I live my life like a ghost. The less notice that’s paid me, the better I feel – especially when it comes to this place.  I’ve actually had correctional officers ask me, “When did you come back?”

I tell them I’ve never left, and they sadly shake their head, telling me they haven’t seen me in a couple years.

That’s why I’m still here…

I made a horrible, reactionary decision, and I take responsibility for it.  I did it, and I’ve made changes in my life.  I’ve learned that no matter the situation – I will seek guidance and help, turn the other cheek, and walk in the other direction.  My horrible decision cost me 25 years of my life, my family, my friends, my possessions, and most importantly, someone’s life.

I can’t change what happened.  If I could, I would – NOT because I would have avoided this pain, but because no one else would’ve suffered.

I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person, and I made a horrible mistake.  The system is full of people like me.  I’ve met them, I’ve talked with them, I’ve eaten meals with them and cried with them.

I support law enforcement and the justice system.  I support victims’ rights and advocacy groups.  But an eye for an eye approach doesn’t remedy the hurt.  For the ‘over incarcerated’ it only adds to the heartbreak.  It doesn’t make anyone safer. It breeds despair, racial tension and frustration.  It overburdens an already overpopulated prison system and makes rehabilitation next to impossible.

Instead of letting go harmless, old convicts whose criminal careers ended decades ago, the parole system releases and tracks younger, criminals, who have yet to learn the lessons of life.  They let these offenders go only to have them return three or four times.

It’s been proven time and again that older convicted felons are less likely to reoffend, especially when they’ve done long stretches of time and have shown repentance for their crimes and have maintained a disciplinary free life while incarcerated.

I’ll show you it’s true…  Let me go.  I’ll show you what a good person who has made a terrible mistake can accomplish.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as the author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir.  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

A lot of stuff just happens here.

I’ve known Dave for over a year. Some people belong here, some people belong nowhere, Dave belongs – well, everywhere. He is my age, well-educated, and in really good shape physically in spite of a few nicks and bruises. He needs a cornea transplant, one has failed. He had trouble with his gallbladder, but they tell him that is cleared up. Anyway, Dave wakes me up daily, at different times, to show or tell me of some great occurrence in his life. This could be anything from, “I just heard an old song on the radio,” to, “I think a spider bit me.” We later decided ‘the spider’ was just a vampire who was practicing on Dave. He is still very much not ‘the undead’.

He also has a fantastic sense of humor, an almost childlike approach to the bizarre, inexplicable things that happen to us on an hourly basis. So when he came to me with a gecko in tow, I thought nothing of it.

“His name is Joey – Joey Blue!” Dave exclaimed.

“Joey is a girl, Dave,” I told him.

“How can you tell?”

“Because he has a girl’s name,” I said.

“Joey is a boy’s name.”

“True, but Joey Blue is a stripper’s name,” I closed.

He had the lizard for two days before it escaped. Crestfallen, Dave moped for a few hours until the next pet arrived.

“Look, I’ve got a new friend,” Dave said proudly. He opened his palm and in it sat a small field mouse, scared shitless.

“That’s a baby rat, Dave.”

“No,” he explained, “It’s a mouse. Rats are bigger.”

“We all start out small, Dave,” I quipped.

“What do we name him?”

I told him not to name him after a stripper – maybe Fifel?

So, for a day, Dave fed Fifel peanut butter sandwich squares and pet him.

We already know that, as a warden, Dave sucks.  So, he woke me from my midmorning nap to tell me, “Fifel escaped!”

I saw that one coming.

Later that day, at about 3:30 PM, I was straightening my cell and I lifted my book from my clothes which were on top of my tennis shoes.  And, there was Fifel – looking up at me, all warm and safe.

I called to Dave, who is half deaf anyway, and told him to come fetch his errant mouse. Dave, slow in his reaction time, couldn’t catch Fifel, who was apparently tired of being fed peanut butter squares and being guarded.  Aren’t we all?

Fifel is still on the loose.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

I love people.  They’re interesting, different, entertaining, and at times – frustrating.  Over the last 9,136 days of being monitored, tested, and prodded – I’ve also had the opportunity to observe those doing the surveillance  – the Correctional Officers.

I’m going to step on some toes, but I’ve been known to do that.  I will not call them ‘guards’ or ‘bosses’ or whatever else has been handed down over the years.  Everyone deserves respect.  We all start this life at the same place after all.  That is until someone decides – for whatever reason – they should be in charge.  Some are born to lead, some to follow, and some, unfortunately, should get the hell out of the way.

I know absolutely no one – I repeat, no one – who stood up in the third grade after being asked the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up, Matty?” and replied with enthusiasm, “A prison guard!”

That’s just not reality.  We wanted to be astronauts, firemen, nurses, soldiers, pilots, mechanics, cowboys, and last but not least, police officers.

I was fortunate to be raised by a father who was ex-Army, his two brothers Navy and Air Force.  All military service members, past and present, have my undying support and respect for their service and dedication.  Some of my friends, before I came to this place, were police officers. The same respect is extended to them.

Sometimes, though, you have to hang up the cleats and walk away.  That means, when you’re military or police career is over, you should move on – there are others waiting to fill your shoes.  You deserve to relax, have a few drinks, kick up your feet and enjoy life.

However, the prison systems of this country are so full, there’s a shortage of officers to supervise us.  At the top of the list of candidates for these jobs are ex-military, ex-police, ex-security guards – you might see where I’m going with this.  Then its junior college or college students who cannot, for whatever reason, continue their academic endeavors to get their degree.  The curve continues to decline from there.

Ex-military, usually, are the easiest to deal with, especially the older military, those who put in more than their four years. Everything is about order, respect, loyalty, trust – they recognize these things, because it’s been instilled in them. They’re no-nonsense kind of guys. They don’t take shit, and they don’t dish any out.  They put on their boots, come to work, do their 12 hour shift, and turn a blind eye to the extra pair of dirty boxers, the rubber band or the paperclip you might possess. They’re quiet, alert, peaceful, and sometimes even humorous individuals.

But I’ve met a few badasses…  These guys more likely spent their four years stateside and hoped to get out and join law enforcement but couldn’t.  They aren’t ready to let go. They – even though they’ve never charged up Hamburger Hill (but have ordered a few in their time), always show up to work with their perfect military haircut and Army-Navy store cargo pants adorned with zippers and secret pockets.  They arrive armed with every paramilitary gadget known to man – laser pointer, helmet headlight, mini Maglite, pen attached to a retractable chain release, water bottle holder, empty holster (even though you can’t possess a firearm inside the perimeter), and gas canister holster – casebook  in hand, and at the ready.

Weekend warriors don’t even own this much shit.  Hell, the state militia doesn’t own this much shit.   They arrive in their Range Rover’s, Humvee’s, and Monster Trucks, kicking up dust as they pull into the parking lot, their sound systems blasting.  They emerge from their vehicles with their high-fives and let’s go kick some butt attitudes to start their shift.  Within twenty months the parking lot is so deep in male testosterone you can actually swim in it.

What’s important to note is – this facility, for all intents and purposes, should apply for a nursing home license.  Most inmates couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight.

The ex-police officers turned correctional officers are less testosterone driven. They’ve actually spent some time on the front lines. They know how badly things can turn ugly in the snap of your fingers. They’re pretty laid-back, more reserved, less likely to overreact.

Then there are the criminal justice majors.  They show up, and when they realized the error of their ways, usually depart within a couple of years.  The wiser ones quit before they even complete the Academy.

Then there are all the others, a melting pot of individuals, some okay some not so okay.   Others are downright frightening, due to the fact that they were but moments away from a felony conviction themselves before they were hired into the world of free money, long hours and constant turmoil.

Mr. George Beto, an ex-warden and ex-director of the prison system said it best in an interview.  He was asked – if he could let any offender go that he wished, who would it be?

His answer, “Well, if I had my way, I figure about 80% I could let go without any trouble, but the problem with that is, I’d have to let go 80% of the guards, and they’re more dangerous than the inmates.”

Not all correctional officers are bad. I’m not saying that at all. I have enough words in my mouth without anyone putting more in there.  But it is what it is, and until we quit paying for new prisons and maybe start to use that money for things likes books – it will stay that way.  The way to eliminate ignorance is education.

Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Okay, I’m a sucker – especially for Girl Scout Cookies.  There are worse things, right?

Rewind back to 1989. I was 29 years old, had a family, was gainfully employed, and had a foothold on a music career that was more love than dream.  It was mid-summer, and I was alone and recording vocals in my makeshift home studio.

The doorbell rang.

That’s not so unusual, door bells ring all around the world, right?  Just not in the middle of East Texas on a hot July day, twelve miles from the nearest town, and not on a Saturday.  I was dressed in army camo pants that were cut off at the knees, a Def Leppard t-shirt and worn tennis shoes.  My hair looked like something from a Broadway production of Rocky Horror Picture Show, I had a half bottle of Gatorade in one hand and a red Fender Stratocaster in the other.   I answered the bell.

Standing on the other side of the door were two of the cutest Girl Scouts I had ever seen – selling Girl Scout cookies, their mother behind them waiting patiently in the car.  When the girls, who looked to be about 10 to 12 years of age, got a full look at me their jaws dropped open.

“Hello.  Kinda hot to be selling cookies isn’t it?” I asked.

The oldest stepped forward, “Yes, but it’s for a good cause, and we’ve only sold 10 boxes today.”

The younger, apparently braver than her business partner, spoke up as she eyed me curiously, “Are you a rock star?”

“No,” I said – adding to myself, not yet.  At 29, if you haven’t made it yet, there is about a 2% chance you will. That’s why I was writing and recording demos and not out all over Texas trying to be discovered.

“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?”

“Sure, how many do you need to sell to meet your goal?” I asked before taking a swig of Gatorade.

“I don’t know, let me ask my mom,” said the youngest.

While we waited for her return, the oldest asked, “Can you play? You look like you can.”

I turned the volume control up and ripped through five arpeggios like a gunfighter.

“Wow,” was all she said.

The youngest member of Girl Scouts ‘R’ Us came back and said, “We need to sell sixty more boxes before we order on Friday.”

“What flavors do you have?” I asked.   It really didn’t matter, I was going for broke anyway.

“We have mint, oatmeal, chocolate chip, and we have shortbread, but they’re yucky.”

“I’ll take fifty boxes of the mint,” I said as casually as I could, thinking, ‘my wife is going to kill me’.  But that many cookies goes a long way.  I wouldn’t have to buy cookies for six months.

The girl looked at me like I’d just given her the Brooklyn Bridge.  “Fifty boxes…” she stammered.

I just wrote the check out and handed it to her.

I love Girl Scout Cookies. What can I say?

Their mother got out of the car and walked up on the porch. When the girls showed her the order, she said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Yes, yes I did. And I’d do it again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He wishes he could buy Girl Scout Cookies in prison.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Before this place, I always had someone that loved me unconditionally – my dad, my Aunt Sis, Laura, my dogs – and even my cats.  So this is a unique experience, a very painful experience.

When I woke up sometime in 1995, when I finally realized this wasn’t just a horrible nightmare, I was lost. I’m still lost, but as long as I have my insulin and I can write, I’ll probably survive.  Even though I don’t know exactly when or if I’ll ever leave here – at least I have an outlet for my emotions and feelings.

My dreams – they give me the most trouble emotionally.  I go to sleep and when I do – I sleep hard. You can empty a trash bag of aluminum cans outside my cubicle, and nine times out of ten, I won’t flinch. When I sleep, I dream.  I don’t dream of unicorns and dragons and supernovas.  I dream about my dad – camping trips together, baseball games, Ohio State football, my old life. And I don’t want to come back – not to this nightmare.

When I wake, those first moments of lucidity are always hardest – when you realize you are still alone.  People may say things like, ‘I’m okay, I can make it on my own,’ or ‘I like being alone,’ but everyone needs someone.  Real, feeling, caring human beings don’t survive in this realm for long all alone.  Alone hurts – worse than any charlie horse, or scrape, or bruise or broken bone because alone doesn’t heal.  It’s seamless until it’s overcome.  There is no fertile ground in which to plant a seed and regrow what has been lost.

There’s an old quote – ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.’ Maybe so, but if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to skip the lost part. What I’m experiencing right now is the hardest thing I’ve ever faced.

I will never take my pen friends for granted. I love them all dearly, and they have kept me alive for what seems like an eternity.  To be brutally honest – if it wasn’t for them, I may have ended this experience long ago.  But, there are two reasons I haven’t.  One – I would never leave my friends thinking they didn’t do enough to make me fight for another day. Two – to quit would be the ultimate slap in the face of my dad, who is already quite disappointed in me for my present set of circumstances.

Everyone needs a period of solitude – a time to reflect and learn and change. This isn’t solitude anymore – this is alone.  Loneliness is where you wish there was someone – anyone – you could talk to, to share feelings and emotions with, someone to understand things that no one else in the universe could understand.   I’ve had two of these people in my life. I’m looking for the third –all I can hope is they are looking for me also…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

I never thought prisons were unnecessary.  They serve a purpose when someone dangerous to themselves and society is incarcerated – until such a time they are no longer dangerous.  Which brings us to – Prison Reform.  The term alone is a threat to those who profit from overflowing prisons.

When the prison population becomes such that most of the farm is over fifty, broken down, chronically ill and unable to find the front gate – much less escape – I believe we need reform.  Every one of us makes mistakes, some worse than others, but when an inmate does exactly as he or she is told and serves the minimum amount of time required to be placed on parole – they should be allowed to go home.

If, after twenty-five years of incarceration, the system can’t prove you are up to something – chances are, you aren’t.  I’m not a psychiatrist or psychologist, but I think it would be impossible to hide who you truly are – good or bad – for a quarter of a century.  But, in order to justify their actions, the system will accuse you of – ‘manipulating the system’ – acting one way when you’re really another.

