PRISONER EXPRESS

The journal of Dave Gordon

April 27, 2005

Introduction

My name is Dave Gordon. I am a 42 year old prisoner in Texas. For 6 years, I've been locked into this surreal world of incarceration. Before I came to prison, I was a husband to a beautiful woman and a father of five amazing children. In 2002, they all left me claiming that they needed to move on with their lives.

You've probably noticed that I've titled this journal "The Journal of Jemi Dachry". The name "Jemi Dachry" is a psuedonym that I adopted after my kids left me. The two names "Jemi" and "Dachry" are composites of my kids' names. "Jemi" (my girls) uses the first two letters of their names and "Dachry" (my boys) does the same.

Jessica + Mindy = Jemi

Davey + Christopher + Ryan = Dachry

I only use this name when I write poems or stories. One such story-poem is called "The Doodle Bug".

Genesis 1:19

"... and out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them : and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof..."

  
There was a time when time was new  
When God created two by two  
Each animal that we now know  
From birds above to fish below  
But way back then when time began  
God let them all be named by man.  
So in the garden sat this man  
To do his job with pen in hand  
The animals of every kind  
All made haste to get in line  
The biggest naturally were first  
The smallest fearing for the worst  
That those in front be named the best  
And those in back named what was left.  
The first was huge, he stirred the dust  
The man named him Rhinoceros.  
The second cause the man to laugh  
And so he got the name Giraffe.  
He named the Tortoise and the Hare  
and then the hungry Grizzly Bear  
but as the line moved slowly on  
The names he gave just weren't as long  
The Cat, the Dog, the Hog and Hen,  
Each name grew shorter toward the end  
And when the day was almost done  
The man had named them all, but one.  
A tiny creature scurried in  
The man observed him with his pen  
"Well look at you my little friend,  
How did you wind up at the end?"  
The man wrote something in his book  
The tiny creature strained to look  
"What can it be? What can it be?  
What name did God's man give to me?"  
The man stood up and with a shrug  
"I call you friend, the Doodle Bug!"  
The creature gave his ear a tug,  
"Did he just call me Doodle Bug?!"  
The other creatures large and small  
They laughed at him, yes one and all.  
"What kind of name is this to give?  
For with it how am I to live?  
The others all will mock and scorn  
And my whole life shall be forlorn  
Oh Lord in Heaven, who I do love,  
Why did man name me Doodle Bug?"  
Then from the sky a voice came down  
The Doodle Bug, his heart did pound  
"Your name it is special and friend so are you  
For all of my children will all play with you  
You have no sharp teeth nor sharp pointed claws,  
When danger arrives you'll roll into a ball.  
So life up your head and be proud of your name,  
The whole world already has heard of your fame."  
The Doodle Bug thought about all God had said  
He started to smile and he lifted his head  
He turned to a ball and rolled back to his house  
Announcing his name to his friends and his spouse.  
So next time you see a small child in the yard  
Look for a Doodle Bug standing as guard.  
For back in the garden, God watched until late  
Knowing that he who is least shall be great!  
  
	The end  
	Jemi Dachry  

There are definitely times when I feel like that insignificant Doodle Bug. What keeps me going in here is merely the promise of a greater tomorrow.

It's quite impossible to simply begin a journal without a bit of supportive background facts. I hope to incorporate into each journal entry enough facts that will facilitate an easy understanding of each event. At first I thought that such a journal would be a waste of time. I believed that no one would care about my experiences and they would only observe my entries as a case study into what they would naturally assume to be my criminal mind. But after much thought, I realized that in my fear of them judging me, I was in fact judging them. Therefore, since both forms of judgement are unfair, I have determined to participate in this project and open the windows to both this prison and my soul. If anyone wishes to comment upon my writing or ask questions, I can be reached either directly or through the "Durland Alternatives Library".

My address:

Dave Gordon 877573  
		     P.O. Box 9200  
		     New Boston, TX 75570

Indirect contact address:

Durland Alternatives Library  
				 Attn: PE Journal Project  
				 127 Anabel Taylor Hall  
				 Ithaca, NY 14853-1001  
				 (607)255-6486

April 28, 2005

It's almost Friday. After staying up all night reading chapters 1, 2 and 3 of Plato's "Republic", I fell asleep and woke up in the late afternoon of a beautifully sunny day. It was hard to believe that somewhere, not too far away, the funereal for one of our guards was taking place.

I'm still not sure of the details surrounding his death, but officials are delcaring it to be a murder. Apparently, the guard was hated by both inmates and other guards. I personally never spoke to him. But other inmates, as well as guards, have expressed their joy in his ill fortune. Both groups have found great humor in the way he was killed. The man was off-duty, riding his bike on a roadside bike trail when a car, or possibly a truck, intentionally drove over him. My thoughts this day have all been on him and his family. If in fact he was so terrible, then I wonder just what act of tyranny he committed that warranted his death? Never-the-less, no one's death should be treated with such dis-respect as this mans. Yes, he was a bad guard. But he was also someone's Daddy.

I've concluded that all funerals should be held on rainy days. If a person happens to die during a drought, they should store the body until an appropriately gloomy day can be used.

Tonight, I've got to compose a brief for an inmate's appeal. In Texas, inmates face an uphill battle in appealing their cases. Most of the inmates can't read or write, but must complete their Habeas appeals without the aide of an attorney. Of course, if an inmate has money, he can retain an attorney.

I am what society would call a "jailhouse lawyer". I have no formal training yet have met with several successful cases. One such case was a 10 year old murder case out of San Antonio. The victim, an older woman, was found repeatedly stabbed and died on the way to the hospital. The police picked up a hispanic man and charged him with the murder. The police had found blood on his jeans and assumed it to be the victim's. Other blood evidence was collected from under the victim's fingernails. All of this blood evidence was tested in a country blood lab under the control of a toxicologist who shall remain nameless. The evidence pointed clearly to the defendant and he was sentenced to life in prison. I met this defendant yast year and he told me of how the toxicologist was indicted for fraud and manufacturing evidence. I immediately motioned in on his case and secure new forensic DNA testing. The results are still pending, but the court has indicated their interest in re-opening his case.

Another case that I'm working on is a capital murder case out of Mongomery County, Texas. This case is presently in the fifth circuit of appeals awaiting a ruling on a C.O.A. (Certificate of Appealability) brief. The defendant in this case was barely 18 when the crime took place. Two young girls were brutally murdered and their bodies were burned beyond recognition. Although I can't divulge the specific details of the case, I can tell you that the star witness against my client was seen leaving the scene of the crime covered in blood carrying items that belonged to the victims. The murders went unsolved for nearly two years. They were profiled on "Unsolved Mysteries" and also on "America's Most Wanted". Billboards went up across the state with pictures of the two beautiful girls: "Who killed them?"

It was when my client said to a friend, "I know who did it" that the case finally became solvable. He found himself being questioned by probably the most corrupt police department in the state. They threatened him until they got a confession. Since in Texas, a confession alone isn't enough, an eye wirness was needed. The state then granted immunity to the man who was seen covered in blood, in trade for his testimony. This wirness pointed to my client while admitting that he was there, stole the girls' pagers, cellphones and boots and then hid them in a house he was sheetrocking. Incredibly, the jury convicted my guy and sentenced him to life in prison.

When I got wind of his case, I had just been transferred to a unit in New Boston. When I learned that there was a juror who was actively on probation for a felony burglary, I instantly saw hope in his case. The write of Habeas Corpus was filed in the trial court, but since the conviction of my guy, a statue was errected of the two girls at the court's entrance. I experienced intense opposition by the judge himself and was given no time to reply to any of his rulings. Never-the-less, we pushed onward. The case continued to be denied by the trial court, the state supreme court and also by the federal district court. I now have the case before the fifth circuit in Louisiana and if we win, it will be a very memorable moment.

It's notable at this point in time to mention my belief in God. I was sent to prison in order to find Him. My life was a total mess and I was totally out of control. If you would've told me that I would one day be arguing cases before the fifth circuit, I would've laughed at you. But God needed me here, not just for me, but for all the others who have no one to turn to. He also needed me here so I could see things with a new point of view, a humbled point of view.

This entry will be mailed out on a Friday. My next entry will encompass the weekend. There remains much to write about and I will introduce you to others who have become an important part of my prison life.

April 29, 2005 11:00pm Friday

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be kidnapped? The thought alone of being drug off to a place you definitely don't want to go is scary in itself - but today, such a kidnapping occured with me. It was terrible. The kidnapper snuck up on me and with a few flattering words he had me in his snare. The kidnapping itslef wasn't forceful, after all, I was restrained only by tact and good manners. Yes, I was the victim of a verbal kidnapper. He talked on and on about people and subjects that were so disconnected from me that soon a small voice was heard screaming deep from within me: "Help!"

In prison, I call such people verbal masturbators. They have nobody to talk to and when they capture an unsuspecting victim - such as I - they pounce on them with encyclopaediac accounts of everything they can think of. But fortunately, I was saved by a guard who yelled "Chowtime!"

Chowtime is an emotional event in prison. If prisoners had tails, they'd all be wagging at chowtime. I've seen personalities totally change at the word "Chow!". Quiet sleep-a-holics become loud and obnoxious slobs when food is nearby. I'll write more later... It's CHOWTIME!! O:)

April 30, 2005 Saturday 7:04am

I've been up all night working on an appeal brief. The case is very important, it deals with the state of Texas' denial of access to the court records of indigent Habeas petitioners. In Texas, our justice system is suffering from an epidemic of ineffective defense attorneys. It's almost impossible to undo the messes that these lazy aofs creat. Take for example "Bob" (it's not his real name). Bob robbed a store by showing a gun to the cashier. Later that day Bob was arrested and was threatened by the prosecutor that if he didn't sign plea-papers, he would say there was an attempted rape charge and give him life. Bob is a large black man, his victim was an older white woman and he was understandably scared. When Bob went to court, just two days after the offense, he was given an attorney who said there was nothing he could do since he had already negotiated with the prosecutor. Bob waived all of his rights and received a 50 year sentence just 7 days after the offense. I met Bob two years ago. He's been trying to get help on his case for 14 years... The case I'm working on now will get him his records.

Saturdays are our visitation days. I remember when my wife and kids would all come and see me. That was nearly 3 years ago. The overall weight of the prison sentence of 45 years, coupled with the rollercoaster ride of my own Habeas appeal, crushed me inot what I would term "survival mode". My biggest concerns were all wrapped around my appeal and over time, I lost my wife's heart. She said she fell in love with a co-worker and that they had been intimate. She then said she wanted to marry him and wanted me to divorce her. I refused.

My wife was a woman who got everything she asked for. I loved her, I still love her, and if given the opportunity, I would still give her anything she asked. But in her anger of me not letting go, she took away the most precious gifts of my life. She took our 5 children.

It's been close to 3 years since I last saw them. My "kids" are definitely no longer "kids". I know quite well that the children I loved so dearly no longer exist because they've not only grown up, they changed their names and forgotten me. It used to be hard just thinking about them. It took me almost a year and a half to bring myself to look at their pictures. When I finally did, it tore my heart out.

When a man comes to prison, he can do many things. He can get a tattoo, learn to cuss, learn to hate, play games, workout on the "iron pile", watch T.V. or do what I would say is the most difficult task of all - he can do what's right.

Prison simply isn't designed for someone who wants to do the right thing. The average inmate is involved in gambling, smoking, drugs, tattooing or making wine (I'll talk about "wine" later on). It's when some inmate comes along that refuses to take part in these things that trouble begins. Prison is a backwards, inside-out and upside-down world. An "accusation" is really a "confession", and a pat on the back generally means "I wish you were dead". If you don't realize this quickly, then it reall ywon't matter.

There's only one thinig worse than a "playa" inmate. That would be a "playa" guard. These are the ones that smuggle in the marijuana, the cigarettes and even venison! If you know the right guard, you can get just about anything.

It's 8:45am. They just locked us down. An S.S.I. (Janitor) just came in and said an inmate got his head busted open on 8 Building. That's a long way from where I'm at. I live in a Trustee dorm. This building is about the size of a football field and there are 300 inmates who live in here. It's not that bad. I mean, we aren't packed in here like sardines. I live in a cubicle that's a bit smaller than a K-Mart parking spot. Oh, that reminds me of a joke. We heard that "K-Mart" bought "Sears", does that mean they'll be opening a new store call "Kweers"? O:S

Anyway, here's what my present home looks like:

  
---------------------------------------------------  
l  
l ---  
l night stand                O:) <--me  
l ---  
l -----------------------------------  
l l    bed			    l  
l l				    l  
l -----------------------------------  
---------------------------------------------------  

As you can see, my world is very small. It definitely has it's physical limitations, but my thoughts and feelings extend way beyond these walls. Just the fact that you're reading this is proof of that!

Wait a minute... Did they just call Chow?

Yee haw! It's Chowtime!

May 2, 2005

It's 1:20 p.m. You may be wondering about my strange sleep hours. Most prisoners have jobs. They work as dorm janitors, kitchen workers, hall porters, or maintenance workers. I've done every type of job but in 2000, I hyper extended my right knee while falling in a shower. The pain was excruciating. But since I wasn't bleeding, medical refused to see me. I spent almost two weeks in my bunk unable to walk. Friends brought food to me and I had to use a bowl as a bedpan. It would be two years before I finally got some medical attention. The doctor that finally examined me said it was a wonder that I was able to walk. He scheduled me for surgery and took away my job. After waiting another year for my surgery, I again went down to medical. The new doctor examined me again and again said I needed surgery. When he looked in my file, h e noticed that I had been scheduled for surgery 7 times and in each scheduling, the head doctor cancelled my appointment. Each time, he indicated that my surgery would cost too much, so I was left to suffer. Everyone says I should sue them. But if I did, it would invariably cut their budget even more and other inmates will suffer. I figure since I've lived 5 years with a bum leg, I can deal with it from now on.

So basically, I'm totally unassigned. I can lay here and do whatever I want to do -- except go home. During the Iraqi war, I set my clock to their time zone. I think I was the only prisoner in Texas that ever got jet lag in his cell.

Today was our store day. Each prisoner has an account where people can send them money. We don't get paid in prison. Nor do we get good time or worktime credits. Prisoners in Texas are merely slaves of the state.

Anyway, there are two people that send money to me. One of them is my 65 year old mother, and the other is a single mom. Both of these women struggle to survive, yet they always seem to be able to also provide for me. Without their support, I wouldn't be able to afford the paper I'm writing on. If you gain anything from what I write, please give all the credit to these tow women. I can assure you, that without them, this journal would not be possible.

Let's see, what else can I tell you about prison life. The overall environment is clearly tribal. The "chief" is naturally the biggest, strongest man and all of his followers remain obedient to him or they get squashed. Surprisingly though, even the chief is subservient to what I would call "The Witch Doctor." Our witch doctor is an old conniving miscreant who knows all of the old prison cross-out games. There is a constant struggle for power between these two and this makes life possible for others who refuse to partake in their tribal order. None of this refers to any one race. I've seen such tribes as whites, blacks, and Mexicans. This brings me to the subject of gangs. There are too many of them to list, but I've noticed that they all share in the same basic trait of weak individuals who depend upon each other for their strength. Tragically, each gang member usually ends up as a victim of their own gang's violence. Most prison "hits" are ordered by gang leaders against their own gang members. It is very rare to see two gangs in opposition to each other. The only explanation I can come up with is that as one gang sits as "chief," the others sit as "witch doctors."

May 3, 2005 2:53 a.m.

Today is our last day to get our Mother's Day cards out. Back in 2000, I was at the Ellis Unit. While I was getting my Mother's Day cards together, a man called "Kentucky" came and sat down beside me. He said he sure wished he could send his wife a Mother's Day card. I automatically thought that the reason he couldn't was because h e was broke. I offered him a card and he refused it saying, "I cain't send her no card!" Confused, I asked why not. He then said, "She's dead!" I felt horrible for opening what was surely a sad wound in his heart and my expression must've shown it. He replied, "Don't feel bad a out it -- cuz I killed her!" He seemed happy in this revelation and got up leaving me shocked and horrified that I live with such people.

I guess out of all the people I've done time with, the most memorable criminal of all wasn't an ogre or mean man. He didn't have any tattoos or for that matter, any whiskers either. Since I can't use his real name, we'll simply call him Mark.

When I first saw Mark, he looked scared and very young. He was white and obviously an easy prey for the blacks. As they swooped down on him, I ran them by claiming Mark to be one of my cousins. He then stuck to me like butter to bread. I never asked him why he was in prison. I don't really care to know why any man is in prison. Who in their right mind would go out looking for nightmares? (Oops! I forgot this is America).

Anyway, Mark definitely had some pretty heavy thoughts on his mind and soon, without prompting, they all came out.

Mark said that he and a friend were smoking pot and popping "ecstasy." He claimed his friend, another 17 year old kid, knew where they could get more dope. The only problem was money. Mark's friend claimed that he knew a person who owed him some cash, so they drove over to the person's house. Mark waited in the car as his friend entered the home to take care of his business. After 20 minutes of waiting, Mark decided to go in and see what was taking so long. This is a verbatim transcript of our conversation:

"When I opened the door, I saw him stabbing her -- she was covered in blood. I got scared and ran back to the car."

"You didn't call for help?"

"No."

"It didn't bother you that your friend was stabbing a woman to death? I mean, why on Earth didn't you try to stop him?"

"I hated her!"

"So you actually knew this woman?"

"Yes, I knew her."

"Who was she?"

As Mark answered my final question, tears filled my eyes and my heart felt heavy in my chest.

"She was my mom."

It kills me to even remember that moment. Mark was still just a boy. He looked like a high school freshman and his words almost totally disarmed me. I say "almost" because as a prisoner and as an ex-soldier, my first priority is to never show fear. When I glared into Mark's face, I noticed several suspicious things. First of all, he showed no emotion -- a feat quite impossible for a boy his age. And second, he stared at me in a wide-eyed "You-gonna-buy-this-crap" look. I sat for a moment and reviewed what he had said and soon, I had it all figured out. Mark was in his own house when they were getting high. His mother came home an caught them. It was then that Mark attacked her. When I confronted Mark with all of th is, he broke down wit heavy sobs. As he told me the truth, I could only see a little boy, lost and confused by all the events that consumed him. I was old enough to be his dad and I wanted to help him -- but this is prison.

Someone should have helped Mark a long time ago. I didn't turn my back on him, but I didn't coddle him either. I related to him the facts of his new life in prison. Mark was serving a capital life sentence. I suggested getting involved in the chapel services, but Mark chose the easy way out. No, he didn't kill himself. Mark went to the psyche doctor and got put on lithium. I watched helplessly as he slowly succumbed to the mind erasing drugs.

The question always pops into my mind, "who was the victim in Mark's case?" Was it his mom? Or was it Mark? Society will have to answer that question. But that will only happen when their world is filled with children like Mark.

It's 4:31 a.m.

We just got back from chow... you know -- YEE HAW!! Anyway, it was coffee cake, oatmeal, cheerios with milk and apricot halves. As I sat there eating, I looked around at all the loud boisterous inmates. They could care less about the food, or more accurately, they couldn't care less about how the food is provided for them. As I eat, I can only think about my 65 year old mother who has to work for every crumb of bread. It's she who pays for not only her food, but ours in here too. Sometimes, it's quite inedible, but out of respect for her and all the others like her, I eat every bite. When someone complains about the food, I always tell them, "Until they make us pay for our food, we have absolutely no right to complain about it." Prisoners sometimes forget that they are, in fact, prisoners. I thank God that they bother feeding us at all.

I went to the library today. We can check out one book a week and I selected a book by Charles Dickens, "Oliver Twist." I love the classics. I believe you can define a man by what books he reads. Here is a partial list of the books I've read since I've come to prison.

The Bible -- Read it six times and love it all.

The Pilgrim's Progress -- Bunyan

Brave New World -- Huxley

Alas Babylon -- Frank

Animal Farm -- Orwell

Catcher in the Rye -- Salinger

Anna Karenina -- Tolstoy

Red Storm Rising -- Clancy

Huckleberry Finn -- Twain

Call of the Wild -- London

White Fang -- London

Robinson Crusoe -- Defoe

Moll Flanders -- Defoe

Pursuit of God -- Tozier

Moby Dick - Melville

Education of Little Tree - ??

Scarlet Letter -- Hawthorne

Red Badge of Courage -- Crane

Uncle Tom's Cabin -- Stowe

To Kill a Mockingbird -- Lee

King Lear -- Shakespeare

Macbeth -- Shakespeare

Romeo and Juliet -- Shakespeare

Jane Eyre -- Bronte

Something Wicked This Way Comes -- Bradbury

The Odyssey -- Homer

The Inferno -- Dante

Old Man and the Sea -- Hemingway

Hound of the Baskervilles -- Doyle

The Bell Jar -- Plath

Frankenstein -- Shelley

There are dozens more but those are just the ones you might easily recognize. I must warn you that a prisoner will read a book only in two ways. Either he will read it to further his criminal ways or else he will read it to understand not only himself, but mainly those around him. I'll not tell you to which group I belong. It's more interesting if I remain rather mysterious.

I will give you a hint. As I was reading a book called "The Intelligence of Dogs," I suddenly realized the correlation between puppy obedience training and cellie behavior modification.

May 4, 2005 4:06 a.m.

I was wondering what you would want to talk about and decided that a top concern would be "The criminal mind" (eerie music should be played here).

I don't think it would be wise for me to claim myself an expert on the subject, so please try not to forget that the words you're reading are written by a person who isn't much different than yourself. For I, too, am an observer of others, a student of "car crashes" and mangled lives.

Hopefully I didn't offend anyone by all of that, if I did, then to those I'd proclaim them as being halfway there in possessing a criminal mind. The key element in such a mind is always hate, envy, or greed. These three groups are significant because they divide our society into its equal parts. The "Haters" are the criminals. It's this group that society has to put away for their own safety. The "greedy" are the rich, the ones that oppress the poor, and the "envious," well, that's probably you. I'm not saying that you're envious of me, but it's obvious that you're coveting a greater understanding in effort to obtain a goal. To determine if your actions are criminal, then we must closely analyze each goal.

There is an evil and a good in everything. The problem is that what's good for me, might adversely affect you and therefore be considered quite evil. Now if I attempt to justify my own actions, while knowing full well of its effects upon you -- then even in my goodness, I am undoubtedly a criminal. Therefore, it becomes necessary for us to recognize within ourselves these three evil roots called hatred, envy, and greed.

