Two days later I was called up to the Control Center and when I arrived there, two guards were dispatched to my cell to pack up my belongings.
"Bag and baggage," Mr. Jackson, the Administrative Assistant Warden, said to me. "Warden Handlon has ordered you transferred."
"For what?" I said, sounding innocent.
"For protection," he said. "In one of your voluminous grievances, you stated that you were in fear of retaliation from the guards or other inmates."
"Where are you sending me," I asked.
"M-R," he said.
"M-R! You can't send me to Gladiator School! And you can't increase my security without a disciplinary reason for doing it. At least not without an Administrative Hearing, beforehand."
"For protection, we can," he said.
"And if anything happens to me over there you know I'll sue," I said.
Mr. Jackson just looked at me.
"If you're really doing this for protection, why don't you send me to Riverside?"
"You'd go to Riverside?" he asked.
"Hell yeah," I said. "I've been begging to go there ever since I got here."
"Wait right here," he said.
Mr. Jackson went into the next room, and I could hear him speaking to someone in a hushed a tone. Then he returned.
"OK," he said. "You're going back to Riverside."
I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from smiling.
Two hours later, I was once again crossing the yard of Riverside Correctional Facility, where the sounds of radios bellowed from all directions. I heard steel weights being dropped on concrete, and the familiar smell of earth and spring was in the air. If the place hadn't changed much, I surely had. I walked with a cat in my stride and few inmates on the yard even bothered to notice me. I was no longer a fish.
Once inside 10 Building, I breathed a sigh of relief when the guard took me upstairs to the second floor. And that's when it occurred to me. What if he wasn't here anymore? I stopped and stood in the hall. The guard, who was escorting me, turned around and looked at me.
I knew Riverside wasn't necessarily the best place for me. It was a closecustody prison, with guys who may not ever get out. And it was where the first of my rapes had happened. But at least Slide Step had protected me after that. And at least in here, there was someone who seemed to care about me. But what would happen if he were no longer here? Foolishly, I hadn't considered that possibility earlier, when I started executing my plan by filing all of those grievances.
I would learn later that at about that same moment, an inmate on the other side of the building ran up to Slide Step and told him, "Wait till you see this bad motherfucker who just walked up in here!"
Epilogue
It's my last night in prison and I sit in my cell hoping I will he able to sleep. My stomach felt nervous all day, and I couldn't eat. The thought of being released was exhilarating, but it was also scary. I didn't want to mess up again, like I had twice before. I was in a minimum-security camp for parole violators.
I remembered Miss Bain once say that if we're not careful, inmates can become institutionalized. We develop a learned helplessness, where we become almost dependent on the structure and security of prison. It seems counterintuitive, yet it would explain why guys were always coming back. Prisons are awful places, but you learn to adjust and after a while it becomes a way of life. I thought of the old timers I met at Riverside, the ones who were doing life on the installment plan, and drinking paint thinner and Mountain Dew. I was not going to become one of them.
I remembered how frightened I was the first time I got out. I was sent to a correction center in downtown Detroit, and as I stood at the corner of Clark and Vernon, I was afraid to step off the curb when the light turned green. It was as if I had forgotten how to cross the street-afraid I'd be run over by the busy traffic. They had given me a food voucher for a Coney Island, which I couldn't eat. And then I remembered the despair I had felt, just a few weeks later, when I realized how hard it was to make it in the free world.
Job prospects were difficult enough with the economy in a recession and the auto industry in the dumps. But then having to take a Department of Correction's job search verification form with me-to every place where I asked for an application-did wonders for getting me hired. I couldn't believe how quickly my dreams all seemed to vanish. At one point, I felt like I was more content inside prison than I did in the outside world. At least while I was in prison I had something to look forward to. On the outside, I had nothing. And worse-I didn't have a clue how to go about getting it.
I violated my parole by getting drunk and running away from the Correction Center. When I came back, the parole board gave me a six-month flop, which I was just finishing. But this time it was going to be different, I was determined to make it out there.
This time through was no easier than when I had been a fish, because everyone knew my story. I wouldn't punk up with anyone by choosing a man. I wasn't going to be anybody's fuck boy any more. At least violence was less of a threat here, since most of these guys too were waiting to be paroled soon.
I stayed calm, even when someone pounded on my cell door and hollered, "Good night, faggot!"
The guards were now flashing the lights for lock-down for the night.
"We'll get you next trip," another inmate yelled.
A few nights earlier, a black guy had tried to corner me in the bathroom-him and three other guys. As had been the case with Moseley, I walked a fine line-because any fights or complaints that might occur in my final days could delay my release. All the inmates knew that, so some took advantage of the situation. Even so, I was not about to let myself be victimized again. I'd grown up at least that much. Luckily, I saw the others hiding in the stall before they were able to grab inc.
