Category Archives: redemption

Out

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ANNE

I pride myself on being highly organized, but I lost the letter Vince had sent me that outlined the schedule for the day of his release.  I called the facility and asked what time I needed to be there.  The guy I talked to was very nice, and said Vince was a “great kid” and a “known agate collector.”  It was my first positive interaction with the corrections system.

I found out later that Vince received a demerit because I made this call.

—

I left the house at 7:30 am to drive up to the little town of Willow River, population 403 plus 142 inmates at the correctional facility.  Here are some photos of Willow River:

photo 1 photo 2

I had dug out a long-sleeved, high-necked shirt from my winter clothes so there would be no chance I could get either of us in trouble.  After all, this would be their last chance to fuck with me in person.  But when I arrived at the facility half the women there for the release of their loved ones were wearing plunging cleavage and skin-tight tights.

We were shown into a gymnasium with a long row of empty chairs in the front facing us.  The warden or whoever she was made a short speech, then the two graduating squads marched in.  The first one was led by a guy who could be a real competitor on American Idol.  There were no cameras or cell phones allowed, which is too bad because he was really impressive.  He lead Hotel Squad—17 guys—into the room, belting out the boot camp slogans in an old timey, spiritual sort of call and response.

Then it was Vince’s squad’s turn—India Squad.  He had told me that someone else had been chosen to lead them out, but there was Vince doing it!  I’m still not clear on what happened to the other guy.  And while Vince wouldn’t make it to the finals on American Idol, I was very moved that he was the leader of his squad.

There were various speeches by the head of the chemical dependency and education programs, which no one could hear because of the crying and otherwise-noisy kids in the room.  Then each prisoner stood up and stated the length of his original term (between 48 and 100 months), what he had learned (patience was the one I recall hearing most often), and who he had to thank for helping him make it through.

All the guys thanked their families and the boot camp staff.  One guy thanked The Lord.  Vince mentioned the boot camp counselors by name but didn’t mention me or anyone else outside of the program.

I knew in that moment I needed to:

  1. get myself back to Alanon; and
  2. schedule some weekends away, by myself.

—

An hour later, we were on the road back to St. Paul.  It’s no exaggeration that Vince was released with only the clothes on his back, a folder full of papers, and one month worth of medication for his Restless Legs Syndrome.

He asked to stop at a gas station.  “The first thing every one of us guys wants to do is play scratch off tickets,” he said.

“I guess it’s better than buying meth,” I said.  “And I saw a billboard for gambling addictions on the way up so you know that help is available.”  He laughed.

Twice during the graduation ceremony, they had said that this second phase of boot camp–house arrest–would be harder than incarceration.  That’ll be true for me, too.  My first challenge is, now that I’ve made clear my low opinion of gambling, to let it go.  I have a right to state my opinion—once.  Saying it over and over would be an attempt to control and manipulate.

More on the day later, but here are some photos of Vince shopping at Walmart.

photo 3photo 4

The End. The Beginning.

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VINCE

Everything seems to be falling into place.  Maybe not in the order I want it to, but aligning nonetheless.  I volunteered to be one of the two in-house facilitators of the AA meeting, in addition to the NA meeting.  It’s been a while since I lead a meeting but it is something I enjoy and have a lot of experience doing.  It’s all about service work.  Starting it here will not only make me look good with my case worker but makes me feel good inside.

—

I’m sitting in study hall, nice and quiet, when a man starts banging loudly on a table, starts crying, and leaves the room.  I finally saw somebody snap.  That’s the only explanation.  He’s been here as long as I have, I hope they don’t kick him out.  He’s a good guy, but this place can make you revisit some pretty bad places in your head.

—

What a day.  Restorative Justice has a way of making me feel good, even with seven oozing blisters on my hands from shoveling tons of wet sand.

After breakfast (which is after aerobics), nine of us donned our reflective vests and hopped in the van, trailer in tow, and headed for Hinkley.  We love riding in the van.  And we were treated to a 40-minute trip.  We were told we would be working hard, and that we were going to work on a house for Habitat for Humanity.  Both statements were true.

Essentially we dug a four foot moat around the 30’ x 60’ house, two feet deep, four feet wide.  Then we put blue Styrofoam insulation down to guard against frost.  Then, after three hours of shoveling the sand out, we shoveled it back in.  Ugh.

