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I met the following folks just as I was being released from McHenry County Jail last spring. These guys are my heroes!
Original story, Chicago Tribune:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-religious-visits-18-feb18,0,4235959.story
Law allows religious workers more time with jailed immigrants awaiting deportation
By Antonio Olivo Tribune reporter
February 18, 2009
Chicago-area religious persons began training volunteers Tuesday to take advantage of a new Illinois law allowing for more clergy visits to jailed immigrants awaiting deportation, an effort they say will shed more light on prison conditions faced by that population.Scheduled to go into effect in June, the Access to Religious Ministry Act will ensure detained immigrants inside state and county jails housing those caught in federal raids the same access to clergy as those imprisoned for other crimes, said state Sen. Iris Martinez (D-Chicago), who co-sponsored a bill that passed both state houses unanimously in December.
Currently, religious visits for the rotating group of about 750 illegal immigrants who await deportation in Illinois jails every day is restricted to two hours or less per month, said Sister JoAnn Persch, whose Sisters of Mercy order spearheaded the new law.Consequently, visiting clergy have often had to rush their spiritual counseling for severe depression or intense anxiety after federal arrests, with even less time to attend to complaints about mistreatment during incarceration, she said.
"One week, we saw 70 detainees in little over an hour" inside McHenry County Jail, Persch said. "We want significant time for a team of people to go in every week."So far, a team of about 30 clergy has been assembled to help with the visits, with lawmakers who championed the bill negotiating the conditions of those visits with prison authorities.
Daniel Sedlock, chief of corrections for McHenry County Jail, predicted his facility would have no problem complying with the new law, though he was uncertain what its supporters are seeking.With Bible study sessions, weekly church services and clergy allowed to meet with inmates during regular visiting hours, "we've been meeting these requirements for a long time, in my opinion, and I think we exceed them," Sedlock said.
aolivo@tribune.com
Showing posts with label ministry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ministry. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, April 17, 2008
April 17, Part 2
I got a brief visit to a friend’s cell today; she has the benefit of being in the corner as the longest inmate here. It was amazing to see such an immaculate cell – she washes her floor every day. (To be honest, mine has dust bunnies). I also learned a lot of neat tricks (like where else can become a handy storage shelf.) She also showed me pictures of her adorable daughter, about two years old. Also her parents and her dog. She holds back the tears better than most. Today she also shared with us a beautiful Orthodox Easter card with a mosaic pattern of “Pantokrator” (a famous icon of Jesus which looks half-stern) and the decorated, intricate eggs.
There was a harsh exchange of words today at breakfast – a letter arrived from a woman who has now moved on to rehab. Another woman, with many drug problems herself, denigrated the woman who wrote the letter, saying that she would never get ‘clean.’ So the woman receiving the letter told the critic that it was she who would never really get ‘clean,’ and that she was a hypocrite for saying in the pod she fully intended to go use again, while saying she was clean and planned to stay that way in the A.A. meetings, etc. All in far less pleasant words. The exchange really got me thinking, about a lot of things: about lying, about planning to go back to an addiction, about who is redeemable – in the letter-writer’s defense, the third woman said, “I believe everyone deserves a second chance! And a third, fourth and fifth chance! At least she’s trying!” What book did I just finish reading? It said that if creation has been redeemed then all lives, no matter how destroyed, are capable of redemption. I was also thinking back to Levitical codes of ‘clean,’ as well as Jesus’ words about clean and unclean – and think of what it has and does mean/take to become ‘clean.’ Finally, I was thinking, it is hard for me to love this ‘hypocrite,’ though I am trying. She’s not a very pleasant person and likes to throw her weight around. She’s not very loving to the more vulnerable women. She’s been here nearly as long as my Rumanian friend, well over a year. Her parents are practicing ‘tough love’ by keeping her here and not bonding her out, which probably is the only way to keep her off the drugs, let alone the stealing to get the drugs. Will I, though, believe that every life can be redeemed? If I say I do, I must work harder to love this person.
And while I am on the topic of redeeming and loving the people near or at rock-bottom, I am led to think about others who persistently frustrate me. My ire is frequently raised by wealthy so-called liberals or progressives, especially ones who call themselves “progressive Christians,” who seem to be only after fame and fortune, treating anyone who doesn’t help them attain either like dirt.
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Women here do not work. I have heard there was a small sex scandal earlier that ended women inmates’ working, but I don’t know that for a fact. Anyway, there are about a half-dozen men who do work in the jail on a daily basis – in the kitchen in the laundry, on the custodial rounds. They wear tan scrubs instead of orange. They’re always watched by a guard, but they have some additional freedom, too. I was pondering all this during laundry rounds today – especially how remarkably natural they are about distributing women’s underwear. I would probably even be embarrassed in such a situation.
Anyway, the lack of ‘work’ doesn’t bother me. I get all the social interaction I could want and then some in our dayroom. And I am often at ‘work’ translating, transcribing, and counseling, and writing letters. Still it is a good balance of work, play, and rest – it brings additional meaning to this month rather than frustration. (Now, spending a month only playing spades and eating junk food – I might get impatient with that. But it suits others just fine, and I understand it, too. I think.)
There was a harsh exchange of words today at breakfast – a letter arrived from a woman who has now moved on to rehab. Another woman, with many drug problems herself, denigrated the woman who wrote the letter, saying that she would never get ‘clean.’ So the woman receiving the letter told the critic that it was she who would never really get ‘clean,’ and that she was a hypocrite for saying in the pod she fully intended to go use again, while saying she was clean and planned to stay that way in the A.A. meetings, etc. All in far less pleasant words. The exchange really got me thinking, about a lot of things: about lying, about planning to go back to an addiction, about who is redeemable – in the letter-writer’s defense, the third woman said, “I believe everyone deserves a second chance! And a third, fourth and fifth chance! At least she’s trying!” What book did I just finish reading? It said that if creation has been redeemed then all lives, no matter how destroyed, are capable of redemption. I was also thinking back to Levitical codes of ‘clean,’ as well as Jesus’ words about clean and unclean – and think of what it has and does mean/take to become ‘clean.’ Finally, I was thinking, it is hard for me to love this ‘hypocrite,’ though I am trying. She’s not a very pleasant person and likes to throw her weight around. She’s not very loving to the more vulnerable women. She’s been here nearly as long as my Rumanian friend, well over a year. Her parents are practicing ‘tough love’ by keeping her here and not bonding her out, which probably is the only way to keep her off the drugs, let alone the stealing to get the drugs. Will I, though, believe that every life can be redeemed? If I say I do, I must work harder to love this person.
And while I am on the topic of redeeming and loving the people near or at rock-bottom, I am led to think about others who persistently frustrate me. My ire is frequently raised by wealthy so-called liberals or progressives, especially ones who call themselves “progressive Christians,” who seem to be only after fame and fortune, treating anyone who doesn’t help them attain either like dirt.
---
Women here do not work. I have heard there was a small sex scandal earlier that ended women inmates’ working, but I don’t know that for a fact. Anyway, there are about a half-dozen men who do work in the jail on a daily basis – in the kitchen in the laundry, on the custodial rounds. They wear tan scrubs instead of orange. They’re always watched by a guard, but they have some additional freedom, too. I was pondering all this during laundry rounds today – especially how remarkably natural they are about distributing women’s underwear. I would probably even be embarrassed in such a situation.
Anyway, the lack of ‘work’ doesn’t bother me. I get all the social interaction I could want and then some in our dayroom. And I am often at ‘work’ translating, transcribing, and counseling, and writing letters. Still it is a good balance of work, play, and rest – it brings additional meaning to this month rather than frustration. (Now, spending a month only playing spades and eating junk food – I might get impatient with that. But it suits others just fine, and I understand it, too. I think.)
April 17, Part 1
I have received so many kind letters from Catholic religious orders who have supported efforts to close the SOA and sometimes monastics who have themselves gone to jail. I am very grateful to make their acquaintance and I hope I might even perhaps visit the ones nearby soon after my release. I am also hoping to get into the churches nearby and speak about peacemaking work.
--
I received two new pencils today – good, having given one away and wearing the others down quickly – such a valuable commodity here! Only when they arrived the guard was discouraged to find they came with erasers – which meant that they had that little metal band holding them together – contraband. So he pried those off and I am grateful he let me keep the little eraser nubs.
--
*Sigh* another painful parting with a pencil. A girl begged me to trade a new one for a golf pencil too short to put in the sharpener. I relented. Candy? Shampoo? These are easy to share but writing supplies kinda hurt. After lockdown, I will see if she has another golf pencil and bind them together with a shampoo label. That will make them useful again for someone.
--
I’m reading actually some good books I’ve found here, although I don’t remember all the authors – Before I Forget by Andre Brink, a South African writer; Storm Runners; the Christmas Train; When We Were Grownups, Confessions of Super Mom; Now You See Her, a book about borderline personality disorder; and a biography of Karla Faye Tucker, the woman Bush executed when he was governor of Texas; and a little Bible and Quran intermingled.
