Letters Beginning 2010 and a New Blog

January 4, 2010  7:36 p.m.

Well,  haven’t  I been out of sorts lately?  My deepest apologies.  I’ve been sick, semi-depressed, really just all out of whack.

It’s good to have a friend who is truly concerned about my well being and makes sure that I know I’m being thought of.  Well, in my world, that’s awesome!  I mean, even when you don’t hear from me, you make sure that I hear from you.  That’s something special in itself, but more so when compounded with the fact that sometimes I struggle with just maintaining.  Some days I’m at my brink, volcanic, anticipating that next incident that’s going to make me erupt.  Then I receive a smile on paper, and I regain focus.  It’s impossible to explain and more important than you know.

Let me back track so that I can best respond to your past letters work to the present.

Well, you anticipated a nice Christmas and by looks of the photos, it was very pleasant.  Mine was okay.  I don’t have to tell you how different it is in here amongst a bunch of people that have not the slightest concern for me.

They showed some pretty good movies and I cooked some dirty rice with brisket, chicken smothered in buffalo wing sauce and a cheesecake.  Oh yeah, a chocolate snowman with white frosting, candy buttons and so on.  That was a stretch, too.  The company that pulls my allowance from the account had a glitch, so I didn’t get any money for two months.  I had $20, but I made it work.  Grin and bear it, huh?

The pictures and their variety keep me sharp.  Like from nature and everyday life, festivities…I can’t help but remain aware of my appreciation for just simple life.

Decorating gingerbread houses sounds like something my kids would enjoy a great deal!  We used to watch Emeril, Rachael Ray and even Martha Stewart and the Iron Chef.  Then we’d go to the store and buy whatever we didn’t have and prepare whatever meal, dish or dessert we just saw prepared on TV.  The kids loved being a part of the whole deal from start to finish.

It has only snowed here twice, but it’s always pretty cold like right now.  ):  It makes it difficult to write or read because my knuckles go to hurting.  My knee has given me the blues as well.  The screws get tight when the temp drops.  Talk about the kind of pain that makes you not even want to get out of bed in the morning when it’s the coldest.

The beds we sleep on are actually iron cots welded to the wall, about two feet across and six feet long.

The beds we sleep on are actually iron cots welded to the wall, about two feet across and six feet long.  I’m 6’4” so you can imagine.  We have a mat made similar to the gym mats used in school P.E. classes.  The mat isn’t even six feet long.  So I have to bend my knee to sleep without my foot shooting out from the blanket and getting my feet jammed into the bars when the door opens.  Sleeping like that makes my knee lock in that position and the cold only stiffens it.  The usual sleeping temp in my cell is about 45 degrees, because my cell in right in front of a window.

Then, it’s such a filthy institution, germs are everywhere.  It’s very easy to catch something from the next guy.  I’m sick now, again.  I feel awful!

Still I want to send this out.  I know, I’ve not fully responded or caught you up as promised, but bear with me?  I really feel bad.

Thank you for simply being you!  You do it better than anyone else! (:

Fondly,

P.S.  Remember to disinfect!  I don’t want you or anyone else sick because of me, but I didn’t want you waiting too long to hear from me either.

  

February 3, 2010

Howdy!  (I wonder what “howdy” means?  “How-do-you-do…?  I’m curious).  So is it wrong to ask “how are you doing?” if I greeted you with “howdy?”  (:   Really, how are you?

There is so much nothing going on in here.  Nothing to me.  You, however seem to be fascinated by some of the things I tell you.  So against my better judgment, I’ll try to be more informative.  (:

Let me begin by responding to your letter.  Therapy is going well.  My leg has had some setbacks.  Despite meeting my strength goals, and range of motion goals, my leg is not well.  The doctor told me that I may need another surgery.  That is so disheartening that I’ve not even told my mom.

Still, I work hard.  The women seem to enjoy my company.  They call me their “problem child,” but they don’t want to release me.  Therapy is the best part of my day and those women smile from ear to ear when I come in, exchange a smile with each other, then tease me in one way or another.  It’s a small matter of affection, but in this place where there is no healthy affection, it counts for so much more.  Like our relationship; I’m sure that the kindness you show me takes hardly any effort on your part, but yet it means so much to me.

Yes, I can receive books.  However, I can only receive books from the book’s publisher or a book store.  I’m interested in reading, period.  I love people, culture foods, nature….

The Texans are my babies, but I also like the Saints and the Steelers.  Being born in Louisiana, I grew up watching the Saints.  I’ve been a “WHO DAT” forever.  And now I get to be part of the WHO DAT NATION.  It’s exciting for me.  They’ve been the “Aint’s” for so long.

Snow sounds so fun.  It’s been cold-hot-cold down here.  It’s a struggle not to get sick with all of the temperature changes.  And unfortunately, the cold is hard on my knee.  I go from loose to tight and paining with the decline in temp.

I too am very festive.  I even try to celebrate birthdays in here.  I’ll make a personalized cake and some special meal.  Like two weeks ago I made a dude a cake that was a blue MnM character with shades and Nike’s on (it’s what he wanted) and I made him some chicken frittatas.

Turkey sounds delicious!  I love ham and fried turkey sandwiches the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas.  My mom used to make this dish she called “shit on a shingle” which used to alarm my friends.  But it was tender chunks of turkey simmered in cream of turkey and mushrooms, served piping hot over buttered toast.  My friends would go home and ask their mom for it by name, and we’d get a phone call. (:

My baby girl will eat anything.  She’ll only not eat out of spite.  She’d try anything once, never picky about what piece or portion she got, as long as she got some.  My others used to want shapes but out of the chicken patties or sandwiches, Jaycy would gladly eat the edges.

