Looking ahead

Note from Dee:

I went to visit Steve in mid-May of 2012 and had two long visits with him. Visiting this prison in the heart of Louisiana (for anyone not nearby) involves flying to either New Orleans or Houston, Texas, and then renting a car for the 3 1/2 hour drive to Oakdale, LA. Visiting days are only on weekends. Most visitors find a motel in a nearby small town and go to the prison about 9 a.m. on Saturday, stay until 4 p.m., and repeat that again on Sunday. Once in the visitor's room, you cannot leave and reenter. It is a large room filled with long rows of chairs facing each other. You must know in advance to bring enough quarters to get lunch, drinks, and snacks from the vending machines. You are not allowed to bring in anything with you except your ID and quarters. There are a few children's books in the room, but nothing else for kids to occupy themselves with.

May 27, 2012

Dear Dee,
Your visit is still resonating a week later. There is something about being with loved ones that transcends being in this place. I'm so grateful that you went to the trouble and expense to come. It has made me stronger for the weeks and months to come.

I'm wondering if you could do some digging on the internet to see if you can come up with some information on what current sex offender laws are in California relative to voting rights, living restrictions, etc. Someone here was just released to Florida where everything is very stringent. He has to undergo a polygraph test every six months, which he has to pay for ($350). Also, he may not live with anyone who has minor children even if they are his own children or grandchildren. Some states will allow you to live with close relatives. While I am hoping to be released to my daughter, K’s, address, I plan to get out of there as quickly as possible as I don’t want her home impacted by invasive searches and things of that sort. So any info you can find would be helpful. It’s still four years away, but I want to get a feel for what’s in store when that time comes.

I really connected with the Chicken Soup  piece written by an inmate who told of this many escapes from prison—through books. It’s what keep me reading, though he consumes about twice as many books as I do—some 300 a year. “Come As You Are” dealt with love and respect and contained sentiments that everyone in a relationship, marriage or otherwise, should take to heart. It stressed that anger was fine as long as you don’t let the sun go down on it; that all horrors such as slavery, murder and genocide flow from a common point: disrespect.

So that's another Sunday letter.
Love, Steve

 

Giving and Receiving

May 13, 2012

Dear Dee,

By the time you read this, we will have shared some time together, perhaps shared a laugh or two, shed a tear and enjoyed a hug. The hug is important. One of the things I am absolutely starved for is the touch of another human being. In here, if you’re in a crowd and brush against someone, you must immediately pull away and say “excuse me.” I understand the reasoning behind it. No one wants their space invaded. But in the free world, we all have people that we allow inside that space. No such exceptions exist here, It can leave one feeling rather hollowed out.

I just finished talking with P, my soon-to-be-ex-wife. She is going to be seeing the lawyer this week about the divorce. I guess it’s time to get on with that, though I’ll always be sad that she didn’t agonize over the decision a little. Believe it or not, I have met only one other person in here with my charge whose wife didn’t stick with him. I guess this is yet another example of karma coming back on me.

This week’s Come As You Are piece was all about giving and receiving. In prison, the emphasis is on receiving, as everyone has his “hustle” on. When I volunteer to help someone—to critique a manuscript or do some typing for someone—they will ask if I want to be paid in stamps or commissary goods. When I say neither, they don’t know what to think of me. I tell them if they feel the need to pay me back, they should just “pay if forward” and do someone else a favor. I like going to bed at night knowing that I helped someone that day.  

Love, Steve
 

Self Eulogy

May 6, 2012

One exercise from Lesson 8 of my Church of the Living Fellowship correspondence course was to write our own obituary, encapsulating everything we hope to become and achieve in the remainder of our lives.

Self Eulogy

Here lies Steven Marshall, who tried and failed and then tried again. He thought himself to be a good man. But he learned the hard and bitter lesson that thinking it is not sufficient to make it so. It is a precept that must be lived, ever mindful that we are but frail humans, subject to stumbles along life’s path. None of us is wholly good nor wholly evil. Living a righteous life requires consistent work and effort.

