Two Reentry Tales

This is the story of two different reentry experiences.  These are real men who did their sentence, “completed their bids”, and returned to society.  The conclusion, “how should we handle reentry?” will be apparent.  It’s a shame the politicians don’t see it.

Ten months ago “Wolf” left Lunenburg.  Barely thirty, Wolf was completing his third prison sentence, all centered around his drug use and his quest to find money to support his habit.  And it wasn’t one drug with Wolfe.  Though he used crack regularly, he also had a taste for ecstasy, crystal meth and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Wolf lived with his mom.  He couldn’t hold down work.  How could you when you spend your daylight hours passed out and your nights chasing a high?  He was barely literate having never completed his GED.  He’d be forced into a class for a month or two, quit, lose “good time” for a year and then repeat the cycle.  But what does good time matter when you’re only doing 36 months and you’re going home to the same life?

I met Wolf through Big S.  Big S had gotten him enrolled in a vocational program.  “You need job skills Wolf, a trade”, Big S would tell him.  Wolf, just a big, goofy looking white man-child would just shrug his shoulders.

He had artistic talent and was considered one of the best tattoo men on the compound.  But, could you trust him to do your tattoo?  He let a guy tat him up and didn’t even notice that his name was on backward (“Flow” instead of “Wolf”).

No education, no job skills, Wolf resided in 3B, the “transition” dorm.  When he was in there they hadn’t completely instituted Governor Bob’s reentry regimen, the touchy feely “therapeutic community” program where guys are paid to be “cheer managers” and “word of the day managers”.  What, you may ask does that have to do with returning to society as a productive, rehabilitated citizen?  Only Governor Bob knows.  But, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he built the program knowing it would fail, just so he could say “I tried, but nothing will change these guys.”

Some people did care about Wolf.  The vocational instructor gave him the name of a man who owned a lumber yard in a rural county not far from Richmond.  “He’ll hire felons.  Just go see him and promise me you’ll work hard.”  And of course, Big S tried to keep him on the right path in here.  “You only get so many chances Wolf,” he’d tell him.

Wolf completed “transition”, was released and went home to live with mom.  He even got a job at the lumberyard.  So far, so good.  But drug addiction is an insidious devil.  And a ten week, feel good “drugs are bad” program put on by DOC and administered by one of their “treatment counselors” is doomed to fail.  Want a new oxymoron to toss around besides “jumbo shrimp”?  Try “prison counselor”. 

For nine months, Wolf kept his job and functioned.  He wasn’t drug free, just on the days he was urine tested by his probation officer.  Urine tests, drug treatment, costs money.  But prison costs more.  So why does Governor Bob – and all his predecessors – spend over $25,000 per year to keep a man locked up, but only $2,000 per year to ensure he succeeds?

Around Christmas the lumberyard told Wolf they were letting him go.  The economy was tough.  Wolf’s source of funds for his habit dried up.  Within a month the Richmond morning news had Wolf’s mug shot on air.  He broke into an elderly woman’s home, beat her, forced her to drive to an ATM and give him money.  He then pulled off to the side of the road and put her out, returned to her house and set it on fire.  A short while later, he was arrested, still driving her car.

Wolf is facing six felony counts.  Every guy in here knows Wolf will probably never see the streets again.  He’ll pull thirty, forty years maybe even life.  And, every reasonable thinking guy in here knows every time a released inmate reoffends it makes it that much tougher on the rest of us still doing time.  Recidivism, you see, plays to society’s base fears and prejudices.  “Inmates are vicious beasts, incapable of rehabilitation.  They aren’t like law abiding folks.”

As I have noted numerous times in this blog, the Governor’s reentry program, the very mission the Department of Corrections espouses, is doomed to failure because it addresses the wrong core issues.  Drug and alcohol abuse issues are not treated in prison.  Mental illness is even worse off.  And Mitt Romney and all the other political pundits are wrong when they tell you there’s “a safety net”.  Folks, the safety net has a huge hole in it.  You take people from broken homes, with parents having limited schooling, limited resources, you have them live in poor neighborhoods with inadequate housing, schools and access to medical care; and they pour through the huge holes in the safety net.  We have a society where there is a caste system with millions and millions of folks who don’t have a shot at “the American Dream”.  Instead, they cycle in and out of prison, feeding a corrupt system that lines the pockets of a select few while sapping $60 billion annually from the nation’s coffers.  And the politicians return to the same tired programs (Governor Bob’s reentry program is the same “therapeutic plan” used and discarded by DOC in the ‘80’s and the ‘90’s because it proved ineffective).

