Streets of London

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.

Whit's Willow

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):

The legal situation

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.

A visit with Tiny

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.

Reflections - past and present - on the season

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."

Whit and Maryl

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

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

Letter from Tiny

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

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

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

Photos - continuing

Whit and his dad, late summer 2001

Whit at his favorite coffee shop

Whit and his sister Maryl

Father's Day 2008

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, an ashamed 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.

A father's words

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

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

A Memorial for my beautiful, beautiful son

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

My son is dead

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

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

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

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...

... 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.