Right Where I Belong

Believe It or Not, I'm Grateful for Where I am and What I've Got

Since I've been "down" I've learned all I could have ever hoped to know about transporting drugs, everything from how to create the perfect stash space in a car, truck or semi, to muling to transporting across state lines.

I won't provide any "how to's" here other than to say that actual drug shipping in its banality does not appear much related to the popular image shown on TV and in the movies of underground tunnels, shootouts and drug busts. As mundane as it may seem, I've learned that a surprising amount of interstate drugs are shipped via FedEx, UPS and the good old postal service. Not exactly Cannonball Run.

I mention this example not to promote criminal behavior but to demonstrate the point, made in my last post, that prisons often serve as a laboratory for crime, a place where inmates go to make the contacts and learn the skills that will turn them into better criminals upon their release.

Here I am a white collar offender, not the least interested in or with the slightest knowledge of drug trafficking, and by mere osmosis and some innate curiosity I've picked up on the tricks of the trade. Imagine what I could do if I was truly dedicated to perfecting my craft. Combine this with a cat-and-mouse culture that, much like Communism, promotes rule breaking - petty theft, man stores, contraband sales, smoking, shirking work, etc. - and you have an incubator for dysfunctional behavior out in the big wide world behind these walls.

I didn't think much about this dilemma at the ordinary prison camp (called "South Camp" here at Lompoc). I'm a prison neophyte, after all, unschooled in all the accepted ways of this place. I basically just accepted things for the way they were (with a bit of complaining on this blog). Compared with the stories I heard of "Diesel Therapy" and detention centers and higher security prisons - the real pens, in other words - camps seemed pretty light as far as things go. While rule breaking is endemic and I witnessed the occasional smash up with a chair or a lock-n-sock, at least the threat of serious violence was not a real concern.

Before I could completely settle in at South Camp, I transferred over to the RDAP treatment program here at North Camp, only a minute or two by van but a vast distance in terms of attitude and approach.

Here, at this place, with its endless rules and its experimental home-grown community of big brothers and holding people accountable for their behavior, the differences were brought into stark relief. I at first complained about all these rules and I still can't say that I really like them. But I've come to approach obeying them as a challenge. Not only do I not want to get up in front of the entire camp to proclaim my violation, but I've decided that this "rule abiding behavior" is really representative of the new me. 

Before, out in the world, I was always trying to get around the rules, both petty (speeding) and grand (stealing $10 million) and even as a lawyer helped my rich clients get around the laws they did not like. That was my job, after all.

Same at South Camp: I picked and chose which rules to follow, the level of risk I was willing to take. Not here at RDAP. My new policy toward rules, a policy I plan to carry with me out into the world, is "no risk and all reward". It's part of my newfound focus on recovery, on coming out of here a better person than what I came in.

My earlier behavior got me here, to prison, after all. If I have one goal it is never, ever, ever come back to this place. If that means following the rules - everything from obeying the speed limit to the rules of my eventual probation - then I'm all for it. A guy just came back here for 24 months for drinking a beer following his release. I'm determined not to let that be me.

At times, in my posts, I take a "me" vs. "them" approach, playing up the differences between my outlook and reactions - such as wearing boxers to the shower at South Camp - and the reactions and beliefs of certain other inmates.

Although all the examples are true, and some are even humorous (and/or troubling), by highlighting them I may be conveying the impression that I'm somehow setting myself apart or taking the attitude that I don't belong here. Really, nothing could be further from the truth. I deserve to be here just as much as any other inmate. Maybe more, considering the lack of excuses for my behavior. Compared to those here for "dealing, not stealing", I had so much yet threw it all away.

Not only do I belong here, I feel privileged to be here, right where I am.

Really.

Here, I'm not one of the vast majority of prisoners who is simply warehoused, to be eventually released as an unimproved (if not downright spoiled) version of his pre-incarceration self. I've been given the opportunity to move beyond the mistakes of my past, and I'm determined to take it. Only time will tell if I'm able, as I have in the past, to capitalize on the opportunities provided to me. Based on past experience, and with the beacon of my kids urging me forward toward success, I'm confident that I will come out of here a better, more capable person.

Oh, Ugh!