If they can’t prove you’re up to something, they believe they have not looked hard enough.  It couldn’t be that you were not up to anything except living a life of monotonous, repetitive days filled with boredom and no productivity.

On the other hand, if a person comes into the system with both guns blazing, caution to the wind, devil be damned, there is a good chance he or she will be the next to go.  That individual is categorized as a ‘repeat customer’.  Why release someone who is never coming back?  That would be bad for business.  And – once again – the taxpayer pays twice, sometimes three times, for the rehabilitation process.  The system is like sausage.  It tastes great going down, but if a person actually saw how the sausage was put together from start to finish, there would be more vegans.

Once again, I’m not saying prisons should be abolished, but more thought should be given to who and why a person is determined ‘too dangerous’ to be released after they reach their parole date.  A man in his sixties, convicted of something bad he did thirty years ago, is not the same person he was.  Ornery, maybe, but not a danger to anyone.  Without hope, it’s hard to start each day.

The philosopher, Confucius, 551-479 A.D., was once asked by the Governor of the province he resided in to report to him why the prisons were so full, why crime was so rampant, and people so corrupt and deprived.  Being the philosopher that he was, Confucius went from town to town interviewing the sheriffs, the mayors, and the wardens of the prisons.  When he returned to the Governor, he reported that the people were only as law-abiding and good as the people in charge and if the governor replaced corrupt officials with moral, good men – he’d see a change in the pattern.

The governor did just that.  Almost a year to the day later, the prisons were nearly empty, the crime rate nearly erased, and people were back on solid footing.

I know this is not ancient China, however mankind hasn’t changed that much in 2,500 years – maybe technology-wise but not morality-wise.  I believe the old philosopher was on to something.  I believe we should take the profit out of prison and put the prophet back in.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Originally published by www.uncaptivevoices.wordpress.com.

My best friend, my protector, my teacher, and my inspiration in anything I ever accomplished or failed at was my father.  His name was Bob.  If I had known I would only have him in my life for twenty-seven years, I would have  crammed more time into each and every day.  But none of us know exactly when we’re going to leave or how much time is allotted us.

I’m not a deeply religious person.  That being said, it’s not as if I’m not a spiritual man.  After all, someone has to be in charge of all this chaos.  My dad used to say things. Sometimes they were deeply profound, sometimes they were funny, and they always had some meaning. I wish I had been paying more attention to him; more than likely I wouldn’t be writing this from a prison if I had.  However, I feel everyone should know about ‘The Book Of Bob’.  You won’t find it in the library or at a bookstore or on a newsstand.  It’s not available in fine print or large.  It’s embedded in my life and written on my heart.

My dad, born Robert Norris Green, was brought into this world on December 1, 1932.  He left too soon, on June 13, 1988.  He was only 56 years old, but he looked like he was in his early 40’s.  He passed a yearly physical and stress test a month before a blood clot formed in his leg.  It broke loose and traveled to his heart.  He died instantly. There were no anti-clotting agents back then.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now, and he would be sitting somewhere, drinking coffee, and telling me a joke or adding to ‘the book’.

He used to tell me things like, “Some people see the glass as half-full and some half-empty.”  My dad thought the glass was too big.

Or, “The world is a small place, but I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.”

My favorite, “Life is like a crap sandwich, the more bread you have, the less crap you have to eat.”

I developed my sense of humor based on my dad’s little sayings, but he never taught me how to cope with difficult people.  Or maybe he did, in his own way.  The man would give the shirt off his back if he thought someone needed it.  He used to help complete strangers, the homeless, stray dogs and cats.  There wasn’t a moment in my life that I felt I couldn’t tell my dad what I’d done or hadn’t done – never a second I felt I couldn’t depend on him.  It is through my dad that I was taught to love and express my feelings.

If everyone had such a figure in their lives, the world would be a better place.  That is why I get frustrated in this place.  It separates and divides families for years at a time and does nothing to try and mend or heal broken fences or relationships.  Since I’ve been incarcerated, I have never been closer than 300 miles from my adopted home in East Texas (I was born in Columbus, Ohio).

I see inmates struggle because they have lost what is essential to being human:  relationships, hope, faith and yes – love.  Many, more than likely, never had a father or ‘Dad’, and it saddens me to know that the next generation will likely repeat the process of being locked away from family and friends.

Bob used to tell me that there is a part of each of us that is good.  Sometimes you have to look harder in some to find it, but it’s there. I’ve seen hardened men break down and cry when they finally realize what is important and what they’ve lost.  We need to look for that, grow it, and accept it as the normal – not the impossible.  We need more of the type I was graced to have as my dad – my best friend.  We need each other, and we need more Bob.

It’s funny how that happens.  You live life forward, but you learn from it backward…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583