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May 14, 2003 Hi friends and supporters, This is finals week at Oberlin College, so I haven't written in a few days. Below are two letters that I have received from Jesse in the last few days about what it is really like to be in prison and his experiences finally getting the T (so they are a little outdated). I talked to Jesse this morning, but he was in a pretty introspective mood so I didn't hear much about how he is doing. Bill Quigley, one of the SOA Watch's wonderful volunteer attorneys, also spoke with the prison lawyer, Ann Zgrodnik, who affirmed that Danbury definitely intends for there to be no more trouble with getting Jesse's prescription. Thanks so much for all of your love and support - stay strong! Courage,
5-6-03 I received the packet of faxes and was very moved, almost to tears, by the kind and angry words of those who wrote. It was a much-needed reminder that I am not alone in here and I had to laugh at the thought of the Warden unable to use her fax machine for two days, due to the onslaught of faxes and calls. Please send everyone my thanks again. A month has gone by now, with only two to go and I find that I still spend part of each day outraged or laughing. The newness of it all has worn off and I sometimes find myself bored, irritable, mischievous. Last week my crew on grounds received a little "reminder: you're in Federal Prison!" from a Lietenant (sp?) "wanting to Feel his oats" (this is how my boss put it and I must admit I'm not sure exactly what it means). We were busily mowing the old warden's lawn. Actually there are 15-ish people assigned to staff housing, along with 5 lawn mowers, 3 weed eaters, and 2 riding mowers, so 2/3 of us were busily mowing, myself among them. An SUV pulls up and 3 FCI employees (including one oat-feeling lieutenant) jump out. One tells us to circle up, one wanders the outside of our circle the others jogs off to our worksite, picking up people's discarded jackets and shirts, searching the pockets, peering under the lawn mowers intently. Is he looking for something in particular? I ask myself, then wonder - why would someone hide something under a lawn mower? Apparently some staff member watching us mow their lawn saw someone or someones in our group talking to an outside contractor - someone doing work on the compound who is not employed by the B.O.P. He exhorts us to 'come clean' but none of us do. I must admit that I didn't see anyone talking to anybody, and I say as much to Mr. Oat-Feeler. He ignores me, and ignores the other women who say the same thing. A van comes, a kind of cage-van with bars in the windows and we are all ordered in and driven to the compound training center. One by one we must empty our pockets, be pat-searched, then taken to a bathroom to be strip searched by a female officer. I am the first by accident of our order coming off the van and I go to the bathroom trying to smile, remembering in the pre-trial queer caucus that I said this strip-search business bothers me most - my trans body that seems strange to me and strange to others having to be routinely and impersonally 'inspected.' I begin pulling off socks, shoes, overshirt hastily but she stops me with yet another inane BOP rule - I can't let anything touch the ground. I must hand each item of clothing to her so that she can search the clothing, then wait for her to be able to watch again as I remove the next item. I sigh and give part of myself permission to go away for a bit. Standing naked, all of my clothing has been checked thoroughly - cuffs unrolled, collars flipped up, socks turned inside out, seams examined (as if I would have had time to sew something into my clothing...) Then comes the body inspection. Lift both arms. Lift both breasts. Pull ears forward, and turn to each side so she can look into my ears. Open mouth, lift tongue. Run my hands through my hair, briskly she says. Turn all the way around for visual inspection. Squat, and cough 3 times. Harder. When this is over and it has finally been verified that I did not hide anything in any machinery, clothing or available orifice I am allowed to get dressed again. It is my 4th strip search in 3 weeks, but I am not really used to it. As I return to the larger room I see that I am not the only unadjusted one. Most of the women stand waiting, eyes staring blankly ahead or at the ground in front of their feet. At about the 3rd and 4th person (two officers are now conducting the searches in the same bathroom) two very young women enter the center and Lieutenant Oats tells them to go to the bathroom and "observe." They are in training to be C.O.'s and here is an unexpected learning opportunity. The searches continue, with 2 inmates, 2 correctional officers, and 2 C.O.s in training crammed into the bathroom. I send out a little mental search and rescue team for the part of myself that took a leave of absense and it comes back mad as hell - 60% of women in prison have survived rape or sexual assault, I think. 60%. The line of those that have been searched is now longer than the line of those yet to be searched. One woman standing near me is reunited with her friends and they are all angry, just like me. "They probably like it" says one "Fucking Dyke bitches." I close my eyes, and say nothing. A few days later I am in orientation. I've been at Danbury for about two weeks already, in addition to my week at Alderson, so I feel pretty oriented, but I soon find that the point of this more along the lines of attitude adjustment and doctrination. No useful information is to be had but there is a long trail of people giving us the obedience rap, the "you are prisoners, we are Gods" spiel customized to their specific area of control. The Safety man: "I'm here to tell you about safety, and I'm gonna give it to you straight. People get hurt and they want to blame everybody but themselves. Why? Because it's easier." I am thinking of Bea, who fell and broke her hip but was made to walk on it for 3 weeks before being sent for x-rays, only to have her wheelchair taken and replaced with a cane the next week. She eventually sued and won. He