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?)

April 29, 2010 – Bonnie and Mac

Because I was at the gym for aerobics, I missed all the excitement Tuesday during the 4:30 count. We are supposed to remain quietly in our cells during count, but good ole room 206 was hopping like usual—whopping and hollering during a raucous card game. A fed-up sixty-five-year-old Bonnie across the hall snapped and hollered, "SHUT UP!" (The gals told me that she blurted out exactly what everyone else was thinking.)

(You girls know Bonnie from 4h. She's from St. Charles and has three adoring grown children and a host of grandkids. Her granddaughter Savannah is friends with Abbey, Callie, and Megan. Bonnie is serving something like 30 years for the '94 death of her husband during a domestic altercation.)

For one beat, all was still. That's how long it took for Mac to decide that "them's fighting words"! She stomped to her doorway threatening, "I'll kick your old wrinkled white ass!" I'm sure she said more, but that's the only sentence that was quoted to me consistently upon the telling. Mac then barged out of her cell and across the hall to Bonnie's doorway. (That was a daring move in lieu of the fact that the security cameras point down the hall and we are not supposed to be out of our cells during count, unless we must use the restroom.)

Bonnie stood her ground in the doorway of her cell, "Well, I would hope a girl of your weight and age could kick my broke-down crippled ass, BUT it's not going to be as easy as you think!" Mac is a strong-looking young black woman of considerable girth who sports wild dreads and attitude, but as they say in here, "Bonnie ain't no punk-ass bitch."

Mac may have considered Bonnie's warning, because she merely cursed and threatened and puffed up like a blow fish as she retreated to the safety of her cell. Then she and the girls of her room hooted and laughed and made more noise than before as a show of solidarity and bravery—from the safety of their cell.

When I talked to Bonnie about it later, she admitted, "I could have come to them a bit softer and asked politely for them to zip their lips, but they woke me out of a sleep and I was not as polite as I should have been." Bonnie labors long days at the clothing factory and rises about 4:30 every morning to get ready for work. Her sewing job plays hell on her arthritis, too. Mac, on the other hand, works as a dorm tender (cleaner on the wing) for about 10 minutes a day—and has plenty of opportunity to rest.

Before I could walk the length of the downstairs dayroom and climb the stairs on my way back from aerobics, I got the scoop. Of course, I took Bonnie's side. Is respect for our elders a lost art? And on top of that, we OGs (Old Gals) and even most of the kids are sick of Mac's big loud mouth and mooching manner.

Yesterday morning when I came home from work at eleven for the 11:30 count, Mac's name was called over the loudspeaker. By golly, she returned with a move sheet in her hand and was packed up and relocated before count—to another wing. Didn't take long for our caseworker to take care of that problem.

I also heard that her cell was tossed that morning and the officer found items that she did not purchase, so she received a big fat ticket for contraband AND she was under investigation for wandering out-of-bounds into other cells. Life is a series of choices. If she has a modicum of sense, she might think about her choices—especially since she's a recidivist (has been in prison several different times) and doesn't seem to learn her lesson. Oh, well, too bad for her. Last evening was quiet and mellow for us.

April 27, 2010 The Tissue Issue

THE TISSUE ISSUE
 

Our most recent institutional problem is toilet paper. But then it's always been an issue—the tissue issue. Since I've been locked up, prison administrators continue to be shocked and appalled by the amount of toilet paper female prisoners use in comparison to males. Evidently they never got the birds and bees lecture at home.

Until last week each housing unit was issued 12 boxes of toilet paper per week. (There can be 384 to 256 inmates on a House.) This week they cut us down to eight boxes. I'm sure this is all budget cut stuff, although they never cut the budget for stupid stuff like huge highway-grade signs informing us the number of each House and that if we are not assigned to that House, it's out-of-bounds. (Everyone already knows that for free.)

We are issued three rolls of this cheap "as far from Charmin as the factory can possibly get" tissue at the Thursday night "tissue issue". That's all we can have until the next Thursday. There will be no mercy.

(FYI: Toilet paper is not kept in the housing unit bathrooms. We must carry our own tp and hand soap with us to the bathroom. So when I come home, if you catch me carrying your toilet paper out of your bathroom, gently remind me that I no longer have to guard my own roll.)

