Prison Laundry Work (by the Occult Killer)
Dubbed the Occult Killer by the media, Brandon is serving 6 to 12 years in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. His crime: he killed his best friend in a drunk-driving accident. When police investigators discovered Gothic paraphernalia in his bedroom, they naturally concluded Brandon had committed a sacrificial murder for the benefit of Satan.
The prison where Brandon is at takes in institutional and hospital laundry as a business. Naturally this includes a lot of biohazard human waste. Brandon is now running the washing machines, one of which is large enough to hold 8 standing adult men.
The guy who runs the big washers next to mine, Taylor, was out on medical lay-in, so some rank amateur took his place. How hard is it to run the washers? Only three people are qualified, in a sense: me, Nate, and Dave. Two of those are quality control counters and can’t or don’t really want to run ’em. So, my foreman, Knapp, got our janitor to do it. The same guy who was told on several occasions never to touch a machine, ANY machine, as long as he worked at CI, because he is a disaster-prone idiot. That’s putting it lightly. He couldn’t cut it, he needed too much of my attention, and my work was suffering. We switched, figured he’d have it easier. Now it’s worse than ever. I need to either fix it or quit, because it’s becoming too hard a job to keep up. To make things worse, Taylor went to Michigan (mandatory transfer due to overcrowding) and may as well be gone for good, ’cause he won’t be back before I’m gone. That means I’m on the big washers for good, and Nelson the Idiot Janitor runs my old show. What a mess.
In the end, five guys were taken from our side, our shift, leaving us with 13. Enough to limp along. We’re taking on a new jail contract come Monday, Frackville, which with the reduced workforce is supposed to guarantee us 70 cent bonuses for the duration. A max bonus is great, but juggling my job and keeping in check the inadequacies of my wash counterpart is arduous. I don’t always have time to monitor him and his sometimes ridiculous errors or lack of observation. The twenty-year old, over-burdened industrial equipment needs constant attention and foreknowledge of their individual weaknesses. They are all in different stages of disrepair and a few wrong decisions can break them, cause injury, or both. In correctional industry, OSHA only exists on inspection days. In nearly all cases, liability rests with the prisoner alone. That says it all.
This Friday was no exception. The floor was backed up, 2 dryers were broke down, as was the cart wash. It was so bad, Knapp gave me that days 3 mandatory contracts to do, then said to shut down for the night. I never bothered to memorize the shipping schedule or the mandatories, because getting the work done was never an issue, or I had Taylor riding my ass and trying to micro-manage my work. Anyways, we do what we have to, leaving a ton of work, because anything left wet over the weekend will have to be re-washed. Nothing to do but buffer pads and 1,000,000 pounds of floor mats! Actually more like 1,000. Seriously. With the whole spring cleaning thing in effect, every dept sent floor mats. Normally they get done gradually over the course of the week, but not this time. They all had to be washed and draped over carts to drip dry, some as long as 20 or more feet. One from Medical must have reached 50 and weighed nearly 200 pounds. So big it had to ride in my twin-pocket 450, the other pocket loaded with as much ballast as we could find. (We used old leather boots sent for disposal. This thing was so heavy, when I went to weigh it to balance the load, I got tangled in it and just fell straight over like a tree going down, almost unable to get up from under it!) It took three people to wrestle it out of the machine and most of the crew to stretch it out. The hardest part for me was climbing inside the washer, slippery and humid as it was, to lift the mat up toward the access hatch and push while two others pulled. Difficult, but interesting. By the time we left, the dirty side was littered with mats on carts. I had long lost track of which went where and didn’t care. We barely escaped that place with our lives.
When I got “home” that night of the transfer, they wouldn’t let us shower. That really messed me up, because I was FILTHY. I had been digging in heavy soil loads known as “shit carts” (for obvious reasons” most of the day and I desperately wanted cleanliness. When Nate was taken out I unloaded my plastic foot locker and took an extreme “bird bath” in it. Burn me for a shower! Made a mess, but it was worth it.
Click here to read the Occult Killer’s previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for the Occult Killer below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Volunteering in Prison (Part 2 by Guest Blogger Maria)
Maria is a Cuban refugee who has been volunteering with Latinos in the U.S. for over 30 years and in prisons for 2 years.
Insights was a program developed by a social scientist whose theory was that if inmates developed better skills at judgment, self-knowledge, and self-presentation, they could better free themselves from the cycle of recidivism and become integrated into society in a positive way. My first problem was that I didn’t believe that Insights would work, because the changes they aimed at, I thought, would take months, not weeks. Also, it was very hard to get good statistics on the success of the program, because the only inmates who could enter were those who didn’t have extant “tickets” for bad behavior. The program was selective, so a control group could not be found.
I did, however, want to work with the inmates and this was a way to do it. And, once I took the Insights course myself, I found ideas in it I could use in my own life, and I also found out it was in many cases fun, and when it was too simplistic, I could still tell the writer was sincere.
I was already an experienced teacher of the Insights Program on the first day of this new semester. I really respected our coach, Gladys, another volunteer, and how she arranged the teaching time. Half the time we would work one-on-one, and half the time we met as a group, 1.5- 2 hours a week for ten weeks. When we were in group, all of us were “students,” both inmates and volunteers. In group sessions, Gladys was the moderator, and the rest of us participated as equals. Our group this semester included 4 volunteers and 4 inmates. My student would be a 35 year old who had been transferred to the minimum security prison, Daniels, after spending 12 years in the maximum security Big House, having almost served out his sentence. For our purposes, his name will be Pablo, and details are being changed so as to keep trouble from coming to anyone I mention. In anything significant, though, the situation will be described in complete honesty.
Pablo and I sat across from each other, and although he didn’t look very friendly, I didn’t pay much attention since I was focused on the introduction to Insights, which I believed had to be carefully done. I did notice that he had a Spanish accent, even though he had never been outside the continental U.S. His neighborhood was entirely Spanish speaking. Later, at the end of the course, when we held our graduation ceremony, two of my fellow volunteers remarked on the hostile look on his face that first session, like he was going to sit through the course but no one could tell him what to do. I had not noticed. Sometimes it helps to be clueless. One other thing I did notice was his name, P-A-B-L-O, tattooed like a bracelet, just below his wrist. Most inmates have wild ornate tattoos of dragons and pretty girls and snakes and their initials or gang stuff, really intricate. Pablo had nothing else but those five letters, 48 point Helvetica font with no decoration.
