Any Day Now
Aug. 2nd, 2013 01:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947They say every man needs protection,
They say every man must fall.
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place high above this wall.
Standing next to me in this lonely crowd,
Is a man who swears he’s not to blame.
All day long I hear him shout so loud,
Crying out that he was framed.
I see my light come shining
From the West unto the East.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.
(I Shall Be Released: Bob Dylan – 1967)
I felt odd and out of touch as I drove the old, familiar route along Old Mission Road, to the county jail. I hadn’t been on this road for almost a month now, and it felt strange. Showing up at jail as a volunteer is usually a thoughtless, automatic effort, with no plans or preparations preceding it. I simply show up. But this Wednesday felt different. I’d been on vacation in Ventura for two weeks and jail services had been cancelled for the 4th of July holiday. My partner Isaac had been filling in during my absence and he continued meeting each week with a regular group of about 20 inmates. They were completing an 8-week discussion course based on Richard Rohr’s Spirituality of the 12-Steps, and a culminating ceremony had been scheduled during the time I was away. So my head was filled with questions and speculations about what had happened and what I had missed. But after greeting the other volunteer chaplains who come together each week to meet with the inmates, I quickly realized that I was the only one thinking about past events or worried about what was planned. Maria, Rosemary, Sam, and Alfred, each went about their business preparing pamphlets, folders, videos, and other materials they used or distributed at each of their sessions. They were all focused on their immediate tasks and not on what had occurred three weeks ago. Even Gavin, the Head Chaplain who is usually the most personable and solicitous of our band, breezed perfunctory through his greeting to me and got right down to business.
“Hola, Tony!” he began. “It’s good to see you today, and we missed you”. Then he told me to expect an email requesting any insightful stories or testimonies that inmates had shared with me in past sessions. He wanted to use these stories to illustrate our ministry to possible donors and financial contributors.
“I remembered that you’d written some stories about the men before,” he continued, referring to my blog, “so I hoped you could help us out.”
“Sure,” I replied, flattered that he had remembered my essays, “but I haven’t written anything about the jail for quite a while now. I suppose writing was easier during my first couple of years of service, when the jail environment was so new and different. I was still acting as an observer and recorder in those days. I think I needed to write so I could process what I was seeing, hearing, and feeling. Now I find that I’m totally present to the men during our sessions and I rarely feel the need to write about them.”
“Of course,” Gavin added, patting my shoulder in such a way as to indicate that he still wanted to receive something from me in writing. “Whatever you can send or write would be fine.”
Even Isaac my partner wasn’t forthcoming about what had occurred during my absence. I had to take him into an adjoining office and sit him down so I could question him, point by point, about what had occurred.
“So what are we doing today?” he concluded with a smile, leaning back into his chair at the end of my interrogation.
“Well I suppose we start over,” I said, holding up pamphlet #1 of Finding The Way In Jail.
“Great,” he said, bounding out of the chair. “We haven’t done our regular program in a long time, it will be good to start over.”
At that moment Justin, our former teammate, peeked his head into the office and said, “Hey you guys, come into the office for our prayer. Gavin wants to get started.”
We joined the circle of 6 volunteer chaplains that had already formed, waiting for us to join them.
“You know,” Gavin began after a long exhalation, “it’s become more and more important for me to come to this jail and be with you. My new position downtown consumes so much of my time with meetings, phone calls, and conferences. But it’s here, when I’m with you doing God’s work with the men, that I re-connect with our mission.” He nodded to a sign over our heads that proclaimed IT’S ALL ABOUT THEM, in bold, capitalized letters. “You are the ones who show up every week to call the men out. You allow them to escape their loud and sometimes violent cells to share their stories and testimonies about connecting with God, changing themselves, and becoming better men. They are the instruments by which God works, and you allow them to learn from each other. You all do a fine job. So before you go on your way tonight, I need to begin this prayer with a story and a request for your help.
“A few days ago I was leaving the Women’s Jail and I was feeling great. I had just led a very powerful session with a group of women and I felt wonderful. But as I was driving out of the parking lot I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk holding a black sack in her hand. I had seen her walking out of the parking lot that morning when I arrived, and there she was again, no more than 10 feet from the gate. She was just standing there, looking lost and confused. It finally hit me that she was an inmate who had just been released. They’d given her a bag of belongings and sent her on her way. Only she wasn’t going anywhere. She was just standing there alone – not moving. What am I doing! I said to myself, pulling the car off the road. This woman is our job, our ministry! I can’t just drive away and leave her, pretending that she is not my concern. So I turned around and went to talk to her.
“Of course, the first thing she tells me is that she isn’t Catholic, when I introduce myself and ask if I can help. She was a middle-aged Black woman who had no one to call and nowhere to go. She hadn’t talked to anyone in her family since being arrested and jailed. She was too ashamed to go back. So I broke all the rules and did a One-on-One session with her right there on the sidewalk. I listened, asked some questions, and tried to help. I gave her some money, but besides a prayer and a little advice, there wasn’t much I could do. Then, before I could leave this woman, another woman with a black sack came walking out of the parking lot. She also had nowhere to go. So I come here tonight with this problem and a heavy heart to ask for your help. What can we do to help these inmates when they are released? I’m in charge of the Department of Jail Ministry, but there is nothing there to give or say to inmate upon their release. There is no piece of paper, no pamphlet that lists what they can do, or where they can go, on the first day of their release. So we have to do something. We have to come up with something. So I’m putting this out to you. It has been on my mind for days and so I’m now placing it in your minds and asking for your help and advice.”
A stunned silence settled over the room before any of the surprised volunteers ventured a comment. I was shocked by the immensity of his proposal. My mind raced at the inadequacy of our resources and personnel to tackle this challenge. We were volunteer facilitators who listened – not social workers or correctional specialists trained to research and develop this type of assistance. Gavin seemed to be calling for an institutional solution to a problem that a Chaplain’s Office couldn’t provide. This was so typical of Gavin! He could not be a witness to an injustice or an act of callous indifference by an institution without feeling a call to compassionate action. As the other volunteers started peppering him with questions and concerns about his request for help, I stayed silent.
