Anne Frank Center USA/PEN American Center
                                 Prison Diary Excerpts

Kenneth Milton
Ramsey #1
Rosharon, Texas

August 22, 2008
…This is my month.  No, not for parole, but my birthday lies at its end. I will be one year older. (smile) And there are so many, many things that I miss, have missed and will continue to miss until my reprieve.  I am a divorcee, and my ex-wife is deceased.  I miss her because she was the mother of my son.  He had grown so huge. He looks like a football player, but his field is architectural engineering.  He has made me a grandfather three times already. I love and appreciate them all…A man never realizes how precious freedom is until he loses it.  When reality strikes him like a thunderbolt, he feels alone, very lonely in his solemn existence.  He tries to cope, to justify the reasons for the loss, but rationalization does not help.  He might say that “I’m not alone.” Look at all the other people here with me.  But they too bullshit themselves into thinking that all are one big happy family of misfits.  There have been many times, so many that I cannot count them, that I have cried.  To surrender to this emotion in prison is the equivalent of being “soft” and “effeminate.”  Thus, when the tears come they are shed in seclusion under that sheet at night, under the pillow, in the darkness…Because you have relinquished all once that cell door slams behind you.  Your identity becomes a number that will haunt you for the rest of your life.  You are labeled, stripped, demeaned, inundated with your own self-inflicted punishments.  Because it is you and no other who brought this onslaught upon yourself.  Everything you love, that you have loved, that you need to love is separated from you by guard towers, cyclone fences, bordered with razor sharp concertina wire, and let me not forget, time.  All the time that you must spend away from your true existence, for you are literally stagnated and dead behind bars. So it is up to you to reassess, to reevaluate, and adjust to your present environment.  If you do not, as so many haven’t, it will gobble you up like a giant whale, and your remains, if any, will float to the bottom of its sea.  If you live for the television, or the domino table or just plain idleness, you are already dead because you are failing to invigorate your being with new ideas, new concepts, newness period!  I would not have survived all these years if I submit to the system’s whims. Many here do not even realize that they still have choices despite being confined.  I shoes education… it has allowed me to grow, to maintain where I was once immature, gave me insights when previously I was blind, motivated me when I was stagnant, and rewarded me with its accolades. If I can get over the final obstacles, these chains that bend me physically, I can flourish even more.  A chance is all I seek.  I cry, internally I cry, for all I have hurt, myself included.


September 21, 2008
…I began to deviate from the social norms after junior high school.  I had become involved with girls earlier, back in the sixth grade, but my interests weren’t as deep as they would become.  So my freshman year in senior high became my coming out so to speak.  It was fashionable to become part of a peer group, preferably one that was popular.  Good girls tended to always fall for the thugs and visa versa.  So I suppose to impress myself upon a suitable and convenient female associate, I began acting “the fool,” so to speak.  Nothing was out of bounds, not stealing, not fighting, not truancy—nothing!  And so I began, and I’d made up my mind to find gratification in these things considered amoral.  And it became outside of the educational realm, acceptable practice among our peer groups.  I became quite disinterested in school work although I would leave home each day informing my mother that I would be there.  I would sometimes stay, and other times leave.  So this wasn’t a total lie.  But all this showed up in my grades, the absentees, the bad conduct records, the hurt in my mother’s eyes.  I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t because drugs and alcohol had begun to play a major role in my negligent behaviors.  But I managed somehow to finish high school, get  my diploma and look out into the bigger world.

After school I found employment, but it wasn’t the type of job that I felt suited to.  So I changed frequently, never seeming to arrive at that special place in the work force.  Dissatisfied with myself and the fact that I had a wife and child to support, I sought other means to sustain my meager wages.  It seemed the logical thing to do was to become my own “Robin Hood,” so that, to take from those who were well off and give to myself and my family, and all would be well.  All things, supposedly good, come to an end.  And they did which resulted in my being incarcerated the first time.  The second time was for a sentence far more ludicrous, and here I remain.



