At Least This Isn't California

About a week ago, a riot broke out at California’s Folsom Prison (think “the Man in Black”, Johnny Cash) on a handball court. When it was over about 250 inmates were injured or charged with fighting. California has 155,000 men and women incarcerated in a system only built to house half that many. They are currently operating under a Federal Court order to release 40,000 inmates in the next 18 months to reduce their inmate population to 137% of bed capacity [Note: the inmate lawsuit over this issue took the Federal Courts 10 years to finally order the mass release. For eight years California operated under a consent order to either release or build more prisons. Oh yeah, they have a $19 billion budget shortfall so they can’t afford to build any new prisons.]



Things are so bad with California prison medical care that “Governor Aahnold” agreed by consent order to spend $150 million immediately to improve medical care for inmates when faced with “an alarmingly high rate of deaths of inmates due to poor care and suicide”.


At least Virginia doesn’t have the problems California has. Really? Last Friday, August 27th, one inmate was stabbed to death and three others seriously injured at the level 4 Nottoway Correction Center.


At Greensville, a massive 3,000 inmate prison holding level 2 and 3 inmates, since January two inmates have been murdered and one committed suicide. And, at Red Onion prison – the Commonwealth’s Super Max facility – two inmates have been murdered – by the same inmate.


But forget that. After all, those guys are felons. They deserve what happens to them (I wonder how many people dare say that while they’re sitting in their church pews on Sunday morning). Instead, think about the cost.


According to Virginia’s State Government website, there are approximately 38,900 inmates serving time in Virginia’s prisons. That does not include another 5,000 with DOC numbers awaiting transfer to a DOC facility who are sitting in regional jails, overcrowding them. The DOC website announces “fortunately, we don’t yet have an overcrowding problem”.


I guess it depends on how you define “overcrowding”. Having bunks sitting in fire lanes must not meet DOC’s definition of overcrowding. Having 200 inmates being watched by two officers must not meet their definition either. And, I guess being so understaffed that COs at Nottoway couldn’t search for “shanks” isn’t overcrowding, at least according to DOC’s spokesman, Larry Traylor.


Still not convinced, consider the other costs. As former Lt. Governor (and now head of Prison Ministries) Mark Earley recently said: “Virginia spends more than $1.1 billion annually on its prisons”. That’s more than is spent on education or healthcare in the Commonwealth.


Then there are the legal costs. In between filing lawsuits challenging the new federal health care plan, or going after a University of Virginia Professor who conducts research on global warming for fraud, Attorney General Ken Cuccinelli is responsible for defending DOC in a myriad of cases.


Each year, inmates file thousands of Habeas Corpus petitions in an attempt to get their sentences reviewed. Each case requires an Assistant Attorney General (and support staff) to defend the legitimacy of the incarceration.


Each year thousands of other suits are filed by inmates over violations of constitutional rights, such as religious freedom. Injured inmates or inmates denied adequate medical care sue.


Then, there are the major lawsuits brought by or on behalf of inmates. Currently, Troutman Sanders (a major Richmond law firm) is providing counsel to eleven inmates who have been denied parole (guys locked up pre-1994 are still parole eligible).


The National Lawyer’s Guild filed suit against DOC for refusing to allow inmates to order a legal self-help book. Prison Legal News filed a similar lawsuit over censorships of their paper, a monthly compilation of cases around the country involving inmates and prisons.


On September 2nd, U.S. District Court Judge James Turk, sitting in Roanoke, found “laughable” the Attorney General’s argument in an inmate censorship suit. In that case, the inmate sued because Augusta Correction Center refused him access, under Operating Procedure 803.2, to literary classics such as James Joyce’s Ulysses, DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Nabokov’s Lolita (all three books appear on various “100 Must Read Books”). The reason for denying access to these books according to the Attorney General? Inmates read these books for the sex scenes depicted in them, then “barter” the books for goods and services.


The Judge – not a bleeding heart, a no-nonsense conservative – found the policy unconstitutional censorship. DOC has dozens of rules that are selectively enforced and/or vague and nonsensical that lead to litigation. Imagine the dollars Virginia taxpayers spend just on legal costs alone. Add that to the $1.1 billion annual budget and you start talking about “real money”.


In this case, Virginia DOC is well on the road to copying its neighbor to the west. Soon Virginians will be able to paraphrase President Kennedy’s famous words. When it comes to prisons, Virginians can say: “Ich bin ein Californian”.

