Category Archives: mass incarceration

Nap Denied

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VINCE

They tore up part of the running track last week and never put it back together so I haven’t been able to run for a week.  Some people are happy about it, I am not.  But, there is nothing I can do about it.  78 days to go.

The list of “Things I will need” that I sent my mother a few days ago, well, some of them will be easy/cheap at the Salvation Army or Goodwill, I think.  I have a lot of resources at my disposal, but I don’t want to take advantage of the system unless I have to.

I will qualify for food stamps and maybe unemployment still, so those may help.

—

RJWC:  Restorative Justice Work Crew, basically community service.  Earlier this week I got to leave the grounds for only the second time in three months to do some work in the community.  Specifically, in the city of Barnum.  Our job: clean out 10 school buses, only the insides, from front to back.

It was particularly hot out, 90F, and most of the buses had routes that utilized gravel roads for the past nine months, so we were quickly covered in dust.

Nine men, six hours, 10 clean buses.  My job was to vacuum the area around and on the driver’s seat and to clean the windows and mirrors.  It was hard work, but it felt good to be doing something productive.

And of course it was nice to be out and about, almost like free men.  As in St. Cloud, I only realized how long it had been since I last heard music when I heard a song.  It was some crappy pop song, but it was beautiful.  The radio was on for the ride there and the ride back, 25 minutes each way.

—

I’m exhausted.  I haven’t taken a nap for over 90 days.  But it’s less than 90 days until I can.  Naps, and good food, are what we talk about on boring days.  Today is boring.  I want a nap but they’re not allowed.

We got some new guys yesterday.  This time they’re in the bunks next to ours.  They’re loud, confused, and completely unorganized.  Three months ago, we were them.  I better go help them out.

Have a Nice Day

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ANNE

The drum beat of stories about prison continues.

Last week, every day on my drive in to work, I heard a different story about prison on National Public Radio’s Marketplace Tech Report. At the end of each segment they said, “Go to our special website for this series to read more” but I can’t find it. The series is called Jailbreak (clever, huh?) and if you can find the link please let me know.

But in the process of trying to find the Jailbreak series I found a dozen great short podcasts on NPR. There’s one called, “Connecting inmates with their children through books,” another about for-profit prison companies adjusting to a new era. Apparently the prison population has decreased slightly, which is bad for their business model. What a shame!

There was a story about keeping mental health patients stable and out of jail. I don’t expect you to listen to all these stories, but they are a good representation of the economic, health, and social issues that all intersect in prison.

There was one story I could barely stand to finish listening to. From Solitary to the Streets was much as the title implies: prisoners, kept in solitary confinement for years, then set free with no support or resources. It’s an 11-minute podcast that will break your heart, if you have one. This is the kind of story that gets me so mad and upset that I worry I might drive off the road. Vince was in solitary confinement for less than a week and I think he would say it was the worst part of his one-year in prison so far.

This same week, there was news that Ross Ulbricht, creator of the Silk Road black market website where people could buy drugs and fake IDs, launder money, and conduct all sorts of other nefarious activities, was sentenced to life in prison. Life in prison. He’s 30 years old. Obviously the guy is a jerk with no moral compass. But life? I don’t know enough about the story yet to be suspicious about the government’s motives, but I’m sure that will come.

Back to the subject of jail breaks, the story that’s been fascinating to me is the real New York prison break. I won’t post a link because there are frequent developments. How did they get power tools? How did they communicate with each other and their presumed accomplices to create such a brazen and fine-tuned plan? How did they cut through the walls of their cells and the steam pipe without being heard? And the smiley face! Was that part of the plan that they snickered over for months, or was it spontaneous?

Smiley

I have caught myself cheering them on, then remind myself that these guys are murderers. I have to check my allegiances; I firmly believe in the rule of law and the 10 Commandments. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t succumb to the sweet-talking B.S. of a lifer and smuggle in power tools to help him escape. But I can’t wait for the book and the movie to come out.

Money for Nothing

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ANNE

Today, June 26, is United Nations Day in Support of Victims of Torture. Today also marks one year since Vince entered prison.

