Preparing for Christmas in Prison and a Blog

December 9, 2010

                Hey, where’d that week go?  It’s amazing how busy one can become in a controlled environment.  Sorry, I know you were expecting another letter, but I got two bonus days of college (make-up classes) all crammed into one week, thesis paper, poetry exam, drama exam…exhausting.

                It’s over and I’m on winter break, but I‘m dead tired tonight.  I’ve received your letters and will respond.  Just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about you, but running on fumes.  Yawn, yawn.

Fondly,

Breckenridge CO

December 15, 2010  8:19 p.m.

                Won’t put writing this letter off for another day!  As great of a pen pal you are, I must make time for you, no exceptions.  So here I am.  (:  Skipped the work out today—I needed to write you and my body needed a rest.

                Of course, the cakes have been keeping me very busy.  But on top of that, I went to physical therapy Monday and it was canceled because “someone” had an accident.  Uncool.  I care about those gals almost as much as I care about you.  I’ve been worrying and praying, hoping it was minor, but it’s been canceled all week.  So I’ve kinda withdrawn, done a lot of reading, keeping my mind tied up in other things, but I guess I have to give it to God, and carry on.  (I use too many commas because I write like I talk.)

                But, on to responding to your letters.  (:

The dayroom is a concentration of

hatred, ugliness and ignorance.

               

                Yes, the dayroom is a concentration of hatred, ugliness and ignorance.  You know, I have flashes of fury in my mind, which is a blessing, because that usually allows me an opportunity to remove myself from a bad situation before I blank out.  I’m sure you’ve heard of berserkers?  Well, that’s what I am.  Calm on the surface, calculating, analyzing, but as soon as I feel threatened, I go into a fit of rage, uncontrollable.  I know it doesn’t seem likely, because you know me, but it’s true.  I can be a very dangerous person when pushed.  Rest assured, I’m never the antagonist, and often times, now that I’m older, I’ll catch a glimpse of what I’m about to do to someone and scare myself into action.  It’s not common and it doesn’t happen often, especially out there, but this is such a hostile environment…  Still, I won’t do anything to keep me here a moment longer unless I feel a sincere threat.  Like when I beat up that officer on the other cell block.  He put his hands on me, grabbed me, and the rage took over.  They gave me the minor punishment because he put his hands on me without cause, but that’s my only case in the system.  I do try to stay out of ill situations (like the dayroom).

You keep my mind and my heart

in a positive place.

                The Riding On The Cool (R.O.T.C.) bunch are really a gang of cowards, and they are the major threat, because they jump and stab people who stand up to them.  I get along fairly decent, still I stay to myself and avoid all of that mess.  Because if one of them ever pulls a knife on me…may God be with him.  Trust me, you keep my mind and my heart in a positive place, and when I think of all the people who’d be hurt and let down, I swallow my pride and move along.

                The doctor I saw was a real jerk!  What he told me was they don’t know what’s wrong with my knee, so the scope may find the problem and it may not.  Basically, live with the pain or take a chance under the knife.  Not a good set of choices.

                I’m glad that your husband reads the letters and flattered that he admires my intelligence and writing ability.  It’s important to me that he knows I don’t have any ill intentions or perverse motives.  His trust is very important to me.  You’d be shocked at how these morons think.  When I get mail from you and I happen to be in the dayroom, they ask, “Who wrote you?”  So I tell them, “My pen pal in Colorado,” and they always say, “She got some friends?”  Like I’d hook them up anyway.  But I tell them, “It’s not like that.  She’s my friend.  She’s happily married.”  And every single time (after the looks of disbelief) they say something stupid.  Home training.  Fortunately, I was raised by good, intelligent people.  (:  Everything in here (to these guys) is sex, drugs, money.  Anything outside of that doesn’t make sense to them.  “Why don’t you ask for money?”  “She send naked pictures?”  I mean…I usually wait until I’m in my cell to read your letters if I receive them in the dayroom.  It’s truly the land of the lost.