Convict Cable

Prison has cable and prisoners have TV’s. To a good many people, that will come as a surprise. Our prison here is on “Corrections Cable”. We get basic channels, bare minimum, and the inmates pay for it, not individually but with the “slush fund” the prison collects from overcharging on commissary (for a detailed explanation on the commissary and cable contracts read my previous post – “Contracts 101”).



TV watching is a prime past time in here. Inmates can buy a color TV (13 inch) through commissary for over $200. The TV is specially manufactured for prisoners. It’s made out of clear plastic so officers can see inside to make sure there’s no contraband stored in the case. The same TV in a catalog lists for $89.


You order your set, wait two weeks and then you walk across the compound to personal property and pick it up. The property officer puts “security” stickers around the case (stickers removed, you get an alteration charge) and engraves your name on the set to prevent theft. You also need to order a surge protector, coaxial cable (to hook your set up to cable) and a headset. Prison rules prohibit you from watching your set without headphones. After spending your $300 for the full “set up” you’re ready for TV.


Of the 96 bunks in this building, there are 92 individual sets. We get the four major networks (ABC, CBS, NBC and Fox). Then there are the specialty channels: CNN, TBS, TNT, CW, A & E, Univision (Spanish), PBS, Health Channel, ESPN & ESPN2, BET, Spike, and Lifetime.


The two “eye opening” prison experiences for me have been watching guys line up for ice cream on Tuesday nights and seeing all the sets tuned to Lifetime. There is something off kilter about guys sitting on their beds, eating butter pecan ice cream, intently watching “Army Wives” on Lifetime. To be fair, most guys watch Lifetime because the women are hot.


The other big channel is Spike. Spike is all bikinis, guns, cars and action movies. Two weeks ago, Stallone’s newest “Rambo” came on Spike. From the corner of the building, P or V or E (pick a letter; it’s someone’s name!) yelled out “Rambo on 10”. Within nanoseconds 50 sets turned to Spike.


You can spot the child molesters. They love cartoons (no joke) and avoid any show with bikinis (Spike had “Ms. Hooters” contest on a month ago, the “game guys” all had “You’ve Got Mail” on).


TV is really mind numbing. There are guys that lie in bed all day (except for meals and bathroom breaks) switching from “Jerry Springer” to “Wife Swap”. They know every channels programming schedule by heart. Their TVs remain on 24/7 except during “standing counts” (there are only 3 of these each day).


If you are shocked that prisons allow inmates to have TVs and cable, think of the alternative. 96 guys living on top of each other, many guys angry at the treatment they received in court, feeling wronged, pissed off at the world. Guys with kids put in bunks next to child molesters; Bloods next to Crips; and you hire two female COs to keep the peace. TV does more to keep the building quiet than 10 Cos could do.


I used to be a big TV guy before I got arrested. Now, I check the scores on ESPN at 5:30 in the morning and then the local news and headlines. With the exception of an hour a night, my TV is off. There are too many books to read, stories to write, crossword puzzles to work, law work to handle; to dull my mind with TV.


Don’t get me wrong, I love a couple of shows. Besides sports and news my “picks” for TV: any Gordon Ramsey cooking show; “The Mentalist”; “The Office” (Tuesday night 3 hours on TBS, just an FYI); “The Closer”, “Rizzoli and Isles”, and “House”. I’m just trying to keep my mind fresh to get through each day. Gotta go, “Big Brother” is coming on.

South of the Border

I’m locked up with a large number of Hispanic guys, the vast majority of whom came into the country illegally, worked their butts off pursuing the American dream, did something stupid in breaking the law, and are now serving sentences until they are deported. These guys came from Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador, Chile, Cuba, every Latin American country.



I’ve gotten to know a good many of these guys as a tutor in the Spanish class. I don’t speak a lot of Spanish (but I’m learning!), but between my poor Spanish and their poor English we communicate just fine. They are a close, tight group. When you make up about 10% of the inmate population you tend to stick together. I’m one of the few “Anglos” (Big S – a great soccer player – is anther Anglo tight with the guys) they hang with. As such, it’s given me some insight into these guys. I’ve also changed my mind about an issue dominating the headlines: illegal immigrants.


These guys – for the most part – are decent, and straight up. A high percentage of them are very active, practicing Christians. They treat everyone fairly and are honest. They tend to be more upfront about accepting responsibility for what they did and being remorseful. Oh yes, and almost to a man they love this country and wish they could stay.


