Your Stories
Below are a collection of stories, articles, and columns that have been sent to by those whose lives have been impacted by incarceration. It is my hope that these stories will help others know they are not alone in their struggle. Hopefully these stories can shed light on the issues within our justice system and provide information and advice for those who need it. We do not edit, endorse, or reject any specific opinions who get expressed. It is solely the persons responsibility who sends their statements; we are not censors. Feel free to email if you have a story you would like to share if your incarcerated loved one would like to share their story.
From the prisoners families conference website:
MY STORY: FIRST VISIT TO LOVED ONE IN PRISON: MY PARENTS SON AND MY BROTHERWe had no idea what to expect during our visit to loved one in prison. The first time my parents and I visited my brother in prison there was a wedding. It was Valentine’s Day, so on the outside that would be an appropriate time for a wedding. We saw families sitting together laughing and children playing. It was so surreal; we couldn’t believe it all. We were so sad and confused and scared. Nobody prepared us for the visit so we didn’t really know what to expect, but it wasn’t this.
We each had to drive at least four hours to get there from different directions. When we got there we waited in line outside with everyone else. The others that were waiting were very kind and told us we had to wait until they called us. Visitors were called in the order that they arrived. When it was our turn we had to provide our ID’s and get processed because it was our first visit. The guards were very strict and told us in authoritative voices what we needed to do. “ID please…stand right there and wait”. “Stand over here so we can take your picture.” “Place your hand on the outline hand and make sure you spread out your fingers. No don’t move, we’ll tell you when to move.” “OK it recognized your hand. You’ll place your hand on the machine every time you visit.” Clank. “OK you can go through the door and then wait.” Another guard was sitting inside and asked us what we were bringing in. My mother had her medications with her and the guard placed them in a locker. She told her that when she needed her medication to let the guard inside know and they would make sure she got her medication. We then walked through a metal detector and had to wait. The female guard took my mother and me, separately, into a small room to frisk us. The male guard took my dad into another room. The female guard frisked me and ran her hands through my hair. I had to take my shoes off so she could look into them and made sure I didn’t have anything in my socks. I also had to pull out my bra to make sure that I wasn’t hiding anything in there. Then we got to go into the visiting area.
THE VISITING AREAThe visiting area reminded me of a high school cafeteria. Long tables with chairs and vending machines around the outside. There was a box with cards and games, but we didn’t know about it so didn’t take anything. Others knew and by the time my brother got there the box was empty. There was also a commissary where we could buy food and drinks once it was opened. The guard told us to sit and wait. I was nervous and had to use the restroom. When I went to it, it was locked. When I asked the guard he told me that he had to unlock it and only one person was allowed in the restroom at a time.
My mother loves coffee, so we got her a coffee from the vending machine. I’m not sure how much money we brought, but we did know to bring small bills and change.
We picked 3 seats at the end of one of the tables. The chairs were plastic and not very comfortable. We sat and waited and watched the inmates come in one at a time. We didn’t know it then, but each one was frisked before they were able to enter the visiting area and their frisking was much more invasive than ours.
SEEING HIM FOR THE FIRST TIMEFinally my brother, their son, walked in. He was wearing a blue prison outfit and his hair was really short. He had thick black-rimmed glasses on and an old watch. His shoes looked like slippers. We hugged and talked. The weather was nice so we went outside and that’s when we saw the wedding. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not a wedding. We watched as it kept us occupied. We really didn’t know what to say to each other.
SHARING A MEALWhen the commissary opened we purchased sandwiches from the vending machines. The kind with processed meat in the plastic wrapper. They had microwaves and we waited in line to use them. We purchased sodas from the vending machines. After we ate we purchased ice cream from the commissary. Eating together was something familiar and was the only normal thing we experienced there.
COUNTAfter we were there about an hour a guard came in and announced “Count”. My parents and I looked at each other bewildered. My brother got up and all of the inmates lined up outside. About 15 minutes later they all came back in. “What was that?” we asked. He said that they have count several times a day to ensure that all of the inmates were there.
LEAVINGI don’t remember much else about the conversation. When we left we were able to hug each other. We all walked up to the guard table and told him we were leaving. Another guard came up and walked my brother away. We watched and then left the visiting area. There was another “clank” and the door opened and we were outside. My parents and I hugged and said our good-byes. My father said that he would never come back here again. I don’t know how I got home through all of my tears, but I arrived home safely. I knew that I would be going back, but I didn’t know when.
MY STORY: FIRST VISIT TO LOVED ONE IN PRISON: MY PARENTS SON AND MY BROTHERWe had no idea what to expect during our visit to loved one in prison. The first time my parents and I visited my brother in prison there was a wedding. It was Valentine’s Day, so on the outside that would be an appropriate time for a wedding. We saw families sitting together laughing and children playing. It was so surreal; we couldn’t believe it all. We were so sad and confused and scared. Nobody prepared us for the visit so we didn’t really know what to expect, but it wasn’t this.
We each had to drive at least four hours to get there from different directions. When we got there we waited in line outside with everyone else. The others that were waiting were very kind and told us we had to wait until they called us. Visitors were called in the order that they arrived. When it was our turn we had to provide our ID’s and get processed because it was our first visit. The guards were very strict and told us in authoritative voices what we needed to do. “ID please…stand right there and wait”. “Stand over here so we can take your picture.” “Place your hand on the outline hand and make sure you spread out your fingers. No don’t move, we’ll tell you when to move.” “OK it recognized your hand. You’ll place your hand on the machine every time you visit.” Clank. “OK you can go through the door and then wait.” Another guard was sitting inside and asked us what we were bringing in. My mother had her medications with her and the guard placed them in a locker. She told her that when she needed her medication to let the guard inside know and they would make sure she got her medication. We then walked through a metal detector and had to wait. The female guard took my mother and me, separately, into a small room to frisk us. The male guard took my dad into another room. The female guard frisked me and ran her hands through my hair. I had to take my shoes off so she could look into them and made sure I didn’t have anything in my socks. I also had to pull out my bra to make sure that I wasn’t hiding anything in there. Then we got to go into the visiting area.
THE VISITING AREAThe visiting area reminded me of a high school cafeteria. Long tables with chairs and vending machines around the outside. There was a box with cards and games, but we didn’t know about it so didn’t take anything. Others knew and by the time my brother got there the box was empty. There was also a commissary where we could buy food and drinks once it was opened. The guard told us to sit and wait. I was nervous and had to use the restroom. When I went to it, it was locked. When I asked the guard he told me that he had to unlock it and only one person was allowed in the restroom at a time.
My mother loves coffee, so we got her a coffee from the vending machine. I’m not sure how much money we brought, but we did know to bring small bills and change.
We picked 3 seats at the end of one of the tables. The chairs were plastic and not very comfortable. We sat and waited and watched the inmates come in one at a time. We didn’t know it then, but each one was frisked before they were able to enter the visiting area and their frisking was much more invasive than ours.
SEEING HIM FOR THE FIRST TIMEFinally my brother, their son, walked in. He was wearing a blue prison outfit and his hair was really short. He had thick black-rimmed glasses on and an old watch. His shoes looked like slippers. We hugged and talked. The weather was nice so we went outside and that’s when we saw the wedding. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not a wedding. We watched as it kept us occupied. We really didn’t know what to say to each other.
SHARING A MEALWhen the commissary opened we purchased sandwiches from the vending machines. The kind with processed meat in the plastic wrapper. They had microwaves and we waited in line to use them. We purchased sodas from the vending machines. After we ate we purchased ice cream from the commissary. Eating together was something familiar and was the only normal thing we experienced there.
COUNTAfter we were there about an hour a guard came in and announced “Count”. My parents and I looked at each other bewildered. My brother got up and all of the inmates lined up outside. About 15 minutes later they all came back in. “What was that?” we asked. He said that they have count several times a day to ensure that all of the inmates were there.
LEAVINGI don’t remember much else about the conversation. When we left we were able to hug each other. We all walked up to the guard table and told him we were leaving. Another guard came up and walked my brother away. We watched and then left the visiting area. There was another “clank” and the door opened and we were outside. My parents and I hugged and said our good-byes. My father said that he would never come back here again. I don’t know how I got home through all of my tears, but I arrived home safely. I knew that I would be going back, but I didn’t know when.
