DAY TWO: Prison Diary January 4, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL
Today is Friday, and I woke early as my second day of solitary, for exercising my First Amendment rights of freedom of speech and expression. An interesting sidenote: every state employee (including prison) must swear an oath to obey the Florida Constitution, state and federal laws, and the U. S. Constitution, which includes the Bill of Rights and the First Amendment.
We don't talk much about the Florida Constitution, but it is in effect, and its Declaration of Human Rights mirrors much of the Bill of Rights. Article I, Section 4 of that document, Freedom of Speech, states that every person shall have the right to speak, write, and publish their thoughts. Look it up! If you don't have a copy of the Florida Constitution lying around the house, ask "Mister Google," and he will take you right to it.
You can also view the correctional officer's "Code of Ethics" on the Florida D.O.C. web site, but who ever let something like sworn oaths to maintain ethics get in the way of committing reprisals against prisoners who weren't properly subservient and sycophantic toward those who trample on the law?
Day Two in solitary confinement began with cell lights blasting on around 4:00 AM, then it was the long wait until the food cart came around with breakfast - potatoes, grits, two hard biscuits, a small, dry disk of what they claim is "turkey sausage," but try as I might, I couldn't sniff a single gobble from it. I ate it, along with every other bland tasteless bite on the tray. I am in "survival mode" now, and must preserve my strength. It wasn't much, but it is a long time to lunch, and there is no canteen run in "disciplinary confinement." I am grateful that I am in solitary in America and not Colombia, Haiti, Pakistan, or Russia, where they do starve their prisoners. At least the food is reasonably warm.
About 7:00 AM, I was told to pack up my meager belongings again, I was moving to another wing, "DC Confinement," filled with those already found guilty and serving their disciplinary confinement time. (NOTE: everyone is found guilty in Kangaroo court. Like the song says, "There's no exception to the rule."). I'd spent the first night in "AC," administrative confinement, filled with those locked up for "investigation" or awaiting their fate in Kangaroo court. We desperados serving "DC" time aren't supposed to be around the "AC" guys, but as I said yesterday, there was no room at the DC Inn at the time.
So I moved to another wing, another identical cell in a far corner, trashed and filthy from the previous occupant. Did I tell you that most of the mentally ill prisoners spend most of the time in lockup? And they do funky things to their cells. Heck, they do funky things to themselves!
The guard asked me, "Are you going to clean this mess up?" And I answered, "Of course. I don't live like this."
It could have been worse.
Some years back, I had a Cuban "Marielito" cell mate who was one of the thousands Castro released from prisons and mental hospitals, freeing them to join other thousands of Cubans who came to Florida on the "boat lift" from Mariel, Cuba. No one ever said Castro was stupid. In a matter of weeks, he dumped the worst criminals and psychopaths onto Florida shores where many came quickly to prison.
My cellmate wasn't one of the worst, just a petty criminal who couldn't make it "on the street," but he had many horror stories about Cuban prisons that made me count my blessings to be where I was, despite the injustice and inhumanity. Since I spoke Spanish, it was a revelation to hear the stories of an illiterate man who spoke no English.
There is a large, thriving criminal element in Cuba, despite the totalitarian police state, and the criminals organize themselves in gangs of mostly geographic breakdowns. When the authorities transferred a group of Western Cuba prisoners to a prison filled with mostly Eastern Cuba prisoners, bloody battles broke out until they separated them. The guards maintain their own geographic loyalties, too.
A "big man," a powerful Havana gangster and his bodyguard were sent to a distant prison where the guards had animosity toward him before he even arrived, disdaining his "elite" status as a well-off, powerful Havana criminal.
Guards took them to a cell where two prisoners lay dead, butchered by a psychopath, the cell covered in blood. The guards pointed to a mop and bucket, told them that was their cell, to drag the corpses outside and scrub down all the blood.
The gangster was a bigshot, told the guards they weren't doing it, and to give them another cell.
The guards told him they had a choice - to clean the cell, or they were going to lock them in the cell with the dead bodies and the crazy guy who'd killed them.
They scrubbed the cell.
This cell wasn't anywhere near that bad, but it was filthy with brown steaks and boogers stuck to the wall. No cleaning supplies, but I used much of a bottle of my shampoo (what do I need it for? They shaved my head) and a piece of rag, along with the dribble of water out of the steel sink, to thoroughly wash the walls and floor. The cell seems bigger when you're cleaning it! It smelled a lot better, too. Now I'm not afraid to touch anything.
In "AC" they take showers Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. In "DC" it is Monday, Wednesday, Friday. For once I got lucky - took a shower in AC on Thursday night, and doubled back for another one in DC tonight, Friday. I'm not complaining. Otherwise I'd be taking a "bird bath" in the dribbling sink.
Since the mail grinch disapproves of my poetry and literary efforts so vehemently, I figured my best revenge would be to use this 30 day period to write a poem every day, along with this prison diary, to show you what it is like, and to keep my brain functioning at a high level. Hettie Jones says that writing is the best activity a person in prison can do, to keep themselves sane and make sense of the world. I agree. I am already behind, but I am catching up.
