Dateline: June 27, 2010
HIS WRITERS’ WORKSHOP? A PRISON CELL
I read an interesting article in the June 8, 2010, “New York Times,” by John J. Miller, about a famous writer who served three years in prison. Although his imprisonment had a great effect on his writing, he considered it a mark of shame, carrying his secret to the grave, never even telling his daughter.
Years after his death, when Prisoner #30664’s secret was revealed by a professor, the public became fascinated by his story rather than shunning him as a criminal. All his worries about his posthumous reputation were for naught.
Reading about such a man gives me pause to consider our differences and similarities, one hundred years apart. Rather than hiding my imprisonment of over 32 years, I make no secret of it, and have steadily recorded my experiences, thoughts, and stories, the entire time. In this new world of the Internet, there are few secrets to be kept by anyone anyway.
Wonder what someone is in prison for and when they’re getting out? Check the web site. The molesters and perverts can no longer fool people into believing they are in state prison for tax fraud. It used to happen all the time. I could tell you stories! And I will.
That man who was ashamed of his imprisonment was named William Sidney Porter. Ironically, another point we share is that most likely he was innocent of the charges he served time for.
While in prison he began submitting stories to New York magazines, some of them inspired by his fellow prisoners. They were best known for their unexpected conclusions. Mr. Miller compares reading Mr. Porter’s works is like watching episodes of “The Twilight Zone.”
Being ashamed of his prisoner status, Prisoner # 30664 did not want to publish his work under his own name, so he possibly borrowed an alias from a prison guard named Orrin Henry, calling himself, “O. Henry.”
Two of my favorite writers as a youth were Edgar Allan Poe and O, Henry. Who can ever forget “The Gift of the Magi,” or “The Ransom of Red Chief?” Little did I know all those years ago that one day I would have something in common with William Sidney Porter?
It’s a good thing you aren’t around in this modern world, Mr. O. Henry. Times have changed. If you’d been serving time in a Florida prison like Mr. Charles Patrick Norman, you might have been thrown into solitary confinement for your writing, like I was.
Perhaps I should have taken a hint from O. Henry, and used an alias, calling myself A. Gordon or T. Melton or S. Wellhausen. Alas, those names just don’t possess the ring of “O. Henry.”
Charlie
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
INTRODUCING A NEW PRISON LITERARY TALENT-- GUEST POET VISITS "FREE CHARLIE NOW"
DATELINE: JUNE 26, 2010
INTRODUCING A NEW PRISON LITERARY TALENT--
GUEST POET VISITS "FREE CHARLIE NOW"
For the past three months I've been so busy fighting the forces of evil, filing legal appeals on the First Amendment attacks by Ku Klux Klan sympathizers, meeting impending deadlines that could otherwise cost me more prison time, that I haven't devoted the time I usually did on updating this blog. For that neglect I apologize and ask your forbearance. Freedom first!
A few weeks ago, sitting in the prison chapel waiting for Father Bob Anderson to come in for the Episcopal Communion Service, I had the unique experience of hearing a previously-unknown prison poet perform a unique work for the Gavel Club meeting. You had to be there to appreciate the performance. Afterwards, I asked my friend, Andre, if I could get a copy of his poem. With his permission, unveiled to the world for all to see, is the following work. I hope you enjoy it. Andre assures me he has more.
PEN-I-TENTIARY PROBLEMS
(DEAR CHAING GANG CHARLIE CRIST))
By André L. Payne, Sr.
I crashlanded into the Abyss—of a Piss-poor
Penitentiary system that has given me
Its gluteus maximus to Kiss.
Dis-functionalism at its Apex
Check the deck of cards they dealing
Peeling the Skin—akin to Swiss Mocha
they gave us the Joker—
Jack-in-da’-Box Wardens with the
Academic Attitude of a Sand-Crane-on Crack—
My Back is against the Wall painted the color of puke,
Scoop up your seeds you just spilled in the Shower
The hour is Now—How—can we reproduce,
When you reduce your Spectrum into the
Rectum of the Devil?
Level the score—
He wins the War
The Door is broken-down
So long as you clowns
Walk the Pound
With your pants hanging down!
Sharpen your perception—
The election has left us with a people,
Whose only direction is a career in corrections.
This is their Made Best—
When a TABE Test
And the ability to say, “Cuff up!”—
is the only criteria for a [C.O. Badge]—
We’ve been had.
Sadly spoken, token hand-picked pricks with the
I.Q. of a pair of handcuff Keys
PLEASE!—
I dare you to ask an officer
What’s the eight parts of speech
(He’ll probably lock-you-up!)
It’s a crying Shame;
A White Shirt can’t even spell your NAME,
Brain dead derelicts that don’t even pay Rent!
They’re living for free
They wear their brass for free,
We mow their grass for free,
You Kiss-his-asinine-behind-to remind him;
His spine is gone
His Mind is blown!
They don’t give a flying flapjack about
a Chapter 33—open your eyes and see!
How can We Win—When they all Kin?
Look around—Brothers and Sisters on the same pound!
Fathers and daughters on the same pound—
Cousins, Uncles, and Aunties walking the same ground,
on the same pound.
The End
INTRODUCING A NEW PRISON LITERARY TALENT--
GUEST POET VISITS "FREE CHARLIE NOW"
For the past three months I've been so busy fighting the forces of evil, filing legal appeals on the First Amendment attacks by Ku Klux Klan sympathizers, meeting impending deadlines that could otherwise cost me more prison time, that I haven't devoted the time I usually did on updating this blog. For that neglect I apologize and ask your forbearance. Freedom first!
A few weeks ago, sitting in the prison chapel waiting for Father Bob Anderson to come in for the Episcopal Communion Service, I had the unique experience of hearing a previously-unknown prison poet perform a unique work for the Gavel Club meeting. You had to be there to appreciate the performance. Afterwards, I asked my friend, Andre, if I could get a copy of his poem. With his permission, unveiled to the world for all to see, is the following work. I hope you enjoy it. Andre assures me he has more.
PEN-I-TENTIARY PROBLEMS
(DEAR CHAING GANG CHARLIE CRIST))
By André L. Payne, Sr.
I crashlanded into the Abyss—of a Piss-poor
Penitentiary system that has given me
Its gluteus maximus to Kiss.
Dis-functionalism at its Apex
Check the deck of cards they dealing
Peeling the Skin—akin to Swiss Mocha
they gave us the Joker—
Jack-in-da’-Box Wardens with the
Academic Attitude of a Sand-Crane-on Crack—
My Back is against the Wall painted the color of puke,
Scoop up your seeds you just spilled in the Shower
The hour is Now—How—can we reproduce,
When you reduce your Spectrum into the
Rectum of the Devil?
Level the score—
He wins the War
The Door is broken-down
So long as you clowns
Walk the Pound
With your pants hanging down!
Sharpen your perception—
The election has left us with a people,
Whose only direction is a career in corrections.
This is their Made Best—
When a TABE Test
And the ability to say, “Cuff up!”—
is the only criteria for a [C.O. Badge]—
We’ve been had.
Sadly spoken, token hand-picked pricks with the
I.Q. of a pair of handcuff Keys
PLEASE!—
I dare you to ask an officer
What’s the eight parts of speech
(He’ll probably lock-you-up!)
It’s a crying Shame;
A White Shirt can’t even spell your NAME,
Brain dead derelicts that don’t even pay Rent!
They’re living for free
They wear their brass for free,
We mow their grass for free,
You Kiss-his-asinine-behind-to remind him;
His spine is gone
His Mind is blown!
They don’t give a flying flapjack about
a Chapter 33—open your eyes and see!
How can We Win—When they all Kin?
Look around—Brothers and Sisters on the same pound!
Fathers and daughters on the same pound—
Cousins, Uncles, and Aunties walking the same ground,
on the same pound.
The End
Saturday, June 12, 2010
“THE CONSTITUTION AIN’T IN EFFECT IN PRISON NO MORE”
This is another installment from Charlie's Confinement Diary written from "solitary" where he was sent as a result of a retaliatory disciplinary report by officials of D.O.C.
THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 2010, DAY THREE IN THE HOLE
“THE CONSTITUTION AIN’T IN EFFECT IN PRISON NO MORE”
As Day Three of my odyssey through the First Amendment and solitary confinement progresses, I should tell you first of the events that closed out Day Two.
I had the same conversation virtually verbatim, several times since I’ve been locked in “the Hole,” mostly with the “C.O.’s,” the correctional officers, and their immediate supervisors, the sergeants. Each would be passing by my cell, would glance in to make sure I was alive, not hanging from a sheet or sprawled in a pool of blood, would start to go by, then stop, step back, look again, recognition dawns, confusion wrinkles the brow, and after a few seconds would speak:
“What are you doing back here?” (astonishment)
“A story I wrote was published in a book, so the assistant warden wrote me up.”
