On prayer.

On prayer.

In jail, we read Czeslaw Milosz’s “On Prayer” (translated by Robert Hass), which opens with the lines:

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.

All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge

And walking it we are aloft

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Photographs by Robert Croma on Flickr.

After somebody read the poem aloud, I asked him: “What would your ideal god look like?”

“Um … tall … blonde, blue eyes …”

I was worried he was describing Thor.  It’s a bad bias, reminiscent of the old surgeon riddle.

The guy went on: “ … thirty-two D …”

Greek_-_Aphrodite_-_Walters_2399“Oh,” I said.  “You wanna worship Aphrodite.”

“Man, she’s great,” he said.  “I’ve been reading all the Greek myths and stuff.  But she is wicked when she’s mad.  Like Arachne committed suicide, and there’s Echo, and Na … Nar …”

“Narcissus.”

“… who she just wrecked.”

It’s true – the god of desire can hurt you.  We were discussing mythology in a room full of dudes incarcerated for possession.

Many of them know that desire is wrecking their lives.  I often say that I’m not against drugs, but certain drugs, mixed with certain people, are definitely bad news.

“That’s me,” said a guy who told me that he’s been shuffling in and out for the last twenty-four years, with the durations out often lasting no more than weeks.  “Last year … after my wife died … my son had to bring me back.  I was over at my nephew’s, and we’d had something like a full gram, each time we sold some I had to be like, here, let me try it with you, and I was falling out … but my son just happened to come by in my truck, and I had all the stuff.  He hit me with Narcan.”

Narcan – naloxone – revives people after overdose.

“So I know I gotta quit.  If I don’t stop, I’m gonna die.”

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In AA, people work with a higher power to stay sober.  A buddy told me, “It was hard coming out as an atheist in AA.”  But Milosz, the poet, would say that there’s no contradiction.  Milosz approached religion from a “scientific, atheistic position mostly,” and then he lived under the Nazis in Warsaw – an experience that could shake anybody’s faith.

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.

And yet, prayer does change the mind.  Earnest prayer can heal. 

All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge

 if there is no other shore

We will walk that aerial bridge all the same.

The men know the grim statistics – rehab fails most people.  A counselor can’t reach into their minds and save them.  Neither can any god.  I’d argue that scientists can’t, either, but some scientists are trying – they’re testing transcranial magnetic stimulation aimed at a region of the human brain associated with impulse control.

Zap.

Do you want drugs now?

Transcranial_magnetic_stimulationA few people in the clinical trials have said “No,” but most people probably still do.  Which isn’t to disparage magnets – we’re asking an awful lot of them.  Addiction is a loop.  So many memories cause desire to swell.  For the guys in jail – many of whom started using when they were eleven or twelve – this is the only life they’ve known.  Their minds have never dealt with the world sober.  They are being asked to start all over again.

But some people manage to quit.  When rehab works, change comes from within.  And so it doesn’t matter whether any god is listening – prayer is for the person who prays.

We will walk that aerial bridge all the same.

On changing a life.

On changing a life.

Back in the 1990s, a buddy of mine was locked up repeatedly for possession of heroin in California.  The drug itself is illegal, and apparently my buddy was making some poor choices while under the influence.  You know, little mistakes, things like turning & running backward to flip off a cop while he fled, only to flip over the hood of a police car coming from the other direction.  Liberating quarters from coin-op laundromats.  Moving meth to fund his habit.

As a condition of probationary release, he was sentenced to rehab.  Required to participate in AA meetings.  He’d show up sullen, at least for a while, then start showing up stoned, then quit altogether as his addiction took hold.  Nobody can force you to get sober, he told me.  You can be forced not to use – if you’re locked up without it, then you’ll kick.  But that’s not the same as being sober.  You can’t be clean – not really – until you have a choice.

Unfortunately, that first moment of choice often comes at an awful time in people’s lives.  Incarceration is traumatic; so is release.  From Susan Burton and Cari Lynn’s Becoming Ms. Burton:

burtonThere’s also no logical reason why federal prisons offer halfway houses to those newly released, but state prisons provide nothing.  Four thousand newly released women arrive in Los Angeles County every year to nothing.  No re-entry programs, no counseling, no services, no assistance.  You have no house key, no credit card, no checkbook, no driver’s license, no Social Security card, no identification of any sort because anything you were carrying when you were arrested has been destroyed by the state.  You’re just one woman in the crowd of mostly black and brown faces, one number in the recidivism stats that are decidedly not in your favor.

