Putting things in perspective

September 18, 2011

Dear Dee.

Thanks for trying to send ear plugs and a newspaper clipping. Sorry they did not get through. Nothing but reading material is allowed and even then, the rules are weird and arbitrary. You can’t send a clipping, but if you copy it or scan it and print it, then they will let it through.

For my sermon today, I read from Quest a piece called “Grace Happens” by Peter A. Friedrichs from the UU Church of Delaware County, PA. It began by comparing the legal meaning of grace, as in “grace period,” with the theological grace, which can have no limits or time constrictions placed upon it. Grace, he said, happens in its own time and way ant that it is almost always unexpected.

My final go-round with “Finding God” was perhaps the most satisfying. It dealt with Alvin Reines and his theories regarding polydoxy, which refers to a new or changed belief that evolves out of an older one. In truth, it sounded like an almost perfect description of UU, which is always evolving, always changing and differing according to the beliefs of the individual. I will start on the Mandela book you sent next Sunday I certainly should be able to draw some inspiration from a man who survived 26 years of confinement. It does put things into perspective.

I must share this tidbit with you. My little granddaughter really made my day yesterday. When K handed her the phone, I said, “Hi, it’s Popi.” She said, “Popi.” Then I said, “I love you” and she said “I love you too.” What a wonderful moment that was.

We’re getting eaten alive by mosquitoes here. This place is built on swamp land and they are thick at this time of year. Itching like crazy.

I was just thinking about the music I used to have. Could you access my iTunes account and see if my playlist is recoverable? I lost so much when they took away my computer—my music, all of my writing, years worth of photographs, your chili recipe (hopefully, you still have that).

Gonna go now. Take care, Kent

Jailhouse Rumors

September 4, 2011

Dear Dee.

I’m enclosing a copy of “The Sun” magazine, in which they published a short piece I wrote on their topic of “Rumors.”  It’s not quite the way I wrote it, that is, it’s heavily edited, but here’s what they published:

At the age of sixty-five I was convicted of a felony and went from being a devoted husband, father, and grandfather to being a prison inmate. My first stop on the way to the federal penitentiary was a county lockup, where I shared a cell with a career criminal.

“How long you down for?” he asked.

“Seven and a half years.”

“You’ll do four and a half,” he said with an air of certainty.

“But my lawyer told me you have to serve at least 85 percent of any federal sentence.”

“Not anymore. Congress just passed the 65 percent law. Obama has already said he will sign it.”

My heart soared. Only four and a half years away from my family! I couldn’t wait to get to a telephone and call my lawyer.

When I finally did, I was brought up short. Talk of the 65 percent law had been around since he was in law school, he said. It was an old jailhouse rumor.

I have since heard many such tales of drastically reduced sentences. For a time I wondered how anyone could be cruel enough to float such a rumor. Now I have a theory, summed up in a single word: hope.

Is it truly an act of cruelty to create, for a brief moment, the illusion of hope where none exists?

For today’s sermon, I read Meg Riley’s column from “Quest” magazine, still on the subject of forgiveness. I related to it in the context of how I felt about the former cellmate who got me fired from the serving line. I haven’t spoken a word to him since. I realized that this is not because I hate him. Hate is a very unproductive and I try my best not to carry it in my heart. But I choose not to speak to him because I simply don’t want him in my world anymore.

Did I tell you that I’m taking a CLF correspondence course on spirituality? I did the first lesson last week. It consisted of going through a list of about a hundred phrases that they called “wow words.” We were told to circle at least three of them that evoked any feelings from us as we read them. I circled four: heart and mind, power of love, hope undaunted, and deep yearning. We were then to write about each of them, so I wrote this poem:

O power of love, please

Ease the deep yearning

Within my aching soul.

Give rise to hope undaunted

And nourish the spirit

Of heart and mind

That I might ere seek

The good and true.

I titled it “Daily Prayer” and taped it on the bottom of the bunk above me right next to the picture of K’s family.

I started keeping a book log, keeping track of the books I read. From 8/5 through today, 9/4, I’ve read 17 of them, which averages out to one every other day. It takes up most of my days and keeps my mind beyond the chain link and razor-wire fences. The only other time I get beyond this place is in my dreams. Whenever I awaken, it’s always with an “oh” as I realize that I’m still here. And I’ve noticed that, in the past year or so, I always have an awareness that I’m supposed to be here but have been allowed out for a limited period of time.

I remember for years after I got out of the navy, I had dreams that I had been called back in. I wonder if that will be the case again when I leave here. Of course, this time it’s a very real possibility as I understand it is very easy to violate the terms of probation, often without realizing it. There is one guy in here who served his sentence, got out and got a job. You have to have a job (unless you’re retired) or you’re in violation. Well, he lost his job and couldn’t find another so her started mowing lawns and doing handyman work. They violated him for failing to get a business license and sent him back to prison for eleven months.

I’m going to have to walk a very thin line when I get out because of the huge list of restrictions that have been placed on me, not to mention the registration requirements. I’ll be wearing a GPS ankle bracelet, so I will have to be super careful where I’m driving and always be aware of what is nearby. If I go to a Denny’s for lunch, I’ll have to be extra careful that there isn’t a school on the next block or I could go  back to prison. Someone here said I could even go back in for a speeding ticket. I don’t know if that’s true or not.

Time to wrap this up and get it in the box. Thanks, as always, for being there for me.
Love, Kent

Forgiving One’s Self

August 28, 2011

Dear Dee.

Today’s “church” came late in the day. The noise level has been so high it was difficult for me to read or concentrate. I can no longer go to the chapel because they’re holding some kind of meetings in there. So I had to wait for a quieter time, which didn’t come until 2:30.

In lieu of a sermon, I read two articles from CLF’s Quest. Their theme this month is forgiveness and both articles talked about how forgiveness of one’s self is often more difficult than forgiving others. I feel guilt on so many levels. First, that my daughter, K, had to be hit with this right in the middle of her pregnancy. And then there was the terrible effect that it had on the other kids who looked up to me, S and C. There has been a lot of mental self-kicking since then and I don’t feel I have made a lot of progress toward forgiving myself. But one of the positives in all this is that I have been calling K every week since it happened and that has strengthened our relationship. I believe I will continue this practice for the rest of my life.

In “Finding God,” I found another kindred spirit in Mordecai Kaplan who rejects God as a supernatural being, viewing it instead as a process. He sees prayer as an ability to express one’s own wishes. Sounds good to me.

