Legalize It!

The costs of criminalizing marijuana are far greater than any cost society would bear if it were legal. The medical costs, economic costs (in the way of lost taxes and tariffs), and the cost of enforcing marijuana laws are all due to its criminalization. Prohibition of marijuana stimulates crime, diverts resources that could be used to deal with violent criminals, and by its nature, criminalization threatens individual civil liberties and destroys the social fabric of poor neighborhoods. Because the greatest societal costs of marijuana come from its prohibition, we must legalize pot at the federal level.
The prohibition of marijuana is the result of paternalism run amok. Originally banned by Congress in 1937, with no medical or scientific testimony supporting the ban, marijuana has not been demonstrated to be more harmful than alcohol, tobacco or pornography, for that matter. In fact, while many individuals have died as a result of enforcement of the prohibition against marijuana, evidence of deaths due to marijuana use is practically non-existent (Nadelmann, 1989; Christiansen, 2010).  The ostensible purpose of anti-pot laws is the paternalistic mantra of preventing harm to oneself and others.  Yet, the only “victim” of marijuana use is consensual, in fact desires to engage in the activity, and is in no danger of harm from the use of pot.  The potential that a marijuana user may be harmed as a direct consequence of enforcement of the prohibition, on the other hand is much greater. A pot user could be forcibly arrested, jailed, fined, and in the wrong circumstances injured or killed.  Prohibition mandates the use of physical force against people engaging in what is, basically, a nonviolent, consensual act involving only the user.      

Moreover, prohibition has obviously failed. Marijuana use has not ceased. In fact, American teenagers use marijuana at a greater rate than teenagers in Europe. When compared to the Netherlands, for example, with its rather lax drug laws, “twice as many residents of the United States have experimented with… illicit drugs” (Husak, 2002, p. 159). In fact, marijuana is the third most popular recreational drug used in America today, after alcohol and tobacco (Duncan, 2009).  Prohibitionists argue that marijuana use causes societal harm in the way of drug related violence and the creation of a “black market” for pot. Yet, they fail to separate the harm caused by marijuana, per se, from the harm that is caused because pot use has been criminalized. For example, if a person smokes marijuana in California today, prohibition would not have prevented any of the harmful consequences to him or her—consequences that would occur even if marijuana was decriminalized, taxed and overseen by the Food and Drug Administration.  There is no harm or cost to society from such use, regardless of legality.  However, if the same person is arrested and subjected to criminal court processes, all the costs and financial burdens borne by the individual and society are harm due to prohibition of marijuana.  Christiansen notes that

“A disconnect also exists between marijuana policy and some of the government's own research regarding the detrimental effects on users themselves. There is no evidence marijuana causes any more harm to its users than many other legal drugs. In some ways marijuana may even be less harmful” (2010, p. 233).

Studies have shown that marijuana is less addictive than either alcohol or tobacco (Duncan, 2009).

Such paternalistic disregard of the consequences of prohibition, as opposed to marijuana per se, further results in the trampling of individual liberties. The fervor with which authorities pursue their anti-marijuana agendas has caused resulted in the disregard of what are typically considered fundamental rights. If a person is believed to have smoked pot, he or she may be subjected to urine tests, strip searches, civil forfeiture of personal property, school locker searches (without probable cause), car searches, or even detention.  Such governmental trespasses into the realm of personal liberties are a direct consequence of the prohibition of marijuana. Decriminalizing pot would serve to lift these burdens on our human rights.

It’s been noted that because marijuana offenses are usually hidden from police view, and there are rarely complaining witnesses, law enforcement personnel must invade the private lives of persons they merely suspect of drug use (Witsosky, 1987).  Wisotsky goes on to say that drug prohibition

“is producing a politicallegal context in which drug enforcement constitutes an exception to the principle that laws must comport 'with the deepest notions of what is fair and just.' In drug enforcement, most anything goes…” (Witsosky, 1987, pp. 925-26).

Often, any evidence to prove guilt in the context of a marijuana violation is not obtained until law enforcement officials have already intruded on an individual’s liberties.  Thus, the rights and privacy of many innocent people are violated because of marijuana prohibition. 

When a person’s rights are violated by being forced to not engage in activities he or she desires to engage in, the individual experiences a loss of control over his or her own life.  The individual’s own judgment has been replaced by that of others.  Further, because the individual does not value the judgment with which his own has been replaced, he or she has been displaced from “the realm of action and [put] into mere motion" (Rothbard, 1981, p. 93).

Marijuana prohibition, by wresting judgment from individuals and substituting it with that of the state, thus reduces individual responsibility.  While it may be commonplace to assert that with freedom comes responsibility, it is the inverse that is true:  responsibility requires liberty.  Without the freedom to use one’s judgment to make decisions, one cannot be expected to act responsibly, since one can’t be responsible for things outside his or her control. By co-opting individual judgment, as the government does in punishing marijuana use, it takes responsibility away from the individual by way of reducing the time and energy spent in dealing with the aspect of life now controlled by the government (Rothbard, 1981). 

While prohibition of marijuana has deprived many individuals of a choice, it has provided an opportunity to others:  drug dealers. Many poor, under-educated youth in inner cities today turn to selling marijuana, and other drugs, out of economic necessity, which in turn, invites violence and other crime into their communities. As Duncan notes,

“Given the costs associated with prohibition and the meager results obtained thus far, there is ample evidence to conclude that we are wasting our money…. Drug policy in general, and marijuana policy in particular, falls most harshly and most unfairly on racial minorities and the poor. Prohibition is not only ineffective, but highly inequitable as well” (2009, p. 1721).

If marijuana were decriminalized, corner pot dealers would no longer be needed. Much of the billions of dollars spent every year on enforcement, coupled with the potential for tax revenue from legal pot sales, could be diverted back into education and development projects in the neighborhoods that were tainted by prohibition-related crime.

Over the years, the government has wasted billions of dollars on marijuana prohibition. The costs and effects of prohibition on society due to the paternalistic usurpation of individual judgment far outweigh the harm done by marijuana per se.   Marijuana prohibition has resulted in deprivation of personal liberties, loss of individual responsibility, crime, and community harm.  It’s time we stop wasting taxpayer money on prohibition of marijuana and trust U.S. citizens to be responsible adults.

References

Christiansen, M. (2010).  “A great schism: social norms and marijuana prohibition.”  Harvard Law and Policy Review, Vol. 4, p. 229.

Duncan, C. (2009). “The need for change:  an economic analysis of marijuana policy.”  Connecticut Law Review, Vol. 41, p. 1701.

Husak, D. (2002).  Legalize this!: the case for decriminalizing drugs.  New York: Verso.

