"Prisoners of Christ" Visits Parole Planning Workshop At Tomoka C. I.

Dateline: Thursday, May 23, 2019

  

             After months of false starts and failed attempts to address our Parole Planning Workshop, Greg Seymour, Re-Entry Director for the "Prisoners of Christ" faith-based residential transition program in Jacksonville,, Florida, finally returned to his roots as a free man. Decades before, Greg had been a prisoner at Tomoka C.I., Daytona Beach, Florida, working as a chapel clerk before attending the F. I. U. Lifers Program at Everglades C. I., eventually being released on parole.
             Originally scheduled to make the trek to Tomoka on March, 16, 2019, Greg had made it as far as Highway 92, right down the road, when his car was rear-ended by one of our Florida drivers, resulting in having to deal with Florida Highway Patrol officers for hours. Such are the complications parolees must deal with. Thankfully, everything turned out all right. Wellness Supervisor Officer C. Johnson made the calls and obtained the approvals needed for our speaker to try again.
             Before turning the floor over to Greg, I asked each of the men to stand up, introduce themselves: their names, where they were from, how many years they'd been in prison, what their parole dates were, starting with myself.
             "My name is Charlie Norman, this past April 5th marked my forty-first year of imprisonment on a murder conviction from Tampa. My parole release date remains July 4, 2017, although the parole commissioners refused to sign my papers, suspending my date."
             As we went around the room, it was a humbling experience to hear each man's story, as brief as it was. A few of the men had known Greg Seymour when he'd been here as a prisoner, albeit now they were much older, grayer, balder, and bent by the time they'd served.
             On this day that Greg had accepted our invitation to return to speak to twenty-two parole-eligible prisoners gathered in the Wellness Program building, looking out at the seated men, one could tell that he had been affected by the short testimonies. Patting the concrete block wall behind him, Greg explained why he didn't need directions from the front gate to the Wellness building, in the shadow of the gun tower overseeing the prison recreation yard, even after all these years.
             "Another inmate and I laid these blocks over twenty years ago. We built this building and the library," he said, smiling, patting his handiwork again. "We must have done a pretty good job. It's still standing. It's holding up pretty well." He could have said the same thing about himself.
             Greg Seymour has a strong Christian background, and his advice to men seeking parole is infused with his faith.
             "What is parole?" he asked. "Grace, man. Grace is when God gives us what we don't deserve. Mercy is when God doesn't give us what we deserve. That's what happened to me when I got paroled. I didn't deserve it."
             On the subject of parole, talking to a number of men whose parole dates had already passed, in legal limbo with arbitrary parole "suspensions" delaying their earned releases, Greg had some advice.
             "It may seem like a hopeless situation. You may be listening to that man whispering in your ear, but you better make sure he's telling you the right thing.
             "What's behind you is behind you. You can't dig it up.
             "I learned to think for myself.
             "Prior to God I was a mess. I had a bad mindset."
             Greg shared more examples and analogies from his life experiences to illustrate to the men how to prepare for parole, for when they are finally released into free society.
             "Prepare for parole now. You gotta get your eyes off the next man, and look in the mirror.
             "Keep your heart seasoned. Do you know what that means? My daddy was a Bahamian. He was a great cook. It all came down to the seasonings he used. You gotta season your heart. Hatred, bitterness, murder, bad seasonings, come from the heart. Like a garden you gotta pluck out the weeds.
             "Prepare--make your preparations now--for parole. It's easy to violate. Some of ya'll can't wait to get outa here and get you a woman. You gotta get the right woman.
             "I'm just like you--I make mistakes. But God doesn't make mistakes. Some of us, we're harboring all kinds of stuff in our hearts, negative thoughts, hatred. Keep your heart seasoned with the right thoughts.
             "Pick the people you associate with. Watch out for those smiling in your faces. Prison does give you a lot of advantages. You can see those types of people coming before they get there. You gotta avoid them.
             "There was a man on my job--he was a hater. Back in the day, we would have handled it differently-break his jaw. I'm not gonna harbor any ill will. I have not reverted back to my old ways. God took care of it. He doesn't need my help."
             Greg talked about what he's doing right now, besides his job as re-entry director at Prisoners of Christ, working with other parolees.
             "Prepare to be successful while on parole. Give back. Joe Miller and I work in a juvenile program. Don't quit, just because you have setbacks. I'm sharing with you what worked for me. God saw into my heart."
             The time went quickly. After a question-and-answer session, handshakes and a few hugs ended the session. I watched Greg walk up the road toward the front gate and freedom, like most of the other men, wondering when we'd follow him to freedom.
             Thanks, Greg.

Charlie

PRISON LOCKDOWN FOR THE HOLIDAY

Dateline: Friday, May 24, 2019

Friday morning, during breakfast, two prisoners slipped into another housing area and brutally stabbed another sleeping prisoner multiple times. Fortunately he survived. The culprits were captured live and in color on the multiple video cameras mounted everywhere. One cut himself during the attack, marking himself. America's dumbest criminals.

The victim went to the hospital and his attackers went to lockup. They won't be seen in these parts for a long time. Although the case was easily solved, an isolated incident of rivals, in an act of brilliance the people in charge declared a 72- hour lockdown, no movement, no yard, no work, no canteen, no TV's, no phone calls, all 1300 other prisoners who'd done nothing wrong but exist, punished arbitrarily. They let us buy these little tablets last year to send and receive emails, and haven't shut down the WiFi yet, knock on wood, so I am able to send this out. They did permit visits, and this morning Libby rescued me from several hours of forced sitting quietly on my bunk, to spend time with her in the air conditioning. It seemed only minutes had passed before I was trudging down that back road in the scorching 95° heat, back to the sweltering building I live in.

