The following is an excerpt from part two:
Perhaps Cole and his sister are familiar with The Adventure of Helen. They share the same unfortunate mentality; we suffer losses because they are determined to get their way. We are raped of our reputation and our status in the community. We are deprived of our home and our jobs. We are stripped of our future and our freedom. We plead to the molestation charges as a matter of survival and have learned to embrace the outcome.
They have no idea of the ripple effect their stunt has produced, nor does the concept of care enter the equation. Considering the benefits I have acquired, I would not exchange a strand of it. As on the TV show with irrational complainants and with our dear “friend” Helen, nothing else matters. For her and our (x) kids, retaliation for imaginary unfairness becomes an insane obsession. I want my way.
Be it a conscious or unconscious choice, productive or destructive, I will get my way too. We all will.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
The Adventures of Helen
The following is an excerpt from part two:
The Four Agreements, (Reprinted with permission of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. © 1997 by Miguel Angel Ruiz, M.D.) advises: “Don’t take it personally.” This is Helen’s drama, her distorted dream. We are in this crazy situation to begin with because she has been trained to take everything personally. All that is left for us to do is allow her to dwell in misery. She is set in the way of hell. We do not need to accompany her on the tour just as we need not dwell on the injustice brought on by our children.
Jim Stovall tells a story of wisdom for the ages in The King’s Legacy.* Many of the townspeople provide the king with their version of wisdom. Finally the jester imparts, “There is nothing more vital than laughter...I wish you the ability to pause at the most difficult and trying times of life, and simply laugh.” We are not going to change Helen. We are not going to reverse the edict. We might as well seize the opportunity to have a good laugh.
As it turns out, The Adventures of Helen yields terrific opportunity. She provides me with material to compose an entire chapter. As if that is not enough, we end up finding a beautiful apartment for a terrific price. The neighborhood is serene. The property owners are firmly on their rockers. I can bask in peaceful tranquility with my laptop. We all got just what we wanted.
The Four Agreements, (Reprinted with permission of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. © 1997 by Miguel Angel Ruiz, M.D.) advises: “Don’t take it personally.” This is Helen’s drama, her distorted dream. We are in this crazy situation to begin with because she has been trained to take everything personally. All that is left for us to do is allow her to dwell in misery. She is set in the way of hell. We do not need to accompany her on the tour just as we need not dwell on the injustice brought on by our children.
Jim Stovall tells a story of wisdom for the ages in The King’s Legacy.* Many of the townspeople provide the king with their version of wisdom. Finally the jester imparts, “There is nothing more vital than laughter...I wish you the ability to pause at the most difficult and trying times of life, and simply laugh.” We are not going to change Helen. We are not going to reverse the edict. We might as well seize the opportunity to have a good laugh.
As it turns out, The Adventures of Helen yields terrific opportunity. She provides me with material to compose an entire chapter. As if that is not enough, we end up finding a beautiful apartment for a terrific price. The neighborhood is serene. The property owners are firmly on their rockers. I can bask in peaceful tranquility with my laptop. We all got just what we wanted.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The problem is “them”
The following is an excerpt from part two:
In response to the rent increase letter, we send a notice that we are moving, effective the day before the rate hike. It turns out to be an unsurpassed opportunity that spurs us into finding a decent place to live. The inordinate increase is a clear message that she wants us gone. It is the nose-cutting for- spite routine. Rationality is ignored. At least we need no longer be concerned that we will cause hurt feelings. Now she has both units empty. She will probably need another home equity loan to carry her through the next few months of gambling.
Helen is destined to a lifetime of misery and suffering; she is accustomed to perpetuating exactly that. We are the first tenants in fourteen years who lasted longer than a few months. No one can put up with her nonsense. She sees the problem as being “them.” They are all screwed up. Her paltry existence makes her happy. That is the important thing. She will take her happiness to her grave. Is it any wonder that countries go to war when “friends” cannot even get along?
I could get angry over the affair. I could even choose hatred. The only person to be affected would be me. I could live the life of debauchery and discontent that infects Helen’s joyous abode. It comes down to a choice. I could rekindle the despondency that loomed in our home up until the very second of Erin and Cole’s displacement; that’s another choice.
In response to the rent increase letter, we send a notice that we are moving, effective the day before the rate hike. It turns out to be an unsurpassed opportunity that spurs us into finding a decent place to live. The inordinate increase is a clear message that she wants us gone. It is the nose-cutting for- spite routine. Rationality is ignored. At least we need no longer be concerned that we will cause hurt feelings. Now she has both units empty. She will probably need another home equity loan to carry her through the next few months of gambling.
Helen is destined to a lifetime of misery and suffering; she is accustomed to perpetuating exactly that. We are the first tenants in fourteen years who lasted longer than a few months. No one can put up with her nonsense. She sees the problem as being “them.” They are all screwed up. Her paltry existence makes her happy. That is the important thing. She will take her happiness to her grave. Is it any wonder that countries go to war when “friends” cannot even get along?
I could get angry over the affair. I could even choose hatred. The only person to be affected would be me. I could live the life of debauchery and discontent that infects Helen’s joyous abode. It comes down to a choice. I could rekindle the despondency that loomed in our home up until the very second of Erin and Cole’s displacement; that’s another choice.
Friday, July 29, 2011
The screaming match begins
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Helen’s two sons have been groomed to the same way of thinking. They are no longer “only kids,” except in their immature behavior. The police officer son is furious when he hears that he needs to tend to his own pet while Mom is at work. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In a work of fiction it would be difficult to invent so preposterous a situation. We do not know whom to call when the domestic abuse complaint is provoked by the police.
The younger son, recently of legal age, moved out then returned with a girlfriend. They live rent-free for upwards of a year. Well, not entirely free. The girlfriend gives her $30 share of food stamps from the family who claim her as a dependent. She contributes that to buy snacks for herself and her sponge of a companion. When income tax time comes around, the sponge insists that his mother will not be claiming him as a dependent—he wants the $1,000 refund on his own return. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In the end, the blood-sucking couple has their tidy little nest egg. It serves as the deposit on an abuse-haven they can call their own.
Helen parks in handicapped-designated areas. She does not possess a disability placard. The first time she does it, when I am in the car, I mention that the fines have been increased. “Oh, I’m not worried. My son, the police officer, will take care of it.” She goes out drinking for the night and calls her son, the police officer, for an escort home. She swerves and sways down the road with the cruiser on her tail. It matters not whose rights are infringed upon. Endangering lives is a trivial affair. I want my way.
Helen’s two sons have been groomed to the same way of thinking. They are no longer “only kids,” except in their immature behavior. The police officer son is furious when he hears that he needs to tend to his own pet while Mom is at work. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In a work of fiction it would be difficult to invent so preposterous a situation. We do not know whom to call when the domestic abuse complaint is provoked by the police.
The younger son, recently of legal age, moved out then returned with a girlfriend. They live rent-free for upwards of a year. Well, not entirely free. The girlfriend gives her $30 share of food stamps from the family who claim her as a dependent. She contributes that to buy snacks for herself and her sponge of a companion. When income tax time comes around, the sponge insists that his mother will not be claiming him as a dependent—he wants the $1,000 refund on his own return. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In the end, the blood-sucking couple has their tidy little nest egg. It serves as the deposit on an abuse-haven they can call their own.
Helen parks in handicapped-designated areas. She does not possess a disability placard. The first time she does it, when I am in the car, I mention that the fines have been increased. “Oh, I’m not worried. My son, the police officer, will take care of it.” She goes out drinking for the night and calls her son, the police officer, for an escort home. She swerves and sways down the road with the cruiser on her tail. It matters not whose rights are infringed upon. Endangering lives is a trivial affair. I want my way.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
South Beached-Whale
The following is an excerpt from part two:
As I have always done, I send cookies down. She snarls, “I’m on a diet.” (Not, “No thank you, I’m on a diet.”) A couple of days later I knock and ask if she needs anything at the market. She has two whopping zits on her face, dripping with puss—it looks like she has an extra set of noses. I ask, “Whoa, what happened?” “I ate too many French fries.” She must be on that new South Beached-Whale Diet.
A few days later Helen informs Sid, “I’m hurt.” Sid asks her what happened, assuming that she was injured at work again. “I’m hurt that you refuse to take care of Puppy, after everything I’ve done for you.” Everything like what—rent us the shit box that has been vacant for over a year? We have always had a one-way relationship: we give, she takes. Sid explains that he is simply not willing to put himself at risk. “Ray is going for a hip restoration. Who’s gonna take care of him if that dog chews me up?”
“Well, I want you to know that you hurt my feelings. I was counting on you.” She walks off and slams the door. The following Monday, one week since Sid imparted the dreadful news about the dog, we get a notice in the mail from Helen. “Due to increased maintenance costs, the rent will be increased by 20% beginning July 1.” Not taken into account is that we have been the ones who have been providing free maintenance.
As I have always done, I send cookies down. She snarls, “I’m on a diet.” (Not, “No thank you, I’m on a diet.”) A couple of days later I knock and ask if she needs anything at the market. She has two whopping zits on her face, dripping with puss—it looks like she has an extra set of noses. I ask, “Whoa, what happened?” “I ate too many French fries.” She must be on that new South Beached-Whale Diet.
A few days later Helen informs Sid, “I’m hurt.” Sid asks her what happened, assuming that she was injured at work again. “I’m hurt that you refuse to take care of Puppy, after everything I’ve done for you.” Everything like what—rent us the shit box that has been vacant for over a year? We have always had a one-way relationship: we give, she takes. Sid explains that he is simply not willing to put himself at risk. “Ray is going for a hip restoration. Who’s gonna take care of him if that dog chews me up?”
“Well, I want you to know that you hurt my feelings. I was counting on you.” She walks off and slams the door. The following Monday, one week since Sid imparted the dreadful news about the dog, we get a notice in the mail from Helen. “Due to increased maintenance costs, the rent will be increased by 20% beginning July 1.” Not taken into account is that we have been the ones who have been providing free maintenance.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
“my son, the police officer”
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Helen goes on a trip. The poor dog is locked in the apartment for four days. As usual, Sid lets him out and takes him for walks. He feeds him and changes the water. The dog is angry to have been abandoned in the sweltering apartment. He messes all over and tears through the trash; Sid cleans it up. By the third day, the dog is irate. He growls ferociously when Sid goes down to get him. The dog pounces and Sid leaps behind the door, barely escaping attack.
The ten-year-old dog has a history of maiming people and pets. No action is taken because Helen proclaims, “He’s registered to my son, the police officer.” The insurance examiner tells her they cannot continue the homeowner policy because of the nature of the creature that is housed here.
“Oh, but he’s registered to my son, the police officer. The dog doesn’t stay here. The dog run in the back yard is for my parents when they come. They set up their chairs out there so they can be in the shade.” I want my way. When she returns from her Memorial Day long weekend, Sid informs her that he can no longer take care of the dog. She says, “I know how he is. He does that with me sometimes, too, but you’re a big man. You should be able to handle him.” Now she is furious. Now we must be punished.
When she goes to the store, she no longer checks to see if we need something. No more bringing in our mail if she gets there first. We get the ice-block shoulder when passing in the hall. This is a fifty-one-year-old “adult!”
Helen goes on a trip. The poor dog is locked in the apartment for four days. As usual, Sid lets him out and takes him for walks. He feeds him and changes the water. The dog is angry to have been abandoned in the sweltering apartment. He messes all over and tears through the trash; Sid cleans it up. By the third day, the dog is irate. He growls ferociously when Sid goes down to get him. The dog pounces and Sid leaps behind the door, barely escaping attack.
The ten-year-old dog has a history of maiming people and pets. No action is taken because Helen proclaims, “He’s registered to my son, the police officer.” The insurance examiner tells her they cannot continue the homeowner policy because of the nature of the creature that is housed here.
“Oh, but he’s registered to my son, the police officer. The dog doesn’t stay here. The dog run in the back yard is for my parents when they come. They set up their chairs out there so they can be in the shade.” I want my way. When she returns from her Memorial Day long weekend, Sid informs her that he can no longer take care of the dog. She says, “I know how he is. He does that with me sometimes, too, but you’re a big man. You should be able to handle him.” Now she is furious. Now we must be punished.
When she goes to the store, she no longer checks to see if we need something. No more bringing in our mail if she gets there first. We get the ice-block shoulder when passing in the hall. This is a fifty-one-year-old “adult!”
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I want my way
The following is an excerpt from part two:
We blend well as occupants of the same three-family building. We go down to play cards. She comes up to watch a movie. We both are forever cooking and sending samples up and down. For months, she broadcasts how pleased she is to have us as tenants. She has never had it so good. Sid clears the snow off her car after a storm. He brings out the trash and plows the driveway. He seals the windows and hangs her blinds. We repaint our four rooms and then proceed to do the stairway hall. We replace floor tiles and refinish cabinets. This is all at our own expense, and we are pleased to contribute.
When Helen is away, Sid attends to her dog. It is a monstrous Shar-pei-Pit Bull mix. Helen calls him “Puppy.” Helen has a strict no-pet policy. We are unable to have our Ring-necked Dove. When we went to prison, my sister took him in for us. Now we visit the bird on weekends. We have discussed having our bird but Helen will not budge. “If the other tenants find out, they’ll all want pets.” (We do not even associate with the guy who finally rented the first floor, other than to say hi in passing.) We have been warned, “Don’t even think about having a fish.” No pets means no pets. It has nothing to do with the rationale of it. It has to do with I want my way.
