Labor Day

I grew up watching the television program M.A.S.H. One of my favorite characters was “Radar”, the unassuming clerk with an uncanny ability to sense incoming casualties well before the sound of helicopters could be detected by human ears. He could anticipate the commander’s orders before they left his lips, and often had work completed before anyone else knew it was needed.

In prison, I met someone exactly like Radar. He was the gas garage clerk for the large mechanical shop where I was assigned. The department managed the entire fleet of gas-powered vehicles for the largest prison system in the country, and my co-worker seemed to know the mechanical history of nearly every vehicle in the fleet. You could give him the six-digit vehicle number, and he’d be able to tell you where it was assigned as well as its maintenance schedule.

During my time in prison, Texas cut state agency budgets dramatically, and prohibited the Texas Department of Criminal Justice from purchasing new vehicles. The departmental bosses relied so heavily on my co-worker to anticipate repairs before they were needed that they were able to keep vehicles with more than 400,000 miles on the road long past their life cycles.

I learned that the man had the same standard in his personal affairs as he did on the job. He volunteered in the Chapel and was a leader in the 12-step community. He practiced the principles of recovery, treating people with dignity and volunteering to help anyone seeking to recover from addiction. He became my mentor and my trusted friend. 

My friend was serving a 40-year sentence for stealing a package of cigarettes. 

He had experienced a traumatic childhood, and struggled his entire life with addiction. He had been arrested twice before for burglarizing vehicles, always to feed his addiction. After his second release from prison, he was able to stay sober for nearly five years before relapsing. On his last night of freedom, he pocketed cigarettes from a convenience store and fled in his car as the clerk ran after him to get his license plate. The prosecutor decided to charge him with robbery instead of theft, and claimed that my friend’s car was a deadly weapon because it could have harmed the convenience store clerk.

My friend refused to characterize his circumstance as injustice. He took responsibility for all of his mistakes, and believed that his work ethic and personal standards needed to be higher than anyone else’s if he were to be of use to others. 

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t paid anything for his work behind bars; he just needed to know that his efforts were valued by others.

He was not alone. During my time in prison, I met countless men who were driven by the same motivation. I will never forget the look of determination on the cook’s face when the kitchen boss allowed him to prepare chicken Parmesan for nearly 1600 men using frozen chicken patties and the limited ingredients available in prison. He beamed with pride when he returned to the cell block after a twelve hour unpaid shift.

In the mechanical shop, I knew a transmission expert who was small enough to fit into the engine compartment. He had no qualms about getting covered in grease and climb into the engine in order to avoid having to send a vehicle to an outside shop for a costly repair. Similarly, maintenance workers gladly sprang from bed in the middle of the night when called upon to fix toilets or electrical issues. Working around these men taught me to value my work in ways that I never had before.

Prison officials and state leaders often taut the occupational opportunities available to people in Texas prisons, framing them as an essential to rehabilitation. What is missing in this narrative is the fact that prisoners are doing the work of keeping the prisons operating, prisons that wouldn’t need to exist if we were to adequately address the factors that lead to crime in the first place.

The reality of Texas prisons is one of incapacitation, not of rehabilitation. People like my friend were thrown away by their communities; men who would have otherwise been productive members of the community had they had an opportunity for treatment or vocational programming. It should come as no surprise that Texas ranks near the bottom in terms of substance abuse treatment availability, yet ranks number one in the number of state prisoners.

I was proud to get to work alongside these men. They taught me to rise to the highest standard, even when there was no reward. It pains me to think about their children who will grow up without getting to learn from the example these men set for me. 

When I think about the human resources locked away behind our prison walls, I think of Texas as one of the most wasteful states in the entire world. 

Father's Day

No one wrote to me more faithfully during my nearly six years of incarceration than my father. I remember his first letter shortly after my arrest. He was shocked and heartbroken, not able to reconcile my criminal actions with my true character. He said he was horrified by what I had done, but that the real Doug would never have done such a thing. He attributed my crimes to addiction.

I took his words as a sign of grace and generosity. He had forgiven me the moment he heard the news. In truth, he probably blamed himself.

