I thought I would share some Journal entries from a Tucson, Arizona Inmate:
Jon
- Age:
38
- Gender:
Male
- Astrological Sign:
Scorpio
- Zodiac Year:
Monkey
- Occupation: Writer, prisoner
- Location: Tucson, AZ
About Me
Celled-up amid murderers, shemales, and homies at Tucson prison. A
British stockbroker and rave organiser sporting Day-Glo
orangewear,dodging booty bandits and fighting science-fiction fascism.
'Sufferer Of The Week'
I
am allowed out of my cell for 1 hour each day to make a phone call and
to take a shower. During my first " hour out" in the new pod, I was
serenaded by the inmates, who performed a husky version of " A Yellow
Submarine". I was touched by their vocal efforts and their
demonstration of high spirits, in a part of the jail that qualifies as
an area of “high-grade suffering.”
WARNING---VIVID CREEPY-CRAWLY ACTIVITY ALERT ...
My
new co-habitants are enduring the twin evils of a broken swamp-cooler
and a cockroach infestation. They are proving to be the crème de le
crème of good sufferers. A neighbouring asthmatic inmate happily
described how he inhaled a cockroach that had crept into his nebulizer.
He could feel the insect crawling around inside him and promptly
vomited his stomach contents. Unfortunately the cockroach was not
ejected, as it was lodged in his lung. He was subsequently awarded
“sufferer of the week” without any real competition. *
*
“Sufferer of the week” was an idea of mine that has delighted and
distracted my fellow inmates. The title is given to the inmate who the
rest of the pod feel has suffered most.
My cellmate and I have
used 6 tubes of AmerFresh toothpaste and 6 ounces of Razorless Beard
remover cementing cracks in the walls. The cockroaches still flood our
cell every night and I have awoken several times this week to observe
my body hair stood up on end and a cockroach crawling on my person. I
had previously considered my ape-like fur coating as one of nature's
cruel jokes, but now I have discovered that it is a useful defensive
shield against verminous insects. My upright hairs must seem like an
unwelcoming forest to the little foragers.
I once read about a
lady in Australia whose ear was de-virginized while she was sleeping by
an overly pioneering cockroach. She was hospitalised, operated on and
she subsequently and successfully, sued the Australian Government for
failing to eradicate the pests from her council home. I was reminded of
the ear incident this week when I noticed an excited cockroach dancing
on my pink flannel, where tawny earwax residue had stained it. I told
my cellmate about the Australian lady and he now sleeps with his pink
towel wrapped around his head. I am hoping that my hirsute body will
prevent any bugs from plundering the sanctity of my inner ear.
A
70-year-old inmate downstairs was the first victim of the soaring
temperatures. He was carried from the pod on a stretcher after
suffering from chest pains. Before he collapsed, he became delusional
and made several bizarre comments that disturbed his young cellmate,
including...
" Take me to the hospital so I can put on my clothes."
" Take me out to the desert and shoot me."
" Let's go! Grab the key for the front door."
" I have a broken back------ I can't walk!"
Chicken Wing is in a neighbouring pod and I am trying to find out if the Church on the Street will accept him when he leaves.
Roach Attack
One of the unsettling things about cellular living is that the jail
authorities can randomly uproot an inmate at any time and transplant
him into a new environment. During my two-year stay at the jail, I have
been rolled-up (moved) several times. A new cell equals a new garrison
of cockroaches to battle and I have learnt to travel armed with
AmerFresh Fluoride toothpaste which blocks cockroach entry points very
effectively.
On Tuesday our whole pod was moved to a different floor and I used
my entire stock of AmerFresh to seal the numerous cockroach-launching
points. The new cell was quickly and expertly fortified against the
enemy. That night I slept soundly after observing the bug-free
environment and enjoying the room's minty, fresh smell. Little did I
know that the jail was about to sabotage my hard work.
On Wednesday I was moved back again to my original floor and into
one of the most cockroach-infested pods in the building. I was
completely unarmed and I helplessly watched numerous cockroaches size
up yours truly from the myriad cracks in the walls. The lights were
still on, but I knew that by nighttime I would be doomed. My new
cellmate and I didn’t get much sleep, but lay awake watching the
legions of cockroaches conquer the room. Whirling around us, they
swarmed the floor, the walls, the ceiling, our commissary bags and
finally, our bunks.
After Wednesday's defeat I obtained a 170-gram tube of Mild Magic
Fragrant Cream Shave Razorless Beard Remover {depilatory} and I spent 2
hours today filling in the cracks. The enemy emerge like clockwork when
the lights go out, so I shall up-date tonight’s skirmish in next week’s
blog.
My new cellmate is mellow, but the air-conditioning is not working
properly and my favourite Radio show Coast2Coast does not tune in very
well.
Jon's Most Recent Posts
The Sad Story of Lurch
One
of my neighbours, Lurch, who is a giant-sized man with extreme learning
difficulties, is serving time because he accidentally shot and
paralysed his young friend. Thanks mostly to the criminal behaviour of
a public defender who worked against him and a prosecutor who charged
him with all kinds of offences; he was sentenced to twenty years. In
prison, members of the Aryan Brotherhood wielding socks filled with
steel padlocks almost killed him.
Lurch allowed me to read his
court documents and letters. The letter from his mother to the judge
brought tears to my eyes. Also, I noticed some sentencing errors in his
paperwork. He’s eligible for release several years before the prison
calculation, so we’re going to see the counsellor to try and bring his
release date forward.
Can you imagine how many more Lurches
there are stuck in the prison system for want of help, their stories never to be heard?
I’m A Teacher
I’m
a teacher now. In August I chanced upon one of the most coveted jobs on
the yard. It entails helping prisoners study for their GED exams. As
there is no air-conditioned room to hold a class in, I do ‘house
calls’. I spend the morning helping Too Tall change percents to
fractions and divide fractions by fractions. Teaching him gave me a
feeling of well-being. The opportunity to influence some prisoners’
lives in my own small way is appreciated.
My Sister’s Wedding
The high point of today was
hearing the voices of my parents describe with joy my sister, Karen’s
wedding. Karen married Andrew, a press photographer, who almost didn’t
make it after a very close call with the Taliban in Helmand,
Afghanistan, while on assignment just a couple of weeks before the big
day. The wedding took place at St. Bede’s Church where I once served as
an altar boy, and where I planned to marry Claudia, my ex fiancée.
The
happy event couldn’t have come at a better time for my family as
tensions have been rising lately due to complications associated with
my release. I am eligible to be released next month but the corrections
department has not yet fully processed or confirmed this.
On the
day of the wedding I felt sad as I imagined the ceremony and the
celebrations – all occurring without my participation. I was again
reminded of how I’ve let my family down – my absence being a
consequence of my misbehaviour. But at least Karen seems to be going
from strength to strength. I like to imagine this acting as a
counterbalance to the stress my incarceration has caused of my parents.
At
least I’m nearly clear of here. It just remains for me to get out and
to seize with gusto the opportunity to emulate Karen’s successes in
personal relationships and my career.
The happy couple are now on a three-week honeymoon including a safari in Kenya, and stays at Tanzania and Zanzibar
October 7
From Suicide Prevention Aide to Tailor of Prison Panties
“What’s big and white and drips from the sky?” Xena asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“My kingdom come.”
“Oh boy,” I said. “What’s new with you?”
“I got put on thirty days LOP [Loss Of Privileges] and lost my suicide prevention aide job for callin’ a sergeant a ***.”
“Do you miss your suicide prevention aide job?” I asked.
“No. I had to look inside people’s windows, which I really hated.”
“Do you have a job now?”
“My new job is makin' panties.”
“That’s great. Do you have orders?”
“A few.”
“Including Slope no doubt?”
“I think the redneck would put the panties on his head, fall asleep at night, and get in trouble when the graveyard-shift cop puts his flashlight to the window. But what’ll really *** Slope up is when they find the bra around his ankles. He’ll say it’s a rubber band to keep his feet from kickin’ ‘cause rednecks are always runnin’ from somethin’ in the middle of the night.”
“A reader asked me to ask you whether her and her prison boyfriend will stay in their relationship. She’s stressed and worried.”
“If she becomes Cult of Xena she’ll never have to worry about that again. You know why? In Cox we don’t have relationships – we are relationships!”
“Any messages for COX members?”
“Be spontaneous, girls and boys. Especially you girls with the thing between the package. And you boys: as long as you got big breasts, you show ‘em off. Stay fabulous and drink lots of water – ‘cause it keeps you ample.
The Future of Jon’s Jail Journal
Some of my readers have asked about my post release plans for this blog.