“What was it about?”
“My experiences some years back with retaliation by KKK prison guards.”
“Why did they lock you up?”
“I suppose she took personal offense at my depiction of the KKK. I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to her.”
“Haven’t these people ever heard of the First Amendment?”
“Funny you should mention that. I’ve been told by a KKK prison guard that ‘the Constitution ain’t in effect in prison.’ ”
“That’s bullshit. You’re the last person I’d expect to see back here.”
“Me, too. You know how straight a line I walk.”
“Good luck. Keep fighting.”
“I will. Thanks.”
What has amazed me is the virtually universal understanding of the First Amendment trampling the lowest level guards possess, while the highest level “administrators,” college-educated and “trained” at endless taxpayer-funded “conferences on corrections,” have such a cavalier disregard for years and years of Constitutional law, state law, and prison rules that regulate both “them” and “us.” When you gain ultimate control and total power over the defenseless, oftentimes that absolute power corrupts what at other times are described as “good people.” I think the term is “totalitarianism.”
Where is the ACLU, the SCLC, the Southern Poverty Law Center, the Justice Department’s Civil Rights Division, the defenders of the oppressed and powerless, when I really need them? Come on, folks! Let’s stop this lynching. The rope is getting tighter. How are they going to explain this to D.O.C. Secretary Walt McNeil?
About eight thirty PM on Day Two, when solitary confinement was just settling down for the evening, when the psych meds were beginning to hit the loud mouths who’d been screaming inanities all day lapsed into their drug-induced comas (they like prisoners in comas; it becomes more a “storage” issue than “care, custody, and control,” their bywords), I lay on my hard bunk reading a dog-eared twenty-year old paperback novel a fellow prisoner had slid down the hall to me.
At the end of the hall, where they can approach the wing from the back way, came a ruckus. Loud talking, laughing, joking—you ever see a pack of teenage boys walking through a mall, kidding around, elbowing each other, playing “grab ass?” That’s what it sounded like. It couldn’t be guards: cameras record everything in the hallways, and the guards are “under the gun” of the higher-ups in charge—any wrong moves on camera and they’re gone—they know they are under surveillance, so they keep themselves low-key.
I didn’t bother getting up. I didn’t care. But a moment later the obviously phony camaraderie reached my cell, and I saw the warden, the male assistant warden (both white), and the black colonel peering through the little grill of my cell door. They are required to make rounds every so often, and I suppose they stopped by after having a few beers, before returning to their trailer park across the street.
They did the same double-take—looked in, moved, stopped, looked in again, stared.
“Who’s that?” (There is a photo page print out by the door, the same one on the D.O.C. web site, with identifying information).
“Norman.”
“Norman?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Norman?” (They crowd around the grill and stare again. I stare back, not moving).
They move on, quiet now, no “Kee-Kee-Keeing,” as prisoners call the immature posturing and grab ass. Then the black colonel came back, stopped, looked in and stared, by himself. If I’d expected him to say something like, “Hey, I’m not with this KKK shit, I’m not defending white racists, but this is over my head, and I can’t say anything, sorry,” I’d have been wrong. I didn’t. He didn’t.
Instead, he asked, “What’s the name of that book?”
I didn’t expect him to want a book review, so I just held up the title where he could see it. Most prisoners in solitary, when “officials” pass by, “get on the door” and beg for an audience, seeking conversation, mercy, whatever. I had nothing to say to them. “You have the right to remain silent” are optimum words, since anything you say will be used to justify pepper spraying and “use of force.” I let my pen do the talking, that is, until it runs out of ink, which could be any time. Then I really will be silenced. Perhaps that’s their plan.
Thirty minutes later the guard came by and told me to pack up my meager laundry bag of limited possessions, I was moving to “E” Dorm, the larger confinement area far on the south end of the compound. Why? Orders. Okay, I get it. The KKK’s roots run deep in prison, like those stunted trees in parched lands.
You may recall they took my shoes, and gave me flip flops. They cuff your hands behind your back, put on short leg irons, so you take shuffling baby steps, and have to carry your bag behind your back. The weight pulls down on your shoulders, and if you are a big man with big shoulders, it’s a form of torture. I refused. I told them I’ve had back injuries, and I couldn’t do that. Sometimes, if you have a choice, you must not submit to torture. I knew if I even tried to carry that bag—my Bible and two large envelopes of legal papers made it heavy—I’d be suffering later. Just the handcuffs behind the back cut into and bruise your wrists and arms.
One of the “decent” guards said fine, use a “waist chain,” hands at the front, which was better, but still an ordeal. Try wearing flip flops with your ankles chained together and walk down a very long sidewalk. It’s not easy. Neither is climbing stairs.
Before I leave “Y Dorm” behind, I want to give you a brief rundown of how that term evolved.
Up until 1999 or so, all the main solitary confinements, “disciplinary,” at most Florida prisons were designated as “X Wing,” as in, “X-ed out,” crossed off, no longer in “X-istence.” Things happened on “X-Wing.” Run your mouth to the guards, they yell, “Pop the door,” and a crowd piles in the cell and beats you down, which is different from “beating someone up.”
Then “Valdez” came along, a notorious prisoner who was involved in a guard’s death. They housed him on “X-Wing” at “FSP,” Florida State Prison, and everyone knew it was just a matter of time. He was a dead man.
One day they came in there and kicked and beat Valdez to death. Most bones in his body were broken. Ribs punctured his heart and lungs. The guards said either it was an accident, he’d fallen off his bunk and died, or he did it on purpose, did a swan dive to take himself out. What about those deep boot impressions on his chest and back? Oh, they were trying to revive him! So emerged the joking (to them) term, “FSP CPR” —he’s not breathing? —step on his chest with your boot and give him FSP-CPR. Perhaps a couple of kicks will jumpstart his heart. Nope, he didn’t make it.
The Florida Department of Law Enforcement investigates prisoner deaths, and they called it murder. A crew of guards were charged, went on trial, and were acquitted. What did you expect? Bradford County is composed mostly of prison guards, retired prison guards, and their relatives. North Florida justice.
There were national TV shows about “X-Wing,” the state of Florida, and the prison system took some P.R. hits, so the biggest change came in abolishing all “X-Wings” and making them “Y’s.” Now it is “Y-Dorm,” sounds like a place curious college students might live, but it is the same old X-Wing, whitewashed with new labels. Spray paint silver onto a rotten mullet, it still stinks. Even so, I was glad to get out of “Y Dorm,” even at nine o’clock at night, mysteriously hobbling in the dark, trying not to fall on my face.
Later I’ll tell you more about Day Three and “E” Dorm, my new cell, with a 21-year old “bug” on the top bunk, who’s served less than a year in prison and gets out Saturday, returning to Tampa. I’d been in prison eleven years already when he was born.
The sergeant put me in his cell to watch out for him—“Talk some sense to the kid, please.” The kid—that’s what he is—small, slightly built white boy, looks about sixteen, scared to death they were going to put a “booty bandit” in the cell. He’s relieved. He’s safe for a few days.
Now I must deal with a host of new challenges, including being stuck in a cell dirty as a pig sty. First thing we’re doing is cleaning this place up. I have to babysit. See you later.
Charlie
THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 2010, DAY THREE IN THE HOLE
“THE CONSTITUTION AIN’T IN EFFECT IN PRISON NO MORE”
As Day Three of my odyssey through the First Amendment and solitary confinement progresses, I should tell you first of the events that closed out Day Two.
I had the same conversation virtually verbatim, several times since I’ve been locked in “the Hole,” mostly with the “C.O.’s,” the correctional officers, and their immediate supervisors, the sergeants. Each would be passing by my cell, would glance in to make sure I was alive, not hanging from a sheet or sprawled in a pool of blood, would start to go by, then stop, step back, look again, recognition dawns, confusion wrinkles the brow, and after a few seconds would speak:
“What are you doing back here?” (astonishment)
“A story I wrote was published in a book, so the assistant warden wrote me up.”
“What was it about?”
“My experiences some years back with retaliation by KKK prison guards.”
“Why did they lock you up?”
“I suppose she took personal offense at my depiction of the KKK. I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to her.”
“Haven’t these people ever heard of the First Amendment?”
“Funny you should mention that. I’ve been told by a KKK prison guard that ‘the Constitution ain’t in effect in prison.’ ”
“That’s bullshit. You’re the last person I’d expect to see back here.”
“Me, too. You know how straight a line I walk.”
“Good luck. Keep fighting.”
“I will. Thanks.”
