Dagger #9

'They want to make you miserable'

'Prison turned my life around'

Vacation in Susanville

As I was putting out this issue, vacation-time rolled around and I headed north on the maiden road trip of my "new" '84 Accord. It died a sad but convincing death on US 395 in northeastern California.

A tow-guy came and towed me to nearby Susanville. On the way we chatted, and I asked him about the area. What's going on here? I asked. Mostly cattle and hay production?

"We have some of that," he told me. "We had a lot of lumber, but two of the three mills closed. Really, that over there is our main industry now."

He pointed to a complex of low buildings out toward the mountains.

"Prisons. The closer, brick buildings, that's the California Correctional Center, opened in the mid-60s. The cement buildings are the High Desert State Prison, which just opened a year and a half ago. That big cement building in the center is all Maximum Security. We have some of the worst hombres in California there!" I think he was proud of that.

Back at the garage, while I waited for the mechanics to take a look, I admired the box of Spotted Owl Helper propped up on the deer horns on top of the coke machine. I made a mental note to change my Green Party t-shirt at the first opportunity.

The car was dead, with no viable options for revival. So I checked into a motel and spent a couple of days thinking about my options. While I was there, I wandered about and talked to people about what it was like to live in a prison town.

A lady at the historical society, a lifelong Susanville resident, told me she was ashamed of her town's main industry, and that she felt the prisons had been a bad influence, even though they provided a lot of high-paying entry-level jobs.

"It's by far the best-paying job for someone starting out, except for a doctor or a lawyer. Actually, there are quite a few lawyers....except for a doctor, the best job is at the prison.

"But it's a stressful job that spills over into the rest of their lives. Drugs, alcohol, domestic violence are all rising. Housing costs have gone through the ceiling. Quality of life is going down.

"And another thing." She looked around furtively.

"I guess I have to be careful saying this. I never smoked marijuana, but my adult kids do. It's ridiculous to put people in jail for that. A lot of the people in there don't belong there."

Later I spoke to the clerk at my motel (a big one that filled up every night even though it was on a road from nowhere to nowhere). She told me that most of their business was from people coming to visit prisoners.

"The new prison was just great for business," she said. "Another big motel opened just across the road, and we're both doing fine. It's been a good thing for us."

I asked her about the plan to open a third prison, this one federal.

"That would be down at Doyle, half way to Reno. It used to be an air force base. They kept missiles there. It was the second largest missile site in the country before they closed it."

From missiles and lumber to prisons, and doing better than ever!

GETTING OUT OF Susanville without a car is problematic. They have a few rental cars in town, but all of them were out and not expected back soon. Greyhound canceled bus service to the area a few years ago. Besides walking and hitchhiking, there are two ways out: A daily shuttle to Reno and the mail truck to Red Bluff. I called for the shuttle.

It was an hour and a half late, and I was glad I didn't have a plane to catch. It was packed: two 60-ish women talking about their old times and kids who used to be in high school together; a young woman with "Snoopy" tattooed large across her neck; and eight or nine men. From the sparse conversation, I figured they were mostly on their way out of jail; the one guy I talked to said he had spent 22 months in the county jail. They seemed neither ecstatic nor weird, and I wondered what they were feeling.

I GOT THE IDEA for this "prison" issue when my friend's stepson got out of kiddy-jail. Then several other friends and Dagger contributors came forth with their new and old prison stories as the issue developed. I began to pay more attention to those leftists on Pacifica Radio, people like Noam Chomsky and Jerry Brown, who talk about the "prison-industrial complex" and the significance of this incredible growth industry. In California, the number of prisoners has grown six-fold in 20 years; something like 18 new state prisons have been built, while only one campus has been added to the state university system; and the prison guards have become one of the most powerful political lobbies, spending twice as much as the teachers even though they have only one fifth the membership.

My friend's kid is a bad boy. He resists authority. I'm sympathetic to that, but his resistance is often ill-thought out, chaotic, hurtful. C68209 was a bad kid. At 21 he killed someone. He says he deserved to be in prison, and so did most of the ones he was in with. The community has to deal with kids like this. The exploding prison project provides "good jobs" to some and warehouses others in a modern-day slave system. Is this the best way to deal with bad boys and girls?

The prison project is fueled by the immoral and disastrous War on Drugs, which in some ways was a logical continuance of the War on Vietnam and serves some of the same economic and political interests. Do you buy into this? Do you think your legitimate interests in safety and order are served by this maniacal money-sink, which is not only draining our resources but also eroding our liberty? Is there a better, cheaper, kinder way to deal with the problems of drug abuse?

I JUST HEARD on "Democracy Now" about a Haitian, Emmanuel Constant, head of Haiti's dreaded FRAPH under the military dictatorship. He was a CIA operative; the coup itself, I believe, was serving someone's perverse idea of US interest in the region. One victim describes being dragged out of her house by the FRAPH, taken to a "killing field," hacked up with a machete and left for dead. But she survived. Accused FRAPH head Constance is living in Queens, selling phone cards, under US protection from prosecution in return for his silence. He is accused of responsibility for thousands of deaths in Haiti during the dictatorship.

Does this have anything to do with our little "crime and punishment" conundrum? I think it does. I think that a kid with half a brain who hasn't yet bought into the dominant paradigm must look at it with revulsion. Not that he thinks twice about US culpability in the mass slaughter in a neighboring country; nor that the culture of consumption he sees all around him is enabled by this covert aggression; he doesn't know it and would stare at you blankly if you told him. But he must sense the corruption and hypocrisy that underlie the "American dream" we all take for granted. He knows he's being had, and that the chains that will bind him for all his life to this inhuman juggernaut are being clamped to his ankle.

Why do we have six times as many prisoners as we did 20 years ago? Have people gotten worse? Or are our sins in Vietnam, Haiti, Guatemala, Indonesia, the Congo, etc., not to mention our ongoing sins here at home, catching up with us, crying out for recognition and repentance? If we're into punishing the guilty, who can go unpunished?

So instead of investing our resources into oppression and control, maybe we could redirect them to healing and growth.

POOR CAMBODIA! I've been combing the stories, unsuccessfully, for some reference to a little item that caught my eye last year and which I haven't been able to find again. One of the prime ministers (I guess it's the one who has just seized power), distressed at having to pardon a known Khmer Rouge butcher, said it would only be fair to pardon everyone. So he did, and practically all prisoners in the country were released.

I like this idea. All the worst sons of bitches get impunity. Be fair. Give it to everyone. Turn everyone loose and start over. And this time, let's be more judicious about who we lock up, and how and why.

LET ME END with a horror story. A man I know was a political prisoner in one Northern California county a few years ago. For years he worked part time for the county, running a remote rural dump. Then the county decided to close the dump, which left the locals highly inconvenienced and pissed off. My friend collected a bunch of signatures on a petition and took it to the board of supervisors. A week later a warrantless raid on his property turned up some pot plants. He spent about eight months in a county jail.

He says it was torture and they will never take him alive again.

While he was in jail, he worked in the kitchen and took prisoners their meals. He said for seven days an old man with Alzheimer's disease was kept in the "rubber room," a 6' x 6' padded cell with no furniture and a floor that sloped to a hole in the center for waste disposal. He said the man was always squatting down, whimpering. Twice he actually saw guards beat him: "Two or three guards rushed in and beat him with their black-gloved hands. They always carry those gloves, so they don't leave marks."

Amnesty for those guards! And their victims! Let's start from scratch and do it better.

FOUR POEMS

by MAGGIE JAFFE

For Sam Melville, #26124
Murdered at Attica, 9/13/71

After Attica's uprising
the photo shows
cops dressed to kill,
wielding "nigger sticks"
& loving it.

White boys, Young Lords,
caged Panthers. All are
skin searched, rain-soaked,
hands thrust over head.
Forced to run the gauntlet:
" 'Prison power' my ass,
you motherfuckers."

Attica! Gray walls on the green
Tonawanda Reservation, sacred
land stolen from the Senecas.
Attica! Bureaucrats with "impeccable Nazi
credentials" renamed you Correctional
Facility. Still, you're the killing floor:
warning shots in the back by
outlawed dum dum bullets.
Where's Rocky? He won't fly
American to Attica.
Instead, dials M for murder.
Sleeps that night beside
his secretary, groomed for power.
Runs for VP,
is endorsed by the Times.
He's a Corporate Conquistador!

Monday, bloody Monday,
September 13, 1971. After a sluggish
start on Wall Street today, the Dow
closed high with hefty trading. To "pacify"
one Vietcong the State pays $35,000,
depending on inflation.

Who gave the orders?
Who took the weight?
Absolved the guards?
Lied to the press?
Opened fire on Melville?
Named him "the mad bomber?"
Who napalmed Viet Nam, Laos, Cambodia?

Magic Realism

She's a minor union functionary.
For weeks she and her co-unionists
have negotiated with the government
to set a minimum working wage for children.
Her file is directed to appropriate channels.
The White Hand (Las Manos Blancas),
funded by the government,
break into her house, decapitate
her five children, seat
them around the kitchen table.
One soldier drives a nail through
the youngest child's head
to keep it from slipping.
In the barracks that night
soldiers watch their favorite TV programs:
The Adventures of Bat Man and Robin,
followed by a local Televangelist,
trained in the USA,
who confirms what everyone knows:
there are murderous
Communistas everywhere.
In El Salvador
dollars magically
make things happen.
Shit happens.