                                               * * *

Steve Small
Federal Satellite Low
Jesup, Georgia


July 24, 2008
Well, another day in hell.  Not much happened today.  The usual work-out and walking.  A bottom bunk came open in a two-man room this morning.  I’m hoping to get it.  Should find out tomorrow.  Living in a three-man room that is 6’2” by 8 ½’ with three lockers, triple bunk beds and a writing desk for over a year now. It’s tough-- never any privacy.  There’re over 600 men here. It was built for 250 with max of 500. So we are major cramped and no expansion on anything.
…There’s a funny story. I got the letter from AnneFrankCenter about the journal.  The next day I took the letter to Mr. I at main-line (lunch) to verify I could receive the journal.  He told me he’d be in main-line the next day and have an answer for me.  Well, I didn’t see him the next day—he didn’t show up.  So I sent the response back telling them to  send me the journal.  But I figured I’d see just how long it would take to get an answer.  So I didn’t see Mr. I for nine days before I caught him in main-line again. So I asked him again.  He said he would have an answer for me the next day.  For the second time he took my name and ID# down.  Then seven days went by before I saw him again, which is today.  (By this time the journal had arrived and made it through the mail room and I’ve been writing for 4 days).  So I asked him again today.  He tells me to check back at one O’clock at his office (impossible to get to). So I just blew it off but by luck I see him touring the units at 2:00 so I ask him again.  He tells me he hasn’t gotten an answer yet but he did ask to try again tomorrow.  I didn’t tell him …that I’ve already got the journal and I’m writing in it.  Let’s see how long it takes.  16 days and counting.


                                                
                                                  * * *

Steven Bulleit
Snake River Correctional Institution
Ontario, Oregon


July 15, 2008
…Before I tell you about my day, I’d love to share the beautiful one from this evening.  We live in Southeastern Oregon, a high desert.  The landscape is dry, scattered brush and low-lying rolling hills.  The back wall of our unit’s dayroom is made up of entirely windows—roughly 16’ x 20’ overlooking the yard and some rolling hills (mounds) in the distance.
At about 9:15 p.m., the sun was still shining above the horizon.  There was enough haze and dust to deepen t he red-orange hue of the sun disc itself.  It obscured just enough to one could look directly at it, but still see a distinct disc.  About 20 degrees above the sun was a cloud bank, some more space, and above that more clouds, fanning radically out in space between the two clouds.  Just in front of the rolling hills, three tiny birds froliched.  I help by breath for a moment waiting for one of the birds to cross the front of the deep red disc, and, when it did, I clicked the image in my brain.  Oh, for a camera right then.


July 17, 2008
I am reading two books concurrently right now: The Anne Frank Diary for this project and Dragon Thunder, My Life with Chogyam Trungpa. I am enjoying the commonalities with the tow. Chogyam Thungpa was a Tibetan Lama who came to the USA in 1970.  He is considered the one to transmit Buddhism to the west, one of the more significant Buddhist figures in a thousand years.  He died in 1987.  The book is written by his still-living wife.

Both books are written by women who in their youth, felt disconnected from the world and from their families.  Their behavior at the times was considered disruptive and immature but was later seen in a larger context.

Both also battled what they saw as the expectations of their family and culture.  Don’t many of us do the same thing?  And I might venture to add that many of my fellow travelers who journey with me here in prison fought similar battles.  Many committed horrible crimes but many are simply out of step without culture and time.  How many of these men would have been in jail for the same offense 50 years ago, 100 years, 200 years?  Or how many in today’s time living in Europe or Sough American or Asia?

…My meditation practice has been slacking with many recent changes in my circumstances.  So I’ve been actively setting aside time.  Every hour, for 10 minutes, we are allowed to enter or leave our cells; it’s called “Line Movement.”  I like to use these announcements and door-openings as alarm clocks for meditation.  So I sat for one entire period from one movement to the next.  I often feel drawn to sit, and tonight was one of those times.