All for now,

Love, Kent

A room with a view

August 13, 2011
Dear Dee.

Thank you for the letter and the latest sermons. I just got a beautiful picture of K, C, and S (his daughter and family). It’s perfect. I’m not supposed to hang pictures but I didn’t want to put it away in my album, so I have taped it to the bunk above me so that it’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning.

 I’m sorry my letter had a depressed tone to it. The fact is, either depression is on me like a blanket or it’s lurking just around the corner. I suspect it will be with me for as long as I’m in here. Part of the problem, I think, is that I refuse to accept this as my way of life. I believe that is the first step toward becoming institutionalized. There are people who have been in for two or three years who say, “This isn’t so bad. No rent, no bills, a place to sleep, three meals a day…”  I want to shake them and say, “But you’re not free. You live behind locked doors, cut off from the world.” But I don’t. I blanch over not being able to control my life. I believe that accepting this is surrender. I don’t fight it in terms of breaking rules. But, inwardly, I try my best to keep an independent spirit. And that is probably going to lead to depression. But at least if I get to Terminal Island, there will be counseling available.

I’m jealous of all that you have to fill your life. You have such a varied menu of places to go and things to do. When I get out, I want to get involved in UU work, community outreach, working with the homeless perhaps.

Here are some answers to your questions:

 Yes, we have microwaves that we use for popcorn, but also do a lot of other cooking with them. Often times, when what is being served in the chow hall is just unacceptable, we will choose to “dine in.” I keep a stack of Ramen noodles in my locker. I can add a packet of roast beef or chili to it or make a kind of casserole by adding tuna, squeezable cheese, salsa, and slice jalapenos. It gets the job done, though when I get out, I am quite sure I will never want to see Ramen noodles again.

Yes, the front of our doorless cubicles opens onto what is known as The Common Area, where there are card tables and where people bring their chairs to watch television. Our windows don’t open. There is a view far off of a copse of thick green trees, but the window is heavily streaked with muddy grunge. And between me and the trees are two razor-wire fences. So I have to look through a lot of ugliness to get to the beauty.

As I predicted, we seem to have had a heavy influx of people in here. My unit was built to house 176 and currently has 230. Everyone is concerned that the extra bodies are going to jack up tension levels and trigger some violence. It will certainly result in longer waits for showers, sinks, toilets, microwaves and phones. We only have four phones for all these people.

In addition to a food strike, a work stoppage is possible or, God forbid, a full blown riot. They had one of those here in 1988 and burned the place to the ground.

You are eligible to apply to a treatment facility in the last 36 months of your sentence, that’s why the other guy was able to go.

You commented that you hoped I was still using my mantras to some benefit. Sadly, I have let them slip away. There was one in particular that I used to call upon daily for comfort and for the life of me, I can’t remember it. My memory, it seems, is the consistency of Swiss cheese these days. You said you save my letters so perhaps you can locate the one where I said I drew a mantra from something you sent. (Note from Dee: Upon this request, I went back and reread all of Kent’s letters. It occurred to me as I read that the letters flowed like a book and told a story worth sharing, so I decided to start the blog. Kent liked the idea.)

I’m really distraught about the continued erosion of our political system. There was a time when men of honor like Bob Dole and Gerald Ford, though conservative, knew when it was time to put petty partisan considerations aside and get down to doing the people’s business. No more. It just kills me to know that I will never again be able to cast a vote to help offset the madness.

 “Church” this morning seemed particularly meaningful. In the chalice lighting, PM spoke of the value of music and the joy that it brings to her life and relationships. Galen Guengerich’s sermon spoke of time and what we choose to do with it. This really hit home because it was an injudicious use of time that led me to where I am today. I had all this time available to me and chose to squander it playing a game that led to me being labeled for life a a convicted felon and sex offender. When I think back to what I could have done with that time, what I could have accomplished, what I could have contributed to the betterment of myself and the world around me, I cringe. Some life lessons are hard-learned.

In the “Finding God” book, I read what Martin Burber said about evil; the actual decision to do evil. He postulated that human nature is not evil; what is evil is the misuse of freedom. How true. Perhaps that’s why my freedom was taken away—because I squandered it. Food for thought.

Time to close. My hand hurts from writing. Thank you again for the mind food.

Love, Kent

 

Apparently, I am my Brother’s Keeper and Other Prison Oddities

Dear Readers, This is a piece Kent wrote for another blog that is published by the family of another inmate. Kent had heard through the grapevine that the blog existed  and told me the name of it. I was able to look it up and tell Kent the name of the author. From there, he discovered that he works in the chow hall with this inmate, and he occasionally submits guest pieces for that blog.

Posted on April 14, 2012

When one first sets foot inside the stark confines of a prison or jail, the first lesson to be learned is that this is an entirely different world. Everything one has learned up to that point about to live life is placed on ho and a whole new set of instructions comes into play.

For example, here at Oakdale, we take our meals in a dining hall comprised of about 50 four-man tables. When you finish your meal and prepare to leave, you knock on the table. The others seated with you respond by each providing an answering knock.

During my first week here, I asked someone the meaning behind this odd custom. I learned that it was a throwback to a time when inmates were not allowed to speak during meals. (This situation still endures at some higher level facilities.) When someone prepares to get up from the table, his knock is meant to convey the following message: “Excuse me. I am getting up now. This only means that I am leaving. I have no intention to attack you.” The answering knock implies: “We understand. Thank you for not attacking us. We appreciate it. Good bye.” This custom is one that I have not adopted. Instead, as I rise, I usually say “Have a good day” (or evening.) This seems to work just as well in conveying the message that I do not intend to beat up anyone.

Another timeless custom is the “cool” prison nickname. This is often employed s a defensive measure. For example, if one is named Marvin or Ronald, this does not serve to keep others at bay nearly as effectively as “Killer” or “Bruiser.” However, in practice, I have noted that some of the nicknames tend to defeat their purpose by turning out to be . . . well I’ll just say it, kinda silly.

In my unit alone, we have a “Boo-Boo”, (shades of Yogi Bear) a “Ya-Ya” and silliest of all in my opinion, a “Hot Sauce.” I have thus far resisted the temptation to address him as “Mr. Sauce.” You see, “Hot Sauce” sports the tear-drop tattoo. A single teardrop under one eye is meant to convey that the wearer has killed someone. “Hot Sauce” has a whole splash of them so I have opted to avoid him altogether and remain off his radar.

