Always About the Lyrics

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

           True story: Folk singer Woody Guthrie, who had stood with the unemployed at the height of the depression, watched as thousands of Oklahomans, and Kansans, and Texas panhandlers headed west to California during the dust bowl, was incensed over Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America,” that melding of civil into religion that should give any devout Christian pause. Guthrie’s response was to pen “This Land is Your Land”

            “This land is your land, this land is my land

            From California to the New York Island;

            From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters;

            This land was made for you and me.”

            I love that song. I love the imagery Woody Guthrie creates with Biblical clarity as “the fog was lifting, a voice was chanting, this land was made for you and me.” The lyrics; it is always about the lyrics. They can move you, sustain you, give you hope. Nowhere is that truer than in here.

            Each morning around 4:00 I begin my day with the Episcopal liturgical calendar. I’m not Episcopalian, but on my 50^th birthday a dear friend delivered the Episcopalian “Book of Common Prayer” to me at the jail. I’ve had it with me ever since and begin each morning with the day’s verse selections. Each day begins the same with Psalms, lyrical poems of praise, or anger, or fear, or just asking God “why” – why this, why me? Each morning I take a 3X5 index card and jot down a verse to contemplate throughout the day. The Psalms, those lyrical, powerful, gut-wrenching Psalms, provide me clarity – and hope.

            I don’t get most music today. I’m stuck in a warp of great old tunes, songs that mattered. I don’t get singing – or rapping – about “bling,” and Hennessy, and large butts, but I pause and think often of Peter, Paul and Mary singing “If I had a Hammer” or “Blowin in the Wind.” Folk singer Pete Seeger penned “Where have all the Flowers Gone.” He was blacklisted and attacked by a drunken, hateful Senator McCarthy during the red baiting of the ‘50s. Pete just kept on singing … about civil rights, and war, and the water. McCarthy fell and died in alcoholic oblivion; Pete kept singing into his 90s.

            They told Peter, Paul, and Mary if they marched in Selma they’d never sell another record south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The trio said the music mattered more than record sales. For almost 50 years they sang – in the face of Nixon’s battle with Vietnam War protesters, in El Salvador standing with the churches decrying the killing by both left and right. The lyrics mattered. The lyrics always matter.

            Almost every blog I write has some song lyric or Bible verse attached. Those words give me direction. I keep a large folder of song lyrics in my locker, close to two hundred songs. There are songs that speak of heartbreak and lost love; songs of the future; songs of protest. Each one contains lines which cry out with emotion and truth. And truth is so hard to find these days.

            Today begins the Christmas season, Advent, the coming of the long-expected Messiah, Emmanuel, “God with us,” Hymns, beautiful hopeful hymns I recite as I run the track. And, while hearing those songs, I remember John Prine’s “Christmas in Prison.”

            “It’s Christmas in prison

            There’ll be music tonight

            I’ll probably get homesick

            I love you. Goodnight.”

            Psalms, songs, poems, lyrics all speaking to who we are, who we want to be. The lyrics matter, especially in here.

 

Justice … In Black and White

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            She stands blindfolded, the Goddess of Justice, holding scales. Justice, we are told, is blind. It is blind to color, creed, national origin. It is blind to wealth. Justice, the balancing of wrongs and restoration of rights rest on the fundamental tenet that it is fair, that all are equal before the law. “With liberty and justice for all.” Six simple words yet so complicated, so difficult to achieve. “All are equal before the law regardless of the color of your skin or your parents’ wealth.” That is the myth of American justice. And myths aren’t necessarily bad things. They bind us as community when there is truth in the myth. Unfortunately, justice is not equal. Justice sees wealth, and Nationality, and color. Justice is biased … and it is as different as black and white.