Nadelmann, E. (1989). "Drug prohibition in the United States: costs, consequences, and alternatives." Science, Vol. 245, no. 4921.

Rothbard, M. (1981).  “Frank S. Meyer: the fusionist as libertarian manqué.”  Freedom and virtue, the conservative/libertarian debate. Carey, G. (ed. 1984).

Wisotsky, S. (1987). “Crackdown: the emerging ‘drug

exception’ to the bill of rights.” Hastings Law Journal, Vol. 38, p. 889.

Why the Anthem but Not the Bison?

I wonder if the folks who get butthurt about people not standing for “The Star-Spangled Banner” (which only became the national anthem when signed into law in 1931 by Herbert Hoover, another winner of a president [and unfortunately the one from my home state]) remember to stand when a bald eagle (national symbol since 1782) flies overhead, or an American bison (national mammal since 2016) licks their windshields...

Soldiers, sailors (my dad was Navy and Coast Guard, grandfather, Marines), sports figures, and citizens failed to stand for the national anthem for more than 150 years. They were not charged with sedition. They did their jobs: Creating our nation, protecting it from invaders, keeping it united, and keeping us entertained — all without an anthem. 

I usually stand for it, but still, it’s a song whose rendering makes all the difference.

Rosanne Barr’s rendition hardly deserves the reverence that Whitney Houston’s did, does it? And if someone forgets the words while singing it, is it even the same song anymore?

I can’t imagine those folks who fight tooth and nail over their precious rebel battle symbols could possibly give a rat’s ass about the national anthem. If the Stars & Stripes is so holy to that set, how dare they have another mistress?

Loving one’s country is more than standing for a flag or an anthem. This country is founded on people — largely good people — as well as laws and a Constitution that not only protects a citizen’s right to not stand, your right to protest, but also the right to not be brutalized by the States or their police powers. 

C’mon folks. It’s a ruse. 

This controversy is no more today than what codifying the national anthem could have been in 1931: A distraction. They are trying to force the chins of citizens away from the real problems that plague this country — including its territories — and toward a red herring of nationalism to divert attention from obvious failures of government.

Kneeling does not make one a traitor. And standing at attention doesn’t make you a patriot anymore than kneeling in church makes you a Christian — your actions and your conscience are what define you.

Valentine's Day: 2/14 in 2-1-4

This is a a re-post from previous Valentine's Days. Why re-invent the wheel, right?

Valentines Day is a big deal at prison camp. My room -- 214, ironically -- was no exception. For guys like Mush, from L.A., but with "lady friends" from all over, it was an especially big deal. After the Super Bowl (another big event in prison camp) Mush spent almost every waking hour from the minute the Giants walked off the field, leaving the stunned Patriots and osteoporotic Madonna behind, until just hours before mail went out Valentines Day morning cranking out cards.

Some inmates wanted more "typical" portraits for Valentines Day.

He had books of poetry, he had old cards and letters that he'd written to use as templates, he hired people to make cards for him. He was a card writing machine. And he wasn't just doing it for himself. There were plenty of word-weary guys in Unit 209 who came to Mush for help with their Valentines Day mojo.

One evening, about a week before Valentines Day, I was in my usual spot... My chair, pushed against the wall, under the window at the foot of my bunk -- technically, I guess, it was the foot of Fons' rack, since he had the lower bunk, but his chair was alongside his mattress; I got the end spot near my locker.  I was drawing a heart on a card for my kids.

That's when it happened. Mush looked up, stood and came over to see what I was doing. "You're good," he said. I thanked him.

"Jonas, you think you could draw a big dick inside this card?" I looked at him. I looked at the card.

"Yep. Sure." I sent Mush down the hall to borrow some colored pencils from Dent. When he came back, I sat down at the desk and half an hour later, he was the proud owner of a penciled penis. He was quite happy with the outcome.

He took it down the hall and showed a handful of the people he was writing for. I practically had a line out the door. Over the next week, I cranked out nearly a hundred cards for more than a dozen guys. They were decorated with hearts, genitals, flowers and every sexual position that my clients and I could brainstorm. Some would come up to me and ask for exactly what they'd seen on another card. Others, though, would look at all the other cards and say they wanted something completely different: a one-off that I wold promise not to repeat for anyone else.

In spite of all the cards I worked on, I myself only received one valentine while I was at FPC Duluth. But I gained something much larger than Hallmark Holiday gratification could ever give me.

By the time Mush came to me and asked me to sketch that skin flute, I'd been at FPC Duluth four months. It'd taken that long for me to find my hustle, my incarceration calling: I was a prison pornographer.

FPC N.Y.E. 2012

It's not New Year's Eve, and the year is still young; this week is cold, and winter so far has been a single long blur of frozen mist and cabin fever -- like being locked down in the fog on New Year's Eve three years ago.

The FPC Duluth was cloaked in a sound-dampening fog. You could see from dorm to dorm but not much farther. I couldn't see one side of the walking track from the other. That's where I was when we were recalled without warning around 7:30 p.m. I assumed it was because of the fog and started heading toward my unit to be counted.

On my way back to the dorm I walked past the admin building, where all the lights were on. My dorm-mate Pat pointed out the cars parked alongside the building and then one of the windows, through which I could see the warden, the AW, two lieutenants and the HR officer. Given the fact that it was a holiday Saturday night, this seemed really strange. Maybe they were going to have some kind of shakedown.

Back in the dorm, after count. Everyone was on edge. We were back early on a holiday evening. People in the theater had to leave their movie. The TV rooms got crowded and loud. Throughout the evening, COs would randomly pop up and conduct breathalyzer tests, trying to flush out hooch.

Earlier that same week, a large cache of contraband -- including tobacco, a cell phone, an MP3 player and creatine supplements -- had been found above a ceiling panel in our unit. The CO who'd found it, Carlson, was known among the inmates as Jack Bauer for his doggedness in tearing apart fixtures and structures in his search for contraband. As a result, the TV rooms and microwaves locked up for several days, and our unit was placed in the last position for the dining hall.

In addition, inmates in our unit were required to write a page-long essay describing how we all played a part in letting contraband into the dorm (e.g., not ratting out people we may have known were using tobacco or simply not being observant enough to notice such things). We each had to read our essay in the theater in front of the rest of the inmates. It took us weeks to get through the 150 people in our dorm.

On New Years Eve, in the midst of all this going on, the staff-appointed inmate leadership of the dorm (the CORE) was on edge about contraband use. They were walking the halls confronting people doing things they they thought could get us into more trouble as a unit. They caught one of my roommates, Thalen -- an unusually twitchy pill-peddler from Tennessee -- smoking hand-rolled cigarettes at the top of one of the fire escapes. A couple of the CORE group members came to our room and were trying to get all thuggy with Thalen, which made for a rather tense moment for the rest of us who were just chilling in the room. I got into an argument with one of the guys when he started mouthing off to the rest of us. A weird tense evening all around.