In the middle of the operation, I did get a side job of varnishing six wooden doors.  That’s something I have some experience with and enjoy and, well, it’s way easier.  But I still ended my day with load after load on the scoop shovel.  Each scoop no less than 50 pounds.  Our uniforms were destroyed.  We were bleeding.  We were hungry and tired.

And after all of that, the man in charge gave us a tour of the house and said it was being built for a single mother of three who had been working for five years taking care of mentally and physically disabled adults, but couldn’t make ends meet and was now homeless.  A tear came to his eye when he thanked us for our work.  There may have been some tears in our eyes too, or maybe I just had some sand in my eyes.

He told us how generous Wells Fargo was to donate the property.  3M paid HFH for the opportunity to have volunteers come and insulate the entire house.  Whirlpool donates appliances to every—every HFH house.  And an un-named source donates the highest quality and efficient furnaces, water heaters, and air conditioners.  And countless people donate their time in any way they can.

For their house, the soon-to-be-owner must put in 260 hours of her own time on the house, put $100 down, and pay a mortgage of $300 a month, interest free.

Yeah, I feel good because I worked hard for somebody who is in need.  I’d like to do more things like that when I get out.

[ANNE: This will be Vince’s last post from inside prison because … he is being released today!  As you read this, I will be in Willow River watching his graduation ceremony.  Then he will walk out the door, with the clothes on his back and about $300.  I will have an avocado in the car for him.  We’ll drive straight to a 1:30 pm appointment in St. Paul with his ISR agent.  Then I will bring him home.  I got the landline phone, as required.  Thanks to friends pitching in, I’ve got a bed for him and toiletries and some books and a few clothes that won’t make him stand out as an ex con.  I am so excited.  So happy.  We’ll post a report on how it went, with photos, next time.]

Froggie Went a Courtin’

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VINCE

I just came back from a lawn mowing where I took the life of an innocent frog.  It was a cold-blooded murder in the most literal sense.  Wait.  Are frogs cold blooded?  Hmm.  I may be wrong but it sounded funny in my head.

I don’t like to kill things, so I felt bad for a few minutes.  I didn’t do it on purpose, but when his (her?) severed head was staring into my eyes, I could still see life and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.  Now that I’ve written about it, I can let it go.

I once killed a deer, for meat, and I once killed a deer with a Pontiac Sunfire.  Oh, and some squirrels, which I also ate.

—

After months of no formal discipline, I got an intervention today.  That is my sixth in five months, not bad.  The guy with the most discipline in my squad has 21 and three Learning Experiences (LEs).

An intervention is basically a military gig, not a rehab intervention like you might see on TV.  Mine was for not sleeping under one of my two sheets.  It’s very petty.  If I do it two more times which I won’t, I will get an LE.

—

I redeemed myself today for killing the frog.  I saw him/her just in time while I was pushing the Frog Killer 2000 over the grass, and helped him along into the garden.  Oh, yea, there were two of them.  So if I ever kill another frog, I’m even.

—

We’ve been working lately in CD on the “ripple effect” of our crimes.  Well, most of us have.  The guy who shot at somebody several times but missed still claims his offense has no victim.

I never denied that selling drugs hurt society, people’s lives, families, and of course the children.  I’m sure the money given to me for meth could have been better spent on food, clothing, and shelter.

My criminality has affected my family as well.  I didn’t directly try to bring harm to them, other than stealing some money from My Mom years ago, and borrowing money more recently without, so far, paying it back.  But I see my Mother, now in her 50s, still beautiful, energetic, kind, and unbelievably patient, without a husband, and I wonder if I am indirectly or directly responsible.  Is that where the shame took hold?  Am I such a black sheep that she didn’t even bother?

She’s had boyfriends over the years but they didn’t stick.  I see myself in the same boat.  37 with no wife and kids, no girlfriend waiting for me out there.  Maybe together, we emit a powerful toxic odor that that repels potential mates.  Hmm…I hope not.

The point is, even if I am not responsible for her mating habits, I am seeing that my choices affect more than just me.  And it can ripple a long way out.  I’m not just staying clean for me, I’m doing it for the whole pond.

