Prison Professors

Podcast 124: Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

I'm reading from chapter six of Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos. In this reading, we're covering chapter Six: 1992-1995

Months 62-84

It's Thanksgiving, 1992, just before my sixth holiday season in prison. Despite the forbidden affair I've been carrying on with Sarah for the past six months, today she tells me that she needs to move on with her life. She understands the risks associated with our trysts and she's come to the conclusion that the stress would be too much to bear for another 21 years.

I've hardened emotionally, as I'm now familiar with the concept of loss. I've been expecting this moment, anticipating her good-bye since our first kiss. Grateful that it has lasted this long, I'm prepared to move forward.

*******

"What's up? Did she finally dump you?" Windward asks, sensing my despondency when I return to the cell and drop to my rack without undressing.

"I told you she's my lawyer. That's it."

"And I told my judge that I thought it was flour I was bringin' in. What's that got to do with anythin'?"

"Can't you just be quiet?"

"Least you can do is tell me how it went down. No sense keep denyin' it. Ain't no hot young lawyer gonna keep visitin' a man in the joint 'less somethin's going on. 'Sides that, I smell her all over ya."

"She was trying to help with my case. That's it. Enough, just drop it."

Lying on my rack, ignoring Windward's irritating interrogation, I silently acknowledge that I knew Sarah would eventually disappear from my life. She was a wonderful, delicious respite from my all-male world, but now she's gone and despondency starts to settle in like a dense fog. Thoughts of women, family, and the normal life from which I'm separated rush in, squeezing me. I have to refocus, to push thoughts of Sarah out of my mind and block all hope of finding a woman to carry this burden with me. I'm going to focus on completing five years at a time, alone. I've got to reach 1997.

*******

The people have elected William Jefferson Clinton the 42nd president of the United States. I closely followed the political coverage throughout the year. Julie even purchased a subscription to the Washington Post for me to keep abreast of politics. Now, on a sunny day in January 1993, I'm overwhelmed by my emotions, tears filling my eyes, as I watch Justice Rehnquist swear our new president into office.

"Why do you care so much who the president is when you can't even vote?"

In my sister's world the president doesn't play much part in day-to-day life and she doesn't grasp why I'm optimistic with this switch from Bush to Clinton. As a federal prisoner, I live under the restrictions of the Bureau of Prisons, an agency that needs major reform. I'm hoping that President Clinton or his attorney general will appoint a new director of this agency. I'm certain the change will bring more empathy, as the president's younger brother, Roger, served a federal prison sentence for nonviolent cocaine trafficking. Reform and liberalization of prison could well come under Clinton's leadership.

In preparation of a research report I'm working on for Hofstra I read about various progressive prison systems that President Clinton may consider. In Scandinavian countries citizens from local communities participate in panels designed to oversee and facilitate positive adjustments for offenders. Prisoners meet with "ombudsmen panels" at the beginning of their terms and together they work to establish clearly defined, individualized programs that prisoners may follow to reconcile with society and earn their freedom through merit. No similar program exists in our justice system, though under Clinton there's hope for change. Hope has been a mantra of Clinton's throughout the campaign, and if he wants to restore it for people in prison, he'll need a different kind of system.

Instead of a system that encourages offenders to embrace societal values, studies combined with my experiences convince me that our system has a dramatically different mission with dramatically different outcomes. It began to deteriorate in 1973, after Robert Martinson, a criminologist, published "Nothing Works." It was an influential study suggesting that regardless of what programs administrators initiated, people in prison were incapable of reform. Then Professor James Q. Wilson, a mentor of Dr. DiIulio's, published his widely quoted book, Thinking About Crime. In that book, Professor Wilson suggested that society ought to limit the functions of prisons to two goals: isolate and punish. I'd like to see a different approach, and under President Clinton's leadership, I'm hopeful for meaningful reforms.

Either way, I'm on my own, knowing that I must succeed in spite of external forces. The concepts of isolation, deterrence, and punishment don't concern me. I'm making daily progress by staying physically fit and putting in long hours of study toward my master's degree. Regardless of whether President Clinton appoints enlightened leadership to change the system or not, I'll continue to learn and grow. Neither the system of punishment nor anything else will block me from achieving the goals that I set.

Despite the rigid, punishment-based policies espoused by theorists like Martinson and DiIulio and endorsed by the BOP–policies that thwart my struggle to emerge as a capable and contributing citizen–I'm heartened to learn of leaders who embrace what I consider an enlightened system of justice. Some come from surprising places, like the United States Supreme Court.

In a 1985 commencement speech entitled "Factories With Fences," Former Chief Justice Warren Burger called for the graduating students from Pace University to reform America's growing prison system. Instead of perpetuating a system that simply isolates and punishes, Justice Burger urged changes within the system that would encourage prisoners to work toward "earning and learning their way to freedom."

Although eight years have passed since Justice Burger delivered his speech, the Bureau of Prisons has done little to implement his vision. I don't see any way to earn freedom. Through my work and achievements I want to become an example and a catalyst for change. I may not advance my release date, but I will contribute, and I will lead a life of relevance. I will show by example that self-discipline and education can lead a prisoner to emerge as a contributing citizen, and I will urge reforms that encourage others to do the same.

*******

I'm inspired by what I've learned from The Future of Imprisonment, a book Dr. Norval Morris published in the 1970s. Dr. Morris wrote that prisons in an enlightened society should enable prisoners to rise to their highest levels of competence. His thoughts resonate with me so I write him. Thinking that he's still a law professor at Harvard, I send my letter of introduction to Cambridge. I want him to know that his work has touched my life, and I ask for his guidance going forward.

Several months pass before I receive his response. Administrators at Harvard forwarded my letter, as Dr. Morris moved to become the Julius Kreeger Professor of Law at The University of Chicago. He responded graciously to my letter, offering to advise me with my studies at Hofstra and throughout the remainder of my term. "I may be of particular help to you at times," he writes, "as I've known every director of the Bureau of Prisons, and the past three directors are close friends of mine. Count on my support if you run into any obstacles with your pursuit of education."

Dr. Morris's support boosts my spirits. To have distinguished academics like Professors McPherson, DiIulio, and Morris as mentors means that I'll have guidance from the same professionals who offer expert opinions to legislators and to the highest levels of prison administrators. The professors will have an interest in preparing me for release; I can trust in them to advocate for me if I need help.

Through our letters and phone calls, Dr. Morris and I become friends. He encourages me to call him Norval and introduces me to other leading American penologists. I begin to correspond with professors from across the United States, including scholars such as Leo Carroll, Todd Clear, Francis Cullen, Timothy Flanagan, Tara Gray, and Marilyn McShane. They all support my efforts and invite me to contribute to their work. As a prisoner who studies prisons from the inside and shares what he knows with the world of academia, I'm evidently unique. Dr. George Cole, an author and Chair of the Political Science Department at the University of Connecticut, pledges his support. We begin to build a close friendship.

Liberation seeps incrementally into my psyche with each of these relationships. I'm less susceptible to the hopelessness that pervades the lives around me. The woman I loved left me and I serve a sentence that is still measured in decades, but I've created a sense of meaning and I feel as though I'm making progress, which is the key to growth.

*******

Bruce and I have completed our collaboration on "Transcending the Wall" about the importance of education in transforming prisoners' lives. He generously gives me credit as the first author but it is Bruce who coordinates publication in the scholarly, peer-reviewed Journal of Criminal Justice Education. As I told Bruce during our summer visit in 1993, our publication serves a pragmatic purpose.

"I need to start thinking about transferring from this penitentiary," I tell him during one of our visits.

"Are you feeling threatened?" he asks, on alert.

Bruce read about the violence at USP Atlanta in a New York Times article that cited it as one of the nation's most dangerous high security prisons. He's always concerned about my safety.

"My schedule keeps me away from trouble, but gang activity is more intense every day. It's violent, bloodshed every week. I think it's time to request a transfer."

"So what's stopping you?"

"I need more information. The thing is, when a prisoner asks for a transfer there's no telling where the BOP will send him. It's like playing roulette. I need to transfer to the most education-friendly prison possible."

"Can Norval help you?"

"He can help, and he said he would. The problem is that I don't know where to go. If I ask for a transfer the BOP will probably send me closer to Seattle, but being closer to home isn't as important as the preparations I need to make for when I get out."

"What do we need to do?" I always love Bruce's steadfast support, and I especially appreciate his use of the "we," meaning he's always on board to help.

"I need to find the best prison for educational programming, but not according to what staff members say. I need inside information from actual prisoners who serve time in the institutions."

Bruce doesn't understand why the prisoners' perspective is so valuable to me when I actively avoid close interactions with the penitentiary population.

I try to explain. "If someone were to inquire about educational opportunities here at USP Atlanta, the staff would discuss the basic programs. They would say that teachers, classrooms, and even college programs are available. But I'm the only prisoner out of 2,500 who's earned a degree here, and there's a reason for that. It's because, despite what staff members say, the atmosphere in here is oppressive and the policies in practice discourage us from pursuing an education."

"Yes, but you've gotten around the obstacles here. What makes you think that you won't get around them wherever you go?"

"The reason I make progress here is because I have support from Ms. Stephens, Mr. Chandler, and a few others. They let me create a schedule that allows me to avoid problems and gives me access to computers; they intervene when policies or staff members try to block me. When I get to the next prison I'm just another prisoner, and I'll be facing obstacles there like everyone else, including from BOP staff members that may resent me for striving to become something more. Those kinds of staff members throw up insurmountable barriers. I see them every day here, but this penitentiary has become as familiar to me as the back of my hand and I know how to get around in here. I need details and the up-to-date truth from prisoners about what goes on in other prisons. With that information I can decide where to request a transfer."

Our conversation evolves into a plan. Bruce writes a letter of introduction to Sylvia McCollum, the Director of Education for the entire Bureau of Prisons. He lists his credentials as a retired professor of education from Chicago and explains that for the past several years he has been mentoring me. He includes a copy of the article we co-authored, offering to travel to Washington to meet with Ms. McCollum and discuss contributions he might make to the Bureau of Prisons as a volunteer.

Had I written to Sylvia McCollum directly, it's unlikely that my letter would've reached her, or that I would've received a response. With Bruce as my emissary, on the other hand, I knew that I would have a better chance of receiving the data I was looking to find.

Bruce visited Ms. McCollum at her office in DC, at the Bureau of Prisons headquarters. She welcomed his offer to mentor other prisoners and even congratulated me through Bruce on the progress I've made. When he told her that he wanted to help others, Ms. McCollum encouraged him. She gave him clearance to visit any federal prison he wanted and instructed those who presided over education departments to accommodate him by arranging private meetings with the prisoners who were most active in education programs.

"I'm ready to begin my journey," Bruce tells me over the phone after describing his successful meeting with Ms. McCollum. "Where should I go?"

*******

The research work pays off. With Bruce and Norval's assistance, I successfully coordinate my transfer after learning that the best prison for education is FCI McKean. It's wonderful news when guards inform me that I'm being transferred out of the United States Penitentiary and that I'm on my way to McKean.

"Santos. 16377-004." I respond to the guard who processes me in for transfer as he calls me forward.

He shakes my wrists to ensure the handcuffs are secure and then yanks on the chain around my waist.

"Whadda we got goin' on down here?" The guard pulls my pant legs out from between my skin and the steel bracelets locked around my ankles.

"I didn't get any socks, sir. The chains were digging into my shins."

"Gonna have to live with it. Security first." He tightens the cuffs to ensure I don't pull the pant legs through again. Then he clears me.

I once read a novel by Wilbur Smith describing the horrific experiences of people who were locked in chains after slave traders captured them. The slaves were forced to walk across rough terrain to the ships stealing them from Africa. The descriptions sickened me when I read the novel and I'm reminded of them as I shuffle my way onto the bus. The steel rings once again cut into my skin, but by shortening my steps I lessen the pain.

My stomach churns despite three earlier trips to the bathroom. My body hasn't moved faster than my legs could carry it since 1988, the last time I was in a vehicle. Now, in the spring of 1994, I'm sitting on an uncomfortable seat in the prison bus that is about to transport me out of USP Atlanta. Diesel fumes from the engines make me nauseous and beads of sweat form on my forehead

It's been seven years since my arrest. I'm now 30-years-old, certainly a different man, though still a prisoner with a long, steep climb into more darkness.

I smile as I settle into the black vinyl seat, recalling how I engineered this transfer. With Norval's help the administrative obstacles to the transfer were insignificant. Bruce visited five prisons and spoke with several prisoners in each. Clearly, the news about the Federal Correctional Institution in Bradford, Pennsylvania, known as FCI McKean, suggested that it would be my best choice. The prisoners at McKean refer to it as "Dream McKean," with a progressive warden, Dennis Luther, who wholeheartedly supports educational programs.

Ordinarily the documented address of release residence in my case file would've prohibited my transfer to McKean. The BOP confined me in the Southeast region because of my arrest in South Florida, but my release address is Seattle.

"I can submit a transfer for you to FCI McKean," my case manager told me when I asked, "but I know the Region isn't going to approve it. You don't have a release address for that part of the country, and I know you'll either be sent to a prison in the West or another prison here in the Southeast."

"I don't care about being close to home. I've got too much time left to serve and McKean's the best spot to finish my education." I persisted with the request, knowing she wanted to help.

"Look, I support you and I'm going to submit you for McKean. I'm just telling you what's going to happen. Once I send the file to the regional office it's out of my hands, and no one in that office knows anything about you."

My case manager, Ms. Forbes, had attended my graduation in 1992 and helped me make arrangements with the mailroom to receive the books I needed from the Hofstra library. She supported my efforts but was honest in telling me what she thought would happen once she put forth my file for transfer. I existed only as a number in the system, and I understood that all consideration from staff at USP Atlanta would end with my transfer request.

After that conversation with my case manager I called Norval and explained the advantages that FCI McKean offered along with the challenges I would have in transferring. Norval said he knew the regional director and promised to call him on my behalf. That was two days ago.

When the bus engine begins to roar, I feel ready to leave. I've lived through six holiday seasons amidst prisoners serving multiple life sentences in the penitentiary. Transitioning to a medium-security prison means encountering less volatility and more optimism, I hope.

As I wait for the bus to roll along, my thoughts, curiously, turn to my eventual release. I submitted a petition for clemency about six months ago. It wasn't my intention to submit the petition until 1997, when I would've completed my first decade. But after discussing my plan with Norval, he convinced me on the merits of submitting the petition at once.

"These efforts take time and work," Norval explained, "and clemency is extremely rare, especially in this political climate. I don't see any advantage in waiting until 1997. You've earned one university degree and you're well on your way to earning a second. Draft a petition now and send it to me for review. I think you should get the process started."

With Norval's letter of support, I proudly sent my petition to the U.S. pardon attorney in Washington. That was more than six months ago. Whenever I've made an inquiry on the progress, I received form letters that say my petition is under review. I have no idea what will happen, if anything. I can't grasp the concept of 19 more years in prison. But I'm transferring from a high-security penitentiary to a medium-security FCI now, and I'm excited about the change of scenery, even if I'm still immersed in a population of more than 1,500 felons.

I'm reading from chapter five of Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos.

