11.20.09
From the ferry: 11/19/09
It’s one of those nights when I am at capacity. How to let go of learning that a man in our group was sentenced to life–life–at the age of sixteen. What do you have to do to receive a sentence like that? I feel like I can imagine the answers, and still I think…life, sixteen, forever behind bars. Raised then, in essence, by the prison system. I can’t find peace with that sort of justice system. And yet, I imagine, the crime and the victims and I wonder if they feel like life is long enough? How can we ever bring two sides of a crime together? Should we? What choice do we have? This same man is now working with juvenile offenders, he tells us. Trying to help them stay out of prison, avoid his fate. I don’t know what else to do but pray that they listen. LISTEN. There are too many lifers in our group. Too many lives wasted. These men have served their time–forgive me any controversy that statement may cause for some. But they are doing us, society, the free world as they call it, no good behind bars. A man with a seventh grade education is one of the best writers in the class. He tells me tonight that he taught himself spanish and now works as an interpreter inside the prison. In the darkest place these men find a way to give something of themselves, to make something of a life that is so restricted you actually can’t imagine it unless you go there, meet them, listen.
We are letting lives go to waste. I understand the want for punishment, retribution. I get the pain of the victims. I grasp the idea to contain violence. I know it’s complex, so very, very complex. But I’m telling you, some of the lives in there are simply being wasted.
Small things tonight, like the men made sure we had hot water and brought us tea.
Small things tonight like the man who said on the first day of class that he was only there to pass the time, has started writing.
Small things tonight like S-, a lifer and gentle soul from the south, telling me that he is grateful this time of year that he has gotten to know us. And if he had one wish for me for Thanksgiving it would be that I gain a pound. What woman wouldn’t want to hear that–inmate or not?
Small things like thinking these men look to me with my MFA and think I know something, when every time I am up there it is they who teach me.
11.04.09
Colbert jokes privatization
Last night on Stephen’s Colbert’s the Colbert Report in a segment he calls The Word (typically the funniest part of the show for me) he did a piece on Arizona’s upcoming privatization of nine of its prisons. The segment is funny, at the same time that is is cuttingly horrifying. Touching on issues of prisoners for profit, the state’s effort to balance their budget by way of the criminal justice system, the history of private enterprise to always “do the right thing” and the implications of running a prison for shareholders gains.
An interesting question posed during the segment: how will private prisons ensure a steady “supply” of inmates to insure their business’ success.
When people, whether prisoner or not, become a commodity we all better be concerned.
The segment starts about 4 minutes into the show.
10.25.09
Know Thyself
Annual training today at the prison. I’ve heard the presentation three times now, and it doesn’t change much. Though the woman leading the training today, I thought, did so in a manner that was more true to reality, as well as more sanity and compassionate based than the others I’ve attended.
The first two trainings I attended seemed mostly to focus on scaring the shit out of volunteers. Maybe that’s a necessary step in the initiation process. First you fear them, then you understand how to work with them. It never worked like that for me. I don’t worry about the men manipulating me (though some of the trainers would say that’s a sign you are being manipulated). I don’t have irrational fears about the men finding me on the outside or asking their family or friends to find me. I don’t have nightmares about prison riots (though when they said today that our emergency contact would be the person they would call in case I a) had a heart attack while inside or 2) if a riot broke out — and I thought, crap, don’t call my mom if a riot breaks out!).
At these trainings manipulation by inmates is typically the topic we spend the most time on. Trainers go through a lengthy list of all the ways the men will try to manipulate us. First by befriending us. Second by being a star student, so as to garner our attention and admiration. Third by asking for favors. Fourth by asking to correspond with us outside of the program. And so on and so on. All of these things do, of course, happen. It can be difficult to know if an inmate is simply a good student or is in the process of trying to manipulate you. You never know, unless something obvious does happen (such as a request to call a family member and relay a message). Even if the obvious happens though, there’s a part of me that has always thought–can you blame these guys?
The prison culture is one of manipulation, power and control. That’s how you survive. It’s also how you entertain yourself in an extremely myopic universe. Their world on the inside is small. They have an abundant amount of time to think about what they want and how to get it. I never assume that any attempt to manipulate me is malicious or ill intended. I always assume this is how they have learned to survive (probably before they even arrived in prison). Which means it’s up to me to be clear about my boundaries.
