de Accion de Gracias

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            Its Thanksgiving evening 2014 and the lights in the building have finally lowered. I’m watching as “Number 9,” the new guy in bed 9, throws his mattress over his shoulder. What the hell is he doing? I think. “Number 9” wasn’t there Wednesday night. Sometime after midnight – early Thursday morning – they moved him in. The bunk was open after “Cheesy Sidler” moved from “9” to “91.” “Cheesy Sidler,” college graduate, whiz on the computer, child sex fiend. I name everyone and “Cheesy Sidler” was no exception. We were standing around one morning waiting on breakfast and this guy sidles up to us. One minute he isn’t there, the next you can feel his breath on your neck. And, he has this big toothy “I just farted” grin … “Cheesy Sidler.”

            The Cheese is in on a sex crime with minors. He’s smart and, he’s in total denial. He has the arrogance of so many child sex offenders: “I’m innocent; I’m not like them.” I try not to emote anger around him but it’s tough. He looks like what I look like to the young black guys in here. Cheese was raised in Africa; his parents – Baptist missionaries. Fifty-eight years old, daughters, grandkids, a wife. They visit. He has become an Orthodox Jew. He goes to “7” building every morning to wear the small wooden box on his forehead and rock and pray. He’s Orthodox, but is he Godly? Can he atone in rhythmic chants for his perversion and crimes? It’s getting dark in the building and I wonder if that’s the real meaning of “grace,” coming to grips with your sins.

            Back to “Number 9,” he tells the CO, “I don’t like it here.” I crack up and ask my neighbor O if that works. Can I just say, “I don’t like it here,” and that’s that? 9 then gets all his stuff – a plastic trash bag of dirty, balled up clothing and his pillow – and drops it beside his mattress thrown down by the trash can in the day room. I’m exhausted but can’t go to sleep because I’m witness to a train wreck.

            “Look,” says the CO. “You can put your stuff back in your bunk area or go to the hole. It’s your choice.” Old 9, he ponders “option A” versus “option B” and chooses to return his things to his bunk … at least for the night. I climb in bed and read my verse from the morning one last time, pray, and then think about how pretty Thanksgiving sounds in Spanish, “de Accion de Gracias.”

            2008. I had lousy Thanksgivings before. There were times we thought we should split; I never told her I blamed her for losing my dreams. Maybe that’s wrong. I was willing to give every dream up just for one time hearing “I love you,” or “thank you,” or “I appreciate what you’ve sacrificed.” Instead it festered. But, pretend happiness works. So does turkey and good Scotch and oysters on the half-shell. Ah, food and drink and family and friends … an overstuffed table with wine glasses clinking. Not 2008. There were the letters; the newspaper article a week before said I stated “in open court in a clear voice ‘guilty,’” as each count was read. Counts – 1, 3, 6, it didn’t matter. I had highlighted the part where she said, “I’m praying you die in there.” Funny thing is, I prayed the same thing.

            Thanksgiving at the jail and they bring trays to the pod. It’s two-toned pressed turkey meat – low-cut, cold lunch meat, - instant mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. I’m not even hungry; I’m nauseous, and worn, and depressed. “I don’t like it here.” I wish I thought of saying that back then. “In all things give thanks for this is the Lord’s will for you.” God, I was learning had on off-kilter sense of humor. “Thanks God for ruining my life!” That I remember. “de Accion de Gracias.”

            Thanksgiving 2014, my sixth here. I arrived a week before Thanksgiving 2009 and remember that first dinner, the heaping tray with real turkey and pork roast, and candied yams and real mashed potatoes with broccoli and greens and stuffing and rolls. There was sweet potato pie and cake with banana cream frosting. I had told myself I wanted out, wanted to die and now, one year later I’m smiling, enjoying Thanksgiving in prison. In prison! That’s crazy! But, the food, the smells, the conversation, I was ok. Was it like the quail during the forty years in the wilderness? The food “appeared” and the people were sated.