My son is the opposite.  He doesn’t eat cheese or chocolate.  And he hates cigarette smoke and liquor.  If you try to give him even a wine cooler, he’ll smell it first, then frown.  “I don’t want that, Dad!  That’s beer!  That’s not for little boys!”  And he’ll be serious.  Be he also will eat any veggies (except sweet peas, none of my kids ever have to eat sweet peas-- I don’t eat them, they don’t eat them).  He’ll go in the icebox and eat lettuce, or go in the pantry and eat raw angel hair pasta.  He drinks milk and eats cereal, but doesn’t want milk on his cereal.  “You ruined it!”  He’ll tell you.  We once had a fight in the car because he threw an open cheese burger at the back of my seat in a new Diamante.  Turns out, the girl at McDonald’s gave me a cheese burger Happy Meal instead of chicken nuggets.  When he opened the burger, he threw a fit, claiming that I knew better, that he doesn’t eat the “yellow wrappers.”  He’s something else.

I started to mail this letter out this morning, but fell asleep.  It’s good that I did, because I got a letter from you tonight.  So much nonsense takes place around here.  I’ve already been sick off and on.  Then last Thursday we went on lockdown-quarantine for an outbreak of the stomach flu.  I had that mess twice in the free world, and wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

Anyhow, they kept us in isolation for four days, feeding us cold food and letting trash pile up until the rats became bold.  The smell of sour milk and the rotting food was enough to make you sick.  Then this morning, they hit us again.  Yeah, some guy went down to the infirmary complaining about vomiting.  Poor guy, he’ll be beat to death if he continues to live on this cell block, because it was selfish of him to panic the clinic.  There is no cure; you have to let it run its course of two or three days.  Now folks can’t notify their families and several people are going to fill up the gas tank, load up the car, get quarters for snacks, drive hundreds of miles, all to get here and be turned around, for the second weekend in a row.

And we’ll miss the Super Bowl.  Yeah, guys are truly pissed.  If the old dude is smart, he’ll leave before they let us up.

Crutches….I’m so sorry.  I thought I told you, I got a cane several months ago.  I don’t always need it, but better safe than sorry.  My mom insists that I be extra careful.  She says that when you got nothing else, you’ve got charm and good looks.  Ugly people have a harder time in life, so she doesn’t want me to fall and lose any teeth.  This may be the letter where I break down this place, maybe.

I have a cousin Logan who is autistic.  He is soft spoken, a sweet kid, but full of knowledge.  He can rattle off the stock market ups and downs to the point, while watching television, or tell you what the temperature is in any city according to the morning news and newspaper. 

This place is a breeding ground for bad.

Life in here….for the most part, it’s easy for me.  Easy because the guards are also society’s rejects, last chance hobos, can’t cut it cops, failed military, women who the welfare office has made work, and I’m twice as smart as them.  I’m smarter than most of my peers too.  No I’m not being shamelessly arrogant, I’m being honest.  It takes me no time to scope my surroundings and adjust.  It takes some guys years to figure out the system.

These people are so easily manipulated—they are like the mobs of the Roman Empire.   “All hail mighty Caesar!  All hail Mark Anthony!”  Whoever has the stage, they follow.  Fickle hearted and feeble minded.  I never do what the inmates or the guards expect, nor do I hesitate to warn someone of possible trouble or educate someone on a better way.  Half of the people respect me, the rest fear me because they can’t figure me out.  All the time people ask, “How did you end up here?  You’re not supposed to be here.”  I don’t fit in, but I do, if that makes sense.

It’s really about making the most of your routine.  You can pretty much predict the actions of everyone around you, even the guards.  I just do what I need to do while drawing little or no attention from anyone else.

The mundane repetition is taxing, but excitement means trouble.  These are some of the most ignorant, heartless people, on both sides of the law.  I am forced to hide my revulsion at these characters, creating an air that I’m untouchable.  That’s enough for this time.  I’ll give you this though; this place is a breeding ground for bad.  There is wanton violence, open homosexuality, drug use, extortion, traffic and trading, theft, sexual assaults….it’s a madhouse.

I’m thankful for the balance and normality you provide.  If ever I sink below the surface of this world, I’m a lost cause.  Thank you!

Respectful affection,

P.S.  Tell your husband I wish him a very Happy Birthday!

BLOG

 See?

 Life is learning, losing, listening, loving and letting go. 

Behold, I give you all of me.  Perhaps piece by piece, in fragments and flurries of feelings like the fickle fluctuations of a storm, sometimes calm, sometimes violent and volatile, nevertheless me…the sum, the whole of me, brave, courageous, valiant, sensitive, seeking solemn…the portrait of hope and the prisoner of pain.  I am sacrificed before thee, for thee, bearing my cross for you to witness, to judge, love or hate.  I, the embodiment of strength and perseverance, simultaneously the epitome of dependence and human frailty.  Yes, I, but a man, with tested tolerances and tangible torment.  But am I enough?

Is my suffering enough to warn you?  Is my hope enough to inspire?  Are the fires stoked warm, inviting or cold and chilling?  What can I offer beyond myself that would make me worthy of your sight?  Will you see tattoos or cinnamon skin tones, slanted coffee eyes, curly black hair and the thin facial features of my paler ancestors?  Or will you see the bounty beneath….the ardor, drive, relentlessness…the unflinching, unfailing, unquestionable love for my children, my loyalties, my intentions, my bottled rage and untended affections?  Will you see the true me or the “me” you choose to see?

Are you there?  Are you too at that point in life where you’ve had enough, yet you want so much more?  Are you walking forward looking back or vice versa?  When you dream, do you dream, or something darker?  Are your feet torn and bloody from walking the fence?  In order to be the voice of reason, I too must be the bearer of bad news.  You’re human.  When your feet become too lacerated, too tortured to take another step, when your legs become too tight and sore to support your weight, falling is inevitable.

Are we truly created equal?  Every day I see, encounter people, men who have cracked under the pressure, sought canvas in escape of the blows, wilted under the heat and are no longer men but phantoms of.  So naturally, it’s easy to assume that I applaud and admire myself for withstanding those harsh and inhumane conditions.  In reality, seeing them submit, seeing them surrender only allows me to see my own vulnerabilities more clearly.  I applaud the people, the men and women who bypass the roads leading to Damascus, those not side tracked by side roads, those who don’t see temptation, pass failure and avoid it like the plague.  I admire those who, more often than not, make the righteous choke and never look back to second guess the opportunity to squander dreams as if they were wooden nickels.  I envy the man standing in my stead, raising seeds he did not sire.

