Rise and Shine

Returning to my cell after a state breakfast

Of watery hot wheat cereal (that reminds me

Of my free-life wall paper-pasting days),

Stony cold biscuits, and salty beef bouillon gravy,

I recline on my bunk to let the heaviness settle

Before it's time to head off to my job detail.

Four words form inside my head:

I'm never going home.

 

My soul shudders with the weight of truth which tightens my heart to squeeze tears behind closed lids.

A cellmate is stirring, and the TV isn't on,

So I can't cry openly

Pretending that amped-up Ty has just cued

The deserving family to chant, "Bus driver, move that bus!"

 

Rolling to face the colorless concrete block wall,

I wad the hem of my sheet onto eye ducts

To silently absorb the grievous overflow.

 

I'm

Never

Going

Home;

I'm never going to sleep on a real-world bed

Cuddled with grandkids;

I'm never going to Mardi Gras;

I'm never going to swim in a salty ocean

Or taste kumquats;

I'm never going to hike the Appalachian Trail;

I'm

Never

Going

To.

 

Heaving pathetically I mourn my passing

For a few selfish seconds.

Time's up. Rise and shine.

Play the hand I'm dealt

(after I hide my soaked sheet corner under the pillow).

I certainly am not the first to be forever punished

for unjust cause,

and I certainly will not be the last.

 

With head down, armed with soap dish and face cloth,

I destroy the evidence

At the porcelain sink down the hall.

No one pries. It's early.

We all look weirded-out.

 

Patricia Prewitt

July 28, 2010

July 9, 2010 - “I Vas Only Following Orders”

When I was 13 and in my Ann Frank phase, my naïve mind marveled at how the young Nazi soldiers, many just boys, became capable of committing such unthinkable atrocities to their fellow human beings. How did they justify their actions? How could they hate people who had done nothing to them? How could any commander or mission force a normal person to torture and murder women, children, the elderly and, for that matter, anyone? (Colonel Klink excused his actions in a heavy comic German accent, "I vas only following orders." But I never found that funny.) As an adult those nagging questions never left me and were never answered until I became an innocent prisoner myself.

After nearly a quarter of a century of imprisonment, I've come to the conclusion that a uniform and a handbook of rules are all it takes to transform a regular Joe or Jane into a mean-spirited soldier. I observe the transformation daily. New officer trainees show up here wearing their own jeans and tee-shirts. They are shy but mannerly-the gentlemen even occasionally open doors for inmates—until they get their polyester uniform, belt with loops for mace and a radio, proper training, and a book of rules. I'm not saying that this is 100%, but a good portion of the officers then turn cold with power. Who in their right mind would begrudge anyone toilet paper?

Yesterday my brother Frank gathered up and drove our Momma and Daddy from their country home across the state to see me. They have been visiting me for over two decades, so the visiting ordeal is certainly not new to them. They do their best to make sure they wear the proper clothing—for example, no sleeveless shirts, no shorts above the knee, no skirts with side slits or kick pleats (no matter if they are long enough to drag the ground), no hats or caps, (which really burns Daddy to leave his Stetson in the car), no bracelets, no sunglasses, etc. They must also bring the vending machine money in a clear baggie with no bills greater than fives, have their driver's licenses or state ID's ready, and so on. Everything went smoothly for them until I showed up fresh from my strip search and uniform change. I hugged my wonderful "little" brother successfully briefly, but Daddy's no so easy to please. Daddy's old school. He desires (and deserves) a healthy bone-crushing bear hug—and not just from me. From everyone.

A split second after our embrace began, I heard the trio of officers screaming (literally screaming, "BRIEF! BRIEF HUG! BRIEF! BRIEF HUG!!!!!!! BRIEEEEEEEFFF!!!!!!" Fear gripped my heart but not Daddy's. He's not only nearly blind, he's about half deaf, and he was not paying them any mind at all. Daddy's a champion hugger, and he was doing what he does best: hugging. While fruitlessly struggling to release his vise grip, O ordered in his ear, "Daddy! You have to let go!" Daddy kept hugging, "I miss you too, Honey." Oy Vay!!! By this time the hug was over and I ran to Momma, gave her an extra fast hug, then threw my butt in the fourth plastic chair nervously hoping nothing more would be said which might hurt my Daddy's feelings or put my own tentative degree of freedom in jeopardy. To relieve the tension, Frank, always a joker, said something funny which caused us all to laugh. The officers momentarily forgot about the last sin and hollered at us to "HOLD IT DOWN OVER THERE OR YOUR VISIT WILL BE TERMINATED." We now were guilty of loud joy.

