By Nickolas Laumann

I was never able to trust anyone in my entire life, family, so-called friends, teachers, authority figures, whoever they were. I couldn’t trust anyone due to the upbringing I had. This is one reason I never had a best friend. I had tons of people around me all the time. All these people were only around due to any number of benefits that surrounded me.

My parent’s house was the party house and my brother was a drug dealer, who I always stole drugs from. People hung around because it was free to get high. There were many people who just stole from my house, or used me and my family. We all know these types of people, so-called friends who smile in your face, talk behind your back and use you for everything you have to offer. 

My parents always lied to me. They never once trusted me with any responsibility. Instead of being role models, they threw money at me instead of love and affection. I always had cash for partying, drinking, drugs, shopping, whatever it may be. Every teacher I had pushed me through the classes to get rid of me because I was a difficult student to have around. I was always acting out and not having the common sense to behave. I feel like I was never given the chance to be an adult.

My family’s home was destroyed in a police raid, it always seemed like the police were terrorizing my family. Every single person I hung around with was not allowed to have me over. Their parents disliked me and made many disheartening statements about me. Statements like “that kid is nothing but trouble” brought about feelings of abandonment. All these are reasons why I could never trust anyone, even my girlfriends I couldn’t trust. I always thought they stole from me, cheated on me, or just used me to pass the time. It could have been the drug  use creating the many paranoid disillusions. It could have been the fact that I was always using them, or cheating on them, and justifying what I did to them by thinking they were doing it to me. It could have been that I thought they were going to do it to me so why not do it to them first. Or, my mind could have just been [messed] up from the beginning.

When I arrived in prison, all those tormenting thoughts of paranoia were paramount in my daily life. I could never get really close to anyone in here. After 12 years of being in prison, being shipped around, sent to segregation time after time, I landed in a medium security facility. Soon after, my mother took her life, this was around the time that I started to change mine. I searched for truth in the Bible and actually took the time to control the paranoia and disillusions.

That’s when I came across this guy named Mitch in the intake pod of the medium camp. It started out as admiration, the guy looked solid, worked out, trimmed up, women thought he was handsome, and he had an air of smoothness to him. I watched him for a few days, saw he liked to play dominos and asked him to play. I wanted to be cool with him. We played for hours every day in the sunshine, getting to know each other. My admiration for him elevated as I learned more about him. Dude had a life I could idolize, he had a super cool family, friends, and if it wasn’t for heroin his life would be amazing. 

We wound up splitting up after the intake pod. Mitch went to one unit and I went to another. Fate gravitated us once again, on the same wing of the same unit. We both had decent cell mates, but mine was getting ready to leave for minimum, so I asked Mitch to move in and he did. Oh my LORD, for the next three years I never laughed so hard and I never imagined having him as a best friend. He was someone I would literally lay down my life for. 

I told Mitch repeatedly I would take the rest of his time and add it to mine to let him go home. I didn’t have much left to go home to, but Mitch had so much going for him. I never thought while I was in prison I would find my best friend, the kid was there for me. On the anniversary of my mother’s death, he was mental and moral support. He was always talking me down from fighting with idiots when my mouth would run off like crazy. He helped me get on track with good jobs and let me know who else to trust here. I’ve told him secrets I swore I would take to the grave. That’s how much I trusted this dude. We ate together, worked out together, and got baptized together.  We shared many memorable moments of hilarity together. I saw him get electrocuted for [messing] around with a light switch, saw him break a master lock in half, watched him land on his head while doing a back flip in the cell. So many crazy memorable things that I would take to the grave and am so grateful to have experienced. 

Having him in my life here in prison brought  so much comfort, relief, enjoyment and calmness. Going through prison, you’re not able to be open with people or speak your mind. You can’t share your highs and lows and that creates a mental prison as well. Not only are you physically locked up, you’re mentally barred from happiness.

Finding Mitch during gave me hope and faith in a future. He convinced me to not revoke myself and just stay in prison for the entire duration of my probation because there wasn’t anything for me to go home to. I literally lost every single person in my life from before prison. I only had my  father left in my life, and he’s a major a--hole to me. He sees me as some obligation he has to meet. I never had a person in my life that I could say honestly loved me. So having Mitch there in that moment of life, gave me a desire to do good and stay out of trouble. Because of him, I wanted to achieve greatness and make something of my life. I wanted to live well, even if it wasn’t for myself, it was for his admiration. This was my homie and whatever I could do to make him happy, I would do. 

