Monday, April 26, 2010

April 22, 2010 - Nanny Kris

Nanny Kris

Sarah, it's occurred to me that I mention my friend and co-worker Kris all the time, but you don't know her story. Do you remember her from 4H several years ago? She has no children, but she came to the Saturday visit/meetings as a helper before the administration changed the policy to disallow 4h helpers. You and Carrie called her "Nanny Kris", and Carrie offered to let her live in their basement when she paroles because the kids adore her. Kris, who's a big kid herself, always jumped down on the floor and played like one of them.

Kris is in her late 20's, gorgeous, tall, and thin, with waist length straight dark blonde hair— usually pulled back in a ponytail. She's got a Nordic surfer girl physicality, if there could be such a creature. Lithe but strong. In her free life she worked for a veterinarian's assistant, which was perfect for a gal who adores all animals and isn't afraid to get messy. She also comes from a dysfunctional broken home with a sweet mother and dear father who didn't seem to know what to do with a daughter like Kris—plagued with OCD, ADHD and every other initialed psychological issue. Kristin has more issues than a magazine stand.

I was not there, of course, but I believe that Kris was cohabitating with her boyfriend, and the relationship was toxic, abusive. Her head-shaved bully of a boyfriend, a steroid-enhanced body builder, displayed a quick and foul temper. Violent. And I'm sure that stubborn, hardheaded Kris didn't make matters any better by refusing to bend to his every whim.

Yes, Kris should have moved on, hidden away, changed her whole life to stay away from him, but hindsight is 20/20. (Or 180 like I heard on the sidewalk recently. "Hindsight is 180, ya know, Boo.") And we must remember that she thought she loved him and could save him from himself. (If I had a nickel for every deluded woman who thinks that very lie this very day, I could buy this prison and kick everyone out.) Kris was also very young, barely out of her teens, which equals inexperienced. Sometimes it takes some years and mileage on our tachometer before we realize that a bad apple is just a bad apple.

During a domestic dispute that escalated into an argument that turned into a fight that grew into a beating, Kris grabbed what we call back home "an equalizer" (a Louisville Slugger) and slammed the aggressive and scary body builder beau in the head with such force that not only did she stop the beating, he unfortunately died. The story could have gone the other way. He could easily have won the fight, and I would know nothing of Kristin.

Because Kris didn't have a hospital history of abuse with photos and corroborating testimony and money for expert legal representation, her lawyer suggested that she take a deal. If she held out for a trial, the jury could easily decide to give her Life with No Parole. After rotting in the infamous Hellhole called the St. Louis Work House for two torturous years, she copped a plea for 25 years, second degree murder, with a mandatory minimum of 85% before she's eligible for parole. To do the math for you, she must serve 21 years and three months before she can even be considered for parole.

She'll serve over two decades in prison because she survived. But I have got to hand it to Kris, who has served around nine long years so far. She looks for the humor in most any situation. No one is sillier than my friend—or as quick witted. She stays busy with meaningful endeavors and is much loved by her family and admired by inmates and staff alike. In December she brilliantly played the athletic Scarecrow in our production of "The Wizard of Oz". Her parents came to the visiting room show, separately, of course. They were the biggest ducks in the puddle and enjoyed their daughter's evident preparation and characterization so much that it was infectious. Her daddy laughed so big that he became part of the show! I had trouble staying in character as the disgruntled Wicked Witch of the West.

Also Kris is not one of these prisoners who exhibits no remorse for the horror of taking a life. This burden and the cloud of guilt will forever hang over her head. But she's worked to the point where she refuses to let the mistakes of the past kill her, too.

I pray that the 85% mandatory minimum law that was passed in 1994 will be rescinded. It's not only glutting the expensive prison system, but it's not a fair and just law for victims who survived like Kristin—who deserve a chance at a good life outside these razor wire fences before she's too old to find a good life.

When I was first locked up in 1986, prisoners who acted halfway decently served around 10-12 years on a life sentence—now it's near 30. The ones serving a number of years, like 25, served one-third of the years. I knew a young girl, exactly Jane's age (16 when we met with the very same birthday) who served 8.5 years on her 25 for second degree murder. She had been sitting unawares in the car while her boyfriend killed former employers. Sherry knew nothing of the murders until he jumped back in the driver's seat, sped off, and bragged to her of what he'd done. He threatened her life if she didn't keep her mouth shut. She believed him—after all, he'd just killed a family. Of course the truth eventually came out (he couldn't help but boast), and naïve teeny-bopper Sherry was considered an accessory after the fact.