I believe it's quite impossible to live a single day without experiencing one or all of these evil roots. It's when one of these roots grows that a criminal is born within us. The problem, as so readily visible in prison is obvious. Therefore, the solution is equally obvious. Hatred must be replaced by love, envy with generosity, and greed with kindness. But to most, this isn't very easy to do. After all, how do you love someone that for whatever reason, you hate? The first step is to humble yourself. Hatred itself is the tap root of pride. By removing pride, you expose the root. The second step is understanding the person you hate. This takes willingness and quite a bit of effort. So most haters -- who are usually by nature lazy people, fail to even try this second step. What great gift they're missing out on is that since "We hate what we don't understand," we gain so much ourselves in learning to understand what we hate. For example, there was a period when I was working on a project when another obnoxious inmate took it upon himself to mock me in every way. I seriously hated this man and did my best to prove him wrong. The end results were astonishing. T he project was a huge success and all the while I knew that all the credit belonged to the man who pushed me beyond my limits -- the man I hated.

What I learned in that situation was the man I hated was a perfectionist. His outwardly antagonizing ways were misinterpreted by me, for when I was successful, this one man praised my efforts more than anyone else. I now stoop myself when I detect hatred and look for its true cause. Envy and Greed are treated the same way in that they too are supportive roots of pride. So what then is pride? It's nothing more than the criminal mind itself. Take a moment and look around you. Do you see someone with a proud look? Perhaps dressed in a way to draw attention to themselves? Now please look more carefully, aren't these people just mirror reflections of ourselves?

The most humbling part of prison is when I look around and see hundreds of obnoxious inmates unashamedly acting out what I know are my very own worst habits. Their foul language convicts me of every unseemly word I utter. Their unbridled sexual exhibitions convict me of every lustful thought. These others, whoa re so easy for me to hate, cannot be hated by me. For they are all my brothers. Too many people hate them already because of their inability to understand. I try not to observe the outward actions and concentrate on doing my best to help the obvious wounded soul within. I wish I could do more... But I'm still just a prisoner. Perhaps this journal will amount to something of value to someone. I had to reform myself all alone because this prison offers no help to inmates with long sentences. I have 45 years. The first part is always humility. I wrote this following poem to reflect my desire to change.

MY FAMILY TREE

There was a branch that sprung a sprig

the sprig it sprung, it wasn't big

But upon that spring, a leaf did sprout,

it gave the sprig a cause to shout.

Hey Look at me! Look what I've done,

I grew a leaf where there once was none!

So then a crowd came round to see

the shouting spring up in the tree.

They stood in awe and disbelief

that such a spring could sprout a leaf

But when in time a wind did blow,

the tree did creak and the branch did bow

The spring held tightly to its leaf;

a sudden crack filled the sprig with grief

The branch from which the sprig had sprung

had broken down and lowly hung

"Oh no, not me! This cannot be!"

the sprig it shouted "Why God, me?"

And then a voice came soft and still

"My little sprig, it is my will."

The sprig it thought in worried haste

"But look, my leaf! It's such a waste."

A wind did blow in the sound of a rush

the voice of God came down in a hush

"My little sprig, I see your leaf,

and in my heart, I feel your grief.

You cried to me of the leaf in your hand

but never a word 'bout the branch which you stand.

From it you did sprout and from it came your health,

but you claim your leaf as a work of yourself?

So now that the branch is broken and low,

Spring forth a leaf! By yourself make it grow."

The sprig saw his shame and the leaf it did fall

"I'm sorry, my father, you're wise above all

I now see the truth, it's as clear as can be,

The tree you created can stand without me

For as I was boasting of my little leaf.

I never considered the tree underneath

But now that I see the end of my fate,

Help me, my Father, before it's too late."

The day turned to night and the night into morning

An axeman arrived without any warning.

He looked at the branch bowing low to the ground,

"Perhaps we can save it? It looks fairly sound."

With ropes he did tie it, in time it did mend,

the spring was amazed that this wasn't the end.

In time, the sprig grew, til one day it did shout,

"Look upon me, a new sprig it did sprout!"

And when a crowd gathered, they started to dance

For God turned the sprig into a strong branch! (For kids- 1st ending)

This poem's a story of a sprig in a tree

This poem's a lesson of your brother, me

I once stood so tall and in pride I did shout,

"Hey look at me! See what I'm all about!"

But then came that day, when I heard that sharp crack,

My life spiraled downwards, with no clear way back.

I fell to my knees crying "Why God? Why me?!"

It took me some time to realize my tree.

For I was that sprig with a leaf in my hand,

A wretched excuse in the form of a man.

But now my leaf's gone and I gaze up at you,

I pray to the Father, in earnest I do

For one day, I'm certain, the axeman will come

His axe will be sharpened, my heart will be numb.

But what if this axeman brings me a strong rope?

Is there really a chance or a reason to hope?

Could he lift up my branch and restore my health,

In spite of the damage that I caused myself?

Until that day comes, my eyes will look low,

Never forgetting the branch down below

But hope will abound, and while here I'll grow strong

And soon be returned to where I belong

For the sprig you once knew, when all this began

Has grown to a branch in the form of a man.

I give you my strength, and all that you see

I pray God restores me to our family tree...

By: Jemi Dachry

June 26, 2003

This poem was written the day before my sister's birthday, 2 years ago. She lost her copy, but I kept the rough draft and read it when I'm feeling lost and alone. I firmly believe in God and I hope that my life will be a testament to that fact.

May 5, 2005 4:05 am Thursday

A wealthy friend once wrote me a letter about his new home. It was situated in a gated community with its own security force. He wrote of the on=site laundry service and the private recreation facilities. As I read his letter, I began to feel sad for my friend. For I too live in a gated community with its own security force. We, too, have a laundry service and several private recreation facilities. The only difference between our two prisons is that I'm free and he's chained to a mortgage.

I feel sorry for my friend because he suffers from the greatest woe of all. My friend is institutionalized and refuses to accept the fact that he's in prison.

There are many forms of prison. We have the obvious prisons of Alcatraz, Sing Sing, and Ellis. But others exist that have no need of high walls and barbed wire. These prisons are made by our own hands, yet once they're built, we call them anything... except prison. I once "bought" a home for my family. Actually, I didn't "buy" anything. I simply signed my name on a piece of paper and thus agreed to the terms given by the bank which stated in words to this effect: I can live in their house and can tell everyone that it's mine only if I be their slave for the next twenty years.

I really only was their slave for just a portion of each day, so I quickly sold off the rest of myself to "Ford Motor Credit" and "GMAC Financing." Life as their slave was at first a very exciting thing. People seemed to admire the things I traded my life for so I was quite content. The trouble began when the "new" wore off. The house (that really belonged to the bank) began to have problems that "I" had to pay to have fixed. The new cars needed expensive repairs that the "warrantees" never seemed to cover. I needed up having to work more just to cover these expenses, but never once saw myself as a slave to them. All I knew was that I was miserable and had to find a way to feel better. I then sold off what little bit that remained of myself to an addiction. It makes no difference as to what that addiction was. All addictions are deadly -- even the subtle ones like a sports addiction. Anything that removes from anything that gives relief without addressing the real problem will ultimately kill you. I see my wealthy friend traveling down the same path that I was on. I once told him about all of this and it cost us our friendship.

I learned that by being a prisoner myself, the one thing a prisoner hates the most is to be constantly reminded that he's a prisoner. It's only when you can accept the fact that you are definitely a prisoner that you can then see what our country's founding fathers meant by their revolution.

Freedom isn't what most people think it is, and I seriously doubt that there are very many true Americans left out there.

Freedom is the liberty to live your life to the benefit of both yourself and to others. A true American is someone who lives morally, works hard to own what he needs and always has enough to share with others who need help. The big problem today is that nearly everyone only "others" are cast away, deported or left to die in the streets. The simple thought of living your life for the benefit of another -- without benefiting yourself in a way that is disproportionate to what was given -- is repugnant to most people. I know this because I used to think and do as they do. It took prison -- with me in it -- to finally make me sit down and search for the answers to all the questions I avoided before. I still don't have all of the answers, but I'm no longer afraid of the question.

May 6, 2005, 4:45 AM, Friday morning

The things people commonly associate with prison life include things like the old ball and chain, striped suits, ogres as guards and of course we can never forget the dangers involved with dropping a bar of soap.

I guess Hollywood is responsible for thoughts such as those. If today's inmates were wearing balls with chains attached, there wouldn't be very many inmates left because most of them would use the ball to crush skulls and the chain would be used to strangle someone. There are no striped suits, and our guards are mostly a bunch of grannies who found it necessary to go back to work since their social security checks weren't enough to live on.

We love our granny guards and call them such names as "Gangsta-Granny," "Super-doo" and "Carol Burnett." These little old ladies treat us just like our real grannies did. It therefore behooves us to stay on Granny's good side. One of them retired about a year ago and it felt like we lost a family member. She showed back up about 2 months later claiming she had to come back -- because she missed us.

Perhaps that dispels the notion that we are all monsters. There actually are good guards and good inmates. But please never forget that we have our share of sharks in our midst.

The other issue of "never dropping the soap" is ridiculous. I remember the first time I dropped the soap. The shower seemed very small and all eyes were on me. We were all new to prison and had our heads filled with the feces of Hollywood. When I bent over to pick up the soap and stood up with my virginity intact -- the ominous fear that we all held was suddenly gone. Prison is in itself a time warp. While outside the gates it's May of 2005, in here it's around 1965. Guys still talk about Elvis Presley and their 60s model cars. Their language is even retro to the 60s. But of all the false assumptions that Hollywood feeds us, the one that is both wrong and right is the issue of jailhouse religion.

People who scoff at those of us who come out of prison carrying a Bible have much to support their critical perspective. The reason for this is that prisoners as a whole may not respect each other, but they do respect the Bible. An inmate who is having trouble adjusting to prison life can find quick acceptance if he carries a Bible. The problem with such men is that they aren't searching for God, they're searching for acceptance into a world they don't understand. That world, of course, is prison. It's when these men, after spending years in attendance of chapel services, get out of prison and try to re-incorporate into the world they once knew, that the hypocrisy of who they really are shines through.

It is wrong to claim that all prisoners are like that. I've seen men whose lives are totally yielded to God. Their interests are in helping others first and none of them cry out for credit. These men are the silent hope of our country. They recognize what end a rebellious life will bring and that it's our responsibility to live each day to the fullest without passing the debts of their lives on to their children. I strive to be like them knowing full well that society would gladly pay to see them killed. I wonder if you (my reader), have anything that benefits another. Are you willing to give it freely? And most importantly, are you willing to die for the liberty that enables you to give so freely? Today's American sees only in one direction. I hope that when these true Christians are released, that they will be able to open their eyes in the opposite direction. Their opposition is ready for them. By spreading false beliefs about men in prison, they know they can easily discredit a man by his past conviction. A guard once bragged to an inmate, "I done the same thang you done. But I didn't get caught." The guard laughed heartily at this and claimed he was smarter than the inmate. In my eyes, I see no differences between that guard and the inmate. Both of them ended up in prison. The door to my dorm definitely is effective for locking us in. But few people see that locked door as a blessing that keeps undesirables out. And who are the undesirables? They are the ones who refused to accept us as babes. They are the ones who lived in luxury while we buried our family members who died at their hands. And "they" are the ones who refuse to accept that they are no different from us. They live behind our locked door in a prison of their own making. They claim themselves to be free but are seen by us to be the worst kind of slaves. For they gladly pay for their own bondage, and in so paying, make our world in here possible.

It's 6:10 am. The sun is about to greet us.

When I was "free," I rarely got to see a sunrise. My life was always so busy that I barely had enough time to see my kids off to school. Now that I'm "not free," I have time to see what all I've been missing. The terrible tragedy of my life is that everything that I'm now enjoying in prison was available to me when I was out there with my loved ones. If only I knew back then how to enjoy the simple things in life, I would have never had to trade my children for them.

Living life in an outta-control manner isn't considered to be a common thing out there. This of course is an illusion because no one's life is truly under control. We all have our chosen directions. But we truly have no idea what our final destination will entail.

After living through 42 years of final destinations, I can say that all of them left me hungry for something more. That something remaining a mystery to me until I was alone in a prison cell. My wife and kids had left me, and I didn't have a friend in the world. It was agonizing as I faced the reality of my life and in my surrender, I fell to my knees and prayed. I asked God to help me by showing me who I was. He did, and I wrote a story about it.

"The Beast"

...And yet another day passes as a shadow in the moist humid depths of prison... my only companions within this hollow darkness is the distant sound of water dripping, dripping, dripping, in a steady rhythm that lulls one's mind into a numbness of passing time... From deep within these bowels of concerts ribbed with iron and steel, the turning of a key is answered by the resonant thump of a sliding steel bolt... The hinges of a seldom opened door scream loudly in defiant rage echoing in protest at the release of its prey... The savage dark cry of this living beast called prison... Its pulse somehow louder now, the dripping, dripping, dripping of large blood-like drops oozing slowly from the veins of the beast... But the beast ever defiant, forever unyielding, forever surviving as those who find themselves trapped within slowly die... To scream aloud would serve no purpose, to run away would only serve to plunge one deeper into this labyrinth of despair... And so I sit patiently listening to the only sound that soothes me... The only sound that gives me hope of life... The dripping, dripping, dripping, of timeless drops that bring into a strange remembrance the once long forgotten sounds of my mother's heartbeat as I rested securely in her womb... As I sit in the darkness of this netherworld, I find peace by such tender memories... My despair is vanquished by the realization that the screaming of distant steel hinges are nothing more than the labor pains of the beast giving freedom's birth to one such as I... The chilling screams are louder now and the ever present dripping, dripping, dripping that drove to insanity so many of my brothers, now holds me tightly in its hypnotic clutch... Deep within my chest the gift of my mother struggles against the dripping to beat in unison, to beat in obedience, to beat at all... My hope in this wet darkness is that soon I will be released in a shrill screaming of steel... But, to be released would remove me from the only thing I've trust most, for I wonder out beyond this beast if there will be another source or dripping, dripping, dripping that will give me shelter and security from all the evil that is sure to reside there... Once again, my heart thumps loudly within my chest as if imploring me to hear only it... But wait... as I listen to the rhythmic sounds within me, I've noticed that the sounds of the dripping, dripping, dripping now are greatly diminished... The thumping of my own heart has stolen their place and for the first time in my existence I'm no longer dependant upon the beast... A sudden frightening scream of steel thunders through my body as the warmth of a never before seen light welcomes me in its covering... As I take my first steps into this wonderful unknown place, I see amazing things and new sounds cause strange feelings to stir within me... Such feelings cause confusion and a wave of unexpected sadness stops me into silent listening... searching for that constant companion who, out of habit or instinct, I learned to rely upon so strongly... The soothing gentle rhythm of dripping, dripping, dripping... But it was no longer there... A panic overtook me as the realization of its absence wrought fear through my soul... In terror, I began to run from place to place stopping only to listen carefully for those steady reassuring sounds. But nowhere in this world of light could I find the peace that cradled me within the beast... Continuing to run, I eventually fell to the ground in utter exhaustion... I could run no more, so in surrender to this strange world, I closed my tear-filled eyes... But there in the darkness, when all seemed lost, I heard the rhythm of the distant beast... To my surprise, it's comforting sound came not upon the wind, but from within me... The dripping, dripping, dripping was now replaced fully by the rhythmic beating of my own heart... I grew to understand that out here in this wonderful world of light that I am the beast, and deep within me are huddled embryos of life that depend upon the very dripping dripping dripping of my own blood to sustain them...

I grew to understand the nature and purpose of the beast that once contained me... For within the bowels of the beast of prison I thought only of myself and never once about the life of the beast... But now I see that it's the life of the beast, the prison, the protector, my mother, that sustains the hope of survival in all of us... I see the importance of obedience, accountability and justice... For as I once huddled selfishly in the wet darkness, the beast nursed me to health by the dripping dripping dripping of its own precious blood... Such a high price to pay for men as unworthy as I... My debt to the beast is great and my only means of payment is through the offering of myself, given steadily in great drops of blood dripping dripping dripping for the hope of others... For it is from these others that I embrace my title as... beast...

The End

Jemi Dachry

aka... "The Beast

Sept. 1-5, 2004

May 7, 2005

It's 5:18 Saturday morning. We had pancakes for breakfast with apple sauce and oatmeal.

Each year, at this time, we are greeted by millions of little visitors. I used to call them "June Bugs," but since they seem to show up in April I guess we should rename them to "Ape Bugs." They seem to love the sidewalks because at night, they carpet our path to the chow hall. Squish, squish, squash!

Our chow hall is nearly 1,000 paces from our dorm. Last week we went to chow during a thunderstorm. On the way back, we got pummeled by hail. It was actually the most fun we've had in months!

I did my laundry last night. We have to wash all of our personally owned clothes in a sink that's about 8" deep and as big around as this sheet of notebook paper.

The prison does wash our laundry but they do such a terrible job, most of our clothes come back dirtier than when they left. The reason for this is twofold. First, the inmates who work in the laundry know that if they overload the washing machines, they have to do less work. These same inmates steal the laundry detergent and sell it back to their "friends" for a buck-a-bag. The second reason is the officers. Most of them hate the inmates and they don't care if our clothes are clean or not. The same situation is present in the kitchen. The inmates steal the meat and make sandwiches that sell for 50 cents apiece. What this means is that the rest of us get less to eat and the guards don't seem to mind at all.

"Prison money" is not like free world money. Each prison is different in their form of currency and it ranges generally in two categories: "Stamp-farms" are prisons where the only "good" money is stamps. Soup-farms are prisons where the only "good" money is soup. (These are ramen noodle soups). Other farms trade in coffee (by the shot) and by stamped envelopes. On these farms, a shot of coffee or a stamped envelope is worth 50 cents. On the soup and stamp farms a soup or a stamp is worth only 25 cents.

The economics of prison isn't hard to figure out. In fact, it's profitable to play these two currencies against each other. For example, 10.00 will buy you 27 stamps at the commissary. That same 10.00 will buy you 40 stamps on the prison market. The authorities do their best to make rules to prevent this, but these rules will only be enforced by guards who are willing to do their job. The overall majority of guards in Texas are crooked. They have to be crooked or the other guards will blackball them. They only have two responsibilities as guards. Maintain custody and maintain control. The guards have learned that by loosening up on the control side, they don't have to worry so much about the maintaining custody side. Besides, the guards couldn't care less for us and their motto on their caps proves it: "We protect our own." The only time they enforce the rules is when an inmate exposes them for not doing their job. But even then, the officer is incapable of enforcing the rules because he's grown so lax in his duties that he's incapable of remembering what the rules are.

The conduct of these officers is outrageous. I've seen female officers prostitute themselves out to the highest bidder. I've seen an officer pull out his penis in the chow hall and order a gay inmate to play with it. But the most outrageous event just occurred last month. Our general population captain was moved into ad-seg to be their captain. when he refused to go along with the illegal beatings and starvations, he gave up his rank and now is just a lowly guard. The responsibility for such outrageous behavior rests with those at the top. I just don't see any way to change things without scrapping the whole system, firing everyone and starting from scratch. The system itself is poisoned by the corruption. A new officer is doomed to become an evil monster and when asked why they're so hateful, they tell us plainly, "We are told to treat you this way." Is it then any wonder that most inmates have such difficulty in adjusting to the free world? We live in a system of near total corruption. For most, the only way to survive is to join in the corruption. These inmates need real men as guards. They're definitely not going to like it because it will force them to do the one thing they've been rebelling against their whole life. They'll be forced to be men of responsibility, accountability and dignity. In other words, they'll be forced to grow up.

May 8, 2005

Happy Mother's Day!

It's Sunday around 1:53 pm. Do you know where your mother is? If so, then call her! Tell her you love her. Remind her of the wonderful times you had with her -- and then, just for kicks, remind her of the not so great times you had too. Just whatever you do, spend time with your mom because you never know when someone will take her, or you, away and "being together" will be impossible.

I love my mom. I may not understand her ways, but I love her. She always had a hard life and my going to prison made her life even harder. It was my job to take care of her. My dad ran off years ago leaving Mom all alone to fend for herself. I was a horrible son. Instead of setting aside money for my mom, I bought "toys" for myself. You realize how awful you really are when someone you love is suffering and you know you could've helped. I stood by giving in pennies when I could have done so much more. It's possible that I may never see my Mom again. It's already been a year since I last saw her. I hoped that she would show up today -- but again, no visit. I can't say that I blame her. I was an awful son, her only son. wherever she might be, Happy Mother's Day... I love you.

May 9, 2005

It's 5:02 am, Monday.

There are a number of prisoners who require daily medications. Their illnesses range from athlete's foot to AIDS. The medications are given at chowtime through a pill window. The women that work at the pill window are just as diverse as the inmates and the guards. In other words, you've got some good ones and LOTS of bad ones. The good ones actually try to make sure you get your proper meds. The bad ones steal your pills and give them to inmates of their preferred race. No one complains about this because one woman yelled at an inmate, "You better shut up! cuz you ain't got no idea of what kinda pill I could give you!" Her words were obviously a threat against his life. As inmates, our only recourse against such an assault is the institutional grievance procedure. Most grievances go unanswered. I filed one on a guard who punched me -- it went unanswered. I filed on another one who called my mother a liar in visitation -- I lost my clerk's job, got put on a hoe squad, and yes, that grievance also disappeared.

IN TDCJ (The Texas Department of Criminal Justice), the name of their game is retaliation. The guards know that they have authority over us, yet there is nothing to stop them from abusing that authority. If an inmate complains, the wheels of retaliation grind him into submission.

I must admit, most of the inmates who get in trouble and end up getting ground up by the guards, do so thinking that nothing will ever happen to them. When they eventually find themselves beaten up by the officers who swore to protect them, only then do they realize the futility of their situation. No inmate deserves to be beaten or killed for any reason, and no guard deserves to be run over by a truck while riding his bicycle.