I intend to keep posting the progress of the blog characters. Most of them – including Xena and Two Tonys
– have agreed to provide written updates, and my friend Jack, a
brilliant writer on Yard 4, has agreed to provide accounts of what’s
going on on Yard 4, including tracking the blog characters. Some of the
regulars (including Frankie, T-Bone, and Weird Al) are scheduled for release in 2008, and I hope to follow their progress.
There
are hundreds of blogs not yet posted for various reasons: my parents
felt them too risqué, or they may have caused problems for someone if
they had been posted when written. I’ve also written many stories,
including Two Tony’s life story, and short stories incorporating the
blog characters.
Some of you are wondering how I’ll fare post
release. Will I achieve new successes? Will I do drugs again and go to
the devil? Will anything come of my relationship with Royo Girl? How will I cope in England after being away for sixteen years? – especially living in my parents’ garage!
I
intend to blog my post release progress, and to seek out new characters
– especially the colourful and the downtrodden. I’m sure Aunt Lily will be blogged. Reading D.H. Lawrence recently made me think of ways I can portray my northern hometown.
I
want to continue to use the blog to help prisoners and to expose
injustice. I shall continue to answer your questions and to write about
anything you care to suggest. I’ve tried to answer many of your queries
at My Space, so I may continue to do that or I may merge that function back into the blog.
With
only a short time left to go can you imagine how excited I am? I can’t
wait to meet some of you in person or over the Internet. What a journey
you’ve helped me get through! And how much has been accomplished due to
your support! Thanks for your kindness! Yes! And for helping me demonstrate that prisoners are indeed members of the human race.
12 Oct 07
Psychotherapy with Dr. T. (5)
“I’m comin’ out of my cage
An' I’m doin’ just fine”
- Killers
Mr. Brightside“To live, to err, to fail, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.”
- James Joyce
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
“You look happy,”
Dr. T. said.
“Yes,” I said, beaming with excitement.
“My release was finally processed last week. I should be leaving here next month. Do you have any advice for me when I get out?”
“Get some therapy set up.”
“We have the National Health Service in the UK, I’ll inquire through the local GP.”
“And
look how revved up you are right now. Your enthusiasm is worrying me.
You need to slow down, pull yourself back. Don’t allow yourself to
ascend up into the clouds.”
“But I’m so close to getting out. I’m sincerely happy to be alive.”
“But
when you get overwrought like this you’re apt to making stupid
decisions. There’s enthusiasm, and there’s giddiness, and you’re almost
giddy.”
“Feeling happy hypo-manic is one of the best feelings in the world.”
“I have two dogs at home and one of them nearly got herself euthanised.”
“Why was that?”
“Because
she was bounding around with over-excitement, jumping up on people and
grabbing their arms with her forelegs. That’s how your excitement is
coming across right now. Your emotional side has taken over. The
rational side needs to be running the show. If the rational part is in
control then you’ll stop and think before you make decisions. You’ll
ask yourself: does this make sense? Does this lead to trouble? What is
the downside?”
“As far as the bigger picture is concerned, I feel that my prison experience has enabled me to do that.”
“Then you should be able to stay out of trouble and not end up back in prison.”
“I’ve
got a plan for when I get out. I’m determined to live the disciplined
life it requires. When I came to the U.S. I worked long hours on the
phone as a stockbroker, and now I intend to make a similar commitment
to becoming a writer.”
“So what’s this plan you have?”
“To
maintain a strict writing discipline. To write daily, and not to be
swayed by the pleasure-seeking habits of my past. I recently read a
Solzhenitsyn biography, and he wrote for so many hours a day, not
allowing any interruptions. And the odds against him succeeding were
overwhelming. If he could get out of the Gulag camps and accomplish so
much by maintaining such discipline, then I’m ready to take on the
world.”
“Take on the world! There you go again. Why do you feel the need to ‘take on the world?’”
“That’s just the way I am.”
“But isn’t that what got you into trouble in the past?”
“I
have this manic energy, and in the past I got into trouble because I
used it in a negative way, that ended up eventually with me being sent
to jail. But if I use the energy in a positive way, I can do well and
avoid trouble. That’s my goal. I was way too immature before. I feel
that my experience has tempered me somewhat, although I recognise I am
still immature in certain ways. I’ve tried to eliminate those
immaturities that led me to prison, while maintaining a spontaneous
spirit, in the sense of how Jung recommended we try to harness the
energy of our inner child.”
“But when you’re too spontaneous, consequences suddenly arise that you hadn’t thought about.”
“That’s
been the story of my life, and the hardest lesson for me to learn. When
I say I’m ready to take on the world, I mean I’m excited to pursue the
plan I’ve formulated to achieve my long-term goals. When I think how
close I am to employing everything I’ve learned while in prison to the
purpose of succeeding in the outside world, I’m thrilled to bits.”
“Well
don’t get so thrilled that you’re like my dog jumping up on a visitor
with a look that says, ‘Let me chew on your arm, please.’”
Dr. T.
held up her hand, pressed her forefinger to her thumb, and said, “I’m
telling you, she was this close to getting euthanised.”
The rising
pitch of her voice and her widening eyes seemed to say that I too could
easily end up ‘euthanised’ if I didn’t get my excitement in check.
“I’m not averse myself, to chewing on an attractive arm.”
Dr. T. laughed, “Well, I truly wish you luck out there.”
“And thank you for all of the sessions. I’m going to be alright on the outside.”
“As
you’re pursuing these grand plans of yours don’t forget to pull
yourself back from time to time and to ask yourself whether what you’re
doing is going to lead to trouble.”
“I certainly will!”
“Good luck then.”
NOVEMBER 2, 2007
14 Oct 07
The Exorcism
“Did I tell you about the time I was exorcised by the Assembly of God church?” Two Tonys said.
“No,” I said. “This I’ve got to hear. How did that happen?”
“A
wannabe gangster by the name of George Furagie, who claimed he was a
drummer in a band workin’ for the Campisi family, moved to Tucson. The
Campisis were a deadly mob outta New Jersey. He starts hangin’ out at
my restaurant in a black suit, black shirt, white tie, and hair all
sprayed down lookin’ like he just stepped outta The Godfather.
I can tell that when it’s time for some Mobster nitty-gritty he ain’t
got no heart, but I let him play his game. He’s as enthusiastic about
me as if I were Frank Sinatra, so I figure I can use him for some
lightweight this-and-that.
Unknown to me, also in Tucson at that time – late ’79, early ’80 – is a Russian-Jewish killer, Ira Peznick, formerly of the Campisis but now in the Witness Protection program. There’s a book about Peznick called To Drop A Dime. The Campisis wanna kill this guy.
I’m
in my restaurant, and I hear sirens, and see ambulances and fire
engines at the nearby Shell gas station. The fire department are
workin’ on a guy who’s had a heart attack.
Later on Furagie comes in
and says, ‘You’re not gonna believe this. I pulled up at a red light
down the street here, and I look over, and I see this guy that looks
familiar. He’s standin’ and starin’ at me and I’m starin’ at him, and
we go our separate ways. The guy drives three blocks, pulls in the
Shell gas station right here, has a heart attack, and gets out yellin’,
‘Call the police. They’re after me! They’re after me!’ It was Ira
Peznick, and he thought I was out to get him.’
Is it possible? I
don’t know. But Peznick’s heart attack was all over the news with
witnesses quotin’ him sayin’, ‘They’re after me!’ Arizona is a hot area
for Witness Protection. Sammy the Bull was placed in Arizona.
Now I go to the joint and Furagie comes and visits me.
I
get out in ’85. Furagie’s in Tucson, sellin’ cars, and he’s got a
Chicana wife. And I’ll be damned if he hadn’t turned into a born-again
Christian. He’s in at the deep end of the religious pool, and his wife
is too. He shows me his house and picks up an ocotillo cactus skeleton
in the shape of a cross. He says, ‘Look what we found. This is God
talkin’ to me. We found it when we were lookin’ to buy the house. It
was a sign we should buy it.’ He invites me to stay with them. I’m a
little wary but I say ‘OK.’ He tells me he gets up early every mornin’
to go to a prayer meetin’, and he asks me to come, he’s so enthused. I
say, ‘*** it. Let’s go.’
At 5 a.m. we’re up and on our way, and he
has a flat tyre. Furagie says, ‘See what Satan did?’ I say, ‘What?’ He
says, ‘He gave me a flat tyre. Satan’s always workin’ tryin’ to upset
me and mess up my schedule.’ He’s as happy as can be fixin’ the flat
tyre. He’s happy-go-lucky, carefree, whistlin’ like the flat was the
best thing that ever happened to the *** in the whole world.