“No, no, no,” Gavin interrupted the questions, trying to calm his volunteers. “I’m not asking you to do anything right now but listen. We already have two or three lessons in our program where we ask the men to take inventory of their strengths and weaknesses before being released. You know, the pamphlet with the In-and-Out doors, and the one about looking at yourself in the mirror. These lessons discuss identifying abilities, making plans. But we never ask the men what they are going to do on the day they are released. What will they do on that day? Who will the call? Where will they go? That’s all I want you to do – ask them. Then perhaps we can use that information to develop a handout, or a page of ideas, to give other inmates. Just incorporate that question into the ones you already ask. I believe the men can give us the answer we need. I don’t want to burden you too much, but I can’t do this alone. I suppose the real reason I brought this up tonight was that my feelings about wanting to help those two women wouldn’t go away. I felt an obligation to help, but didn’t know what to do. So by talking about it tonight, I’m sharing my burden with you. I’m moving it from my heart to your shoulders.”
I think I chimed in with the more relieved comments that came from the circle of volunteers after these words of clarification. I noted that it would be an easy thing for us to ask those questions to the men at the end of a session and then write down their responses. With that problem resolved, Gavin finally asked us to join hands and bow our heads, as he began the long awaited opening prayer.
As Isaac and I approached the circular guard station that monitored three surrounding dorm cells, I heard a man’s voice shout, “here’s Finding The Way!” It came from the cellblock that housed our largest and most regularly attending group of men. We nervously introduced ourselves and our mission to a young deputy we had never seen before, wondering if he would limit or interfere with the practice of releasing as many men who wished to attend our program (called “church” in jailhouse slang).
“Fine,” he announced with a smile. “How many men do you want?”
“As many as want to come out,” Isaac replied.
“Do you want to make the announcement at the bars, or should I?” he countered.
“Oh, Tony likes doing that,” Isaac answered, throwing me a rueful smile. “He hasn’t done it for a while now”.
A group of 18 men from three dorm cells came out that night to form a circle of chairs in the dayroom down the hallway. Nine were regular attendees, having completed a series of programs we offered. Isaac and I alternated explaining our general program and the rules for the session to the new men. We then went around the circle introducing ourselves by name and Isaac said the opening prayer. As soon as he finished, he quickly added a new twist.
“Before we start reading the pamphlet,” he said, “I’d like to ask your help on some questions the Head Chaplain gave us.”
I was surprised by this move. I had every intention of asking Gavin’s questions tonight – but I hadn’t visualized asking it so soon.
“Yeah,” I interjected after Isaac’s explanation of the task. “Let’s give every man a chance to answer, if they wish. So let’s go around the circle beginning with Jesse,” I said, nodding at one of the regulars sitting to Isaac’s left side. “Now remember that you can pass, if you wish, but I’d like to give every man a chance to talk. Each of you has a story to tell and I’d like us all to hear it. What have you done when you were released? What do you plan on doing this time? What ideas or suggestions do you have for yourselves and others?”
I didn’t know what to expect. This is where I was three years ago, sitting in a circle of chairs not knowing what the dangerous looking men in blue tunics and black slippers would say. Only this time I was asking the questions, and I already knew and trusted these men to share their answers honestly and compassionately from the heart. Twelve men spoke that night. Some old, some young, some were in jail for the first time, and some for many, many times. The entire session was consumed with their stories, wishes, and plans. White, African-American, Hispanic, Asian, and Pacific Islander; the men were of various ages, cultures, and places, but they all shared some common themes. All the men hoped to reconcile with their families and change their lives and behaviors. How they planned to do this varied from man to man – and therein lies the plot to this essay.
Jesse is a short, stocky gypsy of Middle Eastern or eastern European descent. We could always count on him to lead us in prayer or answer a question. He is part of the group of men from one cell who has been coming out for our meetings for over a year, waiting for his case to be resolved. He speaks with determined intensity about establishing and maintaining a consistent relationship with God, but his voice always softens when describing his family and children. His comments went something like this:
“First and foremost, I’m going to reconnect with my family,” he began. “I only want to associate with people who know me and accept the new, spiritual man I’ve become. Then I’m going to find a job – any job. I don’t care if it’s sweeping floors or flipping burgers, there’s no job too menial or hard that I won’t do. Next I’m going to find a Church to attend and be a part of. I want to surround myself with good people who are working at being better. Most importantly, I’m going to keep busy. The devil is always around, ready to pounce at every moment of leisure or pleasure. So I plan on keeping busy with family, children, and church. I’ll work hard and save money so I can get an apartment before I become a burden on my family. What advise do I have for others and myself? Well mainly I’m going to do the opposite of what I did before. I’m going to go to church and volunteer to help. I’m going to take one day at a time. I’m trusting that God will provide. Have faith brothers, God will come through. Roof, food, and being with people you love – that’s what I plan on doing when I’m out.”
Jason is a tall, young-looking Asian American who always has a smile on his face. He too is part of the regular group who come out. He is a man of few words who rarely speaks in group, but he shared some thoughts with us tonight:
“When I’m out, I plan on going home and staying with my family. I’m lucky because my family owns a business, so I plan on working there. For sure I’m going to find a church and become a part of it.”
