Fashion (Non) Sense

Ever vigilant for fashion miscues, the prison administration has issued a new memo:  "No cuffs, no folds, in your pants!"  Well, being on the short side, this relates to me.  Guards stop me to ask about my pants, and I politely explain that my tailor is on vacation.  They do not find this answer funny.  I then resort to plain-speak, offering that these are the shortest pants available and that laundry does not do custom-fittings.  Guys have gone back to laundry, explained their situation, but laundry does not hem.

So thanks to the new rule, I either drag along tripping over my own pants or I illegally cuff them.  Don't get me wrong, though.  I have no problem with uniform guidelines. I'm not cuffing as some jaunty fashion statement.  I simply don't like tripping when I walk.  But then this, just yesterday:

Guard:  Why are your pants cuffed?
Dangerous Criminal (me):  Because they are too long?
Guard:  Why?
DC:  Umm... (Is this a trick question?) Because I'm short?
Guard:  Why don't you get shorter ones?
DC:  Amazon doesn't deliver here.
Guard:  Are you being a smartass?  (Obviously yes; if he doesn't realize that....)
DC:  I just don't know what to tell you.  Laundry says this is the smallest size and you guys make me wear them.  How is my pants being too long my fault?
Guard:  (Having now reached the limits of his cognitive processing power) Get out of here!
DC:  Gladly.

And so it goes.

Plug & Play

As prison jobs go, for awhile there I had a great one:  English as a Second Language (ESL) Teacher and Tutor.  I came up with the gig myself, partially just to break down some of the ethnic barriers in this place, and my co-teaching buddy and I gradually developed a curriculum that our supervisor described as the best ESL program he'd seen in his two decades with the Bureau of Prisons.  In most so-called educational courses in prison, people skip class a lot, but we had a waiting list trying to get into our program, all Spanish-speaking guys hoping to learn English and better themselves.  We worked hard at it -- a secondary benefit was me boning up on my Spanish along the way -- and we felt appreciated.  Anglos to our toes, we were accepted by the Latino prisoners, earning Spanish nicknames and status as honorary members of the family.  Eventually, we were teaching several classes a day, all without any outside instructors.  Friends on the outside sent us used Spanish-English dictionaries, some easy-reading novels, a couple fill-in-the-blank school books, but the rest was all us.

And then....

Out of the blue, you guessed it, we got canned.  No explanation, no justification, just canned.  When our supervisor spoke to the head of Education about the work we were doing, about how we were the best possible instructors for these courses, she replied, "They're just inmates.  We have 1200 others.  Pick two and stick them in the job, it won't make a difference."  Plug and play.  After all, none of us are individuals with any skills or education that might help another guy get a leg up when he finally goes home.  Interchangeable parts.  That's all we are to her.  I'd write more, but the whole thing brings me down.

Creeping Naziism

So the other day all World War II and Holocaust videos disappeared from the library.  A friend here says he saw them being shredded -- yes, shredded -- in an industrial strength shredder.  After verifying that yes they were destroyed, the rumor spread that a staff member had it done, because he's a Holocaust denier.  When pushed on this issue, staff admitted that yes, that's exactly what happened.  But it gets weirder.  Turns out there was one guy -- now in the hole -- who had been enjoying himself farrrrr (sic) too much while watching a Nazi Concentration Camp clip.  I'm at a loss what to make of this.  He was punished, so why then destroy all the videos?

Meanwhile, there's this new guy on the yard who has proclaimed himself an "Aryan."  He's wearing all the appropriate ink, knows a secret handshake of some kind, and he's all about hate speech, which he transparently masks under the umbrella of "White Pride."  He wanders about trying to recruit other like-minded fine Aryan specimens.  Here's one of his history lessons:  Did you know that the Aryan race (whatever that is) sprang up in the Caucasus Mountains, a mighty race of white, blue-eyed, super-intelligent men, who then spread in all directions, bringing civilization and enlightenment to the world?  All of history's great achievements, whether in ancient Greece, China, India, Africa, wherever, were the work of Aryans.  Unfortunately, some of these godlike humans mixed with other mongrel races (his words - not mine, please!) and civilization fell into decay.  Oh, but wait, a miracle!  Some pure-blooded Aryans survived, righteous and strong, in...where?  You guessed it:  Germany, the land of Teutonic perfection.  Blah blah blah, he rattled on about Nazi's, Jews, etc., you can imagine the rest.