            Much of social media (the blogosphere, et al) is devoted to turning visceral reaction into fact. And, as my Poli-Sci professor in college noted thirty plus years ago, “where you stand (on an issue) depends on where you sit (your life experiences)”. So, a Black woman in a housing project who sees her teenage son repeatedly stopped and frisked by police will have a different opinion of law enforcement than the white, suburbanite homemaker in the gated community who watches as the same police make two passes each day through the neighborhood. Neither gut reaction can be challenged. Neither is built on fact, however. Facts matter, perhaps never more so than “Ferguson” and “Cleveland” so soon after “Trayvon.” Facts – and honesty – matter.

            Fact: 93% of all murders of African-Americans come at the hand of African-Americans. And the per capita murder rate is 8 times higher for black than white teens. At the same time, 86% of all white murder victims are killed by whites. This should come as no surprise. Even with the dismantling of de jure segregation we remain a country de facto segregated. My elderly mother lives in fear of young black men marauding through her neighborhood like an angry Viking horde. Know what? There are no black families in her upscale Raleigh neighborhood. There are no black teens and if there were, the chances are they wouldn’t bother it. A member of her church, or “over 55” club is more likely to cause her harm.

            Fact: Blacks and whites use drugs in equal percentages. But, blacks are more likely to be prosecuted for drug possession and more likely to be incarcerated. Blacks are also stopped significantly more than whites even when accounting for demographic data in a community (in wealthy areas, upscale black teens are still disproportionately stopped over their white compatriots). In Virginia, 59% of all DOC inmates are African-American while only 36% are white, yet both races commit crimes at the same level.

            “And justice for all.” One out of three young black men born since 2000 will end up with a criminal arrest record before age 18. Imagine – as a white parent – what your visceral reaction would be if those numbers were applied to your family and friends.

            Crime is color-blind; crime doesn’t care about the size of your bank balance. But, justice, justice does care. Black and poor are disproportionately harmed by arrest and sentencing. A huge bank steals billions in account holders funds and is given a “criminal settlement” of $7 billion – again money from the bank’s investors – while the perpetrators remain free. A young Iraqi War vet suffering from PTSD “robs” a bank with an unloaded shotgun. He gets $8,000; he sentenced to 12 years. “And justice for all.”

            Ferguson, Missouri. Race – on both sides – has driven this entire tragic circumstance. What if Michael Brown had been white? Chances are, he wouldn’t have been stopped, white teens are not stopped like black teens. What of the confrontation with Officer Wilson? Race factored in on both sides. Blacks generally view the police as a mercenary force, a foreign invader. Police – overwhelmingly white – view black teens as criminals – in – waiting; they sense the hostility present in the neighborhood. And the result is the loss of another young black man. Was the teen murdered by a racist cop? Was the cop attacked and in fear for his life when the gun was fired? I don’t know. My gut tells me Officer Wilson was not racist; he was a cop trying to do his job and “things” took a wrong turn. But, as a white cop, he was pre-disposed to see a black teen as trouble. And Michael Brown? He was no saint. That shouldn’t matter because (1) Wilson had no right to even stop him and (2) he shouldn’t be dead.

            Let’s remember, black or white, a mother and a father grieve over the senseless death of their son. Do we “hurumph” when a teenager, driving recklessly, dies in a car accident? No. We show empathy. We show sympathy. We feel for the grieving parents knowing that could be us. Michael Brown’s parents – like Trayvon Martin’s parents – deserve that. That isn’t a race issue, that’s simple human decency and compassion.

            “And Justice for All.” How many times do you think grand juris convene and don’t hand down indictments? It’s unheard of, and yet here we see a grand jury do just that. Makes you wonder, answer: 162,000 US grand jury indictments.

            Cleveland. A young boy flashing a play gun. The 911 call comes in saying that. “There’s a kid with a play gun.” The video shows police roll up to the scene, the boy waves the gun in the air and “Bam” a shot rings out from the police cruiser and the twelve year-old is dead. Silence. No outrage. No questioning about “justice” about living in a land dedicated to “equal justice under Law” where a Black President decries the violence yet allows the Pentagon to sell off military-style equipment to police departments; a President who oversees an “intelligence gathering apparatus” that collects virtually every bit of private data on you. Makes you wonder.