The next step was taking down Pablo’s biography. This is naturally important since the past colors how we develop our insight into our world. Pablo’s childhood and early adult years were the roughest of all the inmates I have met but one. He was abandoned at birth by both parents, and then adopted by his mother’s sister, Aunt Cecilia, who was a leader at one of the Pentecostal churches in his town. Aunt Cecilia beat Pablo in a systematic way and practically on a schedule. The irony of this is that the aunt’s was continually preaching from the Gospels, and Pablo well knew that beating children wasn’t condoned in that particular section of the Bible. You may imagine this led to his having a few issues with the God Business as he grew up. Pablo’s older cousin also lived with him, and brought alcohol home and taught Pablo to drink and forced him to get drunk at age nine, and then regularly. Later, he would bring Marijuana. His younger cousin, Isabel, escaped the beatings that the two older boys endured, but that would change. Isabel’s eventual suffering from this would become the source of trouble and anguish for Pablo who was very protective of her.
At about age 12, Pablo became old enough to get the hell out. From then on, as he put it, “I was raised by the streets.” The one bright memory is how he figured out a way to make a handball court in the projects. Pablo loved handball. This sport, played in Spanish speaking countries, was developed by the Basques. Pablo and I spoke often of the thrill of this fast paced game, since although I didn’t play, it had been a favorite of my father’s and he told me many stories as I grew up. This is where I really benefited from being from such a similar background as Pablo’s.
All the volunteer coaches and managers thought of me as useful in case an inmate was from a Spanish background and knew no English. The best part of working with a Latino inmate however (and this was true for both of us) was sharing our cultural heritage. My father would talk about how much he missed handball since he came to the States. Pablo showed how, with a little ingenuity, someone who had never lived in a Latin country could make handball happen in the U.S., even in the least likely circumstances, the inner city projects. They call it “Pelota,” which simply means “ball” in Spanish. My father had played with a small leather glove or cover, but Pablo played with his bare hand. This is impressive given that the ball is hard and moves very fast. There were handball courts at the prison, and all the guys played—regardless of background. As time went on, Pablo would give me details of the social aspects of prison handball.
Not long after he became a street kid, his birth mother, who had been a serious alcoholic, committed suicide. This distressed Pablo greatly, though he barely knew her. His father, who had recently returned from Puerto Rico, realized Pablo’s non-existent supervision and brought him to live with him. Pablo still spent all the time in the streets, because his father had to work a tremendous amount of hours to make a living. Several years later, Pablo’s father also committed suicide, and this was truly agony for Pablo. His father had killed himself because he had a rare kidney disease and had already lost one kidney. He knew he would soon lose his second kidney, and did not want to go on dialysis. So he took his life. What was hardest for Pablo is that some time after his father’s death, he found out about donating kidneys, and that had he known, he could have been tested and possibly saved his father. None of the medical caretakers of Pablo’s father bothered to tell Pablo or any other relatives about this.
By the second session Pablo began to tell me what his biggest frustration was with himself. It was his anger. I said to him, “Don’t they have that course here, the Danger of Anger to help with that?” Pablo immediately became angry. “That’s bullshit. They suppose to teach with a social worker, but the social worker she got transferred and then they got a guard teaching. He don’t know nothin, lazy bastard. That Danger course was a waste and I dropped it. They always do that, they fuck with the courses, and then they worth nothing.”
“So what do you about the anger?”
“I count to 150,” said Pablo. What popped into my head is how people sometimes say count to ten when angry. Pablo had big anger.
“Yeah, by the time I get to 80, I am blind. My anger fills and fills me til it’s up to my eyeballs.” Again I noticed the PABLO tattooed on his wrist. Was it there so that his name was the last thing people saw before the lights went out, if he takes a swing?
******
In one of the previous comments there was a question about the cost of the Insights volunteer program to the state. I will need to estimate, and I believe I am not far off. The state gives Insights $6,000 annually for advertising (usually small classified ads) and insurance for the program. There are about 30 volunteers, so $200 per volunteer. Each volunteer teaches 20 classes, 1-2 hours per class. So each of our classes costs the state $10 or so. Even if I were 100% off, that would be $20 per class. Can anyone tell by now that I used to be a cost accountant? Many times, C.O.’s teach similar classes. Take a wild guess as to what one hour of their time costs. And keep reading, because my good friend Pablo has something to say about the quality of our course compared to equivalent prison courses.
For Maria’s previous guest blog click here.
Post comments for Maria below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Maria is a Cuban refugee who has been volunteering with Latinos in the U.S. for over 30 years and in prisons for 2 years.
Insights was a program developed by a social scientist whose theory was that if inmates developed better skills at judgment, self-knowledge, and self-presentation, they could better free themselves from the cycle of recidivism and become integrated into society in a positive way. My first problem was that I didn’t believe that Insights would work, because the changes they aimed at, I thought, would take months, not weeks. Also, it was very hard to get good statistics on the success of the program, because the only inmates who could enter were those who didn’t have extant “tickets” for bad behavior. The program was selective, so a control group could not be found.
I did, however, want to work with the inmates and this was a way to do it. And, once I took the Insights course myself, I found ideas in it I could use in my own life, and I also found out it was in many cases fun, and when it was too simplistic, I could still tell the writer was sincere.
I was already an experienced teacher of the Insights Program on the first day of this new semester. I really respected our coach, Gladys, another volunteer, and how she arranged the teaching time. Half the time we would work one-on-one, and half the time we met as a group, 1.5- 2 hours a week for ten weeks. When we were in group, all of us were “students,” both inmates and volunteers. In group sessions, Gladys was the moderator, and the rest of us participated as equals. Our group this semester included 4 volunteers and 4 inmates. My student would be a 35 year old who had been transferred to the minimum security prison, Daniels, after spending 12 years in the maximum security Big House, having almost served out his sentence. For our purposes, his name will be Pablo, and details are being changed so as to keep trouble from coming to anyone I mention. In anything significant, though, the situation will be described in complete honesty.