Like vultures, the pimps circle, eyeing you, assessing you.  The drug dealers circle.  You know them from the old neighborhood, and they call you by name, offering their brand of a welcome home party.  You have little incentive to say no.  Ego tells you you’re gonna make it by any means necessary.  Ego tells you you’re a grown woman.  But you’re scared.  How do you calm yourself?  How do you connect with something healthy and hopeful when you’re surrounded by Skid Row?  When you haven’t been allowed to make a decision in five, ten, twenty years?  When all you want to do is wash prison off you, but you can’t, because it’s in you.  It’s seeped into your psyche and into your soul.

All I wanted was to ease the fear, ease the self-loathing, ease the hopelessness.  It seemed the only thing in the world I was certain of was how to escape by taking drugs, by self-medicating.  Three days: that’s the average time for someone to relapse after getting out of prison.  I knew nothing about statistics, but I knew that, in a drug high, I could escape into silence.

It takes a lot for an addict to get sober.  I don’t fault the people who want to get clean but keep slipping.  Still, this much is clear: you can’t change your life until you choose to.

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I started teaching in the local jail because I felt ashamed.  I am a citizen of the United States, and the horrors of mass incarceration are inflicted on behalf of all citizens.  I personally owe an apology to those who’ve been yanked away from their lives unfairly … and to those children whose parents were taken away … and to those parents whose children were taken away … and to those who lost their neighbors … and to those whose loved ones were harmed by the violence begat by entire community’s loss of trust in the police, which required inhabitants to take justice into their own hands … and …

Given that some 2.5 million people in the U.S. are currently incarcerated … with another 5 million on probation or parole, a tiny slip away from being shipped away again … and which surely means tens of millions more whose lives have been sundered by the loss of a loved one … many of them innocent children … there is no way I could give a personal apology to everyone who deserves one.  I’m sorry, as a citizen of the United States, that your mother was yanked away on my behalf.

But I can go in and teach.  Last year, I spent about five hours each week inside the most miserable place in town.  Even now, after one of my classes was canceled, I spend close to three hours a week in there.  And I hate being in jail.  Everyone does.  It’s loud, bleak, malodorous, filled with stale air and flickering fluorescent light.  Full of angry people who won’t make eye contact when you talk, but will stand at the front of their cells and stare.  If you don’t see a dude, he might bang the glass and shout – I jump.

The elevator has buttons.  The buttons do nothing.

There is waiting.  Lots of waiting.

But the time I spend with the men in class (only men – the administration has declared all female inmates to be manipulative, irresistible seductresses and will not let male volunteers work with them, for the volunteers’ protection) is great.  They love our poetry class.  Despite the fact that many of these men stopped out of school and never looked at poetry on the outside, they are astute readers.

Several of the men in our classes grew to love writing as well.  Monster House Press has put together a literary magazine featuring some of their work, available here.

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Each week, we met with mid-level offenders in a classroom, and with recovering addicts inside the New Leaf New Life dormitory.  This latter was an incredibly grim space.  Twelve men lived inside this dormitory full-time; there were two steel tables with uncomfortable round seats attached for their meals in the “living area”; there were bunk beds in the “sleeping area”; they had a toilet and shower, the only portion of the room not under constant camera surveillance.  The concrete walls were painted gray, and the only window was a small, wire-reinforced pane in the door: this window looked out to the booking desk on the ground floor of the jail.

So: no exterior windows, no glimpse of sunlight, no fresh air, twelve grown men crammed together for months in a space smaller than the living room of my own (small) home.  A wall was shared with the drunk tank – sometimes somebody would be kicking & shit everywhere.  Sometimes a schizophrenic would sing ceaselessly for days.  Sometimes an angry inmate would rhythmically kick the steel door, every three seconds another KLOOOM reverberating through our skulls.

New Leaf had been granted this space by the jail because no one else wanted to be in there.

And yet that is where we held our best classes.  Even though the space was wretched, the men chose to be in there.  Volunteers – like J-M & me, and a dude who held AA classes, and a local linguist, and others – came in to offer some “enrichment.”  The men also created their own programming: one of the twelve conducted a meditation session each morning.  After our class had been going for a while, the men started reading poetry out loud to each other.  They were suffering, but they learned to suffer together.  In that small, crappy space, dudes riddled with Aryan Brotherhood tattoos befriended black men.  A dude forgave the informant who’d put him there.  Together, these men weathered the deaths of their parents, girlfriends, wives – mass incarceration has ravaged our country.  In the devastated communities left behind, people die all the time.

Hell, mass incarceration caught up with my wife and me, too.  Last November, my wife’s mother was murdered.  It’s unlikely the killer would’ve done it if he hadn’t been so severely distanced from his friends and family, locked up for a decade for a pair of low-level, non-violent drug crimes.  He sold crappy amounts of cocaine; ten years of his life were yanked away; now my mother-in-law is dead.

