Disgusting behavior. by Wesley

11/12/2014

My daughter will tell you I'm squeamish. She watched me toss my cookies once, years ago, when I drank milk that had expired.  Expired that very day, as a matter of fact.

Almost everyone who knows me well could share a tale of me retching or vomiting while people giggled away at my squeamishness.  I get it, it's my thing.  Yet, I was enlisted in the Navy for nine years, so I'm accustomed to men being boys when they think no one is watching.  And by "no one", I mean no women they might want to have sex with....  And by "no woman they might want to have sex with", I mean "no women at all".

We do things.  I have seen a grown man eat a live cockroach in the barracks because he wanted to gross me out- and he is from West Virginia. (I'm not certain which of these two factors was more relevant to his food choices that day).  

In 9 years I saw a lot of gross boy behavior.  None of what I saw prepared me for what I saw in jail last night.

One man dug his finger into another man's nose and pulled it out.  His fingertip glistened with first-cold-front-of-the-year-snot.  He put that fingertip into his mouth and sucked it clean.  That was nothing.  Amateur hour.  Kid's stuff.

The picker complained of a painful zit on his ass.  The picker told him to turn over and he popped the offending zit on the ass cheek of another man and licked the results from his fingertips.

Yes, he did.  You can't make this shit up.   

Stress in the tank. By Wesley

There are times when the events in our lives happen quite unexpectedly.  Not because we are careless or because we are willfully ignorant, but because sometimes shit just happens.  There are other times when events are as predictable as sunset, yet we are surprised.

If I began an anecdote with: "I'm playing poker with guys who are members of the Bloods, the Aryan Circle, and the Aryan Brotherhood...." There are endings that are predictable and endings that might surprise you.

I'm playing poker with guys who are members of The Bloods, The Aryan Circle, and the Aryan Brotherhood.  There are a smattering of independent violent felons who come and go, but we have a core group of guys who play. It takes our minds off where we are and it passes the time.

We play tournaments, winner take all.  It is a format we developed over the last couple of weeks and it was working well.  The buy in is a soup and a stamped envelope.  They cost $1.45

The games have been highlighted by laughs and camaraderie and general pleasant times since we began.  Cracks have been developing.  Some I have seen and some I have missed.  I try to keep an eye on events and relationships so that I can avoid trouble.  I have a pretty good track record of predicting events, and I began to feel like I needed to quit playing poker.

It began with the coffee shots the "Aryans" do.  They put 10 or more teaspoons of instant coffee into Dr. Pepper with cinnamon candy and suck it all down.  To this day, I have no idea why these guys do this.  Why would you want to get pumped up on caffeine locked in a small room packed with men?  I just want to go to sleep and wake up in 40 days....pee....and go back to sleep.

Mostly, only white guys with little hair and "ss" tattoos do this.  Yesterday, they were pumped on their shots and insults were being hurled around by one of the Aryan Circle guys who is obviously convinced that he is the smartest guy in the room.  he is constantly insulting people and would probably be beaten up on a daily basis if he weren't a steroid junkie no one will challenge.

He and a small time dope dealer nearly went into a fist fight over the disposition of  $.15 cents. Yes, the proper allocation of one dime and one nickel nearly had them throwing punches.  I decided it was time for me to quit.

Later, the leader of the Bloods was head to head against one of his underlings.  He decided, when he was short stacked, that he wanted to end it right then and split the winnings.  His underling refused and subsequently won the pot.

He also won a serious beating for refusing to do what was demanded and share the soup and envelopes.  Then we all were rewarded with a couple of hours of a shouting that the beaten man was not really a blood, was weak, probably gay, and a man with a painful immediate future.  He was called a "bitch ass ho" and a "Ho ass bitch" and many more terrible accusations that I can neither confirm, deny, or accurately translate. But they must be bad.

In any case, my card playing days are over.

Chess anyone?

Guilt or innocence. by Wesley

10/28/2014

Today, for about the 10,000th time, I heard the stories.  They are heard at every table in  this cell, every bunk area conversation, every whispered talk after lights out.

