Anne Frank Center USA/PEN American Center 
                                Prison Diary Excerpts

Jodi L. Serino
Lincoln Correction Center
Lincoln, Illinois

July 29. 2008
We returned from dinner about 10 to 15 minutes ago.  On the walk back to my dorm my thoughts were preoccupied with the smell of the rain storm that’s coming. I finally know how to smell rain.  So how would I describe it?  What does rain smell like?  It smells fresh and green and the air feels soft and moist.  I closed my eyes to take in deep breaths while my line was paused to wait for everyone to come out of the chow hall.  The sky had a few grey clouds but they didn’t look ominous yet the scent of rain was ever present.  I opened my eyes to look at life around me.  So many oblivious to the fact that a storm is on the way—ignorant of the signs right before their faces.  Such is the way of humans.  We ignore the signs until it’s too late.  But it doesn’t have to be that way for I can now smell the rain.  Now the question is, what will I now do with this information?  Choices, choices… Right now I just choose to close my eyes and small eth crispness of the heavy drops that fragrantly announced that their army is marching my way.  Now I can feel the low growl of thunder.  6:30 p.m. It is storming. –Silence

September 30, 2008
I’m so glad this month is basically over. It’s been long and crazy.  Harsh and yet exciting. Today has been filled with pressure.  I finished—finally—my last project in my Microsoft Excel class.  I fussed through every stage of it but I finished it.

Right now it’s so loud and busy.  So much movement. I feel crazy. I feel something is not right.  I feel I’ve also made a lot of mistakes yet again in this day though I can’t pinpoint it.  What bugs me now is Pride.  I feel I have it and I don’t want it.  I want to get rid of it yet I’m not sure how.  I feel so discombobulated.  So lost.  So….And yet through all of this craziness, I’m not disturbed because I focus on the fact that I am 9 days away from Yom Kippur—from a breakthrough. So I’m pressing my way—starting now.  Silence



                                       * * *


Anthony D. Crane
CMF
Vacanville, California

May 31, 2008
Today was another listless day for me.  After 23 years, 5 months, I am scheduled to be released in another 7 months and 5 days: January 6, 2009.  I was incarcerated on December 29, 1984. I was 32 years old then; I’m 57 years old now.

I’ve grown old in prison.  Most of my friends stopped writing to me years (more like decades) ago.  My time now isn’t as dangerous or difficult as it was in the beginning.  I can only thank God that I wasn’t murdered; or died from some lethal disease.

My mother had beaten me with sticks, cords, ropes, switches—anything she could get her hands on.  I had run away several times; sometimes for weeks.  Living in abandoned cars, houses or buildings. Other times to my Grandma Emma’s house.  She, to me, was my real mother.  At times she would convince me to go back home.  She was single and worked as an R.N. at St. Joseph Hospital.  She worked from the afternoons to midnight, and was afraid to leave me locked in my bedroom without food or water for that long.  I was from 6 to 11 years old during those times.

My grandmother had raised me from a baby till 6 years.  Playing with matches I’d set one of her closets, with her expensive clothes in it, on fire one time.  It was on that day that I remember meeting my mother.  She, up until then, would come and go so seldom that I didn’t really remember her.  She beat me that day, in front of the firemen. Emma told her to take me, because she could no longer trust me.

That’s when the beatings started, and when she did, she’d always say: “You’ll never be like your father…”  I’ve never met my father to this day.  My mother told me some 20 or so years ago that he’d died.  She saw him in me and punished me for what he’d done to her.  She never told me anything about him.  I surmised that he’d left her to raise me alone.  She’d had me when she was 16 years old.

July 14, 2008
It was time for high school now…I was in the 10^th grade at East High School in Denver. I’d always wanted to go to East, because (for my side of town) it was the most prestigious.  The better <place w:st="on">Negros</place> went to East High.  It was an integrated school.  Mostly whites attended, with little or no Hispanic people.  Its basketball, football, or baseball teams weren’t as good as Manual’s--the predominately black neighborhoods attended school at Manuel.  It was rougher, more fights, gangs, and general bad kids.

