My Brother’s Eulogy Delivered

Sunday, Sept. 23, 2012

Dear Dee,

My brother continues to fade away and I strongly suspect that he’ll be gone within days. He is bedridden now and not eating at all. I think I told you that I sent my nephew some words to read for me as you did at Joe’s memorial. But it occurred to me that Dennis is still able to hear them. So I called him on Friday and read them to him. I wasn’t able to get through it without breaking down, but I finally made it and he seemed appreciative. This turn of events has kicked up a whole new batch of guilt on my part for putting myself in a place where I am unable to be where I should be—at my brother’s side. It has also stirred up no small amount of anger at the BOP for refusing me the transfer that would have put me closer to my family so that I could have spent some time with him over the past few months. They give lip service to the idea of family being a key part in the rehabilitative process but when it comes down to reality, it’s all just self-aggrandizing puffery.

Church today had to be performed with headphones on and the radio tuned to static to mask the roar of the crowd at the sports TV. How I ache for the sound of no sound!

The sermon was from January of 2010 by Rev. Thomas Disrud of the First Unitarian Church of Portland titled “Speaking the Language of the Soul.” Rev. Disrud talks about the difference between the soul and the spirit, the soul being that part of us that speaks to matters of life. He quotes Jung: “The soul is the archetype of life, embedded in the details of ordinary everyday experience. In the spirit, we try to transcend our humanity; in the soul, we try to enter our humanity fully and realize it completely.

I will close with this “prison fun fact.”

From time to time, one inmate will emit a high-pitched “whoop, whoop, whoop” sound. This is then picked up by others in the unit until it sounds like a pack of coyotes in a feeding frenzy. We don’t hear it as much now that our former “unit counselor” (who we called “the Whistling Idiot) is gone. But it is a signal that he or someone in authority was approaching and to “get your shit together.” One day, I was reading a David Baldacci novel when I saw a reference to the “whoop, whoop, whoop” as it is practiced in the ghetto and on the mean streets. It is done when a police car enters “the hood” and it is picked up by others and passed on as a warning that it’s time to get your drugs and your “ho’s” off the street.

All for now. Hope to hear from you soon.

Love, Steve

I Can’t See Him

Monday, Sept. 10, 2012

Dear Dee,

Your 9/4 letter arrived today and there is so much to answer that I thought I’d get an early start and then finish it off with the “church” part on Sunday. To refresh your memory, Robert Bly is a poet who was one of the central figures in the men’s movement back in the ‘80s when I first got into men’s work. His book, “Iron John,” along with “Fire in the Belly” by Sam Keen, were the two texts that were very central to defining the men’s movement. It’s interesting to note that, although the movement proved to be a passing fad, my men’s group still meets faithfully once a month in Los Angeles. All but two of the men in that group have stayed in touch and have been very supportive of me. The other two have never been able to bring themselves to forgive me for what I did. It’s interesting, too, that the person I considered to be my closest friend before this happened falls into the “no forgiveness” camp.

Thank you for contacting the Probation Office in Oregon. I’m thinking about relocating there when I get out. In order to get permission to be released there, I have to have a place to live already upon my release. My friends, C and C could maybe rent something for me and get it pre-approved. They live nearby, which would give me a support system. You asked about the possibility of my getting into a halfway-house. You should know that sex offenders never get six months in a halfway house—the most I’ve ever heard of is six weeks. The whole purpose of a halfway house is to be able to find a job, which is not likely for a 73-year-old felon and registered S.O. But with my two pensions and the restoration of my social security, I should have a sufficient income to be able to live on, particularly if I’m not in California. I am hopeful that I get a considerate probation officer and can lead a reasonably normal life.

I thought I had written you about Toastmasters, but perhaps not. To be honest, things are so mind-numbingly boring around here that I don’t spend a lot of energy thinking about things that happen here that might be of interest to you. My first Toastmaster’s speech went well. It was voted the best of the four speeches that night.

The monetary system here is not quite the barter system. There are two forms of currency: stamps and commissary purchases. So someone might do something for someone else and request payment—either a book (20 stamps) or the equivalent amount in food or other commissary items. I pay someone six dollars a month to clean the room on days when I am responsible for it. Then at the first of every month, he gives me a list of commissary items to get for him—six dollars worth. As for me, I do not charge people for helping them—such as the typing I do for T or composing letters for others or helping them with projects or critiquing their writing. I get a decent income. My ex sends me $150 a month from my pension checks and I make $30 at my job. In prison, $180 a month is big money so I have no need to “get my hustle on.” I get satisfaction and a sense of purpose from helping others.

You asked about someone here that I had mentioned, J.W. He is an ex-cop S.O. (one of several in our unit) who got 12 years. He did take a plea deal—I shudder to think what kind of sentence he would have drawn if he had gone to trial and lost. That’s one of the things I think is so warped about the system. We are constitutionally guaranteed the right to a fair and speedy trial. But if you actually do go to trial, refusing the plea deal, you are punished for have done so by getting a much harsher sentence. And then, once you plead guilty, you can never appeal your conviction. They have you locked up in more ways than the physical.

