B20) Christianity

During my six years in prison I met murders that were Christian. I met sex offenders that were Christians and I met thieves that were Christian.

This experience left me wondering what is it about Christianity that leads to rape, thievery and murder?

B19) Renting rooms

Seven out of my first ten years after prison I rented rooms from people. This is how I lived. I was in my 40s’ and renting rooms.

Working full time, in college full time and renting a room.

It may have looked odd to others but renting rooms kept my overhead low. Low overhead took unnecessary pressure off a situation already filled with pressure.

Low overhead allows for agility.

On the path of rebuilding your life agility is an asset. Be agile. Be flexible. Agility and flexibility allows you to take advantage of certain opportunities that would otherwise not be available.

B18) Subpoena time

We were at the country club, Karen, Brittany and I. I’d play 18 then met them at the pool for a swim and a meal. The cops had just raided our home the week before and we were pretending nothing was wrong when everything was wrong.

It was a beautiful day.

Brittany was only six months old or so. She was in my arms. We left the pool and head back to the locker room to change.

I passed two men with evil intent written all over them. Their look of evil hit me like a shock wave. As I passed the men I turned to get a better look. I felt the need to let their look burn in real deep. I want to commit their faces to my memory.
As I turn to look at them they in turn do the same.

I see the look in their eyes. They know me. These guys know me. They are here for me. 

They call out my name and begin to follow me.

With Brittany in my arms I clutch her even closer as I prepare to start moving with great urgency away from these men.

Are they shooters?

Are they here to take me out at the country club with my kid in my arms?

One reaches into his jacket pocket and out comes the…. The….. the gun? No. No gun. Out comes the subpoena.

Holy fucking shit. Cops. Are you kidding me? Fucking cops at my country club. This is harassment. This is bullshit.

Not knowing what to do I  know I do not want the paper/subpoena. I turn and walk fast away from them but they are in a hot pursuit. Right on my heels.

I jump into a golf cart and speed off down the 18^th fairway.

They did not pursue.

The noose was tightening.

They wanted my handwriting for analysis. They found drug ledgers in my home during the searches. They were putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

An indictment seems like an inevitability.

B17) Perjury

I went to trail for possession of marijuana in a Maricopa County Court room in 1993. I was caught red-handed. I was arrested at Sky Harbor airport at the boarding gate. Forty pounds of weed in my luggage. My luggage was on board (in the cargo hold).

At trial a detective took the witness stand and lied about the events surrounding my arrest. When you take the witness stand and lie it is called perjury and punishable by up to five years in prison. An officer of the law took the witness stand and perjured himself in an effort to secure a conviction against me.

What was my legal response?

My public defender had arranged no legal response on my behalf. I was convicted.

What does it say about a legal system that requires or allows law enforcement to commit perjury in order to secure convictions?

The end does not justify the means.

Without the perjured testimony of an “officer of the law” I never would have been convicted. I was sentenced to ten and a half years for a non violent and victimless crime.

It is absurd to think my going to prison had any effect on the local marijuana business or any marijuana business.

B16) Symbols

Big symbols make for big targets

B15) It all started with seven pounds

It all started with seven pounds. I got it on the front. I put the weed in my carryon bag and boarded a plane bound for Chicago. (Last time I'll ever do that)

Within a few hours after arriving to Schaumburg (mom’s house) I’d sold the weed. The deal was brokered by a friend from high school. The selling price was seventeen hundred per pound. My purchase price was seven hundred per pound.

Things grew exponentially from there.

My limit was five hundred pounds. The logistics for moving more than that was too complicated.

Five hundred pounds can fit in the bed of a pickup. It can fit into a van. You can meet someone for a meal. While seated you can pass them a set of keys. This person in turn could pass you a briefcase with half a million dollars in it. After the meal you part ways knowing you will have the same meal again in a week or two weeks.

Every single load of weed I moved be it fifteen pounds or five hundred pounds at the conclusion of every deal I was asked the exact same question.

“When can I get more?”

There was never enough.

