I had a pretty good week. One of the guys here in 3A – “J” – has been working closely with me to get his GED. He passed two parts last week. To thank me, he got me a set of “thermals” – long johns. Buying a set cost $20.00, but “yard workers” get them for free. J goes all over the compound and knows guys everywhere. He got me a set from the laundry.
Then “Ray”, who I helped with his college lit class (he read Hemmingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”, an amazing story) delivered me a new set of sheets and two new towels and washcloths to thank me.
Another guy made sure I had enough “good” typing paper for my legal work. He was thanking me for helping him handle an insurance claim. The paper they sell on commissary is a cheap, low grade paper. The 200 plus sheets he “found” and gave me are high grade.
Big S, E and I found our way into two more large bags of chocolate chip/cranberry cookie dough. Every night for the last week I’ve fixed, in my plastic bowl, a thick, bubbly, gooey cookie. My whole bed area smells like Christmas!
I have a small, fold out nativity scene sent to me last year by a friend, an Episcopal rector. I set it up on my book shelf as my “Christmas decorations”.
It was a good week. My advanced writing class began a group writing project – a three act play. We sat around a few tables pushed together, sketching out a really remarkable story about a group of down on their luck losers who win a chance to interview for an employment opportunity with the “job God”.
Big S and I were talking. He had his daily devotion book out. Big S isn’t a “church guy”. A couple of months ago he noticed me watching a church program early Sunday morning. Since that week he watches. Afterwards, we’ll get a cup of coffee and discuss what we’ve heard.
Big S read a devotion from Genesis. The writer’s point was God made everything and everyone. All are unique and distinct and in God’s eyes valuable and worthy. Big S asked me if I thought that meant in God’s eyes, a child molester was as good as he was. “You know, Larry, I have a real hard time with that. I just don’t get how God can love “W” knowing what he did (he sexually abused his own daughter).”
Tough question. But, the answer is even tougher. God loves all of us: even child molesters, even embezzlers, even wives who divorce their husbands because they are “a good person”. We are all sinners and all fall short of the mark. In God’s perfect eyes a sin is a sin.
That is really a difficult idea to accept. I struggle with that in here. I’m around a good many people I would have preferred not to have contact with. As a matter of fact, I tended to live my life avoiding less desirable people. It was easy to spot the “good” people. I hung out with them. Oh, they may cheat on their spouses and their taxes. They may hold grudges, say hateful and hurtful things, but they weren’t criminals. They didn’t kill, they didn’t rape, they didn’t steal.
There comes a point in time when you are broken. When you realize you’ve made a terrible mess of things. You know you are a thief, you know you lied to your family; you betrayed your wife and kids. And all the goodness you thought you had was nothing but a lie. You do the last thing you have left. You cry out to God and admit how you really are.
So I told Big S God forgives every one of us if we sincerely ask. He does it for molesters and adulterers, embezzlers and arrogant, self righteous SOB’s.
The reason the Advent season is so special to me is I’m reminded in a world filled with anger, crime, broken relationships, and fear we all can have hope. God loves us, in spite of ourselves, He dearly loves us.
This season is a great time to remember that. It’s a great time to reconcile with someone you’re angry at or hurt by. It’s a great time to remember what love really means.
God sets a pretty tough example for us to follow. Then again, He was willing to give me another chance.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Girls, Girls, Girls
There was a huge “girl” fight this week on the boulevard and I had a front row seat. Tuesday morning I was coming back from breakfast when I saw KiKi slapping RiRi. For some reason, the first thing openly, flamboyantly, gay inmates do is give themselves “sassy” names. So these two are slapping and pulling at each other and “13” (that’s the radio handle for the officer on duty to watch guys walk the boulevard) is on the radio hitting the emergency button.
Their fight was a continuation of a battle the afternoon before with RiRi’s “boy toy” and “Big Mama”. What started this gay Armageddon? Somebody owed for drugs and “booty”.
KiKi and RiRi were separated. An officer was leading RiRi away when out of the crowd burst one of RiRi’s “sistas” who sprinted full speed down the boulevard, leapt and sucker punched KiKi. They both collapsed on the pavement slapping, grabbing and cussing. I turned to my left and I see another guy swaying full speed across the lawn like Boy George, yelling “I’m comin’ girlfriend”. She jumped on RiRi’s protector. It was a regular San Francisco Melee! Officers came running from all directions, putting on protective gloves and separating the ladies.
I looked to my left and one of my students – “Buzz” – was standing there. “Nothin better than a gump fight”, he said to me, grinning from ear to ear.
Women in a prison world. Funny, but that night the “Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show” was on. Almost every set was tuned to watch the girls stride down the runway. Every time Katy Perry or Beyoncé or even Madonna (early Madonna, not the later stuff) music videos appear on TV, guys will yell out. Guys are starved for contact with females.
For women who work here, it’s clearly a strange environment. Some CO’s see it as a chance to boss around men. They have an attitude. They’re loud, hateful and downright disrespectful. They get off on guys cussing them.
And, there is clearly a racial component to all of it. There is a core group of middle aged, morbidly obese, black female CO’s who are just mean, loud and rude 24/7. Ms. “O” in the school building is the worst. She’s so loud the classroom doors have to be kept closed; so loud the principal finally complained to the head of compound security.
