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The Diaries

Second and third days in -- 538 to go

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(Early morning: 42 minutes on the exercise bike (11.2 miles) -- easy; push-ups, crunches – hard; isometric standing press (3 X 10) – easy)

Last night, I got 30 minutes sleep. I know I slept because I had one dream – large stone castle, surrounded by a moat, talking with rich occupants about renting the castle with others (Robert Adwell in my dream). Spilled a bag of cannabis on the table, tried to sweep it up unobtrusively, ending up picking up the hosts’ baggie by mistake but kept sweeping mine into theirs until the hostess noticed and reminded me to leave it there. Theirs was Burmese, though they thought it was Thai. Oh, the felonious information I have between my ears that flows freely in short dreamtime.

Had more problems with my phone calls last night, but finally bought a $6.00 AT&T phone card from the “house” vending machine. Tried to reach Cap’n D (Deborah Narrigan) – got her fax machine three times last night and her answering machine three times this morning. Called to suggest more “voter-verified paper ballots” stories for Channels 4 and 5 featuring our local Congressmen and a spokeswoman for the Tennessee Disability Council.) It would also be nice to get the local press to cover the decision by the local TN Association of County Election Officials group to allow only two citizens in their upcoming meeting and to refuse them the right to speak (this an organization composed entirely of election officials and voting machine vendors, dividing up our tax dollars in private, diddling with democracy). We need several more people to show up at that meeting and to be refused admission “on camera”, we need to put tape on the mouths of the two allowed in, and we need information on how much of the tab for this meeting is being paid by the vendors. It appears that, in Tennessee, democracy isn’t cheap but it sure can be had.

Also spoke with a new friend, (my fair faun-haired muse), last night, calling her at 3rd and Lindsley before her 10:00 pm set. Really expected only to leave her a message (“Sorry I can’t be there. Please sing a sweet song for me”) but got her in real-time instead. Talked about my first impressions of the “house” but, more importantly, about how her life is (very complicated at the moment). It was good to be able just to listen to her, to think about someone else’s complications and accommodations to a less than serene life, to be reminded of the strength and resolve that is available to all of us when we need it. That was all good, until the 9:00 pm “house closed” announcement on the PA system and other inmates (“residents”) warning me to get off the phone and back to my dorm room. Just when my sweet and kind friend was in the middle of sharing important – life-changing – confidences and I was in the midst of listening, of living outside myself. No telling when that will happen again.

Bone-tired after the call, I went to brush my teeth and was sent back to the dorm until the “house” was open again – a half hour wait. Just enough time to decide to take another hot shower and change into my sweat pants/shirt. Must sleep in clothes, must change in the bathroom only, must, must, must ….

After the shower, I slipped between the sheets and under the house-issued thin white blanket (I’ll have someone bring me a Miz Kelly quilt from the farm next week). It took another two hours before someone turned out the florescent lights and another hour to keep them turned off. Discovered that my bed (next to the windows with their outside lights and noise) was also under one of the red safety lights. So I lay there all night, my eyes covered by a dark green towel, listening to loud conversations, then quieter ones, then the sound of one man SNORING and at least three other men snoring or breathing loud. Felt my bunk-mate crawling into his upper bunk and moving periodically. Felt another inmate bumping his bunk into the wall above my head (not wanting to know just what he was doing). Lay there all night and heard all of this, felt all of this, and did not sleep – except for 30 minutes and dreams of stone castles and moats.

Got up for breakfast at 6:00 am (cheerios and orange juice). Got messed with by the server (demanding $5.00 for my food), though he dropped the joke pretty fast. Only five of us up for breakfast. No coffee – someone had slipped on a leaky machine recently and broken his leg, so they took that out. An older inmate said that they used to have a coffee machine to let inmates make their own coffee but that was gone too. He (Jerry Apple) whispered to me to get a glass and bring it to his dorm. So I put sugar and milk into a plastic glass, put it in my pocket and pulled my sweatshirt over my “contraband” and, with two teaspoons of instant coffee from Mr. Apple, avoided a caffeine withdrawal headache on this first day of the rest of my life (or at least the next 18 months).

