April 26, 2009
I’m sure you think I’ve forgotten you? Never! The past few weeks have been “one thing or another.” Yeah, there was the lock down when I couldn’t buy stamps. Then I bought stamps, but the commissary lady stole them, like I’ve got money to throw away. It’s been rough, to say the least. But I have received your letters. Thank you for including me in your life and your thoughts.
How are you? Hopefully you’re better than I am. I am exhausted. I spent all of last week shackled and traveling on pissy buses. Very unpleasant. Tell me why it takes two days to get to another city, from where I am, like two hours away? It took two days to get there, two days to get back, all for the doctor to look at my knee, frown and say, “Dude, your knee is jacked up! You need major surgery.” She couldn’t operate because there was too much swelling. So I have to go back in a few weeks.
I may have gotten about 15 total hours of sleep last week. My body is on “shutdown.” So forgive me for this short letter? I’ll owe you a long one and those pictures (have to dig them out) but I wanted to let you know how I was so that you don’t worry. You treat me like family, it’s only right that I respect and love you as a son respects and loves his mother. Can’t have Momma worried.
Isn’t it a shame that it took those people a month to get me to the hospital, and my leg is still messed up? This great state and its billion dollar prison industry. There is no justice—just us. And they don’t care what happens to us as long as the Big Wigs get paid.
Oh, I had to send the address labels back to you. Sorry. Thank you though. They wouldn’t let me keep them. These people are so stupid. They police the insignificant things while guys run around here with knives, weed and meth. Noooo, don’t fingerprint them when you find them, just stop the stickers coming through the mail. Crazy.
Anyhow, Mom, let me rest my poor body and expect a real letter by the end of the week. I’ve not forgotten you. You and your husband are constantly in my thoughts and always in my heart. Smile. J
Sincerely,
May 24, 2009 early morning
Here it is 4 a.m. and I’m writing you because you’ve been on my mind, plus my body decided to grant me a moment free of the torturous plain I’ve been living in.
Where are my manners? How are you? I did receive a few letters from you, but my mail is like two weeks behind because I’ve been traveling, and it takes time for the mail to catch up.
Yes, I finally had the surgery (left patellar tendon reconstruction). I was supposed to have the “scope” but the doctor said that my leg was too messed up. Honestly, I almost wish I hadn’t had that surgery. Never in my life have I felt so helpless, and the pain is beyond words!
At the hospital, I was ordered two Tylenol #3’s every four hours, for 30 days. These hateful people at this facility have cut that to one pill three times a day, because they say I can sell the pills. Well, maybe I could, if I wasn’t in excruciating pain! J There’s nothing any of these guys could give me that’s worth that medicine to me. And the meds don’t give me complete relief, but I’m learning to find contentment with shades of comfort instead of seeking the big picture.
Despite all my complaints and suffering, I’m becoming stronger, more patient and more thoughtful of others. People, for the most part, have been compassionate and understanding. That has surprised me. Still, some folks will always be jerks. That does not surprise me. Overall though, folks have been helpful and kind. Everyone seems to be genuinely concerned for my well being. They frown when they see me hopping on these crutches, sweating, wincing at the pain. Their faces tell me what they’re thinking. Women say it aloud, “Oh Baby! What did you do?” The attention is a gift and a curse. For three years in this facility, virtually no one knew who I was. Now, in 90 days, everyone knows me. That’s not my choice status.
Please forgive me for my transitions? My intentions are to be a better pen pal than I have been. It’s just been one thing after another. I was gone ten days when I left for surgery!
7:00 p.m. Wow! I adjusted myself to get more comfortable and passed out. It was 9 a.m. when I woke. That’s crazy, but that is my life right now.
Thank you so much for being constant and not wavering! Really, continuous love is hard to come by in here, yet you treat me like I was one of your own children. You are always positive and your letters always bring a smile to my face. Even before I read them, on seeing the return address alone, I know that you’ve “tucked in some good wishes” for me inside. J You are amazing and I’m thankful for your role in my life.
Right now I’ve got on a knee immobilizer and a splint that goes from my hip to my ankle. Talk about uncomfortable. I can’t even shower. It’s bird baths for me. Then I’ve been blessed with a very sweet cellmate. I know, “sweet” is not a word you’d commonly use among guys….straight guys in prison, but this guy is the exception. He changes my sock, brings me food, changes my sheets, goes out of his way to make sure that I’m comfortable. He’s protective too, seeing as how I’m not really in much of a position to defend myself. J
Basically, it’s a physical and emotional rollercoaster. Gotta learn to take the good with the bad and use it all to become a better person. Isn’t that what it’s all about anyway?
It’s all humbling and empowering at the same time. Realizing that you aren’t as strong as you thought, realizing that you’re stronger than you ever imagined all at once. Maybe that’s confusing for some, but for me it’s a tragic yet beautiful revelation. Maturity sought by overcoming strife.
Well, allow me to hope that you are as happy to hear from me as I am to hear from you. I will be in touch. For the present, there may be delays, but you will always have a letter coming sooner or later. I’m sure that you by now trust my good motives and patiently await the following actions. :)
From my heart,
P.S. No, these people won’t allow you to send postage either. They sell them to us at the commissary, charge us for them, then don’t give us the stamps and call us liars when we complain. Yeah, I know.