says, "People don't like me because I tell them the truth!" He is waving a fire extinguisher at us. "This is a fire extinguisher that will put out any kind of fire!" he exclaims. "How do you know it will put out any fire??" Another inmate offers tentatively, "Because you just said it does...?" Wrong answer. "NO! Don't believe anything I tell you!" By the time he is making us all "hold the fire extinguisher!" Examine it carefully!" I am thinking that this is rather over-wrought and angsty, and trying my hardest to maintain a serious face while examining the extinguisher with what he will feel is an appropriate measure of reverance. The Physician Assistant is brief - too brief. "Sick call is from 6:30am-7am. If you come after 7, no! I won't see you!" He leaves. The correctional officer: "Your locker can be searched at any time. You can be pat-searched at any time by any officer. You can be strip-searched at any time by any female officer. Do not say no. Just submit." This infuriates me and my head entertains a fierce debate about how much, exactly, is too much? I know that it is not so much his comment as the fact that I have just recently had to "submit" to one of these arbitrary searches. I should have said something then, I think, protest the deed itself not some random guy's description. "If you say no, or try to resist in any way," he continues, "we have the right to proceed by force." I close my eyes. I say nothing. If every moment were like this I would have attempted escape several times already, but luckily most of my time is spent around other prisoners. Sometimes the bickering makes my head ache, but given the 220 of us crammed into this place built for 80, bickering is hardly a shock, hardly an overwhelming fact of life. For the most part people are humorous and full of life and proud of themselves. I have taken to attending a singing-and-sharing group on Wednesdays, led by peace activists who have been coming since 1987 or so. One woman shares that after months of hard work and studying she has gotten her GED, which requires taking a long test. She reads to us a letter from her parents, who express that they knew all along her potential and goodness and intelligence and hope that this helps her believe in herself more that she has in the past. Another woman tells of her struggles with her son who is almost 3 now, was 1 1/2 or so when seh came in. She spent a few months being transferred around and couldn't see him. When he finally was able to come quite awhile had passed - many women have difficulty seeing their children because of the long distance that must be travelled and expense of hotels, etc. Her son either didn't recognize her, was angry, or didn't like the environment. She says on the first visit he cried and cried and wouldn't let her hold him, wouldn't speak to her or play with her. She is in tears just remembering. The next visit he didn't cry but still wouldn't speak to her, smile, play, or be held. The next two visits were the same. The next visit he spoke politely though shyly, and was willing to play a little. Finally after a few visits at that level he came to hear once and said, "Mommy, up!" She held her son for the first time in more than six months. She says he seems to have forgiven her for leaving but still asks, every time, "why won't you come home with us this time?" She is crying from happiness - soon she will be able to come home, and he loves her enough to want her back. We are all so happy for her! Some light moments are less poignant and more of a 'only in prison' nature. I have been moved to a different room (very routine - people get moved every couple of weeks) where I unfortunately don't get along quite as well with my room-mates. No personality clashes per se, just the "little stuff" like whether the door will be open (and the room noisy) or closed (because one roomie is claustrophobic), whether the fan is off or on, the window open or closed, how clean the room is, etc. It seems petty, but 6 people in a room this size and such matters take on significance. One woman in the room is obsessed with a missing box. She talks about it every day. She is here for obstruction of justice (or something like that) because she tried to hide all her money while being investigated by the IRS. Apparently she put $40,000 in a box, and the box in her mother's house. Now her mother is in a nursing home - "senile! Completely senile!" - and the box is missing. "I think my nephew took it" she tells me. "Jesse, how can I get my box back?" We go through every option, which we've done every day since I moved in to this room. Her mother is senile. Her whole family, she says, has turned on her now that they have her box. She calls her lawyer everyday, but she can't file a claim about it because she was hiding the money to begin with - not too good to ask the gov't to help you find money you tried to hide so you could defraud the IRS. Nope. We discuss options within and outside of the law. "Steal it back," I suggest. "It's not the money!" she says abruptly. "I need them to tell me the trueht! The truth about what happened to my box!" Another room-mate laughs - water torture, she suggests. I suggest the CIA - they're good at torturing people. Thoughtful silence. Then, "How do I go about that? Hiring the CIA, I mean?" I put on my head phones and pick up a book. "Jesse! JESSE!!" She calls me louder and louder until I can no longer pretend not to hear. "I mean it," she says. "How do I get my box back?" I promise to think about it, and I do, because I know she'll ask again tomorrow. If you have any ideas, please send them as the resolution of this problem will greatly improve the quality of life for all six residents of room seven. So, I am still doing well and hanging in, feeling humbled and challenged each day, and pondering the thought of returning - yes, returning, much to the shock and dismay of several dissenting voices in my head, who vow to leave, eat yummy food, and never return again. We'll see. It's up to Congress- will WHISC be closed? Will nuclear proliferation slow or cease? Will military aggression stop? Will the disappeared immigrants be released? Will