March 16, 2011
“My issue is that you’ve gone through all this trouble to that no one else would do, to help me, and the system strikes again.”
8:37 p.m.
Oh boy! All day I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you this. Don’t panic, it’s nothing horrible. It’s just that it’s crap, for lack of a better word.
How are you? Pleasantries first, get you smiling. Well, I’m sure we both felt that some kind of stupidity would prove along and disturb the glory flow of productive happiness we’d established as of late. Bummer, Dudette. Like, I was totally stoked, you know? Like, so not “Chevy to the Levee,” but more like “Purple Haze,” you know? Then comes the man with all this UFO’s, ketchup and mustard conspiracies, and now the blasted staples! Buzz kill, Dudette.
Yeah, the legal pads came today, and these sweet people won’t let me have them. Why? Yeah, this is the good part. Staples. No, not the store that they came from, because they have staples in them. (This is the part where you raise a dainty fist and shake it at the morons who create the rules which of course are designed solely to make our lives miserable and frustrating.)
Right now I’m making light of it by being humorous. This morning I was not a happy camper.Yes, staples. So I asked the woman who delivered this imbecilic decree, trying not to become more irritated by her resemblance to the gay tiger trainer, the one who didn’t, but should have gotten his face eaten off, “Can’t I just remove the staples?”
She replied, “No. No you can’t. You can send them home or have them destroyed.” By destroyed, she means that she can take them home and distribute them amongst the good folk up in her trailer community. HA! Nice try, Nannette, but she won’t be buying bingo cards and Old Milwaukee’s Best with proceeds from my paper.
If I’m being ugly (I am) you had to be there. She wasn’t very pleasant or understanding.
Anyhow, the problem can be rectified. My issue is that you’ve gone through all this trouble to that no one else would do, to help me, and the system strikes again. However, no blame rests on you.
It doesn’t do any good to dwell on what went wrong. Here is how we fix it and the dilemma within. I can send the legal pads back to the store and you can arrange to have them switched out for pads that are glued and not stapled. (how stupid!) ): But, (there’s always a but), I’m guessing at what it will cost to send them back to the store, which wouldn’t be a problem if I had the money. Before you think it, NO, you shall not consider it. I know what you’re thinking and you’ve spent enough.
I’ll find out exactly what it will cost to ship it and see if they’ll let me deduct that amount from my account. I’m sorry about all of this. ): I think the rules are very stupid. We get stuff with staples every day. It’s always something. “Stupid is as stupid does.” Whatever that means… I will let you know how it all works out. Again, I’m really really sorry. I had no idea about the stupid rule. The plus side is I have 60 days to send them back before they “destroy” them. It will take several days for them to let me know what it will cost to ship them back. Why not eat into those 60 days. The trailer park is already excited. Perhaps you can find out the shipping fee for me, if you don’t already know, so I can know if Nanette and the gang are trying to get a few extra gallons of gas out of me.
On to more positive trains of thoughts. I’m praying that you and your husband are at least somewhat receptive to the novel idea. I know I’m desperate, and if it’s not a good idea, please be honest with me? Situations like this make me more desperate. If I had some income, I would have arranged to send the pads back this morning.
No one has killed anyone. Things seem relatively calm. One of the guys at the center of all the drama went P.C. (Protective Custody) today. And he left with a bunch of people’s cash money and a cell phone…allegedly. Ehh, I don’t believe that, but I really don’t care. One less problem. Unfortunately for him, his “familia” is definitely going to put a hit out on him. There is not a unit he can be safe in this state. Sad. The evil you do will do you. Karma and what not.
Tomorrow is my precious baby girl’s birthday! I wrote her a letter early this morning and sent it out. Goodness, that letter was gut wrenching for me. Lord knows how I love those kids! Anyhow, I got a card made for her too, a pink Care Bear and Strawberry Shortcake. Still I wasn’t satisfied. Bet you can guess what I did then. Like you said, great writing. I could only make myself read it once, then I let one of my boys check it out. He looked at me in a way that I can’t really explain. When he finally spoke, he said, “Boy, you’re bad!” He said I remind him of Ralph Ellison. I think that’s a high compliment, although I’m not familiar with Ellison’s work. He asked why I’m not writing a book. I just smiled. Signs?
Each day I’m more confident, it comes easier, flowing with passion. It’s like composing music, seeing where an A-flat will sound better than a B-sharp, or however music is done, you get my point. Transposition is the word I think I’m looking for. Framing my mind to the paper is the extent of my work. Like my heart-soul-mind are all intricately, yet intimately connected.