            This year we’d decided to keep out regular work-out schedule. So, big meal at 12:30 (4A ate first!), a nap – why not!?) – then outside at 3:45. For a day and a half it had rained. The track, the weight pile, nothing but mud. Five of us head out in 40° mist. “Go quick,” O says because we know dark is only forty-five minutes away. We’re running, slogging through puddles, and curling bars, then dead lifting. I’m out of my shirts, so is O and Moose and our heads are steaming. I never dead lifted 240 before; I’m on 210, then 225. “Screw it” I yell and squat and lift 240, 3 no 4, no 5 reps and drop the weight with a primal yell of success. I take off at full throttle through the puddles and I’m buoyed. I don’t know why, but I feel … free and alive. “de Accion de Gracias.” I get what Paul was telling those struggling church members in Philippi while he sat alone in prison. “Live above your circumstances,” Paul exhorts his fledgling flock. No matter what, He is in control of our circumstances. Maybe that’s the toughest lesson to learn: We want life our way, in our time, on our terms. And, we keep messing up.

            Thirty-three years ago. I stood in a church and looked a beautiful girl in her eyes and recited vows. You know, looking back, I didn’t take all that seriously. I knew what I wanted and I wouldn’t let anything stop me. We chose Thanksgiving weekend because, well it fit right before my law school exams. At jail I dreaded Thanksgiving and the knowledge that I failed … and those dreams,

            “If dreams were lightning thunder was desire

            This old house would have burnt down a long time ago”

            Dreams. Vows. Weight lifted – real and imaginary. “de Accion de Gracias.” Cheesy Sidler, Number 9; I’m ok. I’m falling asleep thinking about what was, so long ago, and what will be.

            “Just give me one thing that I can hold onto

            To believe in just living is just a hard way to go”

            Live above your circumstances. I keep thinking about those four words in the meaning of “grace,” accept God’s forgiveness and be what He intends you to be. You can’t run from, or hide from, your past but you can overcome. Maybe Nike is right, “Just do it.” “de Accion de Gracias.” I like the sound of that.

Here Comes the Sun

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            It was 1976 and a young folk singer stood with his acoustic guitar at the front of the Vassar College chapel. I was 17 and getting ready for my senior year in high school. We waited. There was the song, that one song we waited for the troubadour to begin. Every word was etched in our collective mind’s eye; eight teens – four young men trying to figure out what manhood really was all about, and four equally young women. He struck the first chord and we knew, we were there with each word.

            “A long, long time ago

            I can still remember

            How the music made me smile

            And I knew if I had the chance

            I could make those people dance

            And maybe they’d be happy for awhile”

            Dreams and ambitions at 17. I wanted the world. At 6, I told my father I wanted to write a book. At 15, I sat in awe as I read a simple book on Constitutional Law and understood how a semi-illiterate man with a pen and paper could change the law. “Dear Supreme Court. My name is Gideon and I was denied counsel.” I wanted to understand law, and God, and beauty. I knew I could do anything I wanted. I knew I had my entire adult life ahead of me.

            “But February made me shiver

            With every paper I delivered

            Bad news on the doorstep

            I couldn’t take one more step”

            You want to see someone completely broken? Arrest a middle-class, middle-aged white guy with a house, two cars, and the picture-perfect family. Lift him out of everything he knows, everything he believes in, and close the cell door. Yeah, and the guy is already on edge. He feels like shit already. He’s eaten up with guilt, drinking five or six scotches every night to sleep. Eyes bloodshot, the left one twitches uncontrollably. Running, the one activity he always felt freed him, now was a struggle. Bloated and depressed he fears death and life. He can’t go on, but he can’t quit. He listens to her breathing at night hoping, praying that in those breathes lies his redemption. But it isn’t to be.