At East, I knew most of the kids in my class from Smiley Jr. High.  The girls were prettier, dressed better and in general, came from more conscientious, success-oriented families.

At East, it was like I was on my own. Bobby went to Manual and David went to George WashingtonHigh school—a real rich area where the students were predominately white.  We went to the schools according to where we lived, which reminds me of the time I was playing in front of Brad’s house. The street in front of his house has a park-like divider with trees, shrubs, brushes, etc.

Well, I saw a Greyhound bus stop on 32^nd blvd, three blocks up from Brad’s avenue.  A young, light skin, black man got off and started walking north toward me.  As he came closer, I recognized that the man was Cassius Clay.  Well, I ran up to him (excited, of course), and he asked me to show him where “the Bear” lived (meaning, Sonny Liston, who lived on 28^th and Monaco, a block down from Brad’s house). I led him to Sonny’s house and witnessed him kicking Sonny’s door in. Sonny rushed out, being held by his trainer and pastor. They exchanged a few blows and a ton of insults.  I ran back to get Brad, but when I got back Cassius Clay (later Muhammad Ali) had vanished just as he’d showed up.


                                       * * *


Eric Sanchez
Colombia, C. I.
Lake City, Florida

How the Water Got in the Coconut
July 21, 2008: 11:AM- Count at C.C.I. Anex
Today was and continues to be a very busy day!  I received the Anne Frank Prison Diary—so I immediately started writing.  This morning there were two inmates trying to discourage me since it’s extremely rare to even see me to have a conversation. One of the two was giving me bad vibes.  I did not let it stop me from giving the other one a positive message, which he acknowledged, that in fact is, no matter if we are incarcerated it shouldn’t stop anyone of us from using our time “every day” to better ourselves and learn more about people and life.  The subject soon turned to me, my legal affairs and my keeping busy. The love I have to make clear the power-points in everything I say or do was getting to the other inmate.  Shortly he cut-in talking negative and saying that I am a dreamer, and that I am crazy.  I had to quickly respond to that and I did.  I stated that if anyone thinks that writing legal documents and creating a novel or stories is easy or crazy, or cares to dislike what I do, they need to check themselves…

I must give myself credit—as a lot of my friends tell me.  I just got back from federal court where I conducted a trial “pro’se”…My mom sat throughout the entire trial and she told me that she is so proud of me—that I am a lawyer!  That really made me feel good.  I’ve always disappointed my mother my whole life, and now I finally found something that I not only enjoy doing, but also that I am really good at—law, both criminal and civil, state and federal, and to hear those words from my mom was worth everything I endure during these real-real hard times. Every day I get better and better at everything I do. It can be law-work or just socializing.  I am in tune with myself like never before.

August 4, 2008
Life can be easy and life can be hard. I’m a kind of person that doesn’t like mothering easy.  I guess it’s the challenge, or that I push myself to the limit.  I never give up.  Failure comes from quitters.  I never stop trying--no matter how many times I fail to do something…Some people just lie around and let time go by.  Me, I stay busy as a bee.  I truly believe in working hard at all I do.

August 6, 2008
I moved into my old dorm when I arrived back here.  Everyone was happy to see me and I am now settled in.  Last 5 days I’ve been working on my friend’s self-defense case where the trial court made an error…I am proud of myself for the hard work I have put into the case.  I treated it like my own.  His sister wrote me a thank-you letter expressing her appreciation. That made me feel good.


                                      * * *


Johnny M. Lopez
Tilford Unit
New Boston, Texas

May 27, 2008
...I am 27, was born outside of Corpus Christi in a small town called Taft, Texas, during I think hurricane Allen.  Mom says she was the only one heading in the direction that everyone else seemed to want to get away from. I guess this storm and my birth coinciding has something to account for in my crazy life, should it not?  Yeah, I know probably not, but it sounded good, well at least to me it did.

I enjoyed a life with a loving family, which consisted of Mom, 3 sisters and 2 brothers.  Me being the youngest fell under everyone’s spell.  Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad.  So in reality, I had 6 Dads for my real father wasn’t there until I was 14 or so.

