May 1955

They were both young, very young by our standards. He was just shy of his 22^nd birthday, tall – 6’2”, and reed thin, barely 165, with wavy brown hair. She was petite, 5’2” or 3”, maybe 105 lbs. with auburn hair worn the way girls her age – just 20 – wore it then. It was their wedding day and he wore a white tuxedo jacket; she had on a white lace wedding dress. And the sun shone with them standing in front of the grayish-white stone church and the photographer snapped the photo, and they looked like they really weren’t sure what they were doing. That’s just the way it was back then.

            The church had more history than they did. The church was there before the country declared its independence from England. George Washington and his bedraggled group more commonly known as the Continental army had stayed on the church grounds during the 1776 New Jersey campaign. Author James Fenimore Cooper had visited the church cemetery to see the final resting place of the last Mohican who is buried there. None of that mattered on that sunny May Saturday in 1955. It was there, on that day that they took vows to each other. It was there their lives were inalterably entwined.

            I see their picture in my mind’s eye everyday. That young couple is my parents. This year, in a few short weeks, they’ll celebrate 59 years of marriage. They have buried parents and one of their sons. They sat silently in court while their other son was sentenced to prison. They have known joys, like holding their grandchildren for the first time, and disappointment and heartache I can only now begin to appreciate. Through it all there was always the two of them; no matter what, no matter how difficult or discouraging, just the two of them.

            A woman who recently came across my musing on the blog asked me if it was difficult being so candid with what I wrote most weeks. It causes me trouble sometimes I told her. Like when the gang leader’s sister came across the blog and visited him and asked why he was still “in the life.” Honesty is a funny thing. We all say we want honesty, but we really don’t. One of the most profound things I ever read was this:

            “Acknowledging the fragmentation of my life is the single most painful and difficult admission I’ve ever made. It’s also the most freeing and hopeful thing I’ve ever spoken about myself.”

            Like the writer of those words, I had to accept the reality of my broken, flawed life to start living new. It was in honestly assessing myself that I knew I didn’t have to be perfect. It was at that point that I understood what the Psalmist meant when he said, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” I’ve thought about that a lot as I have thought about her and her remarriage and my failure as a husband, and our failure as a couple.

            In my youthful arrogance I thought my mother and father knew nothing of love, and emotion, and intimacy. I was a fool. I knew nothing of the responsibility real love entailed.

            I remember the exact moment I met her, what she wore, how she smiled at me, how my heart skipped a beat. I knew that night I wanted to be with her. I said “forever.” Looking back, I know I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t willing to surrender I for we … and neither was she.

            I read a piece by an older minister. He wrote, “In the end, marriage is a crucifixion, and you’re not meant to survive it. Rather, this life you’ve been given with another human is meant to transform you – to raise you to new life as you die to self and ego. No, it isn’t easy. It’s messy, and difficult, and at times unpredictable. But then again, what isn’t?

            All those years together and never once did we say, what is best for us? It was her dreams and her career and my acquiescence and then my subterfuge to make up for my disappointment. It was always he and she and never we. It was a pattern, a roadmap that led to our ending. And those vows we shared, no one “really” means them, do they?

            Then there are my parents, a couple I laughed at for idiosyncrasies and bickering and annoying way they’d kiss before they would head in different directions. And I hear my mother tell me, “our life hasn’t been easy, but we stuck it out. We did this together.” She says that and I am both awestruck and ashamed because I failed so miserably.

            59 years. They’re sailing the Mediterranean this fall. And she is remarrying a “nice” man; saying the same words she said to me all those years ago, the same words my parents said in ’55. Do you ever get over the heartbreak and the failure? The Psalmist says you do. I’ll take him at his word. It’s May 1955, and I see that picture in my mind’s eye and I wish she knew the pain and loss I feel; and I wish I knew what my parents know.

This Past Week

Every week in here the monotony somehow gets broken up by slightly off-kilter conversations and events.  Opie has developed a strange habit of not going outside (avoiding rec) except on weekends.  He bought into the prison logic that the more you sleep, the quicker your “bid” goes by.

