Bluebirdy

In my work mailbox last week there was a letter stamped “Inmate Mail” from a correctional facility in Oregon. This letter is from a woman (who I’ll call “Corby”) I’ve started writing to who is spending the next 27 years, and more likely, her life, in prison. My friend FlyBoy, who works at Google with me, and a good number of my other friends, flipped out upon hearing that I was writing to a person in jail. Of course, most of the people I know lead safe, mainstream, subjectively dull lives that are perfectly primed for flooring by news that isn’t really shocking at all. I lead much the same type of life, with divergences here and there (like communicating with prisoners) to keep my mind in shape.

Writing letters longhand with a fine pen on stationery is a bygone novelty that I haven’t had the luxury of experiencing since high school. To my dismay, it also requires a level of athleticism in your hand, wrist, and elbow that I also haven’t had since high school. In my opening letter to Corby I learned two things. One, all of that pretty stationery I had been hoarding since childhood is nowhere to be found, and two, my right hand was woefully underprepared for writing more than two sentences. The third thing that I “learned,” but actually already knew and was trying to ignore, was that I had no idea what I would say and if she would think me crazy. It’s absurd, really, fretting over what a person who spends most of her days staring at a concrete wall might think of you, but it was nonetheless an ever present apprehension. My first letter was two pages long, front and back, on small, brightly colored paper that fit in a tiny pink envelope. I sent it off and checked my work mailbox for many days afterwards, until I had finally given up and decided that she’d never write back, when on a Friday as I was leaving I checked one last time and found a business-size envelope postmarked from Oregon sitting in the slot.

Despite FlyBoy’s violent reaction to hearing of my new pen pal, he was still itching with curiosity to read these letters that I had begun receiving. His stream of questions was constant: “Why is she in there?” “What does she write about?” “How’d you find out about her?” “What did you write about?” And so forth. The answers to his questions are: 1) she killed someone, 2) life, 3) a web site, and 4) myself. I’m not sure what he thought someone in jail might write about. I didn’t know myself.

I shared Corby’s first letter with someone at work who sits by me and enjoys sudden, unusual coworker outbursts and bizarre news. She commented that “there were very few grammatical errors and her writing was surprisingly coherent,” and that it was “sad and nostalgic at the same time.” “You can just imagine her sitting there, remembering back on her life and activities as she wrote this letter,” she said. I agreed that it was a gloomy but beautiful envisioning of how this woman must have to cope everyday with her effectively forever imprisonment.

Corby’s handwriting is bubbly and large on her wide-ruled binder paper, reminiscent of the notes we used to pass to each other under desks in grade school. The paragraphs are peppered with smiley faces, heart shapes, and the occasional underlining for emphasis. In her first two letters, Corby alternates between the unfortunate realities of a harsh prison life stretching into all eternity, and an interest in sharing the pleasurable memories of her past while discovering a new friendship. She describes a restrictive environment run by indifferent (or downright rude) state employees but also a good samaritan who visits weekly and who she seems to look up to:

“I am friends with a volunteer I met in county jail and she has been my sole supporter all this time. She is a great photographer and she sends me photos of outside all the time. She sends me enough so I can share with others, too. She doesn’t write letters though because she visits on Wednesdays and we study the Bible and visit. She has become my best friend. Her name is Sabrina. I wouldn’t be alive today if not for her. She helps me get through my bouts of depression and suicidal thoughts. She’s awesome.“

It’s hard to say if I do or don’t feel sorry for Corby. I don’t know her that well yet, and the fact of the matter is, she’s in jail because she killed someone. While there’s no doubt her situation is morose, I constantly question my gut reaction to feel sympathetic to her plight. I am now starting to think that I could debate these emotions in the dark universe of my mind all I want to no useful purpose. Whether I think she deserves to spend the rest of her life in prison or given a second chance for reform is ultimately irrelevant. If my point in writing her is to bring some cheer to a person who would otherwise have nothing to look forward to, then all that matters is I continue writing.

In case you’re wondering if a killer deserves to be “cheered up” while in prison, consider that inmates themselves rank the quality of an individual based on the nature of his or her crime. Inmates do not consider all crimes equal or deserving of the same punishment, and neither does our criminal justice system, based on the varying length/degree of punishments dished out. The crimes that we assign the severest penalties to, however, are not always the crimes that inmates themselves see as the worst. Sex offenders and child abusers are often segregