Super Friends

Gerry

2012-02-01T21:00:00.001-05:00

Gerry Duggan, Whit's closest friend, protector and confidante at Terre Haute, has also become a close friend of mine. If you've read the blog, you know him as "Tiny," but even those references don't begin to describe how close Whit and he were.

Gerry has been out of prison for 2 years now, and is about to finish his Associate's degree in drug and alcohol counseling. We see each other often, as Gerry lives just up the road near Dayton. Today I would like to share a piece Gerry wrote, sent to me with the following explanation:

Today is the two year anniversary of my release from prison. I brought this up in one of my classes today and it became the focus of the class. When I got home I felt the need to put some of my thoughts on paper. Today has been a very emotional day for me and I don't know how much of what I wrote makes sense but I am sure you will get it.

As I read the piece, I of course couldn't help think that it reflected the personal experience Whit would have enjoyed after coming home. Would that he could have.

Here is Gerry's essay:

Today is the two year anniversary of the day I was released from prison. I have to say that I have overcome a lot of barriers since my release, but what I have realized is there is one barrier that is still standing between me and completely overcoming my past. That barrier is me; I still view myself as a convict. I tend to assume that is how other people view me, but I found out today during a group dynamics class I am taking that for most people they just view me as Gerry. One of my classmates who until today was not aware of my past said she thought I was one of the most honest caring people she knew. Her comment brought tears to my eyes; it gave me a glimpse of how people see me. What I am finding out is that I am still defining myself by who I was and not who I am. I have spent a lot of the last two years trying to prove that what I did to get locked up does not define me as a person, when in reality the only one I have to worry about defining who I am is me. I guess I am struggling with actually accepting the fact that it is time to allow myself to live and to stop living my life based on my past. I don’t know if I would have made it this far without all the support of my family and friends; every day I see reminders of how hard it is to survive the reentry process without having a support system. Since my release I have been doing a lot of writing, and over the last week I have been looking over some of the essays I have written since my release, and it has been a very emotional time for me. I guess rereading some of my experiences after my release brought back all the fear I felt at that time, but it also showed me just how far I have come. I am hoping to never forget what I went through to get to this point, because I believe it is something I can always use as a source of strength.

Santa Kid

2011-12-23T16:36:00.002-05:00

Whit's play

2011-12-13T22:41:00.001-05:00

A reading of the play about Whit's life, his time in prison and his death has been scheduled here (Cincinnati) at the theater for April 10. Whit's birthday. If you are interested in attending, let me know. There will be a rehearsed workshop a few months later, with the full production premiering in the fall.

Jeff

Visitors

2011-12-07T19:26:00.002-05:00

New visitors everywhere from Rotterdam, Holland to Portland, Oregon today. Thank you one and all.

Jeff, Whit's dad

I'm not impressed

2011-11-04T15:15:00.006-04:00

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/45161720/ns/today-today_tech/t/pale-faced-crew-emerges--day-mock-mars-mission/#.TrQ2Y0Mg_lY

"Pale but smiling, an international crew of researchers on Friday walked out of a set of windowless modules after a grueling 520-day simulation of a flight to Mars."

Whit spent 465 days in the hole.

The mock-astronauts will be paid $100,000 for their trouble.

It cost Whit his life.

They spent their time doing research and reading e-books.

Whit spent the time between a rock and a hard place, trying to walk the line between the inmate code and the prison rules, and undergoing constant psychological abuse and the threat of violence from both sides.

The "researchers" left "pale but smiling."

Whit left in a casket.

"If you can't do the time, don't do the crime," many will say. I say, if you want to know what doing the time really means, read my son's blog.

For general comments

2011-07-22T21:39:00.001-04:00

Have you read Whit's actual blog, beginning with November 2008 and ending with his last post on March 25, 2009? And maybe some of the things I've posted since his death (photos, excerpts from his memorial service, etc.)? And would you simply like to leave some words of your own but don't know where? Let's use this post for general comments, impressions or questions. I'm really grateful for any and all feedback.

Added 7/23/11:

As it looks now, a play about Whit's life and death will be premiered in Cincinnati in the fall of '12. I know, that's just over a year away, but I want to be sure that anyone within what they consider striking distance of Cincinnati is made aware of the actual run dates when I have them. One way would be to send me a private email (which you can find in the "Contact information and how I post" folder). I'll keep a list, and send out performance dates when I get them.

April 10, 1984

2011-04-10T08:35:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday, dear Whit.

April 4, 2009

2011-04-04T12:41:00.000-04:00

From Diane's blog.

http://www.dianedebevec.com/blog.php

Podcast

2011-02-25T17:10:00.000-05:00

I recently recorded a podcast for a series produced by a Cincinnati writers' organization called Women Writing for (a) Change. We talked about Whit, his writing and our relationship, and I read excerpts from letters and Whit's blog. The full podcast lasts an hour and can be found here. You can also download their podcasts free to an iPod or whatever from the WWf(a)C space on iTunes.

Jeff, Whit's dad

Unwiederbringlich

2011-02-24T08:13:00.000-05:00

Die Ruh' ist wohl das Beste
Von allem Glück der Welt;
Was bleibt vom Erdenfeste,
Was bleibt uns unvergällt?
Die Rose welkt in Schauern,
Die uns der Frühling gibt;
Wer haßt, ist zu bedauern,
Und mehr noch fast, wer liebt.

from: Theodor Fontane's novel Unwiederbringlich

Whit's story on stage

2011-02-07T14:40:00.000-05:00

Finally, something I can look forward to posting on Whit's blog. I recently learned that the Ensemble Theater of Cincinnati has committed to producing a stage version of Whit's life and experience for their 2011/2012 season.

I have been in touch with a playwright named Zina Camblin for over a year about this; she had expressed great interest in writing the script for such a play and I had given her sole rights to the material for that specific purpose. The play will be based heavily on Whit's blog, but also on interviews with people who knew Whit both inside and outside of prison.

The caveat here is that Zina hasn't written anything yet. She now needs to write under a deadline, and I can only hope that she will find the time and circumstance to complete the script in time. The ETC season runs through March, so in any case I anticipate that Whit's play will be scheduled for that last month or possibly a month earlier. If you are within an even conceivable driving distance of Cincinnati, I hope you'll consider attending.

Jeff, Whit's dad

Whit is published

2011-01-11T13:15:00.000-05:00

Today I received a complementary copy of a book titled "Counting the Years," published by The Think Outside the Cell Foundation (it's the 3rd title down in the list at this link). They selected one of Whit's blog entries ("An Oral History of My Future") for inclusion in this volume, one in a series of four to date. The Foundation is an arm of Resilience Multimedia, founded by Sheila Rule, a journalist at the New York Times for more than 30 years before retiring in order to dedicate herself to Resilience. If you're able, support this enterprise - and Whit's legacy - by ordering a copy of "Counting the Years." If it's inconvenient to order (shipping, cost, whatever), just let me know and I'll send you a copy myself (I'm purchasing a dozen or so).

Jeff

Yeah, that's what it's like

2011-01-06T15:53:00.000-05:00

In August of 1896, when Mark Twain was 61, his daughter Susy died of spinal meningitis. She was 24, and his wife and another daughter were in Europe when word came first of her illness and then of her passing. Writing – dictating actually – his autobiography in 1906, four years before he himself died, Twain recalled getting the awful news:

It is one of the mysteries of our nature that a man, all unprepared, can receive a thunder-stroke like that and live. There is but one reasonable explanation of it. The intellect is stunned by the shock and but gropingly gathers the meaning of the words. The power to realize their full import is mercifully wanting. The mind has a dumb sense of vast loss – that is all. It will take mind and memory many months, and possibly years, to gather together the details and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss. A man’s house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And when he casts about for it he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential – there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost. He did not realize that it was an essential when he had it; he only discovers it now when he finds himself balked, hampered, by its absence. It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster.

Merry Christmas

2010-12-22T13:12:00.000-05:00

If Whit were here, he would be wishing all of you a sincere Merry Christmas. I'll have to do it for him. Thanks to everyone for continuing to think about him and stopping by here.

Jeff

Giving them hell?

2010-12-02T10:18:00.000-05:00

‎"I don't give them hell, I just tell the truth and they think it's hell." --Harry Truman. And Whitney Smith.

Letters to and from Whit

2010-10-22T15:42:00.000-04:00

If anyone is interested in receiving a .pdf of Whit's entire blog together with letters we wrote to each other interleaved with the entries, you can email me directly (or leave a comment here if I already have your email address). Be advised that with the letters it's 228 pages long (and I didn't even include all the letters we wrote during the time he was blogging). I also have printed/spiral wire bound copies.

From Tiny

2010-10-08T22:44:00.001-04:00

Those of you who followed Whit's blog from the beginning, or who have read it in its entirely since his passing, will know who Tiny is: Whit's best friend at Terre Haute, who from the very having been released last December. He's home in Centerville, OH, and we see each other frequently. He's a real friend.

Gerry is in school in Dayton, majoring in social work with a specialty in drug and alcohol counseling. Below is the text of an essay he wrote recently for a class. Whit would be pleased and proud to share his blog with his good friend in this way. Thanks for sharing this, Gerry.

I spent nine years in prison. Upon my release I came back into a society that I knew nothing about; it was like being on a different planet. The experiences I have had during these nine months have been both frustrating and rewarding.

My first trip to Meier was especially challenging. I entered the store and was dumbfounded. Before I went to prison, grocery shopping didn’t involve the need of a road map to locate what I was shopping for. I was just trying to buy soap, deodorant, and other basic hygiene items. My plan allowed for this simple task to take ten minutes, in reality it took forty-five minutes to navigate the many aisles of this grocery extravaganza and find the intended items. I am lucky I chose to go during the day because following the sunlight was the only way I was able to locate the front of the store. I didn’t even attempt to try using the self-check out machine, assuming that it was beyond the scope of my abilities. Since my first experience at Meier, I have made numerous expeditions back into the store and have even mastered the use of the self-check out machine, Although it had me on the run for awhile.

The internet was my next endeavor into modern society. I was somewhat familiar with how computers operate but I had never been on the internet. I sat down in front on my mother’s home computer and attempted to figure out how to gain access to the menu. I deduced that the “start” button might be a good place to begin. Through past knowledge I knew that the controller by my right hand was used to move the arrow across the screen and so I used it to open the start menu. Having gotten this far without much difficulty I assumed that the rest of my journey to the internet would not be very troublesome. Looking at the menu I didn’t notice a selection that said “hey stupid, this button will get you to the internet”, so I proceeded to click on one choice after another until I came to right one. Having used such a scientific method to accomplish my last task, I was completely flustered as to what to do next. About this time my brother Chris walks into the room so I ask him”what do I type in to get to the internet.” He finds my question hilarious and after his bout of laughter he says “anything you want.” Seeing the puzzled look on my face he explains that I just need to type in whatever I am trying find out about and click search. So I sat there for a minute considering my options and then typed “time machine” because at that point I really felt like going back in time.

My most rewarding experience thus far was getting to meet and spend time with my nephew. My brother Dan and his family came from Chicago for a visit. I didn’t know what to expect because my relationship with my family has been strained because of my incarceration. When they arrived I was gone at a doctor’s appointment, so everyone was a little more relaxed by the time I got there. When my nephew whose name is Charlie saw me he came right up to me and asked “who are you?” I told him I was his uncle Gerry and without hesitation he hugged me. He is only two years old so the only thing I think that mattered to him was that he had another uncle. The whole time they were there Charlie was always hanging on me and wanting me to play with him and it was the greatest feeling in the world as far as I am concerned.

In conclusion, reentering society after so many years of incarceration has had its frustrating moments. But as time passes I am finding that these discouraging events have less and less impact on my life. My focus is on the future and rebuilding my life out of the wreckage of my past.

The old house

2010-10-01T18:02:00.000-04:00

This afternoon I went over to the house where Whit and his sister grew up. It was the first time I'd been there since Whit's passing, and it was just an unusual chain of events that brought me there.

It was hard, very hard. Various memories of Whit's childhood come and go all the time, of course, but it's an altogether different thing when you stand in front of the house and observe how ALL of it comes flooding into your mind at once. Birthday parties; reading bedtime stories; that first day of school, getting on the bus at the bottom of the hill; a swing set; family meals; and blissful ignorance of the future. Sure, there were difficult times as well. And I spent the last year in the house alone after Whit's mother moved out, and Whit was spending 8th grade at Howe Military School. So I don't need to be told that my memory is always selective in favor of just the good things, as some people in my life typically allege. But if I didn't choose to focus on the positive side of things and on the potential for good rather than negative outcomes, I wouldn't have been able to be there for Whit through it all.

But of course I'm crushed that all the active love and support weren't enough to avert Whit's death. I'm pretty much damaged goods by this time, and there doesn't seem to be a future worth hoping for or saving now. There's no way I can approach life the same way I did before Whit's death. As for the past, memories are painful, not helpful or consoling. I can't even listen to the same music I did before that existential watershed; songs that used to move me deeply now just represent a painful disconnect between what used to be and what is now. My capacity for passion is diminished to near nothing. Even checking this blog daily is becoming an exercise in disappointment. I remember how I used to check the stat counter several times a day so I could let Whit know how many new readers, how many pageloads he had. After his death there was a fairly long period of very heavy activity; and in recent weeks the number of readers has dwindled to near zero. Hardly anyone new is hearing about the blog, and the old readers have little reason to come back. Whit's voice is fading, and even those who were really close to him through the blog seem to have put the 'episode' behind them, and I don't hear from them any more. C'est la vie, and c'est la mord.

Jeff

Monroe, MI

2010-09-14T16:42:00.000-04:00

My curiosity is really piqued. Whoever you are visiting Whit's blog on a daily basis from somewhere near Monroe, I really appreciate your faithfulness. Or are you someone I've heard from directly but didn't make the connection with Monroe? At any rate, if you're interested in learning a lot more about Whit, I can offer you a PDF version of the blog which includes selected letters he and I exchanged during the time he was writing the blog. Anyone as dedicated as you are really deserves to know more. Feel free to e-mail me directly.

Jeff

To the faithful

2010-08-17T21:04:00.000-04:00

I am very sorry that there hasn't been much new here lately. It's always been an awkward situation for me, posting on what was Whit's blog. He should have been adding to this himself for the past 17 months. The number of new visitors has dropped off quite a bit recently, and as grateful as I am that some of you continue to check back all the time, I feel bad that I don't have more to contribute.

Now that I am at the end of the legal road, it becomes even more important to find ways to have Whit's voice heard and his story told to a larger public. I would like to publish a book. The concept is to use the entire blog as the core, with letters he and I wrote to each other interleaved with the blog entries (i.e. letters written around the same time as the entries). I already have that in document form (anyone interested is welcome to email me for a PDF file). The rest of the book would cover his childhood and adolescence, and of course details of what happened to him during his 3 years at Terre Haute. That part will of course expose the Bureau of Prisons. I have several draft chapters written, but have not found an agent or publisher. I could also use an editor, or even a co-writer. Turns out I'm not very good at writing about this in a way that will sell books.

Around 6 months ago I gave sole rights to the material for one year to a playwright who is very interested in writing a theater production about Whit. During this year no one else can use the material for the purposes of writing a play (the book is excluded from this agreement). Unfortunately her time (and financial resources) has limited, and she will be unable to devote much time to the project until this fall.

I guess the bottom line is since Whit won't get any legal justice, my hope is to have the story - the truth - told to a national audience, both in Whit's and my voice.

I do hope those of you who have been faithful to Whit and now to his memory will continue to stop back once in a while like you have been. And please feel free to pass the link on to anyone and everyone you know who might benefit from hearing Whit's voice.

Thank you all.

End of one road

2010-07-22T10:20:00.003-04:00

The quest for legal justice is over. Last month I received the response from the last attorney on my list, who declined to take the case. I won't use his name in reprinting the letter he wrote, but otherwise am reproducing it here in its entirety. I should say that I was deeply moved by his genuine understanding and how moved he himself was by Whit's story and voice. Together with his realistic legal assessment, that personal response tells me that I can trust his judgement.

Not that it diminishes the disappointment at all. Whit's path to that cell and that decision was the result of a whole series of injustices perpetrated by officials, administrators and guards of the Federal Bureau of Prisons. A combination of malicious acts, callous disregard, insensitivity and mistreatment. None of which, either singly or in toto, meets the strict legal definition of wrongful death. It's not about common sense, or right and wrong, it's about the letter of the law, which allows the system to inflict a hundred small wounds in an individual, watch him bleed to death and then say they aren't responsible. But it was wrongful death, and I will always hold the BOP responsible for my son's death. He wanted nothing more than to serve the remainder of his time and come home, and he was doing everything in his power to prepare for a successful homecoming. I would remind everyone that he had only recently begun taking classes through Ohio University; believe me, if he had had any intention of taking his own life before signing up, he would have absolutely spared me the expense and found some excuse not to enroll.

Following is the text of the letter I refer to above:

Dear Jeff:

I cannot recommend that you pursue a legal claim for Whitney’s death. Judges and juries are increasingly reluctant to hold correctional officials responsible for medical neglect where there is some evidence that the inmate was receiving some medical attention and care. In this case, the documents reflect that Whitney was being seen, and was being treated with medications, for his depression and suicidal ideations.

In addition, cases involving suicide are very difficult to prevail upon. The defendants simply argue that the inmate was intent on killing himself, would have succeeded sooner or later, and they should not be held responsible for damages to his estate for an act he would have committed when free. Whitney’s handwritten “death journal” makes very clear his intent. I don’t believe a jury would blame the prison for the fact that Whitney managed to acquire and smuggle into his cell the plastic bag that he subsequently used to kill himself. The fact that a bag was found previously and confiscated, I think, would tend to support the defendants’ argument that they were not deliberately indifferent to his safety, and cannot be held responsible for an inmate’s persistent efforts to smuggle contraband into his cell in order to do himself harm.

In terms of damages (which I must take into consideration because I would be handling this on a contingent fee), Whitney had established no income stream. Any attempt to prove that he had future income potential would open the door to the defendants’ introduction of evidence of Whitney’s criminal record, the pending charges against him, and his potential sentence. He had no children who might have supported a sizable loss of consortium claim. Finally, Indiana law is simply draconian when it comes to recoverable damages. Indiana voters have bought “tort reform” hook, line and sinker and have passed a number of laws in an effort to discourage plaintiffs’ lawyers like me from filing cases in their state by making the economics of contingent fee litigation completely unworkable.

I am troubled by the fact that Whitney was found with his hands and feet bound to his bunk, but his handwritten “death journal” relates a prior suicide attempt in which he attempted to hang himself after tying his own hands and feet. I am also bothered by the fact that although it was discovered that there was a piece of paper with a note covering his cell window at 2:38 a.m. the morning he was found, and efforts to communicate with him at 3:00 and 3:04 a.m. were unsuccessful, no one attempted a visual check by simply opening the flap of his door until 3:20 a.m. However, it would be difficult to prove that a more prompt response could have prevented Whitney’s death.

For these reasons, I cannot recommend you pursue litigation, and am not in a position to help you if you choose to do so.

However, that said, I was profoundly affected in reading the documents you sent me. I have on my wall in front of me the lyrics to Bob Dylan’s “Chimes of Freedom,” and Whitney’s story brings to life the line from that song: “… For each young heart, for each channeled soul, misplaced inside a jail, we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.” There is great sadness, great tragedy – but great truth and great importance, on a variety of levels – in Whitney’s story.

I can tell you that, as an inmates’ rights lawyer, my greatest struggle is against public ignorance and apathy about what occurs in the institutions where we now incarcerate more than two million of our fellow citizens, and about the people and stories behind those bars. I think Whitney’s writings, in which he presents a moving and articulate voice, could go a long way toward dispelling some of the ignorance that makes our efforts to improve conditions in our jails and prisons so difficult, and often so futile. If just one person changed their mind because of the record Whitney left behind, then perhaps all of this could count for something.

So, I encourage you to consider publishing Whitney’s letters, his blogs, etc. Like I said, there is something profoundly moving about Whitney’s story, something that even got to me, and I’ve seen a lot in doing inmates’ rights work over the last 20 years. Whitney’s decency and his humanity clearly show through, as does the talent we all lost when he passed. His story raises important questions about how people like Whitney find themselves in jail, why we put them there, and why we treat them the way we do. Please consider sharing Whitney’s story with a larger audience.

If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know. And please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.

Foundation

2010-06-16T10:17:00.000-04:00

I am in the process of filing the materials necessary for creating a 501(c)(3) non-profit in Whit's memory. The working name is the Whitney Holwadel Smith Foundation, though "Fund" may end up replacing "Foundation." The purpose of the organization is to provide financial assistance to former inmates from the federal system for the purpose of post-secondary school education - college, junior college etc. I will likely limit it to refugees from the federal system, since that was Whit's experience and I have first-hand experience with the lying, abuse and injustices those people have had to endure from Federal Bureau of Prisons employees. A part of the mission may also be to create public awareness of these issues.

This is something new to me; I have no previous experience and am learning along the way. A non-profit corporation requires a Board consisting of 3 directors, and I am in the process of recruiting those people.

Among the decisions that need to be made are how to make the fund more or less self-sustaining, so that we do not exhaust all the funds at one time and have to look to new donors each time to replenish. We also need to identify ways to publicize the existence of the Foundation, and solicit donors.

Please check in now and again to see what the status is. And please feel free to offer suggestions, ideas, help, comments, whatever.

Thanks,
Jeff

Legal update

2010-06-01T14:05:00.000-04:00

I have contacted a new attorney who is considering taking the case in the matter of Whit's death. If he agrees to handle it, then a suit for wrongful death will be filed against the Federal Bureau of Prisons. My present attorney, who filed the FTCA (Federal Tort Claims Act) claim but has taken a new position and closed his private practice, will see me through the end of that process. It is anticipated that the BOP will deny that claim, thereby opening the door to the courts. Just to clarify, an FTCA claim asks for a large damages award based on an assertion of wrongful death (gross negligence etc.). The BOP can come back and say screw you, go away; or here's money for funeral expenses, go away; or theoretically even a larger sum up to the statutory limit. In any case there would be no admission of culpability on their part, and no additional facts or information concerning the circumstances of Whit's death or conditions/events leading up to it would be uncovered. That's what I am really after: the truth. The difficulty is that the BOP will literally lie over and over again, in ways large and small, they will destroy evidence, and perjure themselves in an attempt to hide the truth. No, I'm not making that up. Guards will lie, wardens will lie. Ask ANY attorney who has dealt with the federal government. And I've already experienced it repeatedly over the past 4 years in my own dealings with them.

As always, thanks to all of you who keep coming back to Whit's blog. It means more to me than you could possibly know.

Jeff

mrs rimoldi

2010-05-25T09:29:00.001-04:00

This post is actually the same as a comment I just left in response to one made by "mrs rimoldi" to my post of May 8, but I think it deserves more prominent placement as a separate entry addressed to all Whit's readers:

mrs rimoldi,

I can't tell you how much your comment means to me. Whit himself saw his blog writing as having a three-fold purpose: to entertain, to expose the horrors and injustices of life in a federal prison, and to find his own voice in the process. Responses like yours confirm that he accomplished all three of these in a way and with an impact that has never been done before. The third part - finding his voice - was key in gaining self-understanding. As he began to see how his voice resonated in the world at large, it reassured him that he was in fact a worthy human being with something to offer the world. That, combined with unwavering love and support from some family and certain friends, had allowed him to see a future for himself after incarceration, and he was making plans and ready to go home. Tragically, the horrors and injustices he experienced and was writing about became overwhelming, even for someone as unbelievably strong - and loved - as he was.

Now there is nothing left but his legacy. Which makes it all the more consoling to me, his father, to see that Whit's words are still having an impact on others in prison, their families, and those with no connection to the American penal system but with the sensitivity to recognize what a beautiful soul and spirit he was - and is. And it is only thanks to people like you, who take the time to write, that I can feel consoled. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, what's left of it.

Jeff

Thank you...

2010-05-08T11:59:00.001-04:00

... to new readers from West Virginia, Norristown, Kealakekua, Seattle and Hermosa Beach, for taking the time to read so many of Whit's pieces. As always, please feel free to comment or PM me.

No, I have no idea who you are, the stat counter I added - to give Whit an idea of how many readers he had and where they live - simply tells me where the server is located. Now it helps me to know that people are still finding SuperFriends, and hopefully that they are finding it rewarding, even inspiring.

Also a sincere thank you to Prison Talk for being a channel for Whit to have been discovered early in his blog writing by a lot of really great people. Even today he is finding new readers from the thread that Nina began when she learned of his passing.

Jeff

Streets of London

2010-04-24T12:59:00.007-04:00

This was always one of Whit's favorite songs, going back to when he first heard it at age 12 or 13. He had an enormous sense of compassion for the underdog. He didn't listen to my folk and acoustic recordings much, but there were 3 or 4 songs that really got to him. At Terre Haute he became enamored of bluegrass music, especially the old-time stuff. He and I would listen to the same program at the same time on a local Terre Haute radio station, he on his little transistor radio and earphones, and I on the computer streaming broadcast.

Here is the original version of "Streets of London" he knew, written and performed by Ralph McTell. I can't listen to it anymore without....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ctb-SrwL884

Just added: A link to McTell himself performing the song 1986.

The legal barriers

2010-04-21T09:56:00.000-04:00

Well, it's pretty much official that the Bureau of Prisons is denying the administrative claim my attorney filed. No settlement, no information of any kind forthcoming from the BOP. No handing over of the investigation report they wrote of the circumstances of Whit's death. The only thing left is to file suit for wrongful death, and try to make a case for negligence and/or liability. There is no other way the BOP will make known the facts of the case.

Doubly disheartening because my attorney has taken a new job and will no longer have a solo practice; he'll be off the case soon, and I have to find someone to pick up the baton. There aren't many attorneys who are good at wrongful death suits against the BOP, and even fewer who have the time. It's also a money question: these cases are always handled on a contingency basis, so a potential attorney figures out what the chances of winning damages are. Obviously just learning the facts and truth of what happened is important only to me, and doesn't make any money for an attorney if there ends up being nothing to take a percentage of.

It just hurts that a federal entity like the BOP can be so callous and dishonest, that they don't care about Whit or his family.

April 10, 1984

2010-04-10T15:31:00.006-04:00

Happy Birthday, Whit. I love you.

Whit's Willow

2010-04-08T17:58:00.001-04:00

Many of you know the story of Whit's Willow. I would have loved to plant a weeping willow in his memory, but that just doesn't work here. I figured a weeping cherry would be an acceptable substitute, so I put this in last fall.

Here are a couple from this past spring (2011):

April 4th

2010-03-27T22:38:00.002-04:00

April 4th is the anniversary of Whit's death. His passing has not been marked by large memorials or services, fundraisers or other public events, and this Sunday will be no exception. I would simply suggest that those few of you who still keep him in your thoughts on a regular basis, and visit this blog to re-read his words or see what is happening in the lives of his survivors, perhaps think about lighting a candle in his memory on Sunday. Or whatever emblem of remembrance seems right to you.

For your loyalty to Whit's memory and the support you continue to give me, special thanks in equal measure to Nina, Sandrina, Michele, Shari, Jessica, Rafe, Danielle, Eva, Kristina, Mindy and Jenny. And of course to my dear friends here in Cincinnati; you know who you are.

Love,
Jeff

The legal situation

2010-03-10T13:05:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, I have been trying to obtain the investigation report of Whit's death for nearly a year now. I tried going through my Congressman and Senator, and their offices both said I needed to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act. I did that, and the Bureau of Prisons ignored it. For over six months now I have had a civil rights attorney engaged on contingency to both obtain the report and, if the BOP's response was unsatisfactory, sue the government for wrongful death - it's still ambiguous, given what few circumstances of his death I do know, whether Whit took his own life, with or without help, or whether he was murdered. My attorney filed an administrative claim six months ago March 13th, i.e. the BOP had until this Saturday to respond. Here is what I received from my attorney today:

Jeff,
I received a call back yesterday afternoon from the BOP North Central Regional Office. They said that they are still investigating our claim, but don't expect to have an answer by March 13. I asked to be put in contact with the investigator in charge. She said that no attorney had ever made such a request, but that she would see if such was permissible. This tells me that no one will call me. When I said that my client had no option other than to sue at this point she said, "but don't you think that it would be better to wait and see what they at least say?".
Give me another 30 days.

What else can I do? Not much. I also learned yesterday that my attorney must relinquish the case; he's taking a job in California with an agency. Now I have to find a new attorney. This is all pretty discouraging.

Whit the young writer

2010-03-01T15:00:00.003-05:00

There are earlier examples of Whit's writing, but none more ambitious (that I know of) than this one, written as a school assignment - topic of your choice - and dated February 23, 1997. Whit was 12. He got an "A" for his effort, with the teacher commenting "good story" and "remember to occasionally use a period" (instead of a comma; he sometimes wrote run-on sentences). I'll type it here just as he wrote it, correcting nothing except to add the paragraph breaks for dialog which he didn't know to use. No, one wouldn't read this and say he was exactly precocious, but there is at least a germ of the writer Whit was to become. If you catch any typos, they're mine! Here goes:

Around the World in 80 Days, and 57 Seconds

(The OTHER version of "Around the World in 80 Days")

by Whitney Smith

February 23, 1997

The date was October 2, 1872. I was but a young lad of 12 when the stranger gave me the offer. He said that a group of men were going to race around the world. There were going to be 2 boats racing through the oceans and to the other side of the country in the least amount of days as possible, and, if I would help them with the cleaning on board I would be paid a fee of $100. This price shocked me, because just for a sailing trip, that was a great deal. I was just a poor beggar at that time, so without asking the dangers of the trip, or getting the permission of my parents, I took the offer. The man's name was Henderson (He would not give me his first name, he said real sailors did not have first names). He had a mean, straight face, with a scar running down his cheek. I told him my name was Smith, and with that he told me to meet him at the harbor, at dawn tomorrow.

When I got home, I said nothing about the deal with the man, instead I decided that I would leave a note the next day explaining what I had done, and where I was going. "What happened to you today Thomas? Anything exciting?" my mother asked, wondering why I was in such a hurry to finish supper.

"NO! why do you ask?!" I said hastily, hearing the wonder in my mother's words.

"Oh, I just was asking."
"Well, no, just a boring day. Maybe tomorrow something will happen."

"Yes, maybe something will happen tomorrow that will help this family," my mother said, just trying to get the subject off hand. With that, I excused myself and went straight to my room and began to pack my clothes for the journey the next day. I had not done the wash since last Friday, so I had to make do with the dirty clothes that I had strewn about on my floor. I had trouble hiding the suitcase because of its large mass, but I finally found some space in my closet that I could hide it in.

I had no trouble staying awake that night, because when you are going on an incredible expedition around the world the next day, it kind of keeps you awake. I had waited until 2:30 in the morning when I couldn't wait any longer. I shut the door, and took out a piece of paper to write where I was, and where I was going. After I signed my name at the bottom, I quickly folded it, and put it on my cot. Then with wasting no time I dashed out the window, making as little noise as possible, but the shutters were wood, and the fact that the hinges were old and rusty, did not help me at all, but since my parents are very heavy sleepers, I was able to go out without disturbing them from their slumber. Since there were very few places a lad could go at 2:30 in the morning, I went straight to the harbor, and wouldn't you know it, there was Henderson and some of his crew waiting there for me right on a boat!

"Hello Mr. Henderson, I am surprised to see you here at this ungodly hour, you are all ready I see."

"Aye, that we are, and you my lad are predictable, no one can resist to wait inside a boring house until dawn arrives, so you came early, of course of course. Now don't just stand there, get on board, Mason here will show you your cabin. That is where you will be spending your nights, but that is the only time you will be spending there, do you know how to cook?" said Henderson impatiently.

"Yes sir, I know how to cook a few things like..."

"Good, welcome aboard, you shall be the cook also," said Henderson, cutting me off.

Not wanting to upset the man, I did not ask any questions, I followed the man that he pointed out as Mason, and I followed him through the boat into a room with plain wooden walls, and just a small dresser in one corner. It smelled of perspiration and dead fish. "Well, Smith, get your things unpacked, and get some sleep, we will wake you up when you are going to make lunch, we are not eating any breakfasts on this trip, to save food for the victory party when we win," Mason said, chuckling to himself. I joined in on the laughter. I did not bother to put on a nightshirt, because for some reason I knew it wouldn't be worth it, I just jumped in my bed and I didn't even notice the lumpiness about it because I was as tired as a bird who just flew south for the winter.

I felt like a horse apple when I heard the shouting that seemed far away, but it was right in my ear, and I still didn't wake up, then when I felt what FELT like an earthquake, I finally opened my eyes, and sat up. "Well, looks like you are still alive after all. Well c'mon you, the men are hungry, you have slept enough," Harold said in a loud scruffy voice. Actually in retrospect, I had slept more than I usually do, because the sun was almost in mid-sky, I just felt tired. Harold led me to the kitchen, or what could be described as a kitchen, and gave me some potatoes, and a slab of beef. He told me to cook the meat, and peel and boil the potatoes and that is what we would be eating for lunch. I followed his orders, and started to peel the potatoes, and boil the water for the meat and potatoes.

After 3 cuts, and 5 burns on my hand, I finally got the meat cooked, and the table set with forks, and plates. I hung a jug of beer over the side of the boat, to keep it cold, and poured all of the shipmates a glassful, I poured myself a little also. "LUNCH IS READY!!!!" I yelled when everything was finished, and they all came rushing in, and sat at a chair. All during the meal, they talked about how far they had gone already, and how they had not had a good meal like this in however many months it had been since their last sail. Me being the smallest one, I sat alone, seeing this Mason felt bad for me, and moved into the chair next to me. "Hey, great lunch Smith, what you been up to?" Mason said with his jolly tone.

"Nothing, I have one goal on this trip. That is to stay awake," I said, actually meaning it. Mason burst out laughing at what I had just said.

"I couldn't agree with you more Smith, hey, did you hear that we are ahead of the other boat by at least 30 miles, I think we are going to win, don't you?"

"Of course I do, why do you think I came?"

We continued to talk about the trip. I really liked Mason, he was really nice to me ever since I got on board, and he was my only friend.

For the next 53 days, all went well. But on the 54th day, we spotted a sperm whale on the west port, and sperm whales sold for about $20 a pound for their meat, so, of course, we set out to get it. We harpooned it, and brought it on board, but that was just a baby, and the mother was furious, she lunged at our boat with all of its might, almost knocking it completely over, but because of its massive size, only a small hole was made, it survived 3 hits then the whale went away, discouraged. We had to set on a small island to repair our ship we worked in the water for 3 days, and then on the 4th day, we finally got it repaired. Obviously the other boat had already passed us by far, so we would have to work even harder, and go faster than we had ever gone before. We loaded back on the boat, and would not stop in any country for food and/or supplies.

After the 3rd day of catching up, on the horizon we saw the outline of another boat, and we knew instantly that that was the other captain's boat. We put up more sails than usual, and we passed them, but they also raised more sails, it was a head to head race of huge boats, imagine the funniness of that! Insults were shouted between the opposing boats as they deadlocked in the middle of the ocean, but still morale was high, and our crew pressed on. I did my usual jobs, even though the insults made me laugh, there were "your momma" jokes even back then! I cooked up some stew, but the crew refused to eat anything until they were ahead of the other boat, which they hoped would be soon, because they get awfully hungry working so hard, so fast.

After about 3 hours has passed, we were still side to side, but then a sail on the other boat broke! Leaving them behind.

"YEA! We did it, we beat them, we are going to win this race!" said Mason, cheering along with the other members of the crew, most of them I still had not yet learned their names. I got out the stew, which was not a bit cold, and I put it on the table, but the crewmen were so hungry, they barely even noticed, they just talked about the ordeal of the race. Little did we know then, that the other ship had at trick up their sleeves. After the break, I went away at cleaning the cabins, and mopping the deck so that I would get paid. That night I slept the best I had since the voyage started, and I dreamed about when I came home with all that money, and my mom who had been so worried about me cheered with happiness when I returned home with the coins in my hand. But then a voice woke me up from my slumber:

"SMITH! WAKE UP! THEY HAVE SOMEHOW PASSED US! I DO NOT KNOW HOW, BUT OUR SAIL RIPPED, IT LOOKED LIKE A KNIFE RIPPED IT BUT NO ONE WOULD DO THAT! WE NEED YOU TO FIX IT!" It was Mason, who I thought had the job of waking me up.

"But I don't wanna go to school, mom," I mumbled, not knowing what I was saying because I was barely even awake.

"C'mon you, get up, this is not time for sleeping."

I finally opened my eyes, and got up. When I got to Henderson, he gave me the tools to fix the mast. In school, I was forced to learn how to sew, so I scrambled up the mast, and climbed where the rip was, I worked my hands bloody patching it up, it took me about 1 and a half hours to do it, but when I was done, it looked almost like it hadn't been ripped. The reason it took me so long was because the wind moved the sail all around, and it was a pain to keep it in one place, and work with the other, but I finally got it done.

Them having all of their sails good, and ours having a huge rip in it, put us back more than the crash, and it seemed impossible to catch up with them. For 41 more days we went, with barely any breaks in the day, and while some people slept in the day, the ones that worked in the day slept at night, and the ones that slept in the day, worked at night, so we did not lose any time. We were almost there, we thought about only another day, and we were right. We found the boat with one day to spare, and we worked furiously at the sails to make them go faster, but we still lagged. We all wanted to win, but it seemed unlikely.

The opponent arrived at the harbor at exactly 12:00 AM on the 80th day of the expedition, making loud cheers that we could hear from afar, we arrived at 12:00 and 57 seconds; they just beat us. We went back to our homes moping about the loss. Henderson was actually the happiest one of both boats, he said that he knew we didn't stand a chance, because there was a person from the other boat on our boat the whole time, that is how the mast got cut, he just wanted us to work our hardest for something fun. In fact he actually gave me $200 instead. I became good friends with Mason, and we did everything together. My family was happy to see that I was OK and that I had brought home to them the money. We all lived happily ever after.'

PS: I just thought it would be a good add on to the classic "Around the World in 80 Days." Do not actually refer to the book on the real details.

EPILOGUE

After the race, as you know Mason and I became good friends. I learned that his first name was Sean, and that he was normally a blacksmith. I got a girlfriend, and eventually married her, her name was Rosetta Parker, we raised 2 children, a boy and a girl. The girl's name was Maryl, and the boy's name was Whitney, but he liked to be called Whit. Whitney came out to be a successful lawyer, who attended Harvard University, which was one of the few colleges at the time, but Maryl turned out to be a penniless beggar who depended on her great brother to give her money. Sean died on October 2, 1900, at exactly 12:00 and 57 seconds, exactly 28 years after the race when he was 52 years old.

Old letters

2010-02-22T14:05:00.000-05:00

Back in 2007, not long after Whit arrived at Terre Haute, I got the idea to create a blog of sorts consisting of letters he had written me from Dayton Correctional Institution, where he had spent three years from age 18 to 20. This was of course long before Whit came up with the idea for his own original blog. After just under a year of putting letters up and noticing that no one was reading them, I abandoned the project. I thought I'd post a link to that site in case anyone here is interested. It also includes some pieces he wrote from Dayton for an independent newspaper published in Cincinnati by Steve Novotni, who ended up becoming a good friend of Whit. (Click on "More Writing Samples") After he came home from DCI Whit lived with me for a couple of months before moving into an apartment in Steve's house. It was there he last lived, for another few months, before being arrested and sent to Terre Haute.

By October 2007 I had begun putting up a few letters he'd written from Terre Haute. All letters through 2002 are from DCI, anything later is from Terre Haute. The folder/link dates refer to when I posted them, not when the letters were written.

I think all the letters are worth reading, but the one he wrote on October 8, 2002 hits me especially hard.

I called the blog simply Letters from Whit.

A visit with Tiny

2010-02-19T13:15:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I drove up to Dayton to meet with Tiny, who's been out for just over two weeks now. He was the one who took Whit under his wing when Whit first arrived at Terre Haute.They were inseparable until Whit was first sent to the hole.

Tiny is from Centerville, OH, next to Dayton. He lives with his mom now, and spends his days taking the bus into downtown Dayton to make the rounds of federal and state offices for the process of getting medical coverage (he needs a number of prescriptions), applying for disability (for his weight and related medical issues) and checking in with both state and federal parole officers. Because he doesn't (and for now can't) drive, I met him at the Federal Building just after 1 pm. Turned out he had to be back home at 3:00 so he could go to church with his mom (strong Irish-Catholic family, and this was Ash Wednesday), so we didn't have much time together. Found a Ruby Tuesday's and had steak, talked about Whit, the prison system, and Tiny's bureaucratic nightmare. He really needs a stomach stapling or intestine shortening (don't know what the medical terms are) procedure, which will, after he's been on disability, allow him to get back off it and find real work.

His mom was in the driveway when we got back, so I got to meet her as well. Good person, good family. I did make the mistake of referring to him once as Tiny, but caught myself right away and apologized. I'm guessing she's not crazy about the nickname, as 1) it was given to him in prison, and 2) it's a play on his size. His given name is Gerald, and he was always called Gerry. The next time I talk to him I'll have to ask which he prefers now. My vote would be for Gerry; I know that all the inmates whom I communicate with refer to Whit as "Smitty," and I'm OK with that, but somehow it's a bit of a disconnect for me. And if I were Gerry, I'd want to put the "Tiny" tag behind me along with everything else. I suppose I should continue using the name Tiny here on the blog, though, since that's how everyone here knows him.

I wish he were a little closer - it's just under an hour drive to Dayton - but I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. Not only is he a good guy who deserves all the support and friendship he can get, but any real friend of Whit's is a friend of mine. It tends to provide a sense of continuity, if not comfort, to spend time with him. And I have no doubt that they would have been good friends even if they had met on the outside.

More photos

2009-12-28T19:37:00.002-05:00

A few more photos I just scanned. I've arranged them in chronological order.

January 1985

Not sure of the date

1985

April 1987 (3rd birthday)

December 1991

Whit and his beloved Milli

(wearing the Santa Kid cap)

Summer 1992

December 1992

May 1992

Spring 1992

Camping in our little

pop-up trailer.

Fishing at Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Andy's

Spring 1992

Birthday 1993

Fall 1993

August 1996

Whit and I took a road trip to visit

my friend Carl McIntyre in Charlotte, NC

October 1996

Whit, Milli and Spike

October 1997

Howe Military School, where

Whit attended 8th grade

July 1998

Fishing at Aunt Carolyn's again

August 1999

Whit and Uncle Andy (my sister's late husband) baiting a hook

August 1999

1999

Another road trip, this time to West Virginia

Reflections - past and present - on the season

2009-12-23T09:38:00.000-05:00

This may be the first incarnation of "Santa Kid." Like all children, Whit had boundless enthusiasm for the season. In his case this included becoming what we all referred to as Santa Kid. Some years he would just wear the hat, but it was a family tradition right up until our last Christmas as a family.

Whit and I wrote annually about what the season meant to us and how we were handling the separation. Here are some excerpts from letters in 2008/2009. Ellipses are where I cut.

To Whit, December 9, 2008

...Speaking of which, it's getting time to pull out my DVD of "It's a Wonderful Life" again. That's the other tradition I observe, along with reading that Washington Irving Christmas chronicle "Old Christmas." I put up a few small decorations in the house, as much for visitors (including I suppose Maryl) as for myself, and continue to forego a tree until you're home again. It's not in the spirit of a sacrifice, but rather because I simply don't feel like it. I've always loved the days leading up to Christmas, but those feelings aren't so much associated with a religious view - though there is, I suppose, a residual non-denominational component to it - as a general feeling of, or at least longing for, a connectedness with family. Partly an appreciation for what is, and partly a nostalgic desire for what isn't. My feelings for the movie reflect all this, I think. Visiting Bedford Falls, where ultimately everybody feels interconnected and goodness is finally rewarded, is a welcome if temporary respite from the greed, exploitation and meanness we face every day in Pottersville. Which of course pales in comparison with the levels of this you are surrounded by in the Terre Haute equivalent of Pottersville....

From Whit, December 13, 2008

...I certainly understand the sentiment you attach to the Christmas tree and also your reasoning for not wanting to put one up. I'm actually trying to imagine what I would do in that situation. Actually, I think I would put one up. There's certainly a strong association with family to that particular tradition but it's just that association that would drive me to still bust out the lights and ornaments every December. It would serve as a sort of tribute to the memories of when the family was together and a reminder of what's waiting for us all when (most of) the family is back together again. That's me, though. And chances are how I feel in my imagination is sharply different from how I'd feel in reality....

From Whit, February 17, 2009

...Before I forget! I finished Washington Irving's Old Christmas a few days ago and loved it. While the book's effects would certainly be much greater around the actual Christmas season [the book shipment was predictably delayed in the prison], even reading the book in February provided me with that lighthearted, blissful feeling usually associated with spending time with loved ones around December 25th. The chapter containing an English coachman's dignities was fantastic! Great, great book; one I'm going to keep around to read whenever I'm feeling blue. Thank you for sending it!...

To Whit, February 17, 2009

...I'm really glad to hear you liked Irving's Old Christmas. I have read this at Christmas time every year since I bought the book in 1978, when I found it at the Irving museum (his home) in Tarrytown, NY while I was in that part of the country recruiting for Ohio Wesleyan University. I'm pretty sentimental at heart, and reading the book is a tradition that means a lot to me. The book is full of observations that make sense to me, but one that stands out are these lines: "The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life." (underline mine). That part rings absolutely true with me, the idea that when we expand our pleasures into innumerable divisions, it's inevitable that we can't feel as deeply about any of them, and especially the ones that really matter. It's a wonderful image, reflecting the topographical reality that as a water system widens and splits it becomes shallower. Looking at myself, I seem to have a few things that I look to for pleasure - the guitar, photography, motorcycling, a renewed interest in astronomy - in addition to my work. But it's always been important to me to keep my life relatively simple, focusing on family and friends, keeping that as the deep center of my life and making decisions based on cultivating and honoring that most meaningful part of me. Irving's language is of course highly antiquated, with many of the words having much different meanings from their current usage ("...the calm bosom of domestic life..." sounds really corny even to me), but I can easily overlook that when I remember when he was writing. I know what he means, and that's what counts....

From Whit, February 24/25, 2009

...It's funny that you mentioned the line "Pleasure has expanded into a broader but shallower stream" as being one of your favorites in the book because I've got that one underlined as well. It's been a few years since my reading of David Copperfield but from what I remember Irving's style of writing is a lot like Dickens'. Dickens also had that ability to pull out the emotion in his settings and atmospheres. Plus they've both got that 19th century lingo....

This year my coping strategy seems to be blocking out everything associated with Christmas, especially the ornamental and symbolic aspects. Once again there will be no tree, and this time no decorations of any sort. I do have Maryl's and Whit's stockings hung. There's no cause for any "reminder of what's waiting for us all when (most of) the family is back together again."

A few more photos

2009-12-22T17:49:00.005-05:00

Here are a few more I've decided to put up.

Whit and his maternal grandfather at his grandparents'

cabin outside of Madison, Indiana

Fishing in the pond at my sister's rural Ohio home

Whit and his Aunt Jody. I love this photo.

Halloween at our first house. Whit is Wee Willie Winkie. His mom

was amazing with costumes.

On our last trip as a family, in July 1996, we spent 2 weeks in Tuscany.

One day Whit and Maryl explored the shell of a long-abandoned stone

house in the village where we were staying. He found this old,

threadbare wool coat and decided he had to have it. He hardly took

it off for the rest of the vacation, even wearing it through the airports

on our return trip (in July!). This is the front door of the house

we were staying in, not the one they explored!

I still have the coat.

One of Whit's family nicknames through childhood

(and even into young adulthood) was Boneman.

It's a long, silly story. Basically he went (as an infant) from

Whitney to Whitty to Wheaty to Wheat Bone to Boneman.

One of those family name evolutions that just happens.

He got this custom made t-shirt for a birthday.

And finally, a snap of Whit likely taken at an Ohio or Kentucky

state park on a family camping trip.