B14) The Madison Street bridge

Working downtown Chicago while in grad school I crossed the The Madison Street bridge every day on my way to work. The homeless are part of the landscape but they’re like ghosts, we are not really supposed to see them. They are seen and not seen all in the same glance. 

I feel haunted by the homeless I walk past. Every time I look one of them in the eyes I can’t stop thinking about God. I feel the presence of God when I look in the eyes of the homeless. I cannot escape the feeling I am turning my back on God as I walk past each and every homeless person.

B13) Prophecy realized/Volunteer teaching

In 2007 I had two part time jobs:

1. Teaching computer science at the local college
2. Teaching computer skills workshops for a local government agency (KCDEE).

The route I drove from one job to the next took me past a minimum security prison. This was a prison that allowed the inmates to leave for jobs in the city every day.

Every day I drove past that prison I would remember those words:

“You do not get to turn your back on this place after you leave”

I remember thinking, Why me? I can barely keep my own life together. I am not the person for this job. The thought was persistent. I began to wonder. Could I do volunteer teaching to inmates? I could do it in one of KCDEE's computer labs. Could get the warden bus inmates to the computer lab?

Seemed like an impossibility.

First order of business was to approach the director of KCDEE. I did that and she signed off on my idea. Then I went to see the warden.  Within a few months the warden began bussing inmates/students to my class. I taught the same material I was teaching at the college. I provided the textbooks with money out of my own pocket.

The first day of the first class felt like a miracle. A genuine miracle. It felt like density. This felt like a gift from God. This felt like meaningful work. The most meaningful work I’d ever done. Six months after my volunteer efforts began the warden gave me an award for my volunteer efforts. I felt as much pride for that award as I did for my college degrees, maybe even a little prouder.

Sadly it all had to end after six months. My schedule became too busy

B12) Prophecy

Cimmaron prison, 1994. Going back to court, Pima County for my appeal.

The guards told me to wait in the medical building (out of the rain) for transport to Pima County jail.

I walked into the building alone. There was absolutely no activity going on in this hallway or in the building. It was peaceful. Peace and quiet. Solitude is a rare occurrence in this place. It was nice being alone. I stood there looking out a window watching the rain. It was a cold and dreary. At this point in the appeal process I was hopeful.

I decide to get comfortable and have a seat. I turned around and someone was there. Appearing as if out of thin air. He was a kid, early twenties. Sitting, leaning against the wall opposite to me.

“Where did you come from”? I asked.

“I’ve been sitting here for an about thirty minutes” he said.

Bullshit. That’s bullshit. When I entered the building no one was there. Where did he come from?

“Whatever”.

I sat down feeling very uneasy about this person. We began a conversation. He was in prison on a drug conviction just like me. He said things that made me think he knew me. Important  things. Then he would say something indicating he knew nothing. It was an odd conversation.

We spoke about our lives outside this place. We talked about our families and about what a fucking nightmare this place was. I talked about my appeals

“If I do win, I will leave this place and never look back”

I remember having that thought, speaking those words and meaning all of it.

His response:

“You do not get to turn your back on this place after you leave”

He said this calmly and clearly. He was emphatic. He said this as if it was a done deal. My future already carved in stone. Non negotiable. He did not explain why he made such a statement. He just floated it out there.

I was dumbfounded. I did not know how to respond. Before I could formulate a response a guard walked in and barked out my name. It was time to go. My chariot awaits.

Off I went to the Pima County jail. I could not get those words out of my head.

“You do not get to turn your back on this place after you leave”

I finally formulated a response, rage. I felt this rage welling up inside me. I became angry. Who the fuck does that guy think he is?  If he thinks I’m coming back to help after being released from this insane asylum he is crazy. He knows not what he says. I will put this place in my rear view mirror and never look back and never give it a second thought.

The end!

B11) Schindlers list

B11  Schindler’s List

Cook Unit, Florence Az. This prison is part of a massive prison complex which dominates Florence, Az. Cook Unit is just down the street from Central Unit. Central is the oldest prison and it's where the gas chamber is. Cook Unit is a low medium yard meaning we get out to the yard every day, it's also a prison where inmates are housed in dorms. There are maybe fifty to sixty inmates to a dorm.

