Well, look who's a social butterfly!

I spent all day Tuesday socializing. It was fun and heartening, but exhausting.

First I left a message for Henry. Tuesday was his birthday. I got his voicemail because he was talking to his family in Puerto Rico. His older brother moved back home to take care of mom -- she's over 80 now and is having cognitive issues -- so I'm glad he got to connect with them.

I heard from Darius! He's the prison penpal I was matched with through my church. I wrote him two letters in October that went unanswered and, frankly, I was afraid he was dead. I know that Covid is a major problem among the incarcerated. I sent an inquiry about him to our church/prison coordinator, but before I heard back, I got his letter. 

It was short and sad. Darius has had the blues because of prison covid protocol. They keep moving prisoners from one area to another, trying to contain the virus and keep the prisoners safe. This constant disruption has been hard on Darius, especially because it means that his time outside in the yard has been cut to 60 minutes every 30 days. Also, Christmas is a depressing time for him. He didn't elaborate on why, and I didn't ask. I did answer his letter today, letting him know that I've been concerned about his well being and that I'm happy he's OK. That's the point of this correspondence -- to let him know that someone out here cares. I know he won't get my letter in time for Christmas, but there's time for it to get there for the New Year. I reminded him of what's said during our church service: "We light this chalice to remember that life is born again every day." New day, new year, new President, new vaccines, new opportunities to be healthy and to make the most of each new day.

A nice long check-in with John. He worries about me because of covid. I worry about him because he gets the blues. He really misses the neighborhood bar where he's been spending his afternoons since he lost his job in September 2019. The other regulars have become his ballast, now that he doesn't have an office to go to. This second covid lockdown is harder on him than the first because it takes place over the holidays. So it was good for us to reconnect. I wish we did it more often because it benefits both of us. But he doesn't really like talking on the phone, despises social media and won't even try Zoom. It's funny to me that he's become such a crusty old man. When we first met, back in the 1980s, John was already bored by new things before I'd even heard of them! Now he's a Luddite.

"Gal, give me a quick call." So said the email from my new boss, Aaron. He apologized for "bothering" me while enjoying a day off, but he wanted me to know something before our next paychecks are automatically deposited: he requested and got me a raise. He said it was to thank me for all my help since he joined the team! He took the initiative to get me this raise, I didn't ask for it. That he thinks so highly of me means the world to me! That he used his influence to get me a raise this year, when we had lay-offs in the second quarter, left me gobsmacked.

Movie group. We discussed A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Our last meetup before Christmas.

Joanna. When I got my covid diagnosis, I was frozen with fear and reached out to Joanna. She's so sane. She heard Monday that her brother finally died. He's been battling cancer and has been in assisted living since an auto accident complicated his care. He contracted covid and was just so miserable that his death, while sad,  feels like a blessing. Anyway, Tuesday night, when the weight of her loss began to overwhelm her, Joanna reached out to me. I was happy I could be there for her, to distract her and even make her laugh for a moment.

All this companionship did wear me out. I did little on Wednesday and the day of nothing zipped by.

Where's Darius?

I'm worried about Darius, the lifer at Western Illinois Correctional Facility that I correspond with through my church's penpal program. It's been more than a month since I've heard from him.

Maybe he was moved to another facility. I've learned how often that happens.

Or maybe he got bored with writing to me. That would surprise, but not shock, me. At the beginning of our correspondence, he indicated that he hoped for in-person visits from me. I made it clear that I was committed to answering his every letter, but that was all.

Or maybe he's ill. I checked the stats, and 62 inmates have been confirmed to have the corona virus, and 49 have recovered. Does that mean the remaining 13 are dead? I don't know.

I understand, and agree, that Darius did something society can't forgive, and that prison is where he belongs. 

I also believe what the Book of Matthew tells us: "Whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters, you did for me."

So I hold Darius in my heart, and am grateful to him in a way. I'm not sure that, before I enrolled in this penpal program, I gave the incarcerated one moment's thought. I'm glad he taught me that my heart has room in it for them, too.