These customs and many others like them are generated among the inmates themselves. But occasionally, I come across one that has originated with the prison staff.

Last year, our unit counselor came upon an entire trash bag full of hooch. (“Hooch” is a prohibition-era term for illegal alcohol.) One inmate in my unit had created the forbidden elixir from pilfered oranges and the yeast from bread. You should know that most people in the prison population turn into McGiver complete with the ability to turn a paperclip into a Gatlin gun.

While I have never imbibed, I am told this “hooch” ferments for only a week or so in a trash bag, so I am surmising that it does not have the woodsy tang of Jack Daniel’s that has steeped for twelve years in a specially treated oaken barrel. But I’m guessing that it gets the job done nevertheless.

Anyway, the unit manager assembled us all and announced that our beloved microwave ovens were being removed until further notice. I looked around to see who was going to raise his hand and object to the idea of punishing over two hundred men for the actions of a single individual but no one did. The microwaves were not returned for another six months.

About a month ago, another bag of “hooch” was found, another meeting hastily assembled and once again, the microwaves were gone. This time, I raised my hand to ask the obvious question and the unit manager replied, “You are all responsible for policing your own unit.” This was news to me. Foolishly, I had assumed that my job was to follow the rules but now I was being told that I was expected to enforce them as well. The inmates refer to the Corrections Officers t here as “the police”, so it was a fairly natural assumption that they would be the ones doing the policing.

I have not been successful in obtaining any information as regards what specific steps I need to be taking should I encounter anyone manufacturing “hooch.” Do I beat him senseless? Do I merely threaten to do so? In either case, I would be in violation of the rules and sent to the SHU (Special Housing Unit or as it is lovingly referred to by one and all here, THE HOLE.) Do I snitch on him? Well, if I do that, then I am the one who will be beaten senseless. Do I shake my finger at him and say, “Bad inmate”?

Yeah, that’ll work.

So I am left to ponder the imponderable. The only answer that I am left with is that the staff is saying with a wink and a nod: “Take care of this dude however you want. Just don’t let us know about it.” From my point of view, the easier course is to just do without the frickin microwaves.

I cannot, in the course of a single article, begin to cover all the ways in which prison life differs from that of the free world. That would take an entire book and a very fat one at that.

Perhaps one day I’ll write it.

But for now, I am content to observe at a distance as prisoners bump fists rather than shake hands, hold extended conversations at the top of their lungs with others on the opposite side of the compound, or smuggle ten-pound rump roasts out of the kitchen concealed in their underwear.

What do I know? It’s their world. I just live in it.

 

Highlights of July

Dear Readers, It has been almost two months since I last updated this blog. No excuses other than having a busy spring. So I’m going to make up for it by pulling highlights from several letters, thus bringing the blog through July, 2011. Kent’s way of processing each Sunday’s spiritual work is to write me telling me about the sermon and the readings he did, so between that and answering my letters to him, there is lots of material.   ~Dee

June 26, 2011

Dear Dee,

Thank you for making me part of your flower communion service by sending the hymn lyrics and the picture of your irises. They were beautiful. I taped it to my locker door so I see it every day. I wish there was more beauty around here, but I’m getting expert at staring at the clouds. I’m sure people wonder what I’m looking up at. I also watch birds in flight—free birds—and think of Maya Angelou’s poem.

I want you to know as you search for sermon material that you need not limit yourself to topics that relate to my present situation. While those have been good for me and helpful, the whole point of UU is becoming a better person. So any topic that promotes that is fine with me.

Today’s chalice lighting was by AB celebrating her joy at singing. I was always lamenting my lack of singing ability but my dirty little secret is that when I’m alone, I sing. Somehow, I’ve trained my brain to make it seem in my head as though it sounds great. I’ve just had to learn never to record it and play it back.

July 3, 2011

Today’s chalice lighting was by PE when she was about to become a senior in high school. She talks about clichés and how they made her hate middle school--how they promoted hate, discrimination and the marginalization of individuals. This topic was relevant because a similar social structure exists here. There are tables in the dining hall that are reserved for certain ethnic groups or gangs. I have commented before how much this situation is akin to middle school. I am marginalized by my age (which will be 68 in a couple of weeks—how did that happen??). I have no real friends here. There a some who will talk to me or share a table, but there is no one with whom I have bonded.

I have finished the Jefferson Bible, having read twenty pages each Sunday. Next week, I will finish The Field, which I find fascinating. I’ve always thought that subjects like mutual telepathy or healing by thought or touch were bunk. But in this book, you’ll see how it has all been subjected to legitimate scientific study and it appears that these phenomena are a part of “the field;” a strong indication that we are all linked as I have always believed. The book shows how the cells in our bodies communicate with each other—and not only with each other, but with the cells in the bodies of others. Prayer—particularly when it is a large joint effort—can have a physical effect. It is believed to be the result of focused thought. I now see the energy field I always believed in as existing in inanimate objects as well as living things. Why? Because they are all composed of atoms, which are never at rest, but always in motion.

July 10

Sunday. Stovetop hot out there.—too sultry to walk the track.

I’m fresh out of your sermons so I turned to Quest, the Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF) newsletter, and read a piece by Rev. Steve Edington about the value of thankful prayer, even if you don’t know who it is you’re thanking. Works for me. In my nightly prayer, I begin by giving thanks for another day of life and asking for the strength to get through the next one. As you might have guessed, in my mind, I’m praying to the collective consciousness of The Field.

Have you begun the weekly process of checking the census count at Terminal Island? I want to see if it goes up or down so I can determine whether to apply for my transfer in November or wait. I do admit to getting excited about the approach of the day I’m eligible to apply (which is after I’ve been here 18 months).I try to keep in touch with someone I met at a county lockup whose charge is similar to mine and who has been sent to Terminal Island. I write to him through his sister as inmates a not allowed to correspond with each other. From your research and what I’ve heard from him, TI is not nearly as gang-oriented as here nor as biased against sex offenders, and they offer more opportunities. But don’t worry, I am taking the approach of hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

July 12

I read an article in the NY Times for May of last year about the federal judge who was protesting the mandatory minimums What he was doing, in violation of procedure, was informing the juries before deliberation what the result of a guilty verdict would be. In a number of cases, this swayed them to bring in “not guilty” verdicts. However, the federal government does its best to avoid trials by forcing defendants to accept a plea agreement. They inform the defendant that if a jury finds them guilty, their sentence would be double that of what it would have been if they had pled out. I keep hoping against hope that the U.S. Sentencing Commission will take some action that could shorten my sentence. But again, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst.

