It was bound to happen. By the sheer number of complaints I've filed against this prison chances were I was going to win one. And I did. I quote: "2 cookies return to inmate property per I.C.I. 1-13-11." I am aware of the irony of a fat guy grieving tasty pastries, but you can't rain on my parade. Not today. For today is my day, the Evil Empire has been routed. Tonight I sleep the sleep of the just.
So why is this so monumental of an event you might ask? Because over the course of 20+ years of incarceration in one gulag or another I had managed to win one solitary complaint lodged against the Wisconsin D.O.C. Today that ignominious total is two.
Let me tell ya how this game is played in the land of cheese and beer. In Wisconsin lock-ups inmates are allowed to complain about the "frustrations and irritations of institutional life." (Wisconsin Department of Corrections Chapter DOC 310.10 appendix.) The system is called the Inmate Complaint Review System or ICRS for short. This may seem like a good thing to the uninitiated. But those familiar with this little circus of the Bizarre will tell you that like any game of chance in in any circus worth its name, this game is rigged. The complaint examiners or I.C.E.'s are employees of the Department of Corrections, many are married to administrators, supervisors, and line officers. How do you think domestic life is going to be if you're finding in favor of the inmates? Plus, like any good bureaucracy this DOC is rife with regulations, rules, procedures, and policies. All written down, numbered and listed until you want to puke with it all. Nevermind that these regulations, rules, procedures, and policies are always in flux, with this one superceding that one and not to mention this rule contradicting that policy. The I.C.E.'s are good; they know the byzantine arcana of DOC policy because they do nothing else but handle and dispose of complaints from inmates.
Despite they're good points, they can be stunningly mindless. A few years ago I had a watch with a leather band. The band had a single row of stitching holding two thicknesses of leather together. This is called "double stitched" and its not allowed in the joint. Somehow the band avoided detection when I initially received it. I had the watch for years and despite several property inventories it presented no problem. Yet as things go in here all it took was one bored, diligent, or bitter officer and my watch was contrabanded and subject to disposal. The issue was the band: it was double stitched and there was no getting around that. Luckily I had found a store that had clear watch bands as the new regulations that had gone into effect after I had received my watch now stipulated. So I told the property room that they could contraband the watch band and I'd order a new band for the watch. I was stunned when the property room determined that the watch and the watchband were "all watch" according to them and if the band went the watch went with it. So I complained, filed my paperwork in a timely fashion and waited for the decision. I thought I was on firm ground with a good argument.
The examiner at that time, was the warden's wife and her determination was that not only was the band double stitched but the band must have been illicitly smuggled in because that's the only way it could have possibly gotten into the institution. Complaint dismissed and it was rubber stamped by the warden. Big surprise there. It was only after I appealed to the office of the secretary of the department of corrections did some semblance of sanity return.
The only sure-fire way to beat them is to be as well versed in policy and procedure as the examiners are. An inmate has to keep up with all the policy revisions and be certain to keep himself within the limits of all relevant rules. Or you can exploit loopholes. However to their credit a system has been installed that looks good on paper but is flawed in execution.
It was this array of bureaucratic power and indifference that I found myself in a contest of wills over...cookies. Christmas cookies to be exact. Tasty little treats sold but once a year for a limited time. Knowledgeable convicts look forward to this time of year not so much for the cookies but for the containers. These cookies come in a big resealable plastic tub, perfect for cooking in, eating out of, or storing your odds and ends in. And I had three tubs of cookies and plans for the tubs. But my faulty decision-making process had a hiccup and I found myself, once again, on the Hill getting Focused.
When you go to segregation the Philistines get to fondle your property. Of course, they're going to find something to contraband. But that day they picked the wrong convict and contrabanded the wrong piece of property. The property room told me I was over the allowable limit on the volume of property I was allowed to have. The department of corrections mandates that all of an inmate's property must fit into a 32" x 16" x 16" box, excluding electronics, legal work and one oversized hobby item. On its face that rule makes sense, but once again the devil is in the details. The property room invariably counts towards this limit state-issued clothing, particularly a bulky oversized winter coat and clod-hopper boots both of which are space hogs. So of course I was over the limit and when that happens the first items on the chopping block is an inmates' consumables, and my cookies were at risk. So I complained, went through the farce of trying to "resolve" the issue, and finally brought up the point that by policy state issued clothing should not count toward an inmates volume limit.