But these knuckleheads he was ranting to, they were eating it up, just loved it!  He then charged them with never, under any circumstances, associating with prisoners who might be Jews, gays, or mixed-breeds.  He allowed that at times one might be forced to interact with such filth, but one must never, ever allow oneself to befriend a mongrel.  By the looks of this assembled rabble, I wanted to add that apparently you can't talk to anyone with more than three teeth and ten functioning brain cells either.  I'm telling you, this was the biggest collection of Hollywood-quality extras for a redneck horror film that you could find.  Like the zombies from The Walking Dead had stumbled onto the set of The Beverly Hillbillies.

Frankly, no one is particularly worried about this new guy and his recruits.  The most they can do here at Prison-Lite is stir up rumors and provide droll entertainment with their ridiculous hate speech.  They occupy their time listing all the people they hate and why, but they never do anything about it.  Sad, really, but it has given me an insight into how cult leaders do their work.  You get some losers to buy into this image of being downtrodden but superior beings with a holy mission of some sort, in this case to cleanse all America of those of us they call mongrels.  Not all that different from some of the nuttiness we read about happening outside of these walls, actually.

But up close, a few of us with discerning minds have noticed a few things:

(1)  Not a one of these self-professed Aryans is blond-haired or blue-eyed.
(2)  Their complete and utter obsession with "hating" gay people makes one wonder, do they perhaps protest too much?
(3)  They seem to hate each other, too.  In fact, the only thing they ever do together is rant about all the people they hate, just one big HateFest.

I'll leave you with this anecdote.  King Aryan, with his prominent swastika tattoos, approached an older Jewish prisoner on the Yard.  They spoke for a couple minutes before Hater-Boy slunk away.  Turns out the little Nazi needed a lawyer, so he went to the Jewish guy, who in fact was a lawyer on the outside and has helped many of us with writs and other legal proceedings over the years.  The lawyer asked, "If you hate Jews so much, why would you come to me for help?"  To which he replied "Well, I know Jews are good for something."  He was all puffed up, trying to bully the older man.  But then the lawyer told him this:  "You think I don't know you?  You think I'm scared of you?  Go get one of your Aryan buddies to write this thing!  Get out of my face!"  Told good and well and with tail between his legs, King Aryan shuffled off not just red-necked, but also now red-faced.

Good Fences Make Lousy Exercise Yards

One good way to relieve boredom and release stress while cooped up in prison is to exercise.  Slow pitch softball during the Summer is a favorite pastime.  We even have informal leagues for top athletes, strivers, and now -- thanks to my buddy and me -- a duffers clinic that takes all comers.  My buddy and I thought it would be fun to teach some drills and batting practice to our Bad News Bears crew, and so far that's been the case.  Well, until....

A quick note on the Yard layout.  There's a perimeter fence with a motion detector, and a truck on a hill overlooking everything.  If the sensor goes off, the guard in the truck can scan the scene to see if someone might be attempting an escape (as long as I've been here no one has ever tried).  It is not uncommon, as you might imagine, for a player to hit the ball to or even over the fence.  Which sends a dynamic duo of guards hell bent for leather down the hill, screaming at us to stop in our tracks!  When this happens, we all look around, confused.  Apparently, the ball hitting the fence registers a full out assault on the perimeter, but instead of responding from the truck with a "Yeah, I have eyes on, just guys playing softball," the guards call out security officers.  And what follows is straight out of Abbot & Costello.

Q:  What are you doing?
A:  Playing softball.
Q:  Why is the ball hitting the fence?
A:  Because it doesn't fit through the openings in the chain link?
Q:  Could be a drone dropping contraband, someone escaping, maybe an assault.
A:  (No response - that was not a question.)
Q:  Oh, you have nothing to say to that?
A:  No.
Q:  Stop right now or you are going to get a shot.
A:  For hitting the softball too far?
Q:  YES!