I’m thinkin’ of poppin’ the goofy *** in the head, puttin’ him
to sleep, puttin’ him outta his misery.
Back on the road to the
church he tells me, ‘The reason I joined the Assembly of God is ‘cos a
church member told me that the Lord had spoken to him and told him that
a drummer was being sent from the east to join the congregation.’
There’s
ten guys at the prayer meetin’. Hardware store people, chiropractors,
*** like that. I don’t know what to do. I sit down and they surround
me in a circle. They start prayin’ and puttin’ their fuckin’ hands on
me. When they start talkin’ in tongues – skoobydawackeeballamackasallikodo - I realise I’m being exorcised. And they’re all talkin’ in different tongues.
I’m thinkin’: Whatthafuck
has Furagie done? Howthafuck did I get myself in this situation? I’m
fresh outta the joint; Furagie’s house is a good crash pad; the grub is
good; by tryin’ to save a few bucks, I’ve fucked myself; it’s 6 in the
mornin’ and I’m at the Assembly of God church surrounded by a bunch of
zealous holy-rollin’ motherfuckers prayin’ for me to cast out the devil
like I’m Attila the fuckin’ Hun. But I can’t hate ‘em. They’re not
tryin’ to pick my pocket or sell me nothin’. They’re just tryin’ to
bring me into their flock. I guess that’s the bottom line with these
motherfuckers: get a guy in your flock.
After ten minutes, I’m getting’ pissed off: Let’s
get this over with. I wanna giddthafuckouttahere. This goofy
*** Furagie has got me trapped down here with a buncha
religious fanatics still talkin’ in tongues outta the side of their
necks. On the way home, I’m gunna put Furagie’s head in a cholla cactus
and make sure the needles stick in his fuckin’ eyeballs.”
“Did you give him the cactus treatment?”
“No.
I just say, ‘Hey George, whatthafucks up with that? Why take me down
that road? I didn’t as for that.’ He says, ‘Look, even if I’m wrong, it
ain’t hurtin’ nothin’. It’s changed my life.’ I tell him. ‘Well it
ain’t for me. And your life ain’t about *** anyway. You’re a car
salesman, that’s all you are.’”
“What became of Furagie?”
“I
stopped my buddy Louie Marconi from beatin’ him up, and I never saw him
again. He’s probably one of those sorry-ass motherfuckers sendin’ Jimmy
Swaggart money. Swaggart’s with Assembly of God. He keep’s getting’
caught with naked prostitutes, but his flock keep forgivin’ the sick
***, and sendin’ him even more money. Swaggart’s in de bizz-ness. Bein’ kept rich by sad motherfuckers like Furagie.
20 Oct 07
To Kiss Xena?
“My
friend, Barry, in Tonopah, told me someone commented on a Royo Girl
blog that I should get a kiss from you before I’m released,” I said to
Xena.
“Listen,
honey,” Xena said. “I’ll give you a big ol’ kiss. I’ll slip some tongue
down your throat too. And while I’m at it, I’ll slip my panties in your
pocket so you have something to remember me by when you get out. That
way you can tie my panties to the corner of your pillow, so when you go
to sleep at night you can smell my taint."
“Taint?”
“Taint my
ass. The only problem is the panties are gonna look like a gunny sac; I
can’t help it; I have a big package. I used to tie myself off to the
side of my leg, but my leg would always fall asleep. I had problems
with my knees once and I realised it was ‘cause every time I jumped out
of bed my penis would slap one knee or other. The only good thing about
it is: I am never weaponless. Everyone knows Xena carries a big glove.”
A passing female guard said, “ That’s a lotta info there, Xena.”
“I’m,”
Xena said, “gonna give the Brit plenty to remember me by – including a
kiss. Royo Girl ain’t got nothin’ on this.” Xena spanked her behind.
Is granting Xena a parting kiss the right thing to do on the eve of my release? And what kind of kiss do you recommend?
Interview with a Homey (1)
“What’s a homey?” I asked.
“Well,”
Fat Boy said, “a homey is slang for like a friend. When the word homey
came out it was like somebody who’s down for you, like somebody who was
real – know what I mean? – and now homey is used real loosely, like
towards an acquaintance.”
“Which homies in Tucson did you hang out with?”
“A
lot of the people I kicked it with were from different hoods – all
Bloods though. There’s Edith Street Posse Blood Gang, South Side Posse
Blood Gang, Southpark, Western Hills, and Vista Blood that split up
into two rival gangs: South Side Familia and Rocka Familia.”
“What does blood mean to you?”
“Blood
is thicker than water. Bloods hang tight to each other. Everywhere we
went we wuz always in groups, you know, rolling in packs.”
“Can anyone be a homey?”
“No.
When a cat you know comes through you don’t necessarily call him your
homey. A homey is someone you know for a minute [a long time] who’s
down for you, who’s not gonna run when the stuff hits the fan.”
“Stuff?”
“Say
some beef pops off, you know, a cat from another hood is running his
mouth, you know, and he’s got his boys, and you’re rolling with yours,
and you know that each one of those dudes with you is gonna scrap with
you if they have to.”
“Why do beefs pop off?”
“Maybe a rival gang
member doesn’t like the colour you’re wearing. There’s a lotta cats
that hate for any reason: the ride you’re driving, the gang you’re
rolling with, the girls you’ve got with you; or they might see you
flashing money, pulling out a wad; then you’ve got cats who once they
get drunk they wanna get stupid; a cat may not like what you said.”
“Let’s talk about the slang you use.”
“OK.”
1 Nov 07
My Plan
From a letter to my parents:
…I have just finished reading a Solzhenitsyn bio that I started two days ago and couldn’t put down. It’s as if fate has stepped in just before my release and strengthened my commitment to making a go of writing.
My suffering can’t compare with what Solzhenitsyn had to endure, yet he rose from prison to spearhead the literary elite of Russia. Death called on him so many times: on the front fighting the ***, in Russian prisons, and then in the form of cancer. Reading about the odds he overcome has inspired me. From prison he was exiled to Kazakhstan where he knew no one, and he ended up lodging in a corner of a kitchen in an old couple’s house.
As for me, I have your loving home to go to. He set strict limits on his social life and gave writing his all. He funnelled his prison experiences into fiction in such an honest and compelling way that his book about Ivan Denisovich caused a revolution in Russian writing. This quote really touched me:
“The writer’s tasks concern more general and eternal questions – the secrets of the human heart and conscience, the clash between life and death, and the overcoming of inner sorrow.”
These Russian literary geniuses (including Tolstoy and Chekhov) seem to have a knack for penetrating the human soul and portraying it in an uplifting way in their prose. Not that I could come anywhere near the genius of these great writers, but I’ve tried to go some way in that direction and as I continue my writing should mature.
Anyway, I learned a lot more from this bio than I can convey in this letter – especially how I need to have a disciplined work ethic, like I had when I began stock broking. I’m used to a monastic life, so you locking me in the garage extension and feeding me meagre meals won’t be a problem.
I don’t intend to succumb to the temptations of my former life. I need to be with people who will have a positive influence on my life. I would like to use the knowledge I’ve gained to help with prison reform, help young offenders or speak to youngsters about my involvement with drugs and how I ended up – celled up.
I’ve certainly undergone the “impoverishment and devastation” that according to Thomas Mann, constitute the preliminary conditions to serious writing. And Solzhenitsyn claimed: “Good literature arises out of pain.” I would like to expose injustices through my writing. I’m willing to make the necessary sacrifices. I’d be happy to accomplish a fraction of what Solzhenitsyn accomplished.
With your help, I just need to follow through on the opportunities that continue to come my way, and to keep myself emotionally stable…
4 Nov 07
The Royo Romance (19)
“I read some of the nasty comments people have made about me at your blog,” Royo Girl said at visitation.
“What nasty comments?” I asked.
“That I’m leading you on, and I’m not a good person,” she said with anguish.
“But you’ve gone out of your way so many times to visit me and bring some happiness into my life.”
“There were some comments on my side.”
“Good.”
“I put my own comment on anonymously.”
“Nice one," I said laughing. "I’m glad you stuck up for yourself.”
“How’s your release and deportation arrangements going?”
“I’m
due to be picked up by immigration on 16th November. They’ll take me to
a holding centre; not sure which one, but I’m optimistic that once I’m
there it won’t take them long to do the paperwork and put me on a plane
for England,” I said, feelings of elation starting to rise.
“So are you prepared for freedom?”
“Yes. But my mum’s worrying about how I’ll adjust"
"That's only natural. Your folks have been through a lot."