Steven found his spirituality late in life—but not too late. In his last years, he resolved to live each day with purpose; to lay his head down to rest each night comforted by the knowledge that in the course of the day just past, he had sought to help someone and to be of service to his world. He leaves behind a significant number of people who are grateful that he lived and who were willing to forgive him for his missteps along life’s way.

Here lies Steven Marshall, who has earned the right to be called a good and decent man.

Love, Steve

The Business of Living

April 22, 2012

Rest in Peace, oh TV Guide Crossword book! I have burned through the entirety of it. I really enjoyed them and hope you can find another.

(Editor’s note: Paul Wright is the editor of a publication called Prison Legal News, which he began from behind bars in 1990. Wright suffered retaliatory punishments for writing about prison brutality and his publication was widely censored, but through his persistence in bringing court challenges, he prevailed. After having served 16 years of his sentence, he continues to produce the magazine, which now has a circulation of over 7000 with 65% of its subscribers being prisoners.)

Thank you for the article on Paul Wright. I’m very familiar with Prison Legal News. It truly does advocate for inmates. Wright has gone to court many times over issues like institutions not allowing inmates access to the publication. Prisons tend to get nervous when their populations become well informed or show any signs at all of becoming organized. That’s why inmates are not permitted to write to each other.

I’m enclosing an article from The Nation that concerns the cruel and unusual nature of solitary confinement, particularly on those who are already mentally troubled I think most people tend to think if someone is in prison, he or she deserves whatever they bet. The state of the incarcerated doesn’t appear to be very high on most people’s priority lists. I must admit it wasn’t on mine when I lived in the free world. But with so many people locked up, the number of families affected is staggering.

Today’s piece in Fleck’s book was called “The Business of Living.” It talks about how, as we age, our gaze shifts from the cradle to the grave; how we think less about what we have done with our lives and pay more attention to what we have yet to accomplish. I do spend a lot of time thinking about what my life will be in 2016 when all of this is over. So much of what my life will be is going to be beyond my control. But I try to focus on what I can control; what I can achieve and accomplish. This book was an excellent choice for my Sunday spiritual reading. Thank you again for it.

That’s it for another week.
Love, Steve

Happy Anniversary!

April 15, 2012
Dear Dee,

The date above is significant. It was three years ago today that my doorbell rang just before 6 a.m. and when I stumbled downstairs and answered it, ten police officers stormed in with their guns drawn and pointed at me and my life was forever changed. There aren’t many points in our lives that anyone can single out and say, “On this day, everything changed forever.” So each April 15 since then, I relive, almost minute for minute, the events of that day; how I sat in a stunned state in the front parlor for over five hours, wearing only my bathrobe, as the police searched every inch of my house; how I was finally allowed to dress under the watchful eye of a cop, then was read my rights, handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a patrol car and taken to Little Rock police station. I was placed in a stark gray holding cell where I sat dazed and stunned for another four hours, the re-cuffed and taken to the federal courthouse for arraignment. Then I was whisked to the Pulaski County Jail where I spent another five hours in a holding cell with about a dozen others, some of whom were laughing, joking, bumping fists and clapping each other on the back while I stared at the floor, still in an extended state of shock.

That night was the most terrifying of my life as I lay in a jailhouse bunk, my blanket pulled over my head, listening to the sounds of men screaming, howling, rapping and kicking the doors of their cells far into the night. Throughout the entirety of that April day, all I could think was, “How can this be happening to me?” It was as if the world had tilted on its axis; a surreal nightmare that I kept desperately hoping I would awaken from. What had really happened was a door was jerked open and a high intensity light was shined in on a dark, dank corner of my soul, where I had allowed a vile cancer to grow and fester unchecked for far too long. It was a part of me that I never allowed myself to think about or acknowledge in any way unless I was in the act of engaging in those twisted activities.