What has amazed me is the virtually universal understanding of the First Amendment trampling the lowest level guards possess, while the highest level “administrators,” college-educated and “trained” at endless taxpayer-funded “conferences on corrections,” have such a cavalier disregard for years and years of Constitutional law, state law, and prison rules that regulate both “them” and “us.” When you gain ultimate control and total power over the defenseless, oftentimes that absolute power corrupts what at other times are described as “good people.” I think the term is “totalitarianism.”
Where is the ACLU, the SCLC, the Southern Poverty Law Center, the Justice Department’s Civil Rights Division, the defenders of the oppressed and powerless, when I really need them? Come on, folks! Let’s stop this lynching. The rope is getting tighter. How are they going to explain this to D.O.C. Secretary Walt McNeil?
About eight thirty PM on Day Two, when solitary confinement was just settling down for the evening, when the psych meds were beginning to hit the loud mouths who’d been screaming inanities all day lapsed into their drug-induced comas (they like prisoners in comas; it becomes more a “storage” issue than “care, custody, and control,” their bywords), I lay on my hard bunk reading a dog-eared twenty-year old paperback novel a fellow prisoner had slid down the hall to me.
At the end of the hall, where they can approach the wing from the back way, came a ruckus. Loud talking, laughing, joking—you ever see a pack of teenage boys walking through a mall, kidding around, elbowing each other, playing “grab ass?” That’s what it sounded like. It couldn’t be guards: cameras record everything in the hallways, and the guards are “under the gun” of the higher-ups in charge—any wrong moves on camera and they’re gone—they know they are under surveillance, so they keep themselves low-key.
I didn’t bother getting up. I didn’t care. But a moment later the obviously phony camaraderie reached my cell, and I saw the warden, the male assistant warden (both white), and the black colonel peering through the little grill of my cell door. They are required to make rounds every so often, and I suppose they stopped by after having a few beers, before returning to their trailer park across the street.
They did the same double-take—looked in, moved, stopped, looked in again, stared.
“Who’s that?” (There is a photo page print out by the door, the same one on the D.O.C. web site, with identifying information).
“Norman.”
“Norman?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Norman?” (They crowd around the grill and stare again. I stare back, not moving).
They move on, quiet now, no “Kee-Kee-Keeing,” as prisoners call the immature posturing and grab ass. Then the black colonel came back, stopped, looked in and stared, by himself. If I’d expected him to say something like, “Hey, I’m not with this KKK shit, I’m not defending white racists, but this is over my head, and I can’t say anything, sorry,” I’d have been wrong. I didn’t. He didn’t.
Instead, he asked, “What’s the name of that book?”
I didn’t expect him to want a book review, so I just held up the title where he could see it. Most prisoners in solitary, when “officials” pass by, “get on the door” and beg for an audience, seeking conversation, mercy, whatever. I had nothing to say to them. “You have the right to remain silent” are optimum words, since anything you say will be used to justify pepper spraying and “use of force.” I let my pen do the talking, that is, until it runs out of ink, which could be any time. Then I really will be silenced. Perhaps that’s their plan.
Thirty minutes later the guard came by and told me to pack up my meager laundry bag of limited possessions, I was moving to “E” Dorm, the larger confinement area far on the south end of the compound. Why? Orders. Okay, I get it. The KKK’s roots run deep in prison, like those stunted trees in parched lands.
You may recall they took my shoes, and gave me flip flops. They cuff your hands behind your back, put on short leg irons, so you take shuffling baby steps, and have to carry your bag behind your back. The weight pulls down on your shoulders, and if you are a big man with big shoulders, it’s a form of torture. I refused. I told them I’ve had back injuries, and I couldn’t do that. Sometimes, if you have a choice, you must not submit to torture. I knew if I even tried to carry that bag—my Bible and two large envelopes of legal papers made it heavy—I’d be suffering later. Just the handcuffs behind the back cut into and bruise your wrists and arms.
One of the “decent” guards said fine, use a “waist chain,” hands at the front, which was better, but still an ordeal. Try wearing flip flops with your ankles chained together and walk down a very long sidewalk. It’s not easy. Neither is climbing stairs.
Before I leave “Y Dorm” behind, I want to give you a brief rundown of how that term evolved.
Up until 1999 or so, all the main solitary confinements, “disciplinary,” at most Florida prisons were designated as “X Wing,” as in, “X-ed out,” crossed off, no longer in “X-istence.” Things happened on “X-Wing.” Run your mouth to the guards, they yell, “Pop the door,” and a crowd piles in the cell and beats you down, which is different from “beating someone up.”
Then “Valdez” came along, a notorious prisoner who was involved in a guard’s death. They housed him on “X-Wing” at “FSP,” Florida State Prison, and everyone knew it was just a matter of time. He was a dead man.
One day they came in there and kicked and beat Valdez to death. Most bones in his body were broken. Ribs punctured his heart and lungs. The guards said either it was an accident, he’d fallen off his bunk and died, or he did it on purpose, did a swan dive to take himself out. What about those deep boot impressions on his chest and back? Oh, they were trying to revive him! So emerged the joking (to them) term, “FSP CPR” —he’s not breathing? —step on his chest with your boot and give him FSP-CPR. Perhaps a couple of kicks will jumpstart his heart. Nope, he didn’t make it.
The Florida Department of Law Enforcement investigates prisoner deaths, and they called it murder. A crew of guards were charged, went on trial, and were acquitted. What did you expect? Bradford County is composed mostly of prison guards, retired prison guards, and their relatives. North Florida justice.
There were national TV shows about “X-Wing,” the state of Florida, and the prison system took some P.R. hits, so the biggest change came in abolishing all “X-Wings” and making them “Y’s.” Now it is “Y-Dorm,” sounds like a place curious college students might live, but it is the same old X-Wing, whitewashed with new labels. Spray paint silver onto a rotten mullet, it still stinks. Even so, I was glad to get out of “Y Dorm,” even at nine o’clock at night, mysteriously hobbling in the dark, trying not to fall on my face.
Later I’ll tell you more about Day Three and “E” Dorm, my new cell, with a 21-year old “bug” on the top bunk, who’s served less than a year in prison and gets out Saturday, returning to Tampa. I’d been in prison eleven years already when he was born.
The sergeant put me in his cell to watch out for him—“Talk some sense to the kid, please.” The kid—that’s what he is—small, slightly built white boy, looks about sixteen, scared to death they were going to put a “booty bandit” in the cell. He’s relieved. He’s safe for a few days.
Now I must deal with a host of new challenges, including being stuck in a cell dirty as a pig sty. First thing we’re doing is cleaning this place up. I have to babysit. See you later.
Charlie
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
THIRTY DAYS IN SOLITARY FOR TELLING THE TRUTH
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 17, 2010, DAY TWO IN THE HOLE
THIRTY DAYS IN SOLITARY FOR TELLING THE TRUTH
This is another installment from Charlie's Confinement Diary written from "solitary" where he was sent as a result of a retaliatory disciplinary report by officials of D.O.C.
Tourists picture their time in Florida as palm trees swaying in the balmy ocean breezes, rubbing on Coppertone at Daytona Beach, getting a tan, enjoying the heat. I have bad news. That’s not how it is in solitary confinement. The low temperatures this week have been in the 40’s outside and little difference in “the box,” except the wind isn’t blowing.
Until I run out of ink and paper, while I’m back here in lockdown doing my “30 & 30,” thirty days disciplinary confinement and thirty days loss of gaintime for the heinous act noted on Form DC5-101 as, “Book contains an article written by Inmate Norman that won a contest (page 54-57).” The book is “Wordsmith 2010,” published by the Tampa Writers Alliance, and the “article” is actually a 2400 word excerpted memoir from my “prison diary,” part of the 2008 Anne Frank Center Prison Diary Project in New York, and the offending memoir is “To Protect the Guilty,” an account that I thought was fairly innocuous, tongue-in-cheek, even humorous in a dark, realistic way. I guess the offended prison administrators (all white, from North Florida, with heavily Deep South accents, by the way), didn’t see the literary value.
Just one more false statement to note: “To Protect the Guilty” did not win the contest—it came in third, but the prison system has never been known for its accuracy.
It was a cold evening in my cell as Day One turned to night. Don’t try this at home. After hours of asking, I finally got two threadbare sheets and an extremely thin cotton blanket (more like a heavier sheet). A one-inch hard plastic mattress on a cold steel bunk (no pillow) made for a painful, restless semi-sleep. Having progressive arthritis doesn’t help.
After we ate our meager supper trays around four PM (part of the deprivation is the loss of time sense—24 hour lights, no clocks or watches, no radio, no news) the poor soul in the next cell said, “It’s a long time to two slices of bread.” I found out what he meant about thirteen hours later when they brought a breakfast tray with two pieces of toast (where’s the French?) and a small spoon of oatmeal. Stomach growls started soon after.