LETTER FROM PRISON: Inmate writes to his younger self
A letter to my younger self
Hey kid,
I have seen your future and I want to warn you. You’re just 12 now. All you care about is basketball and girls but pretty soon things will start getting rough. You’re a shy guy. I know it is hard for you to be yourself and communicate. I want you to know that the pressure you feel to “fit in” is normal. It doesn’t mean you have to do bad stuff so the “cool” kids will like you. It is just a phase, just push through. If you don’t, when you are 15 your parents will get worried. You’re hanging out with the wrong kids and getting into one too many fights. They will send you off to an out of state boarding school. They will do it because they love you and want to help you. They have no idea the abuse you will suffer for 3 years while there.If you can’t avoid being sent to Elan (the school) then once you get home please tell anyone who will listen what happened to you while you were there. DON’T BE EMBARRASSED!!! Don’t think you deserved it. Elan was not right, you are worth something. NO ONE deserves to be abused. I’m begging you get help!!! Even if you don’t think anything is wrong with you, you ARE hurting. Soon you will find yourself drinking everyday, from the moment you get up to the moment you pass out at night. It won’t be long before you move on to worse drugs. The problem is the drugs wont help. You will still feel lonely and worthless. You also try to fill the void by trying to be “cool” so people want to know you. Issue is all the people you are trying to impress are the wrong people.You will go to prison and not just once. It will be no ones fault but your own. You should have gotten help. You should have been smarter and stronger. Somehow God will give you a blessing in the midst of all this mess. He will allow you to meet and marry the most amazing woman on earth. She will see into your soul and know you aren’t evil. She will also give you the chance to become a father to a silly sweet little girl. She won’t be yours by blood but it won’t matter. You love her all the same.Unfortunately they won’t be in time to save you. You will already be in a downward spiral. With the wrong people again. One day you will tell your daughter that you will be home soon, you will walk out the door, and never return. You’ll be arrested for 4 ounces of weed and possession of a handgun. You won’t hurt no one but they will give you a million dollar Bond as if you killed someone. Prosecution will offer you 30 years and not budge. You will be terrified. You will never get to “fly” that little girl again. You will miss her whole childhood. Worse yet you will come home when you and your wife are too old to have another child. You will put your life in the hands of the judge. A judge who doesn’t even know you and can’t feel what it will be like to miss that little girls daily laughs and smiles. He gives you 20 years and you take it with hopes to come home before she is all grown up. You wonder if she will ever forgive you you. You pray that she will but won’t blame her if she don’t. You wish you would have been smarter and stronger. That someone would have seen your pain.If you don’t do anything else in life, please get help. When everything is out of your hands, ask for help. When someone holds their hand out to help, accept it!!!!
A letter to my younger self
Hey kid,
I have seen your future and I want to warn you. You’re just 12 now. All you care about is basketball and girls but pretty soon things will start getting rough. You’re a shy guy. I know it is hard for you to be yourself and communicate. I want you to know that the pressure you feel to “fit in” is normal. It doesn’t mean you have to do bad stuff so the “cool” kids will like you. It is just a phase, just push through. If you don’t, when you are 15 your parents will get worried. You’re hanging out with the wrong kids and getting into one too many fights. They will send you off to an out of state boarding school. They will do it because they love you and want to help you. They have no idea the abuse you will suffer for 3 years while there.If you can’t avoid being sent to Elan (the school) then once you get home please tell anyone who will listen what happened to you while you were there. DON’T BE EMBARRASSED!!! Don’t think you deserved it. Elan was not right, you are worth something. NO ONE deserves to be abused. I’m begging you get help!!! Even if you don’t think anything is wrong with you, you ARE hurting. Soon you will find yourself drinking everyday, from the moment you get up to the moment you pass out at night. It won’t be long before you move on to worse drugs. The problem is the drugs wont help. You will still feel lonely and worthless. You also try to fill the void by trying to be “cool” so people want to know you. Issue is all the people you are trying to impress are the wrong people.You will go to prison and not just once. It will be no ones fault but your own. You should have gotten help. You should have been smarter and stronger. Somehow God will give you a blessing in the midst of all this mess. He will allow you to meet and marry the most amazing woman on earth. She will see into your soul and know you aren’t evil. She will also give you the chance to become a father to a silly sweet little girl. She won’t be yours by blood but it won’t matter. You love her all the same.Unfortunately they won’t be in time to save you. You will already be in a downward spiral. With the wrong people again. One day you will tell your daughter that you will be home soon, you will walk out the door, and never return. You’ll be arrested for 4 ounces of weed and possession of a handgun. You won’t hurt no one but they will give you a million dollar Bond as if you killed someone. Prosecution will offer you 30 years and not budge. You will be terrified. You will never get to “fly” that little girl again. You will miss her whole childhood. Worse yet you will come home when you and your wife are too old to have another child. You will put your life in the hands of the judge. A judge who doesn’t even know you and can’t feel what it will be like to miss that little girls daily laughs and smiles. He gives you 20 years and you take it with hopes to come home before she is all grown up. You wonder if she will ever forgive you you. You pray that she will but won’t blame her if she don’t. You wish you would have been smarter and stronger. That someone would have seen your pain.If you don’t do anything else in life, please get help. When everything is out of your hands, ask for help. When someone holds their hand out to help, accept it!!!!
While still in bed one morning I asked God to show me the right path to help my husband...I was feeling hopeless....as I’ve stated before he was sentenced to 20 years in prison for a non violent victimless offense.
I *KNOW* my husband is a good man. I understand that he is an abuse survivor. My husband and easily hundreds of others where abused horrifically while attending the Elan School in Maine. It was a boarding school he lived at from age 15-18. The abuse can easily be confirmed with a Google search of the School’s name...
My husband came home in a worse mental condition than when he left. He has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Abusive situations, like what was happening in Elan, could easily cause someone a host of psychological issues.
Once home from Elan my husband didn’t get psychological help. I think he truly thought nothing was wrong with him. He kept doing drugs and landing himself in trouble...but that is typical behavior of many abuse survivors. He didnt realize at that time that it could be the abuse making him feel the way he did. Oddly enough... he also thought the abuse he recently went through in a shake down (that has led to a class action lawsuit against 232 guards) was “normal!?!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! He obviously needs therapy and a truly fresh start..not the continued abuse that so far prison is offering.
We presented the judge with tons of letters from family... Co workers... friends...and other survivors of Elan. The letters explained what happened in my husband’s life... said he was not a danger to anyone and asked for alternative sentencing.... We basically begged to get him help for the abuse he suffered.... and apparently still does. He can’t stop the abuse or defend himself against prison guards....if he does he could get into more trouble. All we can do is pray!!!
He isnt getting and WONT get the help he needs in prison. We understand he has to serve time but we wanted him to get good therapy. For instance.. possibly serve part of his sentence in prison...then the other part at home on monotoring with court ordered therapy. We even noted that we would pay for the therapy.
Ok sooo back to the day God “spoke” to me.....
THAT DAY I ASKED GOD TO SHOW ME...show me the correct path and I WILL WALK IT!!! No matter how many mountains lay in this path...I WILL CLIMB THEM!!! Show me how to heal my husband. If God felt my husband needed to serve his whole sentence then SO BE IT....he must have a reason...
As I was laying there talking to God...my daughter came running in and jumped on the bed. When she jumped she hit the remote and it turned the tv through the channels....somehow the tv landed on the Church channel......
I almost just shut the tv off because it was time to get up and make breakfast... BUT FOR SOME REASON... I stayed. Less than a minute later the preacher began to talk about a woman who PETITIONED a king for justice ... he spoke of how she stayed PERSISTENT... so much so.... the king finally realized that he might as well give her what she wanted because SHE WOULD NEVER STOP.
I was in shock.. how could something so close to my life just POP up randomly like that?!?!?... I knew in my heart it was God showing me what he wanted me to do!!!
I tell yall this story because sometimes it can be hard... While God knows my husband’s heart and mine... it does hurt when people don’t take a moment to consider.
THIS IS MY FAMILY!!!!!
My husband is hurting and while he made mistakes... he is still human.
If you made it all the way through this post BLESS YOU...I truly appreaciate your time. If you will read...sign...and share my husbands petition we would be beyond grateful.
I *KNOW* my husband is a good man. I understand that he is an abuse survivor. My husband and easily hundreds of others where abused horrifically while attending the Elan School in Maine. It was a boarding school he lived at from age 15-18. The abuse can easily be confirmed with a Google search of the School’s name...
My husband came home in a worse mental condition than when he left. He has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Abusive situations, like what was happening in Elan, could easily cause someone a host of psychological issues.
Once home from Elan my husband didn’t get psychological help. I think he truly thought nothing was wrong with him. He kept doing drugs and landing himself in trouble...but that is typical behavior of many abuse survivors. He didnt realize at that time that it could be the abuse making him feel the way he did. Oddly enough... he also thought the abuse he recently went through in a shake down (that has led to a class action lawsuit against 232 guards) was “normal!?!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! He obviously needs therapy and a truly fresh start..not the continued abuse that so far prison is offering.
We presented the judge with tons of letters from family... Co workers... friends...and other survivors of Elan. The letters explained what happened in my husband’s life... said he was not a danger to anyone and asked for alternative sentencing.... We basically begged to get him help for the abuse he suffered.... and apparently still does. He can’t stop the abuse or defend himself against prison guards....if he does he could get into more trouble. All we can do is pray!!!
He isnt getting and WONT get the help he needs in prison. We understand he has to serve time but we wanted him to get good therapy. For instance.. possibly serve part of his sentence in prison...then the other part at home on monotoring with court ordered therapy. We even noted that we would pay for the therapy.