The prison system had its own TV channels; there were two or three channels. These channels were for disseminating information to the inmates as well as playing movies. The movies were from the local video rental store. Movies would only be shown on Friday and Saturday nights.

1995. Saturday night. The movie for the evening was Schindler’s List

Like many inmates I sat in my cubical watching the movie with my headphones on. I can’t say for sure but I think thirty to forty percent of the dorm population was watching the movie. It could have been sixty to seventy percent. In a prison system with a dominating Aryan Brotherhood (AB) population this was a movie not engendered by the “white race”. While the movie was on all my attention was on the movie.

At some point during the movie I needed to blow my nose. After doing so one of the AB’s walked by my cubical and tossed a handful of tissue onto my bunk while saying,

“Dry your eyes with that you fucking Jew loving bastard”

Wow. All this attention because I blew my nose during the movie. Interestingly enough I am not jewish but this is life in prison. This incident is not something I can pretend didn’t happen. The reality is, now I’ve got a problem now. This is something that’s going to lead to something but what? Prison is a place you do not want to show any weakness and I know that. I’ve know it from the beginning. Showing weakness inspires the predators to take notice and that's never a good thing.

My relationship with the AB’s was an ongoing source of pain and frustration. The AB’s and I have had a difference of opinion on most topics as we have a deep philosophical difference of opinions on most, if not all, topics. The most immediate fallout of movie night was my new nickname “the jew”. following day one of the AB’s made a reference to me as “The Jew” and it stuck. 

When the prison Nazi's refer to you as "the Jew" you know prison life isn't working out well. To be honest I don’t think prison life could get worse. At that time there was so much tension in the air you could cut it with a knife. Always or almost always the tension on a prison yard is race related and or drug related. There seemed to be a major issue involving blacks and whites.

Like a gift from the Heavens I was yanked off the yard and sent back to the Maricopa county jail in Phoenix. I had a court date for my appeal. Never have I been so happy to go back to the county jail than this occasion. The hardest time I did was in the Maricopa county jail. I spent nine month of my 6.25 years locked in that jail. This was because I went to trail. The Maricopa county jail is like a medieval dungeon filled with the most hellish catacombs imaginable.

Immediately upon arriving to the jail I was informed my trip was in vain. A continuance had been filed by my lawyer but notice was not given to the prison system in time to stop my departure from the prison to the jail. I was in the jail for no good reason other than getting off the yard and that felt good. It felt like a stroke of luck even if it was only temporary.

It was right after our dinner meal in the county jail when someone announced,

“Cook Unit is locked down. There was a riot”

Tension on the yard reached it’s critical mass and a war erupted. I would later find out back on the yard (cook unit) knuckles, a black man in a cubical directly across from me got a shank in the eye. Knuckles got his nickname because of a birth defect, his hands were deformed and it looked like he was missing a joint in each finger. Knuckles ran a store. He seemed to get along with most everyone and did business with a wide variety of inmates.

There’s a process when leaving the prison and going back to the county jail for your appeal or for new charges or for whatever. The day before someone is sent back to the jail the guards make you pack all your belonging. Everything is placed in storage, this was S.O.P., standard operating procedure This results in an evening with no tv, no radio, no nothing. I sat there in my cubical, on my bunk, with nothing other than stress to keep me company. I was just sitting there thinking about my court date and feeling the pressure but glad to be getting off the yard. I was shocked when knuckles walked by and tossed a couple of moon pies on my bunk. He said almost nothing as he did it. For reasons I’ll never know for certain why knuckles took pity on me and gave me a snack that night. It was an act of kindness in a place absent kindness. This was a good will gesture I will never forget. Maybe it was because of my recently anointed nickname as “the jew”. Maybe knuckles thought highly of me because I was on the “outs” with the AB’s? This is a surmisal on my part.

