Request DENIED and other bad news

Reader: On February 24, Steve heard that his request for a transfer to Terminal Island in Long Beach, California was perfunctorily denied. Transferring to T.I., which is in the Los Angeles area where Steve grew up, would have meant being close to his brother, his sister, and much closer to his daughter in northern California. It would have meant visits from family and old friends that will just not happen with him in central Louisiana.

Dear Dee,

February 26, 2012

As you know by now, my transfer was denied—they said on the basis of overcrowding, but I think that is a catchall excuse. According to the census figures you have been sending me on T.I., their population is down considerably. My grief and disappointment are deep and palpable. But, thankfully, they are not lasting. At least I have developed the wisdom to know that this, too, shall pass. I also know that I set myself up for this.

Some time ago, as my revised conceptualization of god evolved, I resolved that if I were going to make prayer a part of my life, I would pray only for that which I had the ability to make happen. That only made sense because if, as I believe, a piece of god is contained within all living creatures, then that is the part of god to whom I can pray. I can pray for strength, courage, faith, endurance or a host of other qualities that I might draw from deep within. But with full knowledge of all that, I foolishly allowed myself to pray for the transfer—a result that was totally beyond my control. But I used what I had read in Lynne McTaggart’s book, The Field, about experiments in inter-cellular communication, to convince myself that I could somehow influence the outcome of this decision. This is what led me to jack my hopes up to unrealistic heights.

In my Sunday reading of Come As You Are, Rev. Fleck writes of his experiences with his wife, Ruth, in Holland as the Nazis occupied it. When I read accounts such as this or think of Anne Frank and her people, or recall stories such as Schindler’s List, it really helps to put my present situation into sharp perspective. While the loss of one’s freedom is no trivial event, my life is a cakewalk compared to what people have had to endure in this process we call life. I can only wonder if I could display the amazing strength of character that those people showed. If I can keep those people in my thoughts, this journey becomes vastly easier. Chicken Soup for Prisoners was a poem by an inmate about the recurring joy of mail call and the tiny disappointments on those days when one’s name is not called.

March 4, 2012

I am trying to do my Sunday readings, but it’s a challenge—even more of an assault to the senses than usual with the noise level cranked up beyond the norm in the TV room right outside our cubicle. The guys are watching the Knicks and the Celtics and, of course, they are convinced that the players haven’t a clue as to what to do unless they scream a steady stream of instructions to them. The screaming is necessary because they are very far away from the game. And when a basket is scored, in addition to the cheering, there’s a siren sound, cuckoo clock noises, wolf howls, monkey chatter—well, you get the picture. But I came up with an interesting way to deal with all this. I put my headphones on and off-tuned my radio to static and hiked up the volume. It works pretty well. And thanks for the new chalice lighting booklet. It just wasn’t the same last week, reading with an unlighted chalice.

This morning, my daughter, K, hit me with the news that my brother has been diagnosed with lung cancer. I called him a little later and he told me they won’t know what stage it’s at until they complete further tests. But in discussing the prognosis, the doctor used the word “grim.” He quit smoking over 20 years ago, but maybe it’s related to his frequent visits to casinos where the air is redolent with second hand smoke. I’m still coming to grips with this news. I wish I could be there to help him through this. I’m going to make it a point to start calling him weekly. I wish we had been closer over the years, but he is the only one on the planet who knows what my Dickensian childhood was like. That created a bond that can never be ignored.

K said that my granddaughter, S, has hit the princess stage. She talks about her prince coming for her. I told K that she absolutely must get her a princess dress. K said she told S that before her prince comes, she has to get her master’s degree.

My Chicken Soup reading today was short, but effective; short enough that with a little editing, I can include most of it here:

To the man, tired to the bone and having less than ten dollars in his pocket, coming home from work to a house that needs paint, a yard that needs mowing and is full of kids’ toys and screaming children…

To the man who drives an old pickup that can’t last much longer who comes home to a wife dressed in old blue jeans and is a little overweight, in a bad mood, wearing no makeup and having uncombed hair and bad breath…

To the man whose dinner will consist of chicken noodle soup and hot dogs…

from the prison cell from which I am writing this, I say “God, how I envy you!”                    

Ken “Duke” Monsi Broten

March 17, 2012

A couple of weeks ago, there was a notice that they would be having 12-step meetings every other week in the chapel. I was in a 12-step group while I was on house arrest. In fact, it was when I mentioned to someone in that group that I had tried going to church but felt like a fraud, that he suggested I give UU a try. Then I recalled you telling me some years previously that I was really a UU. So I grabbed the opportunity to attend a UU church like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. It only took that single visit to know that I had found a home. I thought about going to the 12-step meetings here, but I am more convinced than ever that a 12-step cannot work in prison. It is missing two essential ingredients—anonymity and trust. One of the first lessons you learn in prison is to trust no one—ever. I have seen that borne out more than once as people I thought were my friends have betrayed me. So I have settled for having no friends. I keep to myself with my nose in a book.

Okay, I got to that point before the 2 o’clock move when the large group came in from the yard. But then, instead of going out and walking the mile, I took a nap. Not the best choice from a health standpoint, but I wrote the following to justify my laziness:

Here is a whimsical poem for you
To show where a nap gets its power;
An hour asleep is a moment or two
But an hour awake is an hour

Love, Steve