I got the guards (called “CMOs”, for correctional monitoring officers) to open the exercise room/computer room for the 42 minutes on the stationery bike. The CMOs told me that Dana (my sister) had called and that she and Zach (her son) would be visiting today (if they can get to Nashville before the Vanderbilt football game). I called Dana and she said that if she can’t come to visit, she would bring instant coffee, liquid detergent, plastic coffee cup and deodorant today or tomorrow. If they get to Nashville between noon and 2:00 pm, I will be able to visit with them. If not, I won’t. While waiting, I reviewed the rules for contact with visitors (only brief hugs and kisses allowed, in the presence of the CMOs; nothing passed between inmates and guests that has not been searched; sit on opposite sides of the tables; no hand contact; cannot accompany visitors to the parking lot; etc, etc.) I will apply these rules for the first time today.

I’ve been sorting through my papers and paying bills today – phone bill, Vanderbilt parking ticket, farm mortgage loan to pay my attorneys. I also prepared the deposit slip for the $300+ in gifts given to me by my friends at my “going away” party at Thelma Kidd’s home. Started folders for the paperwork, two boxes of which are still in my truck. Doing this, I completely took up one of the only two tables in the men’s day room, but no one complained – giving me lots of space. I have only $20 bills in my wallet, so I may not be able to buy anything from the vending machines for the next two days – unless Dana visits with change.

I asked the CMOs and was told that I could wear shorts, so I’m dressed in shorts, white socks and work boots and one of my Na’nizhoozhi Center t-shirts (the largest substance abuse treatment center in the country, catering mainly to Navajo street drunks in Gallup, NM). Other inmates here are friendly, though I still haven’t spoken with Spider Man (a heavily tattooed, tense looking white dude) and a few others. I need to check on Frances (the black woman who had fallen at a bus stop and mentioned a severe headache last night) – I haven’t seen her today.

I need to call my attorney to ask about the feds’ intention to appeal the lenient sentence given to me by Judge Haynes; need to call Cheryl Potts (my neighbor’s daughter moving into my house) to discuss lots of home-related issues. Need to ask to move to Dorm 4 (single bunks only, darker, half as many inmates, quieter – the grown men’s dorm). Don’t want to push but (hopefully) it doesn’t hurt to ask. If I can’t sleep soon, I will start hurting from the fibromyalgia (my back, hips and legs are already starting to tense up and hurt). If I can’t sleep, I will die (or want to real bad). And they’ll ship my books and clothes home, where no one will claim them.

11/12/05 (after dinner) – Frances has surfaced and is feeling better. In the line for dinner, she loudly drew attention to my hairy legs. Connie (the quiet, pretty blonde woman) tried to quiet Frances down, saying that she was embarrassing me. Which she was, but Frances still asked if I had a hairy back too. When I whispered “yes”, Frances whistled, “Oh, I just got a chill!” So I’ve been complimented (sexually harassed?) by a short block of a Black woman, bald except for a single tuft of hair in the middle of her scalp, skulls scarred from something (surgery?), one eye askew, a few front teeth all taking their own directions. I heard later in the dorm that Frances is here for trying to rob a bank, threatening to blow it up even though all the bank employees knew her. She even had a teller tell her, “Frances, you don’t want to do this.” But she did, because she had wanted some Krispy Kreme doughnuts and she had no money (and she was drunk).

Now here a little more than one day, I’ve learned that people don’t talk about what they did to get here (their crime), just what they’re “doing” here (the amount of time they are sentenced here). Had a young Black man in the TV room ask, “Hey, Big Man. You’re always reading and writing. What are you in for?” Today, I knew enough to say, “Eighteen months”. To which everyone in the room whistled and shook their heads. Several men also asked me which prison I was coming out of. When I replied, “None”, the response was “You’ll be on home detention soon. Don’t know if I could do that myself, but it would beat 18 months here.” The more everyone talks, the more it sounds like prison would be the easier, softer way.