I have been walking the track intermittently with my friend, T. It’s been hit or miss because of an intense mosquito infestation. At one point last week, I had seven bites on me at one time. And you may have heard that West Nile virus is heavy in four states including Louisiana. T. is the only man here who I would call a friend. I trust him completely. Despite all his “Jesusness,” he doesn’t press the issue with me.

I was wondering if you would sign up for Google Voice. It would save me a lot of money. When I call you, it costs 23 cents per minute or $3.45 for the 15-minute call. But Google Voice can issue you a number that is local for me. When I call it, it rings your existing number at home or your cell. This would reduce the cost of the 15-minute call to 90 cents. (Note: Fifteen minutes is the limit of time that an inmate can be on a call. At that point they are automatically cut off. At two points during the call, a voice comes on the line saying “This call is from an inmate at a federal prison.”)

My 3-year-old granddaughter won’t talk to me on the phone anymore. I have a theory. I think she is spoiled by Skype. One of the times I did talk to her, she handed the phone back to her mom saying “I can’t see him.” For her, I think it’s all or nothing.

Sunday, Sept. 16

Church today was an emotional experience. It immersed me in thoughts of my father. Both the chalice lighting and the sermon summoned memories of different aspects of his personality and of our troubled relationship. This comes at a meaningful time as I have been considering writing the story of my father and mother, of their coming together and their coming apart, as well as the scars and wounds that endured long after. Much of the story takes place before I was born or when I was very young. I’ve been told enough of it to string together the basic facts, filling in the details and ancillary characters with my imagination. I think perhaps the congruence of this chalice lighting and sermon may be a signal that I should begin.

The chalice lighting from C.L. recalls her younger life with a father who was a rage-a-holic. The only attention he paid her was when he vented his anger at her. That was my dad.

The sermon by Carol Emmerling of All Souls Unitarian in New York summons the image of an emotionally distant father who worked all day, came home to an evening meal that contained no meaningful conversation and then “after dinner, Dad would settle down in front of the TV and that was it for the evening”. Her overriding point was that, while we cannot change the past, we can change how we view it. And in so doing, we can come to a greater understanding of those troubled people who inhabit it. I think this may be the best reason of all for me to write that story.

OK, it is time to button this up and get it on its way to you.

Love, Steve

Process Theology or the Interdependent Web

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Dear Dee,

My brother, Dennis, has stopped his chemotherapy and made his peace with fate. Last weekend he gathered his two sons together and explained this to them. He told them about all the arrangements he has made and even laid out his burial outfit: black jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. Usually, once someone reaches this level of acceptance, the end isn’t far away. I told him I hated that it has come to this but I applaud his taking control of his life and destiny. As I did with Joe’s passing, I wrote some words and sent them to my nephew, who will deliver them on my behalf. And so it goes.

I have written to Congresswoman Barbara Lee’s Senior Caseworker to ascertain whether or not the BOP ignored her letter on my behalf. Considering that she sits on the House Appropriations Committee, I think it took some chutzpah to be so disrespectful to her. But overall, it looks like I will be waiting until February to try again for my transfer. In the meantime, please continue to monitor the census at Terminal Island in Long Beach. I know of two people who have transferred there in recent months.

It looks as though my divorce will become final on the 25^th of this month. However, we will not be separating our finances until the house sells. It is my fervent hope that the house sells by the midpoint in my sentence, which occurs next April. That way, I will be able to save my pension checks, which are now going toward house payments, in a savings account for when I get out.

On to “church.”

The chalice lighting from CM was a history of his spiritual growth and the valued associations that he made with people of other faiths throughout his long life. It set the tone for a theme of inner-connectivity that ran through all of my readings today.

The sermon was by Rev. Kate Lore of 1^st Unitarian Church of Portland, Oregon. The sermon’s title was “Divine Persuasion—A Look at Process Theology.” It is no exaggeration to say that my mind was fairly-well blown. Her sermon covered the high points of every one of my beliefs that I have been developing, including much that I took away from the book, “The Field.” Process theology deals with things that are being examined in the laboratories of science, such as “collective consciousness.” She talks of how everyone and everything in existence can be reduced to its smallest component—the atom. And how these atoms ae recycled, so that you or I may very well possess atoms that once belonged to Shakespeare or Joan of Arc. This is precisely what I took away from “The Field” which was where I first saw that these cells in our bodies can communicate with each other and as some scientists believe, with the cells of other bodies. Thus, the interconnectivity of all mankind or, as we UUs put it, the interdependent web of existence. So what I believe, much of which I thought I had made up myself, has a name, and it is Process Theology.

I am going to share this sermon with T, a friend here who is a devout Christian. A few months back, I made a clumsy and fumbling attempt to explain my beliefs to him. But I had to stop because it came out sounding like an attack on his beliefs, which was not my intention. I think Rev. Lore does a much better job of it. I don’t want to try to wean him away from his Christian faith. I just want him to understand mine. I’m sure he’ll still think I will end up burning in hell and that’s OK too. (His belief, not me burning in hell.)

Rev. Fleck wrote of our need to know others and to be known by them (that interconnectivity theme again). He wrote of how frightening it can be to not know or be known. I know how true this is from moving from one county jail to another and finally to where I am now. I will face it again if I get a transfer and yet again if I end up living in a strange city.

That’s it for another week. Love, Steve