Words Can Be Dangerous

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 2014.

            Words; language; the ability to communicate and convey thoughts and ideas. Words are an amazing thing. Words have the ability to lift you higher than you can imagine and words can break your heart. Words can make you think; they can make you feel. Words can be complex and difficult to navigate or they can be simple and sweet and make you smile, or warm, or feel love. Words can be dangerous. They can incite and ignite; they can lead people to violence; or, they can lead people to freedom. Words, they are the first and the last thing we hear in our earthly lives.

                I read a piece recently about Ulysses, author James Joyce’s seminal novel about one day in the life of one man. I must confess, I was never overly impressed with Mr. Joyce or his novel. I read it because it was known as “America’s most banned book.” At its publication in the early days of twentieth century it was deemed pornographic and lurid, too lurid for “decent” society.

            Ulysses is just one in dozens of books – both great works of literature and mediocre musings – which find their way to be banned, prohibited from view, because someone thinks the words can cause harm. Words are dangerous. Remember the book burnings in Germany as Hitler and his henchmen came to power? Remember Salman Rushdie and his “death sentence” by fatwah for allegations of defaming the Islamic prophet? Remember the Chinese Christians locked up for having Bibles? Words convey ideas, dreams, frustrations. Words can change the course of history and topple governments. Words are powerful.

            The other week, Veterans Day to be specific, there was a concert held on the Washington Mall featuring a host of popular entertainers. Rap artist Eminem in his performance shouted out “Happy F----n Veteran’s Day.” Words can offend.

            In the past three weeks we have seen this nation’s ugly racial problems play out. Grand juries, first in Ferguson, Missouri and then just this week in New York City, refused to indict white police officers in the deaths of black men. The rhetoric on both sides has inflamed the tension. And I thought much during this time about our seeming inability to hear each other. Amid the shouting and the video bits of looting and protests, with dozens of “talking heads” trying to convince us what we should think, the meaning of it all gets lost in the cacophony of words.

            “There’s no excuse for violence or looting,” I heard that a lot. Wasn’t it the Black Panther leader Stokey Carmichael who said “violence is as American as apple pie.” And there’s truth in those words. The American Revolution wasn’t a quiet debate between agrarian intellectuals and London elites. It was bloody and barbaric. The Boston Massacre, years before the start of the revolution, was incited by a rioting mob attacking British soldiers. Violence was, violence is unfortunately, a corner-stone of this country’s history. There was nothing “civil” about this nation’s civil war. We are a nation littered in blood and violence. From “Bloody Kansas to Bloody Selma,” from the burning of Washington to the burning of Watts, we are a people steeped in rioting, and conflict, and turmoil. It is our visceral reaction, our birthright. So, breathe deeply and relax, this too shall pass.

            Five St. Louis Rams football players enter the stadium last Sunday. They raise their hands signifying “hands up, don’t shoot,” the chant which has overtaken the Ferguson protests. The five are pilloried for taking a political stance at a game. “They don’t have the right,” we hear. Except, they do. And the league can discipline them. This is, after all, America and at least – in theory – you can protest, you can speak out. You may lose your job, but you still have the right. And, it doesn’t escape my sense of humor that we react with awe and admiration when a young Chinese man tries to stop a tank in Tiananmen Square but we are offended when traffic is stopped on the Brooklyn Bridge.

            “Now we are engaged in a great civil war testing whether that nation – or any nation – can long endure.” Immortal words from President Abraham Lincoln on November 19, 1863, at the dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. His words that day – less than 300 words penned by him – continue to reverberate in this nation’s conscience. I find myself turning to those words to try and understand what does this country stand for, what do we mean?

            It is time for a “civil” dialog. Words matter and words today can make all the difference. This past week two NBA greats – television commentators Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith – engaged in a civil dialog. Both successful Black men, they see the incidents in Ferguson and New York City differently. To Barkley, rioters/looters are “scumbags.” “Not all black people are good and not all white people are evil. We need the police in our poor neighborhoods.” To Smith, “if you are on an island with no way off, some will rise above, some will act in horrific ways, and some will lose hope.” A funny thing happened as these two men disagreed. As Charles Barkley said, “Kenny’s alright with me.” In their debate, in their disagreement there was commonality, there was “civil” discourse.