Ok sooo back to the day God “spoke” to me.....
THAT DAY I ASKED GOD TO SHOW ME...show me the correct path and I WILL WALK IT!!! No matter how many mountains lay in this path...I WILL CLIMB THEM!!! Show me how to heal my husband. If God felt my husband needed to serve his whole sentence then SO BE IT....he must have a reason...
As I was laying there talking to God...my daughter came running in and jumped on the bed. When she jumped she hit the remote and it turned the tv through the channels....somehow the tv landed on the Church channel......
I almost just shut the tv off because it was time to get up and make breakfast... BUT FOR SOME REASON... I stayed. Less than a minute later the preacher began to talk about a woman who PETITIONED a king for justice ... he spoke of how she stayed PERSISTENT... so much so.... the king finally realized that he might as well give her what she wanted because SHE WOULD NEVER STOP.
I was in shock.. how could something so close to my life just POP up randomly like that?!?!?... I knew in my heart it was God showing me what he wanted me to do!!!
I tell yall this story because sometimes it can be hard... While God knows my husband’s heart and mine... it does hurt when people don’t take a moment to consider.
THIS IS MY FAMILY!!!!!
My husband is hurting and while he made mistakes... he is still human.
If you made it all the way through this post BLESS YOU...I truly appreaciate your time. If you will read...sign...and share my husbands petition we would be beyond grateful.
Prisons are rotten to the core!
Let's make it no hidden mystery and call prisons how they are today which is psychological torture chambers. They are barbaric, they are indeed inhumane. The conditions amount to falsehood, they are loud, and have no clue how to address the issues of mental illness in a respectful and realistic term. Prisons today can only be described as barbaric closets in which men and women find no peace nor situations to their need. This in exchange allow prison officials to use an excuse that human beings cannot be rehabilitated, granting the approval of the United States government to literally treat human being like animals.
I served 28 years of a natural life sentence before the conviction and sentence was overturned in the State of Illinois. I was sixteen years old when accused of a crime in which I never committed. I was accused of four murders that burn down an apartment building in the city of Chicago. Experiencing torture at such young age inside the police station has awaken me to that fact how precious freedom is and the need for our criminal justice system to reform to ensure that poor defendants are provided some form of justice.
Prisons are dirty, they smell, and hygiene materials are not so easy to possess. Prisons under the Ragan administration decayed and the Clinton administration ensured that no inmate would be entitled to receive adequate education and that prison conditions would suffer. Today most inmates are released aback into society with 50 or less dollars after spending decades inside a prison with most not entitled to government services beyond food stamps that expire in 6 or less months. They cannot take up residents in a city or federal government dwelling.
This leaves many homeless, defeated, and rejected as they fight hard to transgress back into society. The fight continues for all incarcerated people to be treated humane, provided with services that can be of benefit to their lives.
Sincerely:
Mark A. Clements,
Administrator
Campaign to End the Death Penalty
Let's make it no hidden mystery and call prisons how they are today which is psychological torture chambers. They are barbaric, they are indeed inhumane. The conditions amount to falsehood, they are loud, and have no clue how to address the issues of mental illness in a respectful and realistic term. Prisons today can only be described as barbaric closets in which men and women find no peace nor situations to their need. This in exchange allow prison officials to use an excuse that human beings cannot be rehabilitated, granting the approval of the United States government to literally treat human being like animals.
I served 28 years of a natural life sentence before the conviction and sentence was overturned in the State of Illinois. I was sixteen years old when accused of a crime in which I never committed. I was accused of four murders that burn down an apartment building in the city of Chicago. Experiencing torture at such young age inside the police station has awaken me to that fact how precious freedom is and the need for our criminal justice system to reform to ensure that poor defendants are provided some form of justice.
Prisons are dirty, they smell, and hygiene materials are not so easy to possess. Prisons under the Ragan administration decayed and the Clinton administration ensured that no inmate would be entitled to receive adequate education and that prison conditions would suffer. Today most inmates are released aback into society with 50 or less dollars after spending decades inside a prison with most not entitled to government services beyond food stamps that expire in 6 or less months. They cannot take up residents in a city or federal government dwelling.
This leaves many homeless, defeated, and rejected as they fight hard to transgress back into society. The fight continues for all incarcerated people to be treated humane, provided with services that can be of benefit to their lives.
Sincerely:
Mark A. Clements,
Administrator
Campaign to End the Death Penalty
Hello,
My name is Jason Freeman. I took my mother's last name seeing my father, Charlie Manson Jr., wasn't around much. I am a former professional boxer and MMA competition fighter.
I started the fight career path because I was tired of being in and out of jail throughout my youth and young adult years. I wanted a change, a new path, new me! After I got out of prison in 1999, I aimed to understand God through his eyes rather than my own. I focused on training to compete in the ring and the cage. I look back now and see the hard times I put my mom and step dad through. It took having kids and being a father to really understand. Many bridges burned through my time and I climb up hill now. I was ready for a new challenge. I hate to say this, but I was on probation from age 11-27, the year I met my wife. We have been together 10 years and married for 8. I believe God has Angels out there to bring us out of the holes we put ourselves in. She is mine!
I really wanted to share my story and decided to write a book www.knockingoutthedevil.com. It tells some of my travels from a young boy fighting to my last Cage fight in 2011.
I often wondered why jail, why drugs. After fighting for years on stage I often asked "why am I still fighting". As the fight career faded the vision of Gods path for me came to life. He built a stage under my feet to tell my story of overcoming and redeeming myself. This stage is to tell young men and women that there is hope, you will make it to see better days. We're all special in Gods eyes. We all just have to believe. Don't lose sight of what is real and get mixed up in the world.
My Grandfather contacted me about a year after we self published the book. With time him and I came to a understanding of each other. He got to see where I was in my life as a young man and pictures of me and my family to this day at the age of 37. I have been able to get to know the man that everyone in this world seems hate. I've gained in that i was able to see the man inside that not to many people get to know.
Thank you,
God Bless
Jason FreeMan-son
My name is Jason Freeman. I took my mother's last name seeing my father, Charlie Manson Jr., wasn't around much. I am a former professional boxer and MMA competition fighter.
I started the fight career path because I was tired of being in and out of jail throughout my youth and young adult years. I wanted a change, a new path, new me! After I got out of prison in 1999, I aimed to understand God through his eyes rather than my own. I focused on training to compete in the ring and the cage. I look back now and see the hard times I put my mom and step dad through. It took having kids and being a father to really understand. Many bridges burned through my time and I climb up hill now. I was ready for a new challenge. I hate to say this, but I was on probation from age 11-27, the year I met my wife. We have been together 10 years and married for 8. I believe God has Angels out there to bring us out of the holes we put ourselves in. She is mine!
I really wanted to share my story and decided to write a book www.knockingoutthedevil.com. It tells some of my travels from a young boy fighting to my last Cage fight in 2011.
I often wondered why jail, why drugs. After fighting for years on stage I often asked "why am I still fighting". As the fight career faded the vision of Gods path for me came to life. He built a stage under my feet to tell my story of overcoming and redeeming myself. This stage is to tell young men and women that there is hope, you will make it to see better days. We're all special in Gods eyes. We all just have to believe. Don't lose sight of what is real and get mixed up in the world.
My Grandfather contacted me about a year after we self published the book. With time him and I came to a understanding of each other. He got to see where I was in my life as a young man and pictures of me and my family to this day at the age of 37. I have been able to get to know the man that everyone in this world seems hate. I've gained in that i was able to see the man inside that not to many people get to know.
Thank you,
God Bless
Jason FreeMan-son
A Message To A Convict
My name is Tony. I spent over twenty years in a cage. I am out now. I’ve been out almost ten years now. My question to you while you do your time is, “What are you going to do now?” Let me explain why I ask.
When I first went to prison I was smoking hot angry, scared and didn’t quite grasp the insanity of where I landed. When the cell doors opened it was chaos. As I slowly figured out my environment I got caught up in the madness, playing cards, watching sports in the tv room and running amok with my homies. I went to the hole many times for fighting, drinking and many other stupid things I thought was cool to be involved in. I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel and could not grasp that one day the end of my sentence would come.
One time I went to the hole and landed in a cell this Aztec artist had drawn this panoramic Aztec scene that went all around the cell. He drew this all in pencil. Even the guards were so impressed with this artwork they didn’t paint over it! As I laid on the bunk day after day I followed the drawings and came to a little section that he had written: “And this too shall pass”
Well it took me a few more days in that cell to grasp what that statement really meant to me. One day my sentence was going to be over. I was all alone in the cell and had nothing but my own thoughts in my head to entertain me. One day my sentence will be over. Even if I could not see that far ahead…one day my sentence will be over and I will get out. What am I going to do?