It's the story of my prison journey. For a full copy, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Months 58-62

Since I received the divorce papers from Lisa, my interactions with women have been limited to Ms. Stephens, my work supervisor, and Susan, my friend from high school with whom I've had an ongoing, friendly correspondence. But those relationships don't have any possibility for intimacy. This thing with Sarah is different. She lives in Atlanta, and her proximity causes me to fantasize that I could seduce her, make her my woman. Given the rules of this place, however, initiating physical intimacy will be a major challenge. Still, forced celibacy doesn't diminish my thirst for love or my desire for sex.

Thoughts of love have been on my mind for years. Another prisoner, Eugene Fischer, fed my hopes with a story about Orianna Fallaci, a world-famous journalist who loved a man who served time in a Greek prison for an attempted assassination. I wonder whether I could find a woman who would see me as a man and love me despite my imprisonment. I'm 28, and I refuse to give up on the possibilities.

Upon receiving the invitation to attend my graduation, Sarah surprises me by driving over to the penitentiary. I'm on a volunteer suicide-watch duty in the hospital, looking after a despondent prisoner, when I receive the call. While I study for final exams, the guard hollers my name from the other side of locked gates.

"Santos!" he yells. "Let's go!" I see him standing outside the gate, fumbling with the ring of keys hanging on a chain attached to his belt.

"What?" I have no idea what he's talking about.

"We've been paging you for 30 minutes. You're supposed to report to the visiting room."

"I didn't hear a page." I close my books and walk toward the guard.

"Leave the books. You're late. I've got to take you straight to visiting."

"Why?"

"Your attorney is here and she's been waiting. Didn't you know she was coming?"

"I didn't have any idea." The 15-minute walk takes me through a maze of gates and courtyards and metal detectors and corridors. With each step I'm thinking about Sarah. She's not on my visiting list, so I wonder how she got in. If she felt this urgency to see me, perhaps it's to tell me face-to-face that my invitation went too far and to clarify where we stand. Or maybe it's something else.

*******

Some prisoners' families live near Atlanta and I hear the institutional loudspeaker page those men for visits regularly. Until this back and forth with Sarah began, my focus on school extinguished any longing to sit in the visiting room. Sarah's surprise visit breaks my routine. The strip search by an inquisitive guard doesn't even bother me.

After the full inspection I pull on my boxers and socks, step back into my khakis, tuck in my shirt, and lace my sneakers tightly before walking into the visiting room.

Since Sarah came as a lawyer, I'm directed past the stairs leading down into the general visiting room where hundreds of people sit beside each other under the scrutiny of guards and surveillance cameras. The guard instructs me to walk across the hall to one of the private conference rooms.

"She's in two," he says.

Through the narrow vertical window cut into the wooden door I see Sarah for the first time in three months, since that day she handed me her business card. For a second I pause to watch her. She's seated at a small table, absorbed with a stack of papers. Black designer sunglasses hold her long, honey-colored hair away from her face while she works. She's prettier than I remember. I knock, startling her. She looks over at me, smiles, and waves me in.

As I open the door she stands and quickly straightens her navy skirt. Suddenly we're face to face in a room half the size of my cell.

"Surprise!" she greets me as I close the door. Her perfume lingers in the air and I inhale the subtle, sweet fragrance.

"Wow! This is a surprise. How'd you get in without being on my list?"

"Lawyer privileges. I just flash my bar card. What took you so long to get here?"

I smile. "I didn't know you were coming."

"It's okay. I brought some work with me. How about a hug?" She opens her arms.

Her arms encircle me in a friendly gesture. I've been deprived of a woman's touch for almost 3 years and I load the gesture with a lot more meaning. I'm awkward, unsure if I should hold her slender waist or keep my hands high on her back. The embrace lasts a second, but in that second, through her silk blouse, I feel the warmth of her back on my hands and her breasts pressing into my chest.

"It's cozy," she says, looking around the small room. Some designer of prisons splurged by using two shades to paint the concrete walls–dark beige to shoulder height and a lighter beige up to the matching ceiling above. Its dreariness contrasts with Sarah's radiance. She moves the suit jacket she's folded over the back of the extra chair and we sit.

When she asks whether I've ever been in this part of the visiting room, I shake my head no, telling her that I hardly ever come to the visiting room. She nods, in empathy I think. "So you're graduating next month. Congratulations!" Her eyes shine as she leans back, pushing her fingers through her hair.

"I'm looking forward to the commencement ceremony. Did you get my letter inviting you to come?"

"I did. That's why I'm here."

"Uh-oh."

"What do you mean?"

"If you went to all the trouble of driving out here just to give me an answer, it probably means you can't come, or you won't come."

"No, not at all. I'd love to watch you receive your degree. It's just that you've expressed so much admiration for Bruce, and you wrote that they'd only allow you to have two visitors. Maybe you should invite him and your sister. I can visit you any time."

"Well Bruce will be on vacation, but I asked you because I want you here. Will you come?"

Our eyes lock as she smiles, nodding yes.

"Good, I want you to meet my sister, Julie. I've written to her about you."

"Really? What about?"

"Just that I've made a new friend and that we're corresponding. My sister and I are close. She worries about me, wants me to be happy."

"I understand. Sounds like you've got a great sister."

"Two great sisters," I say. "The best."

Sarah and I talk for three hours, discussing challenges I've faced, plans I'm making, and steps she's taking to open her own practice. Without a doubt, I'm relishing the electricity between us, feeling a connection that hasn't been a part of my existence for years. When I stand to leave we share a longer embrace, and she promises to return before my graduation. I'll hold onto this memory of her breasts pressing into my chest. It's been the best day since my confinement began.

*******

I return to my cell and read. My brother-in-law, Tim, purchased a subscription to The Wall Street Journal for me last year. He's building a career as an investment real estate broker and he advises me to familiarize myself with finance. Appreciating his advice, I make a point of carefully reading each issue. Learning more about the stock market helps me understand how to value public companies and reading the Journal broadens my business education. Rather than following sports, I devote time to commerce every day, convinced that the education will make me more capable of contributing to any business that will employ me once I'm released.

I read an editorial in the Journal that upsets me. John DiIulio, a professor of politics at Princeton University, wrote a scathing article calling for society to build more prisons and urging administrators to manage them with tighter controls and fewer privileges. Wanting to provide him with a different perspective, I write him directly.

In my letter I express my disagreement with his premise, explaining why we don't need more prisons in America with tighter controls. Rather, we need strong, intelligent leadership to make better use of the prison resources we have. Instead of locking so many nonviolent people up and eradicating hope, I suggest administrators should implement policies that encourage prisoners to work toward educating themselves, reconciling with society, and earning freedom.

I explain to Professor DiIulio what I've seen during the five years I've served. Most prisoners give up while they serve time. Many join gangs, hustle drugs and weapons, or incite disturbances. Oppressive policies cause negative adjustments. Instead, we need policies similar to those in business that encourage people to contribute with meaningful incentives. I explain to the Princeton scholar that I strive to live as a model for such reforms, that I'm about to graduate from Mercer University and that I'll begin graduate school at Hofstra University in the fall. I conclude my letter by restating that by inspiring more prisoners to focus on preparing for release, prison leadership could better serve the interests of society by, among things, lowering recidivism rates.

Dr. DiIulio surprises me by responding to my letter. Even though I've never stepped foot on a campus, universities have become a big part of my life. Holding the heavy stock of the envelope and letterhead gives me a charge. Wow! Princeton University. It's one thing for me to write an unsolicited letter but quite another to receive a response. Through his letter he validates and honors me as a contributing citizen, as a man, not a prisoner. It's moments like these that inspire me to keep up the work of building my support network. I'm on the right path.

Dr. DiIulio agrees with all I expressed in my letter but says that the limitation of an op-ed piece doesn't permit him enough space to elaborate on all his thoughts. After informing me that he has published extensively on the subject of prison management, he offers to send books I can read and comment on. It is the beginning of another fascinating correspondence.

*******

To broaden my education, Bruce insists that I read classic literature, especially the plays of William Shakespeare. He sent me a complete anthology. Although I'm not smart enough to find much value in the poetry, I've read every play and I enjoyed many. From Julius Caesar, a line stays with me:

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in the shallows and in miseries.

In Dr. DiIulio's offer to correspond with me, I find a new opportunity to read critically and to challenge opinions with confidence. It's as if my tide has come in and the flood is leading to fortune. I feel it. If an Ivy League professor finds me worthy of his mentoring energies I'll have an incredible resource, another strong academic reference that will distinguish me from other prisoners.

*******

May 12, 1992 is a day I've been working toward ever since guards processed me into USP Atlanta. I'm so excited. I feel as if I'm being released, and in a way, I am. I'm being lifted above a life of insignificance, distinguishing myself as a college graduate. It's a credential I'll carry for the rest of my life. A sense of liberty comes with this accomplishment, because regardless of how the prison system tries to direct me, I know where I'm going. I will leverage my degree to pry open new opportunities, and on this day, at least, I'm more than just a prisoner.

I wrote and rewrote a speech for the commencement ceremony, four single-spaced pages. For the past six weeks I've practiced my delivery at every opportunity and after hundreds of rehearsals I've committed each word, sentence, and paragraph to memory. I knew this day would have significance. Now that it's here, I'm glad I took the time to prepare. When it's my turn to speak I think I can stand onstage with confidence that the penitentiary is powerless to repress.

Immediately after the guards clear the afternoon census count I walk with a hundred other prisoners to the education building. The carefully scripted ceremony will begin at five in the chapel. Mr. Chandler and his subordinates have taken care to prepare and honor the dignitaries from Mercer University who will share the stage with Warden Stock and members of his executive staff. Although I want to impress those community leaders, mostly I'm eager for Julie and Sarah to see me.

The prisoners who've earned their GEDs cheer. During my speech I want to inspire them to continue their education, as I plan to do myself. We have a responsibility to change this system. The best way to bring change is to develop skills and credentials to ensure we emerge into society successfully, as well-educated citizens, ready to contribute. As a prisoner, I also want the Mercer administrators to leave with a clear understanding of the need for more educational opportunities in prison. And I want my speech to inspire everyone in the auditorium, especially my sister and Sarah.

Julie is 29 now, working as a young executive with an international cosmetics company. We've only visited a few times since I arrived in Atlanta. Her professional responsibilities, an active social life, and the geographical distance between us make traveling to Atlanta difficult. For years she has accepted my collect phone calls, sent me money to purchase goods in the commissary, and paid my educational costs. She is vested in every choice I make and I'm determined to show her that her trust and support are well placed. With Sarah, I have different motivations. I'm a man and I want a woman in my life.

The music opening our graduation ceremonies begins, and I walk at the head of the procession, leading all the graduates who are now in matching black gowns and caps with tassels. In the audience I see a dozen people I presume came from Mercer; Julie and Sarah sit in the front row. Dr. Colin Harris, one of my favorite professors, is on the stage with Jean Owens, Mercer's outreach program coordinator. Mr. Chandler sits beside them with the warden and several other staff members. I can't quit smiling, grateful for the recognition. I walk to the front row to take my seat.

As Mr. Chandler opens the ceremony with obligatory expressions of gratitude to the warden and other staff members, I exchange glances with Julie and Sarah. Then, we all bow our heads as Dr. Harris, Professor of Religion, gives the invocation. Next, Jean Owens delivers the keynote, turning me crimson as she tells the audience about my work ethic and determination. She describes the bright future that opens with education. Using the catchy slogan to promote Michael Jordan's basketball shoes, Ms. Owens encourages those in the audience to "be like Mike," referring not to the basketball legend but to me, and she urges those in the audience to continue their studies.

I think I might have to excuse myself and find a bathroom, but when it's my turn to speak, I walk with assurance to the stage to deliver the valedictory address, all else forgotten. I feel so tall at the lectern, like I've just grown six inches. I turn to my left and thank those from Mercer University, then to my right to thank the prison staff, and then out at my audience of graduates, staff, and guests in the cushioned seats, thanking them for attending.

Without notes I deliver my speech that I've carefully rehearsed hundreds of times. Julie beams with pride in the front row, and I see Sarah grasp her hand. They've only just met, but in their support of me they've come together. Those 12 minutes on stage feel as if they're the most positively energizing of my entire life.

The audience gives a standing ovation. Even Warden Stock stands and gives me an affirmative nod when I look his way. Elated, I return to my seat, squeezing my sister's hand as I pass in front of her. The other prisoners and I then receive our diplomas. Mr. Chandler gives closing remarks and ends the ceremony in order to maintain the schedule. We don't have time for a reception. After all, this is a penitentiary. I'm the only prisoner with guests, and no allowance is given for further visitation. At least they were allowed to come for my memorable moment, and I'm in high spirits.

"You were awesome!"

"Send us a copy of your speech."

"I'm so proud of you."

Though it's involuntary, a smile stretches across my face as I walk between my sister and Sarah through the corridor. I stop at the entrance to B cellblock and, under the watchful eyes of the warden, I give each of my guests a hug good-bye.

*******

I'm paged to the mailroom, and when I show up, Mr. Chandler is standing at the door. "Boy, all the years you done been locked up and you still ain't learned nothin'?"

I know this routine and I stand waiting for the head of the education department to continue his reprimand, though I don't have any idea what he's talking about or why he paged me to the mailroom.

"I done tol' you befo' 'bout havin' yo folk' send boxes to my depar'ment without axin' me 'forehand."

"Yes, I remember. I haven't had anyone send me any boxes."

"If you ain't had no one send no boxes, then why I gotta go through this mess lookin' through books that done come from Princeton University?"

A month has passed since my correspondence with Professor DiIulio, and when I wrote that I would welcome the books, I wasn't thinking about the mailroom rules. If books come from a publisher or bookstore in an envelope, we're allowed to receive them. For a prisoner to receive boxes, a staff member must provide advance authorization.

"Don't be standin' there with your mouth all hangin' open like you ain't know these is comin'. Letter's addressed to you."

"I thought the books would come in an envelope from the bookstore," I say in way of an apology and explanation. "I didn't know there would be so many."

"Who this Professa D'oolioo? You know 'im?"

"Not really. I just wrote him. He teaches at Princeton and writes books. He wrote that he would send me some books but I didn't know they would come like this."

"Boy you a real piece a work." He handles the books one by one and squints while reading the titles and flipping through the pages. "Guv'nin' Prisons, No 'xcape. This professa be writin' these books?"

"I guess so."

"What business you got readin' all these books 'bout prison. Ain't you know 'nough 'bout prisons yet?"

"I'm still learning, sir."

"I hope you done learnt 'nough to stay out." I sense Mr. Chandler likes me. My graduation from Mercer and the speech I gave during commencement put a positive spotlight on his department. His gruff demeanor doesn't intimidate me anymore because I know it's just his way.

"Well go 'head on then. Next time make sure you see me 'bout auth'rization."

Jubilant, I carry the box of books back to the business office where I work. Dr. DiIulio sent 17 books, two of which he authored. I sit at my desk and clear a space on the bookshelf behind me. Reading the books will help me build a relationship with him. I intend to write him about what I learn from each, and I especially look forward to reading the books that he wrote. My small personal library will provide ample research material as I begin my studies at Hofstra.