Pablo and I sat across from each other, and although he didn’t look very friendly, I didn’t pay much attention since I was focused on the introduction to Insights, which I believed had to be carefully done. I did notice that he had a Spanish accent, even though he had never been outside the continental U.S. His neighborhood was entirely Spanish speaking. Later, at the end of the course, when we held our graduation ceremony, two of my fellow volunteers remarked on the hostile look on his face that first session, like he was going to sit through the course but no one could tell him what to do. I had not noticed. Sometimes it helps to be clueless. One other thing I did notice was his name, P-A-B-L-O, tattooed like a bracelet, just below his wrist. Most inmates have wild ornate tattoos of dragons and pretty girls and snakes and their initials or gang stuff, really intricate. Pablo had nothing else but those five letters, 48 point Helvetica font with no decoration.
The next step was taking down Pablo’s biography. This is naturally important since the past colors how we develop our insight into our world. Pablo’s childhood and early adult years were the roughest of all the inmates I have met but one. He was abandoned at birth by both parents, and then adopted by his mother’s sister, Aunt Cecilia, who was a leader at one of the Pentecostal churches in his town. Aunt Cecilia beat Pablo in a systematic way and practically on a schedule. The irony of this is that the aunt’s was continually preaching from the Gospels, and Pablo well knew that beating children wasn’t condoned in that particular section of the Bible. You may imagine this led to his having a few issues with the God Business as he grew up. Pablo’s older cousin also lived with him, and brought alcohol home and taught Pablo to drink and forced him to get drunk at age nine, and then regularly. Later, he would bring Marijuana. His younger cousin, Isabel, escaped the beatings that the two older boys endured, but that would change. Isabel’s eventual suffering from this would become the source of trouble and anguish for Pablo who was very protective of her.
At about age 12, Pablo became old enough to get the hell out. From then on, as he put it, “I was raised by the streets.” The one bright memory is how he figured out a way to make a handball court in the projects. Pablo loved handball. This sport, played in Spanish speaking countries, was developed by the Basques. Pablo and I spoke often of the thrill of this fast paced game, since although I didn’t play, it had been a favorite of my father’s and he told me many stories as I grew up. This is where I really benefited from being from such a similar background as Pablo’s.
All the volunteer coaches and managers thought of me as useful in case an inmate was from a Spanish background and knew no English. The best part of working with a Latino inmate however (and this was true for both of us) was sharing our cultural heritage. My father would talk about how much he missed handball since he came to the States. Pablo showed how, with a little ingenuity, someone who had never lived in a Latin country could make handball happen in the U.S., even in the least likely circumstances, the inner city projects. They call it “Pelota,” which simply means “ball” in Spanish. My father had played with a small leather glove or cover, but Pablo played with his bare hand. This is impressive given that the ball is hard and moves very fast. There were handball courts at the prison, and all the guys played—regardless of background. As time went on, Pablo would give me details of the social aspects of prison handball.
Not long after he became a street kid, his birth mother, who had been a serious alcoholic, committed suicide. This distressed Pablo greatly, though he barely knew her. His father, who had recently returned from Puerto Rico, realized Pablo’s non-existent supervision and brought him to live with him. Pablo still spent all the time in the streets, because his father had to work a tremendous amount of hours to make a living. Several years later, Pablo’s father also committed suicide, and this was truly agony for Pablo. His father had killed himself because he had a rare kidney disease and had already lost one kidney. He knew he would soon lose his second kidney, and did not want to go on dialysis. So he took his life. What was hardest for Pablo is that some time after his father’s death, he found out about donating kidneys, and that had he known, he could have been tested and possibly saved his father. None of the medical caretakers of Pablo’s father bothered to tell Pablo or any other relatives about this.
By the second session Pablo began to tell me what his biggest frustration was with himself. It was his anger. I said to him, “Don’t they have that course here, the Danger of Anger to help with that?” Pablo immediately became angry. “That’s bullshit. They suppose to teach with a social worker, but the social worker she got transferred and then they got a guard teaching. He don’t know nothin, lazy bastard. That Danger course was a waste and I dropped it. They always do that, they fuck with the courses, and then they worth nothing.”
“So what do you about the anger?”
“I count to 150,” said Pablo. What popped into my head is how people sometimes say count to ten when angry. Pablo had big anger.
“Yeah, by the time I get to 80, I am blind. My anger fills and fills me til it’s up to my eyeballs.” Again I noticed the PABLO tattooed on his wrist. Was it there so that his name was the last thing people saw before the lights went out, if he takes a swing?
******
In one of the previous comments there was a question about the cost of the Insights volunteer program to the state. I will need to estimate, and I believe I am not far off. The state gives Insights $6,000 annually for advertising (usually small classified ads) and insurance for the program. There are about 30 volunteers, so $200 per volunteer. Each volunteer teaches 20 classes, 1-2 hours per class. So each of our classes costs the state $10 or so. Even if I were 100% off, that would be $20 per class. Can anyone tell by now that I used to be a cost accountant? Many times, C.O.’s teach similar classes. Take a wild guess as to what one hour of their time costs. And keep reading, because my good friend Pablo has something to say about the quality of our course compared to equivalent prison courses.
For Maria’s previous guest blog click here.
Post comments for Maria below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Hard Time Internet Banner
My friend, Stephanie, made this banner, which links to where Amazon.com is selling Hard Time: A Brit in America's Toughest Jail.
Click here for the code if you want to use this banner at your website.
My friend, Stephanie, made this banner, which links to where Amazon.com is selling Hard Time: A Brit in America's Toughest Jail.
Click here for the code if you want to use this banner at your website.
The Bearded Lady of Guildford (Part 2)
A short video of me with Brenda at the Friary Shopping Centre, where she often goes for lunch at McDonald's:
Click here for updates on Brenda, the Bearded Lady of Guildford
Click here to view this video at YouTube
Click here for Brenda's Myspace page
Tags: brenda bearded lady guildford surrey shaun attwood jon's jail journal
A short video of me with Brenda at the Friary Shopping Centre, where she often goes for lunch at McDonald's:
Click here for updates on Brenda, the Bearded Lady of Guildford
Click here to view this video at YouTube
Click here for Brenda's Myspace page
Tags: brenda bearded lady guildford surrey shaun attwood jon's jail journal
Prison Gang Rape Video
Shaun Attwood talks about the brutal gang rape of a prisoner in Arizona.