News filtered in slowly about the particulars of the prison riot that first night. We heard two inmates were medivaced off the yard and countless others sent to the county hospital via ambulances. As it turned out the dorm I was housed in was in line for chow when the battled/riot began. This meant all those waiting in line to get into the chow hall were trapped when the riot began. When the battle began all dorms and the chow hall were locked down trapping all those outside to become part of the battle. If you were caught on the yard during the riot it was bad news.

I got back to the yard a week or so later. When I did the yard was like a ghost town. I think it was thirty or forty percent of the inmates were shipped off to other yards. Anyone political was gone. There was actually some peace on the yard when I got back. It was a pleasant change. 

B10) Conversations

The most shocking story I heard while locked up came from one of my cell mates. I think Hector was his name. He was a few years older than me, he was thirty six I was thirty two at the time. As it turned out we were both locked up for drugs. Me selling, him using.

Hector was a heroin addict. He was the kind of junkie that stole on a daily basis in order to feed his habit. Hector had been a junkie for twenty years, since he was sixteen.

Hector was from Tucson, a high school dropout that got involved with gangs. He lived on the wrong side of town. His father had been in and out of prison all his life. His mother was part of the uneducated labor force.

At the age of sixteen Hector got his girlfriend pregnant and became a father. The day his child was born He returned home from the hospital to share his news with his dad.

Hectors father got out a sack of heroin his supplies for fixing.

His dad said:

“Today you became a man. This is how men celebrate”

After uttering those words Hector’s dad injected him with the syringe of heroin. This experience put hector on the path of addiction.

I never really got over the shock of that story.

After hearing that story I felt as if I’d lived a charmed life.

B9) I don’t want to forget

My forth year after prison the memories began to fade. I began to forget. This realization hit me like a freight train. I was spending so much time working on the future the past began to fade.

The only trouble with this, I don’t want forget. Prison was the most powerful experience of my life. Yes, it was horrible and it was a nightmare but there was a spiritual component to the experience that changed me---------------------------- for the better.

I don’t want to forget.

I wanted to get in my truck and drive to Arizona. I felt this need. I needed a fix. I needed those intense memories back in my head real strong. I need.... I wanted those memories washing over me over me like a warm bath.  I want and need those memories intoxicating me with wave after wave of memory induced horror.

I wanted to drive by every prison I'd been to, stand outside the fence and remember.

Who am I now?

B8) Four Years Later...

I’ve gone from Cimarron a high medium yard and worked my way down to a minimum yard, North Unit in Florence Az. I spent the last three and a half years of my prison sentence at North Unit.

I was in the chow hall seated with three friends having lunch. I think it was a Saturday. The scene unfolded just like at Cimarron four years earlier. Predator and prey in motion

Striking from behind - bla blab bla...

bla blab bla...

Both men were taken to the hole.

Same shit. Different day.

Four years earlier I struggled to keep my food down after witnessing such an event.  Today all I seem to care about was if one if my friends at the table was going to eat his dessert.

I changed.  I wondered if this meant I’d become “institutionalized” or is this just a severe case of apathy?

I realized that day change occurs slowly over time but often realized in a moment.

One of my favorite quotes from Leo Buscaglia:

"Each and every time you experience some new you emerge as something new"

Who am I now?

B7) Welcome to Cimarron

Cimarron Prison is in Tucson. It is a high medium yard meaning we only get out to the yard once every three days for two hours. I did the math. Twenty four hours a month outside.

Cimarron is better known in the AZ DOC as “gladiator school”

Cimarron day one:

When I got to the cell block to drop off my gear everyone was at the chow hall for dinner. One of the guards said if I wanted dinner I better haul ass up to the chow hall otherwise I would not be able to eat until breakfast the following morning.

I did as advised.

I walked into the chow hall and had the feeling of all eyes being on me. They were. I grabbed a food tray and headed to an open table. It’s better to eat alone in this scenario. I knew no one. This is the very definition of uncharted territory.

There is nothing unorganized about the seating arrangement  in the chow hall at Cimarron. The different races sit in well defined groups. Within each group was a seating arrangement indicating a hierarchy. The closer to the back wall, the higher up on the organizational chart you sat. It was political. I sat in the table farthest from the back wall which meant I was a nobody and very expendable.

