Tag: Crimes and Punishment

A CALL FOR COURAGE

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me, Volume 32 Comments

By Tony Casson

“Seek to do what is right” Zephaniah 2:3b NLT

“Courage is that virtue which champions the cause of right.” Cicero

Those who choose to serve the public are often confronted with unpleasantness and difficult decisions. Oftentimes those decisions, in order that they be correct ones which benefit society as a whole rather than one small segment of it, must fly in the face of public sentiment.

The issue of child pornography is a highly volatile, emotionally charged one, but where it is the right of parents to be emotional where children are concerned, it is the DUTY of those who serve the public to look beyond the raw emotion and examine the full impact of the decisions they must make regarding how to deal with the issue on all of its complex levels.

The United States Sentencing Commission (U.S.S.C.) is considering changes to the sentencing guidelines relating to many issues. Possession of child pornography is one of them. As distasteful as this whole business is, it has become a plague upon this nation that cannot be ignored. The U.S.S.C. is accepting public comment on this topic. I encourage all who read this to offer their own opinion in the matter, regardless of what that opinion may be. My own letter to them follows so that my opinions, and the basis for them, may be known.

You can visit cautionclick.com for more information and to obtain contact addresses. The deadline is July 23rd.

Here, then, is my letter:

To Whom It May Concern:

I would think that the volume of letters containing arguments both for and against the reduction of sentences for possession of child pornography is formidable. With the following words, I shall try to do my part to help turn the tide in favor of compassion, common sense, and commitment to working towards a sensible approach to dealing with the epidemic that has gripped our nation and threatens to squeeze the very life out of it.

My name is Tony Casson and I am a 58 year old man who has served 28 months in federal prison in Oakdale Louisiana for possession of child pornography. With ‘only’ 23 months remaining, I am considered to be one of the ‘lucky’ ones. Most of the men who occupy space here with me for similar charges have longer -some MUCH longer- sentences to serve.

None are more aware than those who serve on this commission that there is no empirical data or substantive reason to support the length of sentences imposed upon those convicted of the crime of possession of child pornography. The public outcry against men like me is justifiable on a purely emotional level. All of the anger that is directed at those who would sexually abuse and exploit a child and then exacerbate that abuse by making a digital record to forever preserve the pain, humiliation, and horrific loss of innocence is brought to bear on those who would willingly participate in the abuse by viewing and possessing those digital records.

On the surface, this would seem fair. I certainly cannot put any ‘spin’ on child pornography that will make it anything less than the horrible permanent record of innocence stolen and child sexual abuse that it is.

At the same time, it is evident to many that the wholesale incarceration of anyone and everyone who has downloaded images of this abuse is as wrong and misguided as the abuse itself.

The merciless mass jailing of ever-increasing numbers of those who possess child pornography without first affording them ANY opportunity at redemption is inconsistent with what justice should stand for in this great nation of ours. In fact, many on the commission and in the courtrooms of this country realize this. It is now time to send a strong public message to Congress that their insistence on condemning tens of thousands of otherwise hard-working, contributing members of society to destroyed lives, broken families and bleak futures will ultimately create a problem with more disastrous consequences than the problem of possession of child pornography itself.

Many victims of child sexual abuse captured in digital images that circulate on the Internet have been identified by the authorities. They all have names. They are all living, breathing human beings. They have all been severely mistreated and they are ALL deserving of all of the physical, mental, and spiritual help that they require as they struggle to put things back into a perspective that might give them peace and dignity and restore their self-esteem and their ability to trust and live normal, happy lives. They are entitled to see those who perpetuated the abuse and produced the record of it be dealt with severely.

Those whose lives are destroyed by curiosity or an addiction to pornography that leads them down this well-travelled road of looking at images that shouldn’t exist in the first place – those individuals all have names as well. And so do their children, their spouses, their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters.

Their names are Stanley, who received 25 years for receipt, possession, and distribution of child pornography. The FBI showed up at Stanley’s house looking for a computer that Stanley had bought for his 12 year old grandson. In a misguided attempt to protect his grandson, Stanley laid claim to the computer and all that it contained, thinking that he might get a year or two in prison. His prosecutor said that they were going to ‘make an example’ of Stanley. They ‘stacked’ his charges and sentenced him to 25 years. Stanley is now 61 tears old and has been incarcerated for 7 years. During those 7 years, Stanley has had a quadruple bypass and a stroke. Stanley’s wife has cancer and emphysema and will most likely not survive until the end of Stanley’s sentence. But that’s ok, because it is highly unlikely that Stanley himself will live to the end of it. While Stanley had a few scrapes with the law during his younger, friskier days, he lived a quiet existence for 30 years before this epidemic of indecency invaded his home, destroyed him, took all he had worked a lifetime for and condemned those who love him to live without him.

Their names are also Jason, who is 20 years old and a recent arrival, sentenced to serve 7 years. Jason has been addicted to pornography since he was 13 years old. Back then, they were his peers he was looking at. At 20, it is a crime punishable by 7 years in prison, labeling as a sex offender, and a future destroyed.

Their names are Ken, 29, sentenced to 17 1/2 years because he went to trial and lost and that angers ‘them’. He is a father, a son, a brother, and a business owner.

Their names are Rob, sentenced to 9 years. Rob is 47, a homeowner, a father, an uncle, a brother, and was a long-time employee of an airline.

Their names are Aaron, 32, sentenced to 6 years. He is a very smart man who did a very stupid thing. His daughter is growing up without him but but she loves him and is waiting for Daddy to come home.

Their names are Derek, 29, sentenced to 9 years. His mom passed away recently. They were very close. He is a former member of the Air Force and is a talented artist.

Their names are Rob, 56, a retired naval officer with years of service to his country, doing jobs he can’t even discuss. He was sentenced to 5 years for fragments of images found on unallocated space on his hard drive by NCIS. He is a father, a husband and has given this country more than most of us can imagine.

Their names are also Pete, 62, 15 years; Ben, 28, 9 years; Steve, 68, 7 1/2 years; Michael, Randy, Dave, Jesse, Phillip, Alan, Floyd, and the list goes on and on and on.

What were we thinking? Obviously, we were not thinking at all. We were, for the most part, wrapped up in a cloud of confusion where decency was not allowed to enter and common sense was left outside. We all acted as if we were devoid of the intelligence, the heart, and the morality that God gave us. We were all caught up in something immature, irresponsible, and reprehensible. Our punishments, however, far exceed anything that begins to make sense or contribute to solving this terribly invasive problem that has reached into more households in this country than we can possibly imagine.

Congress must stop making laws that act as an emotional salve and are designed to gain favor and votes. Congress must start looking for answers and those answers do NOT lie within the confines of a razor-wire enclosure. The answers are not in a sex offender registry that hides those who need watching in the midst of those who need God.

Somewhere, the courage to stand up and say, “STOP!” must be found by someone who is truly looking out for the PUBLIC good. This frightening trend of locking away this country’s future must be reversed. At risk of losing votes, Congress must stand up for what is right, not for what is easy. Congress must look for solutions to build a healthier country, not for stepping stones to a brighter political future.