Portrait of Whit

2009-11-29T17:17:00.004-05:00

The other day I received this from one of Whit's friends from Terre Haute. James Remington was transferred to FCI Oakdale in Louisiana a few months ago, but he and I have been exchanging letters. James taught himself to draw in prison, and had sent me photos of a few of his pieces. I think he's really talented, and sent him a couple of books on drawing recently. He also offered to do a portrait of Whit from any photograph I could provide him with, and this is the result. You can see the original photo in the "Photos" folder of the blog. One of the amazing things about this portrait is that it was done with ballpoint pen and crappy paper. That's all he has. Imagine what he could do with pencils, chalk, pastels etc. and good paper.

Whit and Maryl

2009-11-12T13:50:00.003-05:00

A photo of Whit and his sister Maryl, taken sometime in the winter of 2005 (after Dayton Correctional Institution and before Terre Haute). One of the very few taken during that time.

Whit at 15 or 16. Maryl is two years older.

Whit and Maryl at their grandparents' getaway cabin in Indiana.

A letter to President Obama

2009-10-31T16:36:00.002-04:00

Today I wrote a letter to the President. Not a letter actually, but an e-mail of sorts entered on the White House "Contact" page. We'll see what happens. I'm not sanguine about my prospects of getting to sit down with him, of course, but by now I'm used to getting no or simply unhelpful responses from any person or agency in the government. Writing letters is just something I do, and I've finally decided to take it to the top.

I've also been wanting to post a request for all of you who were dedicated readers before last April and who continue to check on a regular basis. There are any number things about Whit I could post, but I just don't know what you would find interesting or rewarding. Letters he wrote? More photos? More background about Whit? Anything at all? I feel almost guilty that so many of you keep checking only to find nothing new. Or if it's something you'd like me to respond to privately, please feel free to send me an email: jeff.transtech "at" gmail.com.

Here is the text of my letter to Obama:

Dear President Obama,

This past April 4, 2009 Whitney Smith, my only son, apparently took his life. He would have turned 25 on April 10. At the time he was an inmate at the Federal prison in Terre Haute. I say "apparently" because in the intervening 6 months I have tried unsuccessfully to obtain a copy of the Bureau of Prisons investigation of his death. I asked the warden. I wrote the offices of Sherrod Brown and Steve Driehaus, my Senator and Congressman respectively. They eventually informed me I would have to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act. I did so, and the BOP has refused to share the report of my son's death.
I am not writing to ask your help on obtaining the report, but rather to request an opportunity to sit down with you for 30 minutes or less and tell you about what's wrong with our Federal penal system, and how inhumane at worst and arbitrary at best the treatment of prisoners is, beginning as early as the decision as to where to place a just sentenced individual.
I would like to add that Whit had been in solitary confinement for the 15 months prior to his death, and allowed no visits or phone calls. There is more to that than you can possibly imagine.
Full disclosure: I am a registered and liberal Democrat, but I do believe that some people belong in prison and a smaller number should probably never see the outside again. Whit and I knew his incarceration was appropriate. But he was supposed to come home in 3 more years. The old law-and-order refrain "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime" disturbs me. Those people have no idea what doing the time really means in a Federal prison, nor do they care.
I would be grateful for the opportunity to share not only my grief, but also my experiences with the Bureau of Prisons. I would fly to Washington at any time.

Sincerely,
Jeff Smith

Super Friends gathering

2009-09-21T11:09:00.006-04:00

In the days after Whit's passing I was fortunate to have a group of close, empathetic friends around me. Right then it occurred to someone that this core of people represented what could be truly called Super Friends in the same sense as Whit applied it to his own friends and the blog itself. We have gathered twice since then, most recently this past weekend at my sister Carolyn's home in northern Ohio. It's a time to remember Whit and reaffirm the bonds we feel between each other.

One of the Super Friends also invited two of her brothers to the gathering. Although I had never met the brothers, the knowledge that one of them lost a son to a heroin overdose a couple of years ago made it natural to include them. Rafe (Raphael) and I felt an immediate bond, and will soon be sharing things about our sons with each other - poems "Little Rafie" had written, a printed copy of Whit's blog for Rafe.

I had wanted to do something special for this 2nd gathering, and found just the thing at a nearby micro-winery. In addition to making and selling wine under their own label, they offer the chance to make and bottle your own, including all the instruction, materials and equipment. After 8 weeks of fermentation, my brother Emory and I bottled and labeled our results last week and were able to give a bottle to each Super Friend. The label I designed is based on a photo I took for Whit in 1998. He and I were on the way back to Howe Military School, where he attended 8th grade, when he noticed a weeping willow tree next to a pond on someone's property. He was so drawn to this scene that he made me get off the road and backtrack to take a photo. I never did learn exactly what it was about this that drew him to that image so spiritually, but I had kept a print to give him when he got home from Terre Haute. Now it seemed like a fitting basis for the wine label. The symbolism is there on many levels of course, including the obvious one of loss and grief common to several cultures; just consider the book The Weeping Willow: Encounters With Grief which appeared in 2007.

I'm attaching an image of the label.

There will be more gatherings of the Super Friends. The next one will be here in Cincinnati, and I extend an invitation to anyone who felt especially close to Whit. Just contact me.

Jeff

Another letter from Tiny

2009-08-23T22:14:00.000-04:00

I've been writing back and forth with Whit's closest friend from Terre Haute, Tiny. He's pictured in the photo of the "Superfriends" in the blog. I am happy to report that Tiny has finished his Federal sentence and is now in an Ohio state prison near Columbus, expecting to go home (near Dayton) in December. At his request, I have been sending him (printed) installments of the blog; Whit started the blog while in the hole, and he and Tiny rarely saw each other during that entire time. I've also visited Tiny in Columbus, and a good friendship is developing. He's a terrific guy, and I can see why he and Whit were so close.

Tiny writes the following in his latest note:

Hi! I just want to write and let you know I appreciate you coming to visit. It let me get away from this place for a while and it was good to be able to talk about Smitty instead of just having things keep bouncing around in my head. I got the latest blog entries yesterday and it gives me something to look forward to, which isn't always possible in a place like this. Reading the blog I found out something I didn't know: Smitty had told me his mom had been killed, but the blog explains all that, I just assumed it was true.

Well, that's about all for now. I hope you have a safe trip to Vermont and back. Write soon.

Your friend,
Tiny

2009-08-01T15:24:00.003-04:00

Terre Haute
July 2006

2009-07-20T11:49:00.005-04:00

Photo of Whit taken at a homecoming party given for him by his friend Steve Novotni in January 2005. This was his first night home after release from Dayton Correctional Institution.

Letter from Tiny

2009-06-30T15:15:00.004-04:00

Today I received a letter from Tiny, Whit's longest close friend at Terre Haute. Tiny was transferred not long ago to an Ohio state prison to finish his last 9 months of incarceration. I had gotten a letter from him 10 days ago wondering why he hadn't heard from Whit in a while, updating me on what was new, asking me to tell Whit to write and to pass this along: "Tell Smitty he'll always be my retarded cousin!" Tiny is pictured in the "Super Friends" photo in one of Whit's posts.

I was shocked to learn that Tiny hadn't heard through the grapevine, and writing the letter telling him what happened was a hard thing. I told Tiny that any friend of Whit's is a friend of mine, and that I hoped he would stay in touch and even look me up when he gets out. This is what Tiny wrote today:

Jeff,

You have my deepest sympathies, I can't imagine how hard this has been on you. I got your letter today, during our rec time and I'm reading it in the day room and I broke down crying. I am numb right now. Smitty was like a brother to me. We carried each other through a lot of stuff. Smitty was one of those people that didn't belong where he was at. I have done a lot of time, Jeff, and some people you meet in prison need to be exactly where they are, but not Smitty. He was a good person who just made a few mistakes. I think that is why we got so close, in Smitty I saw myself 20 years ago and I knew he wasn't going to end up like me, not if I could help it. He used to get mad because he thought I was preaching to him, and in reality I guess I was trying to get him to see what life would be like if he didn't wake up and see that this was no way to live. He is my buddy and I am going to miss him a lot. Maybe what you said in your letter was true and he just needed to move on.

If you can, please forward my address and prison number to Doliboa, I still know some staff up there that he might be able to find out something from. You're right when you said that a father deserves an accounting of what happened to his son. My advice on that is to contact your state Representative or Senator in Washington and maybe they can pursue it for you. I have seen several times where that was the way families got their questions answered.

Jeff, I am going to end this by letting you know that you are in my thoughts and that I would like to keep in contact with you if possible.

Your friend,
Tiny

As it happens, I have already contacted both Rep. Steve Driehaus (D-Ohio) and Sen. Sherrod Brown (D-Ohio) to ask for assistance in obtaining the report of the Bureau of Prisons investigation of Whit's death; I am waiting to hear the results of their efforts. Otherwise I have been unsuccessful, even with the aid of a lawyer who knows an Assistant United States Attorney; the AUSA yesterday indicated that he "cannot comply" with my request, and so I still do not know anything about the circumstances of Whit's death. Either the BOP has something to hide, or it is their general practice to be secretive and uncooperative. In either case it seems unconscionable to add such a bureaucratic nightmare to the grief a parent already feels. On the other hand, based on Whit's 3 years in the "care" of the BOP, it shouldn't surprise me in the least.

Jeff

Why

2009-06-03T12:36:00.004-04:00

Why is a question everyone who has read Whit's words has asked, whether you've been here since the beginning or just recently found the blog. He didn't leave anything that would shed light, but we can make certain inferences from the blog and what we know of him. I believe the two overwhelmingly powerful factors were the prospect of having as many as 6 or 8 more years added to his sentence and what that meant to his own psyche, and the guilt over thereby letting his family and others down, putting us in the position of having to deal with that. It's more complicated than that, but this is how I see it in broad terms.

Just yesterday I got a letter from a good friend here in Cincinnati who had met Whit only once or twice between his time at Dayton Correctional Institution and Terre Haute, but knows me and and Whit's course very well. She gives weight to the first of the two factors, and in a way that I have thought about but hadn't yet put down on paper so clearly and insightfully. I offer it here to perhaps help some of you who knew him only through the blog understand what happened, and I welcome your comments. I'll reproduce the entire letter here:

Jeff,

This is what I imagine…. Whit was ready to move on. He’d reached a point in his young adulthood where he totally understood it was time for him to grow, to no longer make the same choices and spin the same wheels.

We all reached that at some point in our 20’s, didn’t we? The difference being that Whit was in a system that would not allow him to grow, to change, to move on to another level of maturity and understanding. Whit wanted “to be whole” but there was nothing “whole” in the entire prison system to assist him. The guards weren’t “whole,” the prisoners weren’t “whole,” the system is fractured. And he knew this …. He was ready to grow and evolve. He knew it in every cell of his being. To wait another 8 or 10 years, this was incomprehensible to a 25-year old who was on the cusp, and knew it, but shackled in ways no other 25-year old is.

I’m sorry I haven’t stayed in touch Jeff. I pray you are doing okay.

I will add that these days when I feel self-pity, or stress over job or mortgage etc…. I remind myself that these were the mundane problems in life that Whit prayed for, everyday. These daily stressors of “normal life” were all he wanted in life – just a chance.

I love you Jeff and think of you and Whit frequently,

J.

… and remember, Whit is no longer suffering. He is free and whole!

Guest Book

2009-05-14T13:26:00.003-04:00

I've been exchanging e-mail occasionally with someone who was one of Whit's most appreciative and loyal blog readers. She still checks it nearly every day to see if something new has been posted, but I still don't have a sense of what if anything could be added. Her suggestion was something like a guest book, or as she described it: "... there are days I want to go there and mention that I am thinking of him/you ... or share a memory, or comment on how remembering certain posts made me feel ..."

And so for now I'll put this entry up and open it to comments. Or if anyone has a letter from Whit they'd like to share in whole or in part, feel free to either include the text in your comment or send it to me in an e-mail. And any suggestions for how to get Whit's voice heard in a larger way would be most welcome.

Thanks to all of you for your understanding of what my son was doing, and your appreciation of what he was trying so hard to become under such horrific circumstances and conditions.

I've been asked to make the contact information for memorial donations more conspicuous, in case people missed it in the other folder.

Circle Tail, Inc.
8834 Carey Lane
Pleasant Plain, OH 45162
http://www.circletail.org/

Of course you don't have to fully sponsor a dog, donations of any amount are very much appreciated by Circle Tail. You can specify that it go towards the prison dog program.

Jeff

April 2005

2009-04-28T19:48:00.004-04:00

This is from the last series of photos I took of Whit before Terre Haute. For his birthday I took him gliding - the first time for both of us. For his actual birthday Diane and I planned a few things like seeing a live acoustic band at a local record store, lunch and frisbee in the park, but Whit said afterwards he really wanted just the two of us to do something. This did the trick. Unsure of the exact date, but around 4 or 5 days after his actual birthday of April 10. The instructor is showing him the controls here. I know I took a lot of photos that afternoon, but this is the only one I can come up with.

From Emory, also

2009-04-18T18:04:00.002-04:00

Read at Whit's memorial:

Hands holding hands, arms embraced, lives entwined, the fabric we share as a human race

In all things done boundaries stretched, each path pursued the soul will test

Heart’s twisted from forces unseen, unnamed; rend from us tears of love and pain

Given sight we stumble, seeing through a prism, given freedom we hesitate and ourselves imprison

What is death’s share of the bargain we make

Wings or flesh, does it give or take

Answers hidden, knowledge in a language unspoken, humanity rises in waves unbroken

Timed to a silent metronome, each wave of life crashes on death’s shore

Breakers uncovering crystals of sparkling sand sliding back into Mother Sea once more

In the face of this spectacle, as answers are sought, there is reawakening to my sense of purpose and thought

A time of remembrance that I am not the sand, the wave nor the sea, but rather, they are me

So we are not Whitney but now he is us. He has been consumed and integrated into each of us that know him. He is nourishing to our beings isn’t he? Between the moments of anguish and ecstasy isn’t life a magnificent struggle? Clarity of purpose and meaning are gifts bestowed to few of us. Questions will always outnumber answers. Pain often outpaces pleasure. It can be hard to feel, let alone measure the benefits that we earn through hardship. While clothed in these human forms we’ll never fully understand what lies behind life’s curtain. But I often think that this life is a lesson in love. In giving, receiving, sharing and expanding our capacity to love under the most trying circumstances

And I could thank you all for joining us today and sharing your love for Whitney and our family, but I only have to open my eyes a little wider to see that there is no ‘you’ and ‘us’. WE are all one family here; all Whit’s family. And I wish the best of luck to each of us in our personal lessons of love.

March 21, 2009

2009-04-17T12:29:00.010-04:00

While I still don't have perfect clarity about where the blog goes now, it seems like letters from Whit to me, and perhaps a few to him, might be good. I want to start with the last one I received from Whit, dated March 21, 2009. Although he had had no phone or visiting privileges for over a year - which is not even normal for solitary confinement, which usually allows visits 'through the glass' and monthly phone calls, he was able now and then to sweet talk a CO into letting him call me. He'd obviously written this just after the last call. There is nothing unusual about this letter. References to the exchange rate reflect his awareness that it affects my income. "Grandpa" is his maternal grandfather, whom he was close with and who manages my IRA - beautifully, under the circumstances. Other comments in brackets will always be mine.

Hey Dad!

What's crackin'? Another great call today. Hopefully you enjoyed it at least half as much as I did. What's kind of weird is the fact that in situations like that when there are a hundred different things to talk about, conversation is sometimes the toughest because I never know what is important enough to justify spending one of those fifteen precious minutes talking about. You sounded good. Glad you were able to get out in the yard today (or a few days ago, by the time this arrives.) I know it's looking like a fantastic day out this way.

Sounded like things are running pretty smoothly back home, which is really great to know. Actually, without attempting to make myself sound self-pitying or whatever, it seems almost inconceivable to me to live a life where for weeks and often months no major dramas occur either to me or at least within my vicinity. Yet another thing I'm looking forward to when coming home.

Hey! I noticed the U.S. dollar has been taking a major pounding lately! Yay! I know on Thursday, the last rate I've seen, it was back to well over $1.30 versus the Euro. Seems kind of unusual when our stock markets are strengthening. Why is that? Does it have to do with all the new money the Fed. Reserve is pumping into the country? This is another reason why I'm looking forward so much to doing an economics course or two from O.U. Even if I don't do exceptionally well with the material, I should at least have a decent understanding of it which should mean the things I read in the money section of the newspaper take on a whole new meaning. Well, if not NEW than at least a greater meaning.

Thanks for explaining the situation with your investments/IRA a little more. You mentioned that you've lost 1/3 to 1/2 of the value compared to 2 years ago. Can you elaborate on that a little more? For a simple example, let's say your IRA was worthy $10,000 two years ago and then... oh, reading that passage again I understand now so no need to elaborate. Wow, that sucks. Such a considerable loss seems astounding when I consider the fact that Grandpa was managing your portfolio throughout this entire time. That means that either he made some seriously bad decisions or I guess it means that a lot of other people came out a lot worse than you. What a depressing topic, though. Moving on...

I really like your idea of converting your backyard into a landscaped garden. Yeah, it's not a whole lot of space but then again, I learned from our tomato growing adventures that sometimes it only takes a few plants to produce quite a bit of food at certain times. Those tomatoes were definitely delicious, although even with oregano, six or seven a day got to be a little much. Well, whenever your garden plan happens to come to fruition, I do have one request - sugar snap peas, and lots of them.

Great pictures!! Of downtown and Hyde Park Square. I'd forgotten that the fountains wouldn't have actually been turned on, though. Oh well, it was still a refreshing sight. I've got two of them taped up to The Wall next to my bunk.
[Whit had recently asked me to take and send photographs of two locations in Cincinnati that had special meaning for him.]

It's nice that you went to Esme's memorial. Were there very many people there who didn't actually know Tom, Lisa or Esme and were just there to show support? Reading about the drawings she'd done as a kid hanging from the walls at the memorial at first made me consider how, despite what difficulties we had (and still have, sometimes), things could still be worse. But then I realized the condition Esme's parents must be in having endured the worst-case scenario. The way you described your state during the service was vivid. I'm trying to find a way to empathize but it seems impossible. You've endured an incredible amount during your life and now this tragedy which, even at its distance, is much too close for comfort. I wish I could offer some advice or say something hopeful. You're the Dad, though - that's your job :-). You're in my mind all the time, whatever that's worth. Hopefully you're able to keep in mind how much good you've done in your life and how much success you've had. Without even mentioning the obvious things like a Ph.D., a great house with friends who care a lot about you, and just generally being a man someone should strive to be, there's also me. The fact that I've been in quite a bit of trouble throughout my life is a reflection of my failures as a son. But the fact that a kid like me who dropped out after 9 years of school can be at least moderately intelligent and open-minded as I am is a concrete example of your success as a father. I've been incredibly lucky to have the father I do.

Alright, I'm going to let you go now. Hopefully this finds you in much better spirits than you were in when you wrote this letter of the 12th. Thank you for being so open with me, though. I miss you and love you.

Your son,
Whit

From Brian

2009-04-15T18:08:00.007-04:00

Diane read this from Brian at Whit's memorial.

When I first arrived at USP Terre Haute I knew there was not going to be a lot of people that I could count on. In a place where you always have to watch your back and automatically know to trust no one you have to be careful who you become friends with. Smitty was one of the first people I met. From the very beginning he looked out for me, giving me my first pair of shoes and shorts, and ultimately preparing me for what to expect as I settled into a place where I would be spending the next few years of my life. We continued being friends after that, but got a lot closer when we were placed into a cell in solitary confinement together. If you read his blogs I am referred to as Brad. Having the life of a prisoner is not easy and laughter rarely occurs, but if you have read his blogs it is something Smitty and I did a lot together. Prison may not be the life that either of us planned or wanted, but we tried to make the best of it and got through each day the best we could. I can honestly say he will probably be the only person I meet in my life that can make Christmas cookies out of candy bars, but hey, we were not going to miss out on holiday goodies just because we were in prison... ha ha. He was always good for creating a good laugh and turning something negative into a positive. Smitty is the most honorable person I have ever met. He was honest, smart, respectful, and an amazing writer. Out of 1500 men in this place I can truthfully admit to only having two good friends that I can trust and depend on, and sadly now that number has decreased to one. I will never forget the many memories of the times we had together or the amazing person he was and always will be. So many people want to look down on prisoners like we are not people. We have all made mistakes, but that does not define us. I wish everyone could have had the opportunity to get to know the person I knew, not Whitney Smith the criminal, but Whitney Smith the person, because we would all be better people. I am privileged to know him and to have the opportunity to call him my friend. Smitty, you will not be forgotten and may your voice continue to tell your story, for you, and for all of us here at USP Terre Haute.

I love you and I will miss you man!

Brian

And this "from Vroom and Whitney's many friends at USP Terre Haute":

SMITTY - What happened is such a tragedy. You were always there for us. You are an amazing guy and we will always remember the time we spent together. Your homeboys love you and miss you man. We will never forget you.

From Diane

2009-04-14T18:26:00.005-04:00

This was read at Whit's memorial by my giving, loving and unwavering partner, Diane Debevec.

I have been among the closest to Jeff during Whit's years in prison. I am in awe of his steadfast love and belief and hope for Whit. There have been times of anguish and despair - and for me, my primary experiences of Whit have been through some of the darkest times and the pain these caused to Jeff. But being with him through those times told me what I needed to know about what kind of man I had here - deeply sensitive, fiercely loyal, and never wavering in his hope that his son and his daughter Maryl would find their ways in the world, would find good lives and their own measure of happiness.

Whit and I corresponded somewhat regularly throughout his incarceration. I would like to read a letter I received recently - after my sweet dog Adelaide was struck by a car and killed.

9 February, 2009

Hi Diane,

Thirty seconds ago I received a letter letting me know that Adelaide was hit by a car. As I sit on my bunk with this paper and pen in my hands I find myself at a loss for words. While my ideal outcome with this letter would be to cheer you up, attempting any sort of humor would be inappropriate. Plus, more than a week has passed since Adelaide's passing, so guessing what your state is is impossible. In spite of my inability to give you the comfort I'd so much like to be able to provide, I hope that you will be at least somewhat positively affected by the knowledge that there is a man in a room in Indiana who has absolutely no more important task than to think about you and send positive thoughts and is doing exactly that his every waking hour.

I miss you terribly and hope this finds you well.

Yours,
Whit

From Michael Millard

2009-04-13T23:05:00.008-04:00

Michael was kind enough to allow me to share what he spoke at Whit's memorial service:

I am the family guitar maker. Some years ago I built a guitar for Jeff which later figured in one of Whit's "escapades." When Jeff told me about that, the conversation led quite clearly into an important friendship with both father and son.

Whit and I wrote many, many letters to each other over the last four years. Until last year when he was placed in solitary confinement, we enjoyed as many phone calls as he was allowed. I was also lucky enough to be able to visit him at Terre Haute once. I'm sure he got a lot of flack from his fellow inmates about hugging that grizzly geezer when I was leaving.

I am speaking today because Whit's Dad has asked that I do so, this from his belief that somehow I understood Whit fully. I am honored.

I love Whit Smith.

The almost universal questions are "Why?" and "What might I have done to change this?" We've all asked; many of us are still asking.

Whit is someone for whom I have enormous admiration. He was thoughtful, generous and kind. He was brilliant, curious, and magnificently creative. Please.....examine his body of writing. He was courageous beyond my ability to comprehend.

When I met Whit, he had really begun to ask himself (as a grown man), "So, what IS it with me?" He saw the trail behind and asked "Why?" He did NOT Understand. He asked these things fully and honestly. There was no "right answer"; he wanted the truth. And he did most of the work of understanding the why and wherefore of his life, which most of us do between the ages of 25 and 50 years, in the four years from 20 to 25. He began, in all facets of his life, to take full responsibility for himself, his choices, and his actions.

If you need any measure of the quality of the man, I ask you to envision a 20-year old learning this in the context of the hell which is Terre Haute F.C.C. This is an extraordinary human being.

But even the most extraordinary of us have our doubts, that place wherein we ask ourselves and all creation: "Am I worthwhile, a WORTHY human being?" There must be enough unconditional love in a child's existence to fight off the doubt that each of us will eventually encounter in life.