                Yeah, Mommy sent money.  And yes, it does suck how the prison system treats us so poorly.  And they aren’t even ashamed.  They taunt us and dare us to use the grievance system because they know that it doesn’t work and they get away with murder.  Literally.  They hang inmates all the time then call it suicide.  It’s sad.  Really, they are the worst gang of all, and most of them take pleasure in ruining our lives, writing bogus cases that mess up our chances at parole.  It’s really a corrupt system, hatred breeding hatred.

I am a gumbo of races.

                Ahhh…prison.  You know what?  People just love to hate.  That’s what it boils down to.  I am a gumbo of races, how dare I hate any part of it.  I grew up with friends.  Not white friends and black friends, just friends.  I dated girls.  Who cares if she’s purple, long as she’s pretty.  My mom is educated and traveled, so I guess it missed us.  It’s a major factor in here.  Sometimes it’s unbelievable and obvious, sometimes subtle.

                Like this dude I’m airtight with (he’s sort of a redneck, but I know his son), he draws Christmas cards.  So last year, he showed me a card with some kids building a snowman.  I told him that I wanted to buy one.  The card I got had some little black kids with Afros and big lips and noses building a snowman.  And he didn’t mean any harm, but what the hell?  My kids aren’t even black.  You know?  Or if a good looking black female guard works our cell block, the white guys will go out of their way to tell you that they find her attractive, as if to say, “Hey, I’m not that bad, I like black girls, too.”  You know.  They’ll say, “Oh man!  I sure would like to tap that sweet chocolate!”  Like….come on?  Who even talks like that?  If a white female works, she’s a “snow bunny.”  And they treat the Nigerians unspeakably!  It’s all stupid.

                My extended family is pretty close.  Growing up, I was everybody’s favorite.  So they expected more from me, still do.  They won’t let me give up on myself.  I have to be thankful for so many positive influences.  (:  Yes, including you.

                I enjoyed the poem a lot.  Actually, it reminds me of a Christmas poem I did years back that was published in “The Echo,” the prison paper.  Coconut cream pie sounds wonderful!  I miss coconut.  ):

                It has been an unpredictable winter, cold then unseasonably warm, like today.  It was 75 degrees.  It’s still hot and muggy.  Personally, I enjoy the cold.  Not bitter, painful cold, but crisp, refreshing cold.  I like winter wardrobes, winter scenes and foods, and the holidays.  My philosophy is, when it’s cold, it’s easier to get warm than it is to get cool when it’s stifling hot.  I kept my condo at 68 degrees, comfortable, cool, relaxing.  Now, I don’t mind standing in a hot kitchen, because then, I’m in my element.

                So, so very glad you enjoy my letters.  I try to be me.  Editing doesn’t sound like fun.  I’ve avoided editing my books.  It’s boring for one; two, I’m like you, who cares?  As long as the text is comprehendible and interesting, people overlook the small errors.

I know your letters bring a smile

to my face and my heart.  (:

               

                We both love getting letters from each other, I guess it’s a pretty good arrangement.  I know your letters bring a smile to my face and my heart.  (:  

                I do try to be creative enough to set myself apart from the norm.            

                Like today, I melted a peppermint stick and flavored the chocolate and the icing with it.  Everyone said, “Tastes like Christmas!”  If they’re happy, I feel appreciated.

                No I don’t have a cellmate.  I must have forgotten to mention that.  I’ve been in a cell by myself since August.  I complained to the doctor about my stress level and headaches, living with a pervert/proud murderer that I’ll kill before I let him kill me, and the doctor put me by myself.  He said that it would be impossible to pair me with someone who is my height, my weight and has my I.Q.  (:  Keeps me out of the dayroom and yes, it makes it easier to cook, workout, write, read, study, pray, clean…the cell’s a six by ten, about the size of a small walk-in closet.  Not enough room for one human, much less two!  Having to step over, around someone, urinating a few feet from someone, smelling their breath, cleaning after some weird man, having stuff come up missing, not knowing if your celly is some molester who looks at pictures of your kids while you’re gone….I could go on forever.  I’m not like them, it’s bad enough that I have to live around them, you know?

                (Broncos) Coach McDaniels had it coming.  I knew that when he chased off Brandon Marshall.  John Elway would be good for that organization.  I heard he had some dealerships and a football team up there.