            Race and income matter in police work and in the criminal justice system. They cloud and distort the truth and they leave distrust and anger in their wake.

            I don’t know what happened in Ferguson, Missouri. I know this, race played a role in it. I also know those on the “right” and “left” who use tragedies such as this who spread innuendo and rumor in the name of their political position face a special place in hell. I know there are too many police shootings, too many dead black teens, too many mothers crying.

            Sitting in here I hear a disturbing separation. To the young black men who have had numerous encounters with officers like Wilson it reinforces the idea that America seeks genocide on young blacks; to the white guys, many viscerally side with the white cop and say the “n----- had it coming.” How do you respond to such ignorance? How indeed.

            “Red and yellow, Black and white, they are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

            Justice – real, justice – like mercy, is blind. It is high time we begin in our own lives striving for that ideal.

 

de Accion de Gracias

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            Its Thanksgiving evening 2014 and the lights in the building have finally lowered. I’m watching as “Number 9,” the new guy in bed 9, throws his mattress over his shoulder. What the hell is he doing? I think. “Number 9” wasn’t there Wednesday night. Sometime after midnight – early Thursday morning – they moved him in. The bunk was open after “Cheesy Sidler” moved from “9” to “91.” “Cheesy Sidler,” college graduate, whiz on the computer, child sex fiend. I name everyone and “Cheesy Sidler” was no exception. We were standing around one morning waiting on breakfast and this guy sidles up to us. One minute he isn’t there, the next you can feel his breath on your neck. And, he has this big toothy “I just farted” grin … “Cheesy Sidler.”

            The Cheese is in on a sex crime with minors. He’s smart and, he’s in total denial. He has the arrogance of so many child sex offenders: “I’m innocent; I’m not like them.” I try not to emote anger around him but it’s tough. He looks like what I look like to the young black guys in here. Cheese was raised in Africa; his parents – Baptist missionaries. Fifty-eight years old, daughters, grandkids, a wife. They visit. He has become an Orthodox Jew. He goes to “7” building every morning to wear the small wooden box on his forehead and rock and pray. He’s Orthodox, but is he Godly? Can he atone in rhythmic chants for his perversion and crimes? It’s getting dark in the building and I wonder if that’s the real meaning of “grace,” coming to grips with your sins.

            Back to “Number 9,” he tells the CO, “I don’t like it here.” I crack up and ask my neighbor O if that works. Can I just say, “I don’t like it here,” and that’s that? 9 then gets all his stuff – a plastic trash bag of dirty, balled up clothing and his pillow – and drops it beside his mattress thrown down by the trash can in the day room. I’m exhausted but can’t go to sleep because I’m witness to a train wreck.

            “Look,” says the CO. “You can put your stuff back in your bunk area or go to the hole. It’s your choice.” Old 9, he ponders “option A” versus “option B” and chooses to return his things to his bunk … at least for the night. I climb in bed and read my verse from the morning one last time, pray, and then think about how pretty Thanksgiving sounds in Spanish, “de Accion de Gracias.”

            2008. I had lousy Thanksgivings before. There were times we thought we should split; I never told her I blamed her for losing my dreams. Maybe that’s wrong. I was willing to give every dream up just for one time hearing “I love you,” or “thank you,” or “I appreciate what you’ve sacrificed.” Instead it festered. But, pretend happiness works. So does turkey and good Scotch and oysters on the half-shell. Ah, food and drink and family and friends … an overstuffed table with wine glasses clinking. Not 2008. There were the letters; the newspaper article a week before said I stated “in open court in a clear voice ‘guilty,’” as each count was read. Counts – 1, 3, 6, it didn’t matter. I had highlighted the part where she said, “I’m praying you die in there.” Funny thing is, I prayed the same thing.