Tags: gang rape sex assault Aryan Brotherhood jail prison murder gangs inmates phoenix arizona mexican mafia corrections prisoner jonsjailjournal shaun attwood hard time
Click here for my jail survival tips video
How to Survive Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail System
Shaun Attwood talks about the brutal gang rape of a prisoner in Arizona.
Tags: gang rape sex assault Aryan Brotherhood jail prison murder gangs inmates phoenix arizona mexican mafia corrections prisoner jonsjailjournal shaun attwood hard time
Click here for my jail survival tips video
How to Survive Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail System
From Two Tonys (Letter 14)
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Diagnosed with liver cancer, and is fighting to prolong his life.
Hey!
It’s me. Guess what? I fell off the john two nights ago. My pals got help for me. Bottom line is I’ve been moved up to a medical complex, a big building. It seems they have a wing of cells here for blokes such as I. I’m speaking medical talk. They’re doing things to me but not too much. I don’t know, bro. This could be the end of the road for me. Time will tell. They’re talking a lot of making-me-more-comfortable shit, but that’s OK with me. I’ve got me own room, TV, remote, change of diet, change of meds, more nurses on demand. I’m pretty well messed up now as I write. I would and should have wrote you more, but I was lazy. You’re in my thoughts and prayers.
Good news on your speeches and come up in the writing world. Know this, you’re a damn good man, and you’ve enriched my life and soul. Knowing you, I can feel your love and friendship even as I sit here waiting for my number to come up.
Hey, bro. I’m short on stamps till store day, so until then I’ll cut this off. I’ve got a few blogs left as soon as I get a little more energy. My daughter will get in touch if my number comes up, so you can have a pint on my sorry old ass.
L&R,
Two Tonys
Click here to read Letter 13
Two Tonys is dying, and really appreciates your comments.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
If you would like to write to Two Tonys or send him a book or a magazine subscription, then please email me for instructions on mailing stuff to the prison.
Shaun Attwood
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Diagnosed with liver cancer, and is fighting to prolong his life.
Hey!
It’s me. Guess what? I fell off the john two nights ago. My pals got help for me. Bottom line is I’ve been moved up to a medical complex, a big building. It seems they have a wing of cells here for blokes such as I. I’m speaking medical talk. They’re doing things to me but not too much. I don’t know, bro. This could be the end of the road for me. Time will tell. They’re talking a lot of making-me-more-comfortable shit, but that’s OK with me. I’ve got me own room, TV, remote, change of diet, change of meds, more nurses on demand. I’m pretty well messed up now as I write. I would and should have wrote you more, but I was lazy. You’re in my thoughts and prayers.
Good news on your speeches and come up in the writing world. Know this, you’re a damn good man, and you’ve enriched my life and soul. Knowing you, I can feel your love and friendship even as I sit here waiting for my number to come up.
Hey, bro. I’m short on stamps till store day, so until then I’ll cut this off. I’ve got a few blogs left as soon as I get a little more energy. My daughter will get in touch if my number comes up, so you can have a pint on my sorry old ass.
L&R,
Two Tonys
Click here to read Letter 13
Two Tonys is dying, and really appreciates your comments.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
If you would like to write to Two Tonys or send him a book or a magazine subscription, then please email me for instructions on mailing stuff to the prison.
Shaun Attwood
Hard Time Launch Party!
My book just went on sale here at Random House:
http://www.rbooks.co.uk/product.aspx?id=1845966511
And here at Amazon (with errors in the blurb that will be fixed in a few days).
I’ve been so excited since seeing it for sale. It has made getting published all the more real for me.
This Random House website is for presales, and it’s not available in the US quite yet. The actual UK publication date of Hard Time is August 5th.
It was my blog reader, Rita Abraham, who picked the title Hard Time. My publisher and I are now turning to you again for launch-party ideas. If you have a suggestion, please post it in the comments to this blog entry. The launch party will be in London, so your ideas must be suitable for the London area. The winning suggestion will get a free copy of Hard Time.
Ideas so far include the Courthouse Hotel, which has a bar with original holding cells, and the Clinkbar situated deep in the cells of the old Clerkenwell Magistrates Court in Kings Cross, famous for its infamous felons including 70's punk rockers, The Clash and Charles Dickens' characters, Oliver Twist, Fagan, and The Artful Dodger.
If you’d like to attend the book launch, please email me.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
My book just went on sale here at Random House:
http://www.rbooks.co.uk/product.aspx?id=1845966511
And here at Amazon (with errors in the blurb that will be fixed in a few days).
I’ve been so excited since seeing it for sale. It has made getting published all the more real for me.
This Random House website is for presales, and it’s not available in the US quite yet. The actual UK publication date of Hard Time is August 5th.
It was my blog reader, Rita Abraham, who picked the title Hard Time. My publisher and I are now turning to you again for launch-party ideas. If you have a suggestion, please post it in the comments to this blog entry. The launch party will be in London, so your ideas must be suitable for the London area. The winning suggestion will get a free copy of Hard Time.
Ideas so far include the Courthouse Hotel, which has a bar with original holding cells, and the Clinkbar situated deep in the cells of the old Clerkenwell Magistrates Court in Kings Cross, famous for its infamous felons including 70's punk rockers, The Clash and Charles Dickens' characters, Oliver Twist, Fagan, and The Artful Dodger.
If you’d like to attend the book launch, please email me.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Mentored (Part 9)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I was being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
I had the last session with Sally. I figured I’d nailed the opening chapter of the prequel to my jail memoir, but Sally breathed fire on it. And I’m glad she did, as her criticism has been the driving force behind my improvement.
Before we revisit that chapter, I’d like to share Sally’s comments on the draft in general.
