3-12-2015
Today marks 7 months since I turned myself in to this county.
Everything seemed to go my way the first month and it seemed like I was going to get the result I'd hoped for and all seemed rosy. That was 6 months ago. That was 2 lawyers ago. That was before hope was lost.
I have been here for 7 months without a court date. I was discussed in court, once, but I wasn't there. I have been discussed in offices down south in Harris County but I haven't been to court.
Court moves things along. In Harris County, the appearances are roughly 2 weeks apart. If I were in the Harris County jail, I would have had approximately 14 court appearances instead of 0. The prosecutor and the defense counsels are both in court and they are forced to discuss how to resolve your case. Plea, dismissal, or trial?
Of course, no court coordinator (The Judge's scheduler and King/Queen of the Court) would allow the case to languish for 14 appearances. The court coordinator would have long since asked, "What are we doing with this case?" She would have influenced the speed with which the case was resolved. She would have a preset number of appearances that could be made before it had to be set for trial.
You can get an appearance, or two more, if you convince her resolution is likely, but no more. There will be a speedy resolution because the Court does not like a loose end. They like cases coming in-getting resolved- and moving on. Old cases are loose ends.
But none of that happened, Harris County has little incentive to try and work out a deal because I have no court date. They are waiting for me to be in custody down there for a quick resolution.
Montgomery County must lift its hold on me for me to go to Harris County. I don't have charges against me in Montgomery County. They have been holding me on what's called an "order of arrest." The order of arrest stems from my probation. So, they have not moved to revoke my probation, they don't even want to, they are just holding me until Harris County reaches an agreement.
So-- in the most classic of all rock and hard places scenarios-- I'm not in Harris County custody, so I have no court dates. Without a court date, the lawyers have little incentive to work out a deal in my case. So I languish.
Montgomery County is not going to do anything until Harris County does. They won't ship me down to Harris County until there is a resolution there, and there will be no resolution there, until I am there going to court.
So, that's awesome. Two counties are being stubborn and my emotional health is being ground to pieces between the two metaphorical heads they keep bumping.
Everyone asks each other when they are going to court. Court is a magical place where resolution takes place. It represents hope. It also represents progress. People in authority talk about your case!!
I wish someone, somewhere, in a place with fluorescent lights, was saying my name in some context--right now. I'm tired of feeling like a name in a dusty file on a forgotten desk.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Gangs. by Wesley
I guess I have been here so long that my daily interactions with members of organized crime groups has become a bit boring. When members of polite society think of gangs we think of young kids and drugs, or at least I did.
These guys deal drugs, steal anything not tied down and defraud corporate interests. (Wal-mart is their favorite target. Remember that no receipt return policy? These guy ended that.) They steal cars and own chop shops. They might sell a stolen bulldozer, get a $30k share, and lose it all gambling while high. That really happened. Allegedly. They love "the life". They are willing to spend years in the jail as a tax for the life they choose.
With small exceptions, the gangs are divided according to ethnic background. (Of course, "white", and "black" are not ethnic backgrounds, but stop being difficult.)
The white gangs start with the Aryan Brotherhood. They love swastikas and SS logos and "white power" tattoos. They are the largest and most powerful group. They are important here and outside.
The second group is the Aryan Circle. They too like swastikas and SS symbols and it would seem these two Nazi enthusiasts would request some sort of merger with the A.B. Their SS symbol is very slightly different shape and maybe they can't reach an agreement for consolidation, so they stay separate.
The third group of white gang members are the "white knights". Of course, you can't be a white gang without swastikas, people would laugh at you. So they have those. And again, a SS symbol that is slightly different. They compliment all of that with large (like the entire chest or back) tattoos of Scandinavian gods like Odin and Thor on horseback, looking intimidating. It's all very impressive.
These guys are the least of the white gangs and every one that I have met has been 1.) as crazy as a shithouse rat, and 2.) as dumb as a bag of old shoes. That is not a good combination.
As for the black guys, lets start with the Bloods. They are covered in tattoos. They supposedly tell a story, but I don't know what it is and never asked. The primary blood I have known here was unstable so you never knew what you would get when you talked to him. He is a five star general, which I assume is high. He told everyone he was a 5 star general which, unless you're a blood, means nothing. I would think he wouldn't have to tell anyone that was already a blood, since he had 5 red stars tattooed on his face. It kind of gives it away.
The Crips are the same. They just don't like Bloods. Bloods greet each other with terms like "bro" or "b" or anything that starts with a "B". Crips use "cuz" or anything that starts with a "c".
The hispanics are now dominated by the Tango Blast. This stands for Texans Against National Gang Organizations. It started out as a bunch of hispanics from Houston resisting the mexican gangs from the Valley (Rio GrandeValley, for those that don't know, borders U.S. and Mexico). They tattooed Houston Astros logos on their necks. Then Oilers. Some Rockets. Now Texans. Then they expanded and became prevalaent among hispanics from Dallas too. So the Cowboys logo arrived.
I get along with these guys not at all. I don't speak to them and they don't speak to me.
There is a final group that is not a gang but is an association. The "Peckerwoods." They don't belong to a gang but when racial problems start, they band together and stand with the A.B., the A.C., and the W.K. They all have a woodpecker tattooed on them. Usually looks a bit like Woody Woodpecker.
While in here, these groups work loosely together to steal, bring in drugs and contraband and make their lives better. I know that the guys in this pod right now are involved in various conspiracies that I ignore and bury my head to avoid knowledge of. They irony is that these guys are so frequently locked up that they have relationships with the guards. So, when jobs become available the guards pick people they know...the gang members.
So, they very people who ought not be put in a position of trust, are instead given a license to steal. Commissary is a good example: There is a guy on commissary who is A.C. He steals so much stuff he never has to buy anything. Everyday he takes his haul down to booking and hides it. Then, after he's searched, he picks it up and carries it out. I think. Allegedly. I don't really know. I haven't spoken to him about it, nor would I.
There are some rules, on etiquette that must be followed. For example, if you are in a gang, everything you have, (in here), belongs to the gang. They share all their food and commissary. They sit down to communal meals every day, and they will not eat with other people outside their group, at least the white groups won't. I didn't realize it until I heard criticism of a guy sharing food with black guys. maybe this rule isn't so hard and fast, but some adhere to it.
There are other, smaller groups, but these are the ones most often seen here in the corner of Texas.
It is important not to let them think you are vulnerable to them or they will take advantage. If you get into a personal disagreement with one of them, you have a problem with all of them. Do not gamble with more than one member, they will work together and even cheat. And do not ever join. It isn't easy. The rites for entry are all different, but you can rest assured, you're going to get your ass kicked good and well. And there isn't really a time where you can walk away.
These guys deal drugs, steal anything not tied down and defraud corporate interests. (Wal-mart is their favorite target. Remember that no receipt return policy? These guy ended that.) They steal cars and own chop shops. They might sell a stolen bulldozer, get a $30k share, and lose it all gambling while high. That really happened. Allegedly. They love "the life". They are willing to spend years in the jail as a tax for the life they choose.
With small exceptions, the gangs are divided according to ethnic background. (Of course, "white", and "black" are not ethnic backgrounds, but stop being difficult.)
The white gangs start with the Aryan Brotherhood. They love swastikas and SS logos and "white power" tattoos. They are the largest and most powerful group. They are important here and outside.