Here’s my opinion on the current debate about the border and it will probably tick a lot of people off. My “people” came to this country before 1700 (at lease on my dad’s side). My grandmother was in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), so that makes me as native as they get (unless you count the Indians). The people yelling the most about the borders are the very ones whose families cut corners to get in the country. My mom’s dad came here with his parents from Italy. Do you have any idea how many thousands of Italians, or Irish, or Polish, lied, cheated and stole their way into this country through Ellis Island? This country was founded by people who risked life and limb for a chance at something better.


Don’t like my history lesson, try our belief in Judeo-Christian tenets. God told his chosen people – the Israelites – after giving them “the promised land” to remember their suffering and remember how God so loved them that He brought them out of bondage. God then tells Israel to treat the alien in your land, the foreigner in need, with kindness.


How about an economic argument. These people pay more in taxes than they take out in services. They work harder and longer than most Americans, at jobs most of us wouldn’t even consider. They buy houses and cars. They pick almost all the food we eat. They are this economies backbone and muscle.


You want to “send em all home”, go ahead. But it’s the business owners, the farmers, the contractors who hire them; the banks that write them mortgages; the military that allows them to enlist and die in Iraq and Afghanistan so our kids can go to expensive colleges.


Most of these guys know more about this country than the average citizen. Here’s the other thing I discovered. The courts treat them unfairly. Public defenders convince them to take a plea – many times they don’t even understand what they’re pleading guilty to or the consequences of their plea. The U.S. Supreme Court just tackled this issue in its past term in Padilla v. Kentucky which requires lawyers to advise immigrants on the effect their guilty plea will have on their deportation status.


My experience in here has taught me there is no simple solution to the issue of immigration. It’s also taught me you can’t lump everyone together. Cases in point:


“Douglas” – one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met in my life. He came here in 1992 from Mexico, served in the Air Force for 6 years, bought a house, became a master framer, became a naturalized citizen, and moved his parents up here. He was making a good living when a “friend” asked him to translate in a business deal. The “friend” was selling crystal meth to an undercover cop. Douglas plead guilty, got five years, and now is in danger of having his citizenship revoked.


There’s Hector. He owns a restaurant in Fairfax and is here as a political refugee from El Salvador. He also had a drinking problem. On his third DUI, the court decided to send him to prison for 3 years; no accidents, just drunk driving. The day I was sentenced, the Judge (before giving me 30 years) sentenced a 22 year old man who drove drunk and had a wreck that killed his passenger to 2 years (apparently his life was worth a lot less than $2 million).


There’s Joker from Bolivia, a great basketball player; and Raul from Mexico – the best Spanish tutor at school; Batista and Miguel, Cuban immigrants. Miguel could be a pro boxer (bantam weight), Batista loves baseball. And, of course, there’s “Chili” from . . . you guessed it. He is hilarious and he doesn’t mean to be. The other day a guy called him “goober”. He didn’t know what it meant. We explained it the best we could. Finally, Chili figured it out and paraded up and down the aisle calling the same guy “goooo. . .bre”.


Chili is also the potato guy in the kitchen. We call him “Senor Papas” because he’ll come back and complain about making potato salad: “sum beesh; 18 sacks papas; chop, chop, chop; sum beesh!”


There’s also Rodriguez. He’s pond scum. He ran hustles on all the Hispanic guys when they first came in. He wears dark glasses 24 hours a day – that’s right, when he sleeps, showers, you name it. He can’t work or go to school because he refuses to take the glasses off. He and I got into it. He tried to “hire” me to handle his case. I refused. He called me “Gringo”. No legal help, his case fell apart.


I’m opposed to blanket deportations; I’ll make an exception for Rodriguez!

Contracts 101

Every first year law student learns about contracts. You learn about “offer” and “acceptance” and “consideration”. Unfortunately, everything you learn about contracts gets thrown out the window when a governmental agency is involved.



Inmates become very familiar with DOC’s contracting skills. Just looking at the costs, terms, and limitations makes you think someone at DOC is either getting kickbacks or is a complete moron.


Take the following examples of government contracting impotence:


Corrections Cable. DOC signed a contract with an outfit from Texas called Corrections Cable to provide cable TV service to DOC facilities. First, its not cable. The channels are fed to the prison by satellite. Second, service standards are terrible. Channels go out every day. Third (and most important) it is more expensive than either cable or satellite service through local providers in the facility’s area.


DOC’s contract is a cash cow for Corrections Cable. The cost is high, the channel choice low (16 channels versus 40 on the local providers basic cable package at a lower cost) and the service stinks.