Later in the visit my nearly blind Daddy mistook the bucket room/broom closet for the men's room for a minute, but he got himself straightened out quick enough that they didn't yell. While at the vending machine, a little girl asked Frank a question about the sandwich machine, and of course he responded. For that polite exchange, eh was admonished, "Hey, you can't talk to other visitors."

Thank Heaven that as the day wore on more visitors showed up, so they had others at whom to yell. A sweet family of happy little kids showed up and got the brunt of the yelling, "QUIET! BE QUIET! YOU'RE DISTURBING EVERYONE!" Which was not true. We welcome the music made by children giggling. Frank got to tell me all about his beloved Cowboy Church and how he's now a pastor. I can't tell you how happy I am that he found his niche. This career is a perfect fit. We shared our favorite childhood stories, old and new jokes, and even got ourselves worked up about the tragedy and mishandling of the horrible Gulf oil catastrophe. (I refuse to call this a mere spill.) It was a great and loving day even by prison visiting room standards.

After our goodbyes (although it hurt my broken heart to do it, I hurriedly hugged Daddy so he couldn't get a good grip), Momma started in as usual about how mad she is that I can't eve come home and how something has to give, while I waved them out through the heavy steel door to the free world that I can't ever see. I was then herded through the steel door that does not lead to freedom.

After the exit strip search, the officer started in on me, "Mrs. Prewitt, hold up. I have to talk to you. You have to explain to your father that he can't hug you like that. The rules specifically state that the two hugs you can have, one at the beginning of the visit and one at the end, must be brief. If he hugs you like that again, you will get a violation." And I know it will be a violation for sexual misconduct which will result in at least 10 days in the hole. Sex with my daddy. Get real!

I started to plead and explain about my sweet, loving 86-year-old cowboy daddy and his glass eye and macular degeneration in the remaining eye and his bad hearing and that every visit could be the last time we see each other on this earth, but her stone face stopped me in my tracks. I was attempting to extract sympathy from a soldier. I nearly forgot that I am the enemy, therefore so are my loved ones. The lines were drawn on April 29, 1986. I'm on the wrong side. Ann Frank and her family received no mercy, and no mercy is exactly what I and my family also deserve. This is how people can be so cruel to their fellow human beings. Soldiers declare them enemies. Nothing is fair in war.

July 1, 2010 - Eggshells

Years ago when Food Service stopped feeding us real eggs (our eggs now come in big boil-in-bags and therefore are always served scrambled); the eggshell irony hit my funny bone. Although there will never again be any chicken-created eggshells in prison, every prison step I take is tread on the eggshells of trepidation and fear strewn by the administration, guards and rules. I am liable to get in trouble any minute of any day no matter where I go or what I do.

Last weekend I promised to work with my theatre class girls to run lines, so we all headed to Recreation with scripts in hand. Some of us were stopped, "What's there? A script? A play? Class? Well, ya can't take it to the yard. Take it back or I'm gonna write ya up." Thankfully enough of us made it through with our scripts to be able to rehearse. The others had inadvertently broken some eggshells on their walk to our meeting. There's no rhyme or reason.

Tuesday was my canteen day, so at my appointed time, I took my mesh combination laundry/canteen bag to the store and waited. After everyone was served but me, the lady asked me what I was doing. I knew this was a trick, so I carefully and politely answered, "I'm waiting to spend." She informed me curtly that my list was not there and accused, "Did you turn in a list?" It hardly seemed reasonable that I'd wait in the store line in the sun for an hour if I hadn't turned in a canteen list, but I didn't bother her with logic and simply answered, "Yes, I did."

(We are allowed to make our canteen trip only once a week on our designated day. The day before our canteen spend day, we each must fill out a form listing exactly what we want to purchase and drop this sheet of paper into a brown wooden box outside the door of our respective wing. The lists are picked up at eleven at night and transported to somewhere up in the administration area or mailroom for the canteen personnel to pick up the next day on their way to the canteen. There inmate canteen workers/pickers grab lists from the pile and fill tubs with the items on our lists. If we forget to write an item on our list, we cannot add it at the window. No mercy is the motto at canteen these days.)