[ANNE: My heart sank when I read this.  Vince is in no way responsible for me being one of the 7% of American women my age who have never married.  Take out the lesbian women who couldn’t marry, and I am part of a really small club.  I always wanted to get married.  I assumed I would.  I wrote a blog post about dating years ago that demonstrates the effort I put into finding a mate.

Like a lot of things, it’s complicated.  I wasted my 20s and 30s—the years when most people marry—on Kermit and other alcoholics, abusers, and just plain jerks.  Then I took a break from dating to figure out how to stop doing that.  Then came Vince’s lost year, when I was too distraught to think of anything else.  Then, the older you are, the harder it is to meet people.  So it was a combo of bad choices, bad timing, bad luck and yes, Vince was a factor but far from the only one.  Being single is far from the worst fate, so now I claim my spinsterhood as if it was my plan all along.]

An Exception to the Rule

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VINCE

I remember working at the Kemps Ice Cream plant in Rochester for roughly a year.  Possibly significantly more or less, I have no idea.

I worked in the wrapper room.  Seven lines of different flavors, brands, and styles would come through a Plexiglas wall from the production line and into one of the various machines to be individually wrapped, then bundled in four or six packs, then shrink-wrapped together before going into the deep freeze for several hours.

I worked a machine called an Amerio.  Sort of a recycling freezer.  31 levels high, the ice cream would be pushed in from the front and out the back came the now frozen bricks onto a conveyer belt that flowed down to a separate room for wrapping.

I worked with a guy I’ll call Bill.  Often we worked 12 hour shifts in the summer time.  We got to know each other pretty well.  We joked around a lot, had some serious conversations, and once we even went out for a beer (just after I had started drinking again after five years sober).

Very shortly after that I lost my job and never saw or talked to him again.

Years later, while looking at the Olmsted County Sherriff’s Office In Custody roster online, looking for anybody I knew in the meth world, I saw his name.  Just below his name was a charge that even criminals despise.

It turns out Bill had a fairly long standing relationship with a 12 year old girl.  The police had letters he had written to her, and her to him, describing, in too much detail, their love.

I sit here now and am a little upset that I ever spoke to him, not that I knew anything about it.  I would like to write a lot more about it but I can’t.  I will someday, when my mail won’t be read before it’s sent out.

—

I had a one-on-one with my CD counselor just a moment ago.  We talked for a half hour about my worries and wants and my thoughts about employment upon release.  His advice, go out and live life.  He said he had full confidence that I would be good at being sober, but he wanted me to go out and be a good person.

Then he threw me a curve-ball.  He thought I could make a great CD counselor within five years, by which time I would have gotten my Bachelor’s in Social Work and then on to a LADC or something like that.  I tend to daydream and space out a lot even if they are really important.  But he made me feel like I was really capable of doing something with my life, even if it takes a while.  So, I have that going for me.

—

Today our squad had our re-entries.  What’s that?  Where we go into a room and one by one we talk to our CD counselor and case manager.  It’s really scary for the people that have not been doing any hard work.  All my counselor said to my caseworker was, “He’s doing exceptional work, and he facilitates the NA meeting on Friday nights.  No worries.”  She smiled (nobody has seen her smile) and told me I was also the exception to the rule on her end.  I have been approved to move to St. Paul upon my release!  No more worries.  I was the only one in my squad to be approved so far.

[ANNE: I felt nervous when I read that last paragraph.  I say I’m not superstitious but I am a Midwesterner, and we have superstitions that go like this: 1) “Never saying anything good about yourself because you’ll sound like a braggart, and everyone will look askance at you but not say anything” or 2) “Never say anything optimistic because that will immediately bring back luck down on you.”  Or was it that I’ve known a lot of addicts and alcoholics, and they tend to be Janus faced in many ways—in this case grandiose today and ripping themselves to shreds the next?  In know!—I think I’ll just be proud of how well he’s doing.]

Reading, Writing, Ready

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VINCE

Today is one of our work crew days, but they haven’t had much work for us to do of late.  They sent us out for an hour to do drill and ceremony but so far that’s it.  I haven’t lifted a splitting maul, a saw, or a rake since my first month here.  Don’t’ get me wrong.  I do plenty, but some days I get bored with sitting in my blue plastic chair.