A few of the women are actually too pleasant. Ms. “W” is just a plain looking country girl, but she never raises her voice and just does her job. Same goes for Ms. “D” and Ms. “G”. The weird thing is, in any other work environment no one would notice them. But here, where you’re starved for female attention, these CO’s are looked at like swimsuit models.
The nurses and young psychologist have it the toughest. Three nurses: two blonds and one light complected black are all in their twenties. They’re sweet and cute (even in their nurse pants and tops). Guys come back from med call and the first question asked is always “who was working”? Then, followed by “how’d she smell”?
And the young psychologist? Dozens of guys will tell you “she really listened to me. We really connected.” The fact that she’s slender, young and has long brown hair doesn’t seem to hurt either.
Guys in here crave female companionship. They fear being so desperate for physical contact they’ll turn to one of the “dorm girls”. I never stop being amazed by guys who claim such success with “the ladies” are so clueless when it comes to them or their own sexuality.
“Want her to go with you? Just buy her a Benz.”
“Women love bein’ treated rough, nasty. They want you to handle binness.”
I’ll be the first to admit I’m no ladies man. Women are a mystery to me. I don’t understand how they think. I don’t understand why one woman would stay by her husband’s side over a 38 year bid for murder and another file for divorce before the inks dry on the sentencing order. But, I at least know how they are equipped physiologically and psychologically. I understand basics about them.
Every year there are cases of fraternization – inmates and CO’s hooking up. CO gets fired; the inmate gets transferred. Rumors run through the compound when an officer is dismissed for “doin’ the nasty with a guy on his bid.”
As I’ve written before, a guy in my dorm – “softball Jeff” hooked up with a CO while he was at the Greensville prison. She was fired, he was transferred, and then they were married here. They had a ceremony, a cake, ring exchange, everything but the honeymoon. They even got matching tattoos. Marital bliss, “from this day forward”, lasted less than two years. She hooked up with another corrections office. Their divorce is underway.
I really don’t understand women and this place makes it even tougher. I only know I miss my ex. I miss watching her pick out what she’d wear, miss how she’d worry how she looked. I miss the conversations we’d have or how we’d work together in the kitchen getting ready for company coming over. I miss her smile and how she’d laugh at my off the wall jokes and stories. She always told me she fell for me because I made her laugh.
It’s lonely in here and it’s something you have to adjust to. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over missing my ex. But, at least there’s an occasional “gump fight” to take my mind off things.
Their fight was a continuation of a battle the afternoon before with RiRi’s “boy toy” and “Big Mama”. What started this gay Armageddon? Somebody owed for drugs and “booty”.
KiKi and RiRi were separated. An officer was leading RiRi away when out of the crowd burst one of RiRi’s “sistas” who sprinted full speed down the boulevard, leapt and sucker punched KiKi. They both collapsed on the pavement slapping, grabbing and cussing. I turned to my left and I see another guy swaying full speed across the lawn like Boy George, yelling “I’m comin’ girlfriend”. She jumped on RiRi’s protector. It was a regular San Francisco Melee! Officers came running from all directions, putting on protective gloves and separating the ladies.
I looked to my left and one of my students – “Buzz” – was standing there. “Nothin better than a gump fight”, he said to me, grinning from ear to ear.
Women in a prison world. Funny, but that night the “Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show” was on. Almost every set was tuned to watch the girls stride down the runway. Every time Katy Perry or Beyoncé or even Madonna (early Madonna, not the later stuff) music videos appear on TV, guys will yell out. Guys are starved for contact with females.
For women who work here, it’s clearly a strange environment. Some CO’s see it as a chance to boss around men. They have an attitude. They’re loud, hateful and downright disrespectful. They get off on guys cussing them.
And, there is clearly a racial component to all of it. There is a core group of middle aged, morbidly obese, black female CO’s who are just mean, loud and rude 24/7. Ms. “O” in the school building is the worst. She’s so loud the classroom doors have to be kept closed; so loud the principal finally complained to the head of compound security.
A few of the women are actually too pleasant. Ms. “W” is just a plain looking country girl, but she never raises her voice and just does her job. Same goes for Ms. “D” and Ms. “G”. The weird thing is, in any other work environment no one would notice them. But here, where you’re starved for female attention, these CO’s are looked at like swimsuit models.
The nurses and young psychologist have it the toughest. Three nurses: two blonds and one light complected black are all in their twenties. They’re sweet and cute (even in their nurse pants and tops). Guys come back from med call and the first question asked is always “who was working”? Then, followed by “how’d she smell”?
And the young psychologist? Dozens of guys will tell you “she really listened to me. We really connected.” The fact that she’s slender, young and has long brown hair doesn’t seem to hurt either.
Guys in here crave female companionship. They fear being so desperate for physical contact they’ll turn to one of the “dorm girls”. I never stop being amazed by guys who claim such success with “the ladies” are so clueless when it comes to them or their own sexuality.
“Want her to go with you? Just buy her a Benz.”
“Women love bein’ treated rough, nasty. They want you to handle binness.”
I’ll be the first to admit I’m no ladies man. Women are a mystery to me. I don’t understand how they think. I don’t understand why one woman would stay by her husband’s side over a 38 year bid for murder and another file for divorce before the inks dry on the sentencing order. But, I at least know how they are equipped physiologically and psychologically. I understand basics about them.
Every year there are cases of fraternization – inmates and CO’s hooking up. CO gets fired; the inmate gets transferred. Rumors run through the compound when an officer is dismissed for “doin’ the nasty with a guy on his bid.”