Information Explosion

She is taken to the "operating theater" [American Standard].
Stripped, her cunt shaved [Gillette].
Injected with drugs to block
endorphins, the body's "natural"
pain suppresser [Sandox].
Given electric shocks to her gums,
her vagina [AT&T].
Her screams are recorded on a cassette [Toshiba].
Her screams will later be used during her
husband's and children's "sessions."
After their disappearance their names
will be filed under the category
Subversive, Code Red [IBM].
She called it Argentina's institutionalized terrorism,
We call it Magic of the Marketplace.

Bertolt Brecht

fled Hitler's Germany
for McCarthy's Amerika
where he'll bomb on Broadway,
go hungry in Hollywood.
Only HUAC understood his work.
They accused him
of "premature anti-facism."
He denied everything,
They believed him.
"Americans aren't as bad
as Nazis. At least they let you
smoke while they interrogate you,"
Brecht said smoking his cigar.
Besides cigars, he loved
brainy women with red
radical politics.
An irascible, rumpled-looking
foreigner in the Halls of Justice,
hating the Jew-
hater and the big
boss man, he wrote:
"What is the crime
of robbing a bank
compared with
the crime
of founding one?"

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RETURN TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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notes of a jailed ground sloth
I meet the nicest people in jail!

My new address is Cellblock-D, Mendocino County Jail in the town of Ukiah, Califonia. This is an easy hotel to check into and advance reservations aren't needed. The poor are always welcome and extended stays are encouraged. Tipping is not allowed, as a result, service is poor and the staff seems disinterested. Check-in is a real hassle as all personal belongings -- money, shoes, clothes, rosary and dignity -- are removed. All guests are issued a new wardrobe consisting of one orange jumpsuit. The orange jumpsuit helps the staff find and serve the guests more efficiently, especially if they become disoriented or confused and wander from the hotel grounds.

Check-in is slow and the guests are required to wait in a small crowded lobby. Fourteen people shared a hard metal bench in the small ten by sixteen foot lobby, while they waited an average of 12-14 hours to check in. The door was always kept locked for security and a telephone was provided on the wall, but only collect calls were allowed. The lobby, also known as the holding tank, had a toilet, but privacy was not an option nor was toilet paper. When one guest requested toilet paper he was told that toilet paper had been issued earlier that day and he would have to wait until a shift change the next day before he could be accommodated. My limousine dropped me off at ten AM but I was not assigned to my suite until three AM the next day. Just another reminder that this was not a four star hotel.

Accommodations were crowded and uncomfortable. At check-in I was issued two blankets, two sheets and a pillow case, but no pillow. A friendly staff member led me down a dank, dimly-lit hallway to an unlit cell filled with nine other guests. The friendly staff member then told me to find a space on the floor and informed me that perhaps the next day I could be issued a cot, provided that enough room could be made for a cot. I found a nice hard space on the floor next to the toilet. This, I came to realize, was a premium spot because I didn't have to crawl over anybody in the dark when I had to relieve myself, thus, leaving the other guests the task of having to crawl over me when nature called.

It wasn't until the next day, when the lights went on, that I realized how overbooked this hotel was. Cellblock-D2 had ten people, myself included, but only five beds. Cots were issued each night at ten thirty, but the issue was declined because there was not enough floor space in the cell to set the cots up. As a result, I and four others slept on the floor, spaced about one foot from each other. Senority, not bulk or physical strength, dictated who received a bed. When a guest checked out, the guest who had been on the floor the longest took over the vacated bed. During my stay, this rule was never contested; as a result, I slept on the cement floor for eight full nights. Sleeping on the hard floor caused my hips to turn black and blue.

I was in a very bad situation and in a very bad place, but nobody in Cellblock-D was very bad--at least not to me. In fact, I always seem to meet the nicest people in jail. I must add that not only were the guests in Cellblock-D2 nice, but they were civilized as well. Contrary to popular beliefs about jail, I found the cohabitants of this establishment to be, in some ways, the most civilized of any society I ever experienced. Never did a problem arise among the cohabitants of Cellblock-D2, in spite of the harsh conditions and the overcrowded conditions. Never was a voice raised in anger or conflict, and I was treated with more respect, understanding and kindness than in any situation on the outside. I came to realize that this was the perfect utopian society that many socialists were striving for. Even though seven men in this cell were illegals from Mexico and spoke no English, their kindness and decorum exceed all borders and language barriers.

The sharing and caring in Cellblock-D2 was extraordinary. Everyone shared whatever food and commodities they had, no exceptions, as if there were an unwritten law. Nobody hoarded or ate food in front of the others without offering some to everyone else. A bag of potato chips or a candy bar did not go very far among ten people, but, it was passed around none the less. These inmates were poor and commodities were expensive and rare and could only be purchased once a week in limited quantities. Even toilet paper was rare, as only one roll was issued per day to each cell. With ten people, that ran out fast, so most of my cellmates had a stash of paper napkins (illegal contraband) that were offered to anyone in need. Because we had to crawl over each other at night in the darkness to get to the toilet, we often accidentally stepped on each other. Never did anyone complain about this, as apologies were made and peace remained constant. We were like a family and we all worked very hard to keep our extended family harmonious. These people all came from poverty and hard lives; perhaps that is why they didn't complain about their situation or the boredom or the conditions they were subjected to in here. Fear of suffocation was the only complaint that I heard frequently. There was one vent in the cell, but never did air seem to flow through it. As a result of the dead air and the crowding, the cell always smelled like a backed-up sewer. I often found myself standing in front of the locked cell door, gagging and gasping for air. We could deal with all the other conditions, but lack of oxygen seemed to be a serious human rights infringement. I think the overcrowded conditions of the cell may have been in violation of federal laws as well.

The cage was decorated with a good drawing of the Virgin of Guadalupe, carved into the wall above the toilet. Another great artist passed through, leaving some interesting drawings, also carved into the wall, of bug-eyed caricatures doing crimes and being executed. The artist signed his work SJ Deathrow Art and added a copyright symbol. The cell was also embellished with flaming skulls and I discovered, carved into the wall, the names of half the population of Round Valley.

I introduced myself as a journalist and filmmaker and encouraged everyone to tell me why they were there. To my surprise, everyone was willing to talk about their situation and told me their stories. Even if their stories were not true, and I believe some were fabricated, I think most inmates were forthright with me. In most cases there was no reason to lie, because the truth would surface when the inmates went to court. Spanish language was not a problem, because many inmates were bilingual and willing to interpret.

Mendocino County is predominately Caucasian, with the exception of some Native American communities and reservations. However, the jail population was disproportionately filled with Mexicans, Mexican illegals and Mexican Americans. About 60 per cent of the population was of Mexican descent and about 20 per cent were Native American; the rest were Caucasian. Perhaps they were stored in the basement, but I saw no African Americans in this jail. About half of the population, including myself, were in for domestic problems with their wives or girlfriends. The others were in for drunk driving, small amounts of drugs, or not showing for a court appearance. Some could not bail out because they were in violation of probation. Others could not afford the bail. The Mexican illegals were held without bail and were handed over to immigration police when their cases or sentences were complete. Only one prisoner, a neighbor and friend, was in for a serious violent crime.

My neighbor, I'll call him Guest-D of Cellblock-D, was convicted of a stabbing and received a four year sentence. He was waiting to be picked up and transported to San Quentin when I arrived. I didn't know Guest-D on the outside, but, he lived within sight of my home on the Round Valley Indian Reservation near the town of Covelo. Guest-D had only lived in Round Valley for about a year, but got caught up in an ongoing war that had started more then one hundred years ago, when native people of another tribe were forcibly marched from the Sacramento Valley and placed on the Round Valley Indian Resevation among their enemies. We had many friends and acquaintances in common. Guest-D had heard about me and the film I was working on at the time of my arrest. He told me about a film script he had in mind. It was a story of gangsters and violence and Guest-D wanted to know how to put his story into film script form. I offered to collaborate on the play and teach him how to formulate it into a film script. He accepted my offer and we started work on the script immediately. Twenty-one year old Guest-D didn't know when he was going to be transported to San Quentin, but he knew it would be soon. This created a sense of urgency for us to get as much of the script finished as possible in the short time we had together. Also, Guest-D was anxious to learn as much about script writing as possible.

We worked through the night, every night, scratching out our script in the dark, on paper we borrowed from our cellmates. We came to realize the therapeutic value of our writing. I was having problems dealing with the hatred and contempt I felt for the man responsible for my problems and incarceration. This man had burglarized my house, conned and turned my wife against me and gone to the district attorney with lies and sensitive information that he stole from me. This jerk calls himself a journalist, but used his newspaper as a forum of self-interest to perpetrate his lies about me, so he could more easily steal my home, my car and personal belongings. I went to jail, charged with five bogus felonies, as a result of his public lies. I'm a pacifist and hate violence, but I felt like killing this jerk. Killing, of course, is not acceptable behavior and could only lead to life behind bars, so I decided to murder the creep in our screen play. We were creative about his death and made sure it was as humiliating as possible. Weirdly enough, this helped ease my pain and anger and I no longer wanted to hurt or kill this man. In fact, as I pointed out to Guest-D, I wanted this creep to stay alive so he could watch his own humiliating murder on screen.