This Isn't Fun

So here I am a few days into this new camp and this new program. Let's just say that - so far at least - it's not particularly fun. 

I arrived a few days ago on a bus with a group of other new guys. The first few minutes were ok as we dragged our plastic bags to our new bunks. First impressions were even favorable: compared to the other camp, the barracks here are relatively light, clean, spacious and comfortable. But before long, as the old-timers filtered into the dorm, the fun began.

My first notice that this wasn't an ordinary prison camp came when I stepped away from my bunk for a moment to ask a neighbor a question. Before I could cross the aisle, several guys were in my face informing me that I had just broken an important rule.

As I soon learned, you cannot leave your area before 4 p.m. unless all your items are stowed away in your locker; no shirt or book or brush can be anywhere to be seen. Then I made my bed, only to be informed that it was completely wrong: the pillow can't touch the headboard and the blanket has to be folded down exactly 1 inch. Later, I walked to the bathroom to wash my face. Before the water touched my skin someone was yelling that I was using the wrong sink. In the evening, I stepped outside only to be yelled at for stopping on a painted yellow square. The worst crime? Stepping off the path onto the white gravel that's replaced the grass in this drought-prone area.

I'd heard stories about the place before I came in - about all the rules, about the particular culture. RDAP is a favorite topic of conversation at the ordinary camp: rumors abound about how they brainwash you, about the endless rules, about a punishment called a "pull-up" in which you stand up before the entire population and admit your transgression, however seemingly minor. But I wondered to myself how hard it could be. I consider myself a courteous person and tend (despite my crime) to follow rules. I also understood the basic concept: to create a self-contained, law-abiding community out of a disparate group of lawbreakers and addicts.

But the program, I quickly realized, took these ideas of accountability and community to an entirely unexpected level. Especially for a prison, where creatively circumventing the rules is an entire way of life.

The first problem for me was that very few of the rules were written down. We were apparently just expected to know them. The second was that I was not used to getting etiquette and behavior lessons from fellow inmates. So, I'm ashamed to say, I got a little defensive. Especially when someone criticized how I blew my nose, how I brushed my teeth and how I flushed the toilet. I started thanking my fellow participants for their comments through gritted teeth until, at 4 a.m. the next morning as I prepared quietly for work amidst a sea of snoring and farting inmates, I was informed by a fellow early riser that I had not washed my hands properly after sneezing. I grunted and turned away without a 'thank you'. Later I was told that my behavior was not pro-social. 

But I'm doing my best - the first few days are considered a "grace period" before the actual punishment begins. I'm using up, it seems, my allotment of free passes until the pull-ups start to fly. But it's not as bad as hazing week at the fraternity in college: no green underwear, beer bongs or screaming in my ears. Or my first week in prison at the other camp, which was nearly infinitely worse. In some ways it's even fun and instructive: a useful lesson in humility and how to follow the rules. I just wish there weren't so many of them.

RDAP-ing It

Shipping Out of Prison Camp on a New Adventure

Just when I'd pretty much settled in around here, I learned that it was time to move on: yesterday I was told that I was accepted into RDAP, the Bureau of Prison's residential drug treatment program. 

The good news is that by successfully completing the 9-month program I will have a year taken off my sentence. Together with good time and halfway house, this means that if all goes as planned I'll serve only about half of my 50-month sentence here in prison.

The bad news is that RDAP is literally and figuratively a separate program from the prison camp where I've been since I checked myself in.

Although it's only a few minutes bus-ride away and I'll still go back to the camp for commissary, intermingling is definitely discouraged: prison camp inmates are considered "negative peers". So the move is somewhat discombobulating.

As readers will know, I definitely had my complaints about this place and a few of my fellow inmates. But I'd also made friends and settled in for the long haul. Now it's time to say good bye. 

In the BoP's usual fashion of 'hurry up and wait' followed by 'you should have been there yesterday', after learning of my acceptance to RDAP I had an evening to pack up my stuff and prepare for the move early the next morning.

This was not as hard as it may otherwise seem, since all my worldly possessions were stuffed into a small metal locker. The only problem is that at RDAP, the lockers are even smaller. We'll see what fits and what doesn't but at present my stuff is packed into several clear plastic garbage bags. To my surprise, I've managed to accumulate an embarrassingly large number of books in my short stay. In my usual pack-rat fashion, I'm loathe to part with any of them.