I’ve not learned all of the lessons.  Life is learning, losing, listening, loving and letting go.  Life is a cycle where you discover in every revolution that you know less than what you should, that there are a thousand more pieces to the puzzle you were so near completing.  Suddenly the brisk morning air is more uplifting than blunts and beer, people you love replace pills; productivity pounces on procrastination.

Life is a race.  Not a race against anyone else or a race against time, but a race against self.  I can only run my own race, our paces and destinations are different.  The landmark you seek may be miles ahead or just around the next bend.  But if you pass me or I pass you, I’m going to encourage you, let you drink my water, help you up if you fall...perhaps we’ll run our journeys together.

If we are not created equal, we are capable of equality.  Still, seeing me is not as important as seeing yourself.  I don’t mind you seeing the true me…do you mind seeing the true you?

The Story Behind This Blog

Got My Mojo Back

I’m more free than I was prior to my arrest. 
I’ve long since come to terms with my wrongs, 
asked forgiveness from God, forgiven myself, 
therefore forgiving everyone else.

July 21, 2005 I got arrested. What happened after only comes in bits and pieces, but what’s painfully clear is, that’s the last time I was free. What’s worse? (Brace yourself) I wasn’t really free then, looking at the world through my rearview, scared to death, praying…actually praying that they don’t pull me over this time, half a step ahead of the Grim Reaper, half a mile behind my potential, and the more I think about it…maybe prison saved my life.

Booking…booking (how ironic)…booking processing, one cold holding tank to another until it all blurs together. In shock, numb, I drifted through it all like an animated corpse, real resident evil, no T-virus.

Bits and pieces, stabbing at my memory like wicked shards of shrapnel, wiggling, each a hornet’s stinger, working in deeper and deeper until buried, surfacing at will. Forty years was sufficient kindling to spark the cold fires of depression. Missing my kids, worried about what…who, my wife was doing, striving to accept that I’d ruined my young life, and refusing to accept that I’d ruined my young life. The Trizadone was a welcome blanket which I pulled over my head to block everything out and myself in.

In a drug induced stupor, full beard, hair uncombed, unbrushed in a curly mini-Afro, county jumpsuit too small and ill fitting, eyes unfocused, uncaring, drooling and unaware…I let myself go. Pinocchio to the state’s Gepetto, I became as uninvolved in my own life as a wooden puppet, waiting eagerly to say “Ahhh,” open wide, swallow, feel nothing. Merely existing, life on a string.

A guy named Suge, for reasons I can’t fathom, took a liking to me. He got me to go to recreation one day and we walked around the small yard. He talked, I mainly listened, somewhat myself in the mornings, drugs having worked their way out of my system.

His cousin approached, launching into some garbled gabbing about who was locked up, knocked up, on the run, and in the ground. From there he recounted some of the drama unfolding in the “hood” between the locals and the Katrina evacuees. I listened with about 10% of my available mind, and studied my county issued canvas shoes with whatever was left. Suge spoke rarely.

When rec was nearly over, we walked over to a slab of cement facing the basketball court and sat down. Suge didn’t talk much, but when he did, he said something, speaking excruciatingly slow with a heavy, syrupy southern drawl.

“Say…” he said, and trailed off.

I was studying a hole in the sole of my shoe, looking at my dew dampened grass stained sock through that hole.

Suge is a big dude. I’m 6’4” and 230 lbs, but solid muscle. He turned his bald head to me.  “Say, mane?” When I made eye contact, he continued. “Mane…that fool’s my cousin, huh? Fool ain’t talkin bout nuthin.” He paused. I waited. “Way I see it…mane, he ain’t worth my time.” He paused again, watched other inmates play basketball for a while. So I watched some of the violent game too. 

“Mane…if I cain’t gain nuthin from you…and you cain’t gain nuthin from me…we ain’t got no business talking to each other. That fool wasn’t talking bout nothing,” he finished.

Although I agreed, I didn’t say anything or even nod. I just studied my dirty sock. He turned again and looked sharply at me.

“What chu gone do wit choself, mane? Dem drugs got you all fucked up. You better snap out of it, young blood. Act like you know what time it izz.”

Thinking that he was through and feeling kind of sorry for myself, I let his words sit on me like a ton of bricks.

A minute or two passed. His big arms resting on his raised knees, bald head between his legs, looking at the ground, he asked, “You ain’t tired?” There was irritation in his voice. I wasn’t sure what he meant. In a short time I’d become dependent on the pills, no sleep came without them. As a matter of fact, some nights I’d hide the pill under my tongue then sell it for some Ramen noodle soups. Those nights sleep was as out of reach as my children and the world I’d abandoned. I’d lie in bed listening to my eyelashes scratch the rough sheets I laid on, tracing the film that crawled across my eyeballs each time I blinked. No, I wasn’t tired, but said nothing.

Raising his head, squinting into the sun, Suge said, “I’m so God damned tired, mane. Tired of surviving.” The exasperation was almost as thick as his drawl. He turned and looked me square in the eyes. “When are we gone stop surviving…and start livin?”

It was more than a question, it was a challenge. Just then, thunder boomed in the steel gray sky and the heavens unzippered fat rain drops that fell so fast and hard that they hurt. Suge stood, looking at me still sitting like a moron. “Come on, young blood. We finna go write yo T-lady. Tell her these people got chu on these punk ass pills.”

I can’t remember giving Suge my mom’s address, but I must have because she wrote me and told me to call home.

I’d rarely tried to contact my mother, convinced 
by the demons whispering in my ears that if I 
left her out of it, she wouldn’t be hurt by it.

During those six months in the county, I’d rarely tried to contact my mother, convinced by the demons whispering in my ears that if I left her out of it, she wouldn’t be hurt by it. Truth, I’d not done right by my mom prior to my incarceration, so my guilt became a great sea of doubt with us standing on separate shores. Then there was my perverse devotion to my wife (now ex-wife, but I won’t put her on trial). Regardless, by that time, I couldn’t recall why I hadn’t called.

