In the seventies, I missed a lot in my life because the lights were on but no one was home: drugs, massive quantities of drugs fed into my brain had that effect on my intellect and cognitive functioning. Several people have filled in the blanks for me with statements like, "Oh, hell yeah, we had a great time," or "That's why everyone is pissed at you." My recollection process experienced technical difficulties. Sometimes it was better that way, other times it made me angry that I didn't remember anything about what had happened. One experience I regret failing to recall was a concert.
Me and my girlfriend went to see two hard rock groups perform at the Atlanta Stadium, around 1973-74, I believe. Drugs people, drugs, lots of drugs, that's why I can't remember the exact time and place; too many drugs and mind-altering substances for one mind to handle without experiencing technical difficulties, at least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. The bands playing that we went to see were Ten Years After with Alvin Lee, and their opening act, Golden Earring. Ten Years After faded away while Golden Earring soared with a series of hits in later years, hits such as "Radar Love," "Lunatic Fringe," and "Twilight Zone." Out of all the songs in history for speeding-while-driving, "Radar Love" probably holds the record for songs played while acquiring speeding tickets in America. Sammy Hagar accumulated his share of speed victims with his hit, "I Can't Drive Fifty-five." The rhythm and lyrics always drove my foot down harder on the accelerator, like some demon had done jumped into the foot and took control. I am sure others experienced similar things while cruising along the roads and highways, with or without a joint burning and music blaring from their sound system. Put me in a car right now and pump up the volume on either song, and I'd most likely do it again, as I sang out, "Last car to pass and here I go. ... The line of cars go down real slow." Or I'd scream out "I ... Can't ... Drive ... Fifty-five," when looking in the rear view mirror and seeing the flashing blue lights of a police car. Smoking a joint while driving and speeding along the highways wouldn't be an option for me these days, even if pot is legalized, as it should be because alcohol is legal and is much worse than pot when it comes to impairing judgment and causing health problems. And, most importantly, because research shows marijuana may treat or provide people with relief from certain health problems, but smoking dope just isn't for me anymore. When I smoke weed, it makes me cough and then ignites the aphrodisiac response, and then I want to have sex, of course, but the increased sexual desires aren't the problem. One thing leads to another with me and drugs, so, in time I know I would eventually revert to some of my former drugs of choice. Anyways, that part of my life went up in smoke years ago. Back to the songs now. According to Wayne, those two songs hold the records for the American song-related, speeding-tickets. Ten Years After didn't have a lot of songs to hit the pop charts because, in my unprofessional opinion, they were ahead of their time. A popular song of theirs was "Rock and Roll Music to the World." I liked it but it didn't compare to "Choo Choo Mama" and "Good Morning Little School Girl," both of which contained sexually explicit lyrics that most radio stations prohibited from being aired during those days. Some college stations gave them air time, but most didn't. Before we made it to the concert, I ate ten hits of Tab-T, named so in relation to Tetrahydrocannabinol (THC), the active ingredient in marijuana, gungi, pot, or whatever you want to call cannabis sativa or cannabis indica. THC occurs in many variations, with the most active form being delta-9-THC. The seedless, female marijuana plant (sinsemilla), is one of the most preferred brands I am familiar with that pot connoisseurs like to smoke, which probably contains exceptionally high concentrations of delta-9-THC. On the other hand, Tab-T does not contain any THC. I'm sure that the Tab-T salespersons did not intentionally mislead people into believing it contained a variation of THC, such as cannabinol, a psychologically inactive crystalline cannabinoid. The thought of what Tab-T contained did not enter most drug-driven-minds, I'm sure of that, too; mine in particular. Since most who sell drugs aren't chemist and there aren't any quality control processes involved in the production of illicit substances, I doubt if anyone other than the chemists knew PCP was not a THC related substance. Years after I stopped using it and my brain activity increased enough to properly formulate a sentence in my Southern accent, I learned that Tab-T was actually Phencyclidine hydrochloride; commonly known as PCP, a veterinary anesthetic with psychedelic effects when used illicitly by humans. No wonder I acted like an animal during periods of my life. Oh, I forgot to say that I also used to smoke a lot of pot and do lots of acid (Lysergic Acid Diethylamide). Perhaps that had something to do with my wild behaviors and occasional issues with the memory recall process? Purchase my essay collection and read some of them and you will see just what I mean by behavioral issues, especially those I wrote about in "The Price of Change," "An Airport Ate the Neighborhood," and "No Sympathy." (ESSAYS & MORE STRAIGHT FROM THE PEN is available from Straight From The Pen.com (http://www.straightfromthepen.com). You can purchase some of the essays individually or the collection as eBooks. I later posted "No Sympathy" as a blog so people may read it for free without having to download the eBook (https://straightfromthepen.wordpress.com and http://waynedowdy.weebly.com). As for the concert ..... Well, truthfully, after twenty-years of abstinence from mind-altering substances, I don't have a memory problem. Actually, I have an excellent memory and recall process, even after all of the drugs and all of the years of my existence, but I still cannot remember anything more about that concert. I know I enjoyed it, though, from out in the ozone or wherever my mind was at when a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Is your name Wayne?" "Uhh, yeah, I think so," I said. "Man, your girlfriend has been looking for you all night." She came running over and wrapped her arms around me and then gave me a barrage of kisses, before she began a series of sentences that flowed from her luscious lips so fast that I couldn't keep up with what she was saying. My mind still wasn't functioning at normal capacity when she arrived. What had I been doing? Before the tap on the shoulder brought me back into reality, hanging on a fence set up around the stage, with my hands held high as I clapped and shouted, "More, More, More." Everyone was gone. Only a few people remained in the venue where I had no conscious remembrance of the concert I had waited months to see. I don't remember a single lyric played, any note strung on a guitar, or any reverberations generated from the pounding on drums. Gone. That part of my life gone. Gone without warning. I paid a reasonable sum for those concert tickets and missed the whole show because of getting a little carried away with the PCP. The story of my life! Not necessarily because of PCP alone. I used mass quantities of other drugs to take my mind to other places I do not know and cannot recall. One time I was the first to try out a fresh batch of PCP. The chemist warned, "I didn't have time to cut it. Don't put it out on the street like it is." I shot it and my mind was gone for a few hours. I watched myself spiral down a revolving room into the carpet of a motel room. What can I say? I did it to myself. No one else to blame. Anyway, how did we get separated from each other? I don't know the answer to that one either. My girlfriend said, "You went into the bathroom and didn't come out. I asked one of those guys to go in and check on you. He came out and said you weren't in there, so we left to look for you." Wayne was missing in action, lost in a sea of faces. I must have went down the toilet with a flush and popped out near the stage. I have no idea how I got from the bathroom, without my sweetheart, and migrated to the front of the stage, only to miss hearing one of my favorite bands jam away throughout the night. I suspect that the ones who helped her search for me may have intentionally mislead her into believing I wasn't in there, with hopes of taking her home with them. She was an absolutely beautiful young lady with long, blonde hair, perfect teeth, and a perfect body. She was also a good Christian girl determined to help God save my wicked soul. If that was their plan, it didn't work. I kept my girl, even if I didn't know where I was at or where she was. Her love for me kept her faithful enough so that she did not abandon me. When we left the concert, we bummed a ride with strangers and had a car wreck. Either the driver of the vehicle we were in or the one driving the other car, run a red light. The other car broadsided the car we were in. The impact busted the windows and glass flew all over us. Me and her got out of the car and got the hell out of Dodge before the cops arrived. I couldn't stand a shake down (drugs were in my pocket). I remembered all of that, and that I had to call my dear Mother at 1:30 AM to come rescue us from the streets of downtown Atlanta. I was about sixteen-years-old, a wild child. I never got another chance to see Ten Years After or Golden Earring. My loss. So much is life. You snooze you loose. I wasn't snoozing but I may as well have been, because I honestly couldn't recall anything about the night once the drugs kicked in and my mind kicked out. Drugs, people. Drugs. They robbed me of my life. They definitely stole that night. Damn it! One thing I learned in writing this blog is that it is easier to take drugs than it is to figure out how to spell their names. To the contrary, learning how to stop using them is the opposite--I could have gotten a few doctorate degrees in the time it took me to figure that one out! Follow me on Twitter: @DowdyFromThePen Leave comments or email me about the topics you would like to read about in relation to prison or anything else. If I know the subject I will consider writing about it in a future blog. Sign up on Wordpress (https://straightfromthepen.wordpress.com) to follow my blogs and have them sent to your inbox when I post them. Thanks! Contact info: [email protected] Wayne T. Dowdy, #39311-019, B-3 P.O. Box 725 Edgefield, SC 29824-0725
