http://criminaljustice.change.org/blog/view/solitary_confinement_wasteful_useless

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http://criminaljustice.change.org/blog/view/f_is_still_for_failure

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Bam has listened to a number of my presentations at Taft Camp–I often speak to groups of at-risk youth, and I teach a class on setting goals and success strategies. He recently approached me expressing an interest in reforming, in changing his ways to become a responsible member of society. I spent several hours with Bam, mentoring him on steps he can take now that would prepare him to overcome the challenges that await his release.

It’s not easy to convey the message of responsibility to former gang members. People who made allegiances to crime have a hard time connecting the relationship between their criminal decisions and the type of people they’ve become. To help Bam, I suggested that he read a booklet I wrote that describes the stories of other prisoners who reformed their lives—some of whom are also former gang members I mentored. Once he finished reading the booklet, I asked him to write a biography.

Bam surprised me by writing more than 20 pages describing his background prior to prison, the decisions that brought him to prison, and the motivations that influenced his early adjustment to prison. I appreciated his honesty, and we spent three hours talking about the connection between his decisions and the struggles he’s faced in his life. 

Part of the mentoring process is to help Bam envision the many ways his life would improve if he acted more responsibly. He needs a reason to make the personal investment, and visualizing how much better his life could become is the first step toward that investment in introspection. After we talked about his past, I suggested concrete steps he could begin taking to extricate himself from the cycle of failure that holds so many prisoners.  

Like many prisoners, Bam needs hope. Without hope, he won’t see the reason to change. Mentoring prisoners like Bam is part of my personal commitment, and I take the responsibility seriously. I hope that Bam will commit to changing his life.

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In the parlance of the penitentiary, we generally understand an inmate as one who becomes a little bit too closely aligned with the institution and its rules. Inmates are quick to engage in conversation with staff members. It seems as if inmates suffer a bit from the Stockholm Syndrome, where they identify more with their captors than with others who share their captivity.

While I was confined in one penitentiary, for example, violence erupted with regularity. Alarm messages from control center went out to each guard’s radio. Upon hearing of the disturbance, the officers deserted their assigned posts to run as a pack toward the altercation. Those of us in prison saw the guards running from one area of the massive penitentiary to another several times each day.

Convicts and inmates would differ in their thoughts as they watched packs of guards running in the same direction. A common convict expression went along the lines of “please let them find a dead body.” While an inmate once confided to me, on the other hand, that he felt torn because he wanted to run with the guards to lend a hand.

Being a model inmate does not necessarily imply that he deliberately informs or “rats” on other prisoners to save himself. Yet inmates are known to “dry snitch” on activities rather than confront problems directly.

For example, inmates who don’t like another prisoner for one reason or another may send an anonymous note to staff members that describe misconduct or contraband hustles of the rival. Inmates who toady up to staff may inadvertently describe how hard they work while letting it slip that other prisoners on the detail don’t work hard enough.

The inmate strives to advance his standing by engaging in small talk with staff members. Inmates inquire about the staff member’s home life, chat about sports, show photographs of family members from home. The inmates are, in the eyes of administrators, the element they can count on within the penitentiary. Inmates don’t make waves and they help maintain order.

Convicts differ from inmates. Convicts may abide by the rules, but only because they want to avoid additional aggravations or frustrations. Yet if he believes breaking a rule would be in his interest, he will make his choice and live with the consequences. A convict would never cooperate with a staff member in some kind of diabolical deal to spare himself. Convicts have an air of defiance. He may suppress that defiance, though he feels it coursing through his veins.

A convict would never engage in small talk with a staff member. Convicts do not ask how the staff member passed his weekend, does not ask whether the staff member caught the game on television. A convict believes in the clear separation between those who walk around with rings of clattering keys, and those locked inside the boundaries. Convicts do not share food or photographs with staff members; they understand that staff members represent the institution. It is staff members who rifle through the property of prisoners. It is staff members who order the prisoners to strip naked for a body search. It is staff members who lock prisoners in segregation and cut off access to their family.

Upon reading these distinctions between the inmate and the convict, those who live outside the twisted world of the penitentiary may find themselves surprised as to which is a term of respect and which is a term of derision.

Administrators look upon those within prison boundaries as criminals. To some extent, staff members believe prisoners unworthy of the common humanity we all share. Prisoners are numbers to be counted and managed, as if inventory in a warehouse, or animals in a menagerie, incapable of redemption, not deserving of trust.

Staff members expect the inmate to whine, to tattle, to shift blame and play the victim. Inmates feel certain that others may belong in prison, yet in their personal situations, injustice prevailed. Although staff members may exploit the weakness in the inmate’s utter lack of character, neither bonds of genuine respect nor respect exist.

The convict may not receive the perks that inmates take for granted from staff members, yet the convict may earn respect. Provided the convict is not engaged in or suspected of wrongdoing, staff members will refrain from petty harassment or patronizing conversations. Staff members and convicts alike understand that a clear line exists. Provided no problems erupt, both parties stay on their side and strive to minimize interference with the customs or beliefs of the others.

