“There is Freedom of Speech. But, I cannot guarantee Freedom after Speech”

— Idi Amin

In keeping with the spirit of St. Patrick’s and looking forward to a future of hope and reconciliation I’ve given us all yet another glimpse of New York State’s valiant effort to cure drug addicts and dealers in our society. At the same time it’s hopeful to view just how the professionals are curing those less fortunate attempting to feed their families. No, they’re not making six figure incomes, nor are they receiving seven figure bonuses like Jamie Dimon during the meltdown called the Great Recession — in which all of us watched the destruction of our economy. But, even though some of us wrote about the “inequities” of having to do time for exposing the truth as journalists, it all works out. Doesn’t it? Here’s a day in society’s plan — in a drug rehab program — to solve the imbalance between the Haves and the Have-Nots: Prison.

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“I approached the guy in the bathroom at 5:30 a.m. I’d thought it was safe to assume that when I got up that early I would not have to deal with anyone else. But, of course, I was wrong. After blowing his nose in the sink for what seemed like 20 minutes, he finally stopped and I began to walk in to  do my own personal chores. Like brush my hair. But, before I could do that he started spraying down all of the sinks with “Cleaner 128,” my favorite prison concoction. Even the label warned of not using it without adequate ventilation. So, I stopped when I saw him spraying all of the sinks and he looked at me.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he said to me. He was about 50, had a full graying beard with a balding  head and was about 5’7″ tall. He had an Indian and black look to him. I didn’t know his name.

“Oh, No,” I said, barely containing my annoyance, “I just don’t want to go in there and  breathe in that shit.”

He looked at me like there was something wrong with ME, not that he was creating a toxic cloud for our early morning health treatment. Breathing that shit in was reminiscent of taking in a deep breath while living in downtown Manhattan right after the buildings collapsed on 9-11.

“Well, whadaya wan’ me tado, stop cleanin’ the sinks?” he said, with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

How absurd, I thought. And, miss the chance for some really good old-fashioned genetic nerve damage?

“No,” I said, controlling myself and backing away, “I’ll just wait until you’re finished.”

He had no comeback for that since I was not challenging him.

I’d gone to the dentist after the morning’s frivolities. And, despite the fact that the dentist and her assistant had negative reputations, they’d always treated me well. The hygienist loved animals, just like my wife. So, I arrived on time and she cleaned my teeth adequately. It was the prison staff that were the problem. The doctor walked by and waved, as did the female nurse so I thought I’d take a chance and ask if I could speak with them.

“Listen, I wanted to know if the doctor thought I should change my medication. My blood pressure was high the last time I was here.” It turned out to be the nurse who’d been in the room with him when I saw him last.

“Well, what did he say?” she said to me. 

“He didn’t say anything,”

“Well, then you don’t need to change  it.” she said, feigning a logical response.

“Oh,” I said as if I hadn’t thought of that, myself, “I see. Well, then, I guess I’ll have it checked in a month and a  half.”

“Well, you might want to check it in, say, a month,” she offered smiling. “You just put in a sick call slip and get here in the morning.”

Yeah, I knew that. Hoping I didn’t stroke out before I could get an appointment to see him next. That was at 6 a.m. You get up in the dark, all relaxed and shit from lack of sleep and  bundle up in the frigid temperature and head out with the poor shits in the rest of the prison, and sit on wooden benches, waiting for someone to call your name. IF, in fact, they actually were to call you at all. The last time I did that, they didn’t call me and I talked the C.O. into letting me go after the Count, and the male nurse gave me shit.

“Okay, it’s just that when I get it checked, it usually goes up in anticipation of having it checked.”

“They call that the White Coat Syndrome,” she said smiling.

“Oh, really?” I said, “that’s interesting.” But of course, getting your blood pressure checked HERE, was causing a DIFFERENT White Coat Syndrome. More like Jack Nicholson’s in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest where the white coats worked in the morgue..

I left. Despite the fact that I could wave at the doctor, I couldn’t talk to him or see him, whether he was busy or not as he carried his 7-11 coffee cup.

I would have to be having a stroke for a quicker appointment.

I headed back to ASAT. I’d spent from 7:30 a.m. to 9 a.m. sitting in my cube, unable to sit on the bed or lay down. The “discipline” of ASAT was that you could not nap or even close your eyes, even if you didn’t have anything else that you had to be doing. And, since I’d had a call-out at the Dentist, an appointment to see the hygienist, I’d had to NOT go to mand­atory Rec and since I was in the afternoon group, there was nothing for me to do but sit. And, stare.

But Group today was worth the wait.

After listening to the latest round of serial murders in the local newspaper during “Education,” we moved on to “Creative Energy.”