It's only when the rebellion of the inmate runs into the tyranny of the guard that such violence occurs. The prison system in Texas rewards guards who are openly tyrants. It's these tyrants that corrupt the entire system. It is wrong for society to expect inmates not to rebel. Rebellion is the prime element of the criminal's character. It was rebellion that caused this country to be born and rebellion that formed our Constitution and Bill of Rights. The actual freedom that you now enjoy was bought with the blood of men who refused to live under a tyrannical rule. I say all of this because our country is becoming an awful lot like this prison system. It begins with an erosion of your basic rights, it then tells you that your country is not to serve you -- but you are to serve your country. The country (or government) evolves into a police state and soon, you too will find yourself in a situation such as mine. I'm not saying that you'll go to prison. By all present accounts, you're already there. I'm saying that there will soon come a day when the government will force you to spend your money on things they want you to have. Such items are car insurance, business insurance, and health insurance. They will collect 1/3 (or more) of your paycheck in taxes, force you to pay $2.50 a gallon for gas, and make it impossible for you to complain about it. You will probably notice that you are already forced to do everything I just mentioned. Are you happy paying out all your income for such things? If you are, then you are NOT an American. I don't care what your birth certificate says. Our founding fathers were not born in this country and they knew that a "True American" is a person who is "yearning to breathe free." On the (now closed) Statue of Liberty, there is a plaque that says "Give us your huddled masses." Our government has grown to the point that its supportive citizenry cannot afford to care for the one thing our country was formed for, it no longer can afford to care for its people. I see all of this from my prison cell. The authorities claim there's just not enough money to properly feed us. But it didn't stop them from throwing a 2-day party for the guards and their families -- who incidentally ate the food that was purchased for the prisoners. I hear the party was a great success. I wouldn't know because I wasn't allowed to attend it. They only used me as a commodity to steal money from the taxpayers to pay for it. Kennedy had it all wrong when he said, "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." It's thoughts as this that have created the mess we are now in. I only wish that people would stop supporting a government of tyrants and ask themselves plainly, "What can I do for my neighbors."

In prison, my neighbors are very diverse. I have a militant black man whose age itself increases his anger exponentially. Another neighbor is a 23 year old kid who has decided that if you can't beat em, join em. My other neighbor has incorporated both of these thoughts and in frustration has devoted his life to arts and crafts. It's sad because all of these men are intelligent, but they've all give up. Instead of thinking like true Americans, they've adopted the mentality of "I'm gonna get mine before someone else does." This way of thinking has caused all of them to hate each other. They only ally themselves when they need something from each other.

I made the mistake of telling one of them about this journal and he said I was a fool. He claimed that I couldn't get anything out of all of this and no one would ever read it. He topped it all of by saying it was "boring." What he was really saying was "Hey, I can't get anything out of this," and that "He's saying I'm part of the problem!"

The fact is that we all will benefit out of this and that ALL of us (especially me), are not only a part of the problem -- we are the problem.

I had to come to prison to learn all of this. I learned that we truly do have a great country. But for it to remain great, if will require great people to sustain it. These great people will be much different than the ones who are presently in power. These great Americans will think of the people first and then the government.

May 10, 2005

I once read a book by J. D. Salinger called "Catcher in the Rye." It was about a man who commented on others while not considering the grievous situation of his own life. The main character saw himself as a sort of Savior who in the end, needed saving himself.

As I write this journal, I see myself slipping into Salinger's "Catcher." The only difference is that as I was out there running through the tall rye grass in total freedom, there was no one to catch me when I lunged off the cliff, I barely survived the fall and now am screaming at the top of my lungs to warn all of you that there is indeed a cliff. Don't take your freedom lightly. Recognize the warning signs of danger that include addictions, unhappiness, slavery, and especially listen to that inner conscience that God put into you. Use it to judge things and always esteem others above yourself. Elevate yourself only when getting out of bed each morning and seek out people who need help. Learn from their trials and experiences and you will inadvertently become a part of the solution. You will soon see that you are Salinger's "Catcher," and each life you catch, will in turn become as you are. A true "Catcher in the Rye."

May 11, 2005

It's not been a good day. In prison there are many reasons not to have a good day. But today, my reason is that they moved a moron in next door to me. I guess it's a great journal moment to talk about "neighbors." It doesn't matter where you live, eventually you will experience the joy of having a total moron as a neighbor. In most cases, the decent folks move out and more morons move in. Now switch all of that around. Imagine that you are a law abiding citizen and on a whim, moved into a neighborhood of morons. Would you be happy there? In prison, I can't choose my neighbors. Therefore, I must endeavor to understand their... "moronics." (I should suggest to your Dean that he offer a freshman course in "Moronics 101"). Understanding a moron is like unraveling spaghetti with an electric mixer. They obviously have no common sense because who in their right mind would crank up his radio in a room filled with 74 sleeping men? Then, when he hears a song he likes, he beats on the walls and yells for his homeboys to listen in with him. I think the root of the problem is selfishness. He obviously cares for no one but himself. I bet he thinks it's normal for people to act as he acts. I'll bet he sees nothing wrong in expecting other people to yield to what he thinks is normal! Oops! I think I just inadvertently described myself L. It's probably a good time to go say hello to my new neighbor... We obviously have a lot in common.

May 12, 2005

I spent the day being humble... It was a very humbling experience. Maybe I'll do it more often.

I just received a letter from Cornell that said our journals will be typed by students. I began this journal with the knowledge that each page I wrote would be scanned and seen as I wrote it. Since this isn't going to happen, there's no way to insure that what you are reading, is what I have written. Therefore, I see no point in continuing this journal.

But wait, maybe it's my pride that's wounded. Isn't today STILL my day for being humble?! Okay I will continue to write this journal and will surrender all of my deepest thoughts to the murderous fingers of an apathetic typist! ARG!! THE AGONY!

May 13, 2005

Today my artistic cellie learned that making a paper-mâché animal isn't such a good idea. He started out making spiders and snakes, but his latest project went a bit too far. Let's just say the guard was a bit surprised when he noticed a 6' green alligator sitting in my cellie's cubicle.

For the most part, the idea of the alligator was fun. But after awhile it got rather old. very inmate seemed to want to stop and declare quite loudly, "Ooh! Lookie dere at dat ally-gator!" They seemed to do this mostly while I was trying to sleep. Needless to say, when the guard took the gator, I was glad to see it go. My gladness truck a foul chord amongst the natives and soon, I was the target of a very strange event.

I have mentioned that prison is a "tribal" society. Within the "tribe," each member owns nothing individually. They own each other's possessions as a corporate body. If I had to put a tag on it, it would be labeled highly socialistic in nature. Since my cellie is a member of the tribe and since the alligator also was a tribesman, then my celebration was seen as an outright attack on what they hold to be sacred -- that being the living breathing paper-mâché alligator.

Since I stood celebrating over the arrest of their tribesman (the alligator), it was soon determined that I must've had something to do with it. The "Witch doctor" got involved and began whispering against me. The knuckle dragging Neanderthals began looking at me like I was lunch, and soon, it became apparent that my life would indeed be worth little to them unless I thought fast. The whole dorm was a powder keg that was ready to explode when all of a sudden it came to me how to defuse it. I ran to my cubicle and grabbed my roll of toilet paper. I then returned to the center of the tribe and announced "Hey! Let's make a new alligator!" Instantly it came to me how only in America can a monoric idea be heralded as genius. The tribe is quiet now. They've donated all of their toilet paper for the new gator. I suppose that tomorrow when one of the tribesmen hears the call of nature and sees he has no toilet paper, my life may be in peril again. Oh well, such is life in the jungle.

May 14, 2005

Today is the third anniversary of the worst day of my life. It was on this day back in 2002 that I received the letter that said my dear wife was leaving me. Sheri as more than my wife, she was my childhood sweetheart and my closest friend. We shared everything together and upon my conviction, she would have gladly come to prison with me. The forced separation was just too much for her and after three years, she announced that she had been with another man and wanted to marry him. She wanted me to divorce her, but I loved her too much. Since I refused to file, she got mad and took everything including my rights to our children.

In July of that year, I wrote several stories that depicted my broken heart in allegorical form. One such story was called "2 Roses For My Bible." I wrote the story from the viewpoint of my youngest daughter. She was four when I last saw her and in this story, I wrote it from her viewpoint as an older woman. I sent a copy to Sheri and she said it made her cry. She instantly recognized me as the old man at the graveside. The story was my way of saying, "I love you... and Goodbye." I've enclosed a copy for you to read.

"Two Roses For My Bible"

The dreadful battle was over. For over two years, Mom suffered through the agony of cancer. The disease crept up on her quite unexpectedly. Her vibrant beauty faded quickly as the cancer spread throughout her body. We had a large family, three boys and two girls. I was the youngest daughter. We all took care fo Mom as best we knew how and Dad worked longer hours because he couldn't bear to see her suffer. As the disease entered into its final stages, I also had difficulty witnessing Mom's suffering. I remember praying every day for God to heal our Mom, but towards the end, I tearfully pleaded with God asking him to just end it all. On Wednesday morning, June 6th, the Lord sent an angel to take Mom home.

Our family doctor was a very old man. It was his hands that pulled me from Mom's womb. Over the years, Old Doc filled the role of grandpa since our real grandpa died so long ago. His old eyes were full of tears as he tried to console us. I never knew he loved Mom so much. I did know that before I was born, Old Doc encouraged Mom to become a nurse. It was after she graduated that I was born. Mom was a great nurse. Her specialty was working with expectant moms and their babies. Mom really loved all the babies. I remember a few years ago, Mom came home from working a twelve hour shift and was acting strange. I asked her what was wrong and with a reassuring smile, she asked me to sit with her on her bed. Mom began to braid my hair. As she spoke, I think she did that so I wouldn't see her cry. A mirror across the room betrayed her efforts. As Mom spoke, her voice trailed off several times as she relived the painful event. A woman had come to the hospital in labor. She was only fifteen years old. My older sister was the same age. Mom admitted the girl and prepped her for the birth of her first child. A large elastic strap held the Toko-Monitor in place. This measured each contraction. And since the baby was almost crowning a fetal heart monitor was attached to the unborn's scalp. It was a strong heartbeat but Mom's attention wasn't on its strength. She heard something strange in it and called the attending physician in. The baby was in stress and had to be delivered right away. With the baby's head already in the birth canal, a C-section was out. Mom coached the young girl to push. It was a difficult birth and Mom never took her attention off of the baby's heartbeat. It was slowing down. Mom knew that there was no time to spare so she yelled at the young girl to "Push with all your might!"

Mom turned from doing my hair and wiped the tears from her eyes. I knew that Mom never yelled at anyone, so it hurt her to recall her loss of composure. Mom took my hair in her hands and continued. The harder pushes forced the baby out. It was a tiny girl with ringlets of blonde hair.

Mom's attention moved instantly to the baby. The doctor ran his thumb gently up and down his back. This action was tot start the tiny girl's breathing. Contrary to popular belief, doctors don't smack babies when they're born. The little girl wasn't cooperating. The doctor took a dull instrument and ran it across the sole of her foot -- still nothing. Time was running out. A special crash team was called in and Mom had to step out of the room. As she stood outside the door, she listened for the sounds of crying. When they came, Mom lost it. The crying she heard wasn't from the baby, it was that of the young mother. The tiny girl had died.

Mom's voice was filled with emotion as she continued.

Another nurse wheeled the mother out of the delivery room. Mom stood behind the doctors as they finished up. When they stepped away, Mom went to the tiny girl and washed her off. She then lowered herself down and placed her head on the pad by the baby's face. With an arm cradled around her, Mom sang a tear-laced lullaby to her. As Mom now sang the song to me, I began to cry. I had heard her sing it hundreds of times but never as beautifully as now. As I write this, I'm crying again because I'm missing Mom so much.

It wasn't too long after that experience that Mom became sick. She didn't let us know about it. But when she started losing her hair, we began to ask questions. Her answers were evasive and she never let us know exactly how serious her condition was. Mom knew she was dying. She secretly made all her own funeral arrangements. The flowers she selected were all white roses with blue iris accenting each bouquet. A carpet of red rose petals encircled her casket. As I sat in the chapel I realized that she didn't plan this for herself, she did this for us. The music playing in the background was gentle medley of all the songs she sang to us. A man with a beautiful baritone voice sang each word nearly as delicately as Mom had. The chapel was filled, with people standing in the back. When the singing stopped a strange record was played. It was "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong. Just moments after it started a man in an old green coat became overcome with grief. He stood quickly and left the chapel. As this song ended, many of Mom's closest friends took turns telling us of their favorite memory with Mom. When finished, the pastor led us to the open casket so we could say goodbye one last time. Mom looked so different, so peaceful. The pain was finally gone from her face. We all kissed her one last time. When Dad kissed her, I couldn't hold back the tears. Several strangers held me as I wept. I don't ever remember crying so hard. As we returned to our seats, the minister began Mom's eulogy. He told of where Mom was born and where she went to school. He reminded us of how beautiful she was at her wedding and told us about all the babies Mom h ad saved in her career. He closed the eulogy by closing Mom's casket. My heart cried from within my chest as the pall-bearers carried her casket to the waiting hearse. At the burial site, flowers were everywhere. I couldn't count the number of people that were t here. As Mom had requested, the graveside service as brief. Mom didn't want us to dwell on that part. She planned a wake and an open invitation was sent out by Mom's hospital. Mom wanted us to share in her confidence that she was now in a better place, so the wake was actually a celebration of her arrival. The auditorium was packed. I found myself standing in the midst of hundreds of doctors, nurses, and friends of Mom's. Deep down inside of me, I felt an inner stirring. I suddenly felt an urgent need to go back to Mom's graveside. I wanted one of Mom's white roses for my family Bible. Stepping out of the auditorium, I noticed that the clear sky of earlier had hidden itself behind a shroud of thick, dark clouds. I drove the short distance to the grave and parked nearby. from my car I could see that a man remained by Mom's grave. It was the man who wore the old green jacket. As I waited for him to finish, a gentle rain began to fall. I nudged my wiper button just as someone knocked on my window. It was Old Doc. I began to tell him why I came back, but he interrupted saying, "He told me you would come back!"

Old Doc opened my door and pointed. "Go on, he's expecting you." I was totally confused. I had no idea who the man was, but as I approached him, I could hear his heartbreaking sobs of grief.

His hair was gray and thinning. H is face, worn with wrinkles. As his hand reached for mine, we made eye contact. His tear filled eyes searched mine as if he was searching for something he couldn't find. In anguish, the old man released my hand then slowly surrendered to the ground. Old Doc rushed to help him, but he was stopped by the voice of the crumpled man.

"Please, just let me go."

The rain began at that moment. Old Doc sat by his side as this strange man slipped away. Old Doc stood up after covering the man with his coat. He asked me pointedly, "Didn't you recognize him?"

I thought hard but still couldn't place him. It was then that Old doc told me the final details of Mom's plans. He told me that Mom had gotten married when she was 16 to another man. This other man was my real father. He got sent to prison and Mom moved on with her life. In her effort to live a normal life, Mom had to cut off all communication and memory of my old dad and quickly married my present dad. Since all of us were so young, we soon forgot our old dad. Mom had a giant church wedding in our new dad's family church. It wasn't long before we were a happy family again.

Old Doc held all of Mom's secrets. Mom's greatest secret was that she never stopped loving my real dad. When she learned she was dying, she pleaded with Old Doc to find him. Thinking it best not to meet, Mom would talk to my dad on the phone while she was alone. She told him that when she died, she would find a way to tell him "I love you" in front of everyone. When she played "What a Wonderful World," Dad knew its meaning. Old Doc continued but I couldn't take my eyes off of the man laying by Mom's grave. I fell to my knees and stared at the man's still body. I had to ask the most obvious question: "Is this my dad?"

The tears in Old Doc's eyes left little doubt that it was him. I suddenly felt betrayed by my dad. How could he just drop into our lives after all of this time? I thought how could he possibly have loved us? I wept openly in anger. Old Doc reached into his pocket and pulled out several envelopes. He handed me one that had my name on it. He said, "It's from your mother." I recognized her handwriting and began reading words that were painfully hard to accept. For all these years, I believed that my dad was someone terrible who abandoned us. But now, Mom was telling me a whole new story. My dad did go to prison and Mom stayed with him as long as she could, but hope slowly drained away and Mom fell in love with another man. She wrote about how Dad never stopped loving her. It was out of that love that he let her go on without him.

I then realized that if it wasn't Dad who had abandoned us, it was us who had abandoned him. Old Doc told me of how Dad never lost track of us. He kept all of our drawings and schoolwork from when we were in elementary school. I felt a need to look at him one last time. I gently lifted the jacket and I gazed at the face of my dad. Those iron walls that blocked my memory, were slowly melting away with each falling teardrop. I could see the man I once knew and as I lost myself in the rush of returning memories, a long unspoken name fell from my heart. "Daddy?"

It's been 3 years since that rainy day. I had returned to Mom's grave that day for a single rose. I left with two. As I look at them now, I can't help but think of all those lost years spent thinking our real dad didn't love us. I try to think of how hard it was for him to live in our shadows. Old Doc told me that Dad never missed any of our choir and band performances. He also never missed any of my brother's ballgames. this caused me to dig out all those old photo albums and videos. In them, I found Dad many times, sitting alone in the bleachers.

The heartbreaking death of our Mom was planned by her to be the birth of our dad's return. But Mom had no idea that Dad had no intention of living in a world without her. I know he's with her now and know in my heart that they're happy. I also will never forget that rainy moment beside my mom's grave. It was on that day that I said goodbye to both of my parents. But before they left, they blessed me with their love and two roses for my Bible.

The End

Jemi Dachry

written July 27, 2002

revised October 13, 2003

2,222 words

Sheri's been gone 3 years and in my heart, she still remains the beautiful sweetheart that I'll love forever. I have to respect her decision to move on, but in these past 3 years, I've seen the necessity of moving on myself. No one could ever replace her. Since I know that would be impossible, I'll live my life knowing that at one moment, in a special season, I shared a most precious love with the most wonderful woman. She was the mother of our children, she was my sweetheart.

May 15, 2005

This afternoon I went outside for Rec. It was a beautiful day and I walked around with a friend from another unit. The time sorta flew by and 3 hours later, I went in with a wonderful sunburn. I'll definitely regret this tomorrow. L At least on this unit, I'll be able to lay up and get well. It wasn't that way back in August of 1999.

After I was sentenced, they shipped me to a receiving unit called "Middleton." The Middleton unit is located in Abilene, Texas. The warden decided to put me on a hoe squad and soon I was working out in the fields. The Texas sun is definitely hottest in Abilene. I lived in a tin building with no air conditioning, fans, or windows. It was like living in an oven. In the morning I would listen to the metal building make popping sounds as the rising sun heated it. In the evenings, we would lay on the floor just so we could breathe. When the sun went down the building began popping again as it cooled down.

When they turned us out into the fields, we were broken up into squads of 20 men. Our field bosses were sadistic tyrants who were allowed to do whatever they wanted to us. On my first day out in the fields the sun was brutal. They had shaved my head bald. and refused to let us wear hats. By the end of that first day, I was scorched. This continued for two weeks straight. Hunks of my scalp were coming off and I bled constantly. When we came back to the prison after working those fields, the bosses made us strip naked and stand on the hot pavement. The skin on my feet was blistered and bloodied. I tried standing on my clothes but my field boss threatened me for getting blood on "his" state issue clothes. I was only there for a month. But during that month I went from 200 pounds to 152 pounds. The court back in Dallas called me back and when I saw my son, he asked me, "Daddy, did you come home to die?"

Out of all the garbage that I went through, it was those words that instilled a reason to fight. I didn't realize how terrible I looked. The stress from receiving a 45 year sentence, being separated from my family and all the abuse and heat had nearly killed me. I began to eat and exercise again. Almost 2 years later, I was returned to that unit. My field boss was still there, but I was a lot different. Apparently, they know who they can abuse and who they can't. He avoided me totally. The public has to wonder why guards get run over on their bicycles. If they knew how those officers treated us prisoners, perhaps they would understand. It was hard to watch the TV reports n the "brutal" treatment of Iraqi prisoners of war. The stories that America was told concerning them are nothing compared to the brutality that goes on in this prison. The guards all cover up their messes by lying for one another. Then, who on earth will believe a convicted felon?

My sunburn will heal. But as I lie here writing this journal, there is, somewhere, another inmate working those same fields and probably suffering miserably.

May 16, 2005

I couldn't sleep last night. I'm putting off heat from this sunburn. Fortunately, it's not hurting yet.

Today is Monday. We don't get mail on the weekends, so Monday is greatly looked forward to. A few of us lucky prisoners have penpals. My penpal is an angel from Oregon. She was chatting with a guy on the internet about their daily troubles when the guy (a friend of mine) told her about me. For some reason, she felt compelled to write to me. Now we write to each other daily. It would have been easy to tell her how great I was -- but instead I was brutally honest. I'm sure it's our mutual honesty that has kept us so closely knit. "Sheryl" is a sweetheart. Although her specifics are quite spooky. You see, "Sheryl" has many similarities to "Sheri," my ex-wife. They both have "Joyce" as their middle names. Their birthdays are both in November, only 5 days apart, and even though my ex lives in Dallas, Texas, and Sheryl lives in Portland, Oregon, both girls were born in the same hospital in Sun Valley, California. My ex ran off with a man named "Ben Woodruff" and Sheryl works with a man named "Ken Woodruff." We both have kids named "Jessie," dogs named Jake, and exes that don't realize what they've lost. Sheryl has been a God-send in my life. For back when she first wrote to me, inmates could correspond with inmates. Not long after her first letter, all inmate to inmate correspondence has stopped. This was catastrophic for me because my writ-writer, the man who had control over my appeal and was in possession of all m y records was a prisoner on another unit. The only way I could contact him was through an attorney. Guess w ho Sheryl worked for... yup, an attorney! I think God specifically chose Sheryl for me. It's just not possible for such a woman to fall out of the sky and land in my prison cell. She's gone out of her way to help me. She saved my appeal and has given me something that I desperately needed: a woman's perspective. In other words, she chews me out on a regular basis. I can't complain because most of the time she's right. I can't say "all" of the time because there's a good chance she'll read this. If I said "all the time," all of our future arguments would be moot.

Sheryl is my window. Her letters give ma a breath of fresh air and by her words, she takes me out to lunch, to work and even to the woodshed. I think Sheryl is the perfect penpal. She refuses to let me get away with anything. She's smart, silly and direct. I love those qualities. My ex was the same way.