Perhaps the greatest act of kindness enacted in Cellblock D-2 was tolerance. Guest-D and I were not quiet when we stayed up all night working. In fact, we often played out our thoughts while pacing back and forth in a corner of the cell. Our friends seemed to realize the importance of our work and nonverbally assigned us a space near the locked door to work and pace in because a little light shined in there from the hallway. Nobody complained, although I'm sure we must have disturbed our cellmates' sleep at times. Even the guards seemed somewhat tolerant as they asked us to be more quiet, but never told us to stop working or go to sleep. One guard even asked us what we were working on night after night in the dark. In the morning, our cellmates quipped, "Cut, next scene," and asked, "Who did you kill last night?"

After the ninth day of my arrival, Guest-D was finally transported to San Quentin, his new address for the next four years. Other cellmates evacuated that day as well, and I moved from the floor to a top bunk. I was exhausted because I hadn't been eating or sleeping. When I did fall asleep, I fell into a very deep sleep and started to roll off the bed. My Mexican friends caught me and I woke up while they were pushing me back onto the bunk. Thanks guys. A five and a half foot swan dive to the cement floor would probably not have helped my writing career.

The long narrow window in my cell looked out on a cement yard and then into the women's prison section. My cellmates told me that the women prisoners were flashing their tits. One person in my cell returned the favor and flashed his privates. This act was caught by a guard and all of D-tank was locked down for the rest of the day and night. The next morning, the guards conducted a sweep, searching for contraband. When the guards searched my bunk they found bandages that were issued by the nurse for my feet. My feet had blisters from the cheap plastic shoes I was issued. Even though I told the guards why I had the bandages and who issued them, I was informed that I was in possession of contraband. The guards took a jail-issue book I was reading, the newspaper clippings I saved about myself and the film script I was working on and tossed them into a garbage bag. My items were treated specially, for they were not thrown out with the other inmates' garbage, but hand-carried, in a separate bag, out of the cellblock. I believe these items were taken because somebody, the DA or the police, wanted information I might have revealed in my writings. Paranoia griped my soul as I wondered if I could be charged with plotting a murder, because I did plot murder in these screen plays. Although the stories were filled with film script language (camera movement and cuts to next scene), I feared the writing could be misinterpreted. My writing was not mentioned, two days later, when I went before the court for a bail reduction hearing.

In conclusion, I was granted a bail reduction from $50,000 to $15,000 and my friend bailed me out that night. I shook hands and wished all in D-tank well. I traded in my jail wardrobe for my street clothes and was given a check for the cash taken from me when I was arrested (a check I could not cash that time of night). Then I stepped out of the tomb that had been my home for the past fifteen days and tasted the sweet fresh air. I was sick (possibly poisoned or drugged by my captors), but felt renewed and wanted to rejoice at the sight of the friends who came to retrieve me. I was free, at least temporarily, but my thoughts drifted back to Cellblock-D and the prisoners who would sleep there that night.

sloth chat

It's good business to put people in jail -- at least it's good business for the prison industry, which is booming in the US and the world. The prison population in the United States is now a staggering million and a half people, triple what it was 20 years ago. And this increase, according to the Justice Department, is attributed mostly to the imposition of tougher penalties for drug offenses. Yes folks, the war on drugs is paying off quite nicely -- not for the American people, who are the victims of the war on drugs and are paying for it, but for the police, courts and the billion-dollar prison industry.

The more people who go to jail, and the longer they stay, the more the prison industry profits. And so profitable is the industry that private prisons have grown at four times the rate of public prisons. Each prison, both public and private, is paid about $25,000 per inmate, per year, by the state that finances it. Additional profits can be made if the prisoners are used as labor for private industry. Often prisoners are farmed out to day labor at factories and businesses, or contracts are given to prisons and the work is done on site in the prison.

The prison industry needs crime and punishment to maintain profits. This is a danger to each and every one of us, as anyone who has ever had to argue in a court of law should know. No longer as a society do we believe that only the guilty go to jail, but more commonly we believe that the poor go to jail. However, with stiffer sentencing laws, especially for drugs, we see more of a cross section of society in prison. In many cases, even the wealthy can't buy their way out of a jam.

I talked to a couple of women about their time in jail. One woman started her two year sentence in Corona State Prison, where she learned, after being treated for a uterus disorder, that she was HIV positive. After this discovery, she was treated as an outcast and separated from the general population for the rest of her stay. She and one other woman -- also HIV positive -- were placed in an isolated lockdown unit. Her requests for AZT and other medications were denied or ignored. Her offer to pay for her medication was denied and no explanation for the denial was given. The prison dentist abandoned her as well. He started extensive dental work, removed the enamel from her teeth, but would not continue the work when he learned that she was HIV positive. She was not able to see the dentist again. Almost a year later she was moved to another prison -- Frontera State Correctional Institution For Women -- where again she was denied medical treatment.

Another woman I talked to told me that hysterectomies were the operation of choice at Sibyl Brand Correctional Institute for Woman, where she was housed. "Women were afraid to report a cold or a sore throat," she said, "for fear they would come out of the medical ward seven pounds lighter, minus their uterus."

see also CALIFORNIA PRISONS: WOMEN DIE FROM MEDICAL NEGLECT

As awful as conditions are here in the US, human rights violations and torture are a common mode of operation at prisons in third world countries. In a recent documentary about prisons aired on the cable A&E network, inhuman, overcrowded conditions were filmed at several Russian facilities. One image that stands in my mind is of a prison cell, so crowded that all the prisoners had to stand up because there was no room for them to sit or lie down. The prisoners interviewed claimed that there was not enough air in the cell and they were being suffocated. They claimed that many people died or went insane from these conditions. Then, last week, an article appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, that stated that the government of Russia was considering releasing half of its prison population because crowded conditions had become so severe. Also, the article said, the government of Russia feared a revolution if the prison issue was not quickly addressed.

While traveling through Peru a few years ago, I passed a bleak prison facility. I asked my guide some questions about the prison. At first he did not want to talk about the prison situation, for fear he might end up in the facility himself for talking to me about it. He only talked to me when I assured him that I would keep his identity confidential.

He knew some people in that prison, so he had a good idea of what went on in there. I asked him if the recent cholera outbreak had affected the prisoners. He said it had, and went on to tell me that prisoners were not fed or given water, but that food and water had to be supplied from an outside source, such as family or friends. I asked about the prisoners who didn't have family or outside support -- what did they do? He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He didn't know.

I asked him about torture. He said, "Yes there was lots of torture," and added, "Everybody that is sent there is tortured." I asked if he knew what kind of torture was used? He said he didn't know exactly, but, many people were killed. He added that many people were blinded or lost their limbs while imprisoned. He told me that even a short sentence in prison could be a death sentence. "You have a good chance of not coming out alive."

This just in from the San Francisco Examiner (Tuesday, June 3, 1997). Headline: "Wisconsin starts using chain gangs" by Richard P. Jones of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel:

"Wisconsin is joining Southern states such as Alabama in forming it's first chain gang, and the state's secure work detail will be the first in the nation to be equipped with stun belts..."

HELEN KELLER was extensively investigated by the FBI for her involvement in Socialist and Communist organizations. At one point, FBI Director J. Edger Hoover considered her arrest, but came to the logical conclusion that arresting Hellen Keller would be a public relations nightmare for the government. I fear that, if Keller were around today, her radical views could earn her a home security collar, if not a stun belt. Beware Mother Theresa; The government is watching you.

IN THE PAST, prison life wasn't always so bad if you had friends on the outside, as was the case for Bugsy Siegel in 1941. During the Bugs' stay in the can, he was allowed unlimited phone privileges, his food was prepared by his own chef and he had constant female companionship in his cell. Under the pretext of seeing his dentist, the Bug was allowed out 19 times whereupon he forgot about his toothache and went to lunch with an aspiring actress.

FROM THE MEMOIRS of Chief Red Fox: Death came to Crazy Horse when he was less than 40 years old. He had left the reservation and was on his way to an army post, seeking help for his wife, who was suffering from tuberculosis, when a troop of soldiers intercepted him. He had left the reservation without permission, and so great was his reputation that the word spread that he had escaped and was planning to organize another assault. When he told the soldiers his mission, they allowed him to proceed, but went with him. Once they reached the post and escorted him into a building, he knew it was a jailhouse. Enraged by the treachery, he drew a knife from his jacket and furiously attacked the soldiers who surrounded him. He was overpowered and beaten to the floor where he lay struggling when a soldier plunged a bayonet into his back, bringing almost instant death.

The cruelest thing

by Clifford Mosby

Most of my criminal cases are gang related. Most often, my client is male, under 35, unmarried and unemployed. Employed married males are rare for me. In those cases where my client is married, employed and now incarcerated, it is a heartbreaking circumstance to witness. Usually he is trying to maintain his personal life and take care of his business from jail. He attempts to do this through his relatives, friends and often through his attorney and investigator.