And what do you know: I won. While I wonder what kind of Hell I've wandered into where Grown Men argue over cookies, right now I'm dreaming of that day in March or April where I get to open that tub of stale Christmas cookies and taste sweet victory.
All hail the conquering hero.
Addendum - 1/14/11 - It's come to my attention that I didn't so much win my complaint as much as these buzzards just gave up. They quit! They tapped out, gave up and threw in the towel. Waupun is the France of Correctional Institutions! In Star Wars did the Emperor weenie out or did he go down swinging? When Rocky Balboa climbed through the ropes did that big goofy Russian just throw up his hands and say, "Nyet, not today, I'm feeling bloated." No! Perhaps the property room was demoralized by the crushing impact of my impeccable logic. Nah, probably just got tired of me bitchin' about some cookies. Either way: I still win! Woo-hoo!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
"Too Late!!" - Guest Blog from Jackie
Since Ani is in segregation, and I haven't heard from him for awhile, I decided to use his blog for a bit of a rant.
I remember when the judge sentenced him in 2002 that she gave a very brief nod to the concept that if he were younger she might consider suggestions for evaluation and treatment. This sense that something is "too late" and therefore the only thing we can do is to lock him up for basically the rest of his life, riles me. How can something be "too late" when you were never offered it in the first place? What is "too late"? Has the train left the station? Has the doctor gone home for the day? Is there not another day, another train?
There seems to me to be something monumentally cruel in telling someone it is too late to allow them to learn, to grow, to find out what they can do to make things better. Ani is a slow learner and a late developer in some areas. He is grappling with how to make decisions by thinking through options and consequences rather than acting without thought. I don't know how much he can develop this ability, but I would never discourage his desire by telling him "it is too late" or "that ship has sailed" or "that's water over the dam." Do we send people to prison to "think about what they've done" or do we do so to lock them up forever so we don't have to think about them? How many people actually give any thought to what happens to people when our judges, on our behalf, give out sentences that give up on a person?
The bitter part of it being "too late" for Ani is that we are just for the first time learning what may have been the cause for many of his difficulties and we are attempting to get this evaluated. For a variety of reasons, this was never done before. If there is something going on that caused him to have difficulty in several areas, it offers hope to find that out and see what can be offered to him to deal with this. This seems to be all about hope and possibility, learning and growth...and yet the judge acted on her belief that it was all "too late" for Ani.
It has been a fragile thing to offer hope to Ani. For as long as he can remember, he has been offered shame and punishment whenever he failed to live up to the expectations of others. He was told over and over that he was lazy or he didn't care or he wasn't trying hard enough - that the thing being expected of him was within his power to do. And then, over and over he was heaped with scorn and rejection, blame and punishment when things didn't work out the way others had expected. He came to have a deathly fear of all expectations. Our recent sojourn into the land of neuroscience has been frought with anxiety for the possiblity of hope, the possiblity that things might not always have been his fault, and the possiblity that upon learning where he is having difficulty there might be something that could make things work better. Dang those expectations!
So, in spite of the judge's pronouncement that life was pretty much over for Ani, and no one would be making any more expectations of him, I have labored to help him find answers. In my mind, prison is - or should be - about learning to take responsibility, learning to act in a way that changes things and makes them better. However, I have found very very little of that going on in prison and I wonder if it explains why there is such a high recidivism rate. It is really a dangerous thing, in my mind, to lock people up without giving them the tools to make changes, as it is bound to actually make them worse.
Taking responsibility, I believe, starts with knowing what you are capable of, what is within your power to do. If we take responsibility for something we have no power over, it kind of messes up our sense of responsibility. Likewise, if we believe we are powerless when there actually is something we can do, we have warped our sense of responsibility. I hope I am not being naive in my belief that an evaluation will help Ani to learn more about what he is capable of doing, and what he is not capable of at this time. And, that this will form the basis for a truer sense of responsibility.
Ani's last letter also addressed his current state of understanding on this issue, making the following request of me:
"On my next worksheet series I would like to work on my decision making abilities. I should point out this is a biggie. Even though I know what I'm supposed to do I more often than not will do what I want to do. Its a terrible habit for me to break. Nothing works. Not logic, reason, beatings, or Prison; I'm incorrigible. I would like to be corrigible."
