to walk in the house, be kissed and told “I love you”. I wanted to be able to put my arm around my mate while we fell asleep. I wanted a wife that wanted me emotionally and physically.


Now I sit in prison and wonder, will I ever be given a chance to get what I want?

I Don't Need To Read No Damn Books

I had an incident this week in one of the creative writing classes I teach. For those that don’t know, last February I asked the school principal for permission to begin a writing program. I learned shortly thereafter that one of the teachers I worked for had tried, unsuccessfully, five years earlier to develop a writing program here.



We outlined a writing course with heavy emphasis on reading great authors. Over a fourteen week period, three hours each Wednesday afternoon, I lectured on a “nuts and bolts” issue (grammar or story development) and in group discussion covered the “genre” of the week: two weeks devoted to poetry; two weeks for short stories; six different genres in all.


Our initial class had twelve students. I was the “front man”. Ms. “W” helped with syllabus development, editing student works, and getting the class materials. From that small group we expanded to two classes; the basic program and an advanced class with more emphasis on writing material fit for publication. We now have 30 students enrolled and a winter term waiting list of another 30. The guys enrolled love the class, love to hear my stories, and love to read and write. It is an all around success.


My reasons for proposing the writing program were not all altruistic. Yes, I saw a deep need for guys in here to open their minds and express themselves constructively. But, I was looking for a way to present my own story. A week after my arrest I began keeping a journal. In these two plus years of incarceration I’ve written over 900 pages. My soul, my heartache, my hopes, my simple observations about days, are contained in those pages.


I’ve written in excess of 200 pages of my story centering on my arrest with flashbacks of trips to Vegas, the Caribbean and Atlantic City. I’ve written the first three chapters of a legal thriller. I’ve completed ten short stories. I write daily. It keeps my grounded and sane.


Back to this week’s class and “GT”. He was a student in the writing class. I say “was” because he quit the class.


GT is 34. He comes from Camden, New Jersey. His mother was a crack addict and he moved repeatedly from public housing unit to public housing unit. He never met his father.


He’s had a difficult life. He’s halfway through a ten year sentence for dealing heroin. He “decided” six months ago that he would write a “Gangsta novel” about life in the ‘hood. He signed up for the writing class to get editing help and feedback on his book.


Each week I ask the guys to read handout copies of short stories, poems, chapters from novels. We’ve put a reading list on reserve in the library and ask each student to commit to read three books during the term. The list includes works by Steinbeck, Hemingway, Harper Lee, Jack London, Melville, Wright, Hughes and Crane to name a few. Each week GT comes in and refuses to read. “I ain’t joinin’ no book club; I ain’t here to read no damn book. I wanna write my book, make money, buy a Benz, get me a ho’ and some ‘Henney’ and live.”


I switched tactics. Ms. W and I found essays by black writers, poems by Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes. All to no avail.


This week I tried a different tact. I edited a section of his book. I pointed out all the misspelled words, the sentence fragments, and improper punctuation. I showed him how his story was just one cliché after another. I came in with facts and figures on writers’ income and the unemployment rate for African-American males lacking college degrees. I handed out articles on publishing tips indicating that being well-read and writing properly matters. It fell on GT’s deaf ears.


Ms. W told me afterwards “you can’t make him do what everyone knows he needs to do. He’ll stand and fall on his own.”


I thought about both my sons and our family. When our oldest was about five (he’s now 22 and in law school), my wife began reading him “Where the Red Fern Grows”. It is an amazing story about a boy’s love for his two dogs - “Dan ad Little Ann” – and their love for each other. That story, I thought for a long time, captured the essence of the love my wife and I shared. After our divorce I can’t help but choke up as I think of “Dan” and “Little Ann”.


I took turns reading the story to my son. At the story’s tragic climax I was asked to read. I remember I began describing the scene and then reading about death, and devotion, and grief, and love. I felt tears roll down my cheeks as I read aloud what became of “Dan” and “Little Ann” and the boy. My wife sobbed. Our son sat transfixed, listening intently to the words, gauging our emotions.


Reading was always a part of our family’s life. Each night, my wife read to our sons when they were small. Our youngest heard aloud the “Harry Potter” series. Vacation driving featured books on CD. Both boys came to expect regular stops at Barnes & Noble. Books, magazines and newspapers were always present in our home.


Terry McMillan, author of “Waiting to Exhale” was recently interviewed on TV. When asked to give advice to upcoming writers she simply said “read, read, read”. I wish GT understood that.


So many men that end up behind bars do so out of ignorance and the pitiful circumstances of their lives. Mine was a crime of opportunity. I knew right from wrong but miscalculated – through pride and arrogance – the true cost of crossing the line. Of 1200 inmates here, around 50 are college educated, 50 enrolled in college, five with advanced degrees. Over half the compound lacks a high school diploma or GED.


Reading matters. Writing matters. Education matters. Perhaps someday GT will realize that, before it’s too late.