Tag: prison stories

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 Terrible Place for Terrible News”

On By Tony CassonIn Side Story, Volume 31 Comment

 “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others.”  2 Chronicles    NLT

“Grief is a tree that has tears for its fruit.”   Philemon

      There are three of us who work in “The Butcher Shop”. It is a refuge of sorts from the daily chaos and confusion that are part and parcel of operating an institutional foodservice facility. Although we are certainly an integral part in the maelstrom of meal preparation, our part in the process takes place in the relative peace and quiet of a 40 degree walk-in cooler that is roughly 8′ wide by 20′ long and contains a long stainless steel table, a sink, a slicer, and various racks on which to store product. When we report to work, the door is unlocked and re-locked after we enter. This is not a form of punishment or to make sure we don’t leave our posts. The lock is to safeguard the food we are working with….to make sure IT doesn’t wander off and become a part of the prison economy.

      Our business is meat, therefore, we are “The Butchers”, although “Meat Preparation Specialists” would be a more accurate title for us. Simply put, we take boxes of frozen meat and get it into and onto various pans and racks. The cooks then take it after it is prepped and work their own special brand of ‘magic’ on it (cough cough).

      As I said, there are three of us, and I have been there the longest. I am joined in that cold, damp, quiet place by two young men named Nate and Derek. Their two ages together fall one year short of equaling my own ‘ripe old age’ of 58. In age, they are both somewhere between my daughter and my son. I bear the brunt of many jokes about being the old man. I suppose I do look upon them both with a certain paternal attitude and I like them as individuals. I also feel pain for the circumstances that cause them to be in a place like this and I feel pain for the families they both have who support them and wait for the day when they return home.

      Derek and I not only work together, we share the same housing unit so we see more of each other. I have known him longer and have learned more about him and his family over the year and a half or so that he has been here. He also is second with seniority in “The Butcher Shop”. We work well together and I respect his abilities, his work ethic, his intelligence and his sense of humor even when I am on the receiving end of it. Derek is short, so I call him “Shorty”. He calls me old. We like each other.

      Derek is also a very talented learning artist and is constantly sharing with me things that he has drawn. He drew a beautiful cross for me that I taped on my coffee mug. His mom has sent him many books on drawing that he always shares with me, as well as other books on subjects that he enjoys. He is unique not only in his talents, but in the fact that his family lives very close to hear, which is a rarity. His mom pops in very frequently for visits. They are very close emotionally as well, and Derek has shared with me sheets of photos his mom has printed out for him and tells me all about the different members of his family. It is very obvious that Derek and his mom’s relationship goes beyond that of just a mother and son. She is his best friend.

      Or was. Derek’s mom passed away completely unexpectedly on Easter Sunday. She was only 52. Apparently she had a stroke, and then started hemorrhaging. Such terrible, terrible news to receive. And this….this is the most terrible place to receive news like that.

      May all of you join me in prayer for Derek, his little brother, and the rest of their family. I know this will be difficult for all of them, but especially so for someone in a place like this. There are many who receive news like that in here. Perhaps while you are at it, you can pray for them as well.

      At times like these it is hardest to trust in God and His reasons, but it is at times like this that it is the most important to do so. Derek will miss his mom, I am sure. So will I. He introduced me to her in a way, and I thought she was pretty special.

      God bless Derek, and all of you.

“TWO”

On By Tony CassonIn Volume 33 Comments

      “Time is the most valuable and the most perishable of all our possessions.”   John Randolph of Roanoke

     “For everything there is a season, A time for everything under Heaven.”  Ecclesiastes  3:1  NLT

       April 1 marked the passage of my second year paying the price for my own personal instance of freedom not used well. I feel that I have used these two years of freedom denied better than many of the preceding years of freedom itself.

      It has been two years of discovery, growth, and spiritual transformation that I am thankful to God for and that no one can take away from me. I have peered deep into myself, cleaned out all of my inner closets and, while I am far from perfect, I at least can say that I am a happier, nicer, better version of the man I was when I walked through the gates of this prison. I am humbly grateful to God for the spiritual cleansing He has provided and for the faith and hope He has firmly planted in the very core of my being for a future of His choosing.