Trusting in someone is a gift that God has blessed us with. Just picture going through life and not having one person to trust.  That means having no one to confide in, no one to share the joys of life with, or go to for any number of instances. I never imagined I would find this while in prison. I am so thankful to the courts for sending me here, to meet someone like him. The whole first 12 years of my sentence was the most painful time of my life. I resorted back to drug use more than ever, and came to the realization of who were really friends and who were just using me. 

Picture getting locked up and thinking you have all these people to support you, then finding out that every single one of them felt elation knowing you were finally off the streets. That brings terrorizing thoughts of what was my life about, and that’s horrible. Was I really the monster they spoke of? It was all an omen that brought so much regret to my life. I can honestly say the best times of my life so far have been here in prison, with the person I can finally call my best friend.

The dread, the terrible thoughts, and the feelings of self loathing all vanished. Gone with the wind. Now, I sit back here at the medium camp alone because Mitch went on to a minimum. The hope I have, is that someday once I am out, I will be able to kick it with him once again. Something promising to look forward to, and a shining light at the end of this dark time in prison. In retrospect, it’s no longer a dark time, just a few clouds that will pass and lead to days full of bliss and happiness.

—

Thank you for reading this over and I hope that you have the chance in your life to find that special friend who you can honestly trust with the deepest parts of your life. I love this platform and hope it  brings hope to many others out there. People don’t really know the true mental tortures come along with imprisonment. Yet at some points, while enduring the most pain, beauty can also be found.

Nickolas Laumann is serving time in Wisconsin.

By Gilbert Paliotta

By definition, redemption is: the act, process or result of redeeming something or someone, such as the act of making something better or more acceptable.

The only redemption taking place in this prison is the self-redemption that one hopes to discover in the confines of his or her cell.

There’s nothing being offered here at Ely State Prison (ESP) in Nevada to rehabilitate inmates so they don’t reoffend upon release.

There’s nothing being offered here at Ely State Prison to rehabilitate inmates so they don’t glorify the criminal lifestyle to the youths and negatively influence them to repeat the mistakes we have all made. 

There’s nothing here to break that cycle.

The practice of Ely State Prison is to keep us locked in our cells for 23, sometimes 24, hours a day—seven days a week. How is one to accomplish anything while confined in their cells, anything positive that is?  The ESP does not offer programs and has memos posted notifying the inmate population to that fact.

Speaking for myself, the only rehabilitation and redemption I discovered was done on my own. There does come a time when a person ages out of crime. After turning 25 years old I wanted a change for myself as I grew tired of being the animal that the prison administration wanted me to be. These changes took time as I was attempting to do so on my own while being detained in segregation, commonly referred to as “The Hole,” between the years of 1998-2014.

Being in an environment like “The Hole” for 16 consecutive years was a battle that I personally witnessed others lose, taking their lives by committing suicide, or succumbing to psychological medication that the administration forced on them, there are hundreds of accounts written about “The Hole” by prisoners and even employees of the Department of Corrections, everyone similar and their own version of personal events, I don’t even want to write about it, because I didn’t think I would make it out of there alive and don’t want to bring myself back to that negativity. 

Just imagine trying to go through the process of changing yourself with someone’s foot on your head as you fight to keep it above the water.

Once I accepted the fact that the ESP and its employees was not going to help in my need for change, I disconnected myself from my surroundings, even going so far as to be anti-social since there wasn’t anyone who wanted the things that I wanted for myself. I began to see myself and other people differently. Seeing people around me suffering, and experiencing it myself, it … how do I put this into words… it hurt my soul. I exhausted of it all and needed to protect myself because it felt like I was dying slowly. 

There is absolutely nothing going on here that’s promoting rehabilitation and/or redemption. Do they think providing us high school educations/diplomas is the path to rehabilitation? Please stop with the blinders. That piece of paper doesn’t solve our core problems. What programs or courses are available to help the incarcerated to manage their emotional responses to stress? How to handle conflict? Gain practical life skills? The answer is: there are none.