- overall it rattles along fine, there’s a much better sense of good anecdotes, although you could start some later and end earlier
- it’s only a first draft, so the writing will need fine tuning
- there are too many incidents, I have a good idea of the mayhem and lunacy, but it’s hard to keep track of all of the characters
- the sense of structure and journey is lost in places
- you need to bring yourself more into the story, what do you feel when you relive these experiences?
- check that you are not opening yourself up to new charges from what you’re writing, statute of limitations/libel laws
- the dialogue is a little clunky in places
I agree with Sally on all counts. So far this year, I’ve been wearing myself out just to get the story down. I finished it last week. It’s 96,000 words. Now I can start to address Sally’s concerns, put more of me in the book, and trim the fat. In regards to her last comment, I’ve just started interviewing the characters to go over the conversations and get the dialogue as precise as possible.
Now onto Chapter 1. One of my problems is not starting anecdotes in the thick of the action. Slowing the action down with too much explanation early on. My rewrite of Chapter 1 is a classic example of this. Here it is with Sally’s comments in parenthesis.
Chapter 1
(Is this the place to start?) When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed and robbed or end up buying rat poison. (The opening sentence is spraying too many possibilities.) Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. (You are backing away from the action by offering this explanation of who Gary is too soon. Go straight into what’s frightening, before backing off. Close down on one fear, and get the reader hooked.) Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester – dubbed “Madchester” by the media because raving had exploded across England from there. (Madchester, again, slowing the action down.) I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house. I’d decided to try club drugs, but having never met dealers before, their presence – all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery and shifty faces – worried me. I admired Gary for having the nerve to do something I couldn’t: walk up to strangers who might have weapons or be undercover cops (Again, spraying possibilities.) and buy drugs. I was relieved when he spun around with a big grin, and showed me two Ecstasy pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper.
“(Why are you using phonetic spelling?) Yer put yer gram of Billy Whizz in yer Lucozade,” he said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.” Committing to do drugs was one thing, actually doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my hands trembling. But the desire to have fun was winning out over the terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Suspecting Gary had detected my fear was all the motivation (This language and phrasing is distancing when you’re just trying to say you didn’t want to appear to be a wuss.) I needed to dump the speed into my drink, and pop the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen to me now? “How long before I feel it?” I asked Gary.
“Within the hour.”
I spent the next thirty minutes or so convinced I was about to join the unlucky minority who die after taking drugs their first time (This slows the action down.) I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself (This sentence is good because it demonstrates the fear more graphically.)
Here’s the rewrite. I’ve reverted to my preference for opening with dialogue.
“We want two E’s and two grams of Billy Whizz,” Gary said to the drug dealers.
“E’s twenty quid. A tenner for a wrap of Whizz.”
I was hovering behind Gary wishing my heartbeat would slow down. Having never done drugs before, I was afraid of the dealers: all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery, and shifty faces.
When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed. “Here you go.”
Almost imperceptibly, the dealer passed Gary the drugs. My relief began when Gary spun around with a big grin, and showed me two pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper. But the relief didn’t last long. I braced for undercover cops to snatch us while we had possession of the drugs. I couldn’t stop my body trembling, especially my hands.
“You put your Billy Whizz in your Lucozade,” Gary said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.”
Committing to do drugs was one thing, doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my armpits moistening, But I wanted to have fun, and that was winning out over my terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Worried Gary knew I was afraid, I dumped the speed into my drink, and popped the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s going to happen to me now? I asked Gary, “How long before I feel it?”
“Within the hour.”
Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester. I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house.
I spent the next thirty minutes convinced I was about to die. I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself.
So I’m back on my own now. No more Sally. I’m not even allowed to contact her for six months as a way of making me stand on my own two feet now the umbilical chord has been cut. Sally recommended I join some organisations, including the Society of Authors, and find readers in the writing profession to review my writing and provide constructive feedback.
Thanks to Sally and the Koestler Trust, I’ve achieved the goals I first set with Sally of finding a literary agent and a publisher. I’m truly grateful to them for enabling me to realise my dream of becoming an author.
Click here for Mentored Part 8
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I was being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
I had the last session with Sally. I figured I’d nailed the opening chapter of the prequel to my jail memoir, but Sally breathed fire on it. And I’m glad she did, as her criticism has been the driving force behind my improvement.
Before we revisit that chapter, I’d like to share Sally’s comments on the draft in general.
- overall it rattles along fine, there’s a much better sense of good anecdotes, although you could start some later and end earlier
- it’s only a first draft, so the writing will need fine tuning
- there are too many incidents, I have a good idea of the mayhem and lunacy, but it’s hard to keep track of all of the characters
- the sense of structure and journey is lost in places
- you need to bring yourself more into the story, what do you feel when you relive these experiences?
- check that you are not opening yourself up to new charges from what you’re writing, statute of limitations/libel laws
- the dialogue is a little clunky in places
I agree with Sally on all counts. So far this year, I’ve been wearing myself out just to get the story down. I finished it last week. It’s 96,000 words. Now I can start to address Sally’s concerns, put more of me in the book, and trim the fat. In regards to her last comment, I’ve just started interviewing the characters to go over the conversations and get the dialogue as precise as possible.
Now onto Chapter 1. One of my problems is not starting anecdotes in the thick of the action. Slowing the action down with too much explanation early on. My rewrite of Chapter 1 is a classic example of this. Here it is with Sally’s comments in parenthesis.
Chapter 1
(Is this the place to start?) When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed and robbed or end up buying rat poison. (The opening sentence is spraying too many possibilities.) Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. (You are backing away from the action by offering this explanation of who Gary is too soon. Go straight into what’s frightening, before backing off. Close down on one fear, and get the reader hooked.) Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester – dubbed “Madchester” by the media because raving had exploded across England from there. (Madchester, again, slowing the action down.) I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house. I’d decided to try club drugs, but having never met dealers before, their presence – all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery and shifty faces – worried me. I admired Gary for having the nerve to do something I couldn’t: walk up to strangers who might have weapons or be undercover cops (Again, spraying possibilities.) and buy drugs. I was relieved when he spun around with a big grin, and showed me two Ecstasy pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper.