Next day -- New Year's 2012 -- the flags at FPC Duluth were all half-mast. Info seeped in fits and spurts, but it eventually came out that CO Jack Bauer had committed suicide in staff housing the previous evening, precipitating the recall and the presence of all the brass on the compound on a holiday weekend night. The stress that incarceration creates among individuals is not just limited to the inmates. It stretches out its tentacles to their families and even to the staff who have to remain in the setting long after inmates get to go home.

I'm Going to Fall

When I was a first grader, I fell out of my bunk bed and broke my collarbone. I didn't wake up but dreamt about falling and feeling burning pain in my shoulder. Dad woke me from my screaming sleep.  The thin carpet layered onto the concrete floor of our ground level apartment had done almost nothing to cushion my fall.

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Afterward, Dad fashioned a safety rail out of a two by six pine board. I had to wear a brace to school for a few weeks. It was a neutral, creamy colored, hospital terry cloth-covered foam contraption that made me think of a parachute without the pack: just the straps...

As I regarded the gray steel bunk frame and the thin bare, stained ticking mattress laying on it, this is what I thought about. The bunk was at my adult eye level; the floor, tile covered reinforced concrete. No guard rail. At 43, a fall from such a bunk would probably do a lot more than fracture my collarbone. My two new roommates, Chris and Gary, watched me from the safety of their bottom bunk perches. - Take either one, Gary said. Both upper bunks were vacant. I was numb, wishing my nine-years-dead father would shake me out of this bunk bed nightmare.

This was the first specific fear I tripped over after arriving at prison camp: falling out of the bunk and hurting myself. To that point, everything had been a fog of robotic unreality from noon, when John (my brother) dropped me off, all the greened inmates standing along and in the street, watching; to R & D, where crazy Eddie Reed took my paperwork by mistake, and I was parked in a holding room with Martin, late of the Bahamas via Chicago; to being told by Nurse Lind that I had high blood pressure, that she was putting me on medication so I don't "stroke out" and, oh by the way, since I admitted to having drunk the night before (really? who wouldn't?) here's a breathalyzer and if you blow anything above 0.0, you'll spend the night in The Hole; to being walked across the compound to Dorm 210 by the Chris O'Donnell looking guard; to Whiskers hollering at him as we walked by a disarrayed array of feathers, seagull, dead -- eaten... raccoon? -- and saying he suspected "fowl" play, get it, "fowl"? Into the dorm and up the stairs and turning right into the hall and then right (even though it was a left-and-a-left; I turned right at the top of the stairs the whole time I lived in 210) again into the room where the fog lifted and the background blurred and the 1080 dpi hi-def vision of the bunk slammed across the flatscreen of my sight and I thought, I'm going to fall.

"Did You Tell 'Em About the Skits...?"

Yes. In prison camp, we had to compose original skits -- and perform them. Three to five times a week. I shit you not.

Granted, it wasn't everybody. Just the 150-or-so of us in the RDAP unit. 

For many, it was a nightmare. But for a select few of us, it was a juicy opportunity for subversion; and for another handful of talented performers, it was their long-awaited star turn. I was one of the go-to writers in the unit; even if it wasn't my "Upbeat Group"'s turn on stage, I was sought out as a mercenary who could whip out a quick, 5-minute skit incorporating a little humor, a few RDAP principles (gratitude, humility, etc.) and do so in an hour or less. A few stamps, a couple packs of ramen or a snickers bar, and I was your huckleberry. As it were.

Even in FPC Duluth, where I was reminded every day to practice humility, it was tough to quell my creative ego. Many days, I cringed to see my not-so-carefully crafted words mangled by amateurish deliveries. Eventually, I learned: I figured out who the really good performers were I therefore saved my best stuff for the divas who wanted a vehicle -- or for my own group. I specialized in Seussian-style rhymes wherein I could drop the names of staff, inmates and counselors, walking the line a bit, but never quite crossing it. Inside jokes; double entendres that couldn't be proved. I had fun. I was good. But I was by no means the best; nor the most entertaining.

It probably shouldn't be surprising to find deviant -- or devious -- minds in prison camp. But I was outright flabbergasted to encounter some of the humorists I met there. They were devious and witty and literate -- and willing to use their talents in the pursuit of poking the institutional bear: something I was willing to toy with, but, for the most part, not actually do in light of the relatively-little time I was actually going to spend at FPC Duluth.

Wheels was one example of an exceptional prison camp humorist. Wheels had served a lot of time -- more than five years -- by the time I even showed up. A fellow -041er (Minnesotan), Wheels had started his bit with several months in a county-jail federal holding facility and then transfered to a low-security facility in Milan, Michigan, where he played tennis with Sam Waksal. He claimed that they transferred him so far from home because he fought them so hard at trial. Given what I've read and what I've heard from friends, he's probably right.  

He had a lot of pent up rage over his situation, but was also funny as hell. Plus he'd served long enough to feel pretty bulletproof about anything he might want to say. Wheels was our Kafka. The problem was he couldn't find a delivery system for his avant-garde, absurdist humor. Until Bob showed  up on the unit.

With Bob, Wheels had the perfect collaborator. The shit he though up was, on its own, subversively funny in a "Young Ones" sort of way. Often it made no sense at all; and yet even then, because of its nonsensical nature, was hilarious. Moreover, Bob was fearless on the stage -- even if it meant having to do some sort of punitive public apology; being remediated (losing some of the time off earned from participating in the RDAP program or getting thrown off the unit all together) -- which meant that Wheels had an actor to deliver his lines.

In one of his most memorable works, Wheels had an inmate stand at the podium reciting "Metamorphosis" by Wallace Stevens:

Yillow, yillow, yillow,
Old worm, my pretty quirk,
How the wind spells out
Sep – tem – ber….

Summer is in bones.
Cock-robin’s at Caracas.
Make o, make o, make o,
Oto – otu – bre.

And the rude leaves fall.
The rain falls. The sky
Falls and lies with worms.
The street lamps

Are those that have been hanged.
Dangling in an illogical
To and to and fro
Fro Niz – nil – imbo.

During the recital, Bob was backstage, playing the sound effect of a whining mosquito over the sound system, while using a length of twine to drag an empty box slowly across the stage behind the podium. At the same time, two other inmates acted out an argument behind the curtains.

It was ridiculous. Absurd. It made no sense. Much like the BoP.