From the distance of three years, many twelve-step meetings and therapy sessions, nine months of house arrest and 834 days under lock and key, I can see with stunning clarity that all of this had to happen. If it had not, I think I would have run the risk of being consumed by the addictive bubble I was living in. Everything happens for a reason. This was not random nor was it uninvited. It had to be—and so it was.

The part of today’s readings that jumped out and grabbed me came with the Come As You Are chapter, “Living With Loss,” as today marks the anniversary of major losses for me—loss of freedom, of people I loved and who loved me, loss of my good name—the list is long. Dr. Fleck wrote about the death of his first-born son when he was only five days old. He told of the wellspring of joy that he and his wife experienced in those five days and the crushing pain of his loss. But, he wrote, if he and his wife could relive and remake that point in their lives, they would want it to happen again rather than forego the joy they experienced when that baby was in their lives. It taught me that I can savor the good life I had without having to focus on having lost it. There is some solace to be had in that.

Last week, my ex-wife, P, wrote about her granddaughter (who lived with us for a number of years in her early life) starting high school in the fall. She was 10 when I last saw her. I wrote back saying how terribly I missed her. But I do have ten years of beautiful memories of when I was a force for good in her life and she looked up to and loved me. Nothing can take those away. So, all in all, this was a good lesson for me.

On that note, I’ll bring this to a close and get it in the mail.

Love, Steve

Not Groundhog Day?

April 8, 2012

Dear Dee,

Opening a large envelope from you is like Christmas morning, such is the assortment of goodies that you provide. Thanks for the picture of the forsythia in your front yard. It's nice to see some spring beauty.

I recently heard through the grapevine here that some people have gotten results on their transfer request after having written to a congressperson from their local district back home and asking that politician to write a letter to the Bureau of Prisons on their behalf. So I have asked K to write to the senators and representatives from her area and ask that my transfer request be reviewed. Otherwise, as I think I’ve mentioned, it is a rule of this institution that I cannot reapply for another year. Keep your fingers crossed.

Yes, I do still keep track of the days but far less frequently than I used to. Once in a while, I need to be reminded that time is moving forward and that someday, this too shall pass.

My reading from Come As You Are today encourages us to live every moment, squeezing all the value we can out of every one of them. Dr. Fleck reminds us that those moments are numbered and finite, which made me think of my brother who may not have long left. But he also had a message for me. I have remarked before upon the “Groundhog Day” nature of being in prison, where each day seems identical to the last. This is how he concluded the piece: “For it is not true that one day is like the other, one moment like the other. The deepest meaning of life can be fathomed only if we are aware of the uniqueness of each day and each moment.” So he has challenged me to look beyond the surface similarities of all the days here and find ways to view them as unique.

“Chicken Soup” featured a piece on a man who had been a hopeless alcoholic, taking himself to the brink of death before pulling back, getting clean and dedicating the balance of his life to helping other people. That’s something I aspire to and I try to do so in here whenever the opportunity presents itself. I’m currently reading someone’s screenplay and working up a set of constructive notes for him. However, about an hour ago, I turned down the chance to “help” someone when he asked me to steal some bell peppers for him from the chow hall. Even help has its limits.

Oh, wait! There’s more! (Do I sound like an infomercial?) Your letter had one short line that I almost overlooked in replying. It was your question about whether it would help if you came to see me. That would be HUGE! My God, yes! I don’t want you to incur a financial burden, so please be honest with me about that. I had despaired of having any visitors at all this year because, as I’ve mentioned, my daughter, K, cannot come and it is so far for everyone I know.

All for this time.

Love, Steve

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

What was I thinking?

