I need to write. Everyday. For several reasons. I need to practice putting works together, sanity requires that I maintain a productive routine, fend off anger – more importantly, apathy – and, perhaps, document the good and bad that surround me. I'm going to try for 500 words a day, but I'm only going to attempt being consistent in the obligation to write, not the quantity. What will happen with these pages is still up in the air. Michelle has suggested that we may want to facilitate a BLOG area for prisoners.org. I can't really do a journal,” as there are some things happening in this place that cannot be put to paper and, besides, spit and tears do not translate well into written language. We'll just have to see where this goes.
Since October 1, 2004, my day has begun with me waking up several thousand miles from home, kin, and kith, a prisoner in Alaska’s largest prison. It just happens to be in Florence, Arizona. At last count, 746 of us.
After breakfast at 0600, consisting of some scrambled eggs swimming in ketchup (I understand that the eggs come in a giant bag that is boiled until cooked, mostly), I brushed my teeth, downed my meds, and went out to the yard for an hour and a quarter. I'm trying to go outside every day. I was going out at 0915, but it got too hot by then, so I switched to the earlier ‘movement’ at 0815. Got too hot, then, too, so now it's the 0700 move. I expect, before long – say late June or July – that the heat will drive me in until 0915 in September. Just kidding. Maybe.
I put off my shower and prayers when I came back in, hoping that they'd call commissary, but it didn’t happen. I did get to call Michelle for my first breath of air and portion of affection. I mean that literally. Before hearing her voice, I am just treading the surface of life, sucking air’ the love resonating in her voice gives me cause to keep breathing.
My cellie has started sleeping the entire morning away, rising just before the 1100 hours count. It an irritation only in that I prize courtesy and must remind myself that I have a right to live some semblance of life, even if he desires to sleep through his. I make the noise I need to make, but I resent that I must even waste a thought on in. He snores too. But, that is not a bad thing. Living in a bathroom with another human being, his snores mean he is not mentally sharing this cell – it is about the only privacy that exists for me. After 29 years of nights with screws whistling, keys jangling, doors racking and slamming, even the nightmare-borne cries and occasional scream have become ‘normal’ and safe to sleep through. Snore on, man.
CCA sucks!! Private Prisoncrats and dime-store screws are the spawn of corporate greed, political exploitation, and the mean-spirited apathy (is that an oxymoron?) of the public. This is evident in every aspect of ‘approved’ life in this place. All things ‘good’ exist only to appease and make us docile, while we and our families are sheared of cash. CCA makes a profit on everything from potable water and food to telephone communications and visitation. In fact, Florence, the town where this private prison is located, is also the County Seat for Pinal County, is totally invested by prisons. There are thousands, yes, thousands more prisoners than citizens. The place exists by sucking money from government partners,” prisoners, their loved ones, and their circumstances. Fun Facts: there isn't even a bank in town and the only ATM is privately owned. Next to Texas, Florence is on the list for special attention should I ever get to be king.
If you think I am joking, here is a perfect example of the CCA Way. Prisoners are allotted 2 rolls of toilet paper a week. When the screw passed out last weeks’ allotment, instead of issuing our cell 4 rolls, he carried a list of prisoners’ names that had run out the previous week and asked for an extra roll. He deducted that roll and issued us only 3 rolls. Yes, that means we will be running out earlier that usual, will have to beg 2 additional rolls and may only be issued 2 rolls this week. How long before we OWE rolls of butt-wipe to CCA?
Is this 500 words?
Anthony Brown CCA/FCC 6-8-5I'm sitting here in my cell on a Sunday morning, sipping an RC Cola and listening to disc 2 of Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s ‘Aces Back to Back.’ Outside my slit window, I see prisoners walking past. Some stop and lean against the wall to talk with their pals or just get out of the sun for a moment.
The RC tastes good. I would have preferred to drink it later, but we only get a little ice twice a day, and there is no refrigeration, so you have to get it while you can. Similar accommodation has to be made if you want to buy ice cream from the commissary: no matter when they call you, 0700 or 1530 hours, that’s when you have ice cream. Could be way worse, man. Could be the Siyah-chal hearing other poor wretches bitch about the weight of the chains.
