A friend of my mother’s – “Ms. Pat” – has been steadfastly writing me for the last year and a half. She and her husband are longtime friends of my parents. We attended the same church when I was growing up. They still reside in the same home they lived in back in the ‘70’s. I remember one Christmas, shortly after we married, I took my new bride to a party at their home. During my time in prison, I’ve thought often of how beautiful my wife looked that night.
Ms. Pat is an 80 year old woman of deep faith and conviction. More importantly, she practices what she preaches. She is very open about her own failures and shortcomings. She is also very forgiving.
Anyway, she writes quite regularly. I enjoy her letters. They usually contain a card with a Bible verse that is exactly what I need to see at that particular moment. There are newspaper clippings about prison fellowship programs, song lyrics, poems and prayers. Many of these find their way to get taped up in my locker.
Two days ago I received another mailing from Ms. Pat. Included in the envelope was a prayer written by the 20th century German Theologian DietrichBonhoeffer. He wrote this prayer as he awaited execution in a concentration camp. He was imprisoned and eventually executed by the Nazis for daring to speak out against Hitler. His faith, he argued, compelled him to confront evil.
He was a solitary man who agonized and prayed, trying to decide what his moral obligation was. Should he speak out against the government? In the end, he followed the guiding principles of his faith in God. At the age of 39, he lost his life, but kept his faith.
On Waking in Prison
O God, early in the morning I cry to You;
Help me to pray
And to concentrate my thoughts on You;
I cannot do this alone.
In me there is darkness,
But with You there is light;
I am lonely, but You do not leave me;
I am feeble in heart, but with You there is help;
I am restless, but with You there is peace.
With me there is bitterness, but with You there is patience;
I do not understand Your ways,
But You know the way for me.
There is no one I’ve met who is being held as a prisoner of conscience. In fact, most of us in here did, in fact, break the law. But Christians, at least, would do well to read the Gospels of Paul’s Epistles. There are numerous references to those in prison and none of those says “this doesn’t apply if the prisoner is guilty.”
In Matthew 25, Jesus speaks of the Lord separating the flock. “The Lord said ‘I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me’. Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord when did we see You?’ And the Lord said ‘to the extent that you did it to one of these, you did it to Me.”
The righteous gain eternal life. The others, eternal punishment.
Bonhoeffer’s prayer is profound testament to the feelings of despair, loneliness, isolation and fear that every imprisoned person feels. But, it is also a powerful reminder that no matter what a man did, God is with him in prison if he calls out.
People may not like hearing this, but we are all created in His image and He requires us to be loving, be forgiving, be merciful and just.
Visit someone in prison. Make a difference in that person’s life. Be a beacon of God’s light. The life you save may be your own.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Legally Speaking
I spend hours each week in the prison law library, every Monday to Thursday evening, 6:30 to 8:30 pm; writing, typing, researching the law to help other inmates with a variety of legal issues. From divorce to name changes to complicated legal arguments on constitutional law involving evidence, convictions, and prisoner rights, I run a solo underground law practice. I am the prison’s legal aid clinic. I try not to say “no” to anyone posing a legal question. I’ll show any man at least the courtesy and respect to hear them tell of their legal concerns.
As I’ve written before, the law library here doesn’t amount to much. Outdated books line the shelves (the set of Virginia Codes hasn’t been updated since 1998). There is only one research computer, with CD case and statue information, that is only updated semi-annually. Four antiquated “Selectric” typewriters are spread around the room, a mere 10 ft by 10 ft block room that has seating for a maximum of five inmates.
In truth, the library fails to comply with the minimum required by the United States Constitution for inmate access to the courts.
Many inmates, already uneducated, abandoned and discouraged by their circumstances, bemoan the law. They have no confidence in the American judicial system, a system that far too often is made up of incompetent attorneys and judges, and a prosecution bias to get revenge rather than find justice.
For me, however, the challenge of taking on “the bastards” under these conditions keeps me going night in and night out. I have a few “cards up my sleeve” that keep me going.
First, to almost every man here, I am “lawyer Larry”. Guys know I bust my butt to help them. Their confidence in me keeps me going.
Second, my cousin is an amazing researcher. Any case I need, any statute, study or legal article I can think of gets mailed in to me. Thanks to her and her husband I have a more update law library in my footlocker than the prison provides.
Third, I know how to type. Even on the old Selectrics. I can kick out almost 70 words a minute.
Fourth, they can throw me in prison, but they can’t take away all I learned as an undergraduate, in law school and practicing law and working in business. I know what cases say, I know what statutes mean.
And finally, I give a damn. Too often, guys get short-changed by both court appointed and hired lawyers who are too busy, too lazy, or too stupid to bother to properly prepare their cases for trial. They quickly agree to plea deals without adequately investigating the case or the ramifications of the plea.
With all that, I’m kept busy by the law. Here’s a legal primer on issues every inmate brings up.
I. Conditional Pardons. The Governor has the power to alter any criminal sentence as he sees fit. Inmates may apply every two years if turned down. The request goes through the office of the Secretary of the Commonwealth. You don’t have to be innocent to get a pardon. The Governor can convert your prison term to supervised probation if he wants.
II. Habeas Corpus. Under the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, a defendant has a right to “effective assistance of counsel”. Inmates file Petitions for Writs of “Hab” to get their convictions set aside and force the state to retry them.
It’s a difficult process. There are significant time limitations that trap many unsophisticated inmates. The law also presumes (1) that your attorney was effective [there are cases where lawyers were drunk or asleep during the trial and the courts held counsel was effective]; and (2) that the underlying trial, conviction and sentence were properly entered.
It’s a difficult process. Most lawyers don’t understand it, yet each day inmates representing themselves do legal battle with all the power the Virginia Attorney General’s office can muster. That any inmate can succeed under these conditions is amazing. That so many do is remarkable.
III. §1983 claims. Inmates are entitled to certain basic rights. The Constitution applies even in prison. Bad health care, corrupt officers, religious discrimination, censorship, all those issues are addressed by inmate suits under federal law. As I’ve previously written, this year DOC has taken a beating in Federal Court on a number of issues.
The bureaucracy of DOC is astounding. They pick fights and push issues that bear little rational relationship to their stated purpose, namely to house and rehabilitate incarcerated prisoners.
