Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison

by T. J. Parsell

  Always and Forever,

  Tim

  I didn't know if I'd ever hear from Paul or even if he received my letter. But contrary to his warning that I'd forget about him, I never have. It's been twenty-five years since I had last seen him, yet the pain and memory of those experiences are as vivid to me now as they were back then. The thought occurred to me that the only difference between Paul and me was that he didn't come knocking on my window the night he escaped.

  My Dear Tim:

  I wish I could explain how much you brightened my life today. There have been very few truly exciting moments in my life, since I last saw you, but opening that letter and reading your beautiful words has been very special.

  I'm in the prison hospital right now. I had a quadruple by-pass on December 6th. I am very tender all over but getting stronger each day. I am not as articulate as you are, but I hope I'm able to express how truly proud I am of you. I have thought of you many times over the years, and I never once doubted that you would do good things in your life.

  I could never forget you Tim. I remember that wild curly hair that you could not keep out of your eyes and the quick intelligence that always made me proud of being your friend. I remember so clearly when we first met, you were being pursued by (Slide Step) and I lusted after you each time I saw you. Then we went to MTU and fell in love. You are the only man I have ever loved and that is OK with me.

  A lot has happened in my life since I escaped on March 3rd, 1979. They gave me 10 to 20 for that escape and burglary and stacked it on top of the 10 to 20 I was already serving. In 1983 I got caught with a knife and they added another 2 to 5 year sentence.

  I did get paroled in August 2000; I was out until September 12, 2001. I'm now back on a parole violation because I stopped reporting to my agent; dumb move on my part. I'm on my second 12-month flop. I've been on the street for one year since 1975. I'm not complaining just counting the years. My own actions are the cause of my prison stay.

  I have not been involved with a man in over ten years; when I went home in 2000 I met a lady and I have a beautiful relationship with her. For the first time since I left your side, I found someone who truly loves me. I hope that you can some day meet her. She knows nothing about my sexual past, though I will tell her. But that's OK, because she would not question my friendship with you and nothing in this world could change the fact that you are one of the very few people on this earth I have ever truly loved or trusted.

  You have a beautiful family, I can see the love and warmth in your faces; I am glad that your life turned out well and that you never returned to this madness. But I never doubted you would. I knew that you were better than all those people around us, including myself. And I'm so glad I didn't take you with me on that stupid escape.

  As crazy as it may seem, I mentioned you to someone about a month ago. An old friend and I were walking the yard and talking about years past (He has been down 25). Well the subject got around to "the finest motherfuckers we ever met," (smile). I went on to describe a tall slim kid with a mass of curly hair, long legs, a plump butt and the sweetest lips God ever made for kissing.

  My mind keeps flashing back to the time we spent together. I remember being in the field house with a hundred people around us. I looked across the room into your eyes and we both just smiled because the love was so strong.

  I remember so clearly the first time we made love, we were under my bed and we used shampoo (smile). We both had dry skin for a week. I can remember sitting and talking for hours, and how difficult it was for you at first to have people know that you were gay, but after awhile you realized that only you can live your life.

  Life was not a party then. I can remember us going after a guy with a padlock because he would not leave us alone. But our bond just grew stronger and stronger. I have never stopped loving you and I never will; our lives are different now and we both have other people in our lives, but we can still be dear friends and hopefully become a part of each other's lives.

  I must have read your letter 20 times by now; it is so great to hear from you. I have wondered over the years what had become of you. I see people all the time who have been home 4 or 5 times and some that have been here as long as I have.

  Tim you are always going to be a part of my life, thoughts of our beautiful relationship have carried me through many lonely and depressing years. I almost died the day after Thanksgiving; I had a series of heart attacks that lasted 12 hours. I didn't even realize I was having heart attacks until the pain became so intense I couldn't draw a breath. They rushed me to the hospital in Newberry, Michigan (I was at a medium security prison there).

  From there I came by ambulance to Marquette General, it was not until the sixth that I was stable enough for by-pass, but I am doing much better now, except I am sore as hell (smile). I will be in the hospital ward here in Marquette for a few more weeks then probably go back to Newberry.

  I will have a Parole Board interview in about June of next year, I am pretty sure they will let me out, I will parole to my lady friend, from there I really have no plans.

  To tell you the truth Tim, the thought of going back to the free world scares me. I'm not sure I can make it as a free man. I know that sounds crazy, but prison is all I know. I have been locked up since I was ten years old and the world out there is not normal to me. I have common sense and can learn anything but it is kind of late in the game to start from scratch and have anything for old age. If I had gotten out ten years ago, I would have stood a better chance. But I will get out and give it my best shot, I won't ever do anything to bring me back here, I know I would die in here if I came back.

  I'm lucky that I have a good woman who loves me dearly and will stand by me; I'll make it in the free world.