When I got out of the hole I wrote in every cell I was in “And this too shall pass” I looked to see what kind of education classes were available for me. If “they” were going to pay to incarcerate me then I figured “they” can pay to educate me. I wanted something valuable for keeping me in a cage. I wanted something they could not ever take away from me. I wanted an education and made “them” give it to me. Oh, don’t get me wrong—it was a two way street. I had to study and learn. When my homies wanted me to play cards and talk smack I had to tell them—“I’m studying.” I did too. While in prison I received a college education and degree. A straight A student. No one can ever take that away from me.
Henceforth, with every prison lock-down I went in I came out of the two week ordeal by accomplishing something. One lock-down I taught myself how to juggle. I started with two oranges and an apple. I tossed one of the oranges out of my third tier cell and had to wait till the next day to get another bag lunch with an apple in it. Other lock-downs I made exercising top priority. Something! Anything! Get something for where you are at. It is up to you.
So back to my question to you, “What are you going to do now?” Maybe college is not for you but something—a course, training, a prison job for experience--is there for you to take advantage. Do it. Do something…anything that will help you when you get out. Why? First off, for yourself. Second, how about the people that love you, care about you and are waiting for you. Do you think you being incarcerated doesn’t hurt them? It does! Someday you will get out. I did. You will too. Don’t lose sight of that buried in the cement walls, steel fences and madness. Do your time and don’t let it do you.
It did pass. My date came and I said goodbye to my homies. When I left prison the guard at the release called me a maggot and told me I would be back. I smiled as I took my release stuff and walked out the gate. I haven’t been back. One out of two go back. “What are you going to do now?”
-Tony
My name is Tony. I spent over twenty years in a cage. I am out now. I’ve been out almost ten years now. My question to you while you do your time is, “What are you going to do now?” Let me explain why I ask.
When I first went to prison I was smoking hot angry, scared and didn’t quite grasp the insanity of where I landed. When the cell doors opened it was chaos. As I slowly figured out my environment I got caught up in the madness, playing cards, watching sports in the tv room and running amok with my homies. I went to the hole many times for fighting, drinking and many other stupid things I thought was cool to be involved in. I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel and could not grasp that one day the end of my sentence would come.
One time I went to the hole and landed in a cell this Aztec artist had drawn this panoramic Aztec scene that went all around the cell. He drew this all in pencil. Even the guards were so impressed with this artwork they didn’t paint over it! As I laid on the bunk day after day I followed the drawings and came to a little section that he had written: “And this too shall pass”
Well it took me a few more days in that cell to grasp what that statement really meant to me. One day my sentence was going to be over. I was all alone in the cell and had nothing but my own thoughts in my head to entertain me. One day my sentence will be over. Even if I could not see that far ahead…one day my sentence will be over and I will get out. What am I going to do?
When I got out of the hole I wrote in every cell I was in “And this too shall pass” I looked to see what kind of education classes were available for me. If “they” were going to pay to incarcerate me then I figured “they” can pay to educate me. I wanted something valuable for keeping me in a cage. I wanted something they could not ever take away from me. I wanted an education and made “them” give it to me. Oh, don’t get me wrong—it was a two way street. I had to study and learn. When my homies wanted me to play cards and talk smack I had to tell them—“I’m studying.” I did too. While in prison I received a college education and degree. A straight A student. No one can ever take that away from me.
Henceforth, with every prison lock-down I went in I came out of the two week ordeal by accomplishing something. One lock-down I taught myself how to juggle. I started with two oranges and an apple. I tossed one of the oranges out of my third tier cell and had to wait till the next day to get another bag lunch with an apple in it. Other lock-downs I made exercising top priority. Something! Anything! Get something for where you are at. It is up to you.
So back to my question to you, “What are you going to do now?” Maybe college is not for you but something—a course, training, a prison job for experience--is there for you to take advantage. Do it. Do something…anything that will help you when you get out. Why? First off, for yourself. Second, how about the people that love you, care about you and are waiting for you. Do you think you being incarcerated doesn’t hurt them? It does! Someday you will get out. I did. You will too. Don’t lose sight of that buried in the cement walls, steel fences and madness. Do your time and don’t let it do you.
It did pass. My date came and I said goodbye to my homies. When I left prison the guard at the release called me a maggot and told me I would be back. I smiled as I took my release stuff and walked out the gate. I haven’t been back. One out of two go back. “What are you going to do now?”
-Tony
Having been out of prison for almost a decade, I was recently asked what kind of advice I would give to a family member of someone about to get out of prison to help them from going back. It made me stop and think about how I would answer that question. As a person who spent over twenty years of my life in many different prisons, my life’s journey took me down many roads of enlightenment. When I was locked up I could not see past the cement and steel which encompassed me and my life. As most normal people incarcerated—I saw the world through my eyes. Decades later I was released and my journey continued down other challenging roads that have brought me to where I am now. As I reflect on who I was in prison and the way I thought, I see myself in a different way and see things from a different perspective.
While I was deep into my incarceration I had a telephone conversation with my Mother and she asked me if I ever thought about how my incarceration affected her, my girlfriend or the rest of my family. I got fired up, smoking hot angry to hear this question. “Affect you?” I asked. “YOU!?!” “I am the one in prison getting locked up and shipped all over the country. I am the one eating garbage food and living in a cage dealing with this sick madness.” My anger towards the system bubbled over. My anger at losing my freedom had my face scowling over the indignity of the entire prison system. And then on my ten minute call to my family I have to field a question about how my incarceration affected the people FREE on the streets. My blood pressure soared!
It was hard to overcome my self-centered belief to think that my behavior and the resulting criminal proceedings only affected me. I was naïve and selfish to not understand how much my conviction hurt the people that love me, needed me and were left without me in their world. My family counted on me and had a reasonable expectation that I would be there to laugh with them, share the good times and hold them when they cried. I wasn’t there to help them get kids to school, drive them to work or come pick them up when their car died on the side of the road. I never witnessed or experienced the shame they felt when they had to explain that their son or brother was incarcerated for breaking the law. I put myself in a position where I left them—yes, LEFT THEM!—by allowing myself to be in a position where the police could arrest me and incarcerate me.
After careful consideration, my advice to anyone dealing with a loved one in prison in order to help them stay out is to be brutally honest with them and share what it was/is like for you. Let them know what it would be like to lose them to another bit. Tell them how much it HURTS you—whether they want to hear it or not. I suggest you do it in creative ways where you are not kicking the dog when he is down but rather in a way where you stand up for yourself and acknowledge your feelings as much as you would if you smacked your thumb with a hammer. It hurts! If they have kids, remind them what it is like for their kids to go to school and be teased what it is like for them not to have them there at their school play, dance or show and tell. Remind them every day and ask for a commitment that they will never leave them again. No one does time alone. We are all in it together and it sucks.
Tony Gutberlet, Author
How To Stay Out of Prison
While I was deep into my incarceration I had a telephone conversation with my Mother and she asked me if I ever thought about how my incarceration affected her, my girlfriend or the rest of my family. I got fired up, smoking hot angry to hear this question. “Affect you?” I asked. “YOU!?!” “I am the one in prison getting locked up and shipped all over the country. I am the one eating garbage food and living in a cage dealing with this sick madness.” My anger towards the system bubbled over. My anger at losing my freedom had my face scowling over the indignity of the entire prison system. And then on my ten minute call to my family I have to field a question about how my incarceration affected the people FREE on the streets. My blood pressure soared!
It was hard to overcome my self-centered belief to think that my behavior and the resulting criminal proceedings only affected me. I was naïve and selfish to not understand how much my conviction hurt the people that love me, needed me and were left without me in their world. My family counted on me and had a reasonable expectation that I would be there to laugh with them, share the good times and hold them when they cried. I wasn’t there to help them get kids to school, drive them to work or come pick them up when their car died on the side of the road. I never witnessed or experienced the shame they felt when they had to explain that their son or brother was incarcerated for breaking the law. I put myself in a position where I left them—yes, LEFT THEM!—by allowing myself to be in a position where the police could arrest me and incarcerate me.
After careful consideration, my advice to anyone dealing with a loved one in prison in order to help them stay out is to be brutally honest with them and share what it was/is like for you. Let them know what it would be like to lose them to another bit. Tell them how much it HURTS you—whether they want to hear it or not. I suggest you do it in creative ways where you are not kicking the dog when he is down but rather in a way where you stand up for yourself and acknowledge your feelings as much as you would if you smacked your thumb with a hammer. It hurts! If they have kids, remind them what it is like for their kids to go to school and be teased what it is like for them not to have them there at their school play, dance or show and tell. Remind them every day and ask for a commitment that they will never leave them again. No one does time alone. We are all in it together and it sucks.