The canteen supervisor eyed me dubiously, so I added, "If you look at my spend record, I haven't missed a canteen day in decades." With no hesitation, she pronounced, "Well, you can't spend this week." The COI sitting nearby added, "Now, don't have a fit. It is what it is." If she'd looked at my dropped jaw, she would have seen that I was far from the fit stage. I was in shock. I was nearly out of stamps and envelopes, had only a liver of soap in my soap dish, and dearly wanted a couple of bags of tuna to tide me over when the chow hall meals were inedible, but I simply turned and left. I knew that one word could be one too many and might crush a fragile canteen eggshell which would land me in big trouble.

When I arrived empty-bagged back on my wing, my nosy friends questioned me, and from that conversation I learned that Ruby-Doo had seen a couple of canteen sheets still in the brown box that morning and had told the officer. He simply replied that it wasn't his job. I also found out that another gal was affected too, but she was crying and nearly hysterical because has serious addictions: coffee and cigarettes.

This gal made her way back to classification to complain, but the FUM wouldn't budge. Somehow it is our fault that our particular canteen sheets were not pulled, although we did exactly what we are supposed to do—and both of us have witnesses who saw us deposit our lists. Kelly asked the FUM to roll back the tapes because everything is on camera, but he stated that occasions like that are not what the cameras are for. The tapes are to only be used against us—not to help prove our cases.

After aerobics class that night, I heard that this happened recently to several girls on another house and the officer found the sheets in the box, but the canteen still wouldn't let them spend. According to the canteen chief, the sheets must travel the prescribed course. Any deviation from that course and they are void. Anything that happens to the sheets when they are out of our sight (after we deposit them) is our fault, and any fuss we make will result in a conduct violation. Eggshells. This place is lousy with eggshells. But we have no real eggs. Don't forget that.

Monday evening after we'd performed our Prison Performing Arts play in the visiting room and had been strip searched yet again, I looked up to see the most spectacular orange and hot pink sunset shining down on me. I yelled to Megan, who was ahead of me on the walk, for her to look. She turned her head to exclaim to me about the beauty before us when three officers on break and smoking (while leaning on the building, which is against the rules) hollered nastily, "Keep moving. Face forward! Kick dust or I'll…" More eggshells.

Tuesday evening after church, I had made my way into my wing and upstairs when I passed Robin standing in the dayroom sobbing. She'd run out of toilet paper and kindly asked the officer for a roll. He'd yelled at her and refused to give her any. He told her she could only get toilet paper from the FUM, who works days. After further investigation, I found out that there had been a staff meeting that very day, and a directive came down from administration that the FUMS and officers have been too lenient with the toilet paper. By God, the three rolls issued each Thursday are to last the whole week no matter what. Robin is a mild-mannered, middle-aged lady with a bunch of health issues. That night she was also distraught at the thought of waiting at least 12 hours to pee. More eggshells. Simply because we all possess body functions that are creating a burden on the state budget.

Why not let some people go? We have a whole housing unit full of gals who are scheduled to leave within the next six months. Why wait six months? Let them go now. Trust me. Six months makes no difference in rehabilitation. We also have a population of elderly prisoners, me included. We have OG's (old gals) who are in their 60's and 70's and a few in their 80's. Good Lord! Cut us loose. None of us are going to leave prison to work at a strip joint or walk the streets. Every old lady I know has a loving family who will welcome her. But instead, Missouri locks up more women every day. When I first came to prison, there were around 150 female prisoners. Now we have over 4000. This has gotten out of hand.

And the hapless ignorant taxpayers keep paying, thinking that these thousands of thousands of prisoners are necessary evil. If prisoners were sentenced to community service, think of all the free workers the state would have. There would be no litter on the highways, public parks would be clean, e coli could be eradicated from our lakes and streams, and rest stops would be spotless. After a few years, we'd be as gorgeous as New Zealand! And community work would be a worse punishment for most lazy prisoners than a few years of laying on a bunk sleeping or zoned out on the TV. Talk would change to conversations like this: "No, John, I won't cook meth (or rob that bank or hold up that store or beat up that noisy neighbor or write that bad check or kill your wife or sell that heroin) with you because there's the possibility that I may end up cutting brush at the state park in the blazing heat with bugs biting me and poison ivy all over. My second cousin Al nearly got snake bit when he was out there on community service. That's hard work! So thanks but no thanks!"