I agree that there is something very impaired in his decision making abilities. I am encouraged by his growing awareness of this fact. I am hopeful that with the help of some professionals that we are hoping to be able to bring into the prison to evaluate him, we will know more about what isn't working. And then comes the possibility of growth and change. Much better to be here than to be left at the station watching the train of life departing with just about everyone else on it.
Happy New Year!
Jackie
I remember when the judge sentenced him in 2002 that she gave a very brief nod to the concept that if he were younger she might consider suggestions for evaluation and treatment. This sense that something is "too late" and therefore the only thing we can do is to lock him up for basically the rest of his life, riles me. How can something be "too late" when you were never offered it in the first place? What is "too late"? Has the train left the station? Has the doctor gone home for the day? Is there not another day, another train?
There seems to me to be something monumentally cruel in telling someone it is too late to allow them to learn, to grow, to find out what they can do to make things better. Ani is a slow learner and a late developer in some areas. He is grappling with how to make decisions by thinking through options and consequences rather than acting without thought. I don't know how much he can develop this ability, but I would never discourage his desire by telling him "it is too late" or "that ship has sailed" or "that's water over the dam." Do we send people to prison to "think about what they've done" or do we do so to lock them up forever so we don't have to think about them? How many people actually give any thought to what happens to people when our judges, on our behalf, give out sentences that give up on a person?
The bitter part of it being "too late" for Ani is that we are just for the first time learning what may have been the cause for many of his difficulties and we are attempting to get this evaluated. For a variety of reasons, this was never done before. If there is something going on that caused him to have difficulty in several areas, it offers hope to find that out and see what can be offered to him to deal with this. This seems to be all about hope and possibility, learning and growth...and yet the judge acted on her belief that it was all "too late" for Ani.
It has been a fragile thing to offer hope to Ani. For as long as he can remember, he has been offered shame and punishment whenever he failed to live up to the expectations of others. He was told over and over that he was lazy or he didn't care or he wasn't trying hard enough - that the thing being expected of him was within his power to do. And then, over and over he was heaped with scorn and rejection, blame and punishment when things didn't work out the way others had expected. He came to have a deathly fear of all expectations. Our recent sojourn into the land of neuroscience has been frought with anxiety for the possiblity of hope, the possiblity that things might not always have been his fault, and the possiblity that upon learning where he is having difficulty there might be something that could make things work better. Dang those expectations!
So, in spite of the judge's pronouncement that life was pretty much over for Ani, and no one would be making any more expectations of him, I have labored to help him find answers. In my mind, prison is - or should be - about learning to take responsibility, learning to act in a way that changes things and makes them better. However, I have found very very little of that going on in prison and I wonder if it explains why there is such a high recidivism rate. It is really a dangerous thing, in my mind, to lock people up without giving them the tools to make changes, as it is bound to actually make them worse.
Taking responsibility, I believe, starts with knowing what you are capable of, what is within your power to do. If we take responsibility for something we have no power over, it kind of messes up our sense of responsibility. Likewise, if we believe we are powerless when there actually is something we can do, we have warped our sense of responsibility. I hope I am not being naive in my belief that an evaluation will help Ani to learn more about what he is capable of doing, and what he is not capable of at this time. And, that this will form the basis for a truer sense of responsibility.
Ani's last letter also addressed his current state of understanding on this issue, making the following request of me:
"On my next worksheet series I would like to work on my decision making abilities. I should point out this is a biggie. Even though I know what I'm supposed to do I more often than not will do what I want to do. Its a terrible habit for me to break. Nothing works. Not logic, reason, beatings, or Prison; I'm incorrigible. I would like to be corrigible."
I agree that there is something very impaired in his decision making abilities. I am encouraged by his growing awareness of this fact. I am hopeful that with the help of some professionals that we are hoping to be able to bring into the prison to evaluate him, we will know more about what isn't working. And then comes the possibility of growth and change. Much better to be here than to be left at the station watching the train of life departing with just about everyone else on it.
Happy New Year!