I did a little dusting just now, a pre-worn sock works much like Lemon Pledge. Who would have thought? Also had a little cellmate pastoral counseling, a young friend with a court date quite a ways off and separated from her two young sons – she can’t get money together to bond out. This is so sad, and she is quite sweet. I hope after this she’s able to get out and stay on the outside – I see how hard it can be for some of the women – I’m coming to realize for some this is the safest and most orderly home they have.
As I’ve mentioned in previous notes, here is an amazingly strong company and support of women. Does any kind of support group for helping women hold it together and stay out of jail exist once you’re released? Where you could get the support of women without judgment? There is nothing I know of other than A.A., perhaps the Celebrate Recovery program also (the Evangelical one) – what does one do? Even the SOAW prisoners of conscience, I am told, have difficulty when they get back ‘outside.’
Hmm… I kind of envision a cooperative solution - a meeting, yes, but also perhaps like a Catholic Worker, where volunteers and women just returning from prison w/ nowhere to go live together, share household tasks and childcare, and have this weekly-plus support. This is an important factor.
I wonder if in this recession anyone would donate a big old house, just to get it off their hands? And if enough volunteers could be interested?
--
The ‘aha’ moment for the day began with a letter from co-defendant Diane Hughes, who mentioned that other women inmates so often see us as “short timers.” By some twist of fate, I have actually been here longer than all but a handful in my ‘pod’ (32-inmate section). I seem to have been quickly promoted to helping others get oriented. It’s not bad, and I usually have fun doing it.
--
I received two new pencils today – good, having given one away and wearing the others down quickly – such a valuable commodity here! Only when they arrived the guard was discouraged to find they came with erasers – which meant that they had that little metal band holding them together – contraband. So he pried those off and I am grateful he let me keep the little eraser nubs.
--
*Sigh* another painful parting with a pencil. A girl begged me to trade a new one for a golf pencil too short to put in the sharpener. I relented. Candy? Shampoo? These are easy to share but writing supplies kinda hurt. After lockdown, I will see if she has another golf pencil and bind them together with a shampoo label. That will make them useful again for someone.
--
I’m reading actually some good books I’ve found here, although I don’t remember all the authors – Before I Forget by Andre Brink, a South African writer; Storm Runners; the Christmas Train; When We Were Grownups, Confessions of Super Mom; Now You See Her, a book about borderline personality disorder; and a biography of Karla Faye Tucker, the woman Bush executed when he was governor of Texas; and a little Bible and Quran intermingled.
I did a little dusting just now, a pre-worn sock works much like Lemon Pledge. Who would have thought? Also had a little cellmate pastoral counseling, a young friend with a court date quite a ways off and separated from her two young sons – she can’t get money together to bond out. This is so sad, and she is quite sweet. I hope after this she’s able to get out and stay on the outside – I see how hard it can be for some of the women – I’m coming to realize for some this is the safest and most orderly home they have.
As I’ve mentioned in previous notes, here is an amazingly strong company and support of women. Does any kind of support group for helping women hold it together and stay out of jail exist once you’re released? Where you could get the support of women without judgment? There is nothing I know of other than A.A., perhaps the Celebrate Recovery program also (the Evangelical one) – what does one do? Even the SOAW prisoners of conscience, I am told, have difficulty when they get back ‘outside.’
Hmm… I kind of envision a cooperative solution - a meeting, yes, but also perhaps like a Catholic Worker, where volunteers and women just returning from prison w/ nowhere to go live together, share household tasks and childcare, and have this weekly-plus support. This is an important factor.
I wonder if in this recession anyone would donate a big old house, just to get it off their hands? And if enough volunteers could be interested?
--
The ‘aha’ moment for the day began with a letter from co-defendant Diane Hughes, who mentioned that other women inmates so often see us as “short timers.” By some twist of fate, I have actually been here longer than all but a handful in my ‘pod’ (32-inmate section). I seem to have been quickly promoted to helping others get oriented. It’s not bad, and I usually have fun doing it.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Notes from My Cell, April 16
A reminder: a peace vigil will take place for LeAnne and peace, every Wednesday from 5:15 in the CTS Hilton Chapel. (The small chapel on the first floor.) There will be someone there for at least an hour, and the chapel will be open after that.
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4/16: My hand hurts and I don't feel much like writing but my brain is busy so it might be good to do so anyway.
Today I sent off some cartoons I'd drawn about life in jail, which I'll hopefully copy onto the website eventually. The first was pictures of what we eat (beanie-weenie, beanie-without-weenie, and beanie-with-mystery-meat) plus a prison version of upside-down cake (frosting on the bottom so it doesn't stick to the stack of trays.) I also did one of all possible party costumes you could construct from prison-issue clothing and linens (a pillow case makes a good tail for a tiger, since you're already in orange and black). This las one I sent to Mom for her 60th birthday card, since she has always liked my cartoon characters. Her birthday is the 18th.
I also wrote several letters by dictation/translation for our immigrant friends here who are still without representation- so we're writing to legal aid agencies. This was a multi-national effort, since I'm rather slow on both Spanish translation and legal options for immigrants. So my Romanian [sp?] friend helped me with the legal part and both Mexican friends and I pieced the rest together. I also wrote a letter for my Korean friend whose American husband of 30 years seems to have forgotten all about her. No phone, visits, or letters in all this time, and no money for comissary to get shampoo and such. So we quit writing letters to the husband and are now getting legal help for her directly. Meanwhile, of course they threaten to deport her. What does a 63 year old woman do back in Korea when she's been gone 30 years? All her family is gone. So it is a difficult situation. Meanwhile, the husband of one of my Mexican friends found a lawyer, but the lawyer took their money and didn't work on the case. Now they have nothing to pay a new lawyer.
4/17: Comissary arrived today, and we stood on the floor with our pillow cases like eager trick or treaters. I have envelopes for me, and moe pencils. Another notepad didn't come through. I think I can make do, though, with the backs of received letters. I order as many as I can but still run out of something by the end of the week for letter-writing. In the meantime, we'll hold a party tonight with our snack goodies- one woman who his here is honoring the birthday of her fiance, who died one month ago tomorrow, from a drug overdose. So we will all contribute something- a sort of potluck.
Last night I went to "Celebrate Recovery" which is an Evangelical 12 step/8 principle program which kind of covers all the ailments and addictions at once- from alcohol and narcotics to food, anger, and workaholism- the latter being why I thought I might sign up. I did include some good, intensive life-sharing, which I think really benefitted everyone, and it also made me a little more empathetic for the Fundamentalist laywoman running the program. I do understand that religious traditions based on controland rigidity are very appealing to people who feel their lives are out of control. Many of the women here said they need it, so I am becoming more careful in how I criticize it. But I also still challenge words of intolerance- attacks on LGBTQ people and people of other faiths.
All cozy now in my cell and working on getting these letters written! Today, since the guards have not yet confiscated my "excess correspondence" as contraband (gee) I've lined up all my greeting cards on the top bunk. Church (UCHP) has sent so many cheerful floral cards, it is now like having a garden in my little cell. I'll try to get away with it as long as I can. It is helping to dispel my "mid-sentence grouchies." All the letters do help keep my spirits up, I realize this most over the weekend when there's no mail. Some of the women truly never get mail. I try to share the poetry, the pictures, etc., at breakfast mail call, and I hope to collect "out-dates" for some of the women who will be here later than me.
There is an A&E documentary on Matthew Shephard on tv now, and many of the girls are rapt with attention to the screen. This is good. There is quite a bit of homophobia here, not just from the Prison Fellowship folks but among the women. Also rampant among guards and inmates is a dislike of immigrants- where they are mostly ignored by the other women, or of the kind where immigrants as a whole are maligned but the few here are made known to be exceptions. Those of us who can, help with the letter writing, translation, and sharing comissary goods.
I found out in a letter from a classmate yesterday that there is a weekly peace vigil at the seminary while I am away. I don't know who has organized it or who's attending, but I am very touched by it. It is good to know not only that I am loved and remembered, but also that folks "outside" are working on the cause for which I've gone to jail in the first place.
We are guessing these days perhaps the food has a sedative effect- it is heavily starch and fat, and veggie/fruit servings quite scarce. But most of us are pretty subdued this week, going back to bed as soon as wwe finish eating, and tough to wake up in the morning. I imagine we're "sugar-crashing." Although the younger ones might be quite "sugared-up" for the weekend, having ordered extra comissary.
I've drawn another little picture just now, of my cell, as it might look when you walk in the door. You'll have to picture me in a blanket shawl as usual, either writing at the desk or on the bunk. The hop/swing out seat can be comfortable enough for a while, but the bed allows more space to lay out papers. [I put the picture up on the bulletin board of CTS Room 133. –David]
Please pray for my friend in court today, trying to get into rehab and get her child and cats back. Please pray for the women who are forgotten here, for the immigrants, and for those scared to be here, and the women who cry by the phones. Peace to you and I hope to see you soon.