Just the same, I grew up fairly well. I wasn’t rich but I had enough to make do.  I guess I was taught what the word improvisation really meant long before I even knew what the word was.  I lived about 2 to 3 blocks from the Corpus Christi lake so I grew up with gills in the small town of Mathis, Texas. 

We had about 4 to 5 miles of wooded acres on one side of a dead end road that resembled a candy cane shape and at the dead end lived my best friend, Richard, whom I consider family even to this day.  His family, the Martinez, owned the wooded acres on the other side of the road. So we grew up playing soldiers, mud ball fights. Sometimes there’d be a cheater who’d put rocks inside the mud to they could throw them greater distances, but being hurt was all in the name of fun, I guess.  We would even play war with fire crackers on Fourth of July.

Richard’s mom and dad had authority to enforce punishment upon me if so needed.  Of course, I needed it but was grounded from their house only a few times.  I loved his mom Ester Martinez, bless her soul as she’s departed now.

I’ll never forget the time Richard and I stole her car and ended up wrecking it beyond repair. How we ever made it is a little mystery, but I ended up with a back injury and nothing more.  I could go on and on and about my childhood and this diary would probably not be big enough for all the little mishaps I always found myself into.  Of course, I was never alone—my side kick or my twin as my mom and his called us—was never to far behind or vice-versa.  If there was a mischievous idea brewing, you could be assured it was by 3- Brian (Richard’s 2^nd oldest brother), Richard and last but not least, myself.  I can’t help but laugh as I reminisce about what I called my good old days.

Which really weren’t very long.  I moved outside of Houston to a town called Alvin, Texas, and at the age of 16 became incarcerated.  I was young and since 16 I’ve been locked up.  I am now 27…and I will see parole for the first time when I am about 37 years old.  I only hope I make it. I’m not speaking of everywhere--just Texas-- you rarely make your first parole.  I’ve still got 9 more years before I think about this though.


                                         * * *


Robert Weaver
LSCI Butner
Butner, North Carolina

Monday, May 12, 2008
I was housed at LSCI Butner because it’s considered a “medical” facility, and I was in poor health when I first entered the system.  I’m HIV-positive (diagnosed in the early 1990s), and I was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS in 1996, when my T-cell count dropped below 2,000.  So I’ve been living with HIV and AIDS for nearly 17 years, which, in my opinion, is nothing short of a miracle.

Over the past 17 years, my health has suffered through several scary low points, and though it’s overly dramatic to state such a thing, I can say in all honesty that I have tasted death upon occasion, and it’s not entirely unpleasant—kind of like a well deserved deep sleep brought on by extreme exhaustion.  But each time, a taste was enough, and I got better.  I must have more lives than a cat.  Either that or, unbeknownst to me, I did die somewhere along the way and I’m currently in purgatory.  There is no other explanation for it.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Watching the events and tragedies of my family’s lives unfold from prison is like observing the world from the grave.  I’m helpless to affect anything, helpless to help.  Prison, with its tomb-like cells, zombie-like inhabitants and fog-colored walls, is a living cemetery.  I live as one of the living dead, as a pale shadow of memory among memories of my former life and memories of my broken dreams. All that once was is now reduced to illusion. What’s next for me?  What awaits?  Resurrection, reincarnation or decomposition? Meanwhile, the outside world moves and flickers like light and shadow seeping into my grave, and I cannot dance to it.

May 23, 2008
Time moves very strangely in prison.  Weeks pass like hours; hours pass like weeks.  Chronology becomes confused.  I’ve been reading Anne Frank for only two weeks now, but I feel as if she’s been with me for a long time.

Today I’ve spent a good portion of my day reading and re-reading several of my favorite passages from her diary, the passages I appreciate most, trying to fight my somber and pitiful mood. Anne Frank is amazingly and profoundly helpful concerning such matters.  Her diary entry of Wednesday, February 23, 1944, is especially edifying and uplifting, particularly in regard to the worry and fear I’ve been experiencing lately:

“The best remedy for those who are frightened, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere they can be alone, alone with the sky, nature and God. For then and only then can you feel that everything is as it should be and that God wants people to be happy amid nature’s beauty and simplicity.”