*******

Since I can't earn an accredited law degree from prison I've had to think about what I can study. Although reading the Wall Street Journal, and studying the stock market and finance interest me, I don't want to pursue an MBA. Instead, after consulting with Bruce I propose to Hofstra that I study prisons and the people they hold. My Hofstra advisor is Dr. Al Cohn, Professor of Psychology and he approves of my plan. We establish an interdisciplinary curriculum, with studies in sociology, cultural anthropology, and psychology. To complete the program, Dr. Cohn and other Hofstra professors will evaluate my research reports and the lengthy thesis I must write to earn a Master of Arts degree.

The books from Dr. DiIulio give me a theoretical understanding of the functions prisons should serve in society:

1. Prisons should deter citizens from engaging in criminal behavior.

1. They should punish those who stand convicted of having committed crimes.

1. Prison terms should incapacitate those who serve them from committing additional crimes, at least during the term of confinement.

1. And prisons should rehabilitate offenders in an effort to help them return to society as law-abiding citizens.

After reading Governing Prisons, Dr. DiIulio's comparative study of management in three separate prison systems, I begin collecting information to write my first term paper on prisoner adjustments. The book leads me to several other books and inspires me to develop a questionnaire to conduct original, ethnographic research to be tested on my fellow prisoners. The resulting term paper, which I entitle "The Crusonian Prisoner," is accepted for presentation at an annual conference of the Academy of Criminal Justice Sciences in Chicago, boosting my self-confidence as a student.

Perhaps it's not surprising that my research leads to findings that differ from the distinguished Princeton professor. He calls for tighter controls in American prisons while my observations and experience convince me that administrators should run prisons like leaders run business. They should govern through the use of incentives rather than threat of further punishments. In a letter to him, I offer reasons to support my conclusions and I also send a copy of my academic paper describing the Crusonian prisoner.

*******

"I want to kiss you." Sarah has come to visit five times since my graduation ceremony last month and our letters have become much more personal. Her lawyer privileges allow her to visit whenever she chooses, making the regularly scheduled visiting hours irrelevant. Today is Tuesday, not a visiting day, and it's early evening as I sit with her in one of the private rooms reserved for lawyers and law enforcement interviews. In these lawyer rooms, surveillance cameras do not monitor us. The guard sits at his desk, fifteen yards away on a platform and down a flight of stairs. The intensity of our gaze on each other tells us what we haven't previously expressed in words. I lean across the table when she says it.

"Kissing is something better done than said," I say as I sit back down, still savoring the sweet taste of Sarah's lips, the moist warmth of her tongue.

"You should send me a visitor's form so I can visit you regularly. I could have a problem alone in a room like this with you." She closes her eyes while gripping the edge of the table.

"But this is so much better to visit alone, privately."

"It's dangerous for me, the temptation. I could get into trouble for abusing privileges. The prison could deny me access."

I stand and take two steps toward the door to peer through the narrow window. "Come here. Look at this. The guard at the desk to our right can't come toward us without us seeing him climb the stairs, and the only other entry is from the corridor, requiring unlocking a door to the left. We're alone. I don't want to give up this privacy."

Sarah runs her manicured fingertips over her gray skirt as she stands and walks over. I surrender the window and move behind her. She looks down the hall to the right toward the guard's station and to the left toward the heavy steel door leading in from the main corridor. I'm directly behind her with both of my hands on her hips. With my face I push her hair to the side and I kiss her neck.

"Stop," she whispers while her body presses back.

"Watch. You can see the guard. Tell me if he moves." I continue kissing her, touching her, feeling her, moving with her. For this moment, right now, I'm not a prisoner. I'm a man, 28 and virile, alone with a woman for the first time in five years. My prison record doesn't matter, my goals don't matter, and my freedom doesn't matter. I'm not thinking about her professional standing. In the passion of this moment, neither is Sarah. The decades I must serve seem too far away. I need release, and Sarah is the woman who gives it to me.

When we return to our seats perspiration has glued my shirt to my skin. Sarah is disheveled but glowing.

"My God! What are we doing?" her smile belies a mixture of nervousness and exhilaration after the forbidden interlude.

"Nothing. We're not doing anything," I protest.

"You call that nothing? I could lose my license!"

"For what? As far as anyone is concerned, we're just a lawyer and a client in here. There isn't anything different now from when you walked in here, nothing different from any other time you've visited."

"Your shirt's wet. What are you going to say when you go back in?"

"It's hot in here. Just stay for a while longer, it'll dry."

"How do I look? Can you tell?" Her hands shake as she pulls a compact from her purse. She looks into the tiny mirror.

"You're sexy. I can't take my eyes off you."

She smiles and applies makeup. "You're going to get me in trouble."

Check out the #Straight-A-Guide to learn how to create a solid, self-directed #reentryplan. The harder a person works to #prepareforsuccessafterprison, the more opportunities open. https://prisonprofessors.com/reentry-programs/

I'm reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

I'm excited to see Bruce, my mentor. He's a bear of a man, big in every way, and through our correspondence we've built a friendship that has deepened. I look forward to our weekly exchange of mail and quarterly visits. He now lives in Chicago, having recently retired as a professor. He continues to use his immense talents, and he gives of his wisdom generously with hopes of making societal contributions through his teachings.

Bruce introduced me to his wife, Carolyn, who sometimes accompanies him on visits, and through correspondence I've met his daughter and sons. The bad decisions of my past don't matter to him. My efforts to become a good citizen define me in his eyes. He strives to round out my cultural education by exposing me to art, opera, and theater, and he often stresses the importance of fully investing oneself in the community. Although Windward and other prisoners here don't understand the motivations of a man like Bruce, I see joy in his expressions as he describes the experience of helping others reach their potential.

After the guards at the desk clear me, I walk down the stairs and through the aisles toward where Bruce sits. An aging athlete, he stands to embrace me and I notice his white hair is a little thinner than the last time we met, though his eyes still shine a brilliant blue. He played as an offensive lineman in college football and it's easy to see how his size and strength would've powered open huge holes for his running backs.

"How've you been?" I ask.

"I'm well," he tells me, then says that he heard from Mark. "He told me to send you his regards," Bruce says, embracing me.

"What's he doing?"

Mark was released from prison through parole. With the restrictions that prohibit felons from communicating with each other, I'm losing touch with him except for periodic updates from Bruce.

"He's working for a friend who owns retail clothing stores, doing well. A guy with his moxie always has a place in sales."

"No more school for him then? He's not going to finish his degree?"

"I don't think so. He's putting his life back together and his plans probably don't include much more classroom time."

"That's all I'm doing, putting in classroom time, and I'm grateful for every minute of it."

Bruce reaches over the table to tap my arms. "You're steady at the gym I see. How much are you benching now?"

I beam with pride. "I'm hitting 315 for triple reps, feeling stronger." I tell Bruce about my schedule, how I'm now working out twice a day, once before breakfast and a second time during the lunch hour.

"When are you eating?"

"I eat at work," I explain. "Avoiding the chow hall is still a priority for me. That's where the chaos in here begins, with the racial segregation and the politics, meaning which power group sits in which section. My parents and sisters send me money for commissary, so I buy packs of tuna, soups, other foods that I eat at work. Besides that, I can barter my writing or typing skills for sandwiches from guys who work in the kitchen. Great culinary experiences aren't my priority now."

Bruce nods his head and smiles. "What did you think of the Monet prints?"

To teach me about art Bruce sends postcards and magazine articles. He describes the great museums of the world and writes that he looks forward to walking through the Prado with me in Madrid, the Louvre in Paris, and the Art Institute of Chicago. He buys me subscriptions to The New Yorker and Smithsonian.

"When you get out I've got a whole world to show you. You can visit the Stratford Festival with Carolyn and me in Canada. We're there twice a year to celebrate the performances of Shakespeare plays."

"That's what I need to talk with you about. Getting out." My time in the visiting room is limited so I feel compelled to turn our conversation to something of more immediate importance. "I've got to be thinking about what I'm going to do after I graduate next year."

"How can I help?"

"Well, a lot's been on my mind, but I need other people to make things work. I can't succeed without your help."

"What's on your mind?"

I explain to Bruce why and how I need to build a coalition of support.

"Do you want help raising money to hire a lawyer?"

Bruce misses my point so I try to elaborate. "The people who become a part of my network must join me because they believe in me, like you. I'm not interested in buying support by hiring lawyers. What I need to think about is earning support, building new friendships and relationships with people who will support my efforts to earn freedom. I'm not trying to get out now, but I'm trying to position myself for 1997, when I'll have 10 years in."

"How should we start?"

"Well, one thing I need is support from someone inside the Bureau of Prisons."

I explain my relationship with Ms. Stephens and the ways that she has intervened for me on a local level to smooth out complications with her colleagues who block me from receiving library books and other resources I need for my education.

"What I need is the same kind of help from people who have national influence in the system. The obstacle is that I don't have any direct contact with them. The leaders of the BOP are all in Washington and to them I'm just another prisoner, a number. Ms. Stephens cares because she sees how hard I work, and she goes the extra mile to help me succeed. She believes in me, just as you do."

"How can someone in the BOP help you?"

"I'm not going to be able to make the progress I need from this prison. There's way too much violence here and it's getting worse. We're on lockdown at least once each week. I want to stay here until I earn my degree, but at some point after graduation I need to transfer, and I need to transfer to the best spot in the BOP for continuing my education. I'll need help to identify where that place is and then I'll need help getting transferred there when the time is right."

"So what're you thinking?"

"I read an article in an academic journal by Sylvia McCollum," I explain to Bruce. "She's the Director of Education for the entire Bureau of Prisons. Her article describes how she created a new policy that makes it mandatory for all federal prisoners who don't have a high school equivalency to participate in GED classes. I want to build a relationship with her, to get her support. But I can't just write her a letter because to her I'm simply another drug dealer in prison."

"That's not true," Bruce counters. He always sees the good in everyone and dislikes my cynicism. "She's going to see the record you've been building, your progress in college."

I shake my head, disagreeing. "It's not enough. The culture in this organization is one that trains staff members to consider prisoners as something less than human beings. She'll only see me as a prisoner, a drug dealer, scum. I need to do something more, something to distinguish myself. I was thinking that we could write an article, a response to her article from the perspective of a prisoner and his mentor. It should describe how the GED is one step toward preparing for release, but it's hardly sufficient. Men who leave prison should emerge with values, skills, and resources that will truly translate into success, and a GED isn't enough. The Bureau of Prisons should use incentives that will encourage more prisoners to continue their education with college or vocational training."

"And what're we going to do with the article? Send it to her?"

"That's how I need your help. Not only will we have to write the article, I need you to arrange publication. It would be one thing for me as a prisoner to write an article and send it to her. Big deal. On the other hand, if I were to write an article together with you and send it to her, that would carry more weight, more influence because not many prisoners cultivate mentorships with distinguished professors. But the best approach, I think, would be to write an article that we publish together, as the professor and the prisoner. That's one way I would stand out, one way that she would remember my name, see that I'm different."

Bruce nods his head and agrees to help. When he returns to Chicago, he promises to make inquiries at the various peer-reviewed academic journals to see what steps we must take to submit an article for publishing consideration. It's a process that will take several months, which suits my schedule well, as I need that time to finish my undergraduate work.

"What I also need," I tell Bruce before he leaves, "is a list of all the law schools in the United States. I need to start writing letters to see if any of the schools will allow me to earn a law degree through correspondence."

"So you're still set on law school?"

"I'm set on earning an advanced degree, something, anything more than a bachelor's. I'm going to need unimpeachable credentials that people respect, like yours."

Bruce is a role model and I'm eager to follow his leadership, to emulate his commitment to society. He told me how he and Carolyn were volunteering their time on weekends to help homeless people in a Chicago shelter write résumés that would facilitate their prospects for employment. Bruce and Carolyn give of themselves, without expectation for return or desire for recognition. Success for Bruce comes when his efforts lead to another person's independence or happiness. I'm determined to prove myself worthy of his generosity, of the trust and the investment he's making in me.

*******

This hard plank of steel I'm lying on influences my thought process. I'm locked in this small room with another man who uses the toilet and flushes a few feet to the right of my head. What Bruce and Carolyn do to make life better for so many people gives me a different perspective on humanity. I know that my motivations lack the purity of Bruce's, as I'm so much more pragmatic. I want out, so there's always a selfish component to my actions, and that somehow cheapens them in my mind. I contemplate Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, a concept I learned about in sociology. Until a man satisfies his most basic needs he can't evolve. My primary need is liberty, and decades may pass before I leave these walls. Everything I do up until then must prepare me for freedom. Perhaps when I'm free from concrete and steel I'll be able to emulate Bruce more completely. I want to live as that type of a good, kind man. But I don't know how to reconcile this desire to live with the kindness and generosity of spirit that Bruce exemplifies with the need for survival in a predatory environment.

My philosophy courses have broadened my perceptions, explaining man's purpose, his relationship to society, his quest for personal fulfillment and enlightenment. I've embraced lessons from Aristotle and Sun Tzu among others. Aristotle advises those who follow him "to know thyself," while Sun Tzu emphasizes that it is equally important "to know thy enemy."

Know thyself and know thy enemy. I wrestle with these thoughts. I know I must thoroughly understand my strengths and weaknesses. I must use every resource God has given me to become stronger and to grow. Likewise, I must understand my enemies. In my case, the enemies are a corrupting environment, demeaning perceptions, and ugly prejudices I will encounter in the decades ahead, perhaps for the rest of my life. Responsibility to triumph over a system that is designed to extinguish hope and to perpetuate cycles of failure rests with me. Solely.

*******

I'm grateful that Bruce takes the time to visit the American Bar Association in Chicago. He sends me a package of information that includes addresses to every ABA accredited law school in the nation. All of the schools I've written to have responded with disappointing news that the ABA prohibits law schools from allowing students to earn law degrees through correspondence. But there's a sliver of hope that comes in a letter from Dr. Al Cohn, a professor at Hofstra University's graduate school.

Dr. Cohn wrote that my letter impressed the Dean of Hofstra's law school, and the dean forwarded the letter to him. Although Hofstra can't allow me to earn a law degree without attending school there, Dr. Cohn's letter indicates that he might consider waiving the residency requirement if I pursue a graduate degree. Hofstra has never admitted a prisoner before, he admits, but he admires my determination to educate myself. If I earn my undergraduate degree with an acceptable grade point average, propose an acceptable area of study in which I can specialize, and complete a probationary period of conditional admittance, he will waive the requirements of taking the Graduate Records Examination and on-campus residency. Wow! Dr. Cohn tells me that Hofstra will allow me to earn a master's degree if I meet those requirements.

I've read that roughly 30 percent of American adults have earned university degrees, but fewer than 15 percent have graduate or professional degrees. My aspirations are not to become a lawyer, necessarily, but to earn credentials that others respect. I'm certain that the higher my level of achievement, the more I'll be able to build a support network, one that will help me transition from prisoner to citizen.

As I contemplate Dr. Cohn's letter I can't help but think of Mick Jagger, the rock-and-roll legend. He sings that you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. I may not earn a law degree, but with the opportunity extended by Hofstra University I know that nothing is going to stop me from earning a master's degree.

