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.
04.03.09
From the ferry: 4/1/09
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.
On Monday one of our group members will be released. So, tonight we said goodbye. It’s an interesting experience to goodbye in prison. To say, “we’ll miss you”, doesn’t seem quite right, even though it’s true. It’s not the same as saying goodbye to a coworker or a family member. You want the guys who deserve their release to be released, and yet in their release there is a loss, which you do not necessarily want to express as you do not want to come across as completely selfish. We are talking about getting out of prison. There should be no wish for a man who has served his time to stay soley for my sake. Soley so I don’t have to say goodbye.
You want to be excited for him, for the opportunities before him. You are nervous for him. Survival on the outside is tough, to say the least, for these guys. I realize I’ll miss him. This particular guy has been a great group member. He’s a good writer. He’s smart and funny and the other guys in the group respect him. It’ll be a different group without him.
Nonetheless, we all said our goodbyes. Several of the guys reminded him of what they’ve learned in our group. That one attribute of a hero is that a hero never gives up. A hero stays focused and keeps pushing. That’s what the group members reminded this man to do — never give up.
I had to wonder as well about the impact a release has on the guys who are staying behind. In his release, they see their own release date, no matter how far away it is. And, it must be hard to be left behind.
I realize that I won’t miss every guy who leaves our group. I probably won’t even feel good about some guys being released at all. But in this case, with this man, I will miss him. And I wish him the best. The possibility is high, I think, that he’ll make it on the outside. That won’t be the case for most. Here’s to hoping there’s such a thing as second chances. He deserves one.
03.11.09
Dear Bill…
One of our group members wrote me a long letter and handed it to me with a couple of poems. His hope is that we might be able to exchange letters via the group, but it is against the rules for volunteers to correspond with prisoners beyond the scope of the group. I am going to have to tell him this (he knows the rule, but is hoping we can work around it) and tell him that I won’t be able to write him letters in return. I’ve been thinking about his letter for a couple of weeks now, wondering if I should respond anyway, screw the rules. But I don’t want to be responsible for getting the entire group in trouble – one misstep by a volunteer can get our whole program shut down. I’ve been thinking about all that was in his letter – his thoughts on death and disease and questions to me on the same subjects. His thoughts on Washington’s recently passed assisted suicide bill. His thoughts on life after death. Of course I want to respond!
So, I decided that in lue of writing a real letter to Bill, I could write a letter and post it here. Readers of this blog won’t get to see Bill’s letter, but you’ll be able to infer their content from my response.
It’s crazy to me that I can’t write to a man serving a life sentence about life and death, regardless of the fact that he knows me as a volunteer. It seems counter-productive to his health and wellness on the inside and, for that matter, to my health and wellness on the outside. But then, I don’t know that anyone is advertising the US correctional system as an advocate for health and wellness.
*******
Dear Bill,
Thank you for your letter. It is timely for one main reason. This week I had to go back to the hospital for a follow up CT scan. The doctors have been watching a small spot on my lung for about nine months now, most likely nothing, possibly metastasized cancer from my original melanoma, possibly…well you know how it is. So, your questions about life and death and disease are weighing heavy on me this week.
I am lucky in that I did not have to ever have an Interferon treatment. I am sorry that you had to go through it. I hear that it is pretty terrible and your story confirms that for me. The doctors had told me I would have had to most likely drop out of graduate school if I went on the treatment. Imagine. I wouldn’t have met all of you in our Hero’s Journey group. I understand that it must have been difficult to choose to stop the treatment, regardless of the side effects. We all hope that there is indeed a miracle cure for the diseases that ail us. Alas, sometimes you have to consider quality of life over quantity of life. At least in my humble opinion. I can understand why your brother would have been upset with you. Disease is difficult on family for many reasons.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to have spent 32 years in prison already and to know that you will spend the rest of your life there. You write that the prison hospital is no place to spend your final days and that is why you have considered, when the time comes, taking your own life. I would never try to sway you one way or another, but I do believe strongly that how we die, when possible, should be up to us. As I said in the group the other night, if it is true we are all going to die, then shouldn’t there be some respect and dignity in the act itself? So much of our culture is about denying that we will die that everyone is so unprepared (I’m thinking of family and friends) when it does ultimately, and predictably, happen. That just makes it harder for everyone, I think.