One of my first actions was to learn how to deal with others, mainly prison administration and the calculated way they mistreat and abuse inmates in “The Hole,” the stress they purposely create and dissecting their intentions to see me fail. Being able to see things for what they are took a long time to figure out, and even longer to strip me of negative thoughts, ideas, and how to deal with that type of conflict. Coming to the understanding that we cannot control others, only ourselves, but, that we can influence them. I had to exhibit and emote in my actions what I thought and felt internally. To begin to live a normal and productive life. This was how I found my way to rehabilitation.

The ESP played no direct part in that process. It is a sad and upsetting way to be while being held hostage in “The Hole” because it took the first 8 years out of the 16 I did in “The Hole” of learning how to do that. One can’t help but wonder how much faster I could have  reached that revelation and began the healing process had the prison afforded its offenders programs geared towards rehabilitation?

There was a time period I believed a life preserver would be thrown out there when the policymakers made a production of changing “prisons” in its title (Nevada Department of Prisons), to “corrections,” making it now known as The Nevada Department of Corrections. They, including its predations, publicly made proclamations that their focus would be on rehabilitation, preparing offenders to return to their communities, and developing and implementing new programs to lower recidivism rates. These statements come from Wardens, Directions, and now-Senator Catherine Confez Masto. Flash forward to today and see those promises expired long ago.

Studies have proven that a big part of rehabilitation is repairing relationships between offenders and their family members. Having familial support drastically reduced the chances of an inmate reoffending. For some reason, the ESP is strongly opposed to this.

Throughout my 25 plus years here of the Ely State Prison repairing the damaged bridges between family members and myself has been a long process, eye-opening, heartbreaking, emotional, life-changing, and one of the main focus points in my rehabilitation and redemption. The prison hasn’t made it easier.

For example, I continuously request to be transferred to a medium-security facility closer to home, my family, my offending city but have been denied. Consequently the 25-plus years of being held hostage of the ESP that I meet every requirement to be classified to a medium-security facility, actually, I could be of a minimum-security facility if my sentence structure was not a life without parole. The administration here has continued to deviate from its declaration of rehabilitation of its offenders.

For some of us, the ESP has become the “Hotel California” you can check-in, but you can never leave. In 1989 it was strategically placed here, in the mountains, as far away from the two major cities (Las Vegas and Reno), creating distance from humanity, making it complicated for family members and loved ones to make the long trip out to visit.

With that in mind, experiencing the Covid Pandemic, nothing has changed here from 1989 through to and inducing 2021. Still being locked down 23 sometimes 24 hours a day, visiting nearly-eliminated “due to Covid,” the ESP has not provided any way for us to at least video chat with our families. We have generic tablets, but they have disabled the camera function. How does one continue to program positively when intentionally being distanced and separated from your loved ones?

As I just mentioned, we have tablets here, but the only functions we’re able to use are the playing of music, receiving emails or photos. That’s it. But it has the capabilities to do video, galleries, and camera functions. That is just the start of the potential of this technology: they could easily be providing online courses on our tablets, providing programs and the like to work on the previously mentioned emotional responses to stress, how to handle conflict, and gaining practical life skills, but they don’t. The solution that the ESP utilizes when dealing with these matters is to outright lie to the public when they make their group walkthroughs, lie to the Director (who in turn never does his due diligence as to the actual functions on the tiers), lie to the policymakers, lie to its practitioners. The only ones who know the truth are those on the inside, so thank you for listening.

Question for the skeptics: Who benefits if people like me, who have paid their debt to society, are rehabilitated instead of just punished? Answer: It is better for everyone! Me, you, tax-payers, society at large.

On some real talk, whoever has the power to shut the ESP down should pull the plug on it. Take it out behind the shed and put a bullet in its head. This warehouse is a slave ship.

In the meantime, please write to me:

Gilbert Paliotta #46244
Ely State Prison
P.O. Box 1989
Ely, NV  89301

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Prison Writers “offers uncensored, personal stories and thoughtful essays from incarcerated citizens across the country about what really goes on inside the secretive world of prison corrections.” Learn more and donate at prisonwriters.com.

By Christi Buchanan

I hate mail call. I dread it.