Hearing my mom’s voice was hearing love, a sound…feeling I’d suppressed. There was no anger, no judgment in her voice. She reassured me, asked if I was eating, if I needed money? I was starving, broke. My wife sent $20 in those six months and hasn’t sent a dime since. (But I won’t put her on trial, she doesn’t owe me anything.)

Call it a mother’s intuition, Momma knew something was wrong, wouldn’t let up until I cracked. Instead of a nut, which I was becoming, she got Hoover Dam.

I cried, confided, confessed my thoughts of suicide. She rewarded me no pity for that. Instead, her words were, “Jason, you listen to me. I didn’t raise any quitters. You man up. Do you hear me? You don’t have any say so, your life isn’t even yours, it belongs to those children. Your life is not over. What if one of those babies needs a transfusion or a donor and you’ve killed yourself? You suck it up. I’m not going to have this conversation with you again.”

If it sounds harsh, you didn’t hear the love in it. My fifteen minutes was up. She told me that she loved me, to pray and that it was going to be alright. Suge’s conversation followed by the words of my mother landmarked a vital, crucial turning point not just in my sentence, but in my life.

Over the next weeks, I scribbled chicken scratch letters that brought on more admonishment, but this time about the drugs. She complained about not being able to read a God damned word of my illegible letters and told me (through clenched teeth), “You better not take nare nother pill!” It was not up for discussion.

It took a few weeks. Gradually, my mojo crept back. I wrote like a man possessed. Letters, raps, poems, short stories, even started a novel. This went on until I caught the chain to T.D.C.J.’s holiday unit in Huntsville, Texas. Most of my work was lost. Undeterred, I wrote new raps, new poems, completed my first novel.

The writing was therapeutic, soothing, an escape, a challenge, and much to my surprise, people liked it and wanted more. So more I gave.

January 2007, I was reassigned to a unit in Midway, Texas. It was there that my mojo was stripped from me like medals from the breast of a dishonorable soldier. Christmas cards and money had come from my mom and my “Aunt” Carolyn for Christmas 2006. Then nothing. I’d been assigned to a disciplinary unit with one of the worst reputations in the state, notorious for gangs, rapes, deaths, drugs, knives, cell phones… Hell, it was like being confined to low income housing in the underworld. I won’t say I was scared, but I definitely could have used the magic of a Mother’s comforting words.

For more than a month, no one wrote, no one responded to my letters. And my instinct told me that something was terribly wrong.

The gangs interrogated me, recruited me, mistook my arrogance for attitude. I was teetering on the brink when I received a letter in early February addressed from my momma, but written by Carolyn. Wrong. Very wrong.

It turns out that my mom was somewhere on her deathbed after several botched surgeries that nearly killed her.

If you’ve ever seen the Short Circuit movies or The Jetsons cartoons, you’ve seen a robot cut off from its power source. Well, that’s what that letter did to me. I shut down.  Sure, worry and concern were my chief emotions, however, hurt and anger pushed at the boundaries. It was impossible for me to believe that no one thought I should know.

Unsure of how to cope, I lashed out at everyone, taking no prisoners, cutting into my entire family with razor edged verbal Kitana blades. So much of my focus was poured into my fury that the will to write, to create, slunk into the darkest recesses of my mind. In that lightless midnight, my inspiration all but vanished.

My mother recovered, went from skeletal, drawn and colorless to something more lifelike. Still, driven by a mother’s love, she came to see me, bringing my kids when she could, calming the storms of rage consistently churning within me. Seeing her, especially my children, vanquished the evil brewing in the cauldron my heart had become. Some of my family members began to write with justifiable trepidation, dipping their toes into the water to see if the cold would bite before stepping in.

It wasn’t enough. September 21, 2007, ten days after my 27^th birthday, some guys tried to escape from a nearby unit, killing a female officer in the process. Administration locked down our unit.

The lockdown was welcomed by me. I was juggling college classes and working nine hour shifts in the kitchen. I cherished the break. That break was short lived though as the lockdown was lifted after about three hours!

Groggy, restless, irritated, I got up to go to supper. I was tying my boots at my cell door when the officer assigned to our cell block came to my door. This ogre’s name was J. He was my height, but much heavier, kind of put you in the mind of the character “Bull Shannon” from the old TV sitcom Night Court. Except this guy was not witty and goofy. Correctional Officer J was a functional retard with the people skills of a rabid jackal, one of the guards that makes you wonder “who’s hiring these clowns?”

Now keep in mind, my fury was internal. Since I can remember, “cool” has been one of my defining characteristics, something I prided myself on, my ability to be super cool. Wearing my problems on my shoulders is not my style, plus it’s something that will get you dispatched in the penitentiary. As in the world, I try to fly under the radar, live and let live, point being, I’m no instigator, not an antagonist, but I’m still a man.

When the officer halted his butt at my cell door, I looked up. “I’m coming, man. Let me tie my shoe?” I stated/asked in a low tone, working sleep from y voice. Instead of walking on or even shutting my door which was his right, he said, “Move your bitch ass.” Then walked off.

Fumbling with my shoestring, trying to get a grip on the rogue silverback pounding at my inhibitions, roaring to be free, I practiced anger management, taking deep breaths.

Growing up, my mom always said, “Your first mind is God, instinct.” My first mind told me to skip chow and eat at work in a few hours. I can’t really say why I ignored that rational thought. But I did, and the blood lusting beast inside of me beat its chest in victory and anticipation. 

Isn’t it funny how the Devil works? Looking back, I can see him perched on the ragged ledge of my soul, grinning malevolently in triumph. He’s nothing if you don’t empower him, but give the bastard the slightest toe-hold and he latches on like a vice, nightmarish leach.  I approached C.O. J, only he and I standing on the third tier/row/floor.

“Excuse me, Officer?” I spoke, wide awake, seething. He turned around and glared.

“What?” he replied, more of a threat than a question. 

