Anne Frank Center USA/PEN American Center 
                                Prison Diary Excerpts



Patricia Prewitt
WERDCC
Vandela, Missouri

June 6, 2008
A baby was born in a housing unit bathroom last night! This morning I was standing in the dayroom waiting for the call on the loudspeaker to go to work when Stacey walked up to me grinning from ear to ear.  “Patty, last night I was called out of bed to go to 4 House to clean up blood (that’s her job: bodily fluid cleaner-upper). I was not happy about it and stomped all the way over there.  When I walked through the door, here comes an inmate on a stretcher wheeled by EMT’s and she had a baby in her arms!” Stacey couldn’t quit cheesin’.  This doesn’t happen just every ole day—I can’t recall this ever happening before and I’ve been locked up over 22 years.

Work was called, and as I walked to my job, I saw 4 House girls outside the canteen.  Pam has glow-in-the-dark dyed blonde hair, so I hollered, “Canned Ham (my nickname for her), did you deliver a baby last night?”  Pam turned beaming, “No, I didn’t but this little girl did.” The young white girl could not hide her pride and awe, “Yes, Ma’am, three of us and Sgt. Taylor helped.”

I pressed on for the story.  It seems that the pregnant gal had twice “self-declared” that day complaining of pressure and pain.  The nurses had sent her back to the dorm with, “This is your first baby.  You’ll know when the time comes.”

Pam mentioned that when the newborn first cried, every woman on the wing cried.  My eyes fill with tears just scribbling this report.  Women die in here.  Death seems a normal element in Hell. But this miracle of new life right here in this awful place IS a miracle!  Everyone…seems lighter today.  More loving.  Touched by goodness.  Hope.

I also heard that the little girl plans to make Taylor the baby boy’s middle name in thanks to the officer who helped bring him into this world.  Now that’s another prison miracle!



                                       * * *


Mike Doan
UA-UC
Tehachapi, California

June 19, 2009
Wow, it’s a beautiful morning.  The sky is clear, no cloud in sight. No wind, just a calm silence.

I’m sitting here writing in my journal while hoping that they will call my name for a visit.  I wrote to my mom last week…I really miss my mom.  It’s been so long since I have seen her.  I just hope that she’s doing well. Our communication through letters is a struggle. She can’t read or write English.  I can’t write and can barely read Vietnamese.  So usually I will ask my celly to write a brief letter to my mom telling her that I am doing o.k.  I want to say more, but it’s hard having someone else say how you feel. The things I want to share with my mom are too personal.

Last night I stayed up late to finish the Anne Frank Diary.  It was really disappointing knowing how hard those people in the annex wanted and tried desperately to survive, but in the end, so close to being liberated, they all got caught.  And all died except for Anne’s father.  That sucks! It made me really sad. I wish she had survived because I wanted to read more about the day the police came and arrested her.  Her constant fear was about being arrested.  What was on her mind when that day did come?  Did she cry?  Did the people in the annex plead for their lives? What about Mrs. Van Daan?  What were her reactions?


                                      * * *


Francisco Prieto
Coffield Unit
Tennessee Colony, Texas

Foreword
This diary has been written entirely from a retrospective viewpoint of actual places, people and events experienced firsthand by the author, since he had never before kept a diary prior to this writing.  Where complete dates are not given, it is due to lack of specific recollection; however, the year is accurate.

October 30, 1974
Today Judge Di Falco finalized the adoption in the surrogate court of New York, making [them] my legal parents. Mother sat me on her knee at the dinner table after returning from court. With my father next to her, she revealed to me that I had been adopted by them and that they would now be my parents. My real parents, who were both Puerto Rican, had been killed in an auto crash, and I had been placed in an orphanage associated with the Catholic Home Bureau in Manhattan.  My father just sat there nodding his head in agreement with everything she said. This would later be a common trait of his.  For being a five year old, amazingly I understood every word.  All I was essentially interested in was them loving me as their own child, which they did not have. I was adopted due to his infertility though she had three grown children through her previous marriage. Many of the details did not sink in at the time. After all, I was a kid and kids live in a carefree world where sleeping, playing and eating are the highlights of the day. Though there were moments when I was alone and tried to absorb it all, especially years later when the verbal and physical abuse increased. I had been assigned a caseworker…who made house visits twice a month where she would inspect our apartment, talk to my parents and take me out for a walk or ride on the subway and ask me questions and later buy me lunch.  She always brought me something, either some magic markers or coloring blocks but she never came empty handed…My mother always coached me on how to “play the game” of covering for her and my dad…All these things I kept to myself because I was told that if I were to reveal them to the caseworker, she would take me back to the orphanage and I would be there for a long time before I would be placed in a home because most couples look for small babies to adopt.