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Teaching Cons New Tricks--Creative Writing & Q.A. Apprenticeship Program THE ART OF CREATIVE WRITING CLASS: When a person is searching for a theme for an article, short story or novel, some writing professionals suggest that writers take a real life situation and ask "What If?" For instance, what would the U.S. economy be like now if President Obama had been white and his Congress had approved the same economic plan to rebuild the economy, as that of President Roosevelt's, whose plan Congress endorsed to bring the Nation out of the Great Depression? What if an impoverished person sat in a creative writing class, inside of a prison classroom, and then wrote a million seller, and never returned to prison after release? Miracles happen! What if that person simply learned to do something constructive that changed the direction of his or her life? That would be priceless! That is my hope for the students who participate in the Art of Creative Writing class, held for two hours, one night per week, in the education department at the Federal Correctional Institution, in Edgefield, South Carolina. This is the same education department I wrote about in my essay, "Fighting for Rights to Write"; published by PrisonEducation.com in Feb. 2014; posted on straightfromthepen.wordpress.com in March 2015. I was poised and ready to battle in federal Court to defend my First and Fifth Amendment rights to occupy my time constructively by using an AlphaSmart word processor to type my manuscripts for publication, and other forms of writings for reasons other than sending documents to a court, as other federal institutions permit. (Another battle may be looming in a similar fight to write.) A fellow writer and friend, Jeffery P. Frye (aka Professor Frye), initiated the class by working with the Supervisor of Education. Once the class had been approved, then he invited me and another friend and budding author, S.G. Garwood, to sit in and offer assistance to the aspiring writers. Garwood is nearing completion of a historical fiction novel, The Last Confederate Coin, which is already receiving praise from Civil War buffs (view his writing samples and his magnificently designed webpage at http://www.thelastcharlestonconfederate.weebly.com). The results of this adventure are yet to be seen, but I feel confident that everyone in the classroom will benefit, including me. As a fellow prisoner and someone who is concerned about the insane recidivism rates in the United States, my hope for everyone involved in the class is for them to be blessed with freedom and success, whether that success be as an author, or through some other method where the discipline learned through becoming a writer assists them in their quest to live a better life and not return to prison. To succeed as an author requires discipline, something most of us lacked before coming to prison, and may lack now. Maybe writing will become more than just putting words on paper. Personally, I wrote my way into learning how to live a new life by journaling on a daily basis, so I know from experience that reading and writing has the power to change lives. Words pack a punch, whether written or spoken, words have the power to change or destroy lives. I choose my words carefully and hope the ones I select affect a positive change. Professor Frye blogs about the Art of Creative Writing class on bankblogger.weebly.com and murderslim.com/BankRobbersBlog. He labels me and S.G. Garwood as Adjunct Professors, and wrote in his #creativeconvicts (blog), "Wayne (aka Adjunct Professor Dowdy) was challenged on the proper use of an adjective in relation to a plural verb. Wayne claimed he was right, while the other guy claimed he was wrong. Things got a little tense there for a few minutes, and as they had a spirited debate, I wondered if Adjunct Professors carried shanks. Wayne finally went to the library and found a GED textbook to prove his point, and to show that he was right. He was. That's why he's my adjunct." Professor Frye is a gifted writer who tells a great story and is one who usually makes me laugh anytime I read what he writes, especially his blogs. He also types faster than a woodpecker pecking on a tree, which pays off when paying five-cents per minute to use the Corrlinks computer system we use to email these blogs to someone to post on our behalf. I type slower than he does, but still love to write, and have my own style of writing: I'm a more serious, in-your-face type of writer, who often writes on topics to inform, inspire, motivate or educate, more so than to make readers laugh or cry, even though I sometimes do that too. In the classroom setting, as well as in my personal endeavors, I "seek" to find the truth, and usually succeed, whether that truth concerns a historical fact; the proper use of a word; discussing a verb that becomes a present participle after adding "ing" (e.g., "break" versus "breaking"); so that the ex-verb then functions as a noun, not-so-commonly known as a gerund. Either way, I always want to know the correct answer and will sometimes go to extremes to find it; whether I do or don't, I still want to find the answer and will continue my quest to do so, long after the thrill of debate has gone. I am also known for calling it as I see it, politically correct or not. I am not. That's just not me, even though I do try to be considerate of another person's feelings, I am not one who sprinkles sugar on a pile of poop to claim it is ice cream. Please pardon my frankness, and my bizarre metaphor, but this is Straight From the Pen, not the Pentagon, and my use of that metaphor certainly paints a picture to stick on a wall, not soon to be forgotten. Perhaps the students in the Art of Creative Writing class will be more selective and less aggressive with words; however, since we are in prison ... some may be more vicious with words than an overzealous prosecutor in a murder case. We'll see. QUALITY ASSURANCE APPRENTICESHIP PROGRAM: As I wrote in my "Vacation In Prison" blog on April 10, 2015, I work for the Federal Prison Industries, Inc. (UNICOR). I am a tutor in their Quality Assurance Apprenticeship Program, and have been since its inception in 2006. None of the graduates released back into society have become recidivists. That deserves recognition by all standards. I mainly teach Grammar & Writing Skills and other education-related fields of study, as well as helping the students to learn certain aspects about the Quality Management System, which meets the required standards for certification under the International Organization for Standardization (ISO), 9001: 2008 Requirements. The Quality Assurance Manager realized its importance for the students to learn. He put an emphasis on teaching these students more about ISO principles than the previous students had to learn before becoming certified Quality Assurance Inspectors, who may be able to get out of prison and obtain a position as a Q.A. Manager by going to college to take a few more associated courses. One inmate who learned ISO in prison got out and got a job as a Project Manager for a reputable company. Dreams do come true. The Apprenticeship program recently expanded to having six students enrolled. I create tests that all of them hate but learn more about the subject by the time they complete their assignments. As in Kindergarten, the only grade I give anyone is an "S" or "U" for satisfactory or unsatisfactory. Basically, the students are given course material and then turned loose to learn all they can. If someone fails to earn an "S" ... I take the time to help him learn what he is missing or failing to understand about the procedure or process being taught. Essentially, one has to refuse to do the assigned task to receive a "U," which is then up to the Q.A. Manager to decide on where to go from