I’ve read that passage over and over, as well as the final paragraph for that date:

“Whenever you’re feeling lonely or sad, try going to the loft on a beautiful day and looking outside.  Not at the houses and the rooftops, but at the sky.  As long as you can look fearlessly at the sky, you’ll know that you’re pure within and will find happiness once more.”

But it’s the second-to-the-last paragraph that I found particularly moving.  I’ve read it over and over, also reading to two other inmates, by voice nearly cracking:

“Riches, prestige, everything can be lost.  But the happiness in your own heart can only be dimmed; it will always be there, as long as you live, to make you happy again.”

I had been trying to find happiness in the comparison of myself to others less fortunate.  Anne Frank wrote that her mother’s “advice in the face of melancholy is: “Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful you’re not part of it.” (Tuesday, March 7, 1944)

But when there’s suffering in the world, anywhere in the world, aren’t we all part of it?

As Anne points out: “What are you supposed to do if you become part of the suffering?  You’d be completely lost.”

Lost.  That’s exactly how I’ve felt lately. Lost and miserable.  But as Anne has written, “…beauty remains, even in misfortune.”  Her advice is, “Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.”

So, in hope of finding happiness again, I press forward in faith, writing daily, looking fearlessly at the sky, and rediscovering the beauty in me and everything around me.

Saturday, May 24, 2008
I can hardly be described as quiet because I do speak my mind when I have something to say (the operative phrase being when I have something to say), but I am appreciative of silence.  There is, in my opinion, too much useless conversation in this unit.

A typical exchange is as follows, bellowed back and forth from across the unit:
“Hey Tate!’
“Yeah!”
(Pause)
“Hey Tate!”
“Yeah!”
“Where you at?”
“My room!”
“What’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
“What?”
“Nothin’!”
“You cookin’?”
“Naw.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t got nothin’!”
“OK.”
(Pause.)
“Holler at me.”
“What?”
“Holler!”
“All right.”
“Later.”
“All right.”
“Huh?”

…I used to fear that one day I might go deaf.  Now I’ve begin to contemplate the benefits of hearing loss—which I know I should never do, even in momentary jest.  Nonetheless, it would be nice to somehow tune it all out every now and then, and just relax and revel in the pure silence.  Silence is golden, but one cannot realize how golden until it’s taken away.

Right now all the following is being yelled across the unit by various inmates, all at once:

“El!” “Hey, we lost Oil Can!”  “T.C.”  “What?” “I don’t know why…”  “Where’d El go?”  “Hey Fam!”  “…you botherin.”  “Hey Oil Can!”  “Hey EL!” “Come here!” “Hey, you want the radio too?”  “Fam!” “Hell, no.” “Naw, but thanks for askin’.”  “You cut me out!”


                                         * * *


Felicia Clark
ICIW
Mitchellville, Iowa

August 1, 2008
Today is my birthday and I really didn't feel like getting up.  I had feelings some type of way.  All I could think about is damn I have to spend another birthday in this place and not with my family.  My roommate kept trying to get me up.  I just laid there until about 8:30 am.  Then I got up, checked my mail and of course, there wasn't nothing in my slot.  I instantly got irritated because no one sent me a card.

I felt like my day was going to be like every other day around here.  I just went about my day as usual, not expecting anything, just trying to get through the day without crying and being mad at my family.  At about 10:00 am I was called over the P.A. to come to a visit.  I was so happy.  I had thought they forgot me. I didn't know who it was.  I was hoping it was my husband but then again I wanted to see my mother.  There is nothing like seeing your mother on your birthday, the woman who birthed me.  I wasn't ready so I had to hurry up and get myself ready. I got ready within minutes, clothes, makeup and hair.  The hair was already done.  Once I got over there I got stripped in and walked into the room. Right there sat my mother and my three boys. My baby Donault, he runs up to me and screams "Happy Birthday Mommie."