You would think a criminal justice institution would understand and properly apply the law. Sadly, that is not the case. §1983 suits continue to flourish and taxpayers continue to spend millions a year in legal fees and expenses to defend DOC in inmate suits seeking Constitutional protection.
Inmates file hundreds, even thousands of grievances, writs for legal redress, even crazy suits (one sought to have his social security number removed and be declared an unincorporated person; “they can’t imprison an unincorporated person”) in an attempt to either “get justice” or “stick it to the man”.
Legally speaking, men desperate for justice, men who feel the system isn’t fair, will try anything to be heard. So much money being wasted because the system is broken and corrupt; so much work for a lawyer.
As I’ve written before, the law library here doesn’t amount to much. Outdated books line the shelves (the set of Virginia Codes hasn’t been updated since 1998). There is only one research computer, with CD case and statue information, that is only updated semi-annually. Four antiquated “Selectric” typewriters are spread around the room, a mere 10 ft by 10 ft block room that has seating for a maximum of five inmates.
In truth, the library fails to comply with the minimum required by the United States Constitution for inmate access to the courts.
Many inmates, already uneducated, abandoned and discouraged by their circumstances, bemoan the law. They have no confidence in the American judicial system, a system that far too often is made up of incompetent attorneys and judges, and a prosecution bias to get revenge rather than find justice.
For me, however, the challenge of taking on “the bastards” under these conditions keeps me going night in and night out. I have a few “cards up my sleeve” that keep me going.
First, to almost every man here, I am “lawyer Larry”. Guys know I bust my butt to help them. Their confidence in me keeps me going.
Second, my cousin is an amazing researcher. Any case I need, any statute, study or legal article I can think of gets mailed in to me. Thanks to her and her husband I have a more update law library in my footlocker than the prison provides.
Third, I know how to type. Even on the old Selectrics. I can kick out almost 70 words a minute.
Fourth, they can throw me in prison, but they can’t take away all I learned as an undergraduate, in law school and practicing law and working in business. I know what cases say, I know what statutes mean.
And finally, I give a damn. Too often, guys get short-changed by both court appointed and hired lawyers who are too busy, too lazy, or too stupid to bother to properly prepare their cases for trial. They quickly agree to plea deals without adequately investigating the case or the ramifications of the plea.
With all that, I’m kept busy by the law. Here’s a legal primer on issues every inmate brings up.
I. Conditional Pardons. The Governor has the power to alter any criminal sentence as he sees fit. Inmates may apply every two years if turned down. The request goes through the office of the Secretary of the Commonwealth. You don’t have to be innocent to get a pardon. The Governor can convert your prison term to supervised probation if he wants.
II. Habeas Corpus. Under the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, a defendant has a right to “effective assistance of counsel”. Inmates file Petitions for Writs of “Hab” to get their convictions set aside and force the state to retry them.
It’s a difficult process. There are significant time limitations that trap many unsophisticated inmates. The law also presumes (1) that your attorney was effective [there are cases where lawyers were drunk or asleep during the trial and the courts held counsel was effective]; and (2) that the underlying trial, conviction and sentence were properly entered.
It’s a difficult process. Most lawyers don’t understand it, yet each day inmates representing themselves do legal battle with all the power the Virginia Attorney General’s office can muster. That any inmate can succeed under these conditions is amazing. That so many do is remarkable.
III. §1983 claims. Inmates are entitled to certain basic rights. The Constitution applies even in prison. Bad health care, corrupt officers, religious discrimination, censorship, all those issues are addressed by inmate suits under federal law. As I’ve previously written, this year DOC has taken a beating in Federal Court on a number of issues.
The bureaucracy of DOC is astounding. They pick fights and push issues that bear little rational relationship to their stated purpose, namely to house and rehabilitate incarcerated prisoners.
You would think a criminal justice institution would understand and properly apply the law. Sadly, that is not the case. §1983 suits continue to flourish and taxpayers continue to spend millions a year in legal fees and expenses to defend DOC in inmate suits seeking Constitutional protection.
Inmates file hundreds, even thousands of grievances, writs for legal redress, even crazy suits (one sought to have his social security number removed and be declared an unincorporated person; “they can’t imprison an unincorporated person”) in an attempt to either “get justice” or “stick it to the man”.
Legally speaking, men desperate for justice, men who feel the system isn’t fair, will try anything to be heard. So much money being wasted because the system is broken and corrupt; so much work for a lawyer.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Counting Blessings
This week, USA Today columnist Craig Wilson wrote an interesting essay about middle class Americans becoming so whiny. He wrote about passengers on the disabled Carnival Cruise ship remarking that they’d “been through hell”. Hell? They were “forced” to eat Pop Tarts and canned crabmeat. Their toilets wouldn’t flush for half a day.
Wilson pointed out that in Haiti; millions are still homeless from last January’s earthquake. Thousands more are suffering from cholera.
People in America, he concluded, have forgotten how good we have it. He’s right, you know. Even here I prison, I find myself so fortunate for my current circumstances. In my advanced writing class yesterday, one of my students – Ty – said the following:
“Young guys here who bitch don’t know how good they have it. At the real penitentiary you see stabbings and rapes every week, thefts and guys getting beat up every day. This place is comfortable.”
I’ve thought a good deal about Mr. Wilson’s and Ty’s comments. I realized how fortunate I really am – even in here. I just need to remind myself about all the blessings I receive, even in prison.
So, here’s my first ever “Thanksgiving in prison” list, a list of those things I’m truly thankful for.
I’m thankful that the three people who matter most to me, my two sons and my ex-wife, are healthy and doing well. As much as I pray for a miracle reconciliation, I pray more for their care, their health, their security, and their peace.
I’m thankful for my cousin and her husband. They have done more to sustain me these past two years than anyone else in my life. Prior to my arrest, I had only limited involvement with them. Yet, they found space in their heart for me. They listen, counsel, care and support me. I candidly must admit I couldn’t have gotten to this point in my prison experience without them.
I’m thankful for the friendships I’ve made. Big S is part son, part best friend. I have met men during this experience: Ty, Black, Jerry Lee, Powers, Briscoe and DC to name a few, who have taught me much about dignity and patience in the face of adversity.
Even as my friends from home fade away, friends who said “I’ll write” or “I’ll be out to see you soon”, fail to carry through, I’ve learned the real meaning of friendship and brotherhood.