“(Why are you using phonetic spelling?) Yer put yer gram of Billy Whizz in yer Lucozade,” he said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.” Committing to do drugs was one thing, actually doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my hands trembling. But the desire to have fun was winning out over the terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Suspecting Gary had detected my fear was all the motivation (This language and phrasing is distancing when you’re just trying to say you didn’t want to appear to be a wuss.) I needed to dump the speed into my drink, and pop the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen to me now? “How long before I feel it?” I asked Gary.
“Within the hour.”
I spent the next thirty minutes or so convinced I was about to join the unlucky minority who die after taking drugs their first time (This slows the action down.) I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself (This sentence is good because it demonstrates the fear more graphically.)
Here’s the rewrite. I’ve reverted to my preference for opening with dialogue.
“We want two E’s and two grams of Billy Whizz,” Gary said to the drug dealers.
“E’s twenty quid. A tenner for a wrap of Whizz.”
I was hovering behind Gary wishing my heartbeat would slow down. Having never done drugs before, I was afraid of the dealers: all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery, and shifty faces.
When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed. “Here you go.”
Almost imperceptibly, the dealer passed Gary the drugs. My relief began when Gary spun around with a big grin, and showed me two pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper. But the relief didn’t last long. I braced for undercover cops to snatch us while we had possession of the drugs. I couldn’t stop my body trembling, especially my hands.
“You put your Billy Whizz in your Lucozade,” Gary said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.”
Committing to do drugs was one thing, doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my armpits moistening, But I wanted to have fun, and that was winning out over my terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Worried Gary knew I was afraid, I dumped the speed into my drink, and popped the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s going to happen to me now? I asked Gary, “How long before I feel it?”
“Within the hour.”
Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester. I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house.
I spent the next thirty minutes convinced I was about to die. I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself.
So I’m back on my own now. No more Sally. I’m not even allowed to contact her for six months as a way of making me stand on my own two feet now the umbilical chord has been cut. Sally recommended I join some organisations, including the Society of Authors, and find readers in the writing profession to review my writing and provide constructive feedback.
Thanks to Sally and the Koestler Trust, I’ve achieved the goals I first set with Sally of finding a literary agent and a publisher. I’m truly grateful to them for enabling me to realise my dream of becoming an author.
Click here for Mentored Part 8
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Author of "Jon’s Jail Journal" visits St Columb's
Click here for more pics and the story of my recent visit to a school in Derry (Londonderry), Northern Ireland.
Click here for more pics and the story of my recent visit to a school in Derry (Londonderry), Northern Ireland.
Jesus Christ Television (by the Occult Killer)
Dubbed the Occult Killer by the media, Brandon is serving 6 to 12 years in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. His crime: he killed his best friend in a drunk-driving accident. When police investigators discovered Gothic paraphernalia in his bedroom, they naturally concluded Brandon had committed a sacrificial murder for the benefit of Satan.
Crazy news in the even crazier realm of metal, my cellie and I have discovered a 30 minute golden nugget of headbangin’ music video goodness at 1:30 AM. On what channel, you ask? Why the only appropriate place for hair-raising, blood-boiling sonic battery: JCTV. That’s Jesus Christ Television. Read that again. I know you’re confused now, but be prepared to faint. A few of these bands rock harder, faster, and with more talent than some of the stuff I listen to. I’ll wait for you to regain consciousness.
The only real difference is image and content. I don’t know what JCTV’s criteria for a Christian hardcore band is, but if it’s what I think these guys are really passionate about God. More unexpected than a drunken brawl at a church picnic, you fill in the blank. I like the “God’s Wrath/scare you straight” stuff and can embrace what’s flawed or negative about Christianity. That would explain the heaviness of this Jesus Metal wave, but much of the music isn’t about that from what I can gather. Makes me want to bitch slap some of the bands I listen to and tell them they’re being taken to school by religious light weights.
In summation, check this out if you dare: “Back Burner” by “August Burns Red”, “Consume, Devour, Repeat” by “The Famine”, and “Hey John, what’s your name again?” by “The Devil Wears Prada”. That’s more or less the cream of it. I’m touch and go with Devil Wears Prada. Talented guys, without a doubt, but only parts of their music is to my taste. I was put off by the name alone. Really? Same as the book/movie about the cutthroat world of fashion? Maybe they are insinuating that Satan is way too sexy to wear anything else. I don’t know.
Click here to read the Occult Killer’s previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for the Occult Killer below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Dubbed the Occult Killer by the media, Brandon is serving 6 to 12 years in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. His crime: he killed his best friend in a drunk-driving accident. When police investigators discovered Gothic paraphernalia in his bedroom, they naturally concluded Brandon had committed a sacrificial murder for the benefit of Satan.
Crazy news in the even crazier realm of metal, my cellie and I have discovered a 30 minute golden nugget of headbangin’ music video goodness at 1:30 AM. On what channel, you ask? Why the only appropriate place for hair-raising, blood-boiling sonic battery: JCTV. That’s Jesus Christ Television. Read that again. I know you’re confused now, but be prepared to faint. A few of these bands rock harder, faster, and with more talent than some of the stuff I listen to. I’ll wait for you to regain consciousness.
The only real difference is image and content. I don’t know what JCTV’s criteria for a Christian hardcore band is, but if it’s what I think these guys are really passionate about God. More unexpected than a drunken brawl at a church picnic, you fill in the blank. I like the “God’s Wrath/scare you straight” stuff and can embrace what’s flawed or negative about Christianity. That would explain the heaviness of this Jesus Metal wave, but much of the music isn’t about that from what I can gather. Makes me want to bitch slap some of the bands I listen to and tell them they’re being taken to school by religious light weights.
In summation, check this out if you dare: “Back Burner” by “August Burns Red”, “Consume, Devour, Repeat” by “The Famine”, and “Hey John, what’s your name again?” by “The Devil Wears Prada”. That’s more or less the cream of it. I’m touch and go with Devil Wears Prada. Talented guys, without a doubt, but only parts of their music is to my taste. I was put off by the name alone. Really? Same as the book/movie about the cutthroat world of fashion? Maybe they are insinuating that Satan is way too sexy to wear anything else. I don’t know.