If this same case had happened after August 28, 1994, Sherry would still be locked up and serving the same lengthy amount of time as Kris. Back in the 80's we thought that 8.5 years was too much time for poor Sherry to have to serve. Boy, have times changed. Vengeance is no longer mine, sayeth the Lord.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

April 14, 2010 - Bananas

We had bananas for breakfast!!! That's a big thing in my world. I keep track of bananas. The fruit truck delivers on Tuesdays (unless there's yet another Monday state holiday), so usually we get one banana each at breakfast on Wednesdays. That's the only chance at a banana we get each week. (The remaining bananas are whisked away to the PDR for staff.)

And the reason bananas are served only at the one breakfast is to save money. Many fewer inmates rise and shine at 5:30 to stumble to the chow hall for grits and toast, but there are those of us who never miss breakfast because of the milk. (Milk is only served at breakfast, and as a small-boned Caucasian woman, I must protect my bone density at all cost.) This morning I traded my white rice for a banana, so I had TWO WHOLE BANANAS! I was in banana hog heaven!

Fresh fruit is a big deal to me every day. I peruse the weekly menu on the bulletin board with a hawk eye. Prison fruit is apples, oranges, an occasional pear in season, and every few months a grapefruit half. I'm always amazed at the fact that the majority of prisoners in my prison do not appreciate fresh fruit. Most much prefer their fruit canned and swimming in heavy syrup to a crisp apple.

Part of the problem is teeth. Good strong teeth, the kind needed for apple munching, are rare. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this comment: "I'd sure like to eat that apple, but I'm afraid it'll break off the teeth I have left. Miss Patty, do you want this?" Bet your booties, I do! Yum! (As long as my teeth hold out….) The other factor is laziness. "I'll eat my orange if you peel it for me." What? Peel your own damn orange, for crying out loud!

Also most prisoners would rather have a cupcake for dessert than a piece of fresh fruit—even if the dry state-made cupcakes leave much to be desired. If the menu lists "gelatin or fruit", you can bet your bottom dollar that it will be jello or canned apples, canned peaches, canned pears, or canned crushed pineapple. Those four are the canned fruit choices. The jello can be plain or the cooks can add the canned fruit. The cooks are also creative and add ingredients like shredded cabbage to green jello. I just haven't gotten used to it. Give me a piece of relatively fresh recognizable fruit that actually saw it's mother tree in the not too distant past.


But today is a good day. I got to eat not one but two bananas for breakfast! Yippee! I can't wait until next Wednesday morning.

March 29, 2010


 

My cellmate Angie (43) moved out of our room this morning to the work release dorm, and I'll miss her terribly. Good Catholic Angie, from the Bootheel, wife and mother of 3 young boys, embezzled from the car dealership for which she worked. I've never in my too-long incarceration seen an inmate suffer so for her sins. Her guilt for shattering the trust of her family and employers is immense. Even so she possesses a dry sense of intellectual humor and a sweetness that I just adore. This morning as she packed to leave, I gave her the special candy Easter egg that I'd bought for her. I didn't mean to open the floodgates, but that offering was the final straw. She wept in my arms for all the reasons women weep. Angie has just over a year to serve before she can run home into the waiting arms of her loyal husband and rambunctious sons. I have no doubt that she'll rebuild a great life with them.


The MO Senate has been all over the TV news trying to cut the state budget. Hello! You can let me go and save a bundle! In fact, I can give them a list.
 

At theatre class yesterday afternoon, a twit who has been here only a matter of months and just chatters inanely all the time whined to no one in particular, "I was supposed to leave July 5th—but now it's July 6th—a whole 24 hours more!" Big dramatic sigh. I caught the eyes of a young black life-with-no-parole gal across the table, so I turned to the twit and schooled her, "You might watch what you say in here since you're at a table with lifers." Each word I pronounced distinctly and slowly to allow the message to sink in. I turned back to Lawanda, who smiled at me with her big brown eyes. I have no problem informing short-timer twits of the facts of life.


Yesterday about 6 gals were cuffed and taken to the hole for stealing out of the canteen. This was organized crime. The canteen workers was shoving the loot out of the back and the warehouse workers were in charge of transporting and distributing—under the unblinking eyes of dozens of security cameras. But honestly the canteen and warehouse supervisors are to blame. They hired known thieves. If you play with snakes and get bit, whose fault is it? I guess the mob had quite a hussle going on and was selling Kools for $2! Free enterprise, the prison way.

March 26, 2010 - Ruby

Ya know, ya think that after you've been locked up for 24 years you wouldn't see or hear anything especially new. Every once in a while, I'm proven wrong in that theory. Kristin came to work this morning with a tale that shocked even me. Saturday at 10pm when count cleared, Kris descended the stairs, entered the ph one room and called her mother. The phone room is separated from the dayroom by a windowed wall with one windowed door. The rotunda officers have a clear view of this room, as you can imagine.