I’m thankful I have my health, mentally, physically and spiritually. This compound has hundreds of inmates suffering from Hepatitis C, AIDS, diabetes, high blood pressure, and they, for the most part, are significantly younger than me. I turned 51 this past July. I have perfect blood pressure, perfect cholesterol, excellent sugar. My dental hygiene is perfect. I’ve kept my weight between 168 and 170. I run, I pray, I do yoga and meditate. I’ve been removed from medication. I am psychologically sound and mentally and spiritually more alive than I’ve been in years. Even in the midst of loneliness, this negative environment, this isolation and loss of so much, I have found hope and purpose.
I’m thankful that I know, finally, who I am. I understand why I made the decisions I did. I know I’m a good, kind man. I’ve made mistakes. I broke the law. I hurt deeply three people more important to me than life itself. But, I know the final chapter in my life has not yet been written. I have so much to give, so much to do. I wouldn’t have found that without this prison experience, and dealing with the pain of losing the love of my life and ultimately learning to forgive and understand my capacity to love and endure in spite of being hurt so deeply.
I have so much to be thankful for. I will always have my memories of marrying my wife, how I felt watching her walk down the aisle, how wonderful it felt the first time and so many other times when we made love. I will always see in my mind’s eye the birth of both of my sons, how I cradled them in my arms and softly sang to them.
I am so thankful that at my lowest, when all seemed lost, I decided to go on just one more day. God really does work in mysterious ways. So many people I’ve met along this path, so many eye opening, soul changing experiences would have been missed had I given up.
I’m not sure what the future holds. Each day I doubt more and more that my ex will ever speak to me, ever tell me she really did love me. Each day the likelihood of seeing, of hugging, my sons seems more distant. Yet, somehow I believe. I believe things will get better. I believe love and goodness do win out in the end.
It’s strange really to think of yourself as blessed while you’re sitting in a prison dormitory divorced, separated from your children, no home, no retirement, no one to say “I love you”. Yet, twice a day in prayer I say that. Truth is, I have more than so many others. I have, even in here, a blessed life.
Wilson pointed out that in Haiti; millions are still homeless from last January’s earthquake. Thousands more are suffering from cholera.
People in America, he concluded, have forgotten how good we have it. He’s right, you know. Even here I prison, I find myself so fortunate for my current circumstances. In my advanced writing class yesterday, one of my students – Ty – said the following:
“Young guys here who bitch don’t know how good they have it. At the real penitentiary you see stabbings and rapes every week, thefts and guys getting beat up every day. This place is comfortable.”
I’ve thought a good deal about Mr. Wilson’s and Ty’s comments. I realized how fortunate I really am – even in here. I just need to remind myself about all the blessings I receive, even in prison.
So, here’s my first ever “Thanksgiving in prison” list, a list of those things I’m truly thankful for.
I’m thankful that the three people who matter most to me, my two sons and my ex-wife, are healthy and doing well. As much as I pray for a miracle reconciliation, I pray more for their care, their health, their security, and their peace.
I’m thankful for my cousin and her husband. They have done more to sustain me these past two years than anyone else in my life. Prior to my arrest, I had only limited involvement with them. Yet, they found space in their heart for me. They listen, counsel, care and support me. I candidly must admit I couldn’t have gotten to this point in my prison experience without them.
I’m thankful for the friendships I’ve made. Big S is part son, part best friend. I have met men during this experience: Ty, Black, Jerry Lee, Powers, Briscoe and DC to name a few, who have taught me much about dignity and patience in the face of adversity.
Even as my friends from home fade away, friends who said “I’ll write” or “I’ll be out to see you soon”, fail to carry through, I’ve learned the real meaning of friendship and brotherhood.
I’m thankful I have my health, mentally, physically and spiritually. This compound has hundreds of inmates suffering from Hepatitis C, AIDS, diabetes, high blood pressure, and they, for the most part, are significantly younger than me. I turned 51 this past July. I have perfect blood pressure, perfect cholesterol, excellent sugar. My dental hygiene is perfect. I’ve kept my weight between 168 and 170. I run, I pray, I do yoga and meditate. I’ve been removed from medication. I am psychologically sound and mentally and spiritually more alive than I’ve been in years. Even in the midst of loneliness, this negative environment, this isolation and loss of so much, I have found hope and purpose.
I’m thankful that I know, finally, who I am. I understand why I made the decisions I did. I know I’m a good, kind man. I’ve made mistakes. I broke the law. I hurt deeply three people more important to me than life itself. But, I know the final chapter in my life has not yet been written. I have so much to give, so much to do. I wouldn’t have found that without this prison experience, and dealing with the pain of losing the love of my life and ultimately learning to forgive and understand my capacity to love and endure in spite of being hurt so deeply.
I have so much to be thankful for. I will always have my memories of marrying my wife, how I felt watching her walk down the aisle, how wonderful it felt the first time and so many other times when we made love. I will always see in my mind’s eye the birth of both of my sons, how I cradled them in my arms and softly sang to them.
I am so thankful that at my lowest, when all seemed lost, I decided to go on just one more day. God really does work in mysterious ways. So many people I’ve met along this path, so many eye opening, soul changing experiences would have been missed had I given up.
I’m not sure what the future holds. Each day I doubt more and more that my ex will ever speak to me, ever tell me she really did love me. Each day the likelihood of seeing, of hugging, my sons seems more distant. Yet, somehow I believe. I believe things will get better. I believe love and goodness do win out in the end.
It’s strange really to think of yourself as blessed while you’re sitting in a prison dormitory divorced, separated from your children, no home, no retirement, no one to say “I love you”. Yet, twice a day in prayer I say that. Truth is, I have more than so many others. I have, even in here, a blessed life.
Tiger Transfer
This week, Tiger Woods gave an interview to Newsweek Magazine that coincided with the one year anniversary of his infamous auto accident which led to his public humiliation and eventual divorce. The Tiger in the Newsweek interview is not the same brash arrogant man who dominated golf for the past few years. The “new” Tiger is introspective, wiser and sadder.
I understand Tiger’s words. I appreciate his pain and sadness. Though our lives are light years different, in a weird way we have a common bond that comes from the dramatic fall and loss we’ve both endured.
The other morning, I was called over the intercom by the officer in the booth. “A96, go to property.” I froze. Calls to property that early in the morning almost always mean one thing: “you need to pack up. You’re being transferred to another prison”.
I walked down to property and saw “Ms. H”, the on duty officer. “You called me?” I quietly asked.