"Next time, Baby Boy," the inmate shouted. "That ass is mine!"
That was Carlton; he was on the ride-out list for 7 Block. The board flopped him for having drugs in his urine. He had been out of prison less than thirty days.
The guards pulled the release breaks, and the lock engaged in my door.
I dropped to the floor and did some push-ups, which helped me to vent my anger. It was my last night, in this inverted world, and the rage from my time in prison had swelled inside of me. It had been four years since I first came here. I was locked away between the ages of seventeen to twenty-one years old. So while some kids were away at Penn State, I was sitting in the state pen. It was some education.
When I first went in, I spent most of my time checking out from what went on in here. That had now changed. I struggled to remain present. But being present all the time had its drawbacks. It made me paranoid for one, and the cumulative effects of all that adrenaline can wreak havoc on your body's nervous system. Instead, I found another place-an inbetween world-where I stood with my eyes wide open and my feelings locked away. It was as if an invisible force field surrounded me and nothing could penetrate it. Inmates could call me whatever they liked-faggot, snitch, punk-ass-bitch-but they weren't going to put their hands on me. Not if I could help it.
I was still on the floor, when I sensed someone watching me. It was the guard, Hughes, who had stopped in front of my cell. His eyes, like his hair, were old and gray. He had been indifferent to me since I first arrived, and even now, had a half-smirk on his face as he looked down at me.
"Good luck tomorrow," he said. "I hope you make it."
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
"You don't belong here."
They were simple words, plainly spoken, and yet they rang in my ears. The door at the end of the corridor squeaked open and then closed behind him. Perhaps it was an accumulation of everything that had come before, but what he had said triggered something inside me. I began to bawl uncontrollably. I didn't belong there, and all along I knew it. I tried to muffle the sound, but couldn't suppress the noise. Nor did it matter anymore.
"Yo!" an inmate yelled from down the hall. "Who the fuck is that?"
Another voice hollered, "Someone needs to give her a dick!"
Fuck 'em all, I thought. They could drown in my tears for all I cared. The rage, pain, and sadness escaped from me like a broken pipe, releasing all the pressure of emotions that had been suppressed so long that I had grown numb.
I lay there on the floor, curled and still, soothing my face against the cool metal bedpost. At some point, I had grabbed my pillow and hugged it like a baby as I sobbed. Then almost as suddenly as it had started, the tears stopped and my body calmed itself.
When I had shut down over the years, I had blocked out anything that hurt me or might have hurt me. At the same time, in doing so, I also locked something else in-stuffing it deep within myself. For a split second I caught a glimpse of who I truly was. It was such a brief simple moment-triggered by what that guard had said: "You don't belong here."
I got up off the floor and tossed the pillow on the bed. I threw cold water on my face and stared at myself in the scratched-up mirror above the sink. Then something unexpected happened. I got down on any knees and placed my hands together on the bed.
I could not believe what I was doing. It had been years since I had gone to mass. I felt as cut off from the church as from my family. God, it seemed, had abandoned me around the same time as my mother. But now I was down on my knees, and looking for answers. "Please God, just give me an opportunity, and I'll do the work."
I didn't know where my words were coming from, but I had heard someone say once, that only when your whole being becomes a prayer will God listen to it. I wasn't asking for anything so much as I was making a promise, a pact maybe, and not even with Him, but with myself. I had hit bottom and became willing to do whatever necessary to put the life I had known in the past. "Just give me an opportunity, and I'll do the work."
This was my last night behind bars.
The next morning, on May 3, 1982, I walked out of prison for the last time. And as I left there-I left as a man.
On June 1, 1984, I was discharged from parole. To date, the only run-ins I've had with the law have been minor traffic tickets. (I paid both fines immediately.)
My dad quit drinking for ten years. Sharon said they were the best years they ever spent together. They currently split their time between their home in Michigan and Texas, where they bought a trailer and retreat to in winter.
A year or so after my release, I came home for the holidays with a boyfriend. This was my first trip home with a guy and the first time my family had to face my sexuality head-on. To my surprise and delight, it was Sharon who stood up and said that anyone who had a problem with me-would have to deal with her.
In April, 2001, my brother Rick died from a drug overdose. He was fortyfive and on parole at the time.
My stepbrother Bobby served nine years for the armed robbery he and my brother Rick committed together. He now lives in Michigan.
Claudia, my ex-girlfriend, had a miscarriage. I never heard from her again.
Slide Step is still in prison. His discharge date is 2021. I never asked him about what Paul had said. If he had set up my initial rape-I didn't want to know it.
The Oracle won an national penal press award. None of the original inmates who worked on the newspaper, upon their release, have returned to prison.
Warden Handlon retired from the Department of Corrections. He died a few years later, and the Michigan Training Unit was renamed The Richard A. Handlon Training Unit.