My organization will host a potluck supper at our clinic in St. Paul. We’re supposed to call it a healing center, not a clinic. It’s in an old renovated Victorian home. I think it’s actually Edwardian, but in Minnesota, we call everything “Victorian,” if it’s more than 100 years old. You can take a virtual tour of it if you like, or you can take a physical tour if you live in the area.

You would think I’d be used to dealing with the corrections system by now, but it still has the ability to throw me off guard. First, in keeping with my accidental theme of critiquing every word, why can’t we call it the prison system? Just what are they “correcting”? I have an image of them straightening out Vince’s limbs and brain with ratchets and wrenches.

On June 23 I got the following message from the corrections system email provider:

This email is to inform you that effective June 30, 2015 the Minnesota Department of Corrections will no longer utilize CorrLinks for inmate message transfers. The MNDOC agency option will no longer be available effective June 30th.

If you would like to request a refund of your balance you may do so by removing all of your contacts and closing your account.

Sincerely,

CorrLinks Support

I so wish I could be an emotional ninja all the time—ducking serenely to avoid upsetting news like this—but instead I flipped out.

UNBELIEVABLE! was my immediate reaction. CorrLinks is the one thing about the entire MNDOC that has actually worked. It’s affordable, simple, and it’s the one effing way I could reliably communicate with Vince.

I assumed they had found another vendor that would cost five times more and was owned by the warden’s brother in law. Or were they just going to discontinue the email option completely? What a joke.

—

I checked the DOC website and it had no information about the change. So I called the them. The person who answered knew nothing about it. She put me on hold and when she came back read me a memo she had managed to track down that said the same thing as the email. But it did go on to say there would be a new system called J Pay. (I wonder if J is for Jail?)

It will cost 40 cents per message instead of 30. Okay, I guess I can afford that.

I currently have a $4 balance with Corrlinks. Am I going to bother requesting a refund? Hell no! I’ll bombard Vince with emails—articles from the Atlantic are good for using up words.

But I bet there will be thousands of people who don’t ask for refunds.  Let’s face it, one week’s notice is not very much, especially for wives of prisoners who are working full time and have kids.  So let’s say there are even 1,000 people who leave $4 on the table. That’s a cool $4,000 for Corrlinks, or for the DOC.   In fact, I wonder if they switch systems every now and then just to get some quick cash.

Oh I am so cynical!  Probably the money will be donated to some prison-related charity, right?

Life Imitating Work

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ANNE

Once or twice a year, my organization sends out a list of items that our clients need.  I got the latest list the first week in June.  It had the usual things on it, like Target gift cards, quarters (for laundromats), umbrellas (they travel on foot or via public transport and it’s been a rainy spring), and shoes (in this case, men’s size 8, “preferably tennis shoes”).

Someone needed a suitcase.  As an asylum seeker he is not allowed to work and he also is not eligible for any public benefits, like housing.  So he is sleeping on someone’s couch—probably a friend of a relative of a friend who is the same nationality as he is.  The most common nationality we see right now is Ethiopians.

I had a giant suitcase that I was never going to use again so I arranged for him to have it.  Win-win situation: I didn’t have space for it; he needed it, good deed done.  I am so glad I’m not a social worker; our clients’ needs are endless and their stories are so sad.

A week later I got this letter from Vince:

Ms. Mom:

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my release.  I’ve been here 100 days.  82 to go.

I’ve mentioned before that I won’t have much when I get out.  Nothing really.  But there are some necessities and even some convenience items I will need your help with.  You’re the only one I feel comfortable asking, but you may know some others that are willing to help.

So here’s my list of things.  Some of them explain themselves.  Some may not, so I will:

  1. Bed and bedding related items
  2. Clothing (from the ground up, figuratively and literally)
  3. Eye exam and contact lenses
  4. A vehicle and insurance. For this I may (will) need to take out a loan from a loving family member.  With only four hours of personal time per week, not to include AA meetings or physical activity, time management is going to be critical.  For me, a vehicle is one of the more important needs.  We’ll talk.
  5. Gym membership. We’ve talked.  [I told him the YMCA has a sliding scale system.]
  6. Cell phone, if my ISR agent allows one. I think I can pay for it.
  7. Well, that’s a good list so far.

