Letters to an Incarcerated Brother: Encouragement, Hope, and Healing for Inmates and Their Loved Ones

by Hill Harper

  I’d never heard of locked-in syndrome until you told me about that book. Apparently, it’s pretty rare. Bauby was only forty-three when he had the massive stroke that shoved him into a twenty-day coma. He woke up, and he was completely paralyzed. Couldn’t even move a little toe or his finger. Could only blink his left eyelid. Meanwhile, his mind was still totally intact, alert. Where was he? What happened? Imagine the panic when you wake up to that! The fear! It reminded me of what you told me about the way some guys react to the claustrophobia of a cell, especially if they get thrown in it when they’re passed-out drunk and don’t discover where they are until they come to. But Bauby’s cell was much smaller, much more cramped. It was his own body. He compares it to being trapped inside a diving bell, or like a hermit crab dug into a rock.

  I won’t give too much away until you’ve read the book. I just want to say that the most amazing part is when he experiences the other side of the locked-in equation: total mental freedom. You see, his mind isn’t locked in. It’s as free as his body is paralyzed, and aware of everything. He can see and hear, and as he’s lying there on the hospital bed unable to move or speak, his thoughts suddenly begin defying space and time. Suddenly he’s zooming out for Tierra del Fuego or time-traveling to King Midas’s mythical court. He’s imagining the kind of elaborate meals the French are famous for and actually tasting them. That’s the “butterfly” in the title: his mind and soaring imagination.

  You’d think that would be enough. But it isn’t. With the help of a speech therapist who reorders the alphabet in order of the frequency with which each of its letters is used, he learns to write! I mean, the therapist recites the alphabet over and over again. Each time she comes to the letter he wants, he blinks his left eyelid. Slowly but surely, he spells out words, then sentences, and then a whole book. Through his words, he’s able to invite readers inside his diving bell and make them experience almost firsthand what locked-in syndrome is like. And he can also take them on his “butterfly” journeys, amazing voyages that prove there are no limits to the human mind. He can inspire them not to give up hope, no matter how hopeless a situation seems at first.

  I’d better shut up. I don’t want to tell you about every page of the book. So I’ll just tell you that I’m never going to throw away the letter you sent me asking for that book, because of what you said in it in your letter.

  NO LIMITATIONS

  LETTER 15

  Should I Join a Gang?

  Like many others I became a slave to a delusional dream of capitalism’s false hope: a slave to dys-education; a slave to nihilism; a slave to drugs; a slave to black-on-black violence; and a slave to self-hate. Paralyzed within a social vacuum, I gravitated toward thughood, not out of aspiration but out of desperation to survive the monstrous inequities that show no mercy to young or old. Aggression, I was to learn, served as a poor man’s merit for manhood. To die as a street martyr was seen as a noble thing.

  —Stanley Tookie Williams, in Blue Rage, Black Redemption1

  The man who makes everything that leads to happiness depend upon himself and not upon other men, has adopted the very best plans for living.

  —Plato

  Dear Brotha,

  I finally got your letter. Since I’d left New York, it was forwarded to my office in L.A. My assistant sent it here by overnight mail when she saw you’d written “URGENT” on the envelope. Glad she did.

  I’m in Toronto now—two weeks working on a new movie. Even though its plot takes place in New York, they’re shooting most of it up here. It’s a much cheaper way to make the film, and they can find easy ways to make this city look like parts of Manhattan. That’s why you couldn’t get ahold of me. And I know you tried six times. Every time I called voice mail for my New York number, I could hear that nasal-voiced robot say, “You-have-a-collect-call-from-a-correctional-facility-will-you-accept-the-charges-say-yes-or-no?” I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I knew you’d be flipping out after the sentencing. And I’m sorry my showing up in court as a character witness didn’t help all that much. I tried from up here to get info about which joint they sent you to, but everybody I spoke to said, “Sorry, but I’m not allowed to reveal that information.” Of course, there’s no way to receive a collect call on this foreign cell phone I have here in Toronto, so we stayed out of contact. At least I know where you are now.

  I agree. Five to ten years is a shock. Neither of us saw a sentence that long coming down the pike. I definitely thought it would be something like three to five. Nor did I have any idea about their legal right to ship you to a maximum-security joint for a few months while they wait for a bed in another facility. I called my lawyer for you, and he said they can get away with it.

  I know you must be bumming, but look at it this way if you can: At least you’re not on lockdown for eighteen hours a day, like in a lot of maximums. I’m glad you get to go out into the yard for “rec,” even if it’s only three hours. And I understand: That doesn’t make six counts a day standing at attention in front of your cell any less of a drag, does it? I can understand your feeling of having something at your heels all the time, ready to bite. You know a bell’s about to ring and you’ll have to hightail it yet again to the count and run to stand at attention in front of your cell a minute later, or you’ll face disciplinary action. But I really don’t see the logic behind doing one of those counts in the middle of the night, a guard coming by and shining a flashlight on everybody’s face to verify that he’s in his cell. But hopefully, you’ll get used to it eventually and it won’t wake you up any longer. But since it’s all new, it makes sense that you can’t sleep or concentrate on anything.