Dana, Zach and Dana’s new man (who she met at some dance function – Cajun, ballroom, not sure which) came to visit, and stayed through the first half of the Vanderbilt football game (bless them). We sat together in the visitation room with several more inmates and their families: Jerry Apple, with his country wife (or daughter, couldn’t tell which), a young white man with his son, his sister and her son; another white man with his wife and children. Everyone speaking in whispers with the Notre Dame football game blaring on the TV set above our heads (no one in here watching it),

This is a strange place and time to meet a new man in my sister’s life. Some of us can live alone and probably prefer it. Others of us bond and stay that way. And then there are those who are the former, though they chase the latter all their lives. More power to them.

It was a good visit, much talk about 12-STEP and marijuana. Dana is still uncomfortable with my sobriety while still using cannabis, saying that most people she knows who use pot can’t stay sober. My response was that my continuing to use (with the advice of Navajo elders and the knowledge and consent of my physician) had allowed me to finally stop drinking and using cocaine. And that many people I know who really need to quit drinking can’t (or don’t) use 12-STEP to achieve sobriety because they want to continue using cannabis, which is not negatively affecting their lives in the ways that alcohol and hard drugs do. In that regard, we talked about fellow 12-STEP members who use psychotropic drugs prescribed by their physicians sitting in meetings next to other members who have abused those same drugs. We also talked about my court-mandated psychotherapist and my 12-STEP sponsor encouraging me to get on a number of meds to deal with my depression and anxiety and the pain associated with my fibromyalgia and degenerative joint disease when all I needed was to return to cannabis to get the relief they sought for me. That after the 2002 raid on my farm (while I still had health insurance), I had (briefly) been on pain meds, anti-inflammatory meds, sleeping aids, anti-anxiety meds, physical therapy and steroid injections directly into my spine – all for want of a good joint.

With Dana’s new man, we talked about marijuana being ranked with heroin in the Controlled Substances Act schedule of illicit drugs as Schedule I – high danger, high potential for abuse, no recognized medical uses, serious withdrawal syndrome. Sounds like heroin, sounds nothing like cannabis. The fact that a Schedule I ranking means that the federal government considers cannabis more dangerous than cocaine and methamphetamine is completely ludicrous, and to that, Dana (a registered nurse) agreed. Dana’s man asked whether these scheduling decisions were political and I said “yes”, and financial. The pharmaceutical, alcohol and paper industries must be appeased; and the criminal justice industrial complex must be fed.

The entire time that I was talking with Dana and her new man, Zach (my nine year old nephew) sat quietly playing with dominos, setting them up to fall in unison, not saying much but shyly absorbing it all – the conversation and the atmosphere in which it was taking place. Zach and I did talk a bit about his recent adventure snow skiing for the first time and about him dancing with grown women at Dana’s dance classes (he being probably still too young for that to make the BIG impression it would in another year or three). As we talked, I remembered the fifth grade and the birth of desire. I joked with Zach that my first date had been in the 4th grade, with Michelle Fleur (why on earth do I still remember her name?), and that we had gone to a movie together, alone except for my four siblings and her six. (Did I mention that we were once Catholic?)

After visitation was over, I sat through a long “closed house” session, listening to a young Black man wanting to sue an employee here or the halfway house itself because six of them had been fired from the same job on Thursday. Loudly pissed off, wanting to involve the NAACP, joking about trying to have sex with the HR person at the job-site and then getting fucked themselves. Wanting to sue someone, wanting to appeal their punishment to the BOP (U.S. Bureau of Prisons) – it seems that we are all being unjustly punished here (just ask us). Maybe I am where I should be after all.

11/13/05 (Third day in: I don’t want to think about how many more are left here)

42 minutes on the bike, 11.4 miles (harder – hips hurting). No sit-ups or crunches, will do them later. Got some sleep – silicone earplugs helped, though I had to open my locker in the dark to retrieve them, guessing at the numbers and fumbling through the combinations twice before I got it open. One VERY LOUD snorer and a few other noticeable ones. I’ll ask someone to bring in butterfly bandages to help keep the snorers’ noses open. I’ll also try to figure out a way to offer them to the offending inmates, gently.