This past week temperatures hit the century mark (with a heat index topping 106).  I went out and had a leisurely run and Opie, he decided to forgo his sleep regimen that day and “get a little sun”.  You guessed it – Opie got sunburned.

Now Opie is a big, muscular kid.  He’s a kid who grew up in the prison system.  He’s been in fistfights, beaten with locks, belts, and shanked (stabbed) twice while locked up.  But, when it comes to things like colds and sunburn he is, well, he is a little kid.  All day yesterday he whined and moaned “my sunburn hurts”.  He tried to go to medical even filing an emergency grievance to “get some salve.  I’m in pain damn it!”  But, his request was turned down (most emergency med requests are turned down.  “It isn’t life threatening.”)

So Opie has sunburn.  He’s been locked up, disrespected, beaten, stabbed, ignored, had good time taken away and he never batted an eye.  But his red chest – the world was coming to an end. ____________________________________________________________________

Against the backdrop of Opie’s sunburn, there was Paulie’s legitimate med emergency.  Paulie’s an ex-marine:  two tours in Iraq; was in Fallujah during the “bad run”.  Paulie’s doing four years on some ridiculous grand larceny case and a prescription pill addiction.  He’s mid-twenties and he has bleeding ulcers.

The other night – 2:00 am – Paulie collapsed in his cut, coughing up blood.  Medical was called and he was wheeled out and transported to the hospital.  Two days later he was back.  “I’m on a bland diet”, he told me (who isn’t?).  I only have a year left.  They said I can get it fixed better when I get out.”  That is prison medical care.  Lock people up, push pills rather than proper treatment, and put band aids on serious problems.  Medical costs are skyrocketing in prisons.  The solution is, let the non-dangerous inmates go.  That, it seems, is too obvious.

______________________________________________________________________

The dorm political debate the past week focused on New York State passing a law recognizing gay marriage.  Prison is a funny place.  Guys are in here – many back for a second and third visit – and rules don’t matter to them.  Except when it comes to homosexuality.  Then, everyone (well, almost everyone) becomes a member of Focus on the Family.

There is a well-defined group of gays in prison and they are extremely flamboyant.  The dirty little secret is they all have boyfriends.  Associating with gay inmates is almost as bad as being a snitch – except for gang leaders.  Then, it’s business (they serve as “mules” – sneak contraband in).  There is this fear that permeates the general population that these “she men” can turn you.  It’s a clear lack of understanding about human sexuality and your own sexual orientation.  It also helps explain – in part – the ultra testosterone charge guys exhibit in here.  Every compliment has to include the catch phrase “no homo”. 

So, New York passed same sex marriage and the dorm went nuts.  “It’s disgusting.”  It’s immoral.”  “It’s against God’s law” (funny, so is murder, theft, tattoos).  “The children suffer.”

The irony isn’t lost on me.  The guys most upset are the ones who routinely talk about the four babies’ mommas they “ain’t payin’ to support”.  Having multiple offspring by multiple unwed partners is somehow better than two people in love raising a child when the two are the same sex.

A couple of guys asked my opinion.  I’ve changed.  I used to be anti-gay marriage.  I thought marriage vows were sacred; that the mystery of God’s love for us was expressed in a man and woman pledging fidelity and love “no matter what”.  Then, I felt the pain of rejection.  Those vows – always a loophole available.  Marriage is the ultimate commitment.  You lay everything on the line for your spouse because God lays everything on the line for us.  Unfortunately, the vast majority of us are too self-centered and too unwilling to go through the valleys – “the worse” – and bail when the “betters” dry up.  Commitment and love aren’t defined by your sexual orientation.

I reminded the guys of a U.S. Supreme Court case from the 1960’s.  It overturned a Virginia law that made it illegal for blacks and whites to marry.  It seems to me we’d do better focusing on love and commitment and less on how people look.