Jackie
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Birthday Greetings
(with an intro and closing by Jackie)
Ani's last post was written while he was in segregation. He got out in early November, after about 50 days and was in GP or "general population" for about 6 weeks. I noticed that he seemed to be taking some time in adjusting to the stresses of adapting to a new cellmate and to the demands of his neighbors on his tier. He was just talking about being ready to send a new post to his blog.
Then, on December 16th, when he was coming back to his cell from a meal, he was given something folded up in a wad of toilet paper by the tier tender (a tier tender is an inmate job), and told to deliver it to another inmate when he went up to the library the next morning. He put it in his pocket and before he could decide what to do about it he was stopped by a guard, asked what he had in his pocket, and his cell was searched. Once again, they found a few items of contraband in his cell (although not in his personal property), and when he handed over what he had just put in his pocket, it turned out to be 3 pills in a salt packet. The pills were clonidine, a prescription medication used to treat high blood pressure. (I looked it up.) He was whisked back to "the hole" and has been in solitary confinement since then, waiting for his "ticket" to be heard. Since tickets are only heard on Fridays, and the next two Fridays will be holidays, it looks like he won't have his ticket heard until January 7. That means he will have served 3 weeks before his sentence even starts, since the sentence doesn't start until the day it is given at the hearing.
So, unfortunately, Ani was in segregation for his birthday on December 24, and for Christmas. He wrote me a letter on his birthday, and I thought I would share parts of it with whomever might be reading...
"12-24-2010
"Hey! It's my birthday! I can't imagine a day coming where I won't be absof*inglutely thrilled by my birthday. Can't imagine it. I do hope that a day comes where life will be better, but for now this is pretty good... I woke up and my mind went immediately to my conduct report. I was unhappy because it was written in such a way as to appear that I named names. But then I saw a fruit fly while I was brushing my teeth. I've, for mysterious reason unknown to even myself, always like fruit flys. So I asked it a question and if by way of the universe answering it flew up and landed very close to my mirror on the wall. I was looking at myself and I knew that I was going to be alright....
"I do look forward to book day - new books to read. So I was eagerly anticipating the moment when I heard the book cart trundling down the hallway. He stops at my door, opens my trap and gives me three books. What the hell?! They ain't the books I ordered, in fact the CO gave me my neighbors book order. The CO looks on the cart and no books! I'm...unhappy. But the CO (an all around decent fellow) says, "fill another order out" and he'll go fill it and bring them on the med cart. Wow. And he does it! Ha! And I got my first three choices - which never happens! Joyz! So I got a cooool b-day gift from the universe. Thank you universe. So I have two big fat James Michener novels, Texas and Hawaii as well as the fourth book in the Earth's Children series by Jean Auel, The Plains of Passage. So that's 3317 pages to read in a week if you're interested. Right now Hawaii is first up. The book begins with a king getting brained and anytime a book begins with royalty getting their brains beat out - well, that's an okay book to me!
"...do you want to know what my favorite word in the whole world is? It's not love, or peace, or money (but them's all cool). It's not toys (dear to my hearts), or even Jackie (but its nearly neck and neck!). My favorite word in the whole wide world is: ...wait for it... FLUEGELHORN! That word just makes me chuckle/snort/giggle and fills me with the urge to dance (sucker!) and shout it at the top of my lungs.
FLUEGELHORN
"Yes, I'm being silly but for the first time in a week I feel like me again. Sure, I made a bad choice but I can recover. My reputation might take a hit but I think I'll be okay. ... I'll just disappear into the belly of this concrete beast for a few months...and then I'll be burped up like a bit of undigested pot roast, ready for my next adventure!"
(end of Ani's letter) It never ceases to amaze me how he can let things like this slide off his back and come up grinning. Sure, he's been dealing with set-backs and losses all of his life so I suppose he has developed a knack of some kind that most of the rest of us simply don't have. And, if you don't really have any plans or expectations, you don't get bent out of shape when they are foiled. I can't decide if his way of looking at life is something to be sorry for or wish I had!
We've no pictures this year like last Christmas. Please feel free to share your own with us!!
Season's Greetings and Best Wishes to all Readers,
Jackie
Ani's last post was written while he was in segregation. He got out in early November, after about 50 days and was in GP or "general population" for about 6 weeks. I noticed that he seemed to be taking some time in adjusting to the stresses of adapting to a new cellmate and to the demands of his neighbors on his tier. He was just talking about being ready to send a new post to his blog.
