A Christmas letter & dedication- to those who still struggle, or have overcome the struggle.
The honor and privilege of being involved in true community is so grand. On this Christmas, 2011, the best gift is the gift of life; no, not just an ordinary life, but one that is filled with wonder, diversity, friends, family, children, tears, laughter, freedom, and a sense of pride and dignity.
Our stories and voices are powerful testimonies; symbols of light amidst the darkness we have all known. The gift of these stories may not seem much like a gift; but they are no less than miracles; lives changed and changing.
There is no guarantee that when we move away from the darkness we have known, life will always be extraordinary; it won’t. If we choose to live life, it will feel tragic, hard and empty at times; these are as much a part of being alive as the wonder of it is. If we choose to live life, we grow bigger than our wounds and heal; and in healing ourselves, we may get the gift of healing those we love. We must work hard when we choose to live life; it is so precious and awesome. We should never let it slip away beyond our grasp, or waste it.
We must be careful; we mustn’t forget the families, names, faces, hearts and humanness we share. We mustn’t forget the lives we share.
Good tidings, and luck to you. May you reap the benefits of the work you are willing to do to find true freedom; a freedom that has nothing to do with the literal walls that surround us; but the internal ones that we construct around your hearts and souls.
May you dream and realize your dreams. May you cherish yourself and your loved ones; may this year be an inspirational and momentous one.
From-Denise and all the men and women who have worked to dream for those who couldn't dream for themselves; they, and all of you, are my true heroes.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
A day in that previous life....so long ago
After count and lunch, I pulled weeds again, wondering about my dorm mates. I thought of the tension that Julie mentioned. Perhaps she was right. Something was coming down. Shit! Maybe they’re after me. My mind rioted. I pulled weeds faster.
“Say, is yo’ ancestors black or sumpthin’? Boogie, d’ya see dis white girl’s nappy hair?” said a huge, black woman. I had tried everything that existed to straighten my hair, but it remained stubbornly nappy most of my life. When I let it grow out, it had a mind of its own and formed an Angela-Davis-like Afro. I said nothing. The black woman strutted across the yard, shaking her head.
At quitting time, I walked toward my dorm and hoped for sanctuary in my house. A different correctional officer opened the door from the outside, but this time after she let me in, she left the dorm and all the house doors unlocked. Then she walked off, headed toward the chow hall.
A woman with bright-red hair stood by the dayroom window that faced the yard and kitchen. She was one of my dorm mates. “Get to your house, close your door, and stay there ’til we tell ya to come out,” she ordered. I couldn’t walk fast enough.
In my house, the walls closed in and the very air forbade me to move. I was trapped and knew they would get me soon. For an hour, my thoughts were stuck on death or worse. I heard them scuffling back and forth in the hall and wished if they were going to get me, they would just do it and get it over with.
Two hours later, another correctional officer came in to announce count. I was safe for a few moments. After count was clear it was dinnertime, but this meal was not mandatory to attend as were lunch and breakfast. I blindly chose to remain inside, preferring to get it over with, whatever would come.
The correctional officer left and most of the inmates stayed. I was alone with them - my ill fate loomed. But no one paid any attention to me. I began to consider the remote possibility that something was going on, but it was not about me. Maybe they were shooting dope or smoking pot or beating someone up and just didn’t want me to know. I crouched in my cell and prayed to the god I had denounced so many years before, when evil stepfather number three had raped me and my mother had retreated into silence and denial.
“Say, is yo’ ancestors black or sumpthin’? Boogie, d’ya see dis white girl’s nappy hair?” said a huge, black woman. I had tried everything that existed to straighten my hair, but it remained stubbornly nappy most of my life. When I let it grow out, it had a mind of its own and formed an Angela-Davis-like Afro. I said nothing. The black woman strutted across the yard, shaking her head.
At quitting time, I walked toward my dorm and hoped for sanctuary in my house. A different correctional officer opened the door from the outside, but this time after she let me in, she left the dorm and all the house doors unlocked. Then she walked off, headed toward the chow hall.
