Christmas ’14, Part 1 – A Wonderful Life?

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 2014.

 

What am I thinking about? Good question, at least that’s what I tell myself. It hit me, like most revelations I encounter, at the end of a 10K run. It was a cool, crisp fall Saturday, perfect running weather and I managed the twenty-two laps around the hard gravel track with little problem. I was in the zone, fluid, smooth, constant stride propelling me forward. I wouldn’t have noticed the six guys lifting weights until I was asked the time on lap sixteen. I didn’t even miss a breath; I switched from “lap mode” to “time” with a finger push on the Ironman watch and announced, “1:22.” The laps rolled: 2:05 pace; 7:50 miles; it was a perfect run.

The entire time out there I’m singing tunes in my mind’s eye. I’m running through “Let It Be” and “Rambling Man” and “Son of a Son of a Sailor.” There’s a whole playlist in my head and I hear it and summon it on these runs. The words are etched in my mind from years of conjuring them up when I needed just “that song, just those words” to make sense of so much senselessness in my life. I sang and I told God between mind tracks I was doing well; and, I ran. I finished, shirtless and pouring sweat even with forty-five degrees, and drank water. I began to cool down and chill quite soon. Hat and sweatshirt took care of that. Then, the thought.

“A Wonderful Life.” My favorite Jimmy Stewart movie; my favorite Christmas movie, my saving hope during that first ugly holiday away. That was all before … before the filing and the decree, before the letter telling me “I’ve met someone,” before the college graduation, the wedding, the proms, cross-country races, law school, graduation, and finally before the remarriage. “A Wonderful Life.” I mattered to her and our two boys. I mattered to family and friends. This was a short chapter in my life’s book, I told myself. And, I had hope. No matter what would happen out there, eventually it would all work out.

The run ended, the cool down lap walked, and the thoughts began. Everyone was better off since my fall. A wonderful life my ass! She was remarried, happy and in love. The boys – those two amazing lives I held seconds after entry into the world, these two breathing, flesh and blood creations who I whispered “Forever Young” to over nine years apart as they let out their first exhales – they had done remarkably without me. The older, he graduated with honors from a prestigious liberal arts college. He’d gone to law school, married his college sweetheart; there’s been law review, awards at graduation, a clerkship. The younger had become an athlete – triathlons, teaching swimming, considering Navy Seals after high school. His girlfriend was gorgeous, blonde, blue-eyed athletic. He spent his senior high school year already in college. I had left a slightly pudgy, round-faced little eleven year-old. He had grown in my absence into a man.

The new husband, the new me, he’d taken my place with “the guys,” our collection of husbands from the small band of couples who socialized. “He’s not as funny as you,” one of my buddies who dared stay in touch told me. Still, he was me – or playing me, living in “my” house, using “my” Viking gas grill, sleeping in “my” room with “my” wife … except it wasn’t … mine … anymore. None of it: the house, the beautiful – though complex – soulmate, the sons, the social club. It was all gone and it was as if it never was mine. Everything, everyone had moved past me and I had faded; not slowly over time, no, I had been wiped clear of all their lives in rapid succession. The image overwhelmed my brain. Every breath, every thought as I stood there alone on the track with the last droplets of run sweat fading on my skin, “They are all better off.”

I showered and tried to drown out the words with music. I settled on the Beatles and began to lose myself in tune after tune until “Let it Be” began. I froze. The words from Sir Paul metastasized in my cortex. “Let it be … there will be an answer … let it be … whisper words of wisdom …” Where was my Mother Mary? Where were my words of wisdom? Everything I loved, everything I had ever truly wanted, ever truly valued, was gone. And there was no regret, no comparable loss from those out there. I thought maybe that’s better, maybe that’s good, they are whole, healthy, living. In the back of my mind I heard the whispers, “You’re fooling yourself. Too easy. You never mattered, you weren’t even needed …”

            “It’s a Wonderful Life.” George Bailey delayed everything he dreamt of, everything he wanted, to stay in tiny Bedford Falls. Then the bank examiner, and forgetful Uncle Billy, and criminal charges facing him. George is on the bridge. All is lost. Even God, the Being he prayed to and said “I’m not a real spiritual man, but show me the way …” had – it seemed – abandoned him. He looked at the water below, life insurance contract in hand, and knew he was worth more dead than alive.