May 17, 2005

I'm in serious pain. I can't write today because it hurts to breathe. Besides, I think I'm getting sick.

May 18, 2005

Sunburn is a little better. I've caught a chest cold...I'm very miserable!

May 19, 2005

I'm very sick. Got a fever, runny nose, and congestion. I'll have to write a will. I feel like I'm dying. My eyes hurt too -- I can't even read a book. Guess I'll just lie here and moan.

May 20, 2005

It's Friday! I'm still sick L. Being sick in prison isn't much fun. It takes a week just to see a doctor and by then, you're not sick anymore. The only medication we can get is what they call "non-aspirin." It's a generic form of Tylenol that must be pretty good. I say this because the guards steal all of it. If we ask for one, they always tell us, "We just ran out!"

What's sad is when you get a toothache. The nightmarish stories you hear about prison dentists are true. The only difference is that they don't wear leather Jack boots and I've yet to see one who wears a monocle. Fortunately, I've been blessed with great teeth. But sadly, most convicts have few, if any teeth.

A medical emergency is a nightmare for an inmate. On December 12, 2000, I had such an emergency. I was severely beaten by two Muslim blacks. They had stolen some of my things and I made the mistake of asking for them back. I ended up with my skull fractured and my eye crushed. I needed surgery and was fortunate enough to be at a unit that shipped their surgery patients to a real doctor. Two guards escorted me to the hospital. I wore leg and hand shackles. I was blind and scared out of my mind.

I didn't know how badly my skull had been fractured and since I was a prisoner, I didn't think anyone would care if I died. One of the guards, a black woman picked upon my fear and promised me nothing bad would happen. She was a one in a million guard. The week prior to my beating, the blacks were playing basketball. One of them thought it would be funny to hit me with the ball. He threw it full force while I wasn't looking. It hit me on the side of my head and caused my vision to double. I told a guard that something was seriously wrong but he mocked me, saying, "Didn't your mommy let you play with the boys?" I went to bed with a terrible headache and later learned that when I was hit, I sustained a concussion. But a I rode in the van, the guard couldn't bear looking at me. My eyes were knocked down into my sinuses and the bruising was enhanced by all the swelling. I had been attacked around 3 p.m. The guards took me to a visitation booth and locked me in it. That room was about 4' x 3' with a stool welded in the middle. I was covered with blood and after waiting several hours, I passed out. I woke up to a guard kicking me. When I moved, he laughed and said, "Damn, you still alive?!" It was 3 a.m. After spending 12 hours in that tiny room, they finally took me to see the unit doctor. They videotaped the examination and took Polaroid photos, too. t them, it was all for kicks. About a dozen guards came by to see how bad I looked. All of them made jokes and as I rode in that van, I felt like I was going to the death chamber.

When we arrived at the hospital, I had to walk from the van to the emergency room. It wasn't easy to do with my hands shackled to my feet. The guard sorta guided me with a tug of a chain because I couldn't see. I could hear kids gasping, "Momma what happened to him?" and I lost all composure. What about my kids? I'd never see them again. Tears fall hard out of broken eyes. My guard couldn't take it anymore and she told me that no matter what, she was not going to leave my side. They laid me up on the operating table and refused her request to unchain me. As the drugs entered my body, I said my final prayer. As I feel asleep, the guard kept ahold of my hand.

I woke up 4 hours later. She never let go of my hand. They reconstructed my face and told me my right eye was most likely blind.

The ride back to the prison (only moments after waking up) was torture. They didn't give me any pain medication and I felt every pebble in the road. When I got back to the prison, they put me in one of their hospital cells. I remained chained up and at night, I was chained to my bed. The inmates in charge of bringing me my food ate it themselves. The following morning, the circus began. Dozens of guards paraded through just to catch a glimpse of me. I heard all of their comments and strained to see them. My eyes were crusted over with blood. There was a small window by my bed and I turned to face it. It was too terrible a thought to face prison as a blind man. I prayed for God to send me a sign that all would be well. I asked for just one snowflake and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning and a nurse was in my room. She said, "Too bad you're blind, you're missing one heck of a snowstorm!" I strained to look but my eyes were crusted shut. The tears began to fall and they softened up the bloody crusts. My left eye popped open a bit and I could see God's snow. Nearly 2 feet had fallen that night and no one had predicted it. In time, my eyes got better. I was shipped from that unit in Amarillo to the Ellis unit. I still have nerve damage to my face. When I lick my upper lip I feel it in the tip of my nose and when I scratch my nose, I feel it in my eyelids.

May 21, 2005

It's Saturday, 2:31 AM. I'm waiting for breakfast and thinking about my kids. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of them. I often wonder if they ever think of me.

Mindy is our oldest. She's an amazing girl. I recall one time she put a banana peel in the floor and jumped on it to see if it was slippery...it was.

Christopher is me, only smaller. He's smart as can be, plays the trumpet and guitar. He won the city football championship in '98 and Lord only knows what he's been up to since I've been gone.

Ryan is my powder keg with red hair and sky blue eyes. I never once saw him run out of energy. I never knew another person who could laugh as hard as he could, with veins popping out of his forehead. I couldn't help but laugh with him.

Jessica was my baby. Her mother decided that I would do all the night feedings and diaper changes. I did it all and during those nights of holding Jessica's tiny self, I learned how much a parent could love a child. When she got older, my wife decided we should teach her how to swim. I held her in my hands while bouncing in the pool. My wife said blow in her face and go under the water. I just couldn't' do it. Sheri got mad at me and told me to give Jessica to her. I told her to go find her own baby 'cause this one is mine. To Jessica, I was her momma.

My last child's name is Davey. He was to be born on Jan 1st, 2000 (A New Year's baby) but Sheri decided out of convenience to be induced on December 23rd. I was in prison when he was born, but my heart, my spirit, and my soul were totally with them. It was one of my most difficult days in prison. I only got to hold him twice. When Sheri brought them all to see me in Amarillo, Davey was so excited that he took his first steps in the visitation room. I loved Davey the instant our eyes met. I love all of our children, but I know that they have all grown up and the babes that I loved so deeply no longer exist. As they've grown up I'm quite sure that they all have other things to think about. I guess there's just not any use for an old dad who is in prison. All I do now is keep them in my prayers and every once in a while, pull out their pictures and cry.

May 22, 2005

I spoke earlier about pen-pals. One of my pen-pals is a Dallas area high school history teacher. He and I surprisingly have a lot in common. In his interest to learn what it's like to live in prison, he's discovered that all the murderers. thieves, druggies, and rapists that I live with behave no differently than most of his unruly students. He has explained his difficulty in reaching his students and I see some striking similarities between that and how I try to interact with my fellow prisoners. It is frustrating to see someone who needs help and they're too stubborn to accept it when it's offered. Such people are ones who see the farmer till the soil, they see him plant the seed and water it. Then, when the plant sprouts up they declare, "Wow, look what the dirt did!"

I believe there are regions of ignorance that are, as of yet, still unexplored by modern philosophers. It's this form of ignorance, this unappreciative attitude of "giving the mud the credit" that is causing my friend to question his decision to teach. H e wrote me a letter yesterday that read like a plea for help. He needed some kind of motivation for continuing to teach. His students are nearly all uninterested in learning and he cautioned me that to say "stick in there for the few who will listen" simply won't do when hundreds more are headed directly to where I'm at... prison.

It took me some time to answer his letter. I spent the day pondering all that he said. My heart ached for his students, for they simply don't realize that they have a teacher who cares about them. I would love to teach, but few schools hire ex-cons as teachers. I then put myself in his position. what if I was a teacher and my students flatly ignored me? I would defiantly see the need to break down the walls of misunderstanding and get more involved in their lives. I would sign up to be a coach, attend their ballgames, choir, and band concerts. Praise each student for all that they do, and soon, each student would become addicted to this praise and want more of it. I suggested this to my friend and further suggested that possibly the greater reason for staying there isn't for the kids, it could very well be for him.

God allows us to be put into difficult situations in order to make us grow. If we stay put, we will grow strong, but if we run away, our roots will never sink deeply into the ground. If given the opportunity to leave prison, I would've left long ago. But since they locked the door, I've had to stay put and grow some roots. Ironically, as my roots go deeper, I find myself appreciating the "mud." So maybe indeed the mud should get the credit -- but not all of it. For if my roots weren't here in prison, many of these guys (whose lives are reduced by toilsome burdens to "mud") would simply erode away without hope. I prayed that my friend would sink his roots into that school. Those students who live in open rebellion need someone who will stand strong in their lives. I wish I had such a pillar of strength in my life, but I didn't. I believe God uprooted me from my shallow ground and planted me in His wildest garden. I've had to struggle to grow and in that struggle, I've grown very strong. I hope my friend doesn't yield to the weeds. Perhaps he will grow strong. I hope he does.

May 23, 2005

I just finished reading a book about Martin Luther King. Mr. King was a great man and his life's work has affected all of us.

The ongoing racism within these prison walls is no different than that of the early 60s. Remember, in prison, we are roughly 40 years behind in social customs. We've only recently seen an end of slavery in here. The divisions of white, black, and brown are strongly defined with hatred, envy, and revenge.

Not all inmates play into this hatred. But all of us are affected by it. For the most part, the hatred that I've seen has been caused by one group having something the other group wants. Usually, such an imbalance results in thermo-nuclear war. In which case, all participants end up as losers.

Doctor King's platform was equality for all. In theory, such a platform should make sense. For if all people were like Doctor King each individual would use his equality to raise himself up out of the ghettos of life and would become a productive member of society. The big problem with Doctor King's philosophy was that very few people are like him. Most people are lazy. They don't want to read Plato, Thoreau, or Montaigne. It's easier to sit back and watch Homer Simpson. Mr. King h ad a spirit of greatness within him that he answered to. I believe we all have such a calling, but few of us care to visit that "mountaintop" when it's so much easier to chug a beer and claim "I have a dream."

I wish Mr. King's dream would come true. I believe it partially has. Because what he did in the 60s concerning civil rights, has actually made conditions in this prison much better. As I read about Mr. King, I found myself wanting to march with him. Those racist police officers are still alive and well. They simply put on a guard's uniform and now oppress all of us unabated here in prison.

May 24, 2005

Today I got a great letter from my sister. Through our letters, she and I are finally discovering who we really are to each other. I was born the middle child with an older and younger sister. As a kid I was always the odd man out, and I grew up as a loner. It wasn't anyone's fault, things just happen that way. Each one of us grew up seeing things through much different eyes. But the common thread of being there together counted little towards our variant interpretations of our past. At least it did until I came to prison. letters are very important and writing is indeed an art. Most prisoners find it very difficult to express themselves in words. When for most of their lives they have spoken only in rebellious acts that are meant to control those around them. We are all guilty of that and it's only when you can root that out of your personality that you can then discover that those objects -- that don't ever seem to do what you want them to do -- are in fact people who are full of wonderful gifts of love. It took coming to prison for me to see my sister as such a wonderful person. I placed an unfair burden on her by expecting her to do what I would do in life. When she did something different, I scoffed and derided her. I was actually refusing to see that she too was a person and not just another object in my life. Through our letters, she and I are finally getting to know each other. What's surprising to me is how much I truly love her.

In our letters we talk about everything. This morning I just mailed her an 18 paged letter in response to one of her 10 paged letters. She asked me if I had ever read any of her old diaries. I had to admit that I enjoyed picking the lock with a bobby-pin. But it never dawned on me to read what she wrote. She was the type of sister that would tell me anything if I asked her. I grew up trusting her. At my trial, she sat on the prosecutor's side of the courtroom. It bothered me at first. But later I was grateful that she cared enough to show up. It's when you go to prison that you find out who really cares about you. People who love you sometimes have to sit on the wrong side. We have to accept that fact and know that when our dearest of friends oppose us that it doesn't mean they don't love us. It just means that they care enough to stand up against us in order to turn us back to them. After all, it wasn't her fault that I was in court -- it was mine.

I see lots of prisoners get angry at mail call. They storm off like children and in anger write horrible letters to their loved ones. Moms always seem to get the worst of these letters. When an inmate wants a letter and doesn't get one, he usually writes either a poor-pitiful-me hurt puppy letter or one of those "I hate you too" letters. I don't recommend either type. When I see such an inmate, I tell him to write a letter without using the word "I." In other words, write a letter that talks only about the person they're writing to. It's fun to write to my Mom and talk about the things she did in the past. Most Moms are shocked when they get such letters -- one even called the chaplain and said her son was possibly suicidal. I feel sorry for all those moms. Their prisoner sons all love them greatly, but they grew up not knowing how to express that love. Unfortunately, when such frustration arises, it often results in violence. If only someone could teach these guys to communicate maybe then all of us could understand why they do what they do.

I asked my sister if there was anything about me that she wished was different. I fully expected her to say, "I wish you never went to prison." But she didn't. I believe that she understands as I do that coming to prison freed me from who I was. It turned me back into the person my sister loved. It turned me back into her little brother. To Chris, wherever you are... I love you.

May 25, 2005

A guard once said, "Prison ain't nuttin but a big ole daycare." I tend to agree with him. Most of the guys in here are far from being grown up. In fact, it's quite frightening when a grown man starts acting like an unruly 8 year old, especially when he's 300 pounds of solid muscle. There are many reasons for such situations. They include mental dysfunctions that stem from ADD, obsessive compulsives and inferiority complexes. But the main reason is pride. In prison, I've seen more proud men that I ever did out in the free world. They starch their prison clothes, wear polished boots and as much jewelry as they can find. My grandmother said it's like putting "Pearls on a pig" in all societies, and prison is indeed a society, there is an inherent desire by certain individuals to draw attention to themselves by taking what each individual calls common and c hanging it into uncommon for their specific "look-at-me" purposes. You'll notice this in your society in many different forms. Look at your parking lot. Do you see that one brightly colored car out there? Why does its owner want it to look so different? What about clothing? Have you noticed how tight and revealing some outfits have become? People say that these people are just expressing their individuality. From my perspective, I see it all as a loud cry for help. Consider these factors; when a person feels the need to draw attention to himself (or herself) by using a form of media, isn't that person actually waving a white flag admitting that they have no character, no magnetic personality, and nothing of value virtue-wise to share with the world? I call such people social lepers whose main function is to draw everyone's attention off of those who deserve it the most. The world is full of such clowns and in prison, we have our share as you do too. It's your responsibility to see them for what they are and to avoid them at all cost. Such people are lazy. They want to have everything now and don't want to "earn" anything. Look closely at them and you'll see who they really are. They are thieves, liars, and murderers.

Perhaps you think my words are too strong. Maybe you have fallen into such a lifestyle? Allow me to elaborate further. As a thief, such a person is willing to borrow beyond their means to pay back, for anything that draws attention to themselves. Even in this, they're stealing the attention that belongs to those of virtue. As a liar, such people present themselves for something that they are clearly not. But all the while, expect you to accept them in their grandeur. Finally, as murderers, such people hate those who refuse to notice them. In their act of superiority they attack those who fail to bow in homage to them.

It took coming to prison to see such people for who they truly are. For I once thought that it was merely a stab at being an individual. It's actually an act of rebellion against society and worse yet, against their own selves.

I wonder how much creative genius is lost to such vanity. I wonder how many more fools we will elect as governors and presidents before we see them for what they truly are. Suddenly I recall an old "Sonnie and Cher" song... and the beat goes on... yes the beat goes on...

May 26, 2005

It's 12:45 AM. I'm lying in bed thinking about you, my reader. There is so much to talk about but I find myself wondering what it is that you would want to know. Is prison scary? yes, it can be. Does it ever feel hopeless? Yes, but not too often.

Prison itself is nothing more than a frame of mind. If you think about it, all of us are in prisons of some sort. Most people live by jumping from one shiny object to another. When they get to prison, such people go nuts. You have to develop your mind into learning how to appreciate all those things that don't shine. I've noticed how some guys go out of their way just to kill a bug. I guess for them, the thrill is in the hunt. It's too bad that they see no value in the life of the bug. I like bugs. Take a minute to go look at one. Isn't it amazing that tiny creature has a mouth, a brain and eyes, too? God created it for a purpose and that purpose is to care for this earth. If you'll notice, the bugs do a much better job than we do. Maybe we can learn something from those bugs. They seem to stay busy doing what they were made to do. They really don't bother us and I've never heard a bug complain.

Such a hard work ethic for a prisoner will undoubtedly benefit him in the long run. I've heard that it's been said prison is a college. If so, then be a student and strive to graduate with honors. Just make sure you don't major in criminology. Yikes!! I've had people tell me how to steal cars, make meth-amphetamines, and even how to stage a cock fight without getting caught. Although I found it all interesting, I couldn't help but think "Isn't it such an activity that brought you to prison?" We have our share of criminologists in here, many already have their Phds. In other words, many of them already have t heir life sentences. I wonder about you, my reader. Do you have a life sentence? Have you embraced a lifestyle or an occupation or maybe even a hobby that will ultimately destroy yourself? I'll pray for you tonight. Whoever you are out there I pray that someone sees you for the special person you are, instead of killing you as I was once killed.

May 27, 2005

It's 3:15 PM, (very hot), and they just told us to rack-up. Usually this means that there has been a fight somewhere on the unit. That fight is usually on "B-side." All Texas prisons are split in one way or another. The "A-side" offenders are the trustees, kitchen and laundry workers, and those of us who just mind our own business and do our time. The "B-side" offenders are the wild ones. These are the problem-children who can't seem to keep from fighting, stealing, or masturbating in public. On this unit, we must wear arm bands that are color-coded to whichever building we live in. These bands are to prevent inmates from slipping over between A & B sides. Unfortunately, this only works when the guards are actually paying attention and since they rarely do that, this unit is basically "wide open." The term "wide open" is synonymous with "extremely dangerous." It's funny to hear about how the public reacts to a prison upheaval. They instantly think, "Oh, those poor guards," and "those terrible violent criminals." What's funny about it is that most criminals were placed in prison because they are violent people. These prisons are built to contain and control such people -- but only when the guards do their job. In other words, 99% of all prison fights and riots are caused by those "poor guards."

It has been a major mistake for Texas to hire women to work as guards in these prisons. I haven't seen one female guard who doesn't have at least 6-20 prisoner boyfriends. You'll see them hanging around each other and at nighttime when these females work alone, you'll see them watching their "men" masturbate for them at the urinals.

It's so common in here that our warden apparently doesn't care. It used to be at racktime, all inmates must go to their beds and stay there. It's gotten so lax in here that inmates are up roaming around at all hours. Also, since someone stole the remote control for the TV, the guards have left the TV on full blast for over a week. The bad inmates love it, they thrive on such chaos. In fact, when things get tense, the tribal ones gather into their groups and begin their "war dance" rituals.

The war dance is usually prompted by someone's blasting radio. The music they listen to is nothing more than a rhythmic repetition of noise that repeats itself in 8 second intervals. I took it upon myself to write such a song. I looked around the pod and upon seeing all the chaos, all the "playas" and the group of rapper wannabes serenading each other on the toilets, I wrote my very own rap song. It's called "The Crappa-Rappa" and everyone, including the original Crappa-Rappas love it. I hope you do too...

"The Crapper Rapper"

by Jemi Dachry

 
  Yeah my name is T and I'm here to say  
 I'm da king of da rappas so get outta my way  
 I got teeth of gold and a Rolex watch  
 I'd shake ya hand, but I'm a holdin my crotch  
 Yeah I'm rude, I'm crude, and loud as can be  
 And I know all y'all gangstas wanna be like me  
 So jump back and listen and I'll tell you the tale  
 Of how a homey like me ended up in jail  
Cuz I'm T, I'm a typical toad  
 I been beaten on the walls since I was 8 years old  
 Yeah I'm T, I'm a typical toad  
 I like to sing rap music sittin on the commode  
 Well I was livin large sellin kilos of crack  
 Had me a blurban with two Hos in the back  
 But then I got busted and they sent me to jail  
 Dem hos stole my Blurban and wouldn't pay my bail  
 So I got me a lawyer in a three piece suit  
 Said I was framed and I swore it was the truth  
 Then my judge got mad and said he ain't tryn to hear  
 So he sentenced this homey to a hundred years  
 Now T he's a typical toad  
 Dem hos stole his Blurban and they hit the road  
 Yeah T he's a typical toad  
 When he makes parole he'll be a 100 years old  
 Say foo whassup?  It's square bid-ness here  
 Been sittin on the crappa for the best of a year  
 I got style, got grace, got a book in my hand  
 Been beatin out a rhythm like a one man band   
 But hey I'm cool and playas understand  
 Bout da ways and da woes of crappa-rappa man  
 But s'pose you is new and you just ain't heard  
 My name is T and I'm the king of the turds  
 Yeah T he's a typical toad  
 He likes to sign rap music while he's droppin a load  
 Yeah T he's a typical toad  
 He likes to rap all night sitting on the commode  
 Well it took just a bit for it all to get real  
 Dem hos down in Austin denied my damn appeal  
 So I found me some homeys who would understand  
 We all got t'gether and made the crappa-rappa band  
 So I got six homeys that rap with me  
 And when we get out we'll make a hit CD  
 Now so playas everywhere will recognize its wrapper  
 Just look for the disk with the homey on the crapper  
 Sup T you ain't no typical toad  
 You da crappa-rappa legend sittin on the commode  
 Yeah T when your Cds are sold  
 You can buy yourself a crapper made of solid gold. 

Of course some folks might find the Crappa-Rappa to be a bit racey. But in prison, such offensiveness is expected. One inmate who took issue with this song asked me if I had ever written such a racey song bout country music. I don't hardly ever listen to music. Mainly because the radio doesn't play anything worth listening to. But because of my critic's question, I forced myself to listen to a night of country music. Most of the songs revolved around sex (albeit in a roundabout way). There were songs about drinking, ishing, and the rodeo. I kept notes as I listened and in the morning I wrote a song called "Don't be Drinking With Bubba."

But before I reveal this song to you I must say that it go mixed reviews in here. Later, I realized that those who didn't like it were what we call "closet homosexuals."

Today, you are my critic. Feel free to say what you will about either song -- but keep in mind, "Bubba" and the "Crappa-Rappa" are both real people. I wrote both songs using their words not mine.

As you "rap out" the following song, try to imagine the background music as a hopped up version of "The Yellow Rose of Texas."