February 18, 2012

Dear Dee,

You asked me in your last letter about my state of mind when I committed the deed that got me in here. So now, I draw a deep breath as I revisit that dark and deeply regrettable period of my life. I realize that you have gone for a long time without asking many questions about what I was doing and thinking while I was engaged in that crap. You deserve some straight answers. First, I never paid a penny to anyone for those images. I would initially stumble on some or have some sent to me by people who I met in chat rooms. Why? Because one of the several guises I would assume was that of a pedophile. The game of “dark fantasy” that I was playing consisted of creating characters that were engaged in activities that are taboo in society.

So why did I feel compelled to do it? That was the question I couldn’t answer at the time I was arrested. So I carried it into therapy with me when I had some sessions while under house arrest. After a lot of talking and a lot of digging into my past, I began to get a picture of what sent me down that strange road. The whole time I lived with my dad between ages 11 and 18, he repeated over and over that I was “useless, worthless, and no damned good.” On a conscious level, this set me on a path to prove him wrong. But, children often take to heart what a parent says to them. A seed was planted deep within me and it was as though I was paying perverse tribute to my father when I would go online pretending to be useless, worthless, and no damned good.” It was all a stupid game and I was so steeped in the fantasy of it all that I failed to notice when fantasy ended and real-world activity began—specifically the trading of those horrible pictures.

At the time, the children in those images weren’t real to me. They were just pixels on a screen. It was only after my therapist urged me to meditate on those children and what their lives must have been like that I was hit with the full force of what I had done. I then realized that I had been guilty of prolonging and perpetuating the abuse and exploitation of those poor kids by introducing those pictures to new eyes. I’ll carry the guilt of that for the rest of my life. I have always loved children and advocated for their protection and nurturing. What I did was a complete violation of my own moral code. And I was further struck by the fact that my little “game” could very well have ended up encouraging others to harm children. That will always gnaw at me.

It was not the content of the pictures that gave me the cheap thrill. It was the hunt for them. When I look back on it all, it seems like it was someone else doing all that. There is nothing in the world that would compel me to ever repeat that behavior. The day of my arrest was an instantly sobering experience and it felt as though I had received shock therapy. People will always have questions about me—if he sought out those pictures, doesn’t that mean he would molest children? They will regard me in a completely different light.

It became an addiction, this game that I played—one that rose up and swallowed me whole. One day I was just an old man with too much time on his hands and perhaps grieving the loss of employment in a once well-respected career; the next, I was a convicted felon and registered sex offender. You said you had been afraid for a long time to broach this subject with me. Well, don’t fear any longer. I no longer harbor any secrets. A very bright light has been shined into what was a dark corner of my soul and my life is an open book.

I’d best bring this to a close before my hand becomes a withered vestigial claw.

Love, Steve

Christmas/2011-January/2012: Casting Out Fear

Dear Reader,

My friend has requested that I catch up the blog to present day and more importantly, reveal his true identity. When we started the blog, he was nervous about possible repercussions and wanted to remain anonymous. Since then, he has become aware that another inmate, also at Oakdale Federal Correction Institution in Louisiana and also in for the same crime (there are hundreds there for that reason), has had his letters published in a blog since April of 2010 with no negative feedback. That blog (http://mediarow.com/oakdale-chronicles/2010/04/) is called The Oakdale Chronicles and contains some fascinating entries, especially the early ones about how it was to be a newbie at Oakdale, a series called “A Sex Offender Like Me” (http://mediarow.com/oakdale-chronicles/2011/12/a-sex-offender-like-me-the-resilience-of-hate/,) and a series from July, 2012, called “A Necessary Intrusion.”

But back to my friend…his name is Steven Kent Marshall. He wrote to me: “My arrest and sentencing were publicized across the nation, so it is no secret. I see no reason now why readers of the blog and especially the children in the photos shouldn’t know who this is that is slowly making his way back into a state of grace. It completes the story.”  In short, I think that hiding behind a veil of anonymity made him feel less than genuine. His arrest was widely publicized because he is a former television writer and producer and that fact drew interest from the press.

So my task now is to fast-forward from December of last year to the present. For the next several posts, I will pick out pertinent or particularly interesting passages from Steve’s letters during that period.