Click here to read the Occult Killer’s previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for the Occult Killer below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Arpaiotheid
Sheriff Joe Arpaio must be real proud of devastating this little girl's world by snatching her parents in yet another racially motivated raid:
Sheriff Joe Arpaio should be put in his own jail for child abuse for that one. The next video features a woman who asserted her legal right not to fingerprint a form in Arpaio's jail, and had her arm broken by the guards.
When is President Obama going to step up and do something about this racial injustice?
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Sheriff Joe Arpaio must be real proud of devastating this little girl's world by snatching her parents in yet another racially motivated raid:
Sheriff Joe Arpaio should be put in his own jail for child abuse for that one. The next video features a woman who asserted her legal right not to fingerprint a form in Arpaio's jail, and had her arm broken by the guards.
When is President Obama going to step up and do something about this racial injustice?
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Sheriff Joe Arpaio To Inmates: You Want TV? Start Peddling! (Phoenix News)
Sheriff Joe Arpaio was concerned about the waistlines of some of the inmates at his Arizona jail, so he had an idea. The sheriff brought in an electricity-generating stationary bike and hooked it up to a television set which is powered by the peddler–and if the prisoners want to watch TV, they have to exercise. Arpaio calls his system “Pedal Vision,” and he thinks it may be just the thing to get his inmates in shape.
Produces Power, Burns Calories
According to the FOX affiliate in Phoenix, Sheriff Arpaio’s “Pedal Vision” stationary bike produces 12 volts of electricity when pedaled, enough to power a 19 inch television in the jail’s viewing center. A noise encourages the exercising inmates when their speed has slowed below what’s needed to power the TV. One hour of pedaling equals one hour of television viewing for the inmates.
Right now, the “Pedal Vision” is only available to the female inmate population, but that could all change if the program is a success, so says Arpaio:
"I started with the females because they seemed more receptive to the idea. The only exercise the females get right now is speed-walking around the tents yard and few are doing that. This gives them a reason to get moving and a way to burn up to 500 calories an hour. They won’t be charged a monthly gym fee but they will have to sign a contract."
Click here for tips on surviving Arpaio’s jail system.
Click here for the first blog I wrote from Arpaio's Madison Street jail.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Sheriff Joe Arpaio was concerned about the waistlines of some of the inmates at his Arizona jail, so he had an idea. The sheriff brought in an electricity-generating stationary bike and hooked it up to a television set which is powered by the peddler–and if the prisoners want to watch TV, they have to exercise. Arpaio calls his system “Pedal Vision,” and he thinks it may be just the thing to get his inmates in shape.
Produces Power, Burns Calories
According to the FOX affiliate in Phoenix, Sheriff Arpaio’s “Pedal Vision” stationary bike produces 12 volts of electricity when pedaled, enough to power a 19 inch television in the jail’s viewing center. A noise encourages the exercising inmates when their speed has slowed below what’s needed to power the TV. One hour of pedaling equals one hour of television viewing for the inmates.
Right now, the “Pedal Vision” is only available to the female inmate population, but that could all change if the program is a success, so says Arpaio:
"I started with the females because they seemed more receptive to the idea. The only exercise the females get right now is speed-walking around the tents yard and few are doing that. This gives them a reason to get moving and a way to burn up to 500 calories an hour. They won’t be charged a monthly gym fee but they will have to sign a contract."
Click here for tips on surviving Arpaio’s jail system.
Click here for the first blog I wrote from Arpaio's Madison Street jail.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Volunteering in Prison (Part 1 by Guest Blogger Maria)
This is the first guest blog written by a prison volunteer.
Maria is a Cuban refugee who has been volunteering with Latinos in the U.S. for over 30 years and in prisons for 2 years.
In 2007 I decided to apply to become a volunteer at the prisons in our suburban town, which has one maximum security and one minimum security facility. My motivations to volunteer were various, and among them was anger at the smug, wealthy suburban town I lived in and how they practically pretended the prisons did not exist. I am also Latina, speaking excellent Spanish, and I knew that a large proportion of the inmates were also Latinos. My acceptance as a teacher in Insights was not automatic. I had to attend a 1 1/2 day insight training course, and a two hour volunteer course required by the Department of Corrections. At the end of the Insights training, they could have refused me as a volunteer, yet I was sure I would be accepted -only a small minority, those who are clearly unfit or have ulterior motives are turned down.
I made it clear that I was available especially but not exclusively to the Latino population. Of the six men I taught, three were Latino, two were white, and one was black. Pablo was the man who left the greatest impression on me. I was not as aware while I was teaching him that he would leave such a mark on me, and only over time have I come to realize that my experience teaching Pablo stood out from the rest.
Here's more background info on Maria:
Maria was born in Cuba and immigrated to the US at age 5. She has done a variety of volunteer work since she was in high school and through adulthood, much of it with refugee or poor Latinos, primarily from Puerto Rico but also from El Salvador and Cuba. She graduated from Princeton University in 1977 with a degree in English, with something of a concentration in the Elizabethan Period. She worked for 18 years in banking. Maria has been married 32 years to Scott, and they adopted two children from Latin America. She has worked for two non-profits, one that finds jobs for the disabled and also the statewide Parents Teachers Association. She was laid off each time due to the financial stresses felt by the non-profits. Through the Insights, Maria has tutored/ taught 6 students from the Daniels Correctional Institute individually, and probably 30 or so during the group teaching sessions. Daniels is a minimum security prison, mostly for drug related crimes, although a number of inmates come from the "Big House" maximum security prison as a transition as they complete their prison terms.
As this is Maria's first guest post at Jon's Jail Journal, your comments would be greatly appreciated.
For the previous guest blog click here.
Post comments for Maria below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
This is the first guest blog written by a prison volunteer.
Maria is a Cuban refugee who has been volunteering with Latinos in the U.S. for over 30 years and in prisons for 2 years.
In 2007 I decided to apply to become a volunteer at the prisons in our suburban town, which has one maximum security and one minimum security facility. My motivations to volunteer were various, and among them was anger at the smug, wealthy suburban town I lived in and how they practically pretended the prisons did not exist. I am also Latina, speaking excellent Spanish, and I knew that a large proportion of the inmates were also Latinos. My acceptance as a teacher in Insights was not automatic. I had to attend a 1 1/2 day insight training course, and a two hour volunteer course required by the Department of Corrections. At the end of the Insights training, they could have refused me as a volunteer, yet I was sure I would be accepted -only a small minority, those who are clearly unfit or have ulterior motives are turned down.