            Thanksgiving at the jail and they bring trays to the pod. It’s two-toned pressed turkey meat – low-cut, cold lunch meat, - instant mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. I’m not even hungry; I’m nauseous, and worn, and depressed. “I don’t like it here.” I wish I thought of saying that back then. “In all things give thanks for this is the Lord’s will for you.” God, I was learning had on off-kilter sense of humor. “Thanks God for ruining my life!” That I remember. “de Accion de Gracias.”

            Thanksgiving 2014, my sixth here. I arrived a week before Thanksgiving 2009 and remember that first dinner, the heaping tray with real turkey and pork roast, and candied yams and real mashed potatoes with broccoli and greens and stuffing and rolls. There was sweet potato pie and cake with banana cream frosting. I had told myself I wanted out, wanted to die and now, one year later I’m smiling, enjoying Thanksgiving in prison. In prison! That’s crazy! But, the food, the smells, the conversation, I was ok. Was it like the quail during the forty years in the wilderness? The food “appeared” and the people were sated.

            This year we’d decided to keep out regular work-out schedule. So, big meal at 12:30 (4A ate first!), a nap – why not!?) – then outside at 3:45. For a day and a half it had rained. The track, the weight pile, nothing but mud. Five of us head out in 40° mist. “Go quick,” O says because we know dark is only forty-five minutes away. We’re running, slogging through puddles, and curling bars, then dead lifting. I’m out of my shirts, so is O and Moose and our heads are steaming. I never dead lifted 240 before; I’m on 210, then 225. “Screw it” I yell and squat and lift 240, 3 no 4, no 5 reps and drop the weight with a primal yell of success. I take off at full throttle through the puddles and I’m buoyed. I don’t know why, but I feel … free and alive. “de Accion de Gracias.” I get what Paul was telling those struggling church members in Philippi while he sat alone in prison. “Live above your circumstances,” Paul exhorts his fledgling flock. No matter what, He is in control of our circumstances. Maybe that’s the toughest lesson to learn: We want life our way, in our time, on our terms. And, we keep messing up.

            Thirty-three years ago. I stood in a church and looked a beautiful girl in her eyes and recited vows. You know, looking back, I didn’t take all that seriously. I knew what I wanted and I wouldn’t let anything stop me. We chose Thanksgiving weekend because, well it fit right before my law school exams. At jail I dreaded Thanksgiving and the knowledge that I failed … and those dreams,

            “If dreams were lightning thunder was desire

            This old house would have burnt down a long time ago”

            Dreams. Vows. Weight lifted – real and imaginary. “de Accion de Gracias.” Cheesy Sidler, Number 9; I’m ok. I’m falling asleep thinking about what was, so long ago, and what will be.

            “Just give me one thing that I can hold onto

            To believe in just living is just a hard way to go”

            Live above your circumstances. I keep thinking about those four words in the meaning of “grace,” accept God’s forgiveness and be what He intends you to be. You can’t run from, or hide from, your past but you can overcome. Maybe Nike is right, “Just do it.” “de Accion de Gracias.” I like the sound of that.

Here Comes the Sun

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            It was 1976 and a young folk singer stood with his acoustic guitar at the front of the Vassar College chapel. I was 17 and getting ready for my senior year in high school. We waited. There was the song, that one song we waited for the troubadour to begin. Every word was etched in our collective mind’s eye; eight teens – four young men trying to figure out what manhood really was all about, and four equally young women. He struck the first chord and we knew, we were there with each word.

            “A long, long time ago

            I can still remember

            How the music made me smile

            And I knew if I had the chance

            I could make those people dance

            And maybe they’d be happy for awhile”

            Dreams and ambitions at 17. I wanted the world. At 6, I told my father I wanted to write a book. At 15, I sat in awe as I read a simple book on Constitutional Law and understood how a semi-illiterate man with a pen and paper could change the law. “Dear Supreme Court. My name is Gideon and I was denied counsel.” I wanted to understand law, and God, and beauty. I knew I could do anything I wanted. I knew I had my entire adult life ahead of me.