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To publicize the Monster House Press magazine with the men’s poetry, we made a video using the text of a poem from the collection, Max E.’s “San Diego 1985: I Felt Your Presence in the Absence of Time.”

 

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I love this poem for its depiction of epiphany.  It’s hard work to change your life, but before that work can even begin, you have to want to change.  As much as I hate the way we treat “criminals” in this country, many men have told me that they’re glad they were jolted from their routines – their lives were on a bad course and jail shook them awake, making them realize that they needed to change.

Surrounded by angry angels, this poem’s narrator realizes he’s made a mistake.

Given a reprieve from fate, that is when the hard work begins.  Here’s another excerpt from Becoming Ms. Burton:

Drugs are insidious.  A social ill for some folks, a criminal ill for others.

Jail had done nothing to stop my addiction.  Education, hard work, dedication, a support system, and knowing there were opportunities for me and that my life had value: these were what had made all the difference.  For the past twenty years of my sobriety, I deployed each of these facets, every day.

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Few people find the right path on their first attempt.  Collectively, nobody in the U.S. can claim to be on the right track.  We’re wrecking the environment, we’re wrecking lives … some of us try to tread lightly, but the world is still being wrecked on our behalf.  We all share the blame.

We, too, need to be jolted into change.

On government intrusion and addiction.

On government intrusion and addiction.

Midway through his review of Akhil Reed Amar’s pop constitutional law book, Jeremy Waldron introduces the following scenario:

An FBI agent starts attending a particular mosque.  After each visit, he writes down everything he saw and heard and reports to his superior. 

Is this a search?  Should the FBI agent need a warrant?fbi

I assume that many people feel icky about the idea of government agents attending a religious service in order to snoop.  I do.  But it’s unclear whether we should call this a “search.”  If not, the Fourth Amendment offers no protection.

Even if we decide that this is a search – in which case an FBI agent would not be allowed to do this without establishing probable cause – this snooping would be totally legal if done by a private citizen.  If you attend a church service and hear something suspicious, you’re well within your rights to report to the authorities.  Our constitution permits more intrusion by the general populace than by government employees.

But… what qualifies someone as being in the government’s employ?

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In jail recently, we read Virginia Adair’s “Cor Urbis.”  This poem trudges through urban decay with stanzas like:

And so to the cubicle of stench

          Past rats running for offices

          Roaches and flies feeding like bankers

                   We come fast to the heart

                   the heart of the great city.

melonThe men loved this.  The insects were being insulted… by comparing them to human bankers.  The imagery throughout this poem is simultaneously realistic – as we walk the corridor rats skitter away and duck inside the adjacent offices – and surreal – the city has fallen so far that the very rats stand on streetcorners, shaking hands, announcing their platforms, swearing “If you vote for me, I’ll clean this place up!” 

After discussing the poem, we tried writing about cities we’ve lived in as though they were bodies – in “Cor Urbis,” Adair writes that the “guns have human eyes,” the streets are “varicose thoroughfares,” and building “facades ooze and peel like scabs.”  Cancer imagery is common in literature, too, conveying that one aspect of a city or society has careened out of control…

For the exercise, I wrote a short poem about Silicon Valley as a Stepford Wife: dyed platinum blonde hair, surgically-enhanced physique, immaculately styled, exhaling money… with no soul.  One man wrote that his home town was dead.

And another participant wrote a piece that began with the line, “Bloomington, full of rats and lies.”

Bloomington: full of rats?  A large rat does live behind my compost bin.  This monstrous rodent feasts on vegetable scraps.  Each evening with our leavings I pay tribute to the Rat King!

But that’s not what our writer meant.  He was talking “rat” as in “police informant.”

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If a police officer snoops around your home, spots drugs, and then files for a warrant, we have a problem.  The officer has violated the Fourth Amendment.  Any evidence of wrongdoing is supposedly inadmissible in court, per the “exclusionary rule.”

If a private citizen snoops around, spots drugs, then tells the police… and then the police file for a warrant, based on this private citizen’s tip… they’re in the clear.  This is a perfectly legal sequence of events.  The Fourth Amendment doesn’t apply to people who aren’t working for the government.

Even if, suddenly, they are.US_incarceration_timeline

With mandatory minimums hanging over their heads, people break.  Many, brought into jail, become informants.  They aren’t considered government employees, because they receive no monetary compensation for their tips… but they receive something more valuable.  They’re being paid with their lives.