      The future will not be easy, of course, but it cannot be harder than the past, which I made unnecessarily difficult through a decades-long search for myself wrought with myriad wrong turns and hard lessons that didn’t need to be. If I had opened my eyes, my heart, and my mind and accepted the direction of God a long time ago…….if only……if only…..if only……

      But I did not, and I am not sad; I am not full of regret; for the past is the past and it shall not be repeated in my future. There is still plenty of time to plant, to harvest, to heal, to laugh, to embrace, and to love – and perhaps all of these things can now be engaged in with honesty, integrity, and a freshness of spirit, mind, and heart.

      I may have a lot of baggage, but I have dumped out most of the contents and left them behind, so it doesn’t weigh much.

      I have God on my side and, even at this late stage in my life, I have to agree with Mick Jagger and say, “Time is on my side.”

      Oh yes. It most certainly is.

“THEIR words about HIS Word”

On By Tony CassonIn Volume 22 Comments

 “For the Word of God is alive and powerful.”    Hebrews 4:12 NLT

      There was a time in this country when the Word of God was a part of daily life; when His Word provided guidance and inspiration in our schools; when our civic leaders turned to His Word for wisdom; when it wasn’t offensive to believe that God meant something in this country and publicly professing a belief in Him and His Word was not an impingement on someone’s rights.

      In fact, there was a time in this country when it was considered a good thing to know God’s Word and to look to it for help in navigating the stormy seas of daily life.

      Somewhere along the line, a few people who didn’t know God and didn’t believe in Him or His Word, exercised their right to speak – and everyone else fell silent. The Supreme Court listened, though, and over time has ruled repeatedly to remove the single best source of moral guidance the world has ever known from public buildings, schools, courthouses – all public places where the love of God and the guidance and wisdom found in His Word is needed the most.

      The Supreme Court of this great land has forced the removal of God’s Word from all public places where someONE might be offended by the humility it should bring to man and the inspiration it is capable of providing. This has all gone on while that same court tries to insist that a nation NOT guided by the Word of God was what the founding fathers of this country intended from the very beginning.

      Somehow this country has allowed our government, and the Supreme Court, to make laws and put forth legal rulings that favor the rights of one over the country as a  whole, and it is simply not possible to govern effectively – or fairly – in that manner. We have allowed a few misguided, disgruntled voices to insist that their rights somehow supersede all others’. We have allowed the vast majority to be silenced so the few can be heard. In doing, we have tried to ignore and deny that which simply can NOT be ignored or denied no matter how high the court is or the reasons it gives for its ill-advised rulings:

      That this country was fought for, and founded, by men who had GOD in mind and his WORD in hand.

      But don’t take my word for it. Read the words of those who founded, fought for, and have led this country as they offer THEIR words on HIS Word:

      “It is impossible to rightly govern a nation without God and the Bible.”    George Washington

      “The highest glory of the American Revolution was this: It connected in one indissoluble bond, the principals of civil government with the principles of Christianity.”     John Quincy Adams

      “The God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time.”   Thomas Jefferson

      “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”     John Adams

      “As to Jesus Of Nazareth, my opinion of whom you particularly desire, I think the system of morals and his religion, as he left them to us, is the best the world ever saw, or is likely to see.”   Benjamin Franklin

      “Had the doctrines of Jesus been preached always as pure as they came from his lips, the whole civilized world would now have been Christian.”   Thomas Jefferson

      “This is all the inheritance I can give to my dear family. The religion of Christ can give them one which will make them rich indeed.”    Patrick Henry

      “The Bible is the cornerstone of liberty.”   Thomas Jefferson

      “I have lived, sir, a long time, and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth – that God governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without His notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without His aid?”    Benjamin Franklin

      “Men must be governed by God or they will be ruled by tyrants.”    attributed to William Penn

      “I have sworn upon the alter of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”  T. Jefferson

      “There is no solid basis for civilization but in the Word of God. If we abide by the principles taught in the Bible, our country will continue to prosper.”  Daniel Webster

      “This is a book worth more than all other books which were ever printed.”  Patrick Henry

      “Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves and, under a just God, cannot long retain it.” A. Lincoln

      “With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in.” A. Lincoln

      “I have only to say that it is the best gift God has given to man.”  A. Lincoln

      “I know there is a God, and that He hates injustice and slavery. I see the storm coming and I know His hand is in it. If He has a place and work for me – and I think He has – I believe I am ready.”  A. Lincoln

      “This nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, that government of the people, for the people, and by the people shall not perish from this earth.”  A. Lincoln

      “The Bible is the Rock on which this republic rests.”  Andrew Jackson

      “Hold fast to the Bible. To the influence of this book we are indebted for all the progress made in true civilization, and to this we must look as our guide in the future.”   Ulysses S. Grant