Tony Gutberlet, Author
How To Stay Out of Prison
My names Raymond Robles I'm 30 years old and a father of 2 boys. I am currently on parole and have finished 2 terms for arson of vehicle and my second was for carrying a loaded fire arm. There's been so much I've experienced in my life. Abuse, mentally and physically and many deaths. I fathered these boys thinking I'll never do to them what I've had done to me. But that's exactly what I did by leaving them for prison. I've given up all my twenties to time and pray I never go back. I hope that your organization can help people better understand us and reconnect the families. I try so hard to stay out. I do. But it's so easy to get sucked back in when I'm releases with nothing but the clothes on my back and no help for housing because of the arson offense and the child support payments the state takes because their mother is on cash aid. I feel if I could ever have a hand, a boost with maybe a room or something to help stabilize me it would give me a chance to make it. One day I hope to be able to teach youth that violence and a criminal life has more deeper repercussions than they can ever imagine. Enclosed I have given you 2 poems that I wrote while doing time in California institution for men, Chino. The first is called "time escapes me," I see the world flying by but in blurry vision, I see the choices I made gave society only one decision. From diapers to boxers, from first breath to last breath. From newborn to toddler, to old age to death. The world looks so hazy but clearly it's easy to see. That the world does not come to a standstill it's only time escapes me. Through letters I read things, through phone calls I listen. To life moving on faster as I waste away in this prison. Clocks no longer needed I program and adapt. The outside is changing so fast I no longer stress I relax. My thoughts no longer focused on the clocks that tell time. Or wether it's raining or sunny doesn't matter no more I'm starting to find. Secretly aching to change wanting solely to be free. But the world doesn't stop going its only time escapes me.....
My second poem is metaphorical and is about me it's called "uncage this bird": I feel like a bird that hasn't yet learned to fly. Unable to soar with the rest unable to rise high. Knowing the ones I grew up with have already Risen to the top. I tried to take a leap with them but only could flop. I seem to stumble and fall I lay battered and bruised.I keep trying and trying but fail, I stay so confused. To the rest its so easy to me it's the hardest part of my life. I just want to soar with the eagles and get my Mind right. So many times in my life I was sure I knew what to do. But without accepting the knowledge I didn't have a clue. Why do I closeup and Ignore what they always try to teach me. I need to focus on opening my mind so I can truly see. I keep moving in circles like a bird with a broken wing. Never able to move forward to see what life can truly bring. So I'll try to sit back and listen before leaping from the nests edge. So next time I won't fall down, lying cut bleeding and dead. A Wiseman once said to fly with the birds you must open your mind. Meaning to stay above is to gather knowledge. I think I understand it this time......
-Raymond
My second poem is metaphorical and is about me it's called "uncage this bird": I feel like a bird that hasn't yet learned to fly. Unable to soar with the rest unable to rise high. Knowing the ones I grew up with have already Risen to the top. I tried to take a leap with them but only could flop. I seem to stumble and fall I lay battered and bruised.I keep trying and trying but fail, I stay so confused. To the rest its so easy to me it's the hardest part of my life. I just want to soar with the eagles and get my Mind right. So many times in my life I was sure I knew what to do. But without accepting the knowledge I didn't have a clue. Why do I closeup and Ignore what they always try to teach me. I need to focus on opening my mind so I can truly see. I keep moving in circles like a bird with a broken wing. Never able to move forward to see what life can truly bring. So I'll try to sit back and listen before leaping from the nests edge. So next time I won't fall down, lying cut bleeding and dead. A Wiseman once said to fly with the birds you must open your mind. Meaning to stay above is to gather knowledge. I think I understand it this time......
-Raymond
Below is the story of Elizabeth
It was the summer before my sophomore year of high school, and to me, life was great.
My great life changed drastically one day I’ll never forget, when I woke up to a knock at my door. I almost didn’t get up to answer it, but something in me told me I needed to. Right then and there I knew something was wrong when I saw the three police officers that stood there.
They asked me where my older brother Dustin was. I told them he was probably in is room (which he wasn’t). They then escorted me into my own house, sat me down and asked me if I knew why they were there. I didn’t, and so they so kindly explained that they had a search warrant to look around the house.
I was speechless as I sat there. I felt paralyzed and so struck by everything going on. They started to ask me basic things about my family like my name, where I went to school, what grade was I in etc. Eventually, they asked where my parents were and if they ever checked up on me. I told them that my parents were at work and they always called the same time everyday.
I remember watching the police officers go in and out of different rooms of my house, collecting items, taking pictures and talking to each other. After a while, one of the cops who was a woman took me to my room and asked me questions about my brother and dad. She asked how I felt about them and how my life at home was.
She said this was just between us, and I told her the truth.
“I love my family! I have a great brother and dad; they would never do anything to hurt me.”
She told me then why they were there.
“Did you know you father has child pornography on his computer?” She asked.
My heart sank. And my face burned. I dropped my head.
I did know.
I shakily replied. “My Mom and I both have told him he needs to stop watching…”
After that, she took me back out into the living room, and my brother was there, too. I sat in silence, staring outside at the silhouettes of people walking by. Dazed and scared for my family.
We waited for my mother and father to come home. When my mom spoke with them, it was like a mother bear protecting her cubs. Her yells and shouts echoed through the house. In the midst of her hysteria, she tried to comfort me, but I shoved her away.
I didn’t want to deal with the situation at hand, and I didn’t want to deal with her.
We had to answer more questions from the police officers, and then they left, putting my dad in the back seat.
At that point, my mom and brother melted down- screaming, yelling, throwing things, even throwing up.
My heart hurt worse than I ever thought it could. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe; as if I were being crushed by a massive weight. I wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything – but all I could do was curl up into a ball on my bed. I wished I could disappear.
My mother eventually came in wanting to talk to me about this. I said nothing in reply, kept calm and told my brother to take me to my friend’s house. That’s where I finally let myself go. I cried until I gasped for air.
From then on, I didn’t cry in front of people. I always tried to stay ‘in control,’ and wanted to be strong for my family. I knew life would never be the same.
My dad went to prison, my mom was the only one working, and the school year was about to begin.
My great life was now devastated. I was ruined and ashamed.
Things changed for me that year though.
I started to hang out with a lovely group of girls. I was encouraged to open up, to let myself cry, and to share my feelings and thoughts. It took me awhile at first, but once I did, I felt that crushing weight begin to lift off of my shoulders.
I then realized how much I truly resented and was disgusted by my dad. I decided to forgive him and everyone else involved. This was difficult, but I needed to do this in order to move on.
What also helped me immensely was gaining a new family in that lovely group. They were always there for me to give me advice, to be a shoulder to cry on, and most importantly, they showed me that they would always, no matter what, love me. Their love gave me strength – strength to get through school and to continue to forgive my dad.
Life is definitely different than what I would have expected it to be like before my dad became a registered sex offender. I am not able to see my dad because he can’t live with us at our house. The memories of that day can still bring tears to my eyes, but I know that my life does not have to be defined by his mistakes and by his shortcomings.
I know that I have my own unique purpose in life, and I know now that I can rise above this horrific circumstance. I know there is healing. I know there is hope.
I used to live in shame.
Now, I am lovely.
It was the summer before my sophomore year of high school, and to me, life was great.
My great life changed drastically one day I’ll never forget, when I woke up to a knock at my door. I almost didn’t get up to answer it, but something in me told me I needed to. Right then and there I knew something was wrong when I saw the three police officers that stood there.
They asked me where my older brother Dustin was. I told them he was probably in is room (which he wasn’t). They then escorted me into my own house, sat me down and asked me if I knew why they were there. I didn’t, and so they so kindly explained that they had a search warrant to look around the house.
I was speechless as I sat there. I felt paralyzed and so struck by everything going on. They started to ask me basic things about my family like my name, where I went to school, what grade was I in etc. Eventually, they asked where my parents were and if they ever checked up on me. I told them that my parents were at work and they always called the same time everyday.
I remember watching the police officers go in and out of different rooms of my house, collecting items, taking pictures and talking to each other. After a while, one of the cops who was a woman took me to my room and asked me questions about my brother and dad. She asked how I felt about them and how my life at home was.
She said this was just between us, and I told her the truth.
“I love my family! I have a great brother and dad; they would never do anything to hurt me.”
She told me then why they were there.
“Did you know you father has child pornography on his computer?” She asked.
My heart sank. And my face burned. I dropped my head.
I did know.
I shakily replied. “My Mom and I both have told him he needs to stop watching…”
After that, she took me back out into the living room, and my brother was there, too. I sat in silence, staring outside at the silhouettes of people walking by. Dazed and scared for my family.
We waited for my mother and father to come home. When my mom spoke with them, it was like a mother bear protecting her cubs. Her yells and shouts echoed through the house. In the midst of her hysteria, she tried to comfort me, but I shoved her away.
I didn’t want to deal with the situation at hand, and I didn’t want to deal with her.
We had to answer more questions from the police officers, and then they left, putting my dad in the back seat.
At that point, my mom and brother melted down- screaming, yelling, throwing things, even throwing up.
My heart hurt worse than I ever thought it could. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe; as if I were being crushed by a massive weight. I wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything – but all I could do was curl up into a ball on my bed. I wished I could disappear.
My mother eventually came in wanting to talk to me about this. I said nothing in reply, kept calm and told my brother to take me to my friend’s house. That’s where I finally let myself go. I cried until I gasped for air.