there. Most apply themselves to learn what is being taught. This is a voluntary program, and the only one with anything to loose is the student, so each of them usually does what is required, even though some do complain about the level of difficulty in my tests. I give them tough love because I care enough to challenge their intellectual capacity to get them used to using their head for more than plotting crimes against humanity or for storing effects from illicit substances. If the person doesn't want to learn, I tell them not to waste my time. For the eager ones who really want the prize, I offer to teach them "Advanced Grammar & Writing Skills." In that part of the program I teach the apprentice technical writing so that he will be qualified to write instructional documents; e.g., manufacturing & inspection instructions, quality manuals, policies and procedures. In other words, something more than simply inspecting a product. Technical writing is a very lucrative craft, which I have years of experience at doing in UNICOR. In 1997 I began writing job procedures for constructing missile cables, remote area lighting systems, power distribution boxes, army tank wiring harnesses, and other military products. I literally earn pennies in comparison to what I would earn doing so as a freelance technical writer in society, but at least I have obtained enough knowledge at doing it to share the wealth with others who may one day get to use those skills for the betterment of society. A FIGHT TO REDUCE RECIDIVISM: Education is a proven method of reducing recidivism, as shown in my essay, "Education, the Prisoner, and Recidivism"; published by PrisonEducation.com in May of 2013; posted March 2015 on straightfromthepen.wordpress.com. For both subjects above, writing is an instrumental process, and is one that allows participants to occupy their time in a constructive manner, instead of running around creating drama by plotting on how to get out to commit more crimes and continue to feed the American Mass Incarceration Machine. Shouldn't prison administrators want their inmates to be learning something to prepare them for successful reentry into society? Don't the designated keepers owe it to the public to provide prisoners with needed tools for preparation of release back into society; especially, those who want to learn something so that they can increase their chance of success upon release? Who wants prisoners to reenter society and collect new victims? Don't we owe it to each other to help the disadvantaged transcend to another level? I feel we do. I do my part, and am sad to say that I often struggle to get support from the staff to do what needs to be done to help my peers get out and not return. That includes having something as simple as regularly held Twelve-Step meetings, or having ample time to use educational tools or equipment needed to help prepare the prisoner for the challenges that lie ahead. Read "No Sympathy" posted on straightfromthepen.wordpress.com for some staggering statistics on recidivism to grasp the seriousness of the situation. I am sure it will leave you wondering why a prisoner must struggle to help others avoid becoming a recidivist. The looming battle concerns the possibility of the education department not allowing writers and inmates to use the AlphaSmarts for creative and other forms of writing, other than preparing documents to mail to the courts. The use of such a device that has the potential of preventing some prisoners from becoming a recidivist seems worthwhile. If possible, many of us prisoners would buy or rent AlphaSmarts or other similar products to constructively occupy our time and attempt to learn a skill to rehabilitate ourselves. I suggested the same but it fell on deaf ears. Imagine that! The cost of an AlphaSmart word processor and the associated costs of supplies, cannot compare to the cost of a recidivist. On March 9th, 2015, the B.O.P. Director reported in the Federal Register that the FY 2014 Annual Determination of Average Cost of Incarceration was $30,619.85 per year/$83.89 per day. Based on those numbers, the cost of providing educational tools and equipment is a cost effective measure--money well-spent--an investment far less expensive than re-incarcerating a person for multiple years or possibly for the rest of their lives. The cost of recidivism is human lives. Follow me on Twitter: @DowdyFromThePen Post comments or write me by snail mail at the following address: Wayne T. Dowdy, #39311-019, B-3 P.O. Box 725, FCI Edgefield, SC 29824-0725 or Email me at [email protected]. Purchase my books & essays from my book page on "StraightFromthePen.com." A hyperlink is at the homepage for straightfromthepen.wordpress.com. Thanks for helping me afford to pay for assistance to post this and other blogs by purchasing my books or eBooks. I do appreciate it and am grateful to each of you who are generous enough to donate funds to help me afford to continue this process. Thanks again! Wayne No SympathyApril 9, 2015Effects of incarceration on prisoners, Effects of incarceration on society,Incarceration rates, Recidivism
Updated June 2014: I wrote this essay to show why it’s best for state and federal governments to focus on providing prisoners with the resources needed for treating what lead the person to prison-the root cause behind their imprisonment. I use events from my past to illustrate the cost of not doing so: The cost of recidivism is far greater than a dollar value, but one thing people understand is money, and I prove where I have cost over a million dollars. I’m just one man. One man who hopes to be the catalyst for change. I don’t look for sympathy. I made the choices that put me in federal prison for thirty-five years, without parole. I’m sure most people couldn’t care less about the life of any prisoner until they become the victim of one who escapes or gets out. To reduce crime rates and the national deficit, some would prefer to behead those who ran afoul of the law, rather than to pay the cost of incarceration. Punish the bastard! Feed ‘em to the lions! they chant. Sadly, such people as those haven’t considered that most prisoners were once normal citizens who made poor choices. Many prisoners are people with addiction problems, and according to a 2002 study, many have an underlying mental disorder. Punishing them hasn’t yielded favorable results. Perhaps treating conditions leading to prison would reduce recidivism by returning the prisoner to society as a productive member. However, if prison growth rates declined, those depending on prisons for financial security would feel threatened. Prisons are cash cows to many: investors in private prison industries, companies providing goods and services to them, prison employees and their powerful unions. My concern is the cost to humans by not reducing recidivism: recidivism often has terrifying results. I’m a recidivist in prison for driving a second getaway vehicle in an armed bank robbery; never accused of wielding a gun, or of kidnapping anyone. My conviction is based on conspiracy laws. I’m responsible because another recidivist (co-conspirator) took a car from a woman at a cemetery, which wasn’t something planned, and is something I wish hadn’t happened. During trial, I learned he had lead her into the woods and fondled her. He would’ve probably raped her had I not blown the horn and threatened to leave with another recidivist. He left her taped to a tree. He was supposed to have his girlfriend contact the cops and say where he left her. He didn’t. Fortunately, she freed herself and found help. If someone did to a family member of mine, what he did to her, I am not so sure that I wouldn’t seek vigilante justice, shoot ‘em going to court or even in the courtroom. It would be real difficult for me to step to the side and let Lady Justice have her way, because she may be kinder than what I would feel such a malevolent person deserved. Maybe I could withstand the temptation of playing Judge, Jury, and God, but I honestly don’t know. I would like to think that I could avoid behaving that way, because acting so bizarre would make me just as evil as the person I would want to execute for harming my loved one. Anyway, I hope the lady has since been able to forgive us, but not for our sake, for hers. Why? Because someone once wrote that harboring resentment is the same as drinking a poison and expecting it to kill the other person. I don’t want her suffering like that: she never did anything wrong to me. Many times I have wanted to contact her to make amends, but was advised by a psychologist that it probably wasn’t a good idea: I would be opening an old wound. Even though I did not physically harm her, and in a sense, protected her from further harm, that does not relieve me of responsibility for what happened to her. What happened to her was very wrong. I regret not stopping it from happening, or to have at least made sure the authorities were notified to free her from where she was falsely imprisoned. This is the first time I have ever written about that aspect of the crime. In an unpublished essay (“The Price of Change”), I wrote about the hate and rage I felt toward Codefendant Two for testifying against me; my