My friend and mentor, Stephanie Riggio, challenged me to write a sestina a year or so ago, and sent me the rules and some examples. Sestinas are particularly challenging poems that must be meticulously constructed using six non-rhyming end words that are repeated in a varying order in six stanzas of six verses that use all six words. What a challenge! Awell-crafted sestina that tells a story is quite an accomplishment, and my skills weren't up to it until recently, when I wrote my first one, fittingly titled, "A Sestina For Stephanie."
I found the second one several degrees more difficult and struggled to complete it. But complete it I did, today. I will share it with you here tomorrow, if you care to read it.
Meanwhile, I will attempt to sleep on this rock-hard narrow bunk, and see you tomorrow. Good night.
Charlie
EDITOR'S NOTE: I never fail to be amazed at how Charlie maintains a positive attitude and his unique creativity under the most adverse conditions, as evidenced by this latest edition of his ongoing prison diary. But he needs the moral support of friends during this trying time. Charlie has battled hard against corrupt politicians who've abused their power and generated lie after lie to keep him imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. It is shameful.
If you have any comments about this prison diary you can make them to me by e-mail, and I will forward them to Charlie, or you can make your comments and send words of encouragement directly to him at Charles P. Norman, #881834, Okaloosa Correctional Institution, 3189 Colonel Greg Malloy Road, Crestview, FL 32539.
Be sure to use "Charles." According to the mail grinch, "Charlie" is NOT "Charles," so any mail addressed to "Charlie" will be unceremoniously returned to sender.
Please feel free to pass on Charlie's story to any friends you think would be interested. Thanks.
Libby
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY
DAY ONE: Prison Diary January 3, 2013 Solitary Confinement
When I was rudely awakened near midnight on December 4, 2012, to be served another false "disciplinary report" fabricated by the evil "mail grinch," a so-called civilian clerical employee who has been hounding my correspondence since my arrival here in April, I didn't worry much about it. Even the officer who delivered it to me was astounded at the rambling illiteracy that comprised 23 separate ridiculous allegations going back to 2007, four prisons ago, who said it should have been shredded. This person, who has been the central figure in keeping me separate from my mail, has focused her vitriol on me in retaliation and reprisal for my filing complaints against her for mail theft, theft of postage stamps, "losing," tampering with, hindering, delaying and photocopying incoming and outgoing mail, for months.
Has anyone in the Florida panhandle heard of the First Amendment to the U. S. Constitution? Considering how higher-level prison officials defer to this person's total disregard for the law, one would think not. Even prisoners have the First Amendment right to send and receive correspondence from people in "free society," or so the U. S. Supreme Court says, backed up by "Chapter 33" state prison regulations, Florida Statutes, the Florida Constitution, and federal law. Apparently not in this county!
A guard once told me one of my favorite ignorant quotes, "The Constitution ain't in effect in Columbia County." That was twelve years ago. Guess what, M.W.? It ain't in effect in Okaloosa County, either. This is another world, where the rule of law does not apply.
The mail grinch began her assaults with a post-it note: "Inmates can not[sic] write short stories," then followed up with, "Inmates can not write poems." Considering the ungrammatical use "can not," I wondered if it was a value judgment, or a statement of fact, like, "white men can't jump?" "Inmates are incapable of writing short stories?" Is that what she meant? Or was it "Inmates are forbidden...?" Both statements are false, untrue.
People incarcerated in Florida prisons are allowed to write short stories, poems, essays, books, plays, letters to their mothers, and to their congressmen. I know. I've been doing it for over thirty years, with the full knowledge and approval of many prison officials. I've also taught approved creative writing courses, including "short stories," as recently as last January at Wakulla Annex, under the "faith and character based initiative." The State issued certificates. Maybe she just doesn't like poems. I know - no pictures! That made it more difficult to understand.
What prisoners are not allowed to do, according to Chapter 33-602.207, is to sign marketing agreements with literary agents and seek compensation for their work. Section (2) of that rule provides the disclaimer: any inmate seeking to publish his writings must send a statement to the mailroom staff that he is not seeking compensation. I did that here at Okaloosa on May 17, 2012. Didn't matter.
In the days that follow, I will fill in the blanks and explain what happened in the month from when the mail grinch concocted those phony charges until I had the Kangaroo court hearing, today, which resulted in my being sentenced to 30 days lockup in solitary confinement again, for pursuing my First Amendment rights to freedom of speech and redress of grievances.
Meanwhile, I will recount Day One of 30 for you. I was in the law library at 10:00 AM this morning, Thursday, January 3, 2013, when I was told to report to my dorm. (They euphemistically call it a "dorm," but it is merely a large prison cell packed with 75 narrow steel bunks and 75 prisoners in tight quarters. The word "sardines" comes to mind.)
Upon arrival, the guard said, "Pack your shit, you got a d.r. hearing." Great.