As mother and daughter chatted, Ruby waltzed in, sat in the other chair facing Kris (there are two phones about 6 inches apart on the wall in the phone room), punched out the code to make a call, and as the phone rang on the other end, Ruby slunk down, pulled out her battery-powered electric razor and, over the buzz of the appliance, mouthed to Kris, "I'm going to masturbate." (Got your attention, didn't I.)


Ruby had called her lover, Boo, who had just paroled a week or so ago. Can you picture this? Kris, who's sitting only a few inches from Ruby, is attempting to act normal and talk to her mother as if this peculiar show were not happening. By this time, Ruby is making all sorts of moans and howls while grinding this buzzing prison vibrator into her crotch—making a big verbal show for Boo on the end of the line. Officers are milling around the rotunda. Other inmates are in the dayroom playing cards and visiting.


Kris gives up and gives some bogus excuse to her mother as to why she needs to say goodbye right now. No one I know can keep this kind of information to herself, so as she's telling a group of card-playing friends, she sees this tiny older black lady who resembles a Ninja turtle enter the phone room, turn on her heel, and immediately emerge with the same weirded-out look on her face that Kris must have worn.


Since you don't know Ruby, let me attempt to describe her. She's not young, but not old, black, tall and wiry, with semi-unkept braids. She's mentally ill, and everyone knows it except Ruby. No one in the history of the world has ever had a sane conversation with her. When I see Ruby staring at me with those wild buggy eyes, I hasten for an exit. She usually asks me some legal question that F. Lee Bailey (I'm sure his name dates me tremendously) could never have answered or complains to me about some prison rule that no one will ever change because it doesn't exist. I enjoy hearing about her off-the-wall exploits, but I never want to be involved with them. Right before Boo paroled, the pair attended aerobic classes just to be together. I tried my best to ignore them then.

Janiece did not do a good job of ignoring them during one class in which we were tag-teaming teachers. Ruby kept wandering around not working out, as usual, but when I had the mic leading step aerobics, Ruby sat down on the bleachers, which is a no-no during aerobics. Janiece went straight for her and out of the corner of my eye, I first thought that Janiece had struck her because Ruby fell back and rolled around wailing on the foot area between the seats of the bleachers. In reality, Ruby had seen Janiece coming for her and hurled herself backward acting like she was hurt. Janiece was mad as a wet hen.


To finish this Ruby story, about 30 minutes after Kris gave up on her call; Ruby left the phone, went straight to the bathroom to was her hands, and then wandered around the dayroom bothering people as if nothing strange had happened. Kris is still shaking her head in disbelief.

March 18, 2010


 

Today we're in deep fog which is not good on a prison camp. We can only move if escorted. Security, ya know. But the fog is pretty to me. And I smell spring in the air.


 

My robin is back. He perches on the one puny over-peed-on little oak tree in the dog pen and sings to me when I walk to breakfast at 5:30. He just showed up a week or so ago and sings to me all spring and into the summer until it gets too hot. He's proud of his red breast and puffs it out as he turns his beak up to the sky and belts out my favorite spring song. Between verses, he cocks his head over to see if I'm watching. I always smile at my Rockin Robin and call, "I see you!" Spectators think I'm nuts, until I advise them that God sent him to remind us that everything is going to be OK. Can't argue with that.


 

My stupid little cellmate who chatters all the time and is giving up her 8th baby for adoption is moving out of our room this morning. YEAH! She's OK, just a pest. Constantly asking how to spell the simplest words, writing sex to male inmates, and ignoring her children because she's a brainless drug addict child herself. We are happy that we will now be able to think and study in the room!


 

So now we have four of us in the room. Stacy, (39) half Mexican, half middle-eastern, is at my feet. Amy, (43) a nice white Catholic embezzler from the bootheel, is across from me. Sara, (36) black gal with an assault and a 3rd grade mentality who calls me mom is catty-corner. I should tell you about Stacy. That's a story.


 

Stacy's serving 30 years with an 85% mandatory minimum for first degree assault. She, a successful hairdresser and graphic artist, and her handsome husband were excitedly expecting their first child. They had a name picked out, the nursery in their gorgeous country home decorated, and Christmas gifts for the baby under the tree. Everything was joyously going as scheduled until the delivery. The baby was stillborn. Their precious daughter never drew a breath.


 

It's not uncommon for new mothers to have post-partum depression and Stacy had battled depression all her adult life anyway, but the devastating loss of this child, whom she had nurtured for nine months, already loved, and ached to have and to hold kicked her over the emotional edge.