In his book, “Profiles In Courage”, John F. Kennedy wrote, “It may take courage to battle one’s President, one’s party, or the overwhelming sentiment of one’s nation; but these do not compare, it seems to me, to the courage required of the senator defying the angry power of the very constituents who control his future.”

May God Himself guide all of you and give you the courage to address this horrible thing that eats at us and to recognize that incarcerating people, while it may make good business, does not make good sense.

Let us seek, resolution, not retribution. Let us fix something that is broken and not just discard it. Let us save families, not destroy them.

I thank you for your time.

If you publish this letter, as you have so many in the past, there is no need to redact my name. I have made things right with God and He and I know that I am not what some would have society think.

We are not all monsters. Most of us are men who made mistakes.

Sincerely,
Anthony E, Casson
91153-004 A-1
Box 5000
FC!
Oakdale, La 71463

“Giving a Voice to the Victims: From Victim to Victor”

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories2 Comments

“Be ashamed to die until you have one some victory for humanity.”  Horace Mann

“I wait quietly before God, for my victory comes from Him.”   Psalm  62:1  NLT

      There are victims of child sexual abuse and there are survivors. And then there are the victors.

      It is evil that causes people to sexually abuse another person. It is evil that allows someone to steal a child’s innocence and claim it as their own. In a battle with evil, God is the only ally that provides us with any hope of victory. It is God and God alone who can provide the strength and love needed to enable a person who is confronted by evil to stand up and draw the battle lines and move confidently to victory.

      In today’s superficial world, things that mean nothing at all are glorified and the One who means salvation to the entire world is relegated to an afterthought. Many people are uncomfortable when the conversation turns to God for they have never fully relied on Him and experienced His power. When we decide to make a stand with God against the evil that walks this earth and preys on the innocent, we are able to confidently draw a line in the sand, look evil in the eye, and say, “Bring it!”.

      In this next installment in the story of her personal war against the evil that tried to consume not just her innocence, but her very soul, her identity, and her life, our courageous young friend moves from being a survivor to being a victor as she draws her own battle lines.

Her story continues:

I’m Possible                                                

     I’m a fighter. My story involves four options; to give up, to give in, to give it all I’ve got, or to give it all up to Him. The way I see it, to give up is to give in. To give it all I’ve got can be selfish, and to give it all up to Him seems impossible. But I have to stop there; even the word “impossible” is contradicting because it says “I’m Possible”. The fourth option is the reason why I’m alive today. Not alive in a physical sense, but alive in spirit. I’m a fighter. I’m alive. I’m possible.

     To give up. My mindset for the longest time after the abuse. If I failed at being perfect at any task, I’d give up right away. My life seemed to lack purpose. To me, my body was physically there to be used as a sex object and nothing more. To give up was easy as I walked through life with no self worth and no value – except for what my body was intended to be used for. Most times I had myself beat before I even had the chance to find the strength inside to not give up. In complete honesty, I thought daily of giving up totally. To give up on life seemed way better than the hell I was being forced through. But something, no not something, someone kept me going. I fought an every day battle of even wanting to push forward to the next day. My body was a temple for God. Intended to be used to honor Him and the life he has blessed me with; but how could I not give up on that when my temple was destroyed, not by choice? How was I supposed to not give up when it seemed as if He gave up on me? I fought. By giving up, would believe in the lie that God did this. That God gave up on me. To give up would be letting Satan win. To give up would be to give in to the torture I was put through. I’m a fighter against that lie. As I got older, I wanted to make it evident that I would not give up, I would stand and stand strong. To give up was not an option.

     To give in. During the abuse I was made submissive. In every act done or manipulated into doing, I gave in. It was my fault, I was guilty, I was blamed for being too easy. I gave in to those lies. It later affected my everyday tasks and daily routines. I’d be undeceive, unable to make decisions for myself, and easily conformed into the person people wanted me to be. I had no backbone. I couldn’t stand up for myself. I gave in to all the lies of believing I was ugly, worthless, guilty, not good enough, and so much more. I fought every day to build courage. To build confidence to not give in; like I was a branded cow. I was only good for producing one or two things for my “master”.  Every time I would give in, that something, no not something, someone saved my cognitive thought process and fought for me. I fought to find strength to develop my own identity, one separate from the one I unwillingly gave into. To give in was weak.

     To give it all I’ve got. Well that’s just unreasonable. Sure, ultimately it is my physical and mental strength to give anything I do my very best. But that is not MY doing. This is exactly why I failed myself on so many occasions. I believed it was all me. As a Christian from a young age, I wondered how could my strength to fight this every day battle come from God, when he did nothing to help me when I was crying out to Him silently in fear? The pain I felt was mine not His. The tears I cried myself to sleep with, fell from my eyes, not His. The body that laid there absent-minded was my six year old body NOT His. The fear I felt, my feeling, not His. This phase I went through was all me. It was my battle, my emotions, my body. Every day I gave it all I got. Admitting this I could slap myself for but I will give it all I’ve got because and for Him. To give it all I’ve got can be selfish.

     To give it all up to Him. I didn’t give up because, He persevered. I didn’t give in because He fought for me. I gave it all I’ve got because He gave me strength to fight for the next day. The previous phase I went through was the biggest lie I could ever lead myself to believe. Sin was committed against me, Christ’s love was used for me. I wasted so much time blaming God for allowing the abuse to happen to me. But little did I know at that time, that God did something to protect me because He kept covering me with restored purity and new spirit to face another day. Every bit of pain I felt, broke His heart too. The tears I cried, He paid the price for by the blood that covered our sins; even the sin committed/used against me. The body that laid there on so many accounts, was His temple. He knit me together in my mother’s womb. My body is His. Its intended to worship Him, made perfect in His image. He too felt every wrongful act done against me. The fear I felt was heard through my cries but I was too hurt to hear his gentle whispers to “be still, know that I am God, and that He was there for me”. I’m a fighter because He fought for me. Now its time for me to fight for Him. To give it all up to Him is not impossible. I’m Possible.

     Since I eventually sought after God and talked to Him about what he already knew, I found a renewed strength to fight back, reclaim what was lost, Become me.  I’m possible. I am able to look my perpetrator in the eyes and genuinely say I still love you. I am able to forgive him. I am able to tell myself that I am beautiful. I am able to have hope in a bright future. I am able to love unconditionally. I am able to stand up for my beliefs. I am able to be imperfect. I am able to fight for a better tomorrow. I am able to talk about this and spread awareness. I am able to do all these things because the great “I AM” is alive in me.

     I will not give up, because that is not an option.

     I will not give in, because that is weak.

     I will not give it all I’VE got, because that can be selfish.

     I will give it all up to Him, because it is possible.

     I’m possible.

     Thanks to my hero, my Dad, I was reminded that the only option is the fourth. Fight because He fought for you.