Why would DOC spend more for less? Easy. The money used to pay for cable comes from the “inmate commissary fund” which is the money DOC is paid by Keefe – the commissary provider – for the privilege of exclusively gouging inmates, which leads to:


Keefe Commissary. Keefe is the Goliath of the prison commissary business. Tom Keefe had an idea years ago. He convinced Florida DOC he could provide plastic orange juice containers cheaper than they could buy them. From that grew his billion dollar business.


Inmates do not have a constitutional right to commissary; that is a fact. When inmates complain about the cost of a ramen noodle pack (10 cents at Wal-Mart, 28 cents here, 73 cents at Henrico Jail) it generally falls on deaf ears. Commissary is a necessity, however, because it allows DOC to not meet its obligations to the health and hygiene – and food needs – of the inmate population.


Any inmate who works is required to purchase their own hygiene products (soap, deodorant, detergent, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor). Don’t work, don’t earn good time. Prisons are required to provide hygiene products. They avoid this responsibility by making inmates buy their own from their wages.


That’s OK, except DOC then signs a contract with Keefe giving them an exclusive right to sell all food, clothing (extra t-shirts, boxers, socks – we only are provided three sets), and hygiene products (and TVs and other approved electronics). Keefe, then charges an exorbitantly high price for those items ($1.61 for a 4 oz. bag of tuna; $229 for a 13 inch color TV), gouging inmates. Keefe pays DOC –the local prison – a 15% “commissary fee” which the prison then uses to fund: the inmate law library (inmates have a constitutional right to access legal materials); inmate rec yards (again, inmates have a right to recreation time); cable TV; and – a unique Virginia practice – the chaplain’s office (a non-profit group in Virginia: “Prison Chaplain Assoc.” gets $600,000 a year from the inmate fund to provide Protestant chaplains in the facilities. Catholic, Jewish, and Muslim inmates have no on-site spiritual counselor. Of course, the chaplain here is terrible so no one has spiritual support!).


J.E.M. Jones Express Music of Big Stone Gap, Virginia. Mr. Jones is a former CO. He convinced DOC he could provide audio CD’s and cassettes to inmates from his basement. He is a middleman. You want a Rolling Stones CD? Lady Gaga? Look in Mr. Jones’ catalog. Send him twice the amount you would pay ordering the CD from Barnes & Noble (ironically, we can order books from B & N) plus shipping and, if you’re lucky, Mr. Jones sends you your CD in two to three weeks.


Mr. Jones has little, if any inventory. Mr. Jones has tremendous mark up and poor service. “What does Mr. Jones have”, you ask? That’s easy. He has contacts in DOC and that’s enough to give him an exclusive contract.


You may be thinking “So what? It only affects you law breakers”. Wrong. Think: VCE.


Virginia Correction Enterprises. Every prison has a VCE shop that manufactures products sold to other Virginia State Agencies. Inmates are paid “slave wages”. The 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution outlawed slavery except involving inmate work (look at the language).


Here, VCE builds furniture – upholstered chairs and tables. Skilled VCE workers are paid between 55 and 75 cents an hour.


State Colleges and agencies are required to buy from VCE. That dorm furniture your son or daughter is using was manufactured here.


Here’s the irony for taxpayers: VCE significantly marks up their prices. One conference room chair costs more than four similar chairs purchased on the open market (I have friends in higher ed who confirm this).


So DOC makes a chair for $50 and sells it to State U for $800. Those costs are passed on to parents as higher tuition and taxpayers as schools demand more funding.


Welcome to DOC contracts.

Shakedown

My bunkmate suffered through a shakedown yesterday. It’s a part of prison life, but it’s never pleasant. By the time the shakedown is completed, everything you possess is rifled through. He had been pretty well stocked with stuff. When they finished going through everything in his foot locker, wall locker, in and under his bed, they had filled a trash bag. As the Deltas screamed in Animal House “they even took stuff he didn’t steal.”



Why’d they shake him down? Great question. Here is a basic truth about prison life: prison discipline couldn’t exist without inmate snitches. There is nothing worse in prison than being labeled a “snitch” – a guy who will rat out fellow inmates to curry favor with the administration.


Snitches are hated and feared because they can bring unnecessary heat on you from the investigators. And, many times they provide their information “anonymously”. A note will be slid under the sergeant’s door and within an hour or so; the investigators – decked out in blue surgical gloves – appear and begin the process of reminding you you have zero privacy or freedom while locked up.


Most “police work” done in prison is based on information provided by snitches. Here’s the weird thing (though you probably expect this already), snitch tips are very unreliable. Most times a note ends up dropped, it is because an inmate is “beefin” (fighting with) another inmate. Why get in a fight with a guy when instead you can just “drop a note” and bring heat on him?