Minnesota Takes Steps Toward Employment Reform

Effective January 1 of this year, employers in Minnesota will not be able to ask about a prospective candidate's criminal history on the initial application. While this is a small step in a country that incarcerates more people than any other nation on the planet, it is significant. 

With each passing year, a greater percentage of Americans come in contact with the criminal justice system. This can leave otherwise-qualified candidates out in the cold when it comes to employment. In cases where restitution or monetary reparations are involves, stumbling blocks to employment not only hobble the ex-incarceree, but also limit victims' ability to be compensated for the crime. 

The newly-expanded "Ban the Box" law now covers private employers in the state of Minnesota. The new law requires public and private employers to wait until a job applicant has been selected for an interview before asking about criminal records or conducting a criminal record check. It makes it illegal for employers to disqualify a person from employment or to deny them a license because of their criminal background unless it is directly related to the position.

While the new law doesn't prevent an employer from throwing up a roadblock at the interview, it at least gets a resume or application in front of a hiring manager. This is definitely a step in the right direction -- especially in a job market that still suffers from post-recession softness.

Thanksgiving in Prison Camp: 2011 Journal Entry

Rainy and foggy today -- watching the beacon at the Duluth airport's tower sweep across the bottom of the mist bank before hitting my window at its regular second-or-so interval. The first count this morning was interesting -- or funny, I guess: once again Frazier was messing with the count. 

Bravo (the faux-hawked bleached-blond lieutenant) and Gunther were doing the count. Just as they came into the building and announced "Count!" Frazier decided to vacuum his rug. He ignored all the shouts at him from up and down the hall until Bravo sent Mush -- my roomie -- to tell him to knock it off. Apparently the Lieutenant and the head of the Education Department (Gunther) suffer from some sort of arithmetical deficiency because they had to count us two more times -- the last round going room to room with the bed book, matching up faces with names -- before they could get their individual counts to coincide and clear the unit.

This had me concerned because Julie and the kids were coming for Thanksgiving. I had expected them before the count, but with the thick fog they hadn't arrived. So I waited on the edge of my bunk until count was cleared and they started calling for visits again. I was among the first called, hustled out of the building and a quarter mile or so through the chill wet mist to the visitor center.

This was my third visit wth them but my first Thanksgiving at FPC Duluth. It was more tense than usual because it was fraught with all sorts of holiday stress. They needed to get back for dinner, were concerned that I was missing the camp holiday meal and were insistent that I eat something with them out of the vending machine to at least have some semblance of a family holiday meal. I, on the other hand, showed up tense and on edge because of my visit-anticipation, the waiting, the lateness and my general malaise about being in prison on a major family holiday. I was overwhelmed and edgy and sad and anxious and didn't want them to spend Thanksgiving in a prison camp visitng room; but I didn't want them to leave either. All was well with the kids, but the visit ended in some unsatisfying bickering between Julie and me, of which I was the instigator.

I walked back through the fog, hollow, depressed and lonely. I immediately wrote a letter of apology to Julie, but it did little to assuage my angsty feelings. I arrived at FPC Duluth in September; in October, I received divorce papers -- I'd known they were coming, but after 16 years of marriage and 18 in a relationship, it was still a kick in the nuts; and now I was seeing my soon-to-be-X on my best-loved holiday in a prison camp. It was a triple-stacked shit sandwich and I'd taken a big bite.

That night, as I lay in my bunk -- upper, next to the window -- the fog still hanging over the camp and the airport next door, I caught sight of a green runway beacon in the distance. I'd just finished rereading The Great Gatsby, and my mind immediately seized upon the novel's oft-quoted last lines:

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.... And one fine morning — So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

It didn't necessarily make me feel better, but as I looked at the light, I felt more at peace. I understood that the past is the past; and that I could not reclaim it, could not sail against the current, that close to the wind. I needed to ease up the sheets and fall off, turning my bow more toward the future. 

After that night, that airport beacon became my "green light" and represented departure, the future and tacit permission to move on, to proceed through the crossroads I'd reached in my life. I still look back over my shoulder more often than not, but now I am moving with the current. And my course is easier for it.

 

Your Tax Dollars At Work...

Check out this video from the Brave New Foundation that describes how private companies are profiting from the U.S. Prison system. Your tax dollars are the source of their profits.

Even Federal Prison Camps Are Not Above Human Rights Violations

Today is Blog Action Day 2013 (#BAD13). This year's topic is #HumanRights. Since this is a personal blog about my experience in federal prison camp, I am going to go there.

The Supreme Court, along with some other heavy-hitters, have decided that prison (and prison camp) inmates are entitled to some basic human rights. Not all of the same ones that the non-incarcerated enjoy but a handful nonetheless. As a humanist and former attorney, I've always believed this. Those who disagree are reading the wrong blog on the wrong day.

I've mentioned in earlier posts that my ride through the federal criminal justice system was pretty smooth. People were pleasant, kind and mindful that my family and I had seen better days, in spite of my own personal and professional failings.

Prison camp was a different story. Not necessarily for me: I don't think I ruffled too many feathers in general, but then I was a white-on-white (white-collar, white-skinned inmate) male in an upper-Midwest camp run by a staff that was at least 90 percent white and 70 percent male. The inmate population was far more diverse, the majority likely non-white. This, along with a clear hatred of their jobs among many of the prison employees, made for an occasionally unpleasant compound environment.

The regulations promulgated by the Federal Bureau of Prisons (BoP), and clearly printed in the handbook issued to all FPC Duluth 'campers', state that inmates "have the right to expect as a human being [to]... be treated respectfully, impartially, and fairly by all personnel." It is also considered staff misconduct to threaten an inmate with physical harm.

One high-ranking officer (above Lieutenant-grade) at FPC Duluth, in particular, failed to get -- or was perhaps unable to read -- the memo from the BoP, the Department of Justice, Congress or the Supreme Court that this was how things were supposed to be. For purposes of this post, we'll call him Officer Douchebag.

Officer Douchebag is a short, balding man. When I was there, he sported a goatee, wore ill-fitting blazers and had a propensity to scream profanities... at pretty much everyone; perhaps it's Tourette's, but I kinda doubt it. Rumor had it that he had brought so much heat upon himself in the way of inmates filing complaints against him that he would pretty much never be promoted nor allowed to leave Duluth as long as he worked for the BoP.

When I first moved into M Dorm, Unit 209 -- RDAP -- two of my roomies had stories about Officer Douchebag (ODB). One, my bunkie, Corona, was a big -- well over six feet, could deadlift 550 --Mexican dude from Eastern Washington. The incident occurred when Corona was sitting on a boulder outside the activity center, resting after work hours. The ODB approached and threatened to "kick the shit of him" if he didn't "move his ass" from the rock. According to Corona, the situation de-escalated quickly when he stood up and cast his shadow over ODB, who left quickly cursing under his breath.