Over the last year, I watched Whit as it became possible to him that he might spend a very long time in prison. In light of that, I believe he chose the only option he had. He did this bravely, with dignity, and, I believe, with as much kindness as he could toward those he loved.

Whit and I talked a lot about death over the last year. My father had been very ill for some time. He died five days before Whit took his own life. In Whit's death I see nothing unkind, no parting harshness to anyone, simply an acknowledgment that what he had in store did not give him what he needed.

This is a man who knows himself very, very, well, perhaps better than many persons several times his age.

For Jeff and Kathy:

We practice Forgiveness awkwardly, sometimes desperately, on others, usually in the silent unrecognized hope that we can come to forgive ourselves.
Please.....Forgive.

Jeff:

I know you well, my friend. There will come a time when you will hold your grief as a sacred duty. Please, let it pass. Be kind to yourself, to your amazing family, and to Diane. Perhaps most of all, to Whit. Take Joy in who your son is. You deserve nothing less, and he was, and is, a miracle.

Memorial Donations

2009-04-13T10:47:00.008-04:00

The family suggests that donations be made to Circle Tail, a non-profit organization located near Cincinnati which provides assistance dogs to people with mobility, hearing, neurologic or psychiatric disabilities. It would be helpful to specify that the donation be allocated to their inmate/canine education training program. Whit often expressed his desire to volunteer at an animal shelter upon his return home.

Circle Tail, Inc.
8834 Carey Lane
Pleasant Plain, OH 45162
Phone: 513-877-3325

Their main Web page is here.

As a general note, regular mail contact for Jeff is:

Jeff Smith
2835 McKinley Ave.
Cincinnati, OH 45211

Scott Ainslie

2009-04-12T16:26:00.004-04:00

Remarks for the Memorial Gathering for Whitney Smith
April 8, 2009
Cincinnati, Ohio

Welcome

Good afternoon and welcome. My name is Scott Ainslie. I have been asked to say a few words now and to help facilitate the service this afternoon.

I am grateful to be among you today – to mourn the loss, and to celebrate and honor the life of Whitney Smith.

Three years ago, our mutual friend, Michael Millard, gave me Whit’s address along with a very gentle, but unmistakable nudge to write.

Whit and I became friends the old fashioned way: through letters.

A gifted writer, Whit began – and ended – our correspondence with candor and intelligence, humor, humility, and always with his characteristic clear-eyed and openhearted gratitude.

Not a month ago, on an early Spring day not unlike today, he wrote:

“Looking around me, it’s amazing to see how the glory of Spring is able to permeate the thickest of walls and highest of fences. Drainage pipes stretching across the ceilings of the coops provide a perfectly secure nook for robins and doves to build their nests, which they are already busy doing. And the troops of ants, beetles and caterpillars, which at most times would be an offensive sight to behold, at this moment are a welcome sign of the changing season, as they cautiously venture from the cracks in the concrete.”

We feel his absence keenly. Today – our grief is new. And sharp. It can turn on us.

But the very clear message that Whit sent out to us, before he lay his body down, was meant to encourage us not to use his life – or his death – to do ourselves or each other harm (something that in the chaos and disorientation of new grief often too easily happens, and something that would be a profound misuse of his life and memory). Something that he very consciously and deliberately tried to prevent us from doing.

So, today – together, we will begin the process of filling in the space – long held for Whit – with our memories and love for him: honoring the steps and missteps, paying careful attention to one and other, and to his Spirit.

Today, in stories and songs, in his words and ours, we offer to one another our gratitude for having had time here – under this sun and these stars – with him.

In Closing

Climbing out of adolescence to adulthood is never easy. But, Whit’s particular mountain was higher than most.

Whit became a man – a kind, thoughtful, and loving man – while confined in the Federal Pen. at Terre Haute, a place that more readily turns men into beasts – and beasts into monsters.

And he did what the very best of us too rarely do: he lifted himself up out of the brutal circumstances surrounding him and became, in his own words, “a man who values and protects his sense of honor and duty” – to his friends, to his family, to himself.

Let us all remember – as has been noted by others here today – that Grief is not a medal, a commemorative souvenir of the battle to be worn on the chest or preserved on display in a shadow box on the wall. It is the process by which we reassemble our lives.

Time does not heal all wounds. (Left alone, Time makes many of them worse.) But healing takes time – and a strange combination of indulgence and attention.

We are mapping a new world – under unfamiliar stars – without Whit.

As they become familiar we must let Grief – that Dark Horse – wander a little and mark where it goes. We must learn the lay of the land, taking care neither to rein it in too soon, nor to let it get away from us altogether.

Patience, awareness, and compassion are our tools – for ourselves, and for each other.

Today, we have begun well. Let us continue together, offering each other our ears and our support – and being grateful for Whit’s presence in our lives – as he was so openly grateful for each of us.

From Emory

2009-04-12T12:12:00.006-04:00

Written by Whit's uncle, my brother Emory Smith. This blog is not mine, and none of this is about me; it has always been and will always be the voice of my son. I post Emory's creation nevertheless, because even though it's intended to deliver some measure of succor to me, it's beautiful, and the depth of this father's pain is at least a true measure of the infinite love that this father's son deserved. It honors Whit, and it deserves to be read.

A man and his son were lost at sea in a small boat. They passed the time talking of things they would do after reaching the shore or being rescued. But the days were sad and arduous, there was little joy and the constant fear they would never reach land.

One morning the father awoke to find the son dead from the hunger and exposure. In his grief he fell into the sea. The boat quickly moved out of reach. He struggled as the sea began to swallow him. It was cold. Sobbing and shivering, he soon felt it pointless to fight the inevitable fate. He drifted off into unconsciousness.

Next, he awoke to find himself in the same situation, but making a weak, almost involuntary effort to stay above water. Soon, he drifted off into unconsciousness. Again he awoke, still anguished at the loss of his son, but once again making just enough effort to breathe.

This repeated over and over, overwhelmed with cold, despair and loneliness he couldn't understand why he kept awaking. Death would be merciful in his situation. After what seemed like dozens of tortuous hours he again drifted off into his sea of despair. The next time he awoke, he felt different somehow, with clearer thoughts of his son and their dreams. He began to tread water. Still cold, hungry and in pain, sometimes sinking below the surface, then kicking just enough to arise again, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

When he awoke it was as if the fish around him had transferred strength to his legs and arms. He began to swim a little. Just a little time spent swimming, then treading water again. Of course in time he was again exhausted; crying out to his son he fell silent.

So it went for the next few days. Miraculously, always re-awakening with a little more strength in his body, but no less miserable, empty, and alone. One morning he awoke with land in sight. Not sure whether it was an illusion, he began swimming towards it until exhaustion closed his eyes.

The next time he awoke he was on the shore; an unlikely event for someone who had succumbed to drowning. Alone now on land, he looked longingly at the sea which could only remind him of his son. A more time passed, he began to accept his situation with a mixture of sadness and acceptance. Each evening he would walk along the beach, smelling the salt air, being sprayed by the cold sea spray. And each night as he lay on the beach, fish would gather at the shore line, and watch him sleep.

Photos - continuing

2009-04-11T19:31:00.015-04:00

Whit and his dad, late summer 2001

Whit at his favorite coffee shop

Whit and his sister Maryl

Father's Day 2008

2009-04-09T17:40:00.011-04:00

This piece was Whit's gift to me on Father's Day 2008, handwritten and mailed to arrive well before the day.

It's hard to describe this as a piece of fiction, even though the literary conceit of a narrator sitting in the cemetery takes place only in his own heart and mind. Spring Grove Cemetery is where he attended the burial of his maternal grandmother; he was given leave from the military school where he attended 8th grade. As far as I know, it is the only time he was ever there. The death he refers here to is the death of an old self, or rather just part of a self, and in no way was a conscious anticipation of what has now happened. It gave me even more reason to believe that he was finding a path that, once home with family and friends, would never lead back to prison.

Every single recollection of Whit the narrator in this piece actually happened, and even his recall of the exact words is completely full and accurate. I know, because I was there. Only the literary device of the setting, with all the creative symbolism, is fictional.

As it happens, Whitney will be buried in Spring Grove Cemetery, next to his grandmother, on Saturday, the day after his birthday. For each of the past 3 years, he has asked me to go to this cemetery and take photographs of spring as it arrives in this beautiful setting, so that he could post them on his wall. This is the weekend I had planned to go out on this year's photographic stroll through the grounds.

His gift reads as follows:

Gazing across the rolling terrain of the cemetery, I realize how appropriate a place like Spring Grove is for the deceased to do what I assume the dead desire most: To rest in peace. I suppose graveyards in general are known for having atmospheres in accord with, or even encouraging, solemn reverie. But this one in particular seems to me to be at such a height of serenity, all others simply fall short. A fact only emphasized by that cloudless Sunday afternoon in June. On that Father's Day.

In what seems to be a slightly bizarre counterpoint to what those grass covered acres represent, I can't remember ever seeing so many living, breathing birds and squirrels and hares and other vibrant creatures. All of them completely unaware of the significance we humans attach to those stone and marble blocks they dart around. Likely unaware of the concept of death altogether. Wouldn't that be nice.

It is on a marble bench where I sit. An overly expensive and extravagant tribute to a man or woman's existence. A lifetime of experiences culminated in a few lines of chiseled letters on glossy rock. From this vantage point I can see hundreds of markers, sculptures and gravestones, each with their own stories. But there's only one with any significance to me.

At first glance this one seems like all the others around it. To me it looks bland. And a little smaller, maybe.

'That's only appropriate,' I think.

It seems like some sort of emotion should be swelling up inside me. Grief, regret, sorrow. Anger. Or even happiness. But there's nothing. How can that be when the stories and experiences those grooved letters represent are so much a part of my life. Or were a part, I should say.

In the distance the gargling hum of a lawnmower carries in the breeze. I find myself being drawn into its gentle rumble. I came to this place to mourn. But in order to mourn something I must first have a feeling of loss. So it is there on that bench where I sit in my introspective haze trying to determine what, if anything, I lost.

Our relationship was always bittersweet. Not that any relationship isn't; I think our bitter and sweet was just more polarized than most. Although one common ground we shared, the one thing neither party will dispute, is that we both did what we thought was best for me. It still boggles my mind how polluted a person's judgment can be. But sure enough, he would dig me into one hole after another, each one was promised to be my true path to success and happiness. It's really my fault for allowing myself to be controlled like that. And I'm sure any harm done was unintentional; he just didn't know any better. Yes, he meant well.

At the same time, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

In 1999 I was in my mid-teens. Already no stranger to the Juvenile Detention Center, silly things like school and work didn't take up too much space in my day planner. It's tough to schedule that stuff around important activities like stealing and partying.

One day, with a duffle bag packed full of clothes and a determined look at the front door, my father asked 'Where are you going?'

'I'm moving to Pittsburgh.'

'No you're not,' Dad said, blocking the door.

'Yes I am!' A very educated retort, I know, but what do you expect from a rebellious teenager?

There was a short foot chase around the house until downstairs in the basement, halfway out of the back door, Dad caught up. A wrestling match ensued. Today in similar circumstances things may have had different results, but Pops didn't have too much trouble then.

'Let me go!'

'No!'

'I'm not living here anymore, let me go!'

'No,' Dad said, 'I will never let go.'

And then there were the robberies. What was supposed to be an exciting way to spend Monday night turned out to be nothing more than a forfeiture of three years of my life.

Seeming to be a figure either directly or spiritually present in every major happening of my life, true to form Pops was there in the hours after my arrest. The officers told him he could come down to the station to visit with me before I was booked. So there I sat, a shamed and, I reluctantly admit, terrified 17-year old kid when Dad comes in with two sodas and a bag of McDonald's.

For over an hour we sat there talking and eating chicken nuggets. There was almost no mention of the robberies. We did our best to dance around that topic, instead talking about movies or memories. Casual bullshitting. I suppose we just both knew that these were our last moments together as the father and son we were then. We did our best to spend those last minutes together with as much normalcy as possible.

I was born in 1984. Sometime in 1989 a little boy was being dropped off by his father at daycare. Every morning that boy would get out of the car and run as fast as he could to the window in time to watch his dad drive off. Five days a week that kid would zoom to that window and smile as 5 days a week his dad would smile back at him and wave good-bye. Until one day he didn't. No smile, no wave, not even a glance. And so as that car pulled back into traffic there was a little boy who had just realized that his father no longer loved or wanted him and who had just been abandoned in this daycare where he would spend the rest of his youth eating canned peas and Wonder bread. When asked by a woman why he was crying so hard, it must have seemed a little confusing to hear 'He didn't wave' as a response.

Behind me the once-distant lawnmower crests the small hill where I sit, the shrill chugging of its engine pulling me back to the present.

Refocusing my eyes, I read the name on that slightly inadequate gravestone one more time.

What had I been thinking about? Oh yeah, loss. Mourning.

As connected as we were for so long, I feel no loss. No more than I would feel the loss of a virus purged from my body. And after being such a poison to my well-being, maybe that's truly what has happened, a sickness cured.

Rising from my bench's cool stone I walk to the grave and look one last time at the name neatly scribed on the molded concrete.

'Whitney Smith,' it reads.

For all our memories, there is no longing for what lies buried in the earth where I stand. The impulsiveness that steals and lies, the brashness that scorns a loving father, the childishness that feels abandonment: It is all better off laid to rest here in the ground.

The rest of me turns and walks away. I've got to meet up with my father and have lunch. It's Father's Day after all.

Whit and his dad

2009-04-09T17:24:00.002-04:00

I don't remember the exact year, but it's not an untypical image.

Jeff

Lifeline

2009-04-09T11:08:00.004-04:00

Please allow me to express my gratitude towards everyone who continues to read this blog, and to those of you who are responding actively. You are being a lifeline to me. Over the next day or two I will be posting the words of dear people who spoke at Whit's memorial yesterday. They are a valuable extension of his own voice, and will provide further evidence, as if any were needed, of the truly heroic, generous and loving nature of my son. Letters from Whit and photographs will also be appearing here. This affirmation of life must continue.

As I may have said before, I am also wanting to have his blog published, along with a selection from the thousand or more letters he wrote, all of which are collected together with every letter I wrote, in chronological order in 3-ring binders. I have no idea how to proceed with this, and it will require the work of an editor. If anyone is in the position to give me some direction, I would welcome that. I can be contacted directly at jeff.transtech@gmail.com.

With much gratitude
Jeff

Keeping it alive

2009-04-08T22:46:00.002-04:00

Whit's memorial service was today. It was a gathering of love and beauty. It's late now, and I don't have any energy left to write about it, but I will soon. If anyone who attended would like to write about their impressions, please do so.
I also plan to add more entries very soon, including photos of Whit, letters he wrote to me, and whatever seems appropriate. Hard to say exactly what direction my son's blog will take from here, but it will remain his blog. I would be grateful if you would continue to stop by, and even participate in whatever way you choose.

With gratitude,

Jeff

A father's words

2009-04-07T13:25:00.005-04:00

I have been in the unfathomably desperate situation of having to write words to read at Whit's memorial tomorrow. Lest there be any doubt about the beautiful soul of my son, and for those who cannot be there, I would like to post it here. It's another way to be keeping the blog alive, I suppose.

A short time ago I was part, without taking part, of a memorial for a young girl who was taken from her parents and family. It hurt me to the core, and still does. I now know part of the reason why that is so. It’s not only that I have always been constitutionally unable to keep from going straight to the hurt of others and absorbing it. It’s also because I have always known the loss of my son or daughter would be the greatest tragedy of my life. And here I am.

Since Saturday I have been speaking of my son Whitney in the past tense. I would of course rather take my own life than to acknowledge so actively the reality of what has happened with my own speaking voice, and it would be a far easier thing. But today is the day which has been chosen to honor his life, since that is now the only thing left to us to do for him.

There are often remembrances that provoke kind, poignant laughter at a memorial. I will not be the one who is able to provide that, but I know, and am grateful, that others will.

Whit’s life was painfully short, and it was painful and short. But it was only the last half that was so full of pain. Whit was a curious, fun-loving, sensitive and kind boy. There is scarcely one of you here who knew him personally, and perhaps even some who did not, who was not at one time or another the recipient of a random act of kindness from Whit. This began in his earliest life, when he bestowed these unexpectedly and in various forms on his parents. Cards, notes, even a card I found recently with 15 cents taped inside, given I suppose when he was 7 or 8. He loved to surprise with expressions of love and gratitude.

He loved animals, and was devastated when he had to see our first dog struck and killed by a car when he was quite young. He and his grandfather fashioned a cement grave marker with a big heart fingered into the unset concrete. I still have a mouse pad made from a photo of him sitting happily on a chair, holding the next dog, his beloved Milli Vanilli.

I cannot begin to tell of all the ways, large and small, in which his generous, caring and yes, in some way fragile, spirit shone through. His life was a crooked path. It can be said, depending on your views about these things, that he made bad choices, and that they were his to make. Or that he was compelled to make them as part of his nature no less than the beautiful, non-self-defeating side. First of all, I tend to see those choices as an aspect of his inherent creativity. That he did things that were considered hurtful to his family, and later ones violated the norms of society, all came, I believe, as a surprise to him. Not that they were hurtful, but that, in retrospect, he had done them. He was never able to understand why, as hard as he tried. And it was not because he didn’t try. He was exquisitely thoughtful and self-aware. And part of what always hurt me was to see how helpless he felt from that inability to understand it himself. There were some who considered his self-defeating actions, even the extreme ones, as nothing more than willful self-indulgence. I always knew better.

I was always the one who gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was not that I couldn’t or didn’t see the consequences his actions had on others, and that they were hurtful to himself as well. But as for his early life, you only need to listen to the others who will speak in both his and their own voices, to understand what it was I saw.

His continual, honest search for identity at some point brought him to prison, once and then again. Rather than be discouraged by the actions that brought him there, I somehow was always able to see even that in the context of a whole life, knowing with absolute certainty who he was in his core, and what he had the potential to become. Every single word in the thousands of letters he wrote to me, from Dayton and then Terre Haute, was painfully honest, insightful and indisputably genuine evidence of and justification for my faith in him. Today a comment was posted on his blog, from someone who didn’t leave a name, which reads: “I came across this blog today while doing research for my job. I have been reading these posts and they have brought laughter and sorrow. You son was brilliant, creative and intelligent. I only wish that I had found these writings sooner. My heart is with your family. “

Which brings me to Whitney’s blog. Last November he told me he wanted to write one, and asked if I would set it up for him. Since he has no access to a computer, he hand wrote each entry and mailed it to me. It didn’t become an overnight success, but it has grown to hundreds of regular readers from all over the world. And the numbers have grown exponentially since Saturday. It will remain the most publicly visible and successful manifestation of and testament to his beauty, honesty and depth of soul. I have to say in this context that I am personally ambivalent about the meaningfulness and significance of memorial services like this. I find it too easy to try and reject reality as not real and not true, and find only abject irony in being forced into this situation, as if remembering my son could do anything for him now. Which is ultimately the only thing that matters to me, even now. But at the same time, for whatever reasons, whether of any ultimate meaning or not, I am compelled to wish the entire world would read his words and hear his voice. I myself cannot do so without the pain of disconnect, but others can.

I find it tragic that his place and condition dictated that some of his most creative expression had to come from writing about his utter pain, frustration, depression, and the inherently inhumane conditions under which he was forced to live. Yes, of course that’s all he had to write about, and of course it was in part the extremity of his existence that made his writing so powerful – though not only, because he wrote well and beautifully of many things throughout his life. One of his readers described his writing once as “seriously vivid,” and while there are many equally apt descriptions, I’ve always liked this one. And had it been allowed to be just a stage of development, fodder for something to come later, I would feel less angry and cheated – for his sake and all of ours – by the necessity of the subject matter. But that cannot be changed, and we have this permanent record of a beautiful voice calling out from one of the worst places on earth. He uses humor often, even as a basic device; that is because he has a natural sense of humor, and because it is the only way he can get even a little bit of distance from the pain and horror.

The world is not a very nice place. But Whit’s very existence was an infinitely beautiful thing for me. And the world is at least nice enough, and Whit’s soul such an incomparably beautiful one, that he deserved more life, but he also deserved better than what life gave him. I will believe with absolute certainty, for as long as I have left to live, that had the prison system not broken him, he would have come home a whole person and made the world a better place. He was finding his voice, and his true, beautiful self was winning the internal struggle. He was ready to come home. He had plans and ambitions.

I would like to finish now by reading the last thing I wrote to my son. It was a birthday card, and I am not even sure whether he received it. The sentiment on the card reads:

“Your journey has molded you for your greater good, and it was exactly what it needed to be. Don’t think that you’ve lost time. It took each and every situation you have encountered to bring you to the now. And now is right on time.”

And inside I wrote:

“I may not be Zen-like enough to buy into the first sentence, or at least the second clause, but I have always tried to embrace it, and it would be well if you’re able to. I know: it’s hard not to wish there had been a different, less painful path taking you to the same destination. But as for the rest of this view, I’m definitely a subscriber. I know who you’ve always been, who you are today, and I see who you’re becoming, and I could not be more proud. So no, don’t think that you’ve lost time. Look at what you’ve been able to become and accomplish in such adverse conditions, and then imagine how it will feel to take that and run with it in a world that’s wide open to you. Hemingway wrote: The world breaks everyone, and afterwards some are stronger in the broken places. That’s you.

So as you turn 25, don’t dwell on the past but take what you need from it to carry with you into the future. Some of it comes in the form of a burden, but never forget how many people are walking beside you, eager to help you carry that part until it can be put down and left behind.”

I was always proud of my son. There was never a moment when I lost faith in him. I hope every one of you comes away from this understanding why he deserved that.

To all who have been hearing my son's voice

2009-04-07T10:02:00.003-04:00

I would like you to know that in some way, his blog will not end. I do not know what form this will take, but if I have the strength I will help that to happen. There has even been talk of producing a published book of his blog and some of the more than 1000 letters he wrote to me since his imprisonment, but I don't know how that would happen, or if there would be interest in it. I would ask you, if Whit and his voice have some meaning for you, to keep coming back to his blog in the future, to see where it goes. And I would be so very grateful if new people would come and read this work, which ended so much sooner than it should have. I'm sorry I cannot be more organized in my thinking at this moment, but I hope my intentions are clear. And if there is anyone who would like to help in this endeavor, in whatever way, then I invite you to.

I am so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to hear my beautiful son's voice. I hope it will live on in some way.

With deep gratitude and love,

Jeff Smith

Memorial

2009-04-06T16:27:00.005-04:00

Dear Friends,

A memorial for Whit will be held on at the Cincinnati Civic Garden Center on Wednesday, 2715 Reading Rd., Cincinnati, OH at 2:30. This is an open invitation for anyone reading this to attend, and even speak of Whit if you wish. This memorial will be devoted to hearing Whit's voice, in stories he wrote as a young child, letters to his family, and the blog, read aloud by friends and family here. If any of you would like to write something about Whit and what you knew or felt about him, we invite you to leave it as a comment here. All of your words will be read at his memorial.

If you would like to make a donation in Whit's memory, we are asking those be made to Circle Tail, an animal shelter in Loveland, Ohio. Whit had recently told Jeff that he hoped to volunteer at an animal shelter when he got out of prison. Circle Tail (link here) works with a several prisons to foster their shelter animals before they are placed in a permanent home: it's a win-win.

Please feel free to contact Jeff for any reason at all. The direct email is jeff.transtech@gmail.com.

Jeff's family

A Memorial for my beautiful, beautiful son

2009-04-06T11:05:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,
We are working on a memorial service for Wednesday, times and details will be posted later today. If you would like to make a donation in Whit's memory, we are asking those be made to Circle Tail, an animal shelter in Loveland, Ohio. Whit had recently told Jeff that he hoped to volunteer at an animal shelter when he got out of prison.
Circle Tail works with a local prison to foster their shelter animals before they are placed in a permanent home: it's a win-win.
More soon, I promise.
Jeff & Family

Cards from Whit

2009-04-05T22:04:00.002-04:00

I know now that some of you received greeting cards from Whit shortly before his passing. He mailed them to persons he felt especially close to. This is what mine said:

My beloved Pops,

It's been a wild ride, huh. Yet you never once wavered as a friend or a father. A kid couldn't ask for a better father. You're awesome.