            I choke up every time I see Jimmy Stewart on that bridge. I choke up because I know what’s coming. Clarence, George Bailey’s guardian angel appears, and soon it all becomes clear that George’s life mattered. He meant something to more people than he ever knew. I choke up because I know – at least in Hollywood – dramatic arcs come to conclusions and there are restorations, reconciliations, happy endings. Not this day, not the way I feel. There aren’t any happy endings …

            Happy. That’s a word we throw around so nonchalantly. “I want to be happy.” What does that mean? I think of my happiest days – the day I married her; hearing heartbeats on the ultrasounds; holding healthy baby boys. Yeah, happy days … and yet distant memories. All of it replaced; all of it set aside; all of it lost. This isn’t a movie. There’s no brother “Harry,” no “Mr. Martini” coming to my aid. And, “Mary” – she’s gone. Billy Wilder, you bastard! You made me believe I matter …

            “Unto us a Son is given;

            And the government will be upon His shoulder.

            And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace …”

            It’s the next morning, still dark, and I’ve had a lousy night. It’s Advent, expectation and preparation – “God with us.” I went to sleep trying to pray, trying to be hopeful, trying to …

            And the verse from Isaiah is there before me. There is clarity in those words; they make sense. And, the voice quiets. You know, it was a good life … it still is a good life. There are expectations for the future, a good future. And I realize. I was wrong. My watch alarm goes off – chimes – and I never have it on chimes. I think of the movie and little “ZuZu” telling her father, “teacher says every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.” She might just be right.

 

Joseph

So what do I write about Christmas?  Tough subject because Christmas is a time of family, and hope, and wishes fulfilled.  And prison?  Prison’s just the opposite.  It’s solitary and lonely and hope seems to be just beyond your grasp.  Fulfilled wishes?  More like unfulfilled.  Guys treat Christmas as just another day, another knocked off their remaining three, or seven, or ten years left to do.  Christmas in prison.  It’s hard to put into words everything that goes through your mind.  Memories of Christmases past, longings for Christmases in the future.

The country folk singer John Prine has a song, “Christmas in Prison”, that I find myself singing as I run. 

“It was Christmas in prison
And the food was real good
We had turkey and pistols
Carved out of wood
And I dream of her always
Even when I don’t dream
Her name’s on my tongue
And her blood’s in my stream.”

Christmas dreams.  What do I write, what do I put down on paper to explain exactly what I’m feeling as the day approaches?

Someone sent me pages of quotes from my favorite Christmas movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”.  I love the character George Bailey.  And, like I did when I was out there, I choked up as I read George calling out to his guardian angel,

“Clarence! Clarence! Help me, Clarence.  Get me back.  Get me back.  I don’t care what happens to me.  Only get me back to my wife and kids.  Help me, Clarence, please.  Please!  I want to live again.  I want to live again.  I want to live again…Please, God, let me live again.”

Who can’t relate to George Bailey, at the end of his rope when nothing in his life, when everything in his life, seemed to come into crystal clear focus?  Everything was gone.  Everything was out of his control.  All he had left was that deep felt, primal plea to God “let me live again”. 

Christmas in prison and you’re alone and you’ve lost everything you worked for, everything you lived for.  What do I write?  And then Joseph came to mind.

I’m not talking about Egypt Joseph.  I’m talking about the largely forgotten Joseph.  And yet, without him I’m not sure there’d be “The Christmas Story.”

This guy asks a girl to marry him.  He’s doing alright for himself; he owns a small business, has a trade; he’s got his life planned out.  Only the girl comes to him and says “I’m pregnant”.  That is a major problem.  They hadn’t slept together, so it obviously isn’t his child.  So I imagine that conversation, how disappointed Joseph must have been.  All those plans, all the preparations he made, wasted.

Joseph does something out of character for most people.  He decided to keep things quiet, not embarrass the girl.  She’ll go home and he’ll say “things just didn’t work out”.  And then, he has a dream.  In his sleep an angel visits him and tells him to still get married.  “Don’t worry”, the angel says.  “It’s God’s child.”  The angel even tells Joseph what to name the baby.

Here’s the crazy part, the extraordinary part – Joseph listens.  He decides if God chose him to marry this girl, that was good enough for him.  Ever hear that voice deep in the back of your head, the one that tells you the right thing to do even when conventional wisdom tells you otherwise?  For years I heard that voice and I ignored it.  Then I got arrested and started following those little instructions even though it cost me everything.  And I learned on the outside my life appeared worse, but on the inside I’m stronger and I sleep better.  Funny how that voice works.

Joseph listened to the angel, but that wasn’t the end of the story.  He’s largely forgotten in the New Testament story and yet, without him I wonder if Emmanuel, “God is with us”, would mean the same thing. 

Christmas in prison.  What does it mean?  Sometimes we find ourselves in places we never imagined with dreams lost and we wonder what should we do?  And the voice tells us to “do the right thing”.  Life doesn’t suddenly turn out wonderfully.  In fact, things may get worse.  We have more in common, I think with Joseph than we do with George Bailey.  But like both men discovered, the Christmas message is alive, it’s real.  God is with us, even in prison.

