A Tale of Two Cities

The dichotomy was apparent. During the same weekend; from the same city, great joy and pride and terrible heartache and loss. Chicago. Summer in Chicago. And like so many other summers in that mid-western city, the blood of its youth spills too easily. Black children lying dead. Teenagers gunned down by gun-toting Black teenagers shouting gang slogans. A three year old shoots himself in the head with a gun his paroled felon father – a gun he should not have because of his criminal record – carelessly left out. Five dead. All children. Another weekend in Chicago and it barely registers a mention on the news.

Pennsylvania. Baseball; little league baseball. An all-black team from the Southside of Chicago, “the baddest part of town.” They win the American draw, beating a team from Nevada who five days earlier had knocked them around. It’s Williamsport – idyllic, rural Pennsylvania – where every summer young baseball players from around the world gather and play the greatest game on fields of green grass and manicured infields. Baseball and Pennsylvania are a million miles from Chicago.

For months the talking heads on Sports TV have decried the absence of Black big leaguers. And, by the numbers they are right. Growing up, I remember Mays and Aaron, and Gibson. I wanted to be Willie Mays. Today, less than one in ten ball players are African American. The pundits have a dozen theories. But, I listened as the coach of the all-black squad from Chicago, from the almost all-black “Jackie Robinson Little League” answered the question:

“Baseball is a game passed down by your father. In our league we still have a lot of fathers. It’s not that way for everyone.”

Jackie Robinson. Perhaps no single man’s courage and self-control mattered more in the country’s slow march toward integration than he did. Jackie Robinson, a great man, a hero. And yet today, more young black kids in Chicago can tell you about Jay Z than Jackie. Who really matters? What really matters?

Missouri. Over four thousand people gather for the funeral of a young black man gunned down by a white police officer. No one yet knows what happened. I don’t presume to know what was in the officer’s heart before firing those fateful shots and I choose to believe he is distraught because blood has been spilled. Too many – on both sides – use this tragedy for their own political ends. Blood spilled and a family mourns a son gone too young. And, another family lives with the repercussions.

Here’s what I wonder, how many black children have to die in the street of Chicago at the hands of other black children before someone stands up and says “enough!” Where is the national outrage and national dialog as we watch thousands of young kids turning to gangs and killing each other? Why is “Ferguson” the issue and not just a symptom of something so much larger? And why are we not watching – and listening – to the mothers and fathers of those ballplayers?

A young man I know in here from Richmond told me about the shootings that regularly took place near his home. He was raised in a home with a mom too young to care for herself, let alone three young kids. So “Gramma” became their refuge. “Gramma” fed them, even when it was just mayonnaise on white bread. “Gramma” was responsible. Mom? She was in and out; Dad? He was at “state farm” (Powhatan to those not “in the know” on Virginia’s prisons).

And summers in Richmond, summers in the city’s notorious Gilpin Court, were filled with robberies and drug deals and killings. My young friend whom I tutor in English and Excel and any other class which comes our way, tells me when he was six he was sitting on the front stoop with his brother and sister. “It was loud, like a firecracker. Pop, pop, pop. Then, people across the street started running and that’s when I saw him … bleeding as he fell in the street.” His first seen “body.” Man shot across the street staggers and dies yards from him. And his six-year-old eyes see it all.

A few moments later, the police and an ambulance arrive. The neighbors stand all around but nobody “saw anything,” at least not in Gilpin Court. An ice cream truck approaches and Gramma gets the three kids popsicles, “Red, white, and blue rockets,” he tells me. They stand with the others behind the yellow tape, licking their popsicles as the dead man is loaded up and carted off and the blood, pooled on the ground remains. Gilpin Court, Richmond. Another dead black young man.

I can’t watch the news about Ferguson, Missouri anymore. It seems almost ghoulish and undignified. And, no matter what that young man may – or may not – have done, I can’t help but think it could have been avoided. There are too many dying too young and they look like so many of the young men I care about in here.

I confront race every day in this place. Early on, in my first few weeks in jail when my life was in a complete tailspin, I realized how little I really knew about being black in America. Every opinion I held as fact came from a life almost completely devoid of blackness. Then again, almost every opinion I held as fact came from a life almost completely devoid of contact with poverty, poor education, ignorance, and a whole lot more. My opinions were all forged from my own privileged life. I knew, I soon realized almost nothing about living – and dying – in America. Dylan wrote about such things in “License to Kill,”

Now all he believes are his eyes

And his eyes they just tell him lies

But there’s a woman on my block

Who sits there as the night grows still

She says who’s gonna take away his license to kill?

I hear about my young friend’s life in Richmond, I watch as more families weep over the loss of children cut down for no good reason and I wonder who will take away our license to kill? When will we see beyond color or economic status and mourn, really mourn the incredible waste of life and vow to do better? It seems as if it will overwhelm us, destroy us, condemn us. And then, twenty young black kids in yellow shirts with white pants run across the infield and I see hope.

Two cities. You can take all the pain and death and despair of Chicago, and Ferguson, and Richmond together and weep and lose hope until you see Williamsport, Pennsylvania and grass, and smiles, and baseball. 