With all the love I have,

Whitney

In addition to the blog, I have more than a thousand letters he wrote to me. Every single word in the blog and letters is a testament to his love, honesty and sincerity. His life was painfully short, and it was painful and short. I do not know if or how I will go on, but if I am able, it will be to honor his life. I hope some of you will find ways to honor it as well.

Jeff

My son

2009-04-05T10:30:00.003-04:00

On Saturday morning my beloved son, Whitney Holwadel Smith, took his own life. The prison and justice system took everything else from him, and this was all he had left. Whitney was my life, and now he and that are gone.

I am sorry that I am unable to respond to those of you who have written about this. I want you to know that the people who read his thoughts here were a source of some happiness, or at least something like that, in a life that otherwise knew very little happiness.

At some point I hope to be able to make people with a real voice in these matters aware of who my son was, and how he was ultimately broken by the system. He spent the last year of his life in solitary confinement, he was not allowed to see me in person or even call me. He was tortured to death. And I cannot write anymore now. Please remember my son, and do what you can to honor him.

Love,
Jeff Smith

My son is dead

2009-04-04T09:26:00.002-04:00

My son Whitney died this morning. They won't tell me how. I suppose he was killed by another inmate. I don't know what to do.

Jeff Smith

Crap Week, Pt. 3

2009-03-25T15:28:00.008-04:00

Wow, sometimes the B.O.P. makes it a challenge to keep my cool. Keeping in mind that the guards I interact with daily are just doing their jobs, following orders, helps sooth my frustrations a little. Although it often seems that the most aggravating tactics are meticulously timed for when they'll be the most psychologically devastating. Like pissing in my cornflakes first thing in the morning. Or raiding my cell immediately after I ducked having to tussle with a madman suffering from a bad case of Hulkism.

Walking back to my cell after recreation I observed several trash carts filled with Stuff We're Not Allowed To Have. What's funny is that, mixed in with piles of contraband, I could also see remnants of my once-strong psychological stability. Oh, look - right next to that bag of cereal is my ability to reason properly. And those shoes are stacked right on top of what patience I had left. Hey - that mattress is right underneath my ability to suppress rage. Imagine that!

A-Upper range was in shambles. Scraps of cloth and clothes lay everywhere, some soaking in grimy puddles of I-don't-know-what. And of course my cell was demolished. My old letters lay strewn across the floor like tiles. The mattress on my bunk had been ripped open, the stuffing partially expelled. A small pile of books lay neatly stacked in the back of the shower. They were the only books in the cell. Not good.

Glancing at the titles I noticed: Jeffrey Lent's Lost Nation; 2009 World Almanac; Webster's Dictionary and Thesaurus; and Tracy Chevalier's Girl With a Pearl Earring. Those sons of bitches - where's The Creature from Jekyll Island?! The Story of Edgar Sawtelle?! Where are the textbooks for my fucking classes???!!! These cops are playing a dangerous game.

Yes, I know "policy" states that each inmate is only allowed to possess 5 books while in the hole. Yes, I admit that the stack of books piled in one corner of the cell was tall enough to ride the good rides at Disneyland. But these B.O.P. creeps aren't going to get away with picking a few for me to keep and trash the rest. Screw the extra blanket and bottle of bleach which was taken. Don't mess with my literature, though. Serious business. The fact that my books lay in one of those carts mixed in with extra clothes and the remnants of my self-control was too much. Somebody's going to dig through those carts and retrieve every one of those confiscated texts, if the warden herself has to do it. If it's war they want, it's war they'll get.

Hold on, let me stop myself right there. If anybody was going to war, it certainly wasn't going to be me. The last time I tried to "fight the system" was April of last year and that incident ended up with me being kidnapped at gunpoint and put in the hole for what's been a year already. From now on I'll let some other brave soul battle authority. Brave souls are plentiful around here. As the saying goes, the natives were growing restless. Both literally and figuratively. One cell was complaining about a broken radio, another said some of his commissary had been destroyed. Everybody seemed to have a gripe about something. At first there was just some general grumbling and yelling which soon escalated into banging on cell doors. At some point several windows were busted and small fires were started. Then someone set off the fire sprinkler in their cell. Not to put out a fire, just for the flooding effects of the spewing water.

Through the chaos the guards did almost nothing. There wasn't a whole lot they could do except weather the shit-storm and wait until everyone had exhausted themselves. No Ninja Turtles or tear gas, this sort of pandemonium is expected after a big shake-down.

Tuesday morning the prison administration bravely did a walk-through in the hole, walking past every cell at least pretending to listen to the complaints. And you better believe every one of them heard my complaint. Was my name clearly written on the covers? Yes. Do I have shipping receipts proving ownership? Yes. Had I submitted a written request asking for the books to be returned? Several. I earned myself several vague and dubious reassurances that my books were probably moved to the prison library in general population and every effort would be made to have them located and returned.

If I wasn't being told the truth, it was at least what I wanted to hear. But despite this, I felt even more frustrated than I did before. As these sour-faced men with fat stomachs and cheap, ugly suits bobbed their heads at the right times during my bitching session, the infantile quality of my life became brutally apparent just at that moment. As much as I consider myself a man, as much as all of us behind bars consider ourselves men, look at us now. Trapped behind a door wholly dependent on the goodwill of the prison to feed and clothe us. We yell our complaints and requests from the wrong side of the steel, cheep-cheeping like chicks in a nest; completely helpless. In retrospect, this is a realization I should have had somewhere around Day One. But my brain's ability to hide my reality from itself won out for a while.

As it is, my new perspective has had a slightly demoralizing effect on me. I try to search for meaning or moral something along the lines of needing to be broken down to a baby-like state in order to build myself up as a better man, but such logic seems like nothing more than a superficial pacification, not a legitimate analysis.

Compounded with the frustration of the confiscated books and the ebbing anxiety of the Timmy troubles, finally acknowledging my helplessness as a ward of the B.O.P. pushes things over the top to make this a truly crappy week. Yeah, yeah, yeah - I know what you're thinking - if I don't want to be in such an infantile state then I need to quit crying so much. Touché. My response?

Waaaaaaaaaaah, I wanna go home.

This was Whit's last blog entry. Ten days later he was gone from us.

How to Piss Off a Killer, Part Deux

2009-03-23T14:43:00.005-04:00

Someone who's never been around a man like Timmy might be questioning how such an obviously petty issue could arouse a violent reaction from anyone. Men like him are fine... until they're not. Killers know they're feared and respected; they absolutely expect everyone to comply with everything they say. Any minor defiance can be interpreted as a slap in the face, an open disrespect. Tim was pissed.

At the same time, it was disrespectful to even attempt ordering me around. There were a few ways I could have responded to the statement regarding the kite. I could have said something like "Of course you're not asking, tough guy. You're begging, because that's what sissies like you do." This would have been The Stupid Approach, otherwise known as The Suicidal Approach. The Sensible Approach would have been to retort with something along the lines of "Jeez, Tim, I was just joking. I'll send the kite down to you tomorrow morning along with my breakfast because my humor did not make you laugh, sir." This is also called The Coward's Way Out. Finally, there's The Non-Committal Approach, aka The-Oh-God-I-Hope-He-Gets-Sudden-Amnesia Approach. This involves saying... nothing. And this is how I chose to proceed. Slowly, I backed away from the door, worried that any furtive movements might incite Tim to order the food slot to suddenly come alive and rip my throat out.

"I'll see ya at rec on Monday, kid," the madman said before I'd even made it to my bunk.

Glancing at my celly, he looked like I felt. He and Tim are homeboys, although The Code suggests that cellies must help one another if attacked. Celly was in an unlucky spot.

Back in my rack and dwelling on what the recreation session on Monday would be like, I twirled the accursed kite in my hands contemplating exactly how much my honor was worth. How easy it would be to just cave to the psycho. The kid Carl doesn't even know he's got this coming. l don't even know if the message is important - maybe Jo-Jo just wanted to tell him a dirty joke he'd just heard. Maybe inside this taped paper was nothing more than a recipe for Ramen noodle spaghetti. Or, it could have been a book of stamps Jo-Jo owed and felt duty-bound to pay and by neglecting my duty I'd be sabotaging Jo-Jo's honor. Friday was a rough night.

Late Saturday morning an inmate came off the range who could serve as a courier for the kite. Better to just get this thing out of my possession ASAP and remove the temptation, I decided. Discretion was vital, so when calling the convict to my door, I spoke softly. Unfortunately the loud-mouthed punk is apparently hard of hearing because he screams out "What?! Did you say this is FROM Carl? Oh! It's TO him! Gotcha!" And the words rang out in the hallway like a death sentence; the madman surely heard his "orders" being blatantly defied. My celly claims he couldn't hear it but I swear later that morning I heard the unmistakable grinding sound of metal being honed on concrete.

There was never a doubt in my mind that I'd be outside on Monday to stand up for the decision I'd made; hiding out was not an option. Although it certainly wasn't fun wondering what to expect. I'm no slouch when it comes to fisticuffs although I readily admit to lacking the animal ferocity of my soon-to-be foe. At one point the best-case scenario was that Tim and his celly would settle for a moderate pounding rather than a full-on butchering. Yikes!

Finally Monday arrives. Rec is late that day, after dinner. The sun has almost set by the time my range is taken outside. Tim's cell is all the way at the back so he goes out first. He makes no eye contact as he passes, but I did notice that he was wearing a full-body jumpsuit. Which in the middle of winter is great for staying warm, although the only use such clothing would have in Monday's 70 deg. weather is its moderate protection from razor blades and dull knives during a fight. Not a good sign.

Minutes later it's my turn to go out. As my celly and I were being handcuffed, I thought to myself that at least I was finally getting this beef with Tim over with. A few bruises and maybe a puncture wound or two certainly couldn't be any worse than the incapacitating anxiety I'd endured since Friday night. Walking down the stairs on my way to the chicken pens, I pass the dry-erase board on which is a list of which cage each inmate will be placed in. Sure enough, celly and I were to be placed in the same cage as Tim, as always. The penultimate cage in the ascending row of ten.

Cages 1 - 7 had been filled already with blacks or whites or natives talking or exercising. Timmy and his celly were the lone occupants of 8 thus far. Each cage has a sort of ante-cage or ante-chamber where a convict's handcuffs are removed before entering the cage proper. As I entered the ante-cage and was being uncuffed, Tim stood along one edge of the fencing, his back half-turned to me as he spoke with a guy in Cage 7 who was obviously looking over Tim's shoulder to alert him when I'd possibly rush him. OK, cuffs off... ante-cage door shuts completely... cage door unlocks... here we go... celly and I step in slowly with no immediate incident. I make my way to the back of the pen, watching carefully everything to my left. There's a charge in the air, like the atmosphere knows it's about to get ugly. Walking to the front of the cage again and turning around for lap two, Timmy suddenly turns to face me. In less than a nanosecond I had simultaneously crapped my pants while bracing myself in preparation of performing Whitney's patented Drop-Curl-Yell maneuver. But then I notice Tim is only extending his fist for me to tap.

"You alright?" he asks. Translation = Are you alright with me? Did I go too far?

"I'm cool. You?" Translation = Dude, I want NO problems. But are you just singing me a lullaby and planning to get me as soon as I've dropped my guard?

"Yeah, I'm good. Just hating on pieces of shit is all." Translation = We're cool. I was just being petty and crazy because I really dislike that guy Carl.

"Right on," I said, and walked away. Still checking over my shoulder, of course. Tim was, too. But he did take the jumpsuit off. Along with the 3 layers of thermal underwear he had on which presumably might have stopped the sharper knives.

My celly and I disagree on what inspired Tim to use at least moderately rational thought. Celly believes our buddy the psycho killer is hoping to be transferred soon and the situation with the kite was too petty for even someone like Tim to get another notch on his belt at the expense of a speedy transfer. Personally, I believe the cause of his change of heart is my naturally intimidating aura, coupled with the fact that, me being such a cool guy, attacking me would earn Tim far too many enemies to handle. Oh, the rumor I started a few years ago that I'm a black belt in 4 different martial arts and was offered an early release if I'd commit to leading a Navy Seal team for 6 years, an offer I declined, might have something to do with Tim's trepidation.

Whatever the reason - Whew!

But the Crap Train does not stop here! Oh, no! Just lightened its load a little. By unfortunate coincidence, guards chose that particular night to do a mass shakedown of every cell on my range while we were in the coops.

More tomorrow. Drama!!!

How to Piss Off a Killer, 101

2009-03-21T14:30:00.005-04:00

Have you ever had one of those succession of days which are so unique in their misery, so disgustingly awful that the only description for the melange of emotions which eat at your mind like heartburn of the brain is that you now know what it is to be a dingleberry hanging onto Rush Limbaugh's ass-hair? One of those stretches of living when you constantly pinch yourself in hopes that you'll wake up to discover that it's only been a bad dream, only to realize that even a nightmare couldn't be so hellish? A brief period in your life which is so appallingly dreadful that the only logical way to proceed after it's over is to gather everything you own into a pile and set it on fire so you'd possess nothing which could trigger a mental recall of the state you were in during that week's wretchedness? For me, these past few days have been Those Days.

Am I being overdramatic and excessive? Somewhat. Do I want to set everything in sight on fire? Not personally, no. But if someone else around me has already, I certainly didn't prevent or even discourage him/them from doing so. Another day in paradise.

My crappy couple of days began last Friday night after almost a week perfecting a series of lessons and essays for my classes. As a brief digression, if my professors/teachers/graders/whatever don't give solid "A" grades for every one of those papers, they need to have their degrees scrutinized as possible forgeries. Anyway, after busting my ass with all of the school stuff, I was looking forward to a nice, relaxing weekend spent doing whatever the hell I wanted. All of a sudden there are to be some emergency transfers of guys in the hole. One of those was a guy named Jo-Jo, who was on my range. Jo-Jo owed me a few stamps for some candy bars I had given him and, despite the fact that we would never see each other again and he could have just as easily walked past my cell without paying me a dime, the man actually bothered to slide the 10 stamps under my door on his way out. But after doing so he held up a folded piece of paper and said, "Hey, I've got this kite going to Carl [Note: A kite is what many convicts call any written message to another convict, usually of a sensitive nature]. Would you make sure he gets it?"

Not exactly a backbreaking task. A request made all the harder to refuse by the fact that Jo-Jo had just paid me a few bucks that most people around here wouldn't have. "Sure," I said, "I'll do that for you." I took the kite and went back to my bunk.

Jo-Jo leaves. A minute or so after he's completely off the floor, I hear Madman Tim shout my name through his cell door which is a couple down from mine. "Hey, when you're done reading that kite, shoot it over here," he says to me.

"Uhh, what do you mean?" I asked.

"When you're done reading the kite, give it to me."

For a second I found myself thinking back a few minutes in time to Jo-Jo's instructions, mentally verifying if there was anything said about a detour through Tim. Nope, there wasn't. I politely explained this fact and asserted that Carl would receive the kite.

Nothing short of incredulous over what he's just heard, Tim yells to me "That kid's no good. He doesn't get his mail."

"He's getting this mail," I said.

"The kid Carl's a fucking rat and a check-in. You're gonna look out for him?"

At one point in my life, I was a really sleazy individual. Things like virtue and honor and keeping one's word only meant as much to me as far as they dovetailed with my own ends. And as far as responsibility was concerned, I was Mr. Take-The-Easy-Way-Out himself. But since then I've developed into a man who values and protects his sense of honor and duty. Regardless of Carl's status among convicts, I'd told Jo-Jo that his kite would be delivered and that's what was going to happen.

"I see your point, Tim," I said, "but Jo-Jo isn't and I told him I'd make sure it gets where it's going."

There was a brief pause, until finally Tim says "Look, about the kite - I wasn't asking." As in, he's telling me to give it to him. Ordering.

Tim's statement was significant for one reason. That reason is that Tim's a killer. During my incarceration I've met lots of men who have killed, but there is a huge difference between one who has killed and a cold-blooded killer. I've met only two killers and Tim is without question one of them. Not only is he a killer, he kills other killers. Before coming to Terre Haute Tim was in a Louisiana penitentiary when another inmate snuck up behind him with a knife tied and taped to his hand and proceeded to stab Timmy repeatedly. He got nine strikes in before Tim "came to his senses." With nine holes in his body, each pouring blood, and a punctured lung, Tim then chased his attacker across most of the prison and eventually tackled him. As he tried to unattach the knife from his assailant's hand to use himself, guards swarmed the scene and saved both of their lives. Before coming to Louisiana, Tim was in the Federal Supermax prison in Florence, Colorado, the 21st century Alcatraz (thanks, J!), because officials in a California prison say he killed a member of what most people I know consider the most dangerous white gang in America: The West Coast Aryan Brotherhood; distinguished from other A.B.'s as The Brand.

While his physical presence isn't necessarily imposing, Tim's aura bleeds negativity. His perfectly sculpted body is the result of his machine-like endurance during workouts. Most of his fighting skills came from his father who was a Special Forces colonel. Special Forces would possibly have been the perfect calling for Timmy, had he not turned out to be such a completely deranged, irrational, unfeeling psychopath. So when I noticed that between the lines of the "I wasn't asking" statement there was a distinct "Or else..." message, I gulped.

It's late, I'll finish this tomorrow. Suspense!!!...

A Shameless Plug...

2009-03-13T17:43:00.009-04:00

... from Whit's dad, der blogmeister (me), to let readers know that his 25th birthday is on April 10 . Anyone who wants to write (or comment right around that date) is encouraged to send birthday wishes; I know he'd greatly appreciate it. For those who are willing and able, a card in the mail would be especially welcome (you know how much mail means to inmates), but a comment here on the blog, anonymous or otherwise, will also be most appreciated. Just try to post no less than a week before the 10th to give me time to copy, paste and mail them to him.
Just don't tell him you saw it here, he doesn't know I'm posting this.

Low Blows

2009-03-12T08:45:00.004-04:00

There's a conspiracy against me, I'm sure of it. My evidence? Never in my years as a Terre Haute tenant have cornflakes been served. Until today. Daylight savings time not coming into effect until Sunday (it is Thursday as I write this), this morning was as dark as it gets surrounded by security lighting. I sat down with my brown plastic tray of processed corn meal and emptied the 1/2-pint carton of milk into the compartment. Had the cell been a little better illuminated I probably would have seen the clumps of rotting cream before tasting them when taking my first bite of cereal now soaked in rancid dairy. An inspection of the milk carton when the sun rose revealed an expiration date of March 11. The ruthless bastards actually forged an expiration date! They pissed in my cornflakes. Lieutenant Howard, this has your fingerprints all over it. You've won the battle, but the war is far from over.

To Chris F.

2009-03-11T23:11:00.007-04:00

Chris F. - I hope you read his because I want to let you know how much your letter means to me. The return address on the envelope had been partially mangled by the prison's mail opener, so I'm not able to respond directly. Please send your address again. I remember the time we spent together at the wedding vividly. It was by far one of the highlights of that evening. Thank you for writing.

Peachy Keen

2009-03-11T22:49:00.007-04:00

Because circumstances prevented A-Upper range from getting recreation yesterday, all of us on that floor are being given an extra hour in the chicken coops today as "make-up." With temperatures at 55-60 F (13-15 C), it is an absolutely perfect day. In just a couple of months temperatures like these will seem comparatively frigid, but for now I could not ask for more pleasant conditions. I'm actually outside in the rec cage right now, as I write this. What's it called: Live blogging? I'm live blogging.

Sitting along a fence so that as many rays of sun as possible hit my badly-needing-a-tan body is turning out to be one of the most physically refreshing experiences of the year so far. No one else in the coops seems to share my recreation revelry, though. Quite a few vexed and annoyed glances from my fellow "reccers" have been shot my way. And on our way out here from the cell, even my own celly gave me one of those looks that says "Are you fucking serious?" when he saw that I was bringing writing materials out with me. This is due to this environment's intense preoccupation with always being "on the ready." The fact that I'm sitting unconcernedly in a cage engrossed in a pad of paper, seemingly oblivious to the four other convicts in the cage with us is blatantly violating the custom of always considering how to be at the best advantage to fend off any potential attacker or tickler. It is a part of The Code which extends to wearing shoes or boots at all times, even to the shower. Which sucks because unless your celly is a talented or at least willing masseuse, getting a decent foot rub is out of the question if prison etiquette is to be followed. Whatever - I'm the SuperFriends shot-caller; I make my own rules. And what my celly and everyone else looking resentful at my carefree demeanor don't realize is that I actually am consciously in the optimal position for my super-secret strategy of dealing with attackers - curling into a ball and yelling for my mommy.

Looking around me, it's amazing to see how the glory of Spring is able to permeate the thickest of walls and highest of fences. Drainage pipes stretching along the ceiling of the coops provide a perfectly secure nook for robins and doves to build their nests, which they are already busily doing. And the troops of ants and beetles and caterpillars which at most times would be an offensive sight to behold at this moment are a welcome sign of the changing season as they cautiously venture from the stress cracks in the concrete.

Ugh, there's a spider. Get away from me you freaky eight-eyed devil bug.

Two hours already? Live blog session signing off.

Sourpuss

2009-03-08T22:24:00.006-04:00

What a joy it is to finally have a change from what's become the ordinarily freezing temperatures of an Indiana winter. Today could be described as tepid at best, not quite warm even, but the fact that there was still sensation in most parts of my feet after coming back inside from the hour out in the chicken coop is a welcome change of pace. Mr. Anonymous Celly opted to stay in the cell today, so out in the rec cages today it was just Brad, Brad's new celly, Joestrodomos, SpongeBob, Timmy the Psycho and myself. Brad's new cellmate is quite a character. He had been transferred from a prison in McQuery, Kentucky where he lasted in general population only two days before being beat up by the members of a gang he used to belong to after suddenly having a change of heart about his enrollment (if only it were that easy). He introduced himself to me as Quick. After talking to him for a few minutes it occurred to me that he must have lightning fast hands to have earned that moniker or else that is the most ironic sobriquet ever bestowed upon a man. I mean it in the nicest way possible, but the poor guy is about as smart as a bag of hammers, a fact evidenced by his answer given to my inquiry of what inspired him to have a sword tattooed on his face; a sword overlapped by a large red swastika. While answering the question Quick began to excitedly jump up and down, grinning from ear to ear, like a 6-year old telling his mom how he was picked first for kickball at school that day, his head wagging like some sort of neo-Nazi bobble-head. Quick explained that he and a couple friends were discussing facial tattoos when one of them jokingly suggested our buddy have a swazi tatted on him. Quick heard a challenge (uh oh, where has this come up before). "What, you don't think I'd do it?" he told them. They said they didn't. "Well, as you can see, I did it," he said to me. Way to go, Quick; you showed them. Stolen symbol of intolerance aside, Quick really isn't a bad guy, just misguided. He's the most cheerful, generous and optimistic person I've encountered in a long time. To a fault, actually. You see, it's important not to be too upbeat and cheerful in a high-security prison like this one. Certain people become agitated by this behavior and sometimes take offense.

Sounds kinda crazy right? Like a world full of Grinches. Someone told me a few years ago that the average sentence here in Terre Haute is 17 years. There are quite a few lifers around here, so that figure sounds about right. With so many people doing such long sentences, there's usually not much reason to smile. I mean happy smiles. Don't get me wrong, there's quite a bit of laughing and guffawing taking place. Telling the story of how Butt-Naked Bones got the name Butt-Naked Bones by getting drunk and trying to rape his celly, Newt, will have anyone in here rolling on the floor in stitches. A big win at a softball game will have the victorious team in mirthful spirits for a while. These are superficial genialities, though, and a vast majority of convicts are solemn at best or viciously angry at worst. A true glass-is-half-full kind of guy really needs to temper his cheery optimism around here, because being truly happy while in prison is like yelling in the library, a disturbance to those engrossed in their own misery. Engaging in such frowned upon lightheartedness is to incite the resentment or even hostility of the party-poopers around you.