“Got a book for you.”
“Whew. I thought you were moving me.”
“Honey. We ain’t sendin’ you anywhere. You’re too nice and helpful to get run from here.”
I went back to the building, new law book in hand (thanks cousin!) and headed to work.
At work I was pulled aside by the principal’s chief aide. “They’re starting a college dorm. ‘Ms. C’ wants you to be a dorm aide, help the guys with their studies, serve as a mentor. She respects the work you do with the men. She loves the way you’ve gotten the writing program going. Hell, everyone here respects you.”
I went back to the building and my friend “Black” pulled up beside me. “Lotta guys thought we were seeing the end of ‘lawyer Larry’. Guys were worried you were leaving. You’d be missed.”
Strange. It took public humiliation, scorn, ridicule, having my wife and sons abandon me, for me to get my head out of my butt and find the real me. I’ve realized over these past two years a great deal about myself. I was always helpful, but always extremely prideful and judgmental. I thought I knew everything I needed to know. I was so sure of myself, or so I pretended.
I learned during this struggle I came across as an arrogant “know it all” to mask the insecurities I felt. Funny, but I really never thought I was very good at much. I always had doubts about my wife’s love for me, my friends loyalty to me. I learned that many of my insecurities were well founded (which is rather ironic).
For the last few years before my arrest my wife would “suggest” we open eHarmony accounts, take the survey, to see if we were compatible. Candidly, her suggestion ticked me off. It reinforced all the negatives I felt about myself, that somehow, I wasn’t “just right” for her. I’m sure she’s now an active participant in a match making web service. She’ll search for a “perfect match”. But, she won’t find a perfect fit, a perfect match. She won’t find anyone who will just love her. She had that and she let it go.
As Tiger has found over his struggles the past year, he was never the man people thought he was before the accident. He’s a different, but real man, after.
There is a sense of inner peace that develops when you face the abyss, when all seems lost and you realize you are broken. Somehow at that moment you decide to go forward, to fight through the pain and be the person you were always meant to be.
I like the man I’ve become in prison. I’m kinder, less judgmental, more humble. I also know I deserve to be loved. I’ve realized I am a loving, giving person. I proved that to myself at my worst, at my lowest.
So, I’m respected and admired by this prison community. Given how my friends and wife and sons have left me, being told “you made a difference for me” by a guy in state blues isn’t all that bad.
The other day, the GED exam was given. I’d been working for months with a guy who, incidentally, lives in my building. For five years he’s been trying and failing to pass the GED exam. “I’ll never pass. I’m not book smart.” I refused to accept that. I cajoled him, praised him, gave him practice exams. I’m not sure why I put so much time in with him; I just thought it was worth it.
I walked into class yesterday afternoon. There was Jackson, standing beside “Ms. W”, beaming. “I passed!” The look on that man’s face was worth a month of loneliness and despair in here.
There’s a lot worse things you can do with your life than teach inmates while you serve your own prison sentence. We have a bad habit of judging each other, being a little too cocky and a little less loving than we should be.
There’s a Bible verse I think about quite frequently. In it, the Apostle Paul writes that we need to be kind to strangers. You never know when you’re in the presence of angels. He also instructs believers to remember and sustain those in prison. I’m one of those guys in prison. I meet an awful lot of unlovable, some downright nasty men in here (and they make me wonder exactly what an angel would look like!). There is a good deal of anger, despair, and loneliness in so many of these men. Hope, for so many, seems in short supply.
Somehow, I discovered, I matter to many of these guys who had decided to give up. In small ways, I’m making a difference.
My wife gave up on me, she thought our wedding vow was just, well, words. Friends quit on me. When I needed love & encouragement most, I was left. And still I found my way. Thanks to a group of guys most of society gave up on, I found the real me.
While I wish I wasn’t in here, while I wish I was still married with my sons and friends beside me, at least I know for these men in these circumstances I’m giving them hope. It’s not the same, but it’s OK.
Like Tiger, I’m a little wiser, a little sadder, a bit more humble, and I know the real man that I am.
I understand Tiger’s words. I appreciate his pain and sadness. Though our lives are light years different, in a weird way we have a common bond that comes from the dramatic fall and loss we’ve both endured.
The other morning, I was called over the intercom by the officer in the booth. “A96, go to property.” I froze. Calls to property that early in the morning almost always mean one thing: “you need to pack up. You’re being transferred to another prison”.
I walked down to property and saw “Ms. H”, the on duty officer. “You called me?” I quietly asked.
“Got a book for you.”
“Whew. I thought you were moving me.”
“Honey. We ain’t sendin’ you anywhere. You’re too nice and helpful to get run from here.”
I went back to the building, new law book in hand (thanks cousin!) and headed to work.
At work I was pulled aside by the principal’s chief aide. “They’re starting a college dorm. ‘Ms. C’ wants you to be a dorm aide, help the guys with their studies, serve as a mentor. She respects the work you do with the men. She loves the way you’ve gotten the writing program going. Hell, everyone here respects you.”
I went back to the building and my friend “Black” pulled up beside me. “Lotta guys thought we were seeing the end of ‘lawyer Larry’. Guys were worried you were leaving. You’d be missed.”
Strange. It took public humiliation, scorn, ridicule, having my wife and sons abandon me, for me to get my head out of my butt and find the real me. I’ve realized over these past two years a great deal about myself. I was always helpful, but always extremely prideful and judgmental. I thought I knew everything I needed to know. I was so sure of myself, or so I pretended.
I learned during this struggle I came across as an arrogant “know it all” to mask the insecurities I felt. Funny, but I really never thought I was very good at much. I always had doubts about my wife’s love for me, my friends loyalty to me. I learned that many of my insecurities were well founded (which is rather ironic).
For the last few years before my arrest my wife would “suggest” we open eHarmony accounts, take the survey, to see if we were compatible. Candidly, her suggestion ticked me off. It reinforced all the negatives I felt about myself, that somehow, I wasn’t “just right” for her. I’m sure she’s now an active participant in a match making web service. She’ll search for a “perfect match”. But, she won’t find a perfect fit, a perfect match. She won’t find anyone who will just love her. She had that and she let it go.
As Tiger has found over his struggles the past year, he was never the man people thought he was before the accident. He’s a different, but real man, after.
There is a sense of inner peace that develops when you face the abyss, when all seems lost and you realize you are broken. Somehow at that moment you decide to go forward, to fight through the pain and be the person you were always meant to be.