Then, on December 16th, when he was coming back to his cell from a meal, he was given something folded up in a wad of toilet paper by the tier tender (a tier tender is an inmate job), and told to deliver it to another inmate when he went up to the library the next morning. He put it in his pocket and before he could decide what to do about it he was stopped by a guard, asked what he had in his pocket, and his cell was searched. Once again, they found a few items of contraband in his cell (although not in his personal property), and when he handed over what he had just put in his pocket, it turned out to be 3 pills in a salt packet. The pills were clonidine, a prescription medication used to treat high blood pressure. (I looked it up.) He was whisked back to "the hole" and has been in solitary confinement since then, waiting for his "ticket" to be heard. Since tickets are only heard on Fridays, and the next two Fridays will be holidays, it looks like he won't have his ticket heard until January 7. That means he will have served 3 weeks before his sentence even starts, since the sentence doesn't start until the day it is given at the hearing.
So, unfortunately, Ani was in segregation for his birthday on December 24, and for Christmas. He wrote me a letter on his birthday, and I thought I would share parts of it with whomever might be reading...
"12-24-2010
"Hey! It's my birthday! I can't imagine a day coming where I won't be absof*inglutely thrilled by my birthday. Can't imagine it. I do hope that a day comes where life will be better, but for now this is pretty good... I woke up and my mind went immediately to my conduct report. I was unhappy because it was written in such a way as to appear that I named names. But then I saw a fruit fly while I was brushing my teeth. I've, for mysterious reason unknown to even myself, always like fruit flys. So I asked it a question and if by way of the universe answering it flew up and landed very close to my mirror on the wall. I was looking at myself and I knew that I was going to be alright....
"I do look forward to book day - new books to read. So I was eagerly anticipating the moment when I heard the book cart trundling down the hallway. He stops at my door, opens my trap and gives me three books. What the hell?! They ain't the books I ordered, in fact the CO gave me my neighbors book order. The CO looks on the cart and no books! I'm...unhappy. But the CO (an all around decent fellow) says, "fill another order out" and he'll go fill it and bring them on the med cart. Wow. And he does it! Ha! And I got my first three choices - which never happens! Joyz! So I got a cooool b-day gift from the universe. Thank you universe. So I have two big fat James Michener novels, Texas and Hawaii as well as the fourth book in the Earth's Children series by Jean Auel, The Plains of Passage. So that's 3317 pages to read in a week if you're interested. Right now Hawaii is first up. The book begins with a king getting brained and anytime a book begins with royalty getting their brains beat out - well, that's an okay book to me!
"...do you want to know what my favorite word in the whole world is? It's not love, or peace, or money (but them's all cool). It's not toys (dear to my hearts), or even Jackie (but its nearly neck and neck!). My favorite word in the whole wide world is: ...wait for it... FLUEGELHORN! That word just makes me chuckle/snort/giggle and fills me with the urge to dance (sucker!) and shout it at the top of my lungs.
FLUEGELHORN
"Yes, I'm being silly but for the first time in a week I feel like me again. Sure, I made a bad choice but I can recover. My reputation might take a hit but I think I'll be okay. ... I'll just disappear into the belly of this concrete beast for a few months...and then I'll be burped up like a bit of undigested pot roast, ready for my next adventure!"
(end of Ani's letter) It never ceases to amaze me how he can let things like this slide off his back and come up grinning. Sure, he's been dealing with set-backs and losses all of his life so I suppose he has developed a knack of some kind that most of the rest of us simply don't have. And, if you don't really have any plans or expectations, you don't get bent out of shape when they are foiled. I can't decide if his way of looking at life is something to be sorry for or wish I had!
We've no pictures this year like last Christmas. Please feel free to share your own with us!!
Season's Greetings and Best Wishes to all Readers,
Jackie
Saturday, October 2, 2010
In the Belly of the Beast - Part 2
THE PICTURE OF MY CELL (in the previous post) is looking from the head of my bed/desk. On the sink are 2 bars of Next 1 moisturizing soap. On the top of the sink are (left to right) two tubes of toothpaste: the skinny one on the left is state-issued, the other is canteen purchased. A stubby toothbrush - all the better to not stab you with. A tube of chapstick and my deoderant. The bricks are all wrong - perspective problems - and the floor should be mottled. I can pace six paces from the corner by the door to the corner by my desk. Light on upper right.On the one hand, although Jackie compliments me for not blaming anyone but myself for getting in here, there are thousands I want to blame! Ha! Yes, I had all that stuff but that being said, the CO is still an a**hole. Not to blame him - he did his job to be sure. Yet I think it was a bit of a pissy petty ticket.