We blend well as occupants of the same three-family building. We go down to play cards. She comes up to watch a movie. We both are forever cooking and sending samples up and down. For months, she broadcasts how pleased she is to have us as tenants. She has never had it so good. Sid clears the snow off her car after a storm. He brings out the trash and plows the driveway. He seals the windows and hangs her blinds. We repaint our four rooms and then proceed to do the stairway hall. We replace floor tiles and refinish cabinets. This is all at our own expense, and we are pleased to contribute.
When Helen is away, Sid attends to her dog. It is a monstrous Shar-pei-Pit Bull mix. Helen calls him “Puppy.” Helen has a strict no-pet policy. We are unable to have our Ring-necked Dove. When we went to prison, my sister took him in for us. Now we visit the bird on weekends. We have discussed having our bird but Helen will not budge. “If the other tenants find out, they’ll all want pets.” (We do not even associate with the guy who finally rented the first floor, other than to say hi in passing.) We have been warned, “Don’t even think about having a fish.” No pets means no pets. It has nothing to do with the rationale of it. It has to do with I want my way.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Judge Judy
The following is an excerpt from part two:
I am not a big fan of television. Occasionally I enjoy Judge Judy. She is such a wonderfully sensible and animated character. Saturday Night Live pales in wit. The highlight of each show is to observe Judy get worked up and then watch the litigants become aggravated. It amazes me how people can be so persistently single-minded when it comes to getting their way. That theme is consistent on all the “judge” shows.
I can appreciate devoted commitment to a cause. Determination to defend a position is admirable. The antics on Judge Judy, however, are nothing short of laughable. Regard for the law or consideration of common sense frequently have no influence on the litigants’ reasoning ability. All that matters is I want my way.
The opponents become like slot players mesmerized and held captive by their machine. The reality for both gambler and litigant is that they do not hold all the cards. Unwavering purpose will not override the law of averages or the laws of the state.
We were fortunate to rent an apartment from a friend. If not for Helen, we may well have been homeless after our discharge from prison. That is the circumstance for many convicted sex offenders who are released and forced into a hostile society. We have known Helen for ten years. She and I worked at the same upscale nursing home, on different shifts. Our relationship developed outside of work mostly as camping friends.
I am not a big fan of television. Occasionally I enjoy Judge Judy. She is such a wonderfully sensible and animated character. Saturday Night Live pales in wit. The highlight of each show is to observe Judy get worked up and then watch the litigants become aggravated. It amazes me how people can be so persistently single-minded when it comes to getting their way. That theme is consistent on all the “judge” shows.
I can appreciate devoted commitment to a cause. Determination to defend a position is admirable. The antics on Judge Judy, however, are nothing short of laughable. Regard for the law or consideration of common sense frequently have no influence on the litigants’ reasoning ability. All that matters is I want my way.
The opponents become like slot players mesmerized and held captive by their machine. The reality for both gambler and litigant is that they do not hold all the cards. Unwavering purpose will not override the law of averages or the laws of the state.
We were fortunate to rent an apartment from a friend. If not for Helen, we may well have been homeless after our discharge from prison. That is the circumstance for many convicted sex offenders who are released and forced into a hostile society. We have known Helen for ten years. She and I worked at the same upscale nursing home, on different shifts. Our relationship developed outside of work mostly as camping friends.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
“I never said any such thing.”
The following is an excerpt from part one:
A couple of weeks before our Superior Court trial in November, we had a Family Court hearing. Sid’s lawyer for that process is a caring man, motivated by integrity. When he learns of Sid’s ongoing neglect in prison, and that we are receiving no treatment whatsoever following the attack in June, he contacts the warden’s office immediately. Two days later, I go to the hospital for hip x-rays and panoramic teeth x-rays.
The staff doctor is a woman, from India. She is the same one who first “examined” me after the attack. She says they will be looking into physical therapy for me. I tell her that four months ago she told me that no form of treatment would be available. “I never said any such thing.” Sid has his panoramic mouth x-ray done as well. The dentist observes, “You did a good job with the extraction.” Two days before our Superior Court trial was to begin there was another Family Court hearing. Sid was not in attendance. I told the lawyer that his seg term was set for fifteen days and that it has already been seventeen.
Sid is finally released from seg the day before of our trial was to materialize on November 6, 2008. We are dredged through the muddle of court-day routine, and are thrown into the caverns to await the long awaited proceedings. It would turn out to be a far greater farce than even the preceding nine months had to offer.
A couple of weeks before our Superior Court trial in November, we had a Family Court hearing. Sid’s lawyer for that process is a caring man, motivated by integrity. When he learns of Sid’s ongoing neglect in prison, and that we are receiving no treatment whatsoever following the attack in June, he contacts the warden’s office immediately. Two days later, I go to the hospital for hip x-rays and panoramic teeth x-rays.
The staff doctor is a woman, from India. She is the same one who first “examined” me after the attack. She says they will be looking into physical therapy for me. I tell her that four months ago she told me that no form of treatment would be available. “I never said any such thing.” Sid has his panoramic mouth x-ray done as well. The dentist observes, “You did a good job with the extraction.” Two days before our Superior Court trial was to begin there was another Family Court hearing. Sid was not in attendance. I told the lawyer that his seg term was set for fifteen days and that it has already been seventeen.
Sid is finally released from seg the day before of our trial was to materialize on November 6, 2008. We are dredged through the muddle of court-day routine, and are thrown into the caverns to await the long awaited proceedings. It would turn out to be a far greater farce than even the preceding nine months had to offer.
Monday, June 6, 2011
James, not Jim
The following is an excerpt from part one:
This time Sid is coupled with a suspected murderer. James, not Jim, is bi-polar. He is also diagnosed with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. James has unpredictable temper fl are-ups and engages in unusual behaviors. He picks the tiny lint-balls from the sheet and blanket, and there are plenty of them. Then he proceeds to the floor to retrieve microscopic specks with his fingertips for hours on end.
James is on medication but he does not know what or why, other than for the sleeping pills. He was removed from the meds he was taking for the bipolar condition. Whatever they put him on had destroyed his liver. As is usually the case, Sid gets along fine. That adds fuel to the C/O’s fi re of retribution. On a couple of occasions, James nearly loses it over absolutely nothing. Sid manages to talk some sense into him. “James, this is exactly what those assholes want: for us to turn on each other. This is how you got yourself in seg to begin with. Stop it.” Sid knows, as a matter of psychic perception, that his “killer” companion is innocent of the murder for which he is to be tried. The poor guy has been in for three years awaiting trial. One day Sid tells him to “dump the pills.”
“What are you talking about?” Sid tells him that suicide is not the answer. James has been saving up some of his medication whenever he can get away with it. Two of his biological brothers and his sister were adopted after a tragic family misfortune. They all killed themselves. Sid reveals that he already knows about it. He also discloses the liver problem. James is shocked but loosens up a lot. They build trust and Sid becomes very close with him.
This time Sid is coupled with a suspected murderer. James, not Jim, is bi-polar. He is also diagnosed with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. James has unpredictable temper fl are-ups and engages in unusual behaviors. He picks the tiny lint-balls from the sheet and blanket, and there are plenty of them. Then he proceeds to the floor to retrieve microscopic specks with his fingertips for hours on end.
James is on medication but he does not know what or why, other than for the sleeping pills. He was removed from the meds he was taking for the bipolar condition. Whatever they put him on had destroyed his liver. As is usually the case, Sid gets along fine. That adds fuel to the C/O’s fi re of retribution. On a couple of occasions, James nearly loses it over absolutely nothing. Sid manages to talk some sense into him. “James, this is exactly what those assholes want: for us to turn on each other. This is how you got yourself in seg to begin with. Stop it.” Sid knows, as a matter of psychic perception, that his “killer” companion is innocent of the murder for which he is to be tried. The poor guy has been in for three years awaiting trial. One day Sid tells him to “dump the pills.”
“What are you talking about?” Sid tells him that suicide is not the answer. James has been saving up some of his medication whenever he can get away with it. Two of his biological brothers and his sister were adopted after a tragic family misfortune. They all killed themselves. Sid reveals that he already knows about it. He also discloses the liver problem. James is shocked but loosens up a lot. They build trust and Sid becomes very close with him.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
"You’re not goin’ anywhere"
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Sid does not eat the food because he knows they are spitting in it. He asks for pain meds repeatedly but the C/Os just laugh. When he asks for toilet paper, they laugh. The brown lunch bags that “meals” are delivered in, or the waxed cereal pouches, are his toilet tissue. Before the bags start coming he needs to clean up with fingers, there being no other choice. He has to splash water from inside the toilet. There is no soap. There is no towel. There is no warm water. There is nothing but degradation and mistreatment. That is the way of suicide watch. Its purpose is to inflict more punishment than even solitary confinement has to offer. This is the big opportunity to Hate! Punish! Destroy! The C/Os relish it. They ridicule, chuckle, and savor the harassment. Theirs is the sort of job that typifies “if you could do anything without being concerned whether or not you were paid, what would it be?”
After twenty-four hours, the equivalent of twenty-four millennia, Sid is dragged out for an evaluation with another prison psychiatrist, an elderly man who listens and responds compassionately. The C/Os stand by, joking and mocking. The doctor is not authorized to prescribe medication. He plans to recommend that Sid be removed from suicide watch and from seg altogether. He tells the C/Os that Sid does not belong there and that he has not been allowed to take a shower in nearly a week. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you old fuckin’ fuck.”
They tow Sid back to his suicide watch trench and provide him with a navy blue suit, garb of the general population. He sits on the floor all day, in meditation position. He is retrieved by Rosie, the ISC slut. She demands that he change into the orange jumpsuit because he is “not goin’ anywhere.” She leads him down the hall toward his assigned cell in the seg unit. They pass the elderly psychiatrist who is now in conversation with another inmate. The man spots Sid approaching and looks down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. Sid pauses for a moment, assuring him, “Don’t worry about it, I understand.”
Sid does not eat the food because he knows they are spitting in it. He asks for pain meds repeatedly but the C/Os just laugh. When he asks for toilet paper, they laugh. The brown lunch bags that “meals” are delivered in, or the waxed cereal pouches, are his toilet tissue. Before the bags start coming he needs to clean up with fingers, there being no other choice. He has to splash water from inside the toilet. There is no soap. There is no towel. There is no warm water. There is nothing but degradation and mistreatment. That is the way of suicide watch. Its purpose is to inflict more punishment than even solitary confinement has to offer. This is the big opportunity to Hate! Punish! Destroy! The C/Os relish it. They ridicule, chuckle, and savor the harassment. Theirs is the sort of job that typifies “if you could do anything without being concerned whether or not you were paid, what would it be?”
After twenty-four hours, the equivalent of twenty-four millennia, Sid is dragged out for an evaluation with another prison psychiatrist, an elderly man who listens and responds compassionately. The C/Os stand by, joking and mocking. The doctor is not authorized to prescribe medication. He plans to recommend that Sid be removed from suicide watch and from seg altogether. He tells the C/Os that Sid does not belong there and that he has not been allowed to take a shower in nearly a week. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you old fuckin’ fuck.”
They tow Sid back to his suicide watch trench and provide him with a navy blue suit, garb of the general population. He sits on the floor all day, in meditation position. He is retrieved by Rosie, the ISC slut. She demands that he change into the orange jumpsuit because he is “not goin’ anywhere.” She leads him down the hall toward his assigned cell in the seg unit. They pass the elderly psychiatrist who is now in conversation with another inmate. The man spots Sid approaching and looks down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. Sid pauses for a moment, assuring him, “Don’t worry about it, I understand.”
Monday, May 23, 2011
Eat THIS !
The following is an excerpt from part one:
He is then paired up with some weirdo who constantly reads bible passages aloud but has no clue whatsoever of their meaning. He is constantly badgering Sid to have sex. He is constantly declined. Sid’s injuries from the Jeep accident and Riff ’s attack are exacerbated from the upheaval of the previous days but he is denied attention by the nursing staff or any C/Os that wander by on occasion. He asks the weirdo cellie to write out a medical-request form for him and then surrenders it though the slit in the door.
Before you know it, Sid is ushered to the hospital. He sits before a psychiatrist and the deputy warden. Snickering C/Os are looking on. Inquiries are made about him being suicidal. He tells them that he is not feeling suicidal. That is not what he asked his cellmate to write. Everyone ignores him. Then he says that he does not care to speak to any of them because there is no one he can trust. Again, no one listens. No one cares about anything he has to offer. He is wasting his time. The deputy warden does not intervene. She scratches notes on her little clipboard notepad and observes as they pull him off to suicide watch.
The suicide cells have long, skinny, horizontal two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras. They are stark and sterile (not as in “sterilized,” however). The one hundred-million lumen lighting remains glaring 24-7. Routine comments by C/Os, as they peer through the catacomb’s windows, are never-ending. “You’re not dead yet?” “Hey faggot, are you hungry? Eat this.”