Christmas, 2011

“They put up a few lights and a Santa cutout just outside the library. But the really interesting and creative decorating goes on in the housing units. There is a competition as to who does the best. We won last year and came in second this ear. Last year, a large chunk of the common area was given over to a winter scene of a castle with a small village outside its walls. It was all constructed out of scrap cardboard and painted by some talented artists. This year the common area wasn’t available because it is used as a TV room so they were limited to the hallway just inside the entrance. One wall was taken up by a painted manger scene. Just over it were paper mache heads of a donkey and a cow looking down on the scene. Another section of the wall had a Santa in his sleigh and some elves waving. But Santa’s face was the stern visage of the warden and the elves were associate wardens and other prison officials. Coming in first just means our unit gets to eat Christmas dinner first but last year, it also won us back our microwaves that had been confiscated for six months because someone in the unit made booze.

Christmas Day itself, apart from the meal, was pretty much a normal day. While most people got the day off, we in the dining hall were working. The meal wasn’t as spectacular as Thanksgiving, but special nonetheless: Cornish game hens, dirty rice, mac and cheese, and dessert consisting of sweet potato pie, a cinnamon roll and a chocolate chip cookie. On Dec. 22, they handed out the Christmas bags, a large plastic bag filled with chips, candy, cookies, crackers and other snacks. It makes for a nice gift, but it is accompanied by a memo stating that everything in the bag must be consumed by January 6^th. Anything left will be considered contraband and will be confiscated. As a good inmate who follows the rules, I scarfed everything down within a week. I now have an extra ten pounds to get rid of.”

January 8, 2012-Reading

“I just finished reading a book that terrified me. Lost Memory of Skin by Russell Banks, while fiction, is a well-researched story about a 22-year-old convicted sex offender (SO) living under a bridge in Florida in a self-created community for SOs. Because they are prohibited from living within 2500 feet of schools, parks, daycare centers or anywhere else where children might gather, there are only a couple of geographic locations where they may live: this one or the middle of a swamp. The protagonist, known only as The Kid, is a good-hearted, socially inept character who knows he made a stupid choice and will be made to pay for it for the rest of his life. The jacket says: “This book probes the zeitgeist of a troubled society where zero tolerance has erased any hope of subtlety and compassion—a society where isolating the offender has perhaps created a new kind of victim.”

An incident he found amusing:

“When I called my daughter yesterday and asked to speak to my granddaughter, she got on and said “Hi.” When I said “Hi” back, she handed the phone back to her mother saying “I can’t see him.” I guess Skype and the camera capabilities of the iPhone have rendered me obsolete.”

January 15, 2012-Transfer

Last Tuesday, I went to check on the status of my transfer, having waited for five weeks. I found out that the case manager screwed up on the application and it was bounced back to him the day after he submitted it. He threw it into a folder and did not resend it. Then he retired. The last census report for Terminal Island that you told me about was the lowest it’s been since we started tracking it, so I figured our timing was perfect. Who knows what it will be once my application goes through.

January 29, 2012 – Fear

Today’s sermon was “Casting Out Fear” from Rev. Thomas Disrud of First Unitarian of Portland. It examined situations where fear was appropriate in protecting us from real dangers. He then contrasted it with the kind of fear that develops in situations dealing with those who are different from us in race, sexual orientation or religious conviction; how fear is used to manipulate and control. It also made me think back to when I was first incarcerated and the daily fear I lived with, dealing with a world so radically different from the one I had inhabited all my life; being surrounded by some unstable personalities that could erupt at any time in response to some perceived slight or insult. But the more I learned about this world, the less I came to fear it. I learned that I could navigate it safely by observing the rules that exist in there, both those imposed by the authorities and those created by the inmates. So fear, for the most part, is really all about the unknown, just as Rev. Disrud said. I guess the real lesson here is: if you fear something, study it. Learn about it. Grow from it. (Boy, I love this religion!)