Sherry Burt made warden after thirteen years in the department. We've kept in touch, and she plans to retire soon.
When Paul was sentenced for escape, burglary, armed robbery, and car theft, his victim appeared in court. She asked the judge for leniency, citing how polite and apologetic Paul had been to her. Nonetheless, the Judge gave Paul ten additional years, to be served consecutively to his original sentence.
In the fall of 2002, while I began work on this book, I discovered sadly that Paul was still in prison. I wrote to him the following letter:
December 5, 2002
Dear Paul:
So here it is, almost twenty-five years later and you're finally hearing from me. I imagine this letter will come as quite a surprise. Yet even after all this time, I've never stopped thinking about you.
I tried to visit a few years back, but they had changed the rules and I couldn't get in to see you. I was all checked-in and it wasn't until the woman at the front desk told me to place my all my belongings in a locker that she noticed I wasn't on your list of approved visitors. I had stayed in a hotel the night before and was so nervous about seeing you again that I hardly slept.
I'm not sure why I didn't write to you after that. Perhaps I wasn't ready to deal with whatever feelings may have come up as a result. I was also a little afraid you might not remember me. Though you played a major role in my life, I realize you've been down a long time and I may not have been as significant in your life as you were in mine.
I assumed you were released after that, and I had no clue how to find you. I located you this time on the Internet. The Dept. of Corrections has a tracking system that's open to the public. It even has a nice digital picture. You've aged some since we last parted.
Enclosed is a picture of my family and me. As you can see, I look older as well. I'm the one in the middle with the (premature) gray hair. I've lost some weight since thenbut I'm still a lot heavier than I was at seventeen. The good-looking folks next to me are my partner Tom and our daughter, Annie. We've raised her since she was in the 2nd grade; and we adopted her a few years later. She's fifteen now and growing up fast.
We live in a small village on the east end of Long Island. It's a remarkable place. Tom and I are openly gay and we're very active in our community. In fact, Tom ran for school board last spring and came within 16 votes of winning. He was up against three tough incumbents. It's wild how different life is from the Midwest and the 1970s. Our Mayor is a lesbian, but it's never been an issue. No one really cares. Unfortunately, I think she's a lousy Mayor.
I retired recently from the software industry. I got into computers when I moved to New York in 1982. I went to college at night and got my bachelor's degree in computer science and marketing. I rode a couple of waves in the software business and was in the epicenter of the dot.COM bubble burst in 2000. It was a lot of fun and I did well, but it also aged me. I was running U.S. Operations for an Israeli software company until this past summer, when they started to insist I travel to Israel a little more often than I wanted to. The last trip I made was in August, when a bus bombing occurred within a mile of my hotel. That was it for me. I decided there's more to life than living on airplanes.
Tom and Annie are glad to have me home and I'm enjoying not traveling as much. I've taken up writing and I've gotten involved with a human rights group. I want to spend the next chapter of my life working on something more meaningful than selling software. I'm currently writing a book about my first love and some of the darker days of my youth. I was doing research for this when I found you on the web.
It saddened me deeply to see how much of your life has been spent inside, Paul. My heart broke for you, all over again. It seems only a moment ago that you were that eighteen-year-old kid who slipped inside my life and taught me how to celebrate who I am. I miss that kid, that friend, that lover and mentor who made such a difference in my life.
It's hard to try to put into words all that I'd like to say. There are so many ways in which some of the things you taught me, I have been able to work in my life in positive ways. Thank you for that, Paul. I want to tell you how sorry I am that you are still there. But I don't want to press your bit either. I can't imagine what that must feel like.
Please understand that I'm very happy in my life and with my family. I would not change a thing. I recognize that who you and I were, twenty-five years ago, is a world and a lifetime away from where we're each at in our lives today. But I wanted to take a moment to say hello and to honor what we shared together.
Whenever the song "
Always and Forever" cones on the radio, no matter where I'm at or what I am doing, I stop and think of you. I remember when you sent me those lyrics shortly after you escaped. I think about what you meant to me and about that wonderful period when I fell in love for the first time. I think about how you helped me put aside my shame and rejoice in who I am. It was the first time that I no longer felt alone in the world. And though I've enjoyed a few successes since, there has never been another experience like that time and space that you occupied in my heart.
I came across two fragments of poems that best express these thoughts:
Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty.
But though my wings are closely bound, my heart's at liberty; My prison walls cannot control, the flight, the freedom of the soul.
In spite of our circumstances and the repressive world we were confined to; you helped free my spirit and liberate me. I hope you can see this in yourself and that in some small way this may help you. You're a wonderful man Paul, and life has not been kind to you. I pray that better times lie ahead. And above all else, I wish for you to know how much you have lived freely and joyously in my heart these last twenty-five years. This will never be contained, subdued, or silenced by anyone and anything.
Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Page 34