It may be around ten AM now, on Day Two—St. Patrick’s Day, if I recall correctly. No parades, no floats. A minute ago a woman from classification was escorted down the hall by a guard, to have someone sign papers, said, “Brrr! It’s freezing back here!” No kidding.
After doing some jumping jacks to try to get warm, the first thing I did was cobble together a calendar for March and April. I knew yesterday was March 16th, but if you’re not careful, back here you can lose all sense of time and date. I used one of my precious few sheets of paper, a worthwhile investment. I calculated that if they make me do the full thirty days, I’ll get out on April 14th. Since this is a completely false charge, a reprisal, and glaring errors ensued (which happens when people compound their lies), which I documented in my appeal to the warden, who has the last say, if all were right in the world and they actually followed “Due Process,” he’d quickly respond to my grievance, toss out the predetermined verdict, and let me go. But, since the investigating officer told me, “the warden wants your ass in jail,” what sort of hope do I have for a fair hearing? Not much.
I found out it’s a little after eleven AM—they brought the pitiful lunch trays—textured vegetable protein (a.k.a. Kibbles & Bits), beans, and cold sliced potatoes. No salt, no seasoning. A two-inch square piece of cake. You have to resist the impulse to eat it fast—chew it slowly, small bites, make it last longer, or you’ll be hungry quicker. The captain told me yesterday that he’d let me have one phone call, but that hasn’t happened yet. At least I did get a five-minute shower last night—showers on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, so something went right.
After I made the calendar this morning, I read my Bible. That’s the only book they allow you to keep. Bibles and prisons have long history together. The Quakers supposedly built the first prison in our country. In line with their beliefs, “penitent” became “penitentiary,” and they’d lock a man alone in a cold stone cell with a Bible and a water cup. Bread and water. Read the Bible and reflect. Learn the error of your ways.
I have a very nice “NIV” Bible that my Aunt Alice gave me in 1986. At Zephyrhills C.I., our visitors could go to the prison chapel every Sunday with us for an hour before visiting. My mother, Alice, and my niece, Tammy, came most Sundays. When the visiting preachers would say, “Turn in your Bibles to _________,” we’d all try to read the verse in the Bible, but the print was so small, it didn’t work. When Alice ordered a large-print Bible for me, it solved the problem. Four of us could read the verse with ease. Little did I know that twenty years later I needed the large print text myself!
One thing I do is read a chapter of Psalms and Proverbs each day, depending on the date. Today I read Psalms 17 and Proverbs 17. If I have time (now) I’ll read five chapters of Psalms and some New Testament. It’s uncanny how there will be a verse on that date that applies to my situation, like in Psalms 17—“Give ear to my prayer—it does not rise from deceitful lips. May my vindication come from you; may your eyes see what is right.” And two verses from Proverbs 17: —“A wicked man listens to evil lips; a liar pays attention to a malicious tongue,” and “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent—the Lord detests them both.”
I realized a long time ago that this is a spiritual battle I am involved in, and the forces of evil—in the form of state attorney Mark Ober (the Great Satan) and his minions have been firing at me forever, it seems, and there’s no doubt in my mind that all the prayers made on my behalf by so many true believers have kept me alive and safe. So be it.
It’s getting a little noisy back here now. The “psych meds” must be wearing off my fellow confines. I will continue this record when I can, or until they take my half-pen. Meanwhile, prayers or any other help you can offer will be appreciated. Thanks.
Charlie
THIRTY DAYS IN SOLITARY FOR TELLING THE TRUTH
This is another installment from Charlie's Confinement Diary written from "solitary" where he was sent as a result of a retaliatory disciplinary report by officials of D.O.C.
Tourists picture their time in Florida as palm trees swaying in the balmy ocean breezes, rubbing on Coppertone at Daytona Beach, getting a tan, enjoying the heat. I have bad news. That’s not how it is in solitary confinement. The low temperatures this week have been in the 40’s outside and little difference in “the box,” except the wind isn’t blowing.
Until I run out of ink and paper, while I’m back here in lockdown doing my “30 & 30,” thirty days disciplinary confinement and thirty days loss of gaintime for the heinous act noted on Form DC5-101 as, “Book contains an article written by Inmate Norman that won a contest (page 54-57).” The book is “Wordsmith 2010,” published by the Tampa Writers Alliance, and the “article” is actually a 2400 word excerpted memoir from my “prison diary,” part of the 2008 Anne Frank Center Prison Diary Project in New York, and the offending memoir is “To Protect the Guilty,” an account that I thought was fairly innocuous, tongue-in-cheek, even humorous in a dark, realistic way. I guess the offended prison administrators (all white, from North Florida, with heavily Deep South accents, by the way), didn’t see the literary value.
Just one more false statement to note: “To Protect the Guilty” did not win the contest—it came in third, but the prison system has never been known for its accuracy.
It was a cold evening in my cell as Day One turned to night. Don’t try this at home. After hours of asking, I finally got two threadbare sheets and an extremely thin cotton blanket (more like a heavier sheet). A one-inch hard plastic mattress on a cold steel bunk (no pillow) made for a painful, restless semi-sleep. Having progressive arthritis doesn’t help.
After we ate our meager supper trays around four PM (part of the deprivation is the loss of time sense—24 hour lights, no clocks or watches, no radio, no news) the poor soul in the next cell said, “It’s a long time to two slices of bread.” I found out what he meant about thirteen hours later when they brought a breakfast tray with two pieces of toast (where’s the French?) and a small spoon of oatmeal. Stomach growls started soon after.
It may be around ten AM now, on Day Two—St. Patrick’s Day, if I recall correctly. No parades, no floats. A minute ago a woman from classification was escorted down the hall by a guard, to have someone sign papers, said, “Brrr! It’s freezing back here!” No kidding.
After doing some jumping jacks to try to get warm, the first thing I did was cobble together a calendar for March and April. I knew yesterday was March 16th, but if you’re not careful, back here you can lose all sense of time and date. I used one of my precious few sheets of paper, a worthwhile investment. I calculated that if they make me do the full thirty days, I’ll get out on April 14th. Since this is a completely false charge, a reprisal, and glaring errors ensued (which happens when people compound their lies), which I documented in my appeal to the warden, who has the last say, if all were right in the world and they actually followed “Due Process,” he’d quickly respond to my grievance, toss out the predetermined verdict, and let me go. But, since the investigating officer told me, “the warden wants your ass in jail,” what sort of hope do I have for a fair hearing? Not much.
I found out it’s a little after eleven AM—they brought the pitiful lunch trays—textured vegetable protein (a.k.a. Kibbles & Bits), beans, and cold sliced potatoes. No salt, no seasoning. A two-inch square piece of cake. You have to resist the impulse to eat it fast—chew it slowly, small bites, make it last longer, or you’ll be hungry quicker. The captain told me yesterday that he’d let me have one phone call, but that hasn’t happened yet. At least I did get a five-minute shower last night—showers on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, so something went right.
After I made the calendar this morning, I read my Bible. That’s the only book they allow you to keep. Bibles and prisons have long history together. The Quakers supposedly built the first prison in our country. In line with their beliefs, “penitent” became “penitentiary,” and they’d lock a man alone in a cold stone cell with a Bible and a water cup. Bread and water. Read the Bible and reflect. Learn the error of your ways.
I have a very nice “NIV” Bible that my Aunt Alice gave me in 1986. At Zephyrhills C.I., our visitors could go to the prison chapel every Sunday with us for an hour before visiting. My mother, Alice, and my niece, Tammy, came most Sundays. When the visiting preachers would say, “Turn in your Bibles to _________,” we’d all try to read the verse in the Bible, but the print was so small, it didn’t work. When Alice ordered a large-print Bible for me, it solved the problem. Four of us could read the verse with ease. Little did I know that twenty years later I needed the large print text myself!
One thing I do is read a chapter of Psalms and Proverbs each day, depending on the date. Today I read Psalms 17 and Proverbs 17. If I have time (now) I’ll read five chapters of Psalms and some New Testament. It’s uncanny how there will be a verse on that date that applies to my situation, like in Psalms 17—“Give ear to my prayer—it does not rise from deceitful lips. May my vindication come from you; may your eyes see what is right.” And two verses from Proverbs 17: —“A wicked man listens to evil lips; a liar pays attention to a malicious tongue,” and “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent—the Lord detests them both.”
I realized a long time ago that this is a spiritual battle I am involved in, and the forces of evil—in the form of state attorney Mark Ober (the Great Satan) and his minions have been firing at me forever, it seems, and there’s no doubt in my mind that all the prayers made on my behalf by so many true believers have kept me alive and safe. So be it.