All I could do is smile from ear to ear.  I was glad to see them.  We took pictures, played games, and ate food.  My oldest son is studying for his driver's permit.  I can't believe that he will be 16 years old in October. He told me when I get out that he wants me to go to his homecoming with him.  I told him he would have other girls to take. He says "I know, Mamma, but I want to take you."  I told him okay, if that is what he wants. I will give that to him. The babies, they drew me pictures.  My mom talked to me.  She seems like she was happy to see me.  When our visit ended they sang me "Happy Birthday", then the familiar question popped up: When am I coming home? I hate it when I can't tell my children anything.  I told them to pray about it, God will answer. They looked so sad as though they're tired of waiting for me. Just come home and be with us. We hugged and kissed.  They walked out to return to their home and I returned to my current residence, not lookin' back to keep my smile on my face that my family left me with.

When I walked back through the gate, everyone was wishing me "Happy Birthday."  Chola and Jamie made my day.  They gave me a birthday I could enjoy.  They made me a pizza that looked just like it came from Pizza Hut. It was a pizza made straight from scratch...made from noodles and chips and the cake straight from chocolate cookies and candy bars.  Everything was good. We played games and we just kicked it.  My day was great.  I couldn't complain. My day felt like it was going to turn out bad but I had a really great day. I felt love. I even heard from my husband.  He hadn't answered his phone in weeks but he made sure he told me Happy Birthday.  I guess I have aged gracefully at the age of 32.

August 6, 2008
I have taken every class there is to take in this institution.  There isn't anything else that they can offer me.  Here is a list of my accomplishments:
- Nine Months: start treatment, which took me 12 months
- Twelve Months: after care
- Victim Impact: a study on how you committed your crime and how you victimized the person(s) you have harmed
- Mind over Mood: Helps you identify the thought process and changing that thought from negative to a positive thought.
- Helping women Recover: covers healthy relationships
- Trauma and Abuse: helps you process any trauma or abuse you have gone through in your life
- Anger Management: helps with your being able to process your anger and finding self control when you become angry
- Life skills: computer skills, job interviews, and maintaining your financials, things that will help you in the world.
- Business Class 101
- Piano Lessons
- Mother Support: helps you become a better parent and build a healthy relationship with your children, without the care-giver being present...and visits with your children that are one-on-one
- Moving On: covers anger, your thoughts and maintaining a healthy relationship.

                                          * * *


Robert R. Reldon
NJSP
Trenton, New Jersey

June 9, 2008
I've been saying I'm going to do it and I did-at least I started-no TV today except for 1/2 hour of news.  One day a week to start and we'll see how it goes.  Mass day is a good day to start so I can see Sister Liz and fill my head with some good stuff instead of the problem the box is pushing out.  Another good reason to start today - 98 degrees, so no heat from the TV tube.  I don't know how people live in Arizona and Nevada where it's like this half the year. What are they going to do when they run out of electricity and water?  Which is not too far off?  Did a haiku for the heat-

                       Hot sand of summer
                       Burns feet and makes cool surf an
                       Oasis for tiny toes

June 17, 2008
I don't know if I can write today-my hands are shaking-I've been fighting these people over my messed up comp. time for 16 months and getting nowhere. Tonight I get a note in the mail out of the blue-"You will be seen by the Parole Board on or before July 18, 2008.  One month or less!!! First time and my mind is racing-it's probably just a set-up for a let down...but what IF?? Mind boggling possibilities-I can't even let myself go there.  The disappointment would be staggering.  Best to hope for the best and expect the worst-basically how I've managed to do all this time.  I might not even be here long enough to complete this journal!!!  From now on each page is going to be a study in anticipation and frustration.  I like the way they torture you-they don't even tell you when-"on or before"-and that's barring their unforeseen cancellations.  I'm probably going to lose 10 lbs. in the next weeks. PUSH-PUSH-PUSH pray until something happens!

August 27, 2008
I gave it my best shot, folks, but I'm dry...if I'm still here due to a negative parole decision, maybe I can do another one when my head will be more settled because...of debilitation caused from anxiety and unfulfilled anticipation. I can't believe how much more "no news" is damaging even when compared with "bad news"-it's like death.  At least it's final and you mourn and eventually move on.  No news is like a long lingering illness, when you don't know if you'll be here from one day to the next-you can't plan anything because you might have to change anything without notice-you can't make any promises because you don't want to piss anyone off if you can't keep them.