I've spent my remaining time saying good bye to my friends, and I'm happy to say that I truly do consider them friends. In honor of the prisoner's code of omerta, I haven't yet written about most of them. I can say that one of them is Cinammon, the writer of last week's guest post. Others include a great Indian guy, my bunkie the (almost) lifer and Yoga guru, and a few more that you will hear from shortly (they're all working on guest posts). I even managed to get in one last yoga class and attend the camp's Friday night Sabbath celebration, where everyone said good bye as we ate matzos with butter. 

The move wasn't a complete surprise; only the timing was. I knew of RDAP coming in and worked with my lawyer to ensure that we properly presented my background to meet the acceptance requirements. I just thought that I had another year or so before they accepted me. So the timing came as a shock. It's actually a lucky thing that the camp is so close. Many of my fellow cons have experience with ConAir (the prison transport service) as well as Diesel Therapy (endless bus transfers between BoP facilities). But those are subjects for another post.

Since learning of the transfer, I've been inundated with gossip-mongers. The RDAP program here is notoriously tough and rumors abound, so much so that I'm not sure what, exactly, to believe. Some speak of strange hazing rituals, others speak of mind washing and group think.

I've listened to all these stories with a grain of salt. At this point, I feel as if I'd walk barefoot across hot coals for the year off: I feel I owe it to my kids. Compared to law school, living abroad, and my terrible life before prison, how tough really can it be? I'm actually looking forward to change.

At a minimum, though, I expect to have less time to write. And less freedom. I hear they do their best to make you earn your year off. But I'll do my best to keep you updated on my latest adventures - and misadventures - here in the BoP. Keep reading. And I'd love to hear from you.

One Month Down

I wasn't going to write today. Not only did I sleep in - until 5:45! - but I barely, managed to motivate myself to go to breakfast. It's Friday after all and I'm just plain old feeling lazy, looking forward to a weekend full of....full of what? Good question. But my big weekend plans, or lack thereof, are a subject for another post. Instead, I decided that I owed it to myself and to you, my dear readers, to force myself to sit down at the keyboard to commemorate my first full month in prison.

So if you'll indulge me in a bit of self-congratulations: One down, forty-nine to go! Yay! Almost there. Great job, Leigh! Keep it up. 

Of course, as usual, I'm being a bit ironic. Although my sentence was for the seemingly eternal amount of 50 months, with a bit of luck (including halfway house, good time and RDAP) it will hopefully work out to only about half that. It better, because that's how I keep myself sane. Nonetheless, the completion of my first month feels like an accomplishment.

Why is that? It's not like I did anything particularly special to survive the month - the passage of time is completely out of my hands, after all. But in prison, I'm finding, it's how you spend your time that matters. And also how you think about it. 

Have you ever had one of those busy, busy days where you wake up and suddenly, before you know it, it's evening and you're getting ready for bed? Or an exciting day where time just flew? Or a boring day spent lying around on the couch where the time between breakfast and lights out seemed interminable? Or an afternoon at work that felt more like an eternity?

If you have had any of those experiences you will understand where I'm coming from, because in prison you can multiply those feelings by one hundred and come up with a pretty good approximation of the passage of time behind these walls. The best way I can describe it is that time here becomes malleable. Or, as I described it on Justin Paperny's Etika LLC blog, time twists and stretches like taffy.  So what I do is keep as busy as my old mind and body permit. There's work, of course, an involuntary business spent weed wacking. But there's also reading and writing and yoga and exercise. The more I do, I find, the faster time passes.

In alcoholics anonymous you learn, as part of your recovery, to live day by day. I always sort of scoffed at that idea. I like to look out far ahead into the distance while planning and preparing for the future. I thought: what's so bad about thinking ten years ahead and saying to yourself that you'll be sober then? 

It took a trip to prison but, now, I finally understand. If I sit here today and think about spending the next X (49???) months at this place, it's liable to drive me crazy. But if I think about today, making it from morning to night, that seems eminently doable. So that's what I do. And that's how the first month passed. And you know what? It passed passed quickly. I just hope the next passes just as fast. 

And the next. 

And the next. 

And the next.