Usually his wife and children will alter their lives to fit around visitation and running his errands to maintain the income and family status while he awaits trial.

In the first days of his incarceration, he is usually trying to conceal this fact from his employer. It is his hope that he can bail out and no one will be the wiser. If he is unable to make bail and stays in jail for a long time, awaiting trial, his incarceration will soon be known to all, including his employer. From that point on his personal and professional life will deteriorate quickly.

This is sad to witness, but what is even sadder is single mothers who are incarcerated. They are forced to turn over their children to relatives, usually the grandmother. The mother is usually on welfare and she and her children are surviving on a welfare check.

Usually the grandmother is in no financial position to support the children who have been suddenly thrust upon her. Usually the jailed mother and the children's grandmother have discussed and agreed that the grandmother will monitor the mother's mail box and get the welfare check as soon as it arrives in the mail. The grandmother will bring the check to Sibyl Brand Institute for Women, intending to have the mother sign the check so the grandmother can cash it and provide for the children

All items that are intended for the inmate must be given to the deputy in the visitation room. What the unsuspecting mother and grandmother do not know is that the deputy is required to take possession of any welfare check and return it to the Department of Social Service, because the mother is not allowed to receive welfare while in custody. It is very sad and disheartening to sit in the attorney visitation area and witness check after check being seized by the deputy while both the mother and the grandmother watch powerlessly from opposite sides of the deputy station.

You can see and hear the hearts of the mother and the grandmother drop into a cavern of disbelief as the realization of what is happening sinks in. Both mothers will cry and plead with the deputy to consider the children and how many people will be hurt by the grandmother not being able to cash the check and care for the children. This plea falls upon deaf ears.

Repeat offenders are aware that the checks will be seized, and make other arrangements to have their checks illegally cashed. But it is extremely sad to watch the system rip the hearts out of those women new to the system who are in the throes of a horrifying experience, jailed and separated from their children for the first time and having their check, their last link with survival, taken from them when they absolutely need it most. This has to hurt more when both women can see the deputy standing there holding the check and placing it in a special drawer. A drawer of no return. For the most part, life has been in a holding mode, waiting for that check.

This will just be the beginning of the children's suffering. The mother will not be able to reapply for welfare until she is out of jail. The person keeping the children will be put to a hard test for survival. The irony is that the mother will be provided for while in custody, but the children will be left to suffer.

Unlike the male in custody that I described earlier, where his friends and family try to help maintain his status quo while he is in jail, the single mother usually has only her mother, the children's grandmother, to assist her. The grandmother is usually without transportation, illiterate or non English-speaking. She is usually on a fixed income. For her a visit to the jail is an all day procedure requiring a long wait outside the facility in whatever the weather.

I have witnessed men beaten in jail and seriously injured. I have talked to clients who were being confined in solitary in an area known as "the hole." I have had client's in the hole who were forced to eat "juke ball" (all your food cooked into a hard barely digestible, cracker-type ball) but by far, the cruelest thing to witness is the seizure of the check.

PICO BOULEVARD IN LOS ANGELES extends from the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica to downtown Los Angeles. I have traversed every inch of that street by foot, vehicle and bicycle since 1960. In April, I was riding my bicycle along a familiar stretch of Pico when my front tire hit an uneven spot. I was flipped forward and severely injured my right wrist.

I was taken to Los Angeles County General Hospital for emergency treatment. I arrived at about 8 am. It was immediately determined that I would need surgery. Medical procedure dictates that if you are to undergo anesthesia, you are not allowed to consume any food or water.

I was placed in a temporary cast and given several shots of medication and I waited. And I waited. And I waited. I was there the entire day and by 8 that evening I still had not officially been checked in as a patient and assigned a room. I was hungry and thirsty.

I decided to sneak out of the emergency room to the cafeteria and get a glass of water. As I approached the cafeteria, I saw a sign which read "Patients not allowed in the cafeteria." I could see that there was no one inside but the cashier. I could also see the water dispenser nearby, with courtesy cups sitting on a nearby table. I decided to chance it.

As I entered the cafeteria, the young female cashier started to yell at me: "You are not allowed in here...you are not allowed in here." I grabbed a paper cup and filled it with water and quickly left. The girl came running out of the cafeteria, still yelling that I was not allowed inside. It did not phase me. I took the water and drank it and returned to the emergency room, confident that I would not be operated on that night since I still had not been officially admitted and assigned a room and a bed.

Shortly after returning to the emergency room, I saw eight security police approach me from each side. I laughed to myself, thinking this must be a slow and boring night for them to send so many security police to deal with me over a cup of water. The chief asked me my name and wanted me to produce identification. I challenged him and indicated that I had committed no crime. He quickly informed me that I was under arrest and told me that the cashier had complained that I had struck her.

My heart fell!

I quickly denied that I had ever come close to the woman, and insisted that I had not struck her. I was escorted from the emergency room to the lockup area where I was further questioned and searched. The security police ran a make on me and were preparing to call the Los Angeles Police to pick me up and transport me to the Men's Central Jail, where I would be booked. Bail would be set at $50,000.

I continued to plead my case, but they would not hear my side of the story.

I sat there surrounded by eight somewhat hostile security police who felt they had just captured a serial killer. I knew that my life had changed in an instant. Who would believe me? I felt that although my family and friends would be sympathetic to me, privately they would ask themselves why the cashier would make up a lie on a person. They would always wonder if I might have just "nudged" her. Everyone would ask themselves, "Why would a nice working girl with nothing to gain just make up a story like that?"

Why would a judge and jury believe me? I am a big person and I appear to be somewhat imposing. In addition, I had in fact violated a rule by entering the cafeteria in the first place. She was an attractive, tiny woman with no ax to grind, "just doing her job." How could I ever defend myself?

Then it happened! One of the security policemen made an offhand statement about security cameras. I CAME TO LIFE! "You have security cameras?" I asked. "Sure," he replied smugly, as if to say "your ass is grass." I demanded that they pull the video tape and review it. They had time to kill while waiting for the police and they were somewhat curious. They got the tape. Each of them reviewed the tape out of my presence. They started to huddle and confer. I inquired, "Well?" And the chief quickly responded, "Inconclusive." I knew I had them! "What about the tape is inconclusive," I asked. "You are arresting me; what part of the tape are you unsure about?"

The chief was more angry with me now than ever. "I am not arresting you...the cashier is making a citizens arrest...we are just doing our job!" I could see him start to back peddle and try to clear himself and absolve his crew and the County of Los Angeles from a false arrest.

The chief angrily snapped, "I have to go get the cashier and let her review the tape." I was taken to yet another room so that the cashier would not have to pass me. I could hear her when she came in. A while later, the chief came in and said "the cashier decided to give you a break and not press charges." I knew they had now determined that she had lied and fabricated the story out of anger that I had ignored her command not to enter the cafeteria. I responded: "How can she give ME a break? I never touched her and now you know it!"

The chief was now more angry with me than ever...."I'm letting you go, but I'm writing you a ticket for resisting arrest!" I was stunned again ... "When did I resist arrest?"

The chief glared at me and said, "You don't respect authority and you have to learn to respect authority!" He wrote me a ticket, similar to a traffic ticket, and I was to appear for arraignment several weeks later.

I rallied forces with many of the attorneys I know and I was prepared to take this battle on, but a strange thing happened. When I arrived in court, there was no file and I was free to leave without further proceedings.

I have since attempted to obtain what is referred to as an "incident report" from the hospital. The security police and chief would have been required to prepare and file it, but to date, they have used every method to stonewall me and prevent me from obtaining it. I had an attorney send a letter requesting they provide me with the report.

On one level, I have resented that we now live in an era where all of our actions are being monitored. But without the tape, who would have believed me? Would you?

Clifford Mosby is a

Thoughts from Aung San Suu Kyi

Happiness takes on many forms. Political prisoners have known the most sublime moments of perfect communion with their highest ideals during periods when they were incarcerated in isolation, cut off from contact with all that was familiar and dear to them. From where do those resources spring, if not from an innate strength that transcends material bounds? My colleagues who spent years in the harsh conditions of Burmese prisons, and I myself, have had to draw on such inner resources on many occasions.

Nobody can take away from us the essential and ultimate freedom of choosing our priorities in life. We may not be able to control the external factors that affect our existence, but we can decide how we wish to conduct our inner lives. We may live in a society that does not grant freedom of expression, but we can decide how much value we wish to put on the duty to speak out for our rights. We may not be able to pursue our beliefs without bringing down on us the full vengeance of a cruel state mechanism, but we can decide how much we are prepared to sacrifice for our beliefs. Those of us who decided to work for democracy in Burma made our choice in the conviction that the danger of standing up for basic human rights in a repressive society was preferable to the safety of a quiescent life in servitude.

--Aung San Suu Kyi, Nobel Peace prize winner (1991) and leader of the National League for Democracy in Burma, in a speech delivered by her husband Michael Aris at American University on January 26, 1997.

