January 3, 2011
Hey Sweet Lady!
Happy New Year! Don’t we always hope this year is better than the last? Yeah, well I guess I won’t say it then. (:
How are you? I got your letter Friday and assume that you’d not received my Christmas card. Hopefully you got it by now. In the future I’ll have to allow it more time to reach you.
Looks like you guys enjoyed the holidays. Decorated cookies brought back memories of my grandmother. (: Unfortunately, she’s beginning to lose it, which is really sad, because my grandmother was one of the smartest, sharpest people. Talk about a woman who knew something about everything! Now she doesn’t know where her keys are when they’re hanging in the door. My mom said she got lost downtown, just wandered away while my mom was taking pictures, then made a scene an hour later when my mom found her a few blocks away. And I don’t know if you’ve ever been in downtown Houston, but it’s huge and frightening even when you live there.
I want to share my
memories with someone.
Now Mom’s talking about putting her in a home. My grandmother is in her late 80’s but I still can’t imagine her unable to care for herself.
What’s double sad, often times, I want to share my memories with someone, along with the pictures that sparked those memories, but I’ve grown so wary…I’ve encountered so many twisted, sick perverts that I’m afraid to show pictures of women, especially little girls. ): I know that sounds awful, but these guys… Once I had a guy comment that my little girl was going to be “fine” when she got older. The picture he saw was from her second Easter, she was not even 13 months old! I wanted to punch his teeth down his throat, but someone stopped me, claiming that the guy was retarded.
My mom and aunt
came for a visit.
Did I tell you that my mom and aunt came for a visit? Yup, the weekend before Christmas. I knew my mom was coming, but my aunt was a surprise. I’ve not seen her since my incarceration and she helped raise me. We had a really good time, laughed a lot and enjoyed each other’s company. Dudes kept asking who the “white” lady was at visitation. Only so many times can I explain to them that I’m Creole.
My aunt and mom both instructed….well commanded, me not to have the operation. Then they dared me to disobey. Honest truth, I didn’t want to have the scope done. Momma played on that. Telling me what she always told me growing up, “Your first mind is God, everything else is doubts.” Then she asked me what my first mind said. Before I could answer, she said, “Well that’s settled. But talk to your Guardian Angels first.” Well the next day (my Guardian Angels are the two ladies in physical therapy) I asked Mrs. W and Dr. K and they both said, “No.” Dr. K went so far as to tell me to not even get on the bus.
So, I refused the medical chain last Monday. Basically, the big deal is 1) UTMB lets students do supervised surgeries, many are botched and people (inmates) can’t sue because they make you sign a disclaimer as they start the anesthesia. I got blessed the first time and was outsourced to a private clinic in Dickenson. 2) TDCJ is not paying UTMB and UTMB is threatening to pull out, ending programs such as physical therapy. As a matter of fact, my therapy for today was cancelled. 3) I’ve worked hard, I’m healthy, I’m walking, jogging in place. My aunt, my mom, Dr. K, Mrs. W all advise me to accept that and live with the pain instead of taking a chance of losing my leg. ): So I’ll work harder, pray more, ignore the discomfort and walk. Because there a plenty of guys around here with one leg.
Ah hell! We are going on lockdown right this minute. It is always something! I swear, these are the stupidest people in the world! Some moron officer lost his I.D. card, probably some inmate stole it. Stupid, so they are going to tear all of our stuff up until they find it. Not good, because the genius who stole it probably flushed it, so they’ll tear our stuff up and still not find it. Happy New Year, huh?
...no use in my stressing about
things that I can’t change.
Well, oh well. I don’t have it. I don’t want to be locked down either, but I don’t have a celly, I have plenty food, books to read, paper, my radio…no use in my stressing about things that I can’t change.
And there were some other things I wanted to share, but my mind kinda closed down. Forgive me?
Oh yeah, that’s it. I wanted to ask you if you could print out something for me when you get the time? Actually two somethings. One is my resolutions. Right now I’ve got them scribbled on a sheet of notebook paper and taped to my locker door that hangs above the entrance/exit to my cell. It says:
2011
Be Positive!!!
Be Productive!!!
Get Fit! Stay Fit!
Seek God!!!!!
Persevere at all cost!!!
I just think it would be cool to have it printed and official instead of my chicken scratch. Also, I’d like to have any info/history you can find on my Saints? Yes, they’re my team, but I read an article about Drew Brees in Sports Illustrated and realized that I don’t know a lot about the organization.
Did you know that Drew Brees has foundations and charities that do a lot of good all over the country? I’m talking millions in aid and assistance.
Anyhow, I’m going to read some and go to sleep. Hopefully when I wake up, they’ve found the stupid I.D. card. I can hope!
Sincerely,
We are going on lockdown
right this minute.
January 31, 2011 10:00 p.m.
Howdy!