I like the man I’ve become in prison. I’m kinder, less judgmental, more humble. I also know I deserve to be loved. I’ve realized I am a loving, giving person. I proved that to myself at my worst, at my lowest.
So, I’m respected and admired by this prison community. Given how my friends and wife and sons have left me, being told “you made a difference for me” by a guy in state blues isn’t all that bad.
The other day, the GED exam was given. I’d been working for months with a guy who, incidentally, lives in my building. For five years he’s been trying and failing to pass the GED exam. “I’ll never pass. I’m not book smart.” I refused to accept that. I cajoled him, praised him, gave him practice exams. I’m not sure why I put so much time in with him; I just thought it was worth it.
I walked into class yesterday afternoon. There was Jackson, standing beside “Ms. W”, beaming. “I passed!” The look on that man’s face was worth a month of loneliness and despair in here.
There’s a lot worse things you can do with your life than teach inmates while you serve your own prison sentence. We have a bad habit of judging each other, being a little too cocky and a little less loving than we should be.
There’s a Bible verse I think about quite frequently. In it, the Apostle Paul writes that we need to be kind to strangers. You never know when you’re in the presence of angels. He also instructs believers to remember and sustain those in prison. I’m one of those guys in prison. I meet an awful lot of unlovable, some downright nasty men in here (and they make me wonder exactly what an angel would look like!). There is a good deal of anger, despair, and loneliness in so many of these men. Hope, for so many, seems in short supply.
Somehow, I discovered, I matter to many of these guys who had decided to give up. In small ways, I’m making a difference.
My wife gave up on me, she thought our wedding vow was just, well, words. Friends quit on me. When I needed love & encouragement most, I was left. And still I found my way. Thanks to a group of guys most of society gave up on, I found the real me.
While I wish I wasn’t in here, while I wish I was still married with my sons and friends beside me, at least I know for these men in these circumstances I’m giving them hope. It’s not the same, but it’s OK.
Like Tiger, I’m a little wiser, a little sadder, a bit more humble, and I know the real man that I am.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Jah Provides the Bread
Somewhere up above Bob Marley is smiling. For those that don’t know, Marley was for a time the most known reggae performer on the music scene. He brought reggae music into mainstream, middle class America. I still recall listening to Bob Marley and the Wailers sing “Rastaman Vibrations” and “No Woman, No Cry” on my stereo as a college freshman back in 1977.
His music was born of struggle and oppression, music from Jamaica and other Caribbean islands. It was exotic, rhythmic and spiritual.
Marley was a Rastafarian. Rastas, a quasi-Christian sect, consider former Ethiopian King Haile Selassie to be the Messiah restored. They also smoke marijuana religiously (sorry for the pun). Rastas also are known to wear their hair in long dreadlocks.
In 1999 Virginia DOC implemented a hair profile for inmates. Prior to that time inmates were allowed to wear their hair to any length. Facial hair, full beards, sideburns and goatees were permitted. DOC deemed long hair and beards a security risk. Inmates, they reasoned, could hide knives, razor blades or contraband in their hair. Inmates with full beards could escape their shave and make it difficult to track them down.
The new hair policy required hair to be kept close cut, above the collar, off the ears. All facial hair was prohibited except groomed mustaches.
A number of Rastafarian inmates objected. On religious grounds they refused to submit to cutting their dreadlocks. DOC responded as they typically do: the protesting Rastas were placed in solitary confinement until they agreed to cut their hair and comply.
1999 became 2000. 2000 became 2001. Each year came and went but eleven Rastas held to their protest. There had been more, but men were released, their sentences served, their dreadlocks still in place.
Eleven men, kept separate, deprived of many basic needs most take for granted: daily human contact, fresh air, daily showers, access to telephones. DOC’s goal was to break the Rastas. Their tool was isolation and deprivation.
Word went through DOC prisons about the Rastas. Inmates who didn’t know the name of the Governor knew of the Rasta 11. Other Rastafarians in the system shaved their heads (a practice followed until this day). The Rastas were heroes. They were “buckin the man” for Jah.
2005, the ACLU agreed to file suit on behalf of the Rastas. Meanwhile, one man died while in solitary. Ten remained. Ten continued to refuse to cut their hair.
What is your limit? How much will you endure for your religious convictions? I realized, as I learned of the Rastas early on in my prison stay, how truly courageous these men were. In my entire life of “freedom” I had never met anyone willing to risk it all on principle. My life had been one of compromise. “It’s not worth it!”
My friend “Black” is a Rasta leader. I’ve watched the Rastafarian community (it is a recognized “religion” according to DOC) continue on as their brothers remained “in the hole”.
In “No Woman, No Cry”, Bob Marley, in his haunting Jamaican accent sings
“Good friends we had
Good friends we lost along the way
In the great future
You can’t forget your past
So dry your tears I say.”
Then later in the song over and over he sings
“Everything’s gonna be alright
Everything’s gonna be alright.”
I often wonder what makes ordinary people do extraordinary things. What would make a young man run head long into enemy fire to rescue a friend? What would make Big S go to trial instead of pointing out the real defendant? What would make eleven Rastafarians accept the hole for years rather than cut their hair? What would make me sign everything I owned over to my wife?
Character is revealed, not when things are easiest, but when we have he the most to lose.
Thursday, November 18, 2010. The front page of the Richmond Times-Dispatch announced “Inmates Released From the Hole”. DOC gave in, surrendered, to ten dreadlock Rastafarian inmates. They were being released from solitary confined and transferred together to serve the remainder of their sentence in two-man cells with daily rec time at Keen Mountain Prison. They’ll be kept separate from the rest of the inmate population because the hair policy remains in force for all other inmates.
In a documentary about Marley’s life he is heard telling an interviewer “Jah provides the bread”. Jah, to the Rasta, is the name for God. It is a basic tenet of faith, whether you are Christian, Jewish, Muslim or Rastafarian, that “God provides”.
So often we think everything we have, everything we’ve accumulated is a direct result of our own hard work. We fail to understand that at our weakest we are truly strongest. No power can overcome Jah. Eleven years in solitary. Eleven years deprived. Eleven years Jah provided the bread.
I started playing a CD. Bob Marley’s singing “everything’s gonna be alright.” I can tell he’s smiling.