The avoidance of a cheerful countenance reflects a direct correlation between the respect a person is given and the demeanor he usually assumes. For example, to walk around with a look of mild indifference on your face is to be thought of as "a pretty good guy." Someone who prowls the prison yard appearing to be filled with bitter rage is almost always considered a "solid convict." What about me, you wonder? I've achieved no less than king-like status in certain social circles for no other reason than my mastery of a facial expression indicating that all in one day someone had burst my bubble; got my goat; rained on my parade; pissed in my cornflakes; and killed my puppy. This is not a pretty sight. Only one time have I forgotten to wipe this look from my face before looking in the mirror, an incident which ended with me curled into the fetal position on my bunk, gently rocking myself to sleep while sobbing into my pillow.

As an aside, even that isn't my most potent facial expression. The pissed-in-my-cornflakes cast is like playing peek-a-boo compared with the horror of what I call simply The Serious Face. Nina, you know what I'm talking about. Just describing this expression would have everyone who reads the words scrambling for a closet to hide in after immediately depositing their laptops or computer monitors out of the nearest window. I'll only say that the few unlucky guards I've subjected to The Serious Face have all demanded early retirement.

Basically, Quick needs to work on his serious face. Unfortunately, chances are good that he'll eventually be released into general population after his paperwork arrives from McQuery; and after a few months of his enthusiastic smiling, hopping and skipping over things like how good the green beans here are, a few of the surly old-timers will lose patience and send a few of the mildly indifferent youngsters to go give him an "attitude adjustment." Guess it's true that misery loves company. Just as life sentences like misery.

C'est la prison, as they might say in Région Parisienne.

Counter Surveillance

2009-03-08T17:37:00.002-04:00

Not long ago I became aware that SuperFriends has finally had visitors from inside the prison; staff, of course. The fact that it has taken so long for the administration to "log on" is a little surprising. All outgoing inmate mail is closely monitored, so maybe they've always considered themselves completely aware of the SuperFriends SuperMovement and finally decided to read the site as a novelty. Who knows.

What I would like to know is who exactly has been logging on. Guessing that the Almighty Warden Herself - She Who Must Be Obeyed - has taken the time to scope the site out would be almost presumptuous on my part, a rather self-important theorization. But it would have to be someone in the upper-administration, because they're the only ones with that ability. It is someone from one of the institution's two investigation offices - the S.I.S. and S.I.A. - who would be a prime candidate for the "internal" visitor. I can safely eliminate the S.I.A. office because they're actually a branch of the F.B.I. and therefore too full of themselves to surf some silly blog: the snobby pricks.

Which leaves the office of the S.I.S. - Special Investigation Supervisor. Ms. Hernandez, have you been spying on me? Mr. Moore, are you now stalking the Internet looking for interactions like you monitor phone calls doing the same? Ahh, Lieutenant Howard, I knew it was you all along. Now that you've been promoted to S.I.S. are you falsifying memos from Region like you were doing when you worked in the hole? I'm just giving you a hard time, don't put me on any of The Lists you guys keep up there. Semper Fi.

Alright then you Big Brother-Gestapo-Storm-Trooper-C.I.A.-Wannabe, fine, upstanding government employees, I hope you're enjoying SuperFriends. Why don't you create a profile and become an official Follower? Might as well, because whenever you cast your evil eye in my direction - I'm watching you watch me. Remember that.

No Method To The Madness

2009-03-04T15:42:00.005-05:00

Now that I've been accepted into the jungle habitat of cell A-203 and have finally gotten comfortable, I'm starting to get a good idea of who else is on A-Upper range. Turns out that SpongeBob SquarePants is right next door to me! Obviously SpongeBob SquarePants isn't his real name, but it's so commonly used that even most of the guards know him only as SpongeBob. It's cool to call him SpongeBob for short, or Sponge. Or Bob. Don't ever call him SquarePants, though. Don't ask why, just avoid doing so at all costs. There are quite a few odd individuals around here, but besides his nickname, SpongeBob SquarePants is a pretty normal guy by society's standards. 5'6", slight build with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard which gives him an unfortunate Charles Manson-ish appearance. Rather than orchestrating the murders of upstanding Californians, though, SpongeBob wouldn't hurt a fly. A graduate school dropout, Bob's actually a surprisingly rational and intelligent guy. Just an unfortunate victim of the new American scourge called methamphetamine. His addiction to this horrible drug, he explained, was precisely what gave him the life sentence he's serving.

Sponge, you got a life sentence? I asked him. Yep, he said. What'd you do, kill somebody for it? No. Rape somebody? No. Did you try to kill somebody? No. Did you know someone who killed somebody? No. Did you know someone who thought about killing somebody? No. Did you get the judge's daughter pregnant? Yes... I'm just kidding, no. SpongeBob SquarePants finally explained that to be sentenced to life in prison, all he had to do was tell his ex-girlfriend he'd sell her 3.5 grams of meth.

The story according to him is that the ex-girlfriend who had actually introduced SpongeBob to the drug several years before called him up one day and asked him to sell her 3.5 grams, an 8-ball in druggie vernacular. Bob tells me that he was a regular user at this point in his life but had no ambition or desire to become a dealer at all. He did have to meet his own dealer later on that day, and to pick up an extra 8-ball for a woman he knows was no big deal, so he tells her on the phone that she should stop by his place the next day to pick it up.

Sponge says the next day his ex-girlfriend never showed up. Calls to her phone only got a recording. No big deal. Until about a month later when Federal agents arrested Bob in his workplace, charging him with conspiracy to distribute methamphetamine. The court transcripts I've seen tell how Bob's ex-girlfriend, apparently a woman with a grudge, was arrested in a neighboring state several months back with a small amount of meth. As she's being interrogated about whom she bought the drug from, guess where she points the finger. "Oh yeah?" her interrogators say, "tell us about some other times you've bought from this guy." Ex-girlfriend gets booked and eventually some "concerned citizen" contacts the police and says that he wants to come clean about buying dope from this guy Bob. SpongeBob tells me that he later discovered that Concerned Citizen is actually ex-girlfriend's current boyfriend. Concerned Citizen lists another dozen drug purchases from Bob and all of a sudden the D.E.A. hears about this meth kingpin SpongeBob SquarePants. In exchange for sentence leniency, ex-girlfriend agrees to assist in bringing down this druggie menace to society. The call was made, the Feds were recording, SpongeBob dug his own hole and didn't even know it.

After SpongeBob's arrest and arraignment, his court-appointed lawyer came to discuss the case. The lawyer tells Bob that he's toast. He's being charged not only with the 8-ball he without a doubt agreed to distribute in the recording, but also with every grain of the "ghost dope," more Federal lingo for the drugs people are charged with which exist only on the word of other druggies, which ex-girlfriend and Concerned Citizen claimed they bought. Lawyer explains that the grand total is just under a kilogram of methamphetamine and the maximum penalty for SpongeBob's charge is life. Life in Federal prison isn't translated as 20 or 30 years; there is no parole for lifers. When a person is given a life sentence in Federal court, s/he will die in prison. Lawyer-guy advises SpongeBob to work with Federal investigators and plead guilty for a 10-year sentence because losing at trial would be flirting with a life sentence and Bob would lose. Now wishing he hadn't, SpongeBob SquarePants took his case to trial, unable to stomach the injustice of the whole situation, lost the trial, and was sentenced to a slow, miserable death in prison.

There are many things SpongeBob is ... short, stingy, funny, religious. But a drug dealer SpongeBob is not. Selling drugs takes a criminal intuition, self-discipline, personality, and at least a modicum of salesmanship. Because SpongeBob lacks every one of those qualities in spades, I tend to believe him when he tells me that he really wasn't a drug dealer. But so what if he was? What does it matter if he sold 350 keys instead of 3.5 grams? How is it justifiable to sentence a person to spend every day until they die in prison, at taxpayer expense, no less! Last I checked, people like you are paying $25,000 dollars a year (most recent figure) to make sure this petite man doesn't corrupt society with his highly-addictive wares.

The idiot Nazis back on B-Upper range were so concerned with Obama being some sort of Islamic terrorist sleeper agent. Man, did they have it wrong. It was fucking Reagan (or should I say Bin Reagan) whose War on Drugs turned the American justice system into nothing more than a glorified Sharia court. We're only one step away from taking Michael Phelps out in back of the nearest McDonald's and stoning him to death for getting photographed smoking pot. Might as well if we're going to allow decent men to be given a protracted death sentence for drugs which may or may not exist.

The new administration in Washington is going through the budget line by line to discover and eliminate the programs that don't work. Hey Obama, here's an idea! -- Go through the damn Federal sentencing procedures line by line to eliminate what doesn't work. Sentencing people to life in prison for drug offenses is not only unjust, it doesn't work!

His Natural Habitat

2009-03-04T15:11:00.001-05:00

This week has been nothing more than an exemplification of sloth. After the big move out of cell B-213, the process of adjusting to a new roommate and new cell atmosphere provided me with a perfect excuse to do absolutely nothing of any substance for the past six or seven days, instead choosing to observe my new celly in his environment and study his habits. This process takes several days and is not at all as easy as one might imagine, being by far the most difficult part of a cell transition. It involves spending no less than 72 hours crouched in the corner of the cell camouflaged with blankets and sweat t-shirts, disguised as an occasionally-quivering pile of dirty laundry. This is an important task because as the subject adjusts to the presence of another male's pheromones in the air, anything besides the utmost furtive movements will send him into a rage. This unfortunately means defecating into a plastic bag and drinking my own urine for hydration until a bond of trust can be formed and the subject develops an acceptance. After the initial 72 hours, it is finally safe to emerge from the stinky-laundry cocoon. The actual visual presence of a rival male will startle the subject initially, which provokes quite a bit of chest-thumping and grunting in an attempt to assert dominance. This is all just part of the instinctual ritual, though; it is customary and necessary to hoot and holler and growl right back. It is the subject's natural inclination to establish himself in an alpha-male role, but he is temporarily blind to the fact that he is no longer part of the pack and a role of dominance in his current world is not only unacceptable but also self-defeating. Once the subject is finally adjusted to the new presence and his attempts at dominance have subsided, creating trust and rapport is important to truly be accepted and share in his hunting strategies and his environmental network. Establishing such rapport is most easily done by showing excited interest or even wonder at the subject's communications and also by the sharing of food items or other sundries. Such acts create a bond which will eventually transcend to trust which stems from a feeling of provisional security.

After 20 years in the concrete jungle my subject still did not know how to create fire. When this feat was demonstrated to him, my status was lifted from intruder to demi-god. In return for providing him with the technology to brew hot coffee, I was given a banana. Two, actually. And a cup of coffee.

I'm Taking my Tonka Truck and Going Home

2009-02-26T13:00:00.001-05:00

I've known Brad for over two years, three months of that spent in the same cell together at least 23 hours a day. In that time I've come to consider him a good friend. But things in the cell finally reached a point where if one of didn't move there was a good chance we wouldn't be friends anymore. So I moved. Of course it was over something ultimately petty and childish, and more than a little my own fault. You see, two days ago lunch was served much later than usual. This delay and our rumbling bellies built up a vastly heightened level of anticipation for the meal and its inevitable deliciousness. At around two o'clock we were convinced the tardiness was the result of our filet mignon being cooked medium instead of medium-rare, and we were excited. And hungry. When the trays finally arrived we sat down in our respective dining areas and removed the lids in an anticipatory flourish.

Rather than the gastronomic delicacy we had been expecting, our trays were instead filled with an indefinable slop. The Washington, D.C. inmates who run the kitchen's a.m. cook shift apparently made a gravy-like soup out of flour and water with just a pinch of chicken bouillon base added for color. A few slices of boiled potatoes rose out of the soup like white-rock mesas, a smooth contrast to the jagged peaks of chicken pieces which had apparently been scraped from the floor of the local Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise's dumpster. There was also a serving of beans and rice as a "side-dish" or whatever.

Chanting my little stress-relieving adage, "Three-two-one, one-two-three / There's nothing the matter with me," I took a deep breath and set to work on my beans and rice. Out of the corner of my eye I observed Brad in a rigid state, grotesquely scowling at the tray in his hands.

"What's up, buddy?" I asked him.

"Man, this is crazy," he said.

"No argument here."

"I wouldn't feed my dog this garbage," he said. There was a bitterness in his voice, an anguish almost.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. The beans aren't awful, though. Here's some salt 'cus they're just a little bland."

"I oughta just sling this crap all over the door."

I paused. The idea of using our cell as some sort of chicken-stew shooting gallery is utterly ridiculous. The statement was an expression of his frustration, not a literal desire. Still, out of all the things I could have said, the statement I chose was:

"You don't have a hair on your ass if you don't."

Why oh why did I say that? This is like the prison version of the triple dog dare. To heed it at all is just as childish as when a 10-year old heeds it, but challenging someone with it isn't any more mature, and I had just challenged Brad to sling his tray.

He leveled his glance at me and said, "What, you don't think I'll do it?"

I looked at him square in the eyes. I had challenged him and now he was challenging me back, in a way. What I should have and meant to say was "Yeah, I know you'll do it." But what I actually said was "You're soft if you don't."

***WHAM***, a big brown tray flies across the cell, bouncing off the door. Beans and potatoes and yellowish paste are everywhere. For a while we both try to pretend nothing happened. Brad sat calmly on his bed while I sprinkled more salt on my beans. A few minutes go by in silence, just both of us watching little pieces of chicken stream down the door and walls, trying not to notice the upturned tray which had ricocheted back to the floor between us.

Eventually Brad said, "I'm not cleaning it up."

He had probably realized that even though he hadn't backed down from my challenge, he still looked a little foolish. This declaration was only to save face by giving me a mock challenge in return. I was just as guilty as he was in this stupid incident and should have just backed down by saying I'd clean the mess and Brad would have surely insisted after all that he would clean it up. What I should have and meant to say was "Whatever, dude, I'll get it," but what I actually said was, "I'll bet you clean it up before I do."

Not long afterwards a guard came to collect the trays. By this time I had climbed back in bed and was reading my book, so Brad picked up the tray from the floor and, stepping around piles of rice and puddles of soup, handed it along with the other one to the cop, then returned to his own bunk. Neither of us spoke or in any way acknowledged the slowly drying food. Minutes passed, then hours. Dinner eventually arrived and the meal passed in awkward silence. By the time dinner trays were picked up the tension was so thick in the cell it could be cut with a knife. Brad had pissed me off, WTF was he thinking? Who throws their food? As much as Brad had made me angry, I was just as angry with myself. I'd had several opportunities to be the mature one and prevent the whole situation yet felt compelled to provoke it instead. What was worse was the fact that the longer we simmered together in our frustrations, the angrier and more resolved to "win the challenge" I became.

At some point in the late evening the nurse arrived to give me some pills. Tiptoeing around the now rock-hard, rotting food, I realized that enough was enough. We seemed to bring the immature obstinance out of each other, which was leading us down a road neither of us wanted to go down. The food everywhere was driving me crazy so I began to scrub the mess and decided the next day I would leave the cell.

At recreation the following morning it was discovered that an acquaintance of mine from general population ("the yard") was in the hole now and had an open bunk, so the move was immediately orchestrated. Everything in my new digs seems to be working out perfectly so far. All my things are organized again and I'm getting settled in to learning the idiosyncrasies of the guy I'll be spending up to 24-hours a day with. The only thing is, my new cellmate has asked me not to write about him at all, not even with an alias. I will respect his wishes, but only because I gave my word not to. Well, also a little bit because he's pretty big and could probably beat me up. So everything's cool, just a few changes in living conditions. Good celly and good spirits, what more could I ask for?
Well....

Waxing Philosophical

2009-02-20T07:53:00.000-05:00

Jules Renard wrote: "Failure is not the only punishment for laziness. There is also the success of others."

Yet Kierkegaard claims that "Far from idleness being the root of all evil, it is rather the only true good."

Well, while those two figure out whether they're coming or going, Whitney Smith says: "These guards better get off their fat butts at least long enough to pass the mail out if they don't want me to go ape-shit on one of them."

Fleshy Gordon

2009-02-19T14:33:00.000-05:00

When it comes to the Federal Bureau of Prisons, the name of the game is efficiency. Earlier today I heard a commotion down towards the front of the floor, or range, I'm on and observed that it was the food trays being passed out by no less than six guards. Each of the hole's six ranges is a straight corridor with twenty-four cells, twelve going down each side, two men per cell. The feeding process, usually a one or two-man operation, involves unlocking a flap on the cell door, slinging a container of whatever slop is being served inside the resulting opening, then relocking the flap. Repeat 23 times. Obviously the requirements for a federal prison guard are not unlike those for entry into the Army's Delta Force. Brad and I are in the last cell on the left, so as the sextet of correctional officers begin the distribution process, I say to Brad: "Man, they got six of 'em out there. The over/under on when they make it here is 7 minutes. Bet ten stamps." Brad takes the under. Sucker. The time was 12:14.

At 12:46 two trays of baked chicken came sliding through the door. What one person should have taken fifteen minutes to do took six government employees over thirty. When a person understands that this is the B.O.P efficiency at its finest, the fact that the warden claims pauper when it comes to things like single-ply toilet paper suddenly isn't a shocker. Abandoning the plate of chicken which was so undercooked it was still clucking, I set to work in determining the financial impact of the cops' ineptitude in this situation. Here's the math: At a conservative estimate of $17 an hour, feeding 48 inmates of a population of 1500 cost $50. Not the food, just making sure they got the food. If the process was performed with the same faster-than-a-speeding bullet rapidity on the other ranges, then feeding the entire hole their lunch cost well over $300.

What's my point with all that number crunching and whining? To be honest, I just feel like bitching to someone and Brad's taking a nap. But more than that, despite the fact that we don't pay taxes, we inmates do have a stake in the issue of wasted funding. All of my clothes and bedsheets are washed by hand in the cell's sink with soap purchased myself from the prison commissary, although I've been unable to get a clean blanket for more than a month because "there's no money for detergent." Every night when I cover up with the same dingy blanket I think about the gross ineptitude and inefficiency of the vastly overpaid babysitters passing as prison guards and tears come to my eyes. Most of these guards aren't bad people. Maybe a little thick in the waist and thin in the head, but they aren't pulling us out of our cells for random beatings or anything. I'd just hope that it's not too much to ask that, with an unemployment rate last reported at well over 7%, our prison administration would hire guards who can at least spell treadmill even if they don't know how to use one.

Vernon God Little

2009-02-16T20:17:00.002-05:00

One of the most entertaining novels I've ever read, second only to Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, is Vernon God Little, by Australian-born DBC Pierre, the pseudonym used by Peter Warren Finlay. If you're looking for profound, check out Vanity Fair. If something epic is to your tastes, this book cannot be juxtaposed in any way with Moby Dick. But for a truly fun read with a strong social message, this is the one. Vernon God Little is a brutally honest, sometimes grotesque and thoroughly hilarious glimpse into the dungeon which can be small-town middle America. The book's narrator, 15-year old Vernon Little, is a social loner in rural Texas where he fails to in any way relate or connect with not only his school fears but also his own family, especially his imbalanced single mother. Vernon's only friend is another quiet loner. At least until the friend carries out a Columbine-style massacre, committing suicide afterwards. The resulting press coverage launches the previously unknown town into national headlines which everyone from the mayor to Vernon's own mother hopes will propel them out of their lives dominated by fast-food, reality television and celebrity gossip into a world of fame and wealth which they were all obviously meant for. Through their desperation, poor, innocent Vernon becomes charged with murder as an accomplice to his friend's horrific crimes.

Hmm, for having described the book as hilarious, what I've just written won't exactly have Judd Apatow screaming for the movie rights. But while the plot itself doesn't exactly inspire mirth, Vernon's reactions to his predicament and the startling observations he makes about the world around him are nothing short of pricelessly funny. Finlay could not have created a more situationally appropriate teenage boy than Vernon.

In the final chapter of Vernon God Little, Finlay makes a bold prediction about the future of the American penal system. To say any more would be to give away the book's ending, but the theory is so plausible despite being completely ridiculous that how it hasn't come to fruition already is a complete mystery.

Hopefully this book will be enjoyed by all those who choose to read it. Although unabashedly vulgar at times, this is satire at its best through and through. And here's a snippet to whet your appetite:

"Uh huh. Let me explain that my job is to uncover the truth. Before you think that's a hard thing to do, I'll remind you that, stuss-tistically, only two major forces govern life in this world. Can you name the two forces underlying all life in this world."

"Uh -- wealth and poverty?"

"Not wealth and poverty."

"Good and evil?"

"No -- Cause and effect. And before we start I want you to name the two categories of people that inhabit our world. Can you name the two proven categories of people?"

"Causers and effecters?"

"No. Citizens -- and liars. Are you with me Mister Little. Are you here?"

Special Delivery

2009-02-16T19:16:00.002-05:00

The United States Postal Service is bleeding money like the sacrificial goat in a satanic ritual. From what I've been reading in USA Today, our Postmaster reports record-setting losses for the 2008 fiscal year totaling in the billions of dollars. Billions! Yes, we're talking about the organization with an army of men and women prancing through the streets in their too-tight navy shorts and their oh-so-cool European satchels. Just where exactly is the $8.40 I'm spending on every book of 20 stamps going? Yeah, yeah - salaries, pensions, health insurance, vehicle maintenance, gas ... Gas! I had almost forgotten to take into consideration the fact that last year's record losses for our little letter carriers coincide with the record gains in gas/oil industry profits as regular unleaded gas was going for about four bucks a pop last year. I'll admit that maybe the post office's bitching is legitimate and perhaps it's more than governmental ineptitude which is blowing our country's postal wad. So what do we do?

According to the articles I've been reading in the newspaper, there are three options which are being considered to ensure that the U.S.P.S. weathers its current financial storm. One possibility is to put together some sort of federal bailout, a lump-sum payment/loan from Team Obama which would keep the delivery trucks' tanks filled and ensure that the stockpile of silly shorts never runs short. Considering the stunning efficiency and effectiveness with which the Fannie and Freddie bailouts were performed, it's no wonder that this option seems to be spoken about only as lip service. The second option suggested was to significantly increase the price of a stamp. Normally, the price of a stamp can only rise at the rate of inflation except in emergency conditions when the post office can ask Congress to approve a rate hike as high as necessary. Postal spokespersons have already stated that when they seek approval for a rate increase which would take effect in May, they would not ask for anything more than the $.01 or $.02 boost which would keep rates in pace with inflation, forgoing any "emergency" increases. The only other reasonable course of action officials can come up with is to cut an entire day of mail delivery, reducing the postal schedule from a six-days a week operation to an only five-days a week affair. This sounds to be the most seriously considered option at the moment and in my own admittedly uninformed opinion, this does seem the most ideal of the three choices for rescuing our mail services.

But can't we come up with an option number four? While for a lot of people the daily mail is nothing but a load of bills and snailspam, mail-call for me is just about the only thing I've got to look forward to each day. The rush from mail-call is not unlike putting a big bet down on a roulette table, watching the guard make his way to your cell like a ball circling the wheel, sorting the stack of letters and magazines in his hand while the inmates watch and wonder if today's going to be the day they'll hit. Sometimes you lose and the cop just keeps on strolling past your room and sometimes you hit big and a thick stack of envelopes come sliding under the door. Win, lose, or draw, there's always the thrill of the game, so eliminating a sixth of the mail delivery is like eliminating a sixth of my happiness. I'll bet those selfish pricks didn't even take my opinion into consideration when coming up with this crackpot scheme of theirs. Jerks. Childish rants aside, I'm certain that there has got to be a better, even more cost-effective way of saving our already generously paid postal workers' asses without stripping Whitney of a sixth of his reason for getting up in the morning.