                                          
                                           * * *


Barry A. Postell
Ramsey Unit
Rosharon, Texas

Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Hiya Toby,
I wish I could condition myself to write to you more often, you were such a good pet better yet, you were my best friend.  I could tell you anything and for the price of being scratched behind your ears, you would sit forever and listen to me  talk.  And you always listened, never hurried me or judged me, and sometimes the look in those huge green eyes looked as if you understood me, and your purring it did calm me.  I had never, nor do I think I ever will find another like you.

Not a whole lot happened since Saturday.  I am glad you're not here to see me like this.  It gets to where I even hate to look in the mirror.

I tell medical that something is wrong, I take the thyroid medication they ordered, yet I still gain weight even though I don't eat much.  And here lately I've just been so...tired.  They know that I've reported that I've been bleeding from my rectum, yet they've done very little.  People in here who have family who can/want to get involved will keep on someone's back until something is done.  I have no one who can or will speak on my behalf.  So they do as they wish with me.

Toby, not to worry, I am strongly against suicide, but I'd be telling a lie if I said I didn't want to be with you right now.  And I just bet that Mama is there with you also?  Or do they put y'all in different places?  Kitty, even though Mama took that rabbit away from you for our supper, just know down deep she hated doing that.  And besides, I gave you some of its meat later on in my bedroom, which, as I recall, you ate very quickly and seemed to enjoy it. At least I know I'd prefer to eat it cooked, not raw.  And Toby, you were a huge Tabby who was very fit.  You didn't look like you had been hungry.  You were a good mouser and hunter.  If we didn't feed you when you were ready, you had no trouble in going out and catching a meal.


                                           * * *


J. R. Crutchfield
Auburn Correctional Facility
Auburn, New York

June 6, 2008
I find it amazing how consistent the system is in locking up very specific types. Dumb asses and losers.  There are so few bright inmates and most, by far, are not only uneducated but pitifully dimwitted and lacking in any experiences beyond the block they grew up on.  They absolutely could not take care of themselves on the street, yet they brag about how many children they have. They come to the serving line like every day is their first or they don't know what to ask for, how to ask, no social skills at all. Every otherword/conversation revolves around violence or violence they only act on in packs and rarely at that.  It's like some type of overcompensating gesture to create the illusion of empowerment.  Guys keep coming back... At some point I need to start organizing these thoughts into a book.  There is a very specific modern trend developing, an effect of past causes and a result of experiences for those on both sides of the gate.

June 11, 2008
Flo wrote.  She thinks Erin had her baby-a C-section on 5/30.  I can't believe she chose a scar.  Flo also ignored my request again to check on SCORE. I am so sick of this powerlessness...I read Robert Cea memoir yesterday and today. At least now I see how memoirs are...embellished. I have to clearly plan and execute strategy.  I doubt his book did well.  I cannot afford to make similar mistakes or rush.  I need some good things to start happening. Ya know, I'm honestly doing the best I can.  Judging by the way I feel about all this..., I can see why I used drugs. I laugh now, cuz I'd never...well, I just feel like I've endured so much on this bid, so much loss and powerlessness and heartbreak, WITHOUT DRUGS, that...there's just no attraction to it.  I tend to forget how I felt during times of stress, pain and loss, etc. I need to remember. This will help.

August 20, 2008
Here's the term: "Catch a body."  The vast majority of men in prison live the thug life culture and in their world, no one murders anyone or takes life from anyone.  They catch a body.  Not their fault, really, it just fell on them.  You hear guys say, "I caught a body" or, if he's angry at someone, "I don't wanna have to catch a body." Victimhood knows no limits in the culture that gets "trapped off."  No matter what law has been violated, the man caught says, "They trapped me off," I got trapped off."  For those who fear consequences, the socially acceptable declination to participate is "I don't want to get trapped off." Last week a 16 year-old was murdered while walking down the street with his friends in Syracuse, when bullets flew out of a passing car.  So far, no one's been trapped off or caught the body.