As I’ve written before, a guy in my dorm – “softball Jeff” hooked up with a CO while he was at the Greensville prison. She was fired, he was transferred, and then they were married here. They had a ceremony, a cake, ring exchange, everything but the honeymoon. They even got matching tattoos. Marital bliss, “from this day forward”, lasted less than two years. She hooked up with another corrections office. Their divorce is underway.
I really don’t understand women and this place makes it even tougher. I only know I miss my ex. I miss watching her pick out what she’d wear, miss how she’d worry how she looked. I miss the conversations we’d have or how we’d work together in the kitchen getting ready for company coming over. I miss her smile and how she’d laugh at my off the wall jokes and stories. She always told me she fell for me because I made her laugh.
It’s lonely in here and it’s something you have to adjust to. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over missing my ex. But, at least there’s an occasional “gump fight” to take my mind off things.
Monday, December 20, 2010
You Never Know
I watched an interesting piece on “60 Minutes” the other evening. Actor Mark Wahlberg was profiled (http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=7076433n). Wahlberg is one of the most powerful forces in Hollywood today. He is senior producer of two of HBO’s most successful series: “Entourage” and “Boardwalk Empire”. He received critical acclaim for his performance in “Boogie Nights”. His newest move, “The Fighter”, is scheduled for release in December and is already enjoying “buzz”.
By all appearances, Wahlberg has a perfect life. He has money, fame, power. He is happily married and has four beautiful children to accompany his equally beautiful wife. He lives in a huge, Beverly Hills mansion. He’s living “the dream”.
But, it wasn’t always like that. Wahlberg came from very difficult circumstances. Quitting school at thirteen, he was in constant trouble with the Boston police. This trouble culminated in his arrest at seventeen for assaulting a man to steal two cases of beer, the man was struck with a pool cue and lost his sight in one eye.
Wahlberg was sent to a notorious Massachusetts prison; old, decrepit, full of violence and despair. He was not yet eighteen. He was surrounded in prison by many of his street-wise friends, the ones that weren’t already dead. He decided, sitting in that cell, that he wanted a different life.
He spent only 45 days in prison, but it was enough to change his life. He found breaks. He landed a recording deal and became a teen girl heart throb as white rapper “Marky Mark”. He moved from music to movies. He became successful.
No one can be sure how the decisions they make will turn out. No one can fully comprehend all the consequences of their actions. You can’t go back and undo what’s been done. But, you can go on, and overcome, and achieve.
Wahlberg’s story should smack us in the face and cause us to rethink our preconceived notions about the incarcerated. While it is true there are evil, sociopathic men and women locked up, there are literally tons of thousands of others who merely need a break, a chance, just someone to care enough about them and believe in them and give them a chance.
Mark Wahlberg had that. He had a parish priest who knew he was “a good kid”. Perhaps that is why today, just like yesterday, and the day before that, Wahlberg attended church. He attends every day, no matter where in the world he finds himself.
In this prison I have encountered a number of amazing men. There are artists who draw, and paint, and create beautiful landscapes and portraits. The man in the bunk two beds over spends hours rolling paper into tight three inch to six inch tubes. I watched him cut cardboard into various geometric shapes and sizes. Last night he showed me what all his efforts were for. He had crafted a replica of a Ford Mustang body frame and engine block from memory.
Two of the teacher’s aides I work with have taken up knitting. In less than a month, they’ve turned out dozens of scarves with various football team logos. Each week, two dozen men ask me to read poems, essays and short stories they wrote. Their words, the images they create capture my imagination.
Prison is a wasteland. It is a dumping ground, a landfill, a refuse pit. Yet life, art, hope can flourish even in the midst of despair and decay. You never know who is locked up or why. You never know, unless you’re willing to take a chance on someone.
My cousin reminded me of a powerful Bible verse the other day. With the holiday season upon us, consider these words from Hebrews 13:3 –
“Remember those in prison as if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.”
No one’s life is beyond redemption. With hope – and help, mercy – and love, any inmate willing to try can turn their life around. Mark Wahlberg proved that.
By all appearances, Wahlberg has a perfect life. He has money, fame, power. He is happily married and has four beautiful children to accompany his equally beautiful wife. He lives in a huge, Beverly Hills mansion. He’s living “the dream”.
But, it wasn’t always like that. Wahlberg came from very difficult circumstances. Quitting school at thirteen, he was in constant trouble with the Boston police. This trouble culminated in his arrest at seventeen for assaulting a man to steal two cases of beer, the man was struck with a pool cue and lost his sight in one eye.
Wahlberg was sent to a notorious Massachusetts prison; old, decrepit, full of violence and despair. He was not yet eighteen. He was surrounded in prison by many of his street-wise friends, the ones that weren’t already dead. He decided, sitting in that cell, that he wanted a different life.
He spent only 45 days in prison, but it was enough to change his life. He found breaks. He landed a recording deal and became a teen girl heart throb as white rapper “Marky Mark”. He moved from music to movies. He became successful.
No one can be sure how the decisions they make will turn out. No one can fully comprehend all the consequences of their actions. You can’t go back and undo what’s been done. But, you can go on, and overcome, and achieve.
Wahlberg’s story should smack us in the face and cause us to rethink our preconceived notions about the incarcerated. While it is true there are evil, sociopathic men and women locked up, there are literally tons of thousands of others who merely need a break, a chance, just someone to care enough about them and believe in them and give them a chance.