(from: Chronicle of Higher Education, Feb. 14, 1997)

A former teenage bomber, now grown if not reformed, asks:

Should McVeigh be put to death?

by B_____

The jury said yes today, June 13th.
Does his death punish him or us?
In my life, I've seen heartache and pain...
Do we do unto?
Wrong psalm--I really meant:
An arm for an? A what?
A tooth for a ...
No it doesn't apply, or does it?

I was once a bomber. I bombed buildings and schools, and lit a fire or two. I was a kid, 15 or 16, radicalized by Vietnam, Earth Day, Caesar Chavez, Huey Newton and the Black Panthers, Malcom X and Algiers, Sausalito and the hippies, my parents and teachers, emboldened by a manic teenage immortality, thrust into multiple acts against the established powers that were, and really still are. Arrested by the FBI and confessed. Spent three and a half months in juvenile hall and looked at spending many a birthday at California Youth Authority prison.

The FBI and local police screwed up in their zeal to catch their bad guy, however, and so what all the world thought would be the end of my freedom for many years turned out to be something quite different.

I was sent off with the sons of the rich and powerful to prep school after the judge threw out the most serious charges against me, because my Miranda rights to an attorney during questioning were violated, which made my confession fruit of the poisoned tree.

Well, I ended up doing OK at prep school -- graduating with honors and gaining entry to UCLA. Did four years at UCLA before I quit to work and get married. Raised four kids and two grandchildren. I've worked for the government doing environmental work for about eight years now.

My bombs and fires never killed anyone; I tried to keep that from happening. They did not pack the punch of McVeigh's Ryder truck, for sure. But then luck was mostly in my corner, I think, or people probably would've died. When I was arrested, my father was quoted as saying, "Well if he did it, it's amazing he didn't blow himself up--he was never very good with his hands."

I was protesting the killing in Vietnam and the invasion of Cambodia; McVeigh was seeking revenge for the killings at Waco by the ATF and other federal agents. He killed a lot of people; I was lucky that I didn't. I went to prep school, he's going to the executioner. I'm a government inspector, he's a federal prisoner waiting transfer to Death Row.

Prisons were made for people like me and McVeigh. I lucked out; good lawyers helped set me free. Tim's luck ran out and he's sure to die as punishment. Prison could hold him just fine; no one doubts our ability to incarcerate and keep him locked away. So why not lock him up and throw the key away instead of having him murdered for justice?

We Shall Not Be Moved

a small sampling of 20th century prisoners of conscience

"We also tend to lay stress differently than Gandhi on the phases of civil disobedience. We tend to think breaking the law is the core of it. But, to Gandhi, the core of it was going to prison. Breaking the law was mostly just a way to get there."

Political prisoners

In a sense, every prisoner is political, but when governments use their powers to criticism, that's another story. In the bad old 60s, the FBI set up its COINTELPRO to subvert the radical movements (see

Outlaw Parrots

(on the wing)

by Bob Brault

busted outta that zoo pen aviary
like it was rubber chicken wire
we heard the Spanish Main callin'
(Pollyanna wanna FIRE!)

gatherin' up the flock
from near and wide;
Layin' down the square-jawed Law

on the turtle waxed side
of all the cars down there

spreading mean green wings,
stinkin' up the air,
divin' down
like shootin' gallery ducks,
goin' who knows where ...

Outlaw parrots on the wing
Don't give a damn about that Human Thing
Just wanna soar
and score some sunflower seeds,
Make strange haunting sounds
and hide out in the weeds.

Lao gai -- China's gulags

by Gary Gach

What's the big whoop about Chinese prison work camps?

Well, sure, they challenge our imagination. I don't think any of us can imagine what it must be like to be inside a Chinese prison. Human Rights Watch has published some very hair-raising memoirs, as has Harry Wu. And just this month, Viking has brought out The Courage To Stand Alone, prison writings by Wei Jingsheng.

These testimonies raise difficult questions about human rights and democracy in China. As Wei Jingsheng asked, on the Democracy Wall in 1976, "Can there be economic reform without social and political reform?"

But put human rights and democracy aside for a moment. Instead, as Deep Throat said, "Follow the money."

The issues begin to come home when you stop and consider for a moment export of goods made by Chinese prison labor. Consider Peter B. Levy, for instance, president of Labelon/Noesting Co., maker of paper clips and office fasteners, of Mount Vernon, NY. When he couldn't figure out how a competing Chinese paperclip company was undercutting his prices -- making them for less than the cost of materials! -- he went to China himself and found out: prison labor.

True, American prisons create products: but for domestic use only. They're not exported into the global marketplace. And money and industry have become transnational, global. If Asia can undercut Western capital, capital follows the bottom line.

Workers in the Philippines might hear, "Hurry up! Work harder! Don't complain about hours, safety, wages. If you don't like it, the contract will go to China." In neighboring Thailand, they say, "If you don't like it, the work will go to the Philippines." And, yes, in Boston, they can say, "If you don't like it, the work will go to Thailand." As well it might. So sub-standards can lower standards all on down the line -- economically and morally.

For prison labor, substitute "concentration camp labor." This is no hyperbole, my friends. The main difference between the Chinese lao gai (prison work camps) and Hitler's was that in the latter eugenics terminated the workers; in China, they can work themselves to death.

Now don't get me wrong. This is the end of May, when America discusses its foreign policy towards China (or lack of one). I'm all for renewing MFN (Most Favored Nation status) for China and continuing exchanges on all levels. But I'd hate to see it at the expense of folks like Peter B. Levy. Sure, I can appreciate a discount on office supplies as well as the next guy. But I have to draw a moral line beside my ledger's bottom line; a moral benchmark, if you will. In the long run, it's more profitable.

Work will set you free

by Elissa Rashkin

Three strikes. Mandatory minimum sentencing. Juvenile offenders tried as adults. Limited grounds for appeal. During this time of decreasing civil liberties, one thing has been puzzling me: Keeping people in prison costs a lot of money, and even though voters keep asking for longer, harsher sentences for lawbreakers, they don't really want to pay for them. So, what with overcrowded jails and governments going broke, how will it all work?

Well, I should have realized all along, but a recent special election in Oregon made it clear. Ballot Measure 49, tacked on to a much more controversial budget amendment and virtually uncommented on in the media, dealt with prison labor, expanding access to its use by public and private industry by relaxing interstate shipping requirements and restricting inmate lawsuits. The measure mainly modified legislation already in place since 1994, and not surprisingly, passed by a huge margin (something like 97%). Reading statements like The work or on-the-job training programs shall be established and overseen by the corrections director, who shall ensure that such programs are cost-effective ... Such programs may include boot camp prison programs, and Prison work products shall be available to any public agency and to any private enterprise without restriction imposed by any state or local law, ordinance or regulation as to competition with other public or private sector enterprises, it dawned on me that we were no longer talking about rehabilitation, punishment, or even so-called "victims' rights," but rather—the ultimate sweatshop!

The idea, of course, is that prisoners fund their own incarceration through their labor, thereby paying their debt to society in the terms it best understands. Work is supposed to give prisoners a skill to market when they get out, and 25 cents an hour seems like a fair wage for those whose room and board is paid by taxpayers. But the reality is a cheap deal for contractors—perhaps some of the same ones who are currently under fire for their exploitation of workers abroad. After all, if voters/consumers have a hard time caring about women workers raped on the shop floor in Indonesia or enslaved children in Burma, they care even less about convicts, who (we are told) forfeit their rights as citizens upon committing their crime (even a victimless crime such as possession of marijuana). The rights to organize, to fair working conditions, and even to minimum wage just don't apply. And, unlike most products on the market today, those that come from a prison can bear the proud label "Made in USA."

The institutionalization of this form of labor (as reflected in Oregon state law) is troubling. Will conviction and sentencing, much like government control of legal and illegal migration, become covert means of regulating the workforce, forcing "free" workers into competition with their incarcerated counterparts? Will the root causes of crime go forever unaddressed, becoming instead ever more lucrative sources of cheap labor? Is the movement for "victims' rights" a deliberate smokescreen masking a masterful attack not only on the rights of prison workers but on the hard-won rights of the American workforce as a whole?

My guess is that voters don't realize that they are playing into the hands of corporate interests--any more than the German public in the 1930s fully understood its complicity in Nazi genocide. While I do not wish to use Holocaust rhetoric as an emotional substitute for historical analysis, it is worth remembering that under Hitler, a few industrialists became extremely wealthy off the forced labor of Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and other undesirables in the concentration camps.

As everyone knows, the gate to Auschwitz bore the motto "Arbeit macht frei" -- "work will set you free." Is this slogan—a mysterious, ironic and cruel joke—to become the neofascist motto of the unspeakable 1990s?

From the inside, looking out

by Donald Leeper

In 1965, my prison number was 25381-138. I was 21 and expected to be in prison until I was 54. I was an outlaw with an attitude. I was an outlaw to the marrow of my bones. I was also an alcoholic and I used to play off of that when I got into trouble, blaming my antisocial behavior on my drinking problem. This kept me out of prison many times when I was arrested for minor things. However when they arrested me for a capital crime, kidnapping (taking a hostage during a small time robbery), and shooting some bullets at the police, the judge said that I had pushed society too far. The judge, taking pity on me because of my youth, thought that 33 years would mellow me out.