So what do I write about this Christmas?  How about this? It’s a wonderful, blessed time, even in prison because I know the real message of hope exists.  As John Prine sang,

“It’s Christmas in Prison

They’ll be music tonight
I’ll probably get homesick
I love you
Good night.”

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Easter 2011

It is a week before Easter and I’ve been reflecting on what that really means. In my “other” life I never gave Easter much thought. I accepted on faith it was “the day”, but really it was more a chance to go to church as a family, make disapproving glances at the “twice a year” churchgoers, and have a nice meal. When the boys were small we’d hide eggs and put Easter baskets together. Family and friends would come over and we’d eat, we’d drink and we’d say a rote blessing thanking God for our “good” life.



In 2009, I spent my first Easter away from my family. I was struggling, just weeks removed from my sentencing, and I heard the judge’s pronouncement ringing in my head. I wondered if God had pulled a fast one on me when He convinced me not to take the “easy way out”.


What kept me going was a belief that I’d be the recipient of an Easter miracle. About two weeks before Easter, a friend came to the jail for a visit. He and his wife were part of our “circle of couples”, those three or four families that seemed to do everything together. I confided in my friend that I believed an Easter miracle was coming. “She’ll come see me. She’ll tell me she loves me and appreciates me signing everything over. She’ll tell me our marriage will endure this.” My friend looked at me and just smiled.


The Friday before Easter, I received a letter from her. It was not what I expected. “You told [insert name here] you expected an Easter miracle. You’re a f---ing idiot! I’ll never come see you. Why would I be interested in you? You have nothing; your credit is ruined; you owe millions; you’re a convicted felon. You’re not much of a catch”. And those were the nice parts of the letter!


“The tomb is empty.”


I remember spending the reminder of the weekend and the next week in a fog. Each night as I lay down, her words scrolled through my head. “Happy Easter”, I thought. God so loved me that He allowed me to be utterly destroyed. And, to make matters worse, He waited until after I promised to see it through before He really put the screws to me. Resurrection was just a word.


Everyone pretty much knows the rest of the story: An angel appeared and convinced me I was needed. My wife realized I was a good man and organized our friends to help me. I was leading a wonderful life. Wait a minute, that’s not what happened to me. That’s Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in “It’s A Wonderful Life”.


No, my “Easter miracle” went from her “love” letter to having my motion to reconsider my sentence being denied. The Judge “misplaced” my paperwork for seven weeks leading me to foolishly conclude he was seriously considering my request. Instead, he lazily scribbled one sentence to my original sentencing order. Within two days of getting that “good news”, my wife, my soulmate, the love of my life, served divorce papers on me that reserved her right to later ask for alimony and child support (I guess she wanted to cover all the bases. When you get everything without asking you might as well ask for more). In one of my few displays of humor at the time, I told a friend at least she didn’t ask for organ donations or blood (as Bob Dylan said “I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul”).


Yeah, Easter 2009 was, in my humble opinion, a crock. And, things continued on their downward spiral. I was transferred to DOC Receiving and learned my marriage of twenty-eight years was legally dissolved on the twenty-ninth anniversary of our first date. Of the few friends I had left, a couple of them dropped off the map. I apparently couldn’t be as much fun behind bars as I was when I was the life of the party on the outside. And, I would learn later, my newly declared ex-wife was so traumatized by the divorce and being a single parent that she was involved with a married Canadian before the divorce was even final. Yes, 2009 sucked.


“He liveth.”


I found myself re-assigned to Lunenburg and in early 2010 I began working as an academic aide. I’d also been writing the entire time since my arrest and felt a strange pull to teach a creative writing workshop. A teacher at the school shared my vision and we began teaching creative writing. I was in the classroom, she oversaw editing pieces. By Easter 2010 I had a crazy idea to start this blog.


Truth be told, 2010 was another lousy year: more heartache and pain from the divorce; no contact with my sons; a few more of my dwindling number of friends abandoning me. But, I held on. I remained for the most part, hopeful. I knew things couldn’t – theoretically – get any worse. And, people I came in contact with were actually thankful for my efforts.


I started 2011 convinced miracles were coming. Just like ’09, I was kicked in the teeth. All those feeling of utter despair and hopelessness came charging back to me just as they hit me at Easter 2009: my ex, my sons, my life, all gone never to come back. I was being drowned in a tidal wave of disappointment, abandonment and rejection. One thing, however, was different. This time I knew I wasn’t alone.


I thought about something Paul wrote in his second letter to the Corinthians. He said “we do not lose heart”. In Modern English it goes like this:


“So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without His unfolding grace.”


I thought about the Easter story. Palm Sunday, Jesus rode into Jerusalem as a hero, the Messiah come to save Israel. Within five days He was betrayed, abandoned and given over to the authorities. He was beaten mercilessly and publicly executed. His followers scattered fearful that they would know the same fate, ashamed that they sold him out.


