~ by Taj Mahon-Haft ~
*Names have been changed for privacy’s sake.*
Mr. Fern is my neighbor here. He sleeps across the hall and six doors down–about forty feet away. Since I arrived here, before even living on the same floor as him, he has bent over backwards to offer me a smile and friendly word anytime I’ve seen him.
In fact, I’ve never seen Mr. Fern offer anything but a gentle word to anyone except Mongo and Snuffy. In those cases, it’s only because he’s an old Vietnam veteran marine and they were army and navy, respectively. Hence, there is the inevitable friendly banter about who is smarter and who cleans up whose messes and who drives whom around.
I got to know Mr. Fern well fairly quickly here because he doesn’t get around well anymore, waiting years for a new hip. He had a job keeping clean the pod tables, microwave, and phones, and he did that methodically and religiously every morning. Hobbling about, he took pride in even that duty. Besides that, he reads Tom Clancy and James Lee Burke novels. I work at the library so he comes in and tells me stories of rural boyhood in West Virginia and then leading a platoon “in country.”
Recently, Mr. Fern found himself in a horrible position because he tried to poop in private. Really, it’s due to a few guards and administrators who exerted their authority without logic or compassion and a system that rubber stamps their decisions.
Mr. Fern has never had an institutional violation in a decade behind bars. He does nothing except read, watch sports, and quietly chat. He is the ideal resident here.
Yet right after Turkey Day, Mr. Fern was using the toilet when a power-tripping sergeant burst in without knocking. Mr. Fern had a mesh bag hanging down across most, but not all, of the window to his cell. This is standard practice to allow some visibility for security but also some privacy while pooping.
A deuce in peace is pretty much the baseline for human dignity, right? Not that day, apparently.
Clearly the man was doing nothing untoward. Yet the sergeant yanked the mesh bag down and hollered at him. That would’ve been bad enough, but a couple hours later, Mr. Fern was called down and read the charge against him.
Not “Failure to follow an institutional rule” or “Failure to follow a direct order,” both low level, 200 series offenses, for partially obscuring the window. Nope, he was given one of the most serious charges, 109, “Interfering with a security device.” This is the same as when someone is caught cutting through the fence outside or bars on their window.
Having never faced such a situation, Mr. Fern felt confused. Rather than a peer or counselor, a guard advised him of his rights–and misadvised him to accept a plea. The “deal” was a reprimand, no fine, and the lieutenant told him he should take it. His only concern was keeping his job, so he asked and was told explicitly that it would not affected his job.
Unfortunately, it did. Less than a week after he pled guilty to get it over with, thinking it would only be a reprimand, he was called down again. On the basis of that overstated charge and his cooperation, he was fired on the spot and his security level raised two levels. Now this aged, ill, disabled man is without any income and subject to having to go to a high security facility with less than two hours outside the cell per day for trying to poop in peace and then trusting the guard who promised no further consequences for a guilty plea.
With proper advice and assistance now, he has appealed every aspect of the case at every level. Three of us here, without the official job but with some legal and procedural knowledge, helped him develop fully cited responses. To no avail.
The warden began by telling him simply that his alleged misstep qualified for that severe charge. This mis-advisement and double jeopardy never received a response. At the state level, they again upheld all aspects, this time only mentioning the security level change as “procedural, not additional punishment.” At every appeal, he included a very specific account of his ongoing good behavior and health issues and financial concerns.
The most surprising thing to me about prison has been the way people here watch out for each other. In a land of nothing but supposed assholes very truly kept in cages, kindness continuously emerges from the cracks. Like an Amish town, we make something for everyone out of nearly nothing, time and again.
Yes, I said “we,” for the men here are a true community.
We make, at most, 60 cents an hour, and usually 45. We come from the neighborhoods and families with the fewest resources. We still have to pay three bucks, a day’s wage for our own deodorant and another three for our toothpaste. Still, we make a dollar out of fifteen cents then give a quarter to the guy with nothing.
Mr. Fern has no family and no way except his job here to survive. He is 73, has stage four prostate cancer, and still must sleep on a steel cot without painkillers. He needs a hip so badly some days he can’t make it a hundred yards to the chow hall. He is the perfect candidate to be bullied.
Since Mr. Fern’s unjust firing in November, four guys here became a team of tooth fairies. He’s a proud old country boy. “I ain’t never been on welfare and I won’t ask for anything!,” he proudly proclaims. So for four months now, those men have found room in their budgets and sneaky moments to keep Mr. Fern afloat.
They have provided soap, shampoo, toothpaste, of course, but not just the basics. They have made life more than bearable, also conspiring to provide instant coffee, ramen noodles, peanut butter, crackers, and some chips. Nothing extravagant, but they will not let him suffer while they have enough
Who are these mystery heroes? Well, a Bob, a Rick, a Snuffy, and an Alex, but the state would probably describe them merely as three alleged killers and a teacher who supposedly had a bunch of drugs and illegal images. The state painted these men as being soulless dangers to society, but none of them have ever done anything but help others that I’ve seen. They have nothing to gain, either, as they work quietly and Mr. Fern doesn’t even know who they are. It is silent generosity, the purest kind.
In this situation, I am awed by the solidarity of these men around me. Those dismissed and silenced by society have repeatedly come together to help someone in need, even when they have nothing. Meanwhile, those supposedly upholding public safety only show malice.
Guilty or innocent of the original charges against them, Bill, Ryan, Scruffy, and Alex are acting as positive community members. We need more of this outside these walls. We are not our worst mistakes, nor should such define our lives.