Wow! You wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been! Really, it’s nothing to complain about though. Being positive/busy is being productive. Needless to say, things are well. My enterprises are bearing fruit and I’ve been able to block out most of the stupid stuff that usually gets to me.
How are you? Busy too, huh? Busy is good. You aren’t the Bingo and coupons type. More like “Journeying J” (Jeeze my spelling is awful.) ):
You’ll be pleased to know
that the desire to write has
come back to me.
Well you’ll be pleased to know that the desire to write
has come back to me, overcome me actually. When I was fresh in the system, I wrote nearly every day, completing a whole novel and starting several more (which are all on my shelf) and I continued to write at the other cell block, but less. Then came the brief relationship with my girlfriend where we exchanged 30 page letters weekly.
Since I write my poems now and then, sometimes a song, but most of my writing is in letters.
Lately though, I’ve wanted to simply write my thoughts down, but held back. So, as fate would have it, I receive your letter, which included your husband’s very interesting blog. Then I happened upon a segment of E:60. Rachael Nichols was interviewing Maurice Clarett, whom you may remember. He was a big time running back at Ohio State, got into trouble for taking money (gifts, which is against the NCAA policy) then he sued the NFL and lost, but somehow got drafted by the Broncos!
He proved to be lazy and standoffish with coaches and teammates, practicing, stretching, and eating by himself, embarrassing the (then) G.M. I think he was cut because of some altercation, but he began to drink heavily and tried to rob three minors at gunpoint in a bar or someplace.
Spiraling downward, he was involved in a high speed chase with the police, wrecked the SUV and the authorities found three loaded pistols, and AK-47 assault rifle and an open bottle of vodka. He was sentenced to seven years and that’s where his life changed.
The reality of the bars closing him in made him do something he’d not been known for, pick up a pen and write his feelings. At one point they quoted him saying, “Anyone that glorifies prison is an idiot.” He hooked me right there. His long time girlfriend put his writings on a blog titled, “Inside the Mind of Maurice Clarett.”
Awesome. Do I need to say I was moved? Well he got out in three years for good behavior and is now playing minor league football making $50,000 a season and able to care for his four year old daughter.
As if I needed further inspiration, this old man got ahold of an editorial I wrote a few years back about the crisis of the Texas prison system and tells me I need to write a book because I write so well. I told him, I wrote some novels. He said, “Not fiction. You need to write from your heart. You’ll touch people.”
How do I go about putting
up a blog page?
My question to you is, how do I go about putting up a blog page, and how much does it cost? And, if it’s something that I can afford, would you help me put it up? I know, I know how busy you are already, but I can’t think of anyone else who will take the time or is as familiar with it all. It’s okay if you can’t, I’m already blessed that you are always thinking about me and perpetually kind and caring.
I just…I don’t know, I’m so trapped and out of my element in here. I want to be able to express myself and relate to “real” people, not these lowlifes. Maybe I’ll be able to encourage some, tickle a few, inspire and awaken others? You know? It just seems like such a positive outlet, and it keeps me from having to maybe trust some shady publishing company. Perhaps someone reputable will come forward and see me. (I know you publish books, but I would never think of imposing myself on you guys in that manner. A big company could maybe put me in a position to feed myself and do for my kids.) I know I’m dreaming—but as I said, I really need the outlet and I truly believe I can touch someone.
Maybe I’ll be able to encourage some,
tickle a few, inspire and awaken others?
Either way, I’m going to start writing my thoughts down. It’s a shame that the prison paper only publishes the fluff and not the true and deep perspective offered. I won 1st place in a poetry contest with a sugar cookie poem. But when I sent the pound cake, they rejected it. I think that’s part of the problem with this country now is our pacification instead of preparation. No one is ever prepared for the worst case. When people say something profound and honest, they are crucified, while the liars are glorified and pampered.
(Stepping down from my soap box) (:
Your husband’s blog was really, really good. I was caught up in it, entranced, then finished it wanting, needing to know more about Africa. I could see each image clearly in my mind’s eye, incredible.
If I may, I’d like to suggest some reading for him, if he’s not already read them. A Painted House by John Grisham and A Boy’s Life by Robert McCammon.
Both excellent books that would no doubt leave him entertained and nostalgic. I almost hope that he hasn’t read them yet and can find them in a discount bookstore.
You know my favorite book of all times is the classic To Kill a Mockingbird. I was definitely the “Scout” of my household. The loyal and affectionate trouble maker. (:
Changing gears, last Monday I ran! Yes, you know I jog every day, but I ran. I felt so good and so proud and that’s how I got myself in trouble. I ran 30 laps!
Sure, it sounds stupid, but at the time, I don’t know. Well, I was sore (whole body hurt) for five days, and the physical therapy gals gave me hot and cold packs, but called me a “dumbass!” Several times, which I deserved. They said that only a man would do something as dumb as to run five miles after not running for almost two full years. Dr. K told me that I stink of testosterone. They said that they have to be hard on me so I’ll know they love me. (:
Don’t know if I thanked you for the resolutions, but thank you! It’s perfect, bright and colorful! And the paper is durable. Thank you so much. No doubt that I’d be at your house all the time, bringing ya'll special salads and dishes, seeking advice and affection, like a puppy looking for a pat on the head and good scratch behind the ear. (: You guys are the best.