            “But February made me shiver

            With every paper I delivered

            Bad news on the doorstep

            I couldn’t take one more step”

            You want to see someone completely broken? Arrest a middle-class, middle-aged white guy with a house, two cars, and the picture-perfect family. Lift him out of everything he knows, everything he believes in, and close the cell door. Yeah, and the guy is already on edge. He feels like shit already. He’s eaten up with guilt, drinking five or six scotches every night to sleep. Eyes bloodshot, the left one twitches uncontrollably. Running, the one activity he always felt freed him, now was a struggle. Bloated and depressed he fears death and life. He can’t go on, but he can’t quit. He listens to her breathing at night hoping, praying that in those breathes lies his redemption. But it isn’t to be.

            “I can’t remember if I cried

            When I read about his widowed bride

            But something touched me deep inside

            The day the music would die”

            Sentencing and I was numb. Two years, twenty, two hundred, it didn’t matter. I was out of tears, out of hope. I sat in the holding cell with my hands holding my face. Some reason, I heard in my broken soul, music. I hummed “Be Thou My Vision” – I’m not even sure why; I softly sang John Prine’s “Angel from Montgomery” and Loggins & Messina’s “Danny’s Song.” Over and over I told myself it will all be alright; this is temporary; until thirty days later … and the papers and as broken as I had felt before, I now felt worse. I wrote; she cried; I prayed; the order came in; it was over.

            “Did you write the book of love

            And do you have faith in God above

            If the Bible tells you so?

            Now do you believe in rock and roll

            Can music save your mortal soul”

            It’s receiving and anything I’d seen before pales in comparison. I try each day to just get through. I talk every morning in the darkness to “Michael” my painted card angel sent by a friend to protect me. I am in a rundown, filthy cell with a psychotic, mentally-handicapped gangbanger beginning 76 years for a double homicide. I am who I am, nothing is different about who I am or how I interact with people which confounds and confuses inmates and officers alike. This man can kill me; I don’t care. I read the Bible daily, I write. I hear nothing from God. Later, I’ll agree with Pastor Rick Warren that “feeling God” is just an emotion. God “is” real; God “is” always there, even when in our worst moments we believe we have been abandoned and left for dead.

            There is an incident and my “cellmate” threatens to “tear my throat open and watch me gurgle on the blood.” “Go ahead,” I tell him. Am I crazy? Do I have a death wish? Or, am I tired of the brokenness, the hopelessness? He backs down (amazing!). Moments later he tells me something I will hear more than once:

            “You think you’re better than us.” I respond, “I don’t think I’m better than anyone but I know I’m better than this.” I am better than this. Fuck the judge, and the system that destroys, and my self-delusion and criminal behavior, and the broken promises and broken dreams … I am better than this.

            “I was a lonely teenage broncin buck

            With a pink carnation

            And a pick-up truck

            But I knew I was out of luck

            The day the music would die”

            Running was again freeing, liberating, exhilarating. I run and I hear the music and I keep coming back to that night in 1976 and that young folk singer and singing along.

            “I met a girl who sang the blues

            And I asked her for some happy news

            But she just smiled and turned away

            And the three men I admired most

            The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

            They caught the last train for the coast

            The day the music would die.”

            17 and my life all ahead of me; 55 and more alive than ever. I knew he wrote the song about Buddy Holly dying in a plane crash, during a blizzard, on the way to a concert. But it also was about my crash, my broken dreams, my American dream fractured and bleeding and imprisoned and … resurrected. The music didn’t die. It was always there; it was, it is, it will be.