                                     * * *


Spoon Jackson
CSP-SAC
Represa, California

July 29, 2008
Dear Freedom,
My special friend Karin has gone back to Sweden after sharing sweet spring like visits with me. Taking me away from the walls and steel—the empty spaces behind the bars.  Had poetry programs and the songstress poet/performance artist Grace blessed us with her art.

There were other guests as well.  The warden, associate warden and captain showed up as the poetry teacher and I had to read poems to be part of the flow.  Though today I would have loved to hang free with Karin, or play my native flute I call Sara.  A passing guard said her voice should be piped throughout the prison.

Freedom, sometimes it’s like being alone in the desert being me, but that is fine.


                                     * * *


Dennis Forrest
Ramsey Unit
Rosharon, Texas

June 7, 2008

This is a picture of me.
It was taken during the time of day when the sun shines through the living room window creating a glare—so it might be a little blurry around the edges.  That’s me right there in the corner behind the Christmas tree.  It’s hard to see me—you have to look through the branches, around the decorations and then put the pieces together. I’m sitting there listening quietly to my sister talk to her imaginary friends who live in our walls (she’s the pretty little redhead right there, in the center of the room).  I’ve tried—I can’t hear the voices—but it makes me sick inside knowing she does.  It’s the same sick feeling I get when I see the way he looks at her after he’s had a few too many (our new stepfather—he’s taking the picture). It’s easier to see me if you pretend the tree’s not there—that’s what I do. You see, this picture was taken the same year I learned there was no Santa Claus.



                                      * * *


Charles Patrick Norman
Tomoka Correctional Institution
Daytona Beach, Florida

Thursday, May 15, 2008 7:15 AM

Dear Diary,
I grow flowers.  I’ve been doing this all my life, off and on. Some of my earliest memories are of holding onto my grandmother’s skirt as she tended her flower and vegetable garden in the country near Redwater, Texas.
At Railford, in late 1980, I finally got permission to order flower seeds, germinate them under lights, in the office where I worked, and grow them around our housing area.  Everyone loved the colorful blooms, with a few exceptions, and I got approval to extend the flower program.

Over the years, transfers came to many different prisons across Florida, and I continued growing flowers.  Years after I left Railford, an old man arrived on the transfer to Polk, where I’d been a couple of years, and told the admitting guards, “Charlie Norman must be here.”  They told him yes, he was right. How did he know?  He gestured to the flower beds in the visiting park, the lines of flowers along the sidewalks, and told them the instant he saw all those flowers, he knew I was here. No one else in the prison system did that.  I heard the story of the new arrival—the prison grapevine moves quickly—looked him up, shook his hand and hugged him, and welcomed him to Polk. He said the flowers had welcomed him already. He felt better now.

Tuesday, May 13
When I got the letter at mail call from the Anne Frank Center USA asking me to write a prison diary it affected me deeply.  When I first read The Diary of a Young Girl so many years ago, it had a great impact on me.  I was in the county jail in Tampa, Florida... going through great emotional turmoil. I was drawn to book about people who had suffered imprisonment.  I read a couple about American P.O.W.'s held captive by the North Vietnamese, and one about Nelson Mandela.  I couldn't imagine how long he'd been wrongfully imprisoned in South Africa. Little did I know that I would surpass the twenty-seven years he would spend in captivity. 

I began reading The Holy Bible, although my faith had been shattered by what had happened to me, and I wasn't on speaking terms with God.  Reading the Bible I suddenly realized that it was filled with references to prisons and prisoners.  The first prisoner mentioned was Joseph, in Genesis, who was falsely accused, redeemed, released, and later rose to prominence to save his entire family.  I could relate to that, and held out hope for a similar resolution.  I discovered that Jeremiah was the biggest jailbird in the Old Testament, and he stayed in the hole, literally, for telling the truth.  I'm not going to go into all that now, but perhaps I'll touch on it at a later time.

Then I read about Anne Frank, and became haunted by her portrait, her eyes.  It was like she was speaking directly to me, not words from thirty-five years before.  I'd heard the story, and know its tragic ending, but as I red the words and thoughts of that innocent young girl, who had no idea what fate she faced, it touched me deeply.  I wanted to say, no, no, don't stay there, get out, Otto, take them to North America while you can, the Nazis are coming for you, but it was too late.  They couldn't hear me. I cried.