So I packed most of my earthly belongings in mesh bags, and a couple of friends carried the mostly legal documents for me. Since I've suffered disk injuries to my back, I refrain from lifting much and further damaging my back, if I can avoid it. Forget about prison back surgery!
While I was waiting for the Kangaroo court hearing (verdict and punishment discussed and decided upon before I walk in the door), a prison guard who knew me asked, "What did you get a d.r. for? You do nothing wrong." I told you he knew me.
I showed him the charges. (If you would like to read them, send a response to Libby on the "contact" e-mail, and she will send them to you).
He couldn't believe it. "No way! You won't go to jail for this. I've never read anything like this in my career. This is ridiculous."
Famous last words. When I tried to say something in my defense, I was threatened with, "Shut up, back up into that corner, and don't say another word, or I'm going to end this hearing right now and lock your ass up on another d.r. for thirty days."
So much for a "fair and impartial" hearing where I could speak, present evidence, and request witnesses.
That was about 10:40 AM. Property taken, hands cuffed behind my back, and escorted to lockup. First, I went to medical for a pre-confinement physical. 236 pounds. Next, I was locked into a tiny steel cage shower the size of a small phone booth. (Do they still have phone booths out there?) Cuffs removed, then strip-searched, locked in the tiny shower/phoneless booth for almost two hours. They were busy, there wasn't room - confinement is booming - no vacancy. They had to let someone out to find a bunk in a cell for me.
They brought me a lunch tray. Forgettable. A famous prison memoir from the 1970's was titled, "Where Flies Don't Land." You could use the same description for the tray.
After an hour or so of being cramped and trying to find an angle to get more comfortable, I accidentally bumped the pushbutton that cuts on the shower. That worked! There I was, trapped in a steel cage, with cold water spraying and soaking me! (Important note: avoid pushbuttons!)
Then, the guard came by, noticed my soaked condition and asked a couple of stupid questions. Finally, I was escorted to my new cell - bare bones - a hard, thin plastic-covered mattress, one stained sheet, one ragged, patched blanket.
Hours went by. They gave me toothpaste, but no toothbrush. That makes sense. They served supper - "chow." I've already forgotten it, or maybe just blocked it out of my mind.
Later on, strip down to boxer shorts, hands cuffed in back - shower time. First, they shaved my head, part of the dehumanizing/humiliation process, the "P.O.W./mental patient" look. Once a week they re-weigh everyone in lockup, to see if anyone is starving to death or on a hunger strike. If you lose so much weight in thirty days, they have to release you. So I was re-weighed - 210 pounds! A new record. I lost 26 pounds in eight hours! Obviously an error but they wrote it down.
Then back to the infamous steel cage shower, where I was locked in and cuffs removed, ostensibly so I could wash. Five minutes. Back to your cell.
I was tired, mentally and physically exhausted, so around 9:00 PM, I curled up on the hard plastic mattress on the steel bunk and tried to drown out the cacophony of lost souls calling out to any human voices who would answer them. So much for DAY ONE in solitary. Good night. See you tomorrow.
Charlie
When I was rudely awakened near midnight on December 4, 2012, to be served another false "disciplinary report" fabricated by the evil "mail grinch," a so-called civilian clerical employee who has been hounding my correspondence since my arrival here in April, I didn't worry much about it. Even the officer who delivered it to me was astounded at the rambling illiteracy that comprised 23 separate ridiculous allegations going back to 2007, four prisons ago, who said it should have been shredded. This person, who has been the central figure in keeping me separate from my mail, has focused her vitriol on me in retaliation and reprisal for my filing complaints against her for mail theft, theft of postage stamps, "losing," tampering with, hindering, delaying and photocopying incoming and outgoing mail, for months.
Has anyone in the Florida panhandle heard of the First Amendment to the U. S. Constitution? Considering how higher-level prison officials defer to this person's total disregard for the law, one would think not. Even prisoners have the First Amendment right to send and receive correspondence from people in "free society," or so the U. S. Supreme Court says, backed up by "Chapter 33" state prison regulations, Florida Statutes, the Florida Constitution, and federal law. Apparently not in this county!
A guard once told me one of my favorite ignorant quotes, "The Constitution ain't in effect in Columbia County." That was twelve years ago. Guess what, M.W.? It ain't in effect in Okaloosa County, either. This is another world, where the rule of law does not apply.
The mail grinch began her assaults with a post-it note: "Inmates can not[sic] write short stories," then followed up with, "Inmates can not write poems." Considering the ungrammatical use "can not," I wondered if it was a value judgment, or a statement of fact, like, "white men can't jump?" "Inmates are incapable of writing short stories?" Is that what she meant? Or was it "Inmates are forbidden...?" Both statements are false, untrue.