In my career as an outlaw I sold drugs, pimped girls, hijacked trucks and robbed a few stores. I was not a big time player.

When I went to the US penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana in 1965, I was the youngest inmate there. In my nine years there I never had any serious problem with the other inmates or the administration. My prison friends were in the Outfit (Italian Mafia) and they were the most normal people there. They had strong family values, loyalty to their friends, and were great entrepreneurs. Their mood was predictable and they wouldn't go crazy on you without warning like some of the other prisoners. They generally behaved in such a manner that would earn acceptance almost anywhere. They used violence as a tool, to be applied with some objective.

My friends had the respect of the other inmates and we were left alone by the prison administration. We ate special foods pirated from the Officers' Dining Room. We has comfortable housing, and living, as we were, in our own universe, sat out most of the race wars, drug wars, and a lot of the day-to-day personal conflicts and disputes that seemed to occupy a great deal of the time of the other prisoners.

In my prison career I worked in the Library (as the chief clerk), Electric Shop (as the electronic technician), and for six months I took care of the pigs on the prison farm.

I read a great deal and acquired my education from the prison library. I spent nine years in prison, and served five years on parole. Since my release from prison on 1974 I have received only one traffic ticket.

When I was growing up, those individuals that lived beyond the rules and regulations of ordinary society fascinated me. Killers, bank robbers, pimps, prostitutes, and drug dealer were my heroes, and the people I wanted to be like, and the people I wanted to spend my time with and have the respect of. Because I got into drugs and alcohol at a very young age (14), these chemicals contribute to fantasizing and idealizing the outlaw life.

I liked the fact that outlaws were men, and they stood up for themselves, and didn't take shit from anyone. They resolved their issues and disputes, applying violence rather than meditation. I thought this was more manly than the normal way of settling things.

By the time I ended up in court I was violent, crazy, and extremely dangerous; and society didn't have any choice but to lock me away for its own protection. I wasn't a suitable candidate for any treatment programs, other than the not-so-tender therapy of the Maximum Security of the Federal Penitentiary.

I grew up within the American version of Norwegian culture where I was never touched, hugged, told that I was loved or valued. Everyone was very reserved and they never expressed their feeling. I had very low self-esteem and I never felt (and I was constantly told) that I fit in or belonged. In my extended family, everyone was very technically capable in the woodworking and building trades. My father was a small businessman.

I didn't do well in school and had to repeat the sixth and eight grades. I was very depressed for most of my youth; and I never had a good feeling until I was turned on to alcohol. From my very first drink, I drank alcoholically. I drank for 29 years--however, that's another story.

When I was released from prison in 1974, I had been ensconced in the outlaw community for over 14 years. I considered myself a career criminal and thought that I would end up either being killed by the police or dying in prison. I wasn't happy with myself and I desperately wanted a new life. There I was, just out of prison, depressed, alcoholic, without any formal education, no employment skills, and with limited social graces. And, this is very important; I had spent a great deal of my youth and my entire adult life as a member of a community that was at odds with everyone else.

Because I had known my parole officer for many years, and I had several thousand dollars in my prison account, he did not require that I have a job or that I go to a halfway house as a condition of my release. I was released cold.

Being on my own, lonely, and without a close friend, I checked myself into an alcoholic recovery house where I stayed for two months. I found an employer who was very understanding of my past and thought I deserved a chance to do something with myself. I was the only felon in the recovery house and on the job.

While at the recovery house I attended the usual AA groups. I also become involved in a movement that called itself OUR (Obtaining Universal Reinforcement). I went to the first few meeting because I was bored and I wanted to get out of the house. OUR was not addiction treatment per se, but had to do with positive affirmations, the application of behavioral psychological principles to the verbal system, and assertive training. There was a whole community of OUR folks at the time that had their own literature (about the application of OUR ideas to everyday life). There were plays and short stories. I was told that OUR was started by a psychologist by the name of Ken Swift.

I was accepted into the community and made new fiends who were tolerant of me, and my addictions, and my past. They didn't make moral judgments upon me or my life. Because of their behaviorist viewpoint, they didn't feel that I had some inner quality that made me bad; but that I was a product of my environment. They believed that most behavior was learned and that it was possible to learn new ways of doing things. They didn't believe in punishment or criticism but took the position that positive reinforcement was the most humane and effective way of doing things. They gave me some love. We hugged a lot and gave each other positive strokes, and some of the girls were very kind to me and gave me some romance.

I had some mystical experiences because of my OUR Training, which were somewhat metaphysical. I perceived, experienced, knew, felt, how everything in the universe is interconnected, and interdependent, and everything is as it should be (including me). I knew that I was an integral part of life and by expansion, the Cosmos. I felt that I belonged here on earth, and for the fist time in my life I didn't feel at odds with everyone and everything else. I wasn't depressed any more and I felt good without using drug and/or alcohol.

I am not a spokesman for OUR. I don't believe that they are in existence any longer.

I would like to give brief analyses of the elements that contributed to my leaving the outlaw life. First, when I left prison, I completely (unintentionally) disassociated myself from my past. I didn't hang out with other outlaws or ex-convicts. For that matter, when I was firmly entrenched in my new life, I didn't associate with other alcoholics, not even those in recovery. I got a good job (I felt so bad about myself that I didn't think anyone would employ me). I made new friends who were stable, sober, warm and accepting. They gave me the love and support that I didn't get from my white middle class culture that I grew up in. My new friends didn't have serious problems and were somewhat normal. I learned how, through the OUR teachings, to get what I need from life without stealing or resorting to violence.

Instead of violence I learned about positive reinforcement. I learned how to get what I wanted in life through assertiveness. Part of the movement was Assertive Training. I became so skilled in the use of these tools (and all the OUR teaching) that I became an instructor and held my own workshops, seminars, and weekly groups to give to others what had been freely given to me. For the first time in my life, I was a somewhat respected member of the community. I felt that the new culture that I was involved in, with its human values, acceptance, love and support, was a healing society that repaired the damage that was done to me in my youth by being risked in an uncaring middle class materialist bring-home-the-pay-check-and-you-don't-have-to-show-any-love life. Once I felt truly loved, accepted and valued in life the elements that compelled me to be antisocial and behave violently dissipated.

A very important element in my rehabilitation was that I completely got away from the criminal subculture. And this mean not only active criminals, but also any groups (therapy or otherwise) that have the commonality of being a felon. I feel that these groups, that are very popular now, are only extensions of the criminal subculture. As long as you are hanging around with, and identifying yourself with the outlaw life, even as an ex-outlaw, you have never really left it behind. As for myself, I kept my prison record secret for many years. I have just gone public with my prison time and my alcoholism because I feel that I have something constructive to contribute to the dialog that swirls around these issues.

In conclusion, I'd like to say that the root of criminality has to do with a culture that has twisted and destructive ideals and values, and doesn't value diversity or emphasize acceptance and love.

Donald Leeper is a free lance writer and a survivor of both the American Justice System and the American Mental Health System. He lives in Ukiah, California, where he is active in the Mendocino Environmental Center, Earth First! and the Alliance for Human Rights.

'They want to make you miserable'

interview by Peter Rashkin

YA 7827905 is my friend's son. I've known him casually for about eight years and I always thought he was a real sweet kid, but I knew from talking to his father that he was a Bad Boy who was driving his parents crazy and actively un-endearing himself to the schools, the neighbors and the police. I'll bet you've all known boys like that, and girls, too. In fact, now that I think of it, some of my best friends were (or still are) boys and girls like that.

Now I'm always taking the kids' side against their parents ... I'm down with Kid Liberation. I don't buy the line that parents have to force their children into appropriate behaviors; most parents haven't even figured that out for themselves. But when your 14-year-old steals the car and gets arrested in another state for mugging an old lady, or whatever, and the courts as well as your conscience hold you responsible, well, I guess some sort of intervention is called for.

YA 7827905's father often complained to me about how intolerable his young hoodlum was making family life, and I reluctantly had to see his point. After thinking his problem over carefully, I was able to offer the following advice: Sell the kid to white slavers, and don't hold out for a good price. He never followed up on that suggestion ... I guess the slavers just didn't come around at the right time. YA 7827905 continued to make life tough around the casa by taking people's stuff and copping 'tudes, and getting in low level trouble in the community. From the time he was 13, he was in and out of the juvenile justice system, but he would just walk away from the bad kiddy facilities they put him in and there were no repercussions.

Then a couple of years ago he got into big trouble, and ended up copping a plea for fencing stolen merchandise. He was looking at hard juvey time. He spent four months in juvenile hall while his case was being heard, then almost four more at the California Youth Authority testing facility in Norwalk. At CYA he was offered a deal: Instead of two years hard time at a youth prison, he could spend four months at the Fred C. Nettles School for Boys in Whittier, a kiddy prison modeled after military boot camp. I spoke to YA 7827905 a week after his "graduation."

YA 7827905: I did four months at Fred C. Nellis, three and a half months at SRCC clinic in Norwalk, and before that I did four months in juvenile hall. I was incarcerated for almost a year. In my whole life I've spent about three years in jail.

