Who Asked You? (9 page)

When we get to Grandma’s, Nurse Kim is telling her something about Grandpa. I sit on the couch. Ricky go back to his room to play. Grandma just nod her head up and down. Nurse Kim is fine. Even I know that. And she got nice round breasts I would like to touch, and I don’t even know why. She always wear red lipstick and her hair is black and hang down past her shoulders. Our mama said, “That ain’t her real hair. It’s a weave. I don’t know who she think she fooling.” I think our mama only say that ’cause almost every lady in our building got a weave, and sometimes our mama sew or glue ’em in as long as they bring they own hair. I don’t care if her hair is a weave. It’s pretty. I don’t think our mama like Nurse Kim ’cause she prettier than her even though I seen pictures of our mama when she was prettier than Nurse Kim is right now. Our mama told us, “She ain’t no real nurse. So don’t go getting sick around her, ’cause she won’t know what to do.” I was thinking about pretending to be sick just to see for myself. And so she would maybe touch me. I wanna know if her hands is warm or cold. Plus, she smell good. Like pears. And she always be very nice to me and Ricky. Our mama said, “She nice to you ’cause she get paid to be nice to everybody in Mama’s house.” That is not true. Grandma pay her to come over here and be with Grandpa so don’t nothing happen to him. I think this is called a job.

“I wrote a story about a cat who can bark. You wanna read it, Nurse Kim?”

“If I didn’t have to be at the nail shop I would love to read your story, Luther. Next time. I promise. You’re such a smart little boy.”

I didn’t like her saying I was a smart little boy. I’ll be a teenager in five years and a few months, I’m starting to wonder if Nurse Kim really like me or not. She is not friendly enough to me like I am to her. But I say bye and go play with Ricky. I sit down on the bed. He doing bicycles with his legs. I hear Nurse Kim say bye but I know she probably mean to Grandma. When the phone ring, I hear Grandma say Miss Tammy’s name. And then real loud she say, “She’s having a what?” I know that probably only mean two things: somebody having a baby, or a surprise birthday party. Where we live, babies ain’t never no surprise. I like Miss Tammy, but I thought when a lady get old like her she can’t have no more kids. I think those eggs that make babies hatch expires (I learned that word today!), just like milk. Maybe some of her eggs is still fresh.

She is nice to us and let us swim in her pool all the time when we come over to Grandma’s. She also gives us snacks and juice. No Pepsis! She the only white person we know. I think I like white people if they be like Miss Tammy. She funny. And Grandma say Miss Tammy is her best friend. Me and Ricky like the way she make tacos, too. Our mama don’t like no white people. “All they want is your money,” she say. But I always wonder why she be getting so mad at them, ’cause she ain’t never got no money. I lay my head down on Ricky’s pillow and take a nap, I guess, ’cause when I wake up it’s almost dark.

I go out to the living room and Ricky already out there, coloring. Grandma is reading a lot of pieces of paper that somebody wrote on in cursive. She don’t look like she like what she reading.

“What you reading, Grandma?”

“It’s a letter from your uncle Dexter.”

“That’s the one I don’t know ’cause I was not born yet when he moved, right?”

“Right.”

“Where he live at again?”

“He
lives
in a place called a prison. Somewhere you never want to see the inside of.”

“What he got to say?” I ask. I know I probably didn’t say it right and I hope she don’t make me fix it ’cause sometime I don’t know how to fix it and sometime I just wanna say it any way it come out.

“I don’t know yet. But I want you and Ricky to know this. If you ever answer the phone and they say, ‘Collect call from Dexter, will you accept the charges?’ I want you to say ‘No,’ and then hang up. Do you understand me?”

I nod. So do Ricky. But neither one of us know what
collect
mean. And right now, we don’t wanna know.

April 3, 2001

Dearest Ma:

Thank you so much for the monetary reinforcement! And the envelopes and stamps. As you can see, six of them are on this letter but the reason it has taken me so long to write is because we’ve been on lockdown. Which means nothing moves until the white man says it can. It’s also the reason why this letter is written in pencil. Somebody got stabbed with a ballpoint so . . . but the good news is we were just made aware that in the next 3–6 months, many changes are being made here, so please make note of them: 1) as inmates we will no longer be able to accept any property (none) from our families. It will all be done like a depository bank, so to speak. You will be able to deposit funds directly into my account (I’ll send you the account information as soon as it’s assigned) from which I will be able to purchase all of my necessities; 2) we’re finally getting computers which come with printers so no more problems trying to decipher my handwriting or anything that’s unclear, although I will have to sign up to reserve them; and 3) I will be coming up for parole again in three months. (I speak more about this later in this letter.)