People incarcerated in Florida prisons are allowed to write short stories, poems, essays, books, plays, letters to their mothers, and to their congressmen. I know. I've been doing it for over thirty years, with the full knowledge and approval of many prison officials. I've also taught approved creative writing courses, including "short stories," as recently as last January at Wakulla Annex, under the "faith and character based initiative." The State issued certificates. Maybe she just doesn't like poems. I know - no pictures! That made it more difficult to understand.
What prisoners are not allowed to do, according to Chapter 33-602.207, is to sign marketing agreements with literary agents and seek compensation for their work. Section (2) of that rule provides the disclaimer: any inmate seeking to publish his writings must send a statement to the mailroom staff that he is not seeking compensation. I did that here at Okaloosa on May 17, 2012. Didn't matter.
In the days that follow, I will fill in the blanks and explain what happened in the month from when the mail grinch concocted those phony charges until I had the Kangaroo court hearing, today, which resulted in my being sentenced to 30 days lockup in solitary confinement again, for pursuing my First Amendment rights to freedom of speech and redress of grievances.
Meanwhile, I will recount Day One of 30 for you. I was in the law library at 10:00 AM this morning, Thursday, January 3, 2013, when I was told to report to my dorm. (They euphemistically call it a "dorm," but it is merely a large prison cell packed with 75 narrow steel bunks and 75 prisoners in tight quarters. The word "sardines" comes to mind.)
Upon arrival, the guard said, "Pack your shit, you got a d.r. hearing." Great.
So I packed most of my earthly belongings in mesh bags, and a couple of friends carried the mostly legal documents for me. Since I've suffered disk injuries to my back, I refrain from lifting much and further damaging my back, if I can avoid it. Forget about prison back surgery!
While I was waiting for the Kangaroo court hearing (verdict and punishment discussed and decided upon before I walk in the door), a prison guard who knew me asked, "What did you get a d.r. for? You do nothing wrong." I told you he knew me.
I showed him the charges. (If you would like to read them, send a response to Libby on the "contact" e-mail, and she will send them to you).
He couldn't believe it. "No way! You won't go to jail for this. I've never read anything like this in my career. This is ridiculous."
Famous last words. When I tried to say something in my defense, I was threatened with, "Shut up, back up into that corner, and don't say another word, or I'm going to end this hearing right now and lock your ass up on another d.r. for thirty days."
So much for a "fair and impartial" hearing where I could speak, present evidence, and request witnesses.
That was about 10:40 AM. Property taken, hands cuffed behind my back, and escorted to lockup. First, I went to medical for a pre-confinement physical. 236 pounds. Next, I was locked into a tiny steel cage shower the size of a small phone booth. (Do they still have phone booths out there?) Cuffs removed, then strip-searched, locked in the tiny shower/phoneless booth for almost two hours. They were busy, there wasn't room - confinement is booming - no vacancy. They had to let someone out to find a bunk in a cell for me.
They brought me a lunch tray. Forgettable. A famous prison memoir from the 1970's was titled, "Where Flies Don't Land." You could use the same description for the tray.
After an hour or so of being cramped and trying to find an angle to get more comfortable, I accidentally bumped the pushbutton that cuts on the shower. That worked! There I was, trapped in a steel cage, with cold water spraying and soaking me! (Important note: avoid pushbuttons!)
Then, the guard came by, noticed my soaked condition and asked a couple of stupid questions. Finally, I was escorted to my new cell - bare bones - a hard, thin plastic-covered mattress, one stained sheet, one ragged, patched blanket.
Hours went by. They gave me toothpaste, but no toothbrush. That makes sense. They served supper - "chow." I've already forgotten it, or maybe just blocked it out of my mind.
Later on, strip down to boxer shorts, hands cuffed in back - shower time. First, they shaved my head, part of the dehumanizing/humiliation process, the "P.O.W./mental patient" look. Once a week they re-weigh everyone in lockup, to see if anyone is starving to death or on a hunger strike. If you lose so much weight in thirty days, they have to release you. So I was re-weighed - 210 pounds! A new record. I lost 26 pounds in eight hours! Obviously an error but they wrote it down.
Then back to the infamous steel cage shower, where I was locked in and cuffs removed, ostensibly so I could wash. Five minutes. Back to your cell.
I was tired, mentally and physically exhausted, so around 9:00 PM, I curled up on the hard plastic mattress on the steel bunk and tried to drown out the cacophony of lost souls calling out to any human voices who would answer them. So much for DAY ONE in solitary. Good night. See you tomorrow.
Charlie
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
BLOODIED BUT UNBOWED
Dateline Tuesday, January 1, 2013
January first heralds the 12,693rd day in my captivity. April fifth will mark my 35th year of wrongful imprisonment, a prisoner of corrupt politicians, who fear that their highly-profitable political careers will be ruined when the truth comes out about how and why I was convicted of a 1975 murder someone else committed.
But what about the two men who were given "immunity from prosecution for first degree murder" in exchange for their false testimony that Charles Norman told them he shot someone? Many people do not realize that only the guilty receive "immunity," because the innocent don't need it. Or what about the other felons who were released from prison at the behest of the prosecutor to commit perjury at the trial of Charles Norman?
