Why I Write

(Written for an assignment)

For the moment, I am forced to be in prison, but prison will never be in me.

To internalize the effects of these circumstances and senseless cruelties, to isolate and withdraw from confrontational stressors and negative influences, allowing cynicism and bitterness to cut off the honest communication of my thoughts and feelings, my inner life, would be a form of surrender to an archaic and inhumane system. I will never permit them to make me into what I was never intended to be--a hardened prisoner removed from society and incapable of contributing something positive and meaningful. The most effective way I have found to resist this process in nine years of incarceration is to write, to put a pen to paper and record for any use that can be made of them my ideas and perceptions, who I really am as an individual.

Throughout history, this has always been the way. From St. Paul's letters to the Colossians to Dostoyevsky's "Notes From the Underground," Alexander Solzhenitsyn's political protests from a Siberian Gulag, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letters from Birmingham Jail," Nelson Mandela's critiques of Aparthied, and many others: all examples of man's resistance to suppression, how the truth can be conveyed and lives changed from within the confines of a jail cell.

Bi-weekly prison literary club meetings and required writing assignments may seem unimportant, just another excuse for sponsored banquets and gluttony twice a year. Actually, this extracurricular activity is what you make of it. The intrinsic reward is directly related proportionally to the effort one is willing to extend. The inspiration to do my best at something has always proved to be rewarding and good for me, the results of education and intellectual work always beneficial; it is to write for writing's sake, refusing to be silenced.

J. Wallace

Testify

I had not witnessed anything like it in nine years of imprisonment, ten different camps and chapel programs.

Thursday night, the "Jesus Freaks X 3" ministry held their monthly service in the Polk C.I. chapel. Heidi, a slight and attractive young woman with yards of long, curly, blond hair and tattoos, began this ministry after she became a Born Again Christian several years ago. She told us her story, a long history of drug and alcohol abuse culminating in a spur of the moment trip to Japan. Once overseas and broke, she was forced into the degradation of prostitution. Visiting U.S. Marines, thankfully, found her there and, after learning her story, rescued her and brought her back to Seattle. However, her substance abuse didn't end then.

Heidi met Mike, a man caught up in the same destructive lifestyle. They somehow stayed together fifteen years and were blessed with a little girl. Heidi began to attend a local church, once they moved to Florida, and gave her life to Jesus. She convinced Mike to attend also, and he became a Christian after his daughter told him one day, "Jesus doesn't want you to live like this, Daddy!"

Heidi explained that she received a calling to minister to the imprisoned--that the terrors she had experienced and was delivered from opened her eyes to how many people could end up in prison. She now brings the love and joy of the Lord's salvation to the incarcerated, trusting the Holy Spirit to make a way and to prepare a worship service.

Thursday night, once again, she was trusting the Lord to make things happen. After the prison choir sang several wonderful songs they had written, one inmate stood up and proceded to the podium. He had volunteered to give his testimony.

You could tell that something had profoundly moved and humbled him. He bowed his head and spoke slowly while unfolding several sheets of notebook paper, the microphone concealing much of his face. He began by stating that the Lord told him to give his testimony "the first chance he got" several days ago, and kept him up through the night to write it down, a testimony which he now read in his own words.

He told a terrible story of physical and sexual abuse that had begun when he was three years old. After his alcoholic and abusive father abandoned his family in Chicago when the boy was young, various people abused him for many years. He began to drink and use drugs to escape the pain he felt, pain from activities he did not enjoy but was forced into and later pursued as a substitute for love. He had never been shown love; these twisted attentions were all that he knew. Still, something was terribly wrong and the thought filled him with rage.

He ran away and prostituted himself as a teenager for money to buy drugs and alcohol to suppress the rejection and self-hatred he felt, his fear and fury and anger at God for allowing his life. This reservoir of dammed-up wrath broke when he was told to leave one place where he was staying. He tied up the person he had been staying with and proceded to torture and strangle him to death.

Prison did not change his behavior. "The lock" was just a convenient place to continue his self-abuse: drugging, inflicting and receiving pain. He learned he was HIV positive, a wasted life and hopeless case.

All the while, his mother had been praying for him. She told him that his brothers both had had AIDS, but before they died, they had become Christians and had also prayed for his salvation.

No one in that chapel of hardened men made a sound.

The inmate began to cry. Others cried, also. Some voiced words of encouragement to him and praised the Lord.

This was a very unusual occurrance in prison. No one purposely exhibits any sign of weakness or vulnerbility for any reason. No one is supposed to know too much about you personally in case it could be used against you. This inmate had bared his soul, his all, before all of us for the sake of our souls, and he gave the Lord complete credit for his courage and purpose. He committed the rest of his days to service to the Lord for what He had done for him and his family. He explained:

Love Personified had met him and shown him the love he had never known. Jesus had taken the filth of his life to His cross and washed it all away with the Holy Blood of His sacrifice, coming into his heart to live. And now, no matter what happens, he knows that one day he will join his mother and brothers to live in a place of love and joy without pain or regret forever. Amen.

The entire congregation of inmates spontaneously sprang to their feet and gave this courageous man a thunderous, standing ovation that went on for five minutes, shouting praises to the Worker of Miracles.


J. Wallace

Birds

A flock of birds had gathered restlessly on the peaked roof of the entrance to the military-style barracks converted into a prison dormitory. The inmates trudged out of the dorm, listless and hungry and obedient to the narrow, yellow lines painted on the sidewalk out front. Many turned slightly to notice the birds and an old man vying for their attention.

"Watch this!", the grizzled, old inmate called out to them, and raised his fist high, one obscene finger sticking out.