I made it clear that I was available especially but not exclusively to the Latino population. Of the six men I taught, three were Latino, two were white, and one was black. Pablo was the man who left the greatest impression on me. I was not as aware while I was teaching him that he would leave such a mark on me, and only over time have I come to realize that my experience teaching Pablo stood out from the rest.
Here's more background info on Maria:
Maria was born in Cuba and immigrated to the US at age 5. She has done a variety of volunteer work since she was in high school and through adulthood, much of it with refugee or poor Latinos, primarily from Puerto Rico but also from El Salvador and Cuba. She graduated from Princeton University in 1977 with a degree in English, with something of a concentration in the Elizabethan Period. She worked for 18 years in banking. Maria has been married 32 years to Scott, and they adopted two children from Latin America. She has worked for two non-profits, one that finds jobs for the disabled and also the statewide Parents Teachers Association. She was laid off each time due to the financial stresses felt by the non-profits. Through the Insights, Maria has tutored/ taught 6 students from the Daniels Correctional Institute individually, and probably 30 or so during the group teaching sessions. Daniels is a minimum security prison, mostly for drug related crimes, although a number of inmates come from the "Big House" maximum security prison as a transition as they complete their prison terms.
As this is Maria's first guest post at Jon's Jail Journal, your comments would be greatly appreciated.
For the previous guest blog click here.
Post comments for Maria below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Question Time With A Blood (Part 6)
Bones of the South Side Posse Bloods is serving sixteen years for leading a gang, assisting a crime syndicate, kidnapping and aggravated assault.
Anonymous said:
I wish you could tell me how to make my son want to leave his gang and stop going back to prison.
Bones' response:
Well, make your son leave his gang. Hmmmmm. Well , I got two ideas. First, you take you and your son and move out of state. That will make him leave his gang. The other is you give him an ultimatum, and tell him it’s either you or his gang. And if he says he can't leave his gang, then you have to be an ass and cut him off. No love, no money, no food, and no shelter. Tell him let his gang provide all that for him. Then when he gets in trouble and the gang lets him down he will call you. And they will let him down one way another. Then you must tell him to leave his gang life and you will help him. Trust me it ain't easy living on them streets, with no love from your family. I know personally.
Anonymous said:
Man, it seems like in all of the gang interviews, they can't help but throw out props to their homies 90% of the time.
Response:
It’s called respect! Especially to homies that have died representing the hood. So rest in peace to all Red Riders from S.S.P. Blood gang that have fallen while representing the hood. Much Love.
Gozar said:
Bones, you wrote to your home boy, “One day we will be back out on the streets Bicking it together again.” As a citizen of Phoenix, I can't say I'm all excited about this prospect.
Response:
You a should be exited about this prospect. Because we are O.G.’s [Original Gangstas] from our hood [neighborhood], which means we might be able to talk some of these young bloods from jacking [robbing] you, your house, or car fool!
Sue O (AKA Joannie) said:
Thanks for the reply, Bones, and yes, I have a lot of friends who have stuck with me, but the closest people to me are those I met after I sought help for the family when my son was incarcerated...etc. Mostly folks who have given their lives to Christ. After figuring out addiction, prison, abuse and all that junk wasn't living.
Response:
There’s no reason to feel square about saying who your real friends are. I have one real friend in here that is into God. Jesus or whatever you want to call it. And that’s all he's into is the Bible and he's a real good friend. But then I also have a few home boys that look out for me from the streets. They send me money, photos, subscriptions to magazines, look out for my kid on the streets when they can. But the most important thing to me is that they have kept it real with me while I have been lock up and before. So to those ones, I will see you upon my release. B-up!
Click here for Question Time With A Blood (Part 5)
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email questions or comments for Bones to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity. Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Shaun Attwood
Bones of the South Side Posse Bloods is serving sixteen years for leading a gang, assisting a crime syndicate, kidnapping and aggravated assault.
Anonymous said:
I wish you could tell me how to make my son want to leave his gang and stop going back to prison.
Bones' response:
Well, make your son leave his gang. Hmmmmm. Well , I got two ideas. First, you take you and your son and move out of state. That will make him leave his gang. The other is you give him an ultimatum, and tell him it’s either you or his gang. And if he says he can't leave his gang, then you have to be an ass and cut him off. No love, no money, no food, and no shelter. Tell him let his gang provide all that for him. Then when he gets in trouble and the gang lets him down he will call you. And they will let him down one way another. Then you must tell him to leave his gang life and you will help him. Trust me it ain't easy living on them streets, with no love from your family. I know personally.
Anonymous said:
Man, it seems like in all of the gang interviews, they can't help but throw out props to their homies 90% of the time.
Response:
It’s called respect! Especially to homies that have died representing the hood. So rest in peace to all Red Riders from S.S.P. Blood gang that have fallen while representing the hood. Much Love.
Gozar said:
Bones, you wrote to your home boy, “One day we will be back out on the streets Bicking it together again.” As a citizen of Phoenix, I can't say I'm all excited about this prospect.
Response:
You a should be exited about this prospect. Because we are O.G.’s [Original Gangstas] from our hood [neighborhood], which means we might be able to talk some of these young bloods from jacking [robbing] you, your house, or car fool!
Sue O (AKA Joannie) said:
Thanks for the reply, Bones, and yes, I have a lot of friends who have stuck with me, but the closest people to me are those I met after I sought help for the family when my son was incarcerated...etc. Mostly folks who have given their lives to Christ. After figuring out addiction, prison, abuse and all that junk wasn't living.
Response:
There’s no reason to feel square about saying who your real friends are. I have one real friend in here that is into God. Jesus or whatever you want to call it. And that’s all he's into is the Bible and he's a real good friend. But then I also have a few home boys that look out for me from the streets. They send me money, photos, subscriptions to magazines, look out for my kid on the streets when they can. But the most important thing to me is that they have kept it real with me while I have been lock up and before. So to those ones, I will see you upon my release. B-up!
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Shaun Attwood
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