Look at that, I’ve just been writing and writing and have not even responded to your letter. Please forgive me? I’ll get to it, promise. Right now, I’d better get to bed. I’ve been up since 6:00 a.m. I’ll be anxiously awaiting your response!
Bear hugs, (no claws or teeth, G-rated bear)
Don’t know if I thanked you for the resolutions,
but thank you!
Blog
Every Night I Pray
Last night I wrote my daughter a letter that she might not see until she’s 21…she’ll be seven tomorrow. Those few paragraphs tugged my heart, watered my eyes and forced me, for the millionth time, to hate myself for not being able to be there for her. Contrary to what you may think, I don’t seek sympathy, I seek solutions. How does a man cut off from his babies, from society, from the world, from his world…from his life, reach through iron bars, bricks, guard towers, razor wire, a scorned and spiteful ex-wife and a myriad of other oppressive obstacles and touch…touch…his children left behind, with a father’s undying love?
For my son and daughter, my love is solid, titanium, unbreakable, yet gentle, tender, as comforting as a goose down blanket. And that contradiction is accurate to describe the elation, like a summer’s breeze blown off of the perfect lips of Mother Nature that accompanies my memoires of them…then the emptiness, the vast and bottomless void that consumes my heart when faced with my absence from their lives, and their absence from mine. If you cannot phantom the kaleidoscope of joy and pain I speak of, I envy you. If you can, I pity you. May the Lord have mercy on your soul.
My last attempt to contact my children through their mother was rebuked with unfiltered malice and reinforced with threats to “tell the warden and get him more time,” which is ridiculous because the warden does not issue time, but I got the point…right through my back. According to my mother, the ex-wife claimed that I was harassing her to be with me.
Hmmm, if having two more babies for someone else, telling the court that the father who changed diapers, made bottles and administered breathing treatments in the middle of the night without complaint, was a threat to “her” children, leaving for another man before the ink was dry on my indictment, and keeping the two people I love most in this world away from me and my family were traits I found sexy, endearing and appealing, sure, I would want her back….like I wanted the Ebola virus.
No, what I actually asked of her was for us to be civil, to get along for the sake of the lives we created together. That’s all. No romantic hidden agendas, no hopes for quixotic liaisons, no us. They were my priority. I’d bet I couldn’t pay her a million dollars to go public with that letter and make a lying ass of herself. She’s much too vain for that. I’m just a man, shamed, caged and shackled. My hands are tied, literally. The only out is out.
How could the same man who filed child support on himself to ensure visitation with his son, now be so helpless?
Too many stupid choices eventually catch up to you. Sure, I could serve you a buffet of excuses, justifications, circumstances, scenarios, et cetera, and together we’d be full of it. There’s no intelligent way to explain that I sold drugs, inevitably selling my soul to feed my family. Inexcusable. Of course, hindsight is 20/20. The possibilities to provide for legally are endless…now.
Will they, do they understand that the mistakes Daddy made does not subtract from his love for them? Will they ever know how much I wish I could go back? Will they love me always as I love them, or am I already forgotten, brainwashed away by bitter lies and hatred?
Ever hear the expression, “I’ve got too much on my plate?” How does one contemplate a meal that consists of your biggest hopes and your most dreaded fears? Talk about “too much to swallow.” Imagine having a half pound blue crab in your throat, alive, clawing and kicking.
My emotional weak stomach is sometimes quelled by fantasies of attending college graduations, being called “Paw Paw” by my grandbabies, perhaps a second chance. Perhaps. If they don’t hate me.
Sssst! That is a pain I couldn’t endure! My own flesh and blood, children who look like my clones, a son who bears my name and a daughter whose name is so near mine, people always ask, “They both named Jason?” And with a big proud Pappa smile, I say, “Jaycy. Her name is Jaycy.” Sometimes I go so far as to show where their names ink my forearms, my only visible tattoos. No, I can’t, won’t imagine a world where they refuse to love me. That world is death, death I opted out of to live for them. Oh yeah, a 40 year sentence has the power to make any sane person consider the refuge of suicide. My mother however, convinced me that my life is no longer mine to take. My life belongs to Jason and Jaycy. A mother’s words have never rung more true.
So I live, long and cherish toothless smiles, amorous coos and cais, formula scented bubbles, and that twinkle of trust and complete admiration in their bright little eyes when they looked upon me. I am but half a man, fiending for completion, in need of the love from those that I love above all others. You may call that blasphemy; I call it a father’s love, for God knows my heart. It was after all, He who gave me such precious gifts, and every night I pray that one day, some day, I’ll again be whole.