jobs and education and healthcare by adequately funded? No, actually it's up to us. So, I'll probably be back. I will have you all in mind May 21-22 when Becky, Charity and Jeremy are sentenced, and the following week when you graduate. Much love, Some one sent this to me - Prayer for the Decade of Nonviolence I bow to the sacred in all creation. May 9, 2003 A day of ups and downs, but ending on an up. The downs started it - showed up at work, but our boss didn't so we were locked out in the cold. Then we returned for lunch later and there was a fight in the next door room. First the sound of yelling, then the sound of things banging around, falling over and a panicked shuffle and struggle. So now two folks are in the SHU, which makes me ill. They'll probably do at least 45-90 days there, and if the fight was bad may not be allowed back into the camp. (sorry for my handwriting - a standing count, so I'm writing while standing) But then I got called for a visit, and got to have a great long talk w/ my mom. Afterwards I spoke to my case manager and we figured out how to get approved to see me on Mother's Day - there will be some faxing back and forth tomorrow and hopefully all will be well. Then as I was leaving she said to me, "you should be seeing the PA tonight," so maybe I'll get my shot?! Yay! I am doing great - I think I'll just send this now even though it's shorter than usual. Jesse P.S. A health administrator just told me - I'll get my shot TODAY! Then she said, you know there's some concern among the staff that you will make this a career [breaking the law] and you need to know that if you had a whole operation you would end up in a men's prison, and it's not the same. We're very worried about you. I told her I couldn't separate who I was from what I believed in. She repeated the warning, w/ more concern. Interesting. Ok, this is silly. Obviously the letter just isn't finished : ) First of all, I just got an injection of T. The woman was SO nice. They had a huge needle so she did it for me. Then she asked if she could ask me a personal question - I said yes. She asked how I'd come to the decision - I seemed young, etc. I said the most simplified thing I could, for better or for worse: For a very long time I had particular/certain feelings about myself, my body, etc, but I never knew what it was. When I went to college I read something by another trans person that made so much click into place. I met trans people and it was like looking into a mirror. I started therapy and was in therapy for a long time and then made the decision. She was very friendly and said oh how good etc. I am still kind of musing over the other woman's comment, about what happens if I become a transexual career criminal (loud laugh - HA!) Oh goodness. It's hard when someone brings up the question(s) of your life and yet is coming at them from the wrong angle. How can I tell her about what I meant when I said that I can't separate who I am from what I believe in? She said to me, in response, "Oh, I understand, and I think all of these things are personal decisions - your personal beliefs, your identity, your sexuality, whatever. I'm just saying that men's prisons aren't like this." Wow. I am thinking about individualism and her use of the word personal, mostly. Because what I believe isn't personal. It's about community, faith, resistance, and struggle. It's not about winning battles, it's about fighting battles, but it's about fighting battles throughout your life. Creating peace and justice around you, in community and then pushing out the edges, making justice encompass MORE than your 'personal' relationships, making peace within yourself AND in the world. Sometimes, not always, but more and more often, that means living outside of the law, in opposition to the law - it means following other, yes HIGHER, laws whether they are or are not in line w/ social rules, economic systems, codes of law, or institutional policy. And yes, I am an individual who has decided to live this way, and I have been living this way for a number of years. I have lived out of line w/ social rules and institutional policy - this happens to be the first time my (personal?) way of life has led to my incarceration. And yes I am trans, and When I say the two cannot be separated I am not talking about intersectionality or oppression, I am saying simply that I have to live a way of life, which makes me a tranny living a life of resistance. That is all. This is to say nothing, of course, of her assumption that I plan to have a sex change operation, which is not necessarily true. Damn! The problems of language. I do not even know how to begin to explain myself to this woman, who is in charge of health services. Well you see, I could start, gender is infinite and so is sex. I plan to be a bearded lady and protest until my testosterone-thickened vocal cords SNAP and my old breasts sag in these cheap cotton prison bras. Which of course brings me to the (their) main problem, which is one of classification. What to do with a bearded lady? How much a man am I and how much a woman? Eventually my presence in either facility would will be disrupting. Oh well. I mean really, what am I supposed to do? Get a dress and get a job? Be a woman and work for The Man? No - my place is in the classroom teaching, on the streets yelling, in the court room defending, in meetings strategizing, and my gender and sex both are "other" - TG, TS, GQ, FTM, baby butch, deep voiced, short-for-a-guy, shiny happy person or whatever. I'll cross the bridge of men's prison when I get there. I'll cross the bridge of more prison when I get there. Now, I am happy with the life I'm living and happy at how full life feels when one acts on behalf of how sacred life is. That's how I feel after teaching, how I feel when counseling, how I feel when hugging and laughing, it will always be with me no matter what place I call home. That turned pretty journally at the end, but really. How can I not be myself and live my life? The only thought it requires is planning, self-criticism, accountability - but the decision itself is a no-brainer. Love, Jesse
Jessica Carr 91389-020 |