Sometimes I think this issue of boundaries is part of my reason for working on the inside. I often struggle with boundaries on the outside. Saying yes to too many people. Rescuing friends and family in that way therapists always tell you not to do. Having too much empathy for people I barely even know. But on the inside I have no choice but to maintain boundaries of all kinds. It’s the professional way to run a program and to manage a classroom. Boundaries keep expectations and roles clear. I have to be able to say no at times, otherwise the guys would have me taking home entire novel manuscripts to read and critique and I don’t have that sort of time to offer. Boundaries let them know what I can do for them and what I can’t do for them. If I’m clear, then no one’s feelings get hurt, including my own. So far, it’s worked.
I’ve never wanted to rescue the men in prison. Maybe being a part of a program other than a religious group or AA makes that easier. I’m not out to redeem anyone’s soul, or forgive them their sins or cure of them of an addiction. I’m there to help them look at their life story and write it down. The work is their own and they can choose to do with our program what they will. Right now, for example, we have a guy who on the first night told us he was only there to watch (which basically means he’s trying to pass time, but isn’t all that interested. It’s happened before, we don’t mind). At the last meeting though (our third visit with this group) he was silent for almost the entire meeting and then, as another inmate discussed his story idea, this “silent” man was suddenly participating. Something had touched him and there he was giving feedback. We don’t make a big deal out of it in the group, but we certainly notice. It just works best to let them decide what they want from our program. While I hope that what they want is to re-examine their life and choices, putting them in a new context and thus experience some growth or enlightment about who they are (and can be) as human beings. I haven’t found it difficult to let go of any attachment I might have to that outcome for each of them. We are all a work in progress, right? And we are each on a journey. It’s not my job to rescue them from what they need to experience.
What I most appreciated about the trainer today was that she kept reminding us that manipulation is not a phenomenon unique to prison. People on the outside manipulate. None of the previous trainers ever pointed out this obvious fact, but in doing so she reminds us that inmates are human, using reliable survival skills that we all learn along the way. So, the message I took away today is, know yourself–both inside prison and outside. Know yourself and you will not compromise yourself or your program.
10.22.09
10/22/09: From the ferry
My commute to and from the prison includes a twenty minute ferry crossing plus however long I get to sit in line to wait to board. It’s a good time to reflect on the night at Monroe, to record first impressions and document those moments that are resonating with me the most before I have a chance to filter them or make them academic. I’ll post these thoughts from the ferry each time I go to Monroe.
I have a dark sense of humor. I always have. It has something to do with growing up with a doctor for a father, I think (we blame our parents for everything, right–so why not this as well?). Our dinner time conversations were often not like my friends’ dinner conversations. Early on I learned that human beings and their bodies are darkly humorous. At least you have to find a way laugh, otherwise it is often all just so terribly tragic. Sometimes my “darkness” surprises those who generally see me as an accommodating, motivating person.
But at the prison tonight, I discovered there is a dark sense of humor that even tops mine.
We had a great group. Everyone did their homework. Everyone is starting to flush out solid stories to work on. Everyone took notes when we started to teach a bit on opening scenes (as a teacher, I’m learning, there’s nothing I love more than watching a student write down something I’ve said–narcissistic? Perhaps. But it’s reassuring to think that I might have actually said something worth noting on paper.) At the end of our time I walked the hall back toward the front desk with Gloria and thought about how I’m settling into this new setting, these new guys.
And then, while waiting for the guys to finish movement (movement = the ten minutes the inmates have to move from programs back to their cells or units) so we could “safely” cross the yard and exit the prison, I saw it. A chalkboard hanging on the wall, which said: Welcome to WSR. Since we meet in the building where many volunteer programs are hosted I figured this “welcome” was meant for us volunteers, and I thought, well that’s nice. But then, in the corner of the board, written in relatively pretty, girly cursive, I saw the subheading: Come for a year, stay for a lifetime.
That’s not funny. Is it? I didn’t laugh. And I laughed when the kid in the backseat of the car in Pulp Fiction was accidentally shot by John Travolta (don’t judge me too harshly). All the way home I tried to find the humor in it, the dark, dark humor that I typically enjoy. Tried to imagine the custody officers and the inmates sharing a joke with one another about the reality of the situation. Tried to tell myself that it is always in the darkest of places that people must search the hardest to find a reason to laugh. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t laugh about the several men in our group who only refer to the length of time they’ve served as “I’ve been here a long time”. I couldn’t laugh about the man who said, “All my life I’ve been defined by my skin color or this place (prison).” I couldn’t laugh about the young kids who came in at eighteen and have known no other adult life then the one they have lived behind bars.