My father had left our household while I was still a child. Years before, his own dad had abandoned his family, and his mom later married an abusive man who tormented and bullied my father throughout his childhood. My father carried unhealed wounds into adulthood, so he never felt completely at home in his own skin. When I was in the 6^th grade, he removed his wedding ring and moved into a small one-bedroom apartment across town.

His departure was so devastating, that I also carried unhealed wounds into adulthood. Like many children of divorce, I blamed myself. I wore the anguish visibly, making me an outcast among my peers. Adolescence was an internal prison, worse than any of the 109 facilities scattered across Texas. When I discovered drugs and alcohol, life seemed to improve. I had no idea that I was watering a toxic seed that would one day lead me to real prison.

I never met a man in prison who didn’t also carry childhood wounds related to fatherhood. At the mere mention of fathers, men grew serious. Otherwise hardened men talked of abandonment, disappointment, or abuse. Even those whose fathers were consistent and loving shared feelings of deep shame for having disappointed their dads so gravely. Talking of fatherhood also reminded men of their own children.

More than 68 percent of the men in Texas prisons are fathers, and there is little question that incarceration has a terrible effect on the well-being and healthy development of their children. The loss of financial support increases the likelihood that children will live at least a portion of their childhood in poverty. Also, a significant number of the incarcerated parents actually lived with their children at the time of arrest, disrupting their lives in ways that have lifelong consequences.

I was often shocked by the number of men in prison who had children serving time in other units. On the unit where I served most of my time, at least two men shared cells with their fathers. I will never forget the tears of my cell mate when he learned that his adult son had committed his third felony and was being sent back to prison on a life sentence as a habitual offender.

He didn’t blame his son, nor did he blame a system that fails to adequately rehabilitate men during early interactions with the criminal justice system. Instead, he blamed himself and his own failings as a father.

I came to understand that there was a difference between taking responsibility and taking the blame. Taking the blame is a helpless response that originates in shame. Heaping shame upon oneself or another denies the possibility of change.

Probably the most tragic element of the criminal justice system in Texas is the extent to which it is steeped in shame. It is a system that refuses to acknowledge the problems at the root of criminal involvement, and allows us to write people off as irredeemable. It allows the officers of correctional control to dehumanize incarcerated individuals, often entrenching them in destructive mindsets.

The men that I met in prison were not irredeemable. They carried the unhealed wounds of childhood, and cycled in and out of the courts as they encountered a state jail and probation system that set them up to fail.

The men who overcame this viscous cycle were those who cast off the shame and took responsibility for their own rehabilitation. They began taking classes or volunteered in the Chapel.  Along the way, they met unlikely allies - usually fellow inmates - who helped them to see that they were more than the worse thing they ever did. These men became like father figures to those who had never known a father.

I gravitated to these people from the start, following their example. I volunteered as a peer educator, working to end the culture of violence inside prison. I volunteered in the Chapel and in the 12-Step meetings, becoming a mentor and ally to others. I felt as though my life were starting over, and I began to see that I could one day be a decent father to my own daughter.

My father celebrated whenever he received a letter from me. He saw me taking responsibility for the crimes I committed and becoming a man on whom others could rely. Midway through my fourth year in prison, my father came to visit me. He had lost weight and appeared frail, but his face lit up when he saw me. During that two hour visit, he looked me in the eye and said, “Doug, I’m proud of you.” I never saw him again.

One year later, my father died. I was still in prison and unable to leave for a funeral. The Chaplain allowed me to call my Step-Mother, and she shared the news with me. I walked out of the Chapel numb, holding back tears until I could reach my bunk.

I berated myself for not being with my father during his battle with cancer. I thought of how I was depriving my own daughter of a father in her life, and shame welled up inside. It occurred to me that I was repeating the toxic pattern. After a day on my bunk, I got back to work doing the things that had made my father so proud. Six months later, I was paroled.

Today, I get to be a father to a beautiful daughter. I never use the language of shame with her, either toward myself or anyone else.  I don’t even use that language toward the system itself. I believe people can change, even those who want to keep the criminal justice system exactly as it is.  

