I’ve been incarcerated over three decades now, and I can count the number of really close friends I’ve had on one hand.  It’s not that I’m unapproachable or distant, not that I’m unlikable or unfriendly even, I just have a tendency to not let too many folks in the castle, so to speak.  Three of the handful of friends shared the name ‘David’.

Dave One was a friend I made in the early nineties.  I’ve written about him and his exploits in essays and my book – his nickname was Mongo. His full name was David Alexander Ortiz, he was of Mexican American/Samoan descent – and what I wouldn’t give to see him again, outside of these walls.  He went home in 1995/96.

The second Dave was from a little town outside Dallas, Texas, Rockwall.  His name was David Sartain.  He did fifteen flat on a non-violent DWI charge and when he got home, he committed suicide.  He had a family who supported him, but I suppose he was so traumatized by the system and maybe he felt overwhelmed by what lies on the outside.  He took his own life with a shotgun.  

The third and last Dave, but not the least, was my friend David Stewart.  Dave was my heart.  He was smart, understanding, empathetic, he loved life and he loved music.  We’d sit for hours talking about our families, our friends, music, everything except prison.  There were no talks about how ‘back in the day, it was better’.  Every single conversation had meaning and substance, it all led back home.

David the Mouseketeer, as he was known in my writing, died in July of 2020 of complications due to his gallbladder.  He had done eighteen years flat on a kidnapping charge.  The Dave I knew couldn’t hurt a fly, couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight.  He never lost his temper, never said anything hurtful or that he couldn’t take back.  Dave was… Dave.  And I miss him almost as much as I miss my Dad, who’s been gone for over thirty years.  

If you look up the word advocate or friend in my dictionary, you’d see a group picture of my three Daves.  This place isn’t full of gangsters, bad actors and socially unsophisticated people – there are some good people here who made some bad choices.  

ABOUT THE  WRITER.  John Green has been writing for WITS from early on. He is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” In addition, John Green was a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration.

John is an insulin dependant diabetic, which has a unique set of obstacles, contributing to a loss of mobility, as well as impacting his vision, but he still finds the drive to be a part of this growing collection, for which I am very appreciative.

John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
Jester III Unit
3 Jester Road
Richmond, Texas 77406

There’s a song I remember from years ago – “Don’t Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone”.   No truer words…

Before I got sick, I lost two of my best friends.  One, I’ll call him ‘The Mouseketeer’, to gall bladder disease and the other to my own selfish, egocentric stupidity.   That one comes into view every once in a while, keeping their perfect distance but close enough to throw me a lifeline if I need one.

So, when I got sick in March of 2020, I had all but given up.  I was drowning in a sea of self-pity.  I had let my health deteriorate to a point that the smallest medical problem became one that could end my 60 year run.  I had almost 50 pounds of water weight, and fluid had accumulated in my body to the point that the slightest scratch or infection could kill me.  I’d had bouts of cellulites for the previous 12 years.

I lost my great toe on my right foot due to staph infection, and I caught Covid 19 coming back from the hospital.  It felt like I had a really bad case of the flu – runny nose, fever, night sweats, cough, upset stomach.  I survived it though.

Four months later, I contracted it again.  This time it was different.  It stopped me, I couldn’t breathe.  TDCJ had to life flight me to a hospital half a state away. 

As I lay in my hospital bed, I encountered a nurse who explained to me that they were going to have to ‘tube me’ so I could breathe – my oxygen level was around 60-70%.  I was drowning above water.  She told me not to worry, that she would be there when I woke up.

Ten days later, when I regained consciousness she was there by my bedside, holding my hand.  I was strapped to a hospital bed with IV tubes and monitors sticking in me and on me, but I noticed her eyes were full of tears.  

“We didn’t think you were going to make it.  I promised you I’d be here when you came to, so here I am.”

She even hugged me.  She brought me ice water and juice for the next five days.  I’ve run into these angels in white over the years.  They are few and far between in here, but they exist.   

While I was ‘out’, I dreamed of my dad, my friends and my family – bittersweet memories brought to life by my subconscious mind.  This two-year, hard journey has brought me to this page.  Hope.

Despair isn’t the opposite of hope, it’s the conviction that hope doesn’t exist, and that it will never return in the future.  That’s where I was before.

I’ve since lost 52 pounds of fluid.  My blood sugar is now between 90-120, never above 200.  I’m in a wheelchair still because I can’t maintain my balance enough to walk – yet.  But I will.  And if a higher power wills it, I’ll get another opportunity to show the world that I’m a force of good and not bad.

ABOUT THE  WRITER.  John Green has been a frequent contributor to WITS, and he is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”

John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
Jester III Unit 14-18
3 Jester Road
Richmond, Texas 77406

Why do birds fly?  Why is there air?  Why is the sky blue?  Why is water wet?  These are all important questions.  It was 1993, and my son was five years old.  I was thirty-two and fielding questions all inquisitive five-year-olds ask.  When I was five I asked my dad why New Mexico was named New Mexico?  It wasn’t new and it wasn’t Mexico.  I’d seen pictures in a magazine, and I was interested.

“Dad, how far away is the sun?”

I knew this.  It was an easy one, right?  “About ninety-three million miles, Mike.  Why?”

“How far is Dallas?”

“About a hundred and ten miles, son.”

“So, how come I can see the sun, but I can’t see Dallas?  It’s closer, right?”

“Yes, Mike,” I answered.

He looked at me like my cat does when he looks in his food bowl, ‘There was food here a minute ago, where did it go?’

Life is weird like that.  Things that are seemingly far away are sometimes closer than you realize.  Don’t give up on them, they’re still there.  We live in a blue, green world, full of life, full of hope.  I can see it.  It’s just on the other side of the fence.

ABOUT THE  WRITER.  John Green has been a frequent contributor to WITS, and he is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”  

John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
Jester III Unit
3 Jester Road
Richmond, Texas 77406

It’s been a crazy year, and with only 21 days left, I’m done chronicling it.  I’m fortunate to see the end. 

I was thirty-two years old when I came to prison.  I wasn’t a fighter, wasn’t ready for the predatory violence associated with being locked up.  I had to learn how to unlearn all the societal norms I grew up on. 

In prison – up is down, right is wrong, and vice-versa.  If you’re a male, you can’t show weakness of any type.  If you do, you are lunch.  You might as well don a neon green jumpsuit and carry a placard saying, ‘Take advantage of me.  I’m new.  I’m vulnerable.’

I navigated that.  Not easily, mind you, but I survived.

It makes me wonder about how females manage.  They aren’t just preyed upon by inmates, they also have to run the gamut of officers, more often male, who can be known to take advantage of their positions of power.  It brings to mind a few women I’ve known.  Three gems. I’ve changed their names to protect the innocent.

Tara.  I was assigned to a hospital facility during my COVID experience.  I was sent there because I couldn’t walk.  I was brought low by an amputated toe and the long-haul effects of COVID-19.  The facility was basically a female unit, but the hospital part was both male and female. 

Females were assigned there, so they worked in the kitchen, the laundry, for maintenance, and also as utility workers.  You never saw them or were permitted contact or to converse with them, and they were escorted through male areas to ensure this didn’t happen.

I first saw Tara while I was being escorted from my hospital room to a video appointment with a doctor about thirty miles away.  Tara was locked in a holding tank, and she couldn’t communicate with anyone because she was deaf.  I knew this because of the big yellow tag on her shirt, ‘HEARING IMPAIRED’. 

A lifetime ago, I had a friend who lost her hearing and had to learn sign language to communicate.  I’d had to learn how also.  I wasn’t very good, but I understood the basics, and she was always patient with my underachiever status.

I took a chance with Tara.  After all, the rules said I couldn’t talk to her, they didn’t say I couldn’t sign to her. 

“How are you?  Are you okay?”

She explained she was being punished for disobeying a direct order, not packing her property and refusing housing.  There were tears in her eyes.  She was young, had cropped hair and looked, in a word, vulnerable.