He is then paired up with some weirdo who constantly reads bible passages aloud but has no clue whatsoever of their meaning. He is constantly badgering Sid to have sex. He is constantly declined. Sid’s injuries from the Jeep accident and Riff ’s attack are exacerbated from the upheaval of the previous days but he is denied attention by the nursing staff or any C/Os that wander by on occasion. He asks the weirdo cellie to write out a medical-request form for him and then surrenders it though the slit in the door.
Before you know it, Sid is ushered to the hospital. He sits before a psychiatrist and the deputy warden. Snickering C/Os are looking on. Inquiries are made about him being suicidal. He tells them that he is not feeling suicidal. That is not what he asked his cellmate to write. Everyone ignores him. Then he says that he does not care to speak to any of them because there is no one he can trust. Again, no one listens. No one cares about anything he has to offer. He is wasting his time. The deputy warden does not intervene. She scratches notes on her little clipboard notepad and observes as they pull him off to suicide watch.
The suicide cells have long, skinny, horizontal two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras. They are stark and sterile (not as in “sterilized,” however). The one hundred-million lumen lighting remains glaring 24-7. Routine comments by C/Os, as they peer through the catacomb’s windows, are never-ending. “You’re not dead yet?” “Hey faggot, are you hungry? Eat this.”
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Railroading at it’s finest
The following is an excerpt from part one:
There are two Marthas at the Intake Service Center, both exceptionally sweet. One is a minister whom I had the pleasure of meeting at some of the services. The other one I never met, but Sid tells me of their association. She is present at the time he is threatened with solitary confinement for this recent “incident” and advocates for him after he is booked. The disciplinary board is not the least bit interested in Sid’s side of the story. They dictate that he refused to go to court. That entitles him to seg for twenty-five days. That is five days more than Riff Raff got for beating the crap out of him.
The two jerk-off C/Os accompanying Sid are joking and laughing the entire time. Sid speaks up, which does not endear him to the board. “You guys are laughing and making a joke out of this but it’s not funny. This is my life that you’re dealing with.” The mockery does not cease nor does anyone do a thing to prevent it. The board informs him that besides the twenty-five day term he forfeits any good time he may have accumulated.
There is a form to use if he cares to appeal. Sid notifies them that he cannot read or write. Martha steps in to offer assistance, which ultimately results in a reduced sentence of fifteen days. It could be reduced to one day and still make no difference. He was still not released after seventeen days without the lawyer’s intervention. It was no one’s intention to release him, ever.
Sid’s first seg cellmate, as expected, is supposed to smash him to smithereens. The preliminaries involve tiring interrogations. “Whadya do?” “Whadaya in faw?” Sid refuses to respond. The badgering persists and Sid gives in. “Child molestation.” The guy goes berserk. It is all part of the act. He flings his food tray directly at Sid’s face and the mess goes all over. Sid tells him that he knows about the plot to assail him but that he is innocent. He explains some of the outlandish details. In the next moment, his would-be attacker chucks a napkin at him. “Clean yourself up. I’m outta here.” He starts banging on the door like crazy. When someone finally responds, he announces,
“I’m not beating up an old man, especially not this one. Get me the fuck outta here.” They remove him. Sid is alone until the next day.
There are two Marthas at the Intake Service Center, both exceptionally sweet. One is a minister whom I had the pleasure of meeting at some of the services. The other one I never met, but Sid tells me of their association. She is present at the time he is threatened with solitary confinement for this recent “incident” and advocates for him after he is booked. The disciplinary board is not the least bit interested in Sid’s side of the story. They dictate that he refused to go to court. That entitles him to seg for twenty-five days. That is five days more than Riff Raff got for beating the crap out of him.
The two jerk-off C/Os accompanying Sid are joking and laughing the entire time. Sid speaks up, which does not endear him to the board. “You guys are laughing and making a joke out of this but it’s not funny. This is my life that you’re dealing with.” The mockery does not cease nor does anyone do a thing to prevent it. The board informs him that besides the twenty-five day term he forfeits any good time he may have accumulated.
There is a form to use if he cares to appeal. Sid notifies them that he cannot read or write. Martha steps in to offer assistance, which ultimately results in a reduced sentence of fifteen days. It could be reduced to one day and still make no difference. He was still not released after seventeen days without the lawyer’s intervention. It was no one’s intention to release him, ever.
Sid’s first seg cellmate, as expected, is supposed to smash him to smithereens. The preliminaries involve tiring interrogations. “Whadya do?” “Whadaya in faw?” Sid refuses to respond. The badgering persists and Sid gives in. “Child molestation.” The guy goes berserk. It is all part of the act. He flings his food tray directly at Sid’s face and the mess goes all over. Sid tells him that he knows about the plot to assail him but that he is innocent. He explains some of the outlandish details. In the next moment, his would-be attacker chucks a napkin at him. “Clean yourself up. I’m outta here.” He starts banging on the door like crazy. When someone finally responds, he announces,
“I’m not beating up an old man, especially not this one. Get me the fuck outta here.” They remove him. Sid is alone until the next day.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Lady Barkley
The following is an excerpt from part one:
It starts with a state marshal bitch and finishing touches are left to the C/O monsters. The cause for him missing the court date is a squabble involving an inmate. After I had left the final holding cell to board the bus, an enormous Hispanic man approaches Sid. “Do you know me?” Sid says no and the guy spits in his face, then continues. “Well I know you. You’re a ripper.” Then he spits again. Sid walks over to the doorway where a C/O, observing the tiff, is standing—no doubt the C/O who arranged the harassment. Sid tells him that he is being threatened and he feels sick. They move him into a small cubicle by himself.
Sometime later Sid is retrieved and escorted to the hospital. No blood is gushing, no guts hanging out. “There’s nothing fuckin’ wrong with you, you’re goin’ to court.” He is lugged back through the maze and to the sally port exit. There, Badge 191 of the can-do-no-wrong state marshal’s gang shoves him onto the bus. She is an absolute bulldog dyke with all kinds of metal rings pierced throughout her head. She directs Sid to the cage in which spit-man is sitting. Spit-man begins to howl. “Come over here, man. I like you. I wanna’ sit on your lap.” Sid tells Bulldog that this guy spit at and threatened him. He can’t sit there. He asks if he can sit in the empty cage across from him. “Get the fuck in there.”
“Can’t I please just go in the empty one?” Bulldog yanks him off the bus and back inside the prison pit. She taunts, “He doesn’t want to go on the bus. He’s ScaaaAAaaarred!” Sid is dragged back to a holding cell where he spends the entire day. Finally, he is booked for refusing to go to court.
It starts with a state marshal bitch and finishing touches are left to the C/O monsters. The cause for him missing the court date is a squabble involving an inmate. After I had left the final holding cell to board the bus, an enormous Hispanic man approaches Sid. “Do you know me?” Sid says no and the guy spits in his face, then continues. “Well I know you. You’re a ripper.” Then he spits again. Sid walks over to the doorway where a C/O, observing the tiff, is standing—no doubt the C/O who arranged the harassment. Sid tells him that he is being threatened and he feels sick. They move him into a small cubicle by himself.
Sometime later Sid is retrieved and escorted to the hospital. No blood is gushing, no guts hanging out. “There’s nothing fuckin’ wrong with you, you’re goin’ to court.” He is lugged back through the maze and to the sally port exit. There, Badge 191 of the can-do-no-wrong state marshal’s gang shoves him onto the bus. She is an absolute bulldog dyke with all kinds of metal rings pierced throughout her head. She directs Sid to the cage in which spit-man is sitting. Spit-man begins to howl. “Come over here, man. I like you. I wanna’ sit on your lap.” Sid tells Bulldog that this guy spit at and threatened him. He can’t sit there. He asks if he can sit in the empty cage across from him. “Get the fuck in there.”
“Can’t I please just go in the empty one?” Bulldog yanks him off the bus and back inside the prison pit. She taunts, “He doesn’t want to go on the bus. He’s ScaaaAAaaarred!” Sid is dragged back to a holding cell where he spends the entire day. Finally, he is booked for refusing to go to court.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Where oh where?
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Sid’s segregation ordeal begins on the day of our previously scheduled Family Court appearance. He and I complete the pilgrimage from chow to the final holding cell location before proceeding through the metal detector. Roll call to the buses is alphabetical by mod: A mod, last name A through Z; then B mod, last name A through Z. Because of our mod locations, we are assigned to different buses.
I watch for him all day in the holding cells at the courthouse. He doesn’t show. I never make it up into court, but that is a common enough occurrence. (I have made many more trips to court for nothing than for anything else.) When we return from court, Sid is still not around. I check in with Leo. He is a dining room porter from the same mod as Sid and regularly relays messages for us. Leo has no idea either. He is under the impression that Sid was at court for the day.
The following day I call my sister Marie. She hasn’t heard anything but says she will try to find out. I call her the next day and she tells me that Sid is in seg. That is the only information available. I know instinctively that he has been set up but I can’t possibly imagine the details. He would not have initiated an altercation or fought back with an inmate. There has to be some cruddy C/O or messed-up marshal behind the plot.
At the hospital the next day, Sid is being led out as I approach the entrance. He is wearing the orange seg jumpsuit and looks like he has been put through the wringer. He pauses briefly to explain, “I wanted to go to court but—” The C/O tugs him through the entrance to the seg mods and they disappear.
I remain in the dark for the next two weeks. During that period, my mind often slips into worry mode. I instantly redirect it elsewhere. I am certain that Sid is undergoing a nasty time but there is no sense in both of us enduring it. It is not until we go to court again that I finally get to speak to him. He tells me the painful details of the ordeal.
Sid’s segregation ordeal begins on the day of our previously scheduled Family Court appearance. He and I complete the pilgrimage from chow to the final holding cell location before proceeding through the metal detector. Roll call to the buses is alphabetical by mod: A mod, last name A through Z; then B mod, last name A through Z. Because of our mod locations, we are assigned to different buses.
I watch for him all day in the holding cells at the courthouse. He doesn’t show. I never make it up into court, but that is a common enough occurrence. (I have made many more trips to court for nothing than for anything else.) When we return from court, Sid is still not around. I check in with Leo. He is a dining room porter from the same mod as Sid and regularly relays messages for us. Leo has no idea either. He is under the impression that Sid was at court for the day.
The following day I call my sister Marie. She hasn’t heard anything but says she will try to find out. I call her the next day and she tells me that Sid is in seg. That is the only information available. I know instinctively that he has been set up but I can’t possibly imagine the details. He would not have initiated an altercation or fought back with an inmate. There has to be some cruddy C/O or messed-up marshal behind the plot.
At the hospital the next day, Sid is being led out as I approach the entrance. He is wearing the orange seg jumpsuit and looks like he has been put through the wringer. He pauses briefly to explain, “I wanted to go to court but—” The C/O tugs him through the entrance to the seg mods and they disappear.
I remain in the dark for the next two weeks. During that period, my mind often slips into worry mode. I instantly redirect it elsewhere. I am certain that Sid is undergoing a nasty time but there is no sense in both of us enduring it. It is not until we go to court again that I finally get to speak to him. He tells me the painful details of the ordeal.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Anbesol PLEASE!
The following is an excerpt from part one:
The C/Os can be cooperative when and if they want to be. In Piss mod, Kyle from the Marines’ billboard asks one of the lady—female, rather—C/Os about having an infected tooth pulled. It is obvious that she has the hots for him. In a minute flat, she makes a call to the dentist and reports back, “It’s too late for today but they’ll take you first thing in the morning.” That is exactly what happens.
After being in prison for a few weeks, Sid develops an infected wisdom tooth. He asks a C/O about getting it pulled. He might as well be talking to himself. He submits medical request slips, week after week, month after month. He asks a couple of other C/Os, to no avail. He keeps submitting requests. Finally, the pain is so unbearable that he pulls it out himself.
He removes the stem from his glasses and sharpens it on the cement cell floor. The tool effectively lances the abscess that is as large as the tooth itself. Using the scalpel that he has fashioned, he gouges the gum line over a period of several days and loosens the tooth. He pries it out using his thumb and forefinger as pliers.
For three months, he has been sleeping on the floor in various cells. Not a single staff person will assign him to a lower bunk. The floor was the only alternative since his spinal condition prevented him from maneuvering to the upper level. For eight months, he has been declined medication, even though he was taking Oxycodone at the time of his arrest. For two weeks he has been in solitary confinement for a fabricated “problem.”
The C/Os can be cooperative when and if they want to be. In Piss mod, Kyle from the Marines’ billboard asks one of the lady—female, rather—C/Os about having an infected tooth pulled. It is obvious that she has the hots for him. In a minute flat, she makes a call to the dentist and reports back, “It’s too late for today but they’ll take you first thing in the morning.” That is exactly what happens.
After being in prison for a few weeks, Sid develops an infected wisdom tooth. He asks a C/O about getting it pulled. He might as well be talking to himself. He submits medical request slips, week after week, month after month. He asks a couple of other C/Os, to no avail. He keeps submitting requests. Finally, the pain is so unbearable that he pulls it out himself.
He removes the stem from his glasses and sharpens it on the cement cell floor. The tool effectively lances the abscess that is as large as the tooth itself. Using the scalpel that he has fashioned, he gouges the gum line over a period of several days and loosens the tooth. He pries it out using his thumb and forefinger as pliers.