I took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t disrespect anyone. I don’t play the “bitch and the hole” games. I respect y--” 

He cut me off, stepped right to my face. The sour small of his breath only fanned the flames already flaring behind my eyes. “I said, move your bitch ass!” Definitely unquestionably a challenge. However, looking into his beady eyes hiding deep beneath his jutting brow, I saw a vagueness of the sort associated with feral dogs, no calculation of his danger, no intelligence.

Smiling a smile of superiority, I stepped back, clasped my hands behind my back and walked past him on the narrow catwalk three flights up. “You’re right, tough guy,” I laughed without looking back. “You win. But you ain’t sold me shit.”

To be such a big dude, J covered the space between us quickly. Before I knew anything, he’d seized both of my wrists and whipped his leg out in front of me in a clumsy attempt to trip me.  Standing my ground, surprised at his inability to move me, I said cool, calm and collected, “I’m not going to let you trip me. Let me go.” J ignored me, grunting with effort, but unsuccessful. I repeated myself.

He started yelling, “Fight! Fight!”

That’s when I lost my cool. Using my legs I bodied him back and against the bars, slamming my head into his face. Then the beast tore free, surging with pent up energy and rage. I went blank, rogue, berserk…one of my curses…it’s what I do. I lost all control, and if offered a million dollars, I still couldn’t honestly tell you what happened from that moment on.

Some indeterminable amount of time later, after the handcuffs had come off, I sat in a darkened solitary confinement cell, playing the “if I could go back and to this differently” game that had become too familiar.

…alone except for the hideous drooling ghoulies that giggled and danced obscenely at the edges of my vision like demented fallen cherubs.

With no sheets, no property, no peace, I sat on the cold iron bunk, my head cradled in my large hands, alone except for the hideous drooling ghoulies that giggled and danced obscenely at the edges of my vision like demented fallen cherubs. I was the butt of their depraved joke, baited in by a man-child with the I.Q. of a harvest mule.

A few days later, the substitute council lady (kind of a court appointed attorney that works for the court, not you) brought the paperwork to my cell. I was charged with disobeying a direct order, threatening an officer and assault of an officer. As expected, I was irate. The Sgt. who’d locked me in solitary had listened to my side and promised me that I was just in pre-hearing detention while the case was investigated. He never once said “You’ll be railroaded and your side of the story won’t matter one bit…boy,” but I would have been better prepared if he had.

My ten days in solitary confinement were spent humbling myself, getting my head ready for administrative segregation or medium custody…behind some nonsense. The morning I went to disciplinary court I reverted to the zombie mentality of the county jail. Captain M was hearing my case and known to be a real hard ass. We’d never interacted before, but his silver military buzz cut and ruddy granite face said enough.

I sat. He gave me a once over, then began the hearing. When I told him my side of the story, he wasn’t satisfied. Snatching up the phone, he called for the officer that had written the case. I was doomed, if my fate was in the hands of a Neanderthal like J. When Sgt. M entered the room, I was confused. Captain motioned towards me with his hand, “Do you know this young man?”

Sgt. M looked at me dumbfounded and pushed up his glasses (a nervous gesture). “No sir,” answered Sgt. M. “Should I?”

Captain’s face flared hot pink. He came halfway out of his seat. “Yes, yes, you should know him! You wrote him an assault on an officer case for Crissakes!” growled Captain M.

Sgt. flinched. Somewhat amused, I shifted in my seat to see what Sgt. M would have to say to that. His eyes fluttered around the room, anxious bluebirds looking for escape. Finally Sgt. M’s pale blue eyes settled on me then flicked back to the Captain. “Oh yeah…” he began.

“Get out of my sight,” mumbled Captain M, dismissing Sgt. M with an absent flick of his hand. Sgt. backed out of the room, fumbling the door shut. Captain studied me for a long time, making me very uncomfortable. “Well, young man….gonna have to cut you loose,” he said calmly.

I dared not smile, but inside I was doing the running man. Now, to this point, I didn’t mention the dwarf of a Black man sitting at the table, my appointed substitute council, because he was nobody, as unimportant and uninvolved as the chair he sat in.

“Wale,” he started, sounding like some sort of weenie cowboy, drawling through his nose. “You diid instagayte tha argament…” and left that hanging.

What? What gave this guy the right? I couldn’t conceal my disbelief and glared at him openly. I should have left that office without a case, thanks to Sgt. M, but my hardworking public defender saw to it that I got the disobeying a direct order, the direct order being “move your bitch ass.” Go figure. The 45 days of restriction and life on “G” block are stories for another time.

Following all that, I wrote raps, monstrous raps. I went from being nobody, just a dude from Houston that could cook, just a “neutron” (someone who’s not into a gang) to being “ol boy outta H-town, a fool on tha mic!”

I got caught up in the little celebrity, smoking weed to “peak” my creativity. It got to where I needed to be high at all times, like I was in the world. And that’s exactly what I did, stayed high, out of my head high, escaping reality, grasping at straws and calling them stars.

My arrogance mutated grotesquely while my ambition to do anything waned. I carried myself as if I were above the law, comfortable with my status, numb to the world…my days started at 2:30 a.m. when I got up to go to my vocational culinary arts class. I thrived in the kitchen for food is my first love. The same applied for my culinary arts class where I exceeded all expectations and set the bar way too high for my classmates. When not at school or work, I was sleep or high…or high and sleep, trying to mate with one of the female guards who called themselves my “friends.”

“You don’t know me, but I’m thinking about you.”

My existence went on like that until Christmas of 2008, that’s when Jan came into my life. She sent me a Christmas card that said, “You don’t know me, but I’m thinking about you.” Yes, that caught me off guard and I responded defensively. Jan saw through my defense and we’ve been writing ever since.

She has been there through the traumatic injury of my knee and my hard fought rehabilitation. She writes even when I don’t; she never judges and treats me like one of her own children.

At first I was reluctant to get too emotionally attached to her, fearing that she would tire of writing and forget about me, a harsh reality of prison. But she never pushed away. Jan and her husband Joe have been loving and supportive in a way that’s hard to believe. They have gone from total strangers in Colorado to surrogate parents.