I spied the blackboard on wheels with writing facing into the T.V. room. But, I could see what was on it. Typically, this is how the next segment, Creative Energy, was hidden from view and then wheeled out for everyone  to look at, if it were a surprise, a game. I tried to figure out what it was and I recognized the various odd symbols. Eventually, I  realized that they were analogies. Forms, shapes, positions that tested the viewer’s ability to compare and associate. It  was Logic. And, I remembered them from I.Q. tests and, more specifically, the Miller Analogies, the test 

I’d taken the test to gain entrance to the Columbia University Ph.D. program to which I’d been accepted and now would never be able to regain entrance due to my conviction. In fact, although I’d written to Columbia and requested readmission, when they saw where the letter came from, they never even bothered replying to my request to regaining my candidacy. So much for their desire to further social policy. NYU was no better. They were both full of shit and only pandered to foreign students now.

From what I could see, from where I was sitting, I figured out a few of the analogies.

“Okay,” called Green, who was today’s leader.

“Who got Creative Energy?”

A few guys got up and rolled the blackboard over and I sat in anticipation. I wondered  how these guys were going to fare on those relatively difficult logic puzzles. They weren’t a piece of cake even for me.

As they wheeled  over the blackboard with the analogies facing us, a couple of guys walked  behind the board and were writing on it from behind.

Then, as the segment started, suddenly, the board was turned around. On the board, with the analogies facing the bathroom, what faced us was the outline of a horse.

No, actually, it was a donkey. We were here to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

“Jeus Christ,” I said to the guy sitting next to me. This was Creative Energy for today.

A few guys lined up with blindfolds on and were spun around and headed towards the  board. Some managed to “Pin the tail” on, by drawing a tail with a piece of chalk they’d been given. Others did things like hit Myers in the back of the head and then move on to writing on their friends by the board.

Black made it to the board, acting as if he had kept his eyes shut but, when he got to the board, proceeded to draw a penis on the donkey, rather than a tail. That brought wild laughter from which none soon recovered. 

Roddy, sitting at her desk was unable to control the penis placement and head-smacking that was done in error. Clearly, she was enjoying the chaos in her program.

I’d still been hoping for a few Miller Analogies up until this point. This was ASAT Recovery. Recovering from sanity. When it was over, I’d lost hope and merely shook my head. 

This was followed up by a pole being held across the front of the room and, without music, about half a dozen guys parading under as it continuously was lowered. 

We were doing the Limbo for Creative Energy. I could just imagine Greene or Henry refusing to sell a few bags because there was a Limbo contest going on.

A few guys fell on the floor as their wild, uncontrolled laughter ensued. 

Group was even more inspiring.

The conversational compliment was “Criminals taking responsibility for doing criminal acts.”

Smash and Green, along with Black, were very active because what was most controversial was the concept of protecting yourself and your family from being “dissed.” What you did to protect your mother or girlfriend from someone calling her a bitch. Not that this actually happened, of course. But, how should or would stand their ground and confront any attack on the integrity of family, or, of yourselves. This was to induce learning in ASAT. — handling that threat and how to avoid coming back here.

“Niga disses my mudda, or call ‘er a bitch,” said Green, “I gotta gid ’em.”

“Yeah,” said Black, “ya cain’ jes ledim dis ya momma.” 

“But, then  you come back here,” said Roddy.

“Don’ mada,” said Green, “ya gotta’ pratec’ ya’ famly.”

“Even if it means that you’re coming back to prison?” said Roddy. 

“Don’ mada,” said Green again.

“Well, if you’re back in prison,” I offered, “what about your kids or the rest of your family?”

“Whaddya mean?” he said, looking at me.

“Look,” I said, “some guy gives you or your mother a problem. It’s like the times that I’ve been in a car and was cut off while driving with someone else.” 

“I remember a friend of mine driving and I was with him, and some guy cuts us off and he chased after him and then cut HIM off and gets out and goes into the trunk and gets a tire iron. It was a tense, dangerous situation. And, you know, we were never going to see this guy ever again. Once it was over, it was over. So, walk away, cross the street, remove your family from a confrontation. Get the fuck out of there. And, then, DON’T come back here.”

“What year you livin’ in;” he said to me. “You never been inna place like we is from,” said Green.

“Well,” I smiled, “I worked in the South Bronx, near Fort Apache, on 163rd and River Avenue, when it looked like Berlin right after the second World War.”

A couple of guys looked at each other and nodded and then looked back at me. They knew I wasn’t bullshitting them.

Green nodded. “Well, I ain’ leddin no niga diss ma momma.”

This was followed by a LONG, loud, fart. All of the chairs moved away. “Jesus Christ,” said Roddy. Did you just shit your pants?” 

I declined to point out that they couldn’t use the toilet while ASAT was in session. 

That was one of the rules of the program.

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