July 17

This morning’s chalice lighting was by FT who calls on us to “be more and do more.” I look forward to being on the outside and fulfilling that to my maximum potential.

The sermon was by Nate Walker of Philadelphia on the virtues of CLF. I couldn’t agree more. I love that UU extends itself beyond the walls of its churches to reach those who can’t come inside. When I was being processed into the system, I was asked my religion. I told them, but Unitarian Universalism didn’t show up on the list of boxes to check. The guy interviewing me said, “I ain’t never heard of that ‘un.” I wanted to say, “That’s okay. It’s only been around for 500 years.”

I still do food service—off on Sunday and Monday. Here’s how my day lays out: I’m up at 5:15 and at work by 6. I’m back in the housing unit by 7:15 and I usually go back to sleep. I go back to work at 10, eat an early lunch, then serve till about 12:15. Then back to the unit for my afternoon nap, which goes until about 2. Read some, have mail call and go to dinner between 4:30 and 5. Then may be a little TV (around three nights a week), read some more or write letters, then in bed by 9. I usually can’t fall asleep until the noise level abates, somewhere around 11. I never sleep through the night, though. These beds are so bloody uncomfortable (1 ½ inch mattress on a metal slab) that I wake up every time I turn over, which is frequently. So that’s why I’m so tired during the day. Sometimes I vary the routine and go to the library, especially if I’m writing. Also, I might go to the rec yard and walk the track, but only if it’s not too darned hot.

It’s a good night if I can sleep uninterrupted long enough to dream. Dreams are my “get out of jail free” card; a chance to go to other places and be with other people. I very seldom dream of being in prison, but when I do, it’s never this one.

July 24

This morning’s “service” was based on the Fourth of July service at your church focusing on freedom. The reading by Thich Nhat Hanh on freedom had a considerable impact on me, starting with its title, “Be Free Where You Are.” My first thought was, “Okay, this really does not apply to me.” But then I noticed it was from a talk given in prison, so I read on with great interest. It had never really occurred to me that I could create my own freedoms in here. I have held that freedom was something I would have to wait five more years to experience. One of the tenets he espouses is freedom from despair, which has been a big problem for me. This is one that I will hang onto and refer back to from time to time.

Part of my effort in here has been to hang onto my individuality, something that is very difficult to achieve in an environment that is designed to take it away from you. I remember a similar struggle when I was in the Navy. For example, twice a day—three times a day on weekends—we have something called “stand up count.” We are required to stand quietly in front of our cells as the guards come through counting heads. Intellectually, I understand the practical need for this process in a prison. But when you have to do it every single day, the aggregate effect is that you begin to feel like a piece of meat that is being inventoried. So I have come up with a small adjustment that makes this process more tolerable. As soon as they call count, I grab a book and start reading. I stand, as required, but I give the book my full concentration. The net result is that I’m doing something for myself; something that I enjoy. If they want to count me while I’m doing it, that’s their  business. You can’t imagine how much that shifts the balance of power back to me. It’s something very small that no one notices and it breaks no rules, but it makes me feel more like a human being. And I now realize in the writing of Mr. Thich that it also makes me free. I need to look for more ways to do this.

Please convey to John that I was very moved by his story that he related in the July 4^th service. Sometimes we forget how recent it was that racism was so naked and overt. It’s still with us today, only underground and much more subtle. And in this environment, it is again in the forefront as I see the races—black, brown, and yellow—voluntarily segregating themselves, as in the dining hall.

Thank you for the NPR interview with Wilbert Rideau, the guy who created the first uncensored prison magazine in the country. There is great value in being reminded that, as awful as this experience is, it is worse elsewhere. And this guy did 44 years—11 of them in solitary. I did eight days in solitary when I was in county and thought I was going to go crazy. It’s good to step back and get some perspective once in a while.

You asked what my cell looks like. It’s a 15-foot by 12-foot cubicle with three sets of double deck bunk beds in it. There’s about four feet between the beds. There are two lockers at the end of each bed where we keep all of our things. The spaces were designed for four men, but they jammed in that center set of bunks because of overcrowding. The front is open with no door and open windows with no glass.

July 31

My food service job has been taken away. One of my cellmates told the kitchen staff that I was slow and not doing a good job. This is someone who I did favors for in the past and I have no idea why he did that or why they listened to him. My job now is folding flatware into napkins. The days have grown longer because my workday is now over by 7:30 AM, and I spend the rest of my day with my nose in a book. I’m sleeping a little better at night because I changed rooms to get away from the guy who betrayed me and no longer have the cellmate who gets up every hour to go to the bathroom. So I’m less tired during the day and don’t nap as much. Sounds like a god thing, but then it does also contribute to making the day even longer.

I’m out of sermons again, but I still have a couple of months worth of CLF newsletters to get me through. Also, I now have a CLF penpal. He’s a retired stockbroker and sends me stock tips, even though I am, of course, in no position to take advantage of them. He has promised to send sermons as well, so the pressure is eased on you a bit.

Looking forward to you next letter,

Love, Kent

Looking up, looking out

June 12, 2011

Dear Dee,

This morning’s reading was a bulls-eye. For the past couple of weeks, I have been enveloped in the same kind of dark depression that grabbed me when I first got here. Today’s reading, I think, gave me the tools I need to pull out of it.

Today’s chalice lighting by CS stressed the enduring value of kindness and its ability to reduce our pain when we are hurt or confused. I see evidence of this every time I get a letter from you or talk with you and other friends on the phone.

For today, I picked Dave Sammons’ sermon, “Roll Down the Window.” It talked about taking the time to look beyond what is troubling you and just soaking up the wonder around you. Granted, it’s very difficult here to see beyond the ugliness and misery that surrounds me. There are no trees on the compound. But there are a couple of flower beds. And out beyond the fences, there are thick copses of trees. I can just see the tops of them over the roofs of the buildings. And then, of course, there is the sky with its ever-changing cloud sculptures. I will do my best to hone in on those things and let their beauty do its work. I’m going to hang onto this sermon and revisit it from time to time. It was well selected and, once again, I have you to thank for that.