That’s what it looks like happened to my bunkmate. He ticked off the wrong person and here came the investigators. And, the shakedown was intense. They tore through his stuff like they were looking for something specific. This shakedown wasn’t about brownie mix, pizza dough or eggs (he just bought 8 fresh eggs from a guy in the kitchen. He had arranged for broccoli and onions to come in so I could make him a quiche with a Ritz cracker crust). All his food, his spices and sauces, anything he didn’t pay for is gone.


That may not be the end of it. He could get a charge. There are two levels of charges: 100 level and 200 level. 100 level charges are serious: fighting, escape, and stealing to name a few. You get charged with a 100 level offense and you go to the “hole” (solitary), lose your job, get thrown out of school and possibly face actual criminal charges and get your security level increased (meaning they move you to a higher level prison). 200 level charges are more like demerits: contraband is the most often cited (and anything not issued to you or bought by you is contraband). Level 200 charges involve loss of privileges: no rec or commissary for 30 days, or fines ($6.00 or $12.00).


Here’s the thing: every inmate could be written a contraband charge every single day they’re locked up. We all have bowls, or books, or pens, or shirts we didn’t pay for or have issued to us. The CO’s don’t care. Guys having a few extras helps keep thing running smoothly. What they care about is when guys start stealing in bulk from the kitchen and putting it out there that they’re living above everyone else.


I suspect that’s what happened here. My bunkmate’s been running his mouth about how much stuff he had and how no one could catch him. Pride is a terrible affliction and the only treatment sometimes is a big dose of humility. He’s going through that right now.


Meanwhile, everyone’s paranoid about the source of the shakedown. That’s the effect snitches have on this environment. Yet, for all the talk about guys hating snitches, most guys in prison would rat out another inmate in a heart beat. Loyalty is much stronger on the street. Case in point, Big S and I are about the only two guys in here who didn’t “name names” when we were arrested. Neither of us wanted to cause trouble for anyone else.


So, Big S and I keep our lockers clean. And my bunkmate? He’s been talking a good deal to the CO‘s.

Secrets

I’ve been helping an older inmate get his conviction overturned. Late last week the Federal Court in Richmond agreed with me and returned his case to the local Virginia Circuit Court so he can appeal his conviction (his conviction stands, but his appeal rights were reinstated).



Why? Because his appellate attorney was recently disbarred for neglecting cases, letting pleadings go unanswered and failing to note appeals. His appellate attorney suffered from depression and alcoholism that impaired his ability to properly handle his cases.


I don’t know if this inmate is guilty. I do know his attorney’s inability to face up to the secrets he carried cost him his chance to have his appeal heard.


Secrets. We all have them; we all know them. I’ve thought a great deal about the secrets I carried, many for a long time. I’ve concluded, after much reflection, that secrets end up poisoning our soul. In the light of day, nothing is so bad that it needs to be hidden. No matter how painful, light eventually heals. Secrets on the other hand fester and poison, not only ourselves, but our relationships.


I learned years ago that my grandmother thought I made a mistake marrying my wife. She thought my wife was too demanding, to self-directed and I was the one putting my education, my career on the back burner.


Ironically, I held that inside and conceded each and every decision to my wife. In hindsight, perhaps Lucy knew best. Perhaps I should have told my wife as partners we both needed to be willing to compromise. I didn’t do it out of fear my wife would be angry and think she was a great compromiser. Our relationship would have been better served by me “manning up”.


There were dozens of times I came home and found my wife deeply hurt by remarks made by my mother. I knew how my mom was/is. She says whatever pops in her head and is cutting, blunt, and down right mean at times. I’ve lived with that my entire life and dealt with it by ignoring her venomous tongue. I held in my personal frustration with my mom from my wife; I held my wife’s hurt from my mom. Ultimately, I did nothing and the same behavior continued.


I’ve realized over the past two years how many secrets I held. I know which friends of ours were having problems, which husbands were cheating. My silence ended up serving as acquiescence.


I knew at work everyone’s cheating, everyone’s lies. I knew the financial irregularities, the “shell game” the senior management team played for years as the company I worked for came dangerously close to failure. Early on, I seriously considered “laying it all out there”. I decided to do so now would be because I was angry at those folks for wanting me to bleed and suffer with a long prison sentence.


I held secrets. I never told my wife how I needed her to be more affectionate and loving. I never addressed the baggage I carried from my family; I never told my wife what I needed, what I longed for. Instead, I tried to be the person that would get me what I wanted.