I wasn't going to write today and I decided when my watch alarm went off this morning that I wasn't going to go outside, either. But, here I sit...Going outside is a dead issue, though, because it's just too freakin’ hot by now.
When I called Michelle at ‘Riah’s place yesterday, I could hear our grandson, LeTre’vyon, in the background. At two-and-a-half, he's got “no way!” and “I don't want it!” down pat, loves to hear his grandma sing and copy her when she animates the words, and I think, has his Mom re-thinking the whole idea of motherhood. I miss them all terribly and desire little else, but to be a husband, dad, and grandpa. I believe, at this point in my life, that I’d be much better at those than I was son, brother, and friend in my youth.
My sister, Deb, has asked me to send her some of the recipes and culinary tricks I've picked up, or were shared with me by fellow haters of ‘mystery meat,’ ‘yuck,’ and ‘ick.’ In case you don't know, ‘mystery meat’ is that mixture of textured vegetable protein and beef, turkey, chicken, pigeon, sea gull, or cat scraps that is formed and served in a variety of forms: loaf, patty, and clump. ‘Yuck is that brownish gravy-like substance, sometimes with bits of ground mystery meat floating in it, and usually served over not-quite-cooked rice or potatoes. ‘Ick’ is that wannabe-oriental vegetable slime that is served over noodles or rice.
I have lived in prisons were the food was so bad that the fellas would go on strike, if not riot outright. I remember the liver at Lompoc...it was freakin’ green! What did they do? They served the same liver, covered in a red sauce, and re-named it ‘Liver Fiesta,’ like it was a Mexican delicacy. I also remember fried peanut butter sandwiches and peanut butter soup; that was just cheapness, though, since peanut butter and cheese were FDA hand-outs that the food service administrator took advantage of – to our disadvantage. The food at Spring Creek varied over the years with the personality of the kitchen staff and shrinking budgets; sometimes it was alright, other times foul. Cook Inlet has always been cheap and yucky. Lemon Creek’s, God Bless Bruce, Harry, and Trevor, was very good; off-duty staff and local cops would come in there to eat. It was also the best kitchen to work in that I have ever seen and experienced.
However, the food here at CCA is by far and away, without peer, equal, or doubt, the worst I've ever had the misfortune to have to eat. And of that, the cardiac diet was the nastiest.
Whoever came up with the idea of serving cool, unseasoned, not-fully-cooked, loose, ground turkey meat as an entree needs to be drawn, quartered, and fed to wild animals. As a private prison company, the less they put into you, the more they put into their pockets, literally. I've been down awhile, but I guess that it just isn't as easy as it used to be to feed a convict on 58 cents a day. A pox on all CCA, but especially on the food service contractors and administrators.
Anthony Brown 6-12-5 CCA/FCCYet another day. I've been out and gotten my issue of sun, fresh oven-baked air, and visited with Pimpsterly, Timmy, and Chris, Talk is of games and movies we aren't allowed to see and the latest rumor about Addington checking out private prisons in Georgia and Florida, because the DOC apparently isn't happy with the way CCA is setting to deal us into some new place in Eloy, AZ. Just another rumor, so I don't give it much weight.
I'm still angry about yesterday’s medical visit with the Physician’s Assistant. I'm not going to rant further, but I would like to make a distinction between the functions of the medical department staff. There is no doctor working here at present, since Dr. Barnette left. Barnette, once I finally got to see him, was attentive, knowledgeable about what ailed me, and took care of what needed to be done to address my medical issues. And, the nurses, generally, like nurses in every clinic or hospital setting, are the backbone of the operation. It is no different here – they are, for the most part, caring, conscientious, know their jobs, and go about doing them in a professional manner with not enough recognition or support. Both the doctor and the nurses are beleaguered and swamped. Rare is the visit to Medical that doesn't begin with an hour wait while medical staff deal with a revolving waiting room full of illegal immigrants from federal contracts and chronically ill prisoners from all the other contracts. Kudos for the nurses. Doo doos for P.A. Greene.
Charles Mingus is on the CD player doing “Devil Blues.” George Adams is singing [Gate Mouth Brown wrote the words] and playing tenor sax, Jack Walrath on trumpet, Don Pullen on piano, Dannie Richmond on drums, and Mingus on bass, of course. This album came out in 1975, a year before I fell. And, to the best of my knowledge all the musicians have passed. As Bruce Massey told me: God’s got the best all-star jazz band playing for Him.