LeAnne
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4/16: My hand hurts and I don't feel much like writing but my brain is busy so it might be good to do so anyway.
Today I sent off some cartoons I'd drawn about life in jail, which I'll hopefully copy onto the website eventually. The first was pictures of what we eat (beanie-weenie, beanie-without-weenie, and beanie-with-mystery-meat) plus a prison version of upside-down cake (frosting on the bottom so it doesn't stick to the stack of trays.) I also did one of all possible party costumes you could construct from prison-issue clothing and linens (a pillow case makes a good tail for a tiger, since you're already in orange and black). This las one I sent to Mom for her 60th birthday card, since she has always liked my cartoon characters. Her birthday is the 18th.
I also wrote several letters by dictation/translation for our immigrant friends here who are still without representation- so we're writing to legal aid agencies. This was a multi-national effort, since I'm rather slow on both Spanish translation and legal options for immigrants. So my Romanian [sp?] friend helped me with the legal part and both Mexican friends and I pieced the rest together. I also wrote a letter for my Korean friend whose American husband of 30 years seems to have forgotten all about her. No phone, visits, or letters in all this time, and no money for comissary to get shampoo and such. So we quit writing letters to the husband and are now getting legal help for her directly. Meanwhile, of course they threaten to deport her. What does a 63 year old woman do back in Korea when she's been gone 30 years? All her family is gone. So it is a difficult situation. Meanwhile, the husband of one of my Mexican friends found a lawyer, but the lawyer took their money and didn't work on the case. Now they have nothing to pay a new lawyer.
4/17: Comissary arrived today, and we stood on the floor with our pillow cases like eager trick or treaters. I have envelopes for me, and moe pencils. Another notepad didn't come through. I think I can make do, though, with the backs of received letters. I order as many as I can but still run out of something by the end of the week for letter-writing. In the meantime, we'll hold a party tonight with our snack goodies- one woman who his here is honoring the birthday of her fiance, who died one month ago tomorrow, from a drug overdose. So we will all contribute something- a sort of potluck.
Last night I went to "Celebrate Recovery" which is an Evangelical 12 step/8 principle program which kind of covers all the ailments and addictions at once- from alcohol and narcotics to food, anger, and workaholism- the latter being why I thought I might sign up. I did include some good, intensive life-sharing, which I think really benefitted everyone, and it also made me a little more empathetic for the Fundamentalist laywoman running the program. I do understand that religious traditions based on controland rigidity are very appealing to people who feel their lives are out of control. Many of the women here said they need it, so I am becoming more careful in how I criticize it. But I also still challenge words of intolerance- attacks on LGBTQ people and people of other faiths.
All cozy now in my cell and working on getting these letters written! Today, since the guards have not yet confiscated my "excess correspondence" as contraband (gee) I've lined up all my greeting cards on the top bunk. Church (UCHP) has sent so many cheerful floral cards, it is now like having a garden in my little cell. I'll try to get away with it as long as I can. It is helping to dispel my "mid-sentence grouchies." All the letters do help keep my spirits up, I realize this most over the weekend when there's no mail. Some of the women truly never get mail. I try to share the poetry, the pictures, etc., at breakfast mail call, and I hope to collect "out-dates" for some of the women who will be here later than me.
There is an A&E documentary on Matthew Shephard on tv now, and many of the girls are rapt with attention to the screen. This is good. There is quite a bit of homophobia here, not just from the Prison Fellowship folks but among the women. Also rampant among guards and inmates is a dislike of immigrants- where they are mostly ignored by the other women, or of the kind where immigrants as a whole are maligned but the few here are made known to be exceptions. Those of us who can, help with the letter writing, translation, and sharing comissary goods.
I found out in a letter from a classmate yesterday that there is a weekly peace vigil at the seminary while I am away. I don't know who has organized it or who's attending, but I am very touched by it. It is good to know not only that I am loved and remembered, but also that folks "outside" are working on the cause for which I've gone to jail in the first place.
We are guessing these days perhaps the food has a sedative effect- it is heavily starch and fat, and veggie/fruit servings quite scarce. But most of us are pretty subdued this week, going back to bed as soon as wwe finish eating, and tough to wake up in the morning. I imagine we're "sugar-crashing." Although the younger ones might be quite "sugared-up" for the weekend, having ordered extra comissary.
I've drawn another little picture just now, of my cell, as it might look when you walk in the door. You'll have to picture me in a blanket shawl as usual, either writing at the desk or on the bunk. The hop/swing out seat can be comfortable enough for a while, but the bed allows more space to lay out papers. [I put the picture up on the bulletin board of CTS Room 133. –David]
Please pray for my friend in court today, trying to get into rehab and get her child and cats back. Please pray for the women who are forgotten here, for the immigrants, and for those scared to be here, and the women who cry by the phones. Peace to you and I hope to see you soon.
LeAnne
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Notes from My Cell, April 13-14th
4/13
I am pretty comfortable in my cell, I hope not too comfortable, but after all, I seek out monastic retreats where I’ve just got a little cell to sit with myself, catch up on sleep perhaps, and write. I’ve been thinking of stripping my room down this summer to just such a situation. My room has been my office and my study for too long, and it does impact the quality of my sleep. This last winter I learned to spend time in my red chair, angled towards the window, where I got a little light and could watch the city and its people just go about its business. I think it began to click, that this was in some ways a spiritual discipline to be valued, earlier – before Christmas, when I got the opportunity to meet Martin Marty in his office and home in the Hancock tower. The whole world, it seems, is buzzing away below. (I especially liked the line of cars up and down all of Lake Shore Drive). But it does quickly give you a different perspective on life, floating above it like that. So that is what I try to do now also – take in that bustling corner of Hyde Park with its Metra trains and buses and people arriving and departing, the bank and the bookstore, and all.
For this reason also, I think, I am happy to have been bounced up to the second floor of cells in our block – where I can get a wider, “birds-eye” perspective on our daily lives in this jail, how we buzz about playing cards, helping one another, fighting with one another, all engrossed in a movie on TV, the crying and hand-holding by the phone, and the laughing at lunch table pranks. It also gets a little more sun during the day.
I think I’ve collected nearly enough information to begin a license investigation into the night nurse – the one who routinely refuses to distribute prescribed medication to inmates during her shift, or to tell inmates their prescription has expired – although the other nurses will show us that the prescription is still in place. One testimony I collected is from a young inmate who suffered a miscarriage late in her first trimester. When this nurse was on duty and called, she told the girl to “bleed it out in (her) cell.” That was about two years ago. We do apparently have a very good medical ward here, by most prisoners’ accounts, but it amazes me a nurse wouldn’t do anything. Meanwhile, I’m wondering just what this nurse is doing with all the drugs she’s withholding from her patients. (Worse is the girl who went into premature labor on an already high risk pregnancy this past summer; the nurse told her it was only a bladder infection. When the next nurse came on shift, she finally got to go to the hospital).
--
9:15 and we are waiting for cell inspections – a daily ritual of checking our beds are neat and cells tidy, and no “contraband” lying out in the open. Today, I have two religious books – a Bible and a Qur’an, when you’re only allowed one; and I made a pencil-grip out of paper strips rolled, and secured with a sticky shampoo label. I also have too many photos and letters from the outside – when I finish with them, they’re supposed to go downstairs into my personal belongings container – but in my defense on this last one, I’ve asked three different guards so far, and none have bothered; they also didn’t touch it during shakedown.
--
4/14
Monday afternoon, a beautiful sun shining, I can see through the window; I find myself especially at peace today. It is good to enter jail in late winter, when you haven’t experienced spring yet – in fact, it will be marvelous to step out into full bloom a few weeks from now. Then it may be hard to keep me inside to finish my studies the last two weeks of school.
--
I just remember I forgot to call back the Witherspoon Society. Perhaps I can be of use to them still after my release. (A Presbyterian peace group).
--
I confess the past several days I’ve done little more than read, write, and catch up on sleep – I felt a little guilty about this – I should be writing more! Reading more! But, on the other hand, it also feels like time well spent. Curiously enough, the whole ward’s been doing much the same. We’ve been quieter as a whole, too.
I answered some questions about religious life, training towards the pastorate, as well as formation as a nun; I explained what I could. I think often about bringing together various religious orders for a conversation with the New Monasticism movement, the Catholic Workers and the student cooperative housing movement, and I think also the interfaith youth movement. Here are five groups that have so much to share with one another and enormous potential to provide young adults something meaningful to do other than hope to work for good.
So many tears tonight – on the phone again – from those coming in tonight, and from those who are about to leave. It is a nurturing group of women here who look out for one another and its ok to cry around. I can see how it would be hard to exist on the “outside” world without this support.