It’s not funny. A lifetime behind bars has no humor in it. And it surprised even me that I couldn’t get or take the joke.
10.12.09
Happy Day to All
Happy Day to All is what it reads on the sign in the lobby at the prison. I’ve written it down twice now in my notebook, as it has struck me as out of place on both of my first two visits to WSR. I wonder who the sign is directed toward? The staff? Perhaps it is meant to serve as an out-of-place sentiment to jar custody officers and prison staff out of the heaviness of their day-to-day efforts to earn a paycheck. Or maybe it is a hopeful wish that staff will carry a sense of happiness and possibility into their day, perhaps infecting the prison population, so to speak, with optimism. Did the person who placed the tiny white letters on the sign intend for the message to reach the general prison population? When the writer got to the “to all” part of the slogan did he actually pause and think of the men behind the bars? And if so, did he continue on with the sign out of a true sense of compassion or out of eagerness to mock the reality of bars, razor wire and guard towers?
Happy Day to All might be a sign that someone on the prison staff shares a not-too-shabby dark sense of humor. One that I can relate to. As in “happy day to all of you not stuck in here” or “happy day to all of you foolish enough to believe in happy days” or even, “happy day to all of you innocent, ignorant volunteers who think you understand prison life because you come in here once a week and spend time with the men when they are on their best behavior” (which actually makes the sign a big fuck you, and I sort of appreciate that).
What I imagine it is that the sign is one more contradiction of the prison system itself. A system that can’t seem to decide if its primary reason for existence is to punish or rehabilitate. So, happy day to all who read this post. Take from it what you will.
10.02.09
From the ferry: 10/1/09
Face to Face
I was nervous to go back to the prison tonight. Nervous because of something I haven’t written about yet, but that has been heavy on my mind since our last visit, which was also our first visit with this new group of men.
There’s a man in our group who has been convicted of a terribly violent, brutal crime. Gloria recognized him immediately. I didn’t. And I debated whether or not to look him up on the internet (just his first name brings up all the hits you need). Additionally I debated about writing about it here. For two reasons, I think. One, I don’t want to sensationalize him or his presence in our group. I’m not excited to have a man of his criminal stature in our group. It makes things more difficult. So, I’m not trying to come across as bragging—look at me, I go into prison and work with the worst. That’s not it. Two, and the real reason I haven’t written about this until now, I don’t want to expose myself as having experienced any doubt about my ability to see past the crime to the human being that still exists underneath.
There, now I’m exposed.
I’ve been wondering if it would be better if I didn’t know his crime. If Gloria hadn’t told me, or if I hadn’t googled him? Perhaps this is the perfect example of a time it is better to be naïve than informed. Because I feel like knowing gets in the way of me being able to connect with him. But, perhaps that’s okay. Perhaps that’s a natural survival instinct, a survival skill, good intuition.
But I hate that. I hate not being able to connect. Feeling like I can’t seem him as fully human (is that the right way to say it?), as more monster than human. This is the first time this has ever happened to me at the prison. The men don’t typically scare me and their crimes don’t unnerve me. So why this man and this crime? I don’t know the answer to that question yet. I know a dear friend of mine sent me an email today that said, “those men [at the prison] need to be close to your soul. It will be good for them.” I thought in response, it might be true, but tonight I’m going up with my soul protected. Which is not how I like to be.
What I do know is that he is likeable enough. I can sit across the table from him and enjoy a moment of conversation, and then almost immediately I find myself thinking, I just laughed at something this man said—what does that say about me? Even in physical appearance he is not someone you would fear. You’d pass him on the street and probably not think twice about your personal safety. Yet he is capable, at least according to the courts, of being involved in the complete destruction of other human beings. As Gloria asked me tonight, how do we talk to a man like that about being a hero?
His presence in our group brings the experience of working on the inside to a whole new level for me. In sports speak I feel like these last two weeks have been gut check time for me. I found myself considering, for the first time ever, whether I could even go back. Maybe it is too much. Maybe I’ve found my limit. Maybe I’m not capable of keeping an open mind and heart about the potential for all men—even the worst. And if I can’t do that, do I even deserve to be there.