August Happiness Challenge -- Day 19

Today's happiness -- A letter from Darius. He's the convict I correspond with through my church's prison penpal program. I hadn't heard from him in weeks, and I was worried. I've read that  few Illinois prisons have tested inmates for the corona virus, and I was afraid he'd become another victim of the pandemic.

He wrote a lonely, melancholy letter. But he's as healthy as he was in July. The whole point of this program is that he can take comfort in knowing someone out here cares about him. I realized when I saw that envelope today that I do.

PS But I don't care how lonely he says he is, I'm not going to visit him. He and I are never, ever going to be an episode of Love After Lock Up. ☺


Each day in August you are to post about something that makes *you* happy. Pretty simple. And, it doesn't even have to be every day if you don't want it to be. It's a great way to remind ourselves that there

Atta boy, Darius!

Darius is the convict I correspond with through my church's prison penpal program. He is serving a life sentence at Western Illinois Correctional facility. You would not want to his life. His every move is monitored and restricted and his days are literally filled with darkness and stench. I acknowledge that he is there because he is a convicted killer, and that he cannot ever fully repay his debt to society. But he is a human being, too, and whenever I write to him, I recall that Christ said, "whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me." So I keep the lines of communication open, letting him know that no matter how hopeless he feels in there, someone out here cares about him.

In June, I wrote to him honestly regarding my biggest concern about Covid19 -- that it will ravage the homeless population. You can't shelter at home if you don't have a home. You can't socially distance in a shelter. You can't wash your hands regularly if you don't have access to plumbing. With so many companies encouraging work from home, there are fewer passersby to rely on for the change that fuels your life. You could very well die before this is over.

Darius surprised me by echoing my concern. He admitted that while his life is unremittingly awful, at least he knows where his next meal is coming from.* He added something to my list of deprivations that hadn't occurred to me -- with fewer people dining out, there's likely less food in dumpsters for the homeless to scavenge. He also acknowledged that he has access to minimal health care, and minimal health care is more than the people on the streets get. 

When I hear someone complain about being "oppressed" because they're asked to wear a mask in public to protect their neighbor, I think, "SHAME ON THEM." Even a convicted killer serving a life sentence has greater empathy than these people. 

*Though you don't want to hear how he describes the prison food. You wouldn't be able to look at a chicken breast the same way ever again.

An unexpected honor

Darius wants me on his Zombie Team! He has enlisted me in the group of those who will help him battle the undead after the Apocalypse. Considering that Darius is a lifer at the Western Illinois Correctional Center and has his pick of younger, tougher and meaner combatants, I take this as a compliment.

How did this overweight old lady make a convict's Zombie Team? Barbicide. It's the blue disinfectant developed specifically for salon/barber shop equipment. I became familiar with it back in the 1980s, when I was a writer for a haircare company. This spring, as Lysol and Clorox began disappearing from store shelves, and salons still closed, I thought, "Hmmm ... I bet Barbicide is available." I scored a 16 fl. oz. bottle and, considering I mix just 2 oz. in a 32 oz. spray bottle, this will last me a good long time.

I shared this little detail of my everyday life with Darius and it delighted him. He praised my "intellectual and resourceful move." He reiterated that he worries about me during the pandemic ("How are you is more meaningful now than ever") and says he's interested in hearing how I cope with it.

I'm glad, because my pen pal is hard to write to. I don't want to make my life sound too positive, because his life sucks. He is indoors all day most days, spending up to 16 hours a day in the 11.5 x 8 ft. cell he shares with another man. The food is terrible. He has no privacy whatsoever. 

I am willing to accept that he deserves this. He killed two people. But Christ said, "whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me." And so I'll write him every month. He seems to feel a connection to me now, and helping alleviate another human being's loneliness is, almost literally, the least I can do.

 

When every choice is of consequence

I've now received four letters in all from Darius, the lifer at Western Illinois Correctional Center that I correspond with through my church's penpal program. 