      This month is Child Sex Abuse Awareness month. I wanted to share this side of my story because it is something worth fighting for. I wanted to take the opportunity to look at God’s prevailing power in such a nasty part of our society and the statistics that are unfortunately true. There is good that can come from this. For anyone who is struggling with being a victim, you are not alone. Fight for another day, because I promise you, its worth it.

He is with you.

God is good.

I’m possible. 

You can be too.

Give all up to Him.

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

On By Tony CassonIn Inmates - In Their Own Words1 Comment

 By Steve Marshall

      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.

A Sex Offender Like Me: The New Kid in Town – Part 3

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me2 Comments

“We spoke of the whites. ‘They’re God’s children, just like us,’ he said. ‘Even if they don’t act very godlike anymore. God tells us straight – we’ve got to love them, no ifs ands or buts about it. Why if we hated them, we’d be sunk down to their level. There’s plenty of us doing just that too’.” – John Howard Griffin     “Black Like Me”

“Don’t say, ‘I will get even with this wrong.’ Wait for the  Lord to handle the matter.” – Proverbs 20:22 NLT

      The ‘hater’ with the tattooed proclamations of love for God and hatred for others returned with another man Alan hadn’t crossed paths with yet, but who was familiar to me and  everyone else in the unit as the loudmouthed leader of the movement to control people’s lives and suppress the rights of anyone with sex-related offenses.

      If Alan was intimidated at all by the physical appearance and demeanor of the first man, the second man’s appearance should have been enough to send his nervous system into sensory overload. To say this man was unpleasant to look at would be an enormous understatement.

      Whereas the first man’s eyes were pale, cold and devoid of any friendliness, the second man’s eyes were the eyes of a ferret … dark little beady spots that darted about as they peered out from a greasy-looking face that was scarred and pockmarked, mercifully covered with a beard that was mostly grey. I say mercifully because the beard helped to cover a small weak chin set in an altogether unattractive countenance and helped to mask the fact that most of his teeth were missing. His hair was very fine, thinning, greasy-looking and usually worn with rubber bands spaced a couple of inches apart up its twelve-inch length, giving it the appearance of a rat tail. Like his beard, his hair was predominately grey. He was only about 5’8″ tall. His lower body was slight of build but his arms showed evidence of a view toward “working out” that only consisted of repeated lifting of heavy objects to bulk up his arms. His stomach was huge, fed by a constant stream of snacks and meals whenever he was observed in the unit. Sometimes it seemed as though his eating was the only thing that prevented the unpleasantness of his nasal backwoods twang from permeating the air of the housing unit.

      He had a rather offensive habit of wearing only shorts, socks and sandals around the unit in the evenings when he was in “relaxed mode.” His status provided him a front row center seat in front of “his”  television and he would sit there, sometimes for hours, staring at the screen, usually munching by spoon or hand from an ever-present bowl of chips or something that had been “cooked,” prison style, in one of our two microwaves.

      The man’s stomach was so large and so round, it appeared to sit in his lap and every square inch of it was covered in tattoos, most of which were more than likely applied during one of his many years in state or federal prison. In fact, every bit of visible skin not hidden by shorts or socks was covered in tattoos.

      In particular, the ink on the stretched skin of his stomach looked like a freakish collage painted in blue on a flesh-colored over-inflated balloon.

      As Alan’s further misfortune would have it, the man was in “relaxed mode” when he was brought to the cell where Alan was waiting apprehensively and he was totally unnerved when he stood facing this grotesque beast.

      Alan was asked again, this time by the “beast”, what his charge was and when he began to offer an explanation, he was immediately told to stop, pack up his meager possessions and leave the cell. He was informed that they would have other arrangements made because he was definitely not welcome in that cell.

      Holding his bedroll and little bag of toiletries, Alan wandered out into the common area. Observing an empty chair near a game table, he sat down to await his fate.

      Unfortunately, there were two things wrong with what he did: it was not his chair and sex offenders were not allowed to sit at the game tables. Alan, of course, had no way of knowing these things at this point so he was probably unaware that his actions were only serving to pump up the overall hostility level and increase the tension which, like the rubber band attached to the propeller on a little balsa wood airplane, was being wound tighter and tighter, approaching the point at which it might break.

      Seeing this, someone who sides with those who hate but is a bit more merciful about it, moved him over near the wall and arranged for him to sit in a chair until some sort of resolution was arrived at.

      Many minutes later, Alan was approached by both the “hater” and the “beast” and told to go see the counselor again. He was given another room assignment across the hall from his first one and down a few doors from where he had been sitting.

      He was met at the door to that cell by its current occupant who made it instantly clear that, “You’re not staying in here!” At that point, he stormed past Alan on his way to the counselor’s office, huffing and puffing, beating his chest and loudly proclaiming that he was not going to have this man pushed off on him.

      Given the size of the unit itself and the dynamics of living in a place where small things are big news, word was rapidly racing through the unit that this latest addition to the “chomo” population was getting a hard time. All the while, I sat quietly oblivious in my cell reading a newspaper. Now I am no one’s mother, father, leader or savior. But I do try to make sure that new people are made aware that they are safe and have people to go to with questions or needs.

      In a way, I failed Alan that day by remaining in my cell. But I just felt that we had progressed to a level of tolerance where it was not necessary to stand on the rail and gawk, adding to the discomfort that newcomers feel. As evidenced by what was transpiring outside my door and down the stairs, I was wrong.

      Once again, Alan was placed in the chair along the wall. Most of the activity swirling around Alan – the angry looks, the cursing and grumbling spoken louder than was necessary, the marching in and out of the counselor’s office – was all for show . . . a lame prison version of “shock and awe.” As it is with gorillas loudly beating their chests and giving their fiercest roar, most of what was transpiring was for show. But to the uninitiated, it can all combine to be tremendously intimidating, demeaning and nerve-wracking.

      The individual who had originally “rescued” Alan attempted to calm him down, told him to just sit in the chair and he would be right back. The knock on my door came a few moments later.

      Well folks, Alan did survive that day and, as most people do has adapted in his own way – a way that works best for him – to life in an environment that just a short time ago was as foreign to him as one could possibly imagine.

      As I have said, most enter this place without any discernable tension. For some, however, like Alan, it can be a frightening experience when you’re the new kid in town.

A Sex Offender Like Me – The New Kid In Town – Part 2

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“He wondered why people thought they had to die in order to go to hell” – James Lee Burke “Feast Day of Fools”

“Don’t pick a fight without reason when no one has done you harm” – Proverbs 3:30 NLT

      The air crackled with tension as my foot hit the bottom stair.

      I observed tight unsmiling looks on the faces I could see and noticed several people avert their gazes as I glanced in their direction. The person who had come to get me was waiting near the bottom of the stairs and I looked at him and asked, “Where is he?”

      “Over by the wall,” he responded, using his head as a pointer to indicate the direction in which I should go.

