#washington doc

[journalboundinstars]

Anyone in the DC area, there's a rally tonight for Ferguson in Mt Vernon Square (near gallery place metro). It starts at 7, I'll be there, you should be there.

[to-home-with-love]

A white Christmas, the not-so-news, on the chain...

The holidays came and went.  I didn’t write much about the holidays because there wasn’t much to them.  I received some nice Christmas cards from family and friends. My ongoing gift is that I continue to receive a great deal of mail.  It’s phenomenal. 

There weren’t exceptional meals around decorated tables. There weren’t fights or dust-ups either, so I guess that was good. It snowed on Christmas Eve and through Christmas day.  I’m nearly certain that it was my first white Christmas, though I’d always anticipated such an event to arrive with more magical astonishment. 

The week before Christmas—perhaps two weeks—I was transferred from the more temporary max-security receiving units to the lowest security unit that Washington Correctional Center in Shelton has to offer. With every move I make, the size of the population grows, the movement protocol becomes more complex, and the C.O.’s become more civil and just, for the most part. 

The main differences between where I am now and where I was a week ago are a television, introduction to “programs”, and doors to the cells  rather than bars.  Programs include Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, bible study, Anger Management, Institutional Sanitation courses and a few others.

I was tested in math, reading, cognitive skills and the other more mechanical functions of my brain.  Just as I was about to be administered these tests a fellow threw a fit in refusal.  He was up in arms because according to him, he’d already taken the tests and set the record for highest score ever on this particular examination during his last visit to prison.  And so in spite of the instructor’s patient explanation that the test is used only for placement in vocational programs during this sentence, that poor son of a bitch sat around playing word-worm while I scored perfect scores on each portion of the test.  Now I can boast on my résumé that I tied the all-time record for entry-exams at the Washington Correctional Center in Shelton.  It is on the record for all to see!  I am perfectly capable of completing the 8th grade! We all need something to hang our hats on, I suppose.

Time, when doing time, is peculiar. The days crawl at a salted snail’s pace. Minutes last hours.  But a month has already passed since I got here.  Boy does time ever fly…slowly.

My stay in King County was uneventful.  I was not as nervous or as frightened as I was entering my first stay years ago. When you have no delusions of a surprise release, it’s much easier to just sit around and wait.  When I checked into County for the first leg of this fabulous diversion a counselor accidentally told me that there was nothing holding me up and that I would be on the first bus to Shelton.  I sensed a mistake.  In my experience, these facilities, and state-run processes in general, never accomplish anything on the first anything.  I followed with a genuinely pleasant “oh, really?”

Her response, shrouded in ambiguity, confirmed my hunch.  There really was no timetable and one day could be four days or no days at all.  I could spend the entire holiday season there in County or I could be latched to a chain and let out that night. Either way, no reason to stand on high alert waiting for my name to be called.

On my fourth or fifth day in County I was brought before a counselor for classification. He asked me about gang affiliation, enemies, chemical dependency and health risks.  Based on my responses he asked me  if I wanted to move to the trustee tank.  After spending the previous four or five nights in the shit-tee tank, the idea of becoming a trustee sounded fine. Trustees are given jobs cleaning floors, polishing tile, working in the laundry room or kitchen, or working menial maintenance anywhere that  menial maintenance was required.

“I’d welcome that opportunity, sir, but it’s likely that I’ll be moved to Shelton soon,” I said in full disclosure.  I liken my response to a prospective employee’s disclosure to a new employer that they’d already booked a long family trip to the Caribbean.  “If you anticipate that I’ll be transferred to Shelton soon, it might be best if I stayed in the general tank.  If you anticipate that I’ll be transferred soon, that is.”

He didn’t anticipate that I’d be transferred anytime soon because anticipating anything was not required from him.  His job was to ask these questions to any person who sat in front of him, accurately record the responses given to these questions, then pass the information onto someone else using a system of internal mail that was much slower than it should be and in fact should’ve been replaced with the advent of electronic mail, except that email was reserved for jokes, chain letters, and self-help garble that requires excessive scrolling to find a punch line.

On the sixth or seventh night in County I was called for transfer to the trustee floor.  I was brought to an outdoor stone-floored “yard”, which was not a yard at all, but another outdoor room with chain link and razor wire instead of walls.  18 or so of us future trustees stood there for two hours, holding our bedrolls over our shoulders…in Seattle, Washington…in November.  It was freezing and by the time they brought us in my knuckles were white and felt arthritic from clutching my bedroll in the cold.  Once we made it to the trustee floors we were broken into smaller groups and sent to our assigned tanks.  The trustee floor had books.  Oh my! Books! After 7 or 8 or 5 days in the general tank upstairs with no books or card games—virtually nothing to stimulate brain activity—the sight of books was incredible.  There was even a newspaper.