                Houston needs to fire their loser coach.  There’s talk of Bill Cower becoming the new coach.  That would be awesome!  He’s an aggressive, in your facemask coach, no nonsense.

                Well better bring this to a close.  Always thinking of you!  (:

Blog 

On the Ropes

So exhausted.

This is no longer a match of skill or strength.  I’m running on fumes, heart and stubborn will.  Beyond blocking, bobbing and weaving, this fight has simply become a slug fest, jab for jab, haymaker for haymaker, blow for blow.  Head, body, soul, no calculation, just wildly launched fists landing where they may.  I feel like Tre shadow boxing helicopters at Sidney’s house in Boyz in the Hood.

And damn, the canvas looks so appealing, so inviting.  If I could only rest there for a moment…but there is no guarantee that my opponent will let up if I fall.  We are more than opponents; we are arch enemies, fighting to the death.  Surely, if he/ it falls first, my onslaught will take on an unearthly viciousness, renewed fury pummeling my oppressor’s corpse like a man possessed.  My demons urging me on, anger and adrenaline providing me superhuman strength.  There will be no mercy from me and my opponent is the vilest of foes, so surely I expect less from him/it.

Prayer must come in fragments, between a left hook and a smashing straight to the nose.  I must ask forgiveness of my sins even as I commit them, unable to repent or relent.  Blood lust making me smile a crimson sneer while bombing its bastard countenance.  I cackle maniacally in defiance at a jab that jars something loose in my soul.  My soul is what we are fighting for, if I can’t have it back, he/it will only procure it over my dead body, but then, useless to him…it.

The crowd, a congregation of family and “friends,” (a bloodied smirk at that) stand, captivated, critical of every counterpunch, admonishing every move.  “You disappoint me, son!  Just like your father!” shouts my mother, her words like liquid daggers in my back.  “Go down!  Just go down!  Your life is over anyway!  Your kids have a new father!  Whooo!” cheers my ex-wife, clapping wildly.  Guys I sold drugs with make wagers against me.  My children are ringside, heads bowed, hands clasped in prayer.  My best and only true friend and her husband are in my corner, encouraging me to never give up.  Feeding off of  the negative and positive, I battle on, determined to prove the doubters wrong and refusing to let those who still believe down.

Liberty or death.  There are no alternatives.  All of my ribs feel like they are broken, but what good is flesh and bone to a memory?  The pain is a constant reminder of what’s at stake.  Thirty rounds are only a heartbeat compared to eternity.

Palpitation…shortage of breath.  Left.  Right.  Right.  Left.  Darkness on the horizon.  Traps screaming, triceps numb…switch to southpaw, coil then lunge.  Connect.

Intense scarlet leering masks my suffering but betrays my pleasure in the pursuit of his…it’s agony.  I surrender to the primal need, pounding butchering the fiend, a blitzkrieg raining from my shoulders.  Cue the theme music.  This is my moment.

But I know…I know deep down, it’s far from over.  Still, this time it’s not me on the ropes, I’m in control.  There’s hope.  Yeah, it always boils down to hope.  Keep standing, keep swinging, envision the end, imagine the glory of victory.  Taste freedom.

Pray, fight, endure, hope…freedom.

Freedom.

“Fight!”

Bring it on.

A Prison Thanksgiving

November 10, 2010  11:45 p.m.

            Your letters often rescue me from self destruction, I swear I owe you more than you know!  Yesterday morning, one of the rare mornings I’m in the dayroom (came back from the library) I’m sitting, talking to this guy, watching Good Morning America, or the Early Show or one of those types, awaiting the Rachael Ray Show (who I adore!), who had Julianna Margulies (The Good Wife – E.R.) who is beautiful as well, as a guest, when this moron changes the station.  Okay, no big deal, except they only open the doors to the cells every few hours and I’d just missed my opportunity to go in.  So I said so (to the guy I was talking to) and this idiot (that changed the channel) starts telling me about how they watch this certain program every morning.  (Now, picture a 38 year old black man, muscular, tattooed all over, over animated, trying to explain to me why he put the TV on Telemundo.)  (:  “So what.  I don’t care what you want to watch.  I just wish I’d have gone in my cell, and I wasn’t talking to you!”  He tells me that I shouldn’t speak up on it if I didn’t care, as if he’d not understood a word I’d just spoken.  Now I’m pissed.  I told him, “Hey, I’m a grown f***ing man with kids!  You can run this TV, run this prison, but you don’t run me.  It’s my prerogative to say what the hell I want to say!”  He walked off, mumbling like a girl, and Issac, the white guy I’d been talking to, grabs my arm.  “Jason, forget him.  They’ll jump you or stab you.  Just let it go.”