“Don’t give up.  Look up, you’re not alone.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I have two years left to do.  I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

Diane.  She was sentenced to forty-five years for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.  I befriended her while she was incarcerated at a woman’s prison in the mid 90’s.  Back then, inmates could write to each other in other units.

I encouraged her to take programs to show she wanted to change her life.  She did, and she ended up getting her GED.  

Then the ‘system’ shut down letter communication between inmates, supposedly to eliminate communication between gangs. 

A dollar for the swear jar, please – bullshit.

I don’t know if Diane ever went home.  All of my efforts to find out have been hindered by the system.  You see, in Texas, the reality is, they don’t want inmates to be rehabilitated, and they don’t want inmates helping each other.

Melanie.  The third side of the coin?  Melanie was incarcerated in Kentucky and committed suicide after doing almost ten years.  I had her home address, and after not hearing from her for a month, I wrote her mom.  Melanie had given up.  Many have before her, and many more will after if things don’t change. 

Coins are meant to be protected, put in a bank, shown their worth.  Priceless…

ABOUT THE  AUTHOR.  John is currently doing another one-year set off, after almost thirty years of incarceration.  He is an insulin dependant diabetic, he’s lost a toe to his disease, he’s survived COVID-19, and he is still viewed as a threat to society apparently, since he just got turned down for parole once again. I visited him once in prison. When I left an officer stopped me. He wanted to tell me what a good and amazing guy John Green was.
John Green has been a frequent contributor to WITS, and he is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
Jester III Unit
3 Jester Road
Richmond, Texas 77466

From 1983 to 1988, the year my dad passed away, I lived on a farm of sorts.  My dad’s property – forty acres in the middle of East Texas.  He called it The Pine Curtain.  He raised pigs, goats, chickens, pheasant and quail.  Geese and ducks lived on the pond.  I accused him of having a petting zoo, because it seemed like the animals considered themselves tenants – not a possible food source.

My dad would let them out, and they’d follow him around, like interns following the lead doctor in a hospital.  Most people would think it was an illusion or trick, but the animals just knew my dad loved them, even though some of them did eventually end up on the menu.

The goats didn’t think of themselves as goats.  They were guests. They were Nubian goats.  The female, Gracie, was black and white, and the male, Homer, was brown and orange.  When dad first brought them home, they were just kids. They’d follow him and eat the grass, meandering around like foreign tourists, “No, thank you, we’re just visiting.”

When they matured, they mated and had little goats.  Two at a time. The little ones would follow my son around when he was four or five, and if anything got near Mike, they’d chase them off.   It wasn’t unusual to see my son digging in the backyard, playing like little boys will, with two small goats standing guard like unpaid babysitters. 

When my dad passed away, my mom had me sell the larger animals, the pigs and goats, because she couldn’t handle the workload.  An older man down the road had goats on his farm and agreed to buy Homer and Gracie.  I warned him Homer was better suited to be penned in or tied so he didn’t cause any damage.  Even though Homer was a goat, he was like a bull in a china shop.

The man assured me that he’d been raising goats all his life and could handle anything Homer had up his sleeve (or hoof).

After about a week, I ran into the man at the local feed store.  He told me he was sorry he didn’t believe me.  He had let Homer roam the house grounds, unsupervised.  The goat had apparently climbed on top of his wife’s car and beat the hood up, kicking in the windshield and eating the vinyl roof.

I asked if he’d done anything to the goat, and he told me he tied Homer up.  He thought about shooting him but admitted that I had warned him, so he didn’t have the heart.

I made Homer’s bail! 

Goats are pretty smart if you raise them from babies, but once in a awhile you get one who is just plain ornery.  But much like people, even goats deserve a chance…

ABOUT THE  AUTHOR.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir recognized by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

All Posts By John Green.