"Don't go Drinkin With Bubba"

By: Jemi Dachry

 
 Oct. 13, 2003  
 Well me and the guys wuz a workin' late  
 so we headed into town in search of a date  
 We found us a bar and ordered some beers  
 Then in through the door walked a couple a queers  
 They wuz dressed all pretty with their hair done up  
 But when Bubba threw a pass I thought I'd throw up  
 Hey Bubba wacha doin that ain't no broad  
 That's a dude in a dress and she's packin a rod  
 Yeah Bubba wuz a man til he got a little drunk  
 Cold beer made him crazy and he turned into a punk  
 Yup Bubba was a good ole friend of mine  
 Until he got a little drunk and pinched my behind  
 Don't go Drinkin with Bubba  
 Just listen to what I say (twice)  
 When Bubba gets to drinkin  
 He starts to actin' gay  
 Ole Bubba sobered up and started actin' straight  
 So we hitched up the boat n headed out to the lake  
 We didn't get the boat too far from the pier  
 When Bubba found my cooler and snuck himself a beer  
 I was cruising cross the lake when I began to feel strange  
 When I looked back at Bubba, his eyes began to change  
Hey Bubba wacha doin with one eye shut?  
 It was then I realized he was winkin at my butt  
 Well I got real mad and I wanted to run  
 Then he reached for my hand sayin "Let's have some fun"  
 Well I didn't say no but I knew he would pout  
 So I grabbed me an oar and knocked Bubba out!  
 Don't go drinkin with Bubba  
 Just listen to what I say (twice)  
 When Bubba gets to drinkin  
 He starts to actin gay  
 Well I hadn't seen Bubba in a month or so  
 Then he showed up with tickets to the rodeo  
 We bought ourselves some nachos and a couple a beers  
 Then right before my eyes Bubba turned into a queer  
 Well Bubba started dancing and a foolin' around  
 The next thing ya know Bubba kissed him a clown  
 Hey Bubba wacha doin kissin Bozo the clown  
 That crap ain't kosher in a redneck town  
 The crowd was goin crazy, they was looking for a gun  
 Then Bubba did a curtsy and he took off in a run  
 Them cowboys wuz a fumin chasin Bubba round the ring  
 I know that made him happy, cuz I swear I heard him sing  
 Don't go drinking with Bubba  
 Just listen to what I say (twice)  
 When Bubba gets to drinkin  
 He starts to actin gay  
 (spoken over the last 2 choruses)   
 Yew better run Bubba!  
 Just wait'll you sober up this time!  
 I'm gonna tell your wife!  
 Look out!  He's comin this way  
 Don't you touch me!  
 No means no!  
 What?! No Bubba I don't love you!  
 (works well with "The Yellow Rose of Texas") 
  
 The End  
 Jemi Dachry  
 10-13-03 

May 28, 2005

There was a fight yesterday on B-side. It began with two guys arguing. The guard standing nearby watched apathetically as it turned into a fight. Still doing nothing, several other guards stopped by to watch the show.

As they yelled like a cheering crowd, several other inmates jumped into the fight in order to win their praise. When one of the inmates got stabbed, one of the guards decided to stop the show. They gassed everyone, donned their riot gear, and proceeded to lock up everyone. But as this "riot" was transpiring, word of it spread quickly across the unit. Soon, several other fights started and now this whole unit is locked down.

I remember the first lockdown of my incarceration. I saw it all as a joke. Lockdowns are not for our safety nor the guards'. They are tool used by the prison system that prey upon t he public's interest. When a prison "riot" hits the news, public sentiment is swayed towards helping control those horrid criminals. That "sentiment" is converted into tax dollars for these worthless slobs called guards. (not all guards are slobs).

During a "lock-down," (the term itself is a joke. After all aren't all convicts supposed to be locked down at all times?). Anyway, during a lockdown, we are to stay in our cells (what an insane concept), eat peanut butter sandwiches and prunes (still much better than bread and water), and be denied all privileges such as commissary, recreation, hot meals, and worst of all, no soap operas. Yes, they turn the Tvs off too.

The main "supposed" purpose of the lockdown is to shake down the whole unit. The guards go into each building and look for shanks, machine guns, and hand grenades. All of us inmates must also be shook down. This means we must pack up everything we have and haul it all outside for a guard to dig through. Most guards are only looking for porno books. They don't care if you have an atomic bomb let alone a shank or maybe some other dangerous contraband. As long as they can look at a naked lady -- they're quit content.

Of course we have inmates who deal in cigarettes, marijuana, and more. But these inmates are only salesmen for the guards. It's the guards who hand pick a group of inmates to sell t heir drugs that show up first on a lockdown. They're usually frantic just trying to pick up their goods. After the lockdown, the guards bring in mass quantities of cigarettes. A single cigarette can be broken down into 3 smaller ones that sell for $1.50 each. A single pack of 20 cigarettes is worth 90 to 100 dollars in here -- go ahead, do the math...

Last year, the state of Texas made it a felony to have tobacco in prison. All that law did was to crank up the prices and line the worthless guards' pockets with hundred dollar bills.

Who pays for such things? It's usually some sweet little grandmother who sends part of her social security check to her dear grandson's account. The money is supposed to go for food and hygiene items -- and it does. But all of that food and hygiene is traded off for cigarettes. Some inmates arrange for money to be sent directly to the guard. These guards are paid enough for their services -- but greed and the easy buck are all common in these Texas prisons. Such greed isn't just with the lowly guards. As these crooks are promoted, they find greater opportunities to rip off the taxpayers.

In one prison, I saw a lieutenant, who was in charge of the field squads, yell uncontrollably at an inmate who (while pulling weeds) pulled up a small plant. I simply thought the old officer was insane, but my field boss told me why he blew up. As field hands, we are to work the gardens that feed us. The prison has contracts to donate "the excess" to the food bank. This donation is a tax write-off, so there's always LOTS of "excess." Even if we inmates never see a turnip on our lunch tray the prison always has "excess." Anyway, we were supposed to be working those gardens when the lieutenant pulled us over to his private garden. He had planted 1200 pecan trees and was growing them up to be sold back to the state for $30.00 per tree. That equals $36,000.00 for his retirement bonus.

Other thefts are more obvious. When the new budget hits in September, the maintenance teams go crazy. They order tools, A/C compressors and lots more. The only problem is that most of this stuff comes in the back gate n a delivery truck and somehow vanishes into thin air. The guards write it all down as inmate theft and the taxpayer foots the bill. The most outrageous example of this is concerning a missing bulldozer. The prison had purchased a brand new dozer and it vanished off of secured prison property. The final report claimed that the inmates stole it. How is it possible for an inmate to steal a bulldozer?! We rarely get to leave prison without a guard and our lockers are just too small for...let's say, a bulldozer! Perhaps on this shakedown they'll finally found their dozer. But if whoever has it also happens to have a picture of a naked lady, the guards will never see it. ARGH!!

May 29, 2005

It's 7:45 AM. We're still locked down L. I read another book last night. It was about the Spanish Civil War titled "The Yoke and the Arrows." Basically, the book was a history lesson on how a country can lose sight of its future and settle into a life of bondage under a dictator named Francisco Franco.

I guess I don't read books like normal folks do. They seem to settle for the "story," where I search for the message. I don't believe any good writer ever sat down and wrote "just" a story. Each writer wants to convey their thoughts, their emotions, and even their beliefs by means of a story. Mr. Matthews, the author of "The Yoke and the Arrows," conveyed quite a lot in his book. He spoke first of who the people were and how they came into their crisis. He made me think about who I once was and how I came into my crisis. He then spoke about who the people turned to for help, thus placing themselves under his yoke.

I assimilated all of this into my prison experience. The people of Spain surrendered to their destiny and suffered greatly for dong so. I can see how easy it would be to surrender to this prison way of life, but I know that I, too, would suffer greatly for it. The author stated several times that the people of Spain could free themselves of that yoke simply by shaking it off. In this prison I see men comfortably wearing their yoke of bondage. They have settled for being a plebe under a dictator. I simply cannot ascribe to such a surrender. I'm not suggesting that I will resist my present situation by force of arms. But I will resist by using this time under the yoke to gather up arrows of knowledge and understanding. I wish more prisoners would do this. But sadly, the knowledge they seek is only self-serving. Such knowledge is of the lowest levels of learning. Allow me to explain, we all are educated in somewhat the same manner. We begin with our moms, they provide for us and we learn how to take care of our basic needs such as learning to walk, talk and of course, potty training too. As we graduate up the ladder of all these schools, our education greatly changes. You'll notice that at the lower levels of "mommy" and "pre-school," just about everything we learn is 100% self-serving. As you move up, you'll see how what you learn is now more centered around serving others. I believe that if you don't realize that the purpose of your education is to serve others, then you are no different than a criminal who preys upon society. The Spaniards chose to stay in elementary school. What school are you presently in? I want to help others by what I'm learning, but I'm still gathering my arrows.

UNIVERSITY

UNDERGRADUATE

HIGH SCHOOL

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

PRE SCHOOL

MOMMY SCHOOL

May 30, 2005

It's 6:24 AM Memorial Day. Today is the day that we are to remember all of those who gave their lives for our freedom. As I think about them dying for something that I took for granted, I am very ashamed. What can I possibly do to make up for such an action?

I once read a book by John Stuart Mill that talked about liberty. Another book had a speech written by President Lincoln to a temperance society. I must use the two of these together to frame an answer to my own question.

Mr. Mill said that there is always a struggle between liberty and authority. In other words, liberty is that all powerful drug that sweeps us into euphoria and authority is necessary to restrain us from becoming drunk in it. But some of us will indeed become drunkards and what then shall society do with us? President Lincoln spoke to a group of people in Springfield, Illinois (I think), about such drunks. Society there was beside themselves with all the alcoholics. Their solution was to lock them all up as incorrigibles. But Mr. Lincoln saw things differently. I can't remember his exact words, but he said, "Have we become a society that throws its brothers and fathers into the sea because of their transgressions?" Mr. Lincoln went on to say that no politician, no doctor and no preacher could ever convince a man to change his ways. But a man who once lived a life of shame and found his way back, THAT man is the one people will listen to.

I understand Mr. Lincoln's words to mean that only those who have stood on the edge of the cliff can warn the others of how far the fall will be. These men understand fully that authority is not there to harass or annoy us. It's there to protect us from not only each other, but from ourselves, too.

Those people who died for this country did so for all of us. They died so we wouldn't fall under tyranny and that we would have hope and a future. I know it is an offense to their memory that I took for granted my liberty. But I call all of them to stand as my jury. Should an American ever be cast away as an incorrigible? Shouldn't society close in around its offenders in effort to restore them? Is freedom, citizenship and liberty so fragile that once it's broken, it can never be restored?

My jury is far from silent concerning these matters. Their voices are presently being heard in your consciences.

One day, society will realize that prison isn't the answer. When a man is sick, you don't cast him off on an island. For if you do, the sickness will consume the man til he hates all of those who cast him away. Prison can only be an incubator for such men.

But today is a day of remembrance. Not only of those who died for this country, but also for the people who live today.

May 31, 2005

While writing my pen pal "Sheryl," she has repeatedly accused me of flip-flopping on different issues. At first, I was insulted by such an accusation. But upon analysis, her accusations were true. I then wondered if I was wrong for "flip-flopping" and for awhile, I stopped talking about certain things for fear that I might once again do the dreaded flip-flop.

Society demands perfection from its leaders and for a leader to ever flip or flop, would herald in a pack of ravenous wolves to pick his bones. Personally, I see nothing wrong with a leader who has the strength to admit when he's wrong. On the other hand, I see nothing but contempt for one who knows that he's wrong, yet refuses to change.

In John Mill's autobiography, you'll read "in an age of transition in opinions, there may be somewhat both of interest and of benefit in noting the successive phases of any mind which was always pressing forward, equally ready to learn and to unlearn either from its own thoughts or from those of others." In other words, it's okay to flip flop. But keep an eye on whether or not you are flipping forward or flopping backwards.

I believe we are living in an "age of transition." Our government is pressing the issue of curtailment of our constitutional rights and moving the control of government further from its people. The America that I was born in, no longer exists today.

Prison and 42 years of life, have given me a unique view (or should I say "perspective") of how things "were" and how things presently "are."

Our government believes that we cannot decide for ourselves what is best for the country. Sadly, I must now agree with them. The reason I must agree is that as a people, Americans have consistently flip-flopped in so many directions the world no longer knows where we stand. We were once the most loved country and now, we are so hated that we're not even allowed to wave our flag overseas.

We need a leader who will stand up and admit we've made some bad calls. A man who will stand up and "do the right thing" would be a great blessing to all of us. If he sees the need to flip flop, then he will tell us in detail why and not hide like most politicians do today.

But I'm just a prisoner. A prisoner who isn't afraid nor ashamed to admit when I'm wrong. I wish more people would see the true virtue in flip-flopping.

June 1, 2005

Today would have been my parents' 48th wedding anniversary. They divorced each other about 20 years ago. But in my heart, they are still married.

In prison, divorce is commonplace. My wife divorced me just days before our 20th anniversary. Most prisoners who are still married are constantly writing home in a vain attempt to "still be there." It's the children that suffer the most from all of this. What I'm trying to say is probably best said through my living example:

I was married with 4 children. My wife was pregnant with our fifth when I was sentenced to 45 years in prison. As I was busy fighting for my life in the appeals court, my wife's life continued on without me. She too was greatly hurt by my sentence for she lost the man who loved and provided for her. I never took her struggle into consideration as I was myself struggling. I was extremely selfish in my ways and slowly lost touch with her heart. I still love her, I never stopped, but she needed someone who could be there for her. When she told me she had found a man she wanted to marry, it devastated me. Our forthcoming divorce was unavoidable and I prayed for strength to get through it. God finally showed me that the marriage had to fail because I wasn't the kind of man God wanted me to be.

In our marriage, it was impossible to tell you what part was "of me" and what part was "of her." I later learned that as a man, it was the same for me. I was supposed to be the leader of our family. But I yielded so often to my wife that soon, she was in control of everything. I was miserable with her and I never realized it until years later.

After she was gone, I suddenly felt freer than ever. I was finally allowed to be a "me" and no tan "us." The divorce was truly devastating, but I see now that it was necessary so that I could become who I am now. I will always love Sheri and maybe one day she'll love me again.

As for right now, I'm just fine as things presently are.,

My purpose in saying all of that is not for my edification, it's for yours. You see, when a prisoner -- or anyone -- loses a spouse through a divorce, it's very painful. I didn't have anyone to talk to, so I'll offer my experience to you.

When my spouse announced that she wanted to "move on" with her life, a vision of me being buried alive popped into my head. You need to know that when a spouse announces that they want to "move on" with their life, what they're really saying is that they want to "move backwards" with their life. The truth is plain. They are searching for what they once had instead of actually increasing as a person. It took me awhile to recover from her burial of me, but in time I saw that the only person that "moved on" was me. In losing my wife, I was now able to grow into the man God wanted me to be. I opened this whole subject by saying, "The children suffer the most." God knew that the suffering they would endure through our divorce, would be nothing compared to the suffering that they would face later without a proper Dad in their lives. The studying that I constantly do Is not for me, it's for them. This journal is also for them. My pen name of Jemi Dachry is pseudonym that is composed of their first initials. My whole life -- even though I'm removed from them -- is still theirs. It was only through this journal program that a window was opened that allowed you to possibly benefit from what I'm now doing.

If you are facing a divorce, don't give up on life. Pick yourself up and "move on." Do the extraordinary, try the impossible, and in so doing, you will discover a person you never knew. That person will be you yourself. When you meet him (or her), please write me and we'll do lunch J. I love meeting real people.

June 2, 2005

It appears that we will be locked down for the next few weeks. The Texas prison system has adopted some new rules concerning pornography. Apparently they want their bulldozer back and are confiscating all the naked lady books.

Anyway, we will probably be shook down on the 2nd so I'm jumping ahead and completing this day's entry on June 1st... hope ya don't mind.

The confiscation of all pornographic books will probably change little in here. It's my guess that there will be yet another expansion in the guards black market business and homosexual activity will begin to rise.

I can see how the prison officials view such an action of confiscation. They believe that aberrant sexual activity is caused by such books and that by their removal, they will succeed in removing a large part of the problem.

Unfortunately, they fail to see that the problem isn't what they think it is. All they see is the sexually deviant activity that consists of men groping themselves openly, exposing themselves apparently without shame and of course, rampant masturbation everywhere.

Before I jump off into what I believe the true problem is, perhaps I should qualify myself for your approval. I am not a trained sex therapist, I'm not a psychologist nor have I been a part of any professional organization that deals with such behavior. So, with all of that "not" behind me, I come to you simply as a man who has lived as a male my whole life. I believe that that in itself is qualification enough.

Within these prison walls, the authorities have seen fit to progressively do away with just about all of a prisoner's activities. Years ago, it wasn't like it is today. The prisoners of yesteryear could join a softball league or participate in a basketball tournament. Down in Huntsville, you'll see the crumbling remains of what once was our prison rodeo ring. It's being torn down now for a parking lot.

Each prison had a craft s hop available for inmates to go to after work. In these craft shops inmates could paint, make jewelry, leatherworks like saddles, purses, and belts. Also, if an inmate was indigent, he could do what is called "in-cell piddling." Other athletic inmates were permitted to go to a gym and lift weights.

Today, all of these activities either no longer exist or have been suspended indefinitely. Each prison had paid coaches that oversaw most of these activities, but last year they told our coaches to either go back to guard duty or be fired.

This unit I'm on has 4 gyms that are off-limits to the prison population. The officers use them as their own private facilities. Our craft shop ahs been closed for a long time and only select few inmates are permitted in when it's open. In-cell piddling is a joke. They basically made it illegal, then said we can have a set of map pencils and some kid's watercolor paints.

With the curtailment of all these activities, the only thing we have left is outside rec. Our rec yard is at first glance quite large but it must accommodate 600 inmates, thus proving upon application that it is way too small. Our warden only recently started allowing us to go to rec 3 times a day. But still, this rarely happens.

We Texas prisoners are basically "warehoused" with nothing to do that helps us to constructively pass our time. Many prisoners fall into the addictions of gambling, smoking, alcohol, and finally sex.

By systematically removing everything a prisoner has that makes his life worthwhile, the state has now decided to regulate what is done in the privacy of the prisoner's cell.

I don't like pornography. I believe it degrades us as Americans. But I also believe that it is more so degrading to Americans to allow such oppressive conditions to exist in their prisons.

So what then is the main problem? It's a society that is so selfish that it doesn't want anyone to have anything that might jeopardize their position. How grievous it would be to have a man convicted of a serious crime, go to prison, become a better person, then upon release, unseat you from your job.

Our country is lazy. They've become complacent who sit and judge us. Most of the prisoners in here have an excellent work ethic. But with no direction by society, it will die in here with them.

Society needs its prisoners. A society that stands without humility, is a society that raises a stench for the world to breathe.

What is the solution to such a problem? To that, all I can say is we need you, please need us.

Tomorrow I will carry what little I have left out to our rec yard. I will pour out everything I have in front of a group of both male and female officers while 70 to 100 others look on. This in itself won't be so degrading, but since I'll be ordered to strip and stand naked as they search my belongings...

We need your help. I will continue to face such degradation but will you as a nation stand proudly as a fellow American is destroyed? The implications of all this are constitutional. But I appeal to you as a father of five, a brother of two sisters, a son and a friend. Please, don't let this continue. As a prisoner, I am facing non-existence. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just me -- but there are nearly 200,000 others who share this appeal with me. If you can't do it for the one, then please do it for the whole of America.

June 3, 2005

I was in Hanau West Germany when I got the news. There was an emergency phone call for me in the first sergeants office. I ran across the army Kascern getting dressed as I ran. When I got to his office, the duty officer handed me the phone, it was my dad. He said "Congratulations, it's a baby girl."

I was barely 18 and didn't know how to react to such an amazing thing. I am 42 now and still my heart skips a beat upon hearing those words. Upon reflection, I, at 18, and my wife, at 17, were too young to know how to raise a child. Our baby girl 'Mindy' was an absolute angel, she hardly ever cried, was barely sick, and had the most heart warming laugh I've ever heard. For the next 20 years she would grow up into the woman she is today, but unbeknownst to her, her parents would also be growing up in that time as well.

It wasn't fair for such a wonderful baby to be born into such parents as Sheri and I. today I see all the scars in her life that were left by our up-bringing. It's too late to change anything but it is not too late to say that the birth of Mindy was probably the most wonderful thing that ever happened in my life. She proved to be the union of my love for Sheri. It was that love that made four other lives possible.

When I see Mindy, I see her whole life. The first time I held her was in the Frankfurt airport. Tears filled my eyes as I held her. I don't believe a father's love for his child ever begins until he looks deeply into those tiny eyes and they look back so innocently. It brings tears to my eyes now as I return to that day.

Over the years, such moments fade away into the past. The daily grind of work, bills, and never enough sleep, seem to bury those all important feelings of love. In time, those moments were all but forgotten. But now in prison, I recall them all.

My worst dreams are those when I hear her tiny cries and wake up to these prison walls. Her voice as a baby is embedded into my heart and I mourn over the fact that I never loved her as I should have. My only excuse is that I just didn't know how.

As I sit here in this prison, I can plainly see all the mistakes and omissions for which I was responsible. I wish I could tell her I am sorry. But to say I am sorry for anything might lead her to believe that I am sorry for her being born. I wish things could have been different. But if they were, both Mindy and I would be different. I am very proud of who she now is and I love her today as I did when I heard her first voice, saw her tiny fingers and toes, and of course, those unforgettable innocent eyes.

I wish she had a better father, but for some reason god picked me to be her Daddy. He had to have known how things would turn out, but still, he chose me.

In growing up with Mindy, I learned so much that would be needed later in life. Out paths led us to an impasse that will one day be taken away. When it's gone I will be restored to her not only as he 'daddy', but also as a grandfather to her kids.

It is in prison that I clear out all the garbage that destroyed us. It is here that I hold onto those terrible dreams just so I can remember her tiny voice. I am doing my best to be a good dad and maybe that's why God chose me to be hers. I don't know where she's at, but in my heart I know she's safe. Today is her birthday. Happy birthday Mindy! I miss you.