Visitation List

I remember the last time that I saw my daughter before I committed the crimes that would land me in prison.  I dropped by the townhome where she lived with her mother, hoping for an hour with my daughter before she left for a weekend trip to her grandparent's house. When she saw me getting out of the car, she ran to me, literally jumping into my arms. 

It was Halloween weekend, so I bought her a little present. It was a pink Hello Kitty watch. My daughter had recently celebrated her fifth birthday, and had never worn a watch. She barely noticed the gift, and beckoned me to help her draw shapes with colored chalk on the sidewalk. When it was time to leave, tears welled up in her eyes. She began to sob. It was is if she knew that something bad was about to happen. Children of people with addiction seem to be more acutely aware of the tormented waves roiling within their parents, even when their parents try desperately to hide that inner turmoil. 

I wouldn’t see my daughter again for five years, seven months, and twenty-nine days, and I counted every one of those days.  Her mother allowed letters and phone calls, but wisely refused to expose my daughter to the insanity of prison. The two hour contact visits are often tortuous for children.

Visitation rooms are crowded and loud.  Officers hover on both ends of the room, observing closely for illegal contact or passing of contraband.  All parties are required to stay at their assigned tables, and small children grow restless.  I never had a visit where I didn’t hear a crying child.  Children aren’t allowed to grab their parents’ hands and take them to go paint chalk dragons on the sidewalk. 

In short, visitation rooms aren’t places where children are allowed to be children.

Even if I had experienced a visit with my daughter, it wouldn’t have helped her to cope with the absence of her father in her life. I still missed her first day of Kindergarten, and couldn’t read books to her before bed. I couldn’t help her to deal with the anguish and confusion she felt when she wondered where her father had gone.  I couldn’t assuage the fears of separation that haunted her during the years I was away.  I couldn’t share with her the gifts of healing I was experiencing as I began to recover.  When the judge sentenced me to prison, she sentenced my young daughter as well.

Few people question what we expect in terms of visitation. When I was in county jail, I had to visit with my mother on a video screen. I couldn’t even hug her or look her in the eye, because the camera was located above the screen. Years later, I was shocked to learn that this had become the only way for families to visit loved ones in more than a dozen large Texas counties. This fact made me grateful that the prison system at least allowed for two-hour contact visits. 

But even the two-hour visits deprive families of the right to be a part of their loved-one’s lives. It should be understood that frequent and meaningful contact with family members is essential to rehabilitation and successful reintegration upon release. It is also essential for children. More than 40 percent of incarcerated males and 80 percent of females had children living with them at the time of arrest. 

Incarceration should never be the reason that children lose frequent access to their parents, and it is a tragic mystery that our society ever allowed prisons to become such closed systems. 

The Texas Senate will soon study prison and county jail visitation policies. This may be an opportunity to call into question the closed system we call prisons. With 109 prisons in every region of Texas, it is unconscionable that an incarcerated individual would be sent to a prison more than two hours from home.  Yet, prison classification officials routinely place men and women in facilities that are six to eight hours away from their closest relatives. Elderly parents with disabilities must get notes from their physicians in order to appeal for their sons and daughters to be moved to a unit closer to home. 

It is also time that we treat visitation as part of the rehabilitative process, for both the incarcerated individuals as well as their children. Families must have frequent and meaningful contact with their loved ones in environments that allow children to be children, yet only one state has a child-friendly visitation area. Less than ten states have overnight policies, and few of these policies are geared toward overnight stays with children. Few state prison systems include family contact when developing rehabilitative programs.  How do we expect incarcerated men and women to become fully productive members of communities within the very families that will support them upon release? 

The First Time I Saw My Daughter After Nearly Six Years

A closed prison system is not an ideal model. The entire period of incarceration should be geared toward moving the individual from intensive early services to gradually increasing community integration. Families must be part of this process at every step, with easy access to loved ones.  Nearly 95 percent of Texas’ incarcerated individuals will return to the community, so they must begin preparing people for release from day one.  Visitation is a critical part of that process. 