            But I didn’t let it go.  I let it fester.  Several hours later when the guard told me I wasn’t on the list to go to college classes, I flipped out.  Once it was all straightened out, I apologized to the officer, but was still angry at the inmate who’s a Crip and thinking about taking a chance getting jumped or stabbed when I got two letters.  One from my uncle and one from you.  Both were kind and encouraging, causing me to pray for guidance and giving thanks for you both.  Gotta let my pride go or it’s going to get me killed.  But you brought me back to peaceful reality.  Thank you.

            How are you?  It’s taking the mail room so long to get your mail to me, it’s dated by the time I get it.  The letter yesterday 11-9-10 was posted 11-01-10.  But thank God they didn’t send it all over the state like on the other cell block.

            Yeah, I went on the dreaded hospital trip last week.  The trip was awful, cold, uncomfortable and discouraging.  It took me almost a full week to recover and find myself.  But I’m glad now.  (:  I put off the scope until the end of December.  Not ready to go back to crutches!

When no one else seems to care,

I know I’ll hear from you!

            I never think you forget me.  When no one else seems to care, I know I’ll hear from you!  (:  And although I always write you, tell your husband that he’s special to me, too. (:  You guys have done so much for me and have been such good friends!

            So glad that you were “thrilled” to hear from me.  I try.  (:  Anything I can do to be a friend and return the kindness and sincerity that you give so unselfishly.  Really glad I have the energy to write.  I wasn’t aware of how lazy I’d been until I started back working out.

            You know what?  My mom had actually told me the truth!  Yeah, the hateful lady that I’d talked to about my account is the one who lied, let me to believe I had no money, planted the seed of doubt, I watered it and grew panic berries.  It wasn’t enough for me to put my plan into action, but it was a start and I’m doing better than most everyone else on the cell block.  They want to borrow on credit.  Ha!  I can’t eat credit.  Like I’d trust one of these guys, who lie for entertainment?

            Actually, the aunt I vent to is my Godmother, kinda a spiritual advisor and my mom’s baby sister.  I’ve lived with her and she knows me better than most.  The aunt who listed me on the (SOC) webpage is very emotional and has just resumed writing me.  She kept me as a baby, then again when I had mono.  She is Creole like all of us but looks white.

            So far the lockdown rumor has been just that, a rumor.  But I trade books I’ve read for one’s that I have not read.  Plus I go to the library.  Every once in a while, my grandmother will go to a discount/used bookstore and send me a stack of books which I devour way too soon.  This last lockdown, they let us go to class, but usually they don’t.  I guess because we pay for college, they can’t keep us from going.

            Oh, the Broncos.  Goodness!  We don’t see many of their games because of the broadcasting regions, but I wonder how Orton can throw for all those yards and they still lose?  The Texans are sapping the life out of my season.  They find a way to lose games, which is frustrating.  True, the secondary is horrible, but the offense can score.  To me, it’s bad coaching.  I want Kubiak fired, like last season!  He’s not a good coach and he doesn’t have heart. The only reason they keep him is because G.M. Rick Smith is from the Broncos, too.  But at least we aren’t as bad as the Cowgirls!  And I’ve still got my Saints.

            You sound very happy to have your computer back.  (:  Funny how we become attached to things, huh?  But it gives you an outlet, keeps you busy.  I don’t blame you, not having it is like not having your job.

            Well, gonna put this one in the wind.  Take care!

Sincerely,

I woke up at 4:37 a.m.

to the sounds of yelling.