Always eggshells.

May 12, 2010 – Up in Smoke

Yesterday after aerobics class I was in a shower happily lathering the sweat off when I heard the horribly shrill fire alarm that goes off in the rotunda. Dag-nab-it! That sound means that we must all hurry outside and lien up by wing on the basketball court—the court where no basketball can be played. Although each housing unit has a big basketball court with two opposing hoops at regulation height, these courts are only used for smoke breaks and fire drills. The only passing will be the passing of contraband and the only dribbling will be from someone's lazy lips. There will be no ball game on the asphalt court. (Don't waste brain cells pondering the insanity of that one. It's merely a prison thing.)

I yelped a warning in case the girls in the other three showers didn't hear the alarm, "Fire alarm, girls!" Watered down groans and expletives ensued. I dried quickly and rushed to wrestle on undies, tee-shirt and shorts. No article of clothing was cooperating either! Thank heaven for warm weather. I've gone out many a time with wet hair and shivered in the snow wearing only thin shower flip flops and cotton pajamas.

As I exited the shower area, I noticed that my cellmate had been cooking spaghetti noodles. She wore that Charlie Brown look of exasperation as she set her half-cooked noodles out of the microwave and abandoned them. The dripping girl behind me still had shampoo in her hair and was slip-sliding on her wet shower shoes. These come-as-you-are parties are a royal pain.

We never have a real fire. We have smoking in the bathrooms that alarms the smoke detectors. This time the upper tier of c-wing was the culprit. After we assembled in our four lines on the basketball court, a sauntering sergeant scolded us all for having the audacity to talk during this code 70. It kinda cracks me up that anyone can expect a few hundred women to travel anywhere absolutely silently. It's my opinion that expectations should be realistic, but the sergeant evidently is a dreamer. (Every time I'm in the middle of a chew-out, I flash to the scene where the wormy warden drawls to Paul Newman, "What we have here is a failure to communicate.")

Since it was time for chow to be called, we weren't in line for long before they ordered us to single-file back inside—except for the sinners, who were culled from the herd and left standing with heads bowed and tails between their legs. This morning at breakfast one of the c-wing upper gals told me that the officers gave them the blues all evening, wouldn't let them go to recreation or church, and made them all GI (scrub and scour). We are not supposed to be "mass disciplined", but regardless, it's a very common prison practice. Guards are not supposed to curse at us, but that's also a common occurrence. This is offensive to some, but I figure these people talk like that all the time, so how can they edit themselves when they are upset at us. I'm not saying I like it. I guess I've grown immune to colorful abusive language, although I can recall a time when I was horrified, too.

It's a state law that no one can smoke in a state building, but the smoke is so thick in our housing units that during peak hours clouds hang, resembling a smoky bar—a gal could choke. I've been exposed to second-hand smoke for nearly a quarter of a century and can't help but worry about the effects. We have inmates with COPD who suffer greatly from the pollution. Indoor smokers set off fire alarms at all times day and night which disrupts the prison routine and creates security risks for both inmates and staff. And even with all this, Missouri will not make their prisons smoke-free. We're one of the few remaining states who hang on to the notion that it's every smokers' right to indulge their addiction any-damn-where they please.

There are punishments for smoking inside. Stupid smokers get caught. Smart ones always have someone to stand bust for them. Many officers turn a blind eye to the smoke. They are smokers themselves and don't want to statistically prove that there is too much indoor smoking by giving tickets to indoor smokers. I've heard guards swear that if the prison becomes smoke-free that they will quit. Smoking is more important to them than their economic livelihood.

Also state law prohibits smoking within so many feet of a state building, but our staff smokes while leaning on the exterior walls and as they stroll on the sidewalks around buildings. We have picnic tables for staff right up against the housing units for staff smokers who don't have the strength to stand. Why? For the same reason inmates smoke indoors. Because they can. There is little enforcement of the state's smoking rules. And in Missouri prisons, there are absolutely no rights for those who wish to breathe clean air. Unfortunately we all have our daily intake of nicotine and poisonous gases.

Every year the rumor washes over camp that as of July 1^st, our prisons will be mandated as smoke-free. I have no idea why the date is always July 1^st, but I do know that this rumor has yet to come to fruition. Until that fateful day of decision, I will continue to shower with an ear perked to alarms and I will keep clothes handy for the middle-of-the-night drills. What's the boy scouts' motto? Ah, yes, "Be prepared."