On the plus side, I have two new Bill Bryson books to keep me occupied.  A Walk in the Woods and Neither Here nor There.  I’ve read 117 pages of the former since I checked it out last night and I’m completely immersed.  I now want to hike the Appalachian Trail, just like I wanted to visit Australia when I was reading In a Sunburned Country, and I wanted to visit outer space and a lot more when I read A Short History of Nearly Everything.  I don’t know what I’m going to do for reading next, I’ve exhausted all the authors I know and I still have weeks to kill.

—

I finished the 276-page A Walk in the Woods in just under an hour.  I may have to start reading less.  I sat in my blue plastic chair nearly all day, neglecting my body by getting zero exercise.  Maybe it’s okay to do nothing once a week.

I read these books and wonder about my ability to write my own.  I have certainly lead a life worthy of writing about but I don’t know how I could put it all together with all of my missing memories, lack of proper punctuation and rather short vocabulary compared to any book I’ve read.  In the last book there must have been a dozen words I have never seen before.

I’ve been writing this blog for nearly a year, and I wonder if it would even fill in a hundred typed pages in a book.  When I’m out I can finally check out this blog for myself and type instead of write.  But who knows, I kind of like writing by hand.

—

Thinking back to when I started writing, I had no clue what boot camp was about.  I heard so many things from so many sources, none of them very accurate.  But I wrote them down as if I was an expert on the subject.

I say that to say this, everything I write is written as I remember it.  And although my life has been crazy enough to have no need to embellish the truth, I’m sure some of the people involved in some of the stories might remember things differently.  One thing I can tell you is that every word since the first post has been written by me completely sober.  Sometimes it’s difficult to look back through the fog for details.  Sometimes I don’t want to.

—

Another Sunday in the bag.  Days seem to last forever, yet the weeks fly by.  I hope I’m ready for the real world.  It scares a lot of people.  Prison scares me, so I am going to make sure I never come back.  I will be a success.  I am ready.

—

Here’s the deal: I’m going to wind this thing down.  I want to write, and I will.  Unfortunately, I’m very restricted here in what I write.  I can’t say bad things or bad words.  I can’t give unfavorable opinions about any aspect of this program.  I simply don’t feel free to be expressive and explicit.  So, I will write a couple more posts then take some time off.

I’ve enclosed a picture of myself from when I arrived at Moose Lake in November.  I wish I could show you a picture of me now.  The difference is substantial.

Vpic

It’s been quite a journey.  I can’t wait to apply the knowledge I’ve gained here out in the world.  I’ve worked hard on so many levels.  I am lucky to have had the opportunity to be immersed in such an intense program.  It’s like Hazelden on steroids.

Thank you for reading.  Feel free to ask me questions via comment or feedback or however it all works.

LeCordon Blue

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ANNE

My last post looked at the reasons that kids born into poor or blue collar families are highly have a hard time negotiating the college admissions process.  Low expectations, parents who know nothing about the admissions system, day care instead of preschool, and a lack of exposure to enriching opportunities like music lessons or travel.

Everyone’s situation is different, but I have to write at least one more post about what happens when kids from poor families do aspire to attend college.  It should be easy.  If they start at a community college for their first two years, then finish at a public university.  Pell Grants should cover their cost of attendance.  Students can take up to six years to complete their degree, which allows them time to work, which covers their rent and other living expenses.  Even private colleges can be a good deal for lower income kids, if they have good grades, because private colleges offer much more financial aid than public institutions.  They should have to borrow minimal, if any, in student loans.

But what can happen is that low income kids get all excited about for-profit colleges that are national chains and advertise heavily on TV, the radio, and the web.  These are places like LeCordon Bleu School of Culinary Arts, where Vince wanted to go when he was 16 and had dropped out of high school.  He stopped in to get information and they pounced, completing all the paperwork for him to take out student loans to cover the $40,000 tuition.

That’s $40,000 per year, for a two-year program.  That’s how for-profit schools make their shareholders very, very happy.  LeCordon Bleu has a graduation rate that’s better than Bemidji State University, but at 48% that still means 52% of students drop out under the worst possible circumstances: no degree, which means no prospects for a decent job, and on the hook for tens of thousands of dollars of student loans.  That’s U.S. Government money–aka tax dollars–going to subsidize for-profit colleges.  It makes me sick.  Back then I knew very little about the whole college aid picture but I understood that $40,000 was a ridiculous amount to pay to get a degree as a pastry chef.  I refused to sign the forms for Vince and he was furious, but maybe some day he’ll thank me.