Mark Wahlberg had that. He had a parish priest who knew he was “a good kid”. Perhaps that is why today, just like yesterday, and the day before that, Wahlberg attended church. He attends every day, no matter where in the world he finds himself.
In this prison I have encountered a number of amazing men. There are artists who draw, and paint, and create beautiful landscapes and portraits. The man in the bunk two beds over spends hours rolling paper into tight three inch to six inch tubes. I watched him cut cardboard into various geometric shapes and sizes. Last night he showed me what all his efforts were for. He had crafted a replica of a Ford Mustang body frame and engine block from memory.
Two of the teacher’s aides I work with have taken up knitting. In less than a month, they’ve turned out dozens of scarves with various football team logos. Each week, two dozen men ask me to read poems, essays and short stories they wrote. Their words, the images they create capture my imagination.
Prison is a wasteland. It is a dumping ground, a landfill, a refuse pit. Yet life, art, hope can flourish even in the midst of despair and decay. You never know who is locked up or why. You never know, unless you’re willing to take a chance on someone.
My cousin reminded me of a powerful Bible verse the other day. With the holiday season upon us, consider these words from Hebrews 13:3 –
“Remember those in prison as if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.”
No one’s life is beyond redemption. With hope – and help, mercy – and love, any inmate willing to try can turn their life around. Mark Wahlberg proved that.
Born Free
It seems as though every time I turn on the TV, I see Kid Rock singing his new big hit “Born Free”. He sings it at awards shows, football games, you name it. How ironic. The United States of America, our country, where people still recite the Pledge of Allegiance, sing the National Anthem and believe in ideas like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, has more people in prison than any nation on the face of the earth. More inmates than in China – still a Communist country, more inmates than in North Korea, Cuba, Iran, any despot regime on the face of the earth.
Virginia has almost forty thousand inmates in its prisons, the eighth largest inmate prison population “in the land of the free”. That number does not include the thousands of others held in local and regional jails. It does not include the 50,000 individuals under supervised probation or on parole. Nor does it include the 300,000 plus Virginians who, because of felony convictions, have been denied their civil rights. They cannot vote, they are subject to warrantless searches, to just name a few.
Three million incarcerated persons in the United States. Still, Kid Rock sings.
This week the Governor’s budget director announced preliminary budget numbers that call for a six percent across the board decrease in funds. According to news reports, DOC will be especially hard hit with projections of up to eight prisons being closed. Throughout the compound winds of freedom begin to blow:
“They got to bring back 65%. . . .”
“They can’t keep all these guys locked up for their full sentences . . . .”
Anyone with a minimal level of common sense would realize Virginia cannot continue to sentence and house inmates as they have since 1995 when parole was abolished. You cannot spend over $1 billion each year and employ over 13,000 – both items the state’s largest in dollars and workforce number – on corrections and expect to have quality schools and healthcare as well as adequately maintained roads.
Corrections is an oxymoron. The money spent does not get the Commonwealth inmates who are “corrected”. Instead, $1 billion gets you almost 40,000 housed, angry, frustrated people who will, with very few exceptions, all see “the streets”.
No one disputes that there must be consequences to criminal wrongdoing. But, sentences must be proportionate to the crime committed and those incarcerated must be given an opportunity for early release through hard work and participation in programs to correct their behavior. Emphasis should be placed on restoring inmates to society as responsible, contributing citizens, not punitively housing them for lengthy periods of time only to be let out bearing the stigma of felon.
This nation professes that “all are equal before the law”. Go through the criminal process and see if you still believe it. America professes to believe everyone deserves a second chance. We love stories about underdogs and comebacks. All inmates ask is for that chance, that opportunity.
Thanksgiving evening and CNN is doing a show on “Heroes”. Called to the stage is a middle-aged black woman. On her own she began opening a number of half-way houses in the Los Angeles area for released female inmates. These homes provide a safe, stable place to live for women just out of the penitentiary, women who have no home, no family, no opportunity. She gives these women a chance to succeed, a chance to overcome. She gives these women hope.
Freedom is defined as a political right, the quality of living a life with liberty. Shouldn’t that right apply to everyone, even inmates?
Virginia has almost forty thousand inmates in its prisons, the eighth largest inmate prison population “in the land of the free”. That number does not include the thousands of others held in local and regional jails. It does not include the 50,000 individuals under supervised probation or on parole. Nor does it include the 300,000 plus Virginians who, because of felony convictions, have been denied their civil rights. They cannot vote, they are subject to warrantless searches, to just name a few.
Three million incarcerated persons in the United States. Still, Kid Rock sings.
This week the Governor’s budget director announced preliminary budget numbers that call for a six percent across the board decrease in funds. According to news reports, DOC will be especially hard hit with projections of up to eight prisons being closed. Throughout the compound winds of freedom begin to blow:
“They got to bring back 65%. . . .”
“They can’t keep all these guys locked up for their full sentences . . . .”
Anyone with a minimal level of common sense would realize Virginia cannot continue to sentence and house inmates as they have since 1995 when parole was abolished. You cannot spend over $1 billion each year and employ over 13,000 – both items the state’s largest in dollars and workforce number – on corrections and expect to have quality schools and healthcare as well as adequately maintained roads.
