boe309

[boe309]

...here...we...go...

im pretty sure that metaphorical crossroads that most people come to in their lives tends to be the one that is the most moving. who am i? who am i going to be? most of the time when you ask that question there is always the one person who says, "just be yourself. keep it real. come 100"

what does that even mean?!? thats the most cop out response i ever heard. lezbehonest, in my lifetime, i have been described as many things...poor little rich boy, conceited, pretty boy, snob, ambitious, smooth talker and my favorite, a take on the original, poor little bitch boy. i can't disagree that at some point in my life, i was all of the above. however, this moment is almost as important as when you enter high school. for those of you with the picture perfect coming of age story, you can stop reading...now.

high school is that one moment in time that shapes your entire teenage experience. in fact this happens to be the most defining time in anyones age. so, thats how ive come to think of this metamorphosis.

"its just like high school...its just like high school..."

of course that was BEFORE the myriad of gates lifted, rose, slid out of the way as an entire labyrinth welcomed you into the system like a metal Matryoshka doll. Until finally you're there. on the yard. to throw some salt in the wound, not only was it Valentines Day but it was raining. a 30 something and a 60 something year old man standing in the rain in a one piece orange jumpsuit with flip flops paired with socks holding our sad sad manila envelopes. as we stand there like a pair of grunts, in the rain, each roaming set of eyes is also paired with hushed whispers, finger pointing, heads popping out of the barracks and back again.

so like i said, high school...then came the dorms...

a gust of warm air mixed with dirty socks and coffee hit automatically. bunk beds lined each wall peppered with every miscreant archetype in the book and in between those are 60 sets of "cubicles" that are really 3' by 6'...well...cubicles. but its privacy. its your space. only you live in that area, nobody can enter without your prior permission, nobody can get at your property, you can have your own family pictures on it, you can have your family, your home, your love, your happiness held to your locker with a simple clear plastic thumbtack AND you have the opportunity to buy a lock that can either be used for your locker...or a weapon...KIDDING! well, thats what i thought at the time.

papa bear and i are housed in what was called the rez. House 1B7 upper and lower. for as long as this specific yard has been opened, it has always been Chiefs that have lived there. feathers were etched into the lockers, the shelves smelled faintly of cleaner and tobacco. There were no drawings of boobs or vaginas drawn underneath, just the word home in as many languages as you can think. but this is when they came...the welcoming committee.

me: "time to put your war face on papa bear..."

him: "ok"

"Chief? Paisa? Tu Hablas? Chicano? Ese? Indio?"

i look over at my Papa Bear and see this...

a for effort. i probably wasnt any better...

"wait...i know you...you're an Allison...you're mom is an Allison...you're my cousin..."

uh-oh

*cue end credits*

#arizona DOC #prison life #orange is orange #bad valentine #im just trying to function

[boe309]

WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?

macchu picchu

[boe309]

...through the darkness you can see a light...

anytime you go anywhere in the department of corrections you have to go through what i relate to as a catholic church service...stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. yet, in this neighborhood? in this dog and pony show? you take off your clothes, spread, cough, lift, stand and wait till the officer feels up your clothes as they keep ogling your naked body, and then you're out the door. except this time was different. we were getting our yard assignments. this is where they push you out the door to whatever place you will be spending the rest of your sentence...or until something better comes along.

there are around 30 inmates in all that are huddled into the cafeteria, given our ration of faux cheerios in a cup and told to wait. our mesh bags containing our meager belongings come flying in from the halls and wantonly piled in a corner, manila envelopes and gigantic print outs begin to fly into every officer's waiting hands. then, in walks the captain. i can't be certain but im pretty confident when they pick captains they just pick the guy that tends to look most like Gru from Despicable Me.

It was very "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson. It was like when they shouted out our name, it was our turn to seal our fate by to stepping up to the box and pick out a piece of paper to see which one of us will then be stoned to death.