A nation that accepts 2 ½ million people behind bars, a nation that accepts 15% of its citizens living below the poverty line, is a nation on the cusp of collapse.  There has to be a better way, a saner way.  There has to be a way to break the cycle. 

Is it hopeless?  No.  Because as badly conceived as Governor McDonnell’s reentry program is, some good, some success is happening here.

Five men who’ve been educated under the IT grant program have been released over the last five months.  All five, with the daily help and encouragement of staff at Goodwill Industries, have found stable employment.  All five have residences that they are paying rent on.

Sure it’s so soon after they left.  But the key is they worked for a goal in here.  They believed education and community support would give them a second chance.  And isn’t that what “corrections” is supposed to be about?  Over 90% of the incarcerated are going to go home.  Society could shorten sentences and prison by prison set up programs like the “campus behind walls” community we’ve built here.  Let us earn our way out.  Inmates don’t need fancy brochures touting “reentry”.  Sorry Governor Bob.  What inmates need is education and a chance to succeed.  Do that and they’ll be less stories like Wolf’s. 

Prison Time

Most inmates will tell you time just passes by when you’re “doin’ your bid.” Each day, a repeat of the prior one. You get up the same time, eat the same time, get rec the same time. Life, you will hear, “just is”. But, there is so much that actually does go on each day in here. Men’s lives are altered dramatically.



Wednesday afternoon Woo was called to the counselor’s office and told to “call home”. His elderly mother has been battling breast cancer for years. As I’ve gotten to know this fierce looking yet gentle man, I knew the prognosis for his mom wasn’t good. He has fourteen months remaining on his sentence. “I just want to get out and sit with her before she passes”, he told me.


His call home was brief. I could tell the news wasn’t good. “They’ve put her in hospice”, he told me with tears in his eyes. All I could say was “I’m sorry” and “I’m here to listen”. I gave him his space. Later, I went back to see him. I told him if he needed to miss English that evening I’d explain to the Professor. “I’m going. Mom’s proud of me for doing this. I can’t miss this class.”


E is still in the hole. They didn’t let him out Tuesday. The earliest he’ll be released is this coming Tuesday, after his hearing. That would be ten days in the hole.


He won’t come back to this building. He’s been thrown out of the college/IT program, suspended from college for ninety days, fired from his job and removed from his HVAC apprenticeship program. He won’t be able to finish his Associates Degree before he goes home. And going home? He’ll probably have some of his good time taken away.


Was it worth the back tattoo of a Chinese dragon in bamboo and orchids? “It would’ve cost me $3000 on the street,” he told one of the housemen who works over by the hole. “So instead you tossed away $20,000 in education? You’re a dumbass.” I love the way guys “keep it real” in here.


E didn’t deserve all the consequences he’s been handed. He’s been made a scapegoat by the prison administration to show they don’t want the college program to succeed (a number of officers have told me that). Why would E deserve a ten day term in the hole, but the tattoo artist, caught with the tattoo gun and ink, only gets a 200 level charge and $10.00 fine? Life isn’t fair and sometimes – as I have personally discovered - the consequences we suffer are significantly worse than the wrongdoing we commit. That becomes clearer every day in here.


Then there was the conversation I overheard by Will and my new bunkmate – IG. IG is a Crips leader. He took E’s bunk the other day; he’s a polite, young black kid working toward his associate’s degree.


Will – early 20’s black kid – was folding his laundry around 11:00 the other night and was talking to IG. I was having a tough time falling asleep and couldn’t help but focus in on what Will said.


“I talked to him tonight. He said ‘hi da da.’ She said she’s happy, but no other guy can love my boy like me.” I heard him choke up as he continued. “I want to be there. I want to raise my son. She doesn’t get the whole reason he’s acting like he likes my boy is to sleep with her.”


I felt for Will. I know what he’s going through. The same thoughts ran through my mind before as I’ve thought about the “boyfriend”; impress my son, score points with mom, make yourself at home.


Will dealt drugs, lots of drugs. He sold drugs to make money to give his high school sweetheart, his wife, a comfortable lifestyle. He bought a house; bought her a car, paid for her college and they had a baby. She told him she loved him. Then, he was arrested and sentenced to prison: three years. In less than a year, the woman who claimed she loved him “in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, forsaking all others” had divorced him. Apparently, those words were just something to say to get the gifts and the cake.


As I said, I felt for Will; as a father, as a husband, as a man. He’s trying to get his life straight, trying to do his sentence, get his education, and go home and make something of himself for his wife and his child. Problem is, his wife gave up on him. He’s trying. He’s working. He’s suffering. He’s praying.