      “Conscience is the authentic voice of God to you.”  Rutherford B. Hayes

      “”The more profoundly we study this wonderful book, and the more closely we observe its divine precepts, the better citizens we will become and the higher we will see the destiny of our nation.”  William McKinley

      “A man has deprived himself of the best there is in the world, who has deprived himself of this: Knowledge of the Bible. When you have read the Bible, you will know the Word of God because you have found the key to your own heart, your own happiness, and your own duty.”  Woodrow Wilson

      “Our doctrine of equality and humanity comes from our belief in the brotherhood of man through the Fatherhood of God.”  Calvin Coolidge

      “The sum of the whole matter is this: That one civilization cannot survive materially unless it is redeemed spiritually.”  Woodrow Wilson

      “With a good conscience our only sure reward, and with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God’s work must surely be our own.”  J.F.K.

      “Inspiration has been the keynote of America’s phenomenal growth. Inspiration has been the backbone of America’s greatness. Inspiration has been the difference between defeat and victory in America’s wars. And the inspiration has come from faith in God, faith in the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount, and faith in the belief that the Bible is the Holy Word of God.”  J. Edgar Hoover

      “This country can not afford to be materially rich and spiritually poor.” J.F.K.

      All of the men quoted here were very different from one another in many ways, as most people are, but they were very much alike in their love of this country and their love of God. There also seems to be agreement among them that in order to have decency, respect, morality, kindness, truth and freedom, the Word of God must be a part of this country and the lives of the people in it.

      Like it or not.

      Agree with it or not.

      I am just sharing with you THEIR words on His Word.

Thank you.

“Giving A Voice To The Victims: The Strength Of A Survivor”

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories2 Comments

“We conquer – not in any brilliant fashion – we conquer by continuing.”                        George Matheson

“For I can do everything through Christ who gives me strength.”    Philippians  4:13  NLT

      My dear friend Richard Roy asked me quite some time ago what I hoped to accomplish in writing the “Chronicles”. I can’t remember my exact answer at the time, but I do know what that hope is today. It goes far beyond anything I imagined in the beginning, but I suspect that somewhere at the center of my being has always dwelled the answer that I am only now able to articulate:

      I want to help people understand that the world is in terrible pain and it is the responsibility of each and every one of us – as children of God – to work to stop that pain. As children of God, it is our responsibility to love one another; to help one another; to encourage one another; and to protect one another.

      When another child of God is hungry, we must feed them.

      When another child of God is homeless, we must give them shelter.

      When another child of God is lost, we must help them find their way.

      And when another child of God is in pain, we must comfort them, even if it means sharing in that person’s pain.

      As our survivor of child sexual abuse continues her story and shares the very personal pain of her abuse with us, I would like everyone following her incredible journey to give something to her in kind: a word of encouragement; a word of understanding; a word of support; a word of compassion.

      Show her that you hear her pain and are as numbed by her story as you are impressed with her strength, her courage, and her determination to be a survivor.

      Here, then, her story continues:

 My Identity: The Transition from Victim to Survivor

      Everyone has an identity. It is who we are and how other people know us by. Unfortunately, tragic events such as sexual abuse can change our identity; can change who we see ourselves to be, and who we strive to be. Majority of the time it changes us for the worse and as I say “us”, I mean ‘we the survivors’. Setting aside the battle of forgiving the perpetrator and praying for their repentance, being a survivor there’s a whole other battle we have to face that deals with no one else other than ourselves.

      After what was done to us and against us we lose our identity. That part of me (specifically) was taken from me at the young age of six. It’s been a battle ever since to find who I am because one single man had the power and manipulation to strip me of my own free will to grow up and decide who I want to be. To the age of twelve, each time something happened my identity was lost . . . further and further into the hands of darkness… Satan. The evil acts done against me acted as a cause and effect type scenario. The cause being the wrongful act done against me and the effect being me seeing my identity with every word associated with everything bad, negative, and wrong.

      My identity quickly shifted from an innocent little girl who liked to play sports to a girl and eventually a woman who would walk around dressed as much as a boy as possible . . . ashamed of who I was, disgusted with what I saw in the mirror. Feeling ugly, guilty, low self-esteem, low self-worth, carried no value, was indecisive, submissive in everything, strived for perfection, and if it was not perfect, anything I did was simply not good enough.