Brent is a big, friendly, bear-sized man who gets along with everyone. Isaac discovered that he was raised a Mormon, but because he hung out with friends from so many religions, he picked up a smattering of all of them. Since he wasn’t committed to any one church or religion, he treated our sessions as a men’s support group, and he was always inviting other inmates in the dorm to come. This evening he had talked a Jewish inmate named David into joining us. Brent started with a bit of his history:
“I’ve been in an out of jails so much I’m an expert at being released. The first thing I always do when I get home is toss out all the drugs and alcohol I have stashed around the house. Just like Denzel Washington in that movie we saw, I dump them down the sink and toilet. But what happens next is all these self-doubts and negative thoughts start hitting me. Where will I find a job? Who will hire me? How do I get my license back? I start getting angry and depressed, even though I’m really just afraid. That’s when I slip back into drugs and the cycle starts all over again. So what will I do this time when I’m released? I would go home. My family has always accepted me back. They’ve never turned their backs on me… I’m blessed.”
Those last sentences came out haltingly slow, as emotion overtook him and his massive chest shook. He stopped to take one deep breath and then another, but no sounds came from the words his mouth tried to form. He wiped away one tear and then another, slowly looking up to meet the sympathetic eyes surrounding him.
“Addiction is a powerful force,” he mumbled softly, shaking his head. “I pray I can overcome it next time.”
Billy was a white first-timer to the group. He had long, grey and white hair, and glassy, crazy eyes. He began a rambling monologue about his many attempts at getting clean and going straight on the outside. As best I could understand, he finally said something like this:
“What am I going to do when I’m free? Don’t get high! Don’t pick up where I left off! Sign up for school and learn a trade. Don’t waste your time like you’re doing here. This jail and most prisons don’t teach you anything – no classes, no programs, and no skills. Jails are just warehouses for men serving time. They stack us in like boxes. You know, the best thing that ever happened to me the last time I was locked up was being sent to Fire Camp for two years. That’s one of those state camps run by the Department of Corrections for fire control and other emergencies. The director there was a mean SOB, but he treated us fair. He spelled out the rules and expected us to follow them. If you messed up, you were gone, but the choice was yours. He didn’t look at us like low-life scum and losers, he saw us as men who could learn to do a job and change. I learned a lot of skills during those years. So my advice is to sign up for school as soon as you’re released. Learn a trade. Learn some skills. We’re not dummies! You can’t lose in school; you can only gain.”
Jose was always recognizable when he occasionally came out to join our groups. He was a tall, big-boned Hispanic with long, black hair, who rarely said a word – preferring, apparently, to sit back and listen. I was expecting him to pass, as some of the men before him had. Instead he took a long, deep breath and began speaking very softly:
“When I get out, the first thing I’m going to do is find a church and join some drug or AA program. I want to address my old behaviors and make new choices. I just need to remember to not give up. Don’t give up! It’s going to be hard outside, but we can’t give up. I think joining a group will help.”
Edgar was another new, young face in the circle. He spoke with a slight Mexican accent and sounded eager to relate the bizarre series of events that led him to his current incarceration. He began his story as many inmates do, with an admission of many prior arrests and convictions, but with the insistence that “this time, I didn’t do anything!” His rambling narrative went something like this:
“Usually when you’re released from jail or prison everyone expects you to mess up and get busted again. We go back to our old neighborhood, connect with old friends, and fall back into old habits. Every time I checked in with my parole officer he’d say that I looked like I’d done something wrong. But this last time I was out and really trying to stay clean and free. A week before I got out I made a list of 10 things I needed to do. I was trying to be really organized, see. But man, I was so happy to be out and going home, I lost that list right away. Luckily, there’s this neighbor whose known me all my life. He’s an old Anglo guy who owns property near my home. So he wants me to succeed, right, and he helps me out with jobs and a place to rent on his property. Well, I move in, right, and two days later the cops raid the place. I’m thinking, ‘hey, this is cool, I have nothing to worry about,’ right? I haven’t done anything wrong. Well the cops start searching the grounds and what do they find in the garden next to my place? They see these huge, old pots of marijuana and weed – tons of the stuff, as high as my head. The cops look at that stuff and then at me, and one of them says, ‘man, you’re screwed’. I think he believed me when I told him I didn’t know anything about it, but with my priors there was no way he wasn’t taking me in. So here I am, in jail again. Only this time I’m innocent of the charges. But you know, God is good, and he sends us signs and messages to wake us up. I go to court for my arraignment, and the next thing I know the charges are dropped. I don’t know what happened, or who did what, all I know is that I’m out of here at the end of the week. This time I’m going to make it. I’m going to find people who can help me get started. I’m going to stay home with my family. I’m going to join my Dad’s business and work hard. I’m going to look for a church and be active in it. And I’m going to thank God for not giving up on me.”
Anthony was another first-timer. He was a trim, well muscled, African-American with a ready smile and a sophisticated vocabulary that betrayed a good education. He gave a concise story of his past and his ideas for a successful rehabilitation:
“Unlike some of my brothers here, I have no family to go home to when I’m released. My grandmother, father, and mother are gone. I have siblings, but we don’t communicate and they lead their own lives. I came from parents who had successful professions in the music and entertainment business. But instead of concentrating on school and work, I partied. I got into drugs, women, and gangs, and I went for the easy money of dealing. That’s how I wound up going in and out of jail and prison. Like my brother over there, I did time at Fire Camp and learned that when we’re treated like human beings we act like human being and make better choices. Now I’m mostly tired of going in and out of jail. I’m not going to bore you with the details of my case, but like my brother here, I’m innocent of the current charges against me. But it’s in God’s hands, so I’ll take what comes. I’m just resolved that next time I’m released I won’t come back.
“I think we need three thing to succeed outside: foundation, communication, and transportation. You need a plan to follow. You need a support group to sustain you when times are tough and you’re tempted to give in, backslide, or return to drugs and violence. You need to speak, write, and relate better to people by what we say, do, or dress. We need to go to school, find a job, and join a support group to avoid drugs, alcohol, and the people who use them. Find the things that you can do and enjoy. Don’t dwell on what you can’t do! What are your talents, skills, and abilities? We have many if we look hard enough. Make a self-inventory, write them down and look at them. But all these things are pointless if you haven’t changed on the inside. I believe that’s why I’m in this place now. All the plans in the world – a good foundation, great communication, and excellent transportation – these things won’t guarantee success on the outside. The change must be in ME. I need to change my actions NOW, in how I act and what I say. The change must be in me BEFORE I’m released. That’s the only way I’ll succeed.”