This list wasn’t entirely my idea.  We are all encouraged to write to family asking for help when we get out.  They know we leave with nothing, and it’s good to prepare as soon as possible.

I have a new copy of my driver’s license in my file here, and soon I will have a new Social Security card, so I will leave here with the requirements to obtain legal work anywhere.  My chemical dependency counselor says it would be good for me to get work outside the foodservice industry, so keep your eyes peeled for factory work or anything really that you think I could do that would be felon friendly.

I’m not intentionally trying to add stress to your life so if I am, say so.  They say the more we prepare, the better our chances.  And our resources here are limited.  I know I’m going to be a bit of a burden for a while.  But I’m willing to pull my weight however possible.

I’m coming home with a positive attitude, a good work ethic, and a desire to be productive always.

I need to fill 90 hours of community service/volunteer work.  You mentioned a good volunteer is hard to find.  I volunteered in a nursing home the other day in Moose Lake.  It was very rewarding.

I love you, Mom.  Thank you, again, for all you continue to do.

Vince

A Room with a View of a Brick Wall

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ANNE

I moved again. It was exhausting. I hired my nephew and niece to help me, thinking, “If I’m going to spend hundreds to move anyway, why not keep it in the family?” But here’s a tip for free: rent a big truck, even if your nephew has a truck. All trucks look big to me. But even though I was only moving about two miles, it took 7 hours to move most of it because the bed of his truck wasn’t all that big. I spent two more hours after they had to leave schlepping the rest of the odds and ends in my Mini. Then there was the cleaning up at the old place. Fortunately I had learned an important lesson from the first move: don’t buy cheap packing tape. So this time boxes didn’t spring open and spill all over the truck.

The highlight of the move was when they couldn’t get my diningroom table through the back door. They removed the center legs. They tried to remove all the legs, which didn’t work. They tried opening it all the way (it’s huge—it seats 12 people). This resulted in some fairly deep gouges in the top. They tried taking the door off the hinges but the screws were rusted in place. They finally loaded it back in the truck, drove around the block, and brought it in the front door, which required carrying it up about 5 flights of steps.

But I’m in.  If I am really disciplined, I can pay it off and not have a mortgage or rent payment when I retire.

It’s not just the moving that’s such a pain. There’s changing your address for everything—which I had done three months earlier. Here’s another tip: walk into a post office and do it. Don’t do it online. I’ve tried it twice now and it doesn’t work.

I took the opportunity of moving to liberate myself from KomKast. I now have an antenna and can get about 10 TV stations. I switched internet providers, to CenturyLinke, and am so far pleased with them. I named my new wireless network “I’llNeverMoveAgain.”

—

So now I live in a gorgeous old wreck of a place; below are some photos. Another niece, and my cousin and her girls, came over before the move to help me paint. Tip number 47: get the right height ladder. Trying to paint 10-foot ceilings when you are 5’3”, using an extension pole while precariously balancing on a counter top on a wobbly footstool … well, I feel lucky I “just” had a sore neck and back for a couple days and didn’t break either.

When I sold my last place six years ago, I swore I would never own again.  I would never spend a sunny Saturday morning at Menard’s.  But the economics of renting vs. owning changed with the Great Recession.  So here I go again, buying all the stuff like drills and putty and ladders that I got rid off back then.

Now I lie awake at night thinking of all the things I want to do. I want to re-do everything, basically, with no money and no time and no expert help. I just try to observe myself, have a little laugh at my own expense, try to be kind. Tell myself, “one thing at a time.”

My favorite feature of the place: a big south-facing window with beveled glass.

LR LR2

The dining room, with the troublesome table, which looks amusingly tiny now.

DR

I think this layout, with a long hallway, is called a Pullman.

Hall

The kitchen is horrid. I have a grand vision for remodeling it but that will have to wait.

Kitchen1

This will be Vince’s room on September 9.  It’s a work in progress, like the rest of the place.  I hope the brick wall doesn’t make him feel claustrophobic.  At least he’ll have his own room with a door he can close, and a bathroom he can use by himself, with a door he can close.

Vince's BR

Sticker Trippin’

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ANNE

I thought I would show you some of the envelopes that go back and forth between Vince and me. First, here is the standard return address on a letter from him. Just in case I’ve managed to keep his incarceration private from a few people, the DOC makes sure that the US Postal Service and my fellow neighbors in my apartment building know he’s in prison.