Another roomy from the 214, Blaze, was once caught standing and staring by the ODB. Blaze wasn't doing much of anything, he was just outside, on the compound, minding his own business. Blaze told me that ODB walked up and threatened to "rip [his] fucking throat out" if he didn't move along. I tend to be a pretty fair-minded person and took these ODB stories with a grain of salt; but on June 4, 2012, while waiting for ODB and some other staff members to finish the weekly inspection of our dorm, I got to witness his violations of BoP regulations first-hand.

As an orderly in the dorm, I often was present when the weekly inspections occurred. The dorm that won for cleanliness got called to food service ahead of all the other dorms. This meant that you got out of the building soonest after the counts and could hit the email or the track before they got crowded. So, we orderlies tended to hang out and see how we did.

On that particularly Thursday, I was in my room when the inspection team stopped next door in 216. Another orderly, T.H., who is African-American, was in the room when ODB shouted at him, "If anybody is going to do any hitting around here, it's going to be me."

The orderly, T.H. replied, "I didn't say anything about hitting nobody."  The ODB replied, "Yeah. But I did."  This is a contemporaneous account of the above exchange, written in my notebook immediately after it occurred. I wrote them down because it seemed to me that ODB's words clearly constituted a threat of physical violence -- or at the very least a lack of basic respect.

My example here is by no means exclusive; I heard many stories and witnessed many indignities at FPC Duluth. I believe that much of what I saw was racially-motivated by a white, power-engorged staff who felt free to let loose their racism on disenfranchised, non-White inmates.

In a country where we incarcerate and execute more of our population than pretty much any other nation on Earth, it's not surprising that this is par for the course. On the other hand, since this country was founded on such glorious words as those contained in the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution, you'd think we could do a little better at the "all... are created equal" and Bill of Rights parts. Even for prisoners.

Am I Losing It? Does It Matter?

I was in prison camp for a grand total of 56 weeks -- just shy of 13 months. I saw my kids every few weeks, and a steady flow of family and friends made the trip for visiting days. I have had jobs that I hated more than my routine at FPC Duluth.  It was the not going home at night that was the problem.  I would rather do my 7 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. routine at federal prison camp than be stuck in cube with a 3-foot tether attached to my head, helping whiny lawyers who don't want to do their own work, as long as I could leave at the end of the day.

I was lucky -- I knew it then, and I know it now. But I worry.

As much as I missed my kids, and in spite of getting divorced from my wife of 16 years, my time in prison camp was enlightening and a game changer. I got in shape, I achieved a lot of clarity about what my life is and what I want it to look like, and the stuff that is actually the most important -- my kids, experiences, making uncomfortable decisions -- all crystallized for me in a way that I believe some people never get to see.  I honestly think that I may live longer, getting that year -- and then some -- back because of the experience.

But now, almost a year later, I find myself in traffic, stressed, sweating the small stuff, worrying about bills and jobs and time... things that a year ago I knew were inconsequential to the actual quality of real life. I still know it and am able to talk myself down. But I worry.

What if I get caught up in the everyday stress, all over again, blink, and then I'm 60. I will have wasted 15 years after spending a whole year realizing that life is precious. Too precious to waste being angry because the douchebag in front of me is driving too slow (doesn't change the fact that he's a DB; I just don't have to be worked up about it).

That kind of answers the questions I get asked about this blog. Why embrace the experience? Why keep picking the scab? I especially get these questions from my friends -- and I made some real, true friends (another of life's surprises!) -- who were in Duluth with me. Practically everybody I met was there longer than I was. I was a part-timer, white-on-white tourist at the camp. My right to complain about much of anything was pretty inhibited. So they wonder why I won't let go when I was barely there.

But I think it's because I realized early on in my sentence that I was still alive. That each day I woke up in the morning was a day in my life... and I was not going to get it back if I didn't spend it in a way that contributed to the quality of my life. No matter where I was. So, I kept busy. I walked, wrote, drew; I took classes, I thought. Near the end of my time at FPC Duluth, as anxious as I was to leave, I experienced pangs of panic... I was worried that I didn't have enough time to finish a number of projects that I undertaken. I literally thought, on occasion, "I need more time..."

Thoughts such as those occurred to me because I had come to realize that a year off with little worry -- my children have a great mother, and I knew that they were well cared for -- is a gift. I flippantly began referring to my post-prison camp life as Trent 2.0. In time, I began to take the moniker seriously, as I believed that a permanent change was necessary and a new version imminent. And upon my release into the halfway house, it was true.

But real life began to set in.

Working jobs on someone else's schedule, carving my entire schedule around my children's, jumping through hoops thrown at me by various institutions from U.S. Probation to Normandale Community College has weighed on me. It has threatened to return my life to its former state: a routine.

Fortunately, I am still self-aware enough and took good enough notes to remember the experience. A year away from my kids is too much. Living as a slave to the modern American economy of consumption is not necessary. It's a trap... one that squeezes tighter the harder you resist. Rather, you have to be willing to relax and simply let go. Unhinge yourself from the societal constraints that make you feel stressed and find what makes you happy and do it. Because you and I are going to die. Soon. Too soon. And I want to spend as little of my time left on this earth in a cubicle as possible. I choose instead to roll on the ground with Sam and Sarah, walk in the water and find a palm tree with a sunset.

So, when I find myself not driving with Aloha, and becoming increasingly angry at the slow-moving douchebag off my bow, I think of Walt Whitman. Old WW has so much to say on the way to live our lives. I find some of his transcendentalist messages so powerful that I felt compelled to read the following to a theater of 150 semi-befuddled, fellow federal prisoners:

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
 Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. 

To their credit, I think they got it -- although I was called into an office by BoP staff and told that I would need to "dumb it down" in the future -- most men I met saw their sentence as a life-changing experience.

So, I may be losing it a little bit. And it does matter. Because I know that I have to contribute a verse. It may be imperfect, poorly executed and sloppy. But it will be my verse, and I will die better knowing that I tried a little harder to write it due to the experiences I've encountered.

Top 5 Most Surprising and Cool Things Prisoners Get to Have in Prison

While some county jails may be as depicted in the photo accompanying this post, prisons are not necessarily as spartan as they are depicted in the popular media. Inmates at both the state and federal levels have access to many things that -- to me, as both a citizen and inmate -- were surprising. Below is an article from Top5.com that lists the five things I am most surprised about.



The United States incarcerates more people than any other country on the planet. Such a large prison population represents a serious market for companies that supply correctional facilities' commissaries, such as St. Louis-based Keefe Group. Between inmates' basic rights to certain comfort items and contractors lobbying to get more products into facilities, prisoners have access to a surprising array of amenities.