There were a couple of times in the county jail when I'd be on my bunk reading a particularly touching passage, it would strike me, and I couldn't hold back the emotion. I sobbed.  Other prisoners would look at me, surprised, wondering what was wrong with me.  I am a big man, unafraid, and knew that in jail survival mode others would latch onto any perceived weakness quickly.  I would reverse it on them. Become combative, and snap-what are you looking at?  That would usually back them up.  I didn't care what they thought. I was on my personal journey, and did not feel the need to explain myself to others.

It is "counting time" again-the guards count and count and count us, no one has gone missing in years, but we must sit up straight on our bunks, put everything away, be good little prisoners.  So I will take a break from this for now, and try to come back tonight or begin again in the morning. 



                                       * * *


Thomas Turner Chambers
FLOO
Bessemer, Alabama

May 16, 2008
9/2/39 was born in Big Wills Valley
Wonderful parents
Dad fell down coal mine shaft in '43
Broke everything
Became tall, gangly, gaunt man
Sometimes stumbled
Became poorest family of share croppers in valley
Almost never went hungry
Mom knew every root, weed, or plant
That could be used as food
Learned to track a bee from flower
To hive on a beeline
Learned to shoot hunting squirrels and rabbits
Could(n't) afford to miss
Shells cost nearly a nickel
Moved to Alabama City in '51
Mom was never well
Nearly died several times
Dad's health declined steadily after '43
Lost left eye in '52 from flying hickory stick
Caused by miss-stroke of an ax
Trying to cut firewood for Mom to cook with
Shouldn't been using ax
No physical coordination
Folks said mom would be dead by '48
But she stayed with us
Until her death in '54
Dad followed her a couple of years after
Folks said the four of us should be in homes
Sister and I would(n't) let them
Got some money from Welfare
Wasn't enough
Got a job from 5:30 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. on milk route
Wasn't enough
Went to school until three
Delivered newspapers until about six
Wasn't enough
Took a job plowing in spring/summer
Picked cotton for 3 cents a pound until November
Had to make enough money
To make it through the winter
Wasn't enough
Went to school second semester
Did well enough to pass to next grade
Went back to plowing in spring
Lost all options in '56
No way to work and go to school
Regular farm work paid only about $15 a week
Couldn't find a job in Alabama City
That paid much more to a 16-year-old
Lied about my age, joined the army
Army paid $55 more a month
To jump from airplanes
Became paratrooper: sent allotment home
Met lovely person
Became father to extraordinary daughters


                                       
                                      * * *


Antika Truitt
Lee Arrendale State Prison
Alto, Georgia

June 8, 2008
My mind has floated to the time, four years ago, when I thought I was on top of the world.  One October morning, my mom wanted a lift to the train station, but I didn't feel like getting up and transporting her there.   During the drive, my mother made constant chatter, which my uncaring ears blocked out.  Then, this oldies song came on: "Your body's here with me, but your mind is on the other side of town...you messing me around..."  My mom stated that I was just like that song.  Still in pajamas, all I wanted to do was go back to bed.  If I could live in that day all over again, I would've taken my mom all the way to her destination, enjoying the sounds on the radio, but especially her voice.  Every day now, I long to hear her voice.  It's soft and sweet, she sounds like a nice little-old white lady, though she's Black.  I try not to call so much, because calls are over $6.00 for 15 minutes, which is little time.  I miss how mom would lay my head on her thigh while she combed one side of my head, early in the morning, then turn me to the other thigh to finish.  I loved how gently she combed my hair and let me lie there so I could rest a little. I'm just not a morning person!  So I am mom sick.  Love my mom, miss her.  She's a beauty, 57 and counting!  I love her golden, cotton-soft hair that she wears cropped over her toasted almond complexion.  Her strong cheekbones and delicate, slender lips only add to her attractiveness.



                                       * * *


Bobby Lee Biffel
Robertson Unit
Abilene, Texas

June 20, 2008
I'll be sending off Duck Pond today.  Duck Pond is the third assignment for the Institute of Children's Literature.  The ICL is a pretty cool creative writing correspondence program.  It costs about $700 but I won a $1,000 scholarship from John Clayton and the Does God Exist? Program.

It was a contest where you enter an article on the cohesiveness of science and religion.  I wrote about the first chapter of Genesis and the scientific facts that support the sequence of creation therein. And I won!  There probably weren't a lot of entries or something, but I was proud nonetheless. The article is even supposed to be published in an edition of the Does God Exist? Journal.  Is that cool, or what?  So anyway, with the money I enrolled in the ICL.