      As I turned and started walking in the direction indicated, I could see the person I was looking for sitting in a chair by the wall about twenty feet away. As I moved toward him, I could see that he was a rather rotund middle aged white male. He had somewhat long thinning salt and pepper hair, a very thick and  well-established beard and moustache, which was also salt and pepper, but both the hair on his head and face leaned more toward salt than pepper. He also wore wire-rimmed glasses.

      In the midst of all that had transpired before my presence was requested, someone had at least had the decency to get the poor man one of the plastic chairs that come with the cells we are issued and he was frozen in that chair up against the wall between two cells.

      He leaned forward slightly, his ankles crossed and tucked beneath him and his hands clasped in front of him, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. His gaze was straight ahead and down, as if he had seen all he wanted to see. Even from the side, I could see a look on his face and in his eyes that sent my thoughts and emotions hurtling back to April 6th of 2010.

      As clearly as if it had happened the day before, I remembered the full range of my emotions as I made my way up the walk toward my “new home” here in Oakdale.

      At that moment, looking at the frightened man before me, all that I had felt on that day long ago flooded over me as if it had happened just ten minutes earlier. Yet somehow, at the same time, it also seemed as if it had happened so long ago as to have not happened at all.

      But it did happen, of course, and I knew this. The part of me that remembered it with such crystal clarity allowed me to feel the anticipation as I approached the building that day all over again.

      Flashing through my mind as well was the sense of foreboding that built as the faces lining the walk in front of the building loomed larger with each step I took. I could only hope that I didn’t look as frightened as I most definitely was.

      I recalled the inquisitiveness of their eyes turning to a visceral loathing in some as their assessment of me, my crime and my worth as a human being transformed from simple curiosity to a virtual certainty, if only in their minds.

      My perception of the conclusions that were being arrived at was confirmed as I passed by the one I have referred to before who stood like a sentinel near the doorway with his large, tattooed arms crossed over his equally large chest.

      He sniffed the air and spoke three words as I passed: “Smells like one.” Those three words contained all I needed to know about what awaited me inside, a taste of what hell must be like. “Smells like one” … words that, when pulled from the place in my mind where unpleasantness is stored, still had the same chilling effect that they did when they first spilled from the mouth of the man whose self-appointed task it was to be among the first to let me know I was not welcome.

      All of this coursed through my mind and body as I took the few final steps to the person who seemed frozen in fear in front of me.

      I knew that, regardless of how unnerving my own experience had been, it would prove to be sedate compared to what this man was living through.

      After introducing myself and assuring him that he was not alone and everything was going to be alright, he told me his name was Alan.

      The look in his eyes showed a slight sense of relief as I’m sure mine did so many months before when Aaron tapped me on the shoulder and said pretty much the same thing.

      I was anxious to hear what I had missed since I had chosen not to be part of the visual gauntlet newcomers had to walk through.

      Much of the time this had proven to be wise since most of the new arrivals seemed to be entering without incident or unnecessary drama.

      Not so with Alan, as I discovered later after we got him temporarily bunked with another older white male, also a new arrival, although quite vocally not a sex offender like me and, apparently, Alan. Things had gotten a little too heated and expressive this time though and a cooling down period was required. More permanent sleeping arrangements could be made later and he could tell me what  had happened to create such a tense atmosphere.

      “I’ll tell you . . . we don’t want you people. Don’t you understand that?”

      That statement is from “Black Like Me” and the words were spoken by a white plant foreman in Mobile, Alabama in 1959 to a “black” John Howard Griffin. They could just as easily have come from the mouth of the man in the first cell Alan was assigned to that day.

      Upon his arrival, Alan took the bedroll he had been given into the cell he had been told he was to live in. As he began to put his sheet and blanket on the top bunk, the other occupant of the cell entered.

      As bad luck would have it, Alan had been placed in a cell with a man whose tattooed body proclaimed a love of God on the same pasty white flesh on which his hatred of others was evidenced by other artwork that proclaimed his white supremacy.

      He is what is commonly referred to here as a “hater,” and less desirable as roommates than non-whites to him are those with sex related charges.

      When he walked through the door, he instructed Alan to stop what he was doing for a minute. I can only guess at the emotional churning taking place within Alan as he took in the physical appearance of the man who was now challenging Alan to assure him that his charge was “straight.”

      The man’s eyes were pale and displayed not one tiny measure of friendliness or welcome. His shaved head and goatee, combined with the ink on his skin that crept out of the collar and sleeves of his t-shirt, served to flash a warning that this was not a person full of warmth and benevolence.

      To the question asked, about his charge being “straight,” Alan groped with the intended meaning and settled for responding, “I’m not a homosexual, if that’s what you mean.”

      That reply would have been  humorous were it not for the fact that simply not knowing what was implied by the question told the one asking it what he needed to know. He was actually looking for verification that Alan’s charge was a “good” charge – drugs or bank robbery or any other such glamorous event. Not knowing what “straight” meant could only mean that he was a “chomo,” a sex offender like me.

      The man instructed Alan to stop what he was doing and just wait, at which time he walked out of the cell door. Alan was no doubt left wondering how the long stressful day was going to end.

      Alan had begun the day almost eighteen hours earlier in Oklahoma City where he was awakened at 2 a.m. to be processed for travel.

      Oklahoma City is the site of a large Bureau of Prisons facility; a large hub or distribution center. Federal inmates headed to all different parts of the country pass through OKC, usually staying there only a week or two. Some may stay a little longer but usually not much.

      Alan had spent about a week in OKC, arriving there from a CCA facility in Mason, Tennessee. He had spent about three weeks there after being sent there from court following his sentencing. That day’s wake-up call would send him to Oakdale FC!, where he had been “designated” by the BOP to serve at least the beginning of the time given him by the federal judge back in Pulaski County, Arkansas.

      After being awakened, he and the forty others chosen for the trip were moved to a holding area where they were processed out and prepared to board a bus for the journey to Oakdale.

      With wrists in handcuffs, ankles in leg chains and both of these secured to another chain that circled each prisoner’s waist, they were finally loaded onto a prison bus at around 4:30 a.m., each man carrying a bagged meal for the trip which consisted of four slices of bread, two slices of meat, two slices of cheese, a small bag of chips and a drink. This would be their only sustenance until their arrival in Oakdale at around 3:30 p.m.

      When they finally arrived, I imagine that Alan saw pretty much the same thing that I had as the prison came into view, although the glass in the bus windows had wire running through it and there were metal bars bolted to the outside. I, on the other hand, had the unobstructed view of the window of my brother’s car.

      Still, the day he arrived was gloriously sunny and the razor wire along the top of the high chain link fences glittered in a way that was somehow appealing to the eye yet incredibly frightening at the same time.

      All of the hours spent sitting on the hard plastic seats of the bus, still wearing all of those chains, probably made even that sight perversely welcome as the senses perked up with the knowledge that the tedious discomfort of the bus ride was almost at an end.

      Once the bus was securely inside the enclosure built to receive it, the inmates were led off and into the facility where they were unchained and placed in the holding cell.

