Joseph Dole - Tamms, Illinois

March 14, 2011

I never imagined that I would be writing a diary, especially in prison.  A friend had suggested it once and I immediately dismissed the idea. I figured it would just be another item the guards would steal to get a rise out of me, or that it would be lost during a transfer, etc. I only write one now because I have been asked by The Anne frank Center USA, as part of their prison diary Project. I always try to encourage prisoners to write more and get their voices heard out in free society to try and combat some of the tough-on-crime rhetoric and knee-jerk demonization of prisoners.  Therefore, passing up this opportunity would have made me a hypocrite.

 

The first time I ever really wrote anything was shortly after I arrived at Tamms. I wrote an essay. I had never written an essay before, not even in school as far as I can remember. Yet, desperate for money, I tried my hand at it.  There was an essay contest being put on by a death row inmate and a good Samaritan.  The theme was “Who am I?” I learned of the contest from another prisoner who yelled out the details from down the gallery.  I had to send it in that night in order to make the deadline. I simply wrote down the first thing that came to mind. Surprisingly I won first place and fifty bucks, even more than the ten dollars promised to every entrant.  More than anything thought it inspired me to learn how to write better. In prison good writing skills are essential for just about everything—keeping in contact with your family (especially here in Tamms where they still won’t allow us to make phone calls), present your appeals in concise and coherent arguments to the  courts, advocate for change, file grievances, etc.

 

In that first essay I briefly touched upon what it is like in prison. I wrote: “Most people’s conceptions of being locked up are completely wrong. It’s not the physical things that you’re without that make it so hard to be incarcerated for life. It’s the fact that you’re helpless to take care of your family when they’re sick, to raise your children, to help in their times of struggle, and to give back to your community.  Instead you’re a burden, a charity case, someone to pity. It strips you of your self-esteem and your self-respect. That is what breaks a man, not the absence of good food, alcohol, sec, or any of the other inconsequential things we may often wish we had to temporarily give us pleasure.”

 

I still find all of that true. Yet, often being confined and isolated for the past 9 years in a supermax prison, I’ve also come to realize that the little things add up too.  There are a million little stresses and injustices that prisoners must endure on a daily basis that can also break a man. These are what I will try to describe with this diary.  Each one may seem minor, but the cumulative effect of them all is what drives so many here insane. I’m not sure how accurate the word “insane” is, but it definitely causes a variety of mental illnesses.  A recent report by the John Howard Association claims that 95% of inmates in Tamms suffer from a diagnosable psychiatric problem. Up to a point I wonder if this figure is just rhetoric or propaganda put out by the administration to further slander or stigmatize us in the eyes of the public, similar to how they have labeled us the “worst of the worst.” I can hear them now: “Not only are they the worst of the worst, but they’re all crazy sociopaths.” At the same time though, it disturbingly seems plausible to me that so many here are mentally ill. Numerous studies have shown that as little as 3 months in solitary confinement can cause a deterioration in one’s mental health. I wonder what the past 9 years here have done to me? What psychiatric problem have they surreptitiously diagnosed with me?

 

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Joe Manning - Roslindale, Massachusetts

 

March 4, 2011

 

My lesson in humility continues as I unceremoniously pass the five year mark of a 7 – 9 year state prison sentence for Trafficking Cocaine. I am a 58 year first time, non-violent offender that has worked his way through the MA state prison system through the Gladiator schools like Concord prison to a level four institution like Baystate to a minimum prison without the dreaded walls or concertina-lied fences where I currently reside. I was fortunate enough to get into the NEADS dog program in which the dogs reside in the cells with the handlers. The dogs eventually are sized up with disabled clients who sorely need them and for both the inmate and future client the end result is somewhat transcendent and cathartic. To be in such a constant negative environment and have the opportunity to enter this program is akin to hitting the lottery to someone incarcerated. It is a veritable oasis from the constant criminal-minded activity of my fellow inmates and the unrequited love and bonding shared between handler and dog is spiritual and sublime. The effect these animals have on even the most troubled of inmates is moving and to see a grown man openly weep upon having contact with an animal after decades behind the wall make you realize just how dehumanizing the prison experience can impart upon the human soul.