The second group is the Aryan Circle. They too like swastikas and SS symbols and it would seem these two Nazi enthusiasts would request some sort of merger with the A.B. Their SS symbol is very slightly different shape and maybe they can't reach an agreement for consolidation, so they stay separate.
The third group of white gang members are the "white knights". Of course, you can't be a white gang without swastikas, people would laugh at you. So they have those. And again, a SS symbol that is slightly different. They compliment all of that with large (like the entire chest or back) tattoos of Scandinavian gods like Odin and Thor on horseback, looking intimidating. It's all very impressive.
These guys are the least of the white gangs and every one that I have met has been 1.) as crazy as a shithouse rat, and 2.) as dumb as a bag of old shoes. That is not a good combination.
As for the black guys, lets start with the Bloods. They are covered in tattoos. They supposedly tell a story, but I don't know what it is and never asked. The primary blood I have known here was unstable so you never knew what you would get when you talked to him. He is a five star general, which I assume is high. He told everyone he was a 5 star general which, unless you're a blood, means nothing. I would think he wouldn't have to tell anyone that was already a blood, since he had 5 red stars tattooed on his face. It kind of gives it away.
The Crips are the same. They just don't like Bloods. Bloods greet each other with terms like "bro" or "b" or anything that starts with a "B". Crips use "cuz" or anything that starts with a "c".
The hispanics are now dominated by the Tango Blast. This stands for Texans Against National Gang Organizations. It started out as a bunch of hispanics from Houston resisting the mexican gangs from the Valley (Rio GrandeValley, for those that don't know, borders U.S. and Mexico). They tattooed Houston Astros logos on their necks. Then Oilers. Some Rockets. Now Texans. Then they expanded and became prevalaent among hispanics from Dallas too. So the Cowboys logo arrived.
I get along with these guys not at all. I don't speak to them and they don't speak to me.
There is a final group that is not a gang but is an association. The "Peckerwoods." They don't belong to a gang but when racial problems start, they band together and stand with the A.B., the A.C., and the W.K. They all have a woodpecker tattooed on them. Usually looks a bit like Woody Woodpecker.
While in here, these groups work loosely together to steal, bring in drugs and contraband and make their lives better. I know that the guys in this pod right now are involved in various conspiracies that I ignore and bury my head to avoid knowledge of. They irony is that these guys are so frequently locked up that they have relationships with the guards. So, when jobs become available the guards pick people they know...the gang members.
So, they very people who ought not be put in a position of trust, are instead given a license to steal. Commissary is a good example: There is a guy on commissary who is A.C. He steals so much stuff he never has to buy anything. Everyday he takes his haul down to booking and hides it. Then, after he's searched, he picks it up and carries it out. I think. Allegedly. I don't really know. I haven't spoken to him about it, nor would I.
There are some rules, on etiquette that must be followed. For example, if you are in a gang, everything you have, (in here), belongs to the gang. They share all their food and commissary. They sit down to communal meals every day, and they will not eat with other people outside their group, at least the white groups won't. I didn't realize it until I heard criticism of a guy sharing food with black guys. maybe this rule isn't so hard and fast, but some adhere to it.
There are other, smaller groups, but these are the ones most often seen here in the corner of Texas.
It is important not to let them think you are vulnerable to them or they will take advantage. If you get into a personal disagreement with one of them, you have a problem with all of them. Do not gamble with more than one member, they will work together and even cheat. And do not ever join. It isn't easy. The rites for entry are all different, but you can rest assured, you're going to get your ass kicked good and well. And there isn't really a time where you can walk away.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Getting better at dealing with his paranoia. by Lesa
I have had a long week. Work was more stressful than usual, the hospital was having evaluation/inspection by Joint Commissions. All the managers were stressed. Everything for the last few weeks being combed, cleaned, and inspected to ready the hospital for their arrival. The staff being prepped for possible questions, inspections...some of it nursing 101, was a bit ridiculous, and it was finally over. I had finished my work week and the thought of going to home alone, again, was not inviting. A friend at work had invited me to call her to go for dinner or a movie if I was wanting company. I texted with her and we decided to meet for dinner half-way. She was bringing her teen daughter for her DD, so she could have a couple of drinks.
I run home to change, hubby called, our usual time. I let him know where I was going as I was getting in my car. I had about a 15 or 20 minute drive, I thought we would talk for while I drove. He could make calls late tonight, it was Saturday, until 1:30 am. As I am driving he asked me if I was going on a date. My heart sank, my stomach curled. I asked him how could he ask me that question. He told me to just answer the question. I told him no, I was not going on a date, I was going to have dinner with my friend from work. He said that I had never mentioned this friend, til a few days ago, and now we were best friends going out. I told him first, that she was not my best friend, that Lori was my best friend, and second, I had mentioned her many times, but a few days ago was the first time I had gone into details about our conversation. In truth, it was the first time, standing outside, after we had worked together, we sat and talked for awhile. We have spoken and texted together many times at work. I told Wesley he can't ask me that question. He asked me if that was true, that he wasn't allowed to ask that question. The next few minutes was a bantering back and forth, not pleasant, which led to me crying and him saying he will let me go. I told him no. I took a breath. I told him that of course, if he needed to ask those questions to not go crazy, then ask, but if he asked them, I was going to have an emotional reaction too. I told him to not blow it out of proportion. Of course he is going to have moments of crazy thoughts that I am going to leave him because he is not here, but I am also going to get my feeling hurt when he asks, because, frankly, I don't do anything. I don't ever want him to have a reason to have crazy concerns or thoughts. Sometimes it just has to do with depression and not wanting to do anything without him. But, sometimes it has to do with not wanting to deal with the drama that might come if I do. Anyway, the subject was changed, we both dropped it and I went to dinner with my friend. We had a good time, laughed, and told a few stories.
After I left, I couldn't help but think, that was okay fun. I was used to hanging with my hubby, our friends, our family, and it wasn't the same, not even close. But, me sitting at home, on my weekend or days off, alone often, was silly. I have lots of friends, and family in town, to get away with. Wesley would be totally fine with me being with family. He still worries about me being with friends, he knows that I have to explain why I am alone. He is embarrassed for me, for himself, either way, the tension is usually in the call. When I am with family, he will cut the call short, excuse himself to "let me visit", even though that means I may not talk to him much that day. This is especially true when I am on overnight stays with the kids. He is withdrawn, too humiliated to have me talk to, in his words, my "jail bird husband". It brings back some old hurt memories....long ago, when we first started talking after a break from the relationship....a very long and different story. Now, I try to be mindful of his feelings, protective of our relationship, and patient when he acts jealous or paranoid, which he never does. The expense is that sometimes, I am alone more than I want. The gap of his being gone is like being in a "silent room". My son, works at a place that has a truly "silent room". It is eerie. The sounds of life that we take for granted, is filtered out. That is what is like when he is gone. Going through the actions of cleaning, working, paying bills, buying groceries. I function because I have to, my son Isaac, 16, needs his mom, my dogs need to be fed, loved, taken care of, but at times, it is just busy work. I feel like color is absent from my life.