Screw that.  The next morning we played soccer.  So yes, the goal is about 15-20 feet from the sensor-laden fence.  You can see where this is going.  We were ordered not to play if we were going to miss shots and cause the ball to strike the fence.  Only play if you never miss a shot - guard's orders!

Water Bottle Cozy Crackdown

It's been a long time, I know, but if anyone's still out there reading this blog, I'm alive and kicking.  The BOP and the proprietors of my federally financed resort, meanwhile, have continued their incessant assault on our humanity.  Consistently churning out insane, inane, and insulting policy.  In my next few posts, I'll be describing some of the new rules, starting with generalities and moving on to decisions that directly impact me.

For starters, let's examine the water bottle cozy crackdown.  All will agree that one needs to avoid the dangers of dehydration.  To this end, prisoners are allowed to purchase a two dollar clear plastic squeeze bottle of the cheap, uninsulated variety.  While warm water will hydrate as well as cold, who doesn't like to gulp down some ice-cold agua on a hot summer day?  Thus, some of us have found ways to fashion drink cozies for our bottles.  The simplest version is just a tube sock pulled over the bottle.  The high-end model is a crocheted cover that may even have a carrying strap, perhaps in team colors or with a flashy design.  In terms of contraband, I'd rate these things about as serious as driving 56 in a 55 mph zone.  No one has ever found a drink cozy to cause a problem of any kind.  But the staff hates these things.  They have become militant about stopping us, seizing the dangerous contraband and throwing them away.  One prisoner dared to question the trash can spike and immediately received a disciplinary shot for insubordination.

Why the crackdown on cozies?  Is it possible we missed the news of Death-by-Drink-Cozy being on the rise out in the world?  Middle-aged Jimmy Buffet wannabees choking each other with drink cozies and jiggers of salt?  Someone please explain.  "Oh I'll explain," a guard chortled.  "Cuz I said so!"

One Day at a Time

So, it’s been a minute since I sat down to write.  The reason?  It’s hard to explain, but let me take a shot at it.  On the surface, it’s just that I’ve been keeping myself busy – organizing Spanish language classes and such – and while that’s an excuse, there’s more to it.

Really it’s because when you sit down to write a blog post about life in prison, you have to open your eyes to the reality of being here, and sometimes what you prefer to do is just slog through your day like the whole experience is just a bad dream and not think about anything too much.  There are times when you just don’t have it in you to get smacked in the face by the harshness of your situation.

So you stay busy and engaged in activity, you sleep when you can, get up and do it again.  Before you know it, another day, another week, another month has passed.  That works for awhile, until one day you reach the point where enough is enough, you put on your headphones, head out to the yard, stand there looking around at the concrete block walls and admit to yourself, “Yep, I’m still in Fucking Prison!”

That’s when things get rough.  Now you dwell on your captivity, you try to walk your way through it, but every step it’s just the guilt, the shame, the embarrassment, the pain.  You put on sunglasses to hide the tears (much like Baseball, there is no crying in prison).  It’s all just one more way you punish yourself.

And I’ve learned that eventually you cycle out of that funk too.  Yes, you’re still in prison, man.  Nothing has changed (nothing ever changes).  You can’t control much in here, but you can control your own behavior.  You face up to the negative feelings, you respect them for their power, and you move on.  You lie down to sleep and understand that you’ve made it through another day.  One day closer to freedom.

Because the main thrust of it all is that you cannot, you will not, let it break you.  You lie there and find a way to forgive yourself one more time, for the millionth time, and eventually it sinks in.  You can do this.  You dust yourself off and get back in the fight.

An old man here who is nearing the end of a lengthy sentence often comes to the track to jog.  He can do 3-4 miles with that old man shuffle.  He’s in great physical shape for his age.  One day I asked him, “How many laps do you plan to do today?”

He answered, “One.”

“What do you mean, one?  I’ve seen you do 10, 12, 15 laps before.”