It’s getting a little noisy back here now. The “psych meds” must be wearing off my fellow confines. I will continue this record when I can, or until they take my half-pen. Meanwhile, prayers or any other help you can offer will be appreciated. Thanks.
Charlie
Saturday, May 22, 2010
“SIMPLY BECAUSE…” THE FIRST AMENDMENT FIGHT IN PRISON CONTINUES
Dateline: May 12, 2010
“SIMPLY BECAUSE…”
THE FIRST AMENDMENT FIGHT IN PRISON CONTINUES
Since my release from solitary confinement on April 14th, I’ve been focused on appealing the false disciplinary charges against me, with mixed results. I’ve spent many hours researching legal cases in the law library, and have discovered that the law is on my side, for what it is worth.
“I AM the law!” How many times have I heard that? One of the biggest problems facing a prisoner fighting injustice is the cavalier attitude of the prison “authorities” that the rules and laws don’t apply to them. They are in charge—they have the handcuffs, keys, pepper spray, and the gun towers. The Kangaroo Court is in session. Do you know how hard it is to fight kangaroos, with your hands cuffed behind your back?
One small victory—this incident began in January when mailroom clerk T. Gronik read the anthology, “Wordsmith 2010,” by the Tampa Writers Alliance. She liked it—or disliked it—so much that she kept it, neglecting to send me a “Notice of Impoundment,” as required by Florida law.
You should know that if the postman delivered U.S. mail to someone and you pawed through it, found a book you wanted to read, you couldn’t legally just snatch that book out of the mail and keep it. That is called “theft of mail,” and last time I heard, was a federal crime. Mail to state prisoners is still mail, and if a “prison official” decides to intercept and confiscate a prisoner’s mail, it can be done, but it has to be done right. There are procedures. That’s why the call it, “due process.” In this case, the law says they can take my book, but they must document it and have a valid reason. They have 15 days to send me Form DC5-101, “Notice of Rejection or Impoundment,” which kicks in a time deadline for me to appeal the confiscation to the “Literature Review Committee” in Tallahassee. Mailroom clerk Gronik snatched my book on January 28, 2010, but neglected to file paperwork or tell me about it.
Almost a month later, February 22, while picking up my legal mail (another sensitive issue), I asked the mailroom person if she’d seen the book. She took a deep breath and replied.
“I read the book. I felt the story you wrote was a threat to security [emphasis mine] and sent it to Mr. Hodgson.” Mr. Hodgson is one of the assistant wardens. I asked her about my confiscation notice, where was it? Duh! Sometimes they just don’t want to talk to you.
It’s almost impossible to talk to these people. It must be the “siege mentality.” They have a new thing in prison called “controlled movement,” in which they’ve installed millions of dollars worth of chain link fences, cages, and mazes across the prison yards, they march you through them in groups, like rats looking for the cheese in the psychology labs, while they are two or three layers of fences away from you, in their own little self-protective groups, watching. If you do somehow get closer to them, in their little pod of officials, it won’t do you any good anyway.
An old man once said, “Never approach a pack of wild dogs or prison guards by yourself.” Good advice. You approach a group of guards or officials, the mob mentality kicks in. No matter what you ask them, the answer is no. They must maintain their macho façade in front of their cohorts. If by some chance you encounter one alone, you have a better chance, but after 30 seconds their cell phone will go off, and they scurry away with the thing stuck to their ear.
Our only alternative is to “put it on paper,” to file a grievance, “administrative remedies,” they call it, which is usually about as satisfying as unzipping one’s pants and urinating into a 50 m.p.h. wind. The eternal optimist, I filed, asking for my book back. I’m not going to go into all the back and forth—you can read the court papers later—but the result was the D.R. from assistant warden Gordon for assorted “mail violations.” It took me until March 10th —41 days after confiscation, to get a receipt, and the reason the book was stolen—uh—confiscated.
“Book contains an article written by inmate Norman that won a contest (page 54-57)”
They have to put down the reason and the exact pages where the offending items appear. It just so happens that on pages 54-57 appears my memoir, “To Protect the Guilty,” which was an excerpt from my “Anne Frank Center USA Prison Diary Project” from 2008, approved by DOC officials all the way to Tallahassee and back. KKK prison guards. Hmmmm. And it didn’t win a contest, either. It came in third. What they didn’t mention was that I had two other works published in the same book, a poem, and a short story, but they didn’t mention KKK prison guards, so they let them slide.
Only one problem—the judicial rulings concerning the First Amendment and prisoners’ literary works forbid censorship for the “content of the writings.” In this case, it must have been “the content” that waved the red flag and got their dander up, since they ignored the poem and short story. Naughty, naughty!
While I spent thirty days in solitary from the kangaroo court, my appeal of the book confiscation wended its way to the Literature Review Committee, which is apparently that rare bird in prison officialdom, college-educated people with sense who go by the law.
On April 20th, the committee overruled the confiscation of “Wordsmith 2010,” stating, “Simply because a publication contains an article written by an inmate is not grounds for rejection.” Thank you. Eight days later, exactly three months after Gronik snatched it, I finally got the book. It is a nice one. I recommend it.
Meanwhile, I’m still appealing the false D.R. conviction. If I get turned down again, I have to file in court, Leon County, a “mandamus,” with a $400.00 filing fee. Justice is not cheap. More on that later.
A few comments on our blog readers. Webmaster Dan has been using an interesting web tool called “Sitemeter,” which is like caller ID for the internet. Sitemeter tells us where all the log-ons came from, and other interesting information. For instance, the blog has been accessed by readers in twenty-two countries, all the Canadian provinces, and many states. Most recently, we’ve added readers from Zagreb, Croatia, Ridderkerk Zuid, Holland, Brisbane, Australian, the City of London, Sweden, Singapore, The Russian Federation, Qatar, and many others in Europe, Africa, North America and Asia. Welcome to FreeCharlieNormanNow! Notice that I did NOT ask for donations! We would like to hear your comments.
It turns out, according to Sitemeter, that some of our most avid readers are employed by the Florida Department of Corrections. We’ve had lots of hits from Lake Butler, Florida, a hotbed for certain groups, Tallahassee, Daytona Beach (Tomoka), and others.
Sitemeter tells us our corrections friends do a lot of websurfing during working hours. Hmmm. I wonder if Attorney General McCollum has heard about that? Or what other websites have these public servants—or “surfants” —been visiting on the state dime? Might be grounds for a state audit of employee internet usage during working hours.
Anyone interested in that, to file a complaint, a form is available at myfloridalegal.com/19thstatewidegrandjury or
call the tipline at 1-800-646-0444. Check it out.
Thanks, Charlie
“SIMPLY BECAUSE…”
THE FIRST AMENDMENT FIGHT IN PRISON CONTINUES
Since my release from solitary confinement on April 14th, I’ve been focused on appealing the false disciplinary charges against me, with mixed results. I’ve spent many hours researching legal cases in the law library, and have discovered that the law is on my side, for what it is worth.
“I AM the law!” How many times have I heard that? One of the biggest problems facing a prisoner fighting injustice is the cavalier attitude of the prison “authorities” that the rules and laws don’t apply to them. They are in charge—they have the handcuffs, keys, pepper spray, and the gun towers. The Kangaroo Court is in session. Do you know how hard it is to fight kangaroos, with your hands cuffed behind your back?
One small victory—this incident began in January when mailroom clerk T. Gronik read the anthology, “Wordsmith 2010,” by the Tampa Writers Alliance. She liked it—or disliked it—so much that she kept it, neglecting to send me a “Notice of Impoundment,” as required by Florida law.
You should know that if the postman delivered U.S. mail to someone and you pawed through it, found a book you wanted to read, you couldn’t legally just snatch that book out of the mail and keep it. That is called “theft of mail,” and last time I heard, was a federal crime. Mail to state prisoners is still mail, and if a “prison official” decides to intercept and confiscate a prisoner’s mail, it can be done, but it has to be done right. There are procedures. That’s why the call it, “due process.” In this case, the law says they can take my book, but they must document it and have a valid reason. They have 15 days to send me Form DC5-101, “Notice of Rejection or Impoundment,” which kicks in a time deadline for me to appeal the confiscation to the “Literature Review Committee” in Tallahassee. Mailroom clerk Gronik snatched my book on January 28, 2010, but neglected to file paperwork or tell me about it.
Almost a month later, February 22, while picking up my legal mail (another sensitive issue), I asked the mailroom person if she’d seen the book. She took a deep breath and replied.
“I read the book. I felt the story you wrote was a threat to security [emphasis mine] and sent it to Mr. Hodgson.” Mr. Hodgson is one of the assistant wardens. I asked her about my confiscation notice, where was it? Duh! Sometimes they just don’t want to talk to you.