May 11, 2010 - Tribute to Momma

Dearest Sarah,

Saturday morning, after I read my monthly StoryLink book on tape, I stopped by the chapel and joined the Residents Encounter Christ monthly fellowship service. After we'd sung some old hymns, Carlene asked if I'd say a few words about my mother. I agreed, and while we sang another song, I thought about your Grandma.

As you know, we come from country people on both sides. My mother's family lived on maybe 80 acres several miles north of the village of Lone Jack. They'd been there for several generations. Momma was born well after the first three children that Granny and Grandpa Snow brought into the world. As the story goes, at bedtime one night Grandpa suggested, "Mom, it's awful lonesome now that the kids are grown and gone. Let's have a baby." Evidently Granny agreed and at 40 years old which was nearly unheard of in those days, Granny gave birth to my mother, whose flashing brown eyes were so dark that it was said they looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. No baby was ever wanted more than this one.

I've seen the pictures and heard the stories, so I can guarantee that my mother was extraordinarily beautiful and talented. She sat at the big upright piano before she started school and played beautifully. She was routinely pulled out of her grade school classes to play piano for high school functions. If Momma hears a tune, she can play it. (I'd always heard that Momma's amazing ability to play by ear was a God-given talent, so all during my grade school years, I climbed up on the piano bench and ordered God to bestow upon me the same talent. This ploy never worked. Maybe I was too pushy, Lord.)

I may have the story wrong, but I heard that Daddy, not long after he graduated, noticed my junior-high-age momma in downtown Lone Jack and commented to his brother Joe that he planned to marry that girl when she grew up. (My mother blossomed early, not like me who is still waiting to bloom.) I think that Momma was keeping an eye on the tall handsome Frank Slaughter, too, so after she graduated from high school and went to live in a boarding house in the city to work for Hallmark Cards, Daddy drove his Model A out to the Snow farm, knocked on the door, and asked my Grandpa Snow if he could court his daughter. Grandpa must have liked the look of Daddy, because he gave his consent. Momma and Daddy married a few months later on Labor Day of 1948. (I came alone in July of the next year.)

Times were hard for country people in those days. Momma carried every drop of water that we used a long distance from the well to our old wood frame house. This water was heated on the stove for cooking, dishwashing, laundry, and bathing. We had no central furnace. All the heat came from a wood stove in the kitchen and a gas heater in the living room. When I was very young, Momma cooked on a wood stove. We had no indoor plumbing, so the outhouse was our toilet. If we didn't grow it or raise it, it was a luxury. Clothes were hand sewn. Shoes were precious because they were store bought.

As I painted this picture to the girls in the chapel, I clearly saw their expressions of disbelief and horror. These young city girls could not imagine existing with no running water. When I mentioned that my momma and granny made our dresses out of feed sacks, the girls pictured rough burlap bags. They didn't have the slightest idea that feed and flour came in bags made of pretty cotton prints. Maybe you don't either, Sarah!

If we wanted fried chicken, someone had to kill the chicken first and that person was Momma. The first time I really noticed how Momma stepped on a chicken's head to yank it off; it occurred to me that this was not the kind of woman to cross. Momma canned nearly everything that came out of our huge garden. She worked hard. She was up long before we were and was still working long after she tucked us in our clean sun-scented beds.

And with all this back-breaking unrelenting work, our house as happy and full of music and laughter. Momma loved big band tunes and classical piano. Daddy loved country, so we were raised with a wide variety of music. Television was not important in those days. When we did get one, it rarely worked, so we played games and music and were mostly outside. I always had a pony. Our life was glorious.

Momma and Daddy were young and so in love. My brother, sister, and I used to catch them "playing around" in the kitchen all the time. Momma rode in the front seat of our Nash Rambler snuggled up under Daddy's protective arm. Mary, Frankie and I loved that. To live in a house of love is a special gift.

During Saturday's service the young girls were visibly appalled at stories of my sweet young life, while the older men and women volunteers smiled dreamily to remember the simple times of our youth. We toiled diligently with few modern conveniences, but life was sweeter for it. I'd go back to those peaceful old days in a heartbeat.