My life consists of trying to get caught up on bills, keeping up with house, cooking, and groceries. The writing letters and blogs take up a chunk of free time, and then the TV to help shut down the brain. I am working on a plan to replace some of that with exercise and yoga. I am also working to get my diet better. All of these plans, to keep my mind and body as healthy as I can, while part of my heart is being held captive. I must protect the rest of me 'til he returns, and our life can become complete again. Until then, I have my own version of wake, eat, sleep, read. But I know this isn't forever, not even close. All told, it will probably be around a year. Probably a little more. Some people have it worse. Although, until we have a final word on a deal, I protect my heart and feelings, keeping all of this locked inside, 'til the day we are reunited and can unlock all of the emotions we have had to keep inside to protect our lives. I love Wesley, with all my heart, and he is worth the wait, but the journey can be rough. Thanks for helping me through it. Hope my sharing my walk helps you through yours.
I run home to change, hubby called, our usual time. I let him know where I was going as I was getting in my car. I had about a 15 or 20 minute drive, I thought we would talk for while I drove. He could make calls late tonight, it was Saturday, until 1:30 am. As I am driving he asked me if I was going on a date. My heart sank, my stomach curled. I asked him how could he ask me that question. He told me to just answer the question. I told him no, I was not going on a date, I was going to have dinner with my friend from work. He said that I had never mentioned this friend, til a few days ago, and now we were best friends going out. I told him first, that she was not my best friend, that Lori was my best friend, and second, I had mentioned her many times, but a few days ago was the first time I had gone into details about our conversation. In truth, it was the first time, standing outside, after we had worked together, we sat and talked for awhile. We have spoken and texted together many times at work. I told Wesley he can't ask me that question. He asked me if that was true, that he wasn't allowed to ask that question. The next few minutes was a bantering back and forth, not pleasant, which led to me crying and him saying he will let me go. I told him no. I took a breath. I told him that of course, if he needed to ask those questions to not go crazy, then ask, but if he asked them, I was going to have an emotional reaction too. I told him to not blow it out of proportion. Of course he is going to have moments of crazy thoughts that I am going to leave him because he is not here, but I am also going to get my feeling hurt when he asks, because, frankly, I don't do anything. I don't ever want him to have a reason to have crazy concerns or thoughts. Sometimes it just has to do with depression and not wanting to do anything without him. But, sometimes it has to do with not wanting to deal with the drama that might come if I do. Anyway, the subject was changed, we both dropped it and I went to dinner with my friend. We had a good time, laughed, and told a few stories.
After I left, I couldn't help but think, that was okay fun. I was used to hanging with my hubby, our friends, our family, and it wasn't the same, not even close. But, me sitting at home, on my weekend or days off, alone often, was silly. I have lots of friends, and family in town, to get away with. Wesley would be totally fine with me being with family. He still worries about me being with friends, he knows that I have to explain why I am alone. He is embarrassed for me, for himself, either way, the tension is usually in the call. When I am with family, he will cut the call short, excuse himself to "let me visit", even though that means I may not talk to him much that day. This is especially true when I am on overnight stays with the kids. He is withdrawn, too humiliated to have me talk to, in his words, my "jail bird husband". It brings back some old hurt memories....long ago, when we first started talking after a break from the relationship....a very long and different story. Now, I try to be mindful of his feelings, protective of our relationship, and patient when he acts jealous or paranoid, which he never does. The expense is that sometimes, I am alone more than I want. The gap of his being gone is like being in a "silent room". My son, works at a place that has a truly "silent room". It is eerie. The sounds of life that we take for granted, is filtered out. That is what is like when he is gone. Going through the actions of cleaning, working, paying bills, buying groceries. I function because I have to, my son Isaac, 16, needs his mom, my dogs need to be fed, loved, taken care of, but at times, it is just busy work. I feel like color is absent from my life.
My life consists of trying to get caught up on bills, keeping up with house, cooking, and groceries. The writing letters and blogs take up a chunk of free time, and then the TV to help shut down the brain. I am working on a plan to replace some of that with exercise and yoga. I am also working to get my diet better. All of these plans, to keep my mind and body as healthy as I can, while part of my heart is being held captive. I must protect the rest of me 'til he returns, and our life can become complete again. Until then, I have my own version of wake, eat, sleep, read. But I know this isn't forever, not even close. All told, it will probably be around a year. Probably a little more. Some people have it worse. Although, until we have a final word on a deal, I protect my heart and feelings, keeping all of this locked inside, 'til the day we are reunited and can unlock all of the emotions we have had to keep inside to protect our lives. I love Wesley, with all my heart, and he is worth the wait, but the journey can be rough. Thanks for helping me through it. Hope my sharing my walk helps you through yours.
The Land of the Lost. by Wesley
2-25-15
Of late, I have realized that I have landed in a world where the norms have been reversed and behaviors I once considered obvious are now reason to render me a pariah. We will call this place, "The Land of the Lost".
For months I have heard people talk about lost opportunities. Not the kind of opportunities you might be thinking of...lost loves, great jobs, or vacation not taken. Not so much here.
"I wish I would have had my pistol," is the most common refrain when describing a missed opportunities in the Land of the Lost. Invariably they are describing running across someone with a lot of cash or property, and the teller of the story, describing how he wished he could have robbed them. Damn, the fickle whims of fate!
I have learned that any opportunity to steal must be taken. If something is not nailed down, steal it. If it is nailed down, bring a pry bar, so it can be taken as well.
An important, related issue is that many of these guys know each other outside these walls. They are loosely organized and have no leadership, but they are in cahoots. If you have had something stolen in Northern Harris county, or Southern Montgomery county- anything- chances are these guys did it, or they know who did.
And they are not specialists either. A guy who makes a living dealing drugs will take any opportunity to steal. It is called, "hitting a lick".
I asked someone recently, who was outside stealing and dealing drugs, if everyone they knew was in jail. Because it seems like everyone they know has been lifted up, and dropped in here. A whole society. With norms. And I work with them.
Which means that I must conform to their norms- or I am an outcast.
I have found myself defending myself. Not physically, but from accusations that I think I'm too good for others, because I won't steal. There is no irony here, if you don't or won't steal, you become a bit of an outcast in the Land of the Lost.
I often don't know the rules of this society. Sometimes the guys don't expect me to. They'll say, "you're not in the game", or "you're not a hustler" or "criminal" when describing how I have violated some rule I didn't know about. I get passes for that, as long as I keep up boundaries and don't get too friendly. If I get friendly, the problems start.
Once the barriers drop, I no longer get the pass. So I keep them up. And it shows. The other day a young man asked me if I didn't like talking to people. I was taken aback for an instant. Ordinarily, I am gregarious and silly, but here I have become an island in the Land of the Lost, (assuming there is a body of water, in said land, large enough to have an island).
Of late, I have realized that I have landed in a world where the norms have been reversed and behaviors I once considered obvious are now reason to render me a pariah. We will call this place, "The Land of the Lost".
For months I have heard people talk about lost opportunities. Not the kind of opportunities you might be thinking of...lost loves, great jobs, or vacation not taken. Not so much here.
"I wish I would have had my pistol," is the most common refrain when describing a missed opportunities in the Land of the Lost. Invariably they are describing running across someone with a lot of cash or property, and the teller of the story, describing how he wished he could have robbed them. Damn, the fickle whims of fate!
I have learned that any opportunity to steal must be taken. If something is not nailed down, steal it. If it is nailed down, bring a pry bar, so it can be taken as well.
