Surely you desire the truth…

  I was convicted of a crime, not a single element of which is that I lied to anyone.  I’m not trying to moralize, but I find it exasperating that just because I wear the green uniform of a prison inmate I am thought to lack moral sensibilities or personal values; that I am scheming, manipulative, and lying every time I open my mouth to speak.

            Am I crazy for even trying to make the point?  I mean, who cares if I tell the truth or not?  Maybe I should “get a life.”  But that is just it, outside of redeeming my personal integrity, I don’t have much of a life; I live and breath, but I don’t count.  In prison I’m just a number.

            The cynical voice inside my head says: “Hello. You’re a felon.  A loser.  Who cares if you’re not a liar, everybody lies.”

            “Vanity of vanities…”  If there is “a time for every matter under heaven” then surely there must be a time to lie and a time to tell the truth.  We all tell lies, even if we are only lying to ourselves.  However, in our daily exchanges with people we want to be believed.  We place great value on honesty.

            My personal dilemma is that I’d actually prefer being called a liar to what society calls me now: a felon.  That word has too many negative connotations attached.  When I was just a kid, being a felon was not something I aspired to.  No one rises to low expectations.  And since I had no expectations at all, failure was a constant companion.  The felon label is attached to my hide like a tattoo.  Therefore, I absolutely have to salvage whatever I can of my dignity and reject any notion of me as a liar.

            Why this seeming obsession with veracity?  It’s a tortured soul seeking balance: everyday for the past twenty years I’ve had virtually everything I’ve said parsed through the hot lens of truth.  Let me give you an example:

            A few years ago I was at Sing Sing (AKA the Swing) I had a fairly good job in the vocational building as I a teacher’s aide.  It was my job to share my considerable knowledge of MS-Office 98; It was 2004.  The boss lady—my supervisor—the teacher, had come to corrections as a second career after teaching Sunday school children, and after sons as the secretary to no less than a real bishop.  She certainly had no small amount of gravitas.  She was a rather smallish woman, almost frail.  I never saw her smile.  She never got beyond the “I am staff, you are the inmate” position.  She was a “prisoner of her own personality.”

            One day I arrived a little late for work, I don’t recall the reason, but that was the Swing.  Boss lady declared:  “You’re late.  What happened?”  her disapproval evident.  “Nothing actually happened, some days its just easier to get through the gates than others” I replied and went right to work. 

            The following day I arrive at work, on time.

            “Good afternoon Mrs.C…”

            “Good afternoon.  About yesterday, are you quite certain you didn’t put down for recreation instead of work?”

            “I’m Positive.  I put down for work.  Why would I put down for recreation if I have to be at work?  In fact I was at work, ten minutes late, remember?”

            “Are you sure?” she persisted.

            “Absolutely.  I was here, you saw me, I worked.”

            “Yes, but I called the officer in the block and he said that you were put down for recreation.”

            “The officer is wrong” I said.

            “Are you sure?  The officer has no reason to lie.”

            That was it.  I’d had enough.

            “I answered your questions three times.  You have to understand something, I have a basic human dignity that you need to respect.  I told you I put down for work, if you are not satisfied with the truth, I don’t now what else to tell you.”

            I left her standing there and got to work.  We were both sulking for the next two hours.  Later, when the class ended and the students were preparing to leave, I happened to notice a spreadsheet with all of our cell locations on it.  I had changed cell locations two months previously.  On the spreadsheet was my old cell location.

            “Excuse me, Mrs. C… you still have my old cell location listed on that spreadsheet.  Maybe the inmate in that cell put down for recreation.”  At that point the bell rang and everyone wearing green was escorted out.

            Her reaction was very typical.  She had been trained, as are all correction personnel, that inmates are manipulative and not to be trusted.  Skepticism and doubt are characteristics of the job.  I have a theory about that.  If one inhabits a world in which one must constantly troll for the truth, one begins to believe that one’s internalized truth is the only one that is relevant.  Thus you become a “prisoner of your own personality.”  And as the realization dawns upon you, and cynicism takes root in your soul, you begin to hate prisoners and blame them for your plight.

            For the past twenty years of my incarceration I have worked alongside civilian corrections staff.  Sometimes I’ve worked for the same individual for years at a time, both men and women.  It is an interesting and highly nuanced relationship. 

            You can be friendly but you can never be friends.  The civilian can wear two faces: one private, the other public.  The private face can appear warm and friendly.  The public face is a stern countenance, the hideous Mr. Hyde.  An inmate is never treated as an equal in front of others.  If a prisoner has equal or greater educational credentials, he’s still a schlemiel.  The shift from friendliness to martinet is a study in contrasts.  The body language and manner are downright Machiavellian in their execution.

            Whenever I’ve worked in an office with civilian staff and someone walks in, the metamorphosis is automatic: the spine stiffens, the language becomes terse, the indifference, palpable; requests become formal commands.  In the awkward silence that follows in the wake of such a visit the transformation is reversed and it’s okay for an inmate to be almost human, but not quite.  As a prisoner these moments are hurtful, because I want to be liked; I want to be accepted.  I have so little contact with friendly people that I let my guard down.  These moments teach great lessons about genuineness and dignity.

            This is where the whole veracity thing comes into play for me: I am a reasonably well presented fellow, I’ve earned a couple of degrees granting me Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining to academies far and wide.  Might I also add that I am unassuming?

            It really does come down to respect for a person’s basic human dignity no matter what the circumstances. 

            The truth of the matter is that I have no more artifice at dissembling than anyone else.  I’m a terrible liar.  That is why I never bluff.  Sadly, my life is marked by many more failures than successes.  But that hasn’t made me a bitter person.  On the contrary, I consider myself fortunate to have loved, and fathered, and learned much in twenty years behind prison walls.  But I’ve strayed into memoirs, and that is for another day.  There are deeper truths yet untold.