Brendon was another African American who had been attending regularly over the last month. He seemed very prepared to relate his ideas, and he spoke eagerly:
“The first thing I’m going to do when I’m out is get down on my knees and thank God for his mercy and grace. I’m going to kneel there reflecting on how he got me through this experience, how he blessed me with his strength, and how I can only succeed with his help. The next thing I’m going to do is find a fast food restaurant and eat. God, I’m looking forward to eating a McDonald or In & Out burger, with fries, and a coke. Then I’m going to reunite with my family, my mother, and reflect on what I’ve learned in jail and what I want to do. I need to reflect on the things that have to change: me, first, and then the people, the drugs, the addictions, and the choices. Then I’m going to build a plan. Failing to plan is a plan that’s going to fail. I’m going to go to school, find a job, and provide for my family. That’s what I’m going to do when I get out.”
Sitting next to Brendon was his cellmate Chris who usually accompanied him to this group on Wednesdays. Other than being African American, they were a study in opposites. Chris was tall, with a deep, bass voice, and slow measured movements. While Brendon was spiritual and often quoted scripture, Chris was silent and practical, only speaking to give support or validation to others. He provided the most concrete advice of the evening:
“I agree with my brothers over there about Fire Camp,” he said, nodding at Billy and Anthony. I learned a lot of things about myself at that camp and many other skills. Once I thought seriously about going into firefighting and emergency services, but I fell back into my old ways and bad choices. Everyone has mentioned the importance of finding work, but finding a job is hard. So I recommend a program call Work Source, California. It’s a statewide employment service that helps you build a resume based on your skills, abilities, and experiences. It helps you apply for jobs, and trains you on how to interview. I’ve used it before and it works. I plan on using it again when I’m out. I’m also going to contact a church and find a sponsor for help in lots of things – addictions, spiritual guidance, counseling, whatever. I plan on renewing my driver’s license, getting a social security card, and checking in with my parole officer. But first and foremost I want a home cooked meal when I get out.”
The evening had grown late as we went around the circle listening to the men sharing their stories and advice. When I invited the last man to speak, he shook his head.
“I don’t think there’s enough time for me to say what’s on my mind,” he said, looking up at the clock through the thick window glass of the dayroom.
“We have plenty of time,” I lied, hiding my worry that some over-eager guard might want to vacate the room before the mandatory bed count at 8:30 pm. This was one man I wanted to hear, and wanted others to listen to. He was a tall, dark, and thickly muscled man of undetermined ethnicity. His name was Siaki, and I suspected he was Samoan, but he profiled enough characteristics to also be considered Asian, Hispanic, or African American. He had been coming out and participating regularly in our groups for over a year, having received certificates of completion for over five programs. At first impression he could appear incredibly menacing, and he probably used that aspect in his youth and adulthood to intimidate, dominate, and terrorize his victims. Now I knew him as a good man, struggling to maintain hope, and staying connected to God.
“Well,” he began slowly, “unlike most of you, I’m facing multiple life sentences, so I won’t be getting out of prison anytime soon. So what do I do? I think on today. I ask myself, what does God want me to do today? Those are the actions and behaviors I concentrate on for that particular day. You see, in the past I got high. That’s how I dealt with things – with pain, anger, despair, and betrayal. I would get high and then I would get violent. That’s how I kept winding up in jails and prisons all my life. So I’ve been using my time here to figure things out. I’ve been learning about myself, and finding out which people, choices, and actions triggered my anger and addictions. I remember one time in the army when my commanding officer called me into his office.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you have a problem.’
‘Yes sir,’ I said, ‘I know.’
‘Well, what is it?’ He asked.
‘I don’t know, sir.’ I said.
‘Well if you don’t know what your problem is, son,’ he said, throwing his hands up in the air, ‘how can you fix it?’
That’s what I’ve been doing in jail this time. I’m figuring out what my problems are, and practicing at fixing them while I’m here. I don’t know what will happen with my case. I’ll leave that in God’s hands. I just don’t want to die a failure, knowing that I could have done better. So I concentrate on being better, one day at a time, right here and now. You see, I found peace in this place. Despite the noise, violence, and conflict around us, I found peace here. I broke when they sent me here again; and it’s only when you’ve been completely broken down that you see things clearly and find peace. I can connect to God in this place and I leave my future in his hands. He can do with me as He wishes. As for me, I try to take each day at a time and learn from other people. There is so much we can learn from one another, and we each have a great capacity to love and take care of each other. So I pray. I pray on my own or in our prayer circle. I pray that God will have mercy on me. I want to go home and take care of my mom and children, but I trust in God first.”
When he stopped talking, the men in the circle erupted in spontaneous applause, with a few shouting, “God bless you, brother,” and “Keep the faith, brother. God never fails.”
In retrospect, there were many commonalities in all these plans, ideas, and suggestions. I intend to itemize them in writing and give them to Gavin. But what struck me most was the unifying belief in the need for support groups, family, and church affiliation. All the men knew that they needed human and spiritual support to keep their faith and hope alive, and to sustain their changes of behavior on the outside. They could not do it on their own. They were all echoing the AA model of maintaining a personal sponsor and support group, while realizing that they are powerless on their own without the grace of God. However it was Siaki’s words that popped all the balloons of wishful thinking and brought us back to earth. Behavioral changes don’t suddenly occur when men and women are released from jail or prison. These men had to begin identifying their problems NOW, and changing their attitudes, choices, and actions NOW, day by day. These changes had to become their practice so that by the time they were released it would be as natural as breathing the free air. Perhaps the simple act of gathering together each Wednesday night to support each other in prayer and reflection was the first step in their Action Plan for freedom. I pray it is.