The other day Opie came up to my cut with his CD player. “Listen to this,” he said and handed me his headphones. It was rapper Jim Jones singing “I Know”. It’s a song about guys doing time. Over and over Jones tells about the struggles in the street; the drugs, broken homes, broken dreams, and he says “I know, I know.” Then, real men come on speaking “I gave the penitentiary ten years of my life…and for what?” or “they locked me up in ’89 and I didn’t go home ‘til ’04. I didn’t recognize nothin.”


I understood the song. I understood the pain. I understood the time.

Opening Day and More

Thursday was Opening Day for this year’s baseball season. It was also my older son’s 23rd birthday. Opening Day was always a big deal to my sons and me. I love baseball and turned them into fans. Every year on Opening Day, I’d pick my sons up early from school. We’d grill bratwurst, make burgers, popcorn, nachos, you name it and watch games on ESPN. At some point in the afternoon we’d head outside for a game of catch. During the late afternoon seventh inning stretch, we’d get up and stretch. My kids looked forward to Opening Day almost as much as I did.



I love baseball. I think on the seventh day when God rested, He actually planned the game out. It is a perfect game, mathematically precise, statistically in-depth, artistically beautiful. It is a game played by men who remember when they were boys. Opening Day symbolizes hope. It’s a new season and anyone can win.


Thursday, as the first pitch was being thrown out, Opie was called to medical. Two weeks ago he had been hospitalized for three days with a severe respiratory infection. He came back to the building about ten pounds lighter and weaker, but after a few days of rec and weights, he looked back to normal. Opie’s a big, muscular, healthy kid - 6’1” about 205 lbs. As I’ve written before, he was raised in prison. He’s been in and out of prison (including juvenile detention) since he was ten.


Anyway, he went down to medical not knowing why he’d been called (normally you get a pass the night before). Fifteen minutes later he was back. He had tears in his eyes. Opie is a product of prison. He knows you don’t show emotion in here. This was serious. This was something you don’t hold tears back.


Opie found out he has a serious illness. I’m not putting the disease out there, but it was enough for me to stop and pray for him. The doctor in this dump just told him. No counselor was available. Just, inmate ________, you have ________.


As I sat and prayed about Opie, I thought about my older son. He and Opie are the same age. My son lived a privileged life. He had everything handed to him. He had parents who loved him. He took part in every school opportunity. He saw the world and went to an exclusive four year college that cost close to $200,000.


Opie grew up with a crack addict father in housing projects in Milwaukee. He was the only white kid in his class and was regularly picked on and beaten up. He started committing crimes when he was seven. He’s had more fights than everyone I know on the outside combined.


But, Opie is a sweet kid. What little he has I’ve seen him share it all. I’ve seen this “incorrigible” felon give the last of his food away to a guy he barely knew who was hungry. I don’t know if I would do that. I’m not sure my sons would do that.


I’ve learned through knowing Opie that you can’t be too quick to judge someone else. When you least expect it, humanity is present.


I don’t understand God. Opie has had a lousy life. He doesn’t deserve this. As I said, I don’t understand God. But, I trust Him. Those of us close to him rallied around him. He called his grandmother. He went out in the sun.


I was worried when he first got the news how he’d handle it. I should have known better. As I said earlier, you can’t be too quick to judge.


This morning E decided to get his back tattoo done. A few days ago he went into the other building to get the outline done. Two nights ago another guy was busted in the wrong building getting his back tattoo.


E spent the morning in 4B getting his work done. After noon count, he went back. He got caught. They packed E up and sent him to the hole. He’ll be there a minimum of five days.


What did the tattoo cost? $325. It will also cost E his job as a maintenance employee. He may be thrown out of college (you can’t stay in college with a conviction).


Big S and I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. He has half a Chinese dragon on his back. He lost money. He’s probably lost his job and maybe lost his schooling.


I miss Opening Day with my boys. I’ll never forget the start of this baseball season.

New Tatts and a Shaved Head

The tattoo artists have been busy the last few days doing full sleeves (arms) and backs in color on some of the young guys.



Go Chez had a picture of his girlfriend (deceased) tattooed above his heart with his entire arm done in flowers. The tat is an exact duplicate of a photo of the girl. She was a beautiful young girl who died much too young.


Bades has an entire alligator – from his neck to his waist now tatted with every year he’s been locked up on the scales in Roman numerals.


And E – he’s in the middle of getting on an entire red Chinese dragon wrapped in bamboo and orchids on his back. It’s red, white, yellow and green.