June 4, 2005

It is easy to sit around and complain about the world. I believe it has become our national past-time to sit with others and gossip. I received a letter today from a friend who wrote about living in a world that is filled with garbage and nobody seems to care. He said he feels helpless as the world gets worse and worse. I wrote to him about a man I knew who got great pleasure out of planting trees. When life got to hectic he would grab his shovel, drive out to a wilderness and plant a tree. I told him that although this man had found a escape from the monotony of life, he still was part of the problem himself.

I believe that most of us grew up with our own expectations of what our world would later be like. Then, when we have gotten older, we were upset that the world didn't do what we expected it to do. There is a special moment in each of our lives when a view of the future blossoms into our minds. It sears within us an expectation of what to expect, but the critical error that eludes us is that during the time that we are forming these glorious visions, we are at a developmental stage in our lives where the center of the universe is ourselves. I call such visions 'the great lie' that haunts us throughout our lives. These lies turn our minds into pebbles and shoot them out over the sea of live. Then, as age and the gravity of reality grips us, we a re pulled down into the raging waves of the sea and ultimately, to die under them.

The object of life isn't to fly out above the sea, it's to simply enjoy the beach. I too used to thrive within my rebellious thoughts, but upon reflection of my life's treasure chest, I was surprised to see that such thoughts left it empty. It was difficult to break away from that kind of thinking. But soon, I found a way out. I remembered my friend who planted the trees. What he did was indeed a noble act. I also saw a need to plant some trees, but these trees are special and cannot be planted in the soil of earth. These special trees must be planted into the souls of those around us.

Most trees have names like 'oak', 'maple' or 'sycamore', but my trees are called 'peace', 'love', and 'hope'. These are the trees that give us life and once you plant just one of them, many others will spring up as its progeny.

You see, we are the ones who are responsible for what grows up around us. If our world is filled with hate, war and rebellion, it's only because we failed to plant the right trees. If you find yourself living in a world that's full of strife, take a moment and plant a tree. If you're not sure how to plant one just re-read what I've written because through it, I've planted several species of trees in you. Our world is a garden and it's up to us to decide whether or not we will plant some trees or wither away with the weeds.

My old tree planting friend passed away and was taken out to his favorite spot to be buried. He now rests under the towering trees that he himself planted.

I too will pass away one day. But I don't want to be buried in a wilderness of pine, oak, and maple. I desire to rest under the shade of peace, love and hope. But until that day comes, I will continue to plant more special trees and enjoy the fragrance of their leaves and I live on.

June 5, 2005

Have you noticed anything missing lately? If you haven't, don't' fret because I doubt that anyone else has....Unless that 'anyone else' is a single mom. Have you figured it out yet? You can look in the lost and found sections of your newspaper but no one seems to be reporting them missing. What I am talking about is 'real' men. It seems like someone would sound the alarm that our country is running out of real men. I don't think I've ever seen a picture of a man on a milk carton...Hmmmm. Maybe, just maybe, our society doesn't want any real men? No, that's ridiculous. I think what the problem is, is that our culture has forgotten what a truly real man is.

now, I don't think it would be fair to start pointing fingers. Assessing blame does nothing but stir up the stench. So, in all fairness to all those concerned, I'll pick out someone as an example to illustrate my point.

He was born into a woman who was 22 years old. He was his only son and she loved him dearly. His father had to work all the time and in his off-time, he lounged in his lazy boy. Watching football and smoking cigarettes. The little boy was all alone except for his loving mother and two sisters. His sisters formed an elite club where no boys were allowed and since there was biological proof that their brother was indeed a boy, he was excluded from their world. When he got sad, his mother was there to hold him and as he grew up, he became intrinsically attached to her. Everything, he did was for her. His artwork, his good grades and manners all heaped praise upon her for raising such a fine lad. The boy was in high school one day when a large bully stood up to hit him. In fear, the boy leapt up and a most embarrassing word flew from his lips. That word was 'Momma!"

The other students laughed at him as fear replaced itself with humiliation. The boy suddenly realized that something was terribly wrong. He realized that it wasn't normal for a boy his age to yell for his momma. So he decided to end that intrinsic relationship. He found a girlfriend that his mother hated and quit saying yes ma'am, and no ma'am. He stayed out late and discovered a horrible tasting substance called beer. The more he drank, the madder his mom got. It was during the time of rebellion that his girlfriend conceived and his mother announced the unavoidable wedding. With a child on its way the war on mom had to end. The frightened boy was now being patted on the back as a man. But deep down inside, the boy knew the truth. His life was out of control and he, like his wife and baby were at the mercy of fate. The boy was fortunate and fell into a good occupation. He saw that as long as he paid his bills, he would be considered as a man. But as life moved along, he had this unfillable emptiness; it was a feeling of something missing and he couldn't figure out what it was. He spoke to other 'men' but soon found out that they too felt this inner void. Most of them ignored it while others did their best to fill theirs with alcohol. They all seemed, to this boy, to be just as miserable as he was. The feeling soon became too great for the boy and he felt as though the world was about to open up and swallow him. So in effort to escape, he turned to an addiction and it consumed him. His addiction fooled him into believing that all was well, but soon that addiction came crashing down around him and he found himself in prison. Prison was a very scary place for the boy. He knew nothing about how to survive in an all male world. So he slipped into his bunk and shed tears of confusion and fear. A friend stepped over to him and asked him about God. The boy said he believed and recalled the mornings so long ago that his mother took him to church. The boy read his Bible and in time became strong. Not strong in the physical sense, but strong in his spirit. The others around him recognized the difference and as he explained it to them they all realized exactly what being a man was all about. He said a man is someone who cares for others. He is willing to give all he has to those who have nothing. He isn't ruled by vice nor does he see others around him as underlings. He sees all women as mothers, sisters and daughters and lusts only for truth and justice.

It was on that day that someone patted him on the back and said "I think you are the first real man I have ever met." The boy's eyes filled up with tears because of the failures in his life. Only this time, the tears fed his soul.

You see, there are times when a man must cry. If he doesn't, then he becomes a pillar of stone that cares for no one but himself. I know this because the boy I've been talking about is me. I was raised by a wonderful mom. The only problem was that my dad was a boy. I think it's amazing that you can't drive a car unless you pass a test but any moron can go out and have 12 kids. I needed a father and I found him in prison. That empty feeling is gone now. I fill my time helping others who lie in their bunks and cry. It's nothing to be ashamed of; it only proves that you're human. Prison is full of boys. Don't let those tattoos and tough names fool you. Such things are only there to hide frightened little boys inside. It is when they hate the things that hid them that you will see a man emerge from within. Caterpillars are as different from a butterfly as a man is from a boy. But the change must take place or the caterpillar will die... and so will the boy. Society needs more men. We have an overabundance of boys and stone pillars. It is not easy being a real man, but my 'father' makes it possible.

June 6, 2005

It is 5:55 am Monday morning. I've been up since midnight working on a very long Bible study. I just finished it.

Before I came to prison I was never one who would take on a big project. Perhaps that made me typical of most Americans. Since I believed in 'the less work I had to do, the better off I was." I think what my problem back then was that I didn't understand what work was all about.

To most of us, when we think of work, we rarely get excited. Words like 'toil', 'labor', 'drudgery' and even 'pain' come to mind. These are words that slaves would use.

Work should be one of the most enjoyable parts of our lives. It is in itself our very own expression of what we believe our freedom to be. It is true that I am sentenced to prison, but never in my life was I sentenced to a job. The problem is that we get so wrapped up with our twisted values that we lose sight of what should be held dearest. And that is happiness.

What is it that makes you happy? Write it down on a piece of paper...I'll wait for you to write it all down....dum deed um...deedle...dum....Okay, are you back? Now as you survey what you've written--would you show that list to your preacher? What about your mom?

You see, most people enjoy things that are contrary to what's best for them. Or, you might have unrealistic dreams that defeat you at every turn.

All of us are different. I remember my son Ryan joyfully exclaiming "I wanna be a tractor man when I grow up!" My other son Christopher was leaning towards being a scientist. The diversity in these two young men is striking, and that diversity is what being free is all about.

Society of late has scoffed at those who want to work in construction. They deride those who risk their lives building roads that are simply taken for granted. It is true that we live in a 'caste' society. In George Orwell's "animal Farm" the pigs were the ones who voted out the hard working horse. But when all the horses are gone, who does the work? I could dive deep into this subject but the plain truth is that instead of loving those that oppress us, why don't we love those that support us? I heard on the radio where a local D.J. proclaimed it 'buy-a-cop-lunch day." I liked the idea, but please don't' stop there. What about those bus drivers? Our teachers? And especially those ditch diggers. Society has caused such people to hate their jobs. I believe society can breathe dignity into them if only they tried.

Back in the 30s, our country suffered through the great depression. President Roosevelt brought us out of it by putting first the workers we now take for granted; factory workers, construction workers, and general laborers. These people loved their work and were responsible for building the Hoover Dam, the Empire State building and the Panama Canal. Sadly, almost all of them have passed away, but a few of us still hold onto their memories. My wife's grandfather "Roscoe" helped wire up the lights on the Brooklyn Bridge. Those same lights are being used today. In 1990, just prior to his death, he shared with me his story of how he worked all of his life. He recalled each job with joy and I could see his youthful ambition sparking in his now aged eyed. Men like him loved their work. They understood what toil, labor, drudgery and pain was. But they also knew that their work was their legacy. It was their visible expression of what they believed freedom and America to be.

That old saying 'they just don't make things like they used to,' is very true. I believe this is because the workers are more interested in their paycheck than in their work. A great example of this concerns the World Trade Center. Both towers were built back in the early 70s. The Empire State building was built back around the 1930s. all three buildings were hit by planes but only the Empire State building is still standing (if you recall, it was hit by a WWII bomber)

Prison work in Texas is done without pay. We don't' even get good time credit for our work. But still, there are men who get up without a word and go to work. Obviously, the spirit of their grandfathers is still alive in them. I only wish our country would once again start building some more great projects. Our president has announced the great project of sending a man to Mars. I am all for it, if the man they send is him! Our country is in bad repair. We don't need to go to Mars, we need to work right here. America is quickly turning into a wasteland, and debts are at an all time high. T.V. commercials are once again heralding a call for military build up. They talk about how honorable it is to put on a uniform, but shouldn't such honor be best bestowed upon those who feed America?

America needs to get back to the basics; otherwise, George Orwell's pigs will ultimately vote us out too. The spirit of America isn't freedom, it's work. Understand what work is and you'll understand what being an American is.

June 7, 2005

A guard once said "the reason all of you are behind bars is cuz yew aint normal!" I began to think about what he said and what exactly 'normal' meant. It dawned on me that the 'normal' that he was inferring to, was in fact something that most of these guys have never known. Many of these guys adopt their own version of 'normal' because they simple 'do' as they see others 'do'/ In prison this is a very bad practice. The reason why is that most of what you see being done in here is immoral unnatural and 100% abnormal. But the rule in here is plain, "if the tribe does it, and I am a tribesman--then by golly I'm gonna do it too!".

I believe that if the prison would open its doors for mentors, then this tribal mentality would disappear. Within these walls there are no rules. The guards sleep in the pickets as inmates run up with towels wrapped around their heads and expose themselves to them. The guards only get mad because their sleep is disturbed. It is definitely a zoo in here with all the uncontrolled activity. But for them this is normal.

We can easily factor this altered normalcy into the recidivism statistics. If a man is convicted for robbery, sent to prison for a number of years where stealing from other inmates isn't punished, then why is the public so shocked when he gets out and robs someone else? The system has a framework for such offenders. But the guards must implement it or else it is worthless. I witnessed an inmate threaten a guard's life over him writing a case for being out-of-place. The guard quietly retreated and later wrote up a 'threatening an officer' case. This inmate told his boss (another guard) about the two cases and this boss went up and stole the paperwork. Now the guard that was threatened no longer writes cases. You can go spit in his face and he wont do a thing (perhaps that's a bit extreme but you can see my point). What I would like to see is this prison to be staffed with retired army sergeants. Everyone out of bed at 3 am, fall out the rec yard for exercise breakfast at 5 am, work call at 6 am and mandatory school or treatment programs from 3 to 6pm. The drill sergeants would never tolerate the zoo or tribal atmosphere and everyone would receive a major dose of reality. This alone would change the inmates mind about prison. As for now, Texas' prisons are simply put "club Med" for the abnormal. Bring in the drill sergeants, give us our good time and work time credits and soon the prison populations in Texas will be greatly diminished.

But since this more than likely wont happen, the insanity will continue in here and the malignant cancer that it breeds will be slowly injected back into society in the form of parolees.

June 8, 2005

Today is the day of many anniversaries. Let's begin back in 1997. I was arrested on May 25th of that year. The crimes which I was accused of carried two life sentences and the town in which I was arrested placed me on display in the city jail. Dozens of 'respectable' citizens came down in packs to point and ridicule me. In their minds, I was already found guilty and they voiced their opinions of my fate. I spent 10 days on display and was then chained hand and foot to be transferred into the Dallas country jail. Once we arrived in this fortress, I was unchained and escorted at gun point into a receiving area. I had no shoes, the floor was cold and sticky--the air filled with the stench of vomit, urine, and the sounds of women crying. Loud men cursing suffocated the thoughts of myself. I couldn't believe that such a place existed in the city I loved. They placed me in a holding cell that was about 10' by 10'. It had a toilet that was overflowing with urine, feces, and bologna sandwiches. The sandwiches were the only food we got in there and obviously the people who were in there before me objected to them. One by one, more men were sent into my tiny room until we only had room to stand. I was the only white and the others thought it was funny that I also was the only one without shoes. They urinated in the floor as I stood in it. I stood in that room for three days. Sleep wasn't possible for there was no place to lie down and I certainly didn't trust anyone on that room. Mentally I was losing my grasp. Several men left and several others took their place, but one man entered whose appearance and actions so shocked me that I couldn't withstand my tears. He wore rags, clearly a street urchin who ran into the cell and hungrily began swallowing down all the soiled sandwiches. In my heart I cried out "is this man me?" On the next day I was bonded out of jail by a dear friend. I was so disoriented that I didn't by a dear friend. I was so disoriented that I didn't know if it was morning or evening. I wept as my friend drove me home. This was my first June 8th celebration.

My trial was postponed time and time again. But every month, I went to court not knowing if the final date was that day. Then, after two full years the date was set and I appeared for my trial. People I loved dearly took the stand against me. The judge looked at me only one time, it was when he sentenced me to 45 years in prison. As I signed the commitment papers I noticed the date, it was once again June 8th. The first month of prison nearly killed. The stress, the heat, and the unimaginable weight of such a sentence took its toll. My wife had located an attorney and evidence was found that indicated my innocence. A motion for a new trial was submitted and I was granted a hearing. The judge heard all of the evidence but refused to reverse his decision. I was soon on a bus back to prison. We were out of money and on our own in putting together my appeal. My wife borrowed $7000 to pay an attorney. The man took our money and never did a thing. I was running out of time and my situation seemed hopeless. My wife was doing all she could, but I was seeing the terrible end of our life together. As I laid in my back, my mind was awash with ending my life. Another inmate came over and gave me a piece of paper that said:

"Better days are coming,
The storm will cease,
A solution will present itself,
Help is on the way,
Darkness of the soul will give way to
Light, love and peace."

As I read that piece of paper, I seized upon the words 'help is on the way.' I had planned on slitting my wrist that night, but I began praying instead. I told God that I would trust in his word. I put down the razor blade and fell asleep as I prayed. The next morning I was woken up by the crash of a steel legal box hitting the floor. It belonged to Greg Moore, who incidentally had the reputation of being the best Jailhouse Attorney in the region. When I saw him, I heard a voice screaming inside of me "get up and tell him! Tell him about your case!" As he was unpacking, I took my papers to him and like a helpless child, I asked him for help. Greg took a long time to read all my papers. He then told me that he would take my case for free. He said it was a clear winner and he got right to work on it. It's very important for you to understand that although I dropped out of school in the 10th grade, I got my G.E.D. and went on quite successfully to college. But for those nine months in the prison law library, I couldn't understand a thing. It's like my mind had shut down totally, but after Greg arrived, my wheels began turning again. I learned from watching him and by reading his briefs. Later on, the education would be invaluable for several other inmates.

Greg completed my writ of Habeas Corpus application and after the court sat on it for nearly a year, I was called back to court again. We were to have an evidentiary hearing and the date was set for none other than June 8th. The court listened to clear evidence that I was not guilty, but incredibly, the judge ruled against me. I would learn later that I witness had spoken to the judge and claimed that all the testimony was forced by me. I didn't know that back then, my wife had found another man and didn't want me to get out of prison. She later married him the day after our divorce. I was once again headed back to prison.

With my State appeal torpedoed and my wife gone, my only hope was a Federal Habeas Appeal. Greg dumped onto this in a rage.

Greg and I no longer were at the same prison. He was down south and I was here in New Boston. When I arrived at this unit, I didn't know a soul. I put in for the law library and grabbed one of their thousands of books and began to read a case at random. It was about a horrible double murder where two girls were killed and their bodies burned in their car. The case was long, but I read it all. I later returned to my pod and ran into a guy I knew from another unit. I told him where I had been and he said he had a case that he needed help on. When I saw that name on the case, I was shocked. It was the same case that I had just randomly read in the library. The guy who had the case wasn't really working on it. He was simply collecting $20.00 a month from the kid's granny. I took the case and continued to be shocked. A juror was seated who was actively serving probation for a felony burglary. His name was almost identical to mine: me => David Michael Gordon, him=> Michael David Gorney.

But the most shocking part of this case was the date of the murders. It was the same day I was released from the Dallas County Jail, June 8th, 1997. This man's case is now sitting in the fifth circuit and I am fighting for him with all I've got. The evidence at his trial did not point to him as a killer. He was convicted by the testimony of a man who admitted to being at the scene, was seen leaving the area covered in blood, admitted to stealing the victims identification cards but was granted immunity to convict two others.

In the meantime, Greg won my case in the fifth circuit. The state appealed saying my petition was filed too late and now I sit here waiting to hear if the court has ruled on my case. I am not worried in the least bit. Why? Because it's June 8th 2005! I'll keep you posted on what happens.

June 9th, 2005

I know it is not required that I should write something each and everyday. But if I didn't, then you would only see prison in a fragmented form. There a re good days in here as well as the bad (of which I've spent lots of ink in discussing them). Today I wish to talk about those good days.

The most memorable good day occurred back in 2001. My wife brought my kids to see me and for the first time I was able to hold my youngest son. He was just learning how to walk and in his excitement to see me, he took his first steps in prison. He was so full of energy but when I held him and our eyes met, the world stood still. I was so effected by him that I wrote a long poem and titled it 'Impossible'. I would include it with this essay but my wife has it...I hope. I wrote dozens of stories for our kids. I hope my wife kept them. I am afraid she discarded them when she discarded me.

Another happy moment was when, after having major surgery for a heart attack, my mom came to see me. She looked like an angel. She was so tiny and frail. She wore a white fuzzy sweater that was inlaid with pearls. I will never forget how beautiful she was on that day.

We sometimes get bored in here and we pull some pretty good practical jokes on each other. A sprinkle of cayenne pepper on a toilet seat is always fun on a hot day and a drop of shampoo in a friend's coffee pot will always keep his pot clean. Probably the two best jokes I've seen pulled were these tow: while a man was in the shower, someone swapped his boxers out with another pair that had the crotch cut out. Since we all shower out in the open, he had quite an audience as he tried on his mini-skirt. The other memorable joke was where the unit artist drew a full sized lady (sans clothing) in his victim's bed sheet. When the victim came in from work he was mortified. Several guards told him his girlfriend had to go because she was drawn so perfectly, one of them offered to buy her.

Another prank involves a sleeping victim. In prison it is understood that if a boot is sitting on the wall the inmate in the cell is...shall I say... releasing his tensions?! Anyway, as the unsuspecting victim is asleep out his boot on the wall. When he wakes up...you'll know it.

Sometimes we end up with irritating cellies. They always seem to want to borrow something, but never run out of cigarettes. These types don't own a hot pot (used to heat water for coffee), or a clock. So naturally, they always want to know what time it is or needing a cup of hot water. To end this is easy. Put a sock in the hot pot and when he asks for a cup, pull the sock out while he's holding his cup. He'll never ask again. And as for wanting to know what time it is, set your clock ahead 45 minutes. You'll notice that he starts leaving for work a lot earlier.

We do such things out of boredom. I've not seen a joke that was designed to really hurt someone. We've all been victims. It is just part of being a part of the family. The other good days are when we see guys go home. They may total morons, but after they've gone, we usually miss them. Now if they were one of the loud 'Tarzan-type' morons, we seldom miss those.

My sentence is a very long one. But I've found a way to shorten it up substantially. I try to find someone who is slotted to go home and I live my life vicariously counting down the days with them. When they leave, they take a piece of me with them. Sadly, in Texas, very few of us get to go home.

But the one good day that I am waiting for is when it's my turn to go home. I am sure we will all count down the days together and then, when it's time to go, I'll pick up my belongings and head for the door. But before I leave, I'll turn around one last time. I'll look at each man and remember them not as cellies or even morons... I'll remember them as brothers that I will probably never see again. Maybe that day wont be so good after all.

June 10, 2005

Prison is a place where you can be whatever you want to be. I've known men who have 'said' they flew fighter jets, rescued beautiful women from shark infested waters and gave personal advice to President George W. Bush.

Actually, as they speak these unbelievable stories what they are really trying to say is "I hate who I was, so I've created in my imagination a person that everyone would love and named him 'me.' This person's favorite subject is his hew 'me' and with each encounter with someone new, they will soliloquize their new 'me's life story with a constant look in their eye that says "Okay, he bought that whopper, now let's feed him a bigger one!"

As I met such liars, I find myself pitying them. And in such pity, I take on the burdensome task of trying to figure out who they truly are.

We've all heard stories of children who get lost in the woods. As adults, we feel the need to go find them and bring them home to safety. But when we search those verdant forests, the children who are lost will often hide from us and giggle at our attempts to find them. Such is true for a chronic liar. The lies become the only joy in their lives and when someone approaches them with a painful truth, they run from it, usually angrily. These liars love their façade of lies so much, that soon, they no longer know who they once were.