Late August, 2008
How I feel matters less than what I do about it.  How I felt yesterday has changed; what I did hasn't.


                                           * * *


Keyono Cook
Cummins Unit
Grady, Arizona

May 27, 2008
You want to know a secret that mostly all inmates share?  One reason we hate holidays is that there is no mail. Holidays automatically kill what little hope we have that we'll receive a letter or money receipt.  We can't wait until the holiday is over and the mail resumes.  Even for those that "never" receive a letter a "regular" day (if you could ever really call it that) gives them the privilege of hoping that a holiday otherwise robs them of.
Well, I didn't get any mail today.  Maybe tomorrow?
I DID send out a letter today, though.  I wrote my little brother at the Tucker Unit in Tucker, Arkansas.  That way he'll be SURE to get a letter this week.  I'm really returning the favor.  I got a letter from him Saturday.  If no one else writes me, he will.  We try to make sure each other gets a letter.  Mail is like oxygen, it keeps us breathing.
No mail-no life.  Peace

May 29, 2008
Mr. David Morris Smith, Rack 18, died today.  And sadly, the barracks has returned to normal.  It's like nothing happened.  Like Mr. Smith never even existed.  But an empty Rack 18 stands as a reminder of the tragedy.
There is no air of mourning or grief as there would be on the outside.  It's simply a matter of every inmate doing his own.
Mr. Smith was fifty-something years old, humble, quiet but deeply troubled.  He was permanently stooped over from a bad back.  He walked at a crawl; "slow motion" being a more fitting word.  He couldn't do nothing himself. It was touching to see John - a white inmate (47 years old)-patiently tend to a black, Mr. Smith's every need.  Even going so far as to clip his toe nails and put on his socks.  In the penitentiary this speaks volumes of John.
Poor Mr. Smith. Gone, forgotten and forsaken. And the irony?  He'll get busted from class one to class four for not being in compliance with policy and completing his prison sentence.  Crazy, huh?

June 5, 2008
I've been feeling unusually reminiscent these last few days, almost to the point of being sluggish. I was remembering the time in 1997-it had to be during the summer because my little brother was with me-I was eighteen years old.  We'd been run out of our home and forced to move due to gang-related mischief.  My family had nowhere to go.  My Momma was on Housing Authority and due to our landlord refusing to let Momma out of her lease, we had to break our lease, therefore casting ourselves out of Uncle Sam's cage.  Having to move on the spur of the moment put us in a helluva predicament.  No money, nowhere to stay, we laid our heads where we could.  It's really too long a story to recount here. Suffice it to say that us being kicked out of our house, led us right into the open arms-the waiting arms-of the penitentiary.

July 25, 2008
I've discovered something more cohesive than loyalty; something more vicious than faith; something even more cementing than creed or culture could ever be. Cigarettes.

Ever since the ADC has cut out and outlawed smoking, I've seen cigarettes do some amazing things.  I've witnessed them bring blacks and whites, Bloods and Crisps, Vice Lords and Disciples; Christians and Muslims; Aryan Nation and Black Nationalists together.  The same culture or group of people that proclaimed their hatred or dislike for another culture or group of people, smoke cigarettes with that avowed enemy.
Cigarettes is Power.
Real Power.
A dude with a cigarette can get about any staunch smoker to do anything he wants them to.  Cigarettes can get a dude killed.  Cigarettes (roll-ups) are $2 dollars a cigarette, $25 dollars a pack when there's a drought, cigarettes go 10 for $10 dollars, green money.  A real shame, sure, but that is the penitentiary. That is the power of nicotine.

August 2, 2008
The difference between me and Anne Frank's situation is Anne was with her family every day and people she loved and enjoyed being around.  You have to be very careful of whom you love here.  You don't know who to trust.
The ones I love, don't love me.  They've simply reshaped their lives to not include me.  I couldn't possibly find happiness in that.

Although this Diary ends...my pain shall continue on...I am alone in the world, a flower growing in the shadows whose existence life is not aware of, and who is not aware of life.  I am a soundless word in the heart of the night. I am Keyono Raymon Cook.