  Tim I have felt so lonely, afraid and depressed since my heart attack that I have just been floating along in a fog. And then I got your letter and it made me smile, cry and then realize that life is not over because of this heart attack. I can get my strength back and get back into life.

  Thank You Tim for giving me the spark I needed. I also want to thank you for sharing your feelings about our relationship years ago; I had no idea that I had such an affect on you. And although I know it's your basic goodness and intelligence that have brought you the success you have achieved, I truly appreciate your offering me some credit for helping you through.

  I remember sitting in the hole at M-R after my stupid escape; writing you long letters and awaiting your replies.

  So you are going to be a writer. I can't wait to read your first book; maybe someday you can help me write the story of my 28 years in prison.

  Well Tim, I have rambled long enough. Thank you for brightening my life once again. I wish you and your family the very best for the holidays and the coming year. I am enclosing the address and phone number I will be paroling to. Please write again if you find the time.

  Always and forever,

  Paul

  Afterthoughts

  Early one morning, recently, I drove south on the Bridge/Sag turnpike in route for my morning coffee fix. It was late autumn, and the leaves had turned brown and were gently falling. Two miles out of town, about halfway between Sag Harbor and Bridgehampton, I passed a couple of crack dealers lingering on the side of the road. One of them looks familiar and slightly nods. I keep going. It's one of the few African American communities nestled among the Hamptons-Bridgehampton, East Hampton, and Southampton. It's mostly poor and seems out of place in a region that houses some of the most expensive real estate on the eastern seaboard. I'd heard locals refer to this stretch on the turnpike as Lionel Hampton.

  Some things, like racism and marginalization, never really change much. It just isn't as overt as it once was.

  When I reach Route 27, I turn right and pull into a Starbucks, where I'll order my caffe latte, like I do every Sunday morning at 7:45. It's a crucial stop on my way to my morning meditation meeting at the Wainscot Chapel.

  I'm feeling particularly vuln
erable this morning, and in need of a meeting. I had given an interview on CBS News on Logo, and the network had been running the story throughout the weekend.

  "Why am I doing this?" I say aloud.

  I often talk to myself when I'm alone in the car. Most people, who see me doing this, would just assume I'm talking on a speakerphone, but I find it an opportune time to speak my thoughts out loud.

  For the past several years, I've been an advocate for prisoner rights. I sit on the board of Stop Prisoner Rape, a human rights group that's dedicated to ending sexual violence against men, women, and children in all forms of detention. I visit a dozen of cities a year in my various advocacy work. Mostly, I just share my story to help put a human face on the issue.

  A few weeks earlier, I testified before the National Prison Rape Elimination Commission, and the New York Times ran my story nationally. I also wrote a Times Op-Ed piece, titled "Unsafe Behind Bars," and everyone in my community seemed to have read it. Before this, very few had known I'd been to prison. I was putting myself out there in a very public way, and I was starting to doubt why I'd done it in the first place.

  I had had it all-a successful career in the software industry, a Senior Vice President title, and a comfortable six-figure salary that went along with it. My past had been clearly behind me. I was a kid then, and who I was at that time had nothing to do with who or where I was at today. But ever since I walked into a video store in Manhattan and saw some kids laughing at a depiction of prisoner rape on the TV monitors-I decided it was time to do something. In short, I became a human rights advocate dedicated to ending sexual violence in prisons.

  But now I was feeling fearful about my future and doubting the sanity of that decision.

  "Are you sure this is what I'm supposed to be doing?" I said out loud.

  I could almost hear the doors slamming shut behind me-to the privileges and respectability I once enjoyed as a software executive. Now that my prison history was public knowledge, what kind of future could I hold in the corporate world?

  For twenty-five years, I have kept my end of a bargain I had made with God. If he gave me the opportunity to do the work, I would do the workno matter what it was.

  "Are you sure, God?" I said again. "I'm afraid, and I'm not sure I can do this. Can you send me a sign?" Though I felt a little silly hearing myself say that, because if it were signs I were looking for-all the opened doors in front of me should have been the clearest indication that I'm on the path I'm supposed to be on.

  From the moment I decided to write a book, people came from out of nowhere to help me. The Ashawagh Hall Writer's Workshop, in East Hampton, for one, adopted me as if I were their relative. And my friends at Stop Prisoner Rape elected me to their Board of Directors-and most recently I was voted President of the Board. Every other day, it seemed, I was being asked to help out here and there-so much so that it was becoming difficult to finish my book-which had already taken over three years to complete. I worked as a consultant to the U.S. Justice Department, as they set up the staff of the National Prison Rape Elimination Commission, and I helped coordinate their first public meeting held at Notre Dame Law School. The U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics invited me to provide input on the survey instruments for the first-ever national inmate study of the prevalence and incidence of prisoner rape in the United States. And I worked with the National Institute of Corrections on an inmate orientation video that is available to all new incoming prisoners in the United States on how to avoid prisoner rape and staff sexual misconduct.