  I know you’re upset, but would it help you to know that I think you handled your arrival at that facility better than I ever could? I’m so proud of you. Going through the indignity of being marched directly to that inspection center they call the “fish tank” as soon as you get out of that long bus ride, being stripped and disinfected and having every cavity of your body inspected to the catcalls of other prisoners—shit, that must have been one hell of an ordeal.

  I had no idea that they take every single one of your possessions away and box them up when you arrive. I thought they’d let you keep your CDs and your Game Boy. What kind of rule is it that only allows you to hold on to one book out of all the stuff you accumulated? And that is only after legal appeals to expand federal laws that allow for only one religious book. I’ve even heard some inmates say they think the only reason prisons allow Bibles and Korans is because they make inmates soft.

  ADVICE FROM AN OLD-TIMER

  I know it’s hard to focus on the good stuff right now, but I think you should feel good that they put you in with this Sammy, the old-timer who’s now your cellie. From the little I know about all this, some of the advice he gives you seems cool—good survival tips I wouldn’t ever have thought of. One thing he did say, though, just doesn’t compute for me. Call it intuition, but I just know it’s wrong.

  No way I can disagree with Sammy when he advises you not to put your full trust in anybody, whether he’s a fellow con or a “hack” (that is what they call prison guards these days, right?). As much as I believe in the power of community, I’m not so naive that I don’t know the rules are different on the inside than they are out here. But I don’t think Sammy meant you should isolate yourself completely, that you shouldn’t form any alliances with some of the better members of the prison population. There must be other guys there temporarily like you, despite the high percentage of violent offenders in those maximum-security joints. I think Sammy only means you should be suspicious about any exaggerated kindnesses or extensions of friendship and ask yourself what the person’s motive could be.

  I also agree with Sammy about not telling anything to anybody that you don’t have to, including why you’re doing time. Some of the more corrupt ones could possibly use that information to fuck with your rep, or hit up your family and frie
nds and try to scam money out of them.

  When I knew you were getting shipped out of jail to a real state prison, I called Petey, a neighborhood friend from my teenage years who racked up some mistakes shortly after and has done time. (He was involved in some kind of chop-shop operation; I didn’t really ask about the details.) He still lives in Iowa. We rarely see each other, but because he used to be my homie, I try to keep in touch. Petey got out of Anamosa State Pen two years ago, and he told me it’s also a good idea not to address letters to friends and family (me included) in front of anybody, for the same reason. Keep other cons out of your business.

  He also told me you got to keep from giving other cons any “buttons to push.” Once you reveal an emotional weakness—a bad temper, fear of violence, an easily bruised ego when it comes to a certain subject—the worst people there could use it against you. I don’t mean that you should walk around like a robot, just that, in general, these aren’t people you can show any fragility to. But that also means that false fronts—like walking around like some badass hip-hop star—can be risky, too. I think the best idea is to keep any swagger you’ve learned on the streets to a minimum. And above all, don’t take things as personally as you might be apt to take them out here. So often it’s just that lousy prison system talking, not the individual. Just keep your balance and stay cool.

  Sammy’s right-on about warning you against arguing about controversial subjects—like religion or race or politics or sexual orientation. I know it must be like a pressure cooker in there. What seems like an innocent conversation to me out here might suddenly explode into something dangerous for you. We can keep those kinds of discussions between you and me. I’m always interested in your take on such stuff. But in general, just don’t be “nosy.” And, of course—like Sammy stressed—never, ever snitch on anybody or complain to the hacks about somebody’s mistreatment of you—unless you want to be put in protective custody for the whole term of your stay at that joint, which I hope doesn’t have to happen to you.

  I’m sure you know all this after those nine months you spent in jail before being transferred upstate; just making sure you understand why it’s necessary because I really care about you.

  I was a little taken aback that Sammy told you never to speak to any guard on your own, even when it’s just a “Some weather we’re havin’, huh, dude?” Apparently, even that could be mistaken for snitching by some paranoid con. It’s something I’d never thought of. And I’m grateful to him for telling you not to gamble and to stay out of debt to other prisoners, whether it’s for card games, tobacco, books, whatever. Don’t use “prison credit,” or “juggling,” as my friend Fabian Ruiz calls it, to get something in advance. Wait until you can buy it yourself. That’s one thing that’s the same as it is on the outside. But on the inside, according to my pal Petey, the repercussions of not paying your debts are often a lot worse and can even result in being knocked off.

  Petey also told me that while he was locked up, guards would sometimes order him to do something that was just plain a waste of time or illogical. Unfortunately, if you don’t want to dirty your behavior record, the only choice is to obey. It sucks, I know. But keep your eye on the prize—your release.