I knew Tommy for over 20 years.  He was a friend – not as close as some, closer than others.  He was usually upbeat, always working and often watching and betting on sports – mostly football.   Like myself, he loved the Rockets, Texans and Astros.  His only flaw, from my viewpoint, was that when they were losing, he lost faith in his teams.  Maybe it was because he always bet his heart and not his head, causing him to take some losses, but we’d always laughed about it later.

I’d see him walking to work in the hallway and I’d call out, “Tommy!”

He’d answer, “How are you, John?”  When he asked how I was, I knew he was sincere – not just talking or going through the motions.  He really cared.

I think Tommy was a good guy who got caught up in the moment.  Whatever he did to get himself here, I never asked because whatever it was, it was long ago, and the person that did it didn’t exist anymore.

Tommy died of a sudden heart attack last night.  I don’t know his exact age, probably something close to mine.  What I do know is – I’m one friend short.

Rest in peace, brother.

ABOUT THE  AUTHOR.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir recognized by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

All Posts By John Green.

My dad often said, “You do not bite the hand that feeds you.”  As a diabetic, I’ve tweaked that to read, “You do not bite the hand that heals you.” 

Anyone who lives in a correctional facility for long will likely cross paths with a nurse or three before going home.  Knowing which hands not to bite could mean the difference between good health care and, I don’t want to frighten anyone, but death.  Being objective hasn’t always been easy, but objectivity has kept me from harm for twenty-five years. 

The health care system in the world is stressed, and I’m not going to debate universal health care.  I merely want to weigh in on the people that have – literally – kept me alive and upright all these years. 

Nurses are the backbone, the foundation of a prison unit like mine, and they are overworked, understaffed, underpaid, underappreciated, overlooked and finally – abused too often by the very clients that they are sworn and paid to protect, treat and keep healthy.

As a diabetic, I get to see the prison nursing staff at least twice a day, every day, and have for nearly half my life.  I get to see the details, and I get to see both sides of the coin.  I’ve been locked away for twenty-five years, and I know who is on my side.

Prison isn’t easy on a good day, but inmates tend to take medical for granted.  Many feel medical care is a given if they get a scrape or a cold.  It is their ‘right’ to fill out a sick call request, have someone wave a magic wand over their head and presto – problem solved.   I want it now – no, I want it yesterday.

But, for a small measure of patience… 

Inmates parade in front of the infirmary all day long, and what they see are nurses and doctors.  Some are sitting drinking coffee, some are eating lunch, some are typing on their computers.  An impatient inmate only sees the surface, “All they do is sit around and talk, eat and play on the computers.”

Wrong.

What most are doing is taking a break from changing IV’s, filing nurses notes, answering sick call requests, and dealing with unruly inmates who actually believe that nurses are overpaid. 

During my stay here, I’ve spent time receiving treatment from nurses, requiring antibiotics and IV’s for hours at a time.  In those long hours of treatment, I’ve seen them constantly moving and constantly vigilant, trying to figure out who’s sick and who’s crying wolf – trying to deal with the constant mental process of taking care of over a thousand inmates, some really sick, some dying and some just craving attention.

Most of them probably don’t get paid near enough for that. 

In the 25 years I’ve been treated, I’ve never cried wolf.  I want these warriors to take me seriously when I call 911, I want them there to help me.  I don’t want anyone doubting I need their help.  I’ve taken the doubt out of the equation. 

The double standard that often drives inmates to insanity – also goes the other way.  Nurses are people too.  Not all good, and certainly not all bad.  They suffer from the same problems we all do. They have ups and downs and families to support, bills to pay, relationship to nurture.  They’re human.  And, thank God, some of them have chosen to work in a prison infirmary.  Who among us would choose to talk to, medically review, and treat inmates – many of whom are assholes – for twelve hour shifts and not develop an attitude? 

Are there bad nurses? 

Yes.  And there are also nurses who used to be a lot kinder and compassionate before coming to work in a prison.  We as inmates have a way of grinding down the very people responsible for our well being, objectivity be damned. 

ABOUT THE  AUTHOR.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir.  His book has been recognized by Terry LeClerc who said, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583