Without fail, she sent some kind of letter every week, keeping my mind free. As a result, I spent a lot of time writing her. She’s commented on my ability to write several times in the past two years and I’ve enjoyed the compliments. 

In late January, she sent me a few pages from her husband’s blog about Africa (http://intoafrica2012.blogspot.com). Much to my surprise his blog was very interesting and informative. Blogs are new as far as I know, or at least I don’t remember hearing about any blogs in 2005. I was amazed at the possibility to share with the world, even just a fraction of what goes on in my head.

The next day, I shared the blog with an older guy, a history and geography buff, real pro-Black and pro-Africa…our roots and whatnot. He too was intrigued. While we discussed geography, politics and the like, the subject of writing came up. I told him that I love to write almost as much as I love to cook and later that day I let him read an editorial titled Imbalance of Power that I wrote back in 2008 about the state of the Texas prison system. Thoroughly impressed, he told me that I should write non-fiction. This guy’s a very angry, very stubborn kat, and the praise was something special coming from him.

The next day, the Saturday before the Pro Bowl, I happened to be in the dayroom and caught a special ABC presentation of ESPN’s “E-60.” Rachael Nichols was interviewing former Ohio State University running back, Maurice Clarett. They covered his breakout college season and his fall from grace.

After a high speed chase that ended with Clarett crashing his SUV which contained three loaded pistols, two loaded assault rifles and an open bottle of Grey Goose vodka, Clarett was sentenced to seven years in prison. On the program, they showed Clarett stepping inside a cell, the door slamming in a dramatic fashion behind him. His voice spoke over the image, realizing that once the door closed behind him, he knew it was real.

From there, Clarett decided to do something he’d never done before. He sat down and wrote his feelings. On screen, Clarett sat at an iron desk in a dark cell, writing. His voice said “Anybody who glorifies prison is an idiot.” I laughed my agreement and was rewarded mean mugs from my “fellow” inmates who obviously didn’t agree. Clarett’s wife posted his writings on a blog. For the third time in as many days, I was moved, inspired.

Clarett got out in three years on good behavior and is now a running back for some minor league team making $50,000 a year and taking care of his four year old daughter. Who doesn’t love a success story? How good is God that you can hit rock bottom and crawl back to the surface? Yep, crawl. I’m realizing now you have to really humble yourself in order to see life clearly.

Happy for Clarett and excited by my own creative juices beginning to simmer, I wrote my Aunt Joni and Jan inquiring about blogs. “How much do they cost,” my main question. I only have what money my family sends, nearly all of which is spent on commissary. However, I was willing to spend up to $30 to $50, although I didn’t have any blog know-how.

A week later when Jan’s letter came, enclosed was a letter from her husband, who had never written me. Not only did he compliment me on my writing, he was actually excited for me. He told me that a blog was free, that it just cost a little bit of time and said that he and Jan would set one up for me and enter my writings.

You cannot imagine how overwhelmed I was! I wrote him a seven or eight page letter and then tried to read. Dean Koontz is my favorite author, yet he couldn’t buff the edge off of my joy. I tossed and turned, dreaming of possibilities, worrying about content, as scatterbrained as a hormonal teenager. My thoughts went in every possible direction, I prayed with intense fervency, and I’m pretty sure I smiled in my sleep.

Early the next morning, bundled in my blanket against the nineteen degree weather, I opened my heart, letting my feelings fall on the paper in lines and circles. I’ve been writing for the last few days, barely stopping to eat, workout, bathe and rest.

In October last year I had a spiritual awakening. I no longer smoke or drink, nor do I have the urge. My positive outlook of the world from behind bars, an outlook that Jan is a big part of, has amplified to heavy metal proportions. I’m more free than I was prior to my arrest. I’ve long since come to terms with my wrongs, asked forgiveness from God, forgiven myself, therefore forgiving everyone else. And now, I’m back in the saddle. Yeah, I got my mojo back…and the sky’s the limit.

“The past is but the beginning of a beginning, 
and all that it has been 
is but the twilight of the dawn.”

--H.G. Wells

Letters and A New Blog

October 20, 2009  11:37 p.m.

In here, you’ll lose your bearings if you let the pressure and corruption overcome you.  You are a lifeline and a Godsend.

How are you sweet lady?  I hope that all is well with you.  I don’t hear from you as often as before, not that I blame you though; I’ve been sparse in my writing as well.  It’s not from having a lack of things to say, I promise you that.  There’s just been too much going on, then they run commissary so sporadically over here, I buy enough stamps to write all the people I need to write…then I’m stuck in limbo waiting for commissary to roll back around.  Like now, it’s a long story though.

I did receive a letter from you last week.  Believe me, I know you’re busy.  I’m just spoiled, not ungrateful.

Whew!  So much is always taking place here.  This facility is completely out of control!  Ferguson was strict, but at least there was some sort of structure, some fear of consequences to balance out the power struggle between good and evil.  Here, it’s just a free for all.  These guys smoke cigarettes in the TV room like it’s legal, they drink wine, run all over the place and no one ever says a word.

The other night, about 15 Crips jumped on this one kat  and hit him with a broom stick, stabbed him three times….the block got locked down for 24 hours, a handful of inmates went to solitary confinement and that’s it.  No, I did not want to be locked down for 30 days as punishment for something that I was no part of, but that punishment was so light, it was almost like saying, “Oh, it’s okay.  He’s still alive.”  Absolutely crazy!

And to make it worse, because I’m from Houston, other Houston dudes have passed it off like I’m a part of some crap called “H-town circle” when they know damn well I told them that I was “solo,” by myself, “one deep," so I had to get that straightened out.  It’s just been crazy.

In the process of searching for a date for my wet floor fall, I ran across my medical records for my initial physical therapy session.  Lo and behold, I read in my file where this therapist begins the notes on my visit by typing, “high risk sexual behavior observed.” ):  (I tried to draw a shocked face, but I don’t want to make light of the situation.)