 

Here at the Boston pre release they have parole hearings monthly with the usual outcome being 9 out of 10 getting parole but since a scandal erupted 9 out of 10 are NOT getting parole which means inmates will have to stay longer to get here to pre release for an opportunity to go on work release and make some money, reintegrate themselves back into society and gain the self-confidence necessary to cast away past behaviors that led him to prison. I have been classed to pre release status back in Nov and 3 months later I am still awaiting approval that normally takes a month at best. But like every aspect of my life incarcerated I have zero control over nothing but the way I conduct myself. I continue to learn to avoid and endure eagerly embracing each and every opportunity to better myself. This is the ultimate chance for inner reflection with one’s self and to learn from the experience, for if you don’t you are truly doomed to repeat your past mistakes…

 

May 14, 2011

 

Was authorized for a work release to downtown Boston to attend a Job Search orientation class. I was excited to be finally going out on my own after five plus years. I had the usual butterflies awaiting my departure time and ironed my clothes several times. I left with three other inmates and it felt surreal and glorious walking down the street to the bus stop.  Upon squeezing into the packed bus I basked in the sea of anonymous faces and being away from all things DOC.  It was equally as strange being on a crowded train and I couldn’t help noticing how everyone had their heads down, engaged in their collective electronic devices; texting-tweeking-Ipods-I-Tunes with little or NO person to person interaction. It is a virtual criminals wet dream to have so many victims at one time so thoroughly inattentive. IT was sublime to feel the fresh air and walk around Downtown Crossing again. It was even better to be treated like a citizen even if it was a few brief hours. The four of us sat through the class and we finished, received membership cards and ere immediately given access to the computers to assist us in job leads.  They even had free phones to use as well as that day’s newspapers. Our afternoon flew by and before you knew it, it was once again time to call in to the BPRC and inform them that we were heading back. We lingered fro a few moments gazing at the tranquility of Boston Common and the blooming trees sprinkled throughout.  All of us were thinking of simply staying but the reality of what would occur if we didn’t had us heading back to the train station. Again I was fascinated by the lack of conversation between train riders who were more concentrated on communicating to others electronically. It made me wonder just how poorly this generation must be with interpersonal skills. After a bus ride back and the slow walk back to Camp Cupcake, we walked back into a pat search, breathalyzer and urine test. While this was going on there was already someone in the holding call being lugged for cigarettes. My afternoon illusion of freedom was over. Welcome back to DOC Overkill.
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Robert Hal Brame - Coleman, Florida

 

July 1992

I was standing in the showers making small talk…when I heard it for the first time that Parson was…a pariah among U.S.P.  Marion’s population of notorious tough guys. Someone outside the spectrum on would expect in a place the reporter from the London Times, who had recently interviewed me, called “the toughest jail in the world.”

 

End of story…until a few minutes later when I (learned that) Parson had gotten hold of a home address belonging to one of the gang members, that he’d written to the guy’s family attempting to pass himself off as a go-between in a drug deal, and managed to con him out of a couple thousand dollars.   
We parted…with me locked on the part about Parson preying on women.  I thought about my mother in Sacramento, my heart beginning to beat with worry.

 

I tossed my towel in the cell, headed for the phone. It had become ominously clear the guy I’d spent three nights with at the holdover facility in El Reno, Oklahoma was a real snake… on a whole other level than the rest of us there at Marion, the Federal Penitentiary that had replaced “Alcatraz” in 1963… Parson was someone who did his time in protective custody, someone who wielded a plagiarized repertoire of romanticisms to rob vulnerable and unsuspecting women of their savings.