            A personal reflection. On a number of occasions I’ve had people try and tell me I should shut down the blog or not write some of what I put out. I’ve had gang bangers threaten me, ignorant white and black inmates tell me to “keep they business” off my pages. I’ve had COs tell me “higher ups” review my blogs. “Don’t write about security or senior staff or they’ll go after you,” a few officers have told me. I keep writing because words matter. Words can illuminate and educate and bring about change. And perhaps that’s what makes them so dangerous.

            You can burn books; you can ban writers; but words are ideas. And ideas make us human and will endure.

 

Conversations

I had a number of conversations this week that gave me much to think about. Four, in particular, stood out.



Two of the guys from the exercise crew tried to explain prison life to me. They were both concerned I put too much of myself out there for guys that, simply put, aren’t like me, won’t change and will use my “good heart” to take advantage of me.


“These guys are scumbags. They always have been, they always will be. You’ll help anybody. You’ll listen to and counsel any dirtball who sits down. They’ll run a hustle on you.”


I let the guys know that I see through the line of crap most guys try and feed you. My entire life I’ve dealt with people more intelligent, more sophisticated than these guys in here can ever hope to be. Fact is, most of the guys in here are so ignorant they become transparent. I try and help because I feel called to do it and because it may make even a small difference in somebody’s life.


Dr. Albert Schweitzer said “constant kindness can accomplish much. As the sun makes ice melt; kindness causes misunderstanding, mistrust and hostility to evaporate.”


I try and live that way and deal with people in here in that manner. Sometimes, it blows up in my face. Overall, it’s the only way I can think of surviving this.


The other day “7½ mile” came to speak with me. I named him that because he’s an Eminem (“Eight Mile”) knock-off. He’s sloppy, slovenly, wears his jeans below his butt. He’s also lazy and unmotivated, two characteristics that describe almost every guy in the college IT program.


7½ mile was one of five students who failed math. Craig began a remedial program for those five guys. He busted his butt two afternoons a week for the past month teaching these guys basic math so they could retest for the course. 7½ mile quit going to the review sessions. “I can’t learn this. They’re askin’ us to do too much.” He then sent the school principal a note telling her he was quitting. She called him up to the school to discuss his withdrawal (more on her later).


He came back from the meeting and stood outside my cut. It was obvious he wanted, he needed, to talk so I invited him in for a seat. I asked how the meeting went. “She let me have it. Told me I’d quit my whole life. If I quit now I’d be back and never have anything” (I love our principal’s bedside manner!).


He asked me what I thought. First, I asked him about his life. In and out of prison since ’94; four kids living with relatives; an ex-wife in prison (drug problems). He’d never spent more than a year out of prison all those years.


I gave him my overview. I told him everything I had “on the street”, everything I lost when I was arrested. Then I told him as much as I lost, I had more heart, more determination than anyone in the program. “You get faced with a little work, a little difficulty, and you’re ready to quit. She’s right. You are a quitter. You’ve given up, you’re a loser and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison until you get a set of balls and decide you deserve better and you’re willing to work for it” (apparently, I’m no Mother Teresa either!).


He put his head down and told me I was right. A short while later, he told me he was going to stay in the program. “If you think I can make it, that means a lot.”


Later that day I met with the principal, Ms. C. She’s an interesting lady. Transplanted from the Bronx and a life-long Yankee fan (I’ll overlook that particular character flaw), she and her husband spent their lives in education. She is a fierce advocate for inmate treatment and rehabilitation.