            “I can’t remember if I cried

            When I read about his widowed bride

            But something touched me deep inside

            The day the music would die”

            Sentencing and I was numb. Two years, twenty, two hundred, it didn’t matter. I was out of tears, out of hope. I sat in the holding cell with my hands holding my face. Some reason, I heard in my broken soul, music. I hummed “Be Thou My Vision” – I’m not even sure why; I softly sang John Prine’s “Angel from Montgomery” and Loggins & Messina’s “Danny’s Song.” Over and over I told myself it will all be alright; this is temporary; until thirty days later … and the papers and as broken as I had felt before, I now felt worse. I wrote; she cried; I prayed; the order came in; it was over.

            “Did you write the book of love

            And do you have faith in God above

            If the Bible tells you so?

            Now do you believe in rock and roll

            Can music save your mortal soul”

            It’s receiving and anything I’d seen before pales in comparison. I try each day to just get through. I talk every morning in the darkness to “Michael” my painted card angel sent by a friend to protect me. I am in a rundown, filthy cell with a psychotic, mentally-handicapped gangbanger beginning 76 years for a double homicide. I am who I am, nothing is different about who I am or how I interact with people which confounds and confuses inmates and officers alike. This man can kill me; I don’t care. I read the Bible daily, I write. I hear nothing from God. Later, I’ll agree with Pastor Rick Warren that “feeling God” is just an emotion. God “is” real; God “is” always there, even when in our worst moments we believe we have been abandoned and left for dead.

            There is an incident and my “cellmate” threatens to “tear my throat open and watch me gurgle on the blood.” “Go ahead,” I tell him. Am I crazy? Do I have a death wish? Or, am I tired of the brokenness, the hopelessness? He backs down (amazing!). Moments later he tells me something I will hear more than once:

            “You think you’re better than us.” I respond, “I don’t think I’m better than anyone but I know I’m better than this.” I am better than this. Fuck the judge, and the system that destroys, and my self-delusion and criminal behavior, and the broken promises and broken dreams … I am better than this.

            “I was a lonely teenage broncin buck

            With a pink carnation

            And a pick-up truck

            But I knew I was out of luck

            The day the music would die”

            Running was again freeing, liberating, exhilarating. I run and I hear the music and I keep coming back to that night in 1976 and that young folk singer and singing along.

            “I met a girl who sang the blues

            And I asked her for some happy news

            But she just smiled and turned away

            And the three men I admired most

            The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

            They caught the last train for the coast

            The day the music would die.”

            17 and my life all ahead of me; 55 and more alive than ever. I knew he wrote the song about Buddy Holly dying in a plane crash, during a blizzard, on the way to a concert. But it also was about my crash, my broken dreams, my American dream fractured and bleeding and imprisoned and … resurrected. The music didn’t die. It was always there; it was, it is, it will be.

            I often think of Viktor Frankl, holocaust survivor, gentle man who told the world there is meaning to be found in suffering, or as CS Lewis put it, “Pain is God’s megaphone.” The music, like spring, always returns, always blossoms. I run and hear a new song, one of hope and thanksgiving:

            “Little darling

            It’s been a long, cold lonely winter

            Little darling

            It feels like years since it’s been clear

            Here comes the sun

            Here comes the sun

            And I said

            It’s alright”

DOC Tidbits

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

             Seems like every time you turn the news on, DOC is a lead story. This week, Virginia’s death row inmates have a suit pending (at the U.S 4^th circuit sitting in Richmond) alleging their treatment is “cruel and unusual” in violation of the US Constitution. Now, hearing the term “cruel and unusual” you would think the case (already lost at trial level by DOC) would involve their death sentences. Nope. It seems, in its arbitrary way, DOC was faced with a lawsuit by one death row inmate over access to visits and other privileges. After losing that suit, DOC granted that one inmate the privileges sued for. But then, inexplicably, DOC denied those privileges to other death row inmates leading to this lawsuit.