"Yes, But I’m not phased. I can’t wait to embrace the world. I feel the best I’ve ever felt in my life.”
“But are you prepared for both sides?”
“What do you mean?”
“The positive and the negative.”
“Like what?”
“Like how people are going to respond to you.”
“I’ve not tried to hide who I am. People can respond however they wish to respond.”
“People may be wary of you coming from prison.”
“That’s on them. Prison has made me who I am today. I am happy with who I’ve become.”
“I think prison has made you a better person,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, pausing to admire how pretty she looked with her hair in a headband, when I guard summoned me to the desk.
“Did you know you have another visitor?”
“No,” I said genuinely surprised.
“Well,” he said looking over at Royo Girl, “I can stop the person from coming in if you’d like?”
“Let’s not do that. Let’s find out who it is.”
“OK.” He made a call and ascertained it was Barry from Tonopah (the father of my ex fiancée, Claudia).
“Let him in,” I said.
Barry
came in and gave me a hug. The one time burly ex-biker had lost a lot
of weight due to medical problems, including numerous seizures.
I
was deeply touched by Barry making the effort to travel down to Tucson
to see me before my deportation. “Thanks for coming Barry. I didn’t
expect this. I have a visitor right now, so come and join us.”
“You have a visitor?”
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to surprise you,” Barry said. “Where’s the visitor at?”
I pointed to Royo Girl.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t stay.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s great to see you. But near the end of the visit I’d like to get some kissing in.”
“With me?”
“We’ll have to save that for another occasion.”
“In that case I’ll leave before the end.”
08 Nov 07
Parting Advice from T-Bone
“One
of the things,” T-Bone began, “you need to do is to sit down at the
table with Mom and Pop and learn who they really are as human beings.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“How long have they been married?”
“Nearly forty years.”
“Can
you imagine all the ups and downs they’ve been through over the years?
Yet they are still together. They are successful people – learn how
they did it, so you can grow and obtain wisdom and knowledge and
understanding. You’ve been through some things in the States and you
didn’t connect with your family in the right way. I’m telling you as a
man, you need to sit down with them over a cup of tea. Do you have the
guts to do it?”
“I hope so.”
“And when you’re talking with them,
if your heart doesn’t jump with pride, honour, and astonishment then
you’re empty inside ’cause what they’ve done takes strength.
You
also need to stay away from chicks who are party-girls, and to focus on
one woman. What are you gonna do if you meet some chick in a flimsy
little outfit, (a fishnet dress, maybe), and she’s five-seven, nicely
built, up on heels and plenty of makeup, and she has a bunch of X, and
she comes to you and says, ‘Bring your pretty little butt over here,
Jonny?’ You have to make a choice. She’s mesmerizing. She’s
tantalizing. She’s sexy. Her breath smells like cinnamon and jasmine.
Her bed is perfumed with myrrh and aloes like the harlot in Proverbs 7.
Are you gonna go for the temptation that leads you down the path of
destruction?”
“No!”
“Are you gonna allow her perfume and drugs to seduce you, to take you to the demonic realm?”
“I’m out of that lifestyle.”
To be continued…
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
06 Nov 07
Wild Man (2)
Disembarking from the van involved going down steps. When the officer opened the door to let the men out,
Wild Man stooped
out and stopped on the top step, he surveyed the inmates, whose
chanting had now mostly ground to a halt, and were staring in awe at
this fearsome bear-like man. (He was called
el oso in Mexico
because of his size and fighting style.) Displaying a smile of
contempt, he raised his chin and aimed his shaggy beard at the line of
men.
“If you,” he began while nodding at one of the men, “and you,”
locking his crazed bloodshot eyes on another, “and you, continue to
disrespect,” now raising his cuffed arms as if he were about to break
free, “my woman, then we’re gonna be having problems when we get inside
those cells.” He pointed at the formation of cells known as the
notorious ‘horseshoe’ – and grinned.
The majority of the men were now quiet.
“You
think I won’t?” Wild Man gazed out over the prisoners that were still
(now quietly) chanting. He broke into a deep laugh that suggested he
would not find it distasteful if the men were to give him the slightest
reason to break some of their bones.
A transportation officer came round the back of the van, “You! Shut up, and get down those steps!”
“*** you, pig!” Wild Man shouted back. “You can call me McVicar!”
Transfixed by this fierce madman, not a prisoner said a word.
Refocusing
on the male prisoners, Wild Man lowered his voice, and said, “I can’t
wait till we’re inside altogether, and it’ll be nice and cosy.” He
scanned the line a final time to see if there were any takers. Seeming
satisfied, he stepped down, twinkled his eyes at his fiancée, and said,
“ Y’alright love?”
The faces of the women commenced to noticeably relax.
15 Nov 07
Release (4) letters to parents
Four More Days
It’s
just after lunch. No sooner had I hid a cheese sandwich smuggled back
from the chow hall in my a/c vent and a banana (traded to me by a
Jewish-diet-receiving Chicano gangster for some sugar and jelly) in my
food smuggling jacket, than Officer A, who’s been on the rampage all week searching cells and doling out disciplinary tickets, stopped at my door.
“Did you get your release sorted out?” she asked.
“Yeah. It’s set for Tuesday not Friday though. I’ve got to do an extra four days.”
“That’s
four more days to enjoy our delicious food, to think what put you in
prison so you don’t come back, and to enjoy the company of your friends
here.”
Kat, in line for CO3 H’s office, turned around and said, “Oo yeah! Jon,” and seductively wiggled his body.
Looking at Kat, Officer A said, “There you go, Jon.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“At least you’re not in a prison in England, I imagine they’re worse.”
“Some of them are like dungeons built centuries ago. They cut prisoners heads off and put them on sticks outside the prisons.”
“They don’t still do that do they?”
“No,” I said, and laughed. “But they did back in the old days.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Four more days is no biggie,” I said.
“That’s four more days of his life he’s never gonna get back,” a prisoner yelled.
“At least it’s not four more years,” the guard said.
“I think I’ll survive,” I said.
When the guard had left, Kat entered my cell and said, “With Xena in the hole, I’ll be stopping by tonight to discuss this parting kiss with you.”
Before I could object, Kat spun on his heels and glided away down the run.
2pm
Just
before the swing shift arrived, the prisoners made an attempt to get
rid of Officer A (her offences now include going into cells when the
occupants are absent and reading personal mail). Apparently, the
officer went walking the runs while leaving the control door open – a
major security violation, as from the control room all of the cells and
gates can be opened. The open door was swiftly brought to the attention
of CO3 H, who signed a kite written by the prisoners describing the
incident, intended to be read by the Captain. However, full of
themselves for being about to get one up on Officer A, the prisoners
went and bragged about it to her partner, Officer M. Before the kite
had reached the Captain, the plot unfolded, and the guilty officer
’fessed up to the Captain and perhaps secured her position and reign of
tyranny here. Officer A will probably start retaliating tomorrow with
more cell searches, tickets, and confiscation of property.
“She’ll be goin’ on a killin’ mission tomorrow,” sighed my neighbour, Black Nine.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
14 Nov 07
Release (3) letters to parents
...
I do appreciate all of your blog slog, and that you've tempered some of
my excesses and perversions with your editing skills. My mind is such
that my prose is prone to going beyond left field, not as much as it
used to, but still it manages to go there somehow and I don't even
notice it at the time. You've given so much of your time, typing it up,
editing and dealing with my emails, what will you do when I'm in
charge? I understand your qualms about handing it over. It's safe with
me. Honest! Ha! Ha! ..
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
13 Nov 07
Release (2) letters to parents
Today
has been a day of conflicting emotions. Thanks for putting in the calls
necessary to get the wheels of bureaucracy turning. I am insanely happy
that my release was finally confirmed this afternoon, and I have been
scheduled to be picked up by ICE this Friday. This morning C03 H told
me, “Your release is confirmed,” at which point my heart leaped, and he
then added, “but you’re not actually down as being scheduled for
release,” at which point my heart sank again. Getting released isn’t
easy.
The prisoners, who knew I wasn’t scheduled for release
(because word came back from the prisoner clerks privy to these things)
have been placing bets on whether or not my release would go through
and what day they expected me to get out or whether I’d be stuck here
until my next release date. Some still doubt I’ll get out on Friday.
Others have been shaking my hand offering congratulations and asking
for my mailing address in England. A few people who have barely every
talked to me before, have come to my cell, struck up a conversation,
and then at the end of it have asked me something like, “By the way,
have you decided who you are going to give your sunglasses to when you
leave?”
Departing prisoners shower their friends and neighbours
with gifts, in the form of personal property before they leave.
