Read Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Online

Authors: T. J. Parsell

Tags: #Male Rape, #Social Science, #Penology, #Parsell; T. J, #Prisoners, #Prisons - United States, #Prisoners - United States, #General, #United States, #Personal Memoirs, #Prison Violence, #Male Rape - United States, #Prison Violence - United States, #Biography & Autobiography, #Prison Psychology, #Prison Psychology - United States, #Biography

Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (54 page)

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I turned around and smiled gently at the guy who made the comment. I could tell by his look, that my smiling at him made him uncomfortable. I had been told before, that meeting me was sometimes disconcerting because I hardly looked like an ex-con.

Behind him, on the New York Times rack, an article caught my attention. It was the first in a series on teenagers behind bars who were jailed for life for crimes committed as teenagers. The caption read, "To More Inmates, Life Term Means Dying Behind Bars."

My friends at Human Rights Watch were releasing a report on how a growing number of teenagers who were ending up behind bars were never getting out. On the cover of the newspaper, were two mug shots of Jackie Lee Thompson. The first picture had been taken when he went in to prison at age fifteen, and the other shot was recent-age forty-nine-after having spent thirty-five years inside.

I stood there transfixed by the mug shot of the fifteen-year-old boy, side by side with his foty-nine-year-old self. No matter the time difference, the eyes were the same in both photographs. Only the expressions were different; the fifteen year old appeared frightened, whereas the forty-nine year old looked lifeless and sad.

That was me at seventeen and that could have been me today. Like Paul, Slide Step, and all the others, I could have easily spent the past twenty-five years of my life behind bars. What really separated us other than circumstances?

I walked out of Starbucks, forgetting my latte on the counter. I drove to my meditation meeting in Wainscott, tears rolling down my face. It became so clear to me what I'm here to do.

Once again, God had given me my sign.

According to the U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics, we housed over 2.2 million prisoners in the United States-more than any other country in the world. And an estimated 13.5 million more pass through the justice system each year. Including over 100,000 teenagers who are housed in adult facilities.

Sexual violence is a crime that preys on the vulnerable. In some states, children as young as fourteen have been sentenced to adult facilities, and in many cases, they fit the profile of likely sexual assault victims because they are small in stature and inexperienced in the ways of prison. According to experts, teenagers in adult facilities are five times as likely to be sexually assaulted than young people housed in juvenile facilities, and eight times as likely to commit suicide. But while certain characteristics like age, sexual orientation, or physical appearance can increase the likelihood of rape, anyone can be a victim of sexual violence behind bars. Male, female, transgender, young or old, gay or straight, black or white, physically weak or stronganyone. It's up to corrections officials to take steps to prevent it. Stephen Donaldson, the former President of Stop Prisoner Rape, was an antiwar protestor, with no prior history of criminal activity. He died of complications from AIDS, which he believed he contracted as a result of his rape.

And today, when HIV rates among prisoners are estimated to be five to ten times higher than the rest of the population, the risks are even greater.

Most people who want to be tough on crime don't care what happens to inmates. But they should care, because 95 percent of all prisoners are eventually released back into society, indelibly marked by the violence they have seen or experienced.

Up until recently, corrections officials have not been doing enough to curb this violence. Prisoner rape occurs most easily when guards aren't around to see or hear it. Inmate populations are continuing to grow and this makes policing prisons and jails even more difficult. Insufficient staffing and outdated facilities where observation of inmates is limited contribute to an atmosphere that makes it harder for authorities to protect vulnerable prisoners. There's no question that jails are short of money, but there are steps that can be taken to protect inmates from being raped. Staff training, inmate orientation, and assignment of prisoners by crime and by propensity to violence are a few examples. By not stopping and prosecuting sexual offenders in prisons, we arc in effect legitimizing the act.

Being gang raped in prison has scarred me in ways that cannot be seen or even imagined. My shame, low self-esteem, self-hatred, deep-seated rage, and inability to trust went unabated for years. To drown out the painful memories, I went through a period of heavy drinking and drug use. Even after years of therapy and recovery, I still occasionally awake at night in cold sweats, crying. I'm remorseful about the actions of my youth, and I accept full responsibility for the choices I made, but no matter what crime someone may have done, no one deserves to be raped.

When President Bush signed the Prison Rape Elimination Act of 2003, Congressman Frank Wolf (who sponsored the bill in the House with Congressman Bobby Scott) sent me a personal note that read: "Hopefully the work we have done will save another seventeen-year-old from suffering the same fate as you did."

I am a survivor, but my story is far from unique. I speak for the estimated hundreds of thousands of voiceless inmates whose personal stories will never be heard, whose life-and-death struggles behind bars will never be known. In giving voice to other survivors, I'm also taking back the voice that was stolen from me when I was seventeen years old and remained lost to me for many years. I have reclaimed that voice and with it strive to shatter the walls of silence that keep survivors incarcerated in their own personal prisons of despair, shame, and alienation.

Fish is my story, it is our story.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, to Marijane Meaker and The Ashawagh Hall Writer's Workshop: I could not have completed Fish had it not been for your guidance, compassion, and loving support. Even as my life felt like it was unraveling-you encouraged me to keep writing no matter what. To Jess Gregg (The Tall Boy, Permanent Press): You have been a mentor, a guide, and at times-a firm, loving father. Vince Lardo for his generous time and advice. To Laura Stein, Lynn Blumenfeld, Bob, Ed, Helen, Tom, Rob, Aurrice, Vivian, Betty, Meredith, Annie, Amanda, Wendy, Annette, Susan, Debora, Jim, Glynne, Barbara Ann, John, Leo, and Stacy. My inner boy thanks you with all of his heart.

Special thanks to Jim Fox, for his friendship and legal counsel, and to Tom Fallon who brought us together. To Scott Manning, my hardworking publicist, and Dr. Diane Austin, who was the first to read the entire manuscript and offer her clinical insight. To Robert Gatto, Lovisa Stannow, Kathy HallMartinez, Lara Stemple, Cynthia Totten, and my friends at Stop Prisoner Rape who also provided feedback. To Laurie Van Rooten, who believed in Fish nearly twenty-years ago, and who never stopped asking me when I was going to sit down and write it. To my friends of Bill W. who help me build the foundation upon which I live a sober life. And to any Higher Power and salsa secreto.

To my close friends and family, who helped hold my world together as I lowered myself down into the emotional abyss of darkness: I could not have been able to report back from any of those places, had you all not been there to help hoist me up again.

To Don Weise, my good-looking, sexy, and talented editor, who first heard about Fish over dinner and championed it with all of his passion. He understood what I was trying to do, and applied his gifts in all the right areas. If we help change the world of just one vulnerable inmate-Don is in large part responsible.

And last, to the hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children who end up behind bars every day: No matter what someone has done-no one deserves to be raped.