      My identity lied within the hands of the devil because I lived in fear. My identity was lost in the hands of an older man and forced me to live two separate lives. No one knew what was happening until I was 18; for thirteen years I was forced to rely on the identity of two separate lives. Do you know how confusing that is for a young teenage girl? Someone who is trying to appear confident, pretty, fit in at school, excel in sports? All the while pretending that her identity isn’t lost, but consumed by a great wave that caught her in the undertow?

      Stripped of confidence. Something every girl needs in order to carry her head high and shoulders back. The prime time for people to find their identity, something learned in multiple psychology classes, is during their adolescent years. During that time my confidence as a woman was dead. It no longer existed. Again, it lied within the man who took my innocence, and stripped me of my childhood. And every time I saw him any ounce of confidence that I even felt running through my veins, vanished. My identity was that of stolen innocence and stripped of confidence.

      Damaged goods. The biggest identity crisis I have to face as well as any other known survivors and victims. The ailing thoughts of questioning, what did I do to deserve this? How bad of a person am I to make someone want to take everything from me? A time of identity where I should be founded on knowing who I am, rapidly turned into a time of identity of consistently questioning myself and my worth to me and others around me.

      Sense of empowerment. When my perpetrator did everything he did, the amount of times he did, every time I lost power in who I was. My character was developed early on by the power slowly leaving my body, only to be filled with weakness. Strength no longer visible, turned into passiveness. My identity yet again skewed simply due to the wrongful actions of one simple man. What we do as a child, effects how we develop as an adult. A single soul distorted, an identity lost, all because of a soulless sinful act by a perpetrator.  

      I’m not expressing the effect of identity to force people to realize the harsh reality of this traumatic event, but instead to let other know out there that they are not alone. These feelings of sense of loss in belonging, worth, and knowing who you are is not identified in the hands of the sinner who did the wrong, but instead an identity that lies within Christ.

       “When you were dead in your sins, you were not set free from the sinful things of the world. But God forgave your sins, and gave you new life through Christ” Colossians 2:13-14. Our new life – our lost identity – is restored in Christ when sin is brought from the darkness. Our identity is nailed to that cross.

       “And you have been given fullness in Christ, who is the head over every power and authority” Colossians 2:10. If my identity is in Christ then the sense of power is restored because what I lost to sin is regained through the ultimate power, Jesus Christ.

       “You are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who are baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ” Galatians 3: 26-27.  Of all those things stripped of me as a child, with my newfound identity in Christ I am reclothed with his richness, no longer stripped away of anything.

       “You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness” Romans 6:18. The only bonds of identity left to have are those within Christ. The abuse made me a slave to negative thoughts and feelings. Abuse that chained me to living life as damaged goods, a life finally set free with newfound confidence and value in Christ. A life now filled with the bondage of His righteousness and love.

      I once saw myself as someone who was undeserving of love and unable to love in return. However, the more I placed identity in Christ, the more capable I am of allowing people to love me and being able to love others; especially the man who placed this battle in my heart in the first place.

      It was a hard transition, and I still fight every day with it, but the more my trust is in Him the more my identity is made new and made in Christ. Fuck the devil. I am no longer lost in his sinful nature but have found a renewed and beautiful identity… in Christ Jesus. I was a victim of Satan, but now am a survivor in Christ.

       As a survivor, with strength, courage, and confidence I remind you, you are not alone, and it is never too late.

            End “Identity”

     Tony follow-on Post:   I can only tell this formidable young woman that I am honored that she has chosen this space to share with others her very private experiences. She was fortunate in one area, though, in that there was no photographic record of her abuse. Thank God for that. However, while I run the risk of bringing further condemnation down on myself and others who are guilty of ‘just looking at pictures’, let me make my own thoughts on this subject perfectly clear:

      While child sexual abuse exists without child pornography being involved, there is NO child pornography without a child being sexually abused. Each and every photograph of a child being forced, coerced, or persuaded to pose nude, in sexually suggestive positions, or in actual sexual situations is a visual illustration of that child’s personal nightmare. It is a permanent record of that child’s loss of innocence and identity – in most cases by someone he or she is supposed to be able to trust.

      I read somewhere that the federal sentences for possession of child pornography were set by congress to be very tough so that they would be publicized and serve as a deterrent. I daresay that strategy has failed miserably and has caused more damage than it has done good.

      Perhaps a more effective deterrent would be to publish the stories of the nightmares lived on a daily basis by victims of child sexual abuse. I would suggest that reading stories such as the one we have all just read might cause all but the most heartless individuals to give pause, step back, and reconsider any questionable behavior they may be indulging in or considering.