On the other hand, I'm mad that I let myself get complacent, thinking I wasn't doing all that much wrong. I mean seriously, a baggie of garlic powder?! I guess that's a big caper to these people. What it really was was enough rope to hang myself. The most serious charge is the gambling. I was in a pool - told myself that since I wasn't going to run one what was the harm of being in a pool? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So now I start off new again. No job, no income, no recreation, no visits, no phone, no shoes. I threw myself down the hole again. Okay - I am sick of it. but I don't know if I like my future free of all VICE. I don't know why it fears me so. Like I'm a loser if I'm all rule abiding. I'll be what I dispise - a drone. They will have won; I will be tamed, owned, brought to heel before people I dispise. Now I'll be a fort Indian waiting to put my mark on the paper so I can get my bottle of liquor and a ratty-ass blanket. I'm so pissed. I have to look at the smug face of some grotty pig knowing that he will always have the upper hand. It just bothers me. Because of it I can't not be self destructive.
(from a letter to Jackie written 9-24-1010)
In The Belly of the Beast
Over this last summer I watched somewhat interestedly while BP futzed around in the Gulf of Mexico with their runaway well. As I watched them attempt the thousandth "kill" (let's see, there was Top Kill, Static Kill, Bottom Kill, Side Kill, Kill Kill and Gee I Wish I Could Kill Kill) I was struck by a comment one of the engineers made: There was no situation that they couldn't make worse. Now that was a proverbial bolt from the blue. It was as if someone had put to word the very essence of my life!
I must now announce that I have found yet another way to make my situation worse: I am back in Segregation. *Boo!* To put it bluntly, I was found to be in possession of the following items, which according to the Powers that Be posed a serious risk of disruption to the security of the institution. To wit: 3 pornographic photos (color), a small baggie of garlic powder, some leftover electrical tape, a gambling information sheet, and some fantasy role-playing material/papers.
Normally at this point I would begin my ranting and raving at the injustice of it all, at the small-minded pettiness of the system and its drones, and what not and what for, ad nauseum. But not today, not this time. Yes, I had those things in my possession. My bad. What I was left with was wondering whether that motley assortment of contraband was worth 45 days up on the hill getting focused, or the loss of my tutoring position, the loss of all of my 14 months of seniority (the time elapsed since I was last in the grip). No, I don't think it was. Hindsight being what it is, I can't say I came out ahead in the transaction. On the other hand, I'm not sure that I'd change all that much. I had a nice discussion with the hearing officer that not only surprised me with his humanity (!) but certainly raised my opinion of him. I told him that I was, indeed, gambling on NFL football games; it helped to brighten a dreary grey existence. I had some, yes, garlic powder from the kitchen to make my food taste better, and the reason I had the "pornography" was because I had 50 years to do and I didn't want to forget what a woman looks like. He surprised me when he said, "Good answer, good answer." I knew he had a job to do and he had to do what he had to do, yet I was struck by his understanding of what motivates me. I didn't bullshit him, I didn't see the point.
Was it worth it? More importantly, would I do the same things again, knowing the potential outcome. No, probably not but I say that with some trepidation. I will give up the gambling on football; the Bi-valve Butcher says that that was what they were looking for in retribution for having skated on a previous gambling ticket. That makes sense. The seasonings and the photos I'd probably risk again. The hearing officer admitted that the "theft" (of seasoning) was "miniscule" and I think I made my case for the photos. All in all, I think it was a wash. There were some technical violations of the rules and some not so technical and I don't feel that I was chewed up too badly by the machine. I'll miss the job and the paycheck, but I wasn't supposed to have either anyways, so I feel I stole $500 from them, I guess.
