by Mark Hewitt
Charlie taught me that air pollution is a terrible plight for our skies. With foreign substances, some unnatural, floating in the atmosphere, we risk lung disease, poisoned lakes, deforestation, and mass extinctions. Because we live in an atmosphere that we can’t escape, to pollute the air is to kill ourselves. The first A in ATWA stands for air, the most important element of our world to be at risk from pollution.
Trees (abbreviated by “T”) comprise second place in Manson’s list of priorities. They enable us to breathe through their vital role in photosynthesis. To cut down a tree is to damage the earth and to send us hurling toward the disastrous end of Easter Island. When it was suggested to him that for every tree that is cut and cultivated for human consumption two be planted, Charlie went ballistic. He was not interested in discussion. Every 400 year old tree supports life that cannot be replaced by two seedlings, he raged. “Trees are our lungs,” he proclaimed more than once.
Similarly, water must be protected (The “W” in ATWA), according to Charlie’s philosophy. We need water to drink. Animals can’t survive without access to clean steams and lakes. If we don’t protect our water supplies, animals and people are doomed.
This raised some questions in my mind. If water was so important to him, I wondered, why did he talk so much about deserts? Why did he move to Death Valley, one of the most arid places in the world, immediately before being arrested for his part in murders? I concluded that despite its lack of moisture, deserts held an appeal for Charlie because they are mostly free of human interference. I suspected that he believed that water could be discovered or hidden even in a remote desert.
Animals, to Charlie, the final “A” of his motto, do not include people. That animals must be protected was a profound self-evident tenet in his philosophy of life. He at all times portrayed himself as being one with the environment, not unlike an American Indian. He told me that he had Indian blood in him. He also told me about the time he spent with Native Americans, and how he had been profoundly shaped by them, even if he was not a full native himself.
To Charlie, humans are less important than animals. They are superfluous actually, even detrimental to life on the planet. They wreak havoc with the world. Animals and plants seem to be able to co-exist. By contrast, humans work hard to destroy the environment and its ecological balances, take what they do not need, and leave garbage and chemical pollution behind. Many groups of people cannot even coexist with other similar groups. The world would be better if humans did not exist, never had existed. I wondered sometimes whether Charlie had really studied the situation, and knew and understood the positive and negative effects of humans in the world. I am much more positive in my outlook than my friend. Nevertheless, I saw the importance of what he said.
I have heard the arguments against Charlie: that his philosophy is a convenient way to induce guilt and fear in others, that it is a way to excuse his own actions, and that it is a means to give him something to hold sacred in light of his loathing of all humans including himself. I don’t buy it, though. Despite his pessimism, Charlie has much to teach the world about the importance of nature, and the natural processes of our world.
More than once, Charlie commented on the profound difference between the two of us, my optimistic look at the world and at people, contrasting significantly with his hopeless outlook and despair of humankind. I think I’m not all that different from Charlie, however. Like him, I think we need to protect our world from harm and disaster.
I listened to Charlie for hours as he espoused his care and concern for the world and all that is in it. I engaged him in discussions about the air, trees, water, and animals. I couldn’t find fault in what he said. It fit into my own understanding of the environment. Who can argue with the threats of pollution?
Always, I was mesmerized by his speech. I could easily understand a group of wayward teens falling in love with, and following, this man. I have to admit that in some strange way I became very attracted to him. I could understand the power he had over others for he had that power over me. It now made sense to me that the mere mention of his name could invoke feelings of awe and wonder. More than a few times, I had dropped his name to increase my own status with others. Inmates and guards would all stop and give me their undivided attention when I shared with them something Charlie had told me, or when I showed them something that he had given me. I began to see the beauty of Charles Manson as a human being. The old man can help people use their brain and see things the way they are, I marveled. Is he the smartest person I had ever met? Maybe, he was the smartest person in the whole world. I began to follow him in my own way.
Later, even in the quietness of my own mind, when I reviewed the things he shared with me, I came to the conclusion that he was a great man. Was he egotistical? Yeah. At times he could be, but who isn’t? In general, Charlie was a down to earth man, a beautiful person that every man, woman, and child could learn something from to make this a better world. The most profound thing he ever said to me, something that for me crystallized his importance was this: “We are one. There is no you, me, him, they, them. There is only one!” I did not know the full implication of this wisdom, but I knew it was deep. I trusted him that in the depth of his profundity, he was really, really smart.
One of the most troubling events in all of his life, Charlie explained to me, was a time when he was forced to kill a rabbit. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recounted to me the tale of horror that no child should have to experience.
When Charlie was still a child of eight, his mother was arrested and convicted for an armed robbery she had committed with her brother. While the two were in prison, there was nowhere for Charlie to go. His mother decided to put him in a foster home when no friend or family member agreed to take him.
The foster home was a large one, housing ten abandoned children in addition to Charlie and the elderly couple who hosted them all. It was evident to Charlie that the foster parents knew how to make good use of the children’s abilities. The foster mother ruled the home like a dictator. She expected everyone to get up at five o’clock in the morning to participate in the chores, which included milking cows, collecting eggs, picking vegetables, and cleaning animal pens. The woman meantime churned her own butter, cooked all the meals, cleaned the house, and mended all the clothing.