*******

I pass my fifth Christmas in prison. It's now 1992, I'm 28, and in only a few months Mercer University will award my undergraduate degree. This is a big deal for me. Out of more than 2,500 men locked inside USP Atlanta's walls, I'm the only one to receive a degree. In fact, Mercer hasn't awarded a degree to any prisoner since I've been in Atlanta.

I'm inspired by other men who used their knowledge and prison experience to make significant contributions, like Alexander Solzhenitsyn whose eight years in a Russian prison was followed by three years in exile. His hardship awoke his muse, resulting in such classics as A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and his opus, The Gulag Archipelago, exposing readers from around the world to Russia's oppressive prison life.

Eight years, whether in Russian prison camps or the United States penitentiaries, is a long time. Through his literature Solzhenitsyn made monumental contributions to society and earned a Nobel Prize, and he inspires me. As crazy as it sounds, a seed is taking root, and I feel the bud of this thought that maybe, through hard work, I can transform the decades I'll serve in here into something positive. I've begun to accept that I may serve my entire sentence, and I need more examples like Solzhenitsyn's. Not knowing what I can do for 21 more years, I continue reading about other men who served long sentences.

One such prisoner was Nelson Mandela, the black South African activist locked in prison for 27 years by white authorities between 1962 and 1990. That length of time is comparable to what I may serve, and I take heart that multiple decades did not destroy Mandela. On the contrary, it strengthened his resolve, evidenced by his influence in ending the oppressive policies of Apartheid, and by the position he now holds as a world leader, revered throughout the international community.

*******

I don't know what it means to be an intellectual like Solzhenitsyn or a leader like Mandela, but I know what it means to face decades in prison. I also know what it means to be a man, and recently I've met a woman who's reminded me of all I've been living without.

Her name is Sarah, and she's a lawyer. We met by chance two months ago when we were in the visiting room at the same time. My father had flown in just before Christmas to spend a weekend with me. Sarah was visiting another prisoner I knew. Under the pretense that I might need some legal advice I asked Sarah for her business card. Yet having lived for so long in an abnormal community of only men, I wanted a woman in my life more than I wanted to know anything about the law.

The dance of seduction begins when I write to her, initiating an exchange of letters. She writes back. At first the correspondence is bland, tame, harmless. Soon the letters between us grow in frequency and in complexity. They're handwritten now, not typed. I learn that she earned her degrees from NYU, that she contemplates starting her own law firm, and that she's 30. I also know that she named her cat Snuggles, that she rollerblades, loves aerobics, and is recovering from a broken heart. She's vulnerable. Through our exchange of letters, I'm coming to know Sarah the woman, and in my world, any connection with a woman is a gift.

Desire creeps into me, threatens me. I've been successful in repressing or ignoring these urges that have been dormant for so long, but now they keep me awake. I remind myself where I am, what I went through with Lisa, and the goals I'm working so feverishly to complete.

But another fever takes hold. Every day I ache for a letter from her, for something, any kind of sign that lets me know where this is going, how much I can escalate the heat. I don't remember what I wrote in the letter she should've received today, and like a teenager, I wonder whether I went too far, revealed too much. She must know what's going on with this exchange of letters, that I want her.

It's mail call and the guard just flicked her letter beneath my door. I see her stationary, her handwriting, and I pick up the envelope. She wrote her words yesterday, making it an exchange of three letters this week. I'm on her mind. In the words she chooses I catch some suggestive double meanings. My confidence grows. We're flirting and we both know it, and I want to see her again. I'm a man in the desert and she's my oasis.

I graduate next month. Mercer University is honoring me with a ceremony. I can't travel to the campus, so my commencement will take place inside USP Atlanta, in the chapel. A hundred other prisoners will participate, receiving GED certificates or certificates for completion of basic education classes. Even though I'm a class of one, I'm invited to speak as valedictorian. Mr. Chandler authorized me to invite two visitors, and I'm choosing my sister Julie and Sarah. If Sarah accepts it may be the sign I'm looking for, confirmation that the desire I'm feeling is mutual.

I'm reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

A week later I'm sitting on the lower rack when a guard flicks an envelope beneath my door. I lean over to pick up the envelope and read "University of North Carolina" on the return address. For a moment I just hold it in my hand, tracing my fingers over the embossed lettering and the university logo. The wreath signifies academia, and a charge of excitement runs through me. I'm a 26-year old man, yet I open the envelope with the same giddy anticipation as a child anticipating birthday money from his grandparents.

Dr. McPherson's letter expresses his enthusiasm to mentor me through my term, and he asks me to mail him the visiting authorization form. He also writes that I should soon receive a book he sent separately, from the university's bookstore. Wanting to share my good fortune I pass the letter to Windward for him to read.

"What's the big deal?"

"What do you mean?" Windward's indifference puzzles me. "He's a professor, and he wants to help me."

"Big fuckin' deal! What can he do? He's probably a fag."

"How can you say that? He's an educator, he has his own life out there, and he's offering to help me. Why would you insult him?"

"Don't cry, little guy," he mocks when he notes my offense at his dismissive response. "I'm just sayin', what the fuck can he possibly do for you? You've got to think about what people want, Dude. Why would he want to write someone he doesn't know? It don't make no sense."

Windward fits right in to the penitentiary culture. He not only accepts defeat for himself, he expects those around him to do the same. Nothing good comes with the prison experience. Therefore, any indication that someone may succeed in overcoming pessimism and despair threatens his belief in failure as the inevitable. Failure is comfortable to him, a real concept. Working toward anything different, or better, upsets his equilibrium.

"Give me back my letter." I'm learning that within this tenebrous environment my enthusiasm must be internal. Sharing victories, no matter how small, only breeds more sarcasm.

With the news of Bruce's interest in my life I instantly ascend ten rungs up my virtual ladder to freedom. If nothing else, his friendship will help lift me out of the caverns of ignorance where I dwell.

*******

When my counselor, Mr. Skinner, receives Bruce's completed visiting form he calls my office supervisor, Ms. Stephens, with a summons for me to report to his office.

"Do you know a Bruce McPherson?" The counselor sits at his metal desk in his cubbyhole office reading from the visiting form that he holds in his hand. With greasy gray hair and a stained white shirt, his appearance, like his office, is a disorganized mess. The office stinks of stale tobacco and his body odor.

"Yes. He's a professor and he's helping with my school work."

"So you sent him this visiting form?" He flicks the form with his fingers.

"That's right."

"Well he's not getting in. I'm not authorizing him to visit."

The dehumanization continues. Prisoners have to ask permission for everything, and I'm accustomed to the apparent malevolent satisfaction some staff members get from denying requests. Still, this denial is more of a slap to my dignity than most because I'm convinced that I can grow through Bruce's mentoring.

"Can you tell me the reason?" I don't understand why the counselor won't authorize Bruce's request to visit.

"You didn't know him before you started serving your sentence. That's all the reason I need to deny him."

"But he's a professor and he's offering to help me, to teach me."

"I don't care if he's the Pope. We've got rules in here! We don't know why he's coming to see you, what you've got going on with him. Security of the institution, Son! In order to visit, rules say the relationship had to exist before your imprisonment."

"Counselor Skinner, I'm from Seattle. No one visits me. Bruce McPherson is someone who can guide me through my prison term. Can't you make an exception?"

"Go back to work. Give me your pass to sign." He's unwilling to listen any longer.

Dejected, I walk back to the business office. I sink into my chair and hold my head in my hands. Our country goes to war over supposed human rights violations, yet it feels to me as if such violations occur within the federal prison system every day of the year.

"What's wrong with you?" Ms. Stephens straightens a stack of papers on her desk as she senses my despair. "You look like you just got 45 years."

She's trying to lighten the mood in her caring way, but at this moment I want to grieve over all the indignities of being a prisoner, of having to ask permission for friendship and then being denied.

"Please. Not today."

"What happened?" she asks again, giving me her complete attention. I know that she wrestles at moments like these with the awkward balance of being a staff member, a part of the prison machine, and her natural tendency to empathize with another human being. We sit in the same office every day. We relate like two "normal" people, not as a prisoner and a staff member separated by some ridiculous ethos splitting our humanity.

Ms. Stephens knows about Bruce, and she has been totally supportive of my efforts to advance my education. The factory rules forbid prisoners from working on schoolwork, reading, or even writing personal letters during the workday, even though an efficient worker with good organizational skills can complete the daily responsibilities in two hours. She has intervened on numerous occasions to protect me from her colleagues who resent my studying on the job and using the office as my sanctuary. She nods her head when I tell her about Counselor Skinner denying Bruce visiting privileges.

"I need you to step outside for a minute so that I can make a phone call."

I leave to pace around the outer office. A dozen prisoners sit at their desks, sipping from stained coffee mugs and passing their time discussing the story dominating the news. I saw it over the weekend. Some crazed leader from Iraq, Saddam Hussein, ordered his military to invade a neighboring country, Kuwait. Talk radio listeners can't get enough of the story although the entire episode strikes me as being bizarre.

I grew up during a time when the United States was at peace. The thought of one country invading another seems like something from the dark ages. Yet the talk shows buzz with conversation about our national security being threatened by Hussein's aggression. Some commentators suggest that our country might go to war.

It doesn't make much sense to me, but a lot of the prisoners have been energized by this military action. They're speculating that if the United States goes to war opportunities might open up to parole prisoners into the military. Such a scenario seems plausible. I've read that during previous wars, like the Vietnam War, judges frequently offered offenders the choice of either joining the military or facing imprisonment. I'm not hopeful that changes will come for me, though this sudden shift in global events causes me to think about what else could take place in the world over the remaining 23 years that I must serve.

Shortly before I came in, President Reagan told Gorbachev to "tear down the Berlin Wall." I didn't know much about global politics then, but a unified Germany seemed absurd because I grew up learning about two completely separate Germany's, an East and a West. Then, just last year, the Berlin Wall came down, and just like that, Germany was unified. Soon thereafter, the Soviet Union crumbled ending the Cold War. When it happened I remember thinking that maybe America's ridiculous Drug War would end too.

According to all the business office chatter, though, we're moving dangerously close to a very hot war in the Middle East. I don't understand it, but I must admit I'm not nearly as interested in what's going on in the Middle East as the other prisoners. They're talking about the possibility of war with a lot more passion and enthusiasm than I can muster. Unlike most of them, I don't have a burning animosity toward the United States. In fact, I can't wait to leave prison and return to society, because where I'm living right now feels about as far away from America as a man can get.

I circle around toward my office. The walk has improved my mood. I've breathed, allowed my frustration to dissipate, and with all the speculation about war, I've reminded myself to keep the bigger picture in mind. Bruce's friendship and guidance isn't contingent on us visiting, and whether I'm allowed to visit or not, I'm going to make it. Although I constantly feel the dehumanizing culture of corrections, my attitude and deliberate actions to redeem myself restore my dignity.

I slip into the office and see Ms. Stephens busy at her desk. She's not on the phone, so I presume it's okay to walk in. Just to make sure, I ask.

She smiles and nods. "When you go back to the housing unit you'll see a new visiting list. I had a chat with Counselor Skinner and he told me that he would put the list on your bunk. Dr. Bruce McPherson has been approved to visit."

My face turns red as I thank her for her kindness, but I'm uneasy. It's troubling to me that I have to prostrate myself with requests for special interventions in order to find a friend, someone who can help guide these efforts I'm making to grow. It's patronizing, dehumanizing. Ms. Stephens saw that Skinner got to me, and it bothers me. After years in prison, these kinds of indignities aren't supposed to bother me, or at least I shouldn't let my aggravation show. "Sorry to have troubled you," I say.

"Don't be. Sometimes I'm embarrassed by this organization I work for."

I shrug my shoulders. "It is what it is, and by now I ought to be able to roll with it. But sometimes the pressure gets to me. Regardless of how hard I work, I'm always going to be a prisoner, indistinguishable from anyone else in here."

Ms. Stephens' elbows rest on the desk with her hands clasped beneath her chin as she listens to me openly, sympathetically. "Look. I can't imagine what you're going through inside, and there's not much I can do to help. I've been in this job for 12 years and I do see how hard you're working. Others might not see it, but I wouldn't go out of my way to help if I wasn't convinced that you're sincere. That's what I told your counselor and I'll tell anyone else who asks. It's not right that you're in here for so long."

My eyes water as she comforts me. I know Ms. Stephens is taking a position that the system discourages. As a staff member she isn't supposed to be personal with an inmate. The BOP motto for staff members is to be "firm but fair," and that means she is first supposed to consider my status as a prisoner. Fairness requires strict adherence to prison policy. If the policy states that prisoners cannot visit with people they didn't know prior to imprisonment, then fairness requires counselors to enforce the policy across the board. That's Counselor Skinner's position. It's the kind of oppressive rigidity that threatens to suffocate prisoners, every day, and I've endured a thousand days of it. I wonder how I'll make it through nine thousand more.

Regardless, I want to walk over and hug Ms. Stephens. Her concern validates me, restores a spirit and energy that imprisonment so effectively crushes. I cherish this moment and I'll remember it as further evidence that God is with me, always strengthening me with what I need along the way.

*******

My schedule keeps me in the business office all day, in classes learning from professors in the evening, and on the suicide-watch tier late into the night. I'm more productive than I thought possible. I enjoy challenging myself by setting goals, writing them out, and sending them to family and friends with encouragement for them to hold me accountable. Reaching my goals is one thing, but empowering myself to exceed them is quite another. I'm obsessed with my personal records and with my daily journal, but only because I find them so effective in motivating me to reach milestones that others insist are beyond a prisoner's reach.

Not only am I accumulating university credits, I'm working through a formidable reading list. My understanding and enjoyment of the classics, such as Plato's Republic, Dante's Divine Comedy, and Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov, are clear signs that I'm really learning. I summarize what I learn in book reports that I write and send to Bruce for his evaluation and comments. He returns them, bleeding with red ink, simultaneously broadening my education and awareness through his teaching and mentoring.

I didn't grow up in a home like Mark's, where both parents held advanced degrees and emphasized the importance of higher learning, but my parents taught me the importance of working hard. In an effort to demonstrate my commitment to making good use of my time inside, I'm applying extra effort. The more knowledge and writing skills I can develop, the better equipped I'll be to succeed when I'm released, to show that I've conquered imprisonment, because this system feels like it's designed to perpetuate failure.

My vocabulary is improving. The index cards I keep in stacks of 50 now number 1,000. By mastering words and definitions, my spelling has also improved, and when I respond in class, I express myself in the language of the university rather than the penitentiary. When I listen to NPR or read The Wall Street Journal my confidence rises with my understanding of words and concepts that used to baffle me. And whenever I have questions, I have the skills to find the answers.

Since I've charted the progress I want to make by 1997, the end of my first decade, I know exactly where I should be in 1992, at the halfway point. I also know where I'm supposed to be now, in 1991, only a year away from earning my undergraduate degree.

I'm exceeding my expectations with a schedule that keeps me racing to beat my timeline. Whereas the penitentiary rocks with violence and corruption scandals, I'm so absorbed with my work that news of the stabbings, beatings, and investigations into staff corruption are of little concern to me. I know how to stay under the radar.