“Yeah.  Well you see I do one lap.  Then if I make it, I do another lap.  Eventually, one lap at a time, I’ve run three miles.”

He was trying to tell me something from his deep wisdom as an old-timer.  “It’s like life in lock up,” he said.  “You do one day.  Then, if you make it, you do another day.  And then one day you’ll be home.”

So here I am, back to writing.  Got one day to get through….

Revolving Door

No one would claim that Federal Prison is the place to go if you want to witness emotionally mature men coping with their feelings.  While stunted emotional development is on display every day, things reach a low (or high depending on how you look at it) when guys go home.  I’m not talking about the guys leaving, I mean the guys left behind.  You might think, of course, you’d be happy for your cellie, your workout partner, your card playing buddy to finally get out, but I’ve seen guys express the exact opposite:  “That ___hole, leaving me here to deal with this place!  He’ll be back in a quick minute, can’t make it out there without me!  I thought we were boys, we were like that, but now?”

True, these guys are using anger to cover their actual feelings – of abandonment, jealousy and confusion.  Best friends at each other’s throats – you see it weekly.  You just hope that they can figure it out before it’s too late.  What a shame to aid and support each other for years, making it through the most difficult times of their lives, only to blow it all up in the end.  But sometimes both the leaver and the left behind behave angrily and even with downright meanness.

On the flip side, sometimes a guy nobody likes goes home.  He’s loud, obnoxious, rude, disrespectful, smell, dishonest, whatever.  Makes your time here harder.  He may be the guy awake and yelling at 5:30 AM or the one who “jocks” the TV.  What a relief when he goes.  Everybody shouts, “At last!  Never could stand that guy!  Good riddance!  Whoo-hoo, party! But hold on.  This jerk is going HOME!  Well, he served his time.  But it shoulda been me!  He deserves prison more!”  The chorus is deafening.  

Eventually things calm down and we understand our one truth:  He’s gone and we’re still here.  Well, at least we no longer have to deal with his behavior.  Sometimes, though, the troublemaker will have a moment of conscience and shake your hand on the way out, wish you well.  And even though he behaved like an insufferable jerk the whole time he was here, you take the high road, wish him well and move along.

Doing the right thing is not always easy, but it’s still the right thing.  Of course, most dudes respond by cussing the guy out and letting him know how they really feel.  I have to admit that’s a little cathartic and entertaining for the rest of us.  (A psychology student could write quite a dissertation just on these weird goodbye experiences.  If the BOP found it in their hearts to help us go to school, I’d write it myself.  They top out at GED, though, which is an entirely different post.)

Now check this out.  At least 20 times since I’ve been in prison I’ve seen the revolving door in action.  Maybe the guy was here in our block, or other prisoners know him from their own earlier bids at other places, but he’s back.  And the response every time is joyful:  hugs, fist bumps, exclamations of excitement, expressions of camaraderie.  Could this be a cover for real feelings?  Of course!  And it’s so over the top!  What did Maya Angelou say?  “We do what we know, and when we know better we do better.”  Don’t they, don’t we, doesn’t society know better by now?  It breaks my heart to see this cycle repeated all over again:  poverty, crime, incarceration.  The revolving door is real, the numbers don’t lie.  While someone of my age, race, education, family support, etc., has maybe a 1-3% chance of returning, for others in different situations it’s 50, 60, 70, even 80%.  I’m not saying I know the whole cause, but I can say some things.  For instance, behaving like it’s no big deal to be back in prison just doesn’t help the situation.  That’s why I have a standing directive with some of the guys in here with 20 year bids.  If I return (assuming anything is left of me after my wife, kids, Mom, Dad, siblings, etc. are through with me), immediately upon my walking through the door PUNCH ME IN THE FACE!  Then call me a Dumbass!

My point is that we all have to stop accepting the prison revolving door as somehow normal.  It’s part of why I try to lend a helping hand to others in here, trying to be part of the solution.  Sometimes guys have no one else inside or outside.  You have to trust that sometimes an act of kindness can change someone’s life.