This morning, I appear on the inmates’ bulletin board for the first time. I am assigned to a ”wellness” class that begins on 11/16 and to bathroom duty (toilets, showers, sinks, floors) on the 9:00 pm “details” shift for the next week. I looked for information on what these “details” involved but found nothing posted. I was asked to write in my BOP ID number on the wellness sign-up sheet, but I still don’t know it. However, I do know that I have been assigned two numbers – my BOP number and another one from the FBI. WTF, I better learn them PDQ.

At breakfast, only three other inmates appear. Cold cereal and microwavable waffles – no sugar for my instant coffee. I’m viewing the Folger’s Instant (consumed with milk only this morning) as medicine to avoid a caffeine withdrawal headache. It works for that, though it is bitter and lukewarm, like drinking goldenseal tea.

So I will learn my work details and move forward. Today I learned that I am a level 2 in the “house” classification system, and when the cafeteria reopens, I will write down what that means. It lays out my privileges and – listed with the other levels – showS me what I can strive for. I learned yesterday that I am allowed four visitors at a time, so family can come visit (except my brother Steve, his wife Kay and their three kids and one grand-child – someone will have to wait in the car.) And my 12-STEP group can bring a meeting to me – four sober people at a time. And my election reform group can come visit – four patriots at a time.

Another conversation with another well-experienced dorm-mate. This time with the tall Black man whose accent seems Memphis or north Mississippi. More shocked than most at my sentence – “What did you do to deserve this? Man, you need to ask for Manchester, KY – it’s a (prison) camp and much, much better than this place. Boy, they’re trying to fuck you up, and they’ll do it up in here.” So it’s unanimous – this halfway house is not “good time”. But it is also not incarceration, it is not prison time – it is “probation” or “supervised release”.

My first 48 hours has just run -- the time that I was not allowed out of the facility under any circumstances. But since I have not met my “counselor” and he (she? It’s still unclear) has not approved my leaving the facility, I must remain. No church, no computer access, no chance to buy a pair of shoes without holes in the bottom for my first round of job interviews. I need someone to bring me deodorant and to take letters and a computer tape out. I may ask Cap’n D to do this, if I can reach her.

Last night, as I tried to get to sleep after a VERY LOUD 9:00 pm “house closed” session, I turned out the dorm lights even though I was the only one in bed. But others came up and joined me, quietly getting into bed fully clothed. Sometime later, two young Black men came back upstairs, one cussing because the lights were off. Even so, they sat on a bunk or leaned against the lockers, talking about their day pass to leave the “house”. One of them had gone (home?) and he talked about drinking two beers as soon as he arrived (around 6:30 am), then eating several full meals. The other saying, ‘Yeah, man, that’s the way to do it – you’ll be a’right with the breathylyzer wand then.” The other saying that the wand went off anyway (don’t know what that means yet – does it light up or beep, or does a ton of bricks fall on your head, driving you down another level?). “Yeah, the wand went off but the CMO said, ‘Don’t worry – the batteries are weak. Must be a bad reading.”

No it wasn’t. But it doesn’t matter, because there were no consequences. The two young men kept talking and talking, about getting laid during the pass – sounded like a high school girl, dressed up in black lingerie, black bra and panties, offering herself to (who was this guy to her?). Whether I wanted them or not, I got ALL the details, every graphic act, Viagra-fueled. One of the young men saying he had offered Viagra to an older relative (63 year old) who dismissed it by saying, “Boy, I can’t get mine to go down as it is – why would I want it to stay up even longer?” The two young men laughing loudly after each story, pauses filled with “She-it”, “know what I’m sayin’”, “fuck”, “mother-fucker”. Laughing, lying, increasing each other’s frustration (and likely that of all the unwilling witnesses to their bullshit), ending by whispering in the dark.

Last night, after Frances made fun of my hairy legs, another inmate asked about my NCI t-shirt, mentioned that he had met a White River Apaches (by which I expect he meant White Mountain) in an Arizona federal prison. He showed me an Apache tattoo from there and talked about doing sweat lodges with the Indians out there. I asked whether there were sweat lodges available here and he said “no”. But he said that as soon as he got out, he would be building a sweat lodge for himself, to pray in, if he could find some willow boughs. He got me thinking about all the willow boughs surrounding my large pond at home, and about what a good idea it would be to build a sweat lodge near that water. When I get out, if the farm is still mine. When, and if ….