My instructor... is very cool, a Christian, and is not afraid to teach....I've learned a lot from her and I still have a long way to go.  So far, I like writing for children.  It's hard because I haven't been around any in about 8 years.  I just imagine Pumpkin (my daughter), what I'd like her to read, what her perceptions were, etc. I think I use my connection, or desire to connect to her as a basis for my writing.  Problem is, she's still a 4 year old Pumpkin to me, not an 11 year-old one.
Duck Pond was an assignment that called for you to remember a scene from your childhood.  I'm supposed to describe it using the five senses.  I think I did okay.  I remember the general layout of the place: a dark pond circled by a boardwalk resting at the base of the grassy hill around it.  We used to open boxes up flat, sit on them and slide down the hill. It was fun-those kid times.



                                       * * *


Michael Rothwell
MCSP
Ione, California

July 24, 2008
I finally began reading The Diary of a Young Girl.  I always thought it was called The Diary of Anne frank.  My sister, Pat, read it in high school, but I was just a little kid.  All I knew about her was that she hid from the Nazis while she wrote her diary, was eventually captured, and did not survive the war.  I've read only the first four pages beginning with her birthday. I am so impressed with her keen intelligence and superior power of observation.  She writes about her entire class at school, everyone in it from what I can tell.  I guess the thing that gets me the most is how absolutely "alive" she was.  And of course that will be contrasted throughout the book knowing her eventual fate.  I was more a mere ten years after she died.  My world, growing up at least, was so different from hers. Then there was Vietnam. Now, our adventures in Iraq.  I wonder how much things have really changed.



                                               * * *


William Van Poyck
Sussex I State Prison
Waverly, Virginia

Thursday, July 24, 2008
An hour ago the Commonwealth of Virginia executed my friend, Christopher Scott Emmett.  I had to wait and watch the 10:00 p.m. news on TV to be certain the execution had in fact occurred (this is my regular ritual on the nights of executions, which always occur at 9:00 p.m. in Virginia), and it bothered me that I had to endure six or seven mundane stories (the weather, the traffic, a story about feral cats) before the announcer reported, almost casually, that Emmett had been put to death.  Virginia is very serious about killing people (in the name of teaching its citizens that killing is wrong), and this was the fourth execution in eight weeks.  Four days ago I had to bite my lip as I helplessly watched the guards come in, chain Emmett up and take him away to Greensville, a ten-minute drive away, where the death house is located and the deed is done.  In the almost nine years I’ve been here on Virginia’s death row I’ve seen them cart away and kill about 40 men. Three of those guys were good friends of mine, but even with the others, guys I knew well by dint of living in close proximity for years at a time, even if I didn’t care for them much, it is still unsettling to see them killed in such a cold and calculated manner.  One day a guy lives next to you, alive and healthy, full of life, and the next thing you know he’s led away and strapped to a gurney and poison is pumped into his veins (or, as in a few cases, they are electrocuted).  It’s never easy to watch this happen, to be in the middle of the process, at ground zero, especially when, in the back of my mind, I must harbor the scenario that inevitably my time will come and I will be dealt with in a similar manner.

August 1, 2008
…Today is another fast day for me and I’m uncharacteristically hungry.  I’ve been fasting every other day (approximately; sometimes I eat two days in a row) since June 6, 2000, over 8 years now, since right after I was transferred here to Virginia from Florida’s death row… Anyway, I average about 140-150 fast days per year according to my records. I started doing it on a lark, to lose about 7 or 8 pounds, but after I lost the weight I just kept on doing it and I do believe I’m healthier for it.  I’m in great shape, feel great, too, and my instinct tells me it’s good for me.  I intend to keep doing this until I die.  After the first month I quit getting hungry on my fast days; it became such a normal routine now that I don’t miss the food on days I don’t eat.  Moreover, on the breakfast days I do eat, that first meal tastes so good, is so pleasurable, that it makes up for the previous day.

* * *

J.E. Wantz
Salem, Oregon

May 21, 2008
…Who am I?
My name is James.  I am 37. I am the youngest of 6--raised  Conservative Christian.  I am estranged from my family.  I’ve never married because I am gay.  I am an abomination in the eyes of my church and family because of my orientation—which only really sank in after coming to prison…I am cursed with intelligence and am a complete idiot.  I am becoming more aware, and some days I wish it would stop.  I want to be like the majority of inmates who see this as summer camp but I cannot.  I am a social outcast even here for being smart…Using a pen is the only place I can be so completely honest—and I’d rather not hide here as I do every day of my prison life—the freedom of strangers. Some confidants warn me to censor what I write because I seek publication for my stories and essays.  I disagree.  My crime, my shame is already public record.  I will register for life as a sex-offender.  I am branded with that scarlet letter. I cannot hide it for long.

