The Change Agent

by Damon West

  Ten days later, the world was forever changed.

  September 11, 2001

  The morning of September 11th, 2001 was an average September Tuesday in D.C. When the first reports of a plane hitting the World Trade Center started coming in, all televisions in the Capitol were quickly tuned in. That was around 8:45. When the second plane hit the other tower about fifteen minutes later, it was obvious what was happening. We were under attack. But who? Why?

  Capitol offices started releasing their workers. No need to wait for the next shoe to drop.

  Around 9:30, the Pentagon was hit. The blast was loud enough for us to hear a few miles away across the Potomac River. Within minutes, the Capitol building complex and all government offices were evacuated. It was the most surreal scene I have ever witnessed.

  Imagine an event which causes thousands of people to flee a scene, both on foot and in their vehicles, yet there is little noise being made, no sounds that would normally accompany panicked chaos. The mass exodus from Capitol Hill was silent. No horns were honking in a major traffic jam resulting from thousands of workers being released at the same time. It made rush hour look like a NASCAR race, as if it were happening in a vacuum. Everyone had the same panicked look. The look of being terrorized with fear. The goals of the terrorists were clearly accomplished.

  I knew I needed to find my brother. At the time, he worked at the National Arboretum. My roommate, Scott, and I were at our row house on Constitution Avenue, about six blocks behind the Supreme Court. The city was quickly being shut down and occupied by the military and multiple police agencies. Brandon arrived at my place and found me about the same time the Pentagon was hit.

  As I have stated before, Brandon is extremely intelligent. We started going over all we knew, with the limited information available to us. All air traffic was shut down over the continental United States. Between footage on TV of the Twin Towers collapsing, they kept showing this eerie map of the United States’ current aviation situation. There was exactly one plane left on the map, and it was headed, we all believed, for D.C. Not good.

  It quickly became apparent we were sitting within blocks of the next target, the U.S. Capitol. Brandon made the quick decision we needed to get some cash from an ATM because there was always the potential of a run on cash in times of attack, and the banks could shut down as a result. Again, we had limited information. But, I agreed with Brandon.

  Despite repeated attempts, no cell phone calls were going through. Because of so many street closures, and people moving around on foot, we decided to walk across the Hill to Pennsylvania Avenue S.E., where the closest ATM was located. We went up Constitution and hung a left in front of the Capitol. Normally, this would be a postcard picture view of that majestic building. Not today. Nothing seemed right.

  As we were crossing East Capitol Street, Brandon and I both looked left, the direction opposite of the Capitol, at the same time.

  In the middle of the street, from one curb to the next, were literally dozens of television cameras, red lights blinking, indicating they were recording. The only thing missing were reporters and photographers.

  I told Brandon how creepy the scene looked. Then I asked, “Where are all the people that go with all those cameras?”

  “They are somewhere safe. That last plane is headed this way, it’ll probably hit the Capitol. They’ll have the shot of the century,” he said, picking up his pace. “A century that just got off to a horrible start.”

  We walked in silence, trying to digest what was happening. There was no way to process it all. We were doing good to keep our momentum going. The Bank of America ATM was within view of the Capitol. I kept turning around looking at the Capitol on our way back to my place. It was still there. We took a different route home. No way were we going to be too close to a potential plane crash.

  By the time we got back to my place, the last plane had crashed in a field somewhere in Pennsylvania—a tragedy, but a selfless act of heroism when the passengers forced the plane down, saving the lives of so many and preserving our nation’s Capitol. Or maybe the White House. Had that plane made it into D.C., there is no telling the amount of carnage it would have caused.

  Living on the Senate side of the Capitol gave us opportunities to run into senators all the time. On September 11th, Brandon and I saw senators in the corner grocery-mart, checking out their purchases with us as we stocked up on a few things. The fact no one knew what was happening fed into the hysteria of getting supplies.

  Our next stop was the liquor store.

  A true alcoholic, I had to plan for the possibility that, if there was going to be a run on cash, food, batteries, flashlights, toilet paper, etc., then there might also be a run on alcohol. I couldn’t run out of my stash. Once we’d stocked up on Maker’s Mark and Jack Daniel’s, I felt I was ready for a crisis.

  We finally got through to our parents using a land line, of all things. Eventually, the phone lines opened up and we communicated with them more. The day went downhill quickly. Many friends came over, and we were glued to the TV, watching all the reports coming in. What a nightmare. There were reports of a car bomb in D.C., but that turned out to be bogus, thank God. Everyone was drinking heavily, although this was not unusual, as the culture on Capitol Hill is alcohol-fueled.

  Patriotism was in every American’s heart that day. In D.C., we all decided we needed U.S. flags, but we did not have any. No sweat, I told them. I know where some are. Armed with my congressional ID badge, I went back up to the Rayburn House Office Building, to the office in which I worked. We had a closet full of flags that had been flown over the Capitol, which we gave away to constituents for birthdays and special occasions.

  All I had to do was get past the United States military and the Capitol Police. Did I mention I was drunk, too? In the end, it turned out to not be an issue. I told every soldier and officer I encountered what I was doing, getting flags out of the office to fly off our balconies.