  The first time I spoke out publicly was in support of the Prison Rape Elimination Act, the first-ever federal legislation to address the issue. When I stood on Capitol Hill and told my story, I stood next to Linda Bruntmeyer, whose seventeen-year-old son had been repeatedly raped by Texas prison gang members. And then after prison officials refused to intervene-he hung himself in his prison cell. Like my friend, Grasshopper, he had been sent to an adult prison for starting a dumpster on fire. Thinking back on the despair I had felt before Paul entered my life and taught me some survival skills-it could have easily been Sharon who was standing there, preparing herself to tell her son's story of rape and suicide.

  I went inside Starbucks and ordered my venti nonfat latte and a blueberry scone. It was a long way from the three powdered donuts in a waxed-paper bag and a carton of milk left resting on a cross-section of bars.

  As I waited in line for my order, someone behind me said, "I saw that guy in the New York Times. He's that guy who was raped in prison."

  Being a poster child for prisoner rape was not high on my list of ambitions. But I have spent many years in therapy, dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder and the residual effects of my rape trauma syndrome. It took almost a decade of therapy, before I could even talk openly to my therapist. For a few years after my released from prison, I was like a walking time bomb with anger and rage. But now, after eighteen years of recovery and therapy, I follow a spiritual program that believes that no matter how far down a wrong path someone may have gone, or how far they've fallen, others can benefit from knowledge of that experience-especially if that experience led to redemption.

  I turned around and smiled gently at the guy who made the comment. I could tell by his look, that my smiling at him made him uncomfortable. I had been told before, that meeting me was sometimes disconcerting because I hardly looked like an ex-con.

  Behind him, on the New York Times rack, an article caught my attention. It was the first in a series on teenagers behind bars who were jailed for life for crimes committed as teenagers. The caption read, "To More Inmates, Life Term Means Dying Behind Bars."

  My friends at Human Rights Watch were releasing a report on how a growing number of teenagers who were ending up behind bars were never getting out. On the cover of the newspaper, were two mug shots of Jackie Lee Thompson. The first picture had been taken when he went in to prison at age fifteen, and the other shot was recent-age forty-nine-after having spent thirty-five years inside.

  I stood there transfixed by the mug shot of the fifteen-year-old boy, side by side with his foty-nine-year-old self. No matter the time difference, the eyes were the same in both photographs. Only the expressions were different; the fifteen year old appeared frightened, whereas the forty-nine year old looked lifeless and sad.

  That was me at seventeen and that could have been me today. Like Paul, Slide Step, and all the others, I could have easily spent the past twenty-five years of my life behind bars. What really separated us other than circumstances?

  I walked out of Starbucks, forgetting my latte on the counter. I drove to my meditation meeting in Wainscott, tears rolling down my face. It became so clear to me what I'm here to do.

  Once again, God had given me my sign.

  According to the U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics, we housed over 2.2 million prisoners in the United States-more than any other country in the world. And an estimated 13.5 million more pass through the justice system each year. Including over 100,000 teenagers who are housed in adult facilities.

  Sexual violence is a crime that preys on the vulnerable. In some states, children as young as fourteen have been sentenced to adult facilities, and in many cases, they fit the profile of likely sexual assault victims because they are small in stature and inexperienced in the ways of prison. According to experts, teenagers in adult facilities are five times as likely to be sexually assaulted than young people housed in juvenile facilities, and eight times as likely to commit suicide. But while certain characteristics like age, sexual orientation, or physical appearance can increase the likelihood of rape, anyone can be a victim of sexual violence behind bars. Male, female, transgender, young or old, gay or straight, black or white, physically weak or stronganyone. It's up to corrections officials to take steps to prevent it. Stephen Donaldson, the former President of Stop Prisoner Rape, was an antiwar protestor, with no prior history of criminal activity. He died of complications from AIDS, which he believed he contracted as a result
of his rape.

  And today, when HIV rates among prisoners are estimated to be five to ten times higher than the rest of the population, the risks are even greater.

  Most people who want to be tough on crime don't care what happens to inmates. But they should care, because 95 percent of all prisoners are eventually released back into society, indelibly marked by the violence they have seen or experienced.

  Up until recently, corrections officials have not been doing enough to curb this violence. Prisoner rape occurs most easily when guards aren't around to see or hear it. Inmate populations are continuing to grow and this makes policing prisons and jails even more difficult. Insufficient staffing and outdated facilities where observation of inmates is limited contribute to an atmosphere that makes it harder for authorities to protect vulnerable prisoners. There's no question that jails are short of money, but there are steps that can be taken to protect inmates from being raped. Staff training, inmate orientation, and assignment of prisoners by crime and by propensity to violence are a few examples. By not stopping and prosecuting sexual offenders in prisons, we arc in effect legitimizing the act.