On other matters, one of my cellmates had his request for transfer to Miami denied, the latest in a spate of transfer denials. They said it was due to overcrowding at the destination. That may be true. But I also suspect that they are cutting back on transfers for budgetary reasons. I do know overcrowding is a reality. I read last week in The Nation that the incarcerated population of the U.S. was below 200,000 in 1967. Today, it is 2.3 million. The U.S. has the highest rate of incarceration in the world, including China and the third world nations. As recently as the ‘90s, someone with my charge would get a warning on the first offense. Now, it’s 7 to 14 years. All of those families fractured. There is a national mania for “lock-‘em-up,” no matter what the sociological cost.

Anyway, I wanted to ask you if you would be so kind as to go to the Bureau of Prisons website (bop.gov) and see what the current census is at Terminal Island in Long Beach, CA. I’d like to monitor it on a weekly basis to keep tabs on the ups and downs of its population. If the count is high when I become eligible in November, I might wait to put in my transfer until the numbers go down.

That’s it for this time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Love, Kent

What if there’s no hell?

May 29, 2011

Dear Dee,

Okay, it’s Sunday now and I’ve been to “church.” Today’s chalice lighting by MM was a nice complement to the sermon, “Have You Got Humanity Fatigue?” Both dealt with the importance of community and how we are all in this boat together. We tend to have tunnel vision and keep ourselves focused on our own paths. But those paths can change directions on us. In my lifetime, I have been very wealthy and now I am a prison inmate who may face homelessness when I get out. How many times did I pull up to a freeway off ramp in my Mercedes and ignore the homeless person there with his cardboard hand-lettered sign begging for my indulgence? It’s a lesson that we ignore the misfortune of others at great peril, for it can easily become us. Hopefully, people can come to that conclusion without having such a stark threat hanging over them.

The ultra-Christians in here don’t believe that a sermon that never mentions God or Jesus can really be a sermon. I have offered to let them read mine, but they aren’t interested. A few weeks ago, Time Magazine ran a cover story entitled, “What if There’s No Hell?” It dealt with a Christian minister who questions the concept that God will send anyone to hell who hasn’t accepted Christ as his personal savior. The minister said he could not conceptualize a god who would have Gandhi burn in hell. I tried to show this article to the Christian boys, but they refused to read it. Questioning just isn’t a part of their journey. And that’s what I like most about UU—questioning is not only encouraged, it’s virtually required. I could never accept a god who gave me a brain and then didn’t allow me to use it.

You are right that my fall from grace did trigger a lot of reflection and self-evaluation. I definitely have a much higher spiritual quotient. Before this, I simply thought that because I didn’t believe in the Biblical description of God, I was therefore an atheist. But I first had to face the question of a higher power when I started the 12-step work. It really doesn’t work unless you have something to give yourself over to and rely on to look after you. That’s when I remembered that, years ago, I had given thought to the existence of an energy field that was all-encompassing. Perhaps I had George Lucas and Star Wars to thank for inspiring that line of inquiry. But it made sense to me and still does. It simply means that “God” is everywhere and in everything that exists. I thought it was every living thing until I started reading The Field, which talks a lot about what happens at the subatomic level and how those atoms and cells communicate with each other.

Well, I’ve gone on quite long enough. Be well.

Love, Kent

No trust; no 12-step

May 27, 2011

Dear Dee,

Your letter arrived in the nick of time, just when the sermon well had run dry.

I continue to write and am working on a mystery novel. I am now managing to steal some time on the typewriters in the library, which are supposed to be used only for legal work. I have 56 pages typed so far. If you are willing and have the time, I need someone to scan these pages to get them into electronic form.

On the subject of keeping my feelings tamped down, I am confident that I will be able to access them again when I need to. They are just below the surface. A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting in the chapel for an hour of quiet time, the only quiet place in here. I started to meditate and quickly found myself sobbing deeply. Alas, there was a camera on me and a chaplain’s assistant came in to see what was wrong. I just told him that when I meditate, some rather intense feelings come to the surface. For a few weeks, I went over there to take advantage of that quiet time, but then they started scheduling meetings in there for different groups, such as the Muslims, etc. The net result was that all of the spare quiet time went away.

As for relationships, I came here with the intention of trying to set up an unofficial, off-the-books 12-step group. But nobody---and I mean NOBODY—is interested. I have tried repeatedly to find people willing to talk about their lives and their addictions. Bottom line…nobody is willing to trust anyone enough to make that commitment. Only in one place, the last county facility I was in before coming here, did I find someone I could connect with on that level. He ended up in Terminal Island in Long Beach. We are not allowed to write to other inmates, so I have become pen pals with his sister and she passes information back and forth.

Yes, most of the people I have talked politics with here are right-wingers. Some absolutely hate the government. One of my cellmates rejoiced when Gabrielle Giffords was shot and a federal judge died. I reminded him that the shooter also took out a nine-year-old girl, and that shut him up for a while.

On your question about TV, yes, the DWBs [Dirty White Boys, i.e., Aryan Nation members] put out a list each day of what we will watch. There are a few things on it that I like, but most nights, I just read.

You asked me if I had any enemies in here. Sure. Any SO in here automatically has enemies. It makes some people feel good to create a class of inmate who is lower than they are. There have been some beatings and stabbing of SOs in the past, but usually it’s the ones who talk openly (brag) about what they have done. I’m reasonably safe as long as I keep a low profile and blend in. It’s one of the things that made standing up to the DWBs last January a risky proposition. It put me on their radar. Since then, I’ve been keeping my head down.

I had a wonder moment this weekend. When K put my one and a half-year-old granddaughter on the phone and I said, “Hi, sweetie, it’s Popi,” she said “Popi!” It’s really the first time she’s spoken to me. What a moment that was!

I like that you write lots of questions for me to answer—it gives me something to write about.

Love,   Kent

A Gray-Beard Behind Gray Bars

May 22, 2011

Dear Dee,

The chalice lighting today was by JH, who talked about the value of doing whatever we can, even in the smallest of ways, to make the world better. Amen to that!

The sermon was “Embracing Our Aging.” I hadn’t thought about it much before coming in here. In fact, I’ve even been accused of being in denial about getting old. I don’t think I was, I just refused to feel old. Thankfully, my health is good with high blood pressure being the only sign of old age. Of late, however, there is a rather persistent backache, the result of a year and a half of sleeping on a metal slab, covered only by a 1 ½” plastic pad that is supposed to serve as a mattress. There is another man in here who has a blog. Here is the piece I wrote on aging for his site:

A Gray-Beard Behind Gray Bars

Before I came in, I lived in faded Levis, a myriad of rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts, (souvenirs of countless rock concerts in days past) and an ever-present baseball cap.