Everything from my orange sportswear down to my pencil sharpener must
go. People started asking me months ago. The first was Too Tall
after my tumbler and lid, an item that has served me well for smuggling
meals out of the chow hall (when I’ve had to postpone eating due to my
work-outs with Iron Man). Then came Red after my chess set, and numerous people after my dictionaries.
Part
of me, although my soul is full of joy, still doesn’t believe I am
about to leave this prison. That part of me will not be satisfied until
the guards in the control room tell me to ‘roll up’. Upon hearing those
winged words and having that last bit of doubt dismissed, I’m sure my
excitement will ratchet up several levels above how I’m feeling right
now.
I’m going to miss my friends on Yard 1. Weird Al’s sarcasm. Working out with Iron Man – a truly strong man who’s added some new dimensions to my life. I’ll miss Xena, who is currently in the hole and safely out of reach of the parting kiss some of the blog readers were hoping for. Kat
came by yesterday and while shaving my back suggested we go one further
than what had been proposed with Xena. Don’t worry; I didn’t, as Xena
likes to say, ’pitch a trouser tent.’ Almost six years in now and I’ve
not (like Frankie predicted I would at the five year mark) gone with any cheetos. ...
... Weird Al just came in and said CO3 H wants to see me.
“I’ve got good news and bad news, which do you want first?” CO3 H said.
“The bad,” I said, my heart sinking again.
“You are not getting out on the 16th.”
“What?” Panic setting in now.
“The good news is that you’re getting out on the 20th. ICE needed seven days notice, the 16th only allowed for four.”
“Well, at least I am getting out. I guess I can hang for another four days.”
Do
you see how things change by the minute around here? It’s madness.
Anyway, it’ll give me a little longer with my friends here, and the
20th will arrive in no time at all. It’ll also give me a chance to
finish the book I just started: Mario Puzo’s The Godfather Returns ...
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them belowCopyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
8 Nov 07
Release (1) letters to parents
...
It's hard not being able to phone you just when I need to keep you up
to date with my release. Lucky I can phone Barry or Sue to email you
messages. I've applied to get the Prisoner Inmate 520 phone number back
on the list, but I'm hoping to be out of Santa Rita before they process
my request, in which case I'll be calling you on the 520 number from
ICE ...
… I saw CO3 ------ yesterday and the day
before, and he said that my release has not been processed at this unit
yet (not Time Comp) according to his computer screen. Apparently, Time
Comp does its thing, then sends the release package here, and these
people have to process it. Other prisoners are telling me to have
someone call down here, so it gets done. I’m going to e-mail you the
info via Sue-O.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
07 Nov 07
Dear Mum & Dad
T-Bone’s parting advice
moved me greatly, especially when he emphasised how I need to talk to
you two when I get home and to get to know more about you as human
beings. I agree with him wholeheartedly. Some talks are in order. He
also pointed out that Mum’s stress over me adjusting to freedom is
grounded in love. I know this, but I don’t want you, Mum to wear
yourself out with worry. I’ve caused you enough heartbreak, and
couldn’t be more ashamed of and sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. I
want to do whatever I can to lesson your burden.
Mum’s dreams of
me with ‘drugged eyes’ still concerns me. The partying I did produced a
disaster for all of us. It did not produce the never-ending fun I’d
imagined. It produced imprisonment and a chain reaction of emotional
damage to the people who love me the most. There’s no way I can allow
the set of circumstances that led to that disaster to ever happen
again. I did drugs because I felt inadequate. I was unhappy with my
sober self and drugs brought out an alter ego that attracted people
like a magnet. This persona took over because I lacked the strength of
character to be myself. That’s not the case anymore. My character has
strengthened, and I’ve become who I am. I no longer feel the need to
impress people by acting like a loon. I am happy with who I’ve become.
And this transformation is probably the biggest benefit I’ve received
from incarceration, and the reason I no longer feel that I need to take
drugs to compensate for something I lack in a natural state.
It’s
my hope that your feelings of worry will be assuaged if you try
focussing not on my past, but on the person I have become, the real me,
the me that’s entering the world confident he will not repeat the past
disaster, or let anything prevent him from pursuing a positive,
healthy, and happy lifestyle.
With love, Jon
26 Nov 07
From Xena (Part 1)
Dear Mr and Mrs Attwood
Hi,
This is Xena. I hope this letter gets to you before Shaun does. I am
sending a picture so he can remember me. I hope you like the pose. I
want, and pray that your son accomplishes all that he sets out to do.
He has a great mind. I am sure he inherited it from you two. He is such
a good friend to me. I am going to miss him greatly. I already do!
Before
I met him, I had not thought of, or believed in a larger spectrum of
life than the one I was living. Prison has a way of robbing a person of
self-identity. My identity although more lustrous than most others, was
bland until I met your son. He has a knack with people like me, in
surfacing qualities we knew not we had. Of this, I am so very grateful!
Keep a tight leash on him for a while. Prison time changes a person from normal thinking. He does need to readjust.
My love goes out to you.
Love
Xena
XXX
11 Sep 07
On Shanks (Part 1) The
person I interviewed for this blog asked to remain anonymous, and asked
that I post it after my release, as he feared the information he
provided could be deemed “a threat to the security of the institution.”
“What is a shank?” I asked.
“Any kind of blade or stabbing instrument. Used for slicing or stabbing. You make them differently depending on the purpose.”
“Speaking of purposes: is using a shank the most common method of killing someone in prison?”
“Yes, for killing staff and prisoners.”
“If the purpose is killing someone, what kind of shank is generally used?”
“You base it on what they call an Arkansas toothpick.”
“Which is?”
“An
old-style bowie knife (named after Jim Bowie). It’s a long thin
double-edged blade, usually six to nine inches long, and it has a
handle on it so the whole thing is about twelve to eighteen inches
long.”
“How do prisoners obtain shanks?”
“They find the metal”
“From where?”
“From
pieces of tables or chairs or anywhere there is metal. Years ago they
would use dental floss and Ajax and a little water and they would cut
sections from their metal bunks. You get the Ajax wet, make a paste out
of it, apply it to the metal, and hold the dental floss and go back and
forth with it on the Ajax, and it goes through the metal like a saw.
It’s a slow process but it’s not like you’ve got anything other than
time on your hands.”
“What other ways to make shanks are there?”
“I’ve seen them made out of TP [toilet paper] and glue, or newspaper and glue, or notepaper and glue.”
“So someone could kill me in here using a paper shank?”
“They’re purely for stabbing.”
“It’s weird to think that someone could kill me with a piece of paper.”
“They have metal tips. If somebody is coming at you with a shank specifically for stabbing with, you know they are serious.”
“Out to kill you?”
“That would be their only purpose”
“How exactly is a paper shank made?”
Iron Man v Snake Eyes (Part 2)
“…I screamed at
Snake Eyes,” Iron Man said, “‘No, no, man! Not like that! One on one,
***! Me and you.’ I knew he would have no choice but to go for
it ’cause I’d called him out in front of all of his friends. He goes,
‘Yeah. Come on then. You ain’t ***.’ I’ll never forget him saying that
and thinking to myself, This guy is fucked.
I advanced
toward him with my hands in the low-guard position ’cause I knew he was
itching to throw the first punch, and from watching him before I knew
he was right handed and that would be the hand he would swing with. I
could see his body tense. I yelled,‘Swing, ***, swing.’ I had
my hands held low so he would feel comfortable swinging. I let his
punch come in unblocked and just before it would have broke my nose I
lowered my head and his fist smashed into the top of my skull breaking
his hand. I heard him cry out in pain. I’d lured him into the whole
thing and by then I was right up on him.
Remember how I taught you
there’s a tipping point in every fight when you land that one punch
that resonates deep in your soul, and you know the fight is yours?”
“Yes,” I said.
“When
I hit Snake Eyes with a right hook square in the chin, I felt that
feeling. I felt his will crumble. I knew this guy was fucked. I hit him
nine more times – hook after hook in the head.
I heard my friend
say, ‘Iron Man, that’s enough,’ and he grabbed me by the shoulder, and
pulled me back. But not in time to prevent me from hitting Snake Eyes
one more time with an uppercut. As he fell to the ground at the feet of
the Mexicans, he mumbled, ‘Get him. Get him,’ and passed out.
So
he’s laying on the ground. There’s ten Mexicans standing behind him
with their eyes bugging out, and here’s me in the fighting stance
saying, ‘Yeah, motherfuckers, get me. Who’s next? Come on!’ I was just
getting warmed up. The fucking rage was boiling through me – it was
like a living thing inside of me – and I wanted nothing more in the
world than to fight every single one of them dudes one after the other.