Corrections is an oxymoron. The money spent does not get the Commonwealth inmates who are “corrected”. Instead, $1 billion gets you almost 40,000 housed, angry, frustrated people who will, with very few exceptions, all see “the streets”.
No one disputes that there must be consequences to criminal wrongdoing. But, sentences must be proportionate to the crime committed and those incarcerated must be given an opportunity for early release through hard work and participation in programs to correct their behavior. Emphasis should be placed on restoring inmates to society as responsible, contributing citizens, not punitively housing them for lengthy periods of time only to be let out bearing the stigma of felon.
This nation professes that “all are equal before the law”. Go through the criminal process and see if you still believe it. America professes to believe everyone deserves a second chance. We love stories about underdogs and comebacks. All inmates ask is for that chance, that opportunity.
Thanksgiving evening and CNN is doing a show on “Heroes”. Called to the stage is a middle-aged black woman. On her own she began opening a number of half-way houses in the Los Angeles area for released female inmates. These homes provide a safe, stable place to live for women just out of the penitentiary, women who have no home, no family, no opportunity. She gives these women a chance to succeed, a chance to overcome. She gives these women hope.
Freedom is defined as a political right, the quality of living a life with liberty. Shouldn’t that right apply to everyone, even inmates?
The Guys in the Dorm
Our dorm has 96 bunks, forty-eight sets of bunk beds. The school announced last week that a “college dorm” was being set up. There are approximately eighty guys enrolled in college and an IT certification program. In addition, there will be six dorm tutors/mentors. Big S and E are in college and the principal has asked me to be one of the dorm tutors. I know and work with the other five men chosen to be dorm tutors. It will be a good group and I’m excited about the change.
Each dorm tends to develop a personality. My building – 3A – is perhaps the calmest in the compound. We have a unique mix of men, yet not once in the past year has there been a theft or a fight.
Dorm life will change here in the next month or so. The Governor has named Lunenburg as a re-entry facility meaning resources will be directed here for men within two years of release. New inmates will be transferred here for intense educational and vocational programs.
There will be a college dorm, a dorm for the furniture shop employees, and a dorm for the kitchen staff. That’s approximately 300 men in three dorms that leaves another 900 men to get mixed into the remaining ten dorms.
I’m excited about the move and the new responsibilities, but I will miss living with these guys. Truth is, I’ve been blessed living with this group of misfits. They have cared for me and lifted me up when I’ve been down; they’ve given me things to laugh about daily. They have shown me great warmth and respect.
There are fourteen Hispanic inmates. A fifteenth – Hector – went home three days ago. Of the fourteen; two are Cuban, five Salvadorian, two Honduran, two Mexican, two Guatemalan and one from Bolivia.
By and large, they are a very religious group. Four are U.S. citizens; ten are here illegally. They are locked up for either drugs or assaults. One, Jonathan, could teach most women how to walk. He is perhaps the most flamboyant gay I’ve ever seen. I’ve helped almost every one of these guys with understanding their paperwork and the court system. In exchange, Senor Douglas helps me with Spanish (verb conjugation the past few weeks!) and they always include me in their meals.
I’ve changed my attitudes about dealing with illegal immigrants after living with these guys. When you realize that the vast majority of illegals come here to escape poverty, the scope of which is unimaginable to most of us, and want to be here because America offers hope for a future, you see things differently. Here’s a little something I learned: every one of these “illegals” was gainfully employed on the street and paying taxes.
There are twenty-four white guys in the building. With the exception of Big S, Beavers, Curt, Softball Jeff, JD, Max and me; every other white guy is in here on a sex crime. The “dungeons and dragons five” are all middle-aged, educated, and white, and all are either child molesters or pornographers. A couple of older white guys have spent years behind bars for rape. As I’ve written before, I struggle dealing with men convicted of sex crimes. I can’t begin to comprehend the brain functioning of a child molester or child pornographer. I try not to be judgmental, but I can’t escape the conclusion that they are just sick, twisted bastards. Rapists are just as bad.
The back guys run the gamut from uneducated small time drug users doing two or three year sentences (for their second or third time) to guys who have done long stretches for murder. As I’ve written before, I have a deep sense of respect for a number of these “long bid” guys.
There’s “P” (that’s his name. It’s short for penitentiary Pete). He just turned 43 and “celebrated” his 24th year locked up. He is a very kind, thoughtful man who at the age of 19 shot and killed a neighborhood rival. He has five more years before he hits his “mandatory parole date”. That’s the date DOC must let him go.
P has provided me great support as I’ve struggled this past year. He has a calmness about him that has developed over these long years of imprisonment. From guys like P, Jerry Lee, Black, Ced and Malik, I’ve learned that what Viktor Frankl wrote is true – a man can endure anything if he finds meaning in his suffering.
These guys have seen the worst prison has to offer. They’ve all killed men; they’ve all see men die in prison. They’ve all become thoughtful, insightful, compassionate as result of their incarceration. I count each of them as friends. I trust their judgment, their opinions. You cannot endure the degradation and hardships of that many years in prison and not grow wiser, humbler, more giving.
There’s “country Keith”, one of the strongest (physically) men I’ve ever seen. He defies every pre-conceived notion I had about black drug dealers. He talks like he stepped off the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. He’s as country as can be. There’s Sen, who would give Chris Rock a run as a comedian. He calls me “Mr. Larry” and has a humorous story every day. JJ – our kitchen connection; Man – the best hoops player I’ve ever seen; Frank and Bear – both lead cooks in our chow hall; Don and Wilbur – our laundry guys. There’s Briscoe, Reggie and Redskin Mike, and V, and KC, Carolina, Mississippi, and more.