His music was born of struggle and oppression, music from Jamaica and other Caribbean islands. It was exotic, rhythmic and spiritual.
Marley was a Rastafarian. Rastas, a quasi-Christian sect, consider former Ethiopian King Haile Selassie to be the Messiah restored. They also smoke marijuana religiously (sorry for the pun). Rastas also are known to wear their hair in long dreadlocks.
In 1999 Virginia DOC implemented a hair profile for inmates. Prior to that time inmates were allowed to wear their hair to any length. Facial hair, full beards, sideburns and goatees were permitted. DOC deemed long hair and beards a security risk. Inmates, they reasoned, could hide knives, razor blades or contraband in their hair. Inmates with full beards could escape their shave and make it difficult to track them down.
The new hair policy required hair to be kept close cut, above the collar, off the ears. All facial hair was prohibited except groomed mustaches.
A number of Rastafarian inmates objected. On religious grounds they refused to submit to cutting their dreadlocks. DOC responded as they typically do: the protesting Rastas were placed in solitary confinement until they agreed to cut their hair and comply.
1999 became 2000. 2000 became 2001. Each year came and went but eleven Rastas held to their protest. There had been more, but men were released, their sentences served, their dreadlocks still in place.
Eleven men, kept separate, deprived of many basic needs most take for granted: daily human contact, fresh air, daily showers, access to telephones. DOC’s goal was to break the Rastas. Their tool was isolation and deprivation.
Word went through DOC prisons about the Rastas. Inmates who didn’t know the name of the Governor knew of the Rasta 11. Other Rastafarians in the system shaved their heads (a practice followed until this day). The Rastas were heroes. They were “buckin the man” for Jah.
2005, the ACLU agreed to file suit on behalf of the Rastas. Meanwhile, one man died while in solitary. Ten remained. Ten continued to refuse to cut their hair.
What is your limit? How much will you endure for your religious convictions? I realized, as I learned of the Rastas early on in my prison stay, how truly courageous these men were. In my entire life of “freedom” I had never met anyone willing to risk it all on principle. My life had been one of compromise. “It’s not worth it!”
My friend “Black” is a Rasta leader. I’ve watched the Rastafarian community (it is a recognized “religion” according to DOC) continue on as their brothers remained “in the hole”.
In “No Woman, No Cry”, Bob Marley, in his haunting Jamaican accent sings
“Good friends we had
Good friends we lost along the way
In the great future
You can’t forget your past
So dry your tears I say.”
Then later in the song over and over he sings
“Everything’s gonna be alright
Everything’s gonna be alright.”
I often wonder what makes ordinary people do extraordinary things. What would make a young man run head long into enemy fire to rescue a friend? What would make Big S go to trial instead of pointing out the real defendant? What would make eleven Rastafarians accept the hole for years rather than cut their hair? What would make me sign everything I owned over to my wife?
Character is revealed, not when things are easiest, but when we have he the most to lose.
Thursday, November 18, 2010. The front page of the Richmond Times-Dispatch announced “Inmates Released From the Hole”. DOC gave in, surrendered, to ten dreadlock Rastafarian inmates. They were being released from solitary confined and transferred together to serve the remainder of their sentence in two-man cells with daily rec time at Keen Mountain Prison. They’ll be kept separate from the rest of the inmate population because the hair policy remains in force for all other inmates.
In a documentary about Marley’s life he is heard telling an interviewer “Jah provides the bread”. Jah, to the Rasta, is the name for God. It is a basic tenet of faith, whether you are Christian, Jewish, Muslim or Rastafarian, that “God provides”.
So often we think everything we have, everything we’ve accumulated is a direct result of our own hard work. We fail to understand that at our weakest we are truly strongest. No power can overcome Jah. Eleven years in solitary. Eleven years deprived. Eleven years Jah provided the bread.
I started playing a CD. Bob Marley’s singing “everything’s gonna be alright.” I can tell he’s smiling.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
I had a very difficult evening on Monday. It was difficulty born in the moment when you realize, when you finally admit to yourself, that all the romanticized notions of your marriage, of the woman you loved, were wrong.
I realized in a brief instant that for twenty-seven years I lived with a hope and a dream that was beyond my reach.
I was angry, hurt and frustrated. As I’ve written before, November is very difficult for me. My twenty-ninth wedding anniversary would be at the end of this month. As much as I tell myself “she really misses me , she really loves me”, as many weekends as I sat there secretly praying for her to come for a visit, I concluded the other night I was just fooling myself. She doesn’t miss me, she doesn’t love me and I’m a fool for thinking otherwise.
The words from Bob Dylan’s ballad “Don’t Think Twice, Its Alright”, ran through my mind.
“I’m sittin and a wonderin as I’m walking down the road
I once loved a woman, a child
I’m told
I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul.
Don’t think twice, its alright.”
For months I’ve struggled with understanding who I was as a husband, as a soulmate. For better or worse (ironic use of words I must confess), I remember in detail every happy moment and every fight. I sense every smell, every touch, every moment of our life together. And last night I concluded it was all for nothing. None of it really mattered. She was going to go on with “her life”. She would live the facade of the energetic, loving, independent woman. And, I had nothing.
There is a song by Jewell called “Ten”. The lyrics are syrupy. It’s about a woman fighting with her husband. The video, however, held my attention. Jewell falls asleep and dreams. In her dream she is boxing her heart. She continually gets knocked down, yet each time slowly rises and again begins the fight. She wakes to her husband beside her and they grasp hands. I understand the symbolism, I get the metaphor. With me, I awaken just as I fought. I am broken, lying on the mat.
I wasn’t a perfect husband. I was far from a perfect soulmate. Many times I picked silly fights over stupid things. I was hateful at times, self-centered.
I wasn’t honest with her. I’m not referring to the stealing. No, I never told her what I needed, never told her what I wanted, never told her how deeply she was tearing at my soul.
Almost twenty-nine years together and she never once said “I’m sorry”, never once said “I’m wrong”. All those years and throughout our entire relationship she never thought she was wrong; never felt the need to apologize. I realized I never said “no” to any request she had. I would have done anything for her, given anything to her. I loved her as fully as I could and the stupid, hateful fights I started were, I understand now, me lashing out because I knew deep down she didn’t love me as much a I loved her.
How’s that for honesty? There is no pain worse than what I’ve experienced coming to grips with my divorce and my broken relationship with this woman I loved.