      Undoubtedly the sensation of movement stayed with Alan and the others and they remained numb and dazed as they were all processed into their strange new community.

      After four more hours of waiting, having been given another bagged meal similar to that given in OKe, having been given a bedroll and a bag of toiletries, Alan and the others were led off toward the housing units. Our unit was first, so Alan and a few others were dropped off here. It was late for new arrivals, the time being around 7: 30 p.m. or so.

      Alan entered the place he was assigned to live tired, dazed and apprehensive. He had not had a stellar day to this point, to say the least, but it was going to have to get considerably worse before it would get better.

. . . . To be continued

A Gray-Beard Behind Gray Bars

On By Tony CassonIn Inmates - In Their Own Words1 Comment

Written by Steve Marshall

      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.

 

 

A Sex Offender Like Me: The New Kid in Town

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“I learned within a few hours that no one was judging me by my qualities as an individual and everyone was judging me by my pigment.” -John Howard Griffin  “Black Like Me”

“God alone, who gave the law, is the judge. He also has the power to save or to destroy. So what right do you have to judge your neighbor?” –James 4:12 NLT

      To a sex offender like me, simply existing in prison on a daily basis can be unnerving. But for many, nothing compares to the sheer terror of walking through the front door that first day and enduring the unabashed stares from those who have now become their neighbors.

      Large buses carrying new “residents” arrive with some regularity – usually weekly. Some of the passengers on those buses are moving closer to home; some are working their way down from a medium security facility; still others come from county or federal detention lock-ups where they have endured many months under lock and key as they moved  through the long process from their arrest to conviction or plea, on to sentencing and then finally being designated by the bureau of prisons to their ultimate destination.

      When news of a bus hits the compound, the collective antennae of all the various groups in each of the different housing units goes on high alert. They eagerly await the processing of the new arrivals who are soon escorted to their new “homes.” This usually occurs right after the four o’clock stand-up count or immediately after dinner, which means that most inmates are at “home” and can be counted upon to form an eager gauntlet of curious onlookers, anxious to size-up the new neighbors.

      No peeking through the curtains here. No sizing up the new arrivals by the types of possessions carried into the house or the cars parked in the yard. Here it is about the color of his skin, the language he speaks, the tattoos he displays and the charge that brought him here in the first place. It is all about adding numbers to your particular group and, ultimately, weeding out the outcasts – any new sex offenders, like me.

      If you are black, it’s … well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? After it is determined what state you are from, you are welcomed and situated by others from there. A lot of handshaking and hugging as introductions are made; perhaps some laughter and shouting as old acquaintances are rekindled or common threads in a particular city are unraveled; all of it very friendly, all very warm and welcoming.

      The same can be said for those of obvious Latino origin. They are lavished with warmth, friendliness and camaraderie by the Mexicans, Columbians, Puerto Ricans or any other group that may be a subset of the larger Latino community. As far as white faces are concerned, the dynamics are a little different. The desire to categorize is foremost in the minds of those who have proclaimed themselves to be superior. It is of paramount importance to them to cull the “undesirables” from the herd as quickly as possible in order that they can make a big showing of putting down and then ignoring those who are deemed unworthy. Then they can move on to the more pleasant business of giving a welcome and a tour to those who are socially acceptable. This tour includes unabashedly pointing out all of the resident “chomos,” enabling the newcomer to properly hate someone he has never even met. But the process serves its intended purpose: it lets the new people who are accepted into the upper echelons of the prison hierarchy know who not to be seen talking to.

      Most of the time, once the new arrivals have been properly “slotted” and the new sex offenders have been put together with those of their “own kind” and they have been given the “rules,” life evolves into more of a situation wherein they are ignored. For the most part, this means that we are pretty much left alone, provided that we don’t forget our “place.” In and of itself, this is not entirely a bad thing. But sometimes, the silence can be deafening. Sometimes what is not said speaks louder than voices shouted from a mountaintop. Sometimes an averted gaze or a cold shoulder can gnaw at a man’s dignity and self-respect, creating a wound that is every bit as real, every bit as raw and every bit as painful as if it were caused by a physical assault.

      But all of that comes after the crucial beginning; those critical first moments when you have arrived at the place where you will be staying for a while and your stomach is churning, your heart is racing and your mind is literally screaming at you for what you have done that has landed you in the midst of this surreal landscape.

      New arrivals who are white, heavily tattooed and in their mid-thirties to mid-forties are likely to be initially accepted as “okay” by the “Dirty White Boys.” Questions are asked that can further validate a claim that someone is a drug dealer, a methamphetamine “cooker” or maybe even a bank robber. Paperwork will probably be required to back up any of these claims but the initial acceptance will be there and at least that individual will be alright to talk to for the time being.

      On the other hand, older white males without tattoos are pretty much assumed to be “one of them,” and if you are a similarly unadorned younger white male who appears educated or perhaps slightly nerdy, the same net of suspicion is quickly cast over you as well.

      Most of the time, new sex offenders are identified and pulled aside quickly, quietly and without much fuss. They are then reassured by their “own kind” and made to feel safe and allowed to settle into their new “home” with barely a ripple on the waters of prison life.

       Other times, however, this crucial first step can be difficult. For some, it can be embarrassing or even frightening. I’ll tell you about one such experience when I continue relating the plight of “The New Kid in Town.”

A Sex Offender Like Me: Just Like Sticks and Stones

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“My revulsion turned to grief that my own people could give the hate stare, could shrivel men’s souls, could deprive humans of rights they unhesitatingly accord their livestock.”   John Howard Griffin –    “Black Like Me”

“Lord, you have heard the vile names they call me.” – Lamentations 3:61A NLT

      I have never been fond of the word “nigger,” but I suppose I never really gave much conscious thought as to what effect calling a person one could have on that person’s dignity either. That is, until I heard the word “chomo” -·used -by someone talking to me.

      Of course, I should have known that just like sticks and stones, names can cut; they can sting; they can bruise and make one bleed; just not in the conventional sense, such as physical objects that are wielded as weapons and used to strike someone and cause pain or physical injury.

      But the hurt is there just the same, perhaps in an even more painful and damaging way. Scars develop but instead of being physical blemishes that become items of curiosity and discussion, these scars mar the beauty and dignity of an individual’s soul. They are ugly and meant to be hidden, viewed only by the bearer and are best left unmentioned and undisturbed for fear that talking about them can somehow reopen the wounds.

      You see, being called “chomo” was not my first exposure to the indignity of hateful names wielded as weapons; names whose sole purpose was to hurt, embarrass, demean and diminish the recipient in order that the one wielding those weapons might somehow make himself appear to be superior.

      When I was in high school, I was the object of such weapons due to the fact that my hair was coarse, wiry and very curly.  One person began a hateful – and hurtful – “game” of singling me and my hair out for attention by calling me names such as “nigger knots, ” “Brillo pad, ” “pubic-head,” and a couple of other insults related to both male and female genitalia; all embarrassing, all hurtful and demeaning and all met with no response on my part which, I suppose, gave the one wielding those weapons the perception of power and superiority he sought. Perhaps he needed that perception to compensate for some feelings of diminished capacity or ability on his part. I don’t know. I never asked him nor did I ever respond to him. But after forty-plus years, I can still feel those words strike me with almost physical brutality. I can still remember his name and I can still see his face – full of meanness and ignorance – as he struck me with those weapons of words.