There on the cross Jesus was executed with two criminals. Then one said to him “you don’t deserve this. I do. Remember me.” Jesus did.


Easter is about miracles. It may not be the miracle of brining my ex-wife and sons back to me; it may not get me released early; but I’m like the criminal on the cross. I made a mess of things but God still loved me enough to remember me and give me a new life.


Knowing that, I won’t ever give up hope. I won’t ever lose heart. Happy Easter!

Holiday Packs, Holiday Surprises

Tuesday evening holiday packs were delivered. Twice a year families and friends – or inmates themselves – can spend up to $100 on special foods sold by the commissary contractor, Keefe. Packages filled with microwavable bacon, pulled pork, jerk chicken, corned beef, and blocks of provolone and mozzarella, show up. There are huge packages of cashews, mixed nuts, thin mints, raspberry shortbread cookies, and candy of every shape and description. For guys on a fixed meal plan of small, bland portions repeating every eight weeks, it is a gourmet delight.



Almost everyone gets something. Guys with strong family support line up guys without and use them to receive a second, or even a third package from their family at a small fee of $10 in delicacies from the package. DOC insists that no more than $100 be spent on any one inmate. But, as is shown everyday in here, rules are made to be broken. Guys find other guys. Additional packages are ordered and another DOC mandate is bypassed.


The packs are “the holidays” for most guys in here. Getting something from “your people” reminds you somebody still gives a damn. Like books coming in or a surprise money order being received, you know somebody cares about you, somebody’s worried about you, somebody loves you.


We ate well Wednesday night. Big S, E, and I moved from building 3A to 4A at noon Wednesday. We were part of the first ten going into the new “college dorm”. Over the next three weeks almost every man in 4A will be moved out and approximately 90 guys will move in, all involved in college studies. Seven – me included – serve as academic mentors.


We got to our new building, unpacked, and tried to get acclimated to our new surroundings (I’ve written more on the move in another blog). I threw two pizzas together on Ritz cracker crusts: one full of barbecued beef with peppers and onions and mozzarella cheese and the other a jerk chicken pizza with green olives, cashews, and Velveeta. We stuffed ourselves and for awhile we were just guys eating, not inmates or convicts, or offenders, or any other word that comes into fashion to describe those behind bars.


Two guy’s holiday packs intrigued me. The first was received by DC. DC moved to 4A the same day I did. Also an academic aide, DC is one of the men I’ve come to deeply respect and admire. As I’ve written before, DC has been locked away since 1972. He has remained a vegan his entire time down and has become a devout practitioner of Hindu meditation and pacifism. He is one of the most spiritual and insightful people I have ever met. I wonder how the parole board can still keep a straight face (or look themselves in the mirror) and continue to deny DC parole because of his past serious, violent crime – murder 1 at the age of nineteen) while housing him in a low custody, dorm-style facility. Am I the only one who sees the disconnect with that?


Anyway, because DC is a vegan, his holiday pack choices are quite limited. But, there he was, in the bunk directly across from me, putting away $100 of nuts: pistachios, cashews, mixed nuts, trail mix and dried fruit.


Before we left 3 building “P” came up to see us. He had holiday pack stuff in his hands. There were bags of nuts, garlic shells in cream sauce, cookies, meatballs and mints. He gave the bags to Big S, E and me.


“P” – code name for “penitentiary Pete” – has been incarcerated almost 20 years. A graying, 42 year old African American man, he was one of my favorite guys in 3A. He did a five year sentence in the federal system and was then transferred to the state system. He came in a young man convicted of smuggling cocaine. He received a lengthy sentence to prove America was tough on crime and would win the “war on drugs”. Ironically, just this week USA Today reported a dramatic increase in the number of high school students smoking marijuana. Like so many other “wars”, this one hasn’t achieved its desired results. You don’t solve societal problems by locking people up; that just adds another casualty to the body count.


P had something to tell us. He leaned in close. “Don’t say anything, but I go home tomorrow. I made parole a year before mandatory.” He hugged each of us.


I always felt close to P. He was a bright, decent guy. People think prison makes you a better person. That is a lie. Prison doesn’t make anyone better. It can only make them worse. Decent people can survive the hell of prison because their goodness, their decency, their light, shines through even in the darkness of incarceration.


The great twentieth century German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer said (shortly before his execution in a Nazi prison camp):


“It is infinitely easier to suffer in obedience.”


That was P’s prison experience. That is the experience for thousands of other men and women behind bars.


Thursday morning, on the way out of breakfast; Big S, E and I saw P being escorted by two CO’s to the front gate. His family was waiting to take him home: home for Christmas. I couldn’t help but think of the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Somewhere an angel just earned his wings because P saw it through and was free.


Last night to celebrate, Big S, E and I made a huge corned beef and bacon calzone. It was delicious!