A woman with bright-red hair stood by the dayroom window that faced the yard and kitchen. She was one of my dorm mates. “Get to your house, close your door, and stay there ’til we tell ya to come out,” she ordered. I couldn’t walk fast enough.
In my house, the walls closed in and the very air forbade me to move. I was trapped and knew they would get me soon. For an hour, my thoughts were stuck on death or worse. I heard them scuffling back and forth in the hall and wished if they were going to get me, they would just do it and get it over with.
Two hours later, another correctional officer came in to announce count. I was safe for a few moments. After count was clear it was dinnertime, but this meal was not mandatory to attend as were lunch and breakfast. I blindly chose to remain inside, preferring to get it over with, whatever would come.
The correctional officer left and most of the inmates stayed. I was alone with them - my ill fate loomed. But no one paid any attention to me. I began to consider the remote possibility that something was going on, but it was not about me. Maybe they were shooting dope or smoking pot or beating someone up and just didn’t want me to know. I crouched in my cell and prayed to the god I had denounced so many years before, when evil stepfather number three had raped me and my mother had retreated into silence and denial.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Thanksgiving....it's long, but maybe worth reading. To all who ever worked, lived, visited PPL; good memories
I spent years living and working with convicts, criminals, and addicts with the intent of helping to lead people out of misery and pain. Not alone, but with others who found their way out. With all my heart, I believe that people lucky enough to overcome their misery and pain experience far greater extremes of bliss and joy than people who have no misery and pain
I have known -
• A woman who wrote in her autobiography in treatment “my nightmare as a child began the day I was born. My mother was addicted to heroin”.
• A daughter who begged her mother to come out of a “nod” to just talk to her
• A mother “nodded” out for 25 years, never considering the option of stopping – her grown son didn’t even know her without heroin.
• A man who has served 25 years for a murder in a drug deal gone bad; he has more character and goodness than most people I know.
• A 58 year old woman, who remembers a rage deep enough at age 17 to kill her stepfather; she stopped because of the tears welling in her baby brother’s eyes.
• A young man serving life for putting a gun to his crack dealer’s head; the crack dealer who pressed charges; the grandfatherly crack dealer who owns an apartment complex and sells crack to women and children.
• A woman robbed, attacked, raped by three ski-masked men; 25 years later, she cannot be in a house alone at night; the nights forever changed.
• A child with no childhood, born addicted to heroin – yet still innocent, naïve, later, so full of pain, taken out by five bullets in his chest.
• A bright young woman who mutilates herself with sharp objects; to erase another pain far worse.
• A man whose only dream was to have a television in his cell
• A woman out of prison 21 years, haunted still by the memories of the times she ‘sold out’ morally to ‘survive’.
• Men and women that lust desperately to ingest something into their noses, mouths, veins, eventually their souls– to escape the pain of their existence.
I have known men and women, who lived on the bottom, grew up on the bottom –and then rose above the bottom, never to return. My life work is about never going back to the bottom.
Thanksgiving – what a great holiday; it allows us a pause – to just be thankful!
Each of you has a story that brought you to this moment–stories of pain, trauma, betrayal, and destruction. If you are able to overcome your story, integrate and cherish it, you will find unbridled peace of mind, gratitude, and humility.
How can we give thanks without appreciating the bittersweet fact that somewhere, someone is worse off. Somewhere:
• A man is dying of AIDS – alone
• A grandmother spends thanksgiving alone; her children lives are too busy this year
• A child cowers in a corner, afraid of the beating to come
• A mother cowers in a shelter; her eyes blackened after the beating
• Unkind strangers avoid the hollow empty eyes of the homeless man who asks for a quarter
• A women is doing life without parole
• A child is convicted as an adult
• A man is doing life without parole
I am thankful for all I have learned, have yet to learn and for being able to share it with so many people
Most of all, I am thankful for the privilege of dreaming for people who cannot yet dream for themselves.
With all my heart – Happy Thanksgiving
"Wise People walk the road that leads upward towards life,
Not the road that leads downward towards death".
Proverbs 15:24
I have known -
• A woman who wrote in her autobiography in treatment “my nightmare as a child began the day I was born. My mother was addicted to heroin”.