--
All I can think about tonight is food. The tv commercials are not helping – nor is my co-food-thinker who’s getting out tomorrow. You just don’t know how much that Dunkin Donuts commercial for coffee hurt to watch, especially the last scene with the chocolate-covered custard-filled – it’s a particular weakness… I am envisioning a day of pure comfort food when I get out, followed by many days of nonstop vegetables. No pasta surprise, and no beanie weenie for at least a month, okay? I also confess I dream of pizza. Fortunately, they do a nice treat for the inmates – they take orders every other Friday from a local restaurant, this week it will be a sub – we’ll divide up the ones we get for the women who have no money on their commissary accounts, just as we do with the candy. We’re charged a reasonable price, too – around $5. I am glad to have resources to share here. Also glad that when I leave my cellmates will have my things to share – shampoo, and things like this that I needed to order when I got here. Also hopefully a few leftover writing supplies, though I go through them fast.
--
I’m beginning to think already of the time when I will be done here. It is coming soon.
Peace,
Le Anne
I am pretty comfortable in my cell, I hope not too comfortable, but after all, I seek out monastic retreats where I’ve just got a little cell to sit with myself, catch up on sleep perhaps, and write. I’ve been thinking of stripping my room down this summer to just such a situation. My room has been my office and my study for too long, and it does impact the quality of my sleep. This last winter I learned to spend time in my red chair, angled towards the window, where I got a little light and could watch the city and its people just go about its business. I think it began to click, that this was in some ways a spiritual discipline to be valued, earlier – before Christmas, when I got the opportunity to meet Martin Marty in his office and home in the Hancock tower. The whole world, it seems, is buzzing away below. (I especially liked the line of cars up and down all of Lake Shore Drive). But it does quickly give you a different perspective on life, floating above it like that. So that is what I try to do now also – take in that bustling corner of Hyde Park with its Metra trains and buses and people arriving and departing, the bank and the bookstore, and all.
For this reason also, I think, I am happy to have been bounced up to the second floor of cells in our block – where I can get a wider, “birds-eye” perspective on our daily lives in this jail, how we buzz about playing cards, helping one another, fighting with one another, all engrossed in a movie on TV, the crying and hand-holding by the phone, and the laughing at lunch table pranks. It also gets a little more sun during the day.
I think I’ve collected nearly enough information to begin a license investigation into the night nurse – the one who routinely refuses to distribute prescribed medication to inmates during her shift, or to tell inmates their prescription has expired – although the other nurses will show us that the prescription is still in place. One testimony I collected is from a young inmate who suffered a miscarriage late in her first trimester. When this nurse was on duty and called, she told the girl to “bleed it out in (her) cell.” That was about two years ago. We do apparently have a very good medical ward here, by most prisoners’ accounts, but it amazes me a nurse wouldn’t do anything. Meanwhile, I’m wondering just what this nurse is doing with all the drugs she’s withholding from her patients. (Worse is the girl who went into premature labor on an already high risk pregnancy this past summer; the nurse told her it was only a bladder infection. When the next nurse came on shift, she finally got to go to the hospital).
--
9:15 and we are waiting for cell inspections – a daily ritual of checking our beds are neat and cells tidy, and no “contraband” lying out in the open. Today, I have two religious books – a Bible and a Qur’an, when you’re only allowed one; and I made a pencil-grip out of paper strips rolled, and secured with a sticky shampoo label. I also have too many photos and letters from the outside – when I finish with them, they’re supposed to go downstairs into my personal belongings container – but in my defense on this last one, I’ve asked three different guards so far, and none have bothered; they also didn’t touch it during shakedown.
--
4/14
Monday afternoon, a beautiful sun shining, I can see through the window; I find myself especially at peace today. It is good to enter jail in late winter, when you haven’t experienced spring yet – in fact, it will be marvelous to step out into full bloom a few weeks from now. Then it may be hard to keep me inside to finish my studies the last two weeks of school.
--
I just remember I forgot to call back the Witherspoon Society. Perhaps I can be of use to them still after my release. (A Presbyterian peace group).
--
I confess the past several days I’ve done little more than read, write, and catch up on sleep – I felt a little guilty about this – I should be writing more! Reading more! But, on the other hand, it also feels like time well spent. Curiously enough, the whole ward’s been doing much the same. We’ve been quieter as a whole, too.
I answered some questions about religious life, training towards the pastorate, as well as formation as a nun; I explained what I could. I think often about bringing together various religious orders for a conversation with the New Monasticism movement, the Catholic Workers and the student cooperative housing movement, and I think also the interfaith youth movement. Here are five groups that have so much to share with one another and enormous potential to provide young adults something meaningful to do other than hope to work for good.
So many tears tonight – on the phone again – from those coming in tonight, and from those who are about to leave. It is a nurturing group of women here who look out for one another and its ok to cry around. I can see how it would be hard to exist on the “outside” world without this support.
--
All I can think about tonight is food. The tv commercials are not helping – nor is my co-food-thinker who’s getting out tomorrow. You just don’t know how much that Dunkin Donuts commercial for coffee hurt to watch, especially the last scene with the chocolate-covered custard-filled – it’s a particular weakness… I am envisioning a day of pure comfort food when I get out, followed by many days of nonstop vegetables. No pasta surprise, and no beanie weenie for at least a month, okay? I also confess I dream of pizza. Fortunately, they do a nice treat for the inmates – they take orders every other Friday from a local restaurant, this week it will be a sub – we’ll divide up the ones we get for the women who have no money on their commissary accounts, just as we do with the candy. We’re charged a reasonable price, too – around $5. I am glad to have resources to share here. Also glad that when I leave my cellmates will have my things to share – shampoo, and things like this that I needed to order when I got here. Also hopefully a few leftover writing supplies, though I go through them fast.
--
I’m beginning to think already of the time when I will be done here. It is coming soon.
Peace,
Le Anne
Friday, April 11, 2008
Notes from My Cell, April 11
[An activist couple sent me an Emma Goldman portrait/history greeting card, which I translated out loud in Spanish for our few ICE detainee friends; the card itself was so popular among the women I didn’t see it for a few days. It finally came back today – was stuck in someone’s Bible.
Most of us do go to Bible Study and “Church,” but it’s pretty clear both of these are led by horribly under-trained and fundamentalist volunteers. Except for their sweet suburban mom faces, not a lot of love or real Gospel. It’s also definitively geared toward conversion, which is what some girls are asking for – interesting to me to see who enjoys this and who doesn’t. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to capture fundamentalist persuasion and couple it with a more welcoming gospel of love and justice. For example, could you couple the style of Joel Osteen with lessons of good/just stewardship of money and your whole person, or a discussion on systems of poverty?
Today we had ‘Shakedown’ which is when they pull apart your cell and also frisk you good looking for contraband. Fortunately, I’m good to go, they only confiscated one of my pencils, which was really two golf pencils taped together.
Fortunately, I arrived some time after they ended the practice of strip AND cavity searches during shakedown, although they still strip search when you first come in. It’s also good to be aware that cameras and guards – male and female – are watching everything you do, at all hours of the day. Even when using the toilet and shower, and changing clothes. I’ve adopted a manner of modesty-plus-gutsiness, and it doesn’t buy me as much now. It helps to remember at that point, I am just a number.
I saw a cake fight tonight, which is actually round three over about as many days. Each day we do get dessert, a nice surprise, one meal is two cookies, and the other meal is cake. So, one woman was eating bits of the other’s cake while she wasn’t watching. So the ‘victim’ grabbed the rest of the cake and smooshed it in her face, like they do at obnoxious weddings. So, when the next cake dinner came around, the “thief” grabbed a handful and shoved it down the front of the other’s shirt. On round three, she returned the favor. I was laughing so hard I fell off my stool. Glad they didn’t go for the mashed potatoes, and also that they’re good friends.
I confess that I have eaten far too many of the “Nutty Bars” since they arrived in commissary on Thursday – healthy food is hard to come by. Supper is at 4:00 PM, so it’s easy to get hungry at night, and we’re not supposed to take food from dinner back to our cells. (Fortunately, the cookie I did abscond with after lunch I did eat BEFORE shakedown.)
Would you believe I actually spent the weekend napping and reading books for fun in BED? How long has it been? Probably not since I started seminary, with the exception of the Harry Potter books this summer. Usually, I have enough school reading to do that if I do have free time, I don’t want to do more, so that was a nice perk.
I actually don’t mind my cell, it does offer a certain “monastic” function that I was hoping for – just a bed and a desk and the sink/toilet. I do find it a quiet alternative to the dayroom, which has a usually loud TV and everyone playing cards; so when I feel like I’ve been social enough for the day, I head up to read, write, or nap. The next project is to read the entire Quran through, and perhaps all of Paul – the latter at the suggestion of the new chaplain (who, by comparison to the regular volunteers I think actually is pretty good) who suggested as a young pastor I might find more in Paul’s writings as a prisoner among prisoners sharing and thinking Gospel. We’ll see what happens.