She will never tell me she misses me, never tell me she still loves me; never tell me how much she appreciated what I did in giving her everything. What hurt me so much the other day was having to finally face the sad fact that she wouldn’t do any of those things because that’s not her. I realized she can’t say those things because she never felt those things. She can’t be what she isn’t.
She lives in “our” house, drives “our” car, sleeps in “our” bed, but to her it isn’t, it never was “ours”. A few months back she became enraged about my blog. She contacted my parents and demanded hey pick up my clothes. “If you don’t get them, I’ll get rid of them”, she said. My mother panicked. I told her to leave everything as is. “If she gets rid of my stuff, so be it.” I really didn’t care. It struck me somewhat comical. My clothes had to go, but the thousands of dollars of cash, the expensive art work, baseball memorabilia, furnishings, books, CDs, DVDs and electronics, all that stuff she’d have room for.
What hurts so much is, I’ve come to realize she never had room for me. I don’t blame her for my stealing. I do wish she’d understand why. I don’t blame her for the divorce. She just acted in character. As Bob Dylan sang:
“I ain’t saying you treated me unkind
You could’ve done better
But I don’t mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
Don’t think twice it’s alright.”
With all the drama going on in our marriage I never said “I’ve had it, I quit”. I couldn’t do that. I knew love wasn’t perfect. Sometimes it’s messy, and selfish, and hurtful, but it is enduring. And, no matter what, I ache because even with all the hurt she brought to me, I still love her. Unfortunately, what hit me the other night was, she doesn’t, she hasn’t, she never did feel the same way.
On our 25th anniversary we went to San Francisco. We visited the Napa Valley. At one small, family owned winery the vintner took a newly bottled merlot and autographed the bottle to be opened on our thirtieth anniversary. I’ll never taste that wine. Like everything else in our marriage, I’ve come to realize that’s hers.
She’ll drink it next year, by herself or with friends. She’ll toast her independence, toast her success, pat herself on the back and remind herself how “she did it all” on her own. I’ll carry the pain and loss and emptiness I feel over our 28 years together the rest of my life. But, at least I’ll also carry the love.
Her life is as she wants. My life has never been. But she doesn’t have to think twice, it’s alright.
I realized in a brief instant that for twenty-seven years I lived with a hope and a dream that was beyond my reach.
I was angry, hurt and frustrated. As I’ve written before, November is very difficult for me. My twenty-ninth wedding anniversary would be at the end of this month. As much as I tell myself “she really misses me , she really loves me”, as many weekends as I sat there secretly praying for her to come for a visit, I concluded the other night I was just fooling myself. She doesn’t miss me, she doesn’t love me and I’m a fool for thinking otherwise.
The words from Bob Dylan’s ballad “Don’t Think Twice, Its Alright”, ran through my mind.
“I’m sittin and a wonderin as I’m walking down the road
I once loved a woman, a child
I’m told
I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul.
Don’t think twice, its alright.”
For months I’ve struggled with understanding who I was as a husband, as a soulmate. For better or worse (ironic use of words I must confess), I remember in detail every happy moment and every fight. I sense every smell, every touch, every moment of our life together. And last night I concluded it was all for nothing. None of it really mattered. She was going to go on with “her life”. She would live the facade of the energetic, loving, independent woman. And, I had nothing.
There is a song by Jewell called “Ten”. The lyrics are syrupy. It’s about a woman fighting with her husband. The video, however, held my attention. Jewell falls asleep and dreams. In her dream she is boxing her heart. She continually gets knocked down, yet each time slowly rises and again begins the fight. She wakes to her husband beside her and they grasp hands. I understand the symbolism, I get the metaphor. With me, I awaken just as I fought. I am broken, lying on the mat.
I wasn’t a perfect husband. I was far from a perfect soulmate. Many times I picked silly fights over stupid things. I was hateful at times, self-centered.
I wasn’t honest with her. I’m not referring to the stealing. No, I never told her what I needed, never told her what I wanted, never told her how deeply she was tearing at my soul.
Almost twenty-nine years together and she never once said “I’m sorry”, never once said “I’m wrong”. All those years and throughout our entire relationship she never thought she was wrong; never felt the need to apologize. I realized I never said “no” to any request she had. I would have done anything for her, given anything to her. I loved her as fully as I could and the stupid, hateful fights I started were, I understand now, me lashing out because I knew deep down she didn’t love me as much a I loved her.
How’s that for honesty? There is no pain worse than what I’ve experienced coming to grips with my divorce and my broken relationship with this woman I loved.
She will never tell me she misses me, never tell me she still loves me; never tell me how much she appreciated what I did in giving her everything. What hurt me so much the other day was having to finally face the sad fact that she wouldn’t do any of those things because that’s not her. I realized she can’t say those things because she never felt those things. She can’t be what she isn’t.
She lives in “our” house, drives “our” car, sleeps in “our” bed, but to her it isn’t, it never was “ours”. A few months back she became enraged about my blog. She contacted my parents and demanded hey pick up my clothes. “If you don’t get them, I’ll get rid of them”, she said. My mother panicked. I told her to leave everything as is. “If she gets rid of my stuff, so be it.” I really didn’t care. It struck me somewhat comical. My clothes had to go, but the thousands of dollars of cash, the expensive art work, baseball memorabilia, furnishings, books, CDs, DVDs and electronics, all that stuff she’d have room for.
What hurts so much is, I’ve come to realize she never had room for me. I don’t blame her for my stealing. I do wish she’d understand why. I don’t blame her for the divorce. She just acted in character. As Bob Dylan sang:
“I ain’t saying you treated me unkind
You could’ve done better
But I don’t mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
Don’t think twice it’s alright.”
With all the drama going on in our marriage I never said “I’ve had it, I quit”. I couldn’t do that. I knew love wasn’t perfect. Sometimes it’s messy, and selfish, and hurtful, but it is enduring. And, no matter what, I ache because even with all the hurt she brought to me, I still love her. Unfortunately, what hit me the other night was, she doesn’t, she hasn’t, she never did feel the same way.
On our 25th anniversary we went to San Francisco. We visited the Napa Valley. At one small, family owned winery the vintner took a newly bottled merlot and autographed the bottle to be opened on our thirtieth anniversary. I’ll never taste that wine. Like everything else in our marriage, I’ve come to realize that’s hers.