So many people get mail in prison every night, a lot of it. It is a constant reminder of how cut off I am. There are different forecasts for it too. At first, mail call was a time of hope and anticipation. Even though I didn’t get a lot of mail every night, I did get a card or letter every week. I looked forward to it. The forecast was sunny and 70 degrees.

I loved to write letters too. Writing was a vacation from reality, a connection to life and I cherished it. After a while though, the anticipation faded and the number of letters I received decreased. I was still hopeful, still felt connected through those cards and letters, but what was coming in was really slowing down. I even noticed that some of my letters went unanswered. I kept writing though, the forecast was still sunny.

Hope is a fragile thing and I couldn’t take care of it very well. As the years melted away, my connections to people in the real world became thin and fragile. More of my letters went unanswered and what used to be weekly mail call for me was now monthly. Hope and anticipation had been replaced by grief masquerading as disappointment.

I still put on a happy face and showed up for mail call. I would “ooh and ahh” over a friend’s pictures and laugh at something someone’s child drew. It was a social time. A time for connections, just not my own. I didn’t complain about my lack of mail in prison. Secretly, though, I wished somebody would analyze it to death with me, help me pick apart and figure out why no one wanted to connect with me anymore. Instead, I shoved it away and went on. The forecast was partly cloudy with a chance of light showers.

I didn’t realize my “disappointment” had morphed into dread until a friend came to get me one night for mail call and I had to drag myself out there. Every name called felt like I was rolling around in crushed glass. There seemed to be a monstrous spotlight shining on how the years had robbed me of my mail, how time had proven to be too strong an adversary for those I loved on the outside. Their lives continued in a forward motion while mine stood still, locked in place. I could rationalize this easily enough by seeing their busyness (forwardness) as valid and credible. That didn’t help with the sting of loneliness I felt when the last name had been called and I had no mail. Eventually, my letters turned into short, thinking-of-you notes and got farther apart. The forecast called for 100% chance of rain.

Nowadays, if someone comes to get me for mail call, I politely thank them with feigned indifference and go on about the very serious business of watching TV. Occasionally, I will make an appearance, but only when I’m expecting some sort of institutional mail or maybe a Sports Illustrated. The trick is I do it in a bubble of isolated despair, making no eye contact or small talk. I used to listen out for my name from my cell with one ear. Now, I keep my headphones on, more often than not, totally unaware that mail call is even happening.

There is a 95% chance of thunderstorms mixed with severe thunder and lightning and heavy downpours.

Christi Buchanan is serving four life terms in Virginia for helping her husband plan four murders. Her husband, Douglas Buchanan, was executed in 1998.

A NOTE FROM CHRISTI

My name is Christi, I’m 49 and I’m proud of it!

I moved to Virginia when I was a little kid and have been trapped here ever since. I’ve been a resident of the VADOC [Virginia Department of Corrections] since I was 21. And even though I go up for parole every year, my release is questionable.

Over the years I have spent my time working and going to school. I’ve earned several vocational certifications, including CAD (Computer Aided Drafting).  Last May I graduated Suma Cum Laude from the community college Wyan Associates Degree.

I am currently working as a Braille transcriber and it is the coolest thing I’ve ever done. We turn textbooks into “Raised Dots” for blind students. I am certified by the library of Congress to do this. I love it! I’m working on my Braille proofreading certification now. If I’m not at work, I’m usually watching “Castle” or listening to music.

I love Jesus and the color green. I think Styx is the most underrated band of the 80’s. I believe laughter is vital and try to do it every day. And my sister is my hero.

WRITE TO CHRISTI

Christi Buchanan #1003054
FCCW IA
Box 1000
Troy, VA  22974

Prison Writers “offers uncensored, personal stories and thoughtful essays from incarcerated citizens across the country about what really goes on inside the secretive world of prison corrections.”

By Dorothy Maraglino

Lately, the news has talked about the lavish living conditions of inmates and made comments about so-called “luxuries,” like canteen stores selling smoked oysters. However, these stories do not reflect the day-to-day reality of prison life. In reality, eight women are packed into a 19-by-24-foot cell containing four bunk beds, two sinks, a toilet stall, and a shower stall. There is a bare window behind two of the bunks looking outside and a small window across the room that looks into the hallway. The door is secured at all times apart from “unlocks,” when inmates take authorized trips outside their cells to  medical appointments, school, jobs, and recreational time. Instead of smoked oysters, the canteen store is limited to highly processed foods that could survive a nuclear winter, with choices like dehydrated beans, crackers, and ramen soup. 