I finally saw my daughter the day after I was released. I heard the knock on the door, and nearly flew down the stairs. My daughter barely had a moment to see me before I lifted her off the ground and hugged her. She grabbed my neck and I heard her crying happy and nervous tears. I looked at her face, and realized that she was still a child. My child. 

Unlike so many children of incarcerated parents, my daughter will get to enjoy a significant portion of her childhood with a loving and active parent in her life. 

Resources and Citations

Prison Visitation Policies: A Fifty State Survey

Youth Rise – A mentorship program for children impacted by parental incarceration.

Storybook Project – Connecting incarcerated mothers with their children.

The “T” Word

I recently started looking for an apartment to rent. I’ve been gainfully employed for more than a year. I’m an active and productive member of my community.  My criminal history is just that - history. In short, I’m an outstanding candidate for rental property, except for the fact that I have a criminal background.

I soon learned that it will be more difficult to find rental property than it was to find a job. An apartment locator who specializes in finding rental housing for people with certain types of rental barriers such as broken leases and criminal records told me that there was absolutely nothing she could do for me. Most property management companies refuse to lease to anyone with a criminal record, especially a felony record. A minority of properties make exceptions for DWI arrests so long as they were many years in the past.  The apartment locator told me that I would have a better chance leasing directly from an owner. 

Therefore, I began looking for private landlords advertising rental property on Craigslist. I found a kindly gentleman wanting to lease the guest house behind his home. I told him that I had a criminal record and that I was on parole, but he seemed willing to overlook these issues so long as he had an opportunity to speak to my references. Days later, he invited me to plan for a mid-December move in.  I was thrilled. So was he. He explained that his recent tenant, a college student from an affluent home, was sloppy, financially irresponsible, and had broken his lease in order to move in with friends. 

  

One week before I was to move in, however, the landlord emailed me. He had studied my criminal record more closely, and changed his mind. I asked for an opportunity to explain what had happened that led me to commit multiple robberies, and what I had done since that time to change my life. He refused to allow me to lease the house.  I said to him,

“Let me be sure that I understand. In light of everything you just experienced with your previous tenant, someone who doesn’t have a criminal record, you are turning down a mature, responsible, financially stable applicant?”  He did not respond. 

Undaunted, I continued to search. I found a privately owned apartment complex managed by a landlord. The rent was in my budget, and the apartment was located less than two miles from my job. I sat down with the landlord to explain my circumstance, what happened, and what I had done to change my life. I handed him a list of references. I then explained that I actively worked to pass HB 1510 during the previous legislative session, and that the bill removes the threat of civil liability when landlords choose to lease to applicants with criminal records. 

He seemed impressed.  He leaned forward and said to me, “I’m one of the most progressive people you’ll ever meet...” I’ve learned that “progressive people” tend to call themselves progressive right before they are about to say something decidedly non-progressive.  He went on: “We used to allow people with criminal records to lease here, but we wound up with a bunch of ‘thugs’ on the property.” I was taken aback.  The “t-word” has become a coded way for people to express racial fears. The criminal-justice system has impacted people of color so disproportionately, that the Department of Housing and Urban Development issued guidance stating that blanket bans on leasing to people with criminal records is racially discriminatory.

What the landlord didn't say was that the area where the apartments were located was becoming trendy, with a high-end health food store on the same block. The more stringent the rental criteria, the easier it is to attract more homogeneous applicants. The landlord told me that their lawyer had recommended that they institute a policy that would prevent anyone with a criminal record from applying.

I asked if they ever made exceptions. He said, “No! If we made an exception for you, a white person, and not someone else, then we’d be violating the Fair Housing Act!”  I was shocked.

In effect, the owner had instituted a policy which will likely prevent many people of color from leasing property; and then refused to make an exception to the policy for an otherwise qualified applicant out of fear of being accused of housing discrimination. 