I am young.

I take my stairs two at a time and I am seldom under the weather. I have never had a serious illness and can count the days I have been hospitalized on the fingers of one hand.

I am young.

So it always takes me by surprise when someone addresses me as “Pops” or calls me “Old School.”

“Hey, Old School.” That’s the name reserved in here for anyone over the age of fifty. Makes me want to respond, “Yeah, Pre-School?”

I am young because I think young. I am not in denial of the fact that I am sixty-eight years old. I know my hair, what remains of it, is snow white and I have a beard to match. But thinking young is my best defense against the encroaching years.

When I first came in, I saw an elderly figure sitting in front of his cell. He leaned on his cane, had no teeth in his head and very thick glasses. He walked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. I pegged him for early to mid-eighties. I wondered what someone that old was doing in prison. Finally, I asked someone how old the gentleman was and was told that he was sixty-seven . . . one year older than I was at the time. To say I was shocked would be an understatement.

I was assigned a cell with a man who was two years my senior. This is a man who hated rock ‘n’ roll (“Those Beatles were nothin’ but loud noise!”) walked around humming “The Camp Town Races” and listened faithfully to “The Prairie Home Companion.” To me he seemed to be much more of my grandfather’s generation than my own.

I am young.

Oh, the hell with it. Facts are facts. Before I came in, I collected social security and was on Medicare. I had been eligible to join AARP for over fifteen years. So okay, for the purposes of this article, I will grudgingly admit that I’m getting up there. So what’s it like being a senior citizen (blech) in prison?

To most of the inmate population, I am invisible. As I move about the compound, others tend to look through me. If they do see me at all, I am totally inconsequential to them.

There are certain advantages to this.

First and foremost, I am safer than most of the other men who populate this world. Seldom is someone of my age ever targeted for violence because there is no cache in beating up an old man. In fact, the inmate’s code holds that anyone who would beat up an old man would receive retribution of the severest order. Just last week, a man about my age was found standing “too close” to the television. The viewing area was empty except for him but he is a sex offender and therefore required to view television from the back row. Someone approached him and ordered him to move. He refused, saying he wasn’t hurting anyone or anything. With that, the offended party hauled off and slapped the older man hard enough to knock him down. Within fifteen minutes, two other inmates sought out the violence-prone individual and exacted their revenge, prison style. All of them are now locked down in the Special Housing disciplinary unit, including the old man who was slapped.

But incidents such as this are rare. If an older man minds his own business and doesn’t smart off to anyone, he will normally go about his business unmolested.

Still, many of the prejudices and judgments made against older people in the free world are here, often even amplified.

When I first arrived at Oakdale, I was assigned to work on the serving line of the dining hall. It’s a fast-paced, pressure filled environment. One of the others working on the line has a pre-set bias against older men, automatically assuming them to be slow and suffering from some measure of diminished capacity.

In the year and a half that I have worked on the line, he has never spoken a kind word to me.

I work hard and my energy reserves are the equal of any man there. I have never once been responsible for the line having to slow down. While my position is somewhat menial, I take pride in doing a good job at it. But back in July, the corrections officer normally administers the dining hall was rotated to another department for the quarter. The prejudiced individual went to the new man running things to complain that I was slow, confused and couldn’t get along with anyone else on the serving line, none of which was remotely true. I was then demoted to “Spoon Roller,” a job usually reserved for older inmates, which consists of sitting at a table rolling up sporks with salt packets in a paper towel, to be passed out at mealtime. My pay was cut from $36.00 a month to $5.25. I did the work without complaining and two months later, when the original man in charge returned, I was immediately reinstated to my former job. The man who had me demoted swore he would quit if I returned to the serving line but that proved to be bluster.

What has been hardest to accept for me as an older inmate in a federal prison is that these are supposed to be my “golden years.” While I am presently in good health, a seven and a half year stretch for someone of my age could easily become a life sentence. My greatest wish is that I do not die in a place like this. I remain focused on that goal.

I have a granddaughter who was born five months after I went into house arrest. I have met her once, when my daughter and her husband visited and brought her to see me shortly after she turned one. When I get out, she will be nearly seven years old. I mourn the passing of each day that I cannot be a part of her life. But she is regularly shown pictures of me and I talk to her each week on the phone. She is two now and still can’t quite figure out where that voice is coming from or how a person could be small enough to fit into that tiny device. But I struggle to make an impression nonetheless; to let her know who her “Popi” is and just how very much I adore her. I hope it takes.

Now if you will excuse me, I’ll revert to the state I was in.

I am young.

~Kent

Another Sunday. Another week down.

May 22, 2011

Dear Dee,

Another Sunday. Another week down. Yesterday marked the 500^th day of being locked up, not counting the nine months on house arrest, which does not count towards my sentence.

It seems that “church” is getting longer now. My Sunday morning regimen consists of a chalice lighting, a sermon, a chapter from “The Field,” and a bit of Jefferson’s Bible. The subtitle title of “The Field” is “A quest for the secret force of the universe.” The author, Lynne McTaggart, is an investigative journalist, who interviewed scientists in many disciplines, and came up with a scientific theory that paranormal activity is due to a quantum energy field that connects all living things across space and time. Interestingly enough, the book doesn’t present its theories as an explanation of an alternative to religious beliefs, but it could be if you look at it in that light. I now pray regularly, but I don’t imagine that I am telepathically communicating with a supernatural being in the skies. I feel that I am connecting with the better part of myself. And I never ask for anything in prayer that I cannot do for myself. So far it seems to work.

I enjoy reading the Jefferson Bible because it is just Jesus’ life and philosophy without all the magic tricks. I keep thinking if an American president in this day and age produced something like this, they’d want to string him up.

The sermon “Already Broken,” was quite beautiful in its Buddhist simplicity. It stresses living in the moment and enjoying each day for what it contains. I appreciated the sentiment even though I am so limited in what I can do here that I have no ability to shape the day into anything other than what it is. Last week, there was a stabbing death in a nearby unit. I should give thanks that it wasn’t me, but beyond that I have no control.