Thanks, Bruce, for the gift of jazz in my life.
I bought some extra shoelaces from the commissary last week. I think I'll reinforce my locker shelves today. None of the lockers in the cells I've been assigned have shelves. We make do with cardboard supported on shoelaces through the holes where the screws would go if there were shelves. Unfortunately, single shoelace supports get bowed beneath clothes, toiletries, meds, soups and such. Double lacing is better.
When I called Michelle this morning, she said that Bambu [one of our two Cats] was gone, nowhere in the apartment. She was headed outside to see if she was close. We didn’t think either cat would jump from the second story, especially since neither of them are “outside” creatures. But, Bambu must have seen another cat, gotten all fuzzy-tailed and stupid. When I called back after my hour walk, Michelle reported that Bambu was found under the front steps and very happy to see her Mom. Carpet shark!
The menu says Sloppy Joes for lunch. Poor Joe is rolling in his grave over the ground turkey crap served here in his name. Though it doesn't fit easily into any of the usual categories of entree, you know, yuck, ick, or clump.
Dinner is supposed to be “burrito filling with tortilla.” That translates into real-speak as unseasoned, loose, baked ground turkey meat, with a tortilla, a teaspoon of shredded white cheese, some lettuce, and a tablespoon of salsa on the side. Oh yeah, the beans may have some seasoning, but they'll likely not be fully cooked. There might, however, be a couple of cookies for dessert. Here's to hoping.
Anthony Brown 6-15-5 CCA/FCCit's been over a week since I've worked on this project – process. It isn't that I haven't been writing, but writing letters – no matter how important or urgent – doesn't feel the same.
I didn’t get to make my usual 0700 hrs. yard call this morning. Instead, I had to do pill line, not to pick up medications, but to ask that they be ordered, so I can pick them up when these pill cards run out. The health care processes are all computerized, but medical staff still requires a weeks notice, in person, to be reminded to order medications. Each trip requires that you line up against the wall and wait for half to three quarters of an hour, even an hour, sometimes, as the line creeps toward the window in the wall. Still, no matter how long I've had to wait in med-line to pick up my cards, I am still grateful. First, because I am getting medicine – and many would prefer that prisoners did not, and, secondly, because I only have to endure it four times a month, if there are no mix-ups and all goes according to plan. Many here must go each and every day, sometimes two or three times a day.
Anyway, going to med-line meant missing the morning ‘ice’ delivery. Translate that into drinking store-bought water today. Hopefully, I’ll catch the evening delivery. I don’t care how many CCA flacks say the water is safe to drink, no matter how nasty it tastes. I can't help but notice they all carry bottled water or drink from the hundreds of gallons of bottled water that CCA provides for the employees.
A prisoner, under the close scrutiny of the hack hovering over the box, just brought apples to the mod door to distribute them. Earlier this morning, a friend told me that the institution was completely out of fruit, so we probably wouldn’t get it until tonight. Apparently ADOC pays CCA extra so Alaskan prisoners can have a piece of fruit three (3) times a week. Note that I said ‘Alaskan prisoners,’ because prisoners housed here under different contracts are not getting the fruit. Some cheap beef has also been added to Alaska’s contract, so we get real beef occasionally, rather than the mystery-meat/soy clump and patties or the rolled, loafed, or ground turkey parts. The assurance of some fruit and real beef was an issue important enough to warrant our being informed of the contract changes during an orientation talk given by Warden Luna when I arrived last October. Not that he wanted to give us the ‘good news,’ but rather to warn that if the fruit was used to make ‘pruno’ that he would stop serving it “no matter what the contract says.”
