121. Earning Freedom (4.2) with Michael Santos

Prison Professors

I’m reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

Chapter Four: 1990-1992 / Months 37-57

*******

A week later I’m sitting on the lower rack when a guard flicks an envelope beneath my door. I lean over to pick up the envelope and read “University of North Carolina” on the return address. For a moment I just hold it in my hand, tracing my fingers over the embossed lettering and the university logo. The wreath signifies academia, and a charge of excitement runs through me. I’m a 26-year old man, yet I open the envelope with the same giddy anticipation as a child anticipating birthday money from his grandparents.

Dr. McPherson’s letter expresses his enthusiasm to mentor me through my term, and he asks me to mail him the visiting authorization form. He also writes that I should soon receive a book he sent separately, from the university’s bookstore. Wanting to share my good fortune I pass the letter to Windward for him to read.

“What’s the big deal?”

“What do you mean?” Windward’s indifference puzzles me. “He’s a professor, and he wants to help me.”

“Big fuckin’ deal! What can he do? He’s probably a fag.”

“How can you say that? He’s an educator, he has his own life out there, and he’s offering to help me. Why would you insult him?”

“Don’t cry, little guy,” he mocks when he notes my offense at his dismissive response. “I’m just sayin’, what the fuck can he possibly do for you? You’ve got to think about what people want, Dude. Why would he want to write someone he doesn’t know? It don’t make no sense.”

Windward fits right in to the penitentiary culture. He not only accepts defeat for himself, he expects those around him to do the same. Nothing good comes with the prison experience. Therefore, any indication that someone may succeed in overcoming pessimism and despair threatens his belief in failure as the inevitable. Failure is comfortable to him, a real concept. Working toward anything different, or better, upsets his equilibrium.

“Give me back my letter.” I’m learning that within this tenebrous environment my enthusiasm must be internal. Sharing victories, no matter how small, only breeds more sarcasm.

With the news of Bruce’s interest in my life I instantly ascend ten rungs up my virtual ladder to freedom. If nothing else, his friendship will help lift me out of the caverns of ignorance where I dwell.

*******

When my counselor, Mr. Skinner, receives Bruce’s completed visiting form he calls my office supervisor, Ms. Stephens, with a summons for me to report to his office.

“Do you know a Bruce McPherson?” The counselor sits at his metal desk in his cubbyhole office reading from the visiting form that he holds in his hand. With greasy gray hair and a stained white shirt, his appearance, like his office, is a disorganized mess. The office stinks of stale tobacco and his body odor.

“Yes. He’s a professor and he’s helping with my school work.”

“So you sent him this visiting form?” He flicks the form with his fingers.

“That’s right.”

“Well he’s not getting in. I’m not authorizing him to visit.”

The dehumanization continues. Prisoners have to ask permission for everything, and I’m accustomed to the apparent malevolent satisfaction some staff members get from denying requests. Still, this denial is more of a slap to my dignity than most because I’m convinced that I can grow through Bruce’s mentoring.

“Can you tell me the reason?” I don’t understand why the counselor won’t authorize Bruce’s request to visit.

“You didn’t know him before you started serving your sentence. That’s all the reason I need to deny him.”

“But he’s a professor and he’s offering to help me, to teach me.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Pope. We’ve got rules in here! We don’t know why he’s coming to see you, what you’ve got going on with him. Security of the institution, Son! In order to visit, rules say the relationship had to exist before your imprisonment.”

“Counselor Skinner, I’m from Seattle. No one visits me. Bruce McPherson is someone who can guide me through my prison term. Can’t you make an exception?”

“Go back to work. Give me your pass to sign.” He’s unwilling to listen any longer.

Dejected, I walk back to the business office. I sink into my chair and hold my head in my hands. Our country goes to war over supposed human rights violations, yet it feels to me as if such violations occur within the federal prison system every day of the year.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ms. Stephens straightens a stack of papers on her desk as she senses my despair. “You look like you just got 45 years.”

She’s trying to lighten the mood in her caring way, but at this moment I want to grieve over all the indignities of being a prisoner, of having to ask permission for friendship and then being denied.

“Please. Not today.”