      This world IS in terrible pain and its children are the ones hurting the most. We can’t make all of the pain go away, but we can certainly try.

       Please join me in applauding this young woman and the strength of other survivors just like her.

      For whatever tiny bit of good it may do, I am truly sorry.

      I thank you for your time.

“Giving a Voice to the Victims: Speaking for the Victims of Freedom, Part II”

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories2 Comments

“Okay, this is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They don’t give up.”   Cormac McCarthy  “The Road”  

” ‘You will succeed’, said the Lord. ‘Go ahead and do it.’ ”   1 Kings 22:22 NLT

“I asked, ‘What should I do, Lord?’ ”   Acts   22:10a NLT     

“Don’t be afraid! Speak out! Don’t be silent!”   Jesus   Acts 18:9b NLT     

      I was gently informed by the woman who wrote so eloquently about healing and forgiveness, that those who have dealt with sexual abuse consider themselves to be survivors of it as opposed to being its ongoing victims. I applaud her, and those like her. I admire their courage and their ability to control things that happened TO them rather than letting those things control them as human beings.

      There is no way of knowing how many survivors are out there, but it is highly likely that there are many times more who are still victims living day to day with the pain of past – or present – abuse. Some published estimates place the number of females in this country who were sexually abused as children at one out of every three. Similar reports also estimate that the number of males who were sexually abused as children is between 1 in 7 and 1 in 4.

      While politicians push emotional hot buttons in a quest for votes, and media outlets sensationalize tragedy and capitalize on fear in their quest for ratings, studies show that the greatest threat to children does not lie among faceless predators lurking in the community. The most reliable sources available estimate that somewhere between 90-93% of all sexual abuse occurs by a family member or acquaintance.

      In her book “A Nation Of Wimps”, Hara Estroff Marano, award winning author and editor-at-large of Psychology Today writes, “In fact, the greatest threat of child physical and sexual harm arises INSIDE the home, presented by family members, often stepparents, and especially stepfathers……Infants and children who do not live with two biological parents face forty to ONE HUNDRED times the chance of being killed within the family as those who live with both biological parents.”

      Why, then, is so much time, effort, and money spent on these misguided efforts to protect our children from dangers lurking outside the home when the overwhelming majority of incidents occur within?

      Quite likely, it is because of tragic stories such as one I read recently in an Arkansas newspaper about a 16 year old girl whose body was found buried in a barrel on property owned by the family of the prime suspect in her disappearance. The suspect was already a ‘Level 3’ registered sex offender who apparently ‘met’ the girl on a social networking website, struck up some sort of relationship with her and ultimately got her to agree to meet him. The evidence points to her willingly being picked up by him, but it ended horribly for her, and her family and friends.

      The fact that this particular individual was a registered sex offender did nothing to help this poor young woman or keep her safe. To compound the situation, he was a ‘Level 3′ offender. Let’s look at what that means, for therein lies part of the problem we face today, albeit a small part since these types of crimes (for all of the massive amounts of publicity they receive) are relatively rare:

      The suspect in this case had been sentenced in 2001 to ten years in prison. He was released in 2008 after serving about 7 years of his sentence. That original crime? He entered a woman’s home through a window, held a box-cutter to her throat, taped her mouth shut, and raped her.

 Seven years.

      Just to put things in perspective, let me say that I am surrounded by individuals serving 7, 10, even 15 years in prison for looking at pictures. I am most certainly NOT insensitive to the fact that the pictures in question involve children. The individuals involved with the production of these pictures should be dealt with severely. Of that there is no question, but so too should the individual who uses threat of physical harm, or death, to take from a woman (or man, for that matter) that which should only be given freely.

      That woman was a victim. Whether she is a survivor I do not know. I pray that she is and that God has given her some peace and comfort and helped her to heal.

SEVEN years.

      For raping a woman after breaking into her home and threatening her by holding a razor to her throat.

      If this individual had gotten a sentence of, say, 30 years, perhaps the young woman he is now accused of murdering and stuffing in a barrel to be hidden away in an unmarked grave would still be alive, doing the things that 16 year olds do. Perhaps the time will come in this country when crime, criminals, and the victims the crimes create will be dealt with in a manner that is devoid of emotion, haste, sensationalism, and political grandstanding, because the truth of the matter is that dealing with crime – even crimes involving children –  in the heat of emotion makes for bad laws and bad decisions that punish everyone, including the victims of those crimes by taking much needed funding away from where it can do the most good, or by clogging courts and prisons with so many people that the truly violent have to be released to prey again.