An important, related issue is that many of these guys know each other outside these walls. They are loosely organized and have no leadership, but they are in cahoots. If you have had something stolen in Northern Harris county, or Southern Montgomery county- anything- chances are these guys did it, or they know who did.
And they are not specialists either. A guy who makes a living dealing drugs will take any opportunity to steal. It is called, "hitting a lick".
I asked someone recently, who was outside stealing and dealing drugs, if everyone they knew was in jail. Because it seems like everyone they know has been lifted up, and dropped in here. A whole society. With norms. And I work with them.
Which means that I must conform to their norms- or I am an outcast.
I have found myself defending myself. Not physically, but from accusations that I think I'm too good for others, because I won't steal. There is no irony here, if you don't or won't steal, you become a bit of an outcast in the Land of the Lost.
I often don't know the rules of this society. Sometimes the guys don't expect me to. They'll say, "you're not in the game", or "you're not a hustler" or "criminal" when describing how I have violated some rule I didn't know about. I get passes for that, as long as I keep up boundaries and don't get too friendly. If I get friendly, the problems start.
Once the barriers drop, I no longer get the pass. So I keep them up. And it shows. The other day a young man asked me if I didn't like talking to people. I was taken aback for an instant. Ordinarily, I am gregarious and silly, but here I have become an island in the Land of the Lost, (assuming there is a body of water, in said land, large enough to have an island).
What my father taught me. by Wesley
2-12-15
I am "The Boot Black". I have been many things in my life: archaeologist, lawyer, student, sailor, kid, son, husband, father, shithead, but I have never been "The" anything before.
"The Boot Black" is a very nice way of saying "The Shoe Shine Boy/Guy/Man". I don't mind it. I like to shine shoes. I shine the boots and shoes of guards, staff, police, and ADA's.
I'm really good at it, too. In a way, sometimes it's embarrassing. I will work on boots or shoes, carefully rubbing polish in circles while gently spritzing, not spitting, the leather with water. Guys will stop and stare and compliment the shine. They "ooh" and "aah" and heap the praise and ask about technique. It's a bit too much. It is, after all, only a shoe shine.
One of the trustees on my shift has asked me to teach him to do it, and I have decided to take him as my shoe shine Padawan. I am the Yoda of Shoe Shining.
It really is a labor of love. I tell my young Padawan that my method is akin to rubbing the reflective quality of water into the leather. patience is the key. I am very gentle- a light touch is required. First the spritz, then dab a little polish on a soft cotton cloth, and begin rubbing in small circles. Over and over and over again.
When I am asked where I learned to polish shoes, I tell people that I was in the Navy for 9 years. You must know how to polish shoes and boots after spending that much time on active duty. Everyone knows how after that much time. It really only takes boot camp and "A" school, but I honed my craft over nearly a decade. Like I said, it takes patience! That is not the whole story, but its all that I give.
The truth is, the only lesson I remember is my father giving me was the value of taking care of your shoes. He didn't teach me to dress. He didn't teach me to drive. He didn't teach me to defend myself. He didn't teach me to read. He didn't teach me to mow the grass. He didn't teach me to love. He didn't teach me to be a husband, and he certainly didn't teach me to be a father. Or a man.
I'm 100% certain that my father died within the last couple of months and nobody has told me. I don't ask, and they don't say. I really don't know that I want to know that I missed my father's funeral.
I can't stand the fact that he would have been buried with a sparse attendance. Apathy, the reward for a dubious (at best) lifetime of decisions. Even though we have been distant for years, I would have been there if only so he would not be alone for his final act.
So, I will go forward in ignorance and that's okay. Perhaps my final tribute to my father is the care I give to shoes of strangers. It isn't much, but it might be all he honestly deserves from me, or my family.
When I'm dome with each shine, I can see my face looking back at me. Okay with that, I am.
I am "The Boot Black". I have been many things in my life: archaeologist, lawyer, student, sailor, kid, son, husband, father, shithead, but I have never been "The" anything before.
"The Boot Black" is a very nice way of saying "The Shoe Shine Boy/Guy/Man". I don't mind it. I like to shine shoes. I shine the boots and shoes of guards, staff, police, and ADA's.
I'm really good at it, too. In a way, sometimes it's embarrassing. I will work on boots or shoes, carefully rubbing polish in circles while gently spritzing, not spitting, the leather with water. Guys will stop and stare and compliment the shine. They "ooh" and "aah" and heap the praise and ask about technique. It's a bit too much. It is, after all, only a shoe shine.
One of the trustees on my shift has asked me to teach him to do it, and I have decided to take him as my shoe shine Padawan. I am the Yoda of Shoe Shining.
It really is a labor of love. I tell my young Padawan that my method is akin to rubbing the reflective quality of water into the leather. patience is the key. I am very gentle- a light touch is required. First the spritz, then dab a little polish on a soft cotton cloth, and begin rubbing in small circles. Over and over and over again.
When I am asked where I learned to polish shoes, I tell people that I was in the Navy for 9 years. You must know how to polish shoes and boots after spending that much time on active duty. Everyone knows how after that much time. It really only takes boot camp and "A" school, but I honed my craft over nearly a decade. Like I said, it takes patience! That is not the whole story, but its all that I give.
The truth is, the only lesson I remember is my father giving me was the value of taking care of your shoes. He didn't teach me to dress. He didn't teach me to drive. He didn't teach me to defend myself. He didn't teach me to read. He didn't teach me to mow the grass. He didn't teach me to love. He didn't teach me to be a husband, and he certainly didn't teach me to be a father. Or a man.
I'm 100% certain that my father died within the last couple of months and nobody has told me. I don't ask, and they don't say. I really don't know that I want to know that I missed my father's funeral.
I can't stand the fact that he would have been buried with a sparse attendance. Apathy, the reward for a dubious (at best) lifetime of decisions. Even though we have been distant for years, I would have been there if only so he would not be alone for his final act.
So, I will go forward in ignorance and that's okay. Perhaps my final tribute to my father is the care I give to shoes of strangers. It isn't much, but it might be all he honestly deserves from me, or my family.
When I'm dome with each shine, I can see my face looking back at me. Okay with that, I am.
Jessica's wedding. by Wesley
7-15
I close my eyes and I can almost see Jessica. I have pictures of her, so I can know how she looks clad in her white gown. Lesa sent me bridal pictures that she took. A veil obscures but a little, and her eyes dancing with joy are clear.
I don't know what song is playing, and I don't know what the place looks like, and I don't know how people are sitting, and I don't know who is crying, except Lesa- she IS crying and I don't know who isn't crying, and i don't know any details, except that as my pen glides across this page, Jessica is getting married.
Right now, far away- in Nevada- and I'm not there, but it's happening right now.
Lesa is there, sitting with Isaac, or Adam, or Cristina, or all three, and I hope she misses me- but not at this instant- because this moment belongs to Jessica.
Jessica. So much like her mother, who I love so much. But very different too. So sweet, but also so protective of her mother.
Jessica. She once threatened to kill me. And she meant it!!
I wish her the most wonderful of futures. I wish her all the happiness I have found with her mother. I wish her the new future she hopes will be there.
I'm not there to tell her these things in person, and I'm not there to hold Lesa's hand as she cries, and I'm not there to kiss Cristina, (my daughter), and I'm not there to tussle Isaac's hair and I'm not there to protect Lesa, and I'm not there to help, because no matter how different the future will be, or I will be, there is a toll to be paid for the past. I pay it every day-- so does Lesa-- but today, the price is much higher.
