FRESH ON THE BRICKS
by Shep
I wrote "Control Unit Madness" (NCX, Spring 2000) to provoke people into changing the prison system. Why? With the advent of three-strikes justice, more and more prisoners speak about getting out and leaving no witnesses, killing a cop who stops them for no more than a broken taillight, firefights rather than surrender. They are enraged because the social climate has changed from promoting rehabilitation to insisting on punishment through longer sentences, less good time, fewer opportunities for personal improvement, harsher prison environments, and continuous disrespect by staff. These realities instill separate angers that build upon one another over time, like tossing charcoal briquettes on a barbecue until a mound of smoldering coals generates enough heat to sear anything that comes near.
Consider these insane changes. In the mid-'90s education money for prisoners was reduced so drastically that many prisons offer NO educational opportunities. Program funds for self-improvement through participation in pro-social organizations have withered and died. The only "self-help" programs offered now, with rare exceptions, are those that are sometimes mandated, such as anger-management, victim-awareness, drug and alcohol classes. When such programs are mandated they become a scam, just a job opportunity for another state employee on the taxpayers' tit. In reality, making any such programs mandatory is a way of limiting the state's own liability when a red-hot yard monster skates the gate and enters the community like a hungry lion entering the local petting zoo.
I am 46 now and have spent 24 years in prison, plus 2 before that in a juvenile facility. But I managed to become a Jailhouse Lawyer and succeeded in overturning others' convictions for first degree murder (twice), attempted first degree murder (once), and a host of lessers. At the same time, I acquired an Associate of Arts Degree in General Studies and an Associate of Arts and Applied Sciences Degree in Business Administration. I read and wrote and talked and listened. I walked the yard, I never told on anyone, and I left many good friends behind.
On the day that I processed out of the joint, I was handed copies of my several Judgments and Sentences, a bill for my accumulated DOC debts, i.e., an old work release rent debt, indigent postage, and medical co-pay, and an envelope with two twenty dollar bills. That was it. But I'm not the dullest tool in the shed. I knew a woman who worked privately with prisoners and ex-cons, preferring us aging burnouts to the usual yard monsters. Over the years she has provided a room or two in her home for one or two of us. Her philosophy has been that if a fellow gets out and has the opportunity to live in a decent place, the transition from prison to the bricks will be easier and he may aspire to live in such a way as to acquire such a home and lifestyle for himself. It seems to work because I can put names on several grizzled ex-cons who have filtered through her home and remain on the bricks these four, seven, twelve or more years later.
I got in touch with her a year before my release date and made arrangements. In addition, I borrowed $300 from Mom. With that money I went to a thrift store and bought a small wardrobe for $70, a backpack to haul my lunch and stuff, a pair of decent shoes, and a bus pass so I could get around. I also set aside $25 for a bus pass for the next month. Then I went to a printer to get some business cards and set out to pound the pavement and get that job. I had made a name for myself in some circles within the greater legal community. Naturally, I figured this factor, my skills in general, and my college degrees would make getting a job in the field a real breeze.
Few things were ever farther from the truth. In Washington State there is no requirement for a paralegal certificate or license in order to work as one. But I quickly discovered that the local bar association had a stranglehold on the market. In addition to this, the local law school floods the community with eager students seeking experience, often for credits in lieu of money. The more I pounded the pavement, the more discouraged I became. I began to branch out in my search for work. I went to the employment securities office, pored over the classified ads, and filled out application after application. I got on the Internet and peppered the Web with copies of my resume. I applied for work at businesses with a sign in the window. I went to employment agencies and took test after test to assess my office skills, and I did rather well.
But I was in for a rude awakening. I was unable to fill out a complete job application. Not only had I been out of the job market for ten years, but also the businesses for which I used to work no longer even existed. (I used to run boilerrooms--telephone soliciting--for a couple of fly-by-night outfits.) Thus, there were no previous employers for a prospective employer to contact to ascertain my work skills or habits. In addition, everyone wanted two or three references to contact. I had only one. And let's not overlook the responses to my recent release from prison. I refused to lie about this. First, to do so would deny a large part of my life, not to mention the circumstances under which I acquired my credentials. Second, were I to lie now and have it discovered later, my application would be fraudulent and grounds for termination.
But it gets better. Many businesses have adopted a corporate policy of excluding ex-convicts from hiring, period. I went to boilerrooms who used to hire us all the time. Now, the doors are closed to us. Several of the employment agencies informed me (after a couple of hours of testing) that they exclude ex-cons per corporate policy. It's discouraging as hell. One rainy afternoon, just after taking tests at Kelly Services for three hours and gotten the boot, I asked the woman why there wasn't a sign saying they wouldn't take on ex-cons so we could save our time and theirs. She shrugged her shoulders. As I walked away I was filled with bitterness, rage, and despair. I found myself thinking, "What's the use? Why not just get a gun . . .?" I shook my head and actually slapped my own face.
Swallowing my pride, the next day I applied for and received food stamps. At least that way I could contribute at the house, and I wouldn't starve while doors were slammed in my face. I also decided to go back to school and acquire more credentials. I'm now enrolled at a state university for Fall Quarter and have qualified for financial aid. Some ex-convicts are not so lucky. Anyone with a prior drug conviction can no longer receive educational financial assistance or food stamps.
I continued pounding the pavement. And it paid off. After five weeks of perseverance, I was able to get a part-time job working weekday mornings in a law firm, doing office grunt work, gofer duties, and research. I will be able to build upon this by doing appellate and post-conviction research and brief writing when that work starts to roll in. And I will be able to go to school as well.
But what if I hadn't acquired skills while in prison? What if I hadn't had educational opportunities to acquire credentials? What if I had hadn't had the personal contacts and resources to live in a decent home until I could get on my own feet? What if I hadn't persevered in seeking employment? What if I had bought a gun with my gate money? I am back in the community, working, taking classes, trying to show that all prisoners and ex-cons are not animals. But I can do so only because I had advantages denied prisoners today.
Only when the public wakes up and demands fundamental changes in prison philosophy and management will my experience be the norm rather than a rare aberration.