 

Stacy remembers none of what occurred next, but I've heard that she walked out of the hospital in her gown, ended up at a house which advertized their new baby with balloons on the porch and a big sign, "Welcome Home Our Baby Girl!" When the mother of the house opened the door to the knock, Stacy burst in, somehow cut the mother's throat superficially with a knife from the mom's home, and stole the tiny infant. I can only imagine the terror of that event for that young mother.


 

I think that Stacy's sister called the police when she realized that this was not Stacy's baby. The story got big news coverage in St. Louis. "Crazed Mexican breaks into private home, cuts throat of new mother and steals newborn baby." Of course the prosecutor wangled to make sure they didn't get a female judge, she was portrayed as a tormenting monster, and Stacy was handed the maximum sentence for assault. She's required to serve 25.5 years on this 30 year sentence, and I understand that punishment is necessary—but is there no compassion for this form of mental illness? We have dozens of women in here for murder who are serving half that time.


 

Her husband cut all ties to her because he couldn't handle the emotional strain of visiting her in prison and not knowing how long she would be here. She's not in any contact with him, although she still loves him and showed me photos of them cuddling during happy times. She and her sister were pregnant at the same time, so when I saw her 6 year old nephew recently in the visiting room, I thought of Stacy's baby. I'm sure Stacy does.


 

Like I mentioned, Martha is busy gathering the paperwork to give her eighth child away to adoptive parents. Only 26 she has already lost the other seven to the state because of her irresponsible druggie lifestyle. This baby is the first one she wasn't "using" while pregnant—only because she was locked up for most of the pregnancy. Stacy rarely discusses anyone's business, but the casual way that Martha is handing over her beautiful blonde baby girl has caused Stacy to share a bit of how much she misses her own daughter and how her life would be different if her baby had survived.


 

Stacy has lived in my room since December of 08, nearly 15 months, but not until recently has she opened up. I was fearful that her depression had swallowed her whole. In the past few months, she started exercising with me faithfully every day and is not only losing weight, she is energized. She's chatting about her life and the reason she's here. She's laughing and joking and sleeping much less. Recently she let the cosmo students cut her extremely long thick black stringy hair into a stylish shoulder-length swing, and I can't tell you how thrilled I am that this pretty young woman is coming to life.


 

Everyone in here is a broken sparrow, some more injured than others. My hope for us all is that we can all regain our strength and fly. Stacy is on her way and will soar again. I see it coming.

March 4, 2010


 

I have theatre class today, so this letter is nearly done. No time. I run too much on Thursdays.


 

OH MY GOD!!! We had "Food Inc" as our state movie yesterday. Every human being needs to see it! No wonder I feel poisoned most of the time. And Linda pointed out that our food is processed in JC, put in plastic bags, frozen, and shipped to prisons around the state. To serve the gruel, they boil the water to 400 degrees and plop the bags in the pot. The plastic MUST leech out into our foods and that's' why we get so sick. She has Crohn's Disease and no one in her family has ever had it.


 

My druggie cellmate Martha (26), who has lost 7 children to the state for foolishness, is adopting out her 5 month old baby, #8 and counting. I think it's for the best, but the other cellmates disagree. I advised Martha to get "fixed" ASAP! The state doesn't need druggie babies in droves with no one to care for them. She's such a dummy! I mean it. I've never known anyone so stupid—but sweet!

January 21, 2010


 

Yesterday one of my cellmates was transferred to Chillicothe. Before she left, she stole a pack of cigs and a lighter from Melanie, my Korean friend. This Jessie is a mess. Just turned 21 and is already labeled as "prior persistent" on her face sheet, which means she must do no less than 60% of her sentence. This is not her first time here. She's not stupid—just spoiled and headstrong. From Springfield, but her mother won't allow her to parole to her. Now, that's pretty bad when your own momma doesn't want you. (By the way, she's here for forging checks she's stolen, running credit cards, and marijuana possession.)


 

Got a new cellmate today. Mandy is very young, blonde, short, and odd. She was raised in a car by a daddy who was on the run and a drug addict. She has a 5 month old baby in the care of the Mennonites. She's kind of annoying. Talks too much, is too friendly, has nothing except rotten meth mouth, and is in her Bible all the time looking for something. Patience, Grasshopper. The good thing is that she's supposed to go to drug treatment—and is overdue to go. So any day…


 

In the bathroom, a gal up the hall told me that she had started her period and looked glum. I cheerily noted, "Well, at least you're not pregnant!" She observed, "If I was, the father would have to be my battery-operated razor!" That's funny to me.

April 13, 2010 - Guards Who Stare At Goats

Guards Who Stare At Goats
 

It occurred to me that I never told you the saga of my kidney stones. I guess I didn't wish to relive it for you so soon after the hurt. I'm strong and ready now.
 