They are variations of the same theme, but they all boil down to one thing.  Not guilty! Innocent!  Everyone here, (ok, lets say ALMOST everyone) , is innocent.  And they will tell you that every single day unless you find ways to escape the cloisters of conversation that endlessly abound.

There are also boundless conspiracies against everyone.  If you have lost your job as a trustee, it isn't because you were stealing, it is because that guard is out to get you.  (Actually, this one tickles me most of all, some of these guys actually believe that guards go home and scheme and plot against them instead of eating, having a drink, sex, and a life.  I beg my peers to understand that the guards do not give a rat's piss about inmate drama when the doors close behind them at the end of the shift); if your mail ended up in the courtroom instead of distributed at mail call, it isn't because your family misaddressed the envelope, it's because they are "fuckin'" with your mail.

I would rather drive a tent peg through my balls than listen to just one more protestation of innocence when I heard you brag about the behavior 20 minutes earlier.

Unfortunately, I have been outed by a former client so I'm inundated with questions and people wanting advice.  I don't mind, I like to help ease people's minds, and my advice is usually, "do what your lawyer says."  But it does mean I hear the same stuff more than your average resident.

I spend more and more time hidden in my bunk behind the wall of paperbacks, because I think many of these guys forget my troubles are the same as their troubles.  I have all the same fears, all the same problems with attorney communication (and he is my friend!) and all the same stress.

Only one difference: I am guilty.

Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep. by Wesley

10/23/2014

Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep.

My days are simple enough.  There are few variables.  The biggest variable is the faces I share space with.  I don't even know many of their names.  I know their alleged crimes (still a criminal defense attorney inside).  Why learn their names...

Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep.

They may be here for a day or two before they disappear?  Most arrive when I'm sleeping and are gone in hours.  Others stay for a day or three or five.  Faces blending together out of relevance to me.

Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep.

It is nothing that can be said to adequately describe the tedium.  The T.V. is on from 9 am. until 10:30 pm. on every day, except Friday and Saturday- which days it stays on till 1:30 am. The programming is either football or car shows.

Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep.

I got out to "rec" today.  Only one other person from the tank went out with me.  I looked forward to some quiet time walking in the crisp autumn morning in solitude.  Instead, I was regaled with the minutia of his family and legal troubles.  I am acquainted with his situation well enough I could finish his sentences and point out facts he wasn't considering.  Sadly, I didn't want to hear it the first time.

Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep.
Wake. Read. Eat. Sleep.

Faith, God, and Religion. by Wesley

10/17/2014

I have mentioned before my interest in how incarcerated people turn to God.  "No Atheists in foxholes" extended to jail.  I have always had an interest in religion(s).  As a child that manifested itself in a lifestyle that revolved around the church and its activities.  All my friends were members of my church and I went so far as to make missionary trips.

Now, my interest is more of an academic pursuit.  I won't address why I don't believe.  I don't think that should be the starting point of a debate.  If you believe in the God of the Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and the zingers you support your argument with are biblical/Koranic quotes, then we have nothing to talk about.  That is not an argument.  It is a circular logic and means nothing.  I could choose any book, tell you that it is true and, when asked, tell you , it is true because the book says that it is true.

There is another aspect of belief that doesn't attempt to rely on rationalizing the irrational: It is simply having faith.

My loving wife has faith.  She won't engage in debates about the history, science, zoology, astronomy, archaeology, geology, etc., because she doesn't need evidence to support her faith.  That's a good thing too, because there isn't any.

What she does have transcends any of that.  She has a quiet faith that gives her strength.  Her faith soothes her, it lifts her spirits and calms her.  it is her Polaris when she is lost, every present, guiding her when she is lost; a constant.  In my mind, attempting to rationalize faith and argue the evidence of any religion accomplishes two things: first, it makes the proponent of rationalization look like a buffoon; More importantly, rationalization casts doubt on a person's faith, there is no need to demonstrate the rationale supporting.  There ought not be a need for rationale at all.  Lesa would listen to my arguments, shake her head and say something along the lines of "I don't know enough about that to argue, I just know I have faith."