To answer your questions: Yes, indeed I am denied a computer, or even a cell phone with internet access, when I get out. How does one even function in the 21^st century without a computer? Yes, I can have a TV. Yes, they do sell radios here in the commissary. You have to have one in order to watch TV, since the audio is broadcast on an FM frequency and we listen on headphones.

Did you know that any federal inmate who engages in self-mutilation or tattooing can be charged with destruction of federal property? That’s right, despite the outlawing of slavery, there is still a place in America where human beings are considered property.

I am battling a monster cold that had me in bed for the entire day. I used to get only one cold per year, but now I catch one every time it makes its way through the unit. I am going back to sleep.

The caged bird dreams

May 1, 2011

Dear Dee,

I had a visit from Joe last night. [See 12/18/2011 post, “Goodnight, Joe”] I knew, of course, that it was a dream but I reached out and touched him and he was solid and real. The tipoff was, he was Joe in his 20s, dark hair and unlined skin. He sported a big smile and a gleam in his eye that suggested that he knew he was cheating death by coming to see me. I don’t remember much of what we talked about, but I do know we laughed a lot. I came awake with tears in my eyes. But they were happiness tears because I finally got a last visit with my best friend. It didn’t happen here but rather in some neutral place because this place is off limits in my dreams. As I think I have mentioned before, my dreams have become sacred to me because they enable me to experience normalcy for brief periods. I look forward to that when I close my eyes each night.

Now for this morning’s church. The chalice lighting was the one you gave. I enjoyed your regard for your childhood chores as a gift, relating it to working at the church.

Notes on the sermon: The sermon Kent read was a Skinner Sermon Award Winner in 2010 called “Caging Violence” by Lynn M. Acquafondata . There were two readings. The first was by the Zen master, Thich Nhat Hanh, in which he explains the Buddhist principle that you cannot separate the good from the bad. He uses “Roses and Garbage” as his example, “Without a rose, we cannot have garbage; and without garbage, we cannot have a rose. They need each other very much. The rose and garbage are equal. The garbage is just as precious as the rose. If we look deeply at the concept of defilement and immaculateness, we return to the notion of interbeing.” The second reading was “The Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou which ends as follows:

The caged bird sings
With a fearful trill
Of things unknown
But longed for still
And his tune is heard
On the distant hill
For the caged bird,
Sings of freedom.

The sermon itself continues the theme: “Clearly if anyone is the “garbage” of society, it would be prisoners who have committed violent crimes and sometimes continue to victimize fellow prisoners. We, of course, would be the roses. Thich Naut Hahn says that there cannot be one without the other. He would say we are all responsible at some level for what happens in prisons. Can that be true? The concept is not easy for most Americans to grapple with because our society is set up largely around black and white, this or that, thinking…Though our country was founded on values which were influenced by some prominent Unitarians and Universalists, our prison and court systems have a long way to go before they truly respect the worth and dignity of each individual. Our systems have not reached a balanced reflection of the justice, equity and compassion we espouse.

I was so moved by Maya Angelou’s poem, far more than if I had read it before my incarceration. The sermon itself, although it seems to make the erroneous assumption that everyone in here is violent, does make the point that all of these people are human beings and that mistreatment of them is not only inhuman, but it stokes the fires of resentment and anger that burns in the hearts of these men, making them an even greater threat when they are released. I see some men in here who have covered every inch of their bodies with tattoos. I just know that they have long since given up any hope of a normal life, job, and family once they are released.

And I do see resentment in the hearts of men who have not been violent in the past. One, a cellmate of mine, cheered when those shootings happened in Arizona. He is so bitter over what the government has done to him that he was elated when a congresswoman was shot and a federal judge killed. I said, “What about that nine-year-old girl who got slaughtered?” That shut him up for a while anyway. When the revolution broke out in Libya, he supported Qaddafi, saying he should be killing his own people if they are trying to overturn his regime. That’s how twisted people can become in here.

I loved the final paragraph, “…when we reach out with love and compassion and mutual respect, we can heal broken places in our own hearts and we can turn the world toward a safer and more compassionate place for all people." Amen to that!

Love ya’, Kent

Getting old—Thinking young

April 24, 2011

Dear Dee,

It was a good Sunday this morning, with a chalice lighting and a sermon that were both of particular meaning for me. The chalice reading was from a woman who could not deal with the loss of her mother until she was willing and able to let go of her grief. I am still struggling with the loss of my freedom. I know that letting go of this struggle is something I really do need to do.

The sermon was “Great Trees of Life” using trees as a metaphor for getting older. Before I came here, I spent very little time ruminating about my advancing age. I guess that’s because I tend to think young. It’s not really denial. It’s just how I’ve always thought. I have a cellmate who is two years older than I, but from the way he acts and thinks, he could be my grandfather. For all that, however, I’m well aware that my time grows shorter. I wrestle with that a lot, feeling so unutterably stupid for having done something that resulted in losing six and a half years from a life that doesn’t have that many left in it.

There is, in here, a distinct dislike of older people, with the exception of Mexicans whose culture teaches them to respect their elders. A couple of weeks ago, I was working in the chow hall, filling cereal pans as fast as they were emptying out. This young kid was standing in the doorway between the serving line and the kitchen, blocking everyone’s way and talking about how old people were in everyone’s way. I was working, he was doing nothing. So I invented a reason to go into the kitchen, brushed past him and said, “Excuse me—you’re in the way.”

Love, Kent

Taking a stand

April 17, 2011

Dear Dee,

I have just emerged from my singular “church.” In this place, Unitarian takes on a slightly different definition—the Church of a Single Unit—me. I don’t know for certain that I am the only UU here, but I suspect that is the case. I don’t go around asking people their religion, but someone once asked that of me. When I replied “Unitarian Universalist,” he looked at me as if I had said, “Hello, I just arrived from Mars.” When I was being processed in, there was a checklist of religions to choose from on a form I was given. UU was not listed. Rather than feel passed over or ignored, I chose to think, “How cool. I have an unlisted faith.” It’s like being a member of an ultra-exclusive club.

Thanks for the collection of chalice lightings you sent. I intend to take your advice and parcel the readings out as part of each Sunday morning’s sermon reading. I began that little ritual this morning and I do feel that it enriched the experience. The one I read this morning was by John where he used jazz as a metaphor for the UU experience. I would never have thought of that equation but I find it spot on—individuality functioning within the greater spectrum of harmony. The piece had a simple eloquence that I found very moving.