Guess what? My feet grew! So if at all humanly possible, could you please send me another pair of
all white
sneakers (size 12) in the next couple of weeks because I’m renting another dude’s size 12s for $3 a week—$3 I cannot afford right now, but otherwise I’d be walking around in flip-flops. I sold those 11s to a Mexican who wore a size 9 ½ but he didn’t care. I took his money anyway which is how I’m paying for my sneaker rental and it was like Christmas because it afforded me additional trips to the snack machine (I’m addicted to bubble gum), and I was able to stock up on soap, lotion, deodorant, and toothpaste which I sorely needed. I was also able to buy five new (used, of course) paperbacks too. I finished reading “Dianetics” and “The 7 Spiritual Laws To Success.” They’re both in tune with most of what’s been missing in my life. I am learning a lot more about why some of the things that led me here happened the way they did—for instance: going to prison for a crime somebody else committed and making me the fall guy by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I admit I have anger issues, which is why I’m still taking Anger Management classes. However, I know, too, that all I can do is be grateful for the present, prepare as best I can for the future, and forgive and forget the past. Have you ever heard of Iyanla Vanzant? You should check her out, Ma, she has her hand on the pulse of the black man’s problems. Although she deals with a lot of issues that plague people in general. There’s quite a few white dudes in here who like her too, but not a single Aryan (ha ha). Before I forget, would you be able to send me a cheap watch (under $40 and please remember to attach the receipt and don’t take it out of the box) because someone stole mine and we get tickets (fined $2) around here for not being on time for work and our classes. My so-called (now ex-) girlfriend—Skittles—(I’m not sure if you remember meeting her but don’t even try) sent me a stopwatch by mistake. I had to cut her loose. Not only was she missing a few links, but I found out through a reliable source that she just had a baby by some other dude. Talk about loyalty.

Question: Have you been reading my letters? I’m not accusing, but sometimes you don’t answer my questions, questions that I think deserve an answer, but it’s all good. Anyway, if you recall, a few months back I sent you a copy of the District Judge’s opinion regarding my civil case wherein the Judge described the conduct of the CDC officials as unconstitutional. I will say this, though, the U.S. District Court failed to review a State Prisoner’s pro se civil rights action, filed under 43 U.S.C. 1984, in accordance with
Fenton v. Gomez
, 404 U.S. 520, 521 (1993), in which they violated a prisoner’s right to access the Appeals Courts. I won’t rehash all of the details again, Ma, however I just want to say that I’m still litigating this case because I feel I have rights to due process and equal protection of the law. As you know, I’ve spent the past five (5) years learning how to become an attorney, answering motions, and conducting discovery by mail. As I write this I’m waiting for a District Judge’s ruling on my motion for Summary Judgment I prepared on behalf of another inmate. Some of my motions have been quite effective in that a few charges have been overturned.

I forgot to ask: How are you? And what about Daddy? I know he’s not going to get any better and hopefully I’ll be out of here before he leaves this tangible world and enters that celestial one. I tried calling Quentin but he’s blocked all collect calls, which basically means he doesn’t want to speak to me because with his lifestyle who else could he possibly know that would be calling him collect? I write him, but of course he never writes me back. Did I miss another wedding? Last time I checked he was on Wife #3. I think he’s confused about his manhood. I also think it’s rude to block collect calls because what if there was an emergency? I haven’t spoken to or heard from Aunt Arlene in almost two (2) years and Uncle Rodney forced Aunt Venetia to stop accepting my calls, against her faith, I might add. He has never been fond of me, and the feeling is mutual. He seems untrustworthy, as if he’s always had another agenda. Anyway, sorry for going off on a tangent. As you can tell, I try not to call you and Daddy every week. I know you’re on a tight budget so I have tried to cut you more slack than anybody. Anyway, Trinetta’s home phone was disconnected the last time I tried to call and I found out the hard way that you can’t call a cell phone collect. How is she, by the way? When you see her next, tell her if she’s wondering where Luther’s daddy’s been hiding, he’s in here. He just got transferred from Folsom. Armed robbery. He’s a giant, at least 6'4" so he shouldn’t have any problems in here. He was always ridiculously stupid. It’s a shame, but there are at least four dudes in here I used to go to high school with. Do you remember Scotty Blanchard, who lived six doors down? We used to play together until they moved to the Jungle. He’s in here for Murder One. I don’t know what’s happening out there in the real world but black men are swelling up these prison walls.

Which brings me to the other reason for this letter (I mentioned earlier), which I’m trying to keep short, but some things I just have to say because you can only say so much in a 15-minute phone call. It’s about my parole hearing. I know we’ve been through this process a number of times already, but I have to keep trying and it’s my responsibility to remind you of the formalities just in case. So here goes. When I go before the board in three months, I’m going to have to be able to demonstrate (prove) that I have family and/or community support in order to get paroled. I need to have in writing that I will have someplace to stay, that I may have a job waiting for me (I’ll need your help on this one), I’ll have a few funds available to me in a bank account, as well as transportation home. It would help a great deal for me to get as many letters of support as possible from family members, friends, and acquaintances, people who knew me before I found myself in here, e.g., like Miss Tammy across the street. (She didn’t write one last time I went before the board, but I always thought she liked me. Would you ask her for me before I bother sending another letter?) I don’t have very many legitimate people I can ask and even though I know Aunt Venetia and Aunt Arlene have issues with me, as Christians, I hope they are at least willing to forgive me for my sins and show some faith in me when I write them again. Please put in a few good words about my progress. Quentin pretends like I’m not even his brother, which is unfortunate, but blood is blood. One day he’ll realize that. Anyway, I’m enclosing a sample copy of various things they can say about the positive aspects of my character and why they believe I’ll not be a threat to society. I’ve added and embellished some things which are handwritten in the margins to help them. Please have photocopies made and distribute them and once they’re returned to me I will deliver them to my Case Manager and he will then provide them to the Parole Committee. Time is of the essence, but you know the drill. I’ve read my complete file (except for the things they black out) and this time my psychological evaluations are up to par and my counselor’s reports are stellar because I haven’t had any run-ins with anybody. I have stayed out of trouble and done nothing except read law books, the thesaurus, encyclopedias, and books that inspire me and stimulate my mind—again, like the ones I mentioned at the beginning of this letter. If all goes well, and they accept my plan, I could be out of here in three to six months.