After my more than 21 years of continuous imprisonment, some ask whether I identify as a convict or an inmate. The answer, for me, is neither. I am not beholden to any group within these boundaries that separate me. I am a man, a being of dignity and honor. I am an American, a citizen with allegiance to my wife and family. I reject both labels of convict and inmate, as I continue this odyssey, this long and arduous journey home. I describe more of that journey in My Literary Escape From Punishment.

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I do not think staff members as individuals relate to prisoners with a common humanity. Staff policies discourage them from interacting with prisoners on a personal level. The reason for this separation is that close interactions between inmates and staff can threaten the security of a prison environment. Security and preservation of the institution trumps the system’s concern for the inmate’s development. If the system had concerns about preparing inmates for law-abiding, contributory lives upon release, they would offer opportunities for inmates to earn freedom through merit. Instead, all that matters is the turning of calendar pages. The infrastructure inside generates a lot of friction and callousness and cynicism. I would not go so far as to write that staff members want to see inmate failure, though the policies of the system seem to discourage staff members from focusing on anything that would have to do with correcting behavior.

My term in prison began in 1987. I began serving my sentence inside the walls of a high-security penitentiary. After several years, I transferred to a medium-security prison. Then administrators transferred me to a low-security prison, where I was held for eight years. In 2003, administrators transferred me to a minimum-security camp, and I expect to remain in camp until my release, in 2012. After having served more than 21 years in prisons of every security level, I would conclude that very little correcting goes on. Prisons are more like human warehouses. Changes may come, but for now there does not seem to be a lot that would suggest to me that the system particularly “cares” about inmates. The allegiance that administrators show is to society. Through their myopic view, they create infrastructures that alienate prisoners. They limit access to education; they disrupt family ties; they extinguish hope; they punish rather than incentivize. As a consequence of such un-American policies, prisons breed failure as high recidivism rates show.

That is my perspective as a long-term prisoner. Through my writing, I hope to help others understand more about America’s prison system and urge reform.

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In prison, however, educational pursuits have little influence over a man’s status. The prisons where I served my first decade were violent. Earning respect required an individual to instill fear in other men. A college degree would not yield much respect, but a man who was skillful in using a knife might win the privilege of a single cell. If a person was able to control a prison gang, others might pay homage to him. Such distinctions seemed trivial to me. I knew that I would walk out of prison gates one day, and I focused exclusively on steps I could take to prepare for the challenges I expected to face.

Later, as I served more time, I found that I developed a kind of seniority. Prisoners respect those who have served lengthy periods with dignity intact. Now I have more than 21 years of prison behind me. That length of time gives me the unwelcome distinction of being the prisoner with the most time in at my prison. Wherever administrators send me, I will be in the top two percent of prisoners with continuous time inside.

The crime for which I am serving my sentence may not offer me much distinction in prison. The length of time I have served is what seems to matter. More than the time, however, would be the blessings I have found since my sentence began. Prisoners admire me because I have published several books and because I have created a life for myself while serving a lengthy sentence. Despite the limitations of confinement, I have resources in the world, employment opportunities that await me, an extensive network of support, and an extraordinary marriage with an exceptionally beautiful woman who married me in a prison visiting room.

Other prisoners would like to serve time in the way that I have, as my life surpasses that of most long-term prisoners. Anyone who makes the adjustment choices that I made can prepare for release and find meaning. I describe strategies that helped me in articles available at www.criminal-indictment.com.

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My status in prison did not play such a role in the decisions I made. Indeed, prisoners do not truly embrace the man who strives to reconcile with society. The infrastructure of prison is one that perversely encourages negativity, violence, and antisocial values. The key that enabled me to grow through my confinement was a sincere desire to emerge successfully, and a will to carry my plans through. More than 20 years ago I committed to an educational program. That educational program led me to open new opportunities that would not have been possible if I would have adjusted in the ways that most prisoners choose. The choices I made, with God’s guidance, mean that I am well prepared to emerge from prison as a contributing citizen. Rather than fears, I feel inspired to work hard so that I can prove myself worthy of the love I’ve received from my wife Carole, and the support I’ve received from so many.

The growing network of support that I nurture enables me to interact with society in ways that few other long-term prisoners enjoy. During my imprisonment I have been blessed with opportunities that brought meaning to my life. The adjustment pattern I pursued has made all the difference, though it has not been an accident.

Because of my total focus on emerging successfully from prison, I have felt as if I was in prison but that I never became a part of the prison. Through my work I feel as if I am contributing to the broader society. The work has enabled me to accumulate resources that will assist my transition into society. Most importantly, my work has brought me into contact with a beautiful woman who has become my partner by marrying me in a prison visiting room. Together we are able to make plans and work toward goals. With her support, and the network I have built, I do not have the fears that paralyze so many others who have served lengthy sentences.

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When I began serving my sentence, in 1987, very few women worked as guards inside the penitentiary. Since then, prisons have changed their employment practices. Women work not only as secretaries and receptionists, but also as prison guards, lieutenants, captains, and even wardens. In fact, recently, the director of the entire federal prison system was a woman.

