Today was certainly and odd one. I had an unexpected day off after a power outage. Each month on the last Friday of the month the maintenance crew turns off the unit power at 7 am to test the generator system. This always knocks out my alarm clock, so i wake up late every time. This morning was no different, except that it happened on a Tuesday and the generators didn't kick on. When I woke up at 8:15, the electricity was still out and it stayed out until after the officers were finished with the morning count. This meant I couldn't go to work; the lights couldn't turn on anyway.
When the power was finally restored, I went down to the library for work. I didn't stay for long. My boss wasn't feeling well and decided to go home to rest and
recuperate. That left me with the rest of the day to myself back in the dorm.
I've got to say, days off in prison are not near as fun as days of on the outside. We really don't have much to do, and even Munchkin can wear out after too many games. I just lay in bed and read my current book, Lowboy. I would have liked to stay active and productive, but I guess one more day to add to the years isn't so bad.
I got a treat this week along with the other guys in my dorm. My parents sent in a card game called Munchkins that I used to play before I was incarcerated. Ordinarily, card games would not be allowed (the one form of gambling not allowed in TDCJ), but the warden gave the thumbs up as long as the cards aren't traditional ace-king playing cards. This decision has freed up m any other card games such as Pokemon, Magic:The Gathering, UNO and Mille Borne. Also allowed is one of my faves, Munchkins.
I was introduced to Munchkins during my freshman year of college. Three of my friends brought it out between classes on day and it became our default time-killer form then on. The concept is similar to role-playing games where you kill monsters for treasure, except there are plenty of other opportunities to sabotage other players for self-gain. All the cards are riffs on different genres, such as sci-fi, pirates and horror, which usually brings some laughs to the table, too.
The guys here became just as hooked on the game as I was when I started. Each time I come back from work, I hear "Are we playing Munchkin tonight?" and, unless I have some other project, the answer is yes. I think it's so cool that this new warden has opened up new opportunities for entertainment. Now, if we could just get some actual college classes going on so we can be educated as well.
Birthdays in prison are usually quite melancholy events. No one around knows or cares, and those that do are the friends and family you can't celebrate with. However, this year I have looked forward to my birthday for several weeks. This year is different because i have two friends here who do care and pulled together a special meal for me.
My day got off to a good start with a visit from my parents. It was the first time in over a month I have seen them and I was ready to see their faces again. My mom even brought a special treat - fizzy Skittles. That was something. I'd never tried. I guess that was the theme for the day: something new.
A couple weeks ago OJ and Omar asked what I wanted to eat for my birthday. Now, commissary doesn't have a very extensive selection, so I said I would just go with a normal prison pizza topped with BBQ beef as the meat. That was something I'd never had before. For dessert, I told them I would make a pie of my own creation. The crust was graham cracker with cocoa and peanut butter mixed in. The bottom of the crust was glazed with chocolate syrup and covered with candy orange slices. Chocolate pudding with peanut butter made the filling and the top was dressed with crushed Chick-o-Stick. It turned out better than I expected, a good mix of flavor.
I was surprised with the handmade cards that had been signed by a few friends in the dorm. That was beyond what I had imagined possible here. On my birthday, I am thankful for the many blessings that God has given me, especially friends who go out of their way to make this day extraordinary.
Yesterday I received a visit from the president of the organization I worked for prior to my incarceration. Yes, it was in the middle of the week - prospective employers have that privilege, along with clergy and attorneys. We also happened to be the only people inn the visitation room other than the supervising guard in the corner. It was certainly a different atmosphere than the usual din of the visitors all around. Nice to be reminded of quiet every now and then.
I found out about my boss's visit a couple of weeks ago and was actually quite surprised that it would take place. I never had much interaction with him at the office and have been absent for over three years. I guess it helps that I have loving parents who also work at that office, a place filled with more love for people than I've experienced any where else. When I heard that he was coming, I was at a loss for what we would be talking about. I'm fairly worthless as an employee here and don't expect to get out for almost two years.
We sat down and I was asked about my prison experiences. I was able to share how God has been working in and through me over the past few years. Then I heard about how the organization has grown and changed since I left as my boss told me his excitement about how God is shaping how Bible translation is done. It made me miss being involved in the process, even in a small capacity.
After I explained my post-release goals, including education mostly, he surprised me with a discussion of how I could work from behind these walls. Really? Apparently there's a load of writing that needs to be done each quarter for project updates that I might be able to help with. Now we're trying to figure out the logistics of getting things back and forth, if it's possible at all.
I came away very encouraged, not just that I might get work, but that the president of the organization took time out of his very busy schedule to check up on someone who has only been a small part of operations years ago. God's community continues to surprise me with amazing blessings.
Last night was the last night of the fantasy football draft for the league I'm in. For those who don't know, fantasy football is a game where you draft players from all over the NFL to play for points on your squad. Each game week players earn points for their squad based on their stats for that week.
The first time I played was in my high school youth group as a way to make Sunday evenings more interesting. I found that fantasy football really gets you interested in each game because most of the time at least one of your players or your opponent's players will be on the field.
This is the first time I've seen fantasy football in prison done properly. At Hightower, the fantasy was more of a pick 'em because you just submitted a group of players who you thought would perform bets, which meant that you share with everyone. This league has a draft, which makes every player unique to his team., and each week has head-up games with a playooff for the winning teams.