"Gonzales...Take your shit, follow this officer out the door"

that was like 12 out the door, a bunch more of us just sat looking at each other, whispering, trying to be sneaky and look at the movement sheet that's printed out on the those gigantic old 1980 apple printers with the green and white lines. "The sheet says they're going to Yuma", whispers the guy closest to the captain which then initiates a gigantic game of telephone amongst us remaining. i was SO thankful. the snob and pampered child that i am, could only think, what's in yuma? my family wouldnt drive all the way out to yuma. do they have trees in yuma? what if the air conditioner goes out? what if i have to have an outside job once i get to yuma? ugh. im going to sweat. but there still lingered a few more yards such as Douglas, Kingman, Safford and plenty of other sites at the far reaches of the state.

You know that scene in Harry Potter  when they put the sorting hat on him and he sits there thinking, "not slytherin, not slytherin, not slytherin..." that was me, except with those other yards i had just mentioned.

"all of you, take your shit and follow this gentleman here..."

while i was praying to every god imaginable whether they had animal heads, or lived on olympus, or died on golgotha, another slew of inmates went out the door. then the thought came, would it be that bad? would it be so bad to start somewhere new? i could not be so much the pretty boy that i am and be someone else. i could...

"yo, chief, theyre calling you..." i snapped out of my That's So Raven dream sequence in my head to see the rest of the inmates staring at me, as well as Gru, the Captain. So i "got my shit" and stood in line. fortunately, my friend that i was in county with, who comes from the same tribe as me, who happened to be called right before me stood next to me saying, "i hope they dont chain me to that fat guy". 

fortunately, none of us ended up chained to the fat guy. they chained us all seperately. they tightened the handcuffs around our ankles, which were chained together, which hooked to the lock and chain around our waist, which were hooked to the handcuffs on our wrists, that held all of our "shit". the march to the gigantic prison school bus was like a herd of penguins making our annual pilgrimage. the daunting part about being chained to the fat guy is that you know some part of his anatomy will be resting on some part of yours at some point in time and we hadn't showered in a week. oh, and it's almost always a guarantee the fat guy trips and falls which means you, trip and fall.

tucson. thats where we were headed. luckily enough, i was with the older guys. my recent failing health and increasing anxiety attacks meant that i wasnt capable enough of going to a regular yard. i was going to a medical yard, which is probably why me and my friend, whom i came to call Papa Bear,  were right next to each other. Now Papa Bear was an older gentleman, older than my folks, but hard living with the smoke and the drink made him look ten years older.  like there was no type of retin-a or strivectin or laser that would fix that. however, he had a set of the most perfect bright white dentures that he says he got in the war along with all his tattoos. he was a vietnam vet and definitely seemed so with his off kilter humor that matched mine almost to a tee.

the bus rolled out onto the street, onto the freeway and headed south. it was valentine's day. i know this because all the sappy love songs coming on the radio, along with the "dedications". it's always an odd feeling, hearing about love, about being together, when you're chained and sitting on a rock hard bench headed to a place that held murderers, arsonists, embezzlers and drug addicts. i just drank and got caught. apparently so did papa bear, however, in his case he said he was pulled over because "he was trying to get some action, while he was driving out of town with this hot 50 year old lady." true story. all i could think was, you can still do that at your age? i hope i can when im that old and determined by the state to be "bat shit crazy", so he says.

just as the sun was coming up, the vivid violets and fiery colors of the sun's rays were dancing over the mountains by our land, our home. from this vantage point, the cacti stood a little taller. the dry riverbed seemed that much softer.  yet here we were, being carted away further south in chains. by this time billy corgan was singing...

"Through the darkness, you can see a light

And if they steal your life

Your heart is still mine"

that is what it felt like, that i was leaving this weight, i was leaving this chunk of me behind with this desert landscape. one i took for granted for so long, and now here it is, within reach, so close...yet so far. it was a familiar and comforting sight that i knew i wouldn't see again for a really long time. in my head i thought, "my mom lives just right there. my aunties are right there. hell, my cousin lives right over that hill."

"I can take you a million miles away"

thats what it felt like. i watched helplessly as the desert bloomed in it's own way. the colors tickled and kissed the barren mesquite trees. a coyote skittered across the brush, wrapping up his crepuscular activities. my next though was, my family is JUST right there. getting ready for work. getting the kids ready for school. and i was going to prison. if there was ever a time, that i felt so alone, so empty, so lost, was right then. i rocked my head back on the steel bar on the back of my stiff bench and had to turn my head to forget it, make it all go away. then there it was, the voice in my ear,

"hey, remember that old lady i told you about? i fucked her on that rock right there. HEY YOU CAN LET ME OUT RIGHT HERE!", at least Papa Bear was in a good mood.

we didn't stop, this bullet train just kept rolling, playing love songs...

