dpmcghee
Club Member
This letter was forwarded to me by a young woman who attends our church. This was written by her husband.
Letter From A Prisoner
I am incarcerated at a federal prison camp at Terre Haute, Ind. I made a
decision in 2001 that changed my life and others' forever.
I hope that everyone that reads this letter will share its contents with
someone else, whether family or friends, in hopes of that the contents may
alter a decision in a positive way.
In 2001 I made a very selfish decision. That decision cost me my freedom.
I was a sworn law enforcement officer that took an oath to uphold the laws
of the commonwealth of Virginia.
I broke that oath and changed not only my life but the lives of so many
people, important people, people I really cared about. As with other inmates that I've come to know, they too wish that they would have made better choices than the ones they chose. When a person becomes an inmate at a federal or state prison, not only are they incarcerated, but their family and friends become prisoners of the system too.
There are no private moments here. Each and every day is shared with 500
men, like me, "convicted felons." I wait in lines all day. I get counted five times a day. I'm no longer a person. I'm a number, #12454084. Another inmate wearing a green uniform. The same uniform that Gov. George Ryan of Illinois wears or Ron Isley of "The Isley Brothers." Yes, they're here too.
Along with so many other men like me, who thought that they would never be
just another number in the system.The lawyers who thought that they knew the law better, that they were smarter. The brokers, insurance company executives. Men who worked for Fortune 500 companies. Doctors that dedicated their lives to saving lives. Men who had millions and now work a 40-hour week making 23 cents an hour. Oh, the millions they had; guess who's got it now? Uncle Sam.
I live in a 12 by 20 room with seven other strangers, "convicted felons." My
bunk bed is a metal frame with no springs. The mattress is 3 inches thick.
My personal belongings fit into a small three-shelf locker. I share a
three-stall toilet, with no toilet seats, with 60 other men, all "felons."
It's haunting, exhausting, something that never goes away. The "guilt" is
tremendous.There's a saying here that I'll never forget, because it's so true, "This time you will do."
It's lost time, birthdays, Christmas, New Years. They all come and go.
Freedom is a privilege, and I lost that privilege because I broke the law.
Respect, here there is none. The respect that I worked so hard for is gone.
When I finish my "stint," I have to start all over again, but this time as a
convicted "felon." I can't hunt anymore because I can't own or possess a firearm.
My phone calls are 15 minutes, that's it. Every five minutes of that phone
call you and the person you are talking to are reminded of who you are and
where you're at, "an inmate at a federal prison."
The doctor is a pediatrician from Haiti. Most of your medicine you are told
to order it through the "inmate commissary," the government doesn't have the
money.
The "chow" stinks. The menu is the same: 1?4 inch hamburger on Wednesday,
Thursday is chicken, and of course a "fish square" on Fridays.
Visitation is no touching, no kissing, no physical contact. It's a very
emotional, draining time. Saying goodbye "sucks." They leave, you stay.
I talk to the counselor and explain about the noise and the lights. I can't
sleep. My counselor's response: "This is prison."
No matter how much weight I lift at the "weight pile" today or how many laps
I do on the track, it will not change the fact that I'm here at Terre Haute.
It's with me 24-7.
Watching TV is or was a challenge. I was educated to the seating
arrangements by someone that has been here much longer than me, and I wasreminded of that. I don't watch much TV anymore.
There are white, black, Hispanic and any other nationality that exists. Men that should be enjoying their "senior years." Men that should be
starting families or at home raising families.
The hardships of raising a family, paying the bills, taking out the trash or
trying to figure out what's wrong with the car. The daily routine falls
directly on whoever is left at home, the wife, mother, or friend or whoever
is there to raise the innocent children, the children who don't understand,
and keep asking, "Where is 'Daddy'?"
They suffer much more than we do.
I can only pray and hope that his letter will inspire someone to make the
right decision to do the right thing for not only themselves, but the many
other people that care and love them.
There are no excuses, only apologies.