            “We don’t comment on pending litigation,” said DOC spokesman Larry Traylor. Perhaps, you should. Perhaps it’s time you explain to Virginia’s taxpayers the millions spent each year defending inmate lawsuits DOC continues to lose. Perhaps the DOC Director should be called to account for the money wasted, the lives lost, and the complete ineptitude and mismanagement he oversees. Nah. That would leave me less to write about.

            Not to be outdone, a judge in Chesterfield County released a convicted child-sex abuser (a minister convicted of having improper sexual contact with two minor female family members) on home incarceration pending sentencing in January. He’s facing 99 years yet the judge let him go home with an ankle monitor. I wonder how many young, black kids using drugs get post-conviction release while awaiting sentencing. How about guilty-plea embezzling lawyers? It’s unheard of, yet this judge decided it was appropriate in this case. Makes you wonder.

            Finally, as I write this 3 more men here with serious medical problems are being ignored. What is the response from each of their families? Call the ACLU in Richmond (the Fluvanna women’s suit against DOC for negligent medical care is set for December 5^th) and hire counsel.

            And so it goes with DOC and the criminal justice system.

 

Jobs (Pt 2 Is This any way to Run Things?)

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            As inmates go, I’m one of the fortunate few. I have family and friends who help me. They visit regularly, they write often, they send money. Data on the population here (as of June 2013) showed that roughly 70% of the 1050 men were “returning” inmates. In other words, this wasn’t their first trip to the circus. Almost 40% were below a high school education level (15% were below 3^rd grade). At that time, there were 5 men with four year college degrees – that includes me and a school teacher who, coincidentally was also a sex offender. No sex offenders can work at the school. Less than 24 hours after my arrival here I got a job – at the school – as a teacher’s aide. It’s unheard of: a job within a day and at the lightest non-factory pay rate: 45 cents per hour. Pay. Jobs (non-factory, that is) come on part-time and full-time levels with hourly rate set at 27 cents, 35 cents, and for the lucky few, 45 cents.

            If you are a part-time building cleaner you get 15 hours a week at 27 cents. In a four week pay cycle you earn $16.20 before state-ordered mandatory ten percent forced-savings (in a non-interest bearing account) and five percent court fines/fees account. So, the guy keeping the building clean gets approximately $14.00. He then must buy detergent (offenders get 1 state wash a week in laundry; all other wash is at your own cost; we are only provided 3 sets of t-shirts, boxers, socks, pants and shirts), deodorant, toothpaste, and all other hygiene products. Heard the expression, “three hots and a cot?” Don’t believe it. Fact is, prison is a Spartan existence and without support from outside it is difficult to survive with just what’s provided.

            Work and school keeps men occupied. Any idiot in here sees that. So what does the chief housing/program guy decide to do during lock? He cuts all jobs in buildings from 20 workers to 4. Why? Who knows.

            Here is what happens when guys have no jobs, and no money. People will do what they have to do to survive. Stealing, robbery, extortion increase. Fights go up. Hustles – those without will hustle food from the chow hall, drugs, sex, anything to make a buck.

            The program manager has even tried to gut education aide pay: “Spending too much on income salaries.” Meanwhile, his staff is held to no professional baseline standards on recidivism results, or problems in the re-entry buildings or backlog on annual reviews.

            Worse, the slave-labor like “Virginia Corrections Enterprise” factory where products are made by inmates paid 55 cents to 85 cents an hour then sold to state agencies at significant markups (30% to 50% above what they could spend buying from private companies) keeps running with no one daring to slow that spending down.

            It is almost as if the people in charge do things that deliberately create chaos and trouble in the facility and add to men’s misery and likelihood of failure at release to keep this place “necessary and relevant.”

            Is this any way to run a prison? Shame on the Commonwealth of Virginia. It’s time to shed light on this corrupt, inept, inefficient system. Too many lives are being lost in the grinder that is corrections.

Another “Lost” Week” (PT 1 Is this any way to Run Things?)