  Sadly, almost everyone in my circle was drinking excessively that day. My alcoholism did not need an excuse. The number of Capitol Hill staffers who were drunk was made apparent when hundreds of us were called up to the Capitol Building later that evening. Congress wanted a show of patriotism and solidarity as Americans. This was absolutely the correct thing to do. We all stood there on the Capitol steps singing “God Bless America.” Congressmen, senators, staffers, and some family members all sang and cried as we secretly wondered, like every American did that day, what the world would look like tomorrow. Emotional does not begin to describe it all. It was, for lack of a better word, sobering. America was forever changed that Tuesday in September.

  I left my job in Congress to pursue more money. Eventually, I entered into the world of political fundraising. Looking back, I wish I had stayed in Congress longer, but I have never been good at sitting in one place too long. I bounced around from job to job and even ran a political campaign for a woman running for a state Senate seat in Virginia. Brandon worked that one with me, so it was neat to see him in his element. I ended up at the Bonner Group, a fundraising firm in downtown D.C. It was there that I would meet my mentor in politics, Garry Mauro, the former land commissioner of Texas and 1998 Democratic candidate for governor.

  The summer of 2002 was spent traveling up and down the East Coast seeing the history, visiting the beaches, hanging at the bars on the D.C. waterfront, and drinking as much as possible. From time to time, a group of us would go to Hickory Hill (Bobby and Ethel Kennedy’s estate in McClean, Virginia) to hang out by the pool and drink. I had a friend who took care of the place when Ethel was out of town.

  One day I came across an email asking people to go down to one of the many pounds in the D.C. Metro area. Because of the war in Iraq, hundreds of soldiers from the area were called to fight, and their pets were now orphans. The idea made me sad. I had never given thought about what happens to pets when their owners go off to war.
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  He was in one of the cages going nuts the way only a boxer can. The breed is unique in their greeting. They contort their bodies into what I call the letter “C Dance.” This little guy was no different. I cannot remember his original name, but I quickly changed it to something a house full of Texas roommates could appreciate: Austin.

  Before leaving D.C. in 2003, I stumbled onto the cocaine scene. Soon, I was doing blow again. First on the weekends, until eventually I was doing it all the time. I could not control my addiction. Every time I drank, which was all the time, I wanted the powdery stimulant. As I quietly spiraled out of control, Garry helped me land a job back in Texas, raising money in Texas and Oklahoma for Congressman Dick Gephardt’s 2004 presidential campaign. I would be moving to Austin to raise money for a presidential race. This was as big as it got. Neither Garry nor the Gephardt campaign had a clue about my drug and alcohol addictions. Had they known, they would not have had anything to do with me. Cocaine was the kiss of death Brandon warned me about.

  I was plucked out of that seedy world of hardcore drug abuse one more time, loading up another U-Haul with all of my possessions, towing my Altima, which was one parking ticket away from being impounded, and running from what I thought was the problem. Years later, when I got into recovery, I would learn that the problem could not be outrun because the problem was me.

  By the time I left D.C. in May of 2003, I had been a witness to so much history. The 2000 presidential election protests, September 11th, anthrax scares on Capitol Hill, the D.C. Sniper...

  And my addictions were getting worse.

  “Youth is wasted on the young,” my father always said. I was young and idealistic, thinking I could change the world because I had some skin in the game. In reality, these were all delusions of grandeur, a common thing with addicts. If I couldn’t even change myself, how was I going to change anything else? My lack of proportion in my head was growing…in all the wrong ways.

  In the end, the 2004 presidential campaign was not the only reason I was headed back to Texas. My younger brother Grayson was in trouble. He was on drugs and ruining his life. I was “needed” back home. An addict, in his addiction, on a mission to save another addict in his addiction. This had “red flag” written all over it.

  CHAPTER 9

  You Don’t Have to Win All Your Fights

  Prison Diary

  Sunday, April 1, 2012

  I just found out I have a nephew. Brandon’s wife, Shana, gave birth to Hudson Scott West on March 29th. That makes my heart so happy. They gave him a name which ends in “on,” keeping the tradition my parents began with Brandon, Grayson, and me. I have already requested that Brandon and Shana bring the little guy to see me the next time they visit.

  BEFORE I RECEIVED THE NEWS of Hudson’s birth, a new guy came in and got his “heart check,” his first test of violence. He did not do well, but he fought. That was all we were watching for. No one kept score in this place. Not of wins, at least. They did, however, keep score of who did and did not fight.

  If you’ve never been sentenced to a maximum-security prison in Texas, it is highly unlikely you will have any experience with which to prepare for such a horrifying and dangerous undertaking as walking into this pit of vipers. Add to this equation that my background was that of a middle-class white guy with a college education, and my brief careers in life spanned from Congress to a presidential campaign to working on Wall Street, hardly the norm in a Texas maximum security prison. I was as odd of a duck as there could be. My background, education, speech, and the way I looked were not items you would put in the “assets” column. Everybody hated me when I walked in there. I represented the system, The Man. Everything they felt that was negative about society was embodied in me and my “privileged” upbringing.