It’s almost impossible to talk to these people. It must be the “siege mentality.” They have a new thing in prison called “controlled movement,” in which they’ve installed millions of dollars worth of chain link fences, cages, and mazes across the prison yards, they march you through them in groups, like rats looking for the cheese in the psychology labs, while they are two or three layers of fences away from you, in their own little self-protective groups, watching. If you do somehow get closer to them, in their little pod of officials, it won’t do you any good anyway.
An old man once said, “Never approach a pack of wild dogs or prison guards by yourself.” Good advice. You approach a group of guards or officials, the mob mentality kicks in. No matter what you ask them, the answer is no. They must maintain their macho façade in front of their cohorts. If by some chance you encounter one alone, you have a better chance, but after 30 seconds their cell phone will go off, and they scurry away with the thing stuck to their ear.
Our only alternative is to “put it on paper,” to file a grievance, “administrative remedies,” they call it, which is usually about as satisfying as unzipping one’s pants and urinating into a 50 m.p.h. wind. The eternal optimist, I filed, asking for my book back. I’m not going to go into all the back and forth—you can read the court papers later—but the result was the D.R. from assistant warden Gordon for assorted “mail violations.” It took me until March 10th —41 days after confiscation, to get a receipt, and the reason the book was stolen—uh—confiscated.
“Book contains an article written by inmate Norman that won a contest (page 54-57)”
They have to put down the reason and the exact pages where the offending items appear. It just so happens that on pages 54-57 appears my memoir, “To Protect the Guilty,” which was an excerpt from my “Anne Frank Center USA Prison Diary Project” from 2008, approved by DOC officials all the way to Tallahassee and back. KKK prison guards. Hmmmm. And it didn’t win a contest, either. It came in third. What they didn’t mention was that I had two other works published in the same book, a poem, and a short story, but they didn’t mention KKK prison guards, so they let them slide.
Only one problem—the judicial rulings concerning the First Amendment and prisoners’ literary works forbid censorship for the “content of the writings.” In this case, it must have been “the content” that waved the red flag and got their dander up, since they ignored the poem and short story. Naughty, naughty!
While I spent thirty days in solitary from the kangaroo court, my appeal of the book confiscation wended its way to the Literature Review Committee, which is apparently that rare bird in prison officialdom, college-educated people with sense who go by the law.
On April 20th, the committee overruled the confiscation of “Wordsmith 2010,” stating, “Simply because a publication contains an article written by an inmate is not grounds for rejection.” Thank you. Eight days later, exactly three months after Gronik snatched it, I finally got the book. It is a nice one. I recommend it.
Meanwhile, I’m still appealing the false D.R. conviction. If I get turned down again, I have to file in court, Leon County, a “mandamus,” with a $400.00 filing fee. Justice is not cheap. More on that later.
A few comments on our blog readers. Webmaster Dan has been using an interesting web tool called “Sitemeter,” which is like caller ID for the internet. Sitemeter tells us where all the log-ons came from, and other interesting information. For instance, the blog has been accessed by readers in twenty-two countries, all the Canadian provinces, and many states. Most recently, we’ve added readers from Zagreb, Croatia, Ridderkerk Zuid, Holland, Brisbane, Australian, the City of London, Sweden, Singapore, The Russian Federation, Qatar, and many others in Europe, Africa, North America and Asia. Welcome to FreeCharlieNormanNow! Notice that I did NOT ask for donations! We would like to hear your comments.
It turns out, according to Sitemeter, that some of our most avid readers are employed by the Florida Department of Corrections. We’ve had lots of hits from Lake Butler, Florida, a hotbed for certain groups, Tallahassee, Daytona Beach (Tomoka), and others.
Sitemeter tells us our corrections friends do a lot of websurfing during working hours. Hmmm. I wonder if Attorney General McCollum has heard about that? Or what other websites have these public servants—or “surfants” —been visiting on the state dime? Might be grounds for a state audit of employee internet usage during working hours.
Anyone interested in that, to file a complaint, a form is available at myfloridalegal.com/19thstatewidegrandjury or
call the tipline at 1-800-646-0444. Check it out.
Thanks, Charlie
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
TUESDAY, MARCH 16, 2010, DAY ONE IN THE HOLE
A MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
This is the procedure used by the Florida prison system to punish a prisoner for writing about something they would rather not be revealed to the public. First, they approve your participation in the 2008 “Anne Frank Prison Diary Project,” which inspired me to write hundreds more pages of prison memoirs beyond the 96-page blank journal the Anne Frank Center sent me, with the full knowledge and approval of prison officials, all the way from Tomoka C.I. to Tallahassee. Associated Press reporters, Jessica Gresko and Suzette Laboy, were so impressed they drove all the way from Miami and went through several fences and gates to interview me. The article went worldwide, to over 3000 newspapers and media outlets. The prison folks didn’t read my memoir about the KKK prison guards, but others did.
An excerpt from the hundreds of handwritten pages, about 2400 words, title, “To Protect The Guilty,” recounted how repressive guards can come back years later and retaliate against a prisoner for something he said. Talk about prophetic!
The Tampa Writers Alliance, a fine group that I have been a member of for years, liked the memoir and published it in their annual anthology, “Wordsmith 2010.” I was expecting my copy in January, to see what my words looked like in print, but it was not to be. The mailroom woman told me weeks later that she read the book, a story I wrote was a threat to security, and she’d sent it to the assistant warden over security, a man from North Florida, just like the ones in my memoir. Where is my confiscation receipt and notice of impoundment, required to be filed within 15 days of taking it, I asked. Uh…no answer.
I filed grievances to get the book. I studied Constitutional law, particularly the First and Fourteenth Amendments, and knew that I’d violated no rules, that my work was protected speech under the First Amendment. I even copied a passage from an excellent law book, The Rights of Prisoners, (4th Edition, Vol.2, § 6:18 IV), “Prisoner Writings,” (page 62) which stated it perfectly, in part:
“ A quintessential expression of speech is one’s own writings. It is well known that the isolation and frequent solitude of a prison setting have been fertile soil for inmates to write and compose music and art, and prisoners often have interesting and vital tales to tell, music to write, and art to compose…Moreover, the fruit of some prisoner literary efforts have become justly famous examples of world renowned literature.” (See e.g. John Bunyan, Pilgrim’s Progress (1684); Henry Charriere, Papillon (1910); O. Henry, The Ransom of Red Chief in “Whirligigs” (1910); Martin Luther King, Letters From Birmingham Jail, (1963); Oscar Wilde, Ballad of Reading Gaol, (1898) )
That is an impressive short list of esteemed company I share my plight with now that I sit in solitary confinement, “the hole,” “the box,” as a result of exercising my First Amendment rights in prison. Before I go on, let me give you a few more lines from The Rights of Prisoners, continuing from the previous passage:
“These works not only add to the culture, but also have immediate benefits to prisoners as a means of rehabilitation and as a ‘nonviolent means to defuse tensions within a prison.’ ”
“The legal problems that an inmate’s original expression engenders depend on whether the inmate is writing primarily for a prison audience or whether, instead, the author seeks a wider audience for the work. This section will consider whether inmates may be punished for their writings.
“Without a specific factual record showing legitimate dangers that are reasonably related to an inmate writing for the outside world, they cannot be prohibited.”
Unfortunately, the people in charge of this concentration camp never bothered reading the Constitution, or the law, for that matter. When three white folks, all from North Florida and in charge of the prison, are offended by the truthful characterizations of KKK prison guards, what do you do? In Florida, you go to solitary confinement.
It took them three weeks. I kept demanding my legal rights, which 95% of the prisoners have no concept of, and they kept postponing the disciplinary hearing to figure out the best way to crucify me without a lot of noise. After decades of abuse, the U.S. Supreme Court ordered the prisons to provide “due process,” and “fair and impartial” hearings. Nevertheless, that doesn’t happen in prison.
Despite all the legal maneuverings, demanding the process be legal (fat chance), letters of complaint and phone calls from lawyers and family, insisting that the deliberate retaliation be stopped, on Tuesday, March 16, 2010, I had my day in Kangaroo court. Old Judge Roy Bean said it best—“Give the man a fair trial, then hang him.”
The offended assistant warden wrote me a totally unwarranted “disciplinary report” (D.R.) for “mail violations,” although there were none. I called ten staff witnesses to verify all the prison diary approvals. Denied.
When you first go to the D.R. hearing (kangaroo court), they cuff your hands behind your back. Very degrading. Somewhere I read that some group used to do that before they put a bullet in the back of your head.
I had an envelope of legal papers, my statement, case citations, witness lists, and evidence, which I couldn’t hold or read with my hands cuffed behind my back. While they had me standing outside, they confiscated all my legal papers, including my appeal (I knew that guilt was predetermined). They postponed the hearing.