Even though I ended up in prison with a ten year sentence for a nonviolent victimless crime I thought I had extraordinary management skills. I recall sitting there and thinking it’s going to take my very best management skills to successfully navigate my way through this experience. I was going to be tested here. I was certain of this.

Sitting directly across from me was another inmate. Like me he was seated alone. I did not know him and felt it prudent not to sit with someone I do not know, “wouldn’t be prudent at this juncture”

As I sat there eating, thinking, wondering, and worrying. I noticed someone walking towards the person seated across from me. He was approaching from behind. It was one of those predator vs prey situations.

Striking from behind the inmate was knocked off his seat by a roundhouse to the left side of his head. The assailant jumped on his victim and began to rain down a series of well aimed blows to an exposed face. The inmate receiving the punishment seemed to be out cold. The punches sounded as if they are crushing bone.

The guards rush over but not before a significant amount of damage was done. Both inmates were taken to the hole.

I almost threw up as I watched the violence unfold but I kept on eating. I pretended as if what just occurred was normal. A typical Tuesday evening dinner.

I said to myself, “welcome to Cimarron"

B6) The life of a trafficker

When you choose drug trafficking as a career you have sent yourself down upon a path with three possible destinations

1.       Incarceration

2.       Drug addiction

3.       Death

You can pick one, two or all three. It truly is the“dealer’s choice”

B5) First night in prison

Perryville prison located in the Phoenix area. Perryville is a low medium security prison. May of 1993 or maybe it was June.

The yard locks down at 9pm. After 9pm it was just me and my celly (cell mate). I can’t recall his name, maybe it was Frank? Frank was old, sixty five or so. Five foot nothing. A hundred thirty five pounds of shaking bones and sinew wrapped in wrinkly bag of cigarette smoke infused smelling skin. He smelled like an ash tray. It kind of reminded me of my dad. Frank demonstrated on the outside how I was feeling on the inside. Visibly uncertain about the quality of his future.

Frank was easy to read and this was not something weighing in his favor. Prison is a place you need to keep your feeling close to the vest. Especially insecure feelings. No one should know what you are thinking. They should know only what you want them to think and know. Strength. you project strength.

Soon after we get locked down for the evening the guard comes by for count. Our ID’s visible to the prison guards. Ten minutes hadn’t passed when it started. A fight in a cell very close to my cell. The sound came in via the duct work. It had to be a cell close to my cell because of the clarity of the sound. It was a brutal sounding battle. it seemed to go on forever. I sat there in my bunk listening.

After the fight was over came something much worse. After the fight came the rape. Oh my god. I was hearing it. I was hearing something I could not have imagined possible minutes ago. Minutes ago I lived in a different world, in a different reality. I remember thinking, this was like the movies. Un-fucking-believable.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. How is this possible. The sounds I heard that evening made me want to vomit and wretch. They made me want to run.

This is not how human beings act. I’m not certain of much any more but I am certain of this. Human being do not act in this manner. This is man’s inhumanity to man. This should be the title of this blog.

Trying to rationalize the situation I started writing down on a piece of paper crimes I think might warrant that type of experience. I didn’t get too far with a list before I realize there was no crime justifying what I was listening to, at least not in an enlightened society. I’m forced to remember, I am forced to accept I do not live in an enlighten society.

Eventually it ended.

My cellmate and I never spoke about what we heard. We remained silent during the whole disgusting event. We sat there in the most uncomfortable silence I’d ever been part of.

If this was day one, what could I expect from day two?

The guards walk every two hours for count. After the 11pm count it all started up again.

I remember thinking, again, no. no. no. no. this cannot be happening again. THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE!

But it was possible. I was hearing it.

Another battle. This battle did not last as long. It was followed by another rape. More begging. More pleading. more inconceivable horror.

This is Hell on Earth.