If anyone is wondering what I've learned from this experience, I can only imagine your disappointment. I've learned that a particular CO, a tiny frustrated bitter man, can carry a grudge for quite awhile. I learned that an executioner can be empathetic all the while lopping off your head. I learned that wagering on the NFL is a sin and not a victimless crime. Oh yes, that seasonings are for the masses and not the individual. And that I can live a life, bleak in its colorlessness and flavorlessness, but still retain my dignity and humor. In a few short weeks I'll descend from my self-imposed exile to jostle with stink of felons, shake-up with my Brothers, laugh and mock and turn another day.
I must now announce that I have found yet another way to make my situation worse: I am back in Segregation. *Boo!* To put it bluntly, I was found to be in possession of the following items, which according to the Powers that Be posed a serious risk of disruption to the security of the institution. To wit: 3 pornographic photos (color), a small baggie of garlic powder, some leftover electrical tape, a gambling information sheet, and some fantasy role-playing material/papers.
Normally at this point I would begin my ranting and raving at the injustice of it all, at the small-minded pettiness of the system and its drones, and what not and what for, ad nauseum. But not today, not this time. Yes, I had those things in my possession. My bad. What I was left with was wondering whether that motley assortment of contraband was worth 45 days up on the hill getting focused, or the loss of my tutoring position, the loss of all of my 14 months of seniority (the time elapsed since I was last in the grip). No, I don't think it was. Hindsight being what it is, I can't say I came out ahead in the transaction. On the other hand, I'm not sure that I'd change all that much. I had a nice discussion with the hearing officer that not only surprised me with his humanity (!) but certainly raised my opinion of him. I told him that I was, indeed, gambling on NFL football games; it helped to brighten a dreary grey existence. I had some, yes, garlic powder from the kitchen to make my food taste better, and the reason I had the "pornography" was because I had 50 years to do and I didn't want to forget what a woman looks like. He surprised me when he said, "Good answer, good answer." I knew he had a job to do and he had to do what he had to do, yet I was struck by his understanding of what motivates me. I didn't bullshit him, I didn't see the point.
Was it worth it? More importantly, would I do the same things again, knowing the potential outcome. No, probably not but I say that with some trepidation. I will give up the gambling on football; the Bi-valve Butcher says that that was what they were looking for in retribution for having skated on a previous gambling ticket. That makes sense. The seasonings and the photos I'd probably risk again. The hearing officer admitted that the "theft" (of seasoning) was "miniscule" and I think I made my case for the photos. All in all, I think it was a wash. There were some technical violations of the rules and some not so technical and I don't feel that I was chewed up too badly by the machine. I'll miss the job and the paycheck, but I wasn't supposed to have either anyways, so I feel I stole $500 from them, I guess.
If anyone is wondering what I've learned from this experience, I can only imagine your disappointment. I've learned that a particular CO, a tiny frustrated bitter man, can carry a grudge for quite awhile. I learned that an executioner can be empathetic all the while lopping off your head. I learned that wagering on the NFL is a sin and not a victimless crime. Oh yes, that seasonings are for the masses and not the individual. And that I can live a life, bleak in its colorlessness and flavorlessness, but still retain my dignity and humor. In a few short weeks I'll descend from my self-imposed exile to jostle with stink of felons, shake-up with my Brothers, laugh and mock and turn another day.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
SWEET NECTAR OF THE GODS
Have I mentioned that I love Kool-aid? Well, I do. I'll drink any flavor but I know being pre-diabetic having too much sugar isn't good for me. So what's a guy to do? One of the first things that you learn in the joint is that nearly everything has a price. There is a thriving under-market for anything that we can't buy off of the canteen or can be stolen from the state. The kitchen is one of the primary sources of contraband. We don't get to buy fresh produce to cook with, so we buy fresh onions, green pepper, cheese, ground beef from people willing to risk smuggling it out of food service. Lately, the DOC has been on a "health" kick so they replaced our soda that we used to get with meals with sugar-free Kool-aid. So once a week I pay about the equivalent of three stamped envelopes for a bag of drink mix the size of a small apple. The best is lemonade. The most weird is grape. Grape is the least popular because grape is like a bad party guest. You know the guy gets drunk and pukes on your deck, stumbles into things, and says the most inappropriate stuff. Grape does not play well with other flavors; if you add grape to any other flavor - it all becomes grape. Grape don't know how to act right. I used to caddy at a golf course when I was a shorty, and when we made the turn the golfer for whom you were caddying would buy a grape juice and 7-up concoction. So I got used to the flavor combo. To this day I still mix Diet Sierra Mist with my Kool-aid. Just thought that you'd like to know.