"Pillars" in jail. by Wesley
1-14-15
When I moved into this pod I was informed that I was among the pillars of the Montgomery County jail. Men who have spent enough time in the jail that they get a modicum of special treatment when they return. They are people who are addressed by their first names by the guards. They choose where they will be housed.
This Pod is for working trustees and the pillars. We go to work every morning and the pillars work out and play poker. I never thought this kind of favoritism took place on this scale. I honestly never even considered that guards would grow friendly with repeat visitors, but I guess that's a very naive view.
But today, I was treated to real royalty. His return has been whispered about for days: Parker.
I don't even know if that's his first name, or his last name. Perhaps he has a one name sobriquet like Cher, Modonna, or Pele'. Parker, the shoe shine savant.
His arrival was heralded in silent and stark terms. There is a dry erase board with our names, job assignments and bunks. The guy who was the "boot black" on our shift had those words erased. Then "Parker...boot black" on our shift was added. A murmur grew in the day room.
Then, the door opened and a diminutive black man came in. He was greeted and hugged by his fellow pillars. "Cowboy" a legendary white supremacist and alleged meth dealer approached Parker and welcomed him home.
A few minutes later, the doors opened again and a cute, young female guard brought in a mattress and carried it to Parker's bunk. I mention this for 2 reasons: first, guards carry nothing for inmates. If my entrails were dragging the floor and the guards were escorting me to medical, I would be carrying my own entrails. Second, from across the room we could all see that this was a very special mattress. Twice the thickness of any other mattress, it exuded softness. The cover was stretched to it's limits by soft stuffing. We all salivated as we watched that mattress make its way to his bunk. I approached it later. I felt the luxury and was overcome with envy. My mattress is almost as thick as a waffle and this guy's sleeping on a Serta. That is my mattress.
You see, I was supposed to take over as the shoeshine guy. Last week, the regular shoeshine guy asked me to shine a pair of boots. I spent 9 years in the Navy. I can shine a pair of boots. When the dust settled, the boots were being passed around by the guards. They marveled at the spit shine. They called over another Pillar. A old timer pillar and an old timer guard huddled around the boots. The pronounced them the best shined boots the Montgomery County jail had ever seen. They proclaimed me a legend. Even the old crazy man locked in "24" yelled through his vent that "Those boots are very shiny!" (He also says I look 65 years old, so some comments are suspect).
But I was Thwarted! I was Dauphine', the heir apparent, but the then shoeshine guy forbade me to shine boots after that, because he was humiliated by all the accolades the one pair of boots I shined received.
I was a one hit wonder. I was "My Sharona". My talent and my dreams were dashed. I seethed as I watched the marginal talent of the shoeshine guy on display while I wasted my talents sweeping floors and feeding crazy people.
Parker's return makes it all moot. He's a rock star. I'm a frustrated artist. he's a Pillar. I'm, at best, an area rug. Maybe a back splash. But dammit, if shoe shine passion was the measuring stick, if artistry and not familiarity was the barometer, that pretty little guard would have carried in my double thick mattress.
When I moved into this pod I was informed that I was among the pillars of the Montgomery County jail. Men who have spent enough time in the jail that they get a modicum of special treatment when they return. They are people who are addressed by their first names by the guards. They choose where they will be housed.
This Pod is for working trustees and the pillars. We go to work every morning and the pillars work out and play poker. I never thought this kind of favoritism took place on this scale. I honestly never even considered that guards would grow friendly with repeat visitors, but I guess that's a very naive view.
But today, I was treated to real royalty. His return has been whispered about for days: Parker.
I don't even know if that's his first name, or his last name. Perhaps he has a one name sobriquet like Cher, Modonna, or Pele'. Parker, the shoe shine savant.
His arrival was heralded in silent and stark terms. There is a dry erase board with our names, job assignments and bunks. The guy who was the "boot black" on our shift had those words erased. Then "Parker...boot black" on our shift was added. A murmur grew in the day room.
Then, the door opened and a diminutive black man came in. He was greeted and hugged by his fellow pillars. "Cowboy" a legendary white supremacist and alleged meth dealer approached Parker and welcomed him home.
A few minutes later, the doors opened again and a cute, young female guard brought in a mattress and carried it to Parker's bunk. I mention this for 2 reasons: first, guards carry nothing for inmates. If my entrails were dragging the floor and the guards were escorting me to medical, I would be carrying my own entrails. Second, from across the room we could all see that this was a very special mattress. Twice the thickness of any other mattress, it exuded softness. The cover was stretched to it's limits by soft stuffing. We all salivated as we watched that mattress make its way to his bunk. I approached it later. I felt the luxury and was overcome with envy. My mattress is almost as thick as a waffle and this guy's sleeping on a Serta. That is my mattress.
You see, I was supposed to take over as the shoeshine guy. Last week, the regular shoeshine guy asked me to shine a pair of boots. I spent 9 years in the Navy. I can shine a pair of boots. When the dust settled, the boots were being passed around by the guards. They marveled at the spit shine. They called over another Pillar. A old timer pillar and an old timer guard huddled around the boots. The pronounced them the best shined boots the Montgomery County jail had ever seen. They proclaimed me a legend. Even the old crazy man locked in "24" yelled through his vent that "Those boots are very shiny!" (He also says I look 65 years old, so some comments are suspect).
But I was Thwarted! I was Dauphine', the heir apparent, but the then shoeshine guy forbade me to shine boots after that, because he was humiliated by all the accolades the one pair of boots I shined received.
I was a one hit wonder. I was "My Sharona". My talent and my dreams were dashed. I seethed as I watched the marginal talent of the shoeshine guy on display while I wasted my talents sweeping floors and feeding crazy people.
Parker's return makes it all moot. He's a rock star. I'm a frustrated artist. he's a Pillar. I'm, at best, an area rug. Maybe a back splash. But dammit, if shoe shine passion was the measuring stick, if artistry and not familiarity was the barometer, that pretty little guard would have carried in my double thick mattress.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Feeling cut out of "our story". by Wesley
1-11-15
I used to star in the story of my life. I had a central focal character. I planned events, had adventures, boy, could I tell a story. I suppose my story and the stories of everyone close to me overlap too much for my story to stand alone, unless I'm Gilligan and the Skipper and everyone else drowned. And the Globetrotters never made it to the island....don't get me started.
But if it is more our story, then my story, then I'm just a supporting character. I would like to maintain a very important role in our story, but I guess I must, since this is my part of our story. But even now, I feel like my role in the story is being marginalized. I don't feel like I have joined into an "our story" with anyone in the Montgomery County dungeon. We all share space and meals, but unless we knew each other outside, we do have an interesting story. Let me explain.
I have determined 2 things while here: 63.5% of the time when I try to get to know someone's story, I regret it. Earlier tonight, I queried a young man I work with, about a hour later the story boiled down to his sister-in-law yelled at him. I will never get that hour back.
The second thing I learned here is that it is fun to make up statistics.
Oh, and jail sucks AND I miss my wife.
Back to our story. I still like to believe that I'm part of Lesa's story and all the stories of my friends and family are still "our story". But they aren't. I'm no longer part of the story. I listen to plans and hear about the jokes and laughs and how things went and boy, we wish you were there, but I am not a part of the story.