• A daughter who begged her mother to come out of a “nod” to just talk to her
• A mother “nodded” out for 25 years, never considering the option of stopping – her grown son didn’t even know her without heroin.
• A man who has served 25 years for a murder in a drug deal gone bad; he has more character and goodness than most people I know.
• A 58 year old woman, who remembers a rage deep enough at age 17 to kill her stepfather; she stopped because of the tears welling in her baby brother’s eyes.
• A young man serving life for putting a gun to his crack dealer’s head; the crack dealer who pressed charges; the grandfatherly crack dealer who owns an apartment complex and sells crack to women and children.
• A woman robbed, attacked, raped by three ski-masked men; 25 years later, she cannot be in a house alone at night; the nights forever changed.
• A child with no childhood, born addicted to heroin – yet still innocent, naïve, later, so full of pain, taken out by five bullets in his chest.
• A bright young woman who mutilates herself with sharp objects; to erase another pain far worse.
• A man whose only dream was to have a television in his cell
• A woman out of prison 21 years, haunted still by the memories of the times she ‘sold out’ morally to ‘survive’.
• Men and women that lust desperately to ingest something into their noses, mouths, veins, eventually their souls– to escape the pain of their existence.
I have known men and women, who lived on the bottom, grew up on the bottom –and then rose above the bottom, never to return. My life work is about never going back to the bottom.
Thanksgiving – what a great holiday; it allows us a pause – to just be thankful!
Each of you has a story that brought you to this moment–stories of pain, trauma, betrayal, and destruction. If you are able to overcome your story, integrate and cherish it, you will find unbridled peace of mind, gratitude, and humility.
How can we give thanks without appreciating the bittersweet fact that somewhere, someone is worse off. Somewhere:
• A man is dying of AIDS – alone
• A grandmother spends thanksgiving alone; her children lives are too busy this year
• A child cowers in a corner, afraid of the beating to come
• A mother cowers in a shelter; her eyes blackened after the beating
• Unkind strangers avoid the hollow empty eyes of the homeless man who asks for a quarter
• A women is doing life without parole
• A child is convicted as an adult
• A man is doing life without parole
I am thankful for all I have learned, have yet to learn and for being able to share it with so many people
Most of all, I am thankful for the privilege of dreaming for people who cannot yet dream for themselves.
With all my heart – Happy Thanksgiving
"Wise People walk the road that leads upward towards life,
Not the road that leads downward towards death".
Proverbs 15:24
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Excerpt - hope this one - leaves you wanting more
At number five stood a young girl with long, blond hair and an innocent-looking face. She had an anxious, deer-caught-in-the-headlights way about her.
“Hi,” she nearly whispered, “I’m Julie. I guess you are moving into my house.”
“Yeah, they said number five,” I replied.
Julie, I thought to myself, was the one called “Say Snitch.” I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think it was the best thing to be her roommate, or cellie (another new word of the prison vocabulary I would learn). Her hands fidgeted nervously and her voice quivered.
“I think something is coming down in the dorm today,” she said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just have a bad feeling,” she replied. “You wouldn’t believe how scary it is in here. I’m so glad I get out in four months. What about you? How much time did you get?”
“Five years I guess, but I’m not sure ’cause the judge said five to fifteen,” I told her.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You poor thing… Uh, oh c’mon, it’s time to line up to go to chow.”
In the chow hall, I was the last in a line of over a hundred women. Julie asked me to sit with her and I declined, remembering those accusing voices calling her “Say Snitch.” My eyes dared not meet anyone’s and the whole lower half of my body was shaking under the table. I sat alone and tried to be invisible. No one talked to me, but I sensed hundreds of eyes watching every move I made. The stench of sweaty convicts’ bodies and unidentifiable food odors hung in the air. Nothing felt like it fit. Looking at the food nauseated me.
After count and lunch, I pulled weeds again, wondering about my dorm mates. I thought of the tension that Julie mentioned. Perhaps she was right. Something was coming down. Shit! Maybe they’re after me. My mind rioted. I pulled weeds faster.
“Hi,” she nearly whispered, “I’m Julie. I guess you are moving into my house.”