Anything can happen in prison. The unexpected becomes the expected and is anticipated as a welcome diversion to the monotonous routine. Still, wary eyes darted first to the guards to make sure everything was kosher. The guards weren't paying attention. They listened intently to the radio for the command to move the dorm to the chowhall, oblivious to the old man's stunt.

Out of an assemblage of supposedly wild birds, one small finch flitted out from the others. He was rounded and fat for his size and seemed to struggle in the air, but that was just the style of his species, putting on a show as he circled the line of inmates, just over their heads, for several passes. It was so quiet in the gathering dusk, the only sounds the fluttering of little wings and occasional radio static.

Finally, the tiny bird lighted upon the old man's raised finger as the inmate pulled some bread crumbs from his pocket to feed it. An unspoken, "Aha!" lit up the new arrivals' faces. This was some kind of trained bird act! Who knew how many years this had been going on--the old man, his raised finger, the bread crumbs? How in the world did it begin? There were many unanswered questions. No one bothered to ask them though, in the settling silence. All they needed to know was that, for a few moments, they weren't in prison.

The only thing that seemed important, the significant part, was when the finch, after getting his fill, casually flew back to join his friends. Then suddenly, with a start, the whole flock, like a black cloud on a gust of wind, flew away quickly to the countryside beyond the tall fences, to the green fields and trees that lay just out of reach. The little fella was being fed by the State! The difference was that he could take it or leave it, come and go as he pleased. He was free.

The decrepit, old inmate laughed with bright, shining eyes and pointed over the razor wire after them. "Jailbirds!", he exclaimed, but we knew the sobering truth.

At that moment, I put it all into the Lord's hands: my failed life, thoughts of vengeance and retaliation, retribution for all the injustices, persecutions, mistreatments and misery I had suffered, the fears for my family, worries for my children and my mother's declining years, the uncertain immediate future--the whole mess. He promised to bring the wicked to justice and make everything right again. I won't have to do anything but trust that He will do what He said, and one day soon, fly away to join my loved ones in those pleasant green fields forever, free again forever. Amen.

J. Wallace

The Power of Innocence

The Unity Christian Ministry Singers, out of Greentown, Ohio, were coming to Polk C.I. on Thursday night for a worship service! Flyers with a photo of the trio, two women and a man, dressed in fancy attire like a Las Vegas Act, were posted on the chow hall and the prison chapel doors. Everyone was excited: the few, genuine Born Again Christian inmates due to the evangelistic opportunity; many others just because it was something different, a chance for entertainment in their dreary lives.

That night, the chapel was soon packed with two hundred Knuckleheads forced close together in the pews and chairs in the back, everyone as well-behaved as possible. They appreciated Polk's continued support of these programs and did their best to control themselves, but one never forgot that this was a prison population, usually removed from society for good reasons. After a few announcements from the Black Moslem chaplain, the crowd settled down to low, expectant mummerings as the Unity Singing Group entered at the side door.

This time Darrell, the lead singer, had brought along a surprise! With stunned disbelief, all eyes fell upon a pretty, eighteen-year-old girl as she walked slowly in. She was slender and graceful with long, curly, dark hair that framed an angelic, dimpled face. The surly crowd could not have been more shocked if the president of the United States had made a sudden appearance! She walked with her head bowed but showing a slight, beatific smile, obviously praying, but also aware of her surroundings. Like a roomful of Catholics confronted with a nun, the inmates weren't sure how to respond. How could this little girl be so brave as to come to this place to minister to these hardened men? It defied understanding.

I immediately began to earnestly pray for her. "Oh, Lord, please don't let anything mess this up! It must be important for some reason."

The young girl was introduced as Michelle, Darrell's niece from Ohio, who had asked to come along with his ministry team to Florida this winter. Darrell mentioned how unusual it was for a teenager, at this point in her life, to leave her friends and interests to selflessly minister to imprisoned men and women. It seemed more than unusual, even supernatural, especially when she took center stage and began to sing. How could such a young person be so self-assured and poised, composed and dignified in her presentation? Any lascivious temptations were immediately shamed into subjugation, ultimately destroyed by the powerful innocence that radiated from a young, beautiful face lifted toward heaven.

She sang several happy songs of faith while her dark eyes shone with joy and fearlessness, the smile never leaving her lips. Darrell and his backup singers then followed with several rousing songs of inspiration, very professionally done in a way that made you proud to be a Christian, intermixed with sermonettes from scripture.

Everyone's face was just expressing pleasure with the program that had lasted an hour and a half, when once again Michelle took the stage, this time alone. She knelt down with head bowed as a song began to play from the chapel speaker system. No one seemed to move or even breathe. She began to pantomime the words using sign language in flowing gestures that resembled an interpretive dance, elegant and dignified, something completely alien to the culture she performed before. The Christian artist on the CD sang about his own prodigal son story, analogous to the relationship between God and a repentant sinner. As he sang the words, "You're still my son no matter what you've done," and "He ran to me," Michelle stood to her feet with a sweeping embrace, and then, hands raised up, she praised God for everything. No words of her own were needed. Hardened hearts were broken at that moment. Tears flowed freely and were quickly wiped away. A shuddering of suppressed emotion moved through the audience like waves that broke upon a shore. Many allowed themselves to be swept up, and gratefully raised their hands during the invitation to accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior.

It has been said that everything we say and do has an impact upon the world in ways we would never realize. This idea has been expressed in novels and movies like
"It's a Wonderful Life," "Six Degrees of Separation," and "The Butterfly Effect." That night in an old prison chapel, the power of one young woman's pure faith and courage, her decision to serve the Lord by sharing His love with the unloveable, in many lives changed everything. As in Daniel's day, the Lord shut the mouths of the lions in their den. His music soothed the savage beasts, and in this case, brought to them His salvation through an innocent heart.

J. Wallace