Her industriousness was matched only by her cruelty, however. One morning, the woman told young Charles to go down to the basement to kill a rabbit. He was ordered to slit the animal’s throat, skin its hide, and wash the pelt in warm water. Charlie resisted and resisted, trying to find a way out of harming this poor, innocent creature. He felt bad for it. When he could find no more excuses and had come to the end of his pleading, the woman’s command ruled the day. Charlie placed the knife against the bunny’s throat and ended its life.
“The rabbit shrieked and shrieked,” Charlie told me, choking back the tears. “There was blood everywhere and it kept crying out.” I noted that this was something like a scene out of the movie, “Silence of the Lambs,” where Jodie Foster’s character, Clarice Starling, had to endure the screams of slaughtered lambs. It appeared to be similar, except, unlike Clarice, Charlie had to actually deliver the violence and not just witness it. It was evident to me that this event tormented Charlie. He was still troubled by it all these years later.
“Why did she make me do that?” Manson wanted to know. “How could she be so cruel?” At the tender age of eight, he was too sensitive and caring to engage in such a violent act. It was yet another episode that soured his view of human nature. Over time, experiences like this caused him to become deeply concerned about animals and bitter toward the human race.
“I don’t like humans much because they’re brain dead,” he once told me. “Just look at all the filth in this world, smog, polluted waters, deforestation all over the world.” Charlie held back none of his hatred of people. “We’re all meatballs, hamburgers, milkshakes, and French fries. It’s as easy to be eaten as it is to go into M
cDonalds and order a meal and devour it!”
To deal with the damage that people inflict on the natural world, Charlie created what he called, “The People’s International Court of Retribution.” It consisted of a judge (Charlie), jury (Charlie), and executioner (Charlie). Sessions were held without warning whenever Charlie felt so inclined. We, the general public, are the spectators to the Charles Manson brand of justice, but only if we have upheld his high standards in protecting the animals and environment.
With great flourish and passion, Charlie would present evidence, declare his rulings and pass sentence. Others might have considered him crazy for what he said. It didn’t matter to him. His only concern was for ATWA, air, trees, water and animals. His distain for those who harmed the world was evident in the threats he breathed. He promised a fate worse than his own upbringing, worse than the way the defendant had treated the animal or the air, worse than the greatest punishment ever meted out against him. I enjoyed listening to him as he held court against some new infraction or against some group within society that disappointed him. He could get so enraged and animated. One day it would be the state of California on mock trial; the next it would be some inmate who made a derogatory comment about an animal; another day it was society in general for its neglect of conservation. He could never execute the harsh sentence that would inevitably be the outcome of the trial, of course. Still, it was fun to watch--and highly entertaining.
When he was not holding court, he was talking about animals. Even the wellbeing of a spider or moth garnered Charlie’s attention, as became evident during our discussions or visits to the yard. It was a rare occasion that Charlie took the opportunity to go to the yard, but when he did, it was all about the animals he saw, even the smallest of creatures.
When he was not holding court, he was talking about animals. Even the wellbeing of a spider or moth garnered Charlie’s attention, as became evident during our discussions or visits to the yard. It was a rare occasion that Charlie took the opportunity to go to the yard, but when he did, it was all about the animals he saw, even the smallest of creatures.
It was still dark outside when a beefy guard with an oversized uniform tapped on my door with his baton. “Mendez, are you going out to morning yard?” He enquired.
“No,” I refused without looking up from my bed. I was too tired to get up.
As I lowered my head back down to the make-shift pillow I had created out of the state-issued blanket, I heard the same tapping at the next cell. “Charlie, are you going out to morning yard?” The guard had been around long enough to know what everyone in the cell house knew: Charlie did not like to go out of his cell for anything, not the shower, not the yard, and not just to stretch his legs. In fact, if there were a fire on the cell block, and the inmates were to be evacuated one cell at a time, there is a good chance that Charlie would remain in his cell and refuse an offer to leave.
Sometimes, guards have to take extraordinary measures to remove an uncooperative inmate from a cell. When a prisoner refuses an order to leave his cell, the guards take immediate action. First, they will tell the inmate that he can either cooperate and do it the easy way, or they will be forced to do it the hard way. Upon a second refusal, the guards will gather in number, enough to overwhelm the prisoner, and then spray him with mace. If there is still no cooperative response, they will open his cell door and rush him. Wearing hockey helmets, plastic face guards over gas masks, heavy chest protectors, elbow pads, knee pads, and shin pads, they will cower behind a Plexiglas shield. They want to protect themselves in the event that the hostile inmate has a spear or knife secreted in his cell, or can assault them with a gaseous or liquid weapon. One way or another, the prison ensures that its orders are carried out. Unless an inmate is mentally ill, or desirous of a fight, he will eventually comply to avoid the physical confrontation.
On this particular morning, Charlie was not required to come out of his cell. He had been invited. “I don’t know,” was his reply to the invitation. “I don’t like people coming in my cell and stealing from me.” What he was talking about was a mystery to me. He had not left his cell in weeks. No one could possibly have taken anything from him. Perhaps he was referring to an event a long time ago. Maybe he was imagining the thefts.
After a few moments of deliberation, Charlie gave the rare reply to the guard, “Yeah, I’ll go out.” He added a condition. “I’ll go out if you make sure that no one goes in my cell while I’m in the yard.”
“Sure, Charlie,” the guard replied. “I promise you I won’t let no one go inside your cell. That’s my word and my word is my bond and my bond is my life.” These words of promise are exactly what Charlie would frequently say to others. By using them, the guard revealed that he was hip, and that he would protect the old man. He showed that he was a person who listened and who respected Charlie. This seemed to put the old man at ease.
I had emerged from my bed by this time. As cold as it was on the floor, I wanted to witness this spectacle. Charlie had not been out of his cell in over three months. He had once told me, “Willie, I can stay in my cell for a year straight and never leave. Other people start to lose their minds because they are weak minded, but not me!” Finally, I would witness him leaving his cell after more than three months.
The guard moved to the top of his door to unlock a special red padlock, secured in place in the unlikely event that all the cell doors opened up accidentally. Because he is a high risk inmate, Charlie is not allowed even the remotest chance of leaving his cell by accident. No one wanted Charlie wandering around the prison. The security lock also protected him from any attack by another inmate. The beefy guard unlocked the tray slot of Charlie’s cell, allowing the steel plate that covered the opening to fall with a clank.
From my window, I could see two hands emerge from the cell. They were white and bony, engulfing nails that were long and unkempt. He resembled what I would expect in a wild man who had been abandoned in the jungle, or a psychiatric patient locked up to protect himself and society. Cuffs were secured around his wrists before the guard called for the opening of his cell: “Twenty-seven! Two! Seven!” The tower guard who was at the control board opened Charlie’s cell so that the old man could step out of the only room he had known in weeks. I noticed his long, shaggy hair and his beard that flopped down over his chest. A wrinkled yellow jump suit hung from his small frame. He made no effort to adjust his clothing or smooth out its wrinkled surface. On his feet, I observed well-worn black tennis shoes.
“Have a good yard, Charlie,” I yelled as I banged on my window. As he turned, I saw him smile at me. He appeared to be free of any worry about an invasion of his cell while he was away. As he shuffled toward the tier door, I concluded that he was not going out to the yard in weakness. After thirty-five years of incarceration, he had the right to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Too, no one better criticize him or speak ill of him while he was gone. I determined that I would monitor the conversations that took place in his absence. I was happy to note that no one said anything disrespectful to him as he left the unit. It was still really early in the morning: breakfast would not be served for another half hour. Charlie could be gone for as long as three hours, I knew.
I turned my attention to cleaning myself up for the day. At my stainless steel sink, I grabbed a bar of soap and starting washing up in a rush of hot water. I brushed my teeth and began to fold my blankets when I heard the breakfast guard approach from the door that led to two sections called lower A and lower B.
“Chow time,” the breakfast guard announced. “Uncover your lights and stand at your door, or I’ll pass you by.” I knew that if I didn’t obey, I would miss breakfast and would not receive a bag lunch. I could not wait until dinner that was not due to be served for another ten hours!
I recognized the guard. He was an ex-marine drill sergeant who had seen action in Vietnam. He was what you would call, “a true Marine Devil Dog.” He was firm in the orders that he gave to everyone. He al
ways kept his boots clean and shiny, as nicely polished as his gear; his uniform was always immaculate.
He yelled to the tower guard his staccato order, “Open twenty six! Two! Six!” He jammed my breakfast tray through the meal slot. As I received it, I surveyed its contents: scrambled eggs, beans, two tortillas, two hot sauce packets, grits, two packets of imitation sugar, a packet of state coffee, and one half pint of milk. The eggs were still steaming. Because it was Tuesday, I also received some fresh fruit juice. Sometimes, the juice would be substituted with stewed prunes or stewed apples. On rare occasions, we would find stewed apricots. But not today.
I received my sack lunch at the same time. I opened it to inspect the contents, not really anticipating anything out of routine. I found what I had come to expect: a bologna sandwich, an apple, chips, and some graham crackers. Lunch never changed. Never.
The guard went to Charlie’s cell. After carefully setting a meal in the cell, he placed a second tray over top of it, upside down, to keep Charlie’s food as warm as possible in his absence.
It was going to be a good day, I reasoned. Charlie had gone outside to see some birds, bugs, and plants. He would shower if he dared to do that in the 50 degree weather outside. That would wake him up and refresh him, I thought.
At three hours exactly, the Devil Dog returned with Charlie. For me, it was a joy. It was like seeing a long lost friend again, even though it had been only a few hours since he left. I was happy for him, certain that the trip to the yard was soothing and refreshing. I was feeling happy for myself, too. Here was the most notorious killer in American history, swastika on his forehead, the most dangerous person in our prison—and he was my friend. In his absence, I began to realize how much this man meant to me. His history did not matter to me. Where he had been and what he had been involved with prior to our friendship did not affect me and our relationship. I was ecstatic to see him return to me.