The actual shooter in the 1975 murder bragged that his wealthy father had paid off the prosecutor for his immunity. I refused the offers to pay the bribes and "...make it go away..." - I was not guilty and believed the system of "justice" would prove that truth.
And one dirty secret that the prosecutor hides is that his actions resulted in the rapes of 8 women, because one of the felons he had released for my trial became the notorious "Eastside Rapist."
Nothing is said about the only eyewitness to the shootout that resulted in the death of a young man. The eyewitness was the only non-felon to testify for the prosecution, and to the chagrin of the corrupt prosecutor he said Charles Norman was not the shooter - the actual shooter was a smaller and shorter man.
People ask me how I've survived, how I've done all this time, and I tell them, "Like a man." I am sustained by my faith and the love and support of family and friends who have not abandoned me.
Although others have done their best to silence my voice, I continue to express myself in ways that reveal what is inside me, to work, to write, to read, to share with others. On this first day of a brand new year, I would like to share two poems that I identify with, one from the Bible and another written by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) . Perhaps they will have meaning for you. May 2013 be a time of health, happiness, and joy for you.
Psalm 57:4
My soul is in the midst of lions;
I lie among ravenous beasts -
Men whose teeth are spears and arrows
Whose tongues are sharp swords.
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black is the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Charlie
January first heralds the 12,693rd day in my captivity. April fifth will mark my 35th year of wrongful imprisonment, a prisoner of corrupt politicians, who fear that their highly-profitable political careers will be ruined when the truth comes out about how and why I was convicted of a 1975 murder someone else committed.
But what about the two men who were given "immunity from prosecution for first degree murder" in exchange for their false testimony that Charles Norman told them he shot someone? Many people do not realize that only the guilty receive "immunity," because the innocent don't need it. Or what about the other felons who were released from prison at the behest of the prosecutor to commit perjury at the trial of Charles Norman?
The actual shooter in the 1975 murder bragged that his wealthy father had paid off the prosecutor for his immunity. I refused the offers to pay the bribes and "...make it go away..." - I was not guilty and believed the system of "justice" would prove that truth.
And one dirty secret that the prosecutor hides is that his actions resulted in the rapes of 8 women, because one of the felons he had released for my trial became the notorious "Eastside Rapist."
Nothing is said about the only eyewitness to the shootout that resulted in the death of a young man. The eyewitness was the only non-felon to testify for the prosecution, and to the chagrin of the corrupt prosecutor he said Charles Norman was not the shooter - the actual shooter was a smaller and shorter man.
People ask me how I've survived, how I've done all this time, and I tell them, "Like a man." I am sustained by my faith and the love and support of family and friends who have not abandoned me.
Although others have done their best to silence my voice, I continue to express myself in ways that reveal what is inside me, to work, to write, to read, to share with others. On this first day of a brand new year, I would like to share two poems that I identify with, one from the Bible and another written by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) . Perhaps they will have meaning for you. May 2013 be a time of health, happiness, and joy for you.
Psalm 57:4
My soul is in the midst of lions;
I lie among ravenous beasts -
Men whose teeth are spears and arrows
Whose tongues are sharp swords.
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black is the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Charlie
Monday, December 24, 2012
A CHRISTMAS BLESSING
Dateline: Christmas Eve 12/24/2012
by Charles Patick Norman
I'm beginning to look like Santa Claus,
Is that a white beard growing on my jaws?
May I share with you my Christmas blessing,
Times are tough for most I'm only guessing.
At the brink of Mideast war we seek peace,
From the rule of mad men they seek release.
Perhaps I should call it my Christmas wish,
That those who govern are wise, not foolish.
There can be no joy for those in Newtown,
Lord bring the domestic body count down.
We mourn the senseless loss of innocents,
And vow to make schools safe for all students.
They say it's better to give than receive,
Much better to celebrate life than grieve.
Smile at someone you wouldn't otherwise,
Say Merry Christmas with your voice and eyes.
Find it in your hearts to forgive others,
Even if they are sisters and brothers.
Although far from home on this special night,
Merry Christmas all, may your joy be bright.
by Charles Patick Norman
I'm beginning to look like Santa Claus,
Is that a white beard growing on my jaws?
May I share with you my Christmas blessing,
Times are tough for most I'm only guessing.
At the brink of Mideast war we seek peace,
From the rule of mad men they seek release.
Perhaps I should call it my Christmas wish,
That those who govern are wise, not foolish.
There can be no joy for those in Newtown,
Lord bring the domestic body count down.
We mourn the senseless loss of innocents,
And vow to make schools safe for all students.
They say it's better to give than receive,
Much better to celebrate life than grieve.
Smile at someone you wouldn't otherwise,
Say Merry Christmas with your voice and eyes.
Find it in your hearts to forgive others,
Even if they are sisters and brothers.
Although far from home on this special night,
Merry Christmas all, may your joy be bright.