After my dearest friend made repeated complaints the next day, the person who took my legal papers was ordered to return them. He was pissed at having to do this! The following is a verbatim account of a conversation between that person and a guard he asked to bring me to his office. He told the guard he needed him to stay and witness a phone call concerning Charles Norman. A fellow prisoner standing nearby repeated the exchange to me.
GUARD: “Charles Norman? He’s a smart ass, a piece of shit.”
STAFF: “Charles Norman is a smart motherfucker, and you don’t want to get fucked up with him—at all.”
I’m not calling that a compliment, but it shows the mentality of these people. If you oppose them, they abuse their authority to break you down.
The second hearing was “pro forma,” going through the motions, verdict predetermined, false statements, no evidence, no witnesses. The previous week, the warden had told my lawyer, “Norman will have a D.R. hearing, he’ll be found guilty, and he can appeal to me.” That’s real justice in action. How much do you want to bet that the appeal to the warden (the same one who ordered the D.R. be written) will be denied, as will the one to Tallahassee? They make you spend hundreds of dollars in filing fees to go to court, for months, to overturn such abusive actions. At least this time I held onto my legal papers. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have this paper, pen, envelope and stamp to write this and mail it.
The first thing they do when you go to solitary confinement is lock you in a shower and strip search you. Tennis shoes, belt and watch—gone. Don’t want anyone to hang themselves! It happens more often than you’d think, but really, what recourse do some have after everything, including contact with “the outside” and any ray of hope, is taken from them.
Now I am in my socks, walking down a cold hallway to a cell. Feet hurt. Get inside the cell, they take off the handcuffs, you’re on your own.
First thing I do is make certain the toilet flushes. That’s mandatory. A tiny stream of water dribbles into a stainless steel sink. An extremely thin, hard plastic-covered mattress—no pillow—barely covers a narrow steel bunk.
Next, I shake down the cell—search it and clean it. Always search your cell—mattress especially—search every crack and crevice. If you don’t, and the guards find a razor blade, or anything contraband, you get another charge. The cell is dirty, but no visible evils.
Perhaps I’ll get some of my personal property later, if it’s not all stolen and disbursed. Someone in my old dorm has my fat mattress and pillow already. The guards are supposed to protect our belongings—sure they will. What I need are my flip-flops, soap, shampoo, washcloth, powder, stamps, something to read, if I’m lucky. They gave me “30-30,” thirty days of “disciplinary confinement” and thirty days loss of gain time. If I don’t get it overturned, it could affect my parole date. We have to fight it all the way.
It’s cold back here right now. At least it’s not July—these guys suffer in the sweltering heat. Lonely prisoners “stay on the doors” yelling down the hallway to their friends, like at the zoo. I’ve already cast my bread upon the water—turned in my appeal, going through the motions. Now I’ll wait, as best I can, and hope that my defenders will spring into action, make phone calls, lobby the warden to grant my appeal. Too bad I don’t have any KKK friends to intervene on my behalf.
Charlie
Monday, April 19, 2010
A CHILLING EFFECT ON FREEDOM OF SPEECH
FRIDAY, MARCH 26, 2010, DAY ELEVEN IN THE HOLE
A CHILLING EFFECT ON FREEDOM OF SPEECH
It’s not that I’ve been slacking off, returning to my prison diary three days later, but instead I’ve been trying to dig myself out of this hole in solitary confinement. If someone tosses you into a twenty-foot well, then fills it with stones and dirt until you’re buried neck deep, it’s not easy digging your way out. That’s the way it is in here. You need people “up there,” on the surface to throw you ropes (hopefully not looping the ropes around your neck) and rescue you, or you’re liable to be left at the bottom of the pit for the duration. A handful of people whose names I won’t mention have been doing just that, furiously moving the rubble of bureaucratic obstinacy and abuses of authority out of the way, trying to make a path for me to climb out. Hopefully, I’ll be freed soon. In the meantime…
Know your opponent. In a supposedly “free society,” things like this aren’t supposed to happen. One of the ways that our new country of the United States set itself apart from the oppressive “Mother England” was our Constitution and Bill of Rights, particularly the freedoms established such as Freedom of Speech. In England you spoke out at your own risk. They didn’t have freedom of speech. Say something someone in authority didn’t like and you might find yourself in lockup, like I am right now.
In the meantime, our courts have hammered out over the years the parameters of “free speech,” what it is and what it isn’t, so we’d know what is protected and what isn’t. Yelling, “FIRE!” in a crowded theater is not protected speech. There are many other examples that I don’t have the paper or ink to go into now.
Although some people don’t agree, our wise judges have ruled that there is no iron curtain separating the Constitution from the prison walls. Even prisoners, the lowest caste in our society, retain some freedoms, although often on a restricted basis. Freedom of Speech is one of them. There are only three areas of unprotected speech or communications involving prisoners, and those restrictions make sense in this environment.
First, if you write or speak out about planning an escape, as they say in New York, forget about it. You write a letter to Uncle Sid telling him to mail you a hacksaw blade and meet you outside the fence at midnight with a getaway car, they will stick you under the jail. You may not come out for awhile. Prisoners do not have the right to make escape plans, unless you are an American prisoner of war, which maintains that you have the duty to escape, evade capture, and return to your lines. That’s different.
The second area of unprotected speech in prison is the threat of riot, disruption, or insurrection. Think about Attica in 1971. They took over the prison, took hostages, and burned the place down. Why? The prison grievance procedures weren’t working, and after awhile, the prisoners got so fed up with not being able to redress their complaints they started setting fires. When Governor Nelson Rockefeller met their televised demands and appeared in person to hear their complaints, most of which seemed fairly mundane – food, medical care, visiting, and others – he asked them why didn’t they just say something before rather than do all that? They replied that they’d tried for years, but the prison authorities turned deaf ears to their grievances. Now they were listening.
You can’t advocate riots or destruction in prison, or they will mail you. You can’t stand in the recreation yard and urge everyone to engage in a sit-down strike or a hunger strike. You talk about organizing a prison union, they put you on the bus so fast your head will still be spinning when you wake up in a dungeon somewhere. That is not protected speech.
Neither is talk of criminal activities. If the mailroom trolls with their thick glasses down in their basement censorship office read your outgoing mail and you are discussing bringing in drugs, cell phones, weapons, or other illegal items, if you’re talking about bribing the warden to get a parole, or any other criminal act, so long. They got you. No freedom of speech involved in any of those areas. Don’t write Mama and threaten the life of the guard who took your contraband, either, or you’ll find yourself in a world of hurt.
The four-volume set of law books, “The Rights of Prisoners” (4th Edition, Vol. II Prisoner Writings, p. 62-68), exhaustively covers what prisoners can and cannot write about, with landmark case references. You’d think the prison system would get a set of those books and familiarize themselves with the law, rather than letting their personal prejudices and feelings guide their repressive actions. (Excuse me, they did buy a set – they’re in the law library – prisoners know the laws that the guards and officials are unaware of).
The following quotes (at 6:18 – 6:19) from this excellent work have close parallels to my own situation:
“The legal problems that an inmate’s original expression engenders depend on whether the inmate is writing primarily for a prison audience or whether instead, the author seeks a wider audience for the work. This section will consider whether inmates may be punished for their writing.”
“Without a specific factual record showing legitimate dangers that are reasonably related to an inmate writing for the outside world, they cannot be prohibited.”
“The first case involved Murmia Abu-Jamal, a journalist turned inmate, who was sentenced to death for the murder of a police officer, who was approached by National Public Radio to broadcast his commentaries to a national radio audience. When police organizations protested these contacts, prison officials began to inspect all of his mail, including his legal mail, and thereafter invoked a prison rule that prevented all inmates from engaging in “business” while incarcerated. In fact, this rule had not previously been enforced against another inmate who had written a novel while in prison. Mr. Abu-Jamal sued, claiming that the rule as enforced against him violated his First Amendment right to speak and write.
The Third Circuit agreed. It found that the rule was imposed on the plaintiff “in retaliation against the content of his writing.” See Abu-Jamal v. Price, 154 F.3d 128 (3rd Cir, 1998)
“Unlike the Rison case, the court noted that here there was no evidence that the plaintiff’s writings and broadcasts ‘had strained prison resources, contributed to unrest among the inmate population, or enhanced Jamal’s status as a prisoner, resulting in danger to himself or others.’ (at 134). The court concluded that while prison officials could validly prohibit a business operation that placed a substantial burden on prison staff, it could not prevent a First Amendment activity that did not threaten corrections officials or incite the inmate population.” (154 F.3rd at 134-135).
When I sent a request form to the mail clerk who’d originally censored, “To Protect The Guilty” as it appeared in “Wordsmith 2010,” I sought the actual date the book had arrived at the mailroom, which would be the initial date when all the time and deadline calculations would begin. I received the following surprising admission: [spelling and punctuation uncorrected]:
“After receiving the book in the mailroom and reading the first few pages of the story I determined it should be looked at to see if it could come in and sent it to Mr. Hodgson. I have no way of knowing the date the book was received a we do not log incoming mail except for legal. The day it arrived does not change the content of the story [emphasis added]”
The content of the story! How similar is that to what the federal court said about Abu Jamal? “…the rule was imposed on the plaintiff ‘in retaliation against the content of his writings.’ ”
I don’t know what Abu-Jamal writings were about, but I know that mine was a humorous account of a dark subject, Ku Klux Klan prison guards and retaliation I suffered for telling the truth about what I thought of them. Sometimes you have to speak out, and that was one of them. Taking it a logical step forward, I must agree with one of my reader’s comments that the only people who might be offended by “To Protect The Guilty,” would be KKK prison guards and their sympathizers. Either way, I should not be writing this from solitary confinement as a result of it. Case closed.
Prison systems copy the tired strategies, legal or otherwise, others have tried to invoke their will on their subjects. One way to suppress the writings and words of an outspoken prisoner is to label his efforts as “running a business,” forbid it, lock him up, and throw away his pens (they took six pens from me). That has what is called “a chilling effect” on Freedom of Speech. The message—express yourself and go to lockup, lose gain time, stay in prison longer. Keep silent and maintain the status quo, stomp on the Bill of Rights.
It’s not supposed to be that way. Would someone speak out, please? I’m outnumbered.
Charlie
A CHILLING EFFECT ON FREEDOM OF SPEECH
It’s not that I’ve been slacking off, returning to my prison diary three days later, but instead I’ve been trying to dig myself out of this hole in solitary confinement. If someone tosses you into a twenty-foot well, then fills it with stones and dirt until you’re buried neck deep, it’s not easy digging your way out. That’s the way it is in here. You need people “up there,” on the surface to throw you ropes (hopefully not looping the ropes around your neck) and rescue you, or you’re liable to be left at the bottom of the pit for the duration. A handful of people whose names I won’t mention have been doing just that, furiously moving the rubble of bureaucratic obstinacy and abuses of authority out of the way, trying to make a path for me to climb out. Hopefully, I’ll be freed soon. In the meantime…
Know your opponent. In a supposedly “free society,” things like this aren’t supposed to happen. One of the ways that our new country of the United States set itself apart from the oppressive “Mother England” was our Constitution and Bill of Rights, particularly the freedoms established such as Freedom of Speech. In England you spoke out at your own risk. They didn’t have freedom of speech. Say something someone in authority didn’t like and you might find yourself in lockup, like I am right now.
In the meantime, our courts have hammered out over the years the parameters of “free speech,” what it is and what it isn’t, so we’d know what is protected and what isn’t. Yelling, “FIRE!” in a crowded theater is not protected speech. There are many other examples that I don’t have the paper or ink to go into now.
Although some people don’t agree, our wise judges have ruled that there is no iron curtain separating the Constitution from the prison walls. Even prisoners, the lowest caste in our society, retain some freedoms, although often on a restricted basis. Freedom of Speech is one of them. There are only three areas of unprotected speech or communications involving prisoners, and those restrictions make sense in this environment.
First, if you write or speak out about planning an escape, as they say in New York, forget about it. You write a letter to Uncle Sid telling him to mail you a hacksaw blade and meet you outside the fence at midnight with a getaway car, they will stick you under the jail. You may not come out for awhile. Prisoners do not have the right to make escape plans, unless you are an American prisoner of war, which maintains that you have the duty to escape, evade capture, and return to your lines. That’s different.
The second area of unprotected speech in prison is the threat of riot, disruption, or insurrection. Think about Attica in 1971. They took over the prison, took hostages, and burned the place down. Why? The prison grievance procedures weren’t working, and after awhile, the prisoners got so fed up with not being able to redress their complaints they started setting fires. When Governor Nelson Rockefeller met their televised demands and appeared in person to hear their complaints, most of which seemed fairly mundane – food, medical care, visiting, and others – he asked them why didn’t they just say something before rather than do all that? They replied that they’d tried for years, but the prison authorities turned deaf ears to their grievances. Now they were listening.
You can’t advocate riots or destruction in prison, or they will mail you. You can’t stand in the recreation yard and urge everyone to engage in a sit-down strike or a hunger strike. You talk about organizing a prison union, they put you on the bus so fast your head will still be spinning when you wake up in a dungeon somewhere. That is not protected speech.
Neither is talk of criminal activities. If the mailroom trolls with their thick glasses down in their basement censorship office read your outgoing mail and you are discussing bringing in drugs, cell phones, weapons, or other illegal items, if you’re talking about bribing the warden to get a parole, or any other criminal act, so long. They got you. No freedom of speech involved in any of those areas. Don’t write Mama and threaten the life of the guard who took your contraband, either, or you’ll find yourself in a world of hurt.
The four-volume set of law books, “The Rights of Prisoners” (4th Edition, Vol. II Prisoner Writings, p. 62-68), exhaustively covers what prisoners can and cannot write about, with landmark case references. You’d think the prison system would get a set of those books and familiarize themselves with the law, rather than letting their personal prejudices and feelings guide their repressive actions. (Excuse me, they did buy a set – they’re in the law library – prisoners know the laws that the guards and officials are unaware of).
The following quotes (at 6:18 – 6:19) from this excellent work have close parallels to my own situation:
“The legal problems that an inmate’s original expression engenders depend on whether the inmate is writing primarily for a prison audience or whether instead, the author seeks a wider audience for the work. This section will consider whether inmates may be punished for their writing.”
“Without a specific factual record showing legitimate dangers that are reasonably related to an inmate writing for the outside world, they cannot be prohibited.”
“The first case involved Murmia Abu-Jamal, a journalist turned inmate, who was sentenced to death for the murder of a police officer, who was approached by National Public Radio to broadcast his commentaries to a national radio audience. When police organizations protested these contacts, prison officials began to inspect all of his mail, including his legal mail, and thereafter invoked a prison rule that prevented all inmates from engaging in “business” while incarcerated. In fact, this rule had not previously been enforced against another inmate who had written a novel while in prison. Mr. Abu-Jamal sued, claiming that the rule as enforced against him violated his First Amendment right to speak and write.
The Third Circuit agreed. It found that the rule was imposed on the plaintiff “in retaliation against the content of his writing.” See Abu-Jamal v. Price, 154 F.3d 128 (3rd Cir, 1998)
“Unlike the Rison case, the court noted that here there was no evidence that the plaintiff’s writings and broadcasts ‘had strained prison resources, contributed to unrest among the inmate population, or enhanced Jamal’s status as a prisoner, resulting in danger to himself or others.’ (at 134). The court concluded that while prison officials could validly prohibit a business operation that placed a substantial burden on prison staff, it could not prevent a First Amendment activity that did not threaten corrections officials or incite the inmate population.” (154 F.3rd at 134-135).
When I sent a request form to the mail clerk who’d originally censored, “To Protect The Guilty” as it appeared in “Wordsmith 2010,” I sought the actual date the book had arrived at the mailroom, which would be the initial date when all the time and deadline calculations would begin. I received the following surprising admission: [spelling and punctuation uncorrected]:
“After receiving the book in the mailroom and reading the first few pages of the story I determined it should be looked at to see if it could come in and sent it to Mr. Hodgson. I have no way of knowing the date the book was received a we do not log incoming mail except for legal. The day it arrived does not change the content of the story [emphasis added]”
The content of the story! How similar is that to what the federal court said about Abu Jamal? “…the rule was imposed on the plaintiff ‘in retaliation against the content of his writings.’ ”
I don’t know what Abu-Jamal writings were about, but I know that mine was a humorous account of a dark subject, Ku Klux Klan prison guards and retaliation I suffered for telling the truth about what I thought of them. Sometimes you have to speak out, and that was one of them. Taking it a logical step forward, I must agree with one of my reader’s comments that the only people who might be offended by “To Protect The Guilty,” would be KKK prison guards and their sympathizers. Either way, I should not be writing this from solitary confinement as a result of it. Case closed.
Prison systems copy the tired strategies, legal or otherwise, others have tried to invoke their will on their subjects. One way to suppress the writings and words of an outspoken prisoner is to label his efforts as “running a business,” forbid it, lock him up, and throw away his pens (they took six pens from me). That has what is called “a chilling effect” on Freedom of Speech. The message—express yourself and go to lockup, lose gain time, stay in prison longer. Keep silent and maintain the status quo, stomp on the Bill of Rights.
It’s not supposed to be that way. Would someone speak out, please? I’m outnumbered.
Charlie
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