defiant demeanor during trial and sentencing; previous legal issues indicating my insanity, though no court has ever found me to be insane or incompetent to stand trial; but not about any of the victims. And, it wasn’t because I didn’t think about the criminal behavior and its effect on the victims. I did: I am ashamed of what happened. Emotionally I dealt with those feeling many years ago. It is the event that led to those feelings that is a chapter of my life I wish to close. Only a few know the truth about that day in 1988. Codefendant One wanted to put bullets in Codefendant Two’s brain after the robbery so he couldn’t tell on us. I convinced him not to do it by saying, “He’s not going to say anything because he knows I will kill him or have him killed if I can’t get to him.” (Both ended up telling.) Seven years after our conviction, I had a partner in the same prison with Codefendant Two. My partner sent word through the grapevine asking what I wanted done. I responded, “Tell him to send me an affidavit admitting he lied for the government.” Later on, Codefendant Two contacted someone to let me know he would say what I wanted. I thought about it and aborted the mission, because I figured if he had lied for them one time, he would do it again. Before my partner contacted me, I had started seeing a psychologist. This is why I asked for help. For several years I had devoted most of my energy toward getting high. I was on the edge of insanity; a dangerous place; a place I hated. Massive shots of cocaine stopped working: all it did was put me near cardiac arrest without the desired euphoria, and yet, I kept doing it. The Bureau of Prisons has a Special Investigative Security team (S.I.S.), who had searched my cell while I was at work. In the chow hall, Joe blurted out from a neighboring table, “I heard you saw S.I.S.” I stood and snapped at him. “I will kill you, mother fucker, if you ever say something like that again.” Then I grabbed my half-eaten-tray of baked chicken, put it in the Dish Room window, and stormed out of the chow hall. I thought he had insinuated that I was a rat. With me serving 35-years because I wouldn’t cooperate, that is something I find offensive. To me, it’s nothing to joke about, even amongst friends, because, though we may be joking, a bystander overhearing the conversation may not know that. In the prisons I’ve been in, if someone calls you a rat, child molester, or faggot, others assume it’s true if you don’t defend yourself, which can lead to big trouble. Shortly thereafter, I sat on the extended table of the sewing machine I worked on, replaying the event and feeling something wasn’t quite right about the way I had reacted. Me and Joe had been friends for years. He had never said anything out of the way to me; always treated me with respect, kindness. Three minutes later, he walked toward me with his hand out. “Wayne, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to offend you. Billy had just told me that S.I.S. had been in y’alls cell all morning,” he said. “I know. I’m really sorry, Joe. I came back and thought it over and know I took it wrong,” I said. We talked a little more and when he went to his area, I went to ask my supervisor to call the Psychology department to get me an appointment to see someone, because I felt I needed to be put back on medication. Throughout the years I had taken various psychotropic medications for brief periods, especially after landing in jail for some crime spree. My mind and central nervous system would be so sizzled that I had to have something to help me get sleep and regain control of my thought process. I was terrible about pointing pistols at people because I thought they intended to rob me. Fortunately, on this rare occasion, I was able to recognize that I was “out there” and sought help before doing something stupid. Historically, I screwed up first, and then sought help. Today I feel fortunate and grateful that I reached out and received help beginning in 1993. Very few prisoners receive the much needed psychiatric care because of the small number or psychiatrist and mental health professionals employed or utilized by prison administrations. At the time I was at the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia, which had an internship program for aspiring psychologist. For over a year I saw a psychologist but continued getting high on drugs and alcohol, even though I had often tried to quit. I finally succeeded on April 5, 1995. Thus far, that was my last day of using a mind altering substance; something else I am grateful about. Now I will have a chance to succeed in life when released in 2019. After being in prison over thirty years by then, providing I actually out-live this sentence and walk out the door, rather than be carried out on a gurney, I’ll experience “Culture Shock” (feel like an alien for a while, out of place). I’ll need help with acclimation. I’ve been in prison so long that the Internet and cell phones are foreign to me. I looked in a magazine at a Droid cell phone and tried to figure out how one would use it to call anyone, since all I saw was a keyboard and display screen. Many things about modern day society I don’t understand. Intellectually I do, but that’s not the same as experiencing a missed call because the cell phone lost its signal. I envision such a crafty device as a phone you tote as working anytime you decide to use it. (Removal from society has weird effects on intellect.) From a different perspective, with a phone on you at all times, one can’t escape the pestering ring without turning it off or leaving it behind. I understand agitation. Being unable to reach my son after repeated attempts lead me to envision, a “Cell Phone Zapper.” The one calling could fry the circuits of the other person’s phone with a zap to teach them a lesson about not answering the tenth call of the last hour. Oh, what a cruel and insensitive thought. Something tells me I’m not alone in thinking about devious devices during moments of extreme frustration. Then again, some people probably don’t want to miss a call. Not even during sex, which I somewhat understand, since I am guilty of surrendering to the aggravating sound to eliminate it and return to action. This is one way my last prison sentence affected me. I was released from the Georgia prison system to a halfway house in the Spring of 1985. For seven years I’d worn loose-fitting, white button down shirts with a centered blue stripe, and white baggy trousers with a blue stripe down the outside of each leg. My sister brought me some clothes. After putting on straight-legged blue jeans and a pullover shirt, I stood sweating as I looked at myself in a full length mirror. I asked a roommate, “Is this how people look out here now?” “You look fine to me,” he said. “Like anyone else out here running the streets.” That is partly what I mean by Culture Shock. The style of pants people wore before prison in 1978, were bell bottoms and flare legs. The shirt I put on was red with horizontal thin white stripes and snug-fitting sleeves. The Levi’s were like any other pair of blues jeans. The difference was in having clothes that were colored and that fit tightly. I realized at that point how much things in Atlanta had changed while I had been in prison. Change in prison is slow and gradual, whereas, in society, everything changes at the speed of the latest computer chip. Stepping out of prison after having served a long sentence is the same as if you step into the rapids of a river and try to stand still. The current pulls you under as you wonder what is going on. The current is the change. Other things had changed, too, including women. When I toured the city, I noticed that some buildings had been replaced; some street names had changed, other streets rerouted. Before prison, MARTA had just begun cutting paths through the city for the Rapid Rail System. After prison, trains were running all across the city. The physical structure of Atlanta was not all that had changed. So had the attitudes of many women. I used to have to be the one to make an advance to get laid or to initiate a relationship. After prison several women made advances toward me; some successfully seduced me, some scared me. While in prison I had heard about the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS), spread through sexual contact and intravenous drug use, both putting me in the high-risk category because I had been a whore and a dope fiend for years. I didn’t want to increase my chance of acquiring AIDS with sexually promiscuous behavior, so, I was selective about who I jumped in bed with. Quitting drugs was out of the question. When a woman approached me, I irrationally wondered if she acted the same with everyone, thus increasing the risk of exposure to it. Of course, I would give in and take chances occasionally, scared or not. My desire to have sex overpowered my fear of AIDS. As it turned out, most women I wanted didn’t want me, and vice versa. Perhaps the ones who rejected me did so for the same reason I rejected others. The old cliché rang true again: What goes around comes around. Maybe I wouldn’t be so picky if released this time, since I am later in years and would not be