They say every man must fall.
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place high above this wall.
Standing next to me in this lonely crowd,
Is a man who swears he’s not to blame.
All day long I hear him shout so loud,
Crying out that he was framed.
I see my light come shining
From the West unto the East.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.
(I Shall Be Released: Bob Dylan – 1967)
I felt odd and out of touch as I drove the old, familiar route along Old Mission Road, to the county jail. I hadn’t been on this road for almost a month now, and it felt strange. Showing up at jail as a volunteer is usually a thoughtless, automatic effort, with no plans or preparations preceding it. I simply show up. But this Wednesday felt different. I’d been on vacation in Ventura for two weeks and jail services had been cancelled for the 4th of July holiday. My partner Isaac had been filling in during my absence and he continued meeting each week with a regular group of about 20 inmates. They were completing an 8-week discussion course based on Richard Rohr’s Spirituality of the 12-Steps, and a culminating ceremony had been scheduled during the time I was away. So my head was filled with questions and speculations about what had happened and what I had missed. But after greeting the other volunteer chaplains who come together each week to meet with the inmates, I quickly realized that I was the only one thinking about past events or worried about what was planned. Maria, Rosemary, Sam, and Alfred, each went about their business preparing pamphlets, folders, videos, and other materials they used or distributed at each of their sessions. They were all focused on their immediate tasks and not on what had occurred three weeks ago. Even Gavin, the Head Chaplain who is usually the most personable and solicitous of our band, breezed perfunctory through his greeting to me and got right down to business.
“Hola, Tony!” he began. “It’s good to see you today, and we missed you”. Then he told me to expect an email requesting any insightful stories or testimonies that inmates had shared with me in past sessions. He wanted to use these stories to illustrate our ministry to possible donors and financial contributors.
“I remembered that you’d written some stories about the men before,” he continued, referring to my blog, “so I hoped you could help us out.”
“Sure,” I replied, flattered that he had remembered my essays, “but I haven’t written anything about the jail for quite a while now. I suppose writing was easier during my first couple of years of service, when the jail environment was so new and different. I was still acting as an observer and recorder in those days. I think I needed to write so I could process what I was seeing, hearing, and feeling. Now I find that I’m totally present to the men during our sessions and I rarely feel the need to write about them.”
“Of course,” Gavin added, patting my shoulder in such a way as to indicate that he still wanted to receive something from me in writing. “Whatever you can send or write would be fine.”
Even Isaac my partner wasn’t forthcoming about what had occurred during my absence. I had to take him into an adjoining office and sit him down so I could question him, point by point, about what had occurred.
“So what are we doing today?” he concluded with a smile, leaning back into his chair at the end of my interrogation.
“Well I suppose we start over,” I said, holding up pamphlet #1 of Finding The Way In Jail.
“Great,” he said, bounding out of the chair. “We haven’t done our regular program in a long time, it will be good to start over.”
At that moment Justin, our former teammate, peeked his head into the office and said, “Hey you guys, come into the office for our prayer. Gavin wants to get started.”
We joined the circle of 6 volunteer chaplains that had already formed, waiting for us to join them.
“You know,” Gavin began after a long exhalation, “it’s become more and more important for me to come to this jail and be with you. My new position downtown consumes so much of my time with meetings, phone calls, and conferences. But it’s here, when I’m with you doing God’s work with the men, that I re-connect with our mission.” He nodded to a sign over our heads that proclaimed IT’S ALL ABOUT THEM, in bold, capitalized letters. “You are the ones who show up every week to call the men out. You allow them to escape their loud and sometimes violent cells to share their stories and testimonies about connecting with God, changing themselves, and becoming better men. They are the instruments by which God works, and you allow them to learn from each other. You all do a fine job. So before you go on your way tonight, I need to begin this prayer with a story and a request for your help.
“A few days ago I was leaving the Women’s Jail and I was feeling great. I had just led a very powerful session with a group of women and I felt wonderful. But as I was driving out of the parking lot I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk holding a black sack in her hand. I had seen her walking out of the parking lot that morning when I arrived, and there she was again, no more than 10 feet from the gate. She was just standing there, looking lost and confused. It finally hit me that she was an inmate who had just been released. They’d given her a bag of belongings and sent her on her way. Only she wasn’t going anywhere. She was just standing there alone – not moving. What am I doing! I said to myself, pulling the car off the road. This woman is our job, our ministry! I can’t just drive away and leave her, pretending that she is not my concern. So I turned around and went to talk to her.
“Of course, the first thing she tells me is that she isn’t Catholic, when I introduce myself and ask if I can help. She was a middle-aged Black woman who had no one to call and nowhere to go. She hadn’t talked to anyone in her family since being arrested and jailed. She was too ashamed to go back. So I broke all the rules and did a One-on-One session with her right there on the sidewalk. I listened, asked some questions, and tried to help. I gave her some money, but besides a prayer and a little advice, there wasn’t much I could do. Then, before I could leave this woman, another woman with a black sack came walking out of the parking lot. She also had nowhere to go. So I come here tonight with this problem and a heavy heart to ask for your help. What can we do to help these inmates when they are released? I’m in charge of the Department of Jail Ministry, but there is nothing there to give or say to inmate upon their release. There is no piece of paper, no pamphlet that lists what they can do, or where they can go, on the first day of their release. So we have to do something. We have to come up with something. So I’m putting this out to you. It has been on my mind for days and so I’m now placing it in your minds and asking for your help and advice.”
A stunned silence settled over the room before any of the surprised volunteers ventured a comment. I was shocked by the immensity of his proposal. My mind raced at the inadequacy of our resources and personnel to tackle this challenge. We were volunteer facilitators who listened – not social workers or correctional specialists trained to research and develop this type of assistance. Gavin seemed to be calling for an institutional solution to a problem that a Chaplain’s Office couldn’t provide. This was so typical of Gavin! He could not be a witness to an injustice or an act of callous indifference by an institution without feeling a call to compassionate action. As the other volunteers started peppering him with questions and concerns about his request for help, I stayed silent.