I like this set-up much better. My team is mine and I'm sure that by the end of the season I will be attached to a few players who carried my team unexpectedly. It does help the time fly by.
For the past few months the warden has been pushing clean cells. Each week he holds a competition where he goes around to every cell to pass or fail it. If you pass, you get a bag of popcorn on Saturday.
Juan and I have never passed.
Popcorn is not a very good motivator for me. We already sweep and mop our cell every other day. I scrub the sink and toilet to a shine with toothpaste once a week. the ony reason we fail is because of the stuff around our mattresses. We both have uncommonly narrow mattresses, so we store frequently-accessed items like books and writing supplies around the rim of our bunks. It's all neat and organized, but not what they're looking for.
Apparently, the warden noticed our pattern of noncompliance because my book cart duty was interrupted as I was told to get back to my cell ASAP. When I walked in to the dorm, I saw a sergeant in my cell on the second floor. When I looked into the cell, I couldn't see the floor due to all the stuff strewn around like trash. The sergeant had torn up our cell like a mobster making an example of a "client". everything was everywhere.
"I'm not taking anything. Just have all this cleaned up and compliant before lunch is over."
Ugh. This is ridiculous. I spent the next hour rearranging my property in my locker and hiding many of my books under my mattress to make sure everything was out of sight. It would all go back to normal after sarge came back to inspect the progress, so it didn't matter how lumpy and uncomfortable the mattress was.
It wasn't until just before shift change at 6 o'clock that the sergeant came back, but we passed his check. It's doubtful that Juan and I will put forth the effort to pass again.
Not everyone here is blessed to be able to go to commissary. In fact. I'd say only about half the population has any amount of money given to them by family or friends each year. However, just because the guys with zero balance don't have cash in their account doesn't mean they go without commissary. There are many ways that guys get the food and hygiene products they want and/or need. No, I'm not talking about THAT way. Some methods are legit, while others are shady. Along with bartering, these "hustlers" keep the inmate economy afloat.
The first method I'll explain is the most legit. Due to ginormous laundry loads in the unit washers and dryers, most of the time our clothes come back barely cleaner than when we sent them. Enter the hustler. Clothes washed by hand is a service performed all over the state, usually one guy in every dorm who does the washing. Hand-washed clothes come out whiter than they ever would from the unit machines.
Some guys get very serious about it and work eight hours each day. I've seen one guy who even had a menu of options drawn up - basic soap, detergent, or bleach - and a signed contract with every customer. Most of the time a washing goes for 50 cents (two soups or a stamp) per item.
Next are the guys who make and/or repair stuff. Some guys make needles to custom tailor clothes or repair shoes that have holes in them. I've had several shirts trimmed down to my size and each time it has been the gay man's work that has been best. Not to stereotype, but they know their cuts!
Others will fix hot pots so that water will boil instead of merely heating up. A few guys tinker enough that they make speakers for radios. We are only allowed headphones so a well-made speaker is a hot commodity (in more ways than one!) I've heard some speakers loud enough to rattle the pre-cast concrete walls of our cells. A tailored shirt goes for $1 (a meat pack or bag of dehydrated refried beans) while a good speaker costs around $10.
Then there are the hustlers that are just illegal, period. These usually involve stealing well-sought items from the state, whether it's the food out of the chow hall, markers form education, or wax from the floor crew. These hustlers tend to be compensated well for the risks they take, though I've seen many who do it solely for the thrill.
Unfortunately, the state does not do much to help our living situation in most cases, so, instead of waiting for the state to fix things or lift restrictions on items that are not dangerous in the least, many guys would rather do it themselves. Of course, many of the most dangerous items are stolen from the state, such as screwdrivers and ingredients for hooch.
These are just a sampling of the myriad of services that entrepreneur inmates provide to fill up their own locker. There are so many opportunities to hustle that the only who can't get what they need are the disabled, stupid, or lazy. I'm very blesses to have a supportive family that puts money in my commissary account, but, in the event of a terrible misfortune preventing that money from coming, I know I could find other ways to meet my needs.
This morning I stepped down from paying guitar in the choir. It was a difficult decision that I had been dealing with for a few months, and I finally felt like it as time for me to go.
One of my best buddies on the unit, Lelan, stepped out in early May for many of the same reason as I did, and I've heard unhappy sentiment from a few others as well. The choir director seems to be led by ego under the guise of "the Holy Spirit." Honestly, it angers me when someone always plays the "god told me so" card because conversations with Him are usually a private affair.
While the choir director was always choosing songs that he had written, the keyboard player wasn't very flexible in playing with others. It always had to be his rhythm and lead, even when it didn't fit the song well. The other guitar player and I tried over and over to tell him that his arrangements didn't work, but he just got defensive and said, "I'm a professional musician; I know how it should sound."
I've voiced my discomfort to a few friends and choir members and was told to wait it out. "It will pass soon," they said. Well, it hasn't passed. Not only did I feel stifled in my ability to serve through song, but I also didn't even feel able to worship with the group. That's when I realized I needed to leave.
The only reason I write all of this is that I know that no one here will read i t. I don't think the director and keyboard player are bad guys; they're just a bit misguided. I pray God will use the choir to touch hearts and lead worship to bring glory to Himself. I just can't be a member at the moment.