I have the top bunk in my cell, yet when I sit up straight, legs crossed in front, my head still nudges the ceiling.  The wall in front of me is blank, helping to reduce distractions.  The vent for the air flow system is right by my bunk, so its incessant flow provides a little white noise. And I sit. I follow my breath. When my mind wanders, I try to catch it and bring it back to the breath. Some call this scatteredness “money-mind” and some relate it to an untamed horse. My job is to simply notice how my mind works and realize that thoughts are only thoughts.  They are not me, they are not irrefusable instructions. Over time, my mind calms and I detach myself just enough to train my mind.

Them ore I practice the more content I feel.  By just being in the present moment, I find less drawn into mental storylines of my past or worries of the future. I find acceptance of my situation easier, whether contemplating the next 15 years here, or only managing frustration when the guy next to me is talking and I can’t hear the television.


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Stephen Kent Stuckey
Seminole County Jail
Sanford, Florida

It was 1979 and I had just turned sixteen, it was fall and I had just bought myself a car.  It was a Pontiac Le Mans and I was in the process of changing it into a GTO.  Piece by piece. The car was burgundy and slightly raised in the rear. It had dual exhaust system and Crager rims all around that were a little dirty at that moment. I had installed two bucket seats and a center shift console to better mimic a GTO… As I was rearranging the cable path to take some of the blind out, I see from the corner of my eye a little girl come from behind some bushes that were close to the hotel.  So, I turned my face to get a better view and a larger picture.  She ahs brown hair which was all matted up.  She has on a green shirt that is too small for her and it is filthy.  On her left foot is a little sandal and on her right foot is nothing.  Every time she takes a step her little face crunches up and she kind of hop-limps with her bare foot.  I watch as she gets to a dumpster and climbs in.  After a minute or tow she emerges with an old food wrapper and she is greedily mashing whatever she has found into her little mouth….She ran as fast as she could run.  She was quick but I was young and almost six feet tall…


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Thomas M. Fox
State Prison
Corcoran, California


May 15, 2008
Dear Diary,
Well, first of all before I set down many more words on your pages, I need to come up with a better name besides “diary.”  And today’s date gives me an idea.  One of my childhood friends, a boy named Darryl Tackett was born on May 15^th.  He’s been dead now some 11 years.  I don’t think he would mind.  So let’s start over.

May 15, 2008
Dear Darryl,
I hope we will grow to be fast and good friends. Lord knows I’ve always needed a good friend.  But things in my life prevented me from lasting friendships. I was raped at the age of 6 years old. By older boys 10 and 16 years old. Who tortured and killed my cat, threatened my dog and worse if I told. I was shot, mauled by a dog and all this before I was 8 years old, all at the hands of these two boys.

My family moved to California about this time where within a year or so, this sexual abuse continued this time by our parish priest and other boys. By the time I was ten I was smoking pot, at 11 I was taking pills and drinking.  At 12 I was taking LSD and was already posing for nude photos.

By the time I was 16 I was a mess.  And things never got better. I was used up and scarred. I wanted so much to reach out and one day two brothers Darren and Darryl Tackett tried to save me from myself. But all I did was drag them into my world. Soon I was selling dope and growing pot. I never ever really fit in any place, though I tried. But nightmares, flashbacks, fear, drugs and alcoholism kept me from doing anything more than just using the people around me. Better to hurt them than to be hurt.

So it is no wonder that I ended up here in prison fro the rest of my life.  No chance, no hope, no parole.

With not much more than a new best friend—a diary named Darryl.

As ever, T.

May 16, 2008
Dear Darryl,
Now you know how I came to be here.  Now let me tell you how you cane to be here. A long time ago I found out I was adopted.  When I realized I had another family out there someplace, I just had to find them.  But I knew nothing, not even my real name, or theirs. After coming to prison I continued to search for them.  And in 2004, after searching for 30 years I finally learned who my birthmother was and found her. I wrote a story about my search and won an award.  First time I ever won anything. Someone then thought my story should be told and put it on the internet.  Now I’m tasked with an exercise in reflection and writing.  One day you arrived and were born into my world.  Like a baby you dropped out of the quiet darkness of the mailing envelope into the bright coolness of my cement and steal box.  Let me try over the next few months to tell you about the world you just entered. It’s people, pain and politics.