      Cases such as this are heartbreaking to the extreme. They are tragic, senseless, and emotionally explosive. They receive hours of air time on television and days of coverage in the newspaper. Grieving parents are sidled up to by politicians drawn to the cameras and the reporters as moths are to a flame. Fists are shaken like sabers before battle and various new laws are passed in haste that pertain to the unique set of circumstances of that particular tragedy.

      Unfortunately, the nest senseless tragedy will be accompanied by its own unique set of circumstances.

      As we seek to make children safer there are those who would argue that what is being done is having a reverse effect. In a passage from “Perverted Justice”, author and forensic psychologist Charles Patrick Ewing writes:

      “From the research, however, it appears that the emperor has no (or very few) clothes. The consensus of empirical research is that these sex offender registration and notification laws have no statistically significant effect on sex offender recidivism and thus fail to provide the protection upon which they are premised and which they promise to the public. Related laws that restrict the residences, workplaces, and movements of sex offenders also appear to do little if anything to reduce recidivism and may have the unintended consequence of making sex offender recidivism more likely because they engender hopelessness in some offenders, impede their contact with social support networks in the community, and create disincentives for pro-social behavior. Moreover, these laws may make citizens (especially children) less rather than more safe because they engender a false sense of security.”

     In an article in “Prison Legal News”, Lt. Ruben Diaz, who heads the sex crimes unit for the Harris County Sheriff’s office in Texas, admitted that it is “very rare to find a perpetrator of a new sex crime among those already in the registry”.

 

     According to a blog called “Sentencing Law And Policy”, the National Center For Missing And Exploited Children states that there are currently 747,408 registered sex offenders in this country, an increase of 25% since 2006 ALONE. The number continues to grow at an ever-increasing rate and is on track to grow another 10% just this year. Those convicted of possession of child pornography make up the largest number of additions to sex offender registries in this country. James Lang, chief of the criminal division of the US Attorney’s office in Massachusetts was quoted as saying, “There’s been recognition nationwide that there’s been an epidemic.”

An epidemic indeed.

     The Supreme Court of this great nation has unconscionably legitimized immorality and the removal of God from many aspects of daily life. It has endorsed the absence of any requirement of decency in the way that people live and it has paved the way to the creation of this nation’s obsession and preoccupation with sex.

     As America descends deeper into the depths of depravity and degeneracy, those who have become obsessed are now becoming the obsession itself. Society has become so maniacally obsessed with the sex OFFENDERS that the waves of arrests and the flood of new legislation and restrictions on a select class of citizens’ freedoms and liberties threatens to overturn society and capsize the very core of its existence.

     And all because we have the right to use our freedom in pathetically meaningless and depraved ways that contribute nothing TO the good of mankind and take away much that is good FROM it.

     In the meantime, as local, state and federal governments struggle to find ways to pay for services that taxpaying citizens should have a right to expect, hundreds of millions – indeed, BILLIONS – of dollars are thrown into a cesspool of our own making rather than going to the very agencies that were created to protect children in the first place.

     Every state in the union has some form of child protective agency. Instead of using them for their intended purpose, and growing them to meet today’s special needs, we have turned the FBI into a very ineffective, and very expensive child protective agency while at the same time we reduce funding to these very critical, very well-positioned agencies that were designed to do what the name implies – protect children from neglect and physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. It is easy to find stories in almost every state about cutbacks in funding. Poorly trained case workers and investigators, and fewer of them in today’s world are things that should not be tolerated by anyone who claims to be a protector of children.

     There is no dispute from any quarter that the overwhelming majority of the dangers that exist to children comes from family, friends, or acquaintances. It should be as obvious as the problem itself that funding for these agencies should be a top priority. More investigators and caseworkers who are better paid and better qualified. More therapists to turn the victims of child sexual abuse into survivors.

     It’s time to take steps that will substantively help these young victims become survivors through education, treatment, and therapy. It’s time to spend money where it will have a positive impact on someone’s life rather than using it to paralyze an entire nation, filling its citizen’s with fear and paranoia about dangers that comprise a small percentage of the damage done to children through sexual and physical abuse and neglect.