Now…I’m pissed, insulted, shocked and humiliated, but super super pissed.  I go above and beyond to stay out of the way, speak respectfully to all the guards and staff, try to be as nice mannered as possible.  How can this woman just dream some nonsense up like that, then pass it off as fact?  Not only did not one sexual thought leer anywhere near my mind when I met this woman, it wasn’t even an afterthought.  This lady looks like a pale Jackie Chan, with a light mustache.  She’s so far of my sexual radar it’s awful.

So how it’s legal that she can do that, just type something and I’m stuck with it?  I don’t have a sexual history in this place, period.  No exposure cases, no masturbation cases, no establishing improper relationship, nothing; that’s not even in my character.  Now the next person who reads my file will think I’m some kind of rapist.  Our great justice system.  A man with daughters—labeled and stuck with it.

What I’m going to do is wait until I complete my therapy, then make an issue of it so I don’t get kicked out before I’m healthy.  But I’m going to make them amend that crap!  I can’t even look at the woman without blazing hatred.  Talk about something to pray on.

The P.T.A. is sweet though.  She’s good looking, even though she’s 60.  But none of us look at her like that.  She’s the one that actually works with us.  I’ve not seen one guy disrespect either of those women.  And the P.T.A. is so sweet, how could you behave in any manner but your best?

She’s keeping me sore, but won’t allow me to overwork myself into pain or further injury.  It’s pleasant enough.  It keeps me tired though.  I sleep like a baby.

There you go, an update on the horrors of prison life.  Hopefully it helps you to see how important it is to me to have outside love and support.  In here, you’ll lose your bearings if you let the pressure and corruption overcome you.  You are a lifeline and a Godsend.  Just so you know.

It’s so cold here, too.  I freeze every single night, but this is life on the inside.  Wish I had better content to offer.  Hopefully my next letter will inspire smiles.  Sorry, rainy days.

November 1, 2009

Hey Lady!  How are you?  Hope everything is good your way.  It’s okay down here, cold!  I’m okay though.  In a pretty good mood tonight for no particular reason.  Sleepy though.

Received the latest letter from you, beautiful pictures. As always, I can count on you to keep my mind free.  Thanks.  And thank you for responding to my letters.  So many people write folks, but completely ignore the content of the letter they are replying to; that’s so rude! ):   I mean, sometimes, like now, I’m too lazy to get out of bed and get your letter off the shelf, but you were on my mind, so here I am.

Therapy is going smooth.  I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about that crap on my medical records, and brought it up to Mrs. W (the sweet one).  She told me not to sweat it, that they put that nonsense in everyone’s file, that she pays it no mind because she knows its garbage planted to prejudice staff against inmates.  That’s still messed up, and I still feel violated.

You know, I try to tell these very confused kats in here that simplicity is happiness.  I mean, the rims, jewelry, cars….all that’s fine and dandy, but you can’t take it with you, or cherish it like memories of good times.  You’re very right, counting your blessings is important.  Things can always be worse, even when it seems they can’t.

My heart goes out to you.  I know that you deal with it (your illness), you are very capable and active, but that doesn’t mean that you deserve it.  Seems that bad things always happen to the best people.  It’s life, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

You are very brave to push on with a positive attitude.  Again, you give me yet another something to admire about you.

Wow, sleep is upon me.  Better rest up.  I’ll write a better letter later.  Sorry it’s so short.

Sincerely,

November 25, 2009

Hey!  I’m sorry I have been so busy!  ):  After the holidays I’m going to sit down and write a long letter and respond to all your recent letters.

Right now it’s after midnight and I have to wake up early for therapy.  I’m sleepy, too.  Ben hard at work on cards for you and my mom.  Hope you enjoy it!  (:  I’m no artist, but maybe it’ll be worth a smile.  Thanks for simply being you!

Happy Holidays,

P.S.  Get full and take plenty of pictures of all the great dishes.

December 18, 2009

Who would have thought a year ago, 

we’d be pen pals still? 

I’ve been missing in action for a good while, haven’t I?  Well, my apologies.  I’ve not been feeling good, sleeping more than is healthy.  But whatever it is, I’m coming out of it.

I’ve enjoyed your reminders that you care.  They have helped me on some nights that I was otherwise miserable.

Of course, I wish you plenty of holiday cheer.  The letter is still coming.  I foolishly don’t purchase enough postage to last so long.  We’ve not gone to the commissary since the 23^rd of last month.  The cell block is in a state of chaos.  I’ve not sent out any mail in about three weeks, I know folks are probably worried.  Hopefully we go Tuesday.  Couldn’t stand to go through Christmas in this sad state.

You know I’ve got all kinds of good things planned.  That’s what makes my holiday, in here cooking, listening to Christmas music, then eating something that is “exotic,” in comparison to the crap we eat, and the excitement and approval of those that I share with.

Anyways, a very Happy Holidays to you.  Your friendship is a gift!

Who would have thought a year ago, we’d be pen pals still?  Especially after my ugly first letter!

Blog        Not Everybody

Is the guy with the teardrop tattoos and the bottle cap knuckles less gay than the guy with the fitted pants and eyeliner?

Regardless of what scientists say, homosexuality is not a disease.  Homosexuality is not contagious, communicable or transmittable.  If it was, every man in this place would be so ridiculously, completely, head over heels, snapping above the shoulder gay (straight men snap down, never above the shoulder).  Surely I’m no expert.  I can’t tell you what homosexuality is.  As a man though, I can damn sure tell you what it’s not.

Homosexuality is not something that suddenly occurs overnight or after a certain amount of time.  You don’t wake up one morning suddenly gay.  There are dudes in here that have been here for twenty plus years who are not gay.  They’re tormented, half crazy, but not gay.  And then, there are guys in here who have been here twenty plus years and are very gay.  There are guys that aren’t here twenty minutes and “discover” their homosexuality.  There is no alarm clock ticking or level of pressure you reach where you just gotta’ have a man.  No, it doesn’t work like that.  Time is time, pressure is pressure.  The longer I’m here, the more I want a woman.