      In a way I think that injuries caused by those words were more debilitating than those caused by any actual sticks or stones I had ever been struck by. I feel this way because of the clarity with which they are remembered and the degree of hurt, embarrassment and shame that accompanies the memories.

      But all of that is nothing compared to what I, and sex offenders like me, face here in prison and will face in the future as we step outside these walls and attempt to move forward with whatever remains of our lives.

      In our present situation as men serving a physical punishment of “freedom denied” as prescribed by law we, as sex offenders, are reminded on a daily basis of our lack of status in the prison “food chain.” From the selection of tables in the dining hall that tend to identify an individual as “one of them,” to being unofficially but undeniably deprived of the right to work in certain areas or use certain recreational facilities without being confronted and intimidated; from the absence of sex offenders, like me, at the tables in the housing unit set aside for playing cards or engaging in a chess match; to the dictating of where “we” can sit while watching one of the four televisions recently moved out of the enclosed TV rooms (from which we were “banned”) into the common area. All of these things and more cry out to us a silent “chomo” that can be heard loud and clear even when the word is spoken with an averted gaze as opposed to an open mouth.

      It should come as no surprise that every restriction, every rule, every attempt to demean and diminish is prompted by the exact same types of individuals who fomented the hate, anger and violence toward African-Americans in the south in decades past. They exhibit the same white-robed, hooded predilection to press downward on a group, class, creed or race of people for no other reason than to feed the need to overcome their own ignorance by demonstrating self-perceived superiority.

      These weak-minded, loudmouthed individuals who publicly profess to being the true arbiters of law and justice within the confines of the compound cover the whiteness of their own skin with tattoos that reveal the blackness of their hearts. They have taken to preying upon sex offenders because, for the most part, they can spew their venom without fear of reprisal. After all, we are older, nerdier and less accustomed to violent ways than the average inmate.

      The perception of weakness is like the scent of fear to a junkyard dog to those whose need is to beat down another human being for no reason other than to cover up their own ignorance, insignificance and inferiority.

      It would be laughable were it not for the seriousness with which these peddlers of prejudice and hate practice their self-anointed supremacy.

      It would be laughable were it not for the fact that being singled out for hate has an impact on one’s perception of oneself, even when the haters are as insignificant as cockroaches in the grand scheme of things.

      It would be laughable were it not for the fact that words – even those unspoken – can and do hurt, even when we pretend and profess that they don’t.

      Just like sticks and stones.

A Sex Offender Like Me: The Resilience of Hate

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me2 Comments

“Prejudices are rarely overcome by argument; not founded in reason, they cannot be destroyed by logic.”  – Tryon Edwards

“For they hated knowledge and chose not to fear God” – Proverbs 1:29 NLT

      What, or who, we hate seems to change with the times.

      Perhaps some of the change comes with laws that are written.

      It could even be said that some of our hate is directed by the media.

      One thing is certain; one thing remains constant: our ability to hate never diminishes and it appears that it will never die.

      To the extent that the human capacity for love can be awe-inspiring so, too, can the human capacity for hate be discouraging and repulsive.

      Just as the need to be kind and compassionate can spread warmth throughout our being, the need of some to loathe and despise other human beings can spread the chill of darkness over our hearts.

      To witness the effects of hate as a bystander can be troubling to the sensibilities of any decent human  being. But to experience that hate as its target – as its victim – can strip a person of his or her dignity and change that individual in ways one would never think possible.

      John Howard Griffin said it best in his classic book “Black Like Me” when he wrote, “I had seen them before from the high altitude of one who could look down and pity. Now I belonged here and the view was different.” The book itself was a chillingly glorious discovery I stumbled across as I explored new things in my quest to define who I really am and what I am capable of being. I have, in my time in prison so far, experienced an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and understanding of God, life, humanity and  many other things that my immaturity, self-pity and need for self-indulgence prevented me from discovering for much of my life.

      Now that I am awakening to the world around me, I find that there is an array of beauty, wonder and mystery around me.

      But there is also much to be found in the way of ugliness, despair and man’s general inhumanity to man.

      As I read a recent issue of Smithsonian Magazine, I found myself completely intrigued by an article on the 50th anniversary of “Black Like Me.” I was fascinated enough to ask that the book be sent to me and I remember the amused looks that were directed my way as the officer held it up to read the recipient’s name. Those close enough could read the title. I really wasn’t sure what to expect but I soon knew I had not wasted my money.

      In some ways, the book was a document of its time when African Americans were referred to as Negroes. But a more powerful book I don’t think I have ever read and it was made even more powerful by the fact that, as I read it, it quickly dawned on me that by substituting the words “sex offender” for “Negro” in many sentences, this book could almost be about a man who suddenly found himself despised as less than a man for mistakes he had made rather than for the color of his skin which is, of course, the central message of the book that every American should read.

      The inner discomfort that I felt as I tried to be Mr. Griffin while reading his account of temporarily  passing for black was amplified and rendered more real when I realized that they were the same feelings I get from being one who carries the label of “sex offender” – or worse – in a world inhabited by those who feel superior because their crime is more “honorable” or socially acceptable than mine and those of others like me.

      Mr. Griffin also wrote, “I learned a strange thing – that in a jumble of unintelligible talk, the word ‘nigger’ leaps out with electric clarity. You always hear it and it always stings.”

      In prison, if you have been convicted of a sex offense, to many you are no longer a man; you are no longer a person worthy of respect or the same treatment as the other men. No, you are a sub-class much as the “Negro” was treated as a sub-class in the segregated south of the 1950s. And just as the word “nigger” was always heard and always stung in John Howard Griffin’s world, so too does the word “chomo” always jump out with “electric clarity” and it always stings as well.

      “Chomo” is short for “child molester” and that is the generic label for any sex-related offense, regardless of the true nature of that offense. To illustrate just how ugly this word is, an individual who is active in the chapel here and considers himself to be a “good Christian” was overheard explaining what a  “chomo” was to someone who was unfamiliar with the term.

      He very matter-of-factly stated, “They are child molesters who like to have sex with three-year-old boys.”

      Yes it does sting and this is what we struggle to overcome while paying part of the price society has  imposed on us. This is the easy part, actually, because society holds the same perception, the same prejudices and exhibits the same hateful loathing and ignorance as do inmates and many on the prison staffs.

      Thus does our sentence continue to be served even after we are released back into society.

      You see, as politicians have sought platforms on which to stand, causes to which they can attach their names and emotions that can be played upon and parlayed into votes, a new and very rapidly growing group has sprung up and provided a socially acceptable target at which society can hurl its prejudice, hate, disdain, loathing and moral outrage.