Sometime this afternoon we’ll get called to the commissary. I must remember to take my glasses this week, so I can check the contents of the plastic bag of goodies with the list of what I ordered. Whether due to volume or the inattention of the workers, failing to bring my glasses has, several times, resulted in being burned by the policy of “all sales final upon leaving the sales area.” A notable exception, Steve Stoneking received a sheet of .60 cent stamps by mistake. When he made the commissary staff aware of the mistake and turned in the stamps, they made the effort to find out who had been shorted: me. It seems that Steve’s action was so rare; they felt compelled to call us both down at the same time, so they could tell me what he had done, give me the stamps, and reward him with a plastic mirror. I've known Steve for better than a decade and shared the same cage; honesty is but one of his strengths. So, it is not the rarity of his honesty that compels me to write about the incident. Rather, it is that I felt compelled to take a bite of crow and note the existence of that quality in someone working for a corporation whose sustenance is taken in the dollars and cents it can squeeze from turning keys on the likes of me and those surrounding me – I hope that commissary supervisor doesn't get fired...
Anthony L. Brown 6-23-5 CCA/FCCWhile taking a shower this morning, the man a couple of stalls down began talking to himself. Actually, he wasn't talking or rambling to himself, but, rather, was speaking adamantly, in coherent sentences, to someone only he could see and hear. I remember this man when he was much younger. He had just fallen on this beef, was thought to be ‘out there,’ and tended to act out, sometimes violently and vociferously. Today, a decade or more older, he seems somewhat calmer and, while capable of ‘normal’ conversation, is also profoundly schizophrenic.
What most Alaskan’s may not know, is that nearly two decades ago, Alaska legislators, while profiling a “tough on crime” stance and pandering victims for votes, swept away the statutes allowing “not guilty by reason of insanity” pleas. In doing so they condemned any mentally-ill person who happens to commit a crime into the care and custody, not of mental health professionals, but into that of the Alaska Department of Corrections (ADOC). Instead of doctors, they get guards. Instead of a safe environment where they can get treatment, structured activities, and guidance for living their lives to the best of their ability, while keeping the public safe, they get prison, minimal psychological treatment (usually in the form of whatever medication will make them docile and compliant), and an environment where they are routinely taken advantage of, tormented, and, frequently, physically abused. And, that is when they are in ADOC care IN ALASKA!
Why are these men down here, in a rent-a-prison, thousands of miles from home, being supervised by rent-a-guards? What is ADOC doing exiling their mentally ill prisoners into the hands of CCA? Years ago, I wrote an essay entitled “Cell M-2.” It was about the treatment of Alaska’s mentally ill prisoners by ADOC. It didn’t paint a pretty picture then, and, apparently, it hasn't improved. Prisoncrats and hacks are not trained or suited for ‘caring’ for anybody, and Alaska’s mentally ill deserve better than warehousing. The Governor, ADOC Commissioner, Director of Institutions, Medical Director, and whatever weenie took Dr. Spermwhale’s place, should all be ashamed of themselves.
Alaskan’s – whether Aerie Fairy liberal, middle of the road libertarian, or goose-stepping, right wing, Christ-nazi conservative – need to look at what is happening in their prison system. Open your eyes! Because, if you don’t look, or won’t look, you are getting out of your prisons exactly what you deserve: a money gobbling bureaucracy, some of the highest paid (non)correctional personnel on the planet Earth, and an abysmal recidivism rate.
I don’t want to write anymore today.
Anthony Brown 6-26-5 CCA/FCC4 July 2k5
Three day weekends are usually a drag, but, since it's Independents Day, we may luck out with both a turkey hot dog AND a mystery meat burger. That may read like sarcastic criticism, but, trust me, it's not; I'll accept the extra turkey and mystery meat, in whatever form, with a thought of gratitude, Then, I'll slather them both with beaucoup commissary ketchup and mayo, and they'll pass through a grin on the way to my stomach!
Yesterday, I got to spend an hour with Randy, who'll be disappearing off the yard soon. He's going back into the substance abuse mod; a "therapeutic community' program that is segregated from everyone else. I don't know if these TC programs are any more successful than the programs that existed before, but I hope it works for him. The program here at CCA's Florence facility is one of two that male Alaska prisoners have available. This one is only a few months old, so its track record is an unknown, and I haven't seen any recidivism numbers for the other TC program at the Wildwood facility in Kenai, Alaska. I have my doubts about this program. The TC idea is to remove prisoners from the usual prison setting and access to drugs and 'bad influences,' provide intensive treatment, and then release them upon completion of the program. Prisoners cannot enter the Wildwood program unless they will be eligible for release or parole at the time they are expected to complete the program. This means that, once they finish the program, they leave that 'protected' environment and enter the support systems and supervision available on the street. Such is not the case here.