                                                   * * *


Charles Walker
Eastern NY Correctional Facility
Napanoch, New York

May 12, 1008
Being in prison has been a horrible experience for me because of the way I’ve led my life as a criminal and drug abuser. Isolating myself from the world and those who loved me in it, I made my own bed and must now pay the piper for my deeds with 16 years of my life.

For the first 4 years of my sentence, my family, friends, and loved ones turned their backs on me, and refused any type of correspondence with me.  Though lord knows, how I tried to pen lines of communication with them all.

Within the last month I was finally successful in the search for my two sons. I hadn’t seen them since they were little boys 13 years ago, and now they are both men.

I removed myself from them because I couldn’t drag them through the insanity of my addiction any longer.  Though we have been separated for 13 years, my heart ached daily to learn any tidbit of information of their well being.  I love them and miss them very much!

I prayed daily to be reunited with them and my prayers were finally answered. I didn’t know what their feelings toward me were going to be. Did they feel like I abandoned them?  Did they hate me?

It turns out that my youngest son forgave my deeds long ago and wants to have a relationship with me and declared that he loves me. I haven’t heard from my oldest son yet, though Jason the youngest, assures me that my namesake, Charles Jr. will be contacting me shortly.  Last Thursday, I was sitting in my cell feeling sorry for myself and didn’t want to go to my poetry class (the harvest moon collection). But at the last minute I changed my mind and went.  I was glad that I got off of my pity pot and went because I composed the following poem for my youngest son, which I will type out and send to him.  By the way, his 21^st birthday happens to be tomorrow, May 13^th.

May 13, 2008
I received another letter from my son Jason today.  I can’t possibly describe the joy I have by hearing from him.  He also sent me 2 new pictures. One of him and my other son C.J., together. Man, he is a spitting image of me. When I showed other people the picture, they thought it was me when I was young …Last night I went to the narcotics anonymous meeting.  I really look forward to going there Monday nights.  I can take off my masks and be myself there. I don’t have to go through the usual inmate posturing as always.  Besides, last night was kind of special. I was able to score some outside fresh baked cookies to go with our coffee and tea. They were kind of expensive, but hey, everybody enjoyed them immensely, so what’s an extra dollar or two?

I am sitting in my cell now, waiting to be let out for chow.  There’s probably some nasty B.S. on the menu, but I’ll eat it anyway. I don’t have the luxury of other inmates of eating in my cell from food packages sent from home. Nobody sends me anything. If I want something special here, I have to buy it on the prison black market, and things get kind of expensive.  So I usually forgo any special food or treats to get my art supplies.  Presently, I’ve taken to painting in oils. All my life I’ve drawn and created other works of art.  But I am very happy with the results of my first oil painting, which I’ll send to my son Jason as a gift. It’s funny how I am always scrounging around for art supplies. I look for them like I looked for “crack.”

I feel like I’m stuck in the movie “Groundhog Day,” the one starring Bill Murray, where every day is the same as the one before with only a slight change in the end of the day.  Here one day blends into the next. The monotony would drive me absolutely crazy if I didn’t have my poetry and painting to occupy my mind. Oh, well.

Ciao, “Chaz”


                                           * * *



Chris H. Everley
Florence, Arizona

September 10, 2008
Today in Prison

Today in prison by tacit agreement they will sing just one song: “Remember When”; slowly and solemnly with suppressed passion and pent up feeling: the voices strong and steady but with tears close and sharp, behind the eyes and the mind ranging wildly as a strayed bird seeking some names to settle on and deeds being done and those who will do the much that still needs to be done…Over the thunder-heads of terror we may fly as I now probe their structure  from head to base from the thor-hammerhead of their crown thrashing through their configuration like a sexually masterful invasion and if there is power and grace for this, then I dare believe there will be ways to find so great a height and peace without the thunder claps and storms that will burst my land and set me free.