I checked this out with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Someone who works for an Assistant Secretary emailed me back. He confirmed the twisted logic of the landlord. If a property manager with a policy of not leasing to someone with a criminal record decides to make an exception to that policy, then the criteria the landlord used to make the exception must be used with all applicants regardless of race.  Few owners are willing to trust a landlord or leasing agent to make these decisions; so, rental property remains largely off limits to people with criminal records, despite all the work we did on HB 1510.    

The issue isn’t how to get landlords and property managers to make exceptions to policies that bar people with criminal records from renting apartments. The issue is that those policies shouldn’t exist in the first place.

The only thing that a potential landlord should be able to ask is whether or not we can meet the same rental application standards as renters who do not have criminal records.  

 You Can Help:

The Smart on Crime Coalition created two implementation guides for HB 1510, which removes the threat of liability when landlords decide the lease property to people with criminal records. The first guide is intended for potential renters and their advocates, providing helpful guidance on how to overcome rental barriers due to criminal records. The second is intended as an outreach tool for landlords. Potential applicants should bring this with them when submitting an application.

Let landlords know about the law, and encourage them to remove the criminal background barrier. 

• HB 1510 Implementation Guide for Potential Renters and their Advocates

Desert Dreams

I spent the first week of my Christmas vacation in Big Bend National Park. I had dreamed of returning to this beautifully desolate region during my time in prison, so I immediately felt at home in the park. While in prison, memories of past trips comforted me during the countless moments of sadness. I’d also imagine future trips, planting the details in my mind to give texture and definition to uncertain hopes.

I had learned that planning for the future brought the future into the present. A friendly chaplaincy volunteer visited me twice a month, and we talked at length about my plans for the future. All of these plans were dependent on me being granted parole, and parole was far from certain; so my mentor suggested that I ask instead, 

“What am I doing today that will lead me to my desired goal?”

I embraced the exercise with enthusiasm. I imagined the type of life I wanted to lead when given my freedom. I knew that I wanted to be free from addiction, so I participated in every program available to me in order to practice the principles of recovery.  Soon, I found myself mentoring others who were drawn to my positive outlook. Recovery stopped being a future goal, and instead became my daily reality. 

I also knew that I wanted to rebuild the career I had destroyed. During my downward slide into addiction, I had succumbed to a paralyzing apathy that made me a liability to employers. In prison, I shook off the apathy. I worked diligently as a clerk in a mechanical shop, and brought even greater determination to my volunteer position as a Peer Educator.  For the first time in many years, I received praise from bosses and coworkers alike. I am often shocked when I hear people suggest that individuals coming out of prison aren’t ready to become productive members of the workforce, as if this were a general rule. 

It occurred to me as I hiked the desert trails that my dreams in prison had created a path to freedom, and the vast December sky amplified the liberty. I stopped to look into the blue sky, and grabbed some bottled water from my pack. Big Bend is so dry that visitors must bring their own water; yet it teems with life.  Peregrine falcons darted playfully above me as I hiked through a canyon, and I could see signs of black bear along the mountain trails. Purple cacti and thorny bushes with indigo-colored leaves charmed me on my desert hikes. 

It surprised me that such an unforgiving environment could produce such living beauty, but it does.

I found such living beauty while in prison, people who guided me on my path to freedom. I’ll never forget my friend Michael. In prison, he had envisioned the life he was supposed to lead. He had an intelligence and discipline that would have led most people to Ivy League schools. In the mechanical shop, he found a book on how to program databases and network computers. With no help other than the book, he programmed a sophisticated database and networked five separate shops together. He became the de-facto IT manager, almost indispensable. 

People in prison aren’t destined from birth to lead a life of crime, regardless of what some third-rate criminologists might suggest. Someone had hopes for their future, but something went terribly wrong along the way. Michael had endured such loveless abuse from his own father, that a dark core of rage lay hidden beneath his warm exterior. He was also a Vietnam War veteran, and the psychological scars of battle entwined with the rage to bring out a shocking violence. By the time I had met him, he was in his 60s and had spent the better part of his adult life in prison.

