I sympathize with the people of Flint, Michigan. Their water was contaminated because nobody gave much thought to the problems that could be created by switching from a water source that was proven reliable to the Flint River, which was known for its mercury poisoned waters.
Sometimes greed overcomes public welfare and safety. Or, as in our case, indifference.
When I arrived at this place in May of 1995, I immediately noticed one thing. The water wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just the way it tasted. If an inmate heats water for coffee, soups or anything else they might want to cook, they need a hot pot. The pot doesn’t get hot enough to ‘boil’ water, but it can get hot enough to ‘crock pot’ a meal if used correctly.
I’ve had two. I had the first one for almost six years and the second for ten. Both never leaked because I kept them dry while not in use, and I never left water in them for longer than an hour. Everyone who owns one and doesn’t dry it out immediately after use is plagued with the dilemma of replacing their pot. If a pot is left slightly wet or heats water for long periods of time, the water will begin to eat through the bottom plate of the pot.
Which brings us to the crux of the story. All of the water coolers here have filters – except for the ones in the male housing areas. The infirmary, the cannery, the areas where officers fill their bottles, the officers’ dining areas – all of those locations have filtered water. Everywhere – but where we live. There are even signs in some locations stating ‘non-potable water’.
The officers often buy bottled water from the commissary or bring in bottles by the dozens in the hotter months of June, July and August. Of course, I can hear my dad saying to me now, “Johnny, if water can eat through a hot pot, imagine what it’s doing to your stomach?” It regularly eats and corrodes the water pipes in the plumbing system.
So, what’s in the water? Being the resourceful person I am, I once sent a fellow inmate home with a water sample to find out. He was a plumber by trade so he had access to the type of testing and technology needed. A week after he got home and settled in, he had the sample tested. He never sent me the results, only told me, “You don’t wanna know.”
Before I came to prison in 1993, I never experienced any kind of skin irritation or sensitivity. I’ve battled all kinds of skin problems since I’ve been here. I’ve had athletes foot, jock itch, and scaling skin issues since my arrival. I seem to have developed an immunity over the years, but I continue to see things on a daily basis that, pardon the pun, would make your skin crawl.
The quality of life suffers when the water you drink and bathe in is at war with you. Sometimes there are notices to the inmates to boil the water we use. Remember our hot pots? They don’t boil – crazy, huh? Or is it by design?
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 A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583
Yet, Robert Booker remains in prison to this day. He is serving his time as a trusted inmate, walking the halls of what used to be a college campus in Yankton and watching the geese fly by. He continues to miss all of the ‘firsts’ with his grandkids, walking in endless circles around a track, and writing. And the government continues to fund his incarceration in order to punish a man who has already been punished, reform a man who has already been reformed, and keep a man they know is not a threat to anyone far removed from those who love him. For what? Robert Booker is the face of the fallout of the failed war on drugs.
I’ve spent ninety-two weeks plus, cooped up at The People’s Zoo. This is where they place all of the untrustworthy incorrigibles to be petted, groomed and most importantly – watched.
I pace my floor in slow, calculated strides. Like a feline, the King of All Cats – The Lion. Yet, I dare roar. It’ll expose my hand and allow them to see me in the light that I’ve worked so hard to distract them from. I’m now the ‘Quiet One’. I smile quietly to myself as I unsheathe my sword. I admire the elegance of my work. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Flexible, yet firm. Molding to my hand. It belongs there. So, I write,
Once she returns, I step in the yard and the door is closed behind me. I stoop once again to place my hands through the slot so the handcuffs can be removed. My clothes are then passed to me through the slot. I quickly begin putting them on and trying to get warm.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
Home…
When my family moved to Texas, we had only been there a week when it became apparent I was so lucky to have been raised in such a diverse environment. My dad and I drove from our home in the countryside to a small East Texas town to pick up construction material and a few groceries. On the way out of town, we stopped at a grocery store. It was one of those old country stores – small, well lit, clean. It had the smell of fresh bread baking and home.
I don’t understand why people treat others differently because of the color of their skin or their religion. When I read Andre’s story, I cried – especially when I saw him standing there with that big smile and his arms around his family.
You gave me a voice to be heard,
Remember when you were seven years old? Take a trip with me, humor me if you will. You’re seven. You live in middle class America, and you’ve been strung along in the fantasy that Santa Claus exists.
I lived like that for years – until Evelyn found me, inspired me, nurtured me and blessed me a thousand times over. So, for the last two years, I haven’t had to play ‘The Company Store’ game. But, time marches on, people get tired, tired of waiting for you to come home. They sometimes forget about you. I understand this all too well. I’ve been waiting for that bike since I was 48.