“Yeah, they said number five,” I replied.
Julie, I thought to myself, was the one called “Say Snitch.” I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think it was the best thing to be her roommate, or cellie (another new word of the prison vocabulary I would learn). Her hands fidgeted nervously and her voice quivered.
“I think something is coming down in the dorm today,” she said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just have a bad feeling,” she replied. “You wouldn’t believe how scary it is in here. I’m so glad I get out in four months. What about you? How much time did you get?”
“Five years I guess, but I’m not sure ’cause the judge said five to fifteen,” I told her.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You poor thing… Uh, oh c’mon, it’s time to line up to go to chow.”
In the chow hall, I was the last in a line of over a hundred women. Julie asked me to sit with her and I declined, remembering those accusing voices calling her “Say Snitch.” My eyes dared not meet anyone’s and the whole lower half of my body was shaking under the table. I sat alone and tried to be invisible. No one talked to me, but I sensed hundreds of eyes watching every move I made. The stench of sweaty convicts’ bodies and unidentifiable food odors hung in the air. Nothing felt like it fit. Looking at the food nauseated me.
After count and lunch, I pulled weeds again, wondering about my dorm mates. I thought of the tension that Julie mentioned. Perhaps she was right. Something was coming down. Shit! Maybe they’re after me. My mind rioted. I pulled weeds faster.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
An excerpt from Five to Fifteen
Arizona State Prison for Women. Beginning September 24th, 1975, I would be calling this place home for the next several years having been sentenced to a mimimum of five, maximum of fifteen years imprisonment.
Oddly, in the brutal, violent, bigoted place, I disovered an almost indescribable bond among the women. I think perhaps, prison is like going to war. You have to fight for your life, stand together and try to come out intact. But some didn't. One woman, a marked 'snitch,' cut her own tongue out. Knowing someone had been ordered to do it, she decided to do it herself instead. Others hanged themselves. Some had objects forced inside them by angry mobs of young, no longer innocent women. Others took sleeping pills and tranguilizers to numb themselves and sleep their time away. Some crossed over to insanity years before anyone knew about mental illness. Some got to do plenty of drugs almost every day, especially pot. Others didn't. Some were taken behind buildings every day and beaten. Other delivered the beatings. All were changed.
Oddly, in the brutal, violent, bigoted place, I disovered an almost indescribable bond among the women. I think perhaps, prison is like going to war. You have to fight for your life, stand together and try to come out intact. But some didn't. One woman, a marked 'snitch,' cut her own tongue out. Knowing someone had been ordered to do it, she decided to do it herself instead. Others hanged themselves. Some had objects forced inside them by angry mobs of young, no longer innocent women. Others took sleeping pills and tranguilizers to numb themselves and sleep their time away. Some crossed over to insanity years before anyone knew about mental illness. Some got to do plenty of drugs almost every day, especially pot. Others didn't. Some were taken behind buildings every day and beaten. Other delivered the beatings. All were changed.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Book promotion-finally happening
As the time nears for Five to Fifteen to be submitted to a publisher (December), my soon to be agent says I have to start promoting my book. Seems so self serving, but then, that's what trying to get published is, right? Unaccustomed to self serving, but definately want to get this book published....so time to start self serving. An excerpt from the proposal she is sending to publishers seems the most logical...
"Falling, I keep on falling" is how the author describes herself as she became more and more dependent on drugs and dealing to support her hundreds of dollars per day habit. As she witnesses other dealers and junkies around her being killed or committing suicide, she begins to realize how her addiction has affected others around her....the pace of life in this part of Five to Fifteen is obviously rushing towards death or imprisonment. Perhaps fortunately for Denise, she is sentenced to prison, a new low in itself. But not before she is nearly killed in her own house by desperate thieves looking for money and drugs. Brutally raped by these strangers, her gripping account of that episode is mortifying. So begins a lifelong fear of spending the night anywhere by herself."
Funny - being called an author, I rather like the sound. More to come if this is one way to promote.