From then on, I didn’t cry in front of people. I always tried to stay ‘in control,’ and wanted to be strong for my family. I knew life would never be the same.
My dad went to prison, my mom was the only one working, and the school year was about to begin.
My great life was now devastated. I was ruined and ashamed.
Things changed for me that year though.
I started to hang out with a lovely group of girls. I was encouraged to open up, to let myself cry, and to share my feelings and thoughts. It took me awhile at first, but once I did, I felt that crushing weight begin to lift off of my shoulders.
I then realized how much I truly resented and was disgusted by my dad. I decided to forgive him and everyone else involved. This was difficult, but I needed to do this in order to move on.
What also helped me immensely was gaining a new family in that lovely group. They were always there for me to give me advice, to be a shoulder to cry on, and most importantly, they showed me that they would always, no matter what, love me. Their love gave me strength – strength to get through school and to continue to forgive my dad.
Life is definitely different than what I would have expected it to be like before my dad became a registered sex offender. I am not able to see my dad because he can’t live with us at our house. The memories of that day can still bring tears to my eyes, but I know that my life does not have to be defined by his mistakes and by his shortcomings.
I know that I have my own unique purpose in life, and I know now that I can rise above this horrific circumstance. I know there is healing. I know there is hope.
I used to live in shame.
Now, I am lovely.
Part of the process in being a student in the field of psychology is trying to figure out the career path that you think will be the best fit for you. In psychology there are many different paths you can take with the degree such as private practice, forensic, schools, hospitals, teaching etc. While attending school, we are encouraged to try different populations and different settings whilst keep an open mind so we are better able to choose a path after graduation. I have always been interested in forensic settings, so naturally I tried the forensic settings offered by my school, one of which was a sex offender treatment center working primarily with those who have been convicted of a federal sexual offense. I loved it and continued to work in the setting even after my stay as a student ended. While my colleagues and I have been encouraged to keep an open mind, I found myself constantly defending my choice against the same question, and it wasn’t just my fellow students but family members and friends as well. The question was inevitably, “Why would you want to work with sex offenders.”
I always felt a bit caught off guard when asked this question because my mind immediately goes to the response, “Why wouldn’t I?” To me, it seemed like such a cut and dry issue. However, since it is a question I continuously find myself answering, I decided to write this as a way to fully process my answer to this question. The thought behind my response, “Why wouldn’t I” was that I did not see this population as really any different than any other population. People seek therapy for a myriad of reasons but generally it comes down to that there is an issue or behavior that they want to examine and potentially change. It is no different in working with clients that have committed sexual offenses. They are still people. They are just people who made a mistake and are their to learn about it and prevent it from happening again. Now this is in no way intended to minimize or excuse the offense or the traumatic pain that victims' experience. I do not come into the picture until after the arrest, conviction, and sentence have been completed. Therefore, my role becomes one of understanding and facilitating moving forward. There is a collaboration of reasons why they engaged in their offending behavior and group or individual therapy helps them to explore, understand, and develop plans to prevent it from happening again.
One argument I have heard in response to this answer is that sex offenders are pedophiles that cannot be cured; they will reoffend, so why help them. There is a perception of those who have committed sexual offenses that, in my experience, is generally not correct. In fact, research has been conducted on this topic and has shown that the majority of those who commit sexual offenses are not pedophiles and have low recidivism rates for committing another sexual offense. Regardless of the research, if the fear of society were that those who have committed sexual offenses will commit one again, then why wouldn’t we want competent psychologists helping them to better understand their offense and develop plans to prevent a subsequent sexual offense. It would only seem logical to me that the best way to protect society and prevent another crime from happening would be to intervene and do something about it.
Another part of my response to the question, “why sex offenders” would be my potential to make a real difference. Many of the guys that I have worked with feel discriminated against, judged, despised, and shameful. There is a feeling that once a sexual offense is committed, they will pay for it for the rest of their life in the form of registering, probation, residency restrictions, mandated treatment, and constant judgment by others. If I have the ability to come into the lives of these people and provide a supportive, understanding, and therapeutic relationship, I again say, “Why wouldn’t I?” Working with those who have committed a sexual offense and being able to provide a different experience, one that is an open and non-judgmental space for them to explore topics that are very difficult to explore has been more rewarding than I could ever put into words.
I am not saying this work is easy, it can be very difficult and it is certainly not for everyone. In my experience, it takes a professional who is patient, empathetic, and has the ability to separate ones’ actions from the person themselves. Those I work with are mandated to come see me and, at times, they absolutely do not want to be there. Furthermore, confidentiality becomes an issue as probation is involved in the treatment process and polygraphs are used on a regular basis as a therapeutic tool. All of these add another layer of issues to work through in a therapeutic relationship.
All in all, would it be easier working with guys who aren’t forced to see me, maybe; could I make more money in private practice, probably; would I be questioned less working with any other population, possibly. But none of those could ever outweigh the feeling I get when a client tells me how I have made a difference in their life. Just because a job is not the easiest doesn’t mean it should be looked over; in fact, I would say that because this work is challenging there should be more skilled professionals desiring to enter the field and make a real difference. I would encourage anyone working towards a degree in psychology to seriously consider working with this population. If your initial reaction is an absolute no, then I would further encourage you to examine why you are so against it and educate yourself to be sure that your thinking is based not on bias or misperception. My hope in writing this is that others, not only those in the field of psychology but anyone out there who crosses the path of someone who committed a sexual offense, will be able to keep an open mind and come from a place of understanding. Perhaps you will find, as I have, that your differences are not as great as you might think. Then when you are asked, how could you work with, date, be friends with someone who committed a sexual offense, your answer will be the same as mine, “Why wouldn’t I?”
I always felt a bit caught off guard when asked this question because my mind immediately goes to the response, “Why wouldn’t I?” To me, it seemed like such a cut and dry issue. However, since it is a question I continuously find myself answering, I decided to write this as a way to fully process my answer to this question. The thought behind my response, “Why wouldn’t I” was that I did not see this population as really any different than any other population. People seek therapy for a myriad of reasons but generally it comes down to that there is an issue or behavior that they want to examine and potentially change. It is no different in working with clients that have committed sexual offenses. They are still people. They are just people who made a mistake and are their to learn about it and prevent it from happening again. Now this is in no way intended to minimize or excuse the offense or the traumatic pain that victims' experience. I do not come into the picture until after the arrest, conviction, and sentence have been completed. Therefore, my role becomes one of understanding and facilitating moving forward. There is a collaboration of reasons why they engaged in their offending behavior and group or individual therapy helps them to explore, understand, and develop plans to prevent it from happening again.
One argument I have heard in response to this answer is that sex offenders are pedophiles that cannot be cured; they will reoffend, so why help them. There is a perception of those who have committed sexual offenses that, in my experience, is generally not correct. In fact, research has been conducted on this topic and has shown that the majority of those who commit sexual offenses are not pedophiles and have low recidivism rates for committing another sexual offense. Regardless of the research, if the fear of society were that those who have committed sexual offenses will commit one again, then why wouldn’t we want competent psychologists helping them to better understand their offense and develop plans to prevent a subsequent sexual offense. It would only seem logical to me that the best way to protect society and prevent another crime from happening would be to intervene and do something about it.
Another part of my response to the question, “why sex offenders” would be my potential to make a real difference. Many of the guys that I have worked with feel discriminated against, judged, despised, and shameful. There is a feeling that once a sexual offense is committed, they will pay for it for the rest of their life in the form of registering, probation, residency restrictions, mandated treatment, and constant judgment by others. If I have the ability to come into the lives of these people and provide a supportive, understanding, and therapeutic relationship, I again say, “Why wouldn’t I?” Working with those who have committed a sexual offense and being able to provide a different experience, one that is an open and non-judgmental space for them to explore topics that are very difficult to explore has been more rewarding than I could ever put into words.
I am not saying this work is easy, it can be very difficult and it is certainly not for everyone. In my experience, it takes a professional who is patient, empathetic, and has the ability to separate ones’ actions from the person themselves. Those I work with are mandated to come see me and, at times, they absolutely do not want to be there. Furthermore, confidentiality becomes an issue as probation is involved in the treatment process and polygraphs are used on a regular basis as a therapeutic tool. All of these add another layer of issues to work through in a therapeutic relationship.
All in all, would it be easier working with guys who aren’t forced to see me, maybe; could I make more money in private practice, probably; would I be questioned less working with any other population, possibly. But none of those could ever outweigh the feeling I get when a client tells me how I have made a difference in their life. Just because a job is not the easiest doesn’t mean it should be looked over; in fact, I would say that because this work is challenging there should be more skilled professionals desiring to enter the field and make a real difference. I would encourage anyone working towards a degree in psychology to seriously consider working with this population. If your initial reaction is an absolute no, then I would further encourage you to examine why you are so against it and educate yourself to be sure that your thinking is based not on bias or misperception. My hope in writing this is that others, not only those in the field of psychology but anyone out there who crosses the path of someone who committed a sexual offense, will be able to keep an open mind and come from a place of understanding. Perhaps you will find, as I have, that your differences are not as great as you might think. Then when you are asked, how could you work with, date, be friends with someone who committed a sexual offense, your answer will be the same as mine, “Why wouldn’t I?”