November 16, 2010  9:00 p.m.

            I guess this is my official “thank you for the bonus letter.”  (:  It’s an attempt anyhow.  I’m sooo tired, but wanted to at least put some words on paper to you before I passed out.

            It has been such an excruciatingly long day, you wouldn’t believe it!  You’d think that the days are longer and the nights shorter instead of the other way around.  I woke up at 4:37 a.m. to the sounds of yelling.  (They’re always yelling!)  ):   But it’s usually pretty peaceful in the wee hours.  This morning they did random drug tests and you can imagine the fuss that caused, probably because half of the cell block is dirty.

            Thank God I gave all that up, just stopped and didn’t want to escape like that anymore, so I don’t worry about drug tests.  I don’t drink or even smoke cigarettes (everyone smokes).  But I couldn’t go back to sleep.  Then I had an appointment in the infirmary at 7:00 a.m. but didn’t see a nurse until 1:00 p.m.  It was tiring.  Then I had school, then they didn’t feed us until 8:30, so I just walked in.  But I walked in, and I’m writing to you so I’m smiling.  (:  And with that, I’m going to sleep (right after I bathe) hopefully tomorrow will hold better news.

December 1, 2010  4:53 p.m.

            Well, it’s really been too long since I’ve written you!  As you know, there was a month between commissary trips and with about a week to go, I ran out of stamps, envelopes and ink pens!  ):  And if you don’t know by now, I hate asking people for stuff, I’m independent to a fault.  Plus, favors just aren’t a good idea in here.  You may borrow a few sheets of paper that will cost you several dollars in the long run, or a fight.

            So I just roughed it.  (:  Made commissary last Tuesday, but I’ve been so busy that you wouldn’t believe it!  I just wrote my mom last night.  I wanted to do my cakes and I’ve been doing them, to the fifth power.  Last night was the first full night of sleep I got since last Monday.  My plan is working though, so I can’t complain.  (:

A few guys bought all the stuff for

gumbo, I cooked that and cheesecake.

            I had to write a thesis paper for my English class as well.  Just been busy.  But for friends, we make time.  (:  So here I am.

            How was your turkey day?  The weather?  It had been unseasonably warm here and got cold on Thanksgiving Day and has pretty much stayed that way.  I had a pretty good Thanksgiving though, despite the circumstances.

            A few guys bought all the stuff for gumbo, I cooked that and cheesecake which came out great!  We watched football, yelled a bunch, then waited for Sunday and did it again.  My Saints pulled off a win in Dallas and the Texans spanked the Titans.  Now, I don’t know what’s wrong with the Broncos, but they put up a fight.  They are like the Cowboys, all that talent and just can’t win.

            Yes, I did enjoy the newspaper.  Your paper is very thorough and detailed.  A lot of Texas papers just touch on this and that but don’t really go into great detail.  When I was on the other cell block, we had ESPN and I saw plenty of Woody Paige on a show called Around the Horn.  He’s a silly dude.  The pictures of the girls playing with clay shot me back to my own childhood.  I was weird.  I liked the smell of Playdough.  I remember one time my mom and I made some from scratch and I tried to eat some since it was made from flour.  Yuck!  Talk about salty!

            No, no lockdown.  Thank God.

            Banana cake sounds delicious!  You get so tired of eating the same crap in here.  Right now, I’ve got four pieces of chicken (deboned) cooking in my hot pot, seasoned with crushed basil and rosemary, fresh onions, chives and peppers, ranch dressing and spicy brown mustard.  This guy brought in a bunch of fresh vegetables from the fields, so I put it to work.  It’s good to taste different things now and then.  Oh yeah, cilantro too!  I love cilantro, it has such a clean taste, like parsley but spicy. (:

            My family all got together for Thanksgiving too, and although I’ve not heard from anyone yet, I can just imagine my mom, who is a diehard Saints fan, screaming while my youngest uncles (Cowboy fans) yell and holler.  We always eat a lot of food too.  Gumbo, jambalaya, dirty rice, meat pies, fried turkey, honey baked hams, smoked turkey, boudain, beer sausage, back strap, squash casserole, broccoli casserole, green bean casserole, cornbread stuffing, sweet potato pies, pumpkin pies, 7-up cakes, butter pound cakes, blueberry cheesecake, strawberry cheesecake, peach cobbler, oven rolls, hog cracklin'…we eat!  Then we eat Belgium waffles, fresh fruit salad, and leftovers for breakfast the next day.  That’s when my mom makes more meat pies and her famous pecan pralines.  Growing up, all of my friends and girlfriends would end up at my aunt’s house.  And we do even more for Christmas.