His letters are difficult because his life is difficult. His cell is 11.5 x 8 ft. It contains a bunk bed, a set of book shelves, a sink and a metal toilet. Metal is key. First of all, the sound of anyone in the cell block urinating carries, and secondly, it takes quite a few flushes before a grown man's solid waste finally makes its way down. Darius and his cellmate are in that little room 10 to 16 hours each day.

He would prefer I email him because my messages would reach him faster, but I won't. I refuse to share my personal information. He addresses his letters back to my first name only, c/o the church, and that's fine. I don't worry about him getting out, but I do know that every bit of his correspondence -- electronic or otherwise -- is reviewed by corrections officers. I have heard horror stories about some (naturally not all) of these men and don't want them to know too much about me. Also, Darius has to pay for each email he writes or receives. Yes, he has to pay for paper and stamps, too, but that's still cheaper for him than email.

He has been living like this for more than two decades.

When I write back, I keep his situation top of mind. I'm careful about everything I say. For example, when writing to anyone else, I'd mention something about my setting -- "I have the windows open so I can hear the kids playing outside." Nope, don't want to say that to Darius. It would be cruel.

I don't want to mention how hard sheltering in place has been for me, since I can go to the store, for a walk or to pick up carry out. And I do go out every other day. These are choices he does not have.

I have not forgotten that Darius is where he is because of what he did. He killed two people. I don't think that's a debt he can ever fully repay to society.

But I didn't join this program to see criminal justice done. I write to Darius for two reasons:

1) It's wrong to judge someone's entire life by his worst moment -- no matter how bad that moment is 

2) Christ said, "whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

And so I answer each letter. It's not so much that it feels right, because honestly, it no longer does. In fact, it's downright uncomfortable. But I know it's the right thing to do. I understand that each of us needs to feel a personal connection, and so I'm here to for Darius.

Corona virus and charity

Every year at this time I make a contribution to a charity in memory of my friend's dad. She and her sister loved him dearly and miss him still. I met him a handful of times and found him very impressive -- tall, warm and funny. This year I chose The Anthony Rizzo Family Foundation. The connection between their good works right now and Dad is clear. Dad grew up in New York, raised his family in Chicago and retired to Florida. The Foundation is providing hot meals to health care workers at hospitals in both Chicago and Florida, and the hospital in Florida is named for Joe DiMaggio (the ideal representative of NY).

Then there's The Night Ministry. They are devoted to tending to the homeless during this crisis. I gave to them because I know some of Chicago's homeless. I worry about them and their pets, all huddled together in tents or under blankets. I worry about how vulnerable and compromised they were even before this crisis.

These contributions were incremental. I've learned over the years that, in times of crisis, it's important to continue to support the charities you contribute to in good times. Otherwise they will suffer in the crisis, too, and won't be able to provide the services that made you love them in the first place.

So I felt conflicted today when I received an email from the head of the prison ministry. He offered to make it easy for us to contribute to our pen pal's individual commissary account so he can buy antibacterial soap, wipes and masks.

I've received two letters now from my pen pal, Darius. They are touching in that he seems so grateful for attention from someone on the outside. He appreciates that, when I write to him, I use notecards instead of letters from my computer because he enjoys seeing the pictures and the colors and my penmanship. I've learned that he takes every opportunity he can to go out "into the yard" -- even in the rain -- because he's desperate for fresh air. He is curious about me, and bets that I was a supporter of Elizabeth Warren's and can't wait to hear if he's right.

I will continue to pray for him, to write to him, to share tidbits about my life and faith and ask him about his. But I'm afraid right now, when it comes to contributing to his commissary account, my wallet will stay in my purse. Because the unvarnished fact is that Darius murdered two people.

I don't want him to get the virus, and I understand that the very nature of prison means that he is at  greater risk for exposure because so many people live in such close proximity. I wish this man, this fellow human being, wasn't at risk. And if I were a millionaire, I'd help him, too.

But I'm not a millionaire. I'm just me. My priorities are the innocent and the vulnerable (The Night Ministry) and heroes on the front lines (The Anthony Rizzo Family Foundation). I also want to continue supporting local businesses as best I can. So Darius is going to get my attention and my prayers, but not my cash.

I am peaceful with this decision. I know that God understands.