You know what gives hope? When all you see and hear is death and anger and you look around your prison housing unit and almost every TV is turned to a team of little leaguers from Chicago and guys, hardened by life and crime and death are pulling for these kids as they play … a game.

There isn’t a black and white; there’s green and there is the sound of a ball coming off a bat and there’s joy. 

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….

God Bless Justice Stevens

I have a friend in here – “Cali” (from Los Angeles) who I’ve been working with the past few months. Cali is three years into a twenty-six year sentence. You would expect that to receive that many years Cali must have murdered someone in cold blood or abused and violated children. If you thought that, you’d be wrong. Cali received that extremely harsh sentence for (1) intent to distribute marijuana, and (2) conspiracy to distribute.



He and a co-defendant were staying at a hotel near Virginia Beach in two rooms reserved by a local friend. The rooms were at opposite ends of the hall. In one room (the co-defendant’s) twelve pounds of weed were found. In Cali’s room $200,000 in cash.


I could write a legal brief on the problems with Cali’s prosecution (in fact, I did): the prosecution’s star witness was the hotel manager, a woman who was an admitted drug user and was paid a percentage of the cash taken from Cali’s room (under drug forfeiture statutes); the false statements contained in the police request for issuance of a search warrant, or the fact that no evidence was introduced that the cash in Cali’s possession came from drug sales (in fact, there was no evidence of any drug sales). For my purposes here, I’ll assume everything the police did was “by the book”.


But, was justice served? Cali’s co-defendant took a plea and got, hold on, three years. He’s already out. Cali on the other hand, has twenty-three more years to go for the exact same charges.


My experience in meeting guys like Cali in here has awakened me to a stark reality. For a country that professes to believe “in justice for all”, we fall terribly short of the mark. That’s where Justice John Paul Stevens comes in.


The 92 year old Stevens recently retired from service as an Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court ending a tenure as the third longest serving Justice in history. Justice Stevens, a moderate Republican appointed by President Ford soon found himself relegated to being a leading dissenter as the court swung even more to the right.


Stevens believed in “justice for all”. His life was built around that concept and for good reason. Stevens was raised in a prosperous Chicago family. His father built the largest hotel in the city. When Stevens was twelve, his father was arrested and convicted of embezzlement. Eventually his father’s conviction was overturned on appeal.


“I knew my father was a good man. I also knew, even at that age that the system could be wrong.” It was at that point Stevens decided he wanted to be a judge to guarantee justice was done.


Stevens has taken some very unpopular positions in cases involving the accused, especially in post 9/11 America where the general consensus in society has become that security from terrorists is more important than the rule of the law.


In Hamdi v. Rumsfeld, he argued that terrorists held at Guantanamo Bay were held in U.S. custody on U.S. soil and, therefore, guaranteed minimal constitutional protection. In Padilla v. U.S., he argued that Padilla – a United States citizen arrested on terrorism allegations and detained in a military brig for four years without access to courts or lawyers and without formal charges being brought, had his fundamental 4th, 5th, 6th and 14th amendment rights violated.


Even for those accused of being terrorists, without the guarantee of constitutional protection, he argued, this nation could too easily slip into “rule by tyrants”. That is a very powerful, and courageous, and lonely stand for anyone in this age of fear.


I’ve lost my freedom. I’ve seen the power of the state used personally. Conspiracy theories run rampant in prisons. If you want to understand why, just look honestly at the criminal justice system. The government has a virtually unlimited budget to prosecute. In its quest to close crime investigations (notice I didn’t say “solve crimes and bring justice”); the government will make deals, use false evidence, lie, cheat, or steal its way to a conviction. Don’t believe me? Look at the number of convictions that are set aside each year for police or prosecutorial misconduct.


The system is overwhelmed. And, because the system has a human face, it is subject to the prejudices and personality ups and downs of the judges, prosecutors, and defense attorneys. Fact is, most defendants don’t create a favorable impression. They’re paraded on TV or in the paper when arrested and the general perception is “they must be guilty or the police wouldn’t be after them”.


But, that perception is exactly opposite what our system is founded on. The founding fathers knew the dangers inherent in a government able to convict on a whim. They understood that the most fundamental, God given right of all, was the right to be free. Depriving someone of their personal freedom was recognized as tyranny. The safeguards to shield an individual from the power of the state were deep and significant.


Yet, somehow middle America has forgotten that. Somehow “law abiding” citizens believe those “technicalities” are just there to protect the criminals. They couldn’t be further from the truth.


Guys like Cali come into this soul breaking, meat grinder each and every day. Some are innocent, others guilty yet the punishment way too severe. For the vast majority of “good citizens” it doesn’t matter. Thank God for the courageous few, like Justice Stevens, who understand justice and freedom are too precious to be pushed aside by a society convinced that safety and security are just one prison, one conviction, from reality, those lone voices who remind us over and over there is no safe haven, no perfectly secure place without justice and freedom.


Thank you Justice Stevens for your courage, your compassion, your sense of justice.