I was under the impression that it was strict policy to keep inmates in King County Jail entirely out of touch with current affairs, so I was immediately suspicious of the newspaper. The newspaper was not a publication known to me, but I’d lived away from Seattle for nearly five years. I suppose it’s plausible that a new publication had launched in that time, especially given the challenges Hearst has faced in keeping the Seattle Times and Post Intelligencer in print. The date was December 1, 2012. In my estimation, the date that day was December 5.  Lucky me, a fairly current paper.  The headline on the front page read: “OBAMA WINS REELECTION”.

Many thoughts occurred to me when I read the headline, none of them included the notion of “NEWS”. The election had been determined on November 6, nearly a month ago.  Were they intentionally withholding current affairs? Was it an effort to keep us pleased with the political climate outside these walls? That presumably we’re all democrats and therefore happy to see Obama elected? Are inmates all democrats? Is it an effort to appease the black population?  For that theory to hold true, wouldn’t it follow that black people should occupy the majority of the population? There were only two black people in my cell of 18.  Am I in a white cell?  Do they segregate? Or maybe black people are such a powerful minority that the system must make extra efforts to appease them.  I love black people.  My best friend is… What else is on the hidden agenda of this not-so-newspaper.  Perhaps we’ve landed on the moon?

Confounding as it was, the newspaper was made specifically for inmates to read and was about a month behind in its news-cycle. But there were letters that formed words, words that formed sentences, sentences that formed paragraphs, all printed on a familiar paper stock.  So I read it.  Front to back, I read it.

I had been reading the Bible that belonged to the fellow on the bunk below me for the last 5 or 8 days, but I was doing it from four feet overhead. I could barely make out the letters and I built a silent grudge against him for turning pages too quickly, even though he had no idea that I was reading over his shoulder. And when I wasn’t reading the bible I was reading the ingredients of my County issued toothpaste.

After the newspaper I read my very first John Grisham novel.  There wasn’t a cover on it so I didn’t pay any attention to the title. I knew Grisham novels were about law and stuff, or high-crime and what-not. I’ve probably seen a movie or two based on his books. This John Grisham novel was about football and I figured out what the denouement would be long before I arrived at it--the Grisham equivalent of a quarterback telegraphing his fourth quarter pass in pre-game warm-ups. Since then I’ve read 10 or so Grisham novels, each better than this one.  The irony is not lost on me that I’m reading conspiracy stories in a facility full of conspiracy victims.  So, the books aren’t great but they satisfied a thirst.  Who am I to complain about tap water when I’m thirsty.

Two books later, both ultimately uninteresting, I covered up to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for an early work day. I’d probably be in the kitchen, washing dishes or something like that. Just about the time I fell into deep sleep, when my eyes started to really move, it happened. Heavy banging on my metal bunk, two angry C.O.’s were yelling my name like they’d been reasoning with me for two hours to get out of bed, like we were all going to be late to the dance and I was to blame, like it was my fault the miserable sons of bitches weren’t in bed during these wee hours of the morning.

“Spring!” one yells.

“You’re out of here!” yells the other.

“Bedroll!” Right on cue.

“Transfer time!” they’ve go this whole routine they’ve clearly rehearsed.

“You’re D.O.C. property now, Spring!”

Probably a bad time to point out that I was a man with pride and wasn’t ‘bout to be nobody’s property, so I decided to keep quiet.  Too sleepy besides. Too glad to be leaving. Too satisfied to have cautioned the counselor not to move me to the trustee tank, more satisfied not to have worked a minute of slave labor. I hated that place and my dignity would have taken a blow if I pushed a broom around for $0.10 per hour.

As I was leaving that night a young kid, probably in jail for doing something stupid while smoking meth, poked his head out of his bunk and asked his more experienced bunk-mate where They were taking me at 4am.

“They taking that man to the ‘Pen.  Godspeed my brother,” he said.

Those words woke me up.

By 5 am I was in an orange jumpsuit in shackles. The cuffs around my ankles sliced flesh with each step I took. I had a chain belt that my hands attached to, leaving me unable to reach my ankles to adjust the shackles slicing into my skin.  Some guys had their pants tucked into the shackles around their ankles. That looked nice, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how they reached down that far.  I could’ve asked, but I’ve already learned that observation offers clearer answers than anyone is willing to offer by way of explanation. Plus, there’s something to be said for just figuring things out. 

We took a short ride to another county jail where we unloaded and sat in a holding cell for five hours. 18 of us chained together in a holding cell meant for four.  Finally, at 9:30, we left for Shelton.