Merry Christmas from Charlie and Libby
Okaloosa C.I. 12/22/2012
We wish you peace.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
FOOD STAMP RECIPIENTS EAT THREE TIMES BETTER THAN FLORIDA PRISONERS
Dateline Sunday, December 9, 2012
On today’s Face The Nation news program, Bob Schieffer interviewed Newark, NJ, Mayor Cory Booker, about his attempt to live on the same amount of food that the average food stamp recipient could purchase in a week. He got hungry.
If he thought it was rough to live on food stamps for a week, he should come to Florida, and try to sustain himself on what state prisoners are served. He’d be thrilled to get the food stamps.
Mayor Booker spent thirty dollars on a week's worth of groceries, which comes out to be about $1.40 per meal, $4.20 per day. For breakfast, he ate an apple. He bought various canned goods, and made a casserole that he snacked on in the afternoon.
In contrast, the Florida Department of Corrections allocates about $1.54 per prisoner per day for their food budget, or about 51 cents per meal, an historic low.
How in the world can they feed close to 100,000 prisoners on such a limited budget, you ask? It's not easy. It's also not tasty nor filling. If it weren't for the sacrifices of many prisoners' families and friends subsidizing their loved ones by sending money to their prison canteen accounts to buy extra food, there would be many more hungry, dissatisfied prisoners creating problems than there are now. Thievery is endemic.
Over thirty-two years ago, when I came to Raiford, Union C. I., Florida's biggest prison at the time (2,600 men), also known as, "The Rock," the prison food budget averaged about $2.86 per person per day, almost double today's budgeted amount. In 2012 dollars, that $2.86 per day would be closer to $6.00, four times the actual amount spent today. The prison system was much smarter in those days, fed better, and stretched their food dollars much further.
Cattle grazing on 15,000 acres of state pastureland were butchered and processed in the prison slaughterhouse each week, providing beef for all. Pork from the huge hog farming operation was also a staple. Another prison operated a catfish farm, and prison chicken farms provided eggs.
Statewide prison agricultural operations provided tons of fresh vegetables. Thousands of prisoners provided free labor on all those operations. Thousands of other prisoners labored on outside work squads, on road crews cutting grass and picking up litter, working on Department of Transportation crews, and for numerous local and state government agencies. Prisoners worked hard and were fed relatively well, with real meat and vegetables. Other prisoners were trained in food prep classes and at the Quincy Baking School, preparing meals that were tasty, filling, and nutritious. Hungry people won't work as hard. Things are much different now.
With the budget crises and shortfalls, and state prisons bursting with the results of the "War On Crime," and over 30,500 people drawing paychecks in the FDOC, as opposed to less than 7,000 on the payroll thirty years ago, and faced with rising medical costs and huge infrastructure expenses, the "powers-that-be," when required to make more budget cuts, say, "Let's cut the food budget another quarter!" That is the wrong place to shortchange the system. Unless wiser heads prevail, it will only get worse.
Some people will inevitably say, "They're only prisoners. They committed crimes. Starve them. Give them bread and water!" These same people, once their son or daughter, or other loved one went to prison, rightly or wrongly, and heard what they were living on, beans, greens, sweet potatoes, oatmeal, grits, and other meager, flavorless staples made from soy, would be the first to send a money order or Western Union to their canteen account, so they could buy supplementary food in the prison commissary, or spend $25.00 in the prison visiting park on overpriced hamburgers and sandwiches unavailable to most of the prison population.
In my thirty-four plus years of continuous incarceration, I've never seen anyone starve to death in a Florida prison. You eat three meals a day, everything on your tray, you'll survive. You won't like it, but you'll live. That's about it. Hope you love grits.
I've known of certain dissidents going on hunger strikes, but those are unusual occurrences. In 1979, after Governor Bob Graham signed the first death warrant after the new death penalty law was enacted, condemned man, John Spenkelink (who turned down a 15-year plea bargain), was prepared for electrocution in "Old Sparky," the infamous electric chair at Florida State Prison. In a show of protest and solidarity, over 1100 FSP prisoners went on a hunger strike. After Spenkelink took his ride to eternity, the prison officials ordered the kitchen to start frying chicken. For several hours the aroma of chicken grease wafted through every wing of the prison. That's all it took. The hunger strike was broken.
I am blessed and grateful that someone loves me and cares enough to drive hundreds of miles to visit me and share a prison canteen meal costing over $22 for two people, more expensive than Applebees, but we are a captive market. To try and live on the $1.54 daily food budget out of the canteen is impossible. A little flat Ramen soup pack, 58 cents, and a sleeve of saltines, 81 cents, don't leave much leeway with the $1.54 daily allowance. One would surely be hungry if limited to that.
I invite Mayor Booker to visit us in Florida and share a tray of chow hall food with us. Several years ago, at another prison facility, the Kairos Prison Ministry volunteers from Jacksonville joined us to eat the noon meal in the prison chow hall. The late Ron Hale, a big man used to eating well, set down his tray on the table at his place, looked at the indeterminate gray mix in the entree slot, and asked, "You guys really eat this stuff, Charlie?"
