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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)