4/11/08 – Every night I am here I watch girls cry, usually on the phone, usually because someone hasn’t come to bond them out. This is a pervasive strain in the unit, the issue of bond. The people who are here, for the most part, are people who can’t afford to not be here. My roommate, who finally got out today, went through a terribly painful ordeal as her family went to each member and friend, borrowing money, expecting them to make it back here before each deadline, still not enough, pawning more possessions, again not enough, dissolving into tears after being so hopeful day after day, that they’d already packed. Another girl was given rising bail - $2000 the day of court, $3,000 next, $4,000 the next – or off to prison for the next three years without a chance to go home after sentencing. Federal cases are worse, you may spend years in this building while your case is being processed, and never see the light of day past your six inch window strip. Two girls here are in this predicament. I am extremely lucky. I have a definite ‘out date.’ The chaplain I met with this week suggested I focus my Bible study on Paul, who pastured and taught even as he was a prisoner among prisoners, that this might be a good frame and function for me as a young pastor behind bars. For those of you who pray, pray this week for my young friends in the Holy Name 6, who were treated quite badly in police custody after their nonviolent protest against the war Easter Sunday. They are young, but I think they have admirable convictions. If you can, please contribute to their legal support on my behalf. Many thanks, Peace, LeAnne.
Most of us do go to Bible Study and “Church,” but it’s pretty clear both of these are led by horribly under-trained and fundamentalist volunteers. Except for their sweet suburban mom faces, not a lot of love or real Gospel. It’s also definitively geared toward conversion, which is what some girls are asking for – interesting to me to see who enjoys this and who doesn’t. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to capture fundamentalist persuasion and couple it with a more welcoming gospel of love and justice. For example, could you couple the style of Joel Osteen with lessons of good/just stewardship of money and your whole person, or a discussion on systems of poverty?
Today we had ‘Shakedown’ which is when they pull apart your cell and also frisk you good looking for contraband. Fortunately, I’m good to go, they only confiscated one of my pencils, which was really two golf pencils taped together.
Fortunately, I arrived some time after they ended the practice of strip AND cavity searches during shakedown, although they still strip search when you first come in. It’s also good to be aware that cameras and guards – male and female – are watching everything you do, at all hours of the day. Even when using the toilet and shower, and changing clothes. I’ve adopted a manner of modesty-plus-gutsiness, and it doesn’t buy me as much now. It helps to remember at that point, I am just a number.
I saw a cake fight tonight, which is actually round three over about as many days. Each day we do get dessert, a nice surprise, one meal is two cookies, and the other meal is cake. So, one woman was eating bits of the other’s cake while she wasn’t watching. So the ‘victim’ grabbed the rest of the cake and smooshed it in her face, like they do at obnoxious weddings. So, when the next cake dinner came around, the “thief” grabbed a handful and shoved it down the front of the other’s shirt. On round three, she returned the favor. I was laughing so hard I fell off my stool. Glad they didn’t go for the mashed potatoes, and also that they’re good friends.
I confess that I have eaten far too many of the “Nutty Bars” since they arrived in commissary on Thursday – healthy food is hard to come by. Supper is at 4:00 PM, so it’s easy to get hungry at night, and we’re not supposed to take food from dinner back to our cells. (Fortunately, the cookie I did abscond with after lunch I did eat BEFORE shakedown.)
Would you believe I actually spent the weekend napping and reading books for fun in BED? How long has it been? Probably not since I started seminary, with the exception of the Harry Potter books this summer. Usually, I have enough school reading to do that if I do have free time, I don’t want to do more, so that was a nice perk.
I actually don’t mind my cell, it does offer a certain “monastic” function that I was hoping for – just a bed and a desk and the sink/toilet. I do find it a quiet alternative to the dayroom, which has a usually loud TV and everyone playing cards; so when I feel like I’ve been social enough for the day, I head up to read, write, or nap. The next project is to read the entire Quran through, and perhaps all of Paul – the latter at the suggestion of the new chaplain (who, by comparison to the regular volunteers I think actually is pretty good) who suggested as a young pastor I might find more in Paul’s writings as a prisoner among prisoners sharing and thinking Gospel. We’ll see what happens.
4/11/08 – Every night I am here I watch girls cry, usually on the phone, usually because someone hasn’t come to bond them out. This is a pervasive strain in the unit, the issue of bond. The people who are here, for the most part, are people who can’t afford to not be here. My roommate, who finally got out today, went through a terribly painful ordeal as her family went to each member and friend, borrowing money, expecting them to make it back here before each deadline, still not enough, pawning more possessions, again not enough, dissolving into tears after being so hopeful day after day, that they’d already packed. Another girl was given rising bail - $2000 the day of court, $3,000 next, $4,000 the next – or off to prison for the next three years without a chance to go home after sentencing. Federal cases are worse, you may spend years in this building while your case is being processed, and never see the light of day past your six inch window strip. Two girls here are in this predicament. I am extremely lucky. I have a definite ‘out date.’ The chaplain I met with this week suggested I focus my Bible study on Paul, who pastured and taught even as he was a prisoner among prisoners, that this might be a good frame and function for me as a young pastor behind bars. For those of you who pray, pray this week for my young friends in the Holy Name 6, who were treated quite badly in police custody after their nonviolent protest against the war Easter Sunday. They are young, but I think they have admirable convictions. If you can, please contribute to their legal support on my behalf. Many thanks, Peace, LeAnne.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Notes from My Cell, April 7
We've had beans five times in four days. I'm surprised, I guess, although I know it's cheap filler. I guess fiber is beneficial too since there's very little veggie and lots of starch. If I didn't mention it earlier Bisquick is at almost every meal. Bisquick and blue berries, Bisquick with butter, or jam, or as Chicken ala King.
----
A good film is on tonight's TV and many of the girls are watching. Others are playing cards – the girls from Syria, Mexico and Korea all realized they knew rummy and spades and my translation isn't so necessary there. It's nice not to be needed (too much.) I've been reading through the stack of novels- generally skipping the romances….
---
I don't know if I've written yet about praying the Green Line, like the Rosary, stop after stop along the tracks. Sometimes it's the Metra and sometimes the #15, but mostly the Green Line, through which I see some of the hardest luck places in the city.
Anyway, I miss that ride, but I can pray the cells or even the telephone calls I can't help but overhear from my cell next to the phone. Anguished calls, or calls followed by tears, or anger another party isn't answering. Many pain-filled lives are literally at my door. I do my best to listen and comfort above my own physical difficulties, exhaustion, and sometimes a heavy locked door.
Most have children, most have partners. Some are here because of their partner's drug or crime problems. Others, of course, are here because the problems were primarily their own. All the mothers worry about being inside on a child's birthday. I write all of this because my not having any children or desire for a partner is an endless source of fascination for the other women.
---
Jail is not built for comfort. I remind myself this twelve times a day, mostly while working on loosening that back spasm. It's supposed to be cold and you're supposed to be hungry and tired. My younger friend wants to know if I've cried yet, and is amazed I haven't. She wonders where I get the calm. She's equally fascinated by my wanting to do ministry. I think she may have potential for good things.
----
It was so good to have Easter, my 30th birthday, and the farewell before coming in. Necessary spiritual support. I was reminded of this because of the lousy chapels [chaplains? editor] – where is the Gospel of telling me everything I am up to this point is garbage, and all I need is to choose the clothes of righteousness? Whatever happened to a loving God? Whatever happened to Biblical study rather than choosing "magic words" from a dozen different verses? But I suppose these suburban ladies mean well, and some of the girls really like them. As my young friend says, "You have to understand most of us have lived lives outside of Christ." But the Catholic girl says, "They teach us in there stuff I've never seen in church and their Bible isn't like any Bible I've read."
----
Nearly all the girls play cards, which I am terrible at generally, but I'm about to get better I think. It's neat that cards are the universal language.
----
A lot of my time has gone these past two days to helping the Syrian girl reach her husband or family and find out what's going on. I almost wonder if her husband isn't planning to pick her up. Or perhaps they don't know enough English to set up the phone [collect calling plan through a company that charges exorbitant rates. In GA, it was Beall's Communication, and it took both of my internet-savvy adult sons several attempts to help my husband set this up while I was in prison. ed] And I don't know enough to really help, which is frustrating.
---
A trip outside today, for a physical at the hospital nearby – mandated by the BOP [Bureau of Prisons. ed] So, into full shackles and the paddy wagon for me. This had a startling effect on the citizens of Woodstock who happened to be in the hospital at the same time. I just tried to smile and say, "don't mind me." He guards and the medics I spoke to today were also pretty surprised to hear what I was here for protesting. One was actually quite upset, possibly by another case she's familiar with – a child molester who also only received 30 days. "Why are we locking you up when this girl's whole life has been ruined?" She also apologized for the shackles, saying that if I was seen outside without them, she'd be in trouble. It was an interesting conversation, the guards, the docs, and myself. The guard and I didn't see eye to eye on immigration, but I still felt as though it was a transformative few moments.