     I look forward to one day being able to write about the SURVIVORS of freedom rather than its victims, but until we re-focus our energies, intellect, and resources on solutions that can actually fix problems, we will just continue to incarcerate more people and make their re-entry into society a near impossibility, thereby effectively destroying MORE families and creating hundreds of thousands – if not millions – of victims of another kind.

     It’s time to stop the madness and end the sadness that comes when this nation’s children are victims of freedom not used well.

     I thank you for your time. God bless you and your families.

‘Giving a Voice to the Victims – Speaking for the Victims of Freedom’

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories2 Comments

“A man’s worst difficulties begin when he is able to do as he likes”   Thomas Henry Huxley

“As life unfolds, it is difficult to understand the consequences of our decisions and actions. We start from the right principles, having the noblest of dreams and, in time, we come up against our own monstrosity, the vile and cruel consequence of what we have done.”    From “The Last Pope”   Luis Miguel Rocha

“For you have been called to live in freedom, my brothers and sisters. But don’t use your freedom to satisfy your sinful nature. Instead, use your freedom to serve one another in love.”  Galatians 5:13 NLT

 Chiseled words of inspiration adorn a low wall on the campus of Penn State University:          “USE WELL THY FREEDOM”

      A federal prison such as the one I am in is filled with individuals who have failed to do that. However, one does not have to be in prison to fail to use freedom in a manner that honors the lives that were lost in obtaining it in the first place, or the millions that have been lost in battle to preserve it since.

      I am sure the Penn State campus is quite large. But still, one has to think that Jerry Sandusky could not help to see those very words many times in all of the years that he was associated with that fine institution. If the charges against him prove to be true, it could safely be said that the meaning implicit in them totally escaped him.

     When freedom is not used well, there are victims…..and far too often, those victims of freedom are children.

     Children inevitably bear the brunt of many of the bad choices and decisions made by adults in the exercising of the freedoms to which we think we are entitled. In many ways, we certainly are entitled to those freedoms. But the freedom to make our own choices and decisions should also carry with it an obligation to make mature, responsible ones that take our children, spouses, friends, neighbors, and society as a whole into consideration as well.

     If that sounds like a lot of responsibility, it is simply because freedom IS an enormous responsibility. Far too often, freedom becomes centered around ‘me’ to the exclusion of anyone else. That is when the victims begin to accumulate, piling on top of one another at a constantly increasing rate until there are so many victims of freedom that is NOT used well that it becomes impossible to count them all or hear their individual cries for help.

     In past articles I have written about what I believe to be the over-use of incarceration in this country and I have expressed my opinion that it would be more prudent to implement more effective ways of dealing with the majority of those individuals who do not use their freedom well.

     In many ways, those of us who are incarcerated are victims of our own decisions on how to use – or misuse – our freedom. This does not exonerate us, excuse us, or render us innocent. Nor does it alter the fact that we are still victims. We are just not the most important, the most affected, or the most damaged ones.

     That distinction, unfortunately, lies with children. The smallest, most innocent, and most vulnerable among us are always the first to fall prey to morals that are pushed aside or freedom that is abused. They are the primary victims of our own selfishness, self-indulgence, and self-centeredness.

     Children are also casualties of constant legal battles engaged in to expand the rights of individuals to act in a manner that ignores the basic responsibilities of human decency, human dignity, and human nature; battles fought to prove that we have the freedom to live our lives as we see fit, with no thought or consideration given to the effects our actions have on our children or the children of others; battles fought to give us the legal right  – the freedom – to ignore the messages we are sending them as to what constitutes appropriate dress, demeanor, morality, or the respect of themselves or others.

     Society today is obsessed with sex. Sex sells everything, so everything must be about sex. We glorify and reward bad behavior and the famous bad men and women who indulge in it. We pay homage to individuals with empty hearts who marry publicly, reap millions in rewards, then shed themselves of what should be a sacred union with the casual attitude one might display in discarding a pair of soiled underwear.

     They are the ones who use their freedom in the most empty, immoral, and meaningless of ways and they are the ones we emulate and try to ‘keep up with’.

     Society whips itself into a frenzy of misplaced morals, improper thoughts, and questionable behavior which ultimately results in lines being crossed, opening the door through which unspeakable horrors enter.

     The children then become the victims of freedom. They are robbed of their childhood, raped of their innocence, and subjected to emotional and physical pain that is impossible to fathom unless one is unfortunate enough to be a victim as well.