I replied, "I'll take it. Thanks. I'm hungry."
You would be, too.
Charlie
On today’s Face The Nation news program, Bob Schieffer interviewed Newark, NJ, Mayor Cory Booker, about his attempt to live on the same amount of food that the average food stamp recipient could purchase in a week. He got hungry.
If he thought it was rough to live on food stamps for a week, he should come to Florida, and try to sustain himself on what state prisoners are served. He’d be thrilled to get the food stamps.
Mayor Booker spent thirty dollars on a week's worth of groceries, which comes out to be about $1.40 per meal, $4.20 per day. For breakfast, he ate an apple. He bought various canned goods, and made a casserole that he snacked on in the afternoon.
In contrast, the Florida Department of Corrections allocates about $1.54 per prisoner per day for their food budget, or about 51 cents per meal, an historic low.
How in the world can they feed close to 100,000 prisoners on such a limited budget, you ask? It's not easy. It's also not tasty nor filling. If it weren't for the sacrifices of many prisoners' families and friends subsidizing their loved ones by sending money to their prison canteen accounts to buy extra food, there would be many more hungry, dissatisfied prisoners creating problems than there are now. Thievery is endemic.
Over thirty-two years ago, when I came to Raiford, Union C. I., Florida's biggest prison at the time (2,600 men), also known as, "The Rock," the prison food budget averaged about $2.86 per person per day, almost double today's budgeted amount. In 2012 dollars, that $2.86 per day would be closer to $6.00, four times the actual amount spent today. The prison system was much smarter in those days, fed better, and stretched their food dollars much further.
Cattle grazing on 15,000 acres of state pastureland were butchered and processed in the prison slaughterhouse each week, providing beef for all. Pork from the huge hog farming operation was also a staple. Another prison operated a catfish farm, and prison chicken farms provided eggs.
Statewide prison agricultural operations provided tons of fresh vegetables. Thousands of prisoners provided free labor on all those operations. Thousands of other prisoners labored on outside work squads, on road crews cutting grass and picking up litter, working on Department of Transportation crews, and for numerous local and state government agencies. Prisoners worked hard and were fed relatively well, with real meat and vegetables. Other prisoners were trained in food prep classes and at the Quincy Baking School, preparing meals that were tasty, filling, and nutritious. Hungry people won't work as hard. Things are much different now.
With the budget crises and shortfalls, and state prisons bursting with the results of the "War On Crime," and over 30,500 people drawing paychecks in the FDOC, as opposed to less than 7,000 on the payroll thirty years ago, and faced with rising medical costs and huge infrastructure expenses, the "powers-that-be," when required to make more budget cuts, say, "Let's cut the food budget another quarter!" That is the wrong place to shortchange the system. Unless wiser heads prevail, it will only get worse.
Some people will inevitably say, "They're only prisoners. They committed crimes. Starve them. Give them bread and water!" These same people, once their son or daughter, or other loved one went to prison, rightly or wrongly, and heard what they were living on, beans, greens, sweet potatoes, oatmeal, grits, and other meager, flavorless staples made from soy, would be the first to send a money order or Western Union to their canteen account, so they could buy supplementary food in the prison commissary, or spend $25.00 in the prison visiting park on overpriced hamburgers and sandwiches unavailable to most of the prison population.
In my thirty-four plus years of continuous incarceration, I've never seen anyone starve to death in a Florida prison. You eat three meals a day, everything on your tray, you'll survive. You won't like it, but you'll live. That's about it. Hope you love grits.
I've known of certain dissidents going on hunger strikes, but those are unusual occurrences. In 1979, after Governor Bob Graham signed the first death warrant after the new death penalty law was enacted, condemned man, John Spenkelink (who turned down a 15-year plea bargain), was prepared for electrocution in "Old Sparky," the infamous electric chair at Florida State Prison. In a show of protest and solidarity, over 1100 FSP prisoners went on a hunger strike. After Spenkelink took his ride to eternity, the prison officials ordered the kitchen to start frying chicken. For several hours the aroma of chicken grease wafted through every wing of the prison. That's all it took. The hunger strike was broken.
I am blessed and grateful that someone loves me and cares enough to drive hundreds of miles to visit me and share a prison canteen meal costing over $22 for two people, more expensive than Applebees, but we are a captive market. To try and live on the $1.54 daily food budget out of the canteen is impossible. A little flat Ramen soup pack, 58 cents, and a sleeve of saltines, 81 cents, don't leave much leeway with the $1.54 daily allowance. One would surely be hungry if limited to that.
I invite Mayor Booker to visit us in Florida and share a tray of chow hall food with us. Several years ago, at another prison facility, the Kairos Prison Ministry volunteers from Jacksonville joined us to eat the noon meal in the prison chow hall. The late Ron Hale, a big man used to eating well, set down his tray on the table at his place, looked at the indeterminate gray mix in the entree slot, and asked, "You guys really eat this stuff, Charlie?"