Personally I have used nearly a whole roll after I ate something tainted in the chow hall that gave me severe diarrhea. Now and then I spend the best part of the evening huddled in a bathroom stall while my body is bent on getting rid of whatever poison I ingested at chow. The administration did not take "prison food poisoning" into consideration.

Nor did they think about the fact that 90% of the females here are pre-menopausal. They have monthly cycles, and to be halfway clean, ya gotta use a lot of tp. I won't go into a graphic description, but you all get the idea—and it's a known fact that stress causes periods to be longer and heavier. This is a stressful environment on the best day.

(Don't get me started about the awful old-fashioned sanitary napkins issued here. These are NOT modern absorbent Maxi Thins! Girls must wear three or more of what are called "mattresses" at once on a light day just to prevent leaking. And these flimsy things tear up while they walk-not to mention during exercise. If the purchasing agent for the Department of Corrections bought a decent brand, the prison could save millions AND save the landfill. Bit I digress…)

They also don't seem to care that women must/should use toilet paper after every bathroom visit, since they cannot just shake the dew off the lily. We keep getting the lecture about how much more toilet paper we use than the men at some other prison, "Do you have any idea how much more toilet paper you women use in comparison to the men at Bowling Green? It isn't even funny! You've got to conserve!" If they issued us some sort of penis or peeing device, that might help, but then again that wouldn't be a good idea on several levels.

Also, we use toilet paper in place of Kleenex. When I have to blow my nose, I must use toilet paper—and I must double it or I'll blow right through the thin tissue. Think of the poor girls with sinus issues, allergies, or head colds. They are in a world of hurt and cannot make three rolls last seven days.

Whenever an administration decides to cut back severely on our tissue issue, the other departments pay. For example, if you're out of tissue and it's only Tuesday, you might be inclined to "appropriate" a roll from recreation or Education or Vo-Tech or whatever bathroom you might visit. It's only natural. Self-preservation. (Do you see how the Department of Corrections forces us to break the law? One gal recently told me that they force her to resort to her old criminal ways. So much for rehabilitation in MO.)

In the early 90's we went through a similar severe limit, but somehow the National Organization of Women got wind of our tissue issue and sent a tractor trailer load of tissue and a reporter to our prison just north of Jeff City. That surprise delivery made a strong statement, and our warden never mentioned rationing again. Help! Does anyone know an activist member of NOW now?

Yesterday evening on my way back from dinner, I overheard Kelly ask the bubble officer what she should do because she's nearly out of tp. The tissue issue is of great interest to me, so I slowed down to hear his answer, and I was not pleased. In a snotty tone, he informed her that when she reports that she is completely out, officers will search her cell thoroughly (which means that everything she owns will be uprooted and tossed) and if anyone in the cell has tp, the matter stops there. (Even though we have a rule that we can't share anything, they are ordering us to break the rule and share tp.) If no one in the cell has a shred of tp, then Kelly can talk to the functional unit manager of our housing unit the next day. The FUM will decide the appropriate action.

Are they serious? The guards expect girls to go without ANY tp for hours and days? That's it. I'm fighting this. I'm now urging every woman here to file a grievance for sexual discrimination. Then I want to file a class action suit against the Department of Corrections. We've done it before. This is inhumane treatment! And in the name of Susan B. Anthony, women are NOT second-class citizens! We need to wipe out sexual discrimination, but first we need to wipe our butts!

Mom sent me this update about the "Tissue Issue" today. ~Sarah

We're still battling the toilet paper problem. It's such a mean deal. Last night the officer had a roll on his desk and was having girls roll off of what they need from the community roll. That's certainly hygenic. NOT! One gal was crying because she was on her period and felt embarrassed to keep coming to the bubble to ask for more toilet paper. And no one can even approach the officer except at 10 til the hour. That's the only window of opportunity on the evening shift.

When we had this tissue restriction about 20 years ago, the staff felt sorry for us and made sure we had paper even though the administration was against us. Now we have no sympathy anywhere. We are stupid idiot women who use way too much toilet paper. That's the consensus. This is a sorry place to live. ~Patty 4/29/2010