I've determined that a bachelor's degree won't be enough to get me where I want to go. The judge's refusal to reconsider my sentence and the prosecutor's statement that 300 years of imprisonment wouldn't be sufficient for my punishment remains an ugly reminder of a judicial mindset that is unwilling to bend. I have to build a record that warrants consideration for a commutation of sentence, and the president is the only person who has the power to commute my sentence. I must work harder and achieve more.

When I conclude my shift on the suicide-watch tier in the hospital, I walk through the metal detectors, the gates, and the corridors that lead back to the cellblock. The guard unlocks my door and I enter. Windward's snoring is undisturbed as the deadbolt slams into place behind me, locking me inside.

I grab my pillow from the bunk and set it on the steel chair to use as a cushion while I sit, staring at the concrete floor. While trying to think, I'm distracted and I begin to count the beige concrete blocks that form the walls of my cell. Before snapping out of my reverie, I fantasize about bursting through these immutable walls.

I'm reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

Contractors complete the remodel of B cellblock and I join the 600 prisoners who were confined with me in A cellblock for our relocation. It's not far from the old housing block to the new one, just across the polished corridor. I climb the zigzagging metal staircase to the top unit, B-3 carrying all of my possessions. I have sneakers, t-shirts, sweats, khakis and toiletries bundled up and tied inside my blankets and sheets that I carry over my shoulder, like a hobo. The move lifts my spirits. It's a fresh start in a clean, new environment. Although I'm still in the same prison, the remodel replaces the hundred-year-old decaying building with modern plumbing, working lights, and air conditioning. The remodeled B cellblock brings an upgraded quality of life, much better than I've known for several years, and I'm learning to appreciate these incremental improvements.

In place of the old-style cages, the new housing unit features a different design. Solid steel doors enclose rooms, side-by-side, along the outer walls of the building. Community areas include an open rectangular area the size of a basketball court that prisoners call "the flats," located in the center, and a second-tier, mezzanine level. I smell freshly painted walls, but with costs and utility in mind, the builders left the bare concrete floors unfinished. Six single-stall showers at the far end of the unit offer an illusion of privacy. An annoying fire alarm blasts repeatedly, suggesting that contractors still haven't finished their work. Even so, I already like B cellblock better, which is good because I expect to remain here for several more years.

Prison counselors may have additional duties but, from a prisoner's point of view, their scope of responsibility is limited primarily to assigning work details, approving visiting lists, and assigning living quarters. I don't expect any counseling on how to cope with the inevitability of living for multiple decades in prison. I have to adjust on my own, and from the counselor's list, I see that my next adjustment will take place in cell 616, on the top tier. I'm assigned to share that cell with a man in his late 30s who goes by the nickname Windward. The proper term is "room" rather than cell, as it has the steel door instead of bars. But since we're locked in, it's still a cell to me.

Windward is a native of Georgia and his speech has that slow southern twang, peppered with lots of "y'all's," that I've become familiar with over the past two years. Windward likes to say he is American by birth but Southern by the grace of God. He takes pride in his appearance, wearing his hair in a mullet–long in the back, feathered on top, and cut short above the ears–with long, sloping sideburns that he calls the "Georgia slant." His mustache curves down around his mouth, and he has a habit of twirling the long ends with his fingers when he talks.

Windward served a previous prison term for drug trafficking in a Georgia State prison. With that criminal conviction on his record he couldn't find a job, so he reverted to smuggling drugs. The Coast Guard intercepted his boat–which was loaded with 300 kilograms of cocaine–as he cruised through a channel somewhere in the Caribbean known as the Windward Passage. He pleaded guilty to an importation charge and his judge imposed a 20-year term. The name Windward became his handle. I won't mind sharing the cell with him, as he's not dangerous, and he's entertaining with his tall tales about thousands of female conquests.

Coordinating a schedule in our two-man room is easier than it was in the larger cell I previously shared with five men in A cellblock. I continue to work in the factory business office, attend school, volunteer on suicide watch whenever possible, and exercise. Windward's schedule is more relaxed. He's a unit orderly and he works the night shift, sweeping and mopping the floors while all other prisoners in the block are locked in their cells. Except for lockdown periods, Windward and I don't crowd each other in the tightly confined space of our closet-sized room. I have time alone to think, which is how I like it. But not everyone feels the same way.

Whenever violence erupts in the penitentiary the warden orders a lockdown and the claustrophobia drives Windward stir-crazy. Sometimes the lockdowns last for a day, sometimes for weeks. Although I miss the yard, I relieve stress with pushups or running in place when I'm not working on my independent studies. We don't have enough space for both of us to be on the floor at the same time, so while I read on my rack Windward paces four steps toward the door, peers out the window, turns, paces four steps toward the bunk, turns, and repeats this pattern over and over.

"Can't you relax?" I ask him.

"I hate being cooped up in here." Windward snaps as he continues to pace.

"You know what you need? A goal. Some self-direction, something to work toward, to fill your time."

"What I need is a woman, a fifth of Jack Daniels, and an ounce of good weed."

"That's what you want," I point out, "not what you need. There's a difference."

"Damn straight, and I know what I want," he tells me. "I want a woman, some good booze, and an ounce of good weed."

"It's better to focus on something to work toward, something they can't take away or stop." I'm no longer a novice at serving time, but I haven't yet learned how to restrain myself from dispensing unsolicited advice.

"Not again with all that dime-store psychobabble bullshit," Windward waves his hand at me, swatting away my suggestion as he would an annoying fly. "I told you once and I'm tellin' you one more time. All that schoolin' ain't fixin' to help you none. A convict once, Michael, a convict forever."

"That's giving up."

"That's reality, Son. Ain't nothin' matter here but time. Y'all can read all the books you want, but in the end ain't nothin' gonna matter. I done been there. You ain't tellin' me nothin' I don't know."

Windward expresses only two possibilities for his future. Either he will seduce and marry a rich woman, or he will earn a living with drugs again after release. He thinks I'm fooling myself with my aspirations of joining society. He's convinced that a prison record extinguishes all possibility for a legitimate life. It's like an echo, this recurring message of hopelessness, reverberating throughout the penitentiary. I refuse to buy it, refuse to accept that I can't create new opportunities and new directions for my life. Every day I renew my commitment to work toward something better. I'm planting seeds, knowing that those seeds will take many years before they take root and blossom. When they do, however, they'll provide for a better life than I've known and a better life than what others tell me I can expect.

I prefer not to have contraband in the cell, but I don't live here alone. The best I can do is get a promise from Windward that if guards find his stash during a shakedown, he'll take the heat. Still, I'm not deceived about the value of such promises and I worry. He assures me that he'll never keep home-brewed wine in the cell, or drugs, but I know he conceals a plastic shank inside a hole he hollowed in his mattress that he insists is necessary for protection. I have different perceptions on how to protect myself: I stay out of people's way and I mind my own business. I can control my decisions, but I can't tell anyone else how to live and I won't go sniveling to the counselor with a request to move because I don't like what Windward keeps in the cell. I have to roll with the realities of living inside a high-security prison.

"Rolling with it," however, is stressful because of the personal commitments I've made. I constantly visualize how I'll return to the outside world, and I'm not convinced that society as a whole would agree with my prosecutor's statement that 300 years of good deeds would not suffice to atone for my two years of trafficking in cocaine. Redemption may be as elusive as the Fountain of Youth, but I'm determined to minimize my exposure to problems that can block my efforts to find it.

I'm familiar with executive clemency, a power vested in the presidency by the Constitution. With the stroke of a pen, a president can commute a federal prison term. It's rare, as presidents build legacies by signing international treaties, or pursuing world peace, not by releasing prisoners. Still, striving to build a record that proves worthy of consideration for clemency gives me a purpose, something to work toward.

"What're you gonna do, walk on egg shells through your whole sentence?" Windward taunts, laughing at my aspirations. "Don't you get it? No one cares what you do or what happens in here."

"Maybe not. But what do I have to lose by trying? Even if the president doesn't commute my sentence, if I earn real credentials, don't you think I'll have a better shot at success when I do get out?"

"It's just no way to serve time. You'll see."

Windward is right. It's the reason I never think of myself as serving time. I'm in a hole, a pit that is deep and dark, and I'm doing what I can to build a ladder that will allow me to climb out. I don't know how long it's going to take but I know that every rung I ascend to will make a difference in my future.

That's why I pay close attention to Mark as I sit in those Mercer University classes. He's in his mid-30s with an athletic build that is suited to his chosen sport of tennis; I never see him working out on the weight pile where I exercise every morning. He doesn't have tattoos and he's one of the few prisoners in here who keeps a clean-shaven face.

Mark may sit at the small desks in the same classrooms with other prisoners and me, but his vocabulary, eloquence, and knowledge distinguish him. It doesn't matter what course we're studying, whether it's literature, history, or economics, Mark articulates his thoughts with confidence. It's obvious our studies at Mercer are not his first university experience.

"In what ways does Jane Austen use irony in Pride and Prejudice?" Professor Higgins asks the class, but only Mark has answers. I don't even know what "irony" means.

"Who can help us understand the connection between the Treaty of Versailles and World War II?" Dr. Davis, our professor of history asks, looking for a class discussion. Mark is the only student capable of discussing the treaty's influence on the morale of the German people and the subsequent rise to power of Adolf Hitler.

"How does the economic system of Marxism differ from capitalism?" While the other prisoners and I shift in our seats and stare blankly at Dr. Watkins, our economics professor, Mark's hand shoots up. He offers an elaborate contrast between the theories of Adam Smith and Karl Marx, emphasizing the essential influences private property, competition, and free markets have had on advancing Western civilization, particularly that of the United States.

I want to express myself like Mark, intelligently, and with a style that shows I'm a man who understands the world and how it works. Knowing that I can learn from him, I introduce myself after class one day.

"You must've gone to college before," I observe.

"No, only in prison. Been taking classes here and there for the past seven years," Mark answers.

"Seven years? And you haven't graduated?"

"I hardly ever finish. A year hasn't passed when I haven't been hauled off to the hole for something or other. Sometimes I just drop the classes, bored with it all."

"Don't you want to earn a degree?" Seeing an obviously bright guy with such little ambition puzzles me.

"It's not that I don't want one. I just get caught up with the day-to-day living. Can't do much about it when I catch a shot for a dirty urine or get caught with a mug of pruno."

"Why don't you quit using drugs?"

"You sound like my ol' lady," he laughs.

"Yeah, I don't get that," I tell him. "It seems to me that someone as smart as you would understand the importance of having a college degree."

"If I get it, fine. If not, it doesn't make much difference."

"How is it that when you're in class you sound like a lawyer, but out here you sound like you don't care about anything?"

"When in Rome, do as the Romans," he laughs. "Truth is, I don't care. But in class I get tired of all those professors coming in here thinking we're all worthless."

"That's not how they see us. Most of us probably aren't as advanced as the students they teach on campus."

"I like letting 'em know I speak their language."

"I've noticed. Someday I hope to know as much as you."

"None of it's new. This stuff was drilled into me night after night at the dinner table growing up. Got turned off of education when the parents beat me over the head with it, telling me how crucial school was to my future. Fuck it. Started getting high instead, rockin' out with Led Zeppelin and Hendrix and the Stones."

"I wish I knew so much that I could simply turn my educational level on and off at will. It takes everything I have just to keep up with the class." I explain to Mark that I consider an education essential to my future and describe how I've structured my time inside to avoid the obstacles that block so many others.

"Doesn't that get old?" he asks.

"What?"

"All that goody-two-shoes bullshit, the rigidity, that structure. I mean, Dude, we've got enough people telling us how to live in here. I can't see how you'd want to put those kinds of demands on your time. I mean, let's be real. You've got enough time. It wouldn't hurt nothin' to let up a little."

"Yeah, I don't see it that way. I've got an opportunity to earn a degree right now. Who knows whether I'll have it tomorrow? I've got to seize the moment, then create something from it."

"Big deal. Let's say you finish all your classes and get your degree. What's next? You've still got more than 20 years to go."

"One step at a time. With a degree, I know I'll be able to open new opportunities. Maybe I can go to law school. I'll find something and I know the degree will help, especially if I can learn how to express myself as well as you. How did you build such an extensive vocabulary?"

Mark laughs. "You mean my 'grown up talk?' All you need to know in here is 'motherfucker.' Learn how to use that word as an adjective, noun, and verb. Drop as many motherfuckers as you can into every sentence, drop it into the middle of words, and you'll fit right in. Like I fuckin' said, when in Rome, fuck everyone else. Do as the motherfuckin' Romans." He laughs.

"I'm not trying to fit in here. This isn't my life and it'll never be my life. I'm serious. How did you develop such an impressive vocabulary?"

"I don't know. How did you learn the word window?"

"Really, I'm serious."

"I'm serious too. I learned the language that was spoken in my house. When I write home or to people outside, I communicate one way. When I'm in here I use the language of the pen."

From my pocket I pull a stack of index cards I carry with me. On one side I've written a word that I came across in a book, on the other side, the definition, the part of speech, and an example of the word in a sentence. "This is how I train myself to learn new words," I tell him. "It's a strategy I picked up after reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Whenever I'm waiting in line or whenever I have down time, I work through the flash cards. Test me." I toss Mark the stack.

"You're kidding. Man, you're fuckin' obsessed, intense!" He starts shuffling through the cards, looking at the words. "Immutable?"

"Immutable." I spell it. "Not capable of being moved or changed."

"Okay, that's pretty close. How about truculent?"

"Mean, a bad attitude, a truculent person is one who always wants to fight or battle."

"A lot of that in here. I don't even know this one. Tenebrous."

"Dark and gloomy."

"See, your vocabulary's good, just as good as mine." He passes the stack back to me. "Just keep reading."

"It's not the same. I'm learning the words and I'm able to use them in writing when I concentrate, but they don't come to me easily, or roll off my tongue naturally when I'm trying to express myself. That's what I want to learn."

"Well you need to reach out, to communicate with more people. All work and no play makes for a dull guy. You can't just live as a hermit in here. There's a word for you, hermitage."

"I already know how to speak the language of this place. I'm trying to transcend this place, to leave here without everyone I meet knowing that I've spent my whole life in prison."

Mark considers me for a second, then he offers a suggestion. "I've got a friend you should write. He's a professor. My sister's always trying to straighten out my life and she introduced me to him."

"You're kidding! You have a friend who's a professor?" I can't believe this good fortune Mark offers so casually. I've been living in prison for three years, but books and learning have transported me out of here, at least in my mind. A university campus is like a mythical setting to me. Although I've been studying, accumulating credits, and building my transcript, I can't imagine a more personal connection to the university than communicating with an actual professor.

"He's from Chicago, but for now he's in Chapel Hill, at the University of North Carolina. We write every week."

"Is your sister a professor?"

"She's not a professor, but she's affiliated with the university. Bruce, my friend, heads the program she's with, some kind of renewal center for educators. Do you want to write him?"

"Do I! This is the best news I've had since I've come in. I'll write him tonight."