Many, if not most, of the prisoners here have significant amounts of time to serve, and all are free to seek admission into the TC program. However, the entire concept of 'protected program environment until released' flies out the window. What happens at the end of the 12 to 16 months it takes to complete the program? Are these program-complete prisoners going to be sent from the segregated and 'protected' environment right back onto the yard and not just easy access to drugs, but also to the day to day influences that support and encourage getting high to 'get away' and deal with the suffering associated with incarceration?
As much as I pray for my friend's success, I fear for him also, and believe that, in the end, the programs are all about money - the federal funding that pays for them. For Alaska and CCA prisoncrats it's a win-win situation, because they can claim to be working toward rehabilitating 'offenders' and some free people get jobs, at no real cost to their budgets and contracts, but to what real end? All other substance abuse treatment programming has been cut from the Alaska Department of Corrections' budget, and all programs discontinued, at every institution I've been in - that's right, these two TC programs are it. Of the thousands of prisoners who are incarcerated, most of whom come to prison behind substance abuse problems, how many are actually receiving substance abuse treatment? At this facility, Alaska's largest prison, there are a total of 40 beds available for the 750+ prisoners exiled here. Face it: the only reason these 'therapeutic community' programs exist is because federal funds cover most, if not all, the costs of their operation. Alaskan legislators, prisoncrats, and, apparently, most of the public do not give a rat's patoot about prisoners or rehabilitation. Like the old saw says: follow the money.
"It's a Dog's Life" obviously made it to CCA's dog handler. My friend told me that he was stuck at one of the corridor gates with the handler, his dog, another guard, and a couple other prisoners. The handler made a big show of petting his dog and speaking to it - actually to everyone else - about how it can't find anything unless "I beats your ass. Such a poor...." Hey! The essay wasn't written to question the ability or the character of your dog.
Anthony L. Brown 7/4/5 CCA/FCCI have taken another break from writing. This time for a week or more. But, for good cause: Mom came to visit. As few and far between as visits may be, I have still been blessed to have visits. Although I haven't taken a survey, I would bet less than 5% of the 750+ Alaskan prisoners exiled to this desert prison in Arizona receive frequent or regular visitation with family of friends from home. I'll leave the implications of that situation for another day and essay.
Anyway, spending time with my mother was very good. "Scrabble", "Sorry!," vending machine food, bottled water, and healthy conversation were the order for the week. As I type this, Mom is traveling to Nevada's Glitter Dome to visit her grandson, his wife, and their new baby boy. Wish I could have gone...
Charles Mingus' "Remember Rockefeller at Attica" is playing. The name of the jazz musician and the song may not sound familiar to you, but, if you heard the piece, it would sound familiar. I'm sure parts of it have been used in movie soundtracks, etc. Given the age of most prisoners today, I expect that 'Attica,' the prison and the song's namesake, would be unfamiliar to them, too. That's a shame. Because all of the positive changes to 'corrections,' prior to the on-going post-Reagan decline, were seeded in the rebellions at that, and other, notorious prisons.
Lunch was...well, let's not go there.
I rescued the re-hydrated potatoes, picked out the black chunks, stiffed in some corned beef off the commissary, then nuked the mess until the grease was bubbling happily, topped it with generous dollops of ketchup, and wallah!, corned beef hash for lunch. Wahoo! I still have half a bag of corned beef, so I'll probably mis in spices and mayo and use dinner's bread to make a sandwich or two.
Man, those barbecue riblets from the vending machine in the visiting room were delicious! I know they are not real ribs, but shredded pork, pressed into a riblet-shaped patty. Still...I'm just glad that my faith doesn't come with dietary restrictions, because pig, especially greasy barbecued pig, is deliriously delectable! I got dibs on both the rabbi's and the imam's shares; thank you, very much!