Let’s say a person’s car was searched, and the police find a few grams of a white powder… and this person has priors, and kids… and the prosecutor starts rattling off threats, if you take this to court, we can put you away for twenty years… twenty years?  For that?  When no one was hurt?  In twenty years, those kids will have kids of their own.

Of, if you cooperate, you could walk today…

In game theory, there’s a famous scenario called “the prisoners’ dilemma.“ Presumably you’ve heard the set-up: two people are each being interrogated separately by government agents.  Prosecutors have enough evidence to convict each on a minor charge, but would rather pin a major crime on somebody – that’s what brings prosecutors the publicity they need to stay in power.

If both suspects stay mum, they’ll each land five years in prison.  If both betray each other, they’ll each get ten years.  But if one stays mum and is betrayed, the talker walks and the hold-out gets fifteen years.

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According to an economist, each should betray the other.  When we draw out all the possible choices and the payoffs, we see that, no matter what Prisoner B chooses, Prisoner A will serve less time by talking (either Prisoner B has chosen “Betray,” in which case Prisoner A gets 10 years instead of 15 by talking, or else Prisoner B has chosen “Silent,” in which case Prisoner A gets zero years instead of 5 by talking).

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And so that is the choice Homo economicus – an imaginary “perfectly rational” being – would make.  Homo economicus betrays friends.  And both players serve more prison time than they would’ve if they’d managed to stay mum.

Economists agree that there is a better strategy – in the outcome described above, both suspects land more prison time (10 years each) than they would’ve if they’d managed to stay mum (5 years each) – but only in the context of the “repeated prisoners’ dilemma.”  If we play many times with the same partners, there is a powerful incentive to cooperate.  We are building a reputation.  We can signal to our friends that we are not rational.  We can stay silent when Homo economicus would not.

Of course, the mandatory minimums for drug crimes are so egregiously long that people only play this game once.  The sentences can be measured in decades – huge fractions of our lives – and we each have just one life to live.

I assume that’s why so many dudes in jail – especially the young dudes – have the words “Death Before Dishonor” crudely inked on their forearms.  In a world where people might only make these choices once, we need ways to signal our irrationality in advance.  You can trust me because I am not Homo economicus and will not act in my own self interest.

This same principle might explain why we humans are so emotional.  Most animals will fight: there’s only so much food and territory and premium nookie to go around.  And they’ll fight when threatened.  But humans launch all-out irrational vendettas.

Why?

Here’s Daniel Dennett’s supposition, presented in Freedom Evolves:

9780142003848When evolution gets around to creating agents that can learn, and reflect, and consider rationally what they ought to do next, it confronts these agents with a new version of the commitment problem: how to commit to something and convince others you have done so.  Wearing a cap that says “I’m a cooperator” is not going to take you far in a world of other rational agents on the lookout for ploys.  According to [economist Robert] Frank, over evolutionary time we “learned” how to harness our emotions to the task of keeping us from being too rational, and – just as important – earning us a reputation for not being too rational.  It is our unwanted excess of myopic or local rationality, Frank claims, that makes us so vulnerable to temptations and threats, vulnerable to “offers we can’t refuse,” as the Godfather says.  Part of becoming a truly responsible agent, a good citizen, is making oneself into a being that can be relied upon to be relatively impervious to such offers.

Not everyone is sufficiently emotional to give up five years in order to stay true to an ideal, however.  It’s especially hard while sitting around in jail, sweating through withdrawal, sleep deprived, nineteen hours a day of fluorescent light and even the brief dark merciless since that’s when the nearby schizoid man spends two hours straight rhythmically kicking his cell door…

Tortured this way, people break.  They start dropping names.

Despite the fact that we’ve given our police officers millions of dollars worth of military-grade equipment to fight the “War on Drugs,” most preliminary evidence is gathered by shaking down impoverished addicts.  They’re hauled in, locked up, and then offered a brief reprieve of freedom – during which time the police know their informants are planning to use again, which is why the offer is so tempting – in exchange for betraying their friends and neighbors.

The use of informants evades the strictures of the Fourth Amendment.  But, as a tactic in the “War on Drugs,” this is absurd.

For people to get clean and stay clean, we need stronger communities.  We need to foster more trust in people’s friends and neighbors.  Several of my friends have sobered up over the years – from meth, pills, heroin, pot, or alcohol – and every single one of them would readily acknowledge that he couldn’t have done it alone.

But the use of police informants saps trust.  Which means that, when people get out, and they are struggling to stay sober… they won’t have a community they trust to catch them.

The opiate epidemic is, in many ways, a symptom of a bigger problem in this country.  And the punitive way that we’ve been trying to fix it?  We’re making it worse.