I owe so much to my parents, my ancestors, and my whole family, but this weekend was focused on our mothers. While I spoke to the congregation about my mother Saturday, you, Carrie and Jane were taking your Grandma and Aunt Mary out to eat for Mother's Day. Somehow the timing seemed right—for me to honor her in word while you girls honored her in deed. I think the women-folk in our family are pretty doggone amazing, and I'm proud to be a mother in a long line of loving mothers!

May 3, 2010 – Mother’s Day

Dearest Sarah,

Yesterday morning as I sat on my bunk crocheting a birthday doll for Will, I heard this plaintive plea from down the hall, "Does anyone have an old Mother's Day card I could have?" A beat of silence, then another voice asked, "Whadyamean—Old?" The whiner bleated, "I have no card to send my momma and if I had one to look at, maybe I could draw up something. A week from today is Mother's Day and Friday is Truman Day (whatever that is) so no mail goes out Thursday. I gotta get on it nnnoooowwwwww!!!" I don't know if she ever found a prototype, but the exchange made me think of the upcoming day set aside for mothers.

Sunday will make 25 Mother's days that I've spent away from my mother and you kids. In general Mother's Day is not a happy day in prison. We gals, who are fortunate enough to have living mothers, get in long lines for the phone just to say, "I love you, Mom—and I miss you."

Most incarcerated women are mothers. We get in the long lines for the phones to call our children. If we're lucky enough to connect, the conversations are laced with love, lonesomeness and heaped with guilt.

I never dreamed that anyone or anything could drag me away from you kids and that I'd miss even one Mother's Day—much less 25—and still counting. You ranged in ages from 16 to 8 when I was sent to prison. Now look at you. Jane will be 41 in August. You will be 39, Sarah. Our Matthew is gone, but he'd be 37. Carrie will be 35 next week, and Morgan will be 33 in June. And between you: Ten gorgeous talented offspring.

You've heard this story all your life, but I love telling it: When Carrie was born on Mother's Day of '75, a wide-eyed intern in the hospital exclaimed, "Wow! You became a Mother on Mother's Day." I hated to burst his bubble, but I came clean, "Not exactly. This is my fourth baby." He blinked, and then asked, "Fourth? Don't you have a television?" I guess he was implying that we needed to watch the entire Johnny Carson show and not get side-tracked, but he couldn't rain on my parade. That Mother's Day was most wonderful with my perfect brown-eyed package safely tucked in the crook of my arm.

(You know I have a birth story for each of you, but I'll only bore you with Carrie's since hers is the Mother's Day story.)

When our sweet life was together and safe, you kids picked me dandelions without stems, and I floated them in jar lids on the kitchen windowsill. You drew Mother's Day cards with hearts, stick figures and peanut butter fingerprints. Frugal Matthew, who never wanted to spend his own money, once bought me a pair of dime store "ruby" post earrings that he adored. I wore them to a PTA meeting, and my lobes swelled up hot like well-fed ticks. He later asked me why I never wore his earrings, so I slathered them with Vaseline and wore them only in his presence.

I've been mulling over a Mother's Day poem for you girls, but I can't seem to get it together. This flood of memories from when you were small floods my eyes. We were cheated! We were cheated out of your dedicated Daddy. And while we were still reeling from his awful death, I was snatched away to prison. We were ALL cheated—and still are—and it never stops!!!!

This is why I can't seem to write a Mother's Day poem for you girls. I'm too sad and too mad. To write something palatable, I need to locate a peaceful place in my head. I'm too sad and too mad to go to the peaceful place. Right now I could curse and shake my first at the heavens and kick and scream and roll around on the tile while foaming at the mouth. A caniption fit, as your grandma calls it. That's what I could have. A caniption fit. (I have no idea how to spell that specific type of fit, although I've heard about it all my life and could perform it if it would help.)

Well, this is not exactly the sweet Mother's Day letter that you expected, now is it? Sorry, but I just go a bit nuts every day wondering how much longer this nightmare will endure. I've given up on the thought of vindication. I don't even care anymore if some people erroneously believe that I'm a cold-blooded killer. I don't care what anyone thinks except for you kids, the rest of the family and friends who have become family. I just want to come back home to exist peacefully and productively as a real mother and granny and daughter.