Tuesday, February 23rd, in the middle of the night, I found myself on my bony knees in the not-very-clean four-stall bathroom in gear-grinding pain. My lower back felt like one of those crazed Sci-Fi monster villains had hooked a vise-grip to my midsection and was steadily tightening. If that weren't bad enough, I struggled to my feet, perched on the cold toilet while cradling my abdomen in my trembling arms and attempted to pee shards of sharp glass. It must have sounded like a wounded animal was trying to die in that dingy stale toilet. My nightclothes went from clammy to wringing wet with fevered sweat. The entire experience was the stuff of torture films and not anything a peaceful gal like me should be so directly and personally involved in.
 

By morning, the pain was pretty much gone, but my "whizzler" was sore from the glass-laced pee. Wednesday day and night brought nothing horrible although I felt incredibly fatigued like I'd lost a bout of midnight bear wrestling, but I bucked up and taught my 4:00 aerobics class like a champ. My whizzler was still talking to me Thursday, but nothing had knocked me on my knees, so I felt pretty confident that Tuesday night was nothing more than a random bad night. Since I'm the opposite of a hypochondriac, I ignore most aches and pains as par for the course of mammals. Thus I was ill prepared for Thursday night.
 

Again in the dark hours prior to dawn I ended up on the floor of the community bathroom—an area where most anything related to body fluids can and will be found. After lights-out at 10:30, only dim lights are left on in the halls and bathrooms. In the semi-darkness, doubled over and making the unearthly sounds of extreme suffering, I huddled alone for hours. By this time, I was also scarily and painfully peeing bright red blood with the glass.
 

With steely-jawed determination, I managed to get dressed in my grey uniform and sit up, as required, on my bunk for the 5 a.m. count. As soon as count cleared and we were released to leave our cells, I grabbed my jacket and made my way down the stairs to the rotunda.
 

The rotunda officer popped the door for me, probably expecting me to ask for a roll of toilet paper. When I told her that I had to "self-declare" and go to medical, she shook her head and advised, "Well, ah, it won't do ya any good. You'll have to wait for 7:00 sick call.
 

The male officer noticed, "I've never seen you look like this before, Mrs. Prewitt. Are you okay?" He's a nice guy, so I couldn't form any words fit for an answer; I merely grimaced and unsteadily stood my ground in the rotunda while silently bearing the unrelenting pain in my lower back and all the way up my urethra. (There has got to be a better word for pain—one with more umph—but I'm at a loss!)
 

This scene might have resulted in a Mexican standoff, but my dear old lifer friend Ruby Doo, who has a host of ailments and knows Medical better than anyone including the Medical staff, appeared at my side and mumbled the most beautiful words I'd ever heard, "Patty, come on with me." In my fevered pain, I noticed how angelic she looks—with caring dark chocolate eyes and creamy milk chocolate face. My Hershey angel.
 

Safely inside the Medical waiting area we found a fairly new COI (Correctional Officer I) babysitter at the desk who was the first to remark that he didn't know anything about Medical, "Hey, I'd never even been in here before tonight."
 

As he tells his story to Ruby Doo, I rush into the inmate toilet to hurt privately and pee some more glass. This toilet is brightly lit with full-throttle fluorescent bulbs, so the toilet full of shockingly red blood and the toilet paper full of clots gives me even weaker knees. Remembering that nurses need proof, I didn't flush. Ruby was there for her insulin shot, but she also stood guard over the toilet and pestered the one nurse behind the glass to come out and see the blood.
 

The anticipation of pending treatment leaped into my aching heart when the young nurse with a kind face recoiled at the sight, "WOW! That's fresh blood!" That's when I decided I needed to tell her, "And it's not menstrual blood. I don't even own a uterus and haven't for 26 years."
 

If I could have danced during this ordeal, I would have demonstrated an Irish jig when she ordered me, "Come back to the examining room with me." Yes!!! I was going to get to leave the waiting room and enter the part of Medical where there are examining tables, instruments, medication and, most importantly, salvation. I won't die curled around the brown-sticky base of a porcelain prison toilet!"
 

Of course I had to step on the scale. No matter what's happening, we must weigh first as if our ailment might be related to our poundage. Then she took my temperature and blood pressure in the hall, but when she led me to the exam room and motioned for me to sit on the end of the table on white butcher paper crinkled by the last customer, I exhaled. I'm in.
 

I told her what had been going on with me while she entered my inmate number in the computer to find my file. She admittedly didn't know what to do so she picked up the phone and called. The person on the other end suggested she take my hemoglobin count. This gal had never used that particular hand-held instrument, but between us we milked enough blood from my pricked finger to get a reading, and the numbers looked good to the phone voice. We had ruled out the possibility that I'm bleeding to death. She then told me that I had to come back for sick call. Here we go again.
 