5 Food Selection

At every level of incarceration, from federal prison to county jail, inmates with enough money "on their books" can eschew facility food for fare purchased through the commissary. While most of the selections consist of mundane junk food like chips and candy, or staples such as peanut butter and Ramen noodles, some of the food available in prison commissaries is downright surprising. Sriracha sauce and yellowfin tuna in Thai chili sauce, anyone? Or perhaps you're in the mood for pizza tonight. Just pick up a pizza kit with crusts and sauce, add a little white meat chicken, some cheese, olives, jalapeño peppers... and kick it up with the onion you pocketed from the kitchen: Prison pizza paradise!

4 Video Game Consoles

Inmates in states like Maryland and Wisconsin can purchase video game consoles—which they can hook up to their personal flat-screen TVs—and lose themselves in a virtual reality that is considerably different from the reality in which they're living. Game choices are typically limited to nonviolent, non-explicit titles. Facilities will also cap the number of individual games an inmate can have in his possession.

3 Typewriters

A typewriter is a surprising inmate amenity not only because prisoners in many non-federal facilities can have one but also because such an anachronistic machine is still available for purchase—anywhere. Courts have held that inmates must be allowed access to typewriters in order to create legal documents. However, the image of an inmate in her cell, hunched over a Smith-Corona, clacking away like a '40s newspaper reporter, is a startling one.... 

Keep Reading at Top5.com.

Federal Prison Economics 101: Currency

No money coming in from the outside? FRP payment (restitution, fines, etc.) taking up all of your prison paycheck? There are other ways to make a living in prison. You just need to get yourself a hustle and put your full faith into the credit that backs the almighty postage stamp.

In Federal Prison, Stamps Are Money

When I was at FPC Duluth, the value of a 1st class "forever" stamp was pegged at 30 cents. You may have paid 45 cents for it at the commissary, but on the 'pound it was worth 30 cents. On occasion, if there was a shortage of stamps on the compound (i.e., demand exceeded supply), the price of stamps would creep up toward actual value.

Such inflationary periods only really affected stamps bought in "books" of 20. Sometimes, they actually were a book of stamps like the ones you might purchase at the post office (or in our case, the commissary). More often, a book was a cut-up collection of mismatched, well-worn stamps, often from different vintages, usually held together with tiny, black rubber bands that guys who wore braids would otherwise use to keep their hair tight. A store-bought -- or "flat" -- book, was even more valuable during inflationary periods than a regular book.

Stamp Inflation

On the FPC Duluth compound, and I'm sure the same is true at other facilities, stamps were in circulation like dollar bills circulate on the streets. A lot of them were older, many had been on the compound for years. New stamps were always being added by people who would buy them from the commissary or otherwise acquire them from the outside -- although sending in stamps through the mail or delivering them to inmates in any other way is against institution rules, they still came in illicitly. But, at the same time, stamps were removed from circulation on just as regular a basis.

Inmates mail letters, or send out art or crafts that they made. In some cases, the stamps in circulation were so old that they actually weren't "forever" stamps, and therefore valueless. Such stamps were usually passed off to new inmates before they got wise to their inability to use them and just held onto them until the next bus of eager-but-naive campers arrived on the compound. Occasionally, a more scrupulous inmate would come across a soft, faded 33¢ Purple Heart stamp and just throw it away.

 Regardless of how the stamps enter and exit circulation on the compound, there is a continual ebb and flow of supply. For the most part, this works. That is, until a more macro-level event comes along to mess up everything.

Inflationary Events

On the compound, several predictable, inflationary events occur throughout the year. Mind you, such events don't increase the purchasing power of stamps, just the cost of obtaining them if you actually need the physical stamps. During football season, stamps become scarce on the weekends as bookies and pool organizers hold onto bets and take the "stickers" out of circulation. So if you need to mail a letter or pay somebody that requires "cash" you should plan accordingly. Otherwise, you may be paying $8 for a flat book on Sunday that you could've had for $6 if you bought it on Wednesday.

Stamps are damn near impossible to come by in the days leading up to the Super Bowl. The NCAA Tournament also puts some inflationary pressure on the cost of stamps. As inconvenient as such times are, you can always plan ahead. Moreover, you know that by Monday or Tuesday, everyone will be paid out and you can go back to the normal pricing.

It's the unpredictable "market mover" events that cause more serious problems on the compound... we'll get to those in the next post.

Bearing Bad Weather

Last Friday night, June 21, the Twin Cities saw some nasty-ass weather. No tornadoes or anything, but straight line winds and flash-floody rain. Thousands still don't have power -- nearly a week after the storm. Random trees and branches are scattered throughout the city.

Longfellow neighborhood in Minneapolis
after Jun 21, 2013, storms.

So what does this have to do with prison camp? Because last June, almost to the day, I was at FPC Duluth during the storm that caused the worst flooding on record in northeast Minnesota. 

Built on a hill above Lake Superior, where the St. Louis River, along with numerous smaller streams, empty into the lake, Duluth received almost 10" of rain over a two-day period. That is bad.

According to the Washington Post, "Massive flooding swept throughout the region. The floodwaters submerged two-thirds of the Lake Superior Zoo, drowning 11 animals. MSNBC reported: 'All but one of the zoo’s barnyard animals died, zoo spokeswoman Keely Johnson said in a statement earlier. That included the zoo’s donkey, goats and sheep'” The Associated Press said workers safely recovered two seals and a polar bear which had escaped."

A June 20, 2012, storm caused the worst flooding in Duluth,
Minn.'s history.

Unlike the zoo animals, those of us living in the faux-natural habitat of FPC Duluth were pretty much fine. Wet. But okay. That's because the camp is situated on high ground, next to the airport. The rain was so hard that they recalled the compound to the dorms at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesday night and didn't reopen it until 2:30 p.m. the next day. We lost power in the dorm for a short time during the night, and the PA system in our unit shorted out.

It started with an electronic hiss that keyed with each fat drop of rain. It was Wednesday night by the time they cut power to the PA all together. The had rain stopped, too. The obtrusive silence was broken only by breathing inmates and a slight breeze rustling the trees -- no AC, so windows are open -- in the dark, amber-lit air. I had to pee.

I climbed down from the bunk and slipped on my shower shoes, walked the dozen or so steps down the hall from room 214 to the bathroom, which was shrouded in shadow -- only the auxiliary light in the shower room was on. But I could see my way to the urinal by the light coming in from the compound through the window's broken screen.