Life goes on, and I am gone. And that is the most painful thing of all. Of course, there is no one, but me, to blame. It's natural.
But it's a bit weird to hear about the story I was once a major part of, like someone is describing a John Grisham novel I never read: All the characters seem familiar, and the plots seem likely and expected, but I haven't exactly read it.
Now, Jessica is getting married, and I will miss another major life event....Lesa will go alone...and the story will go on without me. I feel like I have been written out of the story.
Sorry Lesa, don't replace me with Dick Sargant! or was that Dick York?
I used to star in the story of my life. I had a central focal character. I planned events, had adventures, boy, could I tell a story. I suppose my story and the stories of everyone close to me overlap too much for my story to stand alone, unless I'm Gilligan and the Skipper and everyone else drowned. And the Globetrotters never made it to the island....don't get me started.
But if it is more our story, then my story, then I'm just a supporting character. I would like to maintain a very important role in our story, but I guess I must, since this is my part of our story. But even now, I feel like my role in the story is being marginalized. I don't feel like I have joined into an "our story" with anyone in the Montgomery County dungeon. We all share space and meals, but unless we knew each other outside, we do have an interesting story. Let me explain.
I have determined 2 things while here: 63.5% of the time when I try to get to know someone's story, I regret it. Earlier tonight, I queried a young man I work with, about a hour later the story boiled down to his sister-in-law yelled at him. I will never get that hour back.
The second thing I learned here is that it is fun to make up statistics.
Oh, and jail sucks AND I miss my wife.
Back to our story. I still like to believe that I'm part of Lesa's story and all the stories of my friends and family are still "our story". But they aren't. I'm no longer part of the story. I listen to plans and hear about the jokes and laughs and how things went and boy, we wish you were there, but I am not a part of the story.
Life goes on, and I am gone. And that is the most painful thing of all. Of course, there is no one, but me, to blame. It's natural.
But it's a bit weird to hear about the story I was once a major part of, like someone is describing a John Grisham novel I never read: All the characters seem familiar, and the plots seem likely and expected, but I haven't exactly read it.
Now, Jessica is getting married, and I will miss another major life event....Lesa will go alone...and the story will go on without me. I feel like I have been written out of the story.
Sorry Lesa, don't replace me with Dick Sargant! or was that Dick York?
Mentally ill in jail. By Wesley
1/4/2015
Solitary confinement is one of the saddest places on earth. If you ever need to feel good about your own circumstances, about how badly things have gone away in your world, visit your nearest jail.
I say jail, because as part of my new digs here, I have a job. I am a trustee. I work in male booking and part of that is working with the people placed in "24". These folks are placed in isolation for 24 hours, allegedly when there is no place else to put them. The mentally ill. The mentally handicapped. The people on suicide watch.
You know, the people who basically have no business, at all, being in jail, but are brought here because our country doesn't fund places better suited to take them.
There are men who scream at invisible people in their cells all day long. All day. The venom in their voices makes it sound as if they are angry at the invisible people, so it is probably a good thing they found the cloak.
I don't mean to be flip, but it is hard to listen to these lost people for 12 hours at a time. And they are the easier ones to hear.
I have worked 4 days and the local police department has brought in 2 severely mentally handicapped men. They are locked alone and they neither understand where they are, or what they have done wrong. The other day, one of them saw a cell with quite a few people processing into the jail and he started crying that he, "wanted to be with the big boys." He tries to hug the guards and trustees that come into brief contact with him....
And he cries. A long soulful wail of a tiny boy locked in a rubber room, (literally), naked, cold, and terrified.
How the hell can we buy another missile or tank while we allow this to happen?
Today, a new arrestee was bleeding and could not understand the guards inquiry as to where he was bleeding from. He was scared, screaming he wanted to go home.
When the nurses came to examine him, they found that he had defecated on himself. He didn't know how to go to the bathroom by himself.
The guards try so hard to help ease their pain, and it is evident that it hurts them to have to lock these people up. More than once, I heard the rhetorical demand, "Why do they keep bringing them here?!", yelled in frustration.
Because there is no place else. Because the richest country in the planet can afford to pay billions in subsidies to Chevron and Imperial Sugar, but can't afford to find a more appropriate place for the most vulnerable amongst us.
These men have committed no crimes. They aren't capable of having the culpable mental state. They are here because there is simply no where else.
And it is torture. Last week, when the "hugger" was wailing, a guard said, "Welcome to the Montgomery County torture chamber".
Yup, I am ashamed of my state or my country tonight.
Solitary confinement is one of the saddest places on earth. If you ever need to feel good about your own circumstances, about how badly things have gone away in your world, visit your nearest jail.
I say jail, because as part of my new digs here, I have a job. I am a trustee. I work in male booking and part of that is working with the people placed in "24". These folks are placed in isolation for 24 hours, allegedly when there is no place else to put them. The mentally ill. The mentally handicapped. The people on suicide watch.
You know, the people who basically have no business, at all, being in jail, but are brought here because our country doesn't fund places better suited to take them.
There are men who scream at invisible people in their cells all day long. All day. The venom in their voices makes it sound as if they are angry at the invisible people, so it is probably a good thing they found the cloak.
I don't mean to be flip, but it is hard to listen to these lost people for 12 hours at a time. And they are the easier ones to hear.
I have worked 4 days and the local police department has brought in 2 severely mentally handicapped men. They are locked alone and they neither understand where they are, or what they have done wrong. The other day, one of them saw a cell with quite a few people processing into the jail and he started crying that he, "wanted to be with the big boys." He tries to hug the guards and trustees that come into brief contact with him....
And he cries. A long soulful wail of a tiny boy locked in a rubber room, (literally), naked, cold, and terrified.
How the hell can we buy another missile or tank while we allow this to happen?
Today, a new arrestee was bleeding and could not understand the guards inquiry as to where he was bleeding from. He was scared, screaming he wanted to go home.
When the nurses came to examine him, they found that he had defecated on himself. He didn't know how to go to the bathroom by himself.
The guards try so hard to help ease their pain, and it is evident that it hurts them to have to lock these people up. More than once, I heard the rhetorical demand, "Why do they keep bringing them here?!", yelled in frustration.
Because there is no place else. Because the richest country in the planet can afford to pay billions in subsidies to Chevron and Imperial Sugar, but can't afford to find a more appropriate place for the most vulnerable amongst us.
These men have committed no crimes. They aren't capable of having the culpable mental state. They are here because there is simply no where else.
And it is torture. Last week, when the "hugger" was wailing, a guard said, "Welcome to the Montgomery County torture chamber".
Yup, I am ashamed of my state or my country tonight.
Wesley's move. by Lesa
December 31, 2014
Visitation at the jail is Saturday's and Sundays, the time depends on your first initial of your last name. We are C, so our visitation on Saturday is in the morning, Sunday, in the afternoon. In addition, if you miss one, there is a make up day, Monday night. I usually work at least one weekend day, so I make up on Monday night, after work.
We were on the phone, it was Sunday. We usually talk several times throughout the day, for a few minutes. Helps us to feel connected. We were only on the phone for a couple of minutes, Wesley says, "Oh my God!" and hangs up. I was freaked out, but a felt reasonably sure he was okay, but something had happened, and I knew he would call me back when he could.
