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The Diaries

One year, 5 months & 30 days in -- the last day here

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Good morning, all. If I am lucky, I will be gone by this time tomorrow. I will ask shortly to be able to sign any necessary paperwork today with Phoenix, the money man and assistant director of this “house”. If that is possible, I will walk out of here at 12:01 am. Otherwise, I will have to wait until 8:01 am tomorrow. But before the sun sets tonight, my truck will be packed with all but one set of clothes and my shaving kit. All my other clothes, my books, my 12-STEP literature, my CDs (90% of them Jonell’s music), my knickknacks, my lamp, my alarm clock, my letters, pictures and paintings from many of you – all of that will be crammed into the front seat of my pick-um-up truck.

It is still not good to project because some of the sadistic sons-a-bitches I am dealing with may be waiting for this last day to pull some "let's show him" number on me. That is why my heart jumps every time I hear the intercom click on in the “house” today. I do not want to hear my name called, for any reason. But as usual, my request to see Phoenix today is my irresistible urge to know what is coming. Asking to be allowed to leave early is one sure way to know whether I will be leaving at all.

Yesterday afternoon, after I wrote you last, I called Leon Alligood of the (Nashville) Tennessean, whose front page Sunday article two weeks ago helped begin the dialogue for medical marijuana here in Tennessee (and also helped get me locked-down -- a very small price to pay.) I thanked Leon again for his excellent article and made arrangements to pick up a certain set of pictures of my farm from him. We also talked about the reaction he had received on the article and he said that it was very strongly positive. At first, he said that there was a bit of an age difference in the responses, with older readers less positive to my cause. But he quickly amended that to say that a number of older readers had told him that they were themselves using marijuana for their own illnesses, or the aches and pains of old age for which the Navajo believe that our Higher Powers gave us this plant to begin with. (That, and to ease the transition to the Spirit World when we leave these imperfect bodies behind.) So Leon said that he really couldn’t conclude that there was an age difference in the reader responses – that support for me and for medical marijuana crossed all boundaries.

All boundaries, that is, except the one that keeps me here for another day.

Last evening, I sat through my last mandatory “A & D” class, the poor substitute for 12-Step that the “house” can charge the feds to provide. Another 20 year old film about driving and drinking, another room of bored felons, regardless of their own beliefs and decisions about drinking and using again. When the film was over, Ms. Piphis (the sincere but harried counselor) tried once again to engage the group in conversation about the film. And, as usual, a few inmates spoke up to say what they knew she wanted to hear. That kind of rote dishonesty is not something that I participate in, so I just sat quietly with the others, waiting for this exercise in naïve futility to end.

But one inmate spoke up, an older man who is relatively new to the “house”. He spoke with an air of authority about the futility of this whole process, that people who wanted to drink and use would keep doing it regardless of how every many films we were required to watch. As he kept on, branching out into the inevitability of almost everyone in this room being “violated” and sent back to prison eventually, I sat up in my chair. As he kept pontificating, one inmate spoke up and then another to say that they were done with substance abuse and that what he said didn’t apply to him. But he would not stop, saying that even those inmates would be “violated” and returned to the joint. Finally, he revealed that he had been “violated” himself five times in the past twenty years, and had already done 23 years for the single crime for which he had initially received an 18 year sentence. And each time he was “violated”, it was because of “… a bitch and drugs …."

That finally got me to say something. I said to him that if he wanted to speak for himself, he was certainly free to do so. But that no one else in this room was required to follow his path. I agreed with him that some knuckleheads here (and others who had been here during my 18 months) were unlikely to change and that they were likely to follow his path. But that many, many more of the folks here seemed sincere in their desire to change, had in fact already changed, and that others had simply “aged out” of their early, immature lives of reckless abandon. They had something to live for. Like one of my dormies, who is here for meth and related bad boy behavior, who now speaks to his 6 year old daughter every night (on his illegal cellphone), asking about her day, telling her to work and study hard and telling her without fail that he loves her. That dormie has something to live for, to stay out of prison for, a Higher Power wrapped up in that 6 year old bundle of unconditional love – his for her and hers for him. He says that he has had enough. And I believe him.

But I used this debate about the inevitability (or not) of our futures to speak up once again about the “house’s” irrational and harmful approach to denying access to 12-Step programs for those of us stuck here. Absolutely nothing that this “house” does would begin to compare with the life-changing benefits of becoming involved in 12-Step – AA, NA or their close kindred folk – for inmates here. I have long thought that this anti-12-Step policy was based on ignorance or on a feeling that the “house” would lose control of inmates (which to some extent is true – but they would be surrendering that control to Higher Powers and to sober people whose involvement would help these inmates in immeasurable ways) . But I am now coming to believe that this decision is strictly a business one. If the “house” allows inmates to attend 12-Step programs, they lose their rationale for forcing us to watch outdated films and listen to naïve, non-recovery based prohibition lectures. And they lose the certainty of relapse, of “violation” and of return to the system that keeps money rolling in, even if it does not make our society any safer nor the lives of these inmates any more productive or fulfilled. Cynicism, thy name is Big Man this morning. As that jaded, five-time loser would say to me, “Welcome to the real world.” Well, merry-go-round newbie, it's not my real world.

The class ended, I thanked Ms. Piphis for her efforts (and she expressed her own concerns for my efforts to keep my farm) and I was free from yet another ritual here. Free to watch another meaningless NBA playoff game while I finished another good book (thanks again, Carla). Free to take another long shower (my third of the day) and to reflect on the one thing I will truly miss about this place – unlimited hot water. Tomorrow, I will return to a home whose water system is broken, though I believe I can once again fix it. Until I do, I will bathe in the creek and haul drinking water in five gallon buckets to the house – my house, my home. That will be fine with me. Unlimited hot water isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, if it comes with fifty unsought housemates, a dozen snoring dormies, and the ignorance and arrogance that is this place in this time of our lives.

It is warm and damp outside, the moisture building up for three days of rain. I have one more stint on the exercise bike this morning, then one last session of clothes washing and drying, another lunch of pre-masticated sandwich spread (tuna, chicken, egg, pimento, whatever) for lunch, one more attempt at a nap, one more evening visiting with my dormies (who are all very excited for me and keep mentioning my imminent release). I will start another new book, I will pack the truck, I will call my neighbor to invite him to lunch and to ask his help in twisting the rusted cap off my water pump off so I can prime it. There is already someone sleeping at the foot of my bed who will take my place – another tattooed, bald youngster out of FCI-Marietta, having done two years there after being arrested on his wedding night for a years-old outstanding warrant, here at the "house" for three months (or six), getting the coveted place by the window with the two mattresses that has been my space away from home. For one more night, I do sincerely hope.

Until tomorrow, I will let go and let my Goddess carry me home. To all of you. Peace.

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