Yet, he had imagined a future where he could be the loving and gentle father he never experienced. He practiced this daily, imperfectly at first. He had to apologize countless times, especially when the rage invaded his eyes and words. Over time, the gentleness on the exterior permeated the angry core within him, and he no longer had to restrain the rage. Fatherless men started calling him “Dad.” His dreams for the future became his present reality. Michael is now a free man. He is the IT manager for a family-owned business, and volunteers with men as they make the difficult transition from prison back to the community.

Thoughts of Michael and others like him arose in my mind during my lonely hikes. The unfriendly land does not nourish life. I walked along the dry cracked dirt, yet I could see life all around me. 

The plants and animals had developed spines and claws to protect themselves, but their determination to survive had given them resilience.

This is what happens sometimes in prison. The community willfully ignores the painful trauma and neglect that had taken beautiful lives off track, and they discard and label these wounded souls: offender, convict, criminal. Prison is one of the harshest places on the planet; yet, the men and women who live there continue to dream. It’s as if the dreams someone had for their lives when they were born are seeds that only need a little water to grow. 

Even in the desert, it rains sometimes.   

I wake up daily with enormous gratitude for the life I get to live today. Years ago, I strayed off course; yet, the gentle rain from volunteers and men like Michael helped me to heal. Eventually, I found a path that led back to the life I was supposed to live. When I think of people in prison, I think of the resilient men who changed my life. 

People who attempt to describe prisoners while failing to see these beautiful souls reclaiming their lost dreams are like those who walk through the desert and see only cracked dry ground instead of brilliant purple cacti.    

Never Been Better

A few months ago, I spoke with a good friend of mine who is still doing time in prison. It had been more than a year since I had last spoken with him, yet I could feel his warmth and gentleness as if we were in the same room together.  It is true that the prison environment does little to engender the core attributes of friendship like trust, empathy, and compassion.

Yet, many people had shown him extraordinary kindness during his two decades in prison, and had had learned to pass that kindness on to others. 

I asked him how he’d been doing, and he said to me, “Never been better!” His familiar positivity brought a smile to my face. It was that bright optimism that drew me to him in the first place. Being close to him lightened the shadows I still carried at that time, and gave me hope for the future.

He had embraced faith while in prison, and it became a living force within him. Unlike many people I meet out here in the “free” world, he actually lived his faith. It propelled him into service to others. He had been teaching newcomers in prison about sexual assault prevention for nearly five years before I met him. When he wasn’t teaching, he worked in the chapel as a clerk, where he could assist the Chaplain and volunteers. Over time, they stopped seeing him as an inmate, and put him in charge of facilitating the Friday night chapel services. 

He told his story one Friday night. I’ll never forget it. He had experienced a traumatic childhood, with a chaotic home life and a father in prison. The turmoil led him to drugs and unhealthy acquaintances. Weeks before his 19^th birthday, he accompanied two young men to buy some drugs. Unexpectedly, the two men attacked the drug dealer and killed him. My friend was horrified.

He spent an entire year in county jail claiming that he never had any intention of harming the man who lost his life. The two men responsible for the murder quickly accepted plea agreements that would assure them of release from prison in their late 30s. My friend dared to claim innocence, and asked for a trial. Under the law of parties, my friend was charged and convicted of Capital Murder. 

To punish him for refusing the plea agreement, the prosecutor demanded a sentence that would keep him in prison at least twice the length of time given to the actual murderers. 

The judge agreed with the prosecutor, so my friend won’t even be eligible for parole until 2033. His right to appeal expired long ago. Unless Texas passes a law that makes my friend eligible for a second look by the sentencing court, he will remain in prison until he is at least 58 years old. Some states allow certain individuals, like those who were children themselves at the time the crime was committed, to appeal for a sentence reduction after serving a certain percentage of the sentence. Such a law could be extended to those sentenced under the law of parties, particularly when the actual murderer(s) received more lenient sentences.  Sadly, no such law exists in Texas.

My friend had to learn to forgive others in order to cope with injustice. After having served two decades in prison, my friend learned that one of the men who had committed the murder was on the unit awaiting parole release. The Chaplain accompanied my friend to the release gate, where they met the man. 