Below a story from a male who spent 16 months in solitary confinement.
"Going to solitary confinement, when you go down there it's really a whole other world. I seen guys kill theyselves and everything. 'Cuz they was in the hole for so long. They was hangin theyselves, chokin theyselves out. And it's really hard to even kill yourself in the hole. But I done seen motherfuckers shit on the floor, and then wipe it all over his face and body when the guards took him out. He just wasn't ready to get out the hole. He was scared of not being in the hole.
My experience being in there, I know how my uncle's dogs feel, they been put in cages and locked up, and hell, you don't wanna be caged up. That's why I'mma put my dogs outside, now it's warmer-I'll put 'em out here so they can run around, long as they not freezin' or too cool, but that cage will mess with you man.
What kept me sane was my family, my peoples, 'cuz people were writing me, and it was something to look forward to, at the end of the day when they give you your mail, they pass out your mail right after you finish eatin' dinner, so you go to bed on that feelin', there was nights when I might get five, six, seven letters. And that's wonderful bro.
But I feel like that's another way, a way God works for people that make mistakes, and he sets up events for them to make them know that this ain't what he need you to be, he wants you out there doin' his plan for you, the plan he got set up. The Lord let you know: This not what you need to be, this not where I want you to be.
They give you a Bible but it gets to a certain point in solitary confinement if you act too crazy they might come in there, take your pillows, take your blankets, take all your clothes and make you stand in there butt naked and it's already cold as hell, and make you lay on the steel for three days. And you don't get no shower or nothin'.
I read a lot of books in there. I read a lot of urban books-black-published books or you know black authors-and some James Patterson and I actually read this poetry book one time and I can't remember what it was called; I got it from the library there. You had to request it and they'd come by like once every two weeks and you'd have to fill out this little slip and send it it. They got a list of categories-action, adventure, drama, suspense, poetry, science fiction, romance, comedy. Run for Your Life by James Patterson was probably my favorite.
I read more of the Bible in there than I do out here, though this is really where we should be reading it. When I really wanted to get into, it, I would get into it. I read all of Exodus. And all of Revelation.
Times, days, I felt like I was 'bout to go crazy. But most of that time, it wasn't just because of being inside the box. It was stuff going on outside the box, and maybe some stuff inside, that I couldn't control until I got out of that box. Out here in the free world, my mom was troubled over findin' some place to stay, and I was worried about her of course. I prayed a lot.
I just had something to look forward to I guess. But there's a lot of people bro who'd rather be dead than to be locked away the rest of their life. Some people are stronger than others. And some people really feel like they have nothing to live for.
I'm not gonna say necessarily I'm grateful because I'm not sure what I missed out on by being in there instead of being out in the world. But I know what I learnt from being in that place, and I learned that I didn't want to miss out. I don't understand people who don't learn from their mistakes-that's something more than ignorance. Punishment and hard time is just life, it's nature runnin' its course, just like you got bees pollinatin' the Earth, and everything and every being has it, every insect and reptile, even the trees and the dirt and the sand, everything has its purpose."
"Going to solitary confinement, when you go down there it's really a whole other world. I seen guys kill theyselves and everything. 'Cuz they was in the hole for so long. They was hangin theyselves, chokin theyselves out. And it's really hard to even kill yourself in the hole. But I done seen motherfuckers shit on the floor, and then wipe it all over his face and body when the guards took him out. He just wasn't ready to get out the hole. He was scared of not being in the hole.
My experience being in there, I know how my uncle's dogs feel, they been put in cages and locked up, and hell, you don't wanna be caged up. That's why I'mma put my dogs outside, now it's warmer-I'll put 'em out here so they can run around, long as they not freezin' or too cool, but that cage will mess with you man.
What kept me sane was my family, my peoples, 'cuz people were writing me, and it was something to look forward to, at the end of the day when they give you your mail, they pass out your mail right after you finish eatin' dinner, so you go to bed on that feelin', there was nights when I might get five, six, seven letters. And that's wonderful bro.
But I feel like that's another way, a way God works for people that make mistakes, and he sets up events for them to make them know that this ain't what he need you to be, he wants you out there doin' his plan for you, the plan he got set up. The Lord let you know: This not what you need to be, this not where I want you to be.
They give you a Bible but it gets to a certain point in solitary confinement if you act too crazy they might come in there, take your pillows, take your blankets, take all your clothes and make you stand in there butt naked and it's already cold as hell, and make you lay on the steel for three days. And you don't get no shower or nothin'.
I read a lot of books in there. I read a lot of urban books-black-published books or you know black authors-and some James Patterson and I actually read this poetry book one time and I can't remember what it was called; I got it from the library there. You had to request it and they'd come by like once every two weeks and you'd have to fill out this little slip and send it it. They got a list of categories-action, adventure, drama, suspense, poetry, science fiction, romance, comedy. Run for Your Life by James Patterson was probably my favorite.
I read more of the Bible in there than I do out here, though this is really where we should be reading it. When I really wanted to get into, it, I would get into it. I read all of Exodus. And all of Revelation.
Times, days, I felt like I was 'bout to go crazy. But most of that time, it wasn't just because of being inside the box. It was stuff going on outside the box, and maybe some stuff inside, that I couldn't control until I got out of that box. Out here in the free world, my mom was troubled over findin' some place to stay, and I was worried about her of course. I prayed a lot.
I just had something to look forward to I guess. But there's a lot of people bro who'd rather be dead than to be locked away the rest of their life. Some people are stronger than others. And some people really feel like they have nothing to live for.
I'm not gonna say necessarily I'm grateful because I'm not sure what I missed out on by being in there instead of being out in the world. But I know what I learnt from being in that place, and I learned that I didn't want to miss out. I don't understand people who don't learn from their mistakes-that's something more than ignorance. Punishment and hard time is just life, it's nature runnin' its course, just like you got bees pollinatin' the Earth, and everything and every being has it, every insect and reptile, even the trees and the dirt and the sand, everything has its purpose."
Below a story from an incarcerated female, Keri.
"I hope you rot in prison forever. Haha." That was one of about fifty similar messages - from complete strangers - waiting in my Facebook inbox after my arrest. Aside from the personal messages, there were a slew of nasty comments in forums, calling me everything from "the trashiest human being I've ever seen" to a skank to a parasite to, more creatively, "whoregeous." One person compared me to the Virginia Tech shooter and another even said that the best place for me would be dead in a bathtub.
What did I do to incite such widespread internet ire? I was a drug addict. See, in 2010 I made national headlines when I was arrested with almost six ounces of heroin during what should have been my final semester at Cornell. Even before my arrest, I knew that I had completed screwed up my life. I'd become someone I didn't even recognize. The terrible solution I'd turned to at the nadir of a deep depression had become my whole life. I'd done many things I regretted. But deep down, I knew that I wasn't a bad person - I was just a drug addict.
So why would somebody hope that I die? Or compare me to the Virginia Tech shooter? I decided to investigate. I read other articles about drug arrests and scrolled through all the comments - and a lot of the results I found were pretty similar. It's not one or two trolls that make these comments; on a lot of sites these are popular sentiments. What is this impulse to insult addicts - not ones who have a personal presence in your life, but complete strangers?
I came up with a name for it: addict shaming. (Okay, admittedly I'm probably not the first person to use that term.) The thing is, addict shaming seems to go beyond the realm of insults related to the addiction itself and often spills over into much more general assertions about an addict's worth as a human being or, in some cases, their right to live. Why such venom? Because it's so often considered okay - the people being shamed are just seen as a class of subhumans with no morals instead of as people with a disease. When someone is deeply entrenched in the disease of addiction, it can be easy to forget that there's a person inside there. But there is - there's a real human being with thoughts and emotions. A person who feels anger, regret, sadness, and shame. Yes, shame - we don't need the help of complete strangers to be ashamed of the places our addictions have taken us.
However, addict-shaming doesn't help aid recovery, doesn't help the addicted person make reparations, and it doesn't serve any positive purpose. It just serves to satisfy the base impulse to kick someone while they're down. It's a low blow; there's no need to shame someone who is already full of it. In fact, if anything, addict shaming just compounds the stigma of addiction and deters other addicts from speaking up and seeking help.
In my case - nasty comments to the contrary notwithstanding - I got sober anyway. I served my time and paid my debt to society. I earned my good time and was released from prison after serving 21 months. After my release, I embarked on the deeply personal journey of writing a memoir - and whether or not it ever sees print, it is a strong reminder of what I can accomplish when I'm sober. For the first year after my release, I struggled with working low-paying jobs online. I started by writing trivia questions for $4 an hour. Over time, I found better paying writing gigs online and then eventually I got a driver's license and was able to start freelancing for local newspapers. Last month I finally got hired as a full-time reporter at one of those papers. After a three-year suspension, Cornell readmitted me this year and this summer I completed the very last class that I need to graduate. (Appropriately, the topic of the class was prisons.) Also this summer, I celebrated three and a half years sober.