Because I was so young when I was diagnosed with cancer the whole idea of death and how I wanted to die took me by surprise. I hadn’t, honestly, had to give much thought to it at 27. People tell me that it’s unfair that I had to deal with cancer at such a young age. I don’t know anymore if that is true. I certainly felt that way in the beginning, but now, on the good days, I think that maybe I am lucky to have had a brush with death so early as it allowed me to begin to ask some of those big, complex questions. I feel like I have time now to really decide what is right for me should I ever get sick again, or even what is right for me when I am old and grey and approaching my final days.
I do envy that you have found a spiritual path that calls to you. My own spiritual life continues to more of a mystery. I think I am more spiritual since my experience with cancer (how can you not be, right?), but I still can’t bring myself to look to any particular tradition to tell me how I ought to live (or die for that matter). I would be interested in hearing more about your walk with Buddhism.
I have a friend who believes firmly that it is my own thinking on the subject that will have the greatest impact on whether I stay healthy or not. He’s an eternal optimist. And while I’m not a die-hard pessimist I have a hard time always holding on to what he’s saying. Can you believe you are going to live and stay healthy, but still consider death without canceling out your “good” thoughts? How practical do you have to be about the limits of the body – particularly when your body has already exposed its weaknesses to you? I’d be interested to know what you think (if indeed you were to ever see this question).
So, Bill, this is long enough for now. I feel like I’ve only begun to touch on all you put in your letter, so perhaps I will write a second letter soon. I’m sorry that we can’t actually exchange letters. I’d be interested in hearing more of your thoughts on these subjects. I’d be interested in your stories from prison and before prison.
Thank you reaching out. I wish I could reach back.
Sincerely,
Erika
11.19.08
The first reading
Last Thursday I participated in my first reading, outside of reading to my fellow graduate students while we are safely in our cocoon of the residency. The reading was a benefit for one of the island’s local food banks — so it was easy to calm the nerves by remembering it wasn’t about me at all, but about filling plates the holidays and beyond in the rural community I live in.
That is until about 3pm on the day of the event (which started at 7pm) when my mom called to tell me that both she and my father were going to attend. Please understand it has probably been more than five years since I have showed work to any member of my family. My grandmother asks me everytime I see her to send her a story, but I’m pretty sure she still thinks I’m writing about young girls riding their ponies! It’s a tricky thing, showing your work to your family. Even as a fiction writer I know that my family is going to sit in the audience and think — did that really happen? Did she (me) ever really do that (insert terrible thing here — such as speeding with a boy in a Coupe up and down the rural island roads while drinking)? Is that character actually me (mother, father, sister). I always assumed that it would be terribly painful for me when my family finally heard my current work, but what I realized last week was that it is possibly harder on them than it is on me. After all, I get to sit there and say, no, no, it’s fiction, it’s not you. And they have to believe me.
So, we all faced our fears on Thursday. I stepped to the microphone and gave a good reading. It was full of tension. It was gritty. Several people came up to me afterward (and not family or friends who are required to say nice things) and complimented the story. My parents did not get up and walk out, and if they were uncomfortable they hid it well. They definitely saw a side of their daughter that is not the same woman who shows up for family dinner (and I cleaned up the scene a little in case there were children in the room!). It was good for me to understand that as I come into my own as a writer, my family is going to have to adjust, as will I.
In terms of the hero’s journey, I think I have officially left my “ordinary world” and am on my way into the “special world” where the rules change, as well as relationships.
So, to all my emerging writers, when you are ready, just risk it all, invite the whole family, and step up to the microphone. You might be surprised.