We were talking about the college program. Even though the semester ended and there is a ten day break before classes resume, I’ll be teaching four, three-hour grammar and writing classes to help the guys with English deficiencies. I told her 7½ mile was surprised by her conversation with him. “I’m not paid to be nice to these guys. I’m paid to tell them the truth and get them an education.” We then talked about the program and the fact so many in DOC think educating and training inmates is a big waste of time.


She then told me she knew Craig and I were working our “butts off” for these guys. “They might not appreciate it, but I do.”


Then, there was my conversation with Go Chez. It was just he and I sitting in the cut. He started telling me about the auto accident. “I never knew how she died,” he told me, “until the day of my trial.” He had been medflighted on the accident date, coding a number of times on the flight to the hospital. And no, he doesn’t recall seeing a bright light.


At the trial, the State Police accident reconstructionist was allowed to present scene photos. “We didn’t have on seatbelts. She went through the sunroof and landed on her head.” Blood and brain tissue were everywhere. “I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind.”


Twice after the trial, while his case was on appeal, he attempted suicide. Twice he had to be hospitalized. His voice remained at a constant low tone. He looked down, but his eyes and his voice gave away his pain. As I listened, I wondered what good did it do to send this young man to prison? He isn’t getting the psychological help he needs to deal with the consequences of his action. He can’t undo what’s been done. What is the purpose behind his incarceration? Will it make any difference to the dead girl’s family? Will he be a better person when he’s released in a year?


All the answers I came up with led me to believe, like the car accident that killed the girl, nothing good has come of this. The girl is dead, Go Chez lives each day with that. Nothing happening in here will change that.


Four conversations this week. So much to think about.

Things I Learned This Week

It never seems to surprise me, but when I’m at my weakest, most self-pitying self, I get slapped in the face and reminded I really am blessed. So, here goes:



My Mom. A friend in here – “J” – told me the other day “as long as your mom still believes in you, there’s hope.” We were talking about a guy in here who really is trouble. “You can tell he’s scum; even his mom gave up on him.”


I have put my mom and dad through hell. I let them down in more ways than I can count. They grieve over the divorce, worry about my ex and our kids (and still maintain a loving, family relationship with her). I know it kills them each time they come up for a visit. Still, every month they show up.


My mom has never given up on me. Even after my arrest and conviction, she loved me and prayed about me. My father was furious. For months he didn’t speak to me. He was through with me. The stress in their 50 plus year marriage was evident. Still, my mom loved me.


One day I called home from jail. My mom just said “Larry, talk to your dad” and thrust the phone to my father. That simple act started he and I communicating again.


As I pondered how truly blessed I was to have these two people as parents, I remembered a verse from Isaiah 49. God is telling His people who are feeling forsaken and abandoned how great His love is. “Can a woman forget her nursing child and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely, they may forget, yet I will not forget you.”


My folks came for a visit last week. It was extremely emotional. I had to apologize for a lot and let them know how much I loved and appreciated them as parents. It was something that I said to the court the day I was sentenced that I felt I needed to repeat.


I learned something interesting about my mom during our visit. A few years ago there was a terrible auto accident involving a group of teenagers and alcohol. One of the drivers was the son of a woman from my parents’ church. The woman was devastated and withdrew from church. Her son sat in the local jail and later prison on a vehicular manslaughter charge. My mom wrote and called on that woman and wrote the young man in jail. She put her faith in action in ways I never did.


Go Chez. There’s a young guy that’s now part of our little circle. We call him Go Chez. He’s 23 and has another two years on a manslaughter conviction. He’s already served three years. He and his girlfriend were drunk and high returning from a party. He lost control of the car and crashed. He was in a coma. His girlfriend was killed.


Go Chez still bears the visible scars of the accident. His collarbone, crushed and splintered was rebuilt. It now protrudes about two inches off his chest. He bears the noticeable scar from a tracheotomy. He also bears the emotional and psychological scar living each day knowing he was responsible for his girlfriend’s death.


He’s a good kid who made a terrible mistake. I wonder if you ever fully heal from that knowledge.