considered the prize catch I was back when I was a young stud. You may wonder what lead to my criminal behaviors. I don’t know. I have my suspicions, but that’s all I have. I have wondered about that one for most of my life. I can’t blame it on anything in particular. Not that I didn’t deserve them, but I did receive numerous beatings from my mother when I was a child, and know I felt deprived, like life owed me, but realistically, I was deviant and disobedient from the start. I rebelled against parental authority and anyone telling me what to do; grudgingly doing what I could not avoid, intentionally screwing up whatever I was made to do. My mother said when I was a tot, if she put something on my highchair tray I didn’t want, that I would throw it or push it over the edge. The older I became the more defiant I became. When I was fourteen-years-old, I was 5’ 10” and weighed 146 lbs., and on this particular occasion, in juvenile for a drug charge, I believe (that was years ago). We were supposed to get up every morning and make our beds. One morning I laid in bed until the guard came in yelling. “Get up and make that bed,” he said. I laid still. “I said get up and make that bed.” I laid there and heard him stomping across the floor. My heart pounded with fear but my defiant demeanor would not allow me to give in and follow his order. “I said to get up,” he grabbed my ass, “out of that bed.” “You’d better get your goddamn hand off my ass,” I snarled. He let go of my cheek and growled once again for me to get up and make my bed. Clayton County Juvenile only had four cells for boys (two eight-kid-cells, and two four-kid-cells). I slept in a four-kid-cell, which had two steel bunk beds. Me and a friend were the only two in there, but I slept on the top bunk anyway. I jumped down from the bed and walked to the Day Room where we watched television or played pool. During the day we had to be in the Day Room after cleaning our cells and making our beds. I sat on the pool table, another prohibited act, with arms crossed, stewing hate and rage. He screamed his order again. “I told you to make that bed. Get off that pool table and go do it, now.” He was one known to physically abuse the children in there; just a mean and nasty, hog-jawed, gray-haired, old man with a stooped walk and a bad disposition. I never liked or respected him. I was an ill tempered, blonde-haired, blue-eyed-devil with a bad disposition. I slid off the pool table and walked into the first eight-kid-cell. He followed behind, screaming. I stopped and turned to face him. “I said for you to get back there and make up that bed,” he said as he reached for my long hair. I socked him in the face at about the same time he grabbed my hair, trying to force my head down. I grabbed him by the legs, lifted him off the ground and slammed his back against a bunk bed, and started pounding him wherever I could connect until my friend pulled me off. The guard looked as if he were about to have a heart attack. Other than the loss of some hair and some bruised knuckles, I had fared well. Afterward, my face was probably redder than a ripened beet; my eyes shooting sparks sharpened by rage, but I was okay. I had taught him a lesson about messing with me, the crazy white kid with a bad attitude. My punishment: solitary confinement in the four-kid-cell for a month; no smoking (we could smoke with parental permission, which I had), and a restricted diet (half rations). None of it mattered to me. Most sanctions weren’t even enforced by the other staff: some brought me extra cigarettes and food when the one I assaulted wasn’t there to snitch. Because he mistreated us, the other staff members didn’t care for him; most liked me because I treated them respectfully. I enjoyed working and volunteered to sweep, mop, and empty trash cans, so I could sneak cigarettes and cigarette butts back to the cell. On visitation day people would leave cigarettes hidden in places for me to pick up. The other children respected me for defying authority. My friend looked out for me by doing things like sliding books or matches under the door. I would have been put in isolation if my parents hadn’t caused trouble when I had spent two weeks in it for beating up another kid, and if I had been put there, no other kids could have gotten near me. The isolation cell was on the opposite end of the building. It was the equivalent of a refrigerated mop closet with a steel slat for a bed, speckled with drilled drainage holes; no mattress, sink, toilet; nothing other than the steel slat and a noisy speaker in the ceiling that disturbed me with its static. I fixed it. The fight had happened near noon. When fed something like meat loaf, potatoes and gravy that evening, I used my stainless steel spoon (an item from days gone by) to take out the speaker cover screws. I promptly poked holes in the speaker, disconnected its wires, and reattached the cover. No more bothersome static when trying to sleep inside a refrigerator. As I mentioned, there was no toilet in the modified mop closet. I kicked and beat on the door; screamed and yelled for someone to come let me out to urinate. No one came. I could hear them banging pots and pans in the kitchen area, so I knew they had to have heard me. The more I kicked and screamed the angrier I became. I hate being ignored. The door had a lower section with thick steel slats, which I peed through, since no one came to let me out to do it in a toilet. Sometime thereafter, the guard came by whom I wrote about assaulting. He wasn’t real happy with the golden puddle on the floor. The following morning I was fed five saltine crackers with a cup of hot water. When my parents learned about the mistreatment, my mother filed a complaint and testified before the grand jury on my behalf. The Grand Jury ordered that the Juvenile officials not put any child in there for more than four hours and only then if they were a harm to themselves or others, which explains why I didn’t go there for more abuse after assaulting the prick who thought it was funny to feed me saltine crackers and hot water. I thought it was funny when I returned bigger and stronger and kicked his ass. He stayed away from me after that. Like most predators, he prayed on those he viewed as weaker. Maybe it was those types of incidents that lead me to becoming as violent as I became. Not that I ever became a psychopath who tortured and mutilated people, because I didn’t, but I wasn’t nice when I demanded something that wasn’t given to me. I never hesitated about resorting to violence to get what I couldn’t get with charm. Sex was a different matter. I didn’t have to resort to taking it, though, I probably am guilty of using coercion. I usually just dealt with the rejection when told NO by someone I was interested in, although dealing with it did make me want to get high to forget about it, which still isn’t rational behavior. I used to blame my actions on drug and alcohol abuse, until I realized I was screwed up before I started getting high. Drug and alcohol abuse did exacerbate my condition, whatever the condition may have been, but, the drugs and alcohol were not the issue; only a symptom of more in-depth problems. Perhaps the mystery condition formed because I grew up across the street from the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, enraged by the constant noise generated by jets flying so low that their thrust made tall oak trees bow. Perhaps I had deep-rooted psychological issues and needed professional help my family couldn’t afford. My parents did carry me to the Clayton County Mental Health Center when I was eight-years-old because of my unusual behaviors (stealing, isolating myself by hiding, being destructive, fighting with my brothers, etc.). The psychiatrist said I suffered from sibling rivalry: that must be something really bad, since I have been locked up for most of my life, and, keeping me locked up has cost near a million dollars with the cost of incarceration estimated between $20,000-$32,000 per year. No wonder the United States is broke! Perhaps the psychiatrist misdiagnosed me. (In 2004 I angered a psychiatrist who then diagnosed me as having an anti-social, personality disorder.) In December of 2002, USA TODAY published an article “Study: treat addicts’ mental illness,” by Marilyn Elias, 12/02/02, USA TODAY newspaper. According to Charles Curie of the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, about one third of drug and alcohol abusers have an underlying mental disorder. In a Pennsylvania state prison study around the same time, researchers determined that 85% of Pennsylvania prisoners had addiction problems, with half of them (42.5%) having an underlying mental disorder. Mr. Curie stated in the same article, “That’s typical of prison systems nationally. And we know if these inmates recover from the disorders, they’re unlikely to repeat crimes.” Think about that statement: “inmates …, unlikely to repeat crimes.” Those were high numbers to ignore for those wanting to reduce recidivism, considering that reducing it would decrease state and federal deficits. Of what should be of greater significance to policy makers is helping other human beings to become productive members of