Ninety-six guys. Each followed a different wrong path to land here, yet somehow managed to get by living with each other in 3A. Like a huge dysfunctional family at Thanksgiving, we laugh at each other, curse each other, but at the end of the day, we live side by side with little problem. Given the current state of the world, things could be a whole lot worse.
Each dorm tends to develop a personality. My building – 3A – is perhaps the calmest in the compound. We have a unique mix of men, yet not once in the past year has there been a theft or a fight.
Dorm life will change here in the next month or so. The Governor has named Lunenburg as a re-entry facility meaning resources will be directed here for men within two years of release. New inmates will be transferred here for intense educational and vocational programs.
There will be a college dorm, a dorm for the furniture shop employees, and a dorm for the kitchen staff. That’s approximately 300 men in three dorms that leaves another 900 men to get mixed into the remaining ten dorms.
I’m excited about the move and the new responsibilities, but I will miss living with these guys. Truth is, I’ve been blessed living with this group of misfits. They have cared for me and lifted me up when I’ve been down; they’ve given me things to laugh about daily. They have shown me great warmth and respect.
There are fourteen Hispanic inmates. A fifteenth – Hector – went home three days ago. Of the fourteen; two are Cuban, five Salvadorian, two Honduran, two Mexican, two Guatemalan and one from Bolivia.
By and large, they are a very religious group. Four are U.S. citizens; ten are here illegally. They are locked up for either drugs or assaults. One, Jonathan, could teach most women how to walk. He is perhaps the most flamboyant gay I’ve ever seen. I’ve helped almost every one of these guys with understanding their paperwork and the court system. In exchange, Senor Douglas helps me with Spanish (verb conjugation the past few weeks!) and they always include me in their meals.
I’ve changed my attitudes about dealing with illegal immigrants after living with these guys. When you realize that the vast majority of illegals come here to escape poverty, the scope of which is unimaginable to most of us, and want to be here because America offers hope for a future, you see things differently. Here’s a little something I learned: every one of these “illegals” was gainfully employed on the street and paying taxes.
There are twenty-four white guys in the building. With the exception of Big S, Beavers, Curt, Softball Jeff, JD, Max and me; every other white guy is in here on a sex crime. The “dungeons and dragons five” are all middle-aged, educated, and white, and all are either child molesters or pornographers. A couple of older white guys have spent years behind bars for rape. As I’ve written before, I struggle dealing with men convicted of sex crimes. I can’t begin to comprehend the brain functioning of a child molester or child pornographer. I try not to be judgmental, but I can’t escape the conclusion that they are just sick, twisted bastards. Rapists are just as bad.
The back guys run the gamut from uneducated small time drug users doing two or three year sentences (for their second or third time) to guys who have done long stretches for murder. As I’ve written before, I have a deep sense of respect for a number of these “long bid” guys.
There’s “P” (that’s his name. It’s short for penitentiary Pete). He just turned 43 and “celebrated” his 24th year locked up. He is a very kind, thoughtful man who at the age of 19 shot and killed a neighborhood rival. He has five more years before he hits his “mandatory parole date”. That’s the date DOC must let him go.
P has provided me great support as I’ve struggled this past year. He has a calmness about him that has developed over these long years of imprisonment. From guys like P, Jerry Lee, Black, Ced and Malik, I’ve learned that what Viktor Frankl wrote is true – a man can endure anything if he finds meaning in his suffering.
These guys have seen the worst prison has to offer. They’ve all killed men; they’ve all see men die in prison. They’ve all become thoughtful, insightful, compassionate as result of their incarceration. I count each of them as friends. I trust their judgment, their opinions. You cannot endure the degradation and hardships of that many years in prison and not grow wiser, humbler, more giving.
There’s “country Keith”, one of the strongest (physically) men I’ve ever seen. He defies every pre-conceived notion I had about black drug dealers. He talks like he stepped off the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. He’s as country as can be. There’s Sen, who would give Chris Rock a run as a comedian. He calls me “Mr. Larry” and has a humorous story every day. JJ – our kitchen connection; Man – the best hoops player I’ve ever seen; Frank and Bear – both lead cooks in our chow hall; Don and Wilbur – our laundry guys. There’s Briscoe, Reggie and Redskin Mike, and V, and KC, Carolina, Mississippi, and more.
Ninety-six guys. Each followed a different wrong path to land here, yet somehow managed to get by living with each other in 3A. Like a huge dysfunctional family at Thanksgiving, we laugh at each other, curse each other, but at the end of the day, we live side by side with little problem. Given the current state of the world, things could be a whole lot worse.
Little Things
Thanksgiving 2010. My third Thanksgiving incarcerated. I went out early this morning, first rec call at 7:45, and walked, did calisthenics, and then ran. It was cold and crisp, overcast, a real November day. I ran in a tee shirt and shorts, with gloves and an orange knit cap to keep my hands and head warm. I’d run a sprint, 125 yards in 21 seconds, stop and catch my breath and run back. Twenty-one seconds down, twenty seconds rest, twenty-one back.
I felt great. I felt grateful. Here I was, three Thanksgivings locked up, but I was running, I was breathing, I was enduring. It was beautiful, the trees with the leaves orange and red, the fresh air. Life, even in here, can be beautiful.