[to-home-with-love]

Strangers at odds with the malevolent “They”

I’m hustled into the penal system.  More specifically I’m hustled into a disgusting holding tank where a Vietnamese kid is throwing punches at the air, two young white guys are slamming into a meth come-down, and two black guys with unkempt cornrows are lording over the only phones.

The Vietnamese kid wants company in his misery.  Each time he suspects someone is looking at him, he grunts and swings alternately at the invisible version of his own self and the malevolent “They”, whose fault it is he’s here.  He’s angry for betraying his physical self by drifting back into the underbelly of the streets. He’s  angry at the injustice “They “ imposed upon him.  He should be home! With his family! It’s Christmas and besides, “They” set him up! When his demonstration gets the attention of one of the black guys at the phone, the larger of the two who is taking a breather between collect calls, the typical “what are you in for?” conversation begins.

“They ratted on me, dog,” the Vietnamese kid starts. “They’re always trying to get me back in here.”

According to him, “They” are hell-bent on making this poor kid’s life a real-live shitfest. If that’s true, “They” must be short on things to do.  This kid ain’t exactly Al Capone.

After this conversation goes on a bit and the Vietnamese kid gets to pantomime several outbursts of unprecedented fury, the parties come to the unanimous decision that “They” do in fact spend the large majority of their time tripping.

“They be trippin’,” says the large black fellow, prompting the attention of the smaller black fellow next to him at the phone.

“Hell yeah they be trippin’,” he says. They return to making collect phone calls.

“They do be trippin’,” Vietnam confirms.

“They” is an interesting entity here. A vilified enigma, a malevolent and omnipotent force off whose desk all the injustices of a prisoner’s world roll down.  In my month down I’ve learned that “They” have committed all sorts of atrocities against prison folk.  “They” are the subject of prison spite, anger, disgust, confusion and shock.  “They” are shapeless, something like an organization but nameless. “They” usually work in accordance with law enforcement,  “They” punish the wronged for crimes never committed, actions never taken.  They lie.  They slander.  They steal your children.

“They tried to say I had a gun when I robbed the corner store.”

“They tried to charge me with assault plus a domestic.”

“They took my kid into protective custody.”

“They gave me 6 years for some bullshit.”

“I shot the dude on the bus once, then I got off at 23rd.  They came to the house and said I shot the dude twice.  I aint shot him but once.  Now They trying to hit me with 20 years! How They gonna tell me how many times I shot the nigga?”

How dare They.

The two black guys are calling their bitches now, one after another, bitch after bitch, telegraphing to one another the goal of each call. “Watch me get this bitch to put money on my books,” the larger of the two says.

“That’s what’s up,” the smaller guy says, approving of this objective.

“I’m bout to get this bitch to call my other bitch on three-way.”

“Oh hell no you aint.”

“Watch me.”

We watch.  He does.

Because in holding tanks the pay phones are big steal boxes with no receivers to avoid offering depressed inmates or tweakers on an unbearably harsh come-down a chord from which they might choose to hang themselves, these phone calls are broadcast to the entire cell on a gravelly speaker. They do exactly what they say they would do.  Then they do it again with different bitches. Then they take breaks from calling their bitches to discuss which of their friends might also be in lock-up tonight. 

These guys adamantly decide that “yes, yes indeed Lil major P is definitely maybe up in here.” If he is here, “he is without question most likely possibly in 8 South.”

While they run through the names of potential familiar faces to be encountered once moved upstairs to the more permanent holding tanks, Vietnam comes to life, excited at the prospect of forging alliances with such popular and well-adapted folks. He jumps into the conversation to seek more details about the identity of one “Drell”.

“Hold up, you know Drell?” he asks launching to his feet, up and out his “They” induced funk.

“You mean Drell from the Heights?”         

“Hell yeah!” Vietnam exclaims, pounding his fist together.  “Drell is my nigga!”

“You’re talking about light-skinded Drell?”

“Yeah, light-skinded Drell!” Vietnam is lively and animated now, his pitch climbing an octave.  He is beside himself with the idea that he has established such meaningful common ground.    

“Drell.  Light-skinded Drell with the braids?”

“Yes, light-skinded-ass Drell with the braids.  I’m telling you, we smoke hella weed together!”

“You’re talking about light-skinded Drell with the braids and the Caprice.”

“Yeah, I think he might have a Caprice!”

“I know that Nigga Drell.  That nigga Drell is a bitch! He ratted me out once. “

Vietnam, now deflated, is sure that come to think of it, Drell definitely does not drive a Caprice. The conversation ends there.  They do not have common friends.  He returns to being by himself, sulking over missing Christmas, throwing punches at “They”, who are to blame for the unkind circumstances he now must endure alone.