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Paresh Patel
Ramsey
Rosharon, Texas

September 10, 2008
Dear Trisha,
It has been sometime since I’ve had a chance to write. I had become very sick for about a week.  I had a fever so high I thought I was going to combust. With the help of my cellmate and another friend, I made it to the infirmary.  The nurse refused to see me unless I had a sick call in the box.

If I had the strength to tell her how I felt about her attitude, I would have told her to shove the sick call where the sun don’t shine.  It was pretty obvious that I was sick when two people are holding me up.  I told my cellmate to leave me on the ground there and go.  When he did as I instructed, the nurse started barking, “Hey, what are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” I said. “You get out of here now or I’ll call security.” I looked at her, daring her to call.  She stared back, expecting me to heed her threat. “I’m giving you a direct order to leave,” she said in an angry voice. I mustered a smile.  She picked up the phone and called security, then said, “You brought this on yourself. So don’t blame me.”

I closed my eyes and waited. I knew it wouldn’t take long before a dozen guards came running into the infirmary.  It felt good to lean against a cold brick wall. The quietness. I was drifting away. It felt like hours had passed away when the lieutenant yelled my name, trying to wake me up.

I finally did. When I saw which lieutenant was standing before me, I just knew that God was watching over me.  This particular lieutenant was just a guard when I came to this prison.  I’ve watched him move up the ranks.  He has always been cordial toward me and knows that I’m not a trouble maker.
Anyway, when I  opened my eyes, he asked, “Are you alright?”
I shook my head.
The nurse shouts, “He refuses to leave the infirmary.”
The Lieutenant asked, “Why is he here?”
The nurse, “He said something about a high fever.
“Did you check it?”
“No, He needs to put in a sick call.”
“I’m no doctor, but just looking at him I know there’s something wrong with him.”
“That’s just the game they like to play to get out of work.”
The Lieutenant put his hand on my cheek, then on my forehead.  “You give this inmate some medical attention before I call the warden.”
“But…”
“No buts!  Take care of him now.”
The Lieutenant helped me up and walked me over to a chair where I sit.  The nurse puts the thermometer in my mouth and checks my blood pressure.  When the machine beeps, the lieutenant and I look at the reading.  It was 105.
The nurse knows she’s in trouble. She quickly takes me to a bed and has me lie down.  She gives me a cup of ice water and medication. She fills a plastic bag with ice and places it over my forehead.  The lieutenant stays and has the other guards leave. I was going in and out of sleep for god knows how long. I know the nurse kept checking my temperature and feeding me ice. At some point in the night my fever broke and I was sent back to my cell. The lieutenant came by some time later to check on me. I thanked him for his kindness. He said that he was just doing his duty.

September 19, 2008
Dear Tricia,
I am writing sooner than I normally do because I didn’t want to forget anything. The pastoral visit went great. I would have had another hour or so had Dad not been caught in traffic. The chaplain made it possible for my Dad to accompany the Sadhu to visit me because he wasn’t sure if I needed a translator or not.

…After some small talk I began talking to the Sadhu.  He spent about 30 to 45 minutes asking about my case, my life, and my activities. His English was remarkable, his demeanor and conversation pleasant.  My dad did little to interrupt…he asked that we start doing some mantras.  He also asked my dad to set up some prayer rituals on the outside.

I spent some time inquiring about our dharma of Pranami.  He was insightful.  He also offered me a job as a translator for his version of the Ramayan.  Because of my writing experience and command of Guyarati, he felt that I would be perfect for translating Guyarati into English. I can’t tell you how excited I was.  Since he lectures year round all over the world, he promised to visit me on his next stop in Houston. He promised to pray for me and looked forward for me to be with my family.

After two and a half hours of the visit, I felt euphoria like never before.  I feel as if my spirit has risen.  I now look forward to the day that I leave this prison and become a contributing member of society, take care of my parents and hopefully restore the strained/severed relations of our family.