“No, no, no,” Gavin interrupted the questions, trying to calm his volunteers. “I’m not asking you to do anything right now but listen. We already have two or three lessons in our program where we ask the men to take inventory of their strengths and weaknesses before being released. You know, the pamphlet with the In-and-Out doors, and the one about looking at yourself in the mirror. These lessons discuss identifying abilities, making plans. But we never ask the men what they are going to do on the day they are released. What will they do on that day? Who will the call? Where will they go? That’s all I want you to do – ask them. Then perhaps we can use that information to develop a handout, or a page of ideas, to give other inmates. Just incorporate that question into the ones you already ask. I believe the men can give us the answer we need. I don’t want to burden you too much, but I can’t do this alone. I suppose the real reason I brought this up tonight was that my feelings about wanting to help those two women wouldn’t go away. I felt an obligation to help, but didn’t know what to do. So by talking about it tonight, I’m sharing my burden with you. I’m moving it from my heart to your shoulders.”
I think I chimed in with the more relieved comments that came from the circle of volunteers after these words of clarification. I noted that it would be an easy thing for us to ask those questions to the men at the end of a session and then write down their responses. With that problem resolved, Gavin finally asked us to join hands and bow our heads, as he began the long awaited opening prayer.
As Isaac and I approached the circular guard station that monitored three surrounding dorm cells, I heard a man’s voice shout, “here’s Finding The Way!” It came from the cellblock that housed our largest and most regularly attending group of men. We nervously introduced ourselves and our mission to a young deputy we had never seen before, wondering if he would limit or interfere with the practice of releasing as many men who wished to attend our program (called “church” in jailhouse slang).
“Fine,” he announced with a smile. “How many men do you want?”
“As many as want to come out,” Isaac replied.
“Do you want to make the announcement at the bars, or should I?” he countered.
“Oh, Tony likes doing that,” Isaac answered, throwing me a rueful smile. “He hasn’t done it for a while now”.
A group of 18 men from three dorm cells came out that night to form a circle of chairs in the dayroom down the hallway. Nine were regular attendees, having completed a series of programs we offered. Isaac and I alternated explaining our general program and the rules for the session to the new men. We then went around the circle introducing ourselves by name and Isaac said the opening prayer. As soon as he finished, he quickly added a new twist.
“Before we start reading the pamphlet,” he said, “I’d like to ask your help on some questions the Head Chaplain gave us.”
I was surprised by this move. I had every intention of asking Gavin’s questions tonight – but I hadn’t visualized asking it so soon.
“Yeah,” I interjected after Isaac’s explanation of the task. “Let’s give every man a chance to answer, if they wish. So let’s go around the circle beginning with Jesse,” I said, nodding at one of the regulars sitting to Isaac’s left side. “Now remember that you can pass, if you wish, but I’d like to give every man a chance to talk. Each of you has a story to tell and I’d like us all to hear it. What have you done when you were released? What do you plan on doing this time? What ideas or suggestions do you have for yourselves and others?”
I didn’t know what to expect. This is where I was three years ago, sitting in a circle of chairs not knowing what the dangerous looking men in blue tunics and black slippers would say. Only this time I was asking the questions, and I already knew and trusted these men to share their answers honestly and compassionately from the heart. Twelve men spoke that night. Some old, some young, some were in jail for the first time, and some for many, many times. The entire session was consumed with their stories, wishes, and plans. White, African-American, Hispanic, Asian, and Pacific Islander; the men were of various ages, cultures, and places, but they all shared some common themes. All the men hoped to reconcile with their families and change their lives and behaviors. How they planned to do this varied from man to man – and therein lies the plot to this essay.
Jesse is a short, stocky gypsy of Middle Eastern or eastern European descent. We could always count on him to lead us in prayer or answer a question. He is part of the group of men from one cell who has been coming out for our meetings for over a year, waiting for his case to be resolved. He speaks with determined intensity about establishing and maintaining a consistent relationship with God, but his voice always softens when describing his family and children. His comments went something like this:
“First and foremost, I’m going to reconnect with my family,” he began. “I only want to associate with people who know me and accept the new, spiritual man I’ve become. Then I’m going to find a job – any job. I don’t care if it’s sweeping floors or flipping burgers, there’s no job too menial or hard that I won’t do. Next I’m going to find a Church to attend and be a part of. I want to surround myself with good people who are working at being better. Most importantly, I’m going to keep busy. The devil is always around, ready to pounce at every moment of leisure or pleasure. So I plan on keeping busy with family, children, and church. I’ll work hard and save money so I can get an apartment before I become a burden on my family. What advise do I have for others and myself? Well mainly I’m going to do the opposite of what I did before. I’m going to go to church and volunteer to help. I’m going to take one day at a time. I’m trusting that God will provide. Have faith brothers, God will come through. Roof, food, and being with people you love – that’s what I plan on doing when I’m out.”
Jason is a tall, young-looking Asian American who always has a smile on his face. He too is part of the regular group who come out. He is a man of few words who rarely speaks in group, but he shared some thoughts with us tonight:
“When I’m out, I plan on going home and staying with my family. I’m lucky because my family owns a business, so I plan on working there. For sure I’m going to find a church and become a part of it.”