What I wrote tonight was….powerful, liberating. It was something that I needed to get off my chest in the worst way. Thank you for this opportunity to express myself for myself, to my kids, to the world! Thank you! No matter what does or does not become of it all, this is something I need to do.
Hum, well I think I’ve rattled off quite enough. I just got an update on the postage and it beats the earlier estimate.
Don’t be upset about the paper? They know not what they do. (I hope!)
Love,
BLOG
BENCHES
Reality, there is no escape. Reprieve, respite, eventually release, but no escape.
Today I had a visit from a cousin I hardly even know, yet he jumped into my life without any flotation devices and no fear of drowning. As it turns out, he jumped in to pull me back to the surface.
The visit was great, liberating, encouraging and therapeutic. Once I began to talk, he actually listened earnestly, sincerely softening his kind and intelligent eyes further. And I flowed, pouring forth more than I intended, purging myself of my tainted truths.
There were a few moments of silence where he watched bees swarm, small children climb into the laps of parents, the free and those incarcerated, but it was never awkward. It was as if I’d known and been around him my entire life.
When the visit was over, we hugged, then hugged again. I’m not sure if my father ever touched me any time other than when he was trying to beat my brains out, if he did, I only remember the beatings. But hugging my cousin felt like hugging not my father, but a father…a father to me. That was my reprieve.
After stripping down completely naked to be searched, dressing and being counted, we went into the hallway that leads back into Hell. It was in that hallway that I watched the glow of love fade from the faces of my fellow inmates as the realization sank in that we were indeed returning to our damnation. It was I who spoke the thought, “Back to this bullshit.” No one said anything, but they all slowly shook their heads, trying in vain to wish it away.
Refusing to let the weight of oppression steal my joy, I started about how good it was to see my cousin (whom I call uncle because of the age difference). Some guys started listening, their ears tuned in to me, their eyes and hearts still outside at those picnic table with their departing loved ones.
Back on the cellblock, I sat down with an actual friend of mine and recapped my visit, jubilant in the retelling. A few guys stopped by, asked if I’d had a good one, and told me that I was still glowing.
Trying to preserve my glow, I retreated to my cell, washed up, turned on my fan and started writing, telling my best friend of my visit.
“Chow time” was called about an hour and a half later, and although I was full of junk food from visitation, I decided that I’d go to chow anyhow and give my food away to someone who might be hungry and doesn’t have any food in their cell. No good deed goes unpunished.
Returning from chow, I found a spot on the dayroom wall and stood to watch March Madness on the television. The same friend from earlier and I were talking about some random nothingness when the blows began.
At first, I thought the two guys were playing around, the wild punches with nothing behind them, the whole exchange was mechanical. Then Crips started jumping over benches and people, flailing unaimed fists into the melee. Immediately, everyone in the dayroom was on their feet, some edging toward the brawl of Crips and Folks, some edging away, some with gaping mouths and terror stricken eyes, others calm like me, numb to the senseless violence that can spark without warning and spread like a wildfire, a conflagration of hatred consuming all it touches.
As soon as it sparked and caught, it had died, smoldering embers of abhorrence burning in the eyes of both sides. One guy still clutched the wooden cane which he’d wielded during the brief free-for-all. Just like that, ready to do whatever, to represent for your flag? Even if it means never going home to your family, at least you kept it real. Real damn dumb.
But it wasn’t about colors, sets, families…and then it was. Turns out, one of the guys was sitting on the other guy’s BENCH. I’m not sure if the Hoova was on the Disciple BENCH or the Disciple was sitting on the Hoova BENCH. In the end, it was all about a motherfucking BENCH! A BENCH? No, no, excuse me, an uncomfortable iron BENCH that’s bolted to the cement floor? A BENCH that was here when we got here and will be here when we leave, be it by bus or by bag. A seat. A resting place for asses, literally. Seriously? I didn’t even have to ask, “respect” or “principle” are the usual copouts for the justification of stupidity in here.
Another guy that I’m cool with emerged from the bunch with bright red blood on his t-shirt. Without second thought I traded shirts with him and went to my cell to wash the blood out of it. He can’t leave the dayroom, unfortunately until things are settled between his family and the Hoovas. Even though he had nothing to do with it, he is invariably tied in…until the end.
We all choose the roads we travel, they and their antics are but unknown landmarks on the roadside as I make my journey through this to what must be better than this. Really, my main concern was that no one gets discovered bloodied and bruised so that I’m able to go to commissary on Monday. It’s been a month since my cellblock last went and my stomach won’t understand that it’s being neglected behind a BENCH.