It is easy to simply label them as deviants, but I find myself wondering why an individual would ever find it necessary to lie about who or what he is. You can say it has something to do with the way he grew up, or even that it is the product of some consuming sin...But I'll disagree. I believe such liars are merely the product of an unforgiving society. We all have the innate desire to belong to a group. It's this desire that keeps us wearing the latest styles, buying the newest cell phones and joining into social groups of all varieties. But this desire to conform does nothing but erase who you are individually and gives you a false identity that is corporate instead of independent. In other words, you have created a new 'me' and are hiding like a child in the forest of a society that wouldn't care if you dropped dead.

The worst lies a person could ever tell are the ones which he himself believes later to be true. I see this daily in prisoners and sometimes in myself. We must recognize such weeds in our personalities and pull them quickly lest they seed and spread. Who we are as individuals is what is important. I love our country, but I am not much for baseball and apple pie. Our country is called 'the great melting pot' of the world. But what, may I ask, are we being melted into? The greatness of who we are in a nation rests in who we are as individuals. If we ourselves don't know, or are willing to admit, who we truly are--then maybe it's time for all of us to sit down and possibly consider that this is why the world hates us. Relationships are all built upon the foundation of trust. Since the world can't trust us, then perhaps it's time to change our ways? Our icons are falling in record numbers, our corporations are being consumed with corruption and our government? Our government is only a mirror of who we are ourselves. Be careful of what you say concerning that mirrored reflection. If at any point in our lives we find ourselves as cast-aways from society, only then can we truly see the ugliness of who society truly is. I am not advocating a separatist theory of life. I am only appealing for society to embrace its individuals, stop being one giant melted glob of uninformed goo and stop executing your wounded citizens. I see our nation as our fore fathers saw it, as a holy free nation of people. Our laws are the best in the world and I believe that we as a people have it within us to be a type of society that where if an offending member is cast aside, he will turn back and see the beauty of society and yearn with tears to return. It all begins where our fore fathers told us: "With truth and justice for all."

June 11, 2005

It's Saturday morning. We are still locked down. So far, it's been 16 days. If you care to know what this is like, just empty out a closet and lock yourself in it. It sounds easy, but if you actually tried it, you'd probably only last about 20 minutes in there.

When most people think of prison, they instantly think of iron bars. But surprisingly, in Texas, only the oldest of units have those bars. I have been fortunate in that I have been allowed to experience that type of unit and even got to spend a lot of time 'behind bars'. Perhaps I should stop for a moment and explain what I mean by 'fortunate'.

Most of you who are reading this journal will never see the depths of a prison. You are left only to drive by and see them only from the outside. Your minds are crippled by the magic of Hollywood. Filled with their made up beliefs, you probably have no desire to visit a prison. But if the urge did strike you, you would be surprised to know that you are not allowed to enter the prison that you paid for.

The authorities claim that its for your safety that you aren't' allowed. But the truth is that the reason they wont let you in, is for 'their safety'--actually, a more direct reason would be for their 'Job's safety'.

Prison holds a ton of secrets. In Texas, it is best if you don't ask questions, because the answers may prevent you from sleeping. But in effort not to stray too far off of our subject, you are not allowed in here and they don't want you in here. Unless of course, you happen to be a convicted felon.

"Fortunately", for this journal's sake, I indeed am such a felon. Therefore, I'll gladly lend you my eyes as we take this brief tour. We will limit the tour to the experience of living behind those iron bars.

To fully appreciate this tour, I must ask that you imagine yourself locked inside of an empty closet. You have 3 walls that are made of solid concrete. Your door is an iron gate that is made of welded iron and bars. The size of the cell is 5'x11'. Basically the size of your average parking space. Take a moment and imagine yourself there. You are not allowed out no phone, no TV, no air conditioner, and no friends or family. The only thing you do is have the knowledge that you will remain in here for years and an object laying in the floor which is your 'cellie'. As he rolls over to look at you, his face is contorted with a visible expression for the disgust that you inwardly feel towards him. In a defiant release of gas, he rolls back over without saying a word. You turn away from him only to be met by the bars of iron.

It was in 2001, that I was in such a position. The prison was the "Ellis One Unit" in Huntsville, TX. My cellie was Hispanic and instantly hated me because I wasn't. I was surprised that such a small package could hold so much antipathy and hatred. He was barely 5' tall and couldn't have weighed over 120 pounds. Nevertheless, he hated me.

Loneliness comes in many forms and it doesn't always require the element of solitude. I was never more than 5 feet from this man, but I felt as though I was entirely alone. This type of loneliness is more than oppressive, it's violent.

Each night, I would lie in my bunk and stare thoughtfully around our cell. Fortunately at night, my cellie slept in the top bunk so this was the only time that I didn't have to look at him. After several nights, I noticed that the shadows of those cold iron bars were filling the cell with perfectly formed crosses. They reminded me of the cross that my mom hung over my bed as a child and also, of the earlier memory of a gold cross that hung on a chain around my neck. As I thought about those crosses, I began to pray about my mom, my family--and yes, even my cellie. It wasn't long before he and I began to talk. He was a gang member and was under orders not to speak to me. Therefore, we spoke only when it was night. Soon, we became friends. Friendship in prison, especially across race lines is dangerous. It was around that time, that I told him about my prayers. Surprisingly, he got angry. Soon, we were back to not speaking and I found peace in reading my Bible. For 3 weeks from sun up to sun down, I did nothing but read my Bible. My situation was desperate and since no one would help me move out of that cell, I prayed for God to move me. I felt in my heart that after I read my Bible from cover to cover, God would move me.

My cellie was greatly annoyed that I would spend so much time reading. It never occurred to me that he needed my disdain to live on. As I read my Bible the oppressive loneliness left me and rested upon my cellie. He complained, "that book can't help you!" I told him he was right, but the God who inspired it can. I also told him that when I had finished reading it, I would be moved away from him. Suddenly, he began asking me daily how much more I had to read. He clearly wanted me to be gone. On May 27, 2001, I finished reading my Bible. I packed all my things up into a bag and waited for the chain boss to come. My cellie mocked me derisively stating 'you gotta be insane! You gotta 45 year sentence and you think they're just going to come pick you up and release you?" He and 100 others on the run made fun of me at night...until the chain boss came. The 'chain boss' had a list of the inmates which were 'on-the-chain'. This means 'on the bus' to somewhere else.

The run was quiet until someone yelled 'How many of us are on your list?" He replied "just one". Another voice yelled out 'Which row?" He replied again "two row". As I sat on my bunk, I could hear the dozens of murmuring voices, 'that's Gordon's row!" I felt confident that God had come to get me. As the chain boss walked my way, I closed my eyes in thankful prayer that I would be leaving this place. I heard the jingling of his keys drawing nearer to me, but then, he continued walking. He was there for another man. I sat back down on my bunk as the run erupted into laughter. I ignored them and began praying. "What is it that I have done?" The answer came to me instantly. I never shared the Gospel with my cellie. The next morning, I woke up and waited for my cellie to get up. When he awoke I told him why I didn't leave. He exploded in a rage! But there was nowhere for him to go. As I held by Bible and told him the gospel, he punched, kicked, and scratched me til I was bloody. I held him down on the toilet and as blood dripped into my Bible, I finished telling him of Christ. He stood over at the gate seething in anger as I cleaned up my blood. When they opened the door for lunch, I stayed in the cell. Blood was everywhere and if a guard saw it, my cellie would be locked up. I knew my job was complete and I once again got ready to go. My cellie came back like a great hero. He had told everyone of how he beat me up and each one of them came by to laugh at me. But later that night, when the chain boss came and yelled my name, the whole run was deathly silent. The chain boss told me that I was going back to Dallas for a bench warrant. I told him I would be right down. I grabbed my bags and looked back at my cellie, he was in tears. In a broken voice he cried "why does it have to be this way?" I told him plainly, "Because you are a stubborn pig-headed man." I put my bags down when he said he wanted to accept Christ. We said a prayer and he asked me to write to him but I refused. I turned on our light and stripped down to my boxers. Then I told him "Look at me. This is what I want you to remember. Never forget what you did to the man who gave you the gospel."

I've not seen my cellie since. My last memory of him was as I was standing out on the run. When the door slammed shut behind me, I looked back and smiled. My cellie didn't know it, but the shadows of those bars filled his cell with crosses. I am sure he's doing just fine.

I hope you enjoyed our little tour. For you it was just an intermission of your daily activity. But for me and "Gavino", it was a time that greatly effected both of our lives.

June 12, 2005

Someone once asked me what does it take to be a perfect guard. There are many things to consider with this question. But I think it would be easier to say what the perfect guard is not.

The perfect guard is not a woman. Women can never shake their maternal instincts. They will always pick out certain inmates to adopt. I see this most with the 'granny' class of guards. These women fawn over their adopted sons and often break the rules by bringing in contraband to their children. The dangerous side of these grannies is when their children (i.e. inmates who have woo'd her into submission) make enemies. The grannies have been some of the most dangerous guards for this reason. I've seen them turn their backs as inmates were beaten all at the behest of their 'children'.

The perfect guard is not under 30 years old. I have seen kids fresh out of high school wearing guard uniforms. These kids are so unstable in their own lives that they quickly pick-up and become the same riff-raff that is so prevalent within these walls. These prisoners sit around constantly trying to outwit and manipulate the guards. They are masters of manipulation and will conquer you with verbal violence or sanctimonious display of tears. A young guard has not the experience to form even the most subtle salient defense against such forms of manipulation. The danger involved with a young guard is two-fold. Either he will seek to be accepted by a group or he will ultimately be dominated by a controlling group.

The perfect guard is not frail or weak physically. In this tribal society, size dictates nobility. It isn't too hard to see that most inmates can easily bench press a buick (I'm still working on lifting a VW.) to staff prison with a bunch of "Barney Fife's" is to set the stage for prison riot. I've seen such small guards get angry, but because eof their size, they could not properly assert their authority. Such guards resot to tactics of cohert retaliation. This retaliation is seen by these tribal men as an act of war. The Barney Fife's are never around when the wars begin. They simply are the burning ember that ignited the fuse, the flame, the forest.

The perfect guard must not believe that prisoners are less than human. Bigotry, racism, and fanaticism have no place in a guard's heart. Such beliefs warp the view of the guar's simple mission to maintain control and custody of the prison population. In Texas, we are plagued with 'red'neck' and 'bubba' guards. They clump together in their own gangs and exact their own form of vigilance justice upon whomever they dislike. The only requirement for being in their 'gang' is to wear a cowboy hat. These officers look comical in their attire and often wear spurs on their boots as weapons to kick downed inmates.

I have always said that the trouble with our prisons rests with the type of guards who work there. To illustrate this more clearly, understand that 'liberty' will also operate in an uncontrolled fashion. There must be a balance of these two forces not only in prison, but out there in your society as well. The qualities I have mentioned concerning prison guards, sets equally with your local police departments.

Officers must be experienced men who have earned the right to assert a governing authority. Such men are already established financially and emotionally solid individually. They will not be swayed by manipulation and their very presence will serve as an example to those in here who have never seen a positive role model.

A closing point is that society must see a use for it's released prisoners. It is clear that no one out there wants an ex-felon around their home and I would agree with them that today's ex-felons are more dangerous than those of 20 years ago. This 'increased menace' is cause by society shutting its doors to those who have fallen. Screen inmates who have served their sentences, find the ones who have benefited from their incarceration and hire them as guards. Mandate that they work in pairs consisting of mixed races and require monthly reports on the status of the prison population under their control. Only a prisoner can tell you what another prisoner is thinking. It is more than what is seen or heard. A prisoner can pick up on tension that guards cannot understand. My answer to 'what does it take to be a perfect guard?' is now clearly defined. It takes experience as a man, and experience as a prisoner. These two experiences must be in balance, just as 'liberty' must be balances with 'authority.'

June 13, 2005

The lockdown has officially ended, everyone is all excited. You see, on a lockdown just about everything stops. The guys who work in the chowhall are no longer able to sell stolen food to us. The guys in laundry aren't able to keep aside the best clothes to sell. The dorm janitors run out of contraband to transport, and the gamblers, who incidentally happen to be those who I've mentioned above, all run out of money for spending it upon their habits of cigarettes.

When the lockdown ends, 'the game' resumes. If everyone would pay attention to what's actually going on, they would learn a valuable lesson in economics.

Society is an organism, much the same as this prison. There is always a prime moving force behind every economic system. This force is required to keep the flow of commerce rolling, just as a mouse is required to keep the thread wheel spinning.

It would be easy to point to one item, such as 'oil' and say that it is that force. But oil in itself is nothing. Go purchase a 55 gallon drum and tell me what use you have for it. The force behind every economic system is its people. You will notice, as I have in prison, that the more creative a person is, the more commerce moves around him or her.

I see a plethora of creative individuals here in prison. Unfortunately, they tend to divert that creative energy into illegal activities. But I ask, what reward have they from society to do otherwise?

Society has done it's best to destroy the minds who date to be creative. Schools actually punish our children for not fitting their expected moldings as silent receptacles of single sided doctrines. When such children of whom society labels as 'rebels' or, more clinically speaking 'Attention Deficit Disorder" or "hyper active," grow to believe the labels that society has affixed to them, you will end up with a society of victims, drones, and prisoners. Such a society is devoid of creativity. In fact, they fear it.

It takes creative minds to move forward. I just don't see any such minds out there today. Show me an Einstein, what about and Edison or a Ford... In prison, I've seen men take a sack of trash and make an air conditioner, a sailing ship, a horse and wagon, and dozens of airplanes with movable parts. What have you seen in society?

I believe this creative energy is out there, but to bring it out would undoubtedly take a 'lockdown.' Such a lockdown occurred in the 1930s. It is remembered as the Great Depression." When the 'force' behind the economy faded away (the force being public trust in the dollar) companies shut down, people lost their droning jobs and many died. But the Great Depression served our country's greater good by destroying the economy of old and replaced it with a new economy that was supported by Americans who knew their gross national product was worth every penny they claimed it to be. It was the age of true American hard work. This age made it possible of America to react so quickly to WWII. American industry was almost instantaneous in their transition from peace time's wares to wartime wares. The Great Depression also caused Americans to look around them and think about what other ways they could survive. Such is true in this prison on every lockdown.

It's been 70 years since society was 'locked down' by the Great Depression. Economists agree that such events come in 100 year cycles. It is not easy to think about, but the overall effect of a lock down is a renewing freshness of the old and a surprising entrance of the new.

Lock downs in prison are sadly a part of prison life. But sadder yet is that society must endure them as well. It is easy to tell when a lockdown is coming in prison. You'll notice that the natives begin to get restless. The comfort that their labors bring them, fuels their ambition to desire more than they truly need. The end results are sharp rises in prices, shoddy products, and an overall uncaring attitude towards others. Does this sound like your society? If so, get ready for your unavoidable lockdown. But don't feel hopeless, when it's over, your world will be renewed and you will once again be grateful for the smallest things instead of the largest.

June 14, 2005

Have you ever looked at a brick wall and wondered which was more important, the bricks or the mortar? Most people don't even notice the mortar since the bricks seem to command the viewer's attention. Such is true with people too.

Although is arguable that there are billions of people and not one is the same, it is quite striking to see that all people will fit nicely into the two categories of 'bricks' or 'mortar'. People who fit into the 'brick' category are generally strong individuals whose personalities are larger than life. These people stick out in a crown and draw the attention away from others who undoubtedly are of the mortar category.

People of the 'mortar' variety is generally the quiet type. They choose to observe others and they enjoy helping others to succeed. 'Mortar' folks very easily clump together while 'brick' folks tend to be individualistic. If you'll look again to that brick wall, you will notice that not one brick is in contact with another brick. Yet the mortar is all interconnected. There is a great lesson to be learned from a brick wall.

As a society, we must recognize whom among us is of the 'brick' and who is of the 'mortar'. In business, this is called sorting out the executive staff from the equally important sales staff. The executive (mortar folks) must all be of one accord. They understand the importance of each salesman (brick folks) and they support him in a total enclosure that enables him to embody the identity of the company itself. This is but one example of many. The trouble arises when the two are not used properly.

There is evidence of this trouble all over the world. Before I go further, please know that cricks do not simply 'stick' together and although mortar will collect in great clumps, it generally has no strength and will crumble if placed under pressure. People are truly the same.

Back in the days of the sophists, the world was ruled by 'thinkers." These were clearly mortar folks who when their society was at its apex, they crumbled in disagreements.

Hitler and Mussolini were clearly bricks. These two men never saw eye-to-eye and never did their ambitions come to fruition.

I use these examples because they are so well know. In prison, I see a ton of bricks with very little mortar. There is neither uniform structure nor direction to quell the chaos of bricks attempting to stick to other bricks. It is an inherent trait for men to seek out growth. Sadly though, too many bricks believe that they can stand without the mortar of wisdom and individual support. Inmates are like that. They pridefully profess that they don't need any help. But they, of all people, need the greatest of help. Society must see the great potential of these castaway bricks. Give a brick mortar and it will adhere to other bricks. The mortar is the deciding force behind what is built. Out society has a great resource and isn't using it for its future benefit. Perhaps society, just like prison, has evolved to a point where those who would be mortar have settled themselves for being brick. It truly is a sad day to be an American.

June 15, 2005

It was extremely hot today. After being locked down for 17 days, today was our day to go to the store. Going to the store in prison isn't like going to the store out there in society. We must prepare a list of items that we want and pass it through a small window at the store. There is always a long line to contend with and today I waited in it for 7 1/2 hours

The heat was unbearable. Nevertheless we all withstood out of necessity. My necessity was stamps. Without them, writing this journal would be pointless. Most of the other inmates were buying ice cream and candy. Since they can't read or write, they think I'm insane for 'wasting' my money on stamps. I guess the heat was too much for me--because I decided to buy a pint of ice cream. Its price was $1.50, that's 4 stamps that I scratched off my list. When I finally got to the window, they called 'count time.' "Count time" is where all movement stops and the guards do a body count (just to make sure non of us decided to go to Wal-Mart).

Count lasts about an hour on this farm and in this heat, standing out in the sun; my ice cream had to be eaten right away. I rarely buy ice cream. What money I get is always best spent upon stamps and hygiene items. Today the ice cream was a significant treat. It was absolutely lovely! All frosted up with a gentle artic cloud rolling off against the heat. I held it close to my mouth and inhaled its fresh, crisp coolness. The lid had the words 'tin roof' spelled across it and as I twisted it off, the frozen cream's appearance took me back to an earlier time in my life where I once nearly died in the snow.

It was the winter of 1982. I was a private in the U.S. Army and was stationed in West Germany. We were called out on maneuvers to an unknown location. I was the lowest ranking man, so I had to ride in the back of a deuce and a half. It was cold in the lowlands and we were headed up into the mountains. Snow fell in huge clumps and the higher we went, the colder it got. Private Miller was with me that day. We both realized that we were getting too cold so we beat on the truck's window. The sergeant and the two spec 4's were warm in the cab, they laughed at our situation. The snow was falling heavier and soon we were detached from our convoy. Army protocol dictated that we pull off the road and camouflage ourselves. To me, this was insanity. Miller and I were ordered to spread the camouflage nettings as the other three slept warmly in the truck. As it got colder, Miller and I got desperate. The wind kept us from building a shelter and the back of the truck was a frozen sheet of steel. We exercised to stay warm, but soon were worn out and wet from sweat. Miller was a jovial country boy from Tyler, Texas. He came to Germany because a friend told him about the legalized prostitution. He never took anything serious until the night that he and I realized we could die in the cold. We burrowed into the snow to get out of the wind. Our wet clothes had turned to ice and we both were getting painfully numb. They say that freezing to death is easy; you just fall to sleep and its over. That's a lie. Freezing is extremely painful. It felt like sharp stabbing pains in my arms and legs. My back hurt so bad that it went into spasms and kept me from breathing. As the thought of dying gripped us, I got angry. The men in the truck had loaded 45's and all we had were empty m-16's. When a man's life is in danger, his personality totally changes. As I yelled at them for help, they ignored me. The truck was running and Miller and I crawled up under the hood. We were able to stay warm under there. The fan blade was huge and neither of us dared falling asleep for fear of falling into it. It snowed all night and most of the next day. At nightfall we heard a voice off in the distance. Our company commander had formed a search party and was searching for us. Private Miller's jovial smile returned and soon we were headed back down the mountain. As I was remembering the ride back down that bumpy mountain, I felt a bump that jarred me back into this prison. It was a guard telling me that count was clear and I could go back to my cell. It was then that I noticed that my ice cream had totally melted. A younger inmate asked me why I let it all melt. I told him it was better that way because deep down inside of me, I was freezing to death.

Prison is a world of extremes, but we must endure them without giving up. In my mind, there is always sometime in my life where I was hotter, colder, sadder, and lonelier. I just keep patiently waiting for they day where I can say "I've never been happier."

June 16, 2005

"There is a storm coming."

These words have been used to instill a fear within us. Stephen King used them in "The Stand," Ray Bradbury immortalized them in "Something Wicked This Way comes." Few people know that their origin was in Shakespeare's "Macbeth." The three evil sisters predicted the death of a king and the judgment of his murderer.

As I repeat these foreboding words "There is a storm coming," I mean them with all the danger and prophetic warning as others did in the past. As I sit here in this Texas prison, I look around as the lightning rod salesman did in Bradbury's book. The clouds are hovering on the horizon and the air is filled with the static rumble of the not too distant thunder...

There have been a number of strange events that have taken place in this prison.

Back around 2000, it was reported that an inmate was denied parole at the French Robertson Unit. They said he grabbed a nurse and raped her. He then hung himself. The guards at that unit have told a very different story. The inmate was 'seeing' a female officer regularly on an intimate basis. This officer was engaged to a lieutenant and was caught in the act with this inmate. Needless to say, the inmate did not hang himself.

Not too long after that, the warden of this same unit was driving to the prison and he crashed into a car killing the other driver ( A nurse from the Middleton Unit). The warden was drunk, yet never prosecuted. T.D.C. announced that he would be fired, but was merely transferred to be the warden at the Ellis One Unit.

Then, in March of this year, a civilian employee was found raped and murdered in the administration building at the Connolly Unit. A suspected inmate was also found dead at the scene. The preliminary report was that the inmate committed the crime and then committed suicide. But when D.N.A. was collected, it pointed to a high ranking prison official as the rapist. This story hit the mainstream media and was quickly hushed by the Bush Regime headed by Texas Governor Perry.

After this, one of the officers at the Telford Unit was run over by a truck while riding his bicycle. This officer was notorious for having enemies and his death was quickly classified as a murder.