Return Address

I know, I know. I could be a battered woman who wants nothing to do with her abuser, who is locked away in Moose Lake. It just seems like most people are suspicious enough that they would see a letter from someone they don’t want to hear from, a mile off, without the use of MN CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. I mean really—all caps? Who uses those anymore unless they are angry?

On the positive side, here is the standard postcard they send. I like the tree, nice touch.

Postcard

Here is a sample of a letter that was returned to me. Why? Because I used a return address sticker, apparently.

Return to Sender

Again, I understand that every one of these “rules”—I use quotation marks because they are enforced inconsistently—probably originated from some incident. In this case, the myth is that someone tried to send the offender LSD using address stickers. Apparently you might try to send LSD in lipstick, perfume, bubble wrap, white out, or even create a fake stain. It’s true that a lot of criminals are pretty imaginative.

Imaginative, but dumb. If you wanted to get high in prison, and I can understand why you would, would you really want to go on an acid trip? I’ve never dropped acid. If I were going to, I’d want to be in a lovely cottage in the countryside somewhere, where I could safely ponder bunnies and fawns.

Tripping in a prison cell? That’s one of the ways our clients where I work have been tortured. They’re shackled to a bed, forced to ingest acid, then tormented in an endless variety of ways.

Victory Lap

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VINCE

Sitting in my blue plastic chair, here’s what I see.  Three feet in front of me, my bunk mate is sitting in his blue plastic chair, facing me.  He also has folders on his lap, which we call our “desks.”

To my immediate right is our bunk.  My bed is on the bottom, our combined four foot lockers under my bed (not four feet long, four of them).  Blue blankets stretched flat with 45 degree angles on the foot end, our brown blankets stretched over our pillows with a 45 degree angle at the top.

To my left, three feet away, is the same thing.  To my right, the same thing five more times.  Like one of those infinity mirrors where the same scene seems to go on forever and ever.

Everybody is talking in different directions, some talking over others.  It’s louder than one might think.  A Correctional Officer just walked by and dropped somebody down for working on personal letters.  So that’s all for now.

—

Every other morning, well, actually every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I tell myself over and over that I will finish the run.  It’s still kind of tough, but I’ve only dropped out once in this past month.

Today, I struggled.  I really wanted to fall out after the first three laps.  Lap four came and when we were almost to the point where we have to yell, asking for permission to fall out, there was a C.O. walking around the small track, right where I would fall out.  I didn’t want to have to answer a bunch of questions about my motivation so I continued on.

It was very humid out.  I was drenched with sweat, and cramping up in my stomach.  All sorts of reasons to quit.  But I made it through lap six.  Then, the physical trainer leading the run decided to bring us around one more time.  It was the hardest lap of my life, but I did it.  Five miles (4.9, but we call it five).  I’ve felt great ever since.

So.  That’s what I did before 7:00 am.  How about you?

 

 

Toadally at Peace

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VINCE

I lifted weights for the first time in years this morning.  They’re still heavy like a remembered.  Free weights make a guy feel a bit awkward and off balance, but they really do a good job.  My goal was to lift 10,000 pounds, but I lost track after my first set.  I think I did a bit more though.

I saw myself in a full length mirror today.  My body has transformed considerably for just 2 ½ months.  I’ve lost most of my gut, and my chest sticks out by itself.  Most guys in prison stick their chests out to appear more threatening, much like a dog bares it’s teeth.  Now I don’t have to do that!  Either way I pose no real threat.

Today I’m feeling good about myself.

—

Today I left the grounds on RJWC—Restorative Justice Work Crew.  I spent six hours working very hard at a bible camp/retreat/campground sort of place.  My favorite part was being completely unsupervised for about an hour while I groomed a trail in the woods around a pond.

It was quiet.  I was surrounded by nature.  I spoke briefly with a couple toads.  They said nothing back, of course, as most toads and frogs speak little to no English.

The rest of the time I spent stacking wood, and raking up concrete and Styrofoam from an old shuffle board court.  I was with seven others from the India squad and we all sort of moved around to different projects.