Women work inside the penitentiary in every capacity. They spend entire shifts in the midst of hardened felons. Administrators do not seem to take any special precautionary steps to protect female staff members from the volatility that can erupt inside prison environments. By working in the prison, all staff members accept the dangers that come with the assignment.

During the years that I have served, I have never known a female staff member to have been targeted for attack or any particular danger. There have been numerous incidents that I have known where female staff members are corrupted into inappropriate relationships with prisoners, though I have never known of a female staff member to suffer any dangers.

Female staff members have no less access to male prisoners than their male colleagues. Some female staff members supervise cadres of more than 20 inmate workers. Other female staff members work one-on-one with a male prisoner in a relatively secluded environment for more than a few hours; they have total autonomy to move through the prison just as males.

Staff members frequently carry transmitting radios that come equipped with panic buttons. Should they feel threatened, they may sound the alarm by pushing a button at their side, and scores of their fellow officers will rush to the area where the staff member is assigned. Recently, administrators have installed surveillance cameras that record the happenings at various spots around the institution. There are other control techniques to maintain security within the prison, yet during the more than 21 years that I have served, I have not noticed any particular attention made to protect female staff members more than their male counterparts. Everyone who staffs a prison is considered a professional, and the staff members support each other equally.

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In higher-security prisons, violence and power grabbing dominate the subculture. Rather than focusing on preparations for release, prisoners clique up and strive to create their own identities inside the fences and walls. They serve years and decades together, and for many, building a prison reputation within the community is an essential part of life. Yet rather than concerning themselves with intellectual distinction, careers, or the lives of others, high-security prisoners concern themselves with prison respect. For most, that means a reputation of standing up to authority, for paying any price to defend one’s perception of honor.

While I served time in higher security prisons, I created niches for myself to avoid interactions or altercations with the prison subculture. That strategy enabled me to reach significant goals that I set without encountering any problems. Some people mistakenly attribute my avoidance of problems to the fact that I serve a lengthy sentence for my conviction of being a drug kingpin. Yet I am certain that neither the crime for which I am serving time, nor the lengthy sentence that I serve, has had much of an impact on my ability to avoid prison subcultures and the toxic influences they bring.

Other than rapists, child molesters, or those who cooperated in some way with law enforcement, the prison community is indifferent to the crimes that brought a man inside. Leaders of the most powerful prison gangs began serving time for simple crimes like car theft, while those who formerly led organized crime syndicates may find themselves challenged by less notorious criminals in prison. My crime and sentence may have absolved me from suppositions that I may have cooperated with law enforcement. Other than that, it did not shield me from the challenges that every high-security prisoner had to face.

The choices I made inside were the reason behind my successful adjustment. I wrote about those choices extensively in articles available at criminal-indictment.com, yet in essence, it was my absolute commitment to prepare for success upon release that kept me away from the problems that many encounter in penitentiaries. I have served more than 21 years in prison, yet I have never been a part of the subculture. My allegiance has always been on preparing for life outside. All of my decisions enabled me to focus on such goals; they kept me away from altercations and confrontations.

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Protective custody is simply the Special Housing Unit (SHU), otherwise known as “the hole.” It is a locked cell that is stripped of all liberties. Inmates who serve time in PC do not enjoy free access to telephones, recreation, or the library. They spend all of their time locked in a tiny cell, usually with another PC inmate. It is a difficult way to serve time, even though the PC inmate is separated from the general population of the prison.

I’ve served time in prisons of every security level. For the past five years I’ve been held within the boundaries of various minimum-security camps. Prior to 2003, however, I was held inside secure prisons. Those fences contained considerable amounts of predatory offenders, and violence was an ordinary and unremarkable aspect of every day. The higher the security level, the more prevalence was bloodshed. Some inmates sought protection from the violence by going into protective custody.

Inmates who approach an officer and ask for protection will meet with a lieutenant and explain the reasons why he feels threatened. Sometimes the inmate will provide the lieutenant with the names of prisoners who are threatening him, but other times the inmate will feel threatened by entire groups of inmates and will not be able to specify a single individual. The lieutenant will make a decision of whether to admit the prisoner into protective custody.

Rumors spread in the prison as quickly as a gasoline fire. Guards talk to inmates. Besides that, the SHU has a daily turnover, with some prisoners going in and other prisoners returning to the general population. In a specific wing of the SHU, word spreads from one cell to another about who is locked inside the cells. News spreads through the SHU, and those released back into the general population then carry that news with them.

Despite serving time in prisons of every security level, I’ve never sought protection from staff members or from other inmates. Instead, I’ve found it best understand the dangers of my environment, and choose my activities and associates carefully. I adjusted in ways to ensure that I would reach my goals while simultaneously avoiding problems with others. I do not expect staff members to protect me. Although PC is an option that some inmates choose, it is not one that I would encourage because such a choice can bring retaliation from prisoners who consider PC inmates the same as snitches. It is better, my experience suggests, to adjust in ways that avoid problems.

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