In the following paragraphs, I hope to convey some of the realities of prison confinement.

PRISON CULTURE

Women’s prisons have an individualistic culture. More than anything, the women focus on “what’s in it for them”: they will abandon the group if they feel it will achieve their personal motives faster. By contrast, male prisons communicate as collectivistic cultures, and the inmates stick together to make things happen. This is why the men often accomplish more reform in the prisons than women do. Friendships in women’s prisons tend to be diverse, but shallow and functional. Most friendships are based on a common goal: women might connect to get through a group, class, or a personal project, or just to have someone to spend time with. Once the goal is accomplished, they drift apart. Even romantic hook-ups are based on functional friendships. They rarely last. 

Power is a rare thing in prison, and many feel the need to try to find some. Once they have a small position of power that comes from being the anchor in a room or have a job using their skills (expertise currency) or something of value (resource currency), they turn into monsters. Some women will use their looks, manipulation skills, and sexuality (personal currency) to get what they want. These power-grabbing prisoners will cause conflict because they expect you to acknowledge they are more powerful than you are. 

Others insist on demonstrating their power by flaunting their ill-gotten goods, or manipulating staff into performing a task that other prisoners know as proof of the prisoner’s power and influence. Some of the positions of power came by accident when a staff and prisoner shared a life even such as a death (suicide, parent, child, etc.) or simply by having spent decades seeing each other all the time. If you have a relationship with a supervisor of a position that is sought after, then you are more likely to get the job over a person who simply follows the standard procedure of filling out a request form. This can feel like an injustice and extra form of restriction. This bond (intimacy currency) can be used to manipulate, but occasionally it is used to motivate the inmate towards the path of rehabilitation.

Prison is a society outside of society. There are women from all over the state and from all walks of life. There are women here who are millionaires.There are women here who were homeless. We have women here who have advanced degrees, and we have women here who can barely spell their name. All of these women are thrown together to cohabitate with no say in whom they live with. This can make even basic interactions a minefield to navigate.

The Old Guard (OG) in the prison has their own code, which is often ignored by new inmates. The old ways insisted that the elderly be respected and dictated what that respect looked like. When communicating with lifers who have been in prison for a long time, I try to be sensitive to what is not a part of their lives. Most of these women have never held a cell phone. They do not know technological terms. They never had e-mail and some have never driven a car. To effectively communicate with them, I need to be aware of their perceptions. Most lifers are known for being angry. Living year after year without hope can make you this way. It is important not to talk about going home, out-dates, or even too much about life beyond these walls. That world is gone to them and they do not appreciate being reminded that it even exists. They have become a high-context culture. They use relatively vague and ambiguous language when discussing life outside. They presume everyone is in prison mode and the conversation stays in prison mode. On the other hand, new arrivals tend to share too much about too many topics.

When communicating with women from gangs, it is important to be aware of which gang they are with. Too often, I stumbled into a situation not knowing if a gang was from the northern or southern part of the state. It is amazing to me how anyone who is part of a gang can be offended that a non-gang doesn’t know about them, but they are. This is something that I know logically would help in communication, but I simply refuse to fill my head with the nuances of gang life.

Prison separates people into “criminals” and “convicts.” Criminals are those who hold onto their criminal behavior and have no intentions of changing. Convicts are those who happen to be convicted of a crime. Criminals are the ones who challenge the staff, rules, security, and safety of the facility. Convicts make up the majority of the prisoners, but the sad part is that the restrictions and confinement of prison are based on the actions of the criminals. The skepticism of the parole board and the public that a person can reform is based on the criminals and not the convicts. The convicts are drowning in the confinement and time dictated by the actions of others. This is especially hard when so many of the convicts are here for vicarious charges. It’s easy to see why so many embrace the mentality of “why bother” and embrace being a criminal.