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

 

            As I write this we are still on “modified” lock. Starting Monday morning we went on “lock” for our twice annual compound search. As I’ve written before, these sweeps accomplish little. Sure the COs find extra sneakers and t-shirts. They grab CDs still in the possession of men who traded in CD players for the newly available MP3 players. Shirts, sneakers, and CDs; yet, the drugs remain. Lockdowns are a waste of money and time here. They wear officers out, they piss off the population, and they stop all education programs. They are an exercise in futility and driven by the ego of the security chief. But why would he care about the effectiveness of the lock? Responsibility (“the buck stops here,”) doesn’t apply in DOC for managing a facility. Who cares about another lost week? You should.

            It costs approximately $27 million per year to operate this level “2” facility. And, like everything else in the Department of Corrections, there are operating procedures that govern how a prison is run. “Inmate.com,” the rumor mill that is inmate life, will tell you every prison has lockdown twice each year. And, long-term guys, those who’ve spent time at the higher levels, will remind newbies of “real” lockdowns where you’re confined to your cell with one five minute shower every fourth day. The officers sweep in, enter your cell, then handcuff you. All your personal belongings are dumped on the cell floor. Your bunk is stripped, sheets and blankets thrown in a corner. The COs paw all your stuff then uncuff you and slam your cell door shut. That’s a real lock down.

            Here it’s lay around and wait, wait until the ten to twenty regular shift COs come to our building with counselors in tow. A short walk to the gym then back to the building, twenty or so guys at a time, and “voila” in an hour and a half we’re done. That’s it – an hour and a half. The officers are tired. See, budgets being what they are, they can’t bring in reinforcements to move through in a precise manner. No, they go to “6” – kitchen workers, then “1” –  factory guys (funny how they never miss work, even on lock), then the drag begins.

            What do they take out of the buildings? Nothing but trash and extra clothes. They finish all the other buildings by Wednesday afternoon. We’re done, right? Wrong. For the rest of the week we sit in the buildings. There is no school, no “re-entry” programs (maybe that’s a good thing!). No AA or NA or sex offender treatment. “Ball courts” open on Thursday for three hours; same thing Friday.

            Collage program. We have the academic counselor scheduled to be here and meet with guys for their January semester. Memo goes to “the Major” a month ago reminding him of the college schedule. But, shake downs take priority – even when (1) they aren’t required by policy/procedure (they are routinely waived at other level 2 facilities) and (2) they interfere with education (the number “1” program that breaks the cycle of recidivism). Education doesn’t matter, follow phony procedure even when you don’t have to.

            So Thursday at lunch they give us fried chicken – “chicken on the bone.” Why not? Feed them – and the COs – a little something better and it – hopefully – makes you forget what a waste all this is; a waste in time, money, and lives. Hey, at least the Major got to run his lockdown!

State Struck

You hear it all the time in here, the expression "state struck." It's thrown at a guy who tends to follow the rules, shows respect for the COs, won't skirt the "law." You'll hear it like this: "an you is so state struck. You say 'yessum" to these sons of bitches and always follow the rules like they is gonna help you." The term means institutionalized. The other night there was a near fight at midnight in here. Our bathroom cleaning guy was trying to clean the urinal when another man walked in the bathroom. "Can you wait til I finish?" "You are so state struck, cleaning the bathroom like they tell you." Yeah, that's the stupidity I deal with when guys think you're helping the system when you try and do your job and clean a commode.

But, institutionalization is a big problem; the real problem is the guys who talk about being "state struck," they're the real institutionalized ones. They keep coming in and out of here and want to tell everyone "how it used" to be in prison. They break the rules, lose their good time and then say stupid shit like, "They can't take anything away from me." As if staying even an extra 30 days isn't taking something away from you.