  The rest of the stuff Sammy told you is all new to me, too. About not talking about another prisoner unless he’s present. And not whining about being locked up in the presence of a lifer. And not asking anybody what he’s in for or for how long. But do you mind if I add something? Take care of your teeth; I’ve heard most prison dentists are horrible. And don’t go in for prison tattoos (or shooting dope, obviously) because hepatitis and even AIDS can be transmitted through those needles.

  THE BAD NEWS OF GANGS

  Like I’ve said, there’s only one piece of Sammy’s advice I absolutely cannot buy. You don’t have to tell me that American prison populations tend to divide themselves into ethnic allegiances. I think such separations are stupid and only make the population weaker and more exploitable by the prison industrial complex. But that’s easy to say when you’re not behind bars.

  Because of the way prison culture has developed, I suppose it could be close to suicidal to make those of your ethnicity feel that you’re dissing them in favor of a race or culture you’re not considered to be part of. My friend says they call it “crossing gangs,” when, say, a white guy makes friendly with a Black gang right after he arrives. You know the impression such crossovers create. Even Hollywood’s gotten a lot of mileage out of comedies about suburban white boys trying to live the fantasy of being down by law and getting tricked out in baggies, bandannas, and such, and going around flashing hand signs at their “homies”—until they meet up with the real thing. The opposite formula would seem just as absurd—some Black dude trying to tell the Aryan brothers he basically gets their point. Maybe these are jokes in the movies, but Petey stressed being very mindful of not being insulting to your own ethnicity while behind bars. What’s more, having a “family” in the social sense, made up of people who share your outlook and interests or who even might come from your hometown, probably does bring an important sense of security.

  Fine! I get that. But showing ethnic allegiance by joining a gang is a whole other bag of bullshit. I don’t care whether we’re talking about the Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, Black Guerilla Family, MS-13, Mexican Mafia, or some white-supremacist operation. In some cases, even religions are acting like gangs. And as crazy as it sounds, it’s sad to say that non-gang-members are termed “neutrals” and are a gang of sorts. I’m fully aware why all of these and many others came to exist, but all of ’em are dangerous hypermasculine distortions of some of the best elements of brotherhood: courage and loyalty.

  Whether locked up or free, inflicting harm on—or wasting—a rival to show the depth of your loyalty to your gang looks like a disgusting and pitiful perversion of friendship to me, a vicious mockery of the ties that bind real brothers. So don’t ever let anyone convince you that a gang can serve the purpose of a family—regardless of how much you may have wanted that sense of belonging when you were growing up.

  My friend Petey says you see that kind of thing happening again and again in the joint: You get pressured to get jumped into a gang and you give in; then you get a dangerous order from your gang leader that makes no sense to you. Now you have to maim or kill somebody you have nothing against but who’s supposedly insulted someone else in your so-called “gang family,” often in the most superficial way. This order violates your sense of humanity, but if you’re in the gang, you’ve got to do it without asking questions. That’s a situation you don’t want. Petey even said that he’s seen non-gang-members in prison get more respect from gang leaders than the lower-level gang members. It is about the way you carry yourself and about being a man.

  Probably the worst result of all this is that you end up with a “shot”—an infraction—on your official file. It’ll show up at the parole hearing, and your term might end up closer to ten years than five. So ride with yourself, Brother. Ride with your last name. You are a man. You are a leader and you’re your own man. Good behavior, following the rules of the institution, is the only thing that will get you out as fast as possible, or ensure a transfer to a low-security prison, or maybe even work release way before you’ve served the minimum five years.

  THE LONG ARM OF PRISON GANGS

  I did some research about gangs on the FBI website, using a document they publish yearly called “The National Gang Threat Assessment.”2 According to them, there are about 230,000 gang members in federal and state prisons in this country. These members may be incarcerated, but they’ve managed to extend the sphere of their activities far outside prison walls. When there’s a dispute between members of rival gangs that you’re asked to take a position on, don’t think you’re merely defending control of prison territory. More often than not it has something to do with control of drug markets on the outside.

  The families of some of the highe
r-ups in this group may even be involved on the outside. They visit for the purpose of carrying messages or smuggling contraband—drugs and shit like that—and it’s not that uncommon for a hit that occurs on the outside to be the result of an order given to a nonincarcerated friend or relative during one of these prison visits. Sometimes, an influential gang leader doesn’t even need to rely on visits. He orders his hits directly using a cell phone smuggled into prison for him by a family member.

  Why am I telling you all of this? As an example of how far the tentacles of gang power can reach. You may think you’re into a gang for survival purposes while you’re locked up but have no intention of living that way after your release. If you join one now, you may have to stay in it after you get out, and shortly before you get out, you may find you’ve been assigned the role of messenger or drug courier for your so-called Brothers. They might refuse to “jump you out” of the gang just because you’re going home. Instead, you’ll be forced to get more heavily involved with the culture.