#arizona DOC #orange is orange #prison life #the lottery #bad valentine

[boe309]

...cause a day can get so long...

indeed it does. when you're stuck in this holding area, you are stuck there for an insurmountable time. some guys are in a holding cell for as short as two days and some have been stagnant for a month. in this particular processing facility is where you housed en route to whatever permanent unit you will be going to. here, nothing is ever certain as you are shuffled from room to room. you are housed with people who have hurt people, stole vehicles, there was this guy there who had this gigantic money embezzling scheme but he was caught because he had some major heart attack and underwent a quadruple bypass and woke up in handcuffs.

may be what comes out of your mouth, but when you are in a place like this stories flew all over the place. there is always the guy that says he had a fleet of imported cars, "bitches" in every room, straight floor to ceiling stacks of money. there's the guy that brags about his firearms deals that he is still making happen. there's the guy that is the "jefe" for his branch of the Latin Kings. theres even the guy that took the rap for his homeboys cause snitches get stitches. i giggled at that. i thought that was something that was only on affliction shirts or on the boardwalk in seaside heights. i was wrong. then theres me, my tail light was out.

fortunately, i was moved into a room with this guy, whom i referred to as uncle eddie, a black guy with one white eyelash, and some druggy mexican guy whose scrotum always hung out of his boxers.

The guy with the eyelash kept talking about how he was framed and about how much he loved his RV rather than a house and how he was going to pay me to help him write a business plan for his future RV trailer hitch company. now, i cant say for sure, but i am pretty sure i was all...

the other guy just talked about drugs a lot and girls he banged. at one point i think uncle eddie finally told him in his broken english, "put your balls away, nobody want to see dirty drug balls". in fact im pretty sure thats how it happened, all i know is i laughed hysterically.

then it came to my story. i said it. i was caught drunk driving. theres no way to gloss that over. i got in trouble alot when i was young. now here i am, 31 and back here. i didnt hurt anyone, i didnt even break any traffic laws, outside of the fact that i was over the legal limit. then came the slew of "well, why didn't you say...why didn't you...what about...?"

dude. i did it. i had this boss that meant the world to me. up until that point i had this douchebag jewish guy for a boss (its not a race thing he just always perpetuated the stereotype) who bagged on me, treated me like shit, put me in the middle of his crumbling marriage, had me do his work and then took credit for it, till finally it all fell apart. then there came this next job that i had to hunt and scramble for, yes, it didnt pay shit, but i got my recognition, i got a positive role model and his words to me were, "do what you need to do and be responsible for your own actions". it was the most sound advice i think i ever could have received from someone. my parents at that time were scrambling for money to get a fancy lawyer, but why? he was right. i did it. and this was the time for me to be responsible. 

i was greeted with three blank stares. i suppose it is hard to fathom someone in that particular pergatory to just own their faults. everyone is always trying to find that one magical loophole that would put them in the world of the living. this place, where i lived with three other men was indeed purgatory. we were locked down 22 hours out of the day, allowed to shower once a week, we still shat in front of each other but after awhile that didn't even matter anymore.

i wrote home. i wrote home about all that was going on around me. i wrote home about how i made friends with the guy in solitary next door until i found out he murdered like three people and ate the last one. so if not for a better description this is pretty much how i felt...

  in a way this purgatory is where you start to build this new character behind the walls. i could confidently say that my ethics and values far exceeded those around me. which, the phrase "behind the walls" should tell you what my cellmates thought of me. they thought me soft, id be eaten alive, id be bait. who's going to help me? uncle eddie? the asian guy with the gigantic scar down his torso who like to rub his ass on his mattress (true story). frankly i couldnt even look at white lash (thats what i called him after awhile) because that was all i could stare at. mexican druggy had one ball bigger than the other, i just figure that was his root (pun intended? perhaps, perhaps, perhaps). this was where i decided who i was going to be, in a way it was a letter to myself, a love song to myself, something that painfully forced me to look at myself as others see me...hiding my face in my hands...

you couldnt imagine my elation when after a week of this confinement, they finally called my name, i was being transferred to my unit, this destination was going to be home for the duration of my sentence, well...so i thought...