      Welcome to “A Sex Offender Like Me,” a new multi-part series in which I will try to show you life in prison, and in the “free world,” from the perspective of one of the people everyone loves to hate.

      Without a doubt mistakes were made by all who are in here.

      But just as we all know in our hearts that the vast majority of African-Americans are average, everyday people and not the animals and the sub-class of humans that the segregationists of Mr. Griffin’s day would have had everyone believe, the majority of sex offenders, like me, are not the monstrous  predators that today’s frenzied paranoia, driven by the media and publicity hungry politicians, would have you all perceive us to be.

      As this series progresses, I will attempt to change perceptions and offer alternative methods of dealing with the problem of this rapidly growing new class of criminals.

      I may or may not be successful but time will tell.

      For now, I will end this first installment with more words I found in “Black Like Me.” They were spoken at Radcliffe College in 1960 by Justice Curtis Bok of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court:

      “I am annoyed by those who love mankind but are cruel and discourteous to people.”

“Decisions, Decisions, Decisions: A Nap, A Party, and A Birthday Gift”

On By Tony CassonIn Volume 21 Comment

 “We make decisions, and then our decisions make us.”      R. W.Boreham

“Are any of you suffering hardships? You should pray.”     James 5:13a NLT

            Each one of us makes decisions many times every single day. Most of the decisions we make are very minor, inconsequential ones that have little, or no, real impact on our day-to-day existence. Still others have a slightly greater effect on the course we are on and then, at a few points in our lives, major decisions are made with prior, full knowledge of the life-altering potential of those decisions: decisions on which college to attend – or whether to go at all; to get married; to get divorced; to change jobs; start a business or even to start a family.

            And then there are those decisions that are born in the first category that – for some seemingly unfathomable reason – grow up having a totally unexpected, unplanned, and profound effect on the person making the decision and – usually – many others around that person.

            Most of the decisions that wind up in this category have tragic consequences. Some have criminal consequences. Still others have both.

            I am going to “introduce” you to several people that I don’t actually know. In one case, I don’t even know the individual’s name, but as the circumstances surrounding their decisions unfold, hopefully we will all realize that we do, in fact, know them (or someone just like them), and the names are not important, just as where they live is neither relevant or significant.

            What will be important is what each of us discovers about ourselves as we consider the circumstances of these people and the effects of the decisions that they made – on themselves and those around them.

            Teresa Chapin, 37, of Council Bluffs, Iowa made a decision to put a 5 month old child down for a nap at a daycare she owned.

            In Des Moines, Iowa, 17 year old KeeVon Bernstine, a prominent member of the Lincoln High School football team, made a decision to go to a party.

            And way over is Las Vegas, Nevada, the granddaughter of Claudette Porter, 75, made a decision to give a very special birthday gift to her grandmother.

            As a result of these three seemingly innocuous decisions, there were 3 deaths, 1 person was hospitalized, 2 people were jailed, and many lives were affected, several in ways that can never be adequately described through the black-on-white words of a man sitting in prison for decisions he made.

            Here, then, are the stories of a nap, a party, and a birthday gift:

            On August 17, 2011, Teresa Chapin put 5 month old Lane Thomas down for a nap. It was about 2:30 pm. When Ms. Chapin’s young daughter went to get him at 4 pm she “found his cold, unresponsive body lying face down.” Ms. Chapin performed CPR. Someone called 911.

            Lane had been placed on an adult bed for his nap. After an autopsy, the infant’s death was attributed to “sudden unexplained infant death.”

            Ms. Chapin voluntarily surrendered her license to operate her daycare on August 25. She was arrested early in October and charged with “neglect of a dependent person”, which carries a maximum penalty of 10 years in prison, and “child endangerment”, which is punishable by up to 5 years in prison.

            According to the story in “The Des Moines Register”, Sheriff Jeff Danker said, “Teresa is a licensed day care provider in the state of Iowa and has experience and education about child development needs. A provider should have been aware of the hazards of excessive bedding for an infant the age of Lane Thomas.”

            Teresa Chapin made a decision to place 5 month old Lane Thomas on an adult bed for a nap and, tragically, he died, and she now faces up to 15 years in prison.

            We will discuss this tragedy further, but right now, let’s tell the story of KeeVon Bernstine’s decision to go to a party.

            According to police, Bernstine had been at a party on July 17, 2010 when a 20 year old “female acquaintance” informed him that she no longer wanted to speak to him.

            In an article in the “Des Moines Register”, Bernstine “reportedly became upset and started yelling at her. When she yelled back, Bernstine allegedly slammed her against a car and punched her in the face knocking her out.”

            Witnesses reportedly saw the assault and took the woman to the hospital, but not before Bernstine had “kicked the alleged victim in the head twice while she was unconscious, authorities said, which caused swelling, bleeding, and numbness to the left side of her face.”

            He was not charged in this incident until early October, for some reason. Bernstine is facing 5 years in prison for “willful injury causing bodily injury”, a Class ‘D’ felony, as well as 1 year in prison or an $1875.00 fine for “assault causing bodily injury” which is a “serious misdemeanor”.

            KeeVon Bernstine made a decision to go to a party where he made another decision. He decided – “allegedly” – to react so violently to rejection by a “female acquaintance” that he punched her in the face, knocking her out. Then kicked her in the head twice as she lay there unconscious – absolutely, totally, completely defenseless.

            For these brutally violent actions Bernstine faces – if convicted – a maximum of 6 years in prison.

            It must be stressed, of course, that both parties are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Again, we will come back to Mr. Bernstine in a moment, but first, our third – and final story. The story of the very special birthday gift.

            According to Jim Porter, his wife Claudette, 75, had talked about going skydiving for 20 years. A granddaughter – for whom no name was given in the brief “USA Today” article I read – went to veteran instructor James Fonnesbeck to purchase a special birthday gift for her grandmother: A “Skydiving Adventure”.

            During the tandem jump – where the instructor and “student” are harnessed together, the primary parachute failed to deploy fully. The instructor pulled the cord to release the backup parachute, but it got tangled up and failed to open as well.

            Claudette Porter and Mr. Fonnesbeck plunged to their deaths.

            Fortunately, Claudette Porter’s granddaughter was not arrested. This fact is probably the only bright spot to be found in any of these stories.

            The article did not state who was present, but I imagine that, at the very least, Jim Porter and the granddaughter were there, sharing this special occasion with Mrs. Porter. What I cannot imagine is their shock and utter horror as the realization hit them that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

            I ask all of you to turn to the Lord with me and pray for the man who watched his wife, as well as another human being, fall to their deaths as a longtime dream come true turned into a nightmare of horror and a lifetime of loss. I ask all of you to join me in prayer for the granddaughter as well. She is undoubtedly devastated that her well-intentioned gift of love turned into a tragedy of death and she will probably claim responsibility for it, and suffer through it, for a long time to come.