Recently Vince asked me to send him information about culinary schools.  He was interested in earning a degree in the work he’s been doing for 20 years.  I checked out our local community and technical college and their tuition for a full-time student was a little over $3,000 per year.

But unsophisticated students can get into trouble even at community colleges.

Fast forward.  Vince has completed four months of treatment at Hazelden and a year living in a Hazelden-sanctioned halfway house in West Palm Beach, Florida.  He has settled in Rochester, Minnesota and is working at Spencer Gifts.  He decides to pursue a degree at Rochester Community and Technical College.

I was working at the job I mentioned in my last post–the college enrollment consulting firm–and offered to help Vince figure out the financial aid picture.  He seemed to think this was intrusive and unnecessary.

To make a long story short, he took out over $30,000 in student loans and dropped out a few credits shy of earning his associate degree.  What was going on in that financial aid office?  Wasn’t anyone tracking that no student needed that much in federal loans to attend a college that cost $3,000 a year?  Wasn’t there an underwriter to flag that this was a high-risk borrower?

He subsequently defaulted on those loans.  The penalties and interest have piled up astronomically.  Unlike other debt that can be discharged in bankruptcy, student loans are inescapable.   As Vince would say, “Ugh.”

It probably feels overwhelming to him; not what he needs as he is about to be released to make a fresh start.

Boring but Important

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ANNE

This blog touches on a lot of issues related to imprisonment, like addiction, drug laws, mental illness, and intergenerational poverty.  One thing I’ve been meaning to address is class, and historically, a four-year college degree has been the way for Americans to propel themselves from the “working class” to the middle class and beyond.

We talk a lot about race in this country, but we like to think we’re a classless society because we don’t have a monarchy.  We also like to believe that in America, anyone can overcome poverty to become a millionaire if they just work hard enough.  It’s exactly because of this myth, I think, that our class divide is so hard to overcome, because we don’t acknowledge that it exists or that the deck is stacked against many people.

—

I learned a lot about college financial aid and admissions by working at a consulting firm that specialized in enrollment management for private colleges.  What we did was this: our clients would send us the data on their freshman applicants, we would analyze it, then tell them which applicants to accept and how much money to offer them to come.  These financial “awards” were really mostly just discounts to entice desirable students to come to a particular college.

When we analyzed the data—no matter whether it was Occidental College in L.A. or Loyola University in Chicago or St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota—there was one thing that students with the highest grades and test scores had in common.  Race?  No. High school attended?  No.  These things were factors but really it all boiled down to parental income.

Colleges often offered discounts to the richest families.  They call these awards things like “Presidential Scholarships” in hopes of flattering parents and beating their competitors.

Why do kids from high-income families do so well?  It’s not rocket science.  They have grown up in safe, lead-free homes with toys and books.  They went to preschool and well-resourced elementary schools.  Their parents attended every parent-teacher conference and made sure they did their homework.  They went to summer camps in the Adirondacks where they were on a lacrosse team, were immersed in French, or learned to play the marimba.  Colleges love these well-rounded students.

Wealthy families can also afford SAT/ACT prep classes.  They can afford to fly/drive to campus visits to the remote, pastoral towns where the most exclusive colleges are located.  They can hire tutors and college admission coaches.  These coaches do a brisk business in helping kids write the perfect application essay and advising parents on which colleges will give the biggest discounts.

But sometimes I think the biggest factor in driving kids toward academic success is that wealthy parents have expectations of them.

—

I don’t recall anyone having expectations of me, or talking to me about college when I was 17.  They may have, but I was so busy partying that I may not remember.  Our neighborhood was blue collar—every mom was a housewife and every husband was a car mechanic, a roofer, or worked in a can factory.  The only reason I even knew what a college was, was because there was a Catholic college nearby and my aunt had married a professor—the one “white collar” guy on the block.