My thoughts turned to his crimes (the man being beaten and raped). I wonder what he did to end up in prison. Was he a guilty of GTA (grand theft auto), maybe burglary, or armed robbery. Maybe he was a drug dealer? It didn’t matter. There is no possible justification for such behavior.

In the morning when they let us out of our cages we were made to stand at attention just outside our cell doors for the count. It took all my will not lean forward, look both ways and try and figure out who the combatants were. I wanted to say something. Something like

“what the fuck was that last night? Who was that? I demand to know”

Prudence dictating I keep my mouth shut and remain silence on the issue. For now and ever more.

We went to chow and then on to the indoc (indoctrination) process.

I was positive beyond any doubt this evening would be a great deal quieter. I could not have been more wrong. Night two was a repeat performance of night one. I can’t figure this out. Who would get back in a cell after that type of experience? It’s madness and this place is like a medieval insane asylum.

Correction, It’s not like a medieval insane asylum, it is a medieval insane asylum. This is the criminal justice system in action.

B4) Paroled and leaving prison

I would like to have labeled this blog entry "Paroled and going home" but that's not the case for everyone that gets parole and leaves prison.

We started off with six. They put us in leg irons, hand cuffs and a belly chain. I recall thinking, are they serious. Do they think we are going to escape from our release? It felt like one last little "fuck you" for the road. One last momento. One last memory.

There wasn’t much chatter in the van as we headed towards our respective destinations. All in the greater phoenix area. Tension hung in the air. It left us unable or unwilling to speak. No conversation. Zero chatter.

Our first stop was the state mental hospital. As it turned out one of the soon-to-be ex-cons was a sex offender. A recent supreme court ruling allowed the state prison system the ability to hold sex offender indefinitely, even after they finish their prison sentence. Why not give them life sentences. If you are going to keep someone in prison after their sentence is finished why not give them a life sentence to begin with. This is yet another example of how moronic the criminal justice system is.

Then there were five.

While the guards were doing their paperwork to transfer the sex offender to the state mental hospital the rest of us sat quietly in the prison van. The inmate sitting next to me began to mumble something.

“In the spoon by noon”

He said it again but this time a little louder,

“In the spoon by noon”

He then began to rock back and forth. His head was down chin to chest. His eyes closed. Again with the words:

“In the spoon by noon”

This time another inmate chimed in. Then another. Eventually all four of them were doing it. They looked and sounded like Monks chanting holy words they believed would bring them one step closer to enlightenment.

"In the spoon by noon"

The guards returned and we were back on our merry way. One by one the guys were dropped off. Not one of them dropped off to a house or home. We did not drop anyone off at an apartment. Not one of them greeted with the welcoming arms of a loving family or friend. They were dropped off in parking lots, at intersections. Each had a look of terror in his eyes as he disembarked the prison van.

How much education does it take to figure out what was going to happen with these four ex-cons. They were released with no money. No place to live. No one had a job waiting for them or marketable job skills with which to seek meaningful employment. They all had drug problems.

Under these circumstances it was only a matter of time before they were back in prison. You would not need a calendar for calculating the recidivism rate for these four men. All you would need is a stop watch.

I was the last to get dropped off.

We pulled up to Sky Harbor International Airport. I got out of the van and the guards began removing my shackles. A crowd gathered around. I fear I looked like Hannibal Lecter M.D. I wondered what everyone was thanking. I was sporting a shockish smile and probably looked like the good doctor.

They were ordered to escort me to the plane. Armed prison guards were ordered to escort me through the airport and to the plane. They were ordered to watch me board and make sure I was gone. The guards confide in me their orders were unusual. They wanted to know who I was and what I was in for. Who I was as a "criminal"?

“Marijuana” I told them. I was a convicted marijuana trafficker.

"Bullshit" one of them said.

They did not believe me. Then they drop a bomb on me.

“Are you going to be arrested when you get to Chicago”?

No I replied or at least I don’t think so. Why. What have you heard?

They made sure I had a nonstop ticket. They made sure I got on board. Maybe that was to ensure I got to Chicago because I was going to be arrested. I hoped not. Hearing all that really freaked me out. Am I going back to jail and back to prison but this time in Illinois? Have they been waiting years to indict me?

