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by Ron Slatton
Bio/Address
In the
beginning I was only 19 years young. I am now 42. I was an extreme introvert. I
was never out going, nor did I trust anyone, including people that tried to help
me. This was 1977 until about 1980. I then altered my way of thinking and found
friendship and understanding in an individual and that lasted for about seven
years. It was true friendship unusual in an environment that normally breeds
mistrust and contempt for fellow human being. I began to be a bit more outgoing
and to establish a camaraderie with some people, but still only trusting the
select few, if not just one person. This is the way of my thinking now, in the
1990's.
Each day in
prison is a cyclic circle. You do everything the same and it does not alter in
any way. You're told when to eat, recreate, shower and go to bed. This
repetitive life style and the lack of disrespect exhibited by the guards on a
daily basis leads to deep anxiety, frustration and even hatred. You may not
think so, but there is the hatred, a hatred buried so deep that one could not
admit to its existence. I can now, though it is painful, because it must be kept
in control.
I have burned
with hatred and an emotion that dwells in most of us, one closer to the surface
than we care to admit; a real desire for a sense of retribution.
Some of my
convictions have eroded to nothing. There is nothing for me to do. I feel
useless.
I see life
going on without me. The sensation of not being anymore came over me. Sometimes
I laugh on the outside, but deep frustration, anger and the lack of security on
the inside prevail, eating at me daily. I can not take myself seriously. Why?
Because no one else does. They think I'm a non‑person, a freak. The idea
of having feelings is a joke. I am nothing but a bother - a pest.
Think about it!
We are all victims - victims of a great practical joke played on us by God,
nature or our fellow human being.
Maybe it’s
got something to do with being alone. Being so messed up inside you never feel
like doing or even feeling at all. Being lonely is one of the worst things about
prison. Probably it is the worst.
Always a lot of fools surrounding you so you aren't really alone but you are.
The longer I spend here, the more I try to reach out and find the reality of a
friend. But when you don't, you retreat from people. Sometimes it seems as if
the whole world starts to crumble and there is nothing you can do about it. Even
trying to hit back doesn't help.
The source of
my strength in this stressful situation is a mystery to me. Trying to imagine
how I have coped all of these 22 years without cracking up is amazing. But I
believe I have maintained my courage and dignity, an inner calm as well as a
degree of self‑sufficiency, self‑worth and self-reliance in that I
refuse to be beaten down by the prison and prisoncrats.
Prison is an
attempt to get into your brain and muscle. It is a crazy mixture of boredom and
terror, boredom because nothing happens, terror because anything could happen
and at anytime.
They don't just
strip off your clothes; they go deeper, they take off any dignity you may have.
They make you eat, sleep, use the restroom in close proximity of other men. Why
do you think they make you dress alike? It is so you can't separate yourself
from the others. You can't wear a scrap of paper or pin a note on you saying,
"This is me, I am a person." We are just like a herd of animals,
following but not to question why.
Prison is
giving up one reality for another. Inside the fence nothing is certain, nothing
can be taken for granted except the arbitrary exercise of absolute power. Rules
engraved one day will be superseded the next. What you don't know can always
hurt you. The prison rules are designed to keep you ignorant, keep you guessing,
to insure you are vulnerable. Think of a mirror at the fun house. Anything
caught in the mirror is bloated, distorted. Prison officials act like that
mirror. Grown men treated like mere children because of an untucked shirt or a
button out of place. The strictest enforcement of petty rules and regulations
take its toll on a person. It leads to stress and unnecessary confrontations
with the "white shirts" (captains lieutenants, etc) as they abuse
their power.
The reality is
an 8 x 12 cinder block cell in which you are counted up to seven times per day.
The door is solid steel, with a 1 3/4" thick glass approximately 4" x
18". It is through this glass you are observed, at night a bright
flashlight is beamed in your eyes for the late counts. If your head is covered
up, the guard awakens you to insure it is you. The 11:00 am and 4:00 PM counts
are “standing counts." You must be standing, not sitting or lying down, I
guess it is so the guards aren't fooled by a cursory look at a bed. I think it
is just another form of harassment, intimidation and control. Since these counts
were only initiated in 1986 or 1987 and prior to that it was okay to sleep, and
yet escapes or deaths still occurred.
The cells are
double bunked when in all reality they were designed for one individual. To
crowd things further there are two combination desk-cabinets, two locked boxes,
a toilet and sink with a stainless steel mirror. The windows have rolled steel
bars and looks onto another cell block.
Caged men were
a figment of someone's distorted imagination. Society's prescription for those
adjudged criminals is becoming less and less ambiguous. Lock 'em up and throw
away the key. The moral and ethical principles that bind society don’t count
in prison. The custodians formulate whatever rules, whatever system to require
the authority to keep prisoners in captivity, controlled and confused.
There is no
such thing as rehabilitation. It is a forgone conclusion. What is being done
here is warehousing men, like so many lengths of pipe, then reluctantly letting
them back on the streets, even less prepared in a vast majority of cases to make
an honest living.
What is
rehabilitating about mopping and sweeping floors, making license plates,
cabinets or chairs or even dispensing laundry or food? The jobs department uses
us for prison slaves at 25 cents or more an hour. The amazing thing is that
inmates fight to get one of these jobs. Well, there is nothing rehabilitative
about it. It is a basic makeshift work to keep the prisoner busy while in
prison. Even if you have a fair to good education, you are still subjected to
the very menial jobs. There is no place to expand your mind or be productive.
The keepers are in deep fear of that and they limit it as much as possible. To
be smart in their eyes is considered dangerous or threatening to the keepers.
A
person can only change when he wants to change. No one can convince the parole
board, which is automatically geared to believe you will repeat and you are a
liar. They judge you for what you have done as a criminal, not who you are now
or what you’ve done to change your life. You committed this horrendous crime and must be punished.
Nothing is taken into account as to what programming you have undertaken to
change yourself. It is a no win situation.
The
cruelty is not in the prisoner, but in Society and our Keepers.
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