I replied, "I'll take it. Thanks. I'm hungry."
You would be, too.
Charlie
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
TWO NEW POEMS FOR YOU
Here are 2 new poems for your amusement. Charlie continues to work at improving his writing skills. As always, he welcomes any input, opinions, and constructive criticism.
We hope your holiday season is off to a good start.
NO FURTHER QUESTIONS
by Charles Patrick Norman
Something happened
I didn’t understand,
So I asked my friend why.
He replied, “Sometimes it bees that way.”
I felt a buzzing in my head.
Something else happened
that made no sense to me,
So I asked him again to explain.
He said, “It is what it is.”
For some reason that infuriated me,
so I reared back my fist and
punched him straight in the mouth.
The buzzing in my head went away.
He looked at me, hurt, and asked,
“Why did you do that?”
And I answered, “Sometimes it bees that way,”
and punched him in the mouth again.
Holding a rag to his bleeding lip,
he asked me, “What was that for?”
And I said, “It is what it is,
except when it ain’t.”
He shut up.
No further questions.
and another one:
YOU SAY, YET
by Charles Patrick Norman
You say life is an accident, yet
I hear a crow cawing, another answering,
And wonder at your ignorance.
You say there is no God, yet
I look at the lines in my hand
And see our lie.
You say there is no hereafter, yet
When your child lay sick
You begged God to save her.
You say there is no evil, yet
I see men caged by men
Surrounded by darkness and hate.
You say there is no hope, yet
I see a son on his father’s lap, asking,
“Daddy, when are you coming home?”
We hope your holiday season is off to a good start.
NO FURTHER QUESTIONS
by Charles Patrick Norman
Something happened
I didn’t understand,
So I asked my friend why.
He replied, “Sometimes it bees that way.”
I felt a buzzing in my head.
Something else happened
that made no sense to me,
So I asked him again to explain.
He said, “It is what it is.”
For some reason that infuriated me,
so I reared back my fist and
punched him straight in the mouth.
The buzzing in my head went away.
He looked at me, hurt, and asked,
“Why did you do that?”
And I answered, “Sometimes it bees that way,”
and punched him in the mouth again.
Holding a rag to his bleeding lip,
he asked me, “What was that for?”
And I said, “It is what it is,
except when it ain’t.”
He shut up.
No further questions.
and another one:
YOU SAY, YET
by Charles Patrick Norman
You say life is an accident, yet
I hear a crow cawing, another answering,
And wonder at your ignorance.
You say there is no God, yet
I look at the lines in my hand
And see our lie.
You say there is no hereafter, yet
When your child lay sick
You begged God to save her.
You say there is no evil, yet
I see men caged by men
Surrounded by darkness and hate.
You say there is no hope, yet
I see a son on his father’s lap, asking,
“Daddy, when are you coming home?”
Sunday, November 11, 2012
A THANKSGIVING PRAYER
One of my earliest memories was my grandfather saying “Grace” before every meal. I called my mother’s father, Floyd Franklin Walker, “Bebaw,” from the time I could talk, and my grandmother, Velva Marie, “Memaw.” We would gather round the table, with the tantalizing aromas of breakfast, dinner, or supper filling the room, and look expectantly toward Bebaw to say grace before digging in. an outwardly serious man with a gruff voice, inside Bebaw was deeply emotional, and every time he recited the blessing that his father before him said, everyone knew he was talking to God from his heart.
The prayer never changed, in homage to his father and grandfather before him, and the words became indelibly imprinted in my memory. I remember the last Thanksgiving I shared with my grandparents, in their house at 1324 Della Street in Texarkana, sitting at the big table with various aunts, uncles, cousins, and other loved ones, so many that the children were served at a table in another room, my grandmother directing the team of womenfolk who brought steaming platters to the table. Bebaw was sick with the cancer that killed him. He’d lost weight, becoming a shadow of his former dominant physical self, but when all eyes turned to him, expectantly waiting for the blessing, his voice sang out powerfully and sure.
On this Thanksgiving, despite all the travails, I have much to be thankful for, and I want to share the blessing that my grandfather bestowed to me. My dear friend, Libby, will be sharing a modest canteen meal with me inside a prison visiting park, and I hope to share this grace with her.
WALKER FAMILY GRACE
Righteous Heavenly Father,
Look down on us
with tender mercy, Lord.
Direct your blessings
to sanctify these table offerings
for the nourishment of our bodies.
We ask these things
in Jesus’ precious name.
Amen.
The following is a family photograph from 1913, when Bebaw was seven years old, at left, shading his eyes, with his parents, John Richard and Millie Francis Walker, brothers and sisters, in Texas. By that age, Bebaw had memorized his father’s prayer, just as I memorized it decades later, and now pass it along to you.
May you have a blessed Thanksgiving holiday surrounded by family and loved ones.
Charlie
11/03/2012
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