The answer was no. The only person waiting for me at the airport in Chicago was my sisters.

Of the six that piled into the prison van that morning I was the only one that went home. The other five simply left prison.

B3) Workforce Investment Act

Shortly after my release from prison Dec, 1998 I ended up in the Employment office in Elgin IL. After spending six years in a state prison I had little faith in any government institution but I had to exhaust all possible resources in my efforts to rebuild my life. While at the Employment Office I found out about funding (tuition money) available for job training, WIA Funding (link below).

http://www.doleta.gov/usworkforce/wia/act.cfm

After filling out some paperwork I qualified for the funding.
I used the WIA funds for vocational training and attended a vocational school offering a computer applications/computer networking program. This opportunity put me upon the path of education and the following year I enrolled in college in pursuit of a college degree. In 2004 graduated from college with a degree in Computer Science CIS and went onto grad school. In 2006 I earned a Master’s Degree in Information Systems MIS.

The WIA funding is still available. The money comes from the Federal Government and
disburse through local state agencies. Go to the Employment Office and check it out.

B2) Insanity defined

One of Einstein’s famous quotes relates to the definition of insanity:

“Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results”

The traditional definitions:

1. The state of being seriously mentally ill; madness.
2. Extreme foolishness or irrationality.

America’s drug policy has failed but does it cross the threshold of insanity i.e. extreme foolishness or irrationality? You bet it does!

Is America’s drug policy guilty of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Absolutely.

Does our government’s drug policy and the "criminal justiced" system need to be held accountable for their acts of insanity? Yes. As American's we must hold them accountable. 

With tax dollars in such short supply and in such high demand I feel certain the criminal justice system will be brought to its economic knees and made to bow at the alter of common fucking sense. Eventually.

It will happen...

B1) My First Blog...

My first blog

My name is Chip Knight. I am a convicted marijuana trafficker having spent six years four months and three days in prison on two marijuana related convictions:

1. Conspiracy to Traffic 5.25 years (Pima County/Tucson)

2. Possession of Marijuana 10.5 years (Maricopa County/Phoenix)

I was in the trafficking business from 1984 to 1992

I was in the business of being a prison inmate #093602 in the Arizona Department of Corrections from 1992 to 1998.

The link below will take you to the Arizona Prison System inmate database. make sure you select "inactive" and type my D.O.C number in appropriate box.

http://www.azcorrections.gov/inmate_datasearch/Index_Minh.aspx

Release from prison December 5th 1998 with no education other than my high school diploma and broke with no marketable job skills. I turned 39 the month after my release.

During the ten years following prison I put myself through college and grad school obtaining degrees in Computer Science CIS/MIS. I had an IT Consulting position (Network Engineer) working on a project for the Department Of Homeland Security and granted a security clearance. After renting rooms for years I was able to buy a house (Feb 2009).

I felt like I'd overcome all the obstacles I'd created. I was in shock at what I'd accomplished. I was astonished to see what really is possible after years in prison.

Is it possible to rebuild your life after prison? Yes. Absolutely. I know it's possible because I did it.

I did it and I am not a genius.

Creating a life after prison is more about a war of attrition but the word "war" has such a negative connotation. I did not set out to go to college after prison. Going to college was a move about parasitism. It was the logical choice considering the circumstances.

2007: I started a program teaching a basic computer skills class to inmates at a local minimum security prison. I actually got the warden of the prison to bus inmates to my computer lab down the street. This was a feat not easily accomplished.

Weeks after moving into my new home.

I was on my way to work riding my new VTX1800 when a car from the on-coming lane crossed over into my lane and hit me head-on.

My life was obliterated.

When you get hit head-on by a car while on a motorcycle it does not matter if you are wearing boots, gloves, helmet and leather jacket. When that collision happens everyone and everything gives way to the laws of physics along with the laws of chance.

 My life changed radically because of the accident. I began thinking about going back to prison.

 I needed a plan...

Who am I now?