Yet I knew I didn’t want to work in a can factory or be a housewife, and that college was my ticket out.  I applied to one college—Bemidji State University.  Bemidji State is in an extremely poor part of northern Minnesota near the White Earth Indian reservation.  It has a 90% acceptance rate and a 17% graduation rate (compared with around 7% and 99% for Harvard).  All I knew was that it sounded as far away from home as anything I could imagine.

By the time I got my acceptance letter, I was pregnant with Vince.  I wrote “deceased” on the envelope and threw it back in the mail.

—

I sometimes wonder what trajectory my life would have taken if I’d had some guidance about college, but on the whole I’ve made the best of it and have had a great life.

A Visit, at Last

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ANNE

I went to visit Vince on Sunday, for the first time in over eight months.

Given my last experience with visiting, my subsequent six-month ban, the fact that my last four letters to him were destroyed, and that he’ll soon be released, I thought I could skip this visit.   But he really wanted me to come.  I’m his only visitor, so he hasn’t seen anyone from the outside for a long time.

Friends made suggestions for what I should wear to prevent a repeat of the unfortunate “low-cut blouse” episode.  A nun’s habit, suit of armor, a sleeping bag, a burqa … the list went on and on and it was all very ha, ha, ha but I was really very anxious.  It’s indescribable unless you’ve experienced it firsthand—the feeling of being at the mercy of a stranger in uniform—the powerlessness, uncertainty, and fear.  And I’m not even in prison.

Problem was, I don’t own a T-shirt or a button-up shirt or a turtle neck.  I don’t like clothing that constricts around the neck.  I was inspired to put on one of my uncle’s dress shirts—the uncle who died in December whose shirts I took for Vince.  I could have fit two of me inside it.  The sleeves fell down six inches below my fingers and the shirt tails fell to my knees, but it I could button it up to my neck.  Maybe it would bring me good luck.

The hour-and-a-half-long drive to Willow River went smoothly and I arrived a few minutes before visiting hours.  The gate was closed so I pressed the intercom button.  A voice told me to leave the grounds and wait on the highway until visiting hours started.  I looked at my cell phone and said, “You mean, in four minutes?”  “Yes,” he answered.

A year ago I would have made a sarcastic remark but I wasn’t going to take any chances.  I said, “Okay” and backed down the drive.  I killed the engine and reflexively reached for my cell phone, then realized I had not left the grounds so I started the car up again, drove out to the highway, and sat there on the side of the road with my emergency lights on as cars and trucks zoomed by me.

After four minutes I drove back in and the gate was open.  This facility is much smaller than St. Cloud or Moose Lake.  There were no bars, metal doors, metal detectors, or guards behind plexiglass.  My hand was shaking as I filled out the visitor-request form, but within 10 minutes I was waved into the visiting room and there he was.  When I hugged him I could feel how much weight he had lost.  “People would pay to come here!” I said, laughing.  “I know, mom, I’ve never been in such great shape in my life,” he said.

“And by the way, I just got a demerit because you arrived early.”

What a splash of cold water!  Vince got a demerit because I arrived four minutes early.  It would be one thing if I had known this was a no-no, but I had checked the visiting rules online the day before and they said nothing about it.  “Don’t worry about it, mom.  That’s just how how it is.  There’s no way of knowing what the rules are until you break one.  They’re looking for a reaction, and I won’t give it to them.  Just don’t show up early when you come to pick me up on my last day.”

“If I were staying in longer, you could do a video visit,” Vince told me.  “They’re promoting it heavily—one hour for only $99.95!”  We burst out laughing at the absurdity of it, but he explained that a hundred bucks was cheap for the many families who had to drive from Chicago and pay for hotel rooms.

Our two hours together flew by.  I drove home and felt completely drained.  Two hundred miles, two hours with my son, two weeks til he comes home.

Small Comfort

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VINCE

My squad mates made it official.  I will be the caller for the graduation march on September 8.  It’s a good feeling.  I’ve been working hard in many areas including marching in our squad formation.  It’s tough to get 17 men to turn at the same time on the correct foot, while singing our cadence.  But I know I’ll do well.

—

Yesterday I worked K.P. (kitchen duty) for only the third time since my arrival.  I didn’t go as much as most people because I’ve had a job that interfered with the scheduling…blah, blah.