"Fine. Give me the letter tomorrow and I'll send it off with an introduction."

The next morning I give Mark the lengthy letter I want him to pass along to Dr. R. Bruce McPherson. It describes who I am, what I'm doing in prison, and how hard I'm working to educate myself. I try to express how grateful I'd be to learn from him through correspondence.

I'm reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

When I call home on May 27, 1989, I hear the news from Julie that Christina has given birth to a daughter, Isabella. I've known of Christina's pregnancy for some time, but I've been too wrapped up in dealing with the loss of Lisa and the challenges of my prison adjustment to grasp what that means. It's surreal to think of my younger sister as a mother, and to think of myself as an uncle.

Christina and I grew up very close as children. I have fond memories from our grade school years, and of bringing her fishing with me in a neighborhood stream. But I haven't seen her since my imprisonment. Now she's a mother, and trying to imagine her as a grown woman with a family of her own feels almost incomprehensible. Life is changing without my being a part of it. I hang up in tears, unable to suppress my mix of emotions. I'm happy for Christina, but also filled with sadness because I've missed Isabella's birth.

I need to walk around the track but that means waiting in line for a pass, then waiting in the crowd for the next scheduled movement to leave the housing unit. Instead, I head for my cell. There isn't anywhere I can console the ache I feel inside privately. As I lie on my rack with my head pressed into the pillow I can still hear Check and his buddy playing chess at the table. Dropping into self-pity, all I can think about is the isolation from my family. I'm a stranger, isolated from the family bonds that make life worth living.

How will society view me? If I were a free citizen today and encountered a man who had served more than a quarter of a century in prison, I'd have major preconceptions about him. I'd feel reluctant to accept him as a neighbor, a colleague, and certainly as a peer. Women, I expect, will think twice before dating a man who served time in prison. And if I'm not released until my late 40s, without a work history, savings, and a home, there's a strong likelihood that I'll never become a father and have children of my own. How could I?

It's too much. I have to break this up in my mind, take it in smaller increments, one chunk at a time. Otherwise it overwhelms and defeats me.

Where will I be in 10 years? That's what I should think about. What is the best I can become during the first decade of my imprisonment? My studies are going well and I've nearly completed the manuscript for Drugs and Money. I don't know what will happen with the Rule 35 motion once the time comes to submit the request for reconsideration of my sentence. But in 1997, after a decade in prison, if I stick to this plan I'll be an educated man. If I keep my focus I'll have a university degree and possibly a law degree. Those credentials will distinguish me from prisoners who thrive on hate and who rely upon weapons and gangs to empower themselves.

Still, I live amidst the weapons, the gangs, and the power struggles within my community of felons. With two years behind me I understand the politics of race, geographical origin, and anarchy. On the surface it looks as if whites mix with whites, blacks with blacks, and Hispanics with Hispanics. But that isn't the real story, as this culture is driven by influences that are far more complex.

I live in a society of deprivation, where policies extinguish hope. With years to serve, abandoned by their families, and severed of their previous identities, most prisoners give up trying to improve themselves. Instead, they ripen for rebellion. They form an anti-society culture with its own underground economy, values, and social structure. Mafia dons and gang leaders hold the top spots with snitches and child molesters at the bottom. Disruptive factions form and either scheme together or battle each other for power. In this society, where prisoners kill without remorse in an effort to increase their share of prison wealth and to protect their territory, my efforts to avoid 'prisonization' make me vulnerable. I can't outrun them but, by existing under their radar, I can evade them. I'm captain of my own metaphorical submarine, gliding stealthily beneath the waves and currents. My periscope is up but my strategy is to remain invisible, deep below the turmoil. It's working.

By waking at 5:00 a.m., when the other men in my cell are still asleep, I can use the toilet and wash in privacy. I use a small book light to read until 6:00, when a guard walks down the tier unlocking the gates. I'm first out of the cell and one of the few avoiding the chow hall to take advantage of early exercise. By 7:30 I'm at work, which is a reprieve from the tensions of the cellblock and yard.

My supervisor, Ms. Stephens encourages my academic pursuits. She authorizes me to study and type my assignments once I complete my daily work. When I leave the business office I report to the prison's hospital as a volunteer. Prisoners deemed at risk for harming themselves are kept under 24-hour surveillance, and I'm one of those on watch. This schedule allows me to avoid the other prisoners and to study. When I return to the cellblock at midnight the prison is quiet. I shower, climb to my rack above Check, and I sleep soundly for five hours. It's a routine I want to keep for the incomprehensible 24 years that I've still got to serve.

The pockets of solitude I've carved out give me peace, and I've become extremely productive. I'm on a tight schedule, always racing to exceed my expectations. I've completed my first quarter with Ohio University and I've enrolled in another full load of courses for the second quarter.

Besides taking correspondence classes through Ohio University, Mercer University has begun offering courses inside USP Atlanta, and I'm now enrolled as a full-time student in its program. One of the professors from Mercer, Colin Harris, takes time to mentor me. I'm busy, working hard to prove worthy of the trust placed in me. According to the timeline I've laid out, I should earn my undergraduate degree in 1992, and I intend to earn it with honors.

*******

"Guess who I ran into at Safeway?" Julie, my sister, asks in a carefully measured tone.

"Who?"

"Judy Murphy." She mentions the mother of one of my high school friends.

"Oh, how's Sean?"

Julie hesitates and then tells me that Sean died of leukemia.

It's tough news for me to take, as I liked and admired Sean. I ask my sister when he died.

"Just a few months ago. It struck him suddenly. He was studying engineering at the University of Washington. He died during surgery."

When Julie hangs up I return to my cell and think about Sean. He was a friend of mine since junior high school. With the news of his death, I sit and think more about what I'm doing here. I face the wall in my cell, unable to muffle the hollering, laughing, and slamming of dominos on steel cellblock tables. Bad news from beyond prison walls keeps coming, and it will keep coming, and I must learn to accept it alone.

Sean and I hadn't spoken since high school graduation. He lived responsibly, a student-athlete, disciplined and respectful of others while I was living recklessly. I remember our friendship as kids and as teammates in football and baseball. It's hard for me to believe that I'm now in prison and his life has ended. Many more lives will end while I serve this sentence, maybe even my own.

I rest a pad on my knee so I can write to his parents, expressing my sympathy. Then I pledge that memories of Sean will inspire me to make better use of my life, to use every day working to become a better person. I don't know how Sean's parents will respond to my letter but I feel compelled to write it. For some reason, news of his death piles on more guilt. It brings feelings of nostalgia for high school, those earlier days before I thought of selling cocaine. I regret decisions I made and feel a colossal disappointment in what I've made of my life.

*******

I want to reach beyond these walls and my chance arrives when Julie receives the grant money for printing 2,000 copies of Drugs and Money. She makes the trip from Seattle to visit me so we can plan our strategy to distribute the books.

"You've grown so much," Julie cries as we hug for the first time since my arrest, almost three years before.

"I told you I've been exercising every morning since I got here. Check this out." I flex my arms, showing off.

She admires my fitness but then looks around, disoriented with the prison experience. "What did that guy do to get in here?"

"Come on, let's not waste our time talking about anyone else. He probably sold drugs, like everyone else. I told you I'm a loner in here, I keep to myself."

"I can't believe you don't have any friends. How can you spend all your time alone?"

"I'm okay. I talk to a few guys from class, but life is different for me. I'm so busy with school that I can't take time for television, movies, or any of the craziness that goes on around here." I tell my sister about the hustle of brewing alcohol with fruit, sugar, and yeast, and how some prisoners pass through the monotony of confinement in a drunken stupor. "Others are into gangs, gambling, and drugs. I feel safest and most productive by sticking to myself."

"How do prisoners get drugs in here?" Despite my efforts to talk about the book, my sister persists in asking me about prison life.

"Through visits I guess, and some corrupt guards mule them in. I stay away from everything. That's one of the reasons I keep such a busy schedule, to avoid trouble."

While sitting across the table from my sister, I don't feel any shame at all. It isn't the same when my mother or father visits me. With them I feel empty inside and embarrassed that they see me in a place like this. Both my mom and dad want to hold my hand, pat my head, or assure me with words that things are going to turn out fine. But they're afraid for me. Their nervous gestures bring out my guilt from having put them through such misery. I've asked them to leave visits early, feigning exhaustion. In truth, sadness overwhelms me and all I want to do is disappear.

With Julie, on the other hand, I grin and laugh, happy to listen as she tells me about our younger sister, Christina, our parents, our niece, and her own engagement to Tim. Life continues regardless of my ordeal. I look at the clock, conscious that the minutes move so quickly, and wish the visit wouldn't end. With hundreds of other prisoners' family members visiting, it's loud in the room. We're eating sandwiches from vending machines and drinking sodas. Life feels almost normal. Even though she periodically breaks into tears, I'm not in prison when I'm with Julie. She's so sweet, telling me that she'd switch places with me if she could.

We talk about the many ways we're going to leverage all of the relationships we have in Seattle to attract media attention for the book. Drugs are becoming a bigger issue in society with President Bush's zero-tolerance programs and I feel strongly that the book I wrote could contribute to the solution. Through a story describing what happened to my friends and me, the book sends a message regarding the tragic consequences that follow drug trafficking.

Although I face considerable restrictions in promoting the book, Julie is free to speak on my behalf. She returns to Seattle and begins contacting jails, schools, and other institutions where the message in Drugs and Money can add value. With books to donate, Julie contacts local talk radio programs to promote the book and to secure invitations for me to participate in telephone interviews.

Conscious of the reprimand Mr. Chandler gave me for enrolling in college without first seeking his permission, I ask advice from my supervisor, Ms. Stephens. I want to know which staff member can authorize me to interact with the media. She directs me to Ms. Sheffer, the Warden's Executive Assistant, and Ms. Sheffer tells me that if representatives of the media want to speak with me over the phone, then I'm within my rights to converse.

*******

"I'm locking you up," a lieutenant chastises me after paging me to his office.

"Why? What did I do?"

"Listen to this." The lieutenant plays a tape recording of a portion from an interview I gave to a Seattle radio station over the telephone. "You can't be giving no interviews on the radio from my institution. Where do you think you are? This is a federal prison! You're supposed to be serving time, not writing books and talking to the media."

"But I was only talking about the reasons people shouldn't get involved with selling drugs. I'm trying to send a positive message."

"Well I'm sending you to the hole to think about your positive message. Next time you'll think twice about what you're saying over my phone system and who you're talking to."

"But I asked permission from Ms. Sheffer before I made the call. She said I could talk with the media over the phone."

The lieutenant looks at me skeptically. "What? Ms. Sheffer said that? When?"

"Three weeks ago. My work supervisor told me she was the person I needed to speak to for permission, and she said it would be fine."

"Go back to your job," the lieutenant orders. "I'll get to the bottom of this. If you're lying to me, you're gonna be sorry."

I walk back to the business office, intimidated by my encounter with the lieutenant. Since I had permission, I don't think I'm in trouble, but the lieutenant's threat about the hole shakes me. From an isolation cell I won't be able to attend my classes with Mercer University, and if I can't complete my classes, the timeline I'm working toward to graduate in 1992 falls apart. I'm frustrated that the decisions of others have so much influence on my life.

Ms. Sheffer is waiting for me when I get back to my desk. With her shoulder-length blonde hair and form fitting designer clothes, she looks more like a babe than a prison official. Despite her attractiveness and the fragrance of her perfume, she talks tough, at least to me.

"From now on, if you're going to talk with the media, you coordinate it through my office." Ms. Sheffer scolds me while pointing her finger at me, ruining fantasies I've had about her, the kind that keep a young man alive. My confusion quickly leads to embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. I thought you said it was okay for me to talk over the phone."

"I only said that because I didn't think a member of the media would accept your phone calls. It was my mistake, that's why you're not in the hole. But let's be clear, from now on you need to coordinate all media communications through my office."

When Ms. Sheffer walks out I'm left alone in the office with my supervisor. "You're really rocking the boat around here."

"I don't mean to. I'm just trying to build support outside."

Ms. Stephens shakes her head in doubt. "When you started here you said you wanted to keep a low profile, to stay out of trouble. Writing books and talking on the radio puts you on the front line, not exactly low profile."

"I meant I wanted to keep a low profile in prison. I still have to try and build support outside. I can't just give up, you know, I've got to try to make something more of my life than this."

"I just hope you know what you're doing. Most inmates want to avoid attention, but you're bringing the spotlight right to you. If you do anything wrong, all this attention is going to backfire."

Ms. Stephens makes clear that she thinks it would be best to focus on school and forget about media contacts. "Just remember," she chills me with an admonishment, "I can't protect you if the lieutenant decides to lock you up for an investigation."

Ms. Stephens means well. I know she cares for me, but she is a part of the system, and she knows a lieutenant can easily lock a prisoner away in a disciplinary cell for months at a time. If that should happen to me I wouldn't have access to school, to telephone calls, to exercise. She doesn't want me locked in a box.

What Ms. Stephens doesn't understand is that I am locked in a box.

*******

When a guard passes an envelope through the bars of my cell I'm surprised to see a woman's penmanship. The letter is from Susan, a girl I know from high school. She dated my close friend Rich, and her letter expresses support, telling me that she heard me speaking on a local radio interview.

I read Susan's letter a hundred times. The letter isn't suggestive, or with any romantic innuendo, but it's the only letter I've received from a woman since Lisa dumped me six months ago. I like holding the paper that left Susan's hands, wanting this connection to last. It makes me wonder how many years will pass before I kiss a woman again.

I write Susan a lengthy letter, telling her all about my schoolwork, my routine in prison, and the challenges I face in promoting my book. Although a romance is probably too much to hope for, I make it clear to her that I value her correspondence. I'm lonely, longing for ties to anyone beyond prison walls, especially a woman.

*******

The next letter I receive isn't from Susan and it isn't nearly as pleasant. It is from my attorney, Justin, who informs me that the Court of Appeals has affirmed my conviction. The court's decision doesn't surprise me, but I've been hoping that the court wouldn't issue its ruling for another year, or better yet, not until I expected to earn my degree in 1992. Yet my hopes don't matter. It's 1990 and I know what this appellate decision means. The clock on the 120-day time limit for the Rule 35 has begun to tick.

I write the judicial motion for the Rule 35 from my desk at work. Through the request for my judge to reconsider the sentence he imposed I express remorse for the crimes I committed and accept that I will serve several years in prison as a consequence of my convictions. Yet I implore the judge to reserve his final judgment of me, explaining that I'm working to educate myself, to contribute to society, and to build a record that will demonstrate my commitment to atone and to prepare for a law-abiding life. As an offer of proof I include copies of my university transcripts, my stellar progress reports from prison administrators, copies of Drugs and Money, press clippings, and letters of appreciation that my work has already generated. The entire package fits in a large envelope and I submit it to the court without assistance from counsel.

I don't have to wait long before I receive the government's response to my motion. When I open the envelope my heart sinks as I read the prosecutor's passionate argument for the judge to let my sentence stand. He closes the three-page rebuttal with a sentiment so powerful in its denunciation of me as an individual, a fellow human being, that it takes all the wind out of me.