To come up with such an idea we must look for inspiration everywhere. Especially outside of America, where men and women brave the rain, sleet and snow to ensure that fellow citizens have their letters and magazines and anthrax in a timely manner, just as we do. And, like us, the boon of e-mail's instantaneous transmissions and ease of online bill-paying has been a near-mortal bane to postal services across the globe. The whole world is feeling the postal pinch, so what have the world's other nations been doing to counteract the technological scourge of e-mail? This online villain which is slowly but surely digging a grave for the almighty stamp. While Europe is without a doubt the first place to look for money-saving strategies, we should not focus too hard on the French. This clever nation has already devised a deceptively ingenious method of trimming expenditures through having constant national strikes by government employees. Many American state governments have picked up on the idea and instituted four-day work weeks for state workers, but some of these workers are fighting the change tooth and nail. The French government has realized that by pissing their employee unions off they can not only get them to reduce their hours, but also to actually initiate the reductions themselves. While this tactic is indeed genius, it's important to keep our goal in mind - to keep work loads at their current level, if not actually increasing them. What about the Deutschlanders; the Scots; the Swedes? Is India having any major issues with postal cash flow? If not, why not; what's your secret? I, for one, am willing to seek good advice from wherever I can find it, whatever it takes to preserve the six days of mail delivery which I cherish so much.

Until this international feedback arrives (Really! Leave your comments!) though, we can also be considering every possibility already available to us Americans. Although the U.S.P.S. is a Federal institution, it is designed to run at a modest profit. This fact makes it, by definition, a business. Why is it that the Postmaster General seems to have forgotten one of the cardinal rules of business: Sex sells. I mean, who really looks forward to dealing with the dry, old traditional post office? This isn't the Fifties, these days Playboy is considered so tame that by now issues are probably sold in check-out lines at Toys R Us. The globe is in recession, so now is not the time to be afraid of showing a little skin. First and foremost, where's the Jenna Jameson stamp? I'm not suggesting having a still-shot from Naughty Nympho Gangbang 4 right beside the "42 cents USA" text. But a tastefully raunchy photo of this emaciated porn mogulette is certain to boost business among men in the 8-80 age bracket. Also, with the restaurant industry in turmoil, there's got to be hundreds of out-of-work Hooters girls who would be more than thrilled with government pay and benefits. How about ditching the tacky shorts and knit shirts for two-piece bikinis? Watch the resulting explosion in packages having the same return address as the shipping address and requiring a signature upon delivery. Do not mistake the preceding suggestions as being made in the spirit of exploiting women. They're intended to exploit men and their Pavlovian reactions to anything with curves. And what's wrong with giving the ladies a little glimpse at some man-meat as well? I've developed a pretty nice body over the past couple of years so, if it were for the good of my country's mail services, I wouldn't hesitate to hit some of Florida's retirement communities to delivery mail wearing nothing but my fuzzy blue cowboy hat, zebra print bikini underwear and a pair of comfortable shoes. Enduring the gawks of a few old ladies is the smallest sacrifice a man can make for his country and its desperately ailing postal network.

If half-naked employees is too extreme even in this 21st century, that's fine. But as much of the rest of the country is scrambling for part-time jobs (if they can even find them) to supplement income, it should not be unreasonable to expect the U.S.P.S. to do the same. Almost every person in this country has a Federal employee on their property once a day. While that government representative is there, what if someone needs a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread from a store down the road? For a fee, how about being able to have a few groceries delivered with one's mail - two birds with one stone. Or if it's your friend Jenny's birthday, how about sending her a singing telegram with her next issue of Elle via the U.S.P.S. For a fee.

These are just a couple of the possibilities which come to mind. Whether or not these particular strategies are put in place is not important, but we do need to keep in mind that desperate times call for desperate measures. As a country, it is vital that we think outside the box. If this means putting Chippendales on delivery routes while carrying speakers blasting Right Said Fred's mega-hit "I'm Too Sexy" or if my mail suddenly comes with a song and dance on my birthday, great. I just hope that we can come together as a nation to do what needs to be done so Smitty From The City can enjoy as many days of mail roulette as possible.

The Bacon Blues

2009-02-11T13:03:00.006-05:00

"How old is Smurf?"

"Say that again, I had my earphones on."

"Smurf, how old is he?"

"Let me get this straight - I'm in The Zone, writing a five-page essay on how Emily Dickinson's shut-in ass can't tell a train from a horse, and you decide to ask me about Smurf?"

"Yep."

"OK, but before I answer that question, here's a question for you: What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You don't have to be a jerk; either answer the question or don't. You don't even know, do you?"

"Of course I know how old Smurf is. Late sixties somewhere. He may be seventy by now."

"Huh. I was just down here thinking about Smurf's gang, that's why I asked."

"Oh yea, that's right. I had forgotten about his little crew."

"What were they called again, FAG?"

"Boy, if he ever found out you said that he'd put a hit out on you. He called his group FOGG, remember? The Fuckin' Old Guys Gang."

"Yeah, that's it. And he even had that wild hand signal that was a mix between a claw and a dead fish."

"I had forgotten about that too. You know, at first I used to think he was just joking around about FOGG like I do with the Superfriends. But then I was telling him about how he needed to start paying me dues every week because Superfriends was older and larger than FOGG, which made his organization a subsidiary of my own if he wanted FOGG to be active in Terre Haute. Smurf's reaction was priceless, I'll never forget it: He narrowed those beady little eyes, gave me that half-chuckle, half-sigh of his and said to me 'I'll slap fire out of your ass if you ever suggest something like that again. FOGG pays dues to no one.' And he was dead serious!"

"Ha ha! What did you do?"

"What could I do? It's Smurf. I tried not to laugh when I apologized and offered him an extra bag of bacon from the butcher shop the next day. As soon as he heard that he was all toothless grins again and mumbling 'Yeah yeah yeah.'"

"Poppa Smurf does love his bacon."

"He did. At a borderline obsession level really. Everyone I've talked to who's been doing time with Smurf for years has told me that for as long as they've known him Smurf ate bacon like it was his last meal on earth. Remember that awful bacon we'd been getting until about a year ago, the stuff with a green stripe down every piece? Smurf loved that stuff more than anything in the world. He would have attacked his own mother for just a scrap. I'd bring out a couple of sandwich bags full of the stuff and deliver it to him at lunch twice a week. Before he'd walk out of the chow hall, he'd break down the two fat bags into six smaller bags and stuff them down his socks and in his shoes and down his pants like it was bags of heroin he was smuggling back to the cellblock. The love affair between him and bacon had been like that for decades, I guess. Then that good, real bacon came in for a few months. As soon as Smurf tasted that new stuff it was like somebody flipped a switch off inside him. After that Smurf never touched bacon again. The smell nauseated him and the appearance revolted him. Whenever bacon was served he'd stay in his cell and eat Ramen soups."

"That's crazy, I didn't know that."

"Not too many people did except me and Tiny and we only knew because he wouldn't take any more from us. Honestly, I think Smurf somehow got it into his head that, by the person ordering good bacon, he was being patronized. Like he'd been gorging himself for so many years on sub-standard swine that to be given some real stuff was a cruel joke; throwing a dog a bone. So Smurf got offended. That's just conjecture, though. Smurf's kinda weird."

"After being locked up for 40 years I'd say anybody would be weird."

"Yeah, forty years. Can you believe that? When I look at 40 years as 40 years the number seems bad enough. But when I individualize each year in my mind and count them off - one, two, three, four, ten, twenty, thirty-five, forty - the amount of time becomes an entirely different animal. I mean, think about how every one of those years had four seasons, twelve months and 365 days, from year one to year forty. That's a whole lot of days waking up to concrete and razor wire just for robbing banks."

"The Feds are messed up. You were already in the hole when he left, weren't you?"

Yes. And I was mad about it too. I heard there was a big celebration for him."

"Except for Tiny, you talked to him more than anybody. How did he feel about going home? Was he excited?"

"Man, Smurf was on serious Shawshank Redemption mode. And he wasn't shy about the fact either. If you ever asked him he'd tell you in a heartbeat that he was scared to death. Once I was over in his cell at the old man's unit to drop some cigarettes off when we got on the topic of his wife and kids and grandkids and what it would be like to see them again. It was horrible, Smurf started to cry. I thought he was sobbing because he missed them and reassured him that he'd be out there with them soon enough. Messed me up when he said that it wasn't the fact that he missed his family that hurt, but the fact that he didn't miss them. That's deep. Guess you can't miss people you don't even know. Those were a seriously unsettling ten-minutes right there, having to watch a man who's spent 40 years of his life in high-security prisons and escaped from two of them have tears dripping from his face because he's scared to go home."

...

...

"How much time do you have left again, Smitty?"

"Assuming I win my trial, about three more years."

"Yeah? That's not too bad."

"No, it isn't."

"If I don't win this appeal, I've got 17 years to go."

"You'll win."

...

...

"When I first got here I thought Smurf was a predator."

"What!?"

"I know that's crazy, but that's the vibe I got from him at first."

"Ha, no, I mean what the hell is a 'predator'?"

"You know, I'm a young guy with a smooth face and never been to prison before. People always told me the stories about how I shouldn't take gifts from people and how if anyone leaves a candy bar on my pillow not to eat it because there's always a price to pay."

"So Smurf put a candy bar on your pillow?"

"No, smartass, he didn't leave a candy bar on my pillow. Look, when I first got here Smurf was still working in the barber shop..."

"OK."

"And I'm up in the barber shop getting a haircut just a couple days after getting off the bus. I was still trying to figure out how things work and who's who when this weird old man who's cutting my hair starts talking about wishing he had some Viagra and LSD. I didn't even know his name. I just sit there and listen to him while he gives me a horrible haircut. When he's finally done he takes out some lotion or tonic or whatever and starts rubbing it into his hands."

"Ha ha! I see where you're going with this."

"Laugh if you want to, Smitty, but I was seriously thinking Smurf was trying to put some kind of move down on me when he starts running his hands through my hair and massaging my head."

"Everybody knows Smurf's a horrible barber. The head rubs are the best part of his haircuts, and if it wasn't for them the little bugger would have been out of business."

"I know that now, but back then the only thing I know is that in a high-security prison there was some creepy old man with 8 1/2 fingers massaging my scalp, sighing all the time he did."

"Now that you mention it, I wasn't sure what to make of Smurf at first either. He does that weirdo stuff on purpose. The first time he cut my hair he was talking about how when he goes home he's going to become a stripper and that his stage name was going to be Buck Naked. Then he starts getting hyped up by talking about his plans and all of a sudden jumps out from behind the chair and starts gyrating his hips. Then he took off his shirt and spins it around his head 'woo-hooing' while I'm sitting in the chair asking myself 'W.T.F. is going on?' When it came time for the head rub and I see Smurf in the mirror with his little pink tongue sticking out between his teeth and hear him whispering 'Yeah yeah yeah" I really start to wonder if this guy is joking or just crazy."

"That's Smurf."

"That's Smurf."

"I wonder what he's doing now."

"Who knows. Tiny supposedly got a letter from him about six months ago, although it didn't say much. Smurf's still on probation so he's still paranoid about violating his probation by communicating with felons."

"You would be too."

"No doubt. Hey, Brad."

"What?"

"For that pack of M&Ms I gave you last night, why don't you come over here and let me massage your head, fish."

"Yeah, sure, smartass. Hey, what you need to do is have a good talk with your Samurai dude, because he's flashing his dick to me again and it's starting to piss me off."

Back row, l-r: "Smurf," "Tiny," "John the Prison Bitch," "Punching Bag"
Front: "Some really cool guy," "Rock"
(click to enlarge)

Ninja Turtles

2009-02-09T08:21:00.004-05:00

Prison sucks. Look, I'm really not the type of guy to sit around feeling sorry for myself, but at the moment prison is turning out to be a little more than I signed up for. Earlier today a set of cellmates (two of the white-power guys who are convinced of Obama's Al-Quaida loyalty after his inauguration stumble [yes, I stand by my claim that Obama is accountable - he knew the words of the oath, regardless of what Rickshaw Roberts said. Say them how you know they're supposed to be, Mr. Harvard!]) had a little bit too much to drink and wanted to have a little fun. Which in most cases is only reasonable, except that here in Terre Haute some people's idea of having fun is attempting to break out of their cell and take over the hole. What these two planned on doing once they controlled the building had they been able to overtake all 50 guards working in the prison at the time, is anybody's guess. Even they probably didn't know. After all, they were just drunk and wanting to have a little fun.

The institution's usual response in situations like this is to call in a special response team of highly-trained guards the inmates affectionately refer to as the Ninja Turtles, due to the bulky riot gear they wear. The Ninja Turtles have several tools at their disposal such as electric shields, tasers, guns which fire (usually) non-lethal ammunition, and pepper gas bombs. After the Ninja Turtles arrived several hours ago, their first tactic was to shoot the duo with hockey puck-size projectiles from their kinda non-lethal guns. While the wounds will undoubtedly have the pair whimpering tomorrow, in their current state of drunken half-rage, half-mirth they allowed the pucks to bounce off their bodies like whiffle balls. Sensing that the guns weren't having the intended effect, the Turtle squad fiendishly switched to pepper gas. The bastards. There's better air circulation in the space station than there is in this building, so when the gas goes off, Brad and I are just as exposed as the two drunk knuckleheads who were giggling as the gas-induced tears and snot dripped from their faces.

The past few hours have been hellish. A stinging, clinging, biting cloud of pepper vapor filled our cell like an old man's fart. Wet towels wrapped around our faces, my roomie and I have been choking and gasping for unadulterated oxygen which has only just now become available.

Within 15 minutes after the bomb going off, the pair were in the handcuffs and shackles, which they'll remain in until they sober up and then are returned to their cell containing nothing but a bed to sleep on. For everyone else it's back to business as usual except for trying not to breathe in real deep. Just another day in the life. Oh, here comes dinner.

That Boy's a Dancin' Fool

2009-02-07T14:51:00.004-05:00

There must have been something in the water back home over the holidays, an elixir which gave my city's population an uncontrollable compulsion to reconnect with somebody. Because during the past month I've gotten letters from a slew of people who I haven't seen or heard from in years: Aunts, cousins, friends, enemies. Don't get me wrong, the letters are both wonderful and appreciated. It's just that so many arriving in such rapid succession seems bizarre. Suspicious, even. Are these people in some sort of confederation against me!? No, I'm just kidding, the letters are awesome. A new one arrived just today from a dark-haired friend of mine I'll call Jade and has instantly become one of my favorite letters of the winter. In her letter Jade briefly touched on some important events in her life since we last saw each other, all of which were pleasing to hear about. Then, midway through, she wrote:

"What I remember about you more than anything else is how alive existence seemed around you. Whatever we did together was charged with the energy of your personality, like you electrified the world. Almost all of my favorite memories of those days are the trips we took in my Explorer or drinking "Mudslides" at Awakenings [a local coffee shop I used to frequent, and a Mudslide is an espresso/mocha/chocolate blended iced drink thingy served there]. I've still never laughed harder than the time you were kicked out of the Shell station bathroom [reference to a catastrophic hair-bleaching incident when, to prevent some severe chemical burns on my scalp, I was forced to bathe fully clothed in a public fountain]. I miss you, Whit."

For those who didn't know me in those late 90's/early 00's days, when I wasn't brightening the world with my electric personality or capturing the affections of petite brunettes with my brand of roguish seduction, most of my days were spent rescuing kittens stuck in trees and helping old ladies cross busy intersections. No, Brad, my chest has always stuck out this far. And you're wrong about me acting like a haughty asshole since reading that letter.

In truth, to read my personality being described as anything like energized is surprising. Although this could conceivably be true, I was 15 and 16 when I spent the bulk of my time with Jade. These were "post-drop out" years, years when my inexhaustible leisure time was dominated by activities like frying in the über-euphoric embrace of the drug Ecstasy, not exactly an activity conducive to electrifying the world around me. It was actually the pursuit of this drug which created the bond between Jade and myself. You see, those years were the peak of the techno/rave scene in the Midwest. Every weekend hoards of boys and girls filled with their small-town ennui would don ridiculously baggy clothes and neon jewelry and scuttle like so many rainbow cockroaches to random condemned warehouses or open, grassy fields where they consumed ungodly amounts of narcotics under the hippy-ish pretense of "becoming one with the music" that blasted out of a dozen massive speakers with such booming bass that light waves were bent from the force of the sound. "Becoming one with the music" too long at too close a distance can sometimes lead to becoming one with the poop running down one's leg as it seeps from one's mercilessly jarred bowels.

Traveling to these raves together was a perfect match for both of us, because what we could offer each other in regards to this activity was precisely what we respectively needed. I had information on where the best raves were and how to get in, as well as drug connections; she had a driver's license and a car. She had a great car, too - an almost-new Ford Explorer, the definitive American gas-guzzling behemoth, given to her by her "successful" parents as a sixteenth birthday present. Riding in a car Jade was driving was always a little unsettling. I mean this in the nicest way possible, but my friend apparently took driver's ed at "Carl's Discount Bumper-Car Academy" and the fact that she was able to pass the examination required to become the legal operator of a motor vehicle indicates a serious flaw in the State of Ohio's testing standards. Although the safety of a Ford Explorer's passengers is never seriously in question except in the rare instance of playing a game of chicken with a Sherman tank, riding in Jade's Explorer always carried with it the distinct possibility of becoming party to a vehicular homicide after Jade rolls over a Honda and its occupants as if they were no more than speed bump as she checks her mascara.

Her driving aside, Jade was a wonderful friend and we did have quite a few laughs together. Not too many in the raves we attended, though, so why those memories stick out to her is a mystery. It was around this time when my apprenticeship for becoming a selfish prick had just begun. My dancing probably had a lot to do with that fact. If anything about me could have been described as "electric," it would have certainly been my dancing. This was a small passion of mine back then. Except, while I certainly displayed vigor and unselfconscious enthusiasm every time I hit the floor, my particular style could only be described as comedically horrible. The visual juggernaut which were my dance moves is impossible to properly explain in words. But I'll say at least that my repertoire consisted mainly of a series of coordinated leg movements, skipping kicks, jerky arm thrusts, flamboyant spins and body rotations which varied depending on the direction my hat was facing. Maybe I was actually so bad as I was good, because I always received compliments which didn't seem to be at all patronizing or sarcastic. Or perhaps a side-effect of MDMA is the inability to read sarcasm.

While my dance floor convulsing alone would be enough to make any person wish they could say "Yeah, I'm with him," our raving adventures hardly seem to me to be exceptionally fond memories. The sometimes eight-hour drives to venues were always filled with a sort of giddy excitement which made everything vibrate, but the raves themselves now seem shallow, adulterated and somewhat meaningless because they all orbited around the drool-inducing effects of a drug. A few smiles and a couple of laughs come to mind, but I mostly see those experiences as an assemblance of teenage make-out sessions, dilated pupils and hearing damage. Whatever spark I may have had during those days must have been from caffeine, because some of my fondest memories from that period, as Jade said, were of sipping House Blend in our polished coffee shop and just generally being a nuisance. It's strange what seems significant almost decade later.

Man, the last month has been a tsunami of remembrance in my head with all of the blasts from the past via U.S.P.S. The last month has been a great month for mail period. Fairly often a feeling of disconnectedness overtakes me after being deprived of things like visits and phone calls for so long. To everyone who's taken the time to write me a letter or post a comment or even just think an encouraging thought about me: Thank you so much! Because of you I feel connected again and remember what to strive for; what to look forward to.

The House of Sleep

2009-02-04T15:45:00.001-05:00

To all those who were concerned: My shoulder is now as good as new and I'd like to thank everyone for their well-wishes. Despite the enormous amount of excruciating pain immediately following, the actual damage must have been minor, because after taking two Advil before bed, I awoke the next morning feeling wholly refreshed and pain-free. Either the incident wasn't anywhere near as serious as it felt, or Advil is some kind of miracle drug. Not that a miracle isn't an unreasonable thing to expect from a pill that costs $6 for a bottle of 20. At that price I should be able to eat a few and regenerate a few limbs.

Anybody need a good book to read? Nina the Fabulous Internet Sleuth sent Jonathan Coe's novel The House of Sleep to me earlier this month and I am now the newest of Coe's writing disciples. This man can weave a plot like a set of 10,000-thread-count sheets. Nominally a love story, this could probably be better described as an obsession story.

The book's chapters alternate between the lives of the four central characters while living in a rundown cliff-side manor which was being used as a boarding house for the university they all attended in the mid-eighties and then fast-forwards about a decade later when they reflect on how circumstances, events and decisions during their school years influence each other's lives in their thirties.

Sarah is a peculiar girl; a narcoleptic who often mistakes her dreams for actual events. Sarah's psyche is severely damaged by Gregory, her equally odd ex-boyfriend who has an unnatural fascination with sleeping habits. Terry's passion for cinema drives him to several extremes, while Terry's friend Robert has some serious identity issues.

The House is a truly excellent book, the kind that sucked me in and held me in a death grip until the last page. Mildly disturbing and extremely funny, there isn't anyone I wouldn't recommend this book to.

Butcher Shop Blues

2009-02-04T14:58:00.009-05:00

A few hours ago I finished a letter to Tiny (see post titled "The Superfriends" and photo) letting him know about some of the changes here in Terre Haute since his transfer. I told him about how C. has managed to make enemies of nearly half the population; about how Jamie and Wes now run a Terre Haute gambling empire; about how Brad sends word that Tiny should quit sucking down candy bars like they're half-price Jello shots (I used to cell with Tiny and he does do this). In Tiny's last letter to me he inquired as to the status of the butcher shop in the prison kitchen where we both worked together until I was fired. While, as the name implies, the two inmates employed there do handle and prepare all of the meat used in meals, contrary to the images "butcher shop" evokes in most people, there were no 100-pound slabs of beef hanging in a back cooler. Nor did we do things like case sausages or carve pork bellies. Our job consisted mostly of duties like slicing loaves of bologna or thawing and panning frozen chicken quarters to be baked. Not a whole lot of turkey carving going on, or steak tenderizing. Still, a position in the butcher shop is highly coveted among inmates not only because of some extra privileges which come with the job but also because massive meat-smuggling operations can be orchestrated either for personal consumption or black-market financial gain. My letter to Tiny contained only one sentence regarding the butcher shop: "The blacks have the butcher shop now." Meaning two black prisoners now held the positions. When proofreading the letter I thought to myself, man, that sounds kinda racist. I could have just as easily written "The 'Gangster Disciples' have the shop" or "Skee-Lo and Cockeye took our spot over." The fact that my default statement was to generalize using "the blacks" with all the connotations really disturbed me and had me contemplating my values. Am I becoming racist?

If I am becoming so, my upbringing certainly has nothing to do with the fact. Those who know me already know about how I grew up: the son of an ex-professor father and a now-retired financial consultant mother in a neighborhood about ten minutes from downtown Cincinnati. Although the fact that we lived in a suburb implies all-white at least in practice if not in definition, to say that my parents encouraged beliefs of racial equality is like saying the Pope encourages people to be Catholics. So sheltered was I from the venom of racist beliefs that, even outside my home, the first time I heard an even jokingly derogatory statement was when I was first incarcerated at 17. It was then that I realized intolerance and bigotry in America is in fact alive and well, not something that was cleared up after the civil rights era like a bad herpes outbreak.

Nothing could have prepared me for the encompassing racism inherent in the high-security federal prison system though. Literally everything here is designated by race before then being separated by gang, group and individual; black televisions; Hispanic televisions; white televisions; white cells; black cells; Hispanic cells; native American cells; and so on and so forth. Competition among the races for job positions in places like the kitchen or recreation center is fierce, because it will be the winning race's people who are able to reap the benefits of having a brotha of color in that job. Cultural celebrations are vastly different among the races, like the Cinco de Mayo for the Hispanics, gang-leader Larry Hoover's birthday for the blacks and (oh joy!) Adolf Hitler's b-day on April 20th for the whites. This latter celebration is sponsored by whichever white-power gang is dominant at the time, and attendees can usually win prizes by playing games like horseshoes; winning an essay contest; placing in the goose-stepping competition; or, in the spirit of "pin the tail on the donkey," being the quickest to "pin the moustache on Adolf." I'm joking about those last two.

For those who could care less about Larry Hoover and are repulsed by Hitler, there's no escape. Being open-minded in prison is not unlike being gay in the military: Don't ask, don't tell. Attendance to the 4/20 festivities isn't compulsory or anything, but deciding to sit at one of the Native tables during lunch one day would earn me a little more than a dirty look from the chief. An example of open-mindedness gone wrong was when the boys of the Aryan Resistance Militia (ARM) decided they would allow a half-Mexican gentleman to prospect for their little group. That's a pretty big step forward, right? It was until their General found out what had happened and made sure that each offending member understood they'd made a mistake. Mexican Mike was the identity-confused individual who caused all of the trouble. Poor Mexican Mike, he got it worst of all when the General's orders arrived.