     Anyone who doesn’t think that television shows such as ‘Shameless’ promote immoral thoughts and behavior is sadly mistaken. Anyone who doesn’t think that the instant availability of ‘adult’ pornography through 4.2 MILLION websites highlights a serious problem in this country is kidding themselves.

     Forty MILLION United States users visit pornographic websites daily because that is how they choose to use their freedom and their time. There is a website that promises ‘affairs guaranteed’ by connecting people looking for sex outside their marriages. The site proudly boasts 12.2 million members. There is a Smartphone app that uses GPS technology to facilitate instantaneous no-strings gay hookups in 192 countries.

     Are these behaviors what is meant by “USE WELL THY FREEDOM”?

     If you think that these pursuits do not contribute to an immorality that promotes child sexual abuse, you are very, very wrong.

     As our collective moral fiber decays and disintegrates with each blow to decency dealt by an increasingly permissive society clamoring for still more freedom for ‘ME’, an ever-growing number of children become victims who spend lifetimes in hell – trying to climb out – trying to look in a mirror and see goodness and purity after it has been stolen from them by people who have become obsessed with sex and the pursuit of pleasure because that is what society exemplifies as the best way to use our freedom.

     In searching for words to use to convey the nightmare of sexually abused children, I was led to these words written by author Greg Isles in his novel “Blood Memory”:

     “Children suffering prolonged and repeated sexual abuse are living in concentration camps. They’re under the power of despots on whom they depend for their very survival. They suffer terror and torture on a daily basis. Their own siblings, and often their mothers, betray them in the struggle for survival.”

     Harsh, uncomfortable words, some might say. But I suspect that no one who has been sexually abused would think that this even comes close to the reality he or she is living – or has lived – on a daily basis.

     My own insensitivity, immaturity, irresponsibility, and immorality in looking at and possessing child pornography is a personal horror and shame that I live with each day that I wake up in prison. I will continue to live with that shame for the rest of my life, but it pales in comparison to the horrors that the children in those pictures experienced. Perhaps, with proper therapy they can be renewed. Without it, they will doubtless serve a much longer and much harsher sentence than I.

     So then, what am I saying, exactly? Am I calling for harsher sentences for those who have viewed child pornography? No, actually – quite the reverse. This effort to imprison the people who have viewed child pornography only diverts billions of dollars throughout this country from where it can actually do some good. The only winners the way this problem is currently being addressed are those who profit from the illogically harsh first-offense sentences this country uses to solve its problems.

     To try and keep children safe and stem the flow of child sexual abuse in this country by filling our prisons and sex offender registries with misguided individuals who have viewed child pornography can be compared to the approach the government used in the infamous ‘war on drugs’.

     Nationwide, government officials tried for decades to stop the drug trade by ‘picking the low-hanging fruit’ – the drug USERS – and filling our prisons with them, clogging up our courts and costing the taxpayers untold billions of dollars in the process.  However, the drug problem remains a bigger business than it ever was. The only lasting impact in that ill-advised ‘war’ has been to leave the victims of drug abuse with no money to fund treatment or provide help.

     If you pay close attention to what is happening throughout this country today, you will see that the exact same ‘low-hanging fruit’ mentality is at work once again. This time, the ‘low-hanging fruit’ are the viewers of child pornography and the victims are the very individuals who self-serving politicians and law enforcement officials claim they are trying to protect: sexually abused children.

     I’ll explain how this is happening and how sexually abused children can be better protected, better helped, and better healed next time.

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.

 

 

The Gift

On By Tony CassonIn Uncategorized, Volume 2Leave a comment

       As you all exchange gifts this year with those you love, take time to remember the greatest gift that was ever given. The gift that God gave to all of those He loved – the gift of His Son, Jesus Christ.

      In a booklet I read recently from RBC Ministries entitled “The Amazing Names of the Messiah”, I discovered the following: “We often have a low view of the miraculous, and therefore a limited sense of wonder.”

      I look back on when my son was just an infant. The memory of him lying on top of me, barely filling the space between my chin and my waist; the scent of his hair; the movement of his perfect, tiny fingers; the beating of his little heart – all of these things come flooding back to my consciousness today and fill me with a sense of wonder, and an appreciation of the miracle of life itself.

      Could I give you that miracle as an expression of my love? No – I think I’ll keep him for myself.

      But then – I am not God.

      I am, however, profoundly and humbly thankful and appreciative for the gift given to us all, so long ago. In the chaos and confusion as you race to the malls for those last minute gifts for those YOU love, take just a few seconds to look up and say, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you very much.”

Merry Christmas