I respect that.  

All of that said, I found myself this morning with my hands clasped together on the verge of prayer, and tears when I was feeling particularly helpless.  It was a visceral response, I had no epiphany.  It's no surprise that a product of western civilization, as I am, would think of praying.  When I feel sad, impatient, and powerless.

There will be no prayer for me.  I have no faith and I'm okay with that.  I actually envy those who can close their eyes and find strength from their faith.  The quiet strength and peace in the face of all we have to fear is a gift.  

Disclaimer: saying "faith" is a "gift" is an intentional use of irony.  Please do not attempt to use my rhetorical device against me!

~note by Lesa.  

I never write during my husbands blog entries, but this one begged for it.  God has poured love into me, loved me, protected me from evil, sent beautiful people in my life to pray for me, help me, support me, my life is full and forever changed by God and his people who have loved me.  My husband who has had to run from emotions, and love, his whole life to protect his broken heart, desperately needs to feel God's love and protection.  I could never argue with his intellect.  I can only share my humble experiences. I don't remember ever feeling God not being there.  As a little girl, I remember sitting in church, working hard to not be distracted, to sing to God, to talk to him.  I remember, crying, at the tender age of 8, about to be raped by a neighbor, crying quietly alone in my bed, to be saved....moving, that next day, suddenly, out of state. I could go on and on with stories of love that God has shown me.  I want my husband to know that love.  To not use his intellect as an excuse, or his pride, to accept the love he was always meant to have, and deserves.  I think, he still thinks he doesn't deserve it, or perhaps is afraid of accepting love from a Father God who will never fail him, as his own father did.  Please pray for Wesley, that God would reach him, in a way that only God can, or by using the many loving people who love him and know the Lord.  I thank you.

Our rollercoaster month. by Lesa

As I scramble to get caught up on my husbands blog entries I thought I would take a moment to share a tiny bit of the insanity of our lives.  The last month has been quite stressful and I have been on overload.  I apologize for not writing and sharing and keeping up with my side of this blog.

In order to make my bills and pay for phone and commissary and such, I usually work my usual 3 days with 1 extra day every other week.  My sweet mother-in-law, and sister-in-law who lives with her, needed to move from her home to an apartment.  I assisted some with packing, but getting ready to move it was apparent they did not have sufficient help.  I took a day off and called off for my extra day.  They also had tons of stuff they couldn't take with them and was going to hire an estate person to sell for them, at the charge of 35%, but they back out. So my daughter and I stepped in, and for two weeks, every day off was spent there getting everything organized, priced, advertising, etc...it went very well, but after three weeks, I was exhausted, broke, emotionally drained missing my husband, it was getting close to Thanksgiving, and I wanted to do anything to avoid it.  It is my husbands favorite holiday.  A day of nothing but love, food, fellowship...beautiful.  I was so tired, and depressed and overwhelmed after neglecting my own home for 3 weeks.  My beautiful daughter Jessica, after her own full work week, came over and helped clean, brightened the world with her smile, energy and beautiful spirit.  She also told me she is moving to Maryland with her boyfriend, soon to be engaged.  My heart is torn.  I am happy to see this kid grown, healthy, happy, in love...and heart broken she will be so far.  It is completely selfish.  I thought I had ground it into my children's heads that they were not to move out of state, since they were children...but I guess it was bound to happen, that at least one of them would move away.  It seems that my emotional state around the holidays makes it worse.  And since I know my children read this, I want to say, I am truly, supportive in my daughter moving, it is what makes her happy.  She is ready to be away from Houston and its bad memories, past mistakes, I totally get that.  I am happy that she has found someone to love and to love her, but I would be lying to say I am not a little sad too.  Perhaps that just comes with children growing up.