#arizona DOC #orange is orange #prison life #incarcerated purgatory

[boe309]

i been work, work, work, workin on my shiiiiii....

i think the one time in your life that you totally know how different you are and how the world sees you is when you step into a room with 30 other dudes, one steel toilet that doubles as a water fountain, and benches with bars on them so you cant lay down. now...thats just county. this story isn't about county, we want to go pro, so lets keep this tour bus rolling.

"You are sentenced to __ years in the _______ Department of Corrections...by signing today you forfeit your right to..."

i really dont think its that i heard it a lot of times, its just that one statement will always wedge itself permanently in the brain.  that by the pledging of those words and your own affirmation, you are voluntarily placing yourself at the mercy of a whole other type of social atmosphere. as i mentioned before, county isnt what you need to worry about, you see all kinds of crazy in county, but its when they march you into a van, shackled from your waist, to your ankles, to your wrists, sometimes even to the unshowered bastard standing next to you, that you know...its a place where you leave your life at the door and whoever you become, you become.

you're marched into a room, stripped completely naked and that's when you become acquainted to:

shake out your hair, pull your ears forward, open the mouth, lift the balls, turn around and bend over, cough, COUGH HARDER and lift your feet.

i knew this was coming so i tried not to stand next to my friend that came with me, nobody wants to see their friends balls. i ended up next to the gay guy...not much better than my friend, although i laughed a few times at the sporadic gasps and George Takei-esque "oh mys". i would think me laughing when i was doubled over would be much more effective than coughing. i was wrong.

now after they get done working through your nooks and crannys like an english muffin they throw you into a room with 13 other guys...again, one toilet. now this is where it begins, Now here is where my perspective switches, it's very Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe, you step through this door and your experience changes.

I am no longer the youngest Account Executive that netted over a million dollars in profit. I am no longer the fashion savvy, quick witted social paradigm that people come to expect when they hear my name. i am no longer the first grandchild to attain a degree from a four year university. Hell, i dont even have hair anymore since they shaved it off let alone a family. im just a number, im a face among many, i am now the man that gets to share toilet time with the other 13 men, 24/7. i am the color of my skin. thats my identity. who i am now can fit on a credit card size ID that includes my picture and tattoo locations.  

"all that work...all that i put into it...all my friends..."

i just keep thinking about how much i put into being the person i was, how hurt, how broken i was that last year. this could have all been avoided, how i had to scramble to be somebody and i managed to tear that wall down in one night, how the plastic of my mattress makes that sound when i lie down, how all these names are etched into the ceiling, the wall, the bed, how their lives went. how they left their life at the door and how they would become, how i would become, who im going to become...

"i been work...work...work...workin on my shiiiiii...."

#arizona doc #prison life #f4f #orange is orange

[boe309]

...and go, walk out that door....

i honestly was pretty optimistic about my follow up trip to "the pumpkin patch".  granted, the last time i was headed to the big leagues i was 22. things are different when you are 22. life is more pliant. you can be able to change yourself to fit the crowd your moving into. however, this go round i was 32. that pliant description had pretty much flown the coop. its like that hole on the top of a babys head, when its just born that is the section thats the most tender, the most vulnerable, you want to just freely allow it to breathe. however, in ten years, that sucker kinda goes all ice age and joins up with the other hemispheres to create some Pangaea formation that at times can be almost indestructible. its true. ive seen it. one time i had a cousin fly off a slide on a skateboard and flew right into a pole, knocked his melon clean. i'm no physicist but i'm pretty sure that had to jar some nuts and bolts loose, i mean, hes still functioning. i dont know how he fared academically but that wooden beam came out of nowhere. i digress. the metaphor i had been aiming at was that re-entering the department of corrections again at 32 was not something that would be so easy. all i could think was What Would Gloria Gaynor do...become a disco queen and move to new jersey? maybe later...never can say goodbye? maybe too melodramatic...i will survive? meh. that'll do, pig, that'll do...

#orange is orange #prison life #f4f