CONFLICT

In prison the competition for material goods, drugs, affection, and even a place in the med line can lead to conflict. There are those with such low self-esteem that they become too accommodating. They abandon their goals and self-identity to avoid conflict. It takes self-awareness to avoid that here, and once you become accommodating it is as if you are labeled as “prey” for every predatory inmate in the facility. In prison, there are classes to help prisoners learn when to separate from a situation, when to push for domination (protect your right over the rights of others) and when to compromise. The healthiest choice is to confront conflict in a straightforward way and work out a solution.

Managing conflict is something that most inmates must learn in a group. If they had these skills before they committed their crime, they might not have ended up in prison. Life is full of conflicts, and how conflict is managed over time will determine the course of a person’s life. In prison, it usually leads to a black eye, a write-up, and a lockdown cage. The inmate who is just trying to survive will hold everything in until they can’t anymore, and then “kitchen sink” the next person who pushes their button. The reaction to the conflict will be disproportionate to the situation because the angry person is piling on a lifetime of stuffing down emotions. Some women are here because they did this in their life and the kitchen sink reaction led to someone’s death.

Personally, I chose to handle conflict in prison by avoiding it as much as possible. I got a night job (one of three in the facility), which allows me to work when others are sleeping and sleep when others are awake. Still, social interaction is unavoidable. I still live with others, go to school, and have to walk to appointments. Since I avoid so much, I have to be aware not to let annoyances build up and risk me creating a kitchen sink moment. It also takes a conscious awareness to avoid pseudo conflict. There have been times when I thought a conflict existed with a roommate only to find out they knew nothing about it.

RESTRICTIONS

The restrictions in prison are based on the assumption that inmates are all manipulative and criminally minded, and the rules punish everyone as such. Regardless of how necessary these rules and restrictions are, they take a toll on physical, emotional, and spiritual levels. 

Physical restrictions are the most obvious and the most challenging. Put simply, you must have official permission to be in any place: red “OUT OF BOUNDS” lines litter the building floors, yard, and walls. If you are assigned to C-yard then you are not allowed on A, B or D. Within the yard, you may not go into buildings you are not assigned to. Within your assigned building, you may not go into the rooms other than the one you are assigned to. You cannot go freely to a friend’s residence or stop by the canteen window for a snack. 

The threat of restraint, real or imagined, is another reality of prison life. Each prisoner is keenly aware that they can be physically restrained by force, cuffs, or location at any time. While physical restraint is technically meant for situations that threaten the safety of the facility, in reality, disciplinary action can be taken for any reason. For example, an inmate passed by a sick friend’s room last year to drop off some soup she had made. However, she made the mistake of stepping inside the room and was given a disciplinary write up for being OUT OF BOUNDS. 

She lost access to the dayroom for 30 days, meaning she had no access to the phones to call her family. All for bringing a sick friend some soup.

Notions of property and ownership undergo dramatic transformations inside prisons, too. Your personal property is restricted, and may be searched and taken at any time. Creature comforts are limited to what you are able to purchase and what you are willing to risk losing. There is a strict list of approved items, vendors, and quantities, and anything not on the list can be confiscated. Also, anything you get from another inmate is considered contraband and may be confiscated, even if it is on the list. 

The transition to prison is emotionally difficult, and is even harder for those with mental health issues, whose access to medication is limited until they undergo a mental health assessment, which can take up to a month.. For the rest of us, there is something profoundly distressing about watching a person forced off their medication. For weeks, they deteriorate in full view of their fellow inmates, until finally their name crops up on some list. Over the days, you see them become consumed by their demons. It’s bad enough to witness the worst that humankind can offer—witnessing the last glimpses of humanity get stamped out of people is even worse.

Restrictions on inmate-to-inmate communication also take a profound emotional toll and can make the transition to prison life difficult. Community is vital to survival, but the system is designed to keep social interaction to a minimum. You get limited face-to-face access to inmates assigned to live on other yards, and have to rely on letters and notes (which may be confiscated) passed between inmates in group settings. The system of passed messages has a steep learning curve for new inmates, particularly those from a non-gang and non-drug background. 