I ended up back in the waiting room hunched up on a hard wooden bench a few feet from the fidgety guard who also waited impatiently for his relief officer to show. I hurt too much to chat, which suited him just fine since all he did was stare out the window and nervously tap his pencil and his foot.
 

A couple of hours after I started my odyssey, sick call was finally called and after a debate with the relief officer who insisted that I couldn't come to 7 a.m. sick call since I was supposed to be at work now and must come back at 4:00, I again was allowed back to an exam room. (I actually didn't debate. I merely turned away, shut my eyes, bowed my head, and would neither talk nor budge. A team of wild white shirts couldn't have driven me off. And, I might add, I learned that trick from my stubborn daughter Sarah when she was around three.)
 

Another new nice nurse. Another explanation. Another phone call. More computer pecking, and within 10 minutes I was shuffling down the sidewalk back to my dorm gripping a card of 20 antibiotics with instructions to take two a day for 10 days and drink lots of water. I longed to curl up in fetal position on my own hard bunk and nurse my pain in private.
 

When a day starts off on the wrong foot, it usually stays wrong. I entered the rotunda in hopes of passing through unnoticed like a ghost, but that dream went poof when all four officers turned their sharp eyes on me like they'd spotted Jimmy Hoffa, "There she is!"
 

They were all talking at once about contraband and waving a plastic bag containing three white plastic clothes hangers, an old black woven-leather belt from the 80's when we used to wear them tied like a saddle cinch on the side, and my stained plastic storage bowl containing a bag of dry refried beans, bag of instant rice and a small summer sausage. Evidently my cell had been "routinely" searched. (Our areas are searched/torn up at least twice a month for reasons of safety and security of the institution.)
 

Have you ever heard of fainting goats? If they are startled or stressed, they simply suspend their animation. I guess I took a cue from fainting goats, because I dropped like a rock. That shut them up for a moment—or at least I didn't hear them for the moments I was out. When sound returned to my world, a nurse had been summoned to the rotunda to check my blood pressure and pulse. One of the officers, our regular wing officer, had ordered Carlene to fetch me a cup of water and a cold wash cloth. This nurse, different one, decided that I would live and left me to deal with the rotunda.
 

I was allowed to go to my room, which was completely torn up from the search. My bed was not only unmade, it was mauled and the mattress rolled up. But I sat on the hard steel and lay over the mattress hump to rest. I didn't have the strength to tackle clean-up.
 

No rest for the wicked. Two COI's and a white shirt appeared in my room and shut the door behind them to interrogate me about my contraband. For some reason they were convinced that I was being "strong-armed" for canteen items. The strange officer (by strange, I mean she was not assigned to my House and I didn't know her) said that she'd found my bowl of food items "hidden" in the room. I assured them all that it was not hidden but tucked away at the back of my locked on the bottom shelf where it always is. I'm not the type of personality to be bulled for anything. This was the only truly pathetic day I've had in recent history. Then I just shut my eyes, like a toddler, in hopes that they would disappear. It worked!
 

Just when I thought I might live, a huge pain struck me and I hurled myself across the hall to the toilet to pass some more glass. This time I was not alone. Although I was behind the toilet door, I realized two of the girls in the bathroom had started sobbing for me when they heard my wounded moans. To top things off, the one unfamiliar female officer yelled at me to come out of the toilet NOW! Then she hollered at the girls who were crying and caused then to cry harder and louder. So we now have females wailing, moaning, screaming, sobbing and blubbering. And I'm not even talking about me!
 

I don't know how long before I finally exited, but I passed a grain of rough gravel in with all that blood. That paltry particle resting calmly on the bottom of the porcelain had caused all this trouble, but it was OUT and I felt such glorious relief! Swinging open the stall door in triumph, I realized that Mel and Jane were still there crying and the guard was also red-faced and still yelling for me to get out. Oops.
 

While I washed my hands, the officer impatiently ordered me to get my receipts and come to the rotunda right now. I could hardly hear her for the two girls babbling. I nodded yes, so she left. Mel and Jane pounced on me like I was their long lost mother. I assured them I was going to live—now.
 

Back in my cell looking for my receipt envelope in the tornado aftermath the search had left, my caseworker showed up. She, too, has a history with kidney stones and commiserated, but the visit with her had made me tardy for my appointment in the rotunda. My name was announced peevishly over the loudspeaker. I explained to my young blonde caseworker what was going on, and she walked me to the rotunda and explained to the disgruntled officer that the ladies who have been here a long time have items in their possession that they can have because these times have not been outlawed. My hangers and old belt were handed back, and since I produced receipts for the canteen food, I once again escaped the grip of wrath unscathed.
 