I actually enjoyed it.  I worked about 14 hours in the back of the kitchen.  They were excited to have somebody that knew what he was doing.  I got to use the big Hobart slicer and was happy to discover that I still had good form.  And, I did not cut any fingers off.

This morning after our run we came back inside our barracks to discover that it had been “inspected.”  It happens about once a week.  If anything is wrong, they take the drawer out and empty it out on the bed.  In my case, I didn’t roll one of my underpants correctly so I had to re-fold my shirts, socks, sweats, and undies.  I’m usually one of the few that doesn’t get flipped but I knew I had been slacking for a few days.  It was just a little friendly reminder.

—

Flag detail is going well.  I’ve been on it three times and we haven’t dropped it.  I was the safety today.  My arms stay under the flag while it’s being folded.  It’s pretty cool.  I always wondered how the flag was put into such a nice triangle.  Now I know.

I’m I study hall right now.  Every Mon, Wed, and Fri we get an hour at night where everybody is quiet.  So quiet.  I can’t wait until I’m able to just go find a quiet place—and read, write, or do nothing at all.  I can’t wait to sit in a comfy chair and kick my legs up.  We have to sit straight up with the entirely of the bottom of our boots flat on the ground.  All day.  Every day.  Well, I mean when we’re sitting.

[ANNE: I received a postcard from Vince informing me that my last three letters to him had been destroyed.  There was an explanation given for only one: it had contained an image of a website.  All I could think of was that he had been urged to ask me for a list of AA meetings in our neighborhood, and I had copied a list off of the AA website, printed it, and mailed it to him.  I checked the Department of Corrections website and it said nothing about images of websites not being allowed in letters.

Man, was I upset!  Especially since I have an upcoming visit with Vince–the first in eight months.  Did they know about the blog, and were they pissed off about it?  Did they just not like the content of my letters for some reason?  Or was it totally capricious?  Would they find some reason to deny me a visit, after I drove for two hours to get there?  Would I be able to keep my mouth shut if they did?  I don’t have answers to any of these questions.  All I can do is try my best to suck it up if the guards give me any grief.  Trouble is, I am really bad at kowtowing to authority.]

Prison News Round Up Part II: The Good News

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ANNE

In the same weekend as all the depressing news stories I listed two days ago, there were these two uplifting ones.

The Week published an excerpt of this article in Runners World.  Yes, Runners World—about a program at the Oregon State Penitentiary that allows outsiders (even women) to go inside and run with prisoners.  They even race half marathons.  For some inmates, the outside runners are the only visitors they see.  I am not a runner, but I’ve always been an exerciser—I go nuts if I skip my daily walk and I’ve been pretty faithful to weight training for 25 years.  I swear by exercise as the best medicine for everything from depression to anxiety to all sorts of physical ills.  So way to go, Oregon!

Second good news article: The good old New York Times can be depended on to run something about America prisons almost daily.  Usually it’s extremely depressing, but this past weekend there was this one about dogs in prisons that will make you dog lovers out there weep.  It made me weep, when I got to this line: “One older inmate cried when he met his puppy. ‘I haven’t touched a dog in 40 years.’”  It made me wonder how heart-wrenching it must be when these guys have to turn their dogs over after they’ve been trained to detect bombs, which is what the program does.

Vince and I wrote about the dog-training program at Moose Lake, where he was before boot camp.  Only about six prisoners out of a thousand get to participate, so it sounds good but it’s not exactly at scale.  As I’ve mentioned, I do foster care for kittens through the Humane Society.  Every day from about April through August, I get dozens of emails a day from them looking for fosters for cats and kittens.  Below are just two photos from the 13 emails I received today.  For some reason the world doesn’t seem to be flooded with stray puppies or dogs so much, except those taken in from domestic violence situations, which require months of special care.  Could it work to have prisoners foster kittens?  Is that a cray-cray or a win-win idea?

478cfb96-ca59-41c4-88e8-4f7206e744d1Kittens

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I got some good news—my visitor request was approved!  That means that after I get home from Berlin I can visit Vince.  By that time, it will have been eight months since I’ve seen Vince.  The ban was for six months, but due to me being denied a visit, and to two chunks of international travel, it’s stretched out to eight.  And yet on every visitor application and in the information for families that the Department of Corrections publishes online, they tout the importance of family connections.  Ha.