            I often think of Viktor Frankl, holocaust survivor, gentle man who told the world there is meaning to be found in suffering, or as CS Lewis put it, “Pain is God’s megaphone.” The music, like spring, always returns, always blossoms. I run and hear a new song, one of hope and thanksgiving:

            “Little darling

            It’s been a long, cold lonely winter

            Little darling

            It feels like years since it’s been clear

            Here comes the sun

            Here comes the sun

            And I said

            It’s alright”

DOC Tidbits

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

             Seems like every time you turn the news on, DOC is a lead story. This week, Virginia’s death row inmates have a suit pending (at the U.S 4^th circuit sitting in Richmond) alleging their treatment is “cruel and unusual” in violation of the US Constitution. Now, hearing the term “cruel and unusual” you would think the case (already lost at trial level by DOC) would involve their death sentences. Nope. It seems, in its arbitrary way, DOC was faced with a lawsuit by one death row inmate over access to visits and other privileges. After losing that suit, DOC granted that one inmate the privileges sued for. But then, inexplicably, DOC denied those privileges to other death row inmates leading to this lawsuit.

            “We don’t comment on pending litigation,” said DOC spokesman Larry Traylor. Perhaps, you should. Perhaps it’s time you explain to Virginia’s taxpayers the millions spent each year defending inmate lawsuits DOC continues to lose. Perhaps the DOC Director should be called to account for the money wasted, the lives lost, and the complete ineptitude and mismanagement he oversees. Nah. That would leave me less to write about.

            Not to be outdone, a judge in Chesterfield County released a convicted child-sex abuser (a minister convicted of having improper sexual contact with two minor female family members) on home incarceration pending sentencing in January. He’s facing 99 years yet the judge let him go home with an ankle monitor. I wonder how many young, black kids using drugs get post-conviction release while awaiting sentencing. How about guilty-plea embezzling lawyers? It’s unheard of, yet this judge decided it was appropriate in this case. Makes you wonder.

            Finally, as I write this 3 more men here with serious medical problems are being ignored. What is the response from each of their families? Call the ACLU in Richmond (the Fluvanna women’s suit against DOC for negligent medical care is set for December 5^th) and hire counsel.

            And so it goes with DOC and the criminal justice system.

 

Jobs (Pt 2 Is This any way to Run Things?)

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            As inmates go, I’m one of the fortunate few. I have family and friends who help me. They visit regularly, they write often, they send money. Data on the population here (as of June 2013) showed that roughly 70% of the 1050 men were “returning” inmates. In other words, this wasn’t their first trip to the circus. Almost 40% were below a high school education level (15% were below 3^rd grade). At that time, there were 5 men with four year college degrees – that includes me and a school teacher who, coincidentally was also a sex offender. No sex offenders can work at the school. Less than 24 hours after my arrival here I got a job – at the school – as a teacher’s aide. It’s unheard of: a job within a day and at the lightest non-factory pay rate: 45 cents per hour. Pay. Jobs (non-factory, that is) come on part-time and full-time levels with hourly rate set at 27 cents, 35 cents, and for the lucky few, 45 cents.

            If you are a part-time building cleaner you get 15 hours a week at 27 cents. In a four week pay cycle you earn $16.20 before state-ordered mandatory ten percent forced-savings (in a non-interest bearing account) and five percent court fines/fees account. So, the guy keeping the building clean gets approximately $14.00. He then must buy detergent (offenders get 1 state wash a week in laundry; all other wash is at your own cost; we are only provided 3 sets of t-shirts, boxers, socks, pants and shirts), deodorant, toothpaste, and all other hygiene products. Heard the expression, “three hots and a cot?” Don’t believe it. Fact is, prison is a Spartan existence and without support from outside it is difficult to survive with just what’s provided.

            Work and school keeps men occupied. Any idiot in here sees that. So what does the chief housing/program guy decide to do during lock? He cuts all jobs in buildings from 20 workers to 4. Why? Who knows.