In case you're wondering, my whizzler was sore for a few days, but so far this old fainting nanny goat has remained pain-free to fight another day. I was called to see the doctor yesterday about my blood pressure, which keeps creeping up in response to my stressful environment and poor diet, and during our short meeting he didn't mention the February "self declare" incident. Of course I didn't either. As I said before, I do my best to forgive and forget negative situations.
 

This reminds me of several winters ago when I succumbed to a horrible stomach flu. I mean VIOLENT! Janiece was so worried about me that she begged the sergeant for permission to come upstairs to check on me. Shivering and huddled on my narrow steel bunk under every piece of bedding and fabric I own—my jacket et., I thought I heard Janiece's voice. What? That couldn't be Janiece. She lives downstairs. (We are not allowed, by housing unit rules, to travel between wings or floors or even go into someone else's cell.)
 

Next thing I know Janiece has pounced on me with her sweet face close demanding, "Are you alright? I haven't seen you in two days!" "Janiece, what are you doing out-of-bounds? Good Lord!" She explained, "I got permission. Relax! I'm sick of this. Get better right now! You look pathetic, and I don't like it." Yes, she made it all about her. Isn't that typical of kids?
 

Good taxpaying citizens may think we prisoners are scum of the earth, worthless, unredeemable, filth. But I have found the opposite to be true. When push comes to shove, we rise up and care for each other like prisoners of war. Girls kept my bedding and nightclothes washed and fresh, kept fluids nearby, and kept a watchful eye on me throughout the entire horror of my fever, vomiting, diarrhea—you get the picture.
 

When Governor John Ashcroft commuted the no-parole murder sentence of Helen Martin and after 13 years behind bars she returned to St Louis in 1994, she told me on the phone that she missed the sisterhood of prison. "Patty, if I fell out on the sidewalk on my way to work today, pedestrians would walk over and around me. But in prison someone was always there to help me when I was sick or listen to me when I was blue. I always had a shoulder to cry on, and I sure miss knowing that someone has my back. It's lonely out here."
 

Well, in this "community of suffering" we do our level best to keep everyone afloat both physically and emotionally. So don't worry, kids, I always find compassion and love—even in this hellhole.

April 12, 2010 - Prison Performing Arts


 

PRISON PERFORMING ARTS

Our prison theatre class decided not to do Shakespeare this time and instead chose a play by Bertold Brecht, evidently a famous German genius. The play is called The Caucasian Chalk Circle, and we're busy reading and blocking and trying to figure out who's playing who. In case you haven't heard of it, and I sure hadn't although I recently read a review because a troupe in San Francisco is currently performing it, it's very political and hilarious in a most strange way.


 

Since PPA began here at WERDCC, we have performed Macbeth, Crowns, Midsummer Night's Dream (my very favorite), and Twelfth Night. We work in semesters and take on a few scenes per semester. (How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.)


 

We always perform for the prisoners here, and then we perform two shows in the visiting room for staff and visitors. Anyone who's a member/contributor of Prison Performing can attend—if he or she can pass a Highway Patrol MULES check. (I guess the prison administration doesn't want unsavory characters with prison records or outstanding parking tickets coming in to the prison as a bad influence on the convicts.)


 

Our visiting room shows are scheduled for Monday, June 28, a matinee (1:00) and an evening show (6:00). Professors, attorneys, family, an occasional judge, friends of the arts and assorted other interested people attend. A fascinating bunch. And before and after the show and reading of our original poetry, we are allowed to mingle and talk with the audience members, which is always fun and enlightening for all.


 

If any perusers of Facebook, who are interested in meeting me or rubbing elbows with prisoners at the women's prison in Vandalia, want to come, all you have to do is give a donation to Prison Performing Arts and let them know that you want to attend the June 28th show. You will then have to submit your social security number so that the prison can run a check on you. PPA takes care of all this paperwork.


 

PPA runs entirely on donations, so they always need help. Check out all the good they do for men and women in jails and prisons in Missouri: (www.prisonartsstl.org); 314-289-4190; PPA 3547 Olive Street, Suite 250, St Louis, MO 63103-1014. Any and all contributions are most welcome!


 

Our fearless leader is Professor Agnes Wilcox, who motivates us, cheers us on, corrects us, directs us, researches for us, brings in fascinating material and guest speakers, and is totally convinced that we are not to be discarded as the worthless of Missouri. She makes sure we all do the best we can and learn much about the arts and about ourselves.


 

Check out their website and contribute to this most amazing organization—and I hope to see you in June!