Which is worse, jail or school?

Jail. Because in jail ... they say safety and security is the most important part of the institution, but there is no safety; there is no security. You go in there, staff is supposed to be there to protect you, but the staff isn't always around, and stuff goes down. Almost everyone in there is in a gang, but since I wasn't, I had to fend for myself and I had no one to back me up.

You weren't in a gang because you weren't in a gang on the outside?

I chose not ... because if you affiliate, that means they are going to have shot callers, people that are older and more experienced in the system, that tell you what to do. I could fend for myself. Because as long as you know how to fight and can defend yourself, and you don't snitch on anybody, they won't mess. I pretty much had to fly solo.

You say you were already a fighter. What does it mean to know how to fight?

Any way possible ... mentally, verbally physically.

How often did you have to fight when you were in jail?

When you first come to jail, that's when you do most of your fighting. You come in, and you have something, you know ... "well gimme your shoes" ... you know, and I say "no man, I'm not gonna give you my shoes" ... and you know, you're gonna get down for awhile ... talking ... mouthing off to one another.

First you get in the verbal fighting, and then, after that ... . you're on your way somewhere, and they get you in a closet or something ... after three minutes one person leaves the room, five minutes later another ... so it just looks normal and doesn't attract attention. So two or three of them come down and try to pop you, but you still can't back down or you're a punk, and if you're known as a punk all your stuff is gone, you don't have any hygiene, you don't have any food.

How about before you went to jail? How often did you fight in the community?

In the community I rarely fought ... maybe four or five times. In the system I fought maybe 30 or 40 times.

I've talked to people who like to fight...

Yeah ... they get a rush.

Do you?

I don't like to fight, but if it happens, I've got to get myself motivated, because if you don't, you lose. I've taken some serious hits ... hit in the eye so it totally closed up, or hit in the jaw and you see black. But if you're pumped up you don't fall down. I lost a couple of times, but you know it's not really win or lose, it's just taking care of business.

I asked you why you like school better than jail and that was the first thing you brought up ... the violent atmosphere.

But then there's girls ... You know in juvenile hall it was coed, but in the YA you don't even see a girl. All you see is, you know, a bunch of assholes.

Didn't you meet any people you liked in there?

Yeah, I met a couple of people I liked. They were gang affiliated, too, but they were trying to bring themselves out of it. They were changing their ways. Those were the people I got along with pretty good.

Was there pressure on you to join a gang?

Yes, at first. When you first go in, they ask where you're from, who do you bang with; me I go "I don't bang," and they ask "Who do you kick with?" and I say "I don't kick with nobody." And this would happen five times a day ... and that's when they start testing you because you got no backup, and they try to take stuff from you and everything. You don't let them take your stuff ... then it's cool.

At CYA I was in a two-man cell. I could touch both walls with two hands ... a double bunk bed, a sink, and a toilet in the corner. It had a screened window in the back of the cell. There were 100 cells, all filled. I spent 20 hours a day in the cell; we got out for showers, exercise, chow or working in the kitchen.

There's a top bunk and a bottom bunk. If you have the top bunk you're in bad shape, because everyone sees you and thinks you're a punk ... so you either sleep on the bottom bunk or the floor.

Where did you sleep?

I slept on the bottom bunk, and sometimes on the floor.

Who was in the cell with you?

Twenty different people. It would change every few days. That made the time go pretty fast, because you can talk to somebody different; when you run out of stories, somebody else comes in.

Was it pretty friendly because you were in the same boat?

Well sometimes it was and sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes you get somebody and they try to act just too cool, or whatever, and you end up fighting over something stupid, like a card game, 'cause you get real irritated, looking at the same face all day, and you end up fighting about some stupid stuff, or you're playing around and all of a sudden it gets serious.

Let's talk about drugs for a minute. Were there drugs in all three institutions?

Yes, everywhere. People put them in balloons, you know double balloon them, then they swallow them. And then you have your own toilet in your room, and you go through it and wash them off, open them up, and they have marijuana or speed or something.

Some staffs would bring us packs of cigarettes, or little shots of liquor. If you knew them. A lot of the guards are related to the people in the institution by blood or former gang affiliation.

And you weren't drug tested?

No, you don't get drug tested unless they come by and see you doing it. If they see you smoking something and you flush it down the toilet, they'll test you. But most of the time if you take Ajax and wrap it up in toilet paper and swallow it, your pee comes out clean.

So are you staying away from drugs now?

Yeah, I've been staying away from drugs now, because now that I was in a boot camp and everything, and all that good health, I don't have any reason to go back to drugs right now.

You like it better without doing drugs?

Yeah.

But drugs are fun, aren't they?

Yeah ... they were. They were fun, but after awhile, when you're on them all the time, like for years, you're spaced out, you forget things.

Do you think it was drugs that got you in trouble, or being in trouble that got you into drugs?

I was rebellious. I didn't like any authority. I still don't. I can't stand somebody else telling me what to do. But I have to live with that, because someone's going to be hiring me, telling me what to do, and I have to deal with that.

How has your jail experience changed you?

When I went to jail, that's where I learned everything I know. I learned how to steal cars, I learned how to make bombs, I learned how to break into houses.

This is in your earlier times in jail?

Yeah ... the system put me in jail to correct me, but instead I was getting more knowledge in what I needed, so when I got out I tried to use all these new things I had ... these skills ... they worked. So then I got addicted to the fast money, the drugs, the girls, and it just keeps going on ... it's an addiction ... it's not so much an addiction to drugs, it's an addiction to the lifestyle.

What did you first go in for?

When I was 13 I went in for commercial burglary and vandalism. I got one month for that, but it was enough to learn some new tricks. Then I got another year at Boys Republic. I booked from there three times ... I was just manipulating the system, and it caught up with me.

Do you think you have learned your lesson, and that this last program helped you to reform?

To tell the truth this program didn't do a damn thing for me. It's if you want to do something about it. If you have the smarts and you stay mentally strong, you can do anything you want. This program was nothing but hell. The program I was in this last four months, it was more than punishment. This program is to break you down, to show that you aren't a man. I think it's torture.

The staff, some of them, they go in there just so they can yell at you, cause they know if they went to the main line (main prison population), they would have got stabbed, they would have got battery packed ...

But you guys were all on your self-imposed good behavior?

Because we had four months ... we could soak it up, and take any shit ... so you just sit there all day long at attention. When you're not doing anything you sit there ... if you scratch they yell at you, they drop you on the floor, you're down there like a half hour doing pushups, when you can't do pushups anymore you're over there stair stepping. One staff used to tell me, where else can I come to work and yell at people and get paid for it ... make people's lives miserable ... staff that works here, they don't want to help you out, they just want to make your life miserable.

About six months after this interview, YA 7827905, stopped going to school and reporting to his parole officer. He was picked up by police a few blocks from his parents' house, and now he's back in kiddy jail.

Letter from YA 7827905's mother

'Prison turned my life around'

another Dagger interview

C68209 was an inner-city punk. In 1983, when he was 21 and "under the influence of alcohol, cocaine, heroin and a shot of testosterone," he went to score some pot from a woman he had been diddling. He came on to her and she tried to put him off; her husband was sleeping in the next room. He was too loaded to pay attention. The husband woke up, they got into a brawl, he grabbed a kitchen knife, the husband died. C68209 was convicted of manslaughter and spent four years in Chino, Tracy and San Quentin State Prisons. Today he is a nice guy, with a family, a good job, good attitude, etc. He says that his prison experience turned his life around.

Tell me about what you were when you went in, what you did in there, and what you were when you came out.

Well I went in at the age of 21, weighing about 125 pounds, picked up a welding trade in there, and I've been welding ever since. It was a really violent place...somebody getting stabbed all the time.

Were you subject to a lot of violence?

Oh yeah! We were always getting in some shit with somebody. But as an individual I never had any problems; it was just as a group.

Were you in a gang?

Not per se, but you could say it was a network of gangsters, since almost everybody in there is gang related. So I wasn't really in one particular gang.

Prison really turned my life around. I think I told myself, well I'm in here for x number of years, I've got no other choice. So I think from the very beginning I told myself, if I don't come out with a little more than I went in with, then it really will have been a total waste of time.

It was a pretty crazy place. A lot of people hooked on drugs. That seems to be the main source of crime in one form or another ... drug abuse. I would say everybody--at least as high as 95%--it's drug related, in one form or another. I guess I just persevered ... there were a lot of guys who would just give up. It's real easy to give up, because it's so hard to make it once you have that kind of thing on your jacket.

So you learned a trade. When you worked in jail, were you making money?

Yeah, about 18 cents an hour as a welder. Then I went up to 45 cents and hour -- top pay scale!

Were you doing prison related things or outside work.

Mostly making tables and beds...they call them cookie sheets because they're just a solid metal sheet that they bolt up to the wall to hold a mattress.

Learning a trade was the main thing that enabled me to stay out of jail. I didn't always have the best job, but I always had a job, always had money in my pocket.

Did you live in terror all the time you were in jail, or did you relax and get used to it?