So I went back. To test myself. And I sat in the classroom, right across from him. I taught. I commented. I laughed. I shared bits and pieces about my own writing life and writing experience. And the truth is I felt safe. Aware of the complexities. Aware of the contradictions and the hypocrisies, but safe none the less. To be safe and in a space where you can test your limits, challenge your beliefs, question and revisit who you think you are on a gut level is an amazing experience. In the end, I’m not willing to give it up. Not for one man. Not for one crime.
09.25.09
Last Words
Published in the New York Times Op-Eds on September 19, 2009. A listing of “last words” spoken by inmates before they were executed. The friend who sent it to me called it “pretty grim” and the man who forwarded it to her described it as a sort of “grim poetry.” I guess I don’t call it grim, as much as I call it a concise presentation of reality. We all come up on the end of life, one way or another, and there are atonements to be made, forgiveness to be sought, or final pleas to be rendered. The issue of whether or not executions themselves are grim (never mind morally or ethically right) is another matter. But for now I think I’ll let the listing of these last words stand on their own. Make of them what you will. At a minimum these quotes remind me that these are real men we are putting to death. Maybe what is grim is that up until this moment, we so easily dismiss them as nonhuman, or subhuman. Until they remind us of their mortality, and perhaps our own.
09.24.09
Mom is worried I’m going to marry a con
My mom talked to a woman a few weeks back who used to work in the medical ward of a prison.
I’ve learned it’s not usually a good thing when someone who loves you starts a conversation by saying, “I was talking to X, and she used to work in a prison and she says…”. Because typically what is said is 1) all inmates are cons 2) they are always conning and 3) tell your daughter to be careful.
I feel bad for my mom sometimes. Since I was a teenager I have been talking about wanting to work in prisons. She remembers having long conversations at dinner over the death penalty — me vehemently opposed, setting out my arguments over pasta and sauteed vegetables as if I knew everything there was to be known about the issue at all of sixteen. But, like many things I wanted at sixteen, my mother believed this desire to work on the inside would pass.
But it didn’t.
And that’s how we ended up on the couch this past weekend with her assessing my “mental and emotional state” in regards to my work at Monroe. Here is the list of things she wanted to check in about:
How close is the nearest guard to my classroom? Answer: right down the hall, and there are cameras in all the classrooms.
What happens if there’s a riot? Answer: You wait for the guys with guns to show up. The longer answer: for the most part, I’ve been told, and I truly believe, that in the event of a riot or other violence breaking out while I’m in the prison the guys in our group would do what they could to protect the volunteers. It’s hard for me to imagine being taken hostage (my mother’s worst fear). The men don’t see us as bargaining chips. DOC staff they might see that way. But not volunteers. I hope I’m never wrong about this.
What happens if one of the men asks me for a favor? Answer: You say no. It’s against the rules, and, even more so, you don’t want to create a situation where appear to be playing favorites with any of the guys. However, just because one of the men asks me for a favor doesn’t mean he’s trying to manipulate or con me. It’s a limited existence in prison. Having access to someone on the outside–someone who can look things up on the internet, make a phone call, etc–is an opportunity (and not always to do evil, commit a crime, order a “hit”–whatever people thing they are trying to con me into doing). I don’t know that you can fault a guy for asking for a favor occasionally, even if he knows you have to say no.
Am I careful not to say where I live or give out personal information? Answer: Yes, of course. However, I do tell them I had cancer, that I’m a writer and that I just graduated from school. It’s hard to ask them to trust me if I don’t trust them in return with a bit of personal information. You don’t build relationship by treating them like inmates 100% of the time.
Do I think it would be a good idea if I took a self-defense class?Answer: Sure, why not. I’ve been looking for a winter exercise anyway. Though I don’t think I’d ever be able to convince myself I could out muscle any of the guys in our group (I didn’t tell my mother that last part).
Please remember, my mother says, there’s a reason the word “con” is in convict. I know, Mom. I know. And I promise, I’m just as careful with the guys in the group as I am with people I meet on the outside. (More on this idea that all inmates are con men in the next post.)
And if my mother ever reads this–thank you, for your concern, and even more so, for never telling me I couldn’t do exactly what I wanted to do.