For three months, he has been sleeping on the floor in various cells. Not a single staff person will assign him to a lower bunk. The floor was the only alternative since his spinal condition prevented him from maneuvering to the upper level. For eight months, he has been declined medication, even though he was taking Oxycodone at the time of his arrest. For two weeks he has been in solitary confinement for a fabricated “problem.”
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Lightning up the ass
The following is an excerpt from part one:
His cellmate shudders while at top volume Sid expels, “I hate all you fuckin’ C/Os and the fuckin’ state marshals. I hope you all fuckin’ burn in hell. In the meantime I call upon the forces of the universe to fuck you up so bad that you wished you had never lived.”
His cellie jumps up and started screaming. “Sid, SiD, SiiiiiiD! Stop. Look what’s happening. Look at the sky.” Sid ignores him and continues. It is early afternoon and the grayness of overcast skies becomes black, as though the day has skipped a cycle and instantly turned night.
“I hate all you fuckin’ bastards for what you are and what you did. I haaaate all you fuckin’ C/Os.” The sky grumbles. Enormous flashes of lightning flicker through the angry clouds. Water begins to flood down. It is as though the oceans of the world are overhead and are falling. Sid is standing in the center of the cell, arms outstretched.
“Sid—Sid, man! You gotta stop. Look what you’re...” The incantations continue as freely as the falling rain. Lightning crackles and deafening thunder bellows unceasingly in competition with unrelenting cries.
“All you damn C/Os and sheriffs are gonna be sorry that you ever crossed my path. I call upon the universe to destroy you. I hope the lightning goes right up your ass. I hate everyone for what they did and I curse the day that they ever came into my life. I curse you all to a lifetime of misery.” Hail the size of kumquats starts to fall. The wind is unrelenting, and frozen ice balls hurl against everything in its course. Lightning fl ashes in every direction. Its thunderous aftermath shakes the concrete building like a sonic boom.
“I curse everyone who is responsible for putting me in this rotten place. Damn you all forever. I curse you with every breath I have ever taken. I curse you all to hell.” Then he collapses on his bunk, entirely drained of energy. His cellie is still in shock, “That was you that did that?”
“Yup. I scared myself.” Maybe it is all just another bizarre coincidence. Unfortunately, there are no C/Os or sheriffs who got a bolt of lightning up the ass as far as either of us know.
His cellmate shudders while at top volume Sid expels, “I hate all you fuckin’ C/Os and the fuckin’ state marshals. I hope you all fuckin’ burn in hell. In the meantime I call upon the forces of the universe to fuck you up so bad that you wished you had never lived.”
His cellie jumps up and started screaming. “Sid, SiD, SiiiiiiD! Stop. Look what’s happening. Look at the sky.” Sid ignores him and continues. It is early afternoon and the grayness of overcast skies becomes black, as though the day has skipped a cycle and instantly turned night.
“I hate all you fuckin’ bastards for what you are and what you did. I haaaate all you fuckin’ C/Os.” The sky grumbles. Enormous flashes of lightning flicker through the angry clouds. Water begins to flood down. It is as though the oceans of the world are overhead and are falling. Sid is standing in the center of the cell, arms outstretched.
“Sid—Sid, man! You gotta stop. Look what you’re...” The incantations continue as freely as the falling rain. Lightning crackles and deafening thunder bellows unceasingly in competition with unrelenting cries.
“All you damn C/Os and sheriffs are gonna be sorry that you ever crossed my path. I call upon the universe to destroy you. I hope the lightning goes right up your ass. I hate everyone for what they did and I curse the day that they ever came into my life. I curse you all to a lifetime of misery.” Hail the size of kumquats starts to fall. The wind is unrelenting, and frozen ice balls hurl against everything in its course. Lightning fl ashes in every direction. Its thunderous aftermath shakes the concrete building like a sonic boom.
“I curse everyone who is responsible for putting me in this rotten place. Damn you all forever. I curse you with every breath I have ever taken. I curse you all to hell.” Then he collapses on his bunk, entirely drained of energy. His cellie is still in shock, “That was you that did that?”
“Yup. I scared myself.” Maybe it is all just another bizarre coincidence. Unfortunately, there are no C/Os or sheriffs who got a bolt of lightning up the ass as far as either of us know.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
“I’ll get you, my pretty.”
The following is an excerpt from part one:
When Sid and I meet at a courthouse rendezvous we have the opportunity to exchange stories about how life—with C/Os in particular—has been mistreating us. He tells me about being transferred to different mods for “whatever reason.” The challenge of “fitting in” or “getting along” is sometimes difficult because some of the C/Os make it their business to pit inmates against him before he has a chance.
That is generally not too difficult to remedy. The C/Os become infuriated beyond reason. There is usually at least one inmate that also remains staunch in his irrational hatred and harassing treatment. As time goes on, Sid’s reputation precedes him. He is well-liked regardless of C/O interference. Sid also shares many accounts of his interactions with inmates. Some of the guys are frightened by his psychic ability, others amazed. Still others are skeptical. Of the latter, their doubt is usually because incidents that Sid describes have not yet occurred. Most often, they come to fruition within a short span and the skeptics join the ranks of the impressed. It gives Sid a shot at earning respect.
Whenever the staff has an opportunity to inflict punishment, there is not an inconvenience too great to stop them. They attempt to situate Sid wherever he might be miserable. If that doesn’t work, they separate him from the ones who have become friendly to him. In one mod he became very close to two influential black prisoners who had been instructed to “mess him up.” Before long they consider him a “brother.” After a few days of the chummy-chummy stuff they get moved.
. . . Sid asks me about the great storm which had befallen us over the summer. “Do you remember the thunderstorm we had with the big hail a few weeks ago?” “Of course I do. It was ferocious.” I generally love expressions of nature such as that but the storm he is referring to was ominous. We lost power for longer than anybody there can remember. It had occurred shortly after we were beat up and sent to solitary confinement. Sid is on a rampage, furious about the attack and that nothing has been done except to further punish us.
On top of that, the pain in my leg is increasing considerably since it took so long to acquire a cane. Then, it takes twice as long to get crutches. The strain on my hip finishes ripping the socket entirely from the pelvis. My femur was completely dislocated, protruding right into the glutes. Sid experiences my pain. It causes him much anger and distress. He decides to cast a spell.
When Sid and I meet at a courthouse rendezvous we have the opportunity to exchange stories about how life—with C/Os in particular—has been mistreating us. He tells me about being transferred to different mods for “whatever reason.” The challenge of “fitting in” or “getting along” is sometimes difficult because some of the C/Os make it their business to pit inmates against him before he has a chance.
That is generally not too difficult to remedy. The C/Os become infuriated beyond reason. There is usually at least one inmate that also remains staunch in his irrational hatred and harassing treatment. As time goes on, Sid’s reputation precedes him. He is well-liked regardless of C/O interference. Sid also shares many accounts of his interactions with inmates. Some of the guys are frightened by his psychic ability, others amazed. Still others are skeptical. Of the latter, their doubt is usually because incidents that Sid describes have not yet occurred. Most often, they come to fruition within a short span and the skeptics join the ranks of the impressed. It gives Sid a shot at earning respect.
Whenever the staff has an opportunity to inflict punishment, there is not an inconvenience too great to stop them. They attempt to situate Sid wherever he might be miserable. If that doesn’t work, they separate him from the ones who have become friendly to him. In one mod he became very close to two influential black prisoners who had been instructed to “mess him up.” Before long they consider him a “brother.” After a few days of the chummy-chummy stuff they get moved.
. . . Sid asks me about the great storm which had befallen us over the summer. “Do you remember the thunderstorm we had with the big hail a few weeks ago?” “Of course I do. It was ferocious.” I generally love expressions of nature such as that but the storm he is referring to was ominous. We lost power for longer than anybody there can remember. It had occurred shortly after we were beat up and sent to solitary confinement. Sid is on a rampage, furious about the attack and that nothing has been done except to further punish us.
On top of that, the pain in my leg is increasing considerably since it took so long to acquire a cane. Then, it takes twice as long to get crutches. The strain on my hip finishes ripping the socket entirely from the pelvis. My femur was completely dislocated, protruding right into the glutes. Sid experiences my pain. It causes him much anger and distress. He decides to cast a spell.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The fortuitous Kiwi
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Being an only child, and a “mistake” at that (the understatement of the millennium,) is the reason that he is so demanding. It also explains why he has developed the infuriating habit of steadfastly speaking to himself. It is not subdued in the least; the volume is the same as in the heated debates with his elderly parents, both around eighty.
When he is not engaged in a full-fledged conversation, alone, he is engaged in some sort of stage act. Undoubtedly, the performance is as much for my viewing pleasure as that of the imaginary American Idol audience. Judging from the tireless nods, bows, and grins following each act, the standing ovations must be endless, the crowds mystified. All except for me: I am rapidly becoming delusional and suicidal.
Dave’s self-indulgent demands for conveniences are unlimited. I am repeatedly assured that I will not go uncompensated—he will place a store order and reinstate everything. Better yet, when he gets out he can “send a check.” Regardless, to keep the peace, I pamper him with stamps, daily snacks, and gallons of shampoo. I even provide toothpaste. He has a tube of prison-issued Elmer’s but he is “not crazy about it.” His order arrives. Ooops, he forgot to order my stuff. He continues with the variety show performances but now, munching contentedly on bags of health mix. That must be the preferred snack of coke and nicotine addicts. He offers me not so much as a dried banana chip.
After the fifth dreadful day of madness, the dimwit goes to court. I am on barbs and spikes, fearing the worst: he might come back. I spend the day praying for mercy. It is the day before my birthday. I am a disaster, wondering if hell’s torment will be returning to throw me a surprise party. If he does not, I will become the grateful heir to his notepad, envelopes, and bottle of VO-5 conditioner. It is the perfect bequest for a man with a head of hair like a kiwi.
Being an only child, and a “mistake” at that (the understatement of the millennium,) is the reason that he is so demanding. It also explains why he has developed the infuriating habit of steadfastly speaking to himself. It is not subdued in the least; the volume is the same as in the heated debates with his elderly parents, both around eighty.
When he is not engaged in a full-fledged conversation, alone, he is engaged in some sort of stage act. Undoubtedly, the performance is as much for my viewing pleasure as that of the imaginary American Idol audience. Judging from the tireless nods, bows, and grins following each act, the standing ovations must be endless, the crowds mystified. All except for me: I am rapidly becoming delusional and suicidal.
Dave’s self-indulgent demands for conveniences are unlimited. I am repeatedly assured that I will not go uncompensated—he will place a store order and reinstate everything. Better yet, when he gets out he can “send a check.” Regardless, to keep the peace, I pamper him with stamps, daily snacks, and gallons of shampoo. I even provide toothpaste. He has a tube of prison-issued Elmer’s but he is “not crazy about it.” His order arrives. Ooops, he forgot to order my stuff. He continues with the variety show performances but now, munching contentedly on bags of health mix. That must be the preferred snack of coke and nicotine addicts. He offers me not so much as a dried banana chip.
After the fifth dreadful day of madness, the dimwit goes to court. I am on barbs and spikes, fearing the worst: he might come back. I spend the day praying for mercy. It is the day before my birthday. I am a disaster, wondering if hell’s torment will be returning to throw me a surprise party. If he does not, I will become the grateful heir to his notepad, envelopes, and bottle of VO-5 conditioner. It is the perfect bequest for a man with a head of hair like a kiwi.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Surprise!
The following is an excerpt from part one:
That provides him with a splendid chance, before I block him out entirely with the headphones, to inform me of his great wealth. He received a $120,000 insurance settlement. In four months, he pissed it away in support of his and the fiancée’s cocaine habit. To boast of that sort of frivolity as one’s claim to distinction simply withers me right down to the brain stem.
The fiancée, reportedly a buxom and beautiful black barfly, is the one who had birdbrain “arrested again” on some sort of sketchy domestic violence charge. The event occurred just hours before the harmonious couple were to enter into matrimony. As a result, he’s no longer sure if she is the best choice for him. Perhaps the Brazilian beauty who tends bar at his nightly hang-out of choice would be a more suitable life partner? She seems desirable considering the way “she was coming onto” him. Could it be that he was after the tits and she the tips?
I do not propose the question—I dread having to listen to the answer. Before I clamp the headphones on for good, he suggests that possibly we could “do something.” I magically go deaf. I have all I can handle to restrain regurgitation as it makes a massive charge at the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I cannot wear the headset to go to chow. I am vulnerable to attack. The robbery, for which he served five years in another state, is a real honey of a story. The heist occurred at a drive-up window. With a handwritten note, he demanded $5,000 from the teller. She handed over the cash and he drove off. He didn’t make it out of the parking lot. Surprise!
That provides him with a splendid chance, before I block him out entirely with the headphones, to inform me of his great wealth. He received a $120,000 insurance settlement. In four months, he pissed it away in support of his and the fiancée’s cocaine habit. To boast of that sort of frivolity as one’s claim to distinction simply withers me right down to the brain stem.