 

--Patty

April 6, 2010


 

I hate it. I just flat out hate it. I hate that I have to stand by and observe the verbal and emotional abuse of defenseless women—and in so many cases not be able to lift a finger to help. My husband used to call me Crusader Rabbit because I was a champion for the downtrodden, a brave soldier for justice, marching for equal rights in college, going to court about zooming laws in Jackson County when that neighbor attempted to start a rodeo arena directly across from our home outside Lee's Summit, taking on the whole Holden school board or the mayor or the Chamber of Commerce when necessary. I wonder if Bill would be ashamed of me now.


 

We BLAST girls and Recreation offer an aerobics class at 4:00 every afternoon. During that hour-long class there is not one but two prison counts. At approximately 4:20 officers march in and give the exercise class instructor the high sign. The instructor, who's on mic, hollers, "Count time. Line up by House."


 

In translation, this means for each inmate in the gym to cease exercising and position herself in the count lines according to which Housing Unit her cell is assigned. Since we have new participants nearly every day, I always add directions as to which House lines are where and add, "If you don't know what House you're from, raise your hand and someone might recognize you." Now and then I actually get a laugh, like an old comic who relies on time-tested material.


 

As soon as the officers are done walking up and down the four lines, we resume our class, only to be interrupted again in about 10 minutes for another count—only this count is not by House. We all line up on the red line around the basketball court and count off, "One, two…."


 

Thursday I wasn't teaching but I was a participant of the step aerobic class. During the warm-up Janiece asked if anyone was new to step aerobics, and I raised my hand kiddingly. That also gets a chuckle from girls who know that this old clown never misses a class. As usual Janiece ignored me, but she did acknowledge a young girl on the back row, "Are you really new? You'll catch on." I whirled around and gave the new kid thumbs up, "Don't worry. We'll get this together." The kid gave me a weak grin. She was not so sure that she'd get this so easily.


 

Class progressed, we stopped for the firs by-house count, resumed, stopped again for the count-off count, and resumed. After we finished, cooled down, and stretched out, we all put up our platforms, risers, and hand weights, and broke up into chatty groups waiting for count to clear. I did get a chance to catch the new kid and assure her of how well she'd caught on and promise that it will get easier each time she is. In a few minutes officers scurried in and call a recount by House. As we groaned to our lines (no one appreciates a recount) the female officer stated, "I don't know what happened, but I have the wrong number in the wrong House." That's when it happened.


 

The new kid, young, thin and tall with her light brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, stepped forward and with remorse dripping from her thin voice came clean, "It's me. I was in the wrong line for the first count. I'm so sorry, but I didn't realize. I don't know anyone and didn't know." Her small hands were outstretched with palms up in surrender.


 

In that instant all we inmates exhaled in defeat. We knew the end of this sad story—the punishment for this honest mistake. In that same instant the officer inhaled in triumph and coldly ordered, "Come with me." Kris felt compelled to blurt out a quick warning to our new girl, "oh, sweetie, you goin' to the hole," as the child was culled from the herd.


 

Our honest gal was escorted out of the gym as if she were an escapee from Gitmo. We lamented: "Honesty is NOT the best policy." "I hate this!" "The truth sure WON'T set you free." "She didn't know." "I've never seen her before." "That kid is just out of R&O. She didn't know to keep her mouth shut." "I hate this!" "She's going to the hole for not knowing what she was supposed to do." "I feel so badly for her." "She seemed like a good kid, too." "I hate this!" "Man, she's being cuffed right now." "She was working out in her uniform and is sweaty. They don't give no showers for days in the hole." "Well, welcome to prison, newbie. It ain't at all like the brochure." "She's just a baby." "It's written up as an attempted escape—Lord knows from your House. Why didn't you get her in the right line, dummy?" "Jeez, I wasn't paying no mind. I don't know that white girl." "That little girl just got into population." "Did ya see how happy the guards was? They was scared it was on them." "Yeh, now they have someone to punish. They's happy." "I hate this!"


 

I'm the one who kept repeating, "I hate this!" There is nothing I can do in cases like this. I am not allowed to plead her case or even look like I want to. Some consider Kris brave to have blurted out the one line, but I knew it wasn't bravery; it's compassion that forced that warning from her mouth in the face of danger. A verbal protest can buy you a ticket to the hole, too.


 

Count cleared, and we uncharacteristically exited the gym somberly in near silence as we filed past a gaggle of officers surrounding our sobbing red-faced handcuffed girl who hung her head in shame and sorrow. I had to push emotion down to the bottom of my heart and remind myself that there is nothing I can do for her. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, nothing is as it should be. Honesty is a sin. Truth is used against us. We are helpless. Hopeless.


 

Internally I lift my arms and scream to the god of bad girls, "I HATE THIS!!!!"