The last three years I’ve come to some startling revelations about myself.  One that I think about quite regularly is that I was a racist.  I know, we’re all a little racist.  But being a minority in prison has opened my eyes.  White Americans don’t know how tough it is to be a young, black man in America.  Here’s a simple truth:  blacks account for 12% of the population and close to 60% of the inmates.  Yet, drug use in the black community and white community is at the same level.  Fact is, if you’re a young, black male chances are a criminal charge will land you in prison.  The same can’t be said for white kids.

There are a lot of reasons for this discrepancy.  I don’t think the law intends to be racially biased.  I think it just happens.  You have a young, poor, black kid and he gets an overworked public defender or worse, a court appointed lawyer who just wants to get the file closed.  So deals are made, corners cut, and these guys come to prison in record numbers.

In my last three years I’ve been treated with deep respect by young, black men whom prior to this experience I would have shunned.  I have developed friendships with guys like DC, and Ty, and Saleem; men from world’s far removed from mine.

Will we ever be able to not see color? I’m not sure.  You can’t help but notice when someone looks differently.  But, it took prison for me to realize people are all pretty much alike.  We all really just want to be loved and appreciated.  We’re more alike than different.

Randy – the workout guru – had 31, mostly young, guys on the rec yard this morning working out.  Lunges, sprints, calisthenics; on and on they went through this routine.

I was jogging on my own, stopping for reps of dips and pull-ups and some interval sprints.

Later in the day, Randy stopped by my cut, cup of coffee in hand.  He’d just returned from the watch commander’s office.  Seems the tower witnessed his group workout.  Prisons hate crowds.  No groups of inmates numbering over four are allowed to congregate unless it’s an organized church service or program.  It is a series 100 charge (and you will get shipped to max security) for an inmate to organize any work stoppage or protest (ironic huh, in the “land of the free”).

Fortunately for Randy, the watch commander knows he’s just leading a workout.  Things that you take for granted outside are a big deal in here, like who you hang out with.

I’ve got a whole group of guys hooked on “House”.  Frankly, it’s probably the best written show on TV.

Two things from recent episodes.  A friend sarcastically told House “so the great Doctor House doesn’t deserve to be happy?”  He’d been beating himself up for decisions he’d made, relationships that ended.  His friend was right.  House deserved better.  Not everything was his fault.  I understood that.  I’ve dealt with a lot these past three years and beat the hell out of myself for everything.  I made a good many mistakes, but I’m a decent, loving guy.  As Big S and a lawyer buddy from the street have told me, I deserve better.  And I’ll get it eventually.
Lastly, I rewatched the House episode where his love, “Cuddy” broke up with him.  She couldn’t stay with him after learning he’d slipped and taken Vicodin again (House, you see is not just a brilliant, sarcastic doctor; he’s also addicted to prescription pain pills).

House begged Cuddy “don’t do this to us.  I’m doing the best I can.”  Her reply, “that’s not enough”.  Not enough.  I felt those words.  Love, even when you’re broken, is supposed to be enough.

My friend Craig told me his closest friend from the street let him know he was going through a divorce.  “Larry, he’s one of the nicest guys in the world.  She came home, told him she met and fell in love with someone else and she didn’t love him anymore.”  I told Craig my divorce weighs on me more than anything.  There was, frankly, no loss, no pain that hurt more.

“That’s not enough”.  Sad, searing words.  Damn fine writing.

GED tests are being given this coming Wednesday and Thursday to those students who earned passing scores on our recent placement testing.  Three of my guys are going for their GEDs.  One – Hayward – I’m thrilled for.  I met Hayward my first day working at the school in December 2009.  He’d had no success in school or with tutors during his bid.  Reading and math were at third grade levels.  Yet, he is an amazing artist.  He uses a pencil in both hands writing words and math problems with both simultaneously.

In one of those weird things that only can happen in a place like this, we hit it off.  He started improving, gradually at first.  Last week’s placement test results confirmed what I’d been seeing:  he was high school grad material.

Guys in here occasionally ask me why I work so hard and smile so much.  All I needed to keep motivated was the look on Hayward’s face when he realized he succeeded.