* * *

Yolanda Diamond
Lee Arrendale
Alto, Georgia

Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Oh, My Sweet Jewel Collector,

I just returned back to the dorm.  I went to wish my sister/friend Gwen off.  She did 10 years to the door for armed robbery.  I will miss her so much.  I do already. She looked so pretty and so womanly in civilian clothes.  Our warm hugs were the assurance that we’d see each other later.  It’s hard when you become close to someone in here. We lived and worked together for years.  Gwen, myself, and our other sister/friend Selma always used Fridays for “Girl’s Night Out.”  That was our down time to just chill, eat, and play games.  And of course we gossiped like little old women do.  I pray and wish the best for her.  The tears came fast and heavy as I watched her go through the final gate, where her family and Bible Study team embraced her…I have a small support circle that I’m forever grateful for. The years in here have taken their toll until I feel empty. Well it goes back further than my 14 years of incarceration. Sometimes I just feel like I’m on a deserted island. What could possibly make matters worse. My Bunkie Kim just got packed up to go out to court for pending charges. She was truly one of the best persons I’ve ever had to live with while serving my time.  Today has been quite emotional and it’s not even noon yet.  Well ten minutes till.  After count I’ll go over to the trade school and get my kinky hair relaxed.  That should make me feel a little better.

Saturday, June 14, 2008
My Dearest Jewel Collector,

Thank God that I have you to open up to…Oh… my heart is aching terribly, my eyes are red and swollen from crying all day.  I’m trying to calm my mind down.  Been praying and will continue to do so.  Well, I’ve been waiting on today for my visit so I could see my two sons and their dad.  And I am very grateful that they came, but it was a very long, exhausting and emotional day.  I hadn’t seen the boys since February. But I hadn’t seen their dad since 1996, 12 years ago… I would give anything to be out there with them.  I need to know what I can do to help make things better… God please keep my babies safe.  Keep them protected from any harm or danger.  Give them peace of mind and humble their ways according to your word.  In your son Jesus’ name I pray.

* * *

Billy Neblett
FSL Elkton
Lisbon, OH

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Cracked Mirror
People like me
Alone and forgotten
By
People like you
Prisoners of your fears
The
People like me
Locked and caged away
From
People like you
Ignorant and scared
Of
People like me
Iron bars and wire
Keep
People like you
Safe and complacent
To
People like me
Hated and despised
By people like you
Must be protected
From
People like me
What is there to do
With
People like me
Keep them far away
From
People like you
Shut your minds and hearts
To
People like me
You’ve nothing to fear
From
People like me
Living close to you
And
People like you
Afraid because you
Know
People like me
Really are the same
As
People like you.


                                        * * *


Zachary Redfearne
RHN
Las Animas, California

August, 22, Friday
I’ve been stressed about starting a new job.  Scrubbing pots isn’t easy work and I’m not a youngster anymore.  It’s alright though.  Everyone helps each other out.  They can’t leave until we’re done…

Another prisoner in this pod is writing trivia questions for a British website.  He has a friend he sends them to.  That person puts them on the site.  There may be monetary compensation involved.  He’s asked me if I want to write questions, too.  I went to the library today for research. I’m lousy at trivia, but writing good questions is a writing skill. You want to make them interesting and fun.  There are so many little ways people can make money out there, but they’re often not worth doing.  For someone who makes $10 a month, they’re worthwhile.

I do what I can to make my life fun and interesting.  The most important things in life, outside of having a family, such as really understanding what it means to be human, living in the Now, having an open heart to everything around you, having relationships that support living in the truth, all are possible here.  In some ways there’s an advantage to being here.  We’re hurting, and so motivated to look into the nature of human suffering. There is suffering for everyone.  How much of it, however, do we bring on ourselves by not accepting what is, by not living in the present moment, by devising more than we have, or even having too much?  There are heroes here, those who stand out courageously living an ethical life. Heroes don’t live without fear because there’s not courage without fear. Some are genuine people, generous and thoughtful despite their fears.

I was watching Lord of the Rings last night. A great recognition in that story…is that hope is not lost if you stay true to the fellowship. Of course, such a fellowship needs a leader initially. I am left with the question, can I be a leader?