society. With it being 2014, over a decade has passed since those numbers were released: I know of very little done to treat federal prisoners who have co-occurring (dual) disorders. And given the difference between state and federal finances, I doubt if states have done much, either. The Federal Bureau of Prisons only has one facility for treating those with dual disorders, located in Lexington, Kentucky. As I’ve written, I am one of the fortunate ones who received treatment for both disorders while in prison, long before the authors released the study. My success verifies the study findings. I have been a model prisoner for several years, who behaves in a constructive manner. I help others learn how to succeed as law abiding citizens upon release by practicing Twelve Step principles in Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. If released, I would be a productive member of society by applying what I have learned in prison. Usually the opposite occurs: applying what we learn in prison causes us to return by listening to novel ways to commit new crimes and trying them out upon release. Gullible prisoners fail to realize that someone in prison who was caught for committing crimes doesn’t have impressive credentials. Another factor that increases recidivism is learning to live by prison codes to survive in prison, and then attempting to live by those same codes in society, which does not work because many such codes encourage illegal behaviors. Recidivism: a tendency to relapse into a previous condition or mode of behavior; repeated relapse into criminal or delinquent habits. Studies on recidivism shown in 1997, that 67.5 percent of prisoners released three years earlier were re-arrested, amounting in a five percent increase from those released in 1983. The re-arrest rate for drug offenders rose from 50.4 percent in 1993 to 66.7 percent in 1994, and now those numbers have grown to 76.9 percent. In April 2014, the United States Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Bureau of Statistics, released another study: NCJ244205. “Recidivism of Prisoners Released in 30 States in 2005: Patterns from 2005 to 2010,” by Matthew R. Durose, Alexia D. Cooper, Ph.D, and Howard N. Snyder, PhD, BJS Statisticians. The study expanded to include statistics for a five year period, compared to the typical three-year studies. The five-year study showed that 67.8 percent of prisoners released had been arrested for a “new crime” within three years of release, and 76.6 percent within five years. Due to all of the political drama concerning new plans designed to reduce prison populations, which excludes violent offenders, what I find astonishing is not the staggering numbers on recidivism, but that the highest percentage of those arrested again were not violent offenders. The statistics do not support the violent offender exclusions. These are the latest numbers:
Let us assume that what Mr. Curie said is true (“[W]e know if these inmates recover from the disorders, they’re unlikely to repeat crimes”). Hypothetically, if ten percent of those released inmates had received treatment for dual disorders, which resulted in them not committing more crimes, then the money saved by the criminal justice system would amount to lots of dollars. Those savings could be applied to cover the cost of revamping correctional systems with additional psychiatrists, psychologists, and addiction specialists needed to help solve part of a major problem in this nation: Mass Incarceration. Ponder that concept! People going to prison and actually being helped to become productive members of society when released, due to treatment received for the problems that lead them to prison, rather than them becoming another tax liability when they commit more crimes and ultimately return to prison or die. In considering the number of prisoners in the United States, using 2,000,000 as a base figure, and $25,000.00 as the cost of incarceration to accommodate for the lower cost of housing healthier prisoners in state and privately owned prisons, if 85% of the 2,000,000 prisoners have an addiction problem, that is 1.7 million prisoners. If 42.5% of that 1.7 million have an underlying mental disorder, then that would be 722,500 prisoners who suffer from an addiction problem and an underlying mental disorder. If twenty percent of that 722,500 asked for and received treatment, that would be 144,500 people who were treated and would be “unlikely to repeat crimes.” If Mr. Curie is correct, and I believe he is, the following numbers that I use would be much higher, and would amount to more savings for taxpayers (additional funds to apply toward associated cost for providing treatment). Again, using a modest $25,000.00 as the annual cost of incarceration, if ONLY ten percent (72,500) of the 722,500 of prisoners with dual disorders were treated, released, and did not commit other crimes; taxpayers would save $1,806,250,000.00, each year. And that doesn’t include all of the money saved from not having to pay for re-arrest, jail time, and prosecution of recidivists, or any other hidden costs of incarceration. The money saved would pay for thousands of psychiatrists, psychologists, and drug treatment specialists. As a bonus, hiring treatment personnel would reduce unemployment figures. Nor do the numbers put a dollar value on citizens spared the expense of becoming a victim of the recidivists. If ten percent (14,450) of the twenty percent (144,500) suffering from dual disorders, completed treatment and stayed out of prison, that would be $361,250,000.00 saved annually. If that same twenty percent (144,500) stayed clean after release, that would be $3,612,250,000.00 saved. That does not factor in prisoners, without an underlying mental disorder, who would seek help if more help was available. State and federal deficits would decline quickly. More importantly, thousands of citizens would not fall victim to those released from prison in worse shape than when they arrived; another recidivist or death statistic in the making. Nor do those figures factor in the decreased need of hiring more law enforcement personnel; not having to pay for more buildings and equipment and resources, including not having to build more prisons to warehouse the prisoners. As another added benefit to those who do not invest in the prison growth rate and deter legislatures from passing laws to reduce it, such as the private prison industries, crime rates would drastically fall in proportion to the decrease in recidivism, since most recidivist commit multiple crimes before being arrested again. I am just one of the vast numbers of people in U.S. prisons. In 2014, I think the count is now close to 2.2 million prisoners in the United States; as of June 2014, almost 217,000 of those are federal prisoners. That number exceeded 219,000 last year, counting those sentenced and held in jails, halfway houses, etc. The Director of the Federal Bureau of Prisons announced earlier this year that the average cost of incarceration is almost $30,000.00 per year. The ill and aging prison population cost much more than that. On this one crime spree and resulting conviction, the State of Georgia, local law enforcement, and the federal government, spent far more than a million dollars on me when you consider related factors (cost of law enforcement solving crimes, manhunts leading to arrest of me and my codefendants; judicial cost for jury trial, appellate process, post conviction relief efforts, cost of incarceration). It didn’t have to be that way. Not to mention the harm my actions caused the victims; effects that cannot be priced or measured, there would not have been any victims in 1988 if I had been properly diagnosed and treated as a juvenile and young adult. (The fields of Psychiatry and Psychology were not as advanced then as they are now, so I do not fault the system for failing to discover my embedded issues; especially, since I was unable to open up and be intimate with professionals to allow them to help me, before I got on the road to recovery at U.S.P. Atlanta). As my penance to society, I plan to fight to change the beast from within, “Straight from the Pen.” Several years ago I did reach out through social media outlets and sought assistance to start a website with changing the system as the objective, but no one accepted the challenge. I have not given up the idea. When I succeed, I will not have sympathy for those who lost money on their investments in prison systems. I am on vacation today, a paid vacation, in prison; just one day, but one day needed to compose my thoughts and celebrate having lived to see the age of fifty-eight. I earn one-day per month but I don't take too many at a time because of my position at work with others who rely on my vast amount of knowledge that I obtained through years of experience. :-) At any rate, as a child my Mother and others used to tell me I would never live to see the age of sixteen if I didn't change my ways, then their prediction on my life expectancy went to eighteen when I proved that one wrong, then it went to twenty-one, and then they gave up. My personal predication of my life expectancy was thirty-years-old, and so I was wrong too. Life goes on.