Brent is a big, friendly, bear-sized man who gets along with everyone. Isaac discovered that he was raised a Mormon, but because he hung out with friends from so many religions, he picked up a smattering of all of them. Since he wasn’t committed to any one church or religion, he treated our sessions as a men’s support group, and he was always inviting other inmates in the dorm to come. This evening he had talked a Jewish inmate named David into joining us. Brent started with a bit of his history:
“I’ve been in an out of jails so much I’m an expert at being released. The first thing I always do when I get home is toss out all the drugs and alcohol I have stashed around the house. Just like Denzel Washington in that movie we saw, I dump them down the sink and toilet. But what happens next is all these self-doubts and negative thoughts start hitting me. Where will I find a job? Who will hire me? How do I get my license back? I start getting angry and depressed, even though I’m really just afraid. That’s when I slip back into drugs and the cycle starts all over again. So what will I do this time when I’m released? I would go home. My family has always accepted me back. They’ve never turned their backs on me… I’m blessed.”
Those last sentences came out haltingly slow, as emotion overtook him and his massive chest shook. He stopped to take one deep breath and then another, but no sounds came from the words his mouth tried to form. He wiped away one tear and then another, slowly looking up to meet the sympathetic eyes surrounding him.
“Addiction is a powerful force,” he mumbled softly, shaking his head. “I pray I can overcome it next time.”
Billy was a white first-timer to the group. He had long, grey and white hair, and glassy, crazy eyes. He began a rambling monologue about his many attempts at getting clean and going straight on the outside. As best I could understand, he finally said something like this:
“What am I going to do when I’m free? Don’t get high! Don’t pick up where I left off! Sign up for school and learn a trade. Don’t waste your time like you’re doing here. This jail and most prisons don’t teach you anything – no classes, no programs, and no skills. Jails are just warehouses for men serving time. They stack us in like boxes. You know, the best thing that ever happened to me the last time I was locked up was being sent to Fire Camp for two years. That’s one of those state camps run by the Department of Corrections for fire control and other emergencies. The director there was a mean SOB, but he treated us fair. He spelled out the rules and expected us to follow them. If you messed up, you were gone, but the choice was yours. He didn’t look at us like low-life scum and losers, he saw us as men who could learn to do a job and change. I learned a lot of skills during those years. So my advice is to sign up for school as soon as you’re released. Learn a trade. Learn some skills. We’re not dummies! You can’t lose in school; you can only gain.”
Jose was always recognizable when he occasionally came out to join our groups. He was a tall, big-boned Hispanic with long, black hair, who rarely said a word – preferring, apparently, to sit back and listen. I was expecting him to pass, as some of the men before him had. Instead he took a long, deep breath and began speaking very softly:
“When I get out, the first thing I’m going to do is find a church and join some drug or AA program. I want to address my old behaviors and make new choices. I just need to remember to not give up. Don’t give up! It’s going to be hard outside, but we can’t give up. I think joining a group will help.”
Edgar was another new, young face in the circle. He spoke with a slight Mexican accent and sounded eager to relate the bizarre series of events that led him to his current incarceration. He began his story as many inmates do, with an admission of many prior arrests and convictions, but with the insistence that “this time, I didn’t do anything!” His rambling narrative went something like this:
“Usually when you’re released from jail or prison everyone expects you to mess up and get busted again. We go back to our old neighborhood, connect with old friends, and fall back into old habits. Every time I checked in with my parole officer he’d say that I looked like I’d done something wrong. But this last time I was out and really trying to stay clean and free. A week before I got out I made a list of 10 things I needed to do. I was trying to be really organized, see. But man, I was so happy to be out and going home, I lost that list right away. Luckily, there’s this neighbor whose known me all my life. He’s an old Anglo guy who owns property near my home. So he wants me to succeed, right, and he helps me out with jobs and a place to rent on his property. Well, I move in, right, and two days later the cops raid the place. I’m thinking, ‘hey, this is cool, I have nothing to worry about,’ right? I haven’t done anything wrong. Well the cops start searching the grounds and what do they find in the garden next to my place? They see these huge, old pots of marijuana and weed – tons of the stuff, as high as my head. The cops look at that stuff and then at me, and one of them says, ‘man, you’re screwed’. I think he believed me when I told him I didn’t know anything about it, but with my priors there was no way he wasn’t taking me in. So here I am, in jail again. Only this time I’m innocent of the charges. But you know, God is good, and he sends us signs and messages to wake us up. I go to court for my arraignment, and the next thing I know the charges are dropped. I don’t know what happened, or who did what, all I know is that I’m out of here at the end of the week. This time I’m going to make it. I’m going to find people who can help me get started. I’m going to stay home with my family. I’m going to join my Dad’s business and work hard. I’m going to look for a church and be active in it. And I’m going to thank God for not giving up on me.”
Anthony was another first-timer. He was a trim, well muscled, African-American with a ready smile and a sophisticated vocabulary that betrayed a good education. He gave a concise story of his past and his ideas for a successful rehabilitation:
“Unlike some of my brothers here, I have no family to go home to when I’m released. My grandmother, father, and mother are gone. I have siblings, but we don’t communicate and they lead their own lives. I came from parents who had successful professions in the music and entertainment business. But instead of concentrating on school and work, I partied. I got into drugs, women, and gangs, and I went for the easy money of dealing. That’s how I wound up going in and out of jail and prison. Like my brother over there, I did time at Fire Camp and learned that when we’re treated like human beings we act like human being and make better choices. Now I’m mostly tired of going in and out of jail. I’m not going to bore you with the details of my case, but like my brother here, I’m innocent of the current charges against me. But it’s in God’s hands, so I’ll take what comes. I’m just resolved that next time I’m released I won’t come back.
“I think we need three thing to succeed outside: foundation, communication, and transportation. You need a plan to follow. You need a support group to sustain you when times are tough and you’re tempted to give in, backslide, or return to drugs and violence. You need to speak, write, and relate better to people by what we say, do, or dress. We need to go to school, find a job, and join a support group to avoid drugs, alcohol, and the people who use them. Find the things that you can do and enjoy. Don’t dwell on what you can’t do! What are your talents, skills, and abilities? We have many if we look hard enough. Make a self-inventory, write them down and look at them. But all these things are pointless if you haven’t changed on the inside. I believe that’s why I’m in this place now. All the plans in the world – a good foundation, great communication, and excellent transportation – these things won’t guarantee success on the outside. The change must be in ME. I need to change my actions NOW, in how I act and what I say. The change must be in me BEFORE I’m released. That’s the only way I’ll succeed.”