A friend of mine left the other day. He’s been in prison eight years. We laughed a bit about the little things you take for granted “BP” (before prison).
“I’m gonna go in the bathroom and close the door and just sit (Privacy in the bathroom, privacy anywhere in prison, doesn’t exist).”
“I’m gonna turn lights on and off when I want, and sleep in the dark (lighting is automatic in here. It’s never completely dark, even at night).”
“I’m gonna go in and out of my house whenever I want. I’ll sit in a room, then move to another (all movement is regulated).”
“I’m gonna make love to my wife, then just listen to her sleep.”
Eight years is a long time to not turn a lamp on, open a garage door, use a knife, fork and spoon. Eight years is a long time for attempting to rob a pharmacy to support a prescription drug habit. The man is a Vietnam Vet; he served his country for twenty years (you’d be surprised how many inmates were in the service). Yet, he isn’t bitter for the years he lost “in the system”. He knows he put himself in here, put his life in the hands of a judge the moment he walked in the Walgreens with a gun and a note.
He’s reflective about his time behind these barbed wire fences.
“Wasn’t all bad. Met some good people. Learned a whole lot about myself and who my real friends are. Learned who really loved me. Just missed a lot of things.” Little things like kid’s birthdays, graduations, Christmases, and anniversaries. Little things like going to the beach and just gazing at the ocean and smelling the salt in the air.
I’ve thought a good deal this week about how radically different my life is from where I was on the day I was arrested. I sometimes think we get too hung up on the loss and don’t appreciate, don’t have gratitude, for what we’ve gained. As I ran, I realized I had a great deal to be grateful for.
I read devotion at 4:30 this morning that said:
“Did you ever consider thanking God for something that doesn’t seem like a blessing – such as a difficult circumstance you want changed or removed? A grateful heart is most precious to God when, from our human perspective, our situations don’t warrant giving thanks.”
I’ve learned over the past three Thanksgivings to believe and trust in God. I know there is a purpose in my struggle, my incarceration. I trust His promise that “all things work” for our good. I hate the circumstances I find myself in, but I trust God and I know I have the strength to endure this.
Each day I pray for certain things to happen, particular people to forgive me, be restored to me, my sentence to be shortened. But each day I also say “it’s in Your hands. Whatever comes my way, I believe in You. You have a plan and you will see me through.”
Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I can endure the little things in here because I have hope. And, in the end, hope is a big thing, and not just in prison.
I felt great. I felt grateful. Here I was, three Thanksgivings locked up, but I was running, I was breathing, I was enduring. It was beautiful, the trees with the leaves orange and red, the fresh air. Life, even in here, can be beautiful.
A friend of mine left the other day. He’s been in prison eight years. We laughed a bit about the little things you take for granted “BP” (before prison).
“I’m gonna go in the bathroom and close the door and just sit (Privacy in the bathroom, privacy anywhere in prison, doesn’t exist).”
“I’m gonna turn lights on and off when I want, and sleep in the dark (lighting is automatic in here. It’s never completely dark, even at night).”
“I’m gonna go in and out of my house whenever I want. I’ll sit in a room, then move to another (all movement is regulated).”
“I’m gonna make love to my wife, then just listen to her sleep.”
Eight years is a long time to not turn a lamp on, open a garage door, use a knife, fork and spoon. Eight years is a long time for attempting to rob a pharmacy to support a prescription drug habit. The man is a Vietnam Vet; he served his country for twenty years (you’d be surprised how many inmates were in the service). Yet, he isn’t bitter for the years he lost “in the system”. He knows he put himself in here, put his life in the hands of a judge the moment he walked in the Walgreens with a gun and a note.
He’s reflective about his time behind these barbed wire fences.
“Wasn’t all bad. Met some good people. Learned a whole lot about myself and who my real friends are. Learned who really loved me. Just missed a lot of things.” Little things like kid’s birthdays, graduations, Christmases, and anniversaries. Little things like going to the beach and just gazing at the ocean and smelling the salt in the air.
I’ve thought a good deal this week about how radically different my life is from where I was on the day I was arrested. I sometimes think we get too hung up on the loss and don’t appreciate, don’t have gratitude, for what we’ve gained. As I ran, I realized I had a great deal to be grateful for.
I read devotion at 4:30 this morning that said:
“Did you ever consider thanking God for something that doesn’t seem like a blessing – such as a difficult circumstance you want changed or removed? A grateful heart is most precious to God when, from our human perspective, our situations don’t warrant giving thanks.”
I’ve learned over the past three Thanksgivings to believe and trust in God. I know there is a purpose in my struggle, my incarceration. I trust His promise that “all things work” for our good. I hate the circumstances I find myself in, but I trust God and I know I have the strength to endure this.
Each day I pray for certain things to happen, particular people to forgive me, be restored to me, my sentence to be shortened. But each day I also say “it’s in Your hands. Whatever comes my way, I believe in You. You have a plan and you will see me through.”
Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I can endure the little things in here because I have hope. And, in the end, hope is a big thing, and not just in prison.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
House Full of Thoughts
I’m a big fan of the TV show “House”. House is the name of the main character, an opinionated, arrogant, SOB doctor with a rash of human faults. He’s condescending, has a hurtful, cutting, sarcastic tongue, and demeans his staff. He also is hopelessly in love with the hospital administrator, Cuddy.