Restricted communication with the outside world can be emotionally damaging, because communication is essential to maintaining relationships with family and friends. The hours of the phone are restricted—you may make up to three 15-minute phone calls a day—and depends heavily on scheduling, availability, and when you are assigned to be programming. For some, that limits their ability to make calls even more: a person who works an early job starts their workday at 7am, before the phones are available, and does not return until right before the afternoon unit recall. For them, their only chance to make calls is in the afternoon and night, and only if the day room is open. Letters are delivered at the pace of the pony express and may be delayed weeks if the mailroom is short staffed. Emails are available now, but also require screening and may be delayed hours, days, or even weeks. 

Finally, the confinement of prison can be restrictive on a spiritual level. While the prison system does recognize many forms of religion from Protestantism to Wicca, you can’t practice your religion in certain spaces, While houses of worship do exist, they have in many cases been repurposed by inmates as spots to hook with girlfriends or dope dealers. Some religious leaders at the prison are corrupt, too—recently, our “dedicated chaplain” was fired for smuggling alcohol to inmates. There is no definitive way to address this without infringing on the religious rights of others. 

Each prisoner must decide which rules to resist and which to accept: anything from physical confinement to how you wear your clothing or use cosmetics. The restrictions on personal freedom challenge a prisoner’s resolve to obey the most. They force us to fight a battle between keeping our individuality and being a prisoner.  

Dorothy Maraglino is serving life without parole in California for 1st degree felony murder with special circumstances. 

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It couldn’t happen without you!

DEAR SPEAK UP,

Hello. How is the Speak Up family doing? I miss you, and I’m sorry. I’m in the New York State Prison in Mid-State Correctional Facility.

I have two years more years to go. Please keep me in your prayers.

YOUR OLD FRIEND,
FRANKLIN

DEAR SPEAK UP,

Remember that notebook I filled with my writings? I want that to become a book. Can Speak Up publish it when I get out?

Tell everyone that prison is bad. The time I’ve been here, people try to rape me and call me all kind of names like “faggot” and “you’re gay” and “we hate you” and “we hate people like you.”

I’m hurting right now. Sometimes I feel like killing myself, but I don’t. The only thing keeping me alive is Jesus.

PRAY FOR ME,
FRANKLIN

DEAR SPEAK UP,

You have some good people that are in prison for the wrong choices. But people don’t see this. People think about the bad things that they done, and think they are just bad.

My parents taught me right from wrong. I got A’s and B’s (and some C’s and D’s) in school. When I was seventeen I saw my friends having fun and smoking and coming in late. I wanted the same things they were doing, so I ran away and went to New York to try the street life. Drugs, drinking and sex and messed up my life for 25 years.

I’M BEING HONEST,
FRANKLIN

DEAR SPEAK UP,

I’m in prison for the choice I chose to make at the time.

I chose wrong and not right. I was in New York City visiting someone and I ran out of money. Instead of asking someone for $60 so I could get on the bus back home, I went into someone’s apartment and stole money.

That choice sent me to prison for five years.

REGRETFUL,
FRANKLIN

DEAR SPEAK UP,

We lost another inmate this weekend. A female officer was provoking this inmate, and he got tired of it and threw a blanket over her head. The other inmates tried to stop him, but things got heated. Some officers came in and took out the inmate and beat him to death.

So another inmate is dead this year.

Speak Up family, please keep all of us in your prayers.

AFRAID,
FRANKLIN

DEAR SPEAK UP,

I was just told by the doctor I have leukemia, and I may have five years to live. But I know God has me in His care, and I’ll trust God. The doctor said I have been battling leukemia for two years now.

I guess it runs in my family. My mother died from it. But I’m okay. Just need a lot of love and people to write me so I will not worry about my cancer.

Please ask someone to send me soap and candy and chips and cookies. Most people don’t have the time for us prisoners but maybe someone reading this will help me.

I’M VERY LONELY,
FRANKLIN

DEAR SPEAK UP,

Please don’t forget about me.

Jesus said, “When I was in prison, you came to me or you sent me the things I need like money or food, like candy and cookies, and chips and soap.” And you said to Jesus, ‘When have I done this to you?’ And Jesus will say, ‘When you took care of Franklin, you did it to me, Jesus.’”

YOUR OLD FRIEND,
FRANKLIN

Update About The Author

Franklin has been released and is safe and well. He is no longer facing homelessness and his life is more stable than it had been for many years.