I exhaled, savoring the relief of my relaxing bladder; finished, shook and flushed. I washed my hands and stepped to the window, surveying the compound grass in the 3 a.m. dark. The rusty red of the nextdoor commissary building was washed to an amber gray by the streetlights scattered throughout the camp. Behind the commissary, a bright white light shone from the door of the compound officer's station. All the lights were out in 211 and 210, the wide dip of law between the units reflecting the pale orange of halogen lamps. A polar bear.

A polar bear.

A polar bear glided silently, one giant paw in front of the other, its snout swinging vaguely left side to right, across the dewy grassblades. As it approached the sidewalk between unit 211 and the commissary, the bear stopped and turned its head, aiming his gaze up the length of his snout, targeting me. I sucked in a sharp breath and pressed an open palm and my forehead against the screen, as if waving goodbye through a bus window, trying to get a better look.

The bear turned away and quickened his pace as he pawed off behind the admin building, past the Special Housing Unit -- the SHU, or "hole" -- and not 20 feet from the open compound office door, disappearing down the hill toward the visiting center.

I stood there in the quiet bathroom. Water dripping echoed off the tile walls and floor. The image of the white (amber in the light) bear on the dark compound, burned in my mind like a retinal spot after a a camera flash. I waited until I was convinced the bear wasn't coming back. Then I walked to back to the room.

I was distracted as I climbed up to my rack, shaking the frame. Kou, my bunkie, started awake: "Jonas..."

"I saw a polar bear."

"Mmmm." He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Berlin, the Lake Superior Zoo's polar bear, escaped
during the June, 2012, floods.

Federal Prison Economics 101: The Basics

The federal prison economy pretty much reflects the way things work in the real world. Except that it's just that: a reflection. Everything's a little blurred around the edges and illusory. On the other hand, there's nothing quite like a little time in prison to make you realize just how much a fiat currency -- like the US dollar -- is based on faith and cooperation to begin with. A little rocking of the boat and all hell breaks loose.

The prison economy has two distinct bases: "outside" finance and "inside" finance. In this post, we'll take a look at the former. I'll follow up with a look at the inside economics of prison camp in my next entry.

Where Does It Start?
The prison economy has to start somewhere, and for all intents and purposes, it begins with our family and friends. You all "put money on our books" -- i.e., make a deposit in our Bureau of Prisons (BoP) inmate trust account -- by sending a money order or wiring funds to the BoP lockbox facility in Des Moines. After it's processed, the funds are then available to us:  for use at the commissary; to purchase educational or craft materials; to downloand songs for MP3 players; for medical or dental co-pays; or, in large chunks, to make payments toward fines, criminal restitution and child support. Most importantly, for many, the funds were used to pay for phone calls and email minutes.

The other source of income that inmates receive is from prison "jobs". In some cases, where a facility has a Unicor operation -- a manufacturing arm of the BoP that makes chairs, desks, file cabinets, bed frames, plastic spoons, etc., to be used in government agencies like the BoP itself -- inmates can make several hundred dollars per month. Where I was, FPC Duluth, anyone earning more than $30 per month for his job (about 30 hours per week) was "prison rich". I made around $18 per month cleaning the bathrooms in our dorm. 

That being said, it's not like we really had to work very hard; nor did we exactly have bills to worry about. The wages we earned were simply a little extra to spend on the email terminals and a subject about which to piss and moan -- probably, the most popular prison camp pasttime.

For most, camp wages are not a major source of income. At camp, the majority of US dollars comes in from friends and family. Others, however, don't use -- or need -- US dollars to make a living in federal prison. They rely, instead, on the facility's "inside" economy, which a future post will examine a little more closely.

Motherf***ers: A Field Guide

In case the title of this post isn't enough of a clue, children and those disdainful of the vulgar should look away. I apologize in advance to grammarians, as well: I will be doing the English language no favors here (as if I ever do, anyway, but this post is particularly bad).

Do you all know what a simile is? If you go to that magic search engine dictionary that pops up definitions without telling you where they came from, you will learn that a simile is "A figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, (e.g., as brave as a lion). " Thanks to my time at FPC Duluth, I will never be at loss for a simile again. Because in one amazingly versatile word, I have found the only comparison I will ever need.

Motherfucker.

I've tried to track down a typical motherfucker, but they are elusive -- and seem to be ever-changing. For example, just as I would begin to detect a chill in the air (It's motherfuckin' cold in here!), a blast of warmth would head me off in another direction (It's hotter than a motherfucker up in this bitch!).  They are not easy to pin down. If anyone has any pictures of a motherfucker in the wild -- there are many in captivity, but cameras are typically not allowed where motherfuckers are kept -- please post them in the comments section.

Meanwhile, for those who wish to stalk motherfuckers in the wild, keep an eye out for these particular characteristics:

They are attractive (Sexy as a motherfucker!) but also homely (Ugly as a motherfucker!)

They may be a little zaftig (Shit! This is heavier than a motherfucker!).  I also understand that they tend to be savory (This nacho bowl is tastier than a motherfucker!)

Motherfuckers are also wet, dry, windy, tired, fast, slow and foul-smelling. In some cases, they are bad (He is one bad motherfucker!). But just as often they are not (This is gooder than a motherfucker!).

If you surprise one, use caution as you approach (Mean as a motherfucker!). However, chances are you'll be okay (Happy as a motherfucker!).

Perhaps you'll be luckier (Lucky as a motherfucker) than I've been in tracking down a wild specimen. I can only hope so. In the meantime, happy hunting Motherfuckers!

The Bunk, part 2

And when the trucks came, they brought horror, discomfort and a lot of pissing and moaning to the FPC Duluth compound: they brought new mattresses. Yes, our old mattresses varied in size, thickness, odor and levels of both stain and duct-tape over rips; but they were still mattresses.  These new things... well, were not.

Crinkly, aqua-teal, plasticized batting replaced mattresses at FPC Duluth.

On that last Wednesday of September, about three weeks after I'd arrived in Duluth, everyone in E-dorm was told to remain in the unit and not report to work until we were told to. Around 7:30 a.m., a couple of slow-moving, overloaded trucks pulled up to the back of the building. A voice on the intercom told us to strip our beds and carry our mattresses to down to the trucks, where we could swap them for a new one.

 I'll Fly Away: Further Testimonies from the Women of York Prison by La (Google Affiliate Ad)

As much as I would miss my old mattress, I did not particularly titter with glee at the prospect of carrying it down two flights of stairs, its besmirched fabric pressed against my skin and face, years of inmate skin dust clouding around my head. But I did.

When I got down to the back of the dorm, I tossed my mattress on a pile, coughed out a cloud of bed dust and was handed a six-foot long, greenish-blue vinyl bag of heavy recycled rags. Wrapped in dusty plastic. It was really heavy. And it was my new mattress. So I hauled it back upstairs to my my room, managed to lever it onto my upper rack and re-make it to FPC Duluth standards -- two sheets, square corners, one blanket on the bed, the other folded into thirds at the foot of the bed.