Early 2000, I came home from boot camp.  My long time girlfriend and I were lying in bed one morning when she asked me about anal sex.  Rolling over, kind of puzzled, kind of excited, I took the bait.  “Why?  Wassup?”  Smiling her beautiful smile, she responded, “I don’t know.  I thought that’s what ya’ll liked in there.”

Now even though I knew she was playing, I went from zero to sixty in about 0.5 seconds, extremely pissed.  Her smile became a mask of fear as she watched my anger transform me into a raving madman.  I’ve never been abusive of women, or the kind of guy who gets his rocks off on beating women, but that morning the temptation was there.  We are both fortunate that I loved her as much as I did.  I mean, there are certain things that you just don’t play about.

However, while only a small percentage, I’d guess about 15%, of the men in the Texas prison system are gay (5% openly, 10% waiting in the wings), you would be astounded at the number of “straight” men who play the “come on” and “gay” games.  I mean, imagine you run into a guy you’ve known all your life, or long enough to have seen him interested in females, a girlfriend, kids, and this guy, this certified street kat doing two life sentences from a home invasion turned double murder, a killer for real, grabs two huge hands full of another man’s butt…and squeezes!  Jeeze…I swear, almost nothing surprises me anymore.

All day long you hear guys referring to each other casually as “bitches” and “hoes,” playfully, no retribution.  It’s commonplace to see one man walk up behind another man and thrust his pelvis into the other man’s backside.  Yes, it is sickening, something I can’t begin to understand, much like homosexuality, I see it and don’t see it.  I just do me.  And when I see these guys, the pretend guys and the real gays at visitation, kissing their kids, holding their wives’ hands, I shake my head and tell my momma how much I miss her.

Do I condone homosexuality?  You know, to each his own.  I don’t know or pretend to know why the earth spins, why the sky is so vast…I don’t have the secrets of the universe.

Raised in the church, I have my faith, my beliefs...know what the Bible says about Sodom and Gomorrah.  In the end, we all have to atone, you know.  There are a couple of homosexual guys on my cellblock that talk to me every day.  I don’t slap them to the ground and berate them.  They are human beings, too.  They are no threat to me or my manhood.  I don’t see what is sexy about a man and I’m not in the least bit curious.  More women for me, huh?

What’s  confusing is how the guys who are “man enough” to be open about their homosexuality are scorned, treated as less than men, called “hoes,” punks” and “faggots” while the “studs,” the dudes so called “on the fence,” O.G’s and all, are treated with the utmost respect.  The blind leading the blind.  Is the guy with the teardrop tattoos and the bottle cap knuckles less gay than the guy with the fitted pants and eyeliner?  Because this guy is the “man” in the relationship, it’s cool?  Come on.  First base, short stop, second base, outfielder, batter….pitching or catching, it’s all baseball.  Some people love the game.  I don’t play nor am I a fan.

Society has indeed embraced homosexuality as a culture.  At some point you have to accept it and roll on.  Homosexuality is here, it is what it is.  Most of the time it doesn’t bother me, doesn’t affect me….sometimes it does.

One afternoon in the spring of 2003, my long time homeboy, Chris and I stood on his front porch, grilling some steaks, drinking beer, “chillin’.  A school bus pulled up on the street below his second story apartment.  Two little black girls stepped off the bus and the bus departed.  These two children, dressed in khaki pants and clean white polo shirts waited until the bus got a good distance down the street, then wrapped their little arms around each other’s waists.  Nothing to be misunderstood about it, this was not the embrace of friends; this was the embrace of lovers.  The smaller girl leaned her braided head on the bigger girl’s shoulder and they strolled down the street.

I watched them for a long time before I turned to meet Chris’ eyes.  In his eyes was the same sadness and disbelief that I felt.  “No?”  He gasped.  I’m not sure if it was a question or a plea, but I understood.  Shaking my head in response, worried about my three year old step-daughter at home, I drained the remainder of my 24 oz. can.  Those little girls couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, tops!  They hadn’t lived enough to know what sexuality was, and it broke my heart.

Nothing is taboo anymore.  Guys in here are always bragging about their bisexual wives, and there are always a handful of guys eager to hear all of the juicy details.  Me?  Eh…not so much.  Yeah, yeah, yeah…double standards…I get it.  Here’s the thing though, I’m not attracted to men at all.  I’m very very attracted to women.  So it would be a lie if I said that the sight, thought, idea of two women kissing, etc. doesn’t arouse me, but that’s where it stops.  Arousal.  Primal, lustful, animal instinct.  It’s not something I’d want in a relationship.  Call me old fashioned, but I’m of the Adam and Eve cult, not Adam and Eve…and Patrice.  Or John!  Nooo, that opens too many doors.  The woman I vow to spend the remainder of my life with should be loyal to me and only me.  If she has needs outside of us, we shouldn’t be together.  And how do you explain that to the kids?  “Oh that’s just your Aunt Naomi.”  Stop it.

A woman from a former relationship, a woman I loved very deeply, went out with a family friend.  While she was gone, I stayed home with the kids, fed and bathed them, smoked some, drank some, then sat on the couch and watched The Lion King with my son.  Right there on the couch is where I passed out.

Hours later, I was awakened by my shorts being pulled off.  Buzzed, eyes straining to focus in the dark, I could see “my woman” tugging anxiously at my shorts.  With my assistance, she got my shorts off and was all over me.  I didn’t even ask.

Weeks later, we lay in the bed after making love.  This was usually when we aired dirty laundry and confided in one another.  She told me that our family friend (a female) had come on to her that night at the club, touched her breast and kissed her.  For the slightest instant I was aroused, but alarms were sounding in my head.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered with a hint of irritation.  But I already had my answer.  She’d been so turned on by that, that she came home and ravished me.  I lost respect for her that night.  See it how you choose, but if another man, friend, family, Moses, tries to come on to me; he’s getting the kiss of death.  Diane Sawyer won’t have to come interview me in jail to know how I felt about it.

Ahhh…but this is the world we live in.  The world we love.  I’m not the judge, jury or executioner.  I’m just a man doing my time, searching my soul, praying I know the answers before I get too old.

“Jay Straight, like Indian hair.”

Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter