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The Prisoner
It was just another perfect day in San Diego. The
sun was shining, the weather warm and dry. The
radio talk show was chattering on about this and
that as I drove along the freeway. My mind, miles
away in some other dimension, was suddenly awakened
when I heard, "... at least thirty percent of all
prisoners in the state penitentiary system never
get a visitor during the term of their
incarceration." I turned up the radio and listened
intently as the representative of a national
organization of outreach volunteers talked about
their program.
I had been active in men's issues for several
years, but prisons and the people who populate them
had never been one of my things. But this day
something inside me clicked on, and what hit me was
I somehow couldn't care less what a man did--I
could not see anyone spending years behind bars
without a single visitor. We are, after all, human
beings - not animals.
The uniformed man in the front of the room said,
"... the only difference between you and the
prisoner is that you made a few different choices."
There I was, in the Donovan State Penitent iary, in
San Diego, getting a briefing on the rules before I
met "my prisoner." If you've never been in a
penitentiary before, it is a most unnerving
experience. Double walls of chain link fencing
twelve feet high, topped with three foot
circumference razor wire coils, everywhere you go.
Guards with guns at every corner. Real guns--loaded
guns. Those guys are serious about keeping the
prisoners in. One gets the idea they're not nuts
about visitors either.
I sat at a small round table and watched the
others as I waited for Joe to come down to the
visitors' area. Lonely, angry men spending a few
precious moments with girlfriends, wives and
babies. I couldn't believe how many babies there
were. At the next table a young man in blue denim
brushed his wife's long, satin black hair in
malignant silence, as their infant slept on the
table in its car seat. Around the room the others
played cards or dominoes. Young boys ran unattended
around the room, not knowing how to relate to the
strange men in blue they called "father." These men
who could not look their sons and daughters in the
eye through the guilt and shame.
As he approached the table I stood up and
introduced myself. He had waited over a year for an
assigned match (friend.) He was black, big and not
very pretty. This was, in fact, the ugliest man I
had ever seen. Enough scars on his head to write a
horror movie around. He was nervous, about as
nervous as I was. At twenty-six he had no front
teeth and he walked with a knife- induced swagger
that was almost a limp. He had lived many more than
twenty-six years.
It took me about fifteen minutes to open him up.
When I finally did he cried. Never had I seen a man
in so much emotional pain. To have a visitor, even
an older white man, was like the coming of Christ
to this man, at that moment. We talked.
I was leaving, standing in line with the other
visitors waiting for the chain link door to slowly
whine open, letting us out to a small yard. We
entered the yard, the gate grinding closed behind
us. We found ourselves locked in a twelve foot high
chain link room. We stood there for perhaps ten
minutes until the bus drew up. I noticed that I was
the one man in a crowd of about fifty women and
children. One man visiting one man. I had never
felt so lonely. I knew at that point how Joe felt.
Why were there no men visiting other men? Where
were the fathers, the friends, the brothers, the
uncles?
As time went on and the visits came regularly,
we both became more comfortable. It was not an easy
trip for me. It was about an hour's drive each way.
Another forty-five minutes to process in and a half
hour to process out, and I only got an hour with
him for all of that. The system is designed to
dehumanize and humiliate. Humiliation is the name
of the game in prison. The guards are well trained
in the process and it doesn't stop with the
prisoners. There is an attitude.
Joe was up for the third time. The conviction
was for attempted murder. I never asked him for the
details. It didn't matter. I saw a Joe I doubt
anyone else in the world knows. Why he consented to
drop his guard with me I do not know. I found him
to be one of the most sensitive and caring human
beings I have ever known. I know a lot of men who
profess vulnerability and sensitivity, but I never
met one who felt it more than Joe. I also know,
given the numbers of convicted men and the
institutional space available, one needs to work
hard at getting into a penitentiary today. He is
there for good reason, but it doesn't mean he
should be forgotten.
Joe will be up for parole soon. He is scared to
death to get out, but can't stand the thought of
another day in jail. He was born in the Los Angeles
ghetto, and joined the gang at eleven. He never
bothered to go to high school. His entire support
system is in the streets of L.A. His blood family
gave up on him. He never had a girlfriend. His
friends are all dead or in jail or hiding out lest
they be either. Every person or condition that ever
gave him any level of self-esteem is there in the
streets. The fact that there are more young black
males in prison today than in college was not lost
on him.
When he gets out, according to state law, his
choices are clear. He can only go back to his
"home." There is no other place. He must return to
his home of record to qualify for parole. When he
hits the street he has two more clear choices: He
can refuse to join the gang and they will kill
him...it's pretty much automatic...or he can rejoin
the gang. If he goes back to the gang he has only
two options: Be back in jail within six months and
die there, or die in the streets at the hands of
the police, another gang, or his own. Barely more
than a child, death is all there is for him. I have
to keep reminding myself that this is a human
being!
But hold on. Perhaps there is more here than it
would seem. Joe has taught himself to read in
prison, and enjoys it immensely. The fact that the
prison library has few books means nothing to him.
He just reads the same books over and over. He has
practically memorized dozens of Louis L'Amour's
western novels. Joe asks questions of himself and
of me, which tell me he does not want to die. He
wants desperately to find some way out. I would
like to help him. I hope that perhaps, by being his
friend, I can. But I don't believe it. He refers to
himself as a "criminal", which he is of course, but
his negative self-image is what he defines himself
by in the whole. He sees only that part of himself,
rather than that as only a part of his totality. It
seems to me there is a part of Joe in each of us
but, as the man said, most of us make other
choices. If God truly lives in each of us, how can
we deny that part of us that is Joe?
The American prison system is an outrageous
failure from every perspective possible. The term
rehabilitation is no longer even thrown about
loosely. There is no rehabilitation there. There is
no correction in the departments of correction.
There is only time warp. There is only a quagmire
which reinforces laws written by politicians
struggling to get re-elected by a frightened
public; failures of the police, the judicial and
social services, and the penal systems. And,
because the system is dominated by men and
incarcerates primarily men (95% nationally), it is
a failure of, for, and by, all men.
We build new prisons at an alarming rate every
year. Every city and state budget in the country
tries to fund more police at every opportunity. I
think it would be a lot cheaper and more effective
ifmore of us made a friend in prison and
experienced the joy of being a positive role model
to a man who never knew one. Helping a man stay out
of prison is far cheaper than supporting him in
one, both in terms of dollars and human values.
Ironically, I also get to work with those cops
who suffer from severe burnout, post traumatic
stress, chronic nervous and mental exhaustion,
nightmares, neurotic paranoia, and who can't trust
anyone who isn't a cop.
It's very sad...it isn't right...but its very
real
© 2007, Kenneth F.
Byers
Other Transition Issues,
Books
* * *
A permanent state of transition is man's most
noble condition. - Juan Ramon Jimenez
Ken Byers
holds a Ph.D. in psychology with an emphasis in
Men's Studies, one of the few ever awarded in the
U.S. Ken is a full time Certified Professional Life
Coach specializing in working with men in any form
of transition and an instructor of design at San
Francisco State University.
His books, "Man
In Transition" and
"Who
Was That Masked man
Anyway" are widely
acknowledged as primers for men seeking deeper
knowledge of creating awareness and understanding
of the masculine way. More information on Ken, his
work and/or subscription information to the weekly
"Spirit Coach" newsletter which deals with elements
of the human spirit in short commentary, check the
box at www.etropolis.com/coachken/
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/what.htm
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/speak.htm
or E-Mail
You are welcome to share any of Ken's columns with
anyone without fee from or to him but please credit
to the author. Ken can be reached at:
415.239.6929.
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