If Michael Santos served every day of his life in an all-consuming effort to repay society, and if he lived to be 300 years old, our community would still be at a significant net loss.

I read the prosecutor's response over and over. It eats at me, wakes me from sleep at night. He prepared the case against me for trial. He knows that I've never had a weapon and that I don't have a history or proclivity for violence. Here, in the prison, I live in the midst of dangerous men who truly threaten society, yet they serve sentences that are a fraction in length compared to mine. I don't understand why the prosecutor is so vehement in opposing my relief, or why his response drips with such venom. I'm sinking again, needing to tap into some type of inner strength before I sink back down into the abyss.

When the guard slides the next envelope–from the district court, my judge's chambers–through the bars of my cell, I need to lie down. It comes on Friday. Judge Tanner didn't require much time to dismiss my motion. He agrees with the prosecutor, and with his ruling, the sentence I serve is now final.

I'm reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Podcast 118: Chapter 3.3

*******

It's 1988 and Vice-President George H.W. Bush is about to become America's 41st president. He talks about a thousand points of light and inspires me with his call for a kinder, gentler America. Yes! More compassion and understanding is exactly what I need, and I'm working feverishly to prove worthy of reconsideration.

With each passing month I feel the pressure. But I like having a reason to push through each day. My studies and writing goals necessitate a strict schedule and I train myself to function on less sleep. The cellblock rocks with constant noise and ceaseless disturbances, but with clearly defined goals I block out all distractions and become more skillful at carving out niches of time and space to study.

The tight schedule helps immensely, especially as my connection to Lisa becomes more and more tenuous. I'm proud of what I'm producing and for Christmas I send her copies of the assignments I'm completing. I also share the progress with my manuscript and I include photographs of the physique I'm building through strenuous weightlifting.

She's not interested.

When I write her to announce news of the grant Julie received to produce and distribute Drugs and Money, she asks how much money I'll be able to send her from those proceeds.

"Baby, I'm not writing this book for money," I try to explain over the telephone. "I've told you the plan. I'm working to come home. I have to build a record that shows I can contribute to the world, and that's what this book is for. We're using the money to produce it and distribute it so I can build support, so I can come home."

"I'm your wife, Michael. It costs money to live, and you didn't leave me with enough to be giving books away."

"I know, Honey. Listen, I thought you were going to find a job. Why don't you sell clothes? There's got to be some way for you to earn an income. You've got to support yourself until I come home."

"When? In 25 years? Michael, this isn't working."

"Don't say that! We're married. Of course we can make it work. And it isn't going to be 25 years. That's ridiculous. The judge isn't going to let this sentence stand, not with all I'm doing. I'll be home in like eight years, maybe less." I feel her slipping away. "When are you coming to see me?"

"I told you already. My probation officer won't let me visit you."

"But for how long? How long until she lets you come visit me?"

"Five years, Michael! She told me that I'd never be able to visit you while I'm on probation and that I should divorce you."

"That's going to change. They can't keep us apart like this. We're married. You still love me, don't you?"

This is ending badly. I sense where it's heading, even though I'm trying to pull affection that should flow freely. To cope, I work harder.

*******

It's early 1989 and I've turned 25. The time pressure intensifies every day, requiring that I deny myself sleep and activities that others rely upon as distractions from the pains of imprisonment. Table games won't carry me through.

When I read that President Bush is going to deliver his first prime-time news conference from the Oval Office I walk to a television room and watch the broadcast from the back of the auditorium.

The president looks dour. While seated in his high-backed chair behind his executive desk, President Bush holds up a clear plastic bag filled with cocaine. My spirits sink when I hear him tell millions of viewers that the War on Drugs is of paramount importance. Illicit drug abuse, he warns, threatens America as we know it.

Apparently the kinder, gentler America the president spoke about doesn't include compassion for prisoners–especially those who sold drugs. His message suggests Americans need an object to hate. The object of that hatred is drugs and everyone who has anything to do with them. He calls for vigilance, urges children to turn in their parents and announces that under his administration American law enforcement will have zero tolerance for drugs. He appoints William Bennett as a "drug czar," whatever that means.

As I lie on my rack, blocking out the noise that ricochets through the concrete and steel cellblock, I consider what our new president said. He actually clarifies the enormity of my challenge. I'm a convicted drug offender with a long sentence. As much as I want to earn support from my fellow citizens, from the prosecutor, and from my judge–the president has just told people in society that I'm not worthy of consideration. They shouldn't look beyond my conviction and sentence. I have to face the truth that others may never accept the efforts I'm making to atone. Zero tolerance. That's what President Bush calls for.

*******

I wake with determination to work harder. Another prisoner tells me about a job in the prison factory's business office that may make it easier to write.

"It's a clerical job," the prisoner says. "If you get it, you'd have your own desk and access to a computer."

"Would they let me type my school assignments on the computer?"

"How the fuck should I know? Go fuckin' check it out for yourself."

Mr. Chandler signs my pass and I walk across the compound toward the business office. A morning controlled movement is in progress and a line of men wait their turn to pass through a metal detector. A prisoner in front of me walks through and the machine starts beeping.

"Take 'em off," the guard orders.

"Come on boss, you knows I done got steel-toe boots on. That's all that's settin' your joint off."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem. Now take 'em off and walk through again. Else you can strip down. Makes no difference to me."

The guard won't allow anyone to go through until he clears the man in front of me. I rarely leave the library because of this obsession with security. But the prospect of a new job that would provide access to a word processor and my own desk makes the inconvenience bearable today.

When it's my turn I clear the metal detector without interference. I walk through two more sets of gates and I ride the elevator to the business office. The atmosphere differs from any other place I've been in the penitentiary. Instead of concrete and steel there are plasterboard walls, wooden doors with moldings, and carpeted floors soften the large, open room. Desks align neatly in aisles and rows. Prisoners wearing crisply pressed khakis sit behind them, absorbed in their work. Each desk has its own computer monitor and keyboard. I hear the buzzing of business machines, copiers, printers, and adding machines.

Yearning for my unrecoverable past, I walk through the open area toward the smaller offices in the back. I see the door marked "Transportation" and I knock. A woman looks up from her desk and greets me with a friendly smile.

"Good morning. My name is Michael Santos." I present her with my pass from Mr. Chandler. "I was told of a job opening for a clerk in the Transportation office. I'd like to apply."

"How much time do you have? Thirty years I hope."

"I have 45 years, Ma'am."

"Oh," she flinches. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I was only asking because training a clerk takes a lot of time and I didn't want one of these short timers about to transfer out."

"That's okay. I'm enrolled in college and I expect that I'll be here for a long time."

"Have you ever worked in an office before?"

"Yes Ma'am. My father owned a contracting company and I worked in his offices."

"So you can type?"

"I type very well, at least 50 words per minute."

"Where do you work now?"

"I work in the library. Mr. Chandler is my supervisor."

"How's your disciplinary record? Do you have any shots? Ever go to the SHU?"

"No Ma'am, my disciplinary record is clear. I keep to myself, stay out of trouble."

"Why are you in prison?"

"I sold cocaine." I say, knowing that I'll be answering this question for the rest of my life.

"And you got 45 years for that?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Have you ever been in prison before?"

"This is my first time, and my last."

She nods her head, and for the first time since I've been in prison I feel genuine compassion from a staff member. "My name is Lynn Stephens. Watch the call-out for the job change. You've got the job." She smiles, and for that instant I'm a person rather than a prisoner.

As I return to the library I realize that I forgot to ask Ms. Stephens about time for schoolwork and whether I could use the word processor to type my assignments once I completed my office responsibilities. It doesn't matter. I'll find a way to make things work. The office environment cleansed away the filth of imprisonment and I want to spend my time there, in the company of Ms. Stephens. I sense it's the right place for me, away from gangs, confrontations, and cellblock pressures; away from the continuous hustling and scheming that take place in the library and other common spaces.

*******

When the cell gates open at 6:00 a.m. I rush to the gym for my morning workout. A quick cross-training workout allows me to fit all my exercises in before 7:00. Then I return to the cellblock, shower, shave, and dress in my pressed khakis. Optimistic about my new job, I bring an envelope with photographs in case there's an opportunity to share pictures of my family with Ms. Stephens–I want her to know that I have a life outside of these walls.

"Good morning," she greets me when I walk in. Strangely, I'm a bit uneasy being in close proximity to a woman. The office we share is small, the size of a bedroom in a suburban house. Her desk sits immediately to the right of the door in the office's front corner. As her clerk I'll sit inside a U-shaped workstation in the back, diagonally across from her. Five paces separate us. I'm conscious of her perfume and try to keep my knees from bouncing beneath the desk.

"What we do here is coordinate all the paperwork for shipments that leave the factory," Ms. Stephens explains, describing my duties. "Each day the factory manager will send us a sheet with the number and type of mailbags that are ready for processing out. From that sheet you'll type these forms we call the shippers and make five copies of the documents for distribution to billing, quality control, the postal service, the shipping company, the factory, and our records.

I handle the sample of documents that she provides and know that I'm capable of keeping this busywork in order. "How many orders do we receive each day?"

"It's more like 15 each week. On some days you'll receive one or two orders; other days you may not receive any at all. Then you may receive four, five, or six all at once. It might take you a few weeks to get used to the system but you'll get the hang of it. As long as you stay on top of it and don't let the work pile up, you'll be fine."

"What am I supposed to do when I'm caught up? It doesn't sound like these duties will require more than a couple hours a day, if that."

"Let's just see how it goes. We've always got files to organize, envelopes to stuff, and copies to make. If you'd like to listen to the radio, tune into any station you'd like."

I catch on quickly to my duties: typing, copying, distributing, and filing. The small radio behind me only picks up the AM band. As I flip through the stations I settle in on talk radio, and I listen to an audacious political commentator named Rush Limbaugh. The show is gaining national popularity, I've read. Magazine articles describe Limbaugh as a self-indulgent, obese, college dropout who dumped his marriage but represents himself as a social conservative. Despite the hypocrisy between his personal life and his public life, he makes me laugh.

*******

Lisa isn't responding to the daily letters I've been writing, and every time I'm finally able to call her, I walk away frustrated because she doesn't answer. It's been more than two weeks since I've heard from her. Premonitions chip away at me. I hurt from the emptiness and loneliness disturbs my sleep.

The prison's automated phone system only allows collect calls. A major drawback is that once I dial I can't hear what's happening on the other end of the line until someone pushes a digit to accept. When I dial Lisa's number I don't know whether the line is busy, no one is home, or the call simply doesn't go through.

I wonder what's going on, why she doesn't write, and where she is. I ache to tell her about my new job, about my progress with school, about the manuscript I'm writing, and about how much I miss her. I want to know about her life, how her job search is going. She must've found a job. She's probably working at the times that I call, but I wonder why she doesn't respond to my letters. I dream of the softness of her lips, but nightmares haunt me with images of her kissing someone else.

*******

"Hey! How come you haven't been calling me? I've been worried about you." It's Julie, cheering me up with her loving enthusiasm when she accepts my call.

"I'm sorry. It's not so easy to use the phone here. I have to wait in long lines and I'm only able to dial one number once my turn comes up. Have you been getting the letters I've sent?"

"I'm so proud of you! You're doing great in there, with your schoolwork and the writing. I'm glad you've got a job you like."

"Everything's okay, but I haven't been able to talk with Lisa and I'm worried. Has she called you?"

"She wouldn't call me, you know that. Do you want me to patch you through on a three-way?"

"Would you? When I call her number I'm not getting through at all. I can't leave a message or anything."

"What's her phone number?"

I give Julie the number and wait for her to dial. She patches into the call when Lisa's phone starts ringing.

"I'm just going to wait until she answers. Then I'll put the phone down and you can talk as long as you want."

"Thanks, Julie. I appreciate your help."

My heart pounds and I bounce between excitement to hear my wife's voice and apprehension over what she might tell me. But it's not Lisa who answers. It's a man's voice that picks up.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I must've dialed the wrong number."

"What's the number again?" Julie asks, after disconnecting the unknown party.

I give her Lisa's number a second time. "That's the number I thought I dialed. Let me try again."

The phone rings and I hear the same voice answer. "Who's this?" I ask.

"Who's this?" The man doesn't answer my question.

"This is Michael Santos. I'm calling for my wife, Lisa."

"Oh. Well, Lisa's not here. I'm Lisa's boyfriend and I live here now. Sorry to tell you this, but it's probably best if you don't call back. She isn't ready to talk with you."

I'm humiliated that this is the way I learn my marriage is over, and that my sister hears it along with me. Speechless, I hang up the phone, not even taking the time to thank Julie for making the call.

Blindly, I press through crowds of prisoners and find my way to the stairs, not caring who I push aside in my grief–a knife in the gut would be a welcome reprieve from the pain twisting through my heart.

Somehow I find my cell and fall onto my rack, smothering my face in my pillow. With the spirit of perseverance abandoning me, I squeeze my eyes shut to keep tears from falling. Everything inside of me feels broken. I hear my pulse pounding in my ears, feel it throbbing in my head. I'm having a hard time acknowledging that she's gone, that I've lost her. It's like a painful vise squeezing tighter and tighter, suffocating me and bringing doubts on whether I can climb through 24 more years of this pain.

Sleep doesn't restore my confidence. I crawl off my rack and sit on the metal chair to lace my dirty sneakers. Consumed with sadness, I walk down the stairs and pace, wondering why I should go on. I'm not able to summon the will or a reason to live. Lisa and I may've been growing apart, but at least I had the illusion of love. That's been shattered and I don't know what I'll do in here for decades.

I walk to the library, numb to everything but my pain, seeking solace from the stories of others who suffered. I search for books about Viktor Frankl, Elie Weisel, and other innocent people who confronted horrific adversity in concentration camps like Auschwitz and Buchenwald. I need to immerse myself in their stories. Although I've hit bottom, the inspiring literature of Jewish survival and courage shines a light down my psychological well, beginning to ease the tightness in my chest.

I'm reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

During my first weeks in the penitentiary, I meet hundreds of men. Listening to them convinces me that it's best to keep a low profile, at least until I understand more about my environment. I don't even talk much with the other men assigned to my cell.

Just as Check told me on my first day, the men mind their own business and don't show much interest in building new friendships. They work in the prison's factory, manufacturing or repairing mailbags for the U.S. Postal Service. I catch the vibe–one of apathy rather than hostility. These men have no interest in talking with a young prisoner who shows enthusiasm about being hired to work in the library. Enthusiasm dies long before most men enter the inside of these walls, I suspect. It might reveal naiveté, which exposes vulnerability.

In the evenings I lie on my rack thinking about how I'm going to make it and realize that I'm at the start of a long journey. I block out the noise that comes in endless waves from outside the cell. More than 600 of the 2,500 prisoners in the penitentiary live in A cellblock, though their activities don't concern me as much as the thoughts about how I will walk out of prison when I'm released.

But I can't seem to focus. The papers I've received from the administrators confirm that my 45-year sentence brings a possible release in 2013. It's only 1988 and after one year as a prisoner I still can't grasp what it means to live another 25 in here. According to the counselor, case manager, and unit managers, a group of administrators collectively known as the "unit team," 25 more years is the best I can hope for, and that's contingent on my not receiving any disciplinary infractions that could result in my loss of good time. No amount of effort or accomplishment, the unit team assures me, will advance my release date.