The fiancée, reportedly a buxom and beautiful black barfly, is the one who had birdbrain “arrested again” on some sort of sketchy domestic violence charge. The event occurred just hours before the harmonious couple were to enter into matrimony. As a result, he’s no longer sure if she is the best choice for him. Perhaps the Brazilian beauty who tends bar at his nightly hang-out of choice would be a more suitable life partner? She seems desirable considering the way “she was coming onto” him. Could it be that he was after the tits and she the tips?
I do not propose the question—I dread having to listen to the answer. Before I clamp the headphones on for good, he suggests that possibly we could “do something.” I magically go deaf. I have all I can handle to restrain regurgitation as it makes a massive charge at the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I cannot wear the headset to go to chow. I am vulnerable to attack. The robbery, for which he served five years in another state, is a real honey of a story. The heist occurred at a drive-up window. With a handwritten note, he demanded $5,000 from the teller. She handed over the cash and he drove off. He didn’t make it out of the parking lot. Surprise!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Freaky Dave
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Following Jed’s release, dip-shit Dave is the cursed affliction moving into P-7. Maybe I am having a nightmare about the Little Mermaid giving birth to an ill-fated granddaddy catfish child? Nope, it is my bank robber cellmate inflicting the most undeservedly grueling few days of my life. He does not actually have wiggly, black whisker-mustache sort of things like a full-fledged catfish. His unfortunate appearance and regrettable deportment are best dealt with as though trying to forget a frightful dream.
The luxuriant waves of strawberry bronze flowing halfway down his back complement the freckled pinkness. While it would be a strikingly suitable style for Aphrodite, on a dingbat with a godforsaken excuse of a puss it does not work. It looks like someone stuck a disproportionately large Cabbage Patch head onto a Barbie doll. In his inexhaustible ranting about his woes, he continually cites his unconventional appearance as the reason for his being a target of scorn and scolding. On top of the freaked-out looks, to exacerbate the hideous parcel further, he maintains an air of derisive cynicism.
Derelict Dave possesses a distinct eeriness transcending the limits of physical attributes. What we have here can only be described as “the creeps.” I have little doubt that childhood taunting of “Freaky Dave” have branded indelible scars of self-loathing. At every opportunity, the long-haired wonder boasts of having spent “more money in the last four months than most people earn in four years.”
After the first several hours of our hideous courtship, I can’t take it. I find anything other than him to position in front of my nose. The annoyance diminishes dramatically when I stick the headphones on with the radio blasting. Just before that, I attempt perpetual TV watching but it is too easy for him to participate in the distraction. He feels that he is as much an object of interest as whatever is on the screen.
When he is not carrying on about his depraved life, he is absorbed in bucking the C/Os. The first night he is locked in for not tucking in his shirt. While he is waiting for our door to open, I warn him three times that he needs to tuck it. Smugly, he responds three times, “But I’m only going to the shower.” The exact same conversation ensues with a C/O just as rec begins. Surprise! His entire rec period is revoked. I have to smell him for another night, Frito factory feet and all. We are both locked in, me by choice, him by defiance.
Following Jed’s release, dip-shit Dave is the cursed affliction moving into P-7. Maybe I am having a nightmare about the Little Mermaid giving birth to an ill-fated granddaddy catfish child? Nope, it is my bank robber cellmate inflicting the most undeservedly grueling few days of my life. He does not actually have wiggly, black whisker-mustache sort of things like a full-fledged catfish. His unfortunate appearance and regrettable deportment are best dealt with as though trying to forget a frightful dream.
The luxuriant waves of strawberry bronze flowing halfway down his back complement the freckled pinkness. While it would be a strikingly suitable style for Aphrodite, on a dingbat with a godforsaken excuse of a puss it does not work. It looks like someone stuck a disproportionately large Cabbage Patch head onto a Barbie doll. In his inexhaustible ranting about his woes, he continually cites his unconventional appearance as the reason for his being a target of scorn and scolding. On top of the freaked-out looks, to exacerbate the hideous parcel further, he maintains an air of derisive cynicism.
Derelict Dave possesses a distinct eeriness transcending the limits of physical attributes. What we have here can only be described as “the creeps.” I have little doubt that childhood taunting of “Freaky Dave” have branded indelible scars of self-loathing. At every opportunity, the long-haired wonder boasts of having spent “more money in the last four months than most people earn in four years.”
After the first several hours of our hideous courtship, I can’t take it. I find anything other than him to position in front of my nose. The annoyance diminishes dramatically when I stick the headphones on with the radio blasting. Just before that, I attempt perpetual TV watching but it is too easy for him to participate in the distraction. He feels that he is as much an object of interest as whatever is on the screen.
When he is not carrying on about his depraved life, he is absorbed in bucking the C/Os. The first night he is locked in for not tucking in his shirt. While he is waiting for our door to open, I warn him three times that he needs to tuck it. Smugly, he responds three times, “But I’m only going to the shower.” The exact same conversation ensues with a C/O just as rec begins. Surprise! His entire rec period is revoked. I have to smell him for another night, Frito factory feet and all. We are both locked in, me by choice, him by defiance.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
DNA: Do Not Assume
The following is an excerpt from part two:
In its November 2008 issue, Texas Monthly published an article by Michael Hall about thirty-seven men who spent a total of 525 years in prison for crimes not committed. DNA technology has since proven them innocent. Of his ninety nine-year sentence, Charles Chatman spent twenty-six and a half years behind bars. He states, “It was like tunnel vision once they zoom in on one person. They were trying to get a quick conviction, satisfy society by just prosecuting somebody. That doesn’t do society no good to prosecute the wrong person.”
Another Texas prisoner, Carlos Lavernia, completed fifteen years of his mistaken sentence. He was identified in a lineup developed from photos fourteen months after the crime. The Anglo victim is positive that her assailant was a Cuban immigrant. In his report of prison experience, he recounts being in the shower when an inmate “stabbed me—twice, behind the ear and on the wrist. Guards saw me over there. They were saying, ‘Kill that motherfucker! Let him die!’” That exemplifies the intentions of those who locked him up in the first place. It typifies the discriminatory, hate filled aggressiveness of our society.
Anthony Robinson served ten of his twenty-seven years for rape. He says, “. . . you just don’t drive up and arrest people. . . I was thinking, ‘There is something really seriously wrong with this. This is some kind of sick, twisted joke . . . you just don’t take people to court and say, ‘Oh, this person raped me’—you gotta have some kind of corroborating evidence . . . I think what the prosecution basically decided was that we don’t need facts; we got a living victim here . . . No matter what I have in the way of proof, somebody’s always going to say that I got away with it. My thinking is that you can’t change that person.” After twenty-seven years, James Woodard was released based on DNA evidence. Texas Monthly’s account states that he “came up for parole numerous times but consistently refused to admit guilt, which could have won him early release.”
In its November 2008 issue, Texas Monthly published an article by Michael Hall about thirty-seven men who spent a total of 525 years in prison for crimes not committed. DNA technology has since proven them innocent. Of his ninety nine-year sentence, Charles Chatman spent twenty-six and a half years behind bars. He states, “It was like tunnel vision once they zoom in on one person. They were trying to get a quick conviction, satisfy society by just prosecuting somebody. That doesn’t do society no good to prosecute the wrong person.”
Another Texas prisoner, Carlos Lavernia, completed fifteen years of his mistaken sentence. He was identified in a lineup developed from photos fourteen months after the crime. The Anglo victim is positive that her assailant was a Cuban immigrant. In his report of prison experience, he recounts being in the shower when an inmate “stabbed me—twice, behind the ear and on the wrist. Guards saw me over there. They were saying, ‘Kill that motherfucker! Let him die!’” That exemplifies the intentions of those who locked him up in the first place. It typifies the discriminatory, hate filled aggressiveness of our society.
Anthony Robinson served ten of his twenty-seven years for rape. He says, “. . . you just don’t drive up and arrest people. . . I was thinking, ‘There is something really seriously wrong with this. This is some kind of sick, twisted joke . . . you just don’t take people to court and say, ‘Oh, this person raped me’—you gotta have some kind of corroborating evidence . . . I think what the prosecution basically decided was that we don’t need facts; we got a living victim here . . . No matter what I have in the way of proof, somebody’s always going to say that I got away with it. My thinking is that you can’t change that person.” After twenty-seven years, James Woodard was released based on DNA evidence. Texas Monthly’s account states that he “came up for parole numerous times but consistently refused to admit guilt, which could have won him early release.”
Thursday, March 24, 2011
“Fear always springs from ignorance” Emerson
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Sex offender laws in the US require scrutiny. Some organizations such as ReformSexOffenderLaws.org are making headway in the interest of true justice. Our efforts would be well spent in support of such organizations so that the authentically dangerous predators could be identified and monitored accordingly. Rather, we spin our wheels, becoming distraught and losing sleep over a “problem” which is mostly hype.
Residency restrictions are “almost totally driven by emotion,” according to Richard Tewksbury, a University of Louisville professor of justice administration who studies sex offender laws. Regulations are founded entirely on fear, not fact. Without exception, all research shows there is no impact. The effect it does have is to make it harder for sex offenders to access treatment, find jobs and have a support system, all keys to crime free life. “If they can find a place at all,” says Tewksbury, “it is in the poorest, most disorganized, least desirable areas of the city, where is it more common for children to be unsupervised.”
What is most desperately needed, in the interest of reform, is education. Sadly, those who are most misinformed are likely to remain so. They are the ones who comment, “Lock them all up and throw away the key.” It startles the imagination for a “sophisticated society” to be carrying on in such a fashion. Unfounded fear instigates the ineffectual process of this punitive response. Ignorance insures its longevity.
Sex offender laws in the US require scrutiny. Some organizations such as ReformSexOffenderLaws.org are making headway in the interest of true justice. Our efforts would be well spent in support of such organizations so that the authentically dangerous predators could be identified and monitored accordingly. Rather, we spin our wheels, becoming distraught and losing sleep over a “problem” which is mostly hype.
Residency restrictions are “almost totally driven by emotion,” according to Richard Tewksbury, a University of Louisville professor of justice administration who studies sex offender laws. Regulations are founded entirely on fear, not fact. Without exception, all research shows there is no impact. The effect it does have is to make it harder for sex offenders to access treatment, find jobs and have a support system, all keys to crime free life. “If they can find a place at all,” says Tewksbury, “it is in the poorest, most disorganized, least desirable areas of the city, where is it more common for children to be unsupervised.”
What is most desperately needed, in the interest of reform, is education. Sadly, those who are most misinformed are likely to remain so. They are the ones who comment, “Lock them all up and throw away the key.” It startles the imagination for a “sophisticated society” to be carrying on in such a fashion. Unfounded fear instigates the ineffectual process of this punitive response. Ignorance insures its longevity.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Panic!
The following is an excerpt from part two:
The ReformSexOffenderLaws.org group points out how our system goes so far as to defy common sense:
“As soon as someone is accused of sexual behavior with a minor, their name is splashed all over TV and the newspapers, destroying their careers and good name, and their accuser is publicly labeled a victim. All of this happens whether the accusation is true or not... DAs, judges and juries indict or convict on the mere allegation of sexual violation without any consideration that supporting evidence is lacking. ‘Repressed memories,’ unsupported or even contradicted by physical evidence, sometimes become the basis for Conviction.”
Mass hysteria is perpetuated by the media and sustained by less-than-informed individuals. If the umbrella phrase “sex offenders” really described a group of dangerous predators, then it would be realistic to view it as naming an actual threat. But children as young as four years old—including minors convicted of consensual sex with other minors—fall under the sex offender umbrella.
“It includes persons whose alleged crimes are labeled violent, but where no force or violence occurred. The term “sex offender” encompasses an extremely wide range of people who have been judged guilty of behaviors from bad taste to serious abuse. In the public mind (and sometimes in the statements of public officials,) every sex offender is a person considered to have committed heinous crimes.”
All “offenders”—from those charged with public urination to teens convicted for consensual sex to those accused of a sexual violation, guilty or not—are grouped in the same “dangerous predator” classification. Those in our country who might feel threatened by living next door to a convicted sex offender in more than nine out of ten instances are living in fear of a nonexistent risk. Statistically, a very small percentage of offenders pose a real danger. This is quite similar in nature to previous panics aimed at other groups.
The ReformSexOffenderLaws.org group points out how our system goes so far as to defy common sense:
“As soon as someone is accused of sexual behavior with a minor, their name is splashed all over TV and the newspapers, destroying their careers and good name, and their accuser is publicly labeled a victim. All of this happens whether the accusation is true or not... DAs, judges and juries indict or convict on the mere allegation of sexual violation without any consideration that supporting evidence is lacking. ‘Repressed memories,’ unsupported or even contradicted by physical evidence, sometimes become the basis for Conviction.”
Mass hysteria is perpetuated by the media and sustained by less-than-informed individuals. If the umbrella phrase “sex offenders” really described a group of dangerous predators, then it would be realistic to view it as naming an actual threat. But children as young as four years old—including minors convicted of consensual sex with other minors—fall under the sex offender umbrella.
“It includes persons whose alleged crimes are labeled violent, but where no force or violence occurred. The term “sex offender” encompasses an extremely wide range of people who have been judged guilty of behaviors from bad taste to serious abuse. In the public mind (and sometimes in the statements of public officials,) every sex offender is a person considered to have committed heinous crimes.”