The entire exercise took about an hour. I was dusty and tired. I waited for count to clear -- which means that somebody says that we're all still there and are free to roam the compound -- then hopped in the shower and got cleaned up. I finished up my work detail for the morning, just wiping down the bathroom, went to lunch and came back to the dorm to read until it was time to start my afternoon routine.

As I was sitting in my chair, reading, my name was called over the intercom. I was told to report to the counselor's office in Dorm 209. When I got there, the counselor informed me that I would be moving dorms and to go get my stuff packed and hauled over before the 4:00 p.m. count. "And hey," he called after me, "Don't forget to strip your bunk and bring your bedding with you!"

The Bunk: Your Bed Away from Home

Monster Bedroom Twin Study Loft Bunk Bed - Kids Bedroom (Google Affiliate Ad)
Whatever you call it -- bed, rack, pad, piece-of-shit green thing -- your bunk is about the closest you get to a parcel of real estate in prison camp (I guess your locker is, too, but that's more of a condo, really). Many spend a large amount of time in or on their racks. The lower-bunk guys use them as recliners, work tables, sofas and all-around go-to pieces of furniture. The upper bunk guys have a perch.

After three weeks at FPC Duluth, I moved from a 4-man to a 6-man room.

A bunk is more than just a dorm-room furnishing; it's also a form of identity. "Where's Jonas?" "Two fourteen, back wall, up." Your rack is a receptacle for mail, commissary repayments, books and anything else that someone wants to get to you but doesn't want to leave on a desk, or even your chair. Even though your chair may be right next to your rack, it's still a little bit out in the room: too public. More private -- or even clandestine -- deliveries often end up under your pillow, or the regulation-tri-folded blanket at the foot of your bunk. Really private stuff (like onions, peppers or fruit from the dining hall) goes in your pillow case. Hopefully, it's wrapped in a trash bag or disposable kitchen glove. Just as often, it won't be. And that's okay.

My first room at FPC Duluth was Room 215 in Unit 210, or E (for "Erie") Dorm. In a classic example of unnecessary bureaucratic redundancy, each building had 3 different monikers: its number (207-211); its Great Lakes Name (Huron - Superior); or the first letter of the Great Lakes name from the mnemonic H-O-M-E-S. No one knows why. However, different staff members were quite attached to their own way of referring to a building and refused to acknowledge the existence of the other names. For example, going into a visit once, I was asked by a guard what dorm I lived in. I replied with my unit number. He asked me again, and I once again gave him my unit number. Then he asked if I meant "M" Dorm -- this was after I'd moved -- and after thinking for a second, I agreed that yes, perhaps I meant M Dorm. And then he let me into the visiting center so I could see my children. I really appreciated the object lesson buried in that exercise. I learned a lot from it and will carry its meaning with me throughout my life. Really.

Anyway, when I was first led into Room 215 -- E Dorm! -- the two guys already in the room had long-since occupied the lower bunks. It was a four-man room. As I walked in one bunk was pushed back, lengthwise against the far wall, directly opposite the doorway. The other was pushed against the wall to my left, opposite the lockers. The room's windows were in the wall at the foot of the former rack; the desk was attached to the wall between the doorway and the head of the latter set of bunks. I chose the upper bunk on the latter.

I was freaked out, overweight, sad, scared -- and had literally just been diagnosed with high blood pressure. Getting into the top bunk those first few days was not fun. I had to step up onto my chair, put one foot on a peg bolted to the bunk frame and swing myself up onto the bed without falling or hitting my head on the ceiling. If I had to go to the bathroom at night, I had to do this both ways and try not to wake up Chris, my bunkie.

Those first couple weeks were not horrible from a prison-camp living perspective: three of us in a big, four-man room. After a couple weeks, a fourth guy -- Joe -- moved into the other top bunk. Although I envied the ease of use that the lower-bunk guys enjoyed, I got used to the upper bunk in Room 215. The mattress itself was about 4 inches thin... the mattresses in the room were all of varying materials, thicknesses and levels of stain. I was told that mine had been lain on for seven months or so by a 400-lb. short-timer named Country (or occasionally Big Country) who did most of his time in the bunk. I wondered if that was why it was no thicker a couple of pork chops stack on top of one another.

And then one day, at the end of my third week, the trucks came...

2/14 in the 2-1-4: V is for Valentine

Some inmates wanted more "typical" portraits for Valentines Day.

Valentines Day is a big deal at prison camp. My room -- 214, ironically -- was no exception. For guys like Mush, from L.A., but with "lady friends" from all over, it was an especially big deal. After the Super Bowl (another big event in prison camp) Mush spent almost every waking hour from the minute the Giants walked off the field, leaving the stunned Patriots and osteoporotic Madonna behind, until just hours before mail went out Valentines Day morning cranking out cards.

He had books of poetry, he had old cards and letters that he'd written to use as templates, he hired people to make cards for him. He was a card writing machine. And he wasn't just doing it for himself. There were plenty of word-weary guys in Unit 209 who came to Mush for help with their Valentines Day mojo.

One evening, about a week before Valentines Day, I was in my usual spot... My chair, pushed against the wall, under the window at the foot of my bunk -- technically, I guess, it was the foot of Fons' rack, since he had the lower bunk, but his chair was alongside his mattress; I got the end spot near my locker.  I was drawing a heart on a card for my kids.

That's when it happened. Mush looked up, stood and came over to see what I was doing. "You're good," he said. I thanked him.

"Jonas, you think you could draw a big dick inside this card?" I looked at him. I looked at the card.

"Yep. Sure." I sent Mush down the hall to borrow some colored pencils from Dent. When he came back, I sat down at the desk and half an hour later, he was the proud owner of a penciled penis. He was quite happy with the outcome.

He took it down the hall and showed a handful of the people he was writing for. I practically had a line out the door. Over the next week, I cranked out nearly a hundred cards for more than a dozen guys. They were decorated with hearts, genitals, flowers and every sexual position that my clients and I could brainstorm. Some would come up to me and ask for exactly what they'd seen on another card. Others, though, wold look at all the other cards and say they wanted something completely different: a one-off that I would promise not to repeat for anyone else.

In spite of all the cards I worked on, I myself only received one valentine while I was at FPC Duluth. But I gained something much larger than Hallmark Holiday gratification could ever give me.

By the time Mush came to me and asked me to sketch that skin flute, I'd been at FPC Duluth four months. It'd taken that long for me to find my hustle, my incarceration calling: I was a prison pornographer.