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.