Letter From A Prisoner
I am incarcerated at a federal prison camp at Terre Haute, Ind. I made a
decision in 2001 that changed my life and others' forever.
I hope that everyone that reads this letter will share its contents with
someone else, whether family or friends, in hopes of that the contents may
alter a decision in a positive way.
In 2001 I made a very selfish decision. That decision cost me my freedom.
I was a sworn law enforcement officer that took an oath to uphold the laws
of the commonwealth of Virginia.
I broke that oath and changed not only my life but the lives of so many
people, important people, people I really cared about. As with other inmates that I've come to know, they too wish that they would have made better choices than the ones they chose. When a person becomes an inmate at a federal or state prison, not only are they incarcerated, but their family and friends become prisoners of the system too.
There are no private moments here. Each and every day is shared with 500
men, like me, "convicted felons." I wait in lines all day. I get counted five times a day. I'm no longer a person. I'm a number, #12454084. Another inmate wearing a green uniform. The same uniform that Gov. George Ryan of Illinois wears or Ron Isley of "The Isley Brothers." Yes, they're here too.
Along with so many other men like me, who thought that they would never be
just another number in the system.The lawyers who thought that they knew the law better, that they were smarter. The brokers, insurance company executives. Men who worked for Fortune 500 companies. Doctors that dedicated their lives to saving lives. Men who had millions and now work a 40-hour week making 23 cents an hour. Oh, the millions they had; guess who's got it now? Uncle Sam.
I live in a 12 by 20 room with seven other strangers, "convicted felons." My
bunk bed is a metal frame with no springs. The mattress is 3 inches thick.
My personal belongings fit into a small three-shelf locker. I share a
three-stall toilet, with no toilet seats, with 60 other men, all "felons."
It's haunting, exhausting, something that never goes away. The "guilt" is
tremendous.There's a saying here that I'll never forget, because it's so true, "This time you will do."
It's lost time, birthdays, Christmas, New Years. They all come and go.
Freedom is a privilege, and I lost that privilege because I broke the law.
Respect, here there is none. The respect that I worked so hard for is gone.
When I finish my "stint," I have to start all over again, but this time as a
convicted "felon." I can't hunt anymore because I can't own or possess a firearm.
My phone calls are 15 minutes, that's it. Every five minutes of that phone
call you and the person you are talking to are reminded of who you are and
where you're at, "an inmate at a federal prison."
The doctor is a pediatrician from Haiti. Most of your medicine you are told
to order it through the "inmate commissary," the government doesn't have the
money.
The "chow" stinks. The menu is the same: 1?4 inch hamburger on Wednesday,
Thursday is chicken, and of course a "fish square" on Fridays.
Visitation is no touching, no kissing, no physical contact. It's a very
emotional, draining time. Saying goodbye "sucks." They leave, you stay.
I talk to the counselor and explain about the noise and the lights. I can't
sleep. My counselor's response: "This is prison."
No matter how much weight I lift at the "weight pile" today or how many laps
I do on the track, it will not change the fact that I'm here at Terre Haute.
It's with me 24-7.
Watching TV is or was a challenge. I was educated to the seating
arrangements by someone that has been here much longer than me, and I wasreminded of that. I don't watch much TV anymore.
There are white, black, Hispanic and any other nationality that exists. Men that should be enjoying their "senior years." Men that should be
starting families or at home raising families.
The hardships of raising a family, paying the bills, taking out the trash or
trying to figure out what's wrong with the car. The daily routine falls
directly on whoever is left at home, the wife, mother, or friend or whoever
is there to raise the innocent children, the children who don't understand,
and keep asking, "Where is 'Daddy'?"
They suffer much more than we do.
I can only pray and hope that his letter will inspire someone to make the
right decision to do the right thing for not only themselves, but the many
other people that care and love them.
There are no excuses, only apologies.
. I told my family I was going out of town. It was true. I wasn't in Plymouth :lol:.