I want to be able to help you with your children. I want to cheer at all the ball games, proudly attend all the piano recitals, all the swim meets, all the award ceremonies, all the school open houses. I want to chip in on all the chores—from mowing, to painting, to housekeeping, to cooking and dishwashing and everything! (I'm very handy.)

I've missed every graduation, every wedding, every funeral, every holiday get-together, every birthday party, every anniversary celebration, every illness, every speaking engagement—and now I've missed the last 25 Mother's Days. DAMNATION!

Happy Mother's Day, Sarah. You're a wonderful mother, and I'm so proud of you. I feel the same way about your sisters. The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, and your children are vivid proof of what great mothers all three of you girls are! God bless.

April 30, 2010

As for the latest news, 43-year-old April was transported out Wednesday for a hysterectomy, but before surgery, thankfully, the hospital staff discovered that her painful tumor is actually a baby. I wonder if she'll name him "Tooma".

The canteen is now selling us men's athletic shoes for $13-something a pair, and they are so cheaply made that there's no brand name. The sign simply reads, "SHOE". What kind of shoe has no brand? And if they are selling them to us for that price, they must cost the canteen a buck 92 a pair. They will last a gal about a week on these rough sidewalks. I bet the right and left are identical, so that they can begin selling the shoes separately for $8 each or more in case just one falls apart first. Cha-ching.

Oh, the canteen is now selling us state toilet paper for sixty-three cents a roll. They have none to freely issue. They only have extras to sell to people who are making between $7.50 and $8.50 a month. I smell the acrid stench of exploitation in the air. Cha-ching, again!

The canteen sells us packaged food that must be cooked like rice in a bag, but they no longer sell the microwave bowls to cook in. They now only sell think plastic cereal bowls that can't take heat. I'm curious to see how the girls boil up mac'n cheese in the cardboard box.

We only get ice once a day—at around 8:30 at night. The poor fools who want a cold drink at a reasonable hour, say after work at 4, are out-of-luck. We used to get ice three times a day, but that privilege died away with the budget cuts. Can't afford to repair the ice machines.

The two most disgusting modern words are "budget cuts". (I'm sure free people feel the same way.) Our food is slop because of budget cuts. Can't have enough toilet paper for the same reason. Can't have special programs to help rehabilitate prisoners because of budget cuts. No ice water in Hell. Our uniforms are frayed and torn. (The visiting room uniforms are so bad that my mother once asked if I needed money to replace my shirt! She's clueless. One Christmas I folded her an origami bird, and she asked if I bought it at the prison "gift shop".) The plumbing is crumbling. Slave wages for workers. No raises or incentive pay. No Pell Grants so prisoners can continue their education. You get the picture.

I really realize that I've tumbled down the rabbit hole when I hear insane policies like the "work release" qualifications. To explain work release, there are crews of gals who leave the prison grounds (without chains and shackles and handcuffs) to mow grass, clean up the highways, weed eat, etc. We also have the nursing home gals who take all the jobs that free people don't want in a local nursing home. I've heard such great stories about our gals who make it their business to keep the clients happy and clean. They are angelic orderlies—probably because a nursing home is very similar to a prison, and the inmates have compassion for the elderly whose only crime is not dying sooner.

Even if we get to be less than five years from freedom, by policy we are not qualified for work release eligibility if we have a "first-degree" crime. So when Janiece and Kris are within five years of parole, only Kris can go to work release. Janiece has a first-degree assault conviction—25 years with an 85% mandatory minimum. No one was killed, but a young woman was hurt—and Janiece was convicted even though she wasn't even at the scene of the crime. (BUT the crime scene was in her house.) Kris, on the other hand, is serving 25 years with an 85% mandatory minimum for second-degree murder for taking the life of her abusive beau, while saving her own. But still… Someone died. Which is more severe? Assault or death? But the policy is clearly written to preclude first-degree crimes.

In a decade or so when Janiece is within five years of leaving prison, I bet she begins the grievance procedure and fights this policy. But till then, a murderer can go to work release but an assaulter cannot, although I think each candidate should be examined on a case-by-case basis—not that anyone who wears a suit care what I think. It's my understanding that this policy comes from Central Office and was not designed here—only implemented. I'd have more to say about this and other issues, but I'm still locked up. I tip toe on the edge of danger as it is with my candid reporting.

I gotta run and teach aerobics! I'm doing a "weight-less" class today (with no hand weights) for weight loss. I can't wait. (Why am I such a sucker for puns?)