##
----
A good film is on tonight's TV and many of the girls are watching. Others are playing cards – the girls from Syria, Mexico and Korea all realized they knew rummy and spades and my translation isn't so necessary there. It's nice not to be needed (too much.) I've been reading through the stack of novels- generally skipping the romances….
---
I don't know if I've written yet about praying the Green Line, like the Rosary, stop after stop along the tracks. Sometimes it's the Metra and sometimes the #15, but mostly the Green Line, through which I see some of the hardest luck places in the city.
Anyway, I miss that ride, but I can pray the cells or even the telephone calls I can't help but overhear from my cell next to the phone. Anguished calls, or calls followed by tears, or anger another party isn't answering. Many pain-filled lives are literally at my door. I do my best to listen and comfort above my own physical difficulties, exhaustion, and sometimes a heavy locked door.
Most have children, most have partners. Some are here because of their partner's drug or crime problems. Others, of course, are here because the problems were primarily their own. All the mothers worry about being inside on a child's birthday. I write all of this because my not having any children or desire for a partner is an endless source of fascination for the other women.
---
Jail is not built for comfort. I remind myself this twelve times a day, mostly while working on loosening that back spasm. It's supposed to be cold and you're supposed to be hungry and tired. My younger friend wants to know if I've cried yet, and is amazed I haven't. She wonders where I get the calm. She's equally fascinated by my wanting to do ministry. I think she may have potential for good things.
----
It was so good to have Easter, my 30th birthday, and the farewell before coming in. Necessary spiritual support. I was reminded of this because of the lousy chapels [chaplains? editor] – where is the Gospel of telling me everything I am up to this point is garbage, and all I need is to choose the clothes of righteousness? Whatever happened to a loving God? Whatever happened to Biblical study rather than choosing "magic words" from a dozen different verses? But I suppose these suburban ladies mean well, and some of the girls really like them. As my young friend says, "You have to understand most of us have lived lives outside of Christ." But the Catholic girl says, "They teach us in there stuff I've never seen in church and their Bible isn't like any Bible I've read."
----
Nearly all the girls play cards, which I am terrible at generally, but I'm about to get better I think. It's neat that cards are the universal language.
----
A lot of my time has gone these past two days to helping the Syrian girl reach her husband or family and find out what's going on. I almost wonder if her husband isn't planning to pick her up. Or perhaps they don't know enough English to set up the phone [collect calling plan through a company that charges exorbitant rates. In GA, it was Beall's Communication, and it took both of my internet-savvy adult sons several attempts to help my husband set this up while I was in prison. ed] And I don't know enough to really help, which is frustrating.
---
A trip outside today, for a physical at the hospital nearby – mandated by the BOP [Bureau of Prisons. ed] So, into full shackles and the paddy wagon for me. This had a startling effect on the citizens of Woodstock who happened to be in the hospital at the same time. I just tried to smile and say, "don't mind me." He guards and the medics I spoke to today were also pretty surprised to hear what I was here for protesting. One was actually quite upset, possibly by another case she's familiar with – a child molester who also only received 30 days. "Why are we locking you up when this girl's whole life has been ruined?" She also apologized for the shackles, saying that if I was seen outside without them, she'd be in trouble. It was an interesting conversation, the guards, the docs, and myself. The guard and I didn't see eye to eye on immigration, but I still felt as though it was a transformative few moments.
##
Friday, April 04, 2008
On Entering Jail
Thurs-Fri [4/3, 4/4]
The send-off at Foster Ave. Beach was wonderful. A sunny morning at the lake, many friends from Voices, 8th Day Center, SOA Watch, the Catholic Worker and Global Serve, & (Erin) my sister-in-law, and DePaul students, & Don Coleman. Prayers & songs& laying on of hands then into the car for the big trip, & me finishing applications to peacemaker conferences that had arrived in the nick of time. Erin bought me lunch, then we arrived at the courthouse/jail. It's a massive, modern building, curiously close to schools and senior housing. Another good crowd greeted us in the parking lot, the McHenry County peace community as well as our caravan from Chicago. Again prayers & hands; a fortunate meeting with a woman whose husband was exonerated from death row & spent much time inside. She was my best preparation, in just a few moments. Then a march to the doors, some last photos, and we went inside.
Gus and I were separated for the search, and they brought a bag out - off come shoes and jewelry, then with apologies the female guard asked for my clergy collar. I handed it over. My money the peace groups had given went into my commissary account. Then a clothes-on frisking, including under the tongue and between the toes. Then to the showers. The guard gave me a medicine cup. "It's [Ed. note: I believe she meant to say Lindane], don't drink it. It's so you don't get lice in here." So I showered with it and dressed in the scrubs - Guantanamo orange, including the socks and prison-issue underwear: "If it's clean and fits, it's yours." Orange slippers also with thin soles.
Inside looks a little like the customs area of the airport: questions about health, then mug shots and fingerprints. I was fine about all this, and curious. In my mug shots the officer said, "You look a little too happy to be here." "Sorry," I said. "You don't have to be sorry," he said. He wondered if my sentence would put a big dent in school. I replied the professors seemed to be okay with it. Then back to the holding cell until after supper. Green mats on concrete slabs and Sunday School-like yellow painted concrete block. Windows like a fishbowl all around. I later learned that this also served as detox.
It's pretty heavily air-conditioned here and I was glad for the wool blanket they gave me. I learned in a few hours how to fold it into a cocoon that was 2 - 3 layers, but I could still hop out of it when the doors opened. Then supper at 4pm. This was the first really brusque guard I met, since I didn't know the routine, he stood outside the doors and said, "Ya wanna eat or not?" I did, got my tray, a clunky orange spoon, and a cup with koolaid powder in a packet. The water wasn't working in the cell, so I skipped that. Otherwise, I think it was chicken ala king. The lettuce and vinegar salad reminded me of public school lunch: no, really, all of it did. But I was still happy to see it, and it wasn't bad with salt and pepper. Then back to sleep, since I've pulled too many all nighters lately and the adrenaline is finally wearing off.
Then finally upstairs to the cell. I walked with an officer, a Filipina and a Guatemalan woman. We couldn't talk much, but they were deportees. They went to another "pod," then I met mine. Each "pod" is a triangle about 60' on each side, with a common room in the middle and two floors of cells along one side. Common showers and a toilet/sink are on another, and the TV is on a third. There are also board games and paperbacks under the TV. In the center are seven stainless steel picnic tables w/four little round seats each. They get quite painful to sit on after a while. We're out there most hours of the day; otherwise we're on lockdown in our cells. Inside my cell I'm by myself with a little desk and the same stool. There's a thin mat on a steel bunk, and the window is about six inches tall and five feet wide. A little light gets in, and I see we've had two sunny days now. The other benefit of the cell is that I can use a blanket as a shawl, it gets pretty cold. I am looking forward to coming out in May, when it will be warmer and sunnier outside. We also see a patch of sky inside the gym which has a large window, even if it is barred. The gym is an open floor without equipment & we got to go twice yesterday to walk laps. It was a nice change of pace.
I also meant to write that there's a stainless steel toilet/sink/water fountain in each cell, which took some getting used to. Fortunately, guards and fellow prisoners are discreet about when you're using yours, since there's always an audience or at least a large window.
The send-off at Foster Ave. Beach was wonderful. A sunny morning at the lake, many friends from Voices, 8th Day Center, SOA Watch, the Catholic Worker and Global Serve, & (Erin) my sister-in-law, and DePaul students, & Don Coleman. Prayers & songs& laying on of hands then into the car for the big trip, & me finishing applications to peacemaker conferences that had arrived in the nick of time. Erin bought me lunch, then we arrived at the courthouse/jail. It's a massive, modern building, curiously close to schools and senior housing. Another good crowd greeted us in the parking lot, the McHenry County peace community as well as our caravan from Chicago. Again prayers & hands; a fortunate meeting with a woman whose husband was exonerated from death row & spent much time inside. She was my best preparation, in just a few moments. Then a march to the doors, some last photos, and we went inside.
Gus and I were separated for the search, and they brought a bag out - off come shoes and jewelry, then with apologies the female guard asked for my clergy collar. I handed it over. My money the peace groups had given went into my commissary account. Then a clothes-on frisking, including under the tongue and between the toes. Then to the showers. The guard gave me a medicine cup. "It's [Ed. note: I believe she meant to say Lindane], don't drink it. It's so you don't get lice in here." So I showered with it and dressed in the scrubs - Guantanamo orange, including the socks and prison-issue underwear: "If it's clean and fits, it's yours." Orange slippers also with thin soles.