Tattoos are forbidden, but talented artists get $200 or more. There’s a warning system as they sneak guys into their building and work between counts (Bades tat took two days, a total of six hours).


No tattoos for me. I shaved my head. I was tired of “combing over”. Shaved it myself. Go Chez said I look scary. Ty and DC told me they were glad I accepted my “thinness” up top. I’ll get used to it. I just have to remember sunscreen when I run!

What a Place

My first full week in the “college dorm”. It won’t be a full college dorm for about another five weeks. So far, all the academic aides and mentors have moved in as have about 20 students. Three quarters of the building is left to go.



I’m fine anywhere, but I’ve seen things in here I hadn’t experienced in my old building.


Thursday morning two guys got into a fight (a real fight) right in the bunk cut. Blood went flying and both guys were drug out and CO’s packed their stuff. They’re celebrating Christmas and New Years in the hole. They won’t be back. Neither guy is in the college program. Two more open bunks.


We have one of the most flamboyant black gay guys in the compound still in here. “She” should be moving this week. “She” sits to pee. No joke. “She” swivels into the bathroom lisping “excuse me fellas”, then drops a squat.


The other day another gump was mad because she didn’t come out for “girl talk”. The young lady was deeply offended. “I’m out here freezin’ my titties off and KK – that bitch – is toastie.” Without missing a beat, the CO on duty on the rec yard said “honey, all women lie, even ones with balls.”


At least six times a day guys fire up little roll up cigarettes in the bathroom. For $2 of commissary you get a rolled up cigarette that gives you at most two quick puffs.


Then there’s the tattoo artist who’s putting sleeves (an entire arm) on guys with a homemade tat gun. He’s working ten hours a day on tats making a few hundred dollars a week.


There’s a barber operating shop on the floor. Cutting hair in the building is prohibited, except, apparently, in here. The guy is cutting hair with his radio wired into his TV speaker. Rap music blasting away (another prohibited act).


Then, there’s the “thug” smoking weed while he’s sitting on his bunk. No one says a word.


A friend of mine – Craig – discusses life on the “Eastside”. Craig has a Masters from Ohio University. A high school science teacher and assistant football coach, he did something needlessly stupid (a man after my own heart!). He’s almost 40 and eight years into 14 to serve.


He’s as quirky as I am (perhaps quirkier) and funny and brilliant. He’s also survived his entire eight years in one of the worst building sides here.


“I never spoke to anyone. For eight years I sat in my cut working crosswords.”


He said he never tried to move buildings even though he was the school principal’s assistant.


“I wanted to wake up every day and remember how despicable this experience is.”


So many of the guys on this side run scams, don’t work, and in general don’t care because to them prison is just another lousy life experience. So far, nothing DOC has done has changed their outlook, given them a reason to say “I hate this. I want a better life.”


Perhaps putting the college dorm over here will work. Perhaps the Governor’s re-entry directive will turn these men’s lives around. One thing is for certain, what DOC is doing currently isn’t working. It’s clearly entertaining over here. But, more is at stake than my amusement.

Tattoos

One thing you soon discover about prison is almost everyone has tattoos and they almost all were done inside “the walls”. With the exception of “Big S”, almost every guy I know has a tattoo.



Guys’ tattoos come in all shapes and sizes. A lot of young-mostly back guys get their area code or “hood” name tattooed on their arms or neck. Then there are the gang tattoos. Dozens of Hispanic guys sport “MS13” tats; “bloods” and “crips” gang signs adorn hundreds more.


Prison security tracks your tattoos. When you arrive here you strip down and every tattoo you have is recorded on a sheet. Gang tattoos? You make the investigator watch list. Every six months or so, the officers come in and get everyone to line up by their bunks strip down to their underwear and then they check for new tattoos.


Tattooing is illegal in prison. Yet every day guys show up with new artwork. Good tattoo artists in prison can make hundreds of dollars a month for their work. One of my GED students – Scottie – is a regular Picasso. He can do tattoos on your back that look like the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He built a tattoo gun with a smuggled in cell phone charger, a BIC plastic pen, and replaceable staples.


His artwork is incredible – and in color! He does nudes – women (again a highly priced item, a beautiful naked woman on your arm, leg, or torso) – that resemble airbrushed “Playboy” centerfolds.


Ink and tattoo needles? Glad you asked. Old school artists melt down chess pieces then create a “chimney” where the melted piece is burnt further. The “chimney” is then scraped and the residue mixed with hair grease to make black ink. Red and blue? Ink from pens mixed with hair grease.


Today, art supplies are allowed to be purchased so new tattoo artists just buy the ink colors they need.