“What happened?” she asks again, giving me her complete attention. I know that she wrestles at moments like these with the awkward balance of being a staff member, a part of the prison machine, and her natural tendency to empathize with another human being. We sit in the same office every day. We relate like two “normal” people, not as a prisoner and a staff member separated by some ridiculous ethos splitting our humanity.

Ms. Stephens knows about Bruce, and she has been totally supportive of my efforts to advance my education. The factory rules forbid prisoners from working on schoolwork, reading, or even writing personal letters during the workday, even though an efficient worker with good organizational skills can complete the daily responsibilities in two hours. She has intervened on numerous occasions to protect me from her colleagues who resent my studying on the job and using the office as my sanctuary. She nods her head when I tell her about Counselor Skinner denying Bruce visiting privileges.

“I need you to step outside for a minute so that I can make a phone call.”

I leave to pace around the outer office. A dozen prisoners sit at their desks, sipping from stained coffee mugs and passing their time discussing the story dominating the news. I saw it over the weekend. Some crazed leader from Iraq, Saddam Hussein, ordered his military to invade a neighboring country, Kuwait. Talk radio listeners can’t get enough of the story although the entire episode strikes me as being bizarre.

I grew up during a time when the United States was at peace. The thought of one country invading another seems like something from the dark ages. Yet the talk shows buzz with conversation about our national security being threatened by Hussein’s aggression. Some commentators suggest that our country might go to war.

It doesn’t make much sense to me, but a lot of the prisoners have been energized by this military action. They’re speculating that if the United States goes to war opportunities might open up to parole prisoners into the military. Such a scenario seems plausible. I’ve read that during previous wars, like the Vietnam War, judges frequently offered offenders the choice of either joining the military or facing imprisonment. I’m not hopeful that changes will come for me, though this sudden shift in global events causes me to think about what else could take place in the world over the remaining 23 years that I must serve.

Shortly before I came in, President Reagan told Gorbachev to “tear down the Berlin Wall.” I didn’t know much about global politics then, but a unified Germany seemed absurd because I grew up learning about two completely separate Germany’s, an East and a West. Then, just last year, the Berlin Wall came down, and just like that, Germany was unified. Soon thereafter, the Soviet Union crumbled ending the Cold War. When it happened I remember thinking that maybe America’s ridiculous Drug War would end too.

According to all the business office chatter, though, we’re moving dangerously close to a very hot war in the Middle East. I don’t understand it, but I must admit I’m not nearly as interested in what’s going on in the Middle East as the other prisoners. They’re talking about the possibility of war with a lot more passion and enthusiasm than I can muster. Unlike most of them, I don’t have a burning animosity toward the United States. In fact, I can’t wait to leave prison and return to society, because where I’m living right now feels about as far away from America as a man can get.

I circle around toward my office. The walk has improved my mood. I’ve breathed, allowed my frustration to dissipate, and with all the speculation about war, I’ve reminded myself to keep the bigger picture in mind. Bruce’s friendship and guidance isn’t contingent on us visiting, and whether I’m allowed to visit or not, I’m going to make it. Although I constantly feel the dehumanizing culture of corrections, my attitude and deliberate actions to redeem myself restore my dignity.

I slip into the office and see Ms. Stephens busy at her desk. She’s not on the phone, so I presume it’s okay to walk in. Just to make sure, I ask.

She smiles and nods. “When you go back to the housing unit you’ll see a new visiting list. I had a chat with Counselor Skinner and he told me that he would put the list on your bunk. Dr. Bruce McPherson has been approved to visit.”

My face turns red as I thank her for her kindness, but I’m uneasy. It’s troubling to me that I have to prostrate myself with requests for special interventions in order to find a friend, someone who can help guide these efforts I’m making to grow. It’s patronizing, dehumanizing. Ms. Stephens saw that Skinner got to me, and it bothers me. After years in prison, these kinds of indignities aren’t supposed to bother me, or at least I shouldn’t let my aggravation show. “Sorry to have troubled you,” I say.

“Don’t be. Sometimes I’m embarrassed by this organization I work for.”

I shrug my shoulders. “It is what it is, and by now I ought to be able to roll with it. But sometimes the pressure gets to me. Regardless of how hard I work, I’m always going to be a prisoner, indistinguishable from anyone else in here.”