FROM WHERE DO WRITERS ROOT
by Wayne T. Dowdy From where do you root? Many people want to know the roots of their family, evidenced by the success of such websites as Ancestry.com and FamilySearch.org. For authors who write autobiographies, biographies and other nonfiction genres, having correct, verifiable data, enhances their reputation with editors, and incorrect data may ruin or damage it. Who wants to waste time reading something written by an author who has proven to be unreliable? Even people who read fiction expect accuracy from the author writing about historical events or scenes based on actual places. Because of that, I added an "AUTHOR'S NOTE" to my novel (UNDER PRESSURE-MOTIVATIONAL VERSION by Mr. D.). After reading part of it, a prison guard said to me, "That is not correct. The B.O.P. does not have TASERs, and SORT wouldn't have been the one to respond." He then went on to explain which emergency response team would have responded to the situation I wrote about in a scene using my literary licenses. (Please go tohttps://www.smashwords.com/books/view/353812 to read my definition of literary licenses in the Author's Note, which I only use when writing fiction.) RESEARCH: Researching is important in any form of writing for publication. Using numbers and statistics to support a position or hypothesis makes a paper appear authentic and often keeps a reader interested: Writers get the numbers and statistics through research. When an author uses accurate data, the reader becomes more assured that he or she can trust and rely on what the author writes and that the author knows the subject matter. As most people should realize, all sources of information are not reliable; especially, the volumes of information now available at the touch of a few keystrokes on a computer. Numerous blogs and other forms of media contain incorrect information from unreliable sources, even some websites that the "Curious" frequent for medical information. Reliable sources are vital for a writer to succeed in the highly-competitive, nonfiction, magazine market. For instance, some editors will reject an article if Wikipedia is the source of information, since credentials are not required and a person may post information believed to be true but is not. (Wikipedia does contain a lot of good information for researchers to use.) Seasoned writers search various sources to determine which information to use to effectively relay the message they want to convey to their readers. Several methods exist for finding information on most topics. Old School tactics include interviewing those with personal expertise in a field of study, or going to observe a process or event as it is being conducted, rather than sitting at a computer screen surfing the Deep Blue Web. By an author interviewing someone qualified to speak on the subject, or by watching and listening to learn, they may observe or detect something not mentioned in a written document or other source. Nevertheless, other methods of information gathering comes from reading reference books (almanacs, good dictionaries (biographical and geographical sections), encyclopedias, yearbooks, etc.), or books written by those knowledgeable on the subject; searching for related articles in periodicals (e.g., magazines, journals, newspapers); going to a library to speak with a librarian, or going online to search on-line catalogs and other on-line databases. The majority of librarians can offer additional advice on navigating the web or other sources for collecting information to use. The Internet has become the main source of information in today's world, but writers must beware of the source and check to see when the site was last updated, and whether anyone claims authorship and lists their qualifications for writing on the subject. Equally important is the domain name in the URL (the address of the computer). The domain name in the URL indicates the purpose or origin or the website. Here is a list and brief explanation of some meanings: 1) ".com" is commercial, usually trying to sell something; 2) ".gov" is a government site, which may help to update or inform people about events or activities, like bills pending in Congress, or other public information; 3) ".org" shows it is a non-profit organization (an NPO may be wholesome, or may not be, as some scams are operated under the guise of providing something worthwhile or for the betterment of society); and 4) ".edu" for education (probably the most reliable for information overall). Even researching for family history can be difficult and misleading. Author Christina Hamlett makes a valid point in an article she wrote about researching, which mentioned obtaining information from Ellis Island Records: the information listed is based upon the interpretation of the port authorities who may have had to guess how to spell the name of an immigrant, and that some immigrants may have intentionally listed false information; e.g., changed names, marital status, or from where they came. She lists several valuable websites for authors to further the search beyond the typical websites that the majority of people will go to when searching from where they came. These sites allow anyone to dig deeper to find family roots or information about a person of interest: Census Finder: www.censusfinder.com Census Records: www.censusrecords.com Cyndi's List: www.cindislist.com/categories (select Genealogy) Dead or Alive: www.deadoraliveinfo.com Death Records Online: www.myheritage.com Ellis Island Records: www.ellisislandrecords.org ObituariesHelp: http://obituarieshelp.org SearchSystems: http://publicrecords.searchsystems.net United States Vital Records Information: http://vitalrec.com/index.html "Consider the Source: Fact-Checking" by Christina Hamlett, Writer's Guide 2014, $23.95, Writer's Publications,www.writersbookstore.com. (Most links used in this article come from her well-written article.) She also lists several websites for checking facts and historical data writers may want to use to verify the accuracy of their primary source of information for an article, blog, book, or essay. She cautions, "Whenever you decide to incorporate recent or historical dates, never rely 100 percent on your own memory." Great advice! Memories fail and all human brains malfunction on occasion when storing and retrieving memories. Try these links for verifying data accumulated during your research: FactCheck.org: www.factcheck.org Politico: www.politico.com Snopes: www.snopes.com/politics/politics.asp ScamBusters: www.scambusters.org The Fact Checker: www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/fact-checker PolitiFact: www.politifact.com For history: Historical Timeline: www.historicaltimeline.com HyperHistory: www.hyperhistory.com/online_n2/History_n2/a.html Animated Atlas: www.animatedatlas.com/timeline.html This Day in History: www.history.com/this-day-in-history ROOTS OF WRITERS: Perhaps the roots of some writers run all the way back to Moses and the Ten Commandments and writers of the best selling book in history: the Bible. "The Gutenberg Bible ... was the first major book printed in the West using movable type. It marked the start of the 'Gutenberg Revolution' and the age of the printed book in the West. .... Written in Latin, the Gutenberg Bible is an edition of the Vulgate, printed by Johannes Gutenberg, in Mainz, Germany, in the 1450s." Wikipedia.org, updated 10/22/2014 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gutenberg_Bible). A copy did not reach North America until 1847; available for public viewing at the New York Public Library. The last sale of a complete Gutenberg Bible occurred in 1978 for $2.2 million, and is now kept in Stuttgart (Clausen Books Gutenberg Bible Census (http://www.clausenbooks.com/gutenbergcensus.htm). The estimated value of a complete copy ranges between $25-35 million. The author of that one has bragging rights! Too bad he could not stick around to see the fruits of his labor manifest into something so valuable and miraculous. For another notable piece of history about the printed Word, according to the Dictionary of Modern