10:45 p.m.

            Had to run out of the cell, then when I came back, I washed and bleached my floor.  Just finished eating and I’m so full!  It was good though.  No way I could eat all of that, so I fed my neighbors on both sides.  The guy in 30 cell is an old Spanish dude, he doesn’t speak English or go to commissary so I don’t mind giving him something from time to time.  He’s a sweet old guy though.  I think I surprise him because of the language barrier, he doesn’t know me or my background and culture.  He probably thinks I‘m a young black dude like all the rest, and in here, the races don’t really intermingle.  To hell with their codes and rules, I do what feels right.

            That food made me drowsy.  My spelling is so awful.  Anyhow, I still have one more letter to respond to.  That means you’ll get another letter from me following that one.  (:  For now, though, I better bundle up and get some sleep.  The temp is dropping by the second and those screws or whatever is in my knee disagree with cold weather.  Thanks for all the hugs and warm wishes!  Plenty back your way!

Sincerely,

Thanks for all the hugs and warm wishes!

Blog

I Die Slow

Another part of me died tonight.  I watched helplessly while a man was beaten stupid and bloody.  Sure, he’ll recover, possible endure a few more such beatings, but the withered portion of my soul deceased, can never be retrieved.  I mourn.  And the saddest part of it all is, it’s no big deal.  Life goes on.

So why do I feel so powerless?  True enough, the beatee is Hispanic and it is unwritten that we are enemies, which is supremely stupid.  In my eyes though, he is a human being, someone’s son, brother, father… a person.  Still, it is a Cardinal Sin within these walls to mind the business of others.  You see and don’t see, hear and don’t hear, and never speak on what you can’t back up  For me to have spoken up or God forbid, gone to his aid, I would be the catalyst in a race riot that would most likely end up with me as a shank pin cushion.

Perhaps this is not purgatory, but a place lower than hell.  Where else in civilization do grown men of 30, 40, 50 years of age walk around trying to punch through human skulls, puncturing lungs with sharpened spikes or rebar, and cleaning craniums with fan motors, they play a game of dominoes, cook, eat and enjoy a meal only upset by the blood on their shoes?  Oh that’s right, I’m in prison.  There is no civilization.  These conditions are common, encouraged and expected.  No big deal.  If I valued my life, I wouldn’t have been caught up in the streets.   Right?  There is no rehabilitation, only recurring madness.

This place is like an iron and concrete playground where infantile men in hardened shells strike and joust, sometimes to the death.  It’s common, condoned and accepted, a part of everyday life in here.  Yet, every time I bear witness to the savagery in which a man is beaten down, deteriorated into stupefied submission or unconsciousness, something in me expires.  Worse, I too am capable of uncouth brutality when threatened.  Am I no better than my “peers” because I refuse to be the victim?  I’m not sure, but I take solace in the fact that I’m never the antagonist, just a man with more heart than sense.

Inside, nothing is as it should be or is outside.  These bricks house iniquity, wickedness and malice like a kiln baking it all into a grand evil, unimaginable to society on the outside looking in.  Far too often I’m reminded that I’ve been reduced from a man to a number, hands bound squirming, too busy trying to save me to help the next man.

What are my options?  Daunting, I assure you.  Does a colostomy bag worn to visit with my daughter make me a hero or dumb ass?  The bigger question:  if the tables were turned, who would come to my aid?  Perhaps in my heart I know the answer, so I choose to stand witness, dying a piece at a time instead of all at once in a blaze of chivalrous stupidity.  

Regardless, I always end up a little less of the man I was.  Talk about a losing battle.