As I Was Saying Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted...
Worst Week. Ever. Part Two
So to recap: I didn't get a new job, the Powers that Be hate me, and to top it all off my cellie went to the hole. Going to segregation isn't that rare of an occurance at WCI. In fact, they lock people up at such a rate, for such petty offenses as not pulling up your pants, not tying your shoes, or (my personal favorite) not standing for count, you would think that the administration is using the disciplinary system for other means. Like as a bargaining chip when their labor union contract comes up for negotiation; i.e. if the seg unit is always full, then this must be an extraordinarily dangerous job - give us more money; the other equally cynical option is that they are using the seg unit as a defacto housing unit and keeping it full of inmates on humbug write-ups that in other joints would be dismissed, warnings, or loss of recreation. Now, I'm not here to complain about how they use their segregation unit (even though I just did); I want to talk about packing up a cellie.
Living in a 6' x 12' cell is never easy under the best circumstances. It's worse when you got years to do and nowhere to go. If you're lucky, and I was, you get a cell mate that you can "jail" with. The best cell-mates have all their own electronics, money, pull their weight when it comes to the chores, a good sense of humor, and don't snitch. So I was unhappy when my cellie got wrote up for loitering on the range, and got seg time. When you go to seg you don't get to pack your own property - it's go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. As I am familiar with this process myself *sigh* I know the value of being tight with your living mate so that none of your stuff comes up missing. So I made sure that all of his things got packed up and what not then I hunkered down to play the "Hey-what-kind-of-hump-can-I-stick-in-your-cell-lottery"! Ah, good times. As of this date I am still doing the solo thing. Knock on wood - wait, there is no wood here. Shit.
For those of you out there that care I'm doing fine. I'm not up to as many shenanigans as I used to be and that is a flippy-flop thing for me. On the one hand, the non-incarcerated people in my life are happier, but on the flip side of that it makes for a very BORING existence. I just got a 12 month defer from the program review committee (PRC), "Hey, why don't you do this program?". "Aaahh, I got yer program right here, buddy." And I'm still teaching grown felons to read, which is from time to time a surreal pleasure.
So to recap: I didn't get a new job, the Powers that Be hate me, and to top it all off my cellie went to the hole. Going to segregation isn't that rare of an occurance at WCI. In fact, they lock people up at such a rate, for such petty offenses as not pulling up your pants, not tying your shoes, or (my personal favorite) not standing for count, you would think that the administration is using the disciplinary system for other means. Like as a bargaining chip when their labor union contract comes up for negotiation; i.e. if the seg unit is always full, then this must be an extraordinarily dangerous job - give us more money; the other equally cynical option is that they are using the seg unit as a defacto housing unit and keeping it full of inmates on humbug write-ups that in other joints would be dismissed, warnings, or loss of recreation. Now, I'm not here to complain about how they use their segregation unit (even though I just did); I want to talk about packing up a cellie.
Living in a 6' x 12' cell is never easy under the best circumstances. It's worse when you got years to do and nowhere to go. If you're lucky, and I was, you get a cell mate that you can "jail" with. The best cell-mates have all their own electronics, money, pull their weight when it comes to the chores, a good sense of humor, and don't snitch. So I was unhappy when my cellie got wrote up for loitering on the range, and got seg time. When you go to seg you don't get to pack your own property - it's go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. As I am familiar with this process myself *sigh* I know the value of being tight with your living mate so that none of your stuff comes up missing. So I made sure that all of his things got packed up and what not then I hunkered down to play the "Hey-what-kind-of-hump-can-I-stick-in-your-cell-lottery"! Ah, good times. As of this date I am still doing the solo thing. Knock on wood - wait, there is no wood here. Shit.
For those of you out there that care I'm doing fine. I'm not up to as many shenanigans as I used to be and that is a flippy-flop thing for me. On the one hand, the non-incarcerated people in my life are happier, but on the flip side of that it makes for a very BORING existence. I just got a 12 month defer from the program review committee (PRC), "Hey, why don't you do this program?". "Aaahh, I got yer program right here, buddy." And I'm still teaching grown felons to read, which is from time to time a surreal pleasure.
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