Needles are another matter. Hepatitis C and HIV are epidemic in prisons for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which is tattooing. Many IV drug users end up in prison already infected. Needles for tattoos usually consist of a staple, straightened and filed sharp (with a nail file), then heated with a match or lighter to sterilize. The staple is “melted” into the tip of a plastic BIC pen. Wires run through the plastic and make contact with the staple. The staple is dipped in ink and the skin pricked (after the design is laid out on the body).


Scottie did an entire family tree on one guy’s back – 11 grandchildren as branches with their names and birthdates engraved. Another guy – 2 naked women in an embrace that move when he flexes his forearm.


Guys get tattoos everywhere. They shave their heads and get their skulls tattooed. Some guys get tear drops tattooed below their eyes. Depending on who you ask, those either me (1) a tear drop for every person you killed; (2) a tear drop for every friend who’s died violently; or (3) you “belong” to another inmate (one guy in my building has a heart tattooed on the back of his neck from an earlier “bid” at a maximum security prison. His tattoo fits into category number 3).


Guys get tattoos for good reasons, bad reasons, because they’re bored, and yes, because they’re stupid.


I tutor a young guy, actually quite bright. He quit school and stayed in and out of trouble until 18 when he got busted for dealing crack. He’ll earn his GED within the next few months then, if he stays motivated, move on to working on his Associates Degree.


I asked him one day what he wants to do after prison. “I want to work in sales. I’m good with people. Maybe start my own business.” I looked at his knuckles on his right hand: “F--k”; on his left “you!”. On his neck – above the collar, a globe that says “F--k the world.”


I asked him who he thought would hire him with those tattoos. His reply: “they can’t deny me a job because of my philosophy. That’s discrimination!” “Yes it is”, I told him. “But, it’s not illegal discrimination.”


I have my own tattoo story; two actually. One “BA” – before arrest: one “AJ” – at jail.


In 1999, when my youngest son was two, I ran a marathon in November. Three weeks later I was at a company meeting. A group of managers went out that night for dinner and drinks. One manager “Bonnie” was busy drinking shots. She ended up fairly drunk; she looked at me and said: “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”


Me: “Yeah. My wife and I talked about getting them.”


Bonnie: “If I find a tattoo parlor tonight, would you get one with me?”


Me: After checking my watch and seeing it was 11:00 pm on a Sunday night, in Roanoke, Virginia “Sure.”


What happens? We walk out of the restaurant and immediately across the street is Roanoke’s finest tattoo parlor, open 11 to 11.


One hour later I’m the proud owner of the Japanese symbol for courage on my left shoulder (or as my then wife liked to call it “the Japanese symbol for I’m a dumb ass”).


Fast forward to spring 2009 in the Henrico County jail. I had befriended a Brazilian guy named Manny. Manny had gone AWOL from the Brazilian army and made his way to Richmond. He met a local woman; they married and had two sons. He also started a construction company. Business was slow so Manny started dealing cocaine. He was arrested, convicted, and threatened with deportation.


I tutored Manny in the jail GED program. He told me about his deportation and his fear of having to leave his wife and kids (all American citizens) behind. I explained he had a right to meet with representatives from the Brazilian embassy. I put the request in and the embassy staff met with him and arranged to get him an immigration attorney.


Manny was a great tattoo artist. He also cleaned the medical unit, which gave him access to packaged needles. He told me he wanted to do a tattoo for me and since he always saw me sitting on my bunk reading the Bible he had a great idea for a cross.


“What the hell”, I thought. I was already locked up, already been served with divorce papers. What would a tattoo matter?


He designed a Celtic cross, about 5 inches in length. Wrapping around the cross is a banner. On it he put my favorite Bible verse: Isaiah 40: 27-31.


I started reciting that verse multiple times each day shortly after my arrest. I still start each day with it. It is all about God’s omniscience, omnipotence and omnipresence. It’s Isaiah telling a questioning people to look around; God created all of this, everything, on His own. If He could do that, He is capable of handling our problems.


It closes with a charge to be patient and let God be God. “Yet those who wait for the Lord will be given new strength; they will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not get weary.”


It doesn’t look like it was done in jail. In fact, most guys think I had it done outside. It’s on my right shoulder. I regret the first one, but not the cross.


So, I get to receiving and the investigator – a cute blond – is interviewing me because my legal background is in my file. She has to make sure I have no enemies.


Her (sarcastically): “Any tattoos?”


Me: “Yes.”


Her: “This I’ve got to see.”


I roll up my sleeves and show her.


Her: “Damn, that cross is beautiful. What shop in Richmond did that?”


I just smiled.