            Obviously, this innocent decision to give a special birthday gift to someone she loved has altered the course of her life. It has altered the course of Jim Porter’s life as well as the lives of all the rest of Claudette Porter’s friends and family. Finally, it has altered the lives of the family and friends of the instructor, James Fonnesbeck, and we must also pray for them as well.

            In the case of Teresa Chapin, she made a decision that parents, grandparents, and babysitters have made for probably as long as there have been beds. I am guilty of doing the same thing with both my daughter and my son. Fortunately, the dozens of times I made that same decision did not result in the same tragic ending as Ms. Chapin’s did.

            A child is dead and his parents – well, suffice it to say that it is doubtful many of us can comprehend the depth of their pain. We can, however, offer prayers that God will wrap them up in His love and give them comfort in their time of sorrow.

            At the same time, we should also ask God to wrap Ms. Chapin and her daughter in that same love for this tragedy has effectively, irrevocably, altered the course of both of their lives.

            The article did not give the age of Ms. Chapin’s daughter, but given her own age of 37, most likely she is in her teens. Can any of us possibly imagine trading places with that young woman as she reaches out to wake Lane from his nap, only to feel his “cold, unresponsive body”?

            I shudder to the very core of my being as I try to envision what it must have been like as the reality of the situation began to sink in and reveal itself to her.

            I can almost hear the shocked screams of disbelief and horror as she cried out to her mother, and I can almost feel the ensuing chaos and confusion as CPR was administered and 911 was called.

            And I can almost feel their agonizing helplessness as the fact that this tiny boy was to never go home to his parents again began to penetrate and take root in their minds.

            There is no doubt that the effects of this tragedy will stay with all concerned for the rest of their lives.

            As for the decision to charge Ms. Chapin with a criminal act, I honestly cannot comprehend what possessed the local authorities to do so, but the only purpose that can possibly be served is to complete the devastation of Teresa Chapin’s life, to say nothing of her daughter’s.

            There will be no winners here, that she – her business – will be held liable for civil damages is a certainty, though obviously any settlement will fall pitifully short of replacing what was lost to Lane’s family.

            It seems sadly typical of today’s society, though, to label a tragic accident as a criminal act as if doing so can somehow help. We seem to do that more and more these days and use the law as if it were a magic salve capable of wiping away pain.

            Seriously – what victories are to be won here? What can possibly be achieved? I, for one, think the point has already been driven heartbreakingly home.

            May God bless, and help, them all. And may God also help a society that things making things worse somehow makes them better.

            Of course, now we are left with the story of KeeVon Bernstine.

            Although Lane Thomas died in August, charges were not filed against Ms. Chapin until early October. The day the story of her arrest appeared on the front page of the “Des Moines Register”, Bernstine’s story appeared on page two of the sports section under the heading “High School Football”.

            That fact told me that, perhaps this story was less about a brutal attack on an unconscious, defenseless young woman, and more about the impact of the arrest of the alleged perpetrator of that attack on high school football.

            Another testament to the misplaced priorities of this country. (Something I can certainly feel free to speak about since no one’s priorities were more misplaced than my own.)

            According to the story, Bernstine had rushed for 946 yards and 15 touchdowns in the first six games of the season. Quite impressive to say the least.

            The director of activities at Lincoln High School, Phil Chia, said that the incident was a Des Moines Public School “Code of Conduct” violation and that the punishment for a violation was suspension for a third of the schedule or, in this case, three games.

            The article went on to state that his coach was surprised with Bernstine’s arrest and that he was “disappointed” in him. “I know him real well,” the “Register” quoted Coach Tom Mihalovich as saying. “He’s got a good heart.”

            I would agree, coach. It takes an individual with a very good heart to punch a woman unconscious and then brutally kick her in the head – twice – as she lay there totally defenseless.

            I do hope, however, that his heart is now helping him to pray to God daily, thanking Him that the young woman didn’t die, asking for forgiveness, and also asking that there be no permanent physical damage to her although the fact that she will undoubtedly suffer long-term mental and emotional damage is a given. May God help her through all that she faces.

            Of course, all of this is only “alleged”.

            If true, however, Bernstine should spend a little time in prison, since prisons should exist only to house violent offenders, and if this is not a violent act, then I don’t know what is.

            I do pray that he can change, that he wants to change, and that he asks God to help him change, but it is important to note that this was not a little after-school fistfight in the parking lot that can be chalked up to “boys will be boys”. This was a wanton act of inexcusable violent behavior that could easily have ended with the young woman’s death, or permanent disability. It was an act that should require at least some length of incarceration combined with intensive anger management counseling and he should not be allowed to touch a football for any school again.

            But wait a minute! 946 yards and 15 touchdowns in 6 games? This is a young man who could go places! I mean, aside from his on-the-field performance he is already exhibiting the very unprofessional character of many of today’s professional athletes and sports figures.

            Perhaps his talent had something to do with why it took so long to arrest him in the first place.

            It must be noted that a follow-up article in the same paper (and also in the sports section) the day after the first article reported that he had been kicked off the team and not merely been suspended.

            That would be the least that the public could expect, I think, and I certainly applaud that decision, but one has to wonder if Bernstine’s obvious talent will somehow buy him greater consideration for his willful, violent criminal act, than will be given Teresa Chapin for her part in a tragic accident.

            Whatever the legal ramifications for his ‘alleged’ actions, I truly hope he fixes that which is broken within himself before it consumes him and defines his life. Hopefully he will learn that talent without character is nothing, although it sometimes seems that many in this country don’t seem to understand that.

            Quite often, in today’s society, the desire to win – at anything – trumps everything else. Athletics in particular these days appear to be less about character building than they are about winning at any, and all costs, and if we have to overlook bad – even criminal – behavior on the part of the very people our children look up to and desire to emulate, then so be it. In light of these all-too-permissive attitudes, it is more than likely that Bernstine will land on his feet and continue to play ball somewhere and, ultimately and unfortunately – if history has its way – the only lesson to be learned will be that if you have talent, anything goes.

            I pray I am wrong and I would like this prayer to be answered.

            The young man is in need of our prayers, though, regardless of the outcome of all this, as is the young woman who suffered his anger. Bernstine has a gift and when he realizes that his gift came from God, maybe he will pray, himself, for an opportunity to use it for God.

            As for the young woman, I pray that she has suffered no permanent physical damage and that any emotional damage goes away quickly. I also pray that she puts this – and Bernstine – behind her and finds a life of laughter and joy to replace the violence and pain she experienced.

            May each of us pause for a moment to pray for all of the people who have been written about here today: the three individuals who made these seemingly harmless, inconsequential decisions and the many, many more who, like the three, were changed in some way forever when those decisions grew into something very, very different from what was intended at the outset.

            May we also pause for a moment and look inwardly and consider the things that are happening around us as a result of decisions we have made. May we think carefully and ask God for His guidance in everything we do, and how we do it, for some things – once done – can never be undone.

            None of you wants to be the main character in any of the stories I have just told, and you surely don’t want to end up in a place like the ones in which these words were written as a result of a decision made.

            I thank you, as always, for putting up with me. May God Bless each one of you