Ms. Stephens’ elbows rest on the desk with her hands clasped beneath her chin as she listens to me openly, sympathetically. “Look. I can’t imagine what you’re going through inside, and there’s not much I can do to help. I’ve been in this job for 12 years and I do see how hard you’re working. Others might not see it, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to help if I wasn’t convinced that you’re sincere. That’s what I told your counselor and I’ll tell anyone else who asks. It’s not right that you’re in here for so long.”

My eyes water as she comforts me. I know Ms. Stephens is taking a position that the system discourages. As a staff member she isn’t supposed to be personal with an inmate. The BOP motto for staff members is to be “firm but fair,” and that means she is first supposed to consider my status as a prisoner. Fairness requires strict adherence to prison policy. If the policy states that prisoners cannot visit with people they didn’t know prior to imprisonment, then fairness requires counselors to enforce the policy across the board. That’s Counselor Skinner’s position. It’s the kind of oppressive rigidity that threatens to suffocate prisoners, every day, and I’ve endured a thousand days of it. I wonder how I’ll make it through nine thousand more.

Regardless, I want to walk over and hug Ms. Stephens. Her concern validates me, restores a spirit and energy that imprisonment so effectively crushes. I cherish this moment and I’ll remember it as further evidence that God is with me, always strengthening me with what I need along the way.

*******

My schedule keeps me in the business office all day, in classes learning from professors in the evening, and on the suicide-watch tier late into the night. I’m more productive than I thought possible. I enjoy challenging myself by setting goals, writing them out, and sending them to family and friends with encouragement for them to hold me accountable. Reaching my goals is one thing, but empowering myself to exceed them is quite another. I’m obsessed with my personal records and with my daily journal, but only because I find them so effective in motivating me to reach milestones that others insist are beyond a prisoner’s reach.

Not only am I accumulating university credits, I’m working through a formidable reading list. My understanding and enjoyment of the classics, such as Plato’s Republic, Dante’s Divine Comedy, and Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, are clear signs that I’m really learning. I summarize what I learn in book reports that I write and send to Bruce for his evaluation and comments. He returns them, bleeding with red ink, simultaneously broadening my education and awareness through his teaching and mentoring.

I didn’t grow up in a home like Mark’s, where both parents held advanced degrees and emphasized the importance of higher learning, but my parents taught me the importance of working hard. In an effort to demonstrate my commitment to making good use of my time inside, I’m applying extra effort. The more knowledge and writing skills I can develop, the better equipped I’ll be to succeed when I’m released, to show that I’ve conquered imprisonment, because this system feels like it’s designed to perpetuate failure.

My vocabulary is improving. The index cards I keep in stacks of 50 now number 1,000. By mastering words and definitions, my spelling has also improved, and when I respond in class, I express myself in the language of the university rather than the penitentiary. When I listen to NPR or read The Wall Street Journal my confidence rises with my understanding of words and concepts that used to baffle me. And whenever I have questions, I have the skills to find the answers.

Since I’ve charted the progress I want to make by 1997, the end of my first decade, I know exactly where I should be in 1992, at the halfway point. I also know where I’m supposed to be now, in 1991, only a year away from earning my undergraduate degree.

I’m exceeding my expectations with a schedule that keeps me racing to beat my timeline. Whereas the penitentiary rocks with violence and corruption scandals, I’m so absorbed with my work that news of the stabbings, beatings, and investigations into staff corruption are of little concern to me. I know how to stay under the radar.

I’ve determined that a bachelor’s degree won’t be enough to get me where I want to go. The judge’s refusal to reconsider my sentence and the prosecutor’s statement that 300 years of imprisonment wouldn’t be sufficient for my punishment remains an ugly reminder of a judicial mindset that is unwilling to bend. I have to build a record that warrants consideration for a commutation of sentence, and the president is the only person who has the power to commute my sentence. I must work harder and achieve more.

When I conclude my shift on the suicide-watch tier in the hospital, I walk through the metal detectors, the gates, and the corridors that lead back to the cellblock. The guard unlocks my door and I enter. Windward’s snoring is undisturbed as the deadbolt slams into place behind me, locking me inside.

I grab my pillow from the bunk and set it on the steel chair to use as a cushion while I sit, staring at the concrete floor. While trying to think, I’m distracted and I begin to count the beige concrete blocks that form the walls of my cell. Before snapping out of my reverie, I fantasize about bursting through these immutable walls.