Another officer was caught having sex while on duty by his wife who also is a guard. The two women threatened each other's lives, yet all three officers still work here.

One female officer in Abilene wanted a baby so bad that she stole one from a shopping cart at Wal-Mart. They caught her in Oklahoma.

An officer in Hunstville while off duty would 'patrol' the red light district flashing a fake badge to the prostitutes and demanding sex from them. T.D.C. attorneys defended him as an upstanding citizen.

I could go on with more of this, but the reason I've said anything at all is because just moments ago, two female guards tried to kill each other in out picket.

Yes, a storm is coming. In the past six years of my confinement, I have seen more violent acts done by those paid to protect us, than by inmates themselves. A guard once showed me a photo album that he kept in his truck. It had dozens of Polaroid photos of inmates that were bloody and beaten, by him, the guard said he liked to show it off to his dates. This guard was married with two children. None of these inmates have a voice. Most of them have no families. It troubles me greatly that our America sleeps as such wickedness comes upon them. I believe Shakespeare covered the situation well in these Texas prisons when he wrote:

     	"Double double toil and trouble,
fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Needle prick into your thumb,
Something wicked this way comes."

...yes, there is a storm coming.

June 17, 2005

Tennessee Colony is a small town in the eastern hills of Texas. The citizens there are dependant upon the only two industries in the area, a Wal-Mart warehouse and five maximum security prisons

It was in the summer of 1999 that I arrived in Tennessee Colony. I was riding in a prison bus when I saw most memorable sign. It said: "Welcome to Tennessee Colony," below that is had the names of all the prisons there and below that, in large white letters it said: "Home of the criminally insane."

I actually felt like I was slapped across that face with that remark. It devastated me to think that they considered me to be criminally insane. But after the bus stopped and we got out, several guards began yelling at us. It made me feel so much better to see the guards behave that way, because it made me realize that the sign I saw was not referring to us inmates, it was obviously referring to these crazy guards.

It all makes sense when you stop and think about it. Tennessee Colony is a beautiful place that's opulence in its quiet rolling forested hills, fertile soil and abundant wildlife. Just imagine living in such a paradise. It is truly a place where most people would love to live. But now consider mayor "Joe Bob." He gets a visit from a State official who asks "can we build a maximum security prison in your back yard?" a sane mayor would say "Get lost!" But Tennessee Colony's people replied "Can we un's git five of 'em?"

Prisons are big money in Texas. The prison population in Texas is greater than any other state. Actually Texas was an independent country, it would be rated second in prison population behind China.

The population has grown so rapidly that even with more than 100 prisons, the request is presently being made that 'we need to build more." All of this is the product of the Texas philosophy "lock them up and forget them." Prisons used to be places where you found desperate, violent men. But today, the average inmate is not much different than your next door neighbor, a co-worker or even a person you would sit next to in a church. The truth is plain, good people make bad mistakes. This doesn't mean that they are criminally insane. It simply means that they need help--and help is simply not available for an inmate with a large sentence.

I believe it is insane to throw away your husbands, your brothers and fathers. I believe it is insane to build hundreds of prisons that cost millions of dollars to lock away forever productive members of society. But then again, the people of Tennessee Colony probably would disagree, especially since they freely admit in bold letters that they themselves are criminally insane.

June 18, 2005

Today is graduation day for all our inmates who passed their G.E.D. test. For those who passed, they now have a great hope for achieving even greater goals. I enjoy listening to them because I never had a graduation day. My high school class graduated back in 1981. I had dropped out two years earlier and was in Germany as my class graduated. My oldest sister wrote me a letter that told how it all went. She spoke in such a sad tone that I felt she was conveying the thought that I missed a very important event in my life. When her letter got to me, I was sitting on a mountain in Bavaria. The sky was unusually clear and I read her letter in the moonlight. It was easy to imagine our class president giving a speech about "striving for the mountains tops," but I was already on one. My sister failed to see that not all people travail the same paths to success. Also, one person's idea of success could very well be another's idea of failure. I later ran into my class president. He was working for his mom and refused to believe that I had joined the army and now owned two companies. He was clearly awash with the ingrained doctrines of Huxley's "Brave New World." He saw himself as an 'alpha' and I was clearly a drop-out 'delta,' adversely, I saw him as being an alcoholic who was living in denial of his own reality. I am sure he would find comfort in knowing I am in prison. But little does he know that I am learning more in here than I did out there. It is very true that I never had a graduation day. But one day I'll have a great one. When my time in prison is through, I'll be ready to climb mountains that make all the others look like foot hills. It is true also that I didn't reach success through the conventional means. But the success that I seek requires me to travel these unwanted paths. For through them I have discovered the humility that gives my education value to others. The graduation that awaits me is not mine, it belongs to society itself. I only ray that they will accept me when I am finished.

June 19, 2005

"Happy Father's Day!"

Today is the day where most prisoners remember the dad's they never knew. Nearly every prisoner I've known has shared a common thread of not having a father. Most of them were raised by their mothers (as I was) or by their grandmothers. Being raised without a father has strong repercussions for a child later in life. Fathers are generally the disciplinarians in their families and their mere presence causes all to be perfectly obedient citizens. A child who is raised by a woman will grow up to see himself as his mother sees him, perfect in every way. As the child adopts his mother's viewpoint, he sees all others as inferiors--just as his mother sees him as better than all the other boys. Psychologists call this narcissism, but I call it being the ultimate spoiled brat. The pride that stirs a person to feel superior is the root of all criminal behavior. Chaos arrives when a self ¿assumed superior being meets a clearly established superior. I see that a lot in here. When this happens, the now 'inferior' superior must combat the 'superior' superior by the only means his mother taught him. His weapon of choice, is none other than gossip.

The love of a mother for her son can be the most detrimental force in his life. A boy needs a man in his life in order to establish in his growing mind that it is an error to believe all the implied poetry of a mother's love. I see full-grown boys in their 40s that still believe that their 'pampers' don't stink. They act like juveniles and when you utter a word against them, they respond in a furious rage which is plainly acceptable behavior by their mothers standards.

Go to a grocery store and observe those 4ft. tall terrors. Now observe their non-observant mothers. When Junior grows up and kills someone, it's always the bawling mother you see in tears. It is too bad that you don't see them sentenced with their monstrous sons

Divorce and abortion used to be unspeakable crimes against our families. Today, it's a crime to kick your dog, but legal to murder your unborn baby. I am sort of confused with society's logic. "Families" are becoming taboo, the institution of marriage is becoming a frivolous affair and the duties of a mother and father have been forgotten behind their own selfish desires. "Kids" in today's world are not heirs; they are mere possessions that are used to enhance the parents' social standing. So, therefore, explain to me the logic behind setting aside a day for either a father or a mother. In so doing, you must be very careful to skirt around the subject of divorce, emotional abortion and flat out abandonment. To truly celebrate Father's Day, a person must embrace the institutions that it was built upon: marriage, duty of responsibility and accountability. Without these, the holiday of Father's Day is no more significant than February 2nd ... "Groundhog's Day."

June 20, 2005

I have been trying to figure out some way of describing this prison to you in a way that is easy to grasp. After much thought, I've concluded that prison in Texas is a lot like Gene' Roddenberry's "Star Trek."

The whole cast of characters are here and yes, even the bad guys too.

The captain is the Warden. He generally isn't much different than "Captain Kirk." He...speaks...slowly...and...is...generally followed around by "Spock," our major. Both of these characters are detached from the reality of what's actually going on here. They basically are 'in charge,' but I doubt either of them knows of what. The problems that arise in here are all handled by the lower ranking guards. :These are the heroic "expendable crewmen" that get zapped so easily when things go wrong.

These "expendable crewmen" are hopelessly dependent upon their "Checkov" or "Sulu," :These are their inmate clerks. On every prison farm, it is the clerks that keep the wheels turning. They do the paperwork and are solely responsible for their expendable crewmen's shelf life.

Other inmates work as "Scotties." They are the engineers that work on the plumbing, the lights and just about everything else. All of these characters work together in a "Federation" that must combat not only their daily responsibilities, but also those enemies who are sworn to destroy them.

The "cling ons" are the muscled up aggressive types that growl and fight like rabid dogs. They seem very primitive, but they are a highly organized bunch of knuckle dragging Neanderthals that, if given the chance, will attack like fire ants in a riot of unprecedented violence.

The "Romulans" are the quiet ones who sit and plot against the system. They have the uncanny ability to start a war and then vanish by using their "catch out" cloaking device.

Star Trek just would not be the same without the "alien women," and sadly, we've got lots of them in here. I'd like to see our Warden kiss one of them like Captain Kirk did. Yikes!!

The "cling ons" and the "Romulans" are clearly the sworn enemies of the Prison Federation. But the "Pharinggees," with their large ears, do their best to be both enemy and ally. The "Pharingees" are the prison snitches. They live only to benefit themselves. They will tattle on both officer and inmate, and have no problem in fabricating events to stir things up. These types are the enemy of all, yet are nothing compared to dreaded "Borg."

The "Borg" is known as "the collective." In prison, 'the collective" is the majority of inmates who are institutionalized. They have lost their identities and have been assimilated into a group that has only one prime directive, 'to assimilate the universe.'

I see this as the greatest problem in here it is when people give up, that they will cease to have hope. Tyranny overruns them and they will freely give up their remaining constitutional rights to simply be noticed within "the collective." The comparison of prison being similar to "Star Trek" may indeed be humorous--but the obvious application to society is not.

Prisons are in themselves a microcosm of society as a whole. The Borg collective is present out there more than it is in here. It is a world system that infects our lives and alters the way we think. In fact, once a person becomes infected by it, the individual no longer can think for himself or herself. Their decisions are made for them by the collective and soon, the individual will cease to exist becoming only another set of eyes and ears for the collective.

How many people do you know that are like that? People who no longer are individuals, but xerographed copies of those they see around them. They settle for something less than what they're capable of because they would rather be accepted by the collective than to be hunted down by them.

You will notice that these people are hardly ever truly happy. They are buried in their bills and their faces are lined with the worries of the collective. They drown themselves with car payments, mortgages, and desires for unnecessary items like cell phones, pagers, fancy clothes, jewelry, computers and more. These are the necessities of the universe that those in the collective seek to assimilate.

The price of this universe is high. It tried to purchase it and it cost me my most valuable possessions, my wife, my kids, my business, my friends, and my freedom. The cost is no different for you. How many time have you neglected or traded out time that you could have spent with your most valuable treasures in search of something new? To do this will ultimately cause those you love the most to become strangers to you. You will become a prisoner in your own home, and probably wont realize it until you are alone.

It took coming to prison for me to see what I had lost. I had temporarily obtained the universe, but it was not what I expected it to be. As I sat in my prison cell, I gave up my desires for that universe and suddenly realized for the first time in my life that I was totally free. I am no longer a crew member of this 'star ship enterprise,' neither am I an enemy of the 'Federation.' I merely am a passenger that is en route to a most amazing 'Final Frontier."

June 21, 2005

As I sit here writing this journal, I often wonder who my reader might be. It is my sincerest hope that what is written will cause you to see not my story, but yours. Your life is an amazing adventure and if you pay close attention to what is going on around you, the madness of this world will begin to make sense to you. There is a reason for everything and things themselves are not what's important. Their significance comes from what each 'thing' causes you to think. Your mind is a marvelous playground that is enjoyed most if explored inquisitively as a child. God put "things" around us order that we might learn from them. Each lesson pertains to not only 'what' the thing is, but 'who' the person is that's looking at it. So I wonder, who are you and what is it that you see in this Journal. I hope that what you see is a mirror. Through my words I hope that you see your own situations and perhaps can find a few answers within these words.

In my life I have faced the impossible and have lived to see that what once was impossible is now removed. My pint is that is would have been easy to turn and run from my troubles, but I knew that the impossible situation was basically just a thing that I was supposed to learn from. If I had run away, I wouldn't be who I am now. This journal would have never been written and my life would have merely faded into a tapestry of shame that I would have kept hidden from the world.

I don't know who you are or what you are possibly going through. But I say to you, face that impossible situation, push on that immovable object and when your hands are raw and your strength is gone, understanding will come to assist you.

Is it then any wonder that kids can so easily open those child proof containers, program your V.C.R. and set your Microwave clock? Kids don't rely on their own brute strength and neither should we. We should see all things as they do, simple objects to learn from. Face each challenge of life and never run away or give up. Then take a moment and write down what it was that you faced. Maybe even write a journal like this one. Write about the painful heartaches that the struggle caused and then share the joy that your inevitable victory will bring. I can assure you that I will be your reader as you are now mine. I'll look forward to looking into your like as a mirror of my own and reaping the harvest of our gained wisdom.

But whoever you are, even if you never write a word, you are never alone in your struggle. The winds may be blowing against you and the waters may be rising. But through it all, you will have time to ask yourself "why am I here?." The answer is simple. You are there to withstand the waves and to lean against the wind. Both will eventually stop and you will be a much stronger person. I know what all of that feels like and its easy to think that no one on Earth cares about you. But that's simply not true, for down here in Texas there is a prisoner who writes you a love letter every single day in his journal. If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't write these letters. Be strong, be patient and when understanding comes to you, share it with the world.

June 22, 2005

Sometimes it's costly to stand on the truth. When the world believes a lie and someone stands up to object to it, the world quickly puts its weight upon the objector's neck.

His name was Kenny Wayne. He received a most disturbing letter from home that described how his sister's boyfriend had shaken and critically injured his three-yr-old niece. The child sustained a broken arm and several broken ribs. They also believed that she would have permanent brain damage from a closed head injury.

Kenny Wayne shared his letter with everyone in our dorm. They all reacted in horror at what was done. One of them decided to take up a collection for a large card to be made for her. Although this sounded like a wonderful idea, I chose not to contribute to it. The 'tribe' saw my action of non-participation as perverse. After all, who wouldn't want to send a hurt child a gift? The tribe huddled up (as they so often do) and four members were elected to ask me why I refused to donate to their cause. I asked them a question in return "what are you doing for the man who hurt the child?" They exploded in a rage against me, "they should kill him!" was yelled back at me and 'they need to give him the needle for that." As the yelling stopped I explained further, the harm against that child hurts me greatly--but your hatred for the offender hurts me more. You see, there wasn't just one victim in this horrible crime, there were dozens: the child, the family and the offender and his family. It's easy to see the damage inflicted upon the little girl, but what about the damage that now awaits the offender? In only recognizing one victim, 'you are being hypocrites."

Perhaps my words are hard for you to understand, but each one of these convicted offenders knew exactly what I was saying. "He who is among you without sin should cast the first stone."

Slowly they began to see how in each of their own cases that they were once thought of with hatred by the world. They realized not just the crime itself, but the great effect of it on all the people around it. Everyone went to bed early that night. I hoped that they would somehow be different the next day and they were. The man who yelled "they should kill him!" came to me and we talked for quite a while. He said he never looked at his offense from this new perspective. He told of how he has lived his life in defense of what he did and why he did it. The weight of this burden caused him to hate all others of whom he saw as 'worse than' him. I told him about a woman named "Hester" who also committed a terrible crime. The judge sentenced her to be on public display for her crime and for an emblem to be worn by her for the rest of her life that told the world what she had done. Instead of hiding from everyone, she accepted what she had done and also accepted her punishment. Surprisingly, the people in her community accepted her back as a whole person.

My friend listened to this story and agreed that he would follow Hester's example. As he got up to leave he said "They ought to write a book about that!"

As he walked away I laughed inside knowing full well that 'Hester" was the woman who wore Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter."

I think the problem in this area is concerning that of a man's reputation. Our society demands that a person's reputation be spotless, but for most of us, that's just not possible. I love that way the ruthless "iago" described a man's reputation in "Othello" "...reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving." He adds "you have lost no reputation at all unless you repute yourself a loser."

Most prisoners do just that. If only they would accept the horrors of their crimes, learn from them and have compassion upon their victims. Only then will they see to have compassion for not only the victims but also the offender.

But the touchstone of compassion is truth and not too many people can handle it. It is hard to admit what we have done, but we must. For unless we first forgive ourselves in total, then we will never be able to forgive others.

Feel the weight off the truth. Lift it only a little and you will be surprised at how many people will help you carry it. It all begins with a single objection. The tribe wanted to kill me, but now they are putting together two cards; one for the little girl and one for the offender.

June 23, 2005

No Journal written from a prison cell could ever be complete without an entry on "time". For prisoners, the definition of time is much different than what Mr. Webster claims.

So in effort to show you what time is in prison, I will take you on a journey in my time machine. We will be traveling through Alice's looking glass and will explore the backwards world where up is down and left is right. Remember though, as you read my words you must never forget that everything in this Netherland is not to be touched. You must leave it as you have found it, for any disturbance of 'time' beyond the looking glass will indeed disturb the land from which you came.

You will find it to be a strange experience as you pass from one world to another. For in the world that you live in, time is in very short supply, it seems to race past you. But beyond the glass, you'll quickly realize that time is your most abundant commodity. So hold my hand and we will begin our journey into the world of the upside down, the inside out, and the totally backwards.

The first thing you'll notice is that all of this luxuries you enjoyed cannot be felt in here. Since this world is mostly a visual world, your tactile sensations are no doubt crying out in protest. There is no air conditioning, no soft chairs to sit on nor is there a phone or a refrigerator.. What you see before you is all there is. The people you see in here know that you have arrived, but none of them will say hello for fear of being weak before you. Look at one over there. Observe the artwork in his many tattoos. You will notice the nude women, the skulls and monsters that adorn his body. All of this has a deep meaning to it. The nude women signify his masculinity. Since there are no women in here to feed his ego, he must paint them on his body so everyone can see the voluptuous women that he believes would desire him. The skulls are representative of other men who have challenged him and failed. They serve as a warning for others not to bother him. The monsters serve as watch dogs. Their menacing appearance is designed to draw attention away from his poor build and harmless chest. But lets move on to that group over there by the Television set. See how they talk during the show? This comes from their innate need to be a participant in all they see. They will yell at the T.V. during a sports program and become romantically involved with a soap opera. Everything they see is real to them. Their capacity for higher thought is unnecessary since their contentment hinges upon food, sports, and sex. You will notice that even cartoon characters are real people to these men. It is best not to disturb them, but before we step away, look back at how a group of them stands up front cupping their ears to hear while others rudely comment aloud. Don't they look a bit like children with their Mickey Mouse ears on?

Over there by a row of sinks you will see a thin man washing clothes. The clothes he's washing are not his. They belong to several others who pay him pennies for his hard work. It appears to be a noble task but the man uses every penny he earns to buy illegal cigarettes. Tonight he will enjoy a single cigarette in trade for all the work you see him doing. Look at his hands; they are raw from his scrubbing, but stained yellow from smoking.

Please follow me over to the sleeping area. Look into that cell. Do you see the man lying down there as though he were asleep? That man is wide awake. He's laid there like this for the past eleven years. He once had a wife and two children who wrote to him. But when they left, he simply gave up on life. Oh no, please, don't pity this man. For as he lays there in his catatonic state, he fantasizes about destroying the world beyond the looking glass. If only someone out there would reach in to him, write him a letter, or send him a simple card, his anger would fade away and the man we once knew would return.

Two cells down you will notice another man. He stands pacing inside of his cell like a caged animal. Notice that his cell door is open, yet he refuses to step out. This man is terrified of the world he lives in and is slowly losing his mind. Look into his eyes, can't you see the fear and confusion that grips him?

We can spend days visiting all the different varieties of men in here. But since your time is limited, we must move deeper into this realm of the lost. Follow me through these iron doors. The rec. yard is just beyond them.

On this rec. area you will see hundreds of men. Notice how they are all clumped up into groups. The Hispanics are over there, the whites are by the fence and the blacks who make up the vast majority, are themselves broken into various groups. What you are witnessing is racism and gang activity. Pay close attention at this point because it's at this point that this backwards world at times appears to be no different than the world beyond the looking glass.

In your world, you also separate into such groups. Out there you call them 'clicks' or 'clubs' but nevertheless, they are the same. By their very formation, you see boundaries that exclude certain others that are considered 'undesirables'. The segregation on this rec. yard is not instinctive. It is a learned response that infected these men while they were on your side of the looking glass. Step closer to them and observe the prideful looks on their faces. These men must grimace out their pride in here because unlike in your world, they cannot buy a fancy car or any stylish clothes to express their pride for them.

Oh look! An argument is beginning. You will not want to miss this. Notice how loud they yell at each other. Don't waste your time trying to figure out who is right or who is wrong. Arguments are never about such things. This argument is nothing more than a struggle for dominance. See how the big one is leaning into the smaller one? It is frightening to think how easily the larger one could hurt the smaller one? But please don't worry about a fight breaking out. What you are seeing is a tribal ritual of disciplining an errant member. In a moment, everything will return to as it was.

Oh my, I can't keep you much longer, but before we return to the looking glass, observe that man sitting alone in the grass. He once was a productive member of society. His signature was once required on several hundred employee paychecks. But now he sits here complacently in this apparently horrible place without a care in the world. This man is a perfect example of how things can be so opposite in this world from yours. In your world everyone says that they are free. But all of them must go to work to fulfill their obligations for survival. Adversely though, in this horrible world, here before you sits a man who is totally free. Think about this as we rush ourselves back to the looking glass.

I know that all of you are anxious to return to your own world, but let me warn you that we came into this world to discover what time means in prison. You will not fully understand what it means until you step back through the looking glass. The world you left behind has raced onward without you. Your children have grown up and moved away. Your spouses have all given you up for dead and remarried. You homes belong to other people and you have become a stranger to your closest of friends...impossible you say? We've only been here a few moments? Yes indeed, it felt like a few moments, but such is the mystery of time in this world.

So go ahead, jump back into your old world... What's that you say, you are frightened? Then I see for certain that our trip has been a success. For all of us feel the same horror when we pass from one world to another. This fear comes from the unknown, and time itself is one of the greatest unknown mysteries of all. I cannot explain in mere words what time is, but I hope that by showing you how it effects us in prison that you will see the importance of using your time wisely.

But please step back through the looking glass. I admonished you not to tough anything in this world for the merest touch would disturb your time beyond the glass. Since you obeyed my admonishment you may now return safely to your wives, husbands, and children. But as for me, I must stay behind. For my time beyond the glass no longer exists.