Blog #1 Happy
Believe it or not, I’m happy. No, I’m not overjoyed, not ecstatic or delirious with glee, and I’m not depressed, withdrawn or suicidal. I’m merely happy. I’m happy and it disturbs people because I guess maybe they feel I shouldn’t be.
Happy is what I am though. Other inmates, some with less time than me, some with more time than me, ask “How much time to you have?” or “You ‘bout to go home?” or “Ready for the world, huh?” or many similar questions. I do not relish telling them the truth.
The time doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it bothers them. I respond stone faced, voice devoid of any emotion, “40 years.” Their reaction is always the same. They move closer, staring at me with huge bugged out eyes as if I’m some fascinating creature beyond the limits of imagination, voices drop to an intimate, conspiratorial tone, as if willing me to cease with the shenanigans and tell the truth. “Four years?” They inquire, too enthusiastically, like nodding “yes” and smiling they can make me give the answer they seek.
It’s the same routine, and me being the stand up guy that I am, I never stray from the script. Still without emotion, betraying only the slightest impatience, I make the dreaded correction. “No, forty.”
If the sun and stars were hung on the angles and eaves of peoples’ face, I would be witness to the countless fallings of the sky. What really sucks is that it hurts me to hurt them. I become the loathed executioner betraying the hopeful human heart, delivering a merciless blow, slashing out the throat of an innocent bystander. Seconds tick by in silence while the nimble fingers of reality perfectly repair the damage done to their voice box, their good as new throat flexing as they attempt to swallow disappointment.
Still, I expertly mask my feelings, angry for being forced to even briefly injure a total stranger. Not angry at their obvious plummet from Mt. Hope, but angry at myself for being here to pull them to their peak, then shove them off, angry that I’ve failed myself and countless others….add one more.
Relentless as a stubborn old fisherman down to this last worm, they press the release on the reel and cast way out between the stumps, where bass have been splashing all morning. “It’s non-agg, right?” Here my anger abates, draining from me like rain down a storm gutter. What does it say about me that people who barely know me want me to be free? It’s a credit to something, because I’ve encountered several people within these walls whom I pray are never freed.
With a warm smile worthy of comforting a pouting child, I confirm their fears. “It’s aggravated.” Despite my efforts, their faces always make that split second transformation from expectant to empathetic on the brink of pitying. Some, I reassure with promises of time cuts and appeals, others try to reassure me, not realizing that I’ve accepted it for what it is, dreamed every dream of release and envisioned every doomful other possibility.
Not all of them have the courage to continue, but those who do, sober up, look past my eyes, through my vision, searching my soul. I’ve never asked what they find, but the following words are guaranteed. “Man….you don’t act like you’ve got 40 years.”
That statement I never respond to, at least not verbally. What’s the point? Is there a prototypical behavior or M.S.R.P. (Municipal Suggested Reduction of Principles) for people with absurd amounts of time? Would it be more fitting if I fought every day, repeatedly slammed my face into a wall and wailed like a wild banshee? Would any of that make my time more acceptable to others? Perhaps, but it’s not logical. I’m very much like I was in the free world, the changes in me are for the better but in essence. I’m still Jason. I’m still my momma’s baby.
Yes, I’m still a Momma’s boy and a dreamer to boot. Of course, my dreams are no longer the lavish, flamboyant dreams of an adolescent like too many of my “peers.” My dreams now are simple, reality based, corny even. While other guys promise themselves mansions, millions, Mayhachs and immoral Malaysians maidens, I subtly shake my head and hope that I don’t see them when they come back.
Mentality and lifestyle are like hand and glove. I wanted a Benz and a Range Rover….by any means…which means exactly what it means. Now my dream car is a Toyota Camry or a Honda Accord. That’s funny to some, probably just as funny as incarceration. Ha! I’m cracking up….not.
No my new fantasies are very attainable, and for me, that much more appealing. So yeah, as cheesy as it sounds, that cottage with the white picket fence and dog look real damn good when you live in the alternative.
I’ve lived the “Dope Boy” life, both sides, and none of it impresses me anymore. What does impress me is how much my babies have grown since I’ve been gone. Being away from them saddens me and strengthens my resolve. Their smiles outweigh my grief. Using that scale as judge, I push on.
True dreamers know to always look for the silver lining. All the storms endured in my time, I’m impervious to rainfall, immune to cold, impregnable to high winds. My head is high, eyes fixed on the heavens, vigilant in my wait for the bruised pregnant clouds to give birth to just a glimpse of sunshine. I’m never disappointed.
Although I have not held either of my children in over two years, it is not because I do not love them. I love them fiercely, with every particle of my being, to the marrow. And they are healthy. Lord forbid, they could be in a cancer ward, or laid up in a trauma center somewhere, helpless. Though I can’t be there for them now, God have mercy on anyone who tries to stand in the way of me being there in the future.
There is a future, and so I’m happy. I’m happy because there is hope.
The past is in the past. Past sins and crimes are already committed and cannot be undone. But today I have a choice, an option, a perspective….potential. Peace within, and therefore, I’m happy.
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