 

As my mother’s phone began to ring I was replaying in my head the last few words I’d exchanged with Parson. It was around five in the morning and the guards had just notified me that I was leaving on the daily flight, Con Air, to Atlanta, the final stopover on the way to the federal courthouse in Charleston. I wanted to but wouldn’t be able to let my family know where I was headed and when I’d arrive there. The inmate phone was only brought around to the cells every three days and the next cycle was to begin just minutes after my departure.

 

And so Parson said, “No, problem, give me the number.  When the phones come around I’ll call your people and give them the message.”

 

It was at that moment I made the biggest mistake in my life.

 

When finally my mother answered her phone I quickly asked about Parson, whether he’d made the call to her. She said he had called only once and that she hadn’t heard from him again. I was so relieved. But it was only a testament to Parson’s cunning—because she was lying.
The next eighteen months passed with some hard adjustments to “the toughest jail in the world,” the name Parson eventually fading in the rearview mirror.  History.

 

And then…the snake finally slithered from the grass.

 

In the chow had on the third day of 1994, while eating lunch I was approached by two stone-faced lieutenants who said they needed to speak with me back in the cellblock.

 

My heart took a dive.  My mind went racing through the possibilities—quickly narrowing them to some unpleasant news about a loved one.  They just didn’t send two lieutenants for anything less.

 

Back in the cellblock and the corridor door clanked shut behind us, one of them pulled out a cigarette and, in the same perfunctory way in which they slapped on handcuffs, said to me, “Brame, you  mother’s dead, you need to call your brother.”

 

My brother Ted answered and heard my voice. We both burst into tears. “Rob, she was murdered. They guy beat her to death with a hammer.”…my brother added, “Do you know someone named Parson?”

 

Parson was arrested two days later behind the wheel of a stolen car in Washington.  Wild-eyed, high on crystal meth, he had used my mother’s credit cards at several ATM machines.

 

In the days that followed I learned from the detectives at the Sacramento County sheriff’s office, and my sister Mary—whom my mother had sworn to secrecy—that Parson had contacted my mother a second time soon after his arrival at U.S. P. Lewisburg in Pennsylvania, that he had convinced her that he was an accomplished jailhouse lawyer, that her son had been railroaded in court, and that he was going to work on my behalf and help me get a time cut.

 

The caveat/con was that, since federal inmates are prohibited from communicating prison to prison—and those sorts of things are very closely monitored—neither he or his benevolence could ever be mentioned in letters to me or over the phone.

 

My mother, of course, simply wanted to help me in any way she could, and thus had naively gone along with Parson, allowing him to lead the way. He must have really sensed a big score.  With experienced nurturing, he had parlayed his insidious foot in the door into a relationship that grew to weekly letters, phone calls, regular deposits into his commissary account and eventually, even upon his upcoming parole, an open door into her home.

 

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Parrish Chase - Cranston, R.I.

 

St. Joseph’s Day – Friday, March 18, 2011

Dear Pity,
You’re not going to believe this, but we’re locked-in again this morning because someone has passed away in their sleep.  I can’t quite see who it is from this angle, but it’s towards the end of my tier near either Bernie or Peabody’s cell. They are both in their 60s or 70s and I know Peabody has a bad heart and carries nitro-glycerin tablets.

 

“Medical care” can be a misnomer, in here as well as out there in the real world, because to me it implies a level of pro-active care on behalf of my Warden. The medical care is available, but it is primarily re-active. I’ve had to badger them to treat me in the past, so just imagine all those in here who remain suffering from even minor ailments but don’t have the wherewithal or the tenacity to badger with petitions.  Which reminds me, I’m going to amend the “watch Petition” to include a couple of past incidents that I’ve documented and preserved.