I hope you will let me live with you and Daddy until I get on my feet (it has to be a minimum of 180 days), because I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m going to have to find a job, which is often one of the hardest things to do when you’re a felon, but my parole officer might be able to help me. They don’t trust us around money, that’s for sure, and we can’t be bonded. But please keep in mind, Ma, that I feel like I am rehabilitated. This institution hasn’t contributed to it one drop. I have had to fill in the missing parts from every source available to me. The thing that seems to hold a lot of people back in here is they spend more time debating about the wackiest stuff when none of them know what they’re talking about because they didn’t do the research and so they can’t prove their point. I know I said that first time I was in here, but this time is different. I was young and cocky and thought I was invincible. I felt like I was entitled to things I wanted just because I wanted them. Prison has given me a Ph.D. in correcting my false sense of what I think is owed me. Nothing. I value my life more now. I’ve got two kids I don’t even know and who may not even want to know me. I’m just glad I didn’t kill anybody. I don’t suffer from that kind of anger. Rage is closer to it. Anyway, I hope you haven’t forgotten that I can build anything and fix anything.

I also want you to know that I get A’s in all of my online law classes and I would really like to be in a position to help a lot of men like myself who got a raw deal because of our racist justice system. The problem I’m having right now is this: I need two textbooks for my law class but they cost $200, and of course I don’t have that kind of money. I was wondering if you would be willing to
loan
me the money until after I become gainfully employed upon my release at which time I would be more than happy to repay you with interest? The sooner you can let me know, the better, because I can’t register for the classes if I can’t afford the books.

Did you read my letter where I told you some dudes jumped on me? For absolutely no reason I can ascertain. I had to get four stitches on my chin. I can’t begin to tell you the violence you see in prison. I have to take a shower with my shoes on just to be prepared to run should something go down and we have to move fast. Of course, the one time I was washing them, some dude got stabbed, which is how I got athlete’s foot. Things could be worse.

When I do leave these prison walls behind me, I’m still going to bring a lawsuit against the Attorney General of the State of California for violating my constitutional rights. (I’ve enclosed all of the documents I’m going to file just so you can see that I know what I’m talking about. It makes a good case if you take the time to read through them.)

I would like to assure you that I’ve learned that experience is the best teacher but it gives you the test first, and the lesson last. For nine years I’ve had people telling me when to wake up, when to sleep, how to sleep, how to walk, talk, and dress. They even tell me when I can study the law.

Please send me some photos and give Daddy a hug. Until next time.

Your loving son,

Dexter

P.S. I tried calling you three times last week but somebody just kept hanging up on me. Was that Daddy?

August 15, 2001

Dear Dexter: I just got a new computer and I can’t believe how it corrects your spelling and grammar (which I certainly could use help on) but this letter will not be brief and will take as long as it takes to make my points. First of all, I am not sending you $200 for any law books. I want to know how you think you can save other black men when you have yet to save yourself? It seems like all you guys either become black militants or Muslims when you’re in prison for a while and then it seems okay to blame all your problems on the white man and the racist justice system. This is probably why you haven’t passed your parole board tests or whatever they call it the last three or four times you’ve gone before them. It amazes me how you still haven’t taken any responsibility for what you’ve done. I’ll be glad when you stop blaming it on Buddy, but it’s not going to get you out of there. You have convinced yourself that you’re innocent after all these years, even after being caught. Don’t you think those parole folks can hear and see that based on your attitude you aren’t the least bit sorry for what you’ve done but more sorry that you got caught? I’ve told you this for years, Dexter. Your daddy and me did not raise you to mistreat anybody and that’s what you did. I am also sick and tired of hearing about your innocence. I also know there are a lot of men in there who aren’t guilty, and they fight long and hard to get their wrongful convictions overturned. I see them on CNN a lot. But you seem to suffer a little bit from amnesia, because you were breaking the law long before you got where you are now, so I wish you would stop playing the victim. Have you ever thought about that woman? If she has nightmares about being carjacked every time she parks her car in a big lot? How scared she was, not knowing if she was going to die or not? You may have ruined her life and yet all you can think about is your future.