All “offenders”—from those charged with public urination to teens convicted for consensual sex to those accused of a sexual violation, guilty or not—are grouped in the same “dangerous predator” classification. Those in our country who might feel threatened by living next door to a convicted sex offender in more than nine out of ten instances are living in fear of a nonexistent risk. Statistically, a very small percentage of offenders pose a real danger. This is quite similar in nature to previous panics aimed at other groups.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
It doesn’t get better than that
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Beginning with the first flicker of our notoriety, there is not a soul who wants our innocence to govern the proceedings. The war-waging public does not want it. Can there be a more effective method for gay bashing? No one has to lift a finger. The town dogcatcher, promoted to detective, does not want us exonerated—further promotions do not come by being wrong. Downright emphatically, the courts are committed to a conviction. As with Pontius Pilate, let us give the public what they want. Certainly, DCYF is not in favor of objectivity. The glare of the spotlight causes them to turn their eyes the other way. They revoke our foster parenting license before we ever are arrested. Most decidedly, the media needs us to fry. What kind of glamour is there in exposing two gay men’s innocence?
When the media and politicians sensationalize cases such as ours it remains in their interest to be sure that their agendas are not challenged. The “tough on crime” illusion ensures that everyone is moved up a rung. Demonizing the accused becomes profitable in every way imaginable. Dollars float down from the heavens. The public is pleased that someone is found guilty. We can all live happily ever after. The other side of the coin is that a “debt to society” never gets paid in full—ex-cons wear the scarlet letter of shame up until their dying gasp. Pathetically, in the prevailing view of our sophisticated culture, “It doesn’t get better than that.”
Beginning with the first flicker of our notoriety, there is not a soul who wants our innocence to govern the proceedings. The war-waging public does not want it. Can there be a more effective method for gay bashing? No one has to lift a finger. The town dogcatcher, promoted to detective, does not want us exonerated—further promotions do not come by being wrong. Downright emphatically, the courts are committed to a conviction. As with Pontius Pilate, let us give the public what they want. Certainly, DCYF is not in favor of objectivity. The glare of the spotlight causes them to turn their eyes the other way. They revoke our foster parenting license before we ever are arrested. Most decidedly, the media needs us to fry. What kind of glamour is there in exposing two gay men’s innocence?
When the media and politicians sensationalize cases such as ours it remains in their interest to be sure that their agendas are not challenged. The “tough on crime” illusion ensures that everyone is moved up a rung. Demonizing the accused becomes profitable in every way imaginable. Dollars float down from the heavens. The public is pleased that someone is found guilty. We can all live happily ever after. The other side of the coin is that a “debt to society” never gets paid in full—ex-cons wear the scarlet letter of shame up until their dying gasp. Pathetically, in the prevailing view of our sophisticated culture, “It doesn’t get better than that.”
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Thanks for the favor
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Shortly after our release from prison, a school principal was arrested on child molestation charges. The circumstances of absolutely nothing to go on other than someone’s accusation, does not put him behind bars as it did with us. His status prevented him from facing the firing line. Popularity released him of his charges without going to trial.
In a 2009 Rhode Island incident, a business owner was arrested on two counts of first degree and six counts of second degree sexual assault. Four female workers reported the assaults to the police. The charges were dropped by the Rhode Island attorney general’s office due to lack of evidence. The testimony of four adult women was not sufficient evidence, yet in our case the fluctuating statements of a neurotic child were enough to get us locked up and tried.
Something about these equations does not add up—except in the minds of heterosexual supremacists and those gravely amiss, steeped in the current climate of sex offender hysterics. I do not know either of the accused men but I wish them the best. The best Sid and I could hope for is exactly the reaction that shackled our wrists. The best we could expect was being exposed to danger every breathing second behind bars. The best we could count on was disastrous representation at our bail hearing: Attorney Manfreak offered to represent us as a “favor to the court.” He recommended that we decline bail.
“See all those television cameras over there? Those are here for you. That’ll make matters much worse.” He suggested that we decline and then appeal later. When we obtained our own lawyers, they told us that there was no appealing to be had. Once we declined, we waived our right to bail. The “favor to the court” was to make sure we did not get out. We were confined to prison for the duration.
Shortly after our release from prison, a school principal was arrested on child molestation charges. The circumstances of absolutely nothing to go on other than someone’s accusation, does not put him behind bars as it did with us. His status prevented him from facing the firing line. Popularity released him of his charges without going to trial.
In a 2009 Rhode Island incident, a business owner was arrested on two counts of first degree and six counts of second degree sexual assault. Four female workers reported the assaults to the police. The charges were dropped by the Rhode Island attorney general’s office due to lack of evidence. The testimony of four adult women was not sufficient evidence, yet in our case the fluctuating statements of a neurotic child were enough to get us locked up and tried.
Something about these equations does not add up—except in the minds of heterosexual supremacists and those gravely amiss, steeped in the current climate of sex offender hysterics. I do not know either of the accused men but I wish them the best. The best Sid and I could hope for is exactly the reaction that shackled our wrists. The best we could expect was being exposed to danger every breathing second behind bars. The best we could count on was disastrous representation at our bail hearing: Attorney Manfreak offered to represent us as a “favor to the court.” He recommended that we decline bail.
“See all those television cameras over there? Those are here for you. That’ll make matters much worse.” He suggested that we decline and then appeal later. When we obtained our own lawyers, they told us that there was no appealing to be had. Once we declined, we waived our right to bail. The “favor to the court” was to make sure we did not get out. We were confined to prison for the duration.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Somebody’s gotta pay
The following is an excerpt from part two:
There have been many instances of Catholic priests being found guilty of child molestation. Certainly, some of the assertions are factual. Certainly, there is nothing to stop any distorted, money-hungry “victim” from claiming that “the priest did those things to me when I was a child.” It’s a done deal—all that is left is to cash the check. Yet with new DNA technology, more and more convicted rapists are being exonerated. One man from Texas has recently been cleared of any wrongdoing after having been imprisoned for twenty-seven years. For him, as with many in our injustice system, arbitrary testimony used as evidence is relied upon as proof.
Freedom Writers is a heartrending and heartwarming 2007 movie starring Hilary Swank as an excited new teacher in the 1990s at a Long Beach, California high school. A new integration program jeopardizes the once solidly structured curriculum. The film is based on the book The Freedom Writers Diary by Erin Gruwell, which evolved from a project she assigned to her students who, after a considerable struggle, came to respect her.
Andre, a black student, learns that his older brother is sentenced to a fifteen-year prison term for a crime he did not commit. He succinctly summarizes the unstated philosophy of the criminal injustice system in two sentences: “Justice don’t mean that the bad guy goes to jail. It just means that somebody’s gotta pay for the crime.”
There have been many instances of Catholic priests being found guilty of child molestation. Certainly, some of the assertions are factual. Certainly, there is nothing to stop any distorted, money-hungry “victim” from claiming that “the priest did those things to me when I was a child.” It’s a done deal—all that is left is to cash the check. Yet with new DNA technology, more and more convicted rapists are being exonerated. One man from Texas has recently been cleared of any wrongdoing after having been imprisoned for twenty-seven years. For him, as with many in our injustice system, arbitrary testimony used as evidence is relied upon as proof.
Freedom Writers is a heartrending and heartwarming 2007 movie starring Hilary Swank as an excited new teacher in the 1990s at a Long Beach, California high school. A new integration program jeopardizes the once solidly structured curriculum. The film is based on the book The Freedom Writers Diary by Erin Gruwell, which evolved from a project she assigned to her students who, after a considerable struggle, came to respect her.
Andre, a black student, learns that his older brother is sentenced to a fifteen-year prison term for a crime he did not commit. He succinctly summarizes the unstated philosophy of the criminal injustice system in two sentences: “Justice don’t mean that the bad guy goes to jail. It just means that somebody’s gotta pay for the crime.”
Friday, March 4, 2011
Land of the free, home of exploitation
The following is an excerpt from part one:
My drug-dealing associate then informs me of his eventual deportation to Acapulco. I suspect that the handling of illegal aliens is not a compassionate enterprise. The firsthand accounts of overt neglect and abuse are distressing. The guards who facilitate bus transportation to the airport, Philadelphia in this area, are described as “typical C/Os.”
With that said, I pretty much know the rest of the story. Extended lunch stops at lavish roadside restaurants are commonplace. The deportees sit on the metal seats of the bus, manacles connecting bound wrists to bound ankles. The restraints are not removed even to use the toilet, which is a “crappy port-a-potty” situated in the rear of general seating. Forget any such thing as toilet paper. They are given miniscule amounts to eat or drink in order to minimize any inconvenience. José elaborates: “The less that goes in, the less that comes out.”
It is common for the “criminals” to be kicked, slammed, and shoved. If any of them collapse from exhaustion or malnutrition, they are left ignored in whatever position they land after falling from their seat. At the final destination, the “infirm” are dragged off and left in a pile until they are ready to be hauled away again. For the weak and elderly, that is likely to be “wherever they throw the dead bodies.” Sorrow for the plight of those prisoners causes me to weep. I am ashamed to be counted as one of the free and the brave souls who refer
to themselves as Americans.
My drug-dealing associate then informs me of his eventual deportation to Acapulco. I suspect that the handling of illegal aliens is not a compassionate enterprise. The firsthand accounts of overt neglect and abuse are distressing. The guards who facilitate bus transportation to the airport, Philadelphia in this area, are described as “typical C/Os.”
With that said, I pretty much know the rest of the story. Extended lunch stops at lavish roadside restaurants are commonplace. The deportees sit on the metal seats of the bus, manacles connecting bound wrists to bound ankles. The restraints are not removed even to use the toilet, which is a “crappy port-a-potty” situated in the rear of general seating. Forget any such thing as toilet paper. They are given miniscule amounts to eat or drink in order to minimize any inconvenience. José elaborates: “The less that goes in, the less that comes out.”
It is common for the “criminals” to be kicked, slammed, and shoved. If any of them collapse from exhaustion or malnutrition, they are left ignored in whatever position they land after falling from their seat. At the final destination, the “infirm” are dragged off and left in a pile until they are ready to be hauled away again. For the weak and elderly, that is likely to be “wherever they throw the dead bodies.” Sorrow for the plight of those prisoners causes me to weep. I am ashamed to be counted as one of the free and the brave souls who refer
to themselves as Americans.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Oh! Mexico
The following is an excerpt from part one:
My gregarious cellmate provides me with an extensive drug education, direct from an addict’s perspective. He has been clean for a few months. Staying that way has been challenging; many opportunities and temptations are plentiful at his doorstep. I always thought people snort the stuff but Jay informs me how to go about smoking it, along with all sorts of narcotics nitty-gritty. He even fills me in about street workers who provide “blow and blow package plans.”
At the same time, on my strolls in the day room I am getting a coke dealer’s lowdown from a tea-tone-skinned, mid-thirties compadré. For José, the big bucks and excitement are the motivation to becoming a major link in the Mexican-American drug trade. I learn many of the practical aspects of dealing pure and crack cocaine; obtaining, cooking, and blending THC; bribing one’s way across the border; and the process of purchasing and modifying BMWs with secret compartments. (They hold up to a hundred kilos—enough “bricks” to construct a fireplace.)
In return, I train my instructor in the correct definitions and articulation of troublesome terms such as burn vs. born and Thursday vs. Tuesday. Until now, he has been pronouncing them the same, neither being recognizable as any language with which I am familiar. José is preoccupied with the quest of legitimizing the birth of his four-month-old daughter to his native Rhode Islander BM. Due to his lack of citizenship and his prominent Rhode Island would-be in-laws being aghast at their daughter’s incredible indiscretion; marriage is not a consideration.
Nevertheless, he feels that his child should legally carry his name and, by his view, his legacy. I gently impress on him that his daughter would be likely to someday marry and forfeit her surname to obscurity. Far more important is the connection he shares with his child and the bond that blood defines. It transcends far beyond what a piece of paper can officially ratify. Realizing that his effort would likely be futile, he considers my recommendation.
My gregarious cellmate provides me with an extensive drug education, direct from an addict’s perspective. He has been clean for a few months. Staying that way has been challenging; many opportunities and temptations are plentiful at his doorstep. I always thought people snort the stuff but Jay informs me how to go about smoking it, along with all sorts of narcotics nitty-gritty. He even fills me in about street workers who provide “blow and blow package plans.”
At the same time, on my strolls in the day room I am getting a coke dealer’s lowdown from a tea-tone-skinned, mid-thirties compadré. For José, the big bucks and excitement are the motivation to becoming a major link in the Mexican-American drug trade. I learn many of the practical aspects of dealing pure and crack cocaine; obtaining, cooking, and blending THC; bribing one’s way across the border; and the process of purchasing and modifying BMWs with secret compartments. (They hold up to a hundred kilos—enough “bricks” to construct a fireplace.)
In return, I train my instructor in the correct definitions and articulation of troublesome terms such as burn vs. born and Thursday vs. Tuesday. Until now, he has been pronouncing them the same, neither being recognizable as any language with which I am familiar. José is preoccupied with the quest of legitimizing the birth of his four-month-old daughter to his native Rhode Islander BM. Due to his lack of citizenship and his prominent Rhode Island would-be in-laws being aghast at their daughter’s incredible indiscretion; marriage is not a consideration.