He calls back and tells me that a big dude, "Blood", was picking on a smaller dude, "David". "The Bloods" is a gang inside the jail. I will let Wesley explain later. He was provoking him to fight, and David was getting beat. I asked how this was going on, there were guards there!! He said there is an area that the cameras and guards can not see. He said he tried to get the attention of the guard, watching from outside the room, in a central area, called "the picket". He was looking at his computer while David was getting beat. Wesley said the "Blood" was slamming David's head on the ground, he was afraid he was going to kill him. He knew the "Blood" had some respect for him and didn't think he would hurt him, so he got his attention, touched him, or something, and told him to stop, he was going to kill him. He stopped, but still kept saying it wasn't over, he was going to beat him again. Wesley knew the Blood would.
I couldn't do nothing. This kid could be killed, shit like this happens all the time in jails. I called and asked to talk to the Sargent. I shared the information with him, anonymously, didn't want to give my husbands info., because I knew if the Blood's knew he said anything, they would retaliate. I was scared for my husband, but I knew letting this kid be in danger was not an option. I told the Sargent what cell, and what information I knew. I begged him to please, I knew he could trace the call, please not pull my husband out or make it obvious.
Later, when I went to visit, I was nervous as hell. I didn't hear back from Wesley. When I stepped up to the window to check in for visitation, I could see my husband, already standing on the other side. He was holding a paper and looked at me and mouthed the words, "you got me in trouble". OMG, I was freaking out. The guard there said Wesley was getting moved, my stomach sank. They decided to go ahead and let us have visitation, then move him. It was then I got the rest of the story.
Wesley told me another guy had been pulled out and questioned about the incident. When they brought that guy back, he said somebody had called about the fight. Then they pulled out Wesley. He told the Sargent everything. He then told him, he could not, NOT go back in there. Everyone would know it was him. They asked him what they wanted to do, he said, "give me a job." The Sargent asked him why didn't he have a job. Wesley told him, he had been trying to get a job since he got there 3 months ago. He had some back issues, so the medical people would not clear him to work. The Sargent called medical, go them to clear him, after signing a release, and he finally had a job. When you have a job, you get moved to "the pods", a much better living arrangement. Two birds, one stone. Wesley went back and told everyone he got a job. Everyone assumed he was pulled for a work assignment. He actually had several people tell him they would miss him, but were happy for him. If the others found out where the info came from, even though it was me, he would be retaliated on, but for now, it got him a job, which makes the time go faster, and moved to a nicer place, which makes the time not at work, more bearable. Wesley was happy at the outcome, but a little nervous about how it happened. I apologized and swore I would never do it again, without checking it out with him.
"David", btw, was removed, as well as the "Blood", and at least one incidence of violence was stopped. I am sure there are many more, but since then, it has been much better for my husband, and the kid "David", was not murdered or beat down again, mission accomplished.
In this incidence, the results came out great. Had it been TDC, maybe not, shit like that follows you, and criminals and gangs are smart as hell, and they have ears and eyes everywhere. I don't know that I would do it again, yes, I would, but I would talk through it with hubby first. If I hadn't done that, Wesley would have probably put himself in the middle, that might not have ended well. I hate, HATE, that a middle aged, never been in trouble, EVER, never had anyone I knew been in any trouble, has to know all of this, be exposed to all of this, but, it is what it is. I am adjusting, learning, and moving on. I love my husband dearly, and his mistake in judgement and subsequent payment for his mistake, as appropriate, has put us both in situation we have never been in. Having been an attorney, he knew of criminals from the outside. Now, inside, it is a different story. He says he would never work as a defense attorney again, after hearing the majority of criminals on the inside. Most are career criminals, a way of life. There are plenty of exceptions, but they are few. There are some who are trying to get out of the life, and there are ways to help them do that, but it is hard surrounded by those who do it frequently. They all seem to know each other, have a network, of sorts. Anyway, I am going off...I will save the rant for another blog.
Be careful, watch your loved ones in jail, and never act on the things you hear without getting advice on what to do from someone you trust and who knows the system.
Visitation at the jail is Saturday's and Sundays, the time depends on your first initial of your last name. We are C, so our visitation on Saturday is in the morning, Sunday, in the afternoon. In addition, if you miss one, there is a make up day, Monday night. I usually work at least one weekend day, so I make up on Monday night, after work.
We were on the phone, it was Sunday. We usually talk several times throughout the day, for a few minutes. Helps us to feel connected. We were only on the phone for a couple of minutes, Wesley says, "Oh my God!" and hangs up. I was freaked out, but a felt reasonably sure he was okay, but something had happened, and I knew he would call me back when he could.
He calls back and tells me that a big dude, "Blood", was picking on a smaller dude, "David". "The Bloods" is a gang inside the jail. I will let Wesley explain later. He was provoking him to fight, and David was getting beat. I asked how this was going on, there were guards there!! He said there is an area that the cameras and guards can not see. He said he tried to get the attention of the guard, watching from outside the room, in a central area, called "the picket". He was looking at his computer while David was getting beat. Wesley said the "Blood" was slamming David's head on the ground, he was afraid he was going to kill him. He knew the "Blood" had some respect for him and didn't think he would hurt him, so he got his attention, touched him, or something, and told him to stop, he was going to kill him. He stopped, but still kept saying it wasn't over, he was going to beat him again. Wesley knew the Blood would.
I couldn't do nothing. This kid could be killed, shit like this happens all the time in jails. I called and asked to talk to the Sargent. I shared the information with him, anonymously, didn't want to give my husbands info., because I knew if the Blood's knew he said anything, they would retaliate. I was scared for my husband, but I knew letting this kid be in danger was not an option. I told the Sargent what cell, and what information I knew. I begged him to please, I knew he could trace the call, please not pull my husband out or make it obvious.
Later, when I went to visit, I was nervous as hell. I didn't hear back from Wesley. When I stepped up to the window to check in for visitation, I could see my husband, already standing on the other side. He was holding a paper and looked at me and mouthed the words, "you got me in trouble". OMG, I was freaking out. The guard there said Wesley was getting moved, my stomach sank. They decided to go ahead and let us have visitation, then move him. It was then I got the rest of the story.
Wesley told me another guy had been pulled out and questioned about the incident. When they brought that guy back, he said somebody had called about the fight. Then they pulled out Wesley. He told the Sargent everything. He then told him, he could not, NOT go back in there. Everyone would know it was him. They asked him what they wanted to do, he said, "give me a job." The Sargent asked him why didn't he have a job. Wesley told him, he had been trying to get a job since he got there 3 months ago. He had some back issues, so the medical people would not clear him to work. The Sargent called medical, go them to clear him, after signing a release, and he finally had a job. When you have a job, you get moved to "the pods", a much better living arrangement. Two birds, one stone. Wesley went back and told everyone he got a job. Everyone assumed he was pulled for a work assignment. He actually had several people tell him they would miss him, but were happy for him. If the others found out where the info came from, even though it was me, he would be retaliated on, but for now, it got him a job, which makes the time go faster, and moved to a nicer place, which makes the time not at work, more bearable. Wesley was happy at the outcome, but a little nervous about how it happened. I apologized and swore I would never do it again, without checking it out with him.
"David", btw, was removed, as well as the "Blood", and at least one incidence of violence was stopped. I am sure there are many more, but since then, it has been much better for my husband, and the kid "David", was not murdered or beat down again, mission accomplished.