Perhaps someone higher up will have mercy on us and call off the lockdown, but that's unlikely. All these testy, overheated men crowded together with nothing to do is a prescription for trouble. At least I have a good book to read. Please pray for sensibility.

Best to you, and hope you all have a nice, peaceful Memorial Day.

Charlie

Norman Easter Visit

Easter Sunday  April 21, 2019
I hadn't had an Easter Sunday visit from my mother, brother, Dan, and niece Tammy, for over thirty years, until this past April 21st, here at Tomoka C. I. We took four photos, which I've asked Libby to include with this brief message. It meant a lot to us to be together on this special day.

We hope your Easter was filled with love, too.

All the best, Charlie 

"F(r)iction" Literary Journal Publishes Charlie's Poem

Libby and I were delighted to receive copies of the "F(r)iction" Winter 2018 edition of this highly-regarded international art and literary journal featuring the first publication of my recent poem, "Stirs The Eggs, Scrambled," a narrative poem of my childhood.

When I got my copy of the literary and art journal at mail call, several of my fellow prisoners were immediately drawn to the beautiful cover art by Carly Janine Mazur. "F(r)iction" is filled with more art, and Tyler Champion created the illustrations going along with my poem and the other prisoners' works. There is talk of how great tattoos of his works would look. I'm not encouraging anyone to do that. Tattoos are illegal in prison, although you couldn't tell, considering their prevalence.

"F(r)iction" is an imprint of the Brink Literacy Project, an international literacy nonprofit and independent publisher, beautifully designed by Dani Hedlund, Editor-In-Chief, including works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and graphic artwork. Helen Maimaris, C.O.O. and Assistant Art Director, has been in touch with me through emails, and gave me permission to reproduce the following pages from the literary journal. She has encouraged me to submit additional literary works for consideration in future publications, a great honor.

Caits Meissner, director of the PEN American Center Prison Writing Program in New York City (pen.org), recommended my poem and four others by imprisoned poets, for a "F(r)iction" feature, "The Pen Cries Power," stating, "PEN America stands at the intersection of literature and human rights to protect freedom of expression in the United States and worldwide. Founded on the heels of the Attica prison uprising in 1971, PEN America's Prison Writing Program believes in the restorative, rehabilitative, and transformative possibilities of writing, and we support free expression, encouraging the use of the written word as a legitimate form of power. We provide hundreds of imprisoned writers across the country with free writing resources, skilled mentors, and audiences for their work. We strive toward an increasingly integrative approach--aiming to amplify the voices and writing of imprisoned people to expand beyond the silo of prison and the identity of prisoner."

Click here to go to the online "F(r)iction" literary journal and read my poem: https://frictionlit.org/the-pen-cries-power/

Also, as a nonprofit, "F(r)iction" has launched a Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign. Click here to check it out: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1002171905/friction-a-fine-art-and-literature-collection  

I'm putting together a proposal to start a creative writing class through the Wellness Department here at Tomoka C. I. We have a number of budding poets and writers who've expressed interest in becoming better writers, and I hope those in charge will look favorably on this proposal. PEN American Center has supported my creative writing classes at several prisons over the years, and publishes a useful book, "Handbook For Prison Writers." Helen Maimaris has already sent us a number of back issues of "F(r)iction" for inspiration and study. Thanks, Helen.

Charles Patrick Norman

04/20/2019

 

Early morning: the sun not yet shining.
Still dark. Breakfast. 

My Father sits across from me
        at the small square kitchen table
        covered with a red-and-white-checked
        oil cloth, spooning hot grits
        onto his plate—white, steaming,
        swirls of orange sharp cheddar cheese
        stirred into eddies with the melted butter,
        a shake of salt, then pepper.

He takes two buttermilk biscuits from the
        small round pan, hot from the oven,
        breaks each one open with his fork,
        dabs soft churned butter onto each one,
        sets the biscuits next to the grits,
        then scoops a spoon of molasses,
        from the little jar, dips one biscuit into
        the thick brown sweetness,
        bites, chews, and smiles at me.

He spoons hot buttered cheese grits
        onto my plate. I take two biscuits from the pan and copy him,
        move for move, as my mother turns
        from the hot stove two feet away
        black cast-iron skillet handle wrapped
        with a striped dish towel, and slides
        two fried eggs, soft, over easy,
        with the spatula, onto my father’s plate of grits.

He stirs the yellow yolks into the grits,
        dabs a biscuit into the mix
        and eats, pleased.

She turns back to the gas stove,
        blue flames flowing from the burner,
        grasps two brown eggs from
        the bowl in one hand.
        With practiced ease she cracks
        the eggs against the skillet edge,
        drops the yolks and whites
        into the bubbling bacon grease,
        stirs the eggs, scrambled­—
        I do not yet like the runny eggs
        like my father does,
        but one day I will,
        perhaps in homage to him,
        or yearning to return to that time
        when there were but the three of us
        in that little white house
        on the hill, happy, content, alive,
        before he kissed Mama goodbye,
        squeezed my shoulder,
        and drove to work,
one more time.