Yeah...you have no other choice. You live as much of a normal life as you can. The only time you could fully relax was at the end of the day when the door closes on your prison cell. That's the only time you can relax. You're always on alert. You're not living in terror...Some people live in terror in that place.

Why? What determines that?

What determines it is if you have any type of fear or weakness, it will be exploited. I mean everybody's a little scared...you'd be lying if you said you weren't, but not to the point where you can't function under their rules.

When you say "their rules," do you mean the gangsters or the guards?

The gangsters...the convicts run that place; the guards don't run that place. The convicts do everything. They do all the administrative work, so they know who you are and what you're about before you even get there. If you're a rat or a child molester or something like that, they know about it before you get there, and they're waiting for you. They've actually killed some of them...stick a big knife up their ass...it's got these barbs so when it comes out it takes everything with it. But for the most part, what it all seems to come down to is if there's any trouble--which there always is--are you going to be there or are you going to run?

And what's the right answer?

You've got to deal with it...hang in there and stick it out. And once they know you're not a pussy, and you're not going to take off running, then it gets a little easier. For myself, they could tell that I wasn't a gangster, that I was just pretty much myself, and they didn't like it. If you weren't a gangster going into it, then you weren't shit. But once they saw that no matter what happened, I was there, regardless if I was a square or not, then its ok. And people that I got bad vibes from, I just stayed away from. Because there's a lot of people there that are never getting out of prison. Young, too, when they went in there. So you really gotta walk light. And maybe a little bit of luck. And my mom praying for me. It made a big difference in my life. I'm definitely blessed to come out with the GED that I got in prison, really no other work background, and I pretty much have made it to the pinnacle of a welding career...

Was it weird getting out?

Initially I didn't think it would be, but it definitely takes time to adjust back to the real world, because the rules are so different.

Do you think these prisons, as you experienced them, are the best way to deal with our delinquents?

You know the prisons have some really good training facilities if the individuals will take advantage of them, but you're living in a 100% violent environment, so it's a day-to-day thing, it's never a long-term thing you can plan, "I'm going to get a trade," or "I'm going to get a degree." You never know what's going to happen.

I think most of the people there really deserve to be there.

You deserved to be there, right?

Definitely. I probably deserve to still be there.

What was the most horrible experience you had in jail?

I think it was getting caught ... going outside my building to tell this guy the football score, getting caught outside in my boxers, right when a riot between the Mexicans and the Blacks was ready to kick off. So I had no clothes on, no place to hide a weapon, nothing. Boxers and shower thongs, and I walked into the middle of a riot! For ten or fifteen minutes, it was like being in the middle of a war zone in your underwear!

Were you injured?

No. Never. I came out of that place without a scratch. Thanks to the Lord, brother. I know you don't believe in God, but I do.

Well, I believe in giving thanks!

It's crazy. It was a very sobering experience for me. It changed my life. Most people, it doesn't, because they get out, and it's very hard to persevere. Some people don't have the intestinal fortitude.

STOP.

There is no need for this

CONDESCENDING TONE

Don't PATRONIZE ME!

You stare me in the face with your uniform

and try to push your authority

over my head

like a smothering blanket

and your mouth moves

and your down-talking, rude voice

tells me that there is no

DISCRIMINATION

I am a girl-woman

and I am not stupid.

my Innocence of Age

is nothing compared to your

Ignorance of Heart

This is not because I am young.

I will be your grandmother and

you will act as if I CAN know-nothing,

do-nothing, fix-nothing, BE-NOTHING

You are an angry, spoiled brat

and you pretend that you are not,

Feign control as you use faux power

to make me feel small...

But I will stand up.

If you would SHUT-UP

I will stand up.

--Sara Helen Rashkin

Making slave labor fly--

Boeing goes to prison

by Paul Wright

excerpted from Prison Legal News, March 1997

With the repeal of welfare, some political opportunists and right-wing pundits are turning their sights on questions of law and order in general and prison "reform" in particular. They are starting to push Congress to impose the same solution on prisoners as on welfare recipients: put them to work.

Currently more than 90,000 state and federal convicts work in a variety of public and private enterprises while serving time. The majority are employed in state-owned enterprises such as making license plates or furniture for government offices. Increasingly, though, private businesses have contracted with at least 25 states to set up businesses inside prison walls to take advantage of state-supplied facilities and low-wage nonunion workers.

In one Washington prison, Boeing Corp., headquartered in Seattle, is discovering the benefits of a captive work force. Last year, while the world's largest civil aviation manufacturer made more planes and more money than ever before, it cut the number of employees on its US payroll. Like most corporations, Boeing has been cutting costs and countering organized labor's threat to its bottom line by moving factories abroad and out-sourcing to nonunion subcontractors in the US. It's search for workers who are unable to unionize or demand a decent wage took it to two widely divergent yet strangely similar places: China and the Washington State Reformatory (WSR) in Monroe.

In China, where Boeing sold ten per cent of its planes between 1993 and 1995, the company operates at a fraction of its US costs. According to the Seattle Times, "Employees live mostly on or next to the factory premises. Workers receive a salary of about $50 a month. They are forbidden to form independent trade union. For those who step out of line on the shop floors in China, there is the notorious Lao Gai 'reeducation through labor' prison work camps."

The newspaper could have written almost the same story by traveling 25 miles to the WSR, where MicroJet is employing prison labor to make aircraft components. Among the recently formed company's customers is none other than Boeing. MicroJet, which lists its address as 16700 177 Av. SE--the same address as the prison--currently employs eight prisoners. They train for minimum wage and progress to $7 an hour, unlike those pesky machinists at Boeing's Everett plant who earn up to $30 an hour for the same work. Like all companies employing prison labor, MicroJet saves further by not paying benefits such as health insurance, unemployment, etc.

In addition to savings on salaries, prison industries also enjoy subsidized overhead. MicroJet's rent-free factory is in a 56,000 square foot industrial building built and maintained by Washington state. The arrangement offers a "just-in-time" inventory of labor: Prisoner workers can be simply left in their cells for weeks on end if there is no work, then be called in on short notice. Outside competitors have to pay overhead and workers even if no production is taking place. Moreover, in prison, any attempt at labor organizing is met with immediate and harsh state repression which generates even less negative publicity than similar moves in China.

With these competitive advantages, prison industries can easily underbid any US competitor. The real losers, then, are the free workers, machinists in particular, whose jobs have gone to prisoner slave laborers or Chinese workers.

FEW PRISONERS ARE willing to speak publicly against the program for fear of losing their industry jobs, being blacklisted by prison industry employers, or incurring retaliation from prison officials. In any case, most of Washington State's 12,800 prisoners would probably say that they support prison industries, regardless of any objective exploitation.

Just like on the outside, people in prison work at jobs they dislike because they need the money and there are long waiting lists for the 300 industry jobs available. Their situation is similar to that of sweatshop and maquiladora workers in South Asia and Latin America who earn a few dollars a day. While such wages are exploitative and paltry by First World standards, in the Third World they make the difference between starvation and poverty and are thus highly sought after.

Prison industries represent a Third World labor model in the heart of America. And while $1.50 an hour take-home pay for work that brings $30 an hour on the outside may not seem like much, it looks pretty good against the 38 to 42 cents an hour Washington convicts earn in prison kitchens, laundries, janitorial services, etc. And even those jobs have eager takers since overcrowding has created a prison "unemployment rate" of more than 50 per cent.

PRISONERS CAN AND should be given the right to perform meaningful work for decent wages and the opportunity to gain job skills and earn money. A sane program that would serve both society's and prisoners' interest would require that:

-- prisoners keep the wages they earn, subject to the same deductions as any other citizen;

-- prisoners be paid the same wages as free workers in comparable industries;

-- prisoners learn job skills that would help them get decent jobs on release;

-- prisoners have the right to unionize and bargain freely;

-- products be labeled to indicate that prison labor was used;

-- the use of prison labor to break strikes or replace striking workers would be outlawed; and

-- prisoners be allowed to live up to financial responsibilities to those on the outside.

Such a program would pay off in lower recidivism without driving down wages on the outside.

The right-wing drive to make prisons pay--while racking up a nice profit for industry--fits well with the continuing transformation of America into a nation of small government, big corporations and big prisons. And just like the welfare bill, it gives the public the false sense that meaningful reform is taking place. Meanwhile it takes pressure off a system which cannot provide enough decent jobs and uses incarceration as the remedy of choice for poverty, unemployment, poor education and racism. If you've lost your job in manufacturing, garment or furniture manufacturing, telemarketing or packaging, it could simply have been sentenced to prison.

Paul Wright, a prisoner at Monroe State Reformatory, is legal editor of Prison Legal News. Subscriptions ($20/year) are available from PLN, 2400 NW 80th St., #148, Seattle, WA 98117.

woodcuts from Mad Man's Drum by Lynd Ward, 1930

Just like Palm Springs
Actor Robert Mitchum spent some time in prison in the late 40s for possession of marijuana. Later, he was asked what it was like to be in jail. "Just like Palm Springs," he said, "without the riffraff."

Dagger #5 (February 1995)
Dagger #6 (July 1995)
Dagger #7 (February 1996)
Dagger #8 (December 1996)

Other prison-related links