I enjoy House as a character because I feel a certain kinship with him. He is a difficult man, an exasperating man, a broken man, but a good man none the less.
Last week, House was trying to get back in Cuddy’s good graces after she realized he had lied to her. To House, everyone lies and his lie to Cuddy had nothing to do with his relationship with her. To Cuddy, any lie, involves the relationship. House’s solution is simple. He won’t apologize or admit he’s wrong; he’ll just point out to her all the lies he’s caught her in.
Anyone who’s ever been in a relationship can guess how House’s solution works out. I’ve thought a great deal about lying, and trust, and the way men and women react to those issues in relationships.
I’ve always tended to separate lying to my wife about the money I was stealing from my underlying love for her. Compartmentalize it, I thought. My lies, my stealing, had nothing to do with my feelings for her or our relationship. Trouble is, I was wrong.
Garth Brooks said in an interview recently “you can lie to anyone except the voice inside.” Lying to my wife was just like lying to myself. Eventually, I couldn’t look myself in the mirror and couldn’t look her in the eye.
Years ago, I would have rationalized that a few lies wouldn’t hurt a relationship. Having gone through this, I now think otherwise.
Here’s a strange thing, I learned it honestly. My father regularly kept things from my mom. Not big things (that I’m aware of), but “things”. He’d make deals with my brother and me. “Your mom doesn’t know . . .” She’d get mad, time would pass and right back he’d go to making decisions on his own.
Me, I started out telling my wife everything. I told her every dream, every frustration, every minute detail of my day. Things changed. We had issues; I couldn’t tell her how worried I was about her, how frustrated I was with her family. So, I held back, I had secrets, I fudged the truth. It made it that much easier to rationalize the “big lie”, stealing to make everybody think I “was the man”. Once you head down that road, it’s tough to go back.
My wife never had doubts about my faithfulness, never thought I’d cheat on her. I never did. I told her exactly who I was with, where I’d gone. It just wasn’t worth taking a risk to lose her over another woman.
I wish I had the same attitude when it came to my decision to take money years ago to buy her dream house. Lies are built on rationalization. We rationalize; we project how our partner will react. In truth (funny, huh?) we don’t know how someone will respond to the truth. Regardless of how they respond, they deserve the truth.
It’s been difficult for me to admit that. It’s even tougher now because so many things were written and said by my wife leading up to our divorce that have made me think she was never honest with me. That hurts deeply.
Life isn’t like TV. House apologized to Cuddy (still, he thought he was right) and they were fine (at least until next week’s episode). I can’t re-write our scenes. I can’t come up with a happy ending. As much as I’d like to think it would matter, my epiphany is too late.
Garth Brooks was right, you can’t lie to yourself. It took me way too long to learn that.
I enjoy House as a character because I feel a certain kinship with him. He is a difficult man, an exasperating man, a broken man, but a good man none the less.
Last week, House was trying to get back in Cuddy’s good graces after she realized he had lied to her. To House, everyone lies and his lie to Cuddy had nothing to do with his relationship with her. To Cuddy, any lie, involves the relationship. House’s solution is simple. He won’t apologize or admit he’s wrong; he’ll just point out to her all the lies he’s caught her in.
Anyone who’s ever been in a relationship can guess how House’s solution works out. I’ve thought a great deal about lying, and trust, and the way men and women react to those issues in relationships.
I’ve always tended to separate lying to my wife about the money I was stealing from my underlying love for her. Compartmentalize it, I thought. My lies, my stealing, had nothing to do with my feelings for her or our relationship. Trouble is, I was wrong.
Garth Brooks said in an interview recently “you can lie to anyone except the voice inside.” Lying to my wife was just like lying to myself. Eventually, I couldn’t look myself in the mirror and couldn’t look her in the eye.
Years ago, I would have rationalized that a few lies wouldn’t hurt a relationship. Having gone through this, I now think otherwise.
Here’s a strange thing, I learned it honestly. My father regularly kept things from my mom. Not big things (that I’m aware of), but “things”. He’d make deals with my brother and me. “Your mom doesn’t know . . .” She’d get mad, time would pass and right back he’d go to making decisions on his own.
Me, I started out telling my wife everything. I told her every dream, every frustration, every minute detail of my day. Things changed. We had issues; I couldn’t tell her how worried I was about her, how frustrated I was with her family. So, I held back, I had secrets, I fudged the truth. It made it that much easier to rationalize the “big lie”, stealing to make everybody think I “was the man”. Once you head down that road, it’s tough to go back.
My wife never had doubts about my faithfulness, never thought I’d cheat on her. I never did. I told her exactly who I was with, where I’d gone. It just wasn’t worth taking a risk to lose her over another woman.
I wish I had the same attitude when it came to my decision to take money years ago to buy her dream house. Lies are built on rationalization. We rationalize; we project how our partner will react. In truth (funny, huh?) we don’t know how someone will respond to the truth. Regardless of how they respond, they deserve the truth.
It’s been difficult for me to admit that. It’s even tougher now because so many things were written and said by my wife leading up to our divorce that have made me think she was never honest with me. That hurts deeply.
Life isn’t like TV. House apologized to Cuddy (still, he thought he was right) and they were fine (at least until next week’s episode). I can’t re-write our scenes. I can’t come up with a happy ending. As much as I’d like to think it would matter, my epiphany is too late.
Garth Brooks was right, you can’t lie to yourself. It took me way too long to learn that.
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