She’ll drink it next year, by herself or with friends. She’ll toast her independence, toast her success, pat herself on the back and remind herself how “she did it all” on her own. I’ll carry the pain and loss and emptiness I feel over our 28 years together the rest of my life. But, at least I’ll also carry the love.
Her life is as she wants. My life has never been. But she doesn’t have to think twice, it’s alright.
Sleep
I’m not big on sleep, never have been. In my “other” life, back when I slept in a queen size bed with double thick mattress, I woke up every workday at 4:30 AM. I’d shower, grab coffee, and be on the road by 5:15 AM.
Weekends I’d be hard pressed to sleep beyond 6:30, maybe 7:00. I’d fall asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.
I always loved mornings, always been a morning person. It took a great deal to keep me up past 10:00 at night.
I never slept well though. A few hours after I fell asleep, I’d wake up wide awake. My mind would spin a thousand miles an hour with what I had to do, worries about the stealing I was involved in, worries about my family. So many times in the middle of the night I’d wake up, listen to my wife breathe and wonder “does she really love me? Do I matter to her and our sons?” I’d force myself to go back to sleep. An hour later, the alarm would go off and I’d spring out of bed and start the entire cycle all over again.
I thought if I drank “just a couple” before bed I’d sleep soundly. It didn’t work out that way. I’d drink three, four, sometimes six drinks, practically pass out, fall asleep, then wake up again an hour or two later blurred eyed.
Sleep was not my friend. I was worn down, living on three, sometimes four hours of sleep a night. I had black circles under my eyes, bloodshot, glazed over lenses. I was fat, exhausted and unable to get a full night’s rest. I hated the dark.
Sleep is different in here. I “live” on a top bunk, five feet off the floor. I’ve been here long enough to get a bottom bunk but I prefer the top. I’m eye level with everyone that walks by.
The bunks are solid steel, seven feet long, thirty inches wide. I sleep on a three inch thick foam mattress packed inside a thick, rubber mesh cover. Two plain white sheets and two blue wool blankets along with a foam and rubber encased pillow (with one white pillow case) makes up my bed linens.
Every Friday I have my laundry guy wash my sheets. I lift my mattress off my bunk and slam it on the floor three or four times to even the foam out. Then, the mattress goes back on the bunk; I tie my sheets back on and remake my bed.
The bunks are spartan. They are uncomfortable. Yet, my sleep is sound. I climb under the covers every night at 10:30 when the lights are turned down. Within fifteen to thirty minutes (depending on what I’m watching on TV) I roll over and fall asleep until 4:30 when I just wake up, no alarm, nothing. I sleep soundly. I wake refreshed. And, I start each day with yoga, Bible reading, prayers, and writing after an early shower. It’s an hour and a half routine every morning, but it gets me ready for the day.
A good number of guys “sleep their bids” away. They stay up late watching TV in their rack (bunk). They blow off breakfast and sleep until 11:30 count. A quick lunch, workout, shower and then nap. Guys will tell you they sleep twelve or more hours a day to cut their bid in half. I don’t buy it. Sleeping on these bunks for hours and hours is no way to overcome the struggle, the loneliness, the emptiness of prison.
I used to sleep in a beautiful, comfortable bed beside a beautiful woman. But, I’ve come to realize, it never really was my bed, our bed. It was hers. It was her life and I was just a bit part in it, easily removed. I now know why I hated to sleep in that bed. I never was made to feel wanted, never told “it’s ours”.
Now, I sleep on a thin, rubbery mattress on hard steel with cheap white sheets. But I sleep.
Weekends I’d be hard pressed to sleep beyond 6:30, maybe 7:00. I’d fall asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.
I always loved mornings, always been a morning person. It took a great deal to keep me up past 10:00 at night.
I never slept well though. A few hours after I fell asleep, I’d wake up wide awake. My mind would spin a thousand miles an hour with what I had to do, worries about the stealing I was involved in, worries about my family. So many times in the middle of the night I’d wake up, listen to my wife breathe and wonder “does she really love me? Do I matter to her and our sons?” I’d force myself to go back to sleep. An hour later, the alarm would go off and I’d spring out of bed and start the entire cycle all over again.
I thought if I drank “just a couple” before bed I’d sleep soundly. It didn’t work out that way. I’d drink three, four, sometimes six drinks, practically pass out, fall asleep, then wake up again an hour or two later blurred eyed.
Sleep was not my friend. I was worn down, living on three, sometimes four hours of sleep a night. I had black circles under my eyes, bloodshot, glazed over lenses. I was fat, exhausted and unable to get a full night’s rest. I hated the dark.
Sleep is different in here. I “live” on a top bunk, five feet off the floor. I’ve been here long enough to get a bottom bunk but I prefer the top. I’m eye level with everyone that walks by.
The bunks are solid steel, seven feet long, thirty inches wide. I sleep on a three inch thick foam mattress packed inside a thick, rubber mesh cover. Two plain white sheets and two blue wool blankets along with a foam and rubber encased pillow (with one white pillow case) makes up my bed linens.
Every Friday I have my laundry guy wash my sheets. I lift my mattress off my bunk and slam it on the floor three or four times to even the foam out. Then, the mattress goes back on the bunk; I tie my sheets back on and remake my bed.
The bunks are spartan. They are uncomfortable. Yet, my sleep is sound. I climb under the covers every night at 10:30 when the lights are turned down. Within fifteen to thirty minutes (depending on what I’m watching on TV) I roll over and fall asleep until 4:30 when I just wake up, no alarm, nothing. I sleep soundly. I wake refreshed. And, I start each day with yoga, Bible reading, prayers, and writing after an early shower. It’s an hour and a half routine every morning, but it gets me ready for the day.
A good number of guys “sleep their bids” away. They stay up late watching TV in their rack (bunk). They blow off breakfast and sleep until 11:30 count. A quick lunch, workout, shower and then nap. Guys will tell you they sleep twelve or more hours a day to cut their bid in half. I don’t buy it. Sleeping on these bunks for hours and hours is no way to overcome the struggle, the loneliness, the emptiness of prison.
I used to sleep in a beautiful, comfortable bed beside a beautiful woman. But, I’ve come to realize, it never really was my bed, our bed. It was hers. It was her life and I was just a bit part in it, easily removed. I now know why I hated to sleep in that bed. I never was made to feel wanted, never told “it’s ours”.
Now, I sleep on a thin, rubbery mattress on hard steel with cheap white sheets. But I sleep.
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