Brendon was another African American who had been attending regularly over the last month. He seemed very prepared to relate his ideas, and he spoke eagerly:
“The first thing I’m going to do when I’m out is get down on my knees and thank God for his mercy and grace. I’m going to kneel there reflecting on how he got me through this experience, how he blessed me with his strength, and how I can only succeed with his help. The next thing I’m going to do is find a fast food restaurant and eat. God, I’m looking forward to eating a McDonald or In & Out burger, with fries, and a coke. Then I’m going to reunite with my family, my mother, and reflect on what I’ve learned in jail and what I want to do. I need to reflect on the things that have to change: me, first, and then the people, the drugs, the addictions, and the choices. Then I’m going to build a plan. Failing to plan is a plan that’s going to fail. I’m going to go to school, find a job, and provide for my family. That’s what I’m going to do when I get out.”
Sitting next to Brendon was his cellmate Chris who usually accompanied him to this group on Wednesdays. Other than being African American, they were a study in opposites. Chris was tall, with a deep, bass voice, and slow measured movements. While Brendon was spiritual and often quoted scripture, Chris was silent and practical, only speaking to give support or validation to others. He provided the most concrete advice of the evening:
“I agree with my brothers over there about Fire Camp,” he said, nodding at Billy and Anthony. I learned a lot of things about myself at that camp and many other skills. Once I thought seriously about going into firefighting and emergency services, but I fell back into my old ways and bad choices. Everyone has mentioned the importance of finding work, but finding a job is hard. So I recommend a program call Work Source, California. It’s a statewide employment service that helps you build a resume based on your skills, abilities, and experiences. It helps you apply for jobs, and trains you on how to interview. I’ve used it before and it works. I plan on using it again when I’m out. I’m also going to contact a church and find a sponsor for help in lots of things – addictions, spiritual guidance, counseling, whatever. I plan on renewing my driver’s license, getting a social security card, and checking in with my parole officer. But first and foremost I want a home cooked meal when I get out.”
The evening had grown late as we went around the circle listening to the men sharing their stories and advice. When I invited the last man to speak, he shook his head.
“I don’t think there’s enough time for me to say what’s on my mind,” he said, looking up at the clock through the thick window glass of the dayroom.
“We have plenty of time,” I lied, hiding my worry that some over-eager guard might want to vacate the room before the mandatory bed count at 8:30 pm. This was one man I wanted to hear, and wanted others to listen to. He was a tall, dark, and thickly muscled man of undetermined ethnicity. His name was Siaki, and I suspected he was Samoan, but he profiled enough characteristics to also be considered Asian, Hispanic, or African American. He had been coming out and participating regularly in our groups for over a year, having received certificates of completion for over five programs. At first impression he could appear incredibly menacing, and he probably used that aspect in his youth and adulthood to intimidate, dominate, and terrorize his victims. Now I knew him as a good man, struggling to maintain hope, and staying connected to God.
“Well,” he began slowly, “unlike most of you, I’m facing multiple life sentences, so I won’t be getting out of prison anytime soon. So what do I do? I think on today. I ask myself, what does God want me to do today? Those are the actions and behaviors I concentrate on for that particular day. You see, in the past I got high. That’s how I dealt with things – with pain, anger, despair, and betrayal. I would get high and then I would get violent. That’s how I kept winding up in jails and prisons all my life. So I’ve been using my time here to figure things out. I’ve been learning about myself, and finding out which people, choices, and actions triggered my anger and addictions. I remember one time in the army when my commanding officer called me into his office.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you have a problem.’
‘Yes sir,’ I said, ‘I know.’
‘Well, what is it?’ He asked.
‘I don’t know, sir.’ I said.
‘Well if you don’t know what your problem is, son,’ he said, throwing his hands up in the air, ‘how can you fix it?’
That’s what I’ve been doing in jail this time. I’m figuring out what my problems are, and practicing at fixing them while I’m here. I don’t know what will happen with my case. I’ll leave that in God’s hands. I just don’t want to die a failure, knowing that I could have done better. So I concentrate on being better, one day at a time, right here and now. You see, I found peace in this place. Despite the noise, violence, and conflict around us, I found peace here. I broke when they sent me here again; and it’s only when you’ve been completely broken down that you see things clearly and find peace. I can connect to God in this place and I leave my future in his hands. He can do with me as He wishes. As for me, I try to take each day at a time and learn from other people. There is so much we can learn from one another, and we each have a great capacity to love and take care of each other. So I pray. I pray on my own or in our prayer circle. I pray that God will have mercy on me. I want to go home and take care of my mom and children, but I trust in God first.”
When he stopped talking, the men in the circle erupted in spontaneous applause, with a few shouting, “God bless you, brother,” and “Keep the faith, brother. God never fails.”
In retrospect, there were many commonalities in all these plans, ideas, and suggestions. I intend to itemize them in writing and give them to Gavin. But what struck me most was the unifying belief in the need for support groups, family, and church affiliation. All the men knew that they needed human and spiritual support to keep their faith and hope alive, and to sustain their changes of behavior on the outside. They could not do it on their own. They were all echoing the AA model of maintaining a personal sponsor and support group, while realizing that they are powerless on their own without the grace of God. However it was Siaki’s words that popped all the balloons of wishful thinking and brought us back to earth. Behavioral changes don’t suddenly occur when men and women are released from jail or prison. These men had to begin identifying their problems NOW, and changing their attitudes, choices, and actions NOW, day by day. These changes had to become their practice so that by the time they were released it would be as natural as breathing the free air. Perhaps the simple act of gathering together each Wednesday night to support each other in prayer and reflection was the first step in their Action Plan for freedom. I pray it is.