They backed off.
Next thing you hear, ‘Lockdown, lockdown!’ and here come the cops.
My
celly’s all excited ’cause I’d smashed Snake Eyes. He was tripping,
saying, ‘Dude, you’ve really got it going on,’ over and over again.
Saying, ‘Dude, wassup!’ with his eyes really big.
The cops came for
knuckle checks. One said, ‘You guys on your feet. Let’s see your
knuckles.’ My knuckles weren’t messed up at all. I just smiled and held
my hands out. It was a smile that said, It wasn’t me, officer. He looked, said, ‘Yeah, right,’ walked out, and slammed our door.
18 Feb 08
Question Time With A Blood
Trixare4kids wrote: To
both the Blood and the Crip: Do you believe that the gang lifestyle was
the only one available to you due to your upbringing in a particular
neighborhood or your particular circumstances? Does race play a part?
What about the people in your neighborhoods who don’t join gangs? What
did they do or think differently? Without going into specific details,
of course, did you ever feel bad about any of your actions or crimes?
If you could rewind your life and go back, would you still join the
gang? Why or why not? If you had a little brother about to get “jumped
in” - knowing what you know now, would you want him to join? If not,
what would you tell him to do instead? What would you tell him to
dissuade him?
Bones of South Side Posse Bloods wrote:
Tha Blood.
What’s that B. like!
Let me answer some of your questions.
To
your first question. No! First off my parents brought me up as best
they could. But I was a knuckle head and wouldn’t listen. I moved out
of my parents house around the age of 17 and 18 because I wouldn’t live
by their rules. I believe everyone is able to make their own choices in
life. I just chose the one my parents didn’t want me to choose. “My bad
Mom and Dad.”
As for being in a particular neighborhood, no I don’t
think that had much to do with it, because I have homeboys that used to
gangbang hard with me, but have never seen inside of a prison. I
believe one has his own business and has a family, wife, kids, etc…The
other has been working for one company for about 18 years and now is
married with kids. For the record, I still don’t believe I pushed him
into that bullet he took in the stomach. I believe I pushed him out of
the way from taking it directly in the stomach. Ha, ha. (He lived.)
Shouts out to Chris G., Mark (ears).
So I guess if they could make
it out of the game and be successful in the life they chose, it can’t
be because of the neighborhood we grew up in. It’s free will, and as
they got to their mid 20s they decided to slow down their involvement.
Plus, neither of them did hard drugs.
As for me when I chose to
join a gang I chose it for life! I’ll get back to that in a minute. But
as for particular circumstances, the only thing I can think of is the
popularity it brought. Maybe if I would of lost my first fight in high
school as a freshman, I wouldn’t have turned from somewhat of a nerd to
a Blood! Well I fought that guy twice. First on school grounds we got
busted by security. Then we fought again at lunch time in the park. I
was a nobody and he was like one of the cool kids. It was just me and
two friends and their sister that went to the park. We were the first
ones there, then we look towards the school and here he comes with
about fifty people or more. So of course I was nervous. But after a few
punches the nervousness was gone and the skills kicked in. At first
everyone was cheering for him, then a few people started to cheer for
me. I met a good friend there that day “One Eye Ramon.” (South Mountain
High School in Phoenix.) It was a long fight with short breaks for him
to put his shoe back on, for him to try and stop all of the bleeding,
and for him to get off his back. About a 15 minute fight. I broke his
nose and he couldn’t stop the bleeding. So he said, “I’ll fight you
some other time when I ain’t bleeding.” It was over and we never fought
again. So that was the only particular thing I can think of that
changed my life. That’s when I became popular. Sometimes I wish I would
of lost that fight. But hey, it is what it is. Now I’m a Blood doing
time instead of a professional athlete.
As far as race, no it
doesn’t play a part in our gang. South Side Posse Blood gang was
started by Mexicans. There was also three known black guys who were
related. T.T., Jerome, and B.J.. Shouts out to them for keeping it
real. B-up doggs. Especially you B.J.. There was also a few white boys
like Bart-Man R.I.P.. But mostly Mexican. It didn’t matter what race
you were as long as you were down to ride for the hood. Shoot, one of
my best friends from the hood is an Italian. And we put in a lot of
work together for the hood. And I mean a lot. Robbing, stealing,
fighting, shootings, jacking, etc…Shout out to my dogg Scrappy for
keeping it real. Not for 5 or 10 years but for life. B-up dogg!!! We
never flip, you know what I mean.
As for people who lived in the
neighborhoods that weren’t from a gang, most of them mind their own
business. Some tried to start a neighborhood watch. But it didn’t work
because we were the ones that watch over the neighborhood.
Did I
feel bad about my actions and crimes. No! I never felt bad about my
crimes, except the ones I got caught for. Ha, ha. As for my actions, I
feel bad for all the *** I put my Mom and Dad through, and I plan on
making it up to them.
If I could rewind my life and go back
would I still join a gang? Hmmmm. No and yes. No because there is
little loyalty amongst gang members. Yeah, it starts off like loyalty
but when the *** hits the fan, that’s when loyalty starts to fall. I’m
not just talking about loyalty like we will go and ride and kill this
guy. I’m talking about loyalty all the way. If we killed this guy and
you got away and I’m doing time for it and don’t tell on you, I’ve
showed you my loyalty. Now will you show me yours and write, visit if
possible, put money on my books, through all my time.Will you help my
kid or kids I left out on the streets, etc…Or if I die will you help my
kid and parents out when ever possible? That is what I don’t see a lot
of in the gang life. Maybe two or three out of a hundred will do
something like that.
Yes, because I loved the life style of it. I’m
an action junkie. But I wouldn’t join just any gang. I would of tried
to start my own gang and tried to be a leader of the gang. It wouldn’t
be a big one, just about 10 people or 15. And we would all have to be
drug free, no dope fiends. And we would all be loyal to each other or
die. I don’t know if you could call it a gang, maybe just a crew and we
would be about making money. All day every day. Legal and illegal. I
think where gangs go wrong is when they don’t have a leader or a plan
and they do drugs. Knowing what I know now if I could I would of stayed
away from drugs, that was my down fall. I never got caught when I did a
crime unless I was on drugs, or had half hearted homies involved with
the crime “busters.”
Knowing what I know now I would not let my
little brother join a gang. I would tell him he can do whatever he
wants, but I would show him all the disloyalty that’s in a gang. Then I
would take him and show him a dead body and tell him this is what
happens when you get caught slipping ot when your homies leave you
hanging. I would tell him instead of joining a gang he should do good
in school and try to become an athlete, a professional one. Because
that’s where the money is at. And that’s what it takes to make it in
this world. Money! Also let him know that when you join it’s for life
not just your teenage and early 20s. And ask him if he is ready to die
or spend the rest of his life in prison.
You see, I look at gang
members like this, when you joined a gang it’s for life not 5 or 10
years. It’s not, well I’m getting older and got a lady and kids. That’s
when most x-gang members get killed. Because think about it, when you
were younger you killed a few people, who had brothers and good homies
that loved the one you killed. And do you think if they see you 10
years later and have a chance to kill you they won’t.
Also I have
homeboys that are locked up in prison for the rst of their lives, and
homeboys that are dead, and a real good homeboy that’s in a wheelchair
for life. (B-up Q. Thanks for being there for me, dogg.) Because they
represented the hood to the fullest, what am I supposed to do, tell
them that they died for nothing or tell my other ones that I’m out of
the gang life because I’m in my 30s. I don’t think so! B-up to all you
true Bloods and I’ll get at you doggs when I get out. And for all the
phonies you are on borrowed time!!!
I guess what I’m trying to
tell people that tell me I’m too old for being involved still in the
gang life, is that I put in a lot of work in the past that helped put
our hood on the map. But now that I’m older, not too many people that
know me will cross me. Because I will if I have to go back to that
brazy *** I used to do as a youngster. It’s about when you’re older to
help out the fallen doggs and their families if possible. And to school
the good and real youngsters. And to start to learn to stack your bread
and count your chips.
Well I hope I answered your questions.
B-up B.J., Q, Negro, Scrappy, Bucky R.I.P. Chapo, LAZ, Bartman and wher
you at Chris G. and Dru.
Until pen meets paper again B-up
Bones
P.S. Loyalty usually ends when you’re locked-up. Out of sight out of mind.
2 March 08
Mother’s Day
“What are you going to eat tonight at the Indian restaurant for your Mother’s Day meal?" I asked Mum.
“I’ll
start with poppadums, and then garlic mushroom puri. For my main course
I’ll probably have vegetable pathia. Hot and sweet. The thought of it's
making my mouth water.”