As ridiculous as this prison mentality is, any light of hope for change is dim. My own aversion to racism is not by any means singular among my peers, although our views, if they were ever voiced, would be met with ten times the amount of derision and rejection than our tiny minority could muster. Although I at one point contemplated ways of promoting tolerance, that fire inside me has cooled. Sometimes ideas still come to me. At the moment I'm reading a fantastic book by Robert B. Cialdini titled Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion. As a substratum to a larger point he was making, Cialdini briefly touches on the disaster of well-intentioned school desegregation when coupled with our country's current educational systems and strategies. He writes:

"First of all, the school setting is no melting pot where children interact as readily with members of the other ethnic groups as they do with their own. Years after formal school integration there is little social integration. The students clot together ethnically, separating themselves for the most part from other groups. Second, even if there were much more interethnic interaction, research shows that becoming familiar with something through repeated contact does not necessarily cause a greater liking. In fact, continued exposure to a person or object under unpleasant conditions such as frustration, conflict or competition leads to less liking. And the typical American classroom fosters precisely these unpleasant conditions."

Frustration.. conflict.. competition.. These three undeniable conditions of a prison environment, coupled with my theory that most people's social development ceases right around the time they join their first high school clique, makes the case for high-security federal prison being remarkably similar to a post-integration classroom. Just with a lot more heroin and knives.

Is there an answer to the dilemma according to Cialdini? Is re-segregation the solution? No, there is hope for true racial unity, he claims. He posits that this can be achieved through "cooperative learning" techniques. By reexamining some three-decades old research by social scientist Muzafer Sherif, who studied intergroup conflict among boys in different summer camp cabins, the secret is apparently to create situations where competition among divided groups hurts both parties and cooperation earns rewards. This method has, according to Cialdini, been shown to be effective in mixed-race classrooms, and I'm hopeful that it would be so in prisons. But how the hell can someone create a situation in which cooperation among all groups earns rewards? I just read the Cialdini text a few days ago, so my noodle is still contemplating the possibilities. My only plan so far has been to send Brad out to general population (i.e. outside the hole) where he will scream that Hitler and Larry Hoover are bitches while using a Hispanic phone and mocking a native war dance. My theory is that as every major race rushes in to beat the hell out of him, they'll all need to cooperate so that everyone gets the reward of a few good kicks. Ingenious, right? Brad doesn't seem too enthusiastic, but that will change when I tell him that he's being selfish and needs to think of the greater good, not just himself.

The whole cooperation/competition issue aside, a few hours of introspection have led me to realize that I am not racist after all; not even close. The practice of segregation and racial division is just so much a part of the world around me, with segregated showers and telephones, delivering news to Big Fat Delicious about the status of what was once our butcher shop led me to objectively report what would have the most meaning and clarity to my friend: The blacks have the shop. Race, gender, religion, sexual orientation - none of these qualities matter. The only thing Whitney Smith discriminates against is stupidity. Which means that I hate just about everyone around me equally.

Babyface

2009-01-31T14:44:00.002-05:00

I shaved today. All of my facial hair is now gone. As you can see in the photo of me, I had until now been rockin' the classic goatee which I'd had since the age of 18. But in the two years which had passed since this picture was taken my goatee had grown out to a glorious 5+ inches in length and was usually kept in a tight braid. Or sometimes just loose and fluffed out, which, due to the unusual curliness of my facial hair, would cause it to puff out like a chin-Afro.

The decision to abandon this beloved hairstyle was not one reached without extreme provocation. My beard has been too kind to me for me to just forsake like a maggoty chicken gizzard. You see, in two months I will be tried in federal court for a very serious crime which I am innocent of. I mean, seriously innocent. And as it is I've got about as much faith in this country's criminal justice system as I do in General Motors stock. Facing an uphill battle already, walking into a courtroom with a chin-'fro just doesn't exactly scream "innocent."

Resolved by necessity to do what must be done, I tied my beard together with four small rubber bands. With eyes closed and scissors held to the base of my chin, I used the pulling-off-a-Band-Aid approach and let one lethal snip sever all but the roots from my face. My heart winced as I heard the scissors clink together and felt the hair come free. Since I've had it, my goatee has become more than just a hairstyle. Both literally and figuratively it had become an extension of my body; cutting it off was like cutting off an appendage.

Because of this hair's value to me while still attached to my body, my intention had at first been to send the tied-up hair home or at least save it, thinking it would serve as some sort of nostalgic memento. But as I held that bundle of whiskers in my hand after doing the deed, what I saw disgusted me. Like I was holding the tail of some mutant sewer rat. The revulsion was not just visual, either. There was some sort of instantaneous mental stigma attached to this hairy abomination which I'm not sure how to interpret. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that the almost two years in which I've had the extended goatee have fucking sucked.

American consumer confidence is gone; Bush is gone; and now my goatee is gone. Not all the change we're seeing is good. But watching that rat-tail swirl down the toilet was to me not unlike getting front-row seats to watch W. walk out of the White House for the last time on 1/20 glumly clutching his moving box marked "Curious George books." The hatchet finally buried on 2008 and the end of a miserable era.

Heil Eli !

2009-01-29T15:03:00.011-05:00

Where did it all go wrong? How does a nice kid from a nice family go so far astray? It is impossible to pin down a specific reason or event in my history which could have set me on the path which brought me to cell B-212. There are many laps the responsibility could fall into, mine own the most likely. But wait! A suppressed memory surfaces. Yes, it's all coming back to me...

Young Whitney was a bit of a handful as a child, this I will not deny. To go as far as calling me a terror would be an exaggeration. But describing me as an occasional brat would not be off the mark. I retain vague memories of using the family car's emergency brake as a toy one day, with near-catastrophic consequences. School years were plagued with forgotten schoolbooks, undone homework and countless parent-teacher conferences. So, in retrospect, the fact that my bad little butt was shipped off to summer camp most summers, giving mom and dad a much needed reprieve, is not much of a surprise.

As a middle-class family, the choices for summertime activities were vast. Yet foregoing all the traditional and popular camps, for a week during two summers my sister and I were sent to an Amish farm. That's right, Amish. Hair-in-a-bonnet, raise-a-barn-in-a-day, visit-the-outhouse-with-a-lantern, Amish.

For a young boy whose accomplishments in life thus far in life included beating Super Mario Brothers faster than any of his friends, this was a very scarring experience. My memories of this are fragmented and stuttering, but what I do know is that I was never forced to wear suspenders or some sort of ridiculous hat, and my sister never outfitted with an ankle-length dress. If only we were so lucky. In the sweltering July heat all the "Outsiders" had to wear thick, gray sweatsuits which were only bearable in the cool dawns as everyone was roused from their communal bedrooms by the long-bearded warders. From bed, everyone marched to a large dining hall for a breakfast of peculiar granola cereal and warm goat's milk straight from the tit.

Days in Amish camp were spent doing activities supposedly typical of an Amish lifestyle. These projects were suspiciously limited to "heavy" activities. Like walking down some unpaved road picking up rocks which were then heaved into a buggy drawn behind us sweating kids, being driven by a couple of rough-looking Jebediah-types holding whips, supposedly for the horses. Or mucking out horse stalls; I shoveled a lot of shit in those days.

Nights on the farm were frightening. This was an alien environment filled with strange odors and noises. The goal was to fall asleep in those itchy wool blankets as quickly as possible so that one more day would have passed. But in the middle of one night with my bladder ready to burst, returning to slumber was an impossibility, so I resigned myself to the fact that I must abandon the relative security of my top bunk in order to relieve myself. Climbing off of my bed and creaking the heavy wooden door open, the need for a bathroom almost became a need for clean underwear as I was confronted by the massive glaring figure of Eli (OK, I made his name up), the head farmer or whatever, who had been sitting guard outside the door on a stool he'd undoubtedly constructed as a 4-year old.

"Where are you headed, boy?"

"Bathroom, sir."

"Pot's third door down. Be quick about it."

"Yes, sir."

So there were sentries posted everywhere. There was no escape from Amish camp. Had us city folk unified and been able to subdue ol' Eli, our battle would have been far from over. I'd been told that by the time an Amish boy reaches manhood he can already throw a pitchfork 100 yards with deadly accuracy. And besides that, the compound was heavily fortified. Us kids witnessed that first-hand as we dug post holes and dragged heavy cedar beams to build and repair the massive fence which contained us. Prisoners constructing their own prisons. Oh, cruel irony.

Think about it... drab uniforms; minimalist living conditions; substandard and sanitarily questionable food; guards. You can serve someone a cat-poop sandwich and call it a B.L.T. if it makes them feel better. But it's still just a few turds between two slices of bread. and just because my parents paid some ridiculous amount of money to some country swindlers doesn't make my experience one of a summer camp. I was sent to prison.

I've expressed my concern in an earlier post about becoming institutionalized (see "An Oral History of My Future"), and those fears are genuine. But what's clear to me now is that it's a moot point. Why should one worry about becoming institutionalized when one has already been so since the tender age of nine. Even now I feel it: the addict's clawing urge for rocks being gripped in my blistered fingers; for the scent of horse manure being shoveled into a rusty wheelbarrow; the repulsive textures of crunchy, semi-sweet granola mixed with unpasteurized goat's milk. Practically my whole life has been some subconscious quest to return to that electricity-deprived prison I once helped construct.

There's only one conclusion I could have possibly arrived at after this interior monologue with myself. And that is to join the hordes of my peers and even elders who are rapidly making the American pastime not hamburgers or baseball, but blaming our parents for all of our problems. Oh why, why, why did you send me off to that freaky farm? Why did you set off a domino effect of catastrophes in my life by sending me to that American Auschwitz? This is the only explanation for how my life turned out which makes any sense. How could it be otherwise?

The only other possibility would be that I'm simply a moron.

Oh.

And step, two, three, four

2009-01-26T15:07:00.005-05:00

Ouch, man, pain really sucks. For real, this isn't cool at all. Working out today, I was doing shoulder exercises when I pulled a muscle in my shoulder/neck area. Or maybe I sprained it. Hell, I don't know. All I know is that I'm in serious pain. Ow, ow, ow.

But the worst part of this whole situation isn't the pain. The highly dangerous exercise which has led me to this miserable state is "the shrug." A shrug involves holding a reasonably heavy weight at one's side and then, well, shrugging. Brad was eyeing me as I did my reps and noticed that my shoulders rotated as they shrugged.

"You know," he told me, "rotating your shoulders like that is horrible for your rotator cuff and really increases your risk of injury."

The thing is, I'm kinda hard-headed in general and this is especially true during work-outs. Something about an increase in testosterone levels or something.

So I responded with "Whatever, dude. I know what I'm doing. You just sit there and look pretty while Big Dad works out."

Two minutes later my shoulders feel like there's a welding crew doing their thing on my right trap. The chances of my rotator cuff having anything to do with this are slim, but that comes nowhere close to stopping the cheeky smirks and "I told you so"s Brad's been shooting at me all afternoon. Why is good advice sometimes the hardest kind to take?

The possibility that this will be an extended injury is depressing to think about. Unless I feel like working my legs 7 days a week, I'm pretty much out of commission until everything's healed. Which really sucks, because exercising is an important part of every day for me. Obviously most of my exercise routines are limited to calisthenics like push-ups, crunches, squats, etc. Although some weighted exercises are possible by using a plastic garbage bag I've filled with around 8 gallons of water, tied shut, and wrapped in a bed sheet like some sort of oversized hobo knapsack. You know, the kind tied onto the end of their stick as they strolled down the railroad tracks in those old cartoons. A thick, rolled-up magazine serves as a handle. This contraption is ideal for curls, dead lifts and - when done properly - shrugs.

This water bag is no creative innovation of my own, of course. There are no weights of any kind here in the prison, so some variations on the theme are filled with sand. And a few of the really big guys just use the littler guys as weights. Whatever works, ya' know.

Some of these people take their physical fitness a little more seriously than they probably should. I once overheard one guy telling somebody he works out so much because "It's a lot harder for a knife to go through a set of six-pack abs than it is to go through a bunch of flab." Huh. I mean, don't get me wrong, there does seem to be some validity to that statement. It's just that I've always taken the stance that my set of six-pack abs pretty much just looks cool. But the whole knife argument works too, I guess. Tomato, tomahto.

A lot of the gangs actually make a certain number of physical fitness sessions a week compulsory for their members, a couple even going so far as having military-style group training with the "drop and give me 25" and everything. Black gangs are usually the funniest to watch because the younger members all have disgustedly bitter looks on their faces, as if their mom just told them they had to eat their vegetables. Then during the jogging portion a few always manage to trip over the pants hanging down to their knees.

We SuperFriends exercise as little or as much as we like. As the #1, I do my best to encourage all forms of personal fitness. Some of the offerings here amaze even me. The spinning class held in the gymnasium was unfortunately short-lived due to lack of enrollment.

The step aerobics class, however, was a huge success from its inception. The group was led by a 50-year old black gangbanger named Streeter, who learned what he knew about step aerobics from a book he had read a few weeks before the first class. Those of use secure enough to attend caught a few snickers from the non-participants who wandered into the gym only to find around 30 grown men sweatin' it out to a Madonna CD. But we were dedicated and had a good time.

No step aerobics classes in the hole. I've been known to do a few step-ups onto the toilet seat whenever "Material Girl" comes on the radio. But somehow it's not the same. My new kick is actually yoga. Man, yoga is the real deal. I was introduced to the practice by a good friend of mine who has been kind enough to mail me pictures and descriptions of poses along with instructions for the various Pranayama breathing exercises and routines like Sun Salutation. Despite having only been practicing for a few months, I am already a life-long proponent of yoga. With the benefits to mind and body, there is no doubt this is ideal for someone dealing with the stresses of incarceration. Anyone who knows someone incarcerated should strongly encourage that person to take it up.

Despite yoga's benefits, I still sometimes feel the need to exercise caution (no pun intended) when performing some of the more provocative poses. Some I flat-out refuse to do. Not that I am unconfident in any way with my sexuality, and I can confidently say the same is true for Brad. But when you're as dangerously good-looking as I am, shifting one's body into the wide-legged forward bend is just too much like playing with a loaded gun.

Whoever hired Warren needs a kick in the ass

2009-01-23T16:42:00.003-05:00

Was it just me or was that a truly pitiful inauguration? Granted, my experience of the event was nothing more than an audio feed broadcast on NPR. Still, if that whole ceremony was intended to inspire and restore confidence in America's future, it failed. And I just don't see how adding faces to the voices would have changed much for me.

How is it that no one from Obama's staff even bothered to have Aretha Franklin audition for such a significant engagement? An even scarier possibility is that someone actually did hear the Queen of Soul squeal out her terrible rendition of "My Country Tis of Thee" and thought to themselves, screw it, she's good enough.

And how about Joseph Lowery, aka Reverend Mumbles? Surely this brave and intelligent civil rights leader could have written a more profound benediction by avoiding such phrases as "... until brown can stick around..." and "...when white will do what's right..."

Obama. Obama, Obama, Obama. You're my dude, but how could you botch the oath? THE OATH! After your bumble I overheard a couple of the white-power fellas yelling to each other that this 'goof' was an undeniable indication that you're truly an Islamic sleeper agent after all and could not faithfully recite the oath because your god would be insulted. The rest of the country I'm not too sure about, but it seems this mistake has severely damaged your approval rating among the Nazi demographic. Sorry.

Regardless of this unimpressive gala, today, January 20, is when 2009 really begins for me. I pay no taxes; I cannot vote; all by my basic rights have been stripped away as I stew in a concrete box. Yet with all the giddy enthusiasm within me, I cry out that Barack Obama is MY president.

Oh, and there is a vicious rumor circulating that Super Friends has been nominated on BlogNet as Diarist Blog of the Month. If true, this is a thrilling honor. And in a message to all who read this, three words popularized by the ultimate rapper mogul Puff Daddy - "Vote or Die."

One-Eye Samurai

2009-01-22T13:50:00.005-05:00

Brad and I are still living together. A move had been set which would have taken me back to the floor where Hawks and Sleepy still reside. Long story short, turned out my would-be cellmate was some sort of Luciferian with a fondness for self-mutilation; not exactly qualities which are very high up there on my list of "acceptable celly" specifications. I had a kibosh put on the move.

So here the two of us are, together riding out the tempered shit-storm of hole time. I've taken the potential transitional catastrophe as an indication that the brownish grass on the other side of the fence really isn't all it's cracked up to be and have decided to stick around in cell B-212 even if it means having to wrangle with a demonic shower occasionally. Brad's happy about the news. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a pretty cool roommate.

We've spent this averagely mundane Sunday afternoon talking poetry (seriously) and tattoos. While I've got quite a few on my back, left arm and right leg, Brad is what some refer to as a tattoo virgin. And while I must admit that if there's a "type" of person for body art, and Brad isn't it, this fact hasn't stopped me from attempting to sell the idea of having a large butterfly tatted on his chest. He is not quite convinced of the wisdom behind my suggestion yet and has even decided to begin hitting below the belt by suggesting that I have a butterfly drawn over my Samurai's crotch. Cute, Brad, real cute.

My Samurai's crotch is a topic which has come up with alarming frequency lately in my conversations and correspondence. And is quite a testament to why it is important for a person to use caution when having any permanent alteration done to one's body. In the spirit of confession and raising awareness, I will impart the story of my Samurai's crotch. There are only two characters in this narrative, myself and my friend Diggity, who has since been released. Diggity is a tall Nordic type with a philosopher's mind and true artist's hand; arguably the best tattoo artist Terre Haute has ever seen. Oh, and he was a big-time junkie.

Not a Superfriend but a friend nonetheless, I accepted Diggity's offer to work on me at a ridiculously low price. Keeping in line with the strengths of his artistic abilities, we eventually decided on having a dragon done on one side of my right calf and a Samurai figure performing a seppuku, or hari-kari, ceremony on the side opposite. My buddy drew the sketches and a session was penciled into his schedule.

The dragon came first. Following my direction, Diggity patterned a sort of hybrid creature with an Asian dragon's long, serpent-like body but a European dragon's horned crown and long snout. When all was said and done, my dragon was perfect. Lines as black as night and curves to make a Maserati jealous. His secret? Throughout the session Diggity was in his "creative state." In other words, the dope man had paid him a visit.

Several weeks went by before we were able to sit down for the Samurai session. When we finally both found the time and I strolled into his cell with my leg shaved and pant-leg rolled up, Diggity's already pale Icelandic skin was a ghostly white with perhaps just a hint of nausea green.

"What's up, homie? You feeling alright?" I ask, concerned not only for my friend but also for my bald calf which was about to be punctured a few thousand times.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Just a little dope sick," he 'reassured' me, meaning he was experiencing mild withdrawal symptoms after binging for a couple of days. "Won't affect my work at all. The pattern's already drawn so there's nothing that can go wrong." Famous last words.

And 5 hours later when all was once again said and done, it initially appeared as if things actually did go according to plan. Besides the ink turning out to be a very dark gray instead of a jet black because of a few too many drops of alcohol being added to the base ink powder, the piece looked fantastic. Admiring his skill as Diggity disposed of the needle and sanitized the gun, I noticed how perfectly the hands, which I've been told are the most difficult body part to master in any art form, gripped the hilt of the sword. And how realistically the legs tucked under the kneeling body.

Then I noticed something which concerned me.

"Hey, um, what's this?"

"What's what?" he asked, looking up from the fragmented CD player which powers his gun.

"Right here, in the crotch" I said, pointing to my disturbing discovery.

"I don't see anything."

"Look harder."

"Oh shit. I mean, um, oops."

Permanently etched into the folds of my Samurai's robes was the vague but very discernible outline of a penis. One has to really look to be able to notice my little ninja's package, but it's certainly there. And according to my tattoo, the stereotype of Asian men is definitely not true.

The convenient placement and strange configuration of lines in the offending region should almost guarantee that the member was some kind of vulgar prank on the artist's part. Although anyone who knows Diggity would immediately dismiss that as a possibility. He just does not joke around. Diggity hates having fun so much he dropped out of school because of recess. I'm afraid the moral of the story is nothing more than to make sure your tattooist has had his daily ration of illicit narcotics.

Joke or honest mistake, what's done is done and my tattoo is packing some serious heat. Correcting the error is only a matter of adding a few lines and a bit of shading. At the time we had no fresh needles, so the rectification session had to be put on hold until some new ones were made. Unfortunately Diggity ended up failing a drug test and, before he could return to my cellblock, was released. So probably until my release Samurai will have three eyes: his right eye, his left eye and his one-eye.

And whenever we start firing taunts at each other, Brad will unfortunately have this as ammunition.

Til Death Do Us Part. Or When I Throttle You

2009-01-14T14:22:00.007-05:00

So Proposition 8 passed in California last November, rescinding the right for gays to legally wed each other. And because of this the gay-rights cause has rallied all over the country and it's not unreasonable to expect new gay marriage bills to begin appearing on ballots nationwide. I personally believe, given the long overdue liberal direction our country is heading in, that gay marriage will be customary in all states within the next two or three decades.

What is the federal government's stance on the issue, or do they even have one? Sure, weddings in a legal sense are usually state sanctioned, but all of Washington, D.C. is a federal district; surely people must be allowed to marry there. What happens when Rove and Cheney come out of the closet and wish to walk hand-in-hand down the aisle? Is there some sort of federal legislation specifically prohibiting them from marrying? This bizarre line of questioning was inspired by something I recently read in the Rules and Regulations handbook I was issued upon my arrival here in Terre Haute. Section B, Article 8 states that with the warden's approval, marriage services can be performed inside the prison. But that's a little vague, isn't it? I mean, this is technically federal land, so would the marriage certificate be issued by the feds or by the State of Indiana? And what about the eventuality that gay marriage becomes legal; there certainly is no stipulation written in my book forbidding inmates from marrying each other. There have been a few times when I've noticed Ruby [see post "The belated bio"] shakin' that little ass of his/hers and thought to myself "Now there's one who's the marryin' type; one I could bring home to mom." Could I marry Ruby? After all, what's more beautiful than when two men find true love in prison? Or how about my roommate? What would the warden say if I submitted a request to marry Brad? In the off-chance that the request should be approved, there better be a pre-nup, because I'm filling out the divorce papers right friggin' now.

Seriously, we may not be getting divorced, but it's time for me to find a different roommate. I've been with Brad for well over two months, and that is easily a record. Describing me as a picky celly would not be unfair. Actually, it wouldn't be unreasonable to call me an outright asshole. The average roomie of mine lasts anywhere from 3 hours to 2 weeks before he is strongly encouraged to find another place to live.

Brad, though, has been an excellent guy to share a cell with. He's intelligent, generous and extremely respectful. We get along spectacularly, yet I still feel a strong compulsion to leave the cell. For really no good reason. We've had our disagreements like any two people would in such a circumscribed environment, but nothing major.

One we had not long ago was especially petty. We've got a steel shower in the cell which has the habit of occasionally turning on by itself (it operates via a push-button) and will only turn off when someone pushes the button again. Last week the phantom shower does what it does as I am up in my top bunk writing a letter and Brad is down below reading a book. Because it's much easier for the guy on the bottom to stand up, push the button and sit back down, tasks such as button-pushing logically fall on bottom bunk residents. Now, our shower is nothing if not hot, so as Brad remained in his bunk while the water steamed and the cell fogged and the walls started literally dripping with condensation, the thought suddenly struck me that perhaps Brad wasn't going to push the button.

"Hey, Brad," I said, "you think that you could, um, turn that shower off?"

After a moment of deliberation he said, "Why? I didn't turn it on."

Can't argue with that logic.

That was nothing though. A man with even a moderate amount of magnanimity would brush it off as nothing. And I tried. But an inattentive reader may have forgotten that I am a self-professed moron and I've allowed the phantom shower affair to sprout within me a seed of aggravation. I will certainly not find a better cellmate, so it's not as if the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence. Appears a little browner, if anything. I just crave change... That's the best-looking brown grass I've ever seen, this green crap has lost its appeal.

Time may change things. Switching cells isn't as easy as snapping your fingers, so a move may be more trouble than it's worth.