Inside looks a little like the customs area of the airport: questions about health, then mug shots and fingerprints. I was fine about all this, and curious. In my mug shots the officer said, "You look a little too happy to be here." "Sorry," I said. "You don't have to be sorry," he said. He wondered if my sentence would put a big dent in school. I replied the professors seemed to be okay with it. Then back to the holding cell until after supper. Green mats on concrete slabs and Sunday School-like yellow painted concrete block. Windows like a fishbowl all around. I later learned that this also served as detox.
It's pretty heavily air-conditioned here and I was glad for the wool blanket they gave me. I learned in a few hours how to fold it into a cocoon that was 2 - 3 layers, but I could still hop out of it when the doors opened. Then supper at 4pm. This was the first really brusque guard I met, since I didn't know the routine, he stood outside the doors and said, "Ya wanna eat or not?" I did, got my tray, a clunky orange spoon, and a cup with koolaid powder in a packet. The water wasn't working in the cell, so I skipped that. Otherwise, I think it was chicken ala king. The lettuce and vinegar salad reminded me of public school lunch: no, really, all of it did. But I was still happy to see it, and it wasn't bad with salt and pepper. Then back to sleep, since I've pulled too many all nighters lately and the adrenaline is finally wearing off.
Then finally upstairs to the cell. I walked with an officer, a Filipina and a Guatemalan woman. We couldn't talk much, but they were deportees. They went to another "pod," then I met mine. Each "pod" is a triangle about 60' on each side, with a common room in the middle and two floors of cells along one side. Common showers and a toilet/sink are on another, and the TV is on a third. There are also board games and paperbacks under the TV. In the center are seven stainless steel picnic tables w/four little round seats each. They get quite painful to sit on after a while. We're out there most hours of the day; otherwise we're on lockdown in our cells. Inside my cell I'm by myself with a little desk and the same stool. There's a thin mat on a steel bunk, and the window is about six inches tall and five feet wide. A little light gets in, and I see we've had two sunny days now. The other benefit of the cell is that I can use a blanket as a shawl, it gets pretty cold. I am looking forward to coming out in May, when it will be warmer and sunnier outside. We also see a patch of sky inside the gym which has a large window, even if it is barred. The gym is an open floor without equipment & we got to go twice yesterday to walk laps. It was a nice change of pace.
I also meant to write that there's a stainless steel toilet/sink/water fountain in each cell, which took some getting used to. Fortunately, guards and fellow prisoners are discreet about when you're using yours, since there's always an audience or at least a large window.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The Hope in Harry Potter
There's two good articles I've read about Harry Potter lately, so the topic's been on my mind. (It's amazing I have this kind of time right now to think of things, and also to write them down. I'll miss it when I'm back to the daily grind). One is TIME magazine's 'Person of the Year' profile of J.K. Rowling, a runner-up for the competition, reflecting on her work and its meaning. The other appears in 'The Lutheran' magazine, on why one pastor has no trouble with his grandchildren reading Potter.
I've been writing around the edges of a pit in my stomach that doesn't want to go back to school this coming semester, that doesn't want to do much anything except hide actually--it's a lousy time to be a leader in our student government if you ask me. Our beloved dean is headed on sabbatical, and the other powers that be seem not too interested in the life and wellbeing of students, let alone the neighborhood. In fact, there's a lot of forces that don't seem to be too concerned about the place in which we live and the wellbeing of people. One gets the sense that some would like the students to shut up and go away, in occasionally politer terms. I've been known to say out loud I'd rather take my chances in prison this spring, which is very well likely where I'll be once the SOA trial is over. In the meantime, I've dropped to part-time, and I don't hang out on campus much anymore.
Still, perhaps now is not the time to hide, behind bars or otherwise. And this is where I find great courage in reading and re-reading Potter. (I might also mention the Lord of the Rings, and the Chronicles of Narnia, epics I never thought I'd embrace before recent years). I need to hear, over and over again, that people can go wrong in the pursuit of their perceived good; to recognize it when it's happening in leaders I see, and to take warning it could happen in myself. I need to hear that there is hope in love, and there is hope even when those we love and who love us can't be there to help us. In fact, I might have still remained in seminary up to this point in good part due to reading Potter.
The thing I appreciate most about Rowling's archetypes in Potter is that they do help me to see, bad in good people and good in bad (or, rather, those who are causing harm and fear) people, and to seek to love them however I can. Yes, in my world I can identify Gilderoy Lockharts and Severus Snapes and Lucius Malfoys and any manner of Ministry officials. (I even knew a crooked dean once at another seminary who resembled in face and body and voice and personality and all other things Dolores Umbridge, as portrayed in this summer's fifth movie). I think I might even have encounters with the Dark Lord on occasion. And sometimes I don't know this until I feel the little deaths they've left behind.
But I also know Dumbledores, and Hagrids and Lupins, who love me and seek to help, and whom I love; and I have friends the likes of Hermione and Ron, Luna and house-elves even. Somehow, I am reminded I don't have to face things alone. This is different than being free to abandon the situation altogether. But also, not alone.
I think it could be egotistical to think of myself as Potter, but then, probably every child puts him or herself in Potter's shoes, or at least those children who must face trials in life and survive; those who are not sheltered from most things and are perhaps more vulnerable, but also have a few gifts to recognize and use to help themselves. I need to think of my gifts less as a curse or a source of personal pain, and more as gifts, and to practice them in order to be better and do better. I don't know. There are so many ways to go wrong when trying to use one's gifts well, to function in society, to know the good and work for it.
I hope I can work for the good, and remain good. I hope I will keep the students together, not to dissolve into factions and stir up enmity with each other, because there are so many ways that could happen. I hope not to be alone.
I've been writing around the edges of a pit in my stomach that doesn't want to go back to school this coming semester, that doesn't want to do much anything except hide actually--it's a lousy time to be a leader in our student government if you ask me. Our beloved dean is headed on sabbatical, and the other powers that be seem not too interested in the life and wellbeing of students, let alone the neighborhood. In fact, there's a lot of forces that don't seem to be too concerned about the place in which we live and the wellbeing of people. One gets the sense that some would like the students to shut up and go away, in occasionally politer terms. I've been known to say out loud I'd rather take my chances in prison this spring, which is very well likely where I'll be once the SOA trial is over. In the meantime, I've dropped to part-time, and I don't hang out on campus much anymore.
Still, perhaps now is not the time to hide, behind bars or otherwise. And this is where I find great courage in reading and re-reading Potter. (I might also mention the Lord of the Rings, and the Chronicles of Narnia, epics I never thought I'd embrace before recent years). I need to hear, over and over again, that people can go wrong in the pursuit of their perceived good; to recognize it when it's happening in leaders I see, and to take warning it could happen in myself. I need to hear that there is hope in love, and there is hope even when those we love and who love us can't be there to help us. In fact, I might have still remained in seminary up to this point in good part due to reading Potter.
The thing I appreciate most about Rowling's archetypes in Potter is that they do help me to see, bad in good people and good in bad (or, rather, those who are causing harm and fear) people, and to seek to love them however I can. Yes, in my world I can identify Gilderoy Lockharts and Severus Snapes and Lucius Malfoys and any manner of Ministry officials. (I even knew a crooked dean once at another seminary who resembled in face and body and voice and personality and all other things Dolores Umbridge, as portrayed in this summer's fifth movie). I think I might even have encounters with the Dark Lord on occasion. And sometimes I don't know this until I feel the little deaths they've left behind.
But I also know Dumbledores, and Hagrids and Lupins, who love me and seek to help, and whom I love; and I have friends the likes of Hermione and Ron, Luna and house-elves even. Somehow, I am reminded I don't have to face things alone. This is different than being free to abandon the situation altogether. But also, not alone.
I think it could be egotistical to think of myself as Potter, but then, probably every child puts him or herself in Potter's shoes, or at least those children who must face trials in life and survive; those who are not sheltered from most things and are perhaps more vulnerable, but also have a few gifts to recognize and use to help themselves. I need to think of my gifts less as a curse or a source of personal pain, and more as gifts, and to practice them in order to be better and do better. I don't know. There are so many ways to go wrong when trying to use one's gifts well, to function in society, to know the good and work for it.
I hope I can work for the good, and remain good. I hope I will keep the students together, not to dissolve into factions and stir up enmity with each other, because there are so many ways that could happen. I hope not to be alone.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Ritual Containment, 2
Another thought I had today, which begins with preaching (which is sort of really mainly pastoral care) and ends with psychology (which is also sort of really also pastoral care), is that I wonder how many therapists use good 'ritual containment' in their work, and the consequences of not doing so.
For example, I have a dear friend who experienced incest during childhood and has since for years been in regular therapy. She tells me that afterwards, she's really 'out of commission' for quite a while before being able to resume her usual daily life activity. But, she also really relies on this therapist and goes back again and again.
I love my friend, and I'm not entirely convinced she's being helped by this therapist.