English, Wordsworth Edition, 2005, "[t]he edition of the Bible known as the Authorized Version ([was] first published in 1611 under the aegis of King James I) ...." Lots of readers prefer the King James Version of the Bible, or other variations of it. Going back farther than that, Socrates (ca 470-399 B.C.) and Plato (ca 428-348 (or 347 B.C.)) also made their mark in history long after they had lived, with their volumes of published philosophical ideals taught in the academic arena to this day. The devoted and meticulous writers are a special breed of writers. All writers are not created equal: It takes an internal overdrive and determination to produce exceptional prose. To quote Brandon Royal from THE LITTLE RED WRITING BOOK, $16.99, Writer's Digest Books (2004), "Most people hate reworking their writing. It is human nature. The pressure and agony of writing is one reason why alcohol has been humorously dubbed 'the occupational hazard of professional writers.' It is not the writing per se, but the rewriting and redrafting process that can drive a person to drink. Worse is the reality of knowing before you began to write -- no matter how well you write -- your writing will require revision." For instance, before I began writing this little piece of writing, I knew it would take revising several times to get it "close" to the way I truly wanted it before submitting it for publication. What I did not know was that I would be revising it for at least twenty-times (I lost counts days ago), long past the date I had planned for its completion. If I had not stopped drinking many years ago, so I could grow up and become somebody, I would have probably gotten drunk and clicked to send several days ago, rather than to continue to wrestle with the words on this computer screen. Knowing I will never get it to the level of perfection I prefer, I will eventually just say well-enough, and click send to be done with it so I can move on to the next project. So much is the life of the writer. We write and write and write until some of us run into the occupational hazard known common to our craft. Jack London was one of the best writers around, but history tells that it was that occupational hazard that lead him to his end; therefore, I need to keep a clear mind so I can write until I can't write anymore. I'm a work in progress. To wrap this collection of words back around to the same line of thinking that it began, as I learned writers should do, I conclude with this: Writer or not, does anyone truly know from where their roots run? In particular, all of those writers who write in the many different styles and genres, which include so many ideas and topics that no one could ever effectively count them all before something new popped out of some writer's mind and onto the pages of a book or computer screen. Anyway, maybe some writers came from another planet or from some place far away; especially, in considering the plots and stories in books and movies these days that stretch the imagination. Who knows from where they came? ANSWER: Only those with a reliable source. ______________________________ Wayne T. Dowdy was first published under a pseudonym in 2003. Later on he decided to become a professional writer. He then took a college-accredited writing course through the Long Ridge Writers Group where he graduated in 2008. He has since been published numerous times in magazines and newsletters, mostly under a pseudonym. His most recent major projects include ESSAYS & MORE STRAIGHT FROM THE PEN (https://www.createspace.com/5040976), and the novel UNDER PRESSURE-MOTIVATIONAL VERSION by Mr. D. (https://www.createspace.com/4325313). Get the paperback versions at Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other online and offline bookstores. For a limited time, purchase an eBook of the essay collection by using Smashwords coupon code SP43N for a 75% discount off the $9.95 list price. Visit his author's page at Smashwords.com (https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/WayneMrDowdy). Read more of his writings by adding "Wayne T. Dowdy" in your favorite search engine. An average day for me is not the same as the days of an average person, because I live in a very unnatural environment. My day often begins with a flashlight beam bursting through my eyelids, penetrating the brain, disrupting the sleep cycle. Or with the sound of metal-on-metal from a guard jamming a quarter pound, brass key into the keyhole to free me from the confines of a prison cell, designed for one, housing two. Quite frankly, I live in a bathroom with another man: a bathroom that may substitute as an office, bedroom, den, dining room, kitchen, living room, gym; one with the potential of becoming a boxing ring, miniature sports arena, war zone, crime scene. Under such confined conditions, having an attractive female as a roommate would make life much better. Unfortunately, that is not an option, so I remain more celibate than some priests. If I had a choice I would live alone, since I can't have a female; due to prison overcrowding I live as I do. So much is life on the inside.
To clarify life on the inside, most people who come to prison straight do not go out gay, as "asserted" by Dr. Ben Carson. I learned in Psychology about Projection, which is where a person projects their actions or feelings into someone else. For instance, a person who cheats on their spouse may come home and accuse them of being unfaithful. Could that be related in some absurd way to Carson's statement? Who knows? Why use defenseless prisoners as an analogy that homosexuality is a choice? I started serving this sentence almost three decades ago and haven't changed my sexual preference yet. I don't knock anyone who prefers to have sex with others, whether bi-curious, homosexual, or whatever they choose to be, who also decides to have sex with someone of the same sex; or what anyone else does with his or her life, but I will write that many prisoners are homophobic. Homosexuality is not socially acceptable in most prisons, especially in the federal system compared to some state systems. Most of whom I know do not choose to have sex with someone of the same sex. I have known men who were raped who still chose not to continue to participate is sexual activities with other men. Some of my peers asked me to clarify that what Carson said was not true, and so I have. On a blog sent to me from CNN's website, posted as Comment 97 by Philip Bump, March 4th, 2015, Bump wrote, "In an interview with CNN's Chris Cuomo on Wednesday morning, likely 2016 presidential candidate, Ben Carson, a neurosurgeon, stated his belief that homosexuality is a choice. His evidence for the claim? 'A lot of people who go into prison, [they] go into prison straight and when they come out, they're gay.'" Bump continues with a profound quote from Dr. Helen Eigenberg. "'The fundamental assumption of the analogy he's using is insane,' said Helen Eigenberg, professor of criminal justice at the University of Tennessee, who has been studying sexuality and incarceration for about 25 years. 'I don't know of any research that substantiates the [claim] that men go to prison and come out gay. There's no data to support that claim,' she said." I commend her for her frankness and agree 100%. Maybe I will send her a complimentary copy of my books (UNDER PRESSURE-MOTIVATIONAL VERSION by Mr. D. and ESSAYS & MORE STRAIGHT FROM THE PEN) to help her in her studies relating to incarceration. The reality of life on the inside is far from what is shown on television. Most prisoners do not run around looking to rob, rape, or physically assault their peers. Some do, of course, but most of them end up caged in a cell twenty-three hours per day, alone. Prisons vary. Prisoners vary as well. More will be revealed. Stay tuned. I'll post more about my Life Inside real soon. |
AuthorAtlanta, Georgia, a city of models & movies. I rode hard & crashed young. Welcome to my life: inspirational, drama, emotional struggles, all defining my character and visions of a new life. Archives
October 2022
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