And the system thrives on guys like that. See, they make it easy to fall into a coma. Prisons tell you when to do everything. They turn the lights on in the morning for 6:00 a.m. count; they call you to breakfast, and school, and rec, and medical appointments. You can literally set your entire day around the calls they make. They let you change your sheets out every Saturday; there's request forms" for any question--no matter how ridiculous or inane. And it makes guys mentally weak and reliant on the system. No one has to act on their own behalf. It breeds contempt and whining and bitterness. And, I think it's done that way to keep cycling men--and women back in.

I had an interesting conversation the other day with one of the really good counselors here who works the "reentry building." That building is a zoo and everyone knows it--reentry is a failure here and there is no matrix to hold those in charge accountable. Anyway, he told me that the guys act out over in 3 bldg. because "they're scared. They've done nothing with their lives and they're getting ready to go home and they know in their hearts it's easier sitting here and complaining than having to make it out there."

Perhaps that is the biggest failure of the criminal justice system--it breaks you down and institutionalizes you. Then again, maybe it's not a failure; maybe it's a willful plan to destroy lives and keep this whole ugly apparatus afloat. The sad truth is, most who go to prison will get out; but most find their way back. It shouldn't be that way.

This week, President Obama said "America is a nation of second chances." Really? We talk a good game, but when push comes to shove, do we believe that? Are we ready to take an honest look at the failure of this place and say "enough is enough?" In truth, it takes more energy to say, "I will not be institutionalized. I am better than this." In the end, for me at least, it's the only way I can face myself.

"State struck." It's a term I hate because the guys who use it don't understand they are keeping all this going. It's time for a change.

New York State of Mind--or Not

I can't speak the word--that may be considered a security breach," but the recent reaction here to the events at New York's Clinton Prison breakout shows just how silly--and unprepared the folks who run this place truly are.

Don't get me wrong, I watched those two knuckleheads evade NY's "finest" with a little schadenfreude--after all, what do you expect people to do? You send a man (or woman) away for 50, 60, 70 years- -or life--and then you say "behave." Meanwhile, we applaud POWs as they seek to "e" (you know the word) every chance they get.

No doubt, these two were killers--and socially beyond rehabilitation. But, does it surprise anyone that a middle-aged blue-collar woman would live out some "trues lies" fantasy with these guys or that another "good old" boy would help them. Hey, that's what you get when you employ anyone as a prison guard and set low standards of professionalism.

The same thing happens here. They walk at least one employee off every month for fraternization--this past week it was a nurse lying about her break times so she could diddle a captain. Meanwhile, the "chief of security" keeps telling everyone how they have to tighten up- -this guy is hated by the rank and file CO’s, not because he's tough but because he's incompetent.

How does the facility respond to all this? They announce in meetings that another "count" will be added. They send new memos out to staff warning about "fraternization," all the while they continue with the same failed policies and programs that lead guys to continue to come back.

And come back they do. Our building just welcomed back a man--a graduate of the "new and improved re-entry program" who left the 2nd week of December; ten days later there was coke in his urine; back to jail, court, receiving and--you guessed it--good old Lunenburg--all within 6 months.

Yeah, the drug and alcohol treatment programs work great here.
New York--kind of looked a lot like "Shawshank" don't you think? What's the answer? I don't know, but here are a few things. Prisons are poorly run and managed--the wardens and the chiefs of security are not responsive to reality--they hide behind "security" without being held accountable. Silly rules are enforced that piss guys off, all the while important programming and education is ignored. Medical care is pitiful; too many guys are drugged up with high doses of psychotropic meds--walking dead--who get addicted not cured from their drug reliance.

There are--with long sentences--no reasons for men to follow the rules and change. Tell a 24 year old he has 75 years to do with good time he'll get out in 70!), and see how well he does behind bars. And then, staff your facilities with underpaid, undereducated officers who can get more cash for sneaking in a cellphone than they make in a week--it's a bad combination and it's getting worse.

New York State of mind--it can be a wake up call for serious prison reform--or we can do what's being done now which is the same tired old responses you get every time something like this happens.

Those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it--that should be the motto for DOC--sad, isn't it.