Anthony L. Brown 7/13/5 CCA/FCC17 July 2k5
There is a new memorandum, by Assistant Chief of Security Lopez, posted on the door to the prisoner restroom, located in the Visiting Room. This memo orders that prisoners using that restroom must be accompanied by a guard. The restroom is apparently seen by some prisoncrats and hacks as a threat, a portal for contraband, because prisoners may use the privacy of that lavatory to either swallow rubber-wrapped packets (usually balloons or condoms) of drugs, tobacco, etc., or to push them into their rectums and, thus, evade detection during the strip search procedure that follows any visit. On its face, Mr. Lopez's directive seems to be a logical step toward deterring the smuggling of contraband. On its face, anyway.
Was there some reason that Mr. Lopez chose to order that one of his employees stand next to a prisoner as he urinates, or over the prisoner as he defecates, rather than order a pat search, or even strip search, of a prisoner who needs to use the restroom facilities? Considering that there is, somewhere, a CCA policy that permits prisoners to be stripped naked, bent over, and have their butt and genitals sniffed by a contraband-sniffing canine and his handler, I can't help but wonder, did Mr. Lopez come up with that process, too?
Being the consummate smart aleck, I am way tempted to start bandying about phrases like 'golden showers,' 'pooh fetish,' and 'bestiality,' but I'll refrain. Let it suffice to say that there are less intrusive and distasteful alternatives that Mr. Lopez surely could have instituted - taking into account his expertise and employment in the realm of "security." I am certain that his own employees - the male ones, anyway - would appreciate a different approach; my Mother and I did watch one guard balk, and refuse to enter the restroom, when he discovered the prisoner needed to poop.
I'd appreciate an alternative to the present directive, too. I have a difficult enough time urinating with some man watching my stuff, when I'm required to submit to urinalysis testing, much less...well, you get it.
Anthony L. Brown 7/17/5 CCA/FCC19 July 2k5
I made a trip to the med-line, again, today. Yesterday's 45 minute journey and wait resulted in finding my medication still unavailable. It wasn't there today, either, but the pharmacy nurse did find some, so allergy relief is being enjoyed even as I write this. The meds for my hcv treatment have come in - I was given the Ribavirin to bring back to the cell - so, I expect to begin the weekly Pegintron injections tomorrow. I, also, expect to be down, sick, for a couple days afterward, but should be up and functioning by the weekend.
The Law Library is closed all this week. They are finally installing the "paperless" system, consisting of terminals tied into some legal information system. This system was promised last November, when the State of Alaska, Department of Corrections, also ceased updating all the Library's reference material. That's right, since the system was supposed to be installed, there have been no updates to the Alaska Reporters, Pacific Reporters, Alaska Digests, U.S. Supreme Court Reporter, Federal Reporters, Federal Supplements, Federal Digests, Decennial Digests, or Shepard's of any stripe. Basically, for eight months the Law Library has been an Old Law library.
Personally, I don't think it's a coincidence or accident that things happened to have worked out this way, either. Since the U.S. Supreme Court decided the Blakely case, which demands sweeping reforms to the sentencing process in some State courts, no new case law has been available to prisoners to use in petitioning the courts to address their, now, illegal sentences. While prisoners have been hampered, or prevented outright, from seeking redress, the courts have welcomed those petitions from their fellow feeders-at-the-trough: lawyers from the State's Public Defender Agency and Office of Public Advocacy most of whom, like the prosecutors and judges, have a vested interest in seeing that the benefits of Blakely, and it's progeny, effect as few prisoners as possible, and are working to accomplish that by using boiler plate arguments and mundane or irrelevant, even skewed, legal approaches.
Here is a tidbit for all you fans of television courtroom dramas, who think you understand how the law works: Since the Constitution and Bill of Rights were penned, all precedent-setting case law has worked to place limits upon the rights and protections afforded this country's inhabitants by those very documents. Every book of case law is full of exceptions to those rights and protections. Man, your right to be protected from searches and seizures without a warrant is, today, a ghost.
Mostly, the usual activities - or inactivity - are making up the rest of this day. Except for this: I was able to call my wife this morning, after she got off from work. Two minutes into the conversation and we had each other laughing to the point of tears. That, ladies and gentlemen, preceded by sex and accompanied by a cup of tea, is how the world should start and end, the day! Laughing with somebody they love...