  As I write from my cell today, the prison environment I am surrounded by is infinitely different than the one I entered a few (long) years ago. Both with my standing among the other inmates and with the technology (hundreds of cameras newly installed) as a result of the Prison Rape Elimination Act, prison in 2012 is less dangerous, but no less toxic. The terror I faced coming into this maximum-security custody hell, at an age young enough to be recruited by gangs, seems like it happened to another guy, in another life. I, however, will never forget that initiation. This part of the story reminds me every day that we are capable of so much more than we think. We often sell ourselves short, impose limits on ourselves.

  The safest physical option for someone coming into prison in my position was to get into one of the myriad Aryan gangs roaming the darkened halls and cell blocks. That would have been a terrible choice for everything outside of physical well-being. I have learned the hard way that physical pain will heal. It is the emotional, mental, and spiritual pain that is much more difficult to cure.

  I never served my country in the armed forces, but there are many vets in here who tell me they would rather be on the front line of battle than be in prison.

  Even though I was coached about what to expect when I entered a maximum-security prison, my own imagination was not creative enough to prepare me for what I was to endure.

  * * *

  While still in Dallas County Jail awaiting the prison bus, also known as a Blue Bird, to pick me up and transport me to prison, I asked anyone who would discuss it with me what I could expect once I arrived in TDCJ. What I heard did not excite me nor did it inspire confidence in my chances of survival. Everything I heard was uniform. I was going to have to get into a gang if I wanted to survive. My options were many: Aryan Brotherhood; Aryan Circle; White Knights; the Woods. Unfortunately, this was not an option for me. I’d made a promise to my parents.

  Around the same time I was running around Dallas County Jail’s South Tower asking every felon I could how I was going to survive, my parents were back in Southeast Texas piecing their lives back together. Being a nurse, my mother was always good at compartmentalizing. When it was time to express emotion, she rarely was without words. My father is another story. He is a writer. He communicates extremely well through the written word. With the pen, he can tell you more in a thousand words than most people could express in an hour’s oration.

  In late May of 2009, he wrote an article that many proclaimed to be his best article ever. It was headlined, “Dealing With Son’s Prison Sentence the Only Way I Know How.” It broke me down completely. It made me understand the pain I caused him, and it revealed to me that I probably shortened his life span. It spoke volumes about the bravery my father is capable of by putting himself and my family out there publicly. It smacked of pure genius because now that he laid bare his soul to the world and exposed our family’s biggest scandal (me), no one can ever talk behind his back and expect to be taken seriously.

  All the things my father was unable to say in that last visit after my conviction were now being delivered in 12-point font. I read the article every single day while I awaited transport to the hell on Earth that is the Texas prison system. It galvanized my resolve to keep my promise to my parents. I would not take the “easy” path by joining a gang for protection. I would fight, to the death if necessary, to make good on my word, and return home one day as the man they raised. One day, I was determined, my parents would again be proud of Damon West.

  My prospects for surviving prison, while at the same time not compromising the core values of who I was, were not very promising. Every con in the jail told me the exact same thing. “Get your ass in a gang.”

  Then Mr. Jackson pulled me aside.

  Mr. Jackson was an older African-American man who had been to prison a few times. He was Muslim, too, which is why it was all the more extraordinary he would take a shine to me. Racial tensions were not terrible in county jail, but “race” was always present, looming over everything you did, and everything you saw. People in county stuck to those who looked most like them. I think humans tend to do this far too often. That mentality had n
ever been my thing. Nor Mr. Jackson’s.

  Mr. Jackson gave me some legal advice running up to my trial. He was well-spoken and extremely intelligent, which was rare in that place, for any race. I gravitated towards him because intelligent conversation was scarce in there. Education was not at a premium.

  On the other hand, if you wanted to learn a new criminal trade, then this was your school.

  “West, you find the answers you’re looking for, asking all these idiots about surviving prison?” Mr. Jackson asked me.

  “Um, no. Actually, the answers I found were all pretty depressing. I can’t do the gang thing, Mr. Jackson. I am not really sure how this is going to work as a result. I am scared, too. Not sure how I am going to survive a lifetime in prison,” I confessed.

  “West, I’ve gotten to know you well enough to understand you’re different than the average white guy caught in the criminal justice system. You’re a mix of middle-class privilege with inner-city roots. Obviously, this isn’t your first time around a bunch of black men.”

  He said it seemed like I didn’t even notice them, the blacks, yet they were all around me since they were the majority in there. He asked me if I ever saw any other white guys hanging out with black guys the way I did. “I assume you’ve noticed you’re one of the only ones doing this.”

  I told him about growing up in Port Arthur, and about my dad, about him being the first sportswriter in Port Arthur to put a black athlete on the front page of the football section. “That was back in 1971.”

  I told him my family raised me correctly, that race was never something I knew much about until I went to college, when I saw people start breaking off into social circles that looked more like themselves. I added that I played football in college, so my friends were a mixture of everybody. “The fraternity I joined used to tease me when I first pledged because they thought I acted….well, for lack of a better word…”