Although I don't talk about my spiritual beliefs, I read the Bible every night. My resistance to religious services and organized prayer groups irritates the zealots, or "Bible thumpers," as they're known. That's of little consequence in the long run because my relationship with the Bible brings me comfort, guides me, and provides occasional relief from the deep sorrow gripping me. I read it lying on my rack or while sitting on a wooden chair in a corner I've claimed for myself between bookshelves in the library.

Sometimes I find parables that seem as if written directly to me. I must prepare–that is the message I receive from my readings. The message comes to me from verses in both the Old and New Testaments. I find the message in the story of Noah and the Ark; I read it in the parables of the wise and foolish virgins, as well as the parables of the talents described in the Book of Matthew. I must prepare.

I learn from my daily Bible readings that everyone has a responsibility to live God's plan, and that plan requires us to maximize the gifts we receive. I'm not convinced that I must fast, wear certain clothes, use prayer oils, face the sun at specific hours, or publicly claim that I'm saved, to come closer to God. The belief I begin to form is that I need to live as a good man, to develop the gifts God has blessed me with and to work toward the making of a better world.

My belief strengthens my spirit, improves my attitude, and gives me a positive outlook. Instead of looking at my sentence as a burden I begin to see it as a challenge, an opportunity to grow in ways I never would've without extreme adversity. To accept that my sentence may have a purpose not yet revealed requires that I have faith that God has a plan, one that will open opportunities, and trusting in God's plan gives me a sense that I can go on.

I want to convey these thoughts to Lisa, but she's slipping away. Her sentencing date approaches so I understand her lack of enthusiasm when I express my excitement about beginning correspondence studies at Ohio University. When she mocks my growing faith in God, I realize how the time and space of my sentence separates us. Despite my love for her, we're growing apart.

Telephone restrictions preclude me from talking with her more than once every few days. I can only use the telephone on the days that A cellblock is scheduled for access. On telephone days, a guard leads 15 of us at a time to a room with rotary-dial, wall-mounted phones, and I wait in line to use one of them. When it's my turn, I'm authorized to make one 10-minute phone call.

To avoid the frustration of the brief phone calls I write long letters to Lisa every day, expressing my love for her and sending promises I don't know how I'll keep. Whatever sentence she receives, I assure her that it's part of God's plan, one that will bring us closer together. Just before her sentencing date she travels to Atlanta to visit with me.

I'm in my second month in Atlanta and it's been six months since I've seen my wife, more than a year since we've held each other or even touched. I'm lonely for her, aching for her. Thoughts of Lisa have, at various times, strengthened and weakened me, inspired and depressed me. Now I'm going to see her, to hold her, to kiss her.

I iron my khaki pants and shirt with creases as sharply pressed as a military officer's uniform and, in order to show how much larger my biceps have grown through exercise, I fold up the short sleeves of my shirt. I'm ready and I'm eager. Today Lisa will fall in love with me again, just as she loved me before.

"Yo, young'un, who's comin' to see you?" Other prisoners inquire as they watch me peering through the window to see who's walking down the prison corridor.

"My wife's visiting me today." I'm enthusiastic, refusing to use the standard prison reference of "my ol' lady."

"Have a good one."

Soon after I hear my name paged a guard arrives to escort me from the housing unit. We walk through the wide, quiet, empty corridor on polished marble floors surrounded by high, white walls. The guard doesn't talk to me. The only sounds along the dreary walk are our footsteps, the sound of swinging handcuffs that hang from the back of the guard's thick leather belt, and the occasional static blasts from his radio. It's a long walk.

Instead of entering the visiting room the guard opens the door to an adjacent room, where another guard waits at a desk.

"Inmate Santos for a visit," the escorting guard informs his colleague before locking me in the closet-sized room.

The guard seated at the desk asks for my ID and begins writing the information in his logbook: my name, registration number, the time I arrived, and my visitor's name. "What are you waiting for?" he asks as I stand there, watching.

"Oh, can I go in?" I'm dehumanized, conditioned to ask permission for any movement as if I've been a prisoner all my life.

"You know the drill."

"What drill? This is my first visit."

"Strip!"

The order surprises me but I follow it without question. My main concern is getting to Lisa, though I'm careful to keep my clothes looking crisp and so I take extra time to fold my pants and shirt before I set them on the dingy floor.

"Everything," the guard says as I stand in my boxers and socks.

I've been through hundreds of strip searches but guards sometimes let me stand in underwear while they inspect me. Not this one. He's a stickler for detail and insists on seeing me naked. He orders me to lift my privates, bend over and spread. I comply as he directs, giving him the full view he wants, and then I dress. Finally, he authorizes me to enter the visiting room.

I walk down a few steps to a platform where two guards sit at a desk. The room is large, like a high school cafeteria with bright lights. Vending machines line the walls. It's packed with people engaged in hundreds of simultaneous, loud conversations. I don't see Lisa. One of the guards asks for my identification. He then patronizes me with questions on whether I understand the rules. Those rules may be designed for security reasons, but they strip people of dignity and contribute to the loss of community ties. I remember the rules from when I first saw Lisa in the Miami prison more than a year ago. They don't permit us to embrace during the visit, and limit kissing to the start and finish. The guard tells me where to sit and points me in the direction.

Finally, I see her. She sits in a row of plastic chairs along the wall and watches as I walk toward her from across the brightly lit room. My eyes lock with hers and memories flash of better times. I remember crowds parting as she held my arm while we walked through Las Vegas casinos; I remember drinking champagne and eating chocolate truffles with her at a dessert bar overlooking Central Park; I remember powering through deep blue, rolling waves of the Atlantic on my ocean racer, with her in a sequined string bikini, clinging to me. Those days are gone, never to return. I have repressed thoughts of Lisa's seductiveness, her magnetic sex appeal, but as I walk closer to her those feelings surge, inflaming all of my senses.

The year has taken its toll on me. With the total absence of a woman's touch, of affection, of physical warmth and release, an enormous urge rises in me. I'm oblivious to the hundreds of other people visiting in the room. It's as if I'm seeing Lisa in an airport terminal for the first time after a long trip abroad. Only she's not here to welcome me home. When she stands I want to devour her. Since we have just this one opportunity, I manage with a deliciously long, marvelous kiss.

"I still love you, Michael," Lisa says, holding me before we sit.

"And I love you," I respond while pulling her close. "We're made to love each other. I've told you that from the beginning. Our love is strong enough to carry us through anything, even imprisonment." I'm eager to say anything and everything that comes to mind with desperate hopes of holding on to her.

We sit side-by-side, as close as the stationary, hard plastic chairs will allow. We're close enough that I feel the soft skin of her arms touching mine, close enough that I can breathe in her perfume. The romantic euphoria of our first hour together doesn't last, however, as we can't avoid discussing the ugliness that has become our lives.

"How is it in here, really? Are you safe?"

"I told you, you don't have to worry about me. As long as we're together, I'm okay. My dad sent the money to the university, so I should receive my books and lesson plans soon. I've got a great job in the library. I'm exercising every day. I've got plenty of books to read. You're going to see how I turn this mess around. I'm going to leave here so much better than I am now, stronger and wiser. I'm going to make you proud."

"But what about me? What do you think is going to happen at my sentencing–and after? I can't live in a place like this!"

"Honey, nothing's going to happen." I comb my fingers through her blonde hair. "You didn't do anything that bad. You told a little lie about money. What's the big deal? The judge isn't going to put you in prison for that. People lie all the time. Every time someone gets pulled over for speeding, he lies about driving the speed limit. They don't put people in prison for that."

"But what if they do? What's going to happen then?" She grips her fingers into my hands. "I don't want to live in a place like this."

"It's not going to happen," I soothe. "Why don't you pray with me? When I pray, God gives me strength."

"Come on, don't start with that! What are you doing? Becoming a priest in here? Prayer isn't going to help me!" Lisa abruptly lets go of me and folds her arms across her chest in frustration.

"Yes it will, it helps me through every day."

"You got 45 years! Did prayers help with that?"

"Baby, don't talk like that. You have to trust in me, trust in God. It's going to get better."

"Sometimes I don't think I know you anymore. All you talk about is school, God, about how it's going to be better when you get out. Don't you get it? We're going to be old by then!"

"It's not going to be that long." I sit back in my chair, swallowing the harshness of her assessment.

"What about me? How am I supposed to live? Our money is running out."

"Why don't you get a job?"

"Doing what? What can I do? You want me to wait tables or something?"

"Don't worry, Baby. Let's get through your sentencing next week and put this mess behind us. I'll think of something."

Our visit may have begun with passion, but it ends with the cold reality that we don't have enough of anything to sustain us. We don't have enough money, enough maturity, or enough commitment. When visiting hours end she stands and we hold each other, but I know she's not coming back. Our parting kiss tastes like good-bye. As she walks away I'm more alone than I've ever been.

The following week Lisa is sentenced. After the scheduled time of her hearing I call my father, who accompanied her to lend support. He tells me that the judge sentenced her to serve five years on probation for her felony conviction of lying to a federal officer. I'm relieved. Thinking of Lisa enduring the handcuffs, the chains, the regular strip searches, orders, and daily indignities of confinement would have crushed me. I can handle prison, but I wasn't sure she could have, and if she were put inside my level of stress would've risen exponentially. At least I have that complication behind me. Now it's on to new challenges and complications that I expect to flow over the next 10,000 days.

*******

Since the library is an open space where all prisoners can congregate freely, it serves as a kind of marketplace for hustlers and prisoners use it for more than checking out books or typing. They exploit it to hide weapons, drugs, and other contraband that they conceal in the drop ceiling or inside books they hollow out. Guards seize contraband they find, but since the library is a common area they can't punish an individual without further information, like a tip from a snitch.

I'll never become a source of such information, as I won't try to make my life easier at the expense of making someone else's life harder. Blood spills inside these walls. I'll survive by making decisions that ensure I don't have to hide from anybody and that no one has to hide from me. I want to live invisibly, to be "in" the penitentiary, but not "of" the penitentiary. I focus intensely on steps I can take that will lead me closer to home, that will prepare me for a productive life outside.

My own research and the inquiries I make of other prisoners convince me that only two mechanisms exist through which I can earn my way out. One is to ask my judge to reconsider my sentence using the formal legal proceeding known as the Rule 35 motion, but the strict time parameters of that rule limit me. Once the appeals court affirms my conviction and sentence–as I'm sure it will–the 120-day clock starts ticking. After that time elapses, my sentence becomes etched in stone. The only other mechanism, barring future legislative reform, is asking the president to grant relief through executive clemency.

The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals will affirm my conviction and sentence within a year. What can I possibly accomplish in another year of imprisonment to persuade my sentencing judge that I'm a worthy candidate for relief, that I've earned freedom? It's not enough time and yet I've got to make something happen. Every minute that passes without my having a plan or making progress means that I'm losing ground. I feel like I'm a cartoon character, lying on a table with a swinging, spinning saw blade gradually dropping from the ceiling toward my exposed and extended neck.

Improving my situation will require support from people outside. Yet 40-foot walls hinder my ability to connect with society, frustrating me. I stare at library walls wondering how to distinguish myself from every other prisoner who wants a sentence reduction. I can't simply express sorrow or regret. I am deeply remorseful, though I understand the cynicism of the system. When I file my Rule 35, I'm expecting prosecutors to argue persuasively that I'm not at all remorseful but only want out.

I wrestle with the opposition I expect to face. Why do others think it so wrong that I want to advance my release date? I want out, but I also want to atone, to somehow reconcile with society. I aspire to show others that I'm earning my freedom. As I stare blankly at the books all around me I suddenly see the solution that will help me pierce these walls and connect with society: I'll write a book!

I may not know what I'm doing but the fact that I'm doing something, making progress, empowers me. For the first time I'm not sitting around waiting for outside forces to dictate my fate. Instead, I have a plan and that brings new energy, motivation, and inspiration. I'll write about how the romantic, swashbuckling images I had of coke traffickers seduced me into the trade. Reading my story will provide compelling reasons for others to avoid making the same choices. I'll express remorse openly and perhaps other young people will be dissuaded from breaking the law. The book should assist law enforcement by helping stop crime before it starts.

I've never taken a writing course or even written anything more substantial than short letters, but if I begin now and work on it every day, I can finish a book in time to generate support for my Rule 35. This project becomes my Hail Mary effort to begin a record of atonement.

Julie and her fiancé, Tim, are my strongest supporters. I write her and they agree to launch a nonprofit corporation to publish the book, which I title Drugs and Money. That way instead of selling the book we can donate it. A funding arm from the State of Washington offers financial resources for programs designed to improve community safety, and I write a grant proposal to fund our project. Julie submits the grant proposal through the nonprofit, and then she persuades those on the board of the grant committee to fund production of Drugs and Money with $20,000. It's a sufficient amount of funds to produce and distribute 2,000 books to schools, jails, and other organizations for at-risk adolescents. This community-service effort helps me reach beyond the penitentiary, build support, and begin making a contribution to society.

*******

I hear my name being paged over the loudspeaker with an order to report to the Education building. I sit down at the desk where I write each day, and Mr. Chandler, the Supervisor of Education, approaches.

"Sanchez, why am I getting a package from Ohio University with your name all over it?" He is not happy.

I look up, surprised that he's upset and wondering what I did wrong. "I enrolled in a correspondence program, sir," I respond, not wanting to aggravate him further by correcting his mispronunciation of my name. "I wanted to study toward a college degree."

"Boy, don't you know I got half a mind to lock you up? Ain't no courses get ordered 'round here less they go through me. Who authorized you to enroll in college?"

"I didn't know I needed to have authorization."

"Don't you knows you's in the peniten'try! You better axe somebody! Can't be havin' no packages sent in here without auth'rization. Interferes with security of the institution."

"Sorry, sir. I didn't know that a package from a university could interfere with security. But I won't make that mistake again."

Mr. Chandler softens some with my contrite response. "What you doin' in here all day anyway boy?" He spreads the pages of longhand on my desk.

"Writing, sir, just trying to stay out of trouble."

"Well you 'bout found trouble, and you're lookin' at it. Now come on back to my office and get these here books 'fore I send 'em back and lock yo ass in da hole."

I stand and follow him down the center corridor, giddy as a boy on Christmas morning, ecstatic that my course work has arrived. I don't know why he was so angry, but it doesn't really matter now that he's agreed to allow me to proceed. When we enter his office I see the box from Ohio University open on his desk.

"This ain't nothin' but a lot 'a extra work for me."

"Thanks for helping, sir. I apologize for causing so much trouble."

He opens each book, inspects the binding, fans through the pages, then he passes the book over to me. I have courses in English, philosophy, algebra, and psychology. I thank Mr. Chandler again and return to the desk where I can begin to work with a new sense of purpose.

In my mind I'm no longer a prisoner. I'm 24 years old, about to endure my second holiday season in confinement, but I'm also on track for making real, measurable progress. I'm now a university student and an aspiring author. Others will soon have tangible results to gauge my commitment to atone.