I’ve concluded that love – real love – can handle any need, any failure. Ultimately, holding a secret in poisons you. You end up acting in a way that keeps the secret hidden, but tries to get you what you desire. You can’t have it both ways.


Secrets end up coming out. Every day some Congressional hearing discloses another secret kept from the public. Everyday the paper and the news lead with some famous person caught up in a secret, whether it’s Republican strategist Ken Mehlman being outed as gay, or Roger Clemens using steroids.


As I’ve written before, nothing hurt me as much as my wife telling me “I haven’t loved you for years”. It will take me years to heal from that, just as it will take her years to recover from learning of my secret stealing.


I wish I could go back and replay it all. There’d be no secrets.

Loudon 9:4

I have four favorite recording artists: Bob Dylan; Van Morrison; John Prine; and a little known folk singer named Loudon Wainwright, III. If you’ve ever seen the Sandra Bullock movie “28 days”, you’ve seen him. He played another patient in rehab with Bullock’s character.



The thing I like about these four guys is the lyrics they write. I was in the delivery room when both my sons were born. As I held each, moments after their birth, I leaned down and softly sang Dylan’s “Forever Young” to them.


I danced with my wife on our deck the night our eldest graduated high school. It was dark, the moon was full, and I held her in my arms and danced to Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey”. I heard John Prine sing “Angel from Montgomery” close to a thousand times. His words “if dreams were lightin, thunder was desire, this old house would have burned down a long time ago” played over and over in my head.


Loudon’s music was with me since college in 1977. I had his albums (I’m giving my age away!) and heard him sing “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road” and “Rufus is a Tit Man” (a funny ballad about his son breast feeding). No song of Loudon Wainwright’s resonated more with me than “Unhappy Anniversary”, a ballad he wrote about his divorce.


On September 4th last year the Henrico County Circuit Court entered our final decree for divorce. It was entered exactly 29 years to the day of our first date. It came only 85 days before our 28th wedding anniversary. I was devastated by the divorce. In truth, however, the reasons behind it – my wife deciding to end our relationship because of my crime; her statement “I haven’t loved you for a long time”, my awkward attempts to “make her love me” – revealed more to me about the strength (or lack thereof) of our marriage than I was ever willing to admit.


Still, with the 4th just days away, I miss her terribly, still love her, and yes, wish our marriage hadn’t failed. I’ve learned a great deal this past year about relationships.


First, more than anything, love matters most in those moments of failure, trial or loss. We all screw up; we all hurt each other, and even put ourselves ahead of others. Yes, sometime we commit crimes, or suffer from addictions. But, when you love someone, truly love them; it’s for the long haul.


Second, if you love someone, you forgive them without condition. That doesn’t mean the hurt that person caused you magically goes away. It does mean you forgive, and the bond between you remains, in spite of the hurt.


I believe in true love. I know it exists. I also know it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s loud and you can’t stand the other person as you argue and bicker. But, you love them anyway.


There is definitely such a thing as soulmates. Without your soulmate you feel a part of you is missing.


The strange thing about these past two years is, I’ve discovered I’m a very good, strong person. Prison can’t break me. I feel better, more alive, more appreciative and empathetic for people than I ever have in my life. But, the pain I feel over the end of my marriage, the loss of my soulmate, the separation from my sons, tears at my innermost core.


My friend, Big S, and I were talking the other day. He asked me what I would do, what would I say, if she ever came for a visit or wrote me. I told him I wasn’t really sure. I’d probably just look at her blue eyes, tell her I love her and hope she’s doing well, and tell her I miss her and I’m sorry, sorry the way we ended.


People sometimes tell me I’m spending too much time grieving the loss of her. I tell them I’ve only spent 2 years locked up, but over 28 with her.


So, I run and recite Isaiah 40 over and over. And, somewhere back in the recesses of my brain I hear Loudon Wainwright sing, and I can’t help but wish things were different.


Unhappy anniversary, one year since we split
I walk and talk and get around
Lie down, stand up and sit
I eat and drink and smoke a lot
And live a little bit
Unhappy anniversary, one year since we split.


Unhappy anniversary, ten years since we met
There is no need to remind you
Or way I could forget
We fell in love and then fell out
Both times there was no net
Unhappy anniversary, ten years since we met.


Unhappy anniversary, I cannot count the days
My mind thinks back to happy times
Before you went away
I tell my mind to forget you
But my heart it disobeys
Unhappy anniversary, I cannot count the days.