Everything seems good - but the stigma stays with me, like a film of dirt I just can't wash off.
Most straightforwardly, there are concrete aspects of the stigma of addiction that stem from my being a felon. I can't get a lot of professional and occupational licenses. I don't quality for certain kinds of financial aid and government grants. In some states, I can't vote and would be denied food stamps. For the rest of my life, most of the time that I fill out a job application, that application will go directly in the trash can. I will be denied housing, jobs, and volunteer positions based on my record. Is this a mess of my own making? Yes, completely. But I am proud to say that now the clean-up is also of my own making.
For me, the most emotionally difficult aspects of the stigma of addiction are not the straightforward long-term consequences, but the ones that can't be measured. It's the sideways looks, the subtle backing away. It's the people who say that I don't deserve to graduate from college or that I shouldn't have a job that a qualified non-felon could have gotten. Recently I heard someone assert that I'm not fit to be around children because I'm a bad influence. Based on who I am today, by any measure that is simply not true - but for some people, my past will always define my future in the worst way.
Even for me, my past will always be a part of me and a part of my future. Addiction has left scars on my body and my soul - and after accepting (grudgingly) the judgment and shaming that I will face in some quarters for the rest of my life, I have decided to embrace the labels of "addict" and "felon" and make them a point of pride. I cannot be shamed or humiliated for that in which I take pride.
In the first days and months after my release, I attempted to avoid my past. I quickly found that was often difficult to do. Part of that was the fact that my initial arrest received a fair amount of publicity. Part of that was the many restrictions associated with being a newly released felon. Part of it was that I felt, and probably looked, like a deer in headlights, baffled and unsure about how to readjust in society. I had a large chunk of my life that had been consumed by addiction and then by incarceration - and it had shaped such a significant part of my person and had permeated so many aspects of my life that it was often difficult to pretend it didn't exist. So I stopped trying. I know that I do not deserve to be judged by my past anymore and I will not hide who I am today out of fear of what people will think about what made me who I am today.
Today, instead of hiding my history of incarceration and addiction, I speak loudly and frequently about those very same issues. Now, when I am asked to speak publicly about the female prison experience, I say yes. When I am asked to be on the radio speaking about jail expansion, I say yes. When a journalist asks to write an article about my addiction and recovery, I say yes. I have learned that people will judge me regardless, but when I embrace my past they are judging me on my own terms instead of theirs.
If people identify me as Keri, the girl who went to prison, that's okay with me. Because Keri the drug addict is now Keri the advocate and Keri the prisoner is now Keri the prison activist - and without the former identifiers, the latter would never have come about. I want to be a reminder that addiction can happen to anyone. I want to be a reminder that incarceration can affect anyone. When people meet me and learn that I am a real person, a good person, a person with thoughts and feelings and opinions, I want them to remember that addicts and inmates are humans, too.
If you want to check out more of Keri's work go to http://keriblakinger.com
"I hope you rot in prison forever. Haha." That was one of about fifty similar messages - from complete strangers - waiting in my Facebook inbox after my arrest. Aside from the personal messages, there were a slew of nasty comments in forums, calling me everything from "the trashiest human being I've ever seen" to a skank to a parasite to, more creatively, "whoregeous." One person compared me to the Virginia Tech shooter and another even said that the best place for me would be dead in a bathtub.
What did I do to incite such widespread internet ire? I was a drug addict. See, in 2010 I made national headlines when I was arrested with almost six ounces of heroin during what should have been my final semester at Cornell. Even before my arrest, I knew that I had completed screwed up my life. I'd become someone I didn't even recognize. The terrible solution I'd turned to at the nadir of a deep depression had become my whole life. I'd done many things I regretted. But deep down, I knew that I wasn't a bad person - I was just a drug addict.
So why would somebody hope that I die? Or compare me to the Virginia Tech shooter? I decided to investigate. I read other articles about drug arrests and scrolled through all the comments - and a lot of the results I found were pretty similar. It's not one or two trolls that make these comments; on a lot of sites these are popular sentiments. What is this impulse to insult addicts - not ones who have a personal presence in your life, but complete strangers?
I came up with a name for it: addict shaming. (Okay, admittedly I'm probably not the first person to use that term.) The thing is, addict shaming seems to go beyond the realm of insults related to the addiction itself and often spills over into much more general assertions about an addict's worth as a human being or, in some cases, their right to live. Why such venom? Because it's so often considered okay - the people being shamed are just seen as a class of subhumans with no morals instead of as people with a disease. When someone is deeply entrenched in the disease of addiction, it can be easy to forget that there's a person inside there. But there is - there's a real human being with thoughts and emotions. A person who feels anger, regret, sadness, and shame. Yes, shame - we don't need the help of complete strangers to be ashamed of the places our addictions have taken us.
However, addict-shaming doesn't help aid recovery, doesn't help the addicted person make reparations, and it doesn't serve any positive purpose. It just serves to satisfy the base impulse to kick someone while they're down. It's a low blow; there's no need to shame someone who is already full of it. In fact, if anything, addict shaming just compounds the stigma of addiction and deters other addicts from speaking up and seeking help.
In my case - nasty comments to the contrary notwithstanding - I got sober anyway. I served my time and paid my debt to society. I earned my good time and was released from prison after serving 21 months. After my release, I embarked on the deeply personal journey of writing a memoir - and whether or not it ever sees print, it is a strong reminder of what I can accomplish when I'm sober. For the first year after my release, I struggled with working low-paying jobs online. I started by writing trivia questions for $4 an hour. Over time, I found better paying writing gigs online and then eventually I got a driver's license and was able to start freelancing for local newspapers. Last month I finally got hired as a full-time reporter at one of those papers. After a three-year suspension, Cornell readmitted me this year and this summer I completed the very last class that I need to graduate. (Appropriately, the topic of the class was prisons.) Also this summer, I celebrated three and a half years sober.
Everything seems good - but the stigma stays with me, like a film of dirt I just can't wash off.
Most straightforwardly, there are concrete aspects of the stigma of addiction that stem from my being a felon. I can't get a lot of professional and occupational licenses. I don't quality for certain kinds of financial aid and government grants. In some states, I can't vote and would be denied food stamps. For the rest of my life, most of the time that I fill out a job application, that application will go directly in the trash can. I will be denied housing, jobs, and volunteer positions based on my record. Is this a mess of my own making? Yes, completely. But I am proud to say that now the clean-up is also of my own making.
For me, the most emotionally difficult aspects of the stigma of addiction are not the straightforward long-term consequences, but the ones that can't be measured. It's the sideways looks, the subtle backing away. It's the people who say that I don't deserve to graduate from college or that I shouldn't have a job that a qualified non-felon could have gotten. Recently I heard someone assert that I'm not fit to be around children because I'm a bad influence. Based on who I am today, by any measure that is simply not true - but for some people, my past will always define my future in the worst way.
Even for me, my past will always be a part of me and a part of my future. Addiction has left scars on my body and my soul - and after accepting (grudgingly) the judgment and shaming that I will face in some quarters for the rest of my life, I have decided to embrace the labels of "addict" and "felon" and make them a point of pride. I cannot be shamed or humiliated for that in which I take pride.
In the first days and months after my release, I attempted to avoid my past. I quickly found that was often difficult to do. Part of that was the fact that my initial arrest received a fair amount of publicity. Part of that was the many restrictions associated with being a newly released felon. Part of it was that I felt, and probably looked, like a deer in headlights, baffled and unsure about how to readjust in society. I had a large chunk of my life that had been consumed by addiction and then by incarceration - and it had shaped such a significant part of my person and had permeated so many aspects of my life that it was often difficult to pretend it didn't exist. So I stopped trying. I know that I do not deserve to be judged by my past anymore and I will not hide who I am today out of fear of what people will think about what made me who I am today.
Today, instead of hiding my history of incarceration and addiction, I speak loudly and frequently about those very same issues. Now, when I am asked to speak publicly about the female prison experience, I say yes. When I am asked to be on the radio speaking about jail expansion, I say yes. When a journalist asks to write an article about my addiction and recovery, I say yes. I have learned that people will judge me regardless, but when I embrace my past they are judging me on my own terms instead of theirs.
If people identify me as Keri, the girl who went to prison, that's okay with me. Because Keri the drug addict is now Keri the advocate and Keri the prisoner is now Keri the prison activist - and without the former identifiers, the latter would never have come about. I want to be a reminder that addiction can happen to anyone. I want to be a reminder that incarceration can affect anyone. When people meet me and learn that I am a real person, a good person, a person with thoughts and feelings and opinions, I want them to remember that addicts and inmates are humans, too.
If you want to check out more of Keri's work go to http://keriblakinger.com