Also around this time, my husbands attorney, good friend, and boss died.  I can't even begin to explain the week of emotional turmoil.  For someone in jail, who's lifeline to freedom, dies, it devastating.  Never mind that it was his friend and mentor, the one person who would tell him he was awesome and would practice law again some day.  To look in his eyes, through the visitors glass and tell him that his friend had died....we didn't talk for 10 minutes, I was a mess before I got there, much less telling him that I loved him and it would be okay, he could just hold it together, wipe an escaped tear or two, it sucked not being able to just hold his hand, our hands touch on either side of the glass, with our hands in the sign of I love you in sign language....both of our heart hurting and neither able to just hold and console the other...it just sucked. I went to work, and Isaac and I ate a lot of take out that week.  Good thing my son is easy going.  He is happy to just sit together, eating our burgers and watching Family Guy, just happy to have me there with him in the evening.

I am still very emotional.  Incredibly emotional patients who have touched my heart, all suffering and struggling, and I could just hold their hands and cry with them and tell them I was there.  I love my job, I love this part of my job, but it has been draining.

Tonight, as I am trying to attempt to get caught up on all the entries my husband has been sending me and I am rereading them and feeling the struggle of the last few weeks, several things are apparent.  One, I am so loved and cared for by my family, especially my kids, and my husband, as he saw me struggling, put his own grief aside, called often to encourage me, wrote loving thoughtful letters everyday, even though I was unable to write much during those three weeks, my beautiful children filled in the gap, THANK YOU kids!! They wrote my husband, sent him books, called to check on me, I have been so loved...so preciously loved, I can't explain the surprise of getting flowers, just because, on a rotten week, a Christmas CD, there are so many thoughtful things.     Two, I love my job, most days, I always trust that God puts me where I am supposed to be, to minister to those who he needs me to love.  Three, so many people in this world, in MY world are suffering, and the simplest acts mean so much.  It doesn't take someone overly sensitive or sympathetic to see the needy of the world, change someone's life, in a small, or a big way.  It helps, when you feel overwhelmed and sad, to instead of focusing on that, to give of oneself, you are blessed.  God is good.

"Jailhouse Ink". by Wesley

10/16/2014

The second I get out of here, I am flying directly to LA, or Miami, or New York to pitch the most amazing reality show.  It will be "Miami Ink" meets "County Jail".  We will call it "Jailhouse Ink" or "Rorshach Tats" but the theme is simple.  It will follow the trials and tribulations of the jailhouse tattoo artist and will highlight their work.

Those pansies on the current crop of shows with their equipment and talent will pale in comparison.
The don't even have much to fear from Hepatitis A-D!

The diseases, the lack of equipment, the (illegality!), are all compelling, but once the show focuses on the work the show's star quality will shine.  Walking the cells, halls, and "yards" of any correctional facility will reveal tattoo work that is so colossally bad, so cringe inducing, you would think the tattoos were the punishment.

I see this guy regularly that has a faceful of tattoos.  He's about 19 or so, and looks hardened.  His tats look like a child drew them on his face with a pen.  There are chains and hearts and the occasional treble clef and musical note.  He has one that says, "Hug Life" upon first glance until you notice the misshapen "T" in the background.

I prefer "hug Life". Makes me think the kid has just gotten a raw deal; he's just misunderstood.  How could you lock up someone that invested in the "Hug Life"?

I will not even address the myriad swastikas, "SS" designations, and other symbology.  I wonder whether other dead genocidal maniacs are envious of the uushy (?), nostalgic treatment the 3rd Reich receives in American jails.  How come Joe Stalin doesn't have a crew running around with a Hammer and Sickle stamped on their chest?  Where are Pol Pot's boyz?

The "Aryan" iconography extends beyond the 3rd Reich.  Some have extended it to Northern European gods, gremlins and such.  One of my neighbors has what appears to be an Ewok with horns on his arm.  This not so fierce tattoo has sharp teeth and claws, but how scary is an Ewok?

It's probably not an Ewok, of course, but damn, it looks like one to a guy my age.

Quick question:  What's worse?
     a)Jar Jar Binks and all of his kind
     b)Ewoks
     c)nothing is worse than A&B

This is just the beginning of the show I have planned.  Ordinary reality show drama will pale in comparison to the drama in here.  "Artists" being sent to segregation just for their art will add an element of Artistic suppression that will make this show a sure fire hit- and never mind the everyday beatings and shankings.