09.18.09
From the ferry: 9/17/09
My commute to and from the prison includes a twenty minute ferry crossing plus however long I get to sit in line to wait to board. It’s a good time to reflect on the night at Monroe, to record first impressions and document those moments that are resonating with me the most before I have a chance to filter them or make them academic. I’ll post these thoughts from the ferry each time I go to Monroe.
The Reformatory
Back to the prison tonight. Not the same group of guys. Not even the same unit of the prison. We’ve moved to what is called the Washington State Reformatory (WSR). The Reformatory looks like it sounds. Tall, 1960’s – 70’s era buildings, that could be mistaken for university buildings or a museum. It sits up on the hill overlooking Monroe, with a sloping, manicured lawn that goes down the hill until you hit the bus barn for the Monroe schools and a soccer field where I could hear kids playing as we walked across the prison parking lot. Surreal, to say the least. On the lawn are two of the biggest, most stunning trees I’ve ever seen. One, a large cedar. The other, I couldn’t identify, but it has one of those wide trunks that begs for you to run up to it and see how far you can get your arms around it (which I didn’t do on account of the staffed and armed guard towers competing with the trees for tallest feature on the property). From the parking lot there isn’t a lot of barbed wire and fencing visible—like there was at TRU. So, it was almost disarming.
But once inside WSR you quickly understand—prison. Even more so than TRU. At WSR you go through three sets of doors—each one slides open, you step into the holding area, the door slides closed behind you, you wait, the next door slides open. Then there is the final door, which, once you are though it lets you out into the yard. Yes, the yard. The inmates were busy with a baseball game when we walked through, and to be clear they were in a fenced off area of the yard, so we didn’t actually have access to one another, but they certainly noticed us walking by and we certainly noticed them. Then we go through a metal turn style and make our way to our building and room. It’s intimidating. At TRU we never saw inmates until we were safely in our room. At WSR you feel as if you have stepped into their living space. Though at the same time it’s hard to know whose privacy feels the most invaded—if that’s even an appropriate expression.
Here’s the thing—to be a “good” volunteer, you feel compelled to act natural. To not look. Definitely don’t stare. But then to look away, so to speak, also feels unnatural. ‘Cause who am I kidding? I’m from the outside, walking through the heart of the inside. Isn’t it normal for both sides to be curious about the other? Add to that that this is the first, after going up to the prison for over a year, that I have ever felt nervous. Ever felt intimidated, even in the slightest. So, I’m left wondering, what does that mean? About me? About all I still have left to learn—about the prison, about myself, about being in the prison?
This is what I have missed while we have been away this summer, I must confess. The ways in which going inside challenges me. No where else must you so quickly and closely bump up against your fears, your stereotypes (the ones you’d like to deny you have, especially), your discomforts, you questions and your perceptions of self. It will take me several visits to get comfortable (for as much as that word can ever apply to prison) with being in this new facility, and over the course of those visits I expect to grow once again.
It’s good to be back.
08.03.09
Endings and beginnings, part 2
Something ought to be said about moving our program to the Washington State Reformatory. Sometimes I think this move, more than anything else I might have written in the last posting, is the main reason I haven’t written here in so long. I do not like to write about goodbyes. Well, that is not true—my collection of short stories in fact titled, Leaving—so maybe it’s more that I’m tired of writing about goodbyes. Or maybe it is that I find this particular goodbye particularly difficult.
The last meeting we had with our group at TRU was to tell them we were thinking about moving the program after our short summer break. Our reasons for moving the program are valid enough. We’ve done a year of the program with the same group of men. Attendance is dropping as we cycle back through the material, and when a new guy does show up it is difficult to bring him into the fold when all of the other men are so far ahead. As program leaders we are growing anxious for new faces, new voices, new men to teach.
But regardless of the validity of any of our reasons, the simple fact is this: the men at TRU do not want us to go. And they told us as much. Remember, these men are nothing if not honest.
Even more difficult for me is now that we have made this decision there is no final meeting with the group at TRU. When we go back to Monroe in the fall we will begin our program at WSR. There is no final meeting with our original group of guys. No final goodbye. They simply won’t see our program advertised on their bulletin boards and they will know we are not coming back. It seems cruel to me. For there to be no real closure for any us.
The guys are used to this. Volunteers coming and going. Programs coming and going. Forming relationships with people from the outside and then never seeing them again. They are used to this, but I still am not. Maybe the longer I do this work, the easier it will get, these endings and beginnings on the inside. But for so many reasons I doubt it.