My friend looked the man in the eye and said, “I forgive you.” They shook hands, and the man departed the unit to begin his adult life outside of prison.

Both of the men who committed the murder are now free from prison. They are living their lives, able to pursue careers and family. Out here in the “free” world, the same prosecutor who abandoned all sense of fairness, demanding that my friend serve 20 years for being a party to a murder and an additional 60 years for daring to defend himself in court, gets to sleep in a comfortable bed and perhaps enjoy a round of golf this weekend. The judge who went along with the prosecutor, forgetting his sworn duty to remain just and impartial, also gets to enjoy his life, perhaps fishing along the Texas coast. My friend will experience none of these things. 

As for my friend, he’s “never been better.” He’ll teach a class this week that will make prison safer. He’ll share his kindness with people like me, helping them to heal and grow into the men they were intended to be. People who experience his friendship will return to the “free” world with a deeper commitment to improve the lives of others. 

My friend will probably bring a message at the Friday night chapel service. He may talk about an ancient king named Solomon who knew a thing or two about justice. Perhaps my friend will teach others that, when it comes to matters of justice, where lives are at stake, one needs a double portion of wisdom. 

Because wisdom is often lacking in the Texas courts, we need a Second Look Law. It's also time to take a second look at Law of Parties.  

Holliday Thanksgiving

I still remember my first Thanksgiving in prison.  I was assigned to the Holliday Unit at the time, an unlikely name for a prison unit.  The unit is located on Interstate 45 north of Huntsville, Texas.  It extends for half a mile from front entrance to back gate.  The unit houses more than 2000 residents, and is  designated as a transfer facility, intended to hold men for no more than two years before they are assigned to a permanent unit. 

I had been incarcerated for a little more than a year including county jail time, and had lingered at Holliday for ten months with no job assignment and minimal activity.  The meals were grim. We had to walk to the chow hall and appointments with our hands behind our backs, and we were treated with a level of contempt that still saddens me today. Officers yelled, threatened, and ridiculed. Often, a female lieutenant looked at us with such derision that her lips seemed to curl and purse automatically, as though the sight of us made her want to spit.  She would enter the dormitory and threaten to release tear gas, because the 100 bored inmates were talking too loudly. 

Given my experience in prison up to that point, nothing prepared me for Thanksgiving in prison. I walked slowly through the chow hall line. When I reached the front I received a tray piled with food, most of it quite good in comparison to what had been served during the preceding year. They gave us plenty of time to eat, which didn’t stop me from shoveling the food in my mouth before I had swallowed the previous bite. I had learned that when the officer knocked on the table it was time to get up, regardless of how much food was left on my plate.

When we walked out of the chow hall, the Warden herself handed me a dessert plate to take with me back to the dorm.  She wished me “Happy Thanksgiving” as though I were a guest in her home. The Major and Captain stood next to the Warden and both of them looked me directly in the eye and smiled warmly.  I’ll never forget the experience. 

I think back on that day with bitter-sweet emotion. It cost the ranking officers nothing to treat us with dignity that day.  It did not compromise security, nor did it send a message that the prison authorities approved of the crimes I had committed.  On that day, they reminded me of our common humanity. They showed compassion for the fact that I had to spend Thanksgiving away from my family. 

Their kindness on that day took a small measure of shame away from me. 

I think of what would happen in the lives of the 150,000 people incarcerated in Texas if they were treated with dignity every day of the year.  I can find no evidence to suggest that such treatment would minimize the intended effect of being in prison. In fact, there is plenty of evidence from European prisons that respectful treatment actually improves rehabilitation and helps people adjust when they return home. 

For me, the warmth I experienced on that first Thanksgiving in prison reminded me that I was worthy of a smile despite my mistakes. Treating people with dignity sends the message that they are more than the worst thing they’ve ever done.  Dignity says that, while we all may have different accomplishments, the one thing we share in common is a tendency to make mistakes. 

Dignity was the sweetest gift on that dessert tray, and I never let it go. 

If you are interested in becoming a volunteer in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, go to https://www.tdcj.state.tx.us/divisions/rpd/rpd_volunteer.html