DC. Another conversation with DC. As I’ve detailed before, DC is one of my favorite people in here. He knew I was struggling and pulled me aside to show me a photo. It was a picture of him in early 1972 at the DC gym he boxed at. He was jumping rope with Muhammad Ali. DC told me he told Ali “I’m gonna be a better boxer than you champ.” He probably could have been. But, he broke the law, ended up in prison in ’72 and has been here ever since.


He told me even after 38 full years in here, he has hope. “You gotta remember Larry, you had more, you lost more, than almost anyone in here. Married to the same woman all those years; education; good career; well-adjusted kids. You’re gonna feel this pain differently than any other guy.”


He told me to just keep being who I am, do the best I can and remember I have no control over how others react to me. “If folks forgive and love you, it will be on their own. You can’t control it.”


The strange thing was, DC said and explained exactly what I had been talking to myself about. After the conversation I felt a great sense of relief. I knew, no matter how alone I felt, how distressed I got, DC was there for me.


I realized I was blessed to have a guy like DC in my corner.


College Guys. Working with these guys I see and hear a good deal. There’s “Toby Three Thumbs”. He has an extra thumb growing out of his left thumb. Even has a nail growing on it. “Helps me in computer typing,” he told me. There’s “G” a guy that knows virtually everything about basketball, and “71/2 mile” who reminds me of Pig Pen from “Charlie Brown”.


Throw in Jeff, an Eminem knockoff, and Lafferty, a goofy kid who reminds me of Waldo. Every one of the remaining 37 guys is unique. A lot of them haven’t been in school in years. They can be needy, annoying and ignorant. Yet, I try everyday to help them.


I was suffering from a case of “why should I care more than them?” the other day. They had corporately ticked me off with their poor study habits, their whining and trying to cut corners. Meanwhile, Craig was teaching a remedial math class to five guys in danger of failing math, and I was designing a grammar review class to start in a week (these guys still don’t know a comma from a semicolon).


But, Wednesday I painfully watched these guys practice public speaking. Most broke out in beads of sweat. They stammered and stuttered and “um’d” their way through.


I told DC and Craig about it. These guys are so use to failure in school, so insecure, so afraid of ridicule. For all their puffing and tough talk, they really are the most fragile men I have ever met.


That realization helped recharge my batteries. I knew people outside of here may have given up on me, but in here I was the last chance some of these guys had to turn their lives around. My perspective on my work in here and myself changed. There is always someone who needs your help, no matter what your circumstances.


Courage. I’ve been giving courage a good deal of thought this week. The entire Middle East is in a state of chaos, despots being overthrown because a poor fruit vendor in Tunisia had finally hit his breaking point. On December 17th, after being run through the corrupt system of his police state life, being deprived of the opportunity to sell fruit, this young vendor, in a desperate act to reclaim his dignity, doused himself with gasoline and set himself aflame.


Within a day hundreds began protesting. Hundreds led to thousands. Thousands led to the Tunisian Government collapsing, the Mubarak regime in Egypt collapsing, Bahrain, Jordan and Yemen protests, and, as I write this, the final days of Gaddafi in Libya. One simple man who had had enough.


There’s another kind of courage I found this week as I read a beautiful piece about the Apostle Paul. The writer pointed out that as Paul approached his death he was abandoned by almost all his friends. He was imprisoned. When he appeared before the Roman court he noted in his letter to Timothy “No one supported me, but all deserted me.” Paul was lonely. He was going through a very trying situation and the people he thought loved him had left him.


The writer pointed out Paul was just like you and me. He wasn’t perfect; he had human weaknesses. He struggled with the discomforts and pain of prison life, the isolation.


But with all his being, he knew God was with him. He forgave those who abandoned him.


I’ve been mired in a good deal of self-pity and doubt these past few weeks. The last strands of hope I was clutching to were, it seems, torn away. But, as I read the writer’s story about Paul and a letter I received from a reader, I felt a sense of peace. I knew God was with me and this too would pass.


Another week went by. It was a week I will recall for a long time.