"Falling, I keep on falling" is how the author describes herself as she became more and more dependent on drugs and dealing to support her hundreds of dollars per day habit. As she witnesses other dealers and junkies around her being killed or committing suicide, she begins to realize how her addiction has affected others around her....the pace of life in this part of Five to Fifteen is obviously rushing towards death or imprisonment. Perhaps fortunately for Denise, she is sentenced to prison, a new low in itself. But not before she is nearly killed in her own house by desperate thieves looking for money and drugs. Brutally raped by these strangers, her gripping account of that episode is mortifying. So begins a lifelong fear of spending the night anywhere by herself."
Funny - being called an author, I rather like the sound. More to come if this is one way to promote.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Apolitical? Maybe
Apolitical-perhaps a new party
Anymore, it’s very difficult to discern what ‘party’ to vote for- or whether to vote at all. I get emails from people I know, angry people, who appear to believe that Obama is the reason for every problem we now face; and believe me, I don’t think he’s done a great job, but I also think that no matter who is in office at they can’t fix what it took decades to create; it wasn’t just Bush, or Clinton, Reagan, or Obama; it goes far beyond anyone who happens to be president. My humble opinion- the entire political arena has become so corrupt and influenced by the bottom line; $$$$, greed, and lobbyists. My sister recently had to be hospitalized for an emergency gall bladder thing; she makes minimum wage and cannot afford the health insurance her employer offers. The last time she applied for state medical coverage she was denied because she made $6.00 over the amount allowed. Consequently, a few weeks after being released from the hospital, she got a bill for $32,000; while in the hospital, they automatically submitted a new application for state coverage, but the decision, as I write this, is pending. In the event they deny her, this, potentially could render her homeless, and more so, render my 83 year old mother who she takes care of, alone. It’s all too big for me to allow myself to get too worked up about; I’d surely drive myself more crazy than I am; but in my nearly 60 years on this earth, I don’t remember ever being this afraid, uncertain, and with visions of eventual poverty, homelessness or worse as I approach retirement age. Yes, I’m one of those baby boomers they talk about, stuck in the worst of this ‘economic downturn’. Own a house that probably couldn’t sell for what is still owed on it; terrified of retiring (even if I had enough of a cushion to do so) for fear of losing my health coverage, having just gone through cancer treatment…live and work in a state that is so broke that myself and my colleagues face layoffs every six months. Tea Party, Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Independent – I don’t think it fucking matters; we all seem to be on a sinking ship, so the best I can do is become apolitical and play bingo.
Anymore, it’s very difficult to discern what ‘party’ to vote for- or whether to vote at all. I get emails from people I know, angry people, who appear to believe that Obama is the reason for every problem we now face; and believe me, I don’t think he’s done a great job, but I also think that no matter who is in office at they can’t fix what it took decades to create; it wasn’t just Bush, or Clinton, Reagan, or Obama; it goes far beyond anyone who happens to be president. My humble opinion- the entire political arena has become so corrupt and influenced by the bottom line; $$$$, greed, and lobbyists. My sister recently had to be hospitalized for an emergency gall bladder thing; she makes minimum wage and cannot afford the health insurance her employer offers. The last time she applied for state medical coverage she was denied because she made $6.00 over the amount allowed. Consequently, a few weeks after being released from the hospital, she got a bill for $32,000; while in the hospital, they automatically submitted a new application for state coverage, but the decision, as I write this, is pending. In the event they deny her, this, potentially could render her homeless, and more so, render my 83 year old mother who she takes care of, alone. It’s all too big for me to allow myself to get too worked up about; I’d surely drive myself more crazy than I am; but in my nearly 60 years on this earth, I don’t remember ever being this afraid, uncertain, and with visions of eventual poverty, homelessness or worse as I approach retirement age. Yes, I’m one of those baby boomers they talk about, stuck in the worst of this ‘economic downturn’. Own a house that probably couldn’t sell for what is still owed on it; terrified of retiring (even if I had enough of a cushion to do so) for fear of losing my health coverage, having just gone through cancer treatment…live and work in a state that is so broke that myself and my colleagues face layoffs every six months. Tea Party, Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Independent – I don’t think it fucking matters; we all seem to be on a sinking ship, so the best I can do is become apolitical and play bingo.
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