It was a very fulfilling and productive day.  I will have the opportunity to be on RJWC every week or so for now, and it’s usually something /somewhere different every time.

—

I miss my dog, Willie.  I think about him a lot, and I wonder if he still thinks about me.

He was with me shortly before I was arrested, which is usually a sign that that person set you up to be busted, but I know he wouldn’t do that to me.  He’s not even a person.  He is, however, probably more loyal than most of the people I know in the meth world.

He is with my dear non-meth-using friends in Fountain, Minnesota.  He’s been living there without me for about a year and a half.  I just got a few pictures of him and my friends and it took everything I have not to break down crying in the middle of the other 5 guys in my barracks.

There’s so much of my life I wish I could do over.

Willie Be Okay?

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VINCE

Continued from Tweaking is the Best Way to Travel….

The aftermath.

I thought the car was filling up with smoke, but it was some kind of dust from the airbag.  Either way I got out quickly.  That was when I realized that I had my dog with me.  Willie jumped out after me and ran across all four lanes of traffic and the median, somehow avoiding every car, truck, and semi on the road.  He appeared to be uninjured as he disappeared across the road.  More on that later.

A car pulled up behind me, the lady jumped out and said, “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re alive!”  It turns out she was a nurse at the Mayo Clinic.  I asked her to call 911, she talked with them and said I appeared to be in shock, but otherwise okay.

Looking at the car I first noticed the front, driver side wheel gone, and the engine resting, smoking, on the ground.  Everything “accordianed.”  And that was really all the damage to me and the car.

When the cop came, I sat in the front seat with him and answered some questions.  I was very nervous because my pockets were full of felonies.  But I’m a good liar and he didn’t suspect a thing.

The car I was in had no insurance so I ended up losing my license for a couple years, but I got it back and still have it now.  End of story.

That was the first of three similar accidents, two of which happened more recently, within the last three years.  All related to dozing off while driving.  I do consider myself lucky to have never hurt anybody.

A week after the accident, after calling around various animal shelters, a friend of mine located Willie at the St. Charles veterinary clinic.  He was just fine, and now up to date on shots!  He was so excited to see me I cried a little bit when I saw him.  End of story, again.

Tweaking is the Best Way to Travel

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VINCE

2005 hours

I got a letter yesterday from an old using friend.  I wrote him about four months ago telling him I had made the decision to be sober when I was released.  He was happy for me, but sad to lose a friend.

The letter I got was very sad.  The day before Easter, he fell asleep while driving (very common among meth users) and flipped his vehicle three times.  He doesn’t remember any of it.  He also didn’t remember being saved by the Jaws of Life, but that’s how he got out.

He was air lifted to the Mayo Clinic where he was in the Intensive Care Unit for 9 days.

His collar bone was spider-web fractured from far left to far right.  Femur shattered at the hip socket.  Three broken ribs, two punctured lungs.  Staples and stiches to hold his fractured skull on.

He said the worst part was waking up several times upside down, stull strapped in his seat, and passing out from the pain.  Ugh.

On the plus side, he says, “I have decided that the Good Lord saved me for a reson (sic).  I will go to my grave straight and sober.”  I hope he does.  It’s amazing what a meth addict can survive and keep using.

—

About 9 years ago, I had left Winona after selling some meth and was nearing the town of St. Charles.  It was early on a Monday morning, during what could be considered rush hour, heading toward the direction of Rochester.

When I woke up, the speedometer said 68 but the road was green.  It took a split second to realize I was in the ditch.  There was no time to react to what was ahead of me.

Out of the culvert I came at a quick pace, but a gradual incline.  I went airborne and cleared the first driveway by about ten feet.  I landed perfectly straight in the next ditch, and up ahead I saw trouble.  I was headed straight toward a 3 foot cement drain pipe.  Speed unknown, I smashed into it, destroyed it, and once again I became airborne, this time I landed on the driveway and stayed there.

During the impact, the airbag deployed which, in tandem with my seatbelt, surely saved me from death and/or serious injury.  If you ever have the opportunity to see an airbag deploy in your face, pass that up.  It’s so quick and loud, it’s like a glitch in an old black and white film.  It wasn’t there, then it was.

To be continued….