 

A letter from Darius

As part of my commitment to my OneWord, I want to do MORE to help make the world a better place. So when my church asked for volunteers to be pen pals for prisoners, I raised my hand.

After all, we shouldn't judge a person's entire life by his worst moment, and we should treat the least among us as we would treat the Lord.

But then I was paired with Darius, who is serving a life sentence for double homicide. I admit I was apprehensive. But I made the commitment, so I wrote to him.

Today, I got his first letter in response. It was humbling. He said he wished he had words bigger than "thank you" to express how it felt to have me take time out to write to him.

In my initial letter, I asked him about his spiritual path. He answered that he was raised Baptist and while he's drifted some during this stay in prison, he still believes in Christ. He reads occasionally and likes to play chess. He hopes someday to be free, though at 49 he's already spent more than half his life in prison. He hinted that he'd like help with his legal fees, but I'm ignoring that. He worries that I may never write back, but even so, he's grateful that I took the time that one time "to reach out."

I wrote back to him immediately. I let him know that I'm 62 -- hopefully dispelling any romantic notions he may have -- and how tough it is to be surrounded by nothing but millennials. I mentioned that, while I write for a living, it's a refreshing change of pace to express myself with handwritten words to a specific individual. I outlined my own spiritual path, that like him I was raised in a traditional Protestant congregation but I found it lacking because it didn't give me much opportunity to live my faith. I promised him I'd write him once/month.

We'll see how it progresses. But right now, it feels good. With really very little effort, I'm brightening someone's day and helping him feel better connected to the world outside the prison walls.

Have I cracked the code?

I've been at my wit's end when it comes to my dear friend, Henry. How can we continue to be close if lashes out at me all the time? How do I communicate with someone whose traumatic brain injury has left him by turns frightened, paranoid and aggressive?

I experimented this week with making this about me, not him. By talking to him about my problems, I reasoned, I was taking the focus off his. At least this week, it worked!

It began with an email. He invited me to watch a video of him singing a solo at church last Sunday. I told him it made me happy to see him go from nervous to confident and happy as the music moved him. (This was a diplomatic answer, as the video was clumsy and for some reason the microphone didn't really pick up his voice.) He thanked me with an over-the-top message about how much he loves me. So I get it. I know he's sorry we haven't been getting along and he understands he hurt me.

But now what?

I sent Henry an email about my prospective prison pen pal, Darius. I told Henry the truth -- that I'm feeling more than a little ambivalent about corresponding with a man found guilty of murder. I asked Henry for his thoughts.

Voila! He called me Monday night and told me I'm good and strong and he's sure my heart will lead me to the right thing. It was a very sweet message.

I'm glad I wasn't home Monday night to mess it up. Our give-and-take can't get overheated if there's no real time give-and-take.

And I think my asking him for advice not only distracted him from his own problems, it helped even the power differential between us, at least for a moment.

Introducing Darius. Or maybe not.

My OneWord for this year is MORE. I chose MORE to remind myself that's all I need to do. Not "everything," not "all," just MORE. Save more, be more productive around the house, move more ...

I fell off the bandwagon in mid-January when I got sick.  Instead of doing MORE, I was happy to do ANYTHING. But now in mid-February, I'm breathing without coughing, going hours without napping and ready to for MORE.

Inspired by my niece, I RSVP'd "yes" when my church asked for volunteers to be prison pen pals. My congregation is very involved with prison reform. And how hard could it be? After all, I write for a living.

What I didn't take into account is that prison is full of very not-nice people.

I was matched with Darius. He is serving a life sentence for a double homicide. GULP! He has already been in prison for 25 years.

I know we shouldn't judge a person's entire life by his worst moments.

I know that when we help the least among us, it's as if we are helping the Lord.

And so I wrote to Darius. I didn't use my last name and am using the church as my return address.

I am hopeful that he answers and that we begin a correspondence that enriches us both. Megan, a fellow congregant, has experience writing to inmates and will help me if I feel uncomfortable. And this is only a six-month commitment.

I am hopeful, but skeptical. We'll see how this unfolds.