Nevertheless, he feels that his child should legally carry his name and, by his view, his legacy. I gently impress on him that his daughter would be likely to someday marry and forfeit her surname to obscurity. Far more important is the connection he shares with his child and the bond that blood defines. It transcends far beyond what a piece of paper can officially ratify. Realizing that his effort would likely be futile, he considers my recommendation.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Puzzle solved
The following is an excerpt from part one:
After chow that night, Jed drags himself back in. Consternation melds with conciliation on his deep Hershey-colored countenance. He is weary from an exhausting day of being hauled to and from court and sent back to P-7 without release. It is a disappointing but familiar experience for many. He halfheartedly attempted to arrange bail and expresses his resignation to indulging in a long overdue retreat. Jed seems enthusiastic for the opportunity to spend time with someone who “can relate.” It is not so much with his voice but with his commanding gaze that he conveys the need for a friend and a desire to share, soul to soul.
I am pleased to be hosting him, especially since acquiring a new cellmate is always a crap-shoot. Jedadiah is a proven winning combination in terms of good hygiene, stimulating personality, respect, and general compatibility. Being easy on the eyes is an added bonus, or frustration—I’m not sure which.
Counseling sessions resume promptly. Why Jerry waited forty-nine years to get married for the first time is beyond explanation. The fact that his Saudi-Arabian fiancée is an illegal alien, and that the romps in the king-size water bed promptly ceased once the knot was firmly fastened, are obvious clues of bad faith. That becomes apparent once I put the pieces together for him.
In addition to the alcohol- and casino-addicted bride, there had been additional significant others. One of them produced an only child, now twenty-five and involved in his second serious same-sex relationship. Both of his liaisons have been under the guise of “roommates.” Jed shares a special closeness with his “spittin’ image” offshoot (lucky him,) and for years they were inseparable, much as David and I have been. Then the kid turns teenager.
After chow that night, Jed drags himself back in. Consternation melds with conciliation on his deep Hershey-colored countenance. He is weary from an exhausting day of being hauled to and from court and sent back to P-7 without release. It is a disappointing but familiar experience for many. He halfheartedly attempted to arrange bail and expresses his resignation to indulging in a long overdue retreat. Jed seems enthusiastic for the opportunity to spend time with someone who “can relate.” It is not so much with his voice but with his commanding gaze that he conveys the need for a friend and a desire to share, soul to soul.
I am pleased to be hosting him, especially since acquiring a new cellmate is always a crap-shoot. Jedadiah is a proven winning combination in terms of good hygiene, stimulating personality, respect, and general compatibility. Being easy on the eyes is an added bonus, or frustration—I’m not sure which.
Counseling sessions resume promptly. Why Jerry waited forty-nine years to get married for the first time is beyond explanation. The fact that his Saudi-Arabian fiancée is an illegal alien, and that the romps in the king-size water bed promptly ceased once the knot was firmly fastened, are obvious clues of bad faith. That becomes apparent once I put the pieces together for him.
In addition to the alcohol- and casino-addicted bride, there had been additional significant others. One of them produced an only child, now twenty-five and involved in his second serious same-sex relationship. Both of his liaisons have been under the guise of “roommates.” Jed shares a special closeness with his “spittin’ image” offshoot (lucky him,) and for years they were inseparable, much as David and I have been. Then the kid turns teenager.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Enter Jed
The following is an excerpt from part one:
June in jail. It’s my birthday month. It is the best, and definitely the most horrendous, of times. Jorge, thankfully, departs on Memorial Day weekend. That makes the occasion memorable indeed. He is then replaced by a succession of two or three overnight occupants. The new month rolls indistinctively with the welcome arrival of Jedadiah, or Jay, or Jed, or Jeddah, or Jerry, to share my Piss mod pad. It is well organized and settled in, complete with visitors’ parking lotview and one of the mod’s few TVs. I routinely jest that my penthouse unit is the “deluxe suite.”
Jay, a returning Pee patron from the previous year, plans to stay only for the weekend. He finds the accommodations and company quite suitable. I cannot even count how many times he repeats, “Man, you just have no idea how glad I am that I ended up with you.” He doesn’t even change his stance the next day, when one of my thoughtful mod mates runs over to point out the incriminating newspaper article about me. Jed remains impartial to and unaffected by the eager informant’s revelations. We are all in there for some type of misdeed or alleged crime. Those without a need to judge, like Jed, also lack the need to pry. The same applies to certain of the prison staff, but they are as rare as a C/O with a conscience.
Jerry is an interesting, articulate, and attractive African- American Brooklyn transplant. He is on the brink of fifty. His enormous bulk of chest and shoulders, when camouflaged by the baggy pull-over shirt, blends with the diminutive stature of the plentiful Hispanic constituents in the mod. On Monday he would be on his way to court for the matter of unpaid court fines. He would then return to his contracting business and his wife of three months.
I share my snacks. We play some cards and tell a few stories. The weekend flies by. On the morning of his departure, I assist with cleaning up some patches he missed when shaving his head. I wish him luck with a handshake and a shoulderhug. Reaching my arms around is a stretch, even with my long gorilla arms.
June in jail. It’s my birthday month. It is the best, and definitely the most horrendous, of times. Jorge, thankfully, departs on Memorial Day weekend. That makes the occasion memorable indeed. He is then replaced by a succession of two or three overnight occupants. The new month rolls indistinctively with the welcome arrival of Jedadiah, or Jay, or Jed, or Jeddah, or Jerry, to share my Piss mod pad. It is well organized and settled in, complete with visitors’ parking lotview and one of the mod’s few TVs. I routinely jest that my penthouse unit is the “deluxe suite.”
Jay, a returning Pee patron from the previous year, plans to stay only for the weekend. He finds the accommodations and company quite suitable. I cannot even count how many times he repeats, “Man, you just have no idea how glad I am that I ended up with you.” He doesn’t even change his stance the next day, when one of my thoughtful mod mates runs over to point out the incriminating newspaper article about me. Jed remains impartial to and unaffected by the eager informant’s revelations. We are all in there for some type of misdeed or alleged crime. Those without a need to judge, like Jed, also lack the need to pry. The same applies to certain of the prison staff, but they are as rare as a C/O with a conscience.
Jerry is an interesting, articulate, and attractive African- American Brooklyn transplant. He is on the brink of fifty. His enormous bulk of chest and shoulders, when camouflaged by the baggy pull-over shirt, blends with the diminutive stature of the plentiful Hispanic constituents in the mod. On Monday he would be on his way to court for the matter of unpaid court fines. He would then return to his contracting business and his wife of three months.
I share my snacks. We play some cards and tell a few stories. The weekend flies by. On the morning of his departure, I assist with cleaning up some patches he missed when shaving his head. I wish him luck with a handshake and a shoulderhug. Reaching my arms around is a stretch, even with my long gorilla arms.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Shangri-La
The following is an excerpt from Part Two:
In an ideal world, humanitarian aspirations could unfold. We could envision programs of effective monitoring, advocacy, and rehabilitation. Even in a not-so-ideal world, we could imagine excessive spending and system abuses being slashed. Using conservative numbers, based on Missouri’s rehabilitation centers that operate at nearly half the cost of prisons, the figures are staggering. With US annual prison budgets exceeding $55 billion and nearly 75% of America’s prisoners held for nonviolent crimes, 50% equates to over a $20 billion savings.
James Hilton, in the 1933 novel Lost Horizon, describes Shangri-La as a mystical place, a Garden of Eden. FDR named what we know as Camp David after the mythical, harmonious land. American tobacco heiress Doris Duke named her elaborate estate in Honolulu after the beautiful utopian valley.
Shangri-La proposals of such magnitude do not stand a chance without awareness at the helm. A plan of action follows desire to transform. Achievement is next. It sounds easy enough. In truth, overturning a monolith is a monumental challenge. The weight of resistance is astronomical. Reconstruction would demand epic tenacity, unparalleled determination, and consummate devotion.
In his 2008 edict to humanity, the Dalai Lama imparted, “Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.” Unbridled, insidious cruelty thrives behind clandestine walls. Perhaps now is the time to challenge this outrageous evil. Perhaps the time has come to counterattack. Perhaps Shangri-La need not remain a myth.
In an ideal world, humanitarian aspirations could unfold. We could envision programs of effective monitoring, advocacy, and rehabilitation. Even in a not-so-ideal world, we could imagine excessive spending and system abuses being slashed. Using conservative numbers, based on Missouri’s rehabilitation centers that operate at nearly half the cost of prisons, the figures are staggering. With US annual prison budgets exceeding $55 billion and nearly 75% of America’s prisoners held for nonviolent crimes, 50% equates to over a $20 billion savings.
James Hilton, in the 1933 novel Lost Horizon, describes Shangri-La as a mystical place, a Garden of Eden. FDR named what we know as Camp David after the mythical, harmonious land. American tobacco heiress Doris Duke named her elaborate estate in Honolulu after the beautiful utopian valley.
Shangri-La proposals of such magnitude do not stand a chance without awareness at the helm. A plan of action follows desire to transform. Achievement is next. It sounds easy enough. In truth, overturning a monolith is a monumental challenge. The weight of resistance is astronomical. Reconstruction would demand epic tenacity, unparalleled determination, and consummate devotion.
In his 2008 edict to humanity, the Dalai Lama imparted, “Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.” Unbridled, insidious cruelty thrives behind clandestine walls. Perhaps now is the time to challenge this outrageous evil. Perhaps the time has come to counterattack. Perhaps Shangri-La need not remain a myth.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Better Homes and Gardens
The following is an excerpt from Part Two:
From nearly nine months of witnessing C/O abuse tactics, I could fill volumes about sadistic incidents. It would make Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment seem like a volume of children’s fairy tales. Limits to Pain summarizes precisely what my experience reveals:
“The receiving institutions do not like to be regarded, or to regard themselves, as ‘pain-inflicting’ institutions. Still, such a terminology would actually present a very precise message: punishment as administered by the penal law system is the conscious inflicting of pain.”
Textbooks might say that the goal of prisons is rehabilitation. That remains debatable. An attempt at such a lofty goal, within the current climate of supremacy, is doomed before the slightest benefit would be realized. In the 1976 electronic publication Instead of Prisons: A Handbook for Prison Abolitionists, the prologue by M. Sharon Smolick points out that the element of choice is eliminated:
“Until choice can be freely exercised and caring behavior encouraged, there can be no meaningful change and the rehabilitation of criminals will only be a system’s triumph over the values and behavior of the powerless in our society. Even a Better Homes and Gardens bedroom, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year for 20 years, is an intolerable prison.”
Add to that the unabashed repression of prisoners who inhabit the sinister institutions, by lethal ferocity of prison personnel. The result is nothing short of a living anguish. It is senseless and counterproductive. It simply does not accomplish the goal for which it is intended. Ms. Smolick further reinforces: “Reconciliation, not punishment, is a proper response to criminal acts. The present criminal (in)justice systems focus on someone to punish...”
From nearly nine months of witnessing C/O abuse tactics, I could fill volumes about sadistic incidents. It would make Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment seem like a volume of children’s fairy tales. Limits to Pain summarizes precisely what my experience reveals:
“The receiving institutions do not like to be regarded, or to regard themselves, as ‘pain-inflicting’ institutions. Still, such a terminology would actually present a very precise message: punishment as administered by the penal law system is the conscious inflicting of pain.”
Textbooks might say that the goal of prisons is rehabilitation. That remains debatable. An attempt at such a lofty goal, within the current climate of supremacy, is doomed before the slightest benefit would be realized. In the 1976 electronic publication Instead of Prisons: A Handbook for Prison Abolitionists, the prologue by M. Sharon Smolick points out that the element of choice is eliminated:
“Until choice can be freely exercised and caring behavior encouraged, there can be no meaningful change and the rehabilitation of criminals will only be a system’s triumph over the values and behavior of the powerless in our society. Even a Better Homes and Gardens bedroom, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year for 20 years, is an intolerable prison.”
Add to that the unabashed repression of prisoners who inhabit the sinister institutions, by lethal ferocity of prison personnel. The result is nothing short of a living anguish. It is senseless and counterproductive. It simply does not accomplish the goal for which it is intended. Ms. Smolick further reinforces: “Reconciliation, not punishment, is a proper response to criminal acts. The present criminal (in)justice systems focus on someone to punish...”
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Punishment - imposed by the guilty onto those who are caught.
The following is an excerpt from Part Two:
Limits to Pain by Nils Christie elaborates on the difference between a prison sentence versus the reality of castigation to the extent of slaughter: “Social systems ought to be constructed in ways that reduce to a minimum the perceived need for infliction of pain for the purpose of social control. Sorrow is inevitable, but not hell created by man.”
The intentional infliction of pain is not an action that suits our “advanced” civilized social order. A sad commentary is that the way people treat others is a reflection of how they view themselves. When anger and hatred prevail, it manifests itself internally. When it has finished the demolition there, it works its way outward with brutal tyranny the result. What truly is disturbing is when those attributes become so ingrained that they are no longer considered out of the ordinary. Nils Christie explains:
“Pain delivery is the concept for what in our time has developed into a calm, efficient, hygienic operation. Seen from the perspective of those delivering the service, it is not first and foremost drama, tragedy, intense sufferings. Infliction of pain is in dissonance with some major ideals, but can be carried out in an innocent, somnambulistic insulation from the value conflict. The pains of punishments are left to the receivers.”