Today’s sermon was “Playing with the Italians.” There is an undeniable sense of power that comes with taking a stand for what is right. I may or may not have mentioned that prejudice is rampant in here. In fact, the inmates willingly self-segregate. In the chow hall, blacks sit on one side of the room with whites, Mexicans and Asians on the other. But on that side, there are Mexican tables, Asian tables, DWB (that is, Aryan Nation boys) tables, etc. It calls to mind the junior high school practice: You can’t sit at the popular kids’ table. I have a cellmate who is a shameless racist. He uses the “N” word without any compunction, but never in the presence of any of the black inmates. I have asked him repeatedly not to use it in my presence, but he has ignored me. About three weeks ago, he did it again. I stood up and said, “Do me a favor. Pretend that I’m black and don’t use that word around me, just as you don’t around Kenny” (our black cellmate). He rolled his eyes and got very quiet. But he hasn’t done it since. It felt good taking a stand.

Speaking of the DWBs, I have been noticing that they have begun flexing their muscles again. Last week, they literally threw my chair and one other man’s across the room and put theirs in our places in the TV room. Having made my stand in January, I have chosen not to do so again. Instinct tells me it would put a target on me. Taking a stand has its virtues but there are the realities of prison life to consider. In a way, it’s sad that, at this stage of their lives, their greatest achievement is telling people where they can and can’t sit to watch television.

That’s about it for another Sunday. As always, thanks for providing the spiritual food for me to chew on. I think these letters have become an integral part of my “church” experience. Writing about the sermons really helps me to cement the message into place.

Love, Kent

Walk a Mile in Her Shoes

April 10, year 2
Dear Dee,

As I wrote the date above, I realized it would be my mother’s birthday were she still alive. It’s sad how little I think of her. I guess that’s because there are so few cherished memories of her. Sad. I did, over the past two years, learn that she is worthy of more empathy than I had been willing to grant her. I used to think she loved her alcohol more than her sons. But I had to regard her in a different light after my own addiction spiraled out of control. That gives credence to the old saw: “If you want to understand someone, walk a mile in their shoes.”

I have been reading the sermons that came with your last mail. “Other Pulpits, Other Ministries” didn’t speak to me at first, but upon reflection, I realized there is something to be learned from every one of them. It was the story of Margaret, who lost two of her children to death and another to life in prison. She could easily have become a bitter, angry old recluse, railing against the injustices of the world. Instead, she chose to bring beauty into the world, planting poppies wherever she went. Her answer to the loss of love from her world was to bring more into it. I have spent a lot of time lately thinking about the loss of these years from my life, years that are supposed to be “golden.” But then I see people like Margaret, who have lost far more and still manage to face life with grace and dignity.

The second sermon was germane to the struggle I’ve been having with the first and seventh principles. It provided me with generous insight into how to look beyond my present situation.

You asked if I needed any books. There is a couple I’d like to have. First, “The Jefferson Bible” and secondly, a book called “The Field,” which deals with the concept of God as a field of energy. I had thought that I had formulated that belief system all by myself, but I have met others who believed the same thing and now I find there is a whole book about it.

Take care and be well. Love, Kent

In the Name of Justice

April 3, year 2

 Kent’s letter talks about a three-part sermon called “In the Name of Justice” that I had heard in Scottsdale, AZ and had sent him. I found the service very impactful. In the first part, Rev. Gary Gallun talked about how we develop our sense of fairness and justice as early as kindergarten. And when someone doesn’t play fair, what constitutes justice? He asks: “Will the criminal come out of prison no different than when sentenced? Will treatment have occurred for a drug or alcohol addiction? Will they have learned a skill so that they will they be able to earn a living? Or will they be tagged as an undesirable pariah who must commit another crime in order to survive? What does justice demand?”

Part II was a personal account by Amy who lost her sister at the hands of a drunk driver. Amy attended the sentencing hearing of the driver, seeing for the first time a middle-aged woman named Pamela bound in shackles and clothed in prison garb looking worn, distressed and humiliated. After Amy and her family were given the chance to speak to the judge about the potential of the victim whose life had been cut short, she listened as the defendant’s family—at least 10 of them including her 4-year-old granddaughter—pleaded for mercy, but Pamela was sentenced to 6-10 years in the state prison. Amy said that she has spent much time since her sister’s death pondering justice, love, compassion, and forgiveness.

Part III, given by a woman named Anne who has worked with courts in the field of restorative justice, begins with a passage from Kalil Gabrahn’s The Prophet: “I have heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon the world. But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you, so the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also....” Anne explains the difference between types of justice that she has encountered in her practice,  “In retributive justice—punishment—the state does something TO the offender; in rehabilitative justice – treatment – the state does something FOR the offender. But in restorative justice... the OFFENDER is expected to do something FOR the victim and the community. The one who caused the harm must make up for the harm they have caused –and in so doing this, they begin a process of regaining their place in the society.”

Dear Dee,

This morning I read the three-part sermon, “In the Name of Justice.” It was extremely effective, impacting me on several levels. I couldn’t help but think, when Rev. Gallun quoted Robert Fulgham’s book, “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” that most of the career criminals I’ve encountered here suffer from arrested development.

Also, the concept of “restorative justice.” That goes a long way toward lining up with my belief in karma. I did something horrible and as a result, something horrible happened to me. So now I seek to be of service; to reach out to others in need of help. Just this past week, a guy moved into the cubicle next door. He has nothing that he needs yet and no money to buy anything. So I gave him a pen, some pencils (he likes to draw) and writing paper. I have tried to help men in here who aspire to write, giving them what pointers and encouragement I can. This is how I want to live my life after I get out of here. I consider each day a success if I have been able to help somebody.

I was reduced to tears by one part of the story of the drunk driver who killed the woman. It was when the woman was in court for sentencing and the judge read the letter from her 4-year-old granddaughter. “Please don’t send my Nana to prison. I need to be able to see her, she loves me so much and takes care of me. I don’t know what I would do without my Nana.” Of course it brings up my wife’s young granddaughter who lived with us for several years. I was someone she looked up to and she was the apple of my eye. But it wasn’t the judge who took me out of her life; it was me and what I did. I still marvel at the fact that I never considered the consequences of my actions; how shallow and narrowly focused are the thoughts of an addict.

So again, I thank you for picking something that spoke so eloquently to me. And of course, it continued to give comfort to me regarding my difficulty with the First Principle.     Love, Kent.