 

It was Mr. Peabody who passed away today.  I’ve lived on this tier with him for approx. 4 years, shared scavenged newspapers with him. I saved crossword puzzles for him—he would send me ”ken-kens,” Sudukos,” and those crypto-word puzzlers.  What paper did they come out of? Boston Globe, or the N.Y. Post? Anyhow, I’ve known him this long but yet I am struggling to remember his first name. How could I not bother to learn his first name?  In many ways we are shut off and shut-up from each other.  Life without substance, pith, is not life; it is more like death.  Enemies on a battlefield know more about each other than I do about my neighbors. I guess I’m still “learning to just be.”

 

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

 

Dear Pity,
I took a short bus ride today to another facility, that’s only a half-mile away, for a video court hearing. It was just a formality to inform me that my motion for re-argument was denied by the R.I. Supreme Court. It’s been a while since I’ve been out and I was quite amazed with the sights and sounds along the way of what would otherwise be mundane surroundings. I was particularly surprised to see a new traffic-court building in a once empty field.  As I peeked through the steel mesh covered windows on the bus, I thought of Anne Frank risking peeks through the curtains from within her secret annex, intrigued with passersby, trying to imagine their stories.  My cell has tall but narrow slit of a window that overlooks a grass field which abruptly ends at the double-fences topped with concertina wire. One time I spotted a rabbit, skunk, and a groundhog at the same time, all within my little slice of the world. I’ve spent a good amount of time in the forest and cannot recall seeing three animals within 360 degrees, never-mind the present 3 degrees of my window.  But of course in the forest they’d here me coming, and hide, whereas here in my cell I’m sure they are oblivious of my presence.  It was still very amazing for me none-the-less.  They seemed so peaceful and relaxed around one another, unlike the rest of the world—not knowing how to be.

 

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Robert C. Fuentes - Crescent City, California

 

April 15, 2011

 

Here, at Pelican Bay State Prison, in the security housing unit, we are kept in solitary confinement.  Empty time to fill being the only problems offered to shape our lives. That time spent is fused with thoughts we manufacture from the lessons of punishment we must endure.   Society is quick to rescue a dog tied up in someone’s back yard on a short leash and taunted daily.  But that same society will not step in to offer a prisoner that same dignity.   Society has convinced itself past prisoners are always playing a game. We are labeled the …of society. Continually painted as monsters for the benefit of  politicians and those who garner monetary benefit from the existence of the prison machine.

 

Society continually refuses to lock up American bankers. All the while knowing that the prison system doesn’t work, because prisoners come out worse than they went in. So they (society)…to lock them up longer. Society continues to shovel atop us in an attempt to bury us…in that roses grow from out poisoned vines. Instead our bones rise like zombies. Our bodies and minds empty of feelings and understanding of society, because we have been so distant from it for so long. So society continues shoveling and we continue rising. This is the cycle we share.

 

Thank you for this moment of your life that you shared with me, I will carry it as a treasure; and in those moments of silence when ever I feel forlorn, I will gently hold it close to keep my heart and hopes warm.

 

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Dortell Williams - Lancaster, California

 

May 14, 2008

 

I was thinking about my last conversation with you. It reminded me of a recent report that said most men are intimidated by intelligent women.  Not me.  I like intelligent women (and men, but not in the way, of course). I don’t know why men get intimidated by smart women.  Intelligent people bring something special to the relationship.  They make it stimulating.  Plus, intelligent people, in my opinion, are less likely to hurt you or bring you ill because they don’t engage in all the folly associated with people who are less learned.

 

I am attracted to a woman’s intelligent mind just as much (or more so) than her physical beauty. Probably because I love learning and being around people who I can learn from.  What better way to compliment each other?

 

I got published again.  This time in the San Francisco Bay View, a black-owned community paper.  It was another commentary about the Honor Program (prisonhonorprogram.org). “A Plea for Rehabilitation” is the name of the piece. It’s the first piece I’ve ever had published accompanied by my picture. Couldn’t help but smile at that. It’s amazing what a pen can do, and a little study, of course.  People can do anything if they have the drive, and the resources.  I think providing these should be the goal of every prison.