The ratio of maniacs to sane prison personnel is far higher than the proportion within the inmate population. Most prisoners are locked up for nonviolent crimes. Conversely, most C/Os have a fl air for brutality. They are criminals on the inside of a uniform, licensed to violate rights. The main difference between C/Os and the small percentage of violent prisoners they guard is that they get to go home at the end of the day. If they are not vicious predators when they start out, it will not take long before they are. Just as they intimidate the defenseless, their brand of malice terrorizes their peers and thus a completely new breed of antagonists, under pressure to comply, is constructed.
Limits to Pain by Nils Christie elaborates on the difference between a prison sentence versus the reality of castigation to the extent of slaughter: “Social systems ought to be constructed in ways that reduce to a minimum the perceived need for infliction of pain for the purpose of social control. Sorrow is inevitable, but not hell created by man.”
The intentional infliction of pain is not an action that suits our “advanced” civilized social order. A sad commentary is that the way people treat others is a reflection of how they view themselves. When anger and hatred prevail, it manifests itself internally. When it has finished the demolition there, it works its way outward with brutal tyranny the result. What truly is disturbing is when those attributes become so ingrained that they are no longer considered out of the ordinary. Nils Christie explains:
“Pain delivery is the concept for what in our time has developed into a calm, efficient, hygienic operation. Seen from the perspective of those delivering the service, it is not first and foremost drama, tragedy, intense sufferings. Infliction of pain is in dissonance with some major ideals, but can be carried out in an innocent, somnambulistic insulation from the value conflict. The pains of punishments are left to the receivers.”
The ratio of maniacs to sane prison personnel is far higher than the proportion within the inmate population. Most prisoners are locked up for nonviolent crimes. Conversely, most C/Os have a fl air for brutality. They are criminals on the inside of a uniform, licensed to violate rights. The main difference between C/Os and the small percentage of violent prisoners they guard is that they get to go home at the end of the day. If they are not vicious predators when they start out, it will not take long before they are. Just as they intimidate the defenseless, their brand of malice terrorizes their peers and thus a completely new breed of antagonists, under pressure to comply, is constructed.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Merciless mistreatment
The following is an excerpt from Part Two:
Books Not Bars (www.booksnotbars.org) is a California based organization that campaigns for regional rehabilitation centers in lieu of warehouse-style prison systems. Tremendous results are being achieved. In Missouri’s model humane programming, they spend about half as much per criminal. The recidivism rate is around 15%, as compared to California Youth Authority’s 75% failure rate. In the preface to I Cried, You Didn’t Listen by Dwight E. Abbott, Books Not Bars writes that the criminal justice systems are:
“...inhumane, abusive, and counter-productive...prisons essentially institutionalize abuse, and add trauma to the lives of troubled... people. One of the terrible ironies...is that the very skills and socialization that are needed to survive inside these institutions are unacceptable— and even criminal— outside prison walls...there is no possibility of treatment or rehabilitation.”
Dwight tells the sad and horrifying story of growing up within the prison system. He tells of brutality and the struggle for survival. He reveals how systematic mistreatment perpetuates a cycle of criminal behavior...
Books Not Bars has a membership of around three hundred families with young people in the corrections system. They go on to point out that “within incarcerating institutions, violence in all its forms—sexual assault, cliques, crews, and gangs, emotional abuse—is essentially about power and control, both over others and over one’s own sense of self.” Prisons protect and punish. Society is protected from the threat that a criminal on the loose might present. Punishment associated with pain and suffering would seem a fitting response to an offender’s infringement on others rights. The crux of the issue is how to define that punishment. My personal experience at the ACI was that punishment involved merciless mistreatment.
Books Not Bars (www.booksnotbars.org) is a California based organization that campaigns for regional rehabilitation centers in lieu of warehouse-style prison systems. Tremendous results are being achieved. In Missouri’s model humane programming, they spend about half as much per criminal. The recidivism rate is around 15%, as compared to California Youth Authority’s 75% failure rate. In the preface to I Cried, You Didn’t Listen by Dwight E. Abbott, Books Not Bars writes that the criminal justice systems are:
“...inhumane, abusive, and counter-productive...prisons essentially institutionalize abuse, and add trauma to the lives of troubled... people. One of the terrible ironies...is that the very skills and socialization that are needed to survive inside these institutions are unacceptable— and even criminal— outside prison walls...there is no possibility of treatment or rehabilitation.”
Dwight tells the sad and horrifying story of growing up within the prison system. He tells of brutality and the struggle for survival. He reveals how systematic mistreatment perpetuates a cycle of criminal behavior...
Books Not Bars has a membership of around three hundred families with young people in the corrections system. They go on to point out that “within incarcerating institutions, violence in all its forms—sexual assault, cliques, crews, and gangs, emotional abuse—is essentially about power and control, both over others and over one’s own sense of self.” Prisons protect and punish. Society is protected from the threat that a criminal on the loose might present. Punishment associated with pain and suffering would seem a fitting response to an offender’s infringement on others rights. The crux of the issue is how to define that punishment. My personal experience at the ACI was that punishment involved merciless mistreatment.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The pleasure of punishment
The following is an excerpt from Part Two:
Everyone is happy with a scandal. That fact has not changed for hundreds upon thousands of years. Most of us do not come out and say that we are happy about it. We say that we are appalled. We ask, “Can you believe this?” From atop our haughty towers we yell to each other, “Can you get over that?” A scandal involving someone else somehow helps to make us feel a little better about ourselves. Someone else doing some “awful” thing equates to “I am not really so bad after all.” We do not stop there, oh no. Judging others makes us feel so good, that for sure we could feel even better if we go on to belittle, berate, and be mean. The garnish on that particular concoction is punishment. That is the purpose of prisons.
To punish good is the purpose of C/Os.
It is they, not the Department of Corrections (DOC) who do not administer fairness or justice. The DOC is responsible for the irresponsibility of letting that be the case. Removing the pleasure of punishment, the elation of extermination, would be like setting mousetraps to spite the cat. Prison staffs, enforcement personnel, the almighty unchallenged, un-questioned, unqualified-to-wear-a-uniform of accountability supremacists—these are the immoral mob that thrives on promoting scandalous criminal doings.
Are those who look the other way any less to blame?
Everyone is happy with a scandal. That fact has not changed for hundreds upon thousands of years. Most of us do not come out and say that we are happy about it. We say that we are appalled. We ask, “Can you believe this?” From atop our haughty towers we yell to each other, “Can you get over that?” A scandal involving someone else somehow helps to make us feel a little better about ourselves. Someone else doing some “awful” thing equates to “I am not really so bad after all.” We do not stop there, oh no. Judging others makes us feel so good, that for sure we could feel even better if we go on to belittle, berate, and be mean. The garnish on that particular concoction is punishment. That is the purpose of prisons.
To punish good is the purpose of C/Os.
It is they, not the Department of Corrections (DOC) who do not administer fairness or justice. The DOC is responsible for the irresponsibility of letting that be the case. Removing the pleasure of punishment, the elation of extermination, would be like setting mousetraps to spite the cat. Prison staffs, enforcement personnel, the almighty unchallenged, un-questioned, unqualified-to-wear-a-uniform of accountability supremacists—these are the immoral mob that thrives on promoting scandalous criminal doings.
Are those who look the other way any less to blame?
Friday, January 21, 2011
What’s black and white but not read?
The following is an excerpt from Part One:
My all-time favorite book, in the genre of vindictiveness, is The Never Ending Library Book, by Usuck Bigtime. When I first arrived at the prison, my first and only two library books were confiscated by pecker-head Patty Cake before I got to read them. I began submitting requests to the library, depositing ten of them over the following twelve weeks. I skipped the two weeks at inventory time in April. Still having no results, I resorted to having an e-mail sent to the warden’s office, from my sister. Much to their discontent, notification was sent to Piss mod block officer Roberto, and his supervisor, Lt. Normandy. They emphatically ensure me that e-mailing is not the solution and that Roberto would “handle it,” with Normandy as the backup.
The published Inmate Rule Book, under the section entitled, “Minimum Standards of Confinement While in Disciplinary Confinement,” lists: “Reasonable reading material, the inmate may have two soft-covered books.” Surely it would not be preposterous to expect that the general prison population have some measly reading material made available to them. Naturally, as with all other matters at the Intake Service Center, it depends on who is on duty and their mood.
More weeks pass. Roberto or Normandy have not yet handled a thing. On a rare occasion, when Roberto is in the mod instead of lounging around in the bubble, I ask, “Where’s the books?”
“I don’t know anything about it.” After another month, I confront Normandy, the hotshot who promised results. During eight months in that shit hole and eighteen request slips later, I get not a single library book with the exception of the first two that were confiscated.
My all-time favorite book, in the genre of vindictiveness, is The Never Ending Library Book, by Usuck Bigtime. When I first arrived at the prison, my first and only two library books were confiscated by pecker-head Patty Cake before I got to read them. I began submitting requests to the library, depositing ten of them over the following twelve weeks. I skipped the two weeks at inventory time in April. Still having no results, I resorted to having an e-mail sent to the warden’s office, from my sister. Much to their discontent, notification was sent to Piss mod block officer Roberto, and his supervisor, Lt. Normandy. They emphatically ensure me that e-mailing is not the solution and that Roberto would “handle it,” with Normandy as the backup.
The published Inmate Rule Book, under the section entitled, “Minimum Standards of Confinement While in Disciplinary Confinement,” lists: “Reasonable reading material, the inmate may have two soft-covered books.” Surely it would not be preposterous to expect that the general prison population have some measly reading material made available to them. Naturally, as with all other matters at the Intake Service Center, it depends on who is on duty and their mood.
More weeks pass. Roberto or Normandy have not yet handled a thing. On a rare occasion, when Roberto is in the mod instead of lounging around in the bubble, I ask, “Where’s the books?”
“I don’t know anything about it.” After another month, I confront Normandy, the hotshot who promised results. During eight months in that shit hole and eighteen request slips later, I get not a single library book with the exception of the first two that were confiscated.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
It's Showtime!
Alert! Portion control is on the fritz. The entire row of us sit
before our skimpy lunch portions, gaping in amazement at some
of the steepest peaks known to humanity: Mount Vesuvius,
Mount St. Helens, Mount McKinley and Mount Rushmore,
right before our very eyes in the shape of macaroni masses.
The trays being carried to the next row of tables are ridiculously
stacked. They are piled so high that the scene resembles Saturday
Night Live tomfoolery. Avalanches of elbows, drenched in a
white film, cascade from precarious piles.
Each fortunate recipient is attempting balancing acts en
route to their table. Efforts to contain toppling pasta piles
leave fingers coated with a milky stickiness. The procession
of oversized loads passes by in what seems like a Most Outrageous
Video scene.
I direct my vision to the meal on the
sloppy, wet plastic receptacle resting in front of me...
The truly astounding factor is the difference in the serving size
compared to the mountainous heaps across the way. I cannot
help but break into a subdued chorus of “one of these things
is not like the others.” My dining partners glance around at
our spreads and then back toward my dumbfounded expression.
I gesture an infi nitesimal nod toward the next row of
lunch goers. The sky-high portions of elbows are flopping
onto the table and into their laps.
Tim, a regular at the prison because of his “out of control
Irish temper,” points out, “See that woman over there that
just walked in?” All eyes roll toward the doorway to view a
dark-skinned woman entering the chow hall; entourage follows.
“She’s the deputy warden.” Thus, the mystery of the
macaroni overdose is solved. We are putting on a show for
the head honcho. See how well fed and happy we are?
before our skimpy lunch portions, gaping in amazement at some
of the steepest peaks known to humanity: Mount Vesuvius,
Mount St. Helens, Mount McKinley and Mount Rushmore,
right before our very eyes in the shape of macaroni masses.
The trays being carried to the next row of tables are ridiculously
stacked. They are piled so high that the scene resembles Saturday
Night Live tomfoolery. Avalanches of elbows, drenched in a
white film, cascade from precarious piles.
Each fortunate recipient is attempting balancing acts en
route to their table. Efforts to contain toppling pasta piles
leave fingers coated with a milky stickiness. The procession
of oversized loads passes by in what seems like a Most Outrageous
Video scene.
I direct my vision to the meal on the
sloppy, wet plastic receptacle resting in front of me...
The truly astounding factor is the difference in the serving size
compared to the mountainous heaps across the way. I cannot
help but break into a subdued chorus of “one of these things
is not like the others.” My dining partners glance around at
our spreads and then back toward my dumbfounded expression.
I gesture an infi nitesimal nod toward the next row of
lunch goers. The sky-high portions of elbows are flopping
onto the table and into their laps.
Tim, a regular at the prison because of his “out of control
Irish temper,” points out, “See that woman over there that
just walked in?” All eyes roll toward the doorway to view a
dark-skinned woman entering the chow hall; entourage follows.
“She’s the deputy warden.” Thus, the mystery of the
macaroni overdose is solved. We are putting on a show for
the head honcho. See how well fed and happy we are?
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