In this incidence, the results came out great. Had it been TDC, maybe not, shit like that follows you, and criminals and gangs are smart as hell, and they have ears and eyes everywhere. I don't know that I would do it again, yes, I would, but I would talk through it with hubby first. If I hadn't done that, Wesley would have probably put himself in the middle, that might not have ended well. I hate, HATE, that a middle aged, never been in trouble, EVER, never had anyone I knew been in any trouble, has to know all of this, be exposed to all of this, but, it is what it is. I am adjusting, learning, and moving on. I love my husband dearly, and his mistake in judgement and subsequent payment for his mistake, as appropriate, has put us both in situation we have never been in. Having been an attorney, he knew of criminals from the outside. Now, inside, it is a different story. He says he would never work as a defense attorney again, after hearing the majority of criminals on the inside. Most are career criminals, a way of life. There are plenty of exceptions, but they are few. There are some who are trying to get out of the life, and there are ways to help them do that, but it is hard surrounded by those who do it frequently. They all seem to know each other, have a network, of sorts. Anyway, I am going off...I will save the rant for another blog.
Be careful, watch your loved ones in jail, and never act on the things you hear without getting advice on what to do from someone you trust and who knows the system.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Dec. 31, 2014 A new home. by Wesley
December 31, 2014
There have been some exciting events the past few days that have led to some positive changes here in the dungeons of Montgomery County, Texas.
I should begin with the catalyst:
I was watching the might Case Keenum,(UH!), lead the pitiful Texans to victory with 3 or 4 other guys. One of them, (it was not me!), released a cloud of the most wretched smelling gas ever passed. It was foul. It was toxic. It was not bad enough to justify what followed.
Our resident unstable gang member took offense, and decided this fart necessitated a violent response. So, he went back to the corner, where the guards could not see, and began calling out the guy accused of farting. He took off all of his clothes, except his underwear, and called him out, repeatedly. This went on for some time and everyone knew the unstable guy would eventually give up because his rants usually went on for no more than a hour. Why, it was just last week he only yelled and threatened for a hour when no one would bet him a soup that the Texans would lose and he only went on and on for 2 hours when he was mad at himself for losing at cards. But this guy was new, he didn't know. So despite the fact that he gave up 7 inches in height, and 50 pounds, he felt he had to answer the call or be labelled a "ho". There is nothing worse than being a "ho". It is worse than being a "bitch". Not sure about "punk", I think they are equally bad. But I am digressing.
So, he went into battle. Undersized, and full of courage he went fourth.
I was on the phone talking to my lovely wife and missed the initial blows, but I knew it was going to be a slaughter, and I knew nobody would break it up.
I wish I could tell you that David slew Goliath, but this isn't a fairy tale. David was massacred. When I hung up with Lesa, his head was being bounced off the floor. Nobody was stopping him. So I did.
I have always been the guy who broke up the fights. In the Navy, that led to me catching stray punches. I don't like catching stray punches anymore, as a rule. I also don't want to be involved in jail fights because they are often 6 layers of intrigue I don't know about, in every fight. But I have known the unstable "Blood" longer than anyone in there, he trusts me, and I was reasonably confident he wouldn't hit me as he pounded away on the man's head.
He didn't. I pulled him off and he went to ranting about how it wasn't over because "David" had landed one good punch that bloodied his lip. Nevermind, that "David" was a bloody mess, that "Blood" felt he needed redemption.
I guess a bully will only start a fight when he is sure he will not only win, but has such a significant advantages, that he will come away unscathed. I hate bullies.
So, everything died down.....until a guy returned from a visit. Except that, he didn't go to a visit. The guards called him out for a chit chat. He said that the guards knew there had been an assault, they had narrowed it down to our quad and they were investigating. I heard him say that and I thought, "That's weird. I wonder how they would have found out? Someone would have had to have been on the phone. Hmmmm, I was on the phone. What a coincidence."
Except it wasn't a coincidence. And I was moved. To the Pods. The Shagri-La, the Xanadu of the dungeons. A fabled land of milk and honey. Well, the milk is powdered, still. And there is no honey, because it is still jail, but it's quiet and there's carpeting. A guard stays in here and there are no violent offenders, so it's a different world.
But, of course, it is fraught with it's own pitfalls, which I shall endeavor to explain later.
There have been some exciting events the past few days that have led to some positive changes here in the dungeons of Montgomery County, Texas.
I should begin with the catalyst:
I was watching the might Case Keenum,(UH!), lead the pitiful Texans to victory with 3 or 4 other guys. One of them, (it was not me!), released a cloud of the most wretched smelling gas ever passed. It was foul. It was toxic. It was not bad enough to justify what followed.
Our resident unstable gang member took offense, and decided this fart necessitated a violent response. So, he went back to the corner, where the guards could not see, and began calling out the guy accused of farting. He took off all of his clothes, except his underwear, and called him out, repeatedly. This went on for some time and everyone knew the unstable guy would eventually give up because his rants usually went on for no more than a hour. Why, it was just last week he only yelled and threatened for a hour when no one would bet him a soup that the Texans would lose and he only went on and on for 2 hours when he was mad at himself for losing at cards. But this guy was new, he didn't know. So despite the fact that he gave up 7 inches in height, and 50 pounds, he felt he had to answer the call or be labelled a "ho". There is nothing worse than being a "ho". It is worse than being a "bitch". Not sure about "punk", I think they are equally bad. But I am digressing.
So, he went into battle. Undersized, and full of courage he went fourth.
I was on the phone talking to my lovely wife and missed the initial blows, but I knew it was going to be a slaughter, and I knew nobody would break it up.
I wish I could tell you that David slew Goliath, but this isn't a fairy tale. David was massacred. When I hung up with Lesa, his head was being bounced off the floor. Nobody was stopping him. So I did.
I have always been the guy who broke up the fights. In the Navy, that led to me catching stray punches. I don't like catching stray punches anymore, as a rule. I also don't want to be involved in jail fights because they are often 6 layers of intrigue I don't know about, in every fight. But I have known the unstable "Blood" longer than anyone in there, he trusts me, and I was reasonably confident he wouldn't hit me as he pounded away on the man's head.
He didn't. I pulled him off and he went to ranting about how it wasn't over because "David" had landed one good punch that bloodied his lip. Nevermind, that "David" was a bloody mess, that "Blood" felt he needed redemption.
I guess a bully will only start a fight when he is sure he will not only win, but has such a significant advantages, that he will come away unscathed. I hate bullies.
So, everything died down.....until a guy returned from a visit. Except that, he didn't go to a visit. The guards called him out for a chit chat. He said that the guards knew there had been an assault, they had narrowed it down to our quad and they were investigating. I heard him say that and I thought, "That's weird. I wonder how they would have found out? Someone would have had to have been on the phone. Hmmmm, I was on the phone. What a coincidence."
Except it wasn't a coincidence. And I was moved. To the Pods. The Shagri-La, the Xanadu of the dungeons. A fabled land of milk and honey. Well, the milk is powdered, still. And there is no honey, because it is still jail, but it's quiet and there's carpeting. A guard stays in here and there are no violent offenders, so it's a different world.
But, of course, it is fraught with it's own pitfalls, which I shall endeavor to explain later.
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