“Did you enjoy helping me with the radio interview on Friday?”
“I didn’t expect to be asked anything. We thought it was just you they would be interviewing, but I didn’t mind.”
“You gave it the family touch.”
“Well, people are interested in a mother’s viewpoint. You have to experience it to really know how it feels.”
“How does it feel now in relation to how you felt when I was in prison?”
“Have you got three hours to spare?”
“Can’t you just summarise your feelings?”
Mum sighed heavily, and said, “I don’t know where to start.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Now
at this very moment, I feel happy about the outcome and that you are
home and we are a family again, and you’re here for the first Mother’s
Day in seventeen years. I love us all eating together round the table
and chatting or watching movies. But I’ve had a lot of ups and downs
since you got home, which you may not have realised.”
“Did hitting me on the head with the frying pan help?”
“Yes, Definitely. My counsellor said that I’ve got unexpressed anger towards you.”
“Don’t express it too much.”
“Not with the Frying pan anyway.”
"Now that I’m free, how come you’re still having ups and downs?”
“Me
and your dad spent the last six years working towards your release. A
release that we were never sure would happen. The stress was immense.
At times I dealt with it better than at others. I was often close to a
breakdown.”
“But I’m here now.”
“Yes, and when you arrived,
greeting you at the airport, hugging you and kissing you as a free
person back with us was one of my happiest moments. We were all
euphoric the weekend we spent in London after picking you up. And when
we took you home that euphoria lasted for weeks. I’d look at you
sometimes and think I was dreaming and that you weren’t really here.”
“Why are you feeling down?”
“It
was the anti-climax. After the initial few weeks, my mood plummeted and
the realisation of all that had happened to us came back to me. I felt
as bad as when you were first arrested. I felt back to square one. I
wanted it all to go away. I wanted it all to have never happened, and
your presence in the house reminded me of everything we had been
through. I wanted to escape from the house.To be away from you.”
“Aren’t these Buddhist texts you are studying helping train your mind to let go of things in the past that may depress you.”
“Yes.
Over the years of your incarceration I worked hard on my meditation and
tried to be positive. And for a lot of the time it worked. I know all
the theory but sometimes the depression was so bad I couldn’t put it
into practise. Obviously my meditation wasn’t strong enough and I need
to keep working at it.”
“People are always asking how I’m adjusting, well, how are you and Dad adjusting to having me in the house?”
“Apart from eating us out of house and home, it’s not too bad. The only row we’ve had is over your female following.”
“So I’ve been well behaved?”
“Yes, you are very well behaved and very polite.”
“More polite than when I left?”
"You
were always polite. That’s the way we brought you up. But when you
first came back you would do everything I told you to do. You were
institutionalised. You had difficulty making decisions and would ask me
what you should do every time you had to choose. The doing everything I
told you was nice, but unfortunately that didn’t last long.”
“It’s
got to be a bit weird having me in your house as an adult after all
these years, even if I am stuck away in the garage or on the computer
upstairs?”
“It was strange having you back, and dependent on us. It
was like having a thirty-nine-year old child in the house. You appeared
very vulnerable. You made me feel as though I wanted to protect you. I
feared that people may not accept you or that you would have difficulty
being around people, and the pressure of these worries made me feel
down. The thoughts of you having to start your life over again troubled
me. I tried to be cheerful with you. I hope I never made you feel as
though you were a burden to us?”
“No. I’ve not.”
“So, did you never realise that I felt down?”
“You can see it in your face. It’s unpreventable. It’s like my friend Jack when he’s depressed. He can’t hide it.”
“Getting
you off the computer was one of my main worries as you sat for hours
white faced and bleary eyed oblivious to everything going on around
you.”
“I still do. To succeed as a writer I’ve got to put the hours in.”
“Yes,
it’s fine now, but when you arrived you weren't well. You were tired
and you hadn’t recovered from the horrors of your transportation and
the journey home. We were very concerned about your mental and physical
health. Now you are having a social life as well as working on the
computer. You are more adjusted to the outside now, and my worries
about you are lessening.”
“So, do you approve of my wild nights out with Hammy and Posh Bird? Is that part of my rehabilitation?”
“It
certainly is. Posh Bird! Bet you can’t believe your luck! She's lovely.
And I think the way your old friends rallied round and took you out was
heart warming. Hammy dropping in with a bottle of champagne to
celebrate your release and Aza taking you Christmas shopping in
Liverpool. They have been great. When you have nothing material to give
in return and people still want to be with you that is when you know
you have genuine friends. I do worry about Hammy though, and wish he
didn't drink so much. As for the wild goings on in the Bells, I’d like
to come and see this for myself if you’d let me.”
“Aza loves reading your blog. I think you need to get on the computer and start blogging again. Why did you stop and when are you going to continue?”
“You want the truth?”
“Of course.”
“I
stopped blogging because I felt so depressed. I didn’t want to write
about my sadness because I felt guilty about feeling down, when I
should have felt so happy and grateful for your safe return. I didn’t
want my readers to think I was going crazy. I couldn’t explain or
understand my feelings at that time, so I couldn’t make up happy blogs
because they would have been a lie.”
“When will you blog again?”
“I’d like to start blogging again, but I’ve got out of the habit.”
“Are you going to use that as an excuse?”
“No.
I like writing. I think writing the blog during last year helped me to
cope with all that was going on, even though we couldn’t blog
everything for fear of causing problems with your release. It was good
reading the comments and they helped me as well. We have both met some
lovely people through our blogs. I will start blogging again, perhaps
when I come back off holiday after Easter.”
“If there’s a piece of advice you could give to the parents of someone who’s just gone into jail or prison what would it be?”
“To
tell people. First of all tell those close to you and your friends.
When you were first incarcerated I didn’t tell anyone. I was in a state
of shock. I couldn’t deal with it. I made your dad and sister promise
not to tell anyone. I went into work every day and pretended it hadn’t
happened. I’m a psychology tutor and should have known better, but I
didn’t, and keeping this locked inside of me caused me to break down. I
thought people would turn against me, that I would lose my job and that
people would throw bricks through our windows and daub ‘drug dealers’
on the walls. It was only when I started to tell my relations, friends
and then colleagues at work that I realised how wonderful and
supportive people could be. That support helped me through the trauma
of the following years. I’d always advise anyone in that situation to
share their worries and concerns. It eases the pain. I was lucky to
have an amazing husband and daughter, but people shouldn’t be afraid of
telling the world.
They shouldn’t blame themselves. Although it’s a
thing parents always do when things go wrong. Guilt and shame are
negative emotions that dragged me down, until I accepted the situation.
They need to accept what has happened and do whatever they can to help
their child. But they can only do this if they forgive. No matter what
their child has done, it’s happened and nothing can change that. You’ve
often said that without our support you wouldn’t have got through it so
well. Your Dad and I felt we had no choice. You were our son and we had
to stand by you.”
“I appreciate everything you and Dad did other than you hitting me over the head with the frying pan.”
“I’ll do it again if I have to.”
For Mother’s Day, I gave Mum an orchid.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood
29 Feb 08
Listen to Radio Interview
Thanks everyone who sent comments and questions to Duncan Barkes for the radio interview today.
To listen to it click here:
http://www.whatson.com/goto/?type=radio&station=citytalk&show=a_shaun_attwood
If you are having difficulty with Apple systems accessing the interview,
try downloading the Windows Media player for Apple
from here
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them belowCopyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood
27 Feb 08
Radio Interview On Friday
I'm
on the radio this Friday. The station is City Talk 105.9 out of
Liverpool. I expect to be on at about 9:20am British time (2:20am
Arizona time). Here's the link for anyone who wants to listen to it
online:
http://www.whatson.com/citytalk/
This
Friday Duncan Barkes is joined by Shaun Attwood, a man from Widnes who
has spent time in one of the US' most notorious jails.
Having
spent two years in Maricopa County Jail awaiting sentence on charges of
money laundering and drug offences, Shaun has seen inmates starved,
attempt suicide and be subjected to repeated humiliation. But more than
having just seen them, he's also documented his experiences in his
online blog.
Shaun’s blog was initially named Jon’s Jail Journal so that he could maintain his anonymity while inside back in 2004.
But
his blog has proved so popular he’s been writing it ever since,
documenting his experiences of staying in an American jail run by one
of America’s most notorious law enforcement officers.
Sheriff Joe
Arpaio is renowned for his tough tactics in his jail, humiliating
inmates by forcing them to wear pink underwear and eat rotten food. As
if that wasn’t bad enough his jails are also known to be so badly
infested with cockroaches that the inmates –Shaun included – save their
toothpaste to block up the insects’ entry points.