Read the Sunday paper – another heartbreaking Vandy loss in football (at least Dana, Zach and her new man got to see an exciting second half – 40 points scored by Vandy, five too few.) Read about how Tennessee Highway Patrol promotions were being tied to contributions to Governor Bredesen, about a Republican tree-trimmer (very conservative Catholic) becoming the next Republican minority leader in the House, about Republicans saying that they had the advantage over Democrats on the ethics issue. I guess that stealing elections, treason, torture, trampling on the truth, don’t count.

One last article in the paper – noticed it briefly – had three Black inmates at the “house” talking this morning. An 18 year old in the projects, shooting at someone who he thought had robbed him, had fired in the air, blowing out a window in a second floor bedroom, striking a 15 year old in the head whose friend was braiding her hair, killing her instantly. Shorty (one of the Black men talking in the “house” – maybe four feet tall) describing the incident with disgust in his voice, others guessing how it had happened (“probably runnin’ and shootin’ up in the air – dumb fuck”), saying that now the “nigger” would get more time for killing a bystander, saying “if he had done it right, he would have walked up to the dude and got his man”. I’ll be learning new definitions for what “doin’ it right” means for a while, I’m sure.

More complaining in the visitation room (which wasn’t supposed to be open this morning, but has been open so far), about “house” staff not “clearing (?)” an inmate’s house before he could go home. Passing the buck between the BOP, PO (probation officer). “house” staff – but also mentioning a good man in the system to take problems like these to. (I need to get that good man’s name and phone number.) Need to fill out another request form (my third) to meet with my counselor, tomorrow, when he gets back to work, at 1:30 pm.

11/13: 6:00 pm

My first work assignment (to do for the next week). Second level men’s bathroom – toilets, showers, sink and floors. Elaborate detail laid out on the work sheets for what this work detail involves. I won’t get to bed early tonight – the work detail doesn’t start until 9:00 pm and doesn’t end until 10:00 pm. At least I will be moving and not filled with frustration while lots of loud dorm-mates wait in the dorm until the house is open again. Volunteered to clean the dining room after lunch by myself. Smell of disinfectant on my hands all afternoon.

I spent the afternoon sorting through another set of papers, throwing away most of them, stacking the rest in preparation for putting them in folders. I’ll bring a cardboard filing box to leave in my truck – let the front seat of my old pick-up truck be my office away from home. Still much to sort through in the first sack of papers, before I retrieve the next two from Cap’n D.

Looked at the “want ads” today. About the only thing listed that I could do is “administrative assistant” work, although there was an ad for an ACORN organizer. Probably too free-lance and too mobile to be approved.

Then after dinner (off-tasting chicken nuggets, off-tasting potato salad, good roll and peach slices, two glasses of milk), I worked for the first time on the “house” computer. Eight year old version of Microsoft Word, but it works. Typed a three page letter (a virtual tour of my farm) to accompany pictures that Dub Campbell took of the farm. Three pages to describe all I own, and to defend it – in words and pictures. All I have, what I am, what I hope to go home to.

Tomorrow, I meet with Jonathon Bolding, my counselor, for the first time. Need to leave a note tonight to request time with him (again). Need to discuss moving to a quieter dorm, set up job interviews starting Tuesday, find out if I can work at Cap’n D’s for both job searches and to work on my civil asset forfeiture case, request 12-STEP and church passes. Tomorrow, I have a required physical (probably at Meharry) and will need to set up job interviews at the TN Department of Health, Sonic, Meharry, Vanderbilt, Nashville Peace and Justice Center, ACORN – anywhere and everywhere. Turnip Truck, Wild Oats, Davis-Kidd – wherever.

Also need to find out about my “required” counseling at DeDe Wallace and my wellness class on Wednesday. A full dance card.

11/13 – 11:00 pm – After doing the entire second floor men’s bathroom (and taking a full hour to do it), I discovered that my only actual work assignment had been the showers. But the three other inmates who were assigned the toilets, sinks and floor were all too happy to lean against the bathroom walls, punch each other in the ribs, laugh quietly and watch me do it all.

Welcome to the “house”, newby.

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