            Here is what happens when guys have no jobs, and no money. People will do what they have to do to survive. Stealing, robbery, extortion increase. Fights go up. Hustles – those without will hustle food from the chow hall, drugs, sex, anything to make a buck.

            The program manager has even tried to gut education aide pay: “Spending too much on income salaries.” Meanwhile, his staff is held to no professional baseline standards on recidivism results, or problems in the re-entry buildings or backlog on annual reviews.

            Worse, the slave-labor like “Virginia Corrections Enterprise” factory where products are made by inmates paid 55 cents to 85 cents an hour then sold to state agencies at significant markups (30% to 50% above what they could spend buying from private companies) keeps running with no one daring to slow that spending down.

            It is almost as if the people in charge do things that deliberately create chaos and trouble in the facility and add to men’s misery and likelihood of failure at release to keep this place “necessary and relevant.”

            Is this any way to run a prison? Shame on the Commonwealth of Virginia. It’s time to shed light on this corrupt, inept, inefficient system. Too many lives are being lost in the grinder that is corrections.

Another “Lost” Week” (PT 1 Is this any way to Run Things?)

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

 

            As I write this we are still on “modified” lock. Starting Monday morning we went on “lock” for our twice annual compound search. As I’ve written before, these sweeps accomplish little. Sure the COs find extra sneakers and t-shirts. They grab CDs still in the possession of men who traded in CD players for the newly available MP3 players. Shirts, sneakers, and CDs; yet, the drugs remain. Lockdowns are a waste of money and time here. They wear officers out, they piss off the population, and they stop all education programs. They are an exercise in futility and driven by the ego of the security chief. But why would he care about the effectiveness of the lock? Responsibility (“the buck stops here,”) doesn’t apply in DOC for managing a facility. Who cares about another lost week? You should.

            It costs approximately $27 million per year to operate this level “2” facility. And, like everything else in the Department of Corrections, there are operating procedures that govern how a prison is run. “Inmate.com,” the rumor mill that is inmate life, will tell you every prison has lockdown twice each year. And, long-term guys, those who’ve spent time at the higher levels, will remind newbies of “real” lockdowns where you’re confined to your cell with one five minute shower every fourth day. The officers sweep in, enter your cell, then handcuff you. All your personal belongings are dumped on the cell floor. Your bunk is stripped, sheets and blankets thrown in a corner. The COs paw all your stuff then uncuff you and slam your cell door shut. That’s a real lock down.

            Here it’s lay around and wait, wait until the ten to twenty regular shift COs come to our building with counselors in tow. A short walk to the gym then back to the building, twenty or so guys at a time, and “voila” in an hour and a half we’re done. That’s it – an hour and a half. The officers are tired. See, budgets being what they are, they can’t bring in reinforcements to move through in a precise manner. No, they go to “6” – kitchen workers, then “1” –  factory guys (funny how they never miss work, even on lock), then the drag begins.

            What do they take out of the buildings? Nothing but trash and extra clothes. They finish all the other buildings by Wednesday afternoon. We’re done, right? Wrong. For the rest of the week we sit in the buildings. There is no school, no “re-entry” programs (maybe that’s a good thing!). No AA or NA or sex offender treatment. “Ball courts” open on Thursday for three hours; same thing Friday.

            Collage program. We have the academic counselor scheduled to be here and meet with guys for their January semester. Memo goes to “the Major” a month ago reminding him of the college schedule. But, shake downs take priority – even when (1) they aren’t required by policy/procedure (they are routinely waived at other level 2 facilities) and (2) they interfere with education (the number “1” program that breaks the cycle of recidivism). Education doesn’t matter, follow phony procedure even when you don’t have to.

            So Thursday at lunch they give us fried chicken – “chicken on the bone.” Why not? Feed them – and the COs – a little something better and it – hopefully – makes you forget what a waste all this is; a waste in time, money, and lives. Hey, at least the Major got to run his lockdown!