A few weeks ago
Duncan asked you whether you thought English prisons are too soft, so
this Friday Dunc will be asking Shaun about his experiences in an
American jail and whether we should introduce these tougher US style
jails.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood
27 Feb 08
From Frankie (Letter 2)Frankie
- A Mexican Mafia hitman and leader of prison "booty bandits" who has
been proposing our gay marriage ever since he saw me apply antifungal
ointment to the bedsores on my buttocks at the Madison Street jail,
where he was held on murder charges.
An additional 15 to 40 years may be added on to Frankie’s prison sentence. Here’s his latest letter.
Feb-18-08
Englandman,
I’ll dee-cide cuz I’m the man in this relationship.
My friend, enclosed is a copy of what I’m being charged with.
COUNT ONE: (PROMOTING PRISON CONTRABAND, A CLASS TWO FELONY)
COUNT TWO: (POSSESSION OF A NARCOTIC DRUG, A CLASS FOUR FELONY)
COUNT THREE: (POSSESSION OF DRUG PARAPHERNALIA, A CLASS SIX FELONY)
This
fuckin State of Arizona doesn’t like me at all. I was offered a plea of
four to twelve years and I said *** that. Anyway, on April 25-08 I
will be back in jail going to trial. If I win I will be released on
Sept 24-08, but I doubt it very much. If I lose I’ll end up with
anywhere from 15 to 40 years. It’s crazy how these fuckers work. But
it’s cuz of my background. Remember in 2003 I beat that case of them
two alleged murders, and all that other stuff. So here’s their chance
to lay me down.
As for me running the jail, that means I was The
Boss, The Number One Vato. When I got there on August 17 of 2007 I
received kites from the Carnalismo telling me I had the keys to the
whole 3rd floor jail, meaning no one does anything without my say so.
Let me say this, Tucson County jail is the best jail I’ve ever been.
They feed you real good. I honestly thought I was at a nice hotel. I’m
so used to that nasty Madison Street jail in Phoenix run by that
*** Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Running the jail also meant that I got
access to anything I can put my hands on . . . for example, cheetos!
That’s what I looked for at first. I ended up with liver, meaning a
black cheeto.
Anyway, the horny guy that I am, I had to get my
issue. Plus I needed someone to clean my cell and do my laundry. I
would have him come in my cell and clean it. I would have him naked
cleaning the floor on his hands and knees while I lay on my bunk and
watched him. By the time he was done cleaning I would be nice and hard
and he would take care of that too.
Englandman, the black dude was a
pretty light complected *** and he loved the way I treated him.
Hopefully he will still be there when I go back in April. She called
herself Chocolate cuz it melts in her mouth not in her hands. And
especially in her ass – mercy!
Englandman, don’t forget your
husband. I still own you and don’t you forget it! Don’t make me put a
hit on you and have one of your fingers chopped off. I can still
remember all that hair on your ass – hey now!
When you’re in prison,
slowly but surely everybody forgets you. My poor heart can’t take much
more abuse. I’m getting too old for that ***. By the way, have you got
you a piece of ass yet? My friend, start sending me pictures of the
girls you go with in swim suits. Or even naked. I will be the judge of
who you mess with. I’ll dee-cide and you better not forget that!
Give your Mom, Dad, and Sister my Love and Regards.
Much Love & Respect,
=Frankie=
PS Take pictures of stuff in England for me, like the palace where the Queen lives. Things that are beautiful from England.
Frankie also wrote this message inside a drawing of his hand:
Dear Frankie’s Fans,
Since
Shaun left me and went back to England I am a lonely soul. I have
transformed myself into this piece of paper. Right now I am having sex
with your fingers. Please pass me on to someone else because I’m really
horny.
To learn more about the prisoners Jon writes about
click here.Does
Frankie deserve an additional 15 to 40 years on his sentence for
getting caught in prison with three-quarters of a gram of heroin?
23 Mar 08
Month 3
The last time my
parents went on holiday and left me in charge of the house (twenty
years ago) I crashed Mum’s car. So it was no surprise that they hid
their car keys before recently flying to Tenerife. Leaving me after our
three-month reunion, Mum departed teary eyed – but only out of concern
for the safety of her house plants. She wouldn’t have abandoned her
plants if Posh Bird hadn’t promised to cater to their watery needs. As
of today the plants are fine. I’ve watered them as per Mum’s written
instructions. I also followed her instructions for the washing machine.
In
Arizona’s state prisons, a laundry service is provided twice a week.
Entering prison you are given a net laundry bag that you must
immediately write your cell number on or else you won’t get your
laundry back. Problem is, if you write it with a pen it just washes off
– bon voyage laundry. So you have two choices. The first is to pull the
top off a pen and to blow into the refill and write your cell number
with the thick stream of ink that flows out of the other end. It may
take a day to dry, but it’ll survive many washes before it fades and
it’s time to give it a top up. The second is to use a marker. But
markers are contraband. So you have to locate the local holder of a
stolen marker, and have something like a soup to bribe him with. It’s
best to go see him laundry bag in hand, because he’s usually
disinclined to let his stolen marker out of sight, and if you lose it
you’ll owe any amount he decides upon pain of being smashed.
You put
your laundry bag in a cart. The laundry porters collect the carts the
next morning. It comes back later in the day. If you take a clean item
of laundry and put it in a sink of water, the water turns filthy. Which
is why hand-washing services run by prisoners thrive.
Sometimes
whole batches of laundry go missing. Forms must be filled out, and it
can take months for replacement laundry to be issued. When that
happens, you’ll see inmates going door to door begging for old socks,
boxers, and T-shirts.
And laundry’s not all I’ve done. I’ve
cooked – over and above cheese on toast. There’s nothing like hunger to
motivate you to cook things. I even cooked Posh Bird an Indian curry
thanks to Dad’s instructions. She ate it, survived, and actually
praised the meal. Knowing she wouldn’t believe I cooked it, I made
evidence: I videotaped myself in the kitchen converting a lowly pan of
fried onions into a vegetarian Rogan Josh.
Also, I’ve hand washed
dishes, cutlery, pots, pans – because my parents banned me from using
the dishwasher out of fear I’d break it somehow or other, which I
probably would as it’s old and fragile. I’ve vacuumed – well, just
today, because they get back tonight. The only thing I didn't do was
open the curtains, but I did put the plants in the kitchen for sunlight
purposes.
Last Tuesday, Posh Bird put our relationship on hold
again. She claimed to be under too much exam stress to be dealing with
a relationship, but I suspect it is because I chose two bad DVDs for us
to watch in a row. It seems movies directed by Tarantino aren’t what
they used to be before I was imprisoned. Posh Bird put our relationship
on hold just days after I had bought her an Easter chocolate champagne
bottle, which I couldn’t regift to anyone else because the lady at
Thornton’s embossed Posh Bird’s name on it. It was a close call between
eating it and giving it to her, but I did the latter. It must have
somewhat compensated for the lousy DVD picks, because Posh Bird has
asked me to spend this evening with her spooning on the couch watching
a DVD. A DVD picked by her of course. A chick flick. More penance.
However, we have agreed to postpone preliminary discussions about
taking our relationship off hold until after her exams.
This
month I finished a draft of the first part of my second book. Part one
is tentatively titled “Illegal-Alien Stockbroker.” It’s 17 chapters,
21,291 words. It’s a series of anecdotes leading up to my immersion in
Arizona’s rave scene.
To a certain extent I am reliving my life
vicariously as I write about it. In order to get details and dialogue
right, I’ve used the Internet to find many people from my past and
arranged telephonic interviews with them. These include my old boss. I
am grateful to those people for taking the time to help me. And it’s
interesting to find out how their lives have progressed since I knew
them. Sadly, I also discovered that a former right-hand man of mine,
the head of my security team, Cody “The Admiral” Bates, hung himself.
He left a message saying our times spent together were the best of his
life, and he hopes we’ll raise a beer and think of him. Cody was one of
my soberest friends, but his life spiralled out of control after our
arrests.
Tomorrow I’ll start part two of the book – I’m bracing
myself to relive that madness. It’ll probably take all summer to write.
I’m expecting it to be well over 50,000 words. Then part three will
cover my time in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system prior to the blog.
I’ll
end this blog with an excerpt from Chapter 13, which is about Chupa, a
small weekly rave held in downtown Phoenix around 1994-95. Deejays such
as Eddie Amador, Gary Menichello, Pete Salaz, Emile and Sandra Collins
spun there. Bear in mind this is just a draft and it needs some tidying
up.