Anthony L. Brown 7/19/5 CCA/FCC12-04-2k5
At what point do Corrections’ isolation, incapacitation, and retribution cease to serve the rehabilitative process? Where is that crossroads where “program complete” meets with the slippery spiral of permanent maladaptive complacence; that place where the clear imagery of memory fades into the fog of logic formed from thoughts bounced from off-white concrete cell walls, reason twisted by fear, helplessness, and hopelessness like the razor-wire fences that contain it.
During my daily telephone call with my wife, she told me of taking our daughter and grandson to an outlet store. Although they didn’t find what they were originally looking for, she did find a gift for our friends Harry and Brian. She also told me of looking at clothing that she thought would look “Amazing!” if I work them. After nearly thirty years of living in a box, I can tell you that in the last ten years I’ve spent fewer minutes thinking about what kind of clothing I would wear than I have fingers on one hand.
Am I a slacks and blazer kind of guy? How about jeans, t-shirts, and a leather jacket? I cannot tell you. I also cannot tell you when I stopped seeing myself wearing anything but the hard-cloth pajama uniforms, common now in prisons, differing only in the color chosen by some prisoncrat, who has determined that screw can shoot felons wearing gray of yellow, but not misdemeanants wearing blue.
I don’t know where imprisonments’ point of diminishing returns is located on a calendar, but I can tell you that the day when I ceased to regularly imagine myself wearing anything but prison garb, I fear that was the day I was lost.
Anthony Lee Brown CCA/FCC 12/4/512-6-2k5
I ran into Michael (“Red”) Stephens on my way to Medical this morning. He said that he saw and spoke with Mike Addington last night. Addington, until recently, was the Department of Corrections’ Director of Institution. According to what he told Red, he is now working ”Special Projects,” arranging for the move of Alaska prisoners from this CCA facility to another one, called “Red Rocks,” Located near Eloy, Arizona.
Red has been working on a legal problem, specifically with CCA and ADOC violating federal statutes by CCA permitting its food service sub-contractor, Canteen, to use exiled Alaska prisoners as slave labor for another Canteen contract – providing food preparation for Pinal County Jail. Addington’s response to Red’s problem validated my own long-held beliefs” That the ADOC does not care about the abuse of prisoners of violations of the contract between CCA and the ADOC. Adding, looking at the grievance appeal response that he had provided to Red, said that he remembered his answer and that the content of his answer was irrelevant, because According to Addington, CCA can get away with doing whatever they want to prisoners, because ADOC and Alaska State legislators don’t care about prisoners.
Prisoners are not the only Alaskans subject to the punishment of “transportation.” Most of Alaska’s citizens are not aware that their State’s child protection agency has systematically shipped nearly 800 psychologically and behavior-challenged children and adolescents to facilities located in the lower-48, i.e., Texas, Utah, Colorado, etc. It is another example of the State’s answer to complex human-related problems” Ship the disposable people and their problems out-of-state and throw oil money at private contractors to deal with them.
Oil money is “free” to Alaska’s government – meaning it gets pumped from the ground, rather than being deducted from the paychecks of its citizens. Since citizens don’t feel the pinch, legislators feel free to use those funds as it wills, and its use to support policies and practices that, while abusive, harmful, and neglectful, escapes the scrutiny of the average citizen.
Still have doubts? Watch what occurs in the near future at Alaska’s only State-operated acute and chronic psychiatric care facility – the Alaska Psychiatric Institute. Food preparation and laundry services at the facility have already been “privatized,” and I predict that the operation of the institution will soon be handed over to a private, for-profit corporate contractor.
Maybe you don’t care about prisoners, difficult children, of mentally-ill human beings. But, imagine that you need that unionized State job that doesn’t exist of was out-sourced to some out-of-state corporation. How about if you do hold a State position that is about to be privatized; what do you think will happen to your benefits of that retirement pension that you have been working towards? Poof, baby! Ask your Union representative.
Alaska’s legislators and State agency administrators don’t give a rat’s patoot about the prisoners, children, and patients for whom they are responsible, and, perhaps, if you don’t need a State job or fear the loss of your State benefits and retirement pension, you still don’t care, Consider this, then” when those exiled, alienated, abused, and neglected prisoners and psychologically-challenged kids are released, to where do you think they are going to return?
Anthony L. Brown CCA/FCC 12/6/5