Therapy, I think, is tricky. In fifty minutes, you have to create the safe space in which a person can completely open up their deepest hurts and probe them--and then get 'put back together again' before walking out the door.
I think the first part usually happens, but I'm not so sure the second part does--generally speaking and having done a reasonable amount of therapy myself in life (as do we all, or most, especially in seminary). I think more often it's, 'Oh, look at the time. When shall we schedule the next appointment? See you then.'
And you walk out the door with your guts still leaking out. Or perhaps even wondering what that other, relative stranger of a person, even thought. (So often therapy is done on the 'blank slate' model, which I'm not convinced is consistently helpful either).
I'm cynical enough in general to think that this is the 'perfect' financially secure therapist-client relationship: if I open you up and leave you hanging, you might get a little better, but not much. And the big, dark world will feel even more scary perhaps--so you'll come running back to me. And I can keep billing.
I think this is another example of what Dr. Moore and Dr. Edgerton so frequently refer to as 'pseudo-therapy:' I pretend to be a therapist, and you pretend to get better.'
Restoration after revelation, especially of the deep wounds, I think is so critical to pastoral care. Even moreso perhaps than in regular one-on-one therapy. The therapist is a 'stranger' in a different world; the pastor is part of the spiritual community in which you participate intimately. If the pastor doesn't restore before the end of the visit, how can that person be restored to the community? Will that person see themselves, and communicate themselves (perhaps unconsciously, or in anxiety) as 'the sick one?' And once you're labeled as sick, it's hard to be given room to be transformed into the role of 'healed and whole one.' I see it all the time, whether physical, mental, or emotional, and so on.
Maybe that is pseudo-ministry...
For example, I have a dear friend who experienced incest during childhood and has since for years been in regular therapy. She tells me that afterwards, she's really 'out of commission' for quite a while before being able to resume her usual daily life activity. But, she also really relies on this therapist and goes back again and again.
I love my friend, and I'm not entirely convinced she's being helped by this therapist.
Therapy, I think, is tricky. In fifty minutes, you have to create the safe space in which a person can completely open up their deepest hurts and probe them--and then get 'put back together again' before walking out the door.
I think the first part usually happens, but I'm not so sure the second part does--generally speaking and having done a reasonable amount of therapy myself in life (as do we all, or most, especially in seminary). I think more often it's, 'Oh, look at the time. When shall we schedule the next appointment? See you then.'
And you walk out the door with your guts still leaking out. Or perhaps even wondering what that other, relative stranger of a person, even thought. (So often therapy is done on the 'blank slate' model, which I'm not convinced is consistently helpful either).
I'm cynical enough in general to think that this is the 'perfect' financially secure therapist-client relationship: if I open you up and leave you hanging, you might get a little better, but not much. And the big, dark world will feel even more scary perhaps--so you'll come running back to me. And I can keep billing.
I think this is another example of what Dr. Moore and Dr. Edgerton so frequently refer to as 'pseudo-therapy:' I pretend to be a therapist, and you pretend to get better.'
Restoration after revelation, especially of the deep wounds, I think is so critical to pastoral care. Even moreso perhaps than in regular one-on-one therapy. The therapist is a 'stranger' in a different world; the pastor is part of the spiritual community in which you participate intimately. If the pastor doesn't restore before the end of the visit, how can that person be restored to the community? Will that person see themselves, and communicate themselves (perhaps unconsciously, or in anxiety) as 'the sick one?' And once you're labeled as sick, it's hard to be given room to be transformed into the role of 'healed and whole one.' I see it all the time, whether physical, mental, or emotional, and so on.
Maybe that is pseudo-ministry...
Ritual Containment
One of the terms that we hear around here a lot is 'ritual containment.' One of its meanings is that if you are going to take people into an emotionally profound or intense place, you need to have a 'container,' or process, by which you lead them into it _and_ lead them out of it. This can be done through words, music, or even physical space or elements. It happens, or at least needs to happen a lot in worship. It is the creation of a space of trust, really.
If it doesn't happen, and you do want to get people into that emotionally deep well or space, either of two things may happen: it will 'explode,' and/or drown the people involved, leaking over and overwhelming lives and communities; or it will simply convince people to stay safely on the surface and 'not go there with you.'
After preaching class today, I remembered back to times when I've heard male preachers preach on domestic violence or abuse. I think they thought it was the progressive ministerial male thing to do. However, one ought not preach on something they don't want to be involved in later. I saw that when women would take their preaching seriously and approach them later, thinking 'this is a pastor who might actually understand and try to help me,' those preachers didn't help. They didn't even respond. They really could not have cared less, it seemed.
This was poor ritual containment.
It also occurred to me that I have a 'ritual containment' flow to my week, for which I am grateful. I love preaching class and laugh reasonably often, but I also usually leave kind of emotionally raw. We talk about hard things in there, not least of which is the text of the rape of Tamar a classmate is doing (she also works as a crisis counselor downtown). It can be for me the feeling of having my insides scraped out. So, in and of itself, it would be hard for me to leave this class and er, go forth in joy. But, afterwards, I have storytelling workshop, run by David Reese, and this can be a little cathartic--more laughter, more space to emote in whichever way we are led that particular session. It's been fun, although also a little roller-coaster-ish. Then I have a few hours before Theories of Change. This is good, because by that time in the day, I could use a little psychological technical talk about the bigger picture understanding how we respond to events in life. At the same time though, it is also rather cerebral--moreso than my beloved Psychopathology and Theology class last term (we got more real-life discussion crammed in then). Wednesday daytime is a pretty cerebral/detached day too, not much time to apply and process things, although with a break for Chapel and Community Lunch--both of which I find I really need. But, if I ended the day (and the school-week), I'd be kind of hurting.
So, I have found that the Systematics class I sit in on,(I had a year of systematics already, which I also enjoyed, at the Lutheran seminary) primary texts being the 'Institutes of the Christian Faith,' by John Calvin, to be absolutely essential for bringing the week to a close and pulling everything (and my own self) back together. We laugh a lot, despite/because of Calvin; and we also talk about big picture things that really matter, in ways that really connect. And I desperately need that. I sleep better afterwards. I feel less unhinged by the deadly seriousness of the topics at hand and their real implications for life. And sometimes I think it's even Calvin's own insanity that makes me put my own into better perspective.
This 'weekly crisis' resolved, several of us head over to the university pub afterwards. It's like the shabbat; peace and rest at the end of the work of the faithful.
If it doesn't happen, and you do want to get people into that emotionally deep well or space, either of two things may happen: it will 'explode,' and/or drown the people involved, leaking over and overwhelming lives and communities; or it will simply convince people to stay safely on the surface and 'not go there with you.'
After preaching class today, I remembered back to times when I've heard male preachers preach on domestic violence or abuse. I think they thought it was the progressive ministerial male thing to do. However, one ought not preach on something they don't want to be involved in later. I saw that when women would take their preaching seriously and approach them later, thinking 'this is a pastor who might actually understand and try to help me,' those preachers didn't help. They didn't even respond. They really could not have cared less, it seemed.
This was poor ritual containment.
It also occurred to me that I have a 'ritual containment' flow to my week, for which I am grateful. I love preaching class and laugh reasonably often, but I also usually leave kind of emotionally raw. We talk about hard things in there, not least of which is the text of the rape of Tamar a classmate is doing (she also works as a crisis counselor downtown). It can be for me the feeling of having my insides scraped out. So, in and of itself, it would be hard for me to leave this class and er, go forth in joy. But, afterwards, I have storytelling workshop, run by David Reese, and this can be a little cathartic--more laughter, more space to emote in whichever way we are led that particular session. It's been fun, although also a little roller-coaster-ish. Then I have a few hours before Theories of Change. This is good, because by that time in the day, I could use a little psychological technical talk about the bigger picture understanding how we respond to events in life. At the same time though, it is also rather cerebral--moreso than my beloved Psychopathology and Theology class last term (we got more real-life discussion crammed in then). Wednesday daytime is a pretty cerebral/detached day too, not much time to apply and process things, although with a break for Chapel and Community Lunch--both of which I find I really need. But, if I ended the day (and the school-week), I'd be kind of hurting.
So, I have found that the Systematics class I sit in on,(I had a year of systematics already, which I also enjoyed, at the Lutheran seminary) primary texts being the 'Institutes of the Christian Faith,' by John Calvin, to be absolutely essential for bringing the week to a close and pulling everything (and my own self) back together. We laugh a lot, despite/because of Calvin; and we also talk about big picture things that really matter, in ways that really connect. And I desperately need that. I sleep better afterwards. I feel less unhinged by the deadly seriousness of the topics at hand and their real implications for life. And sometimes I think it's even Calvin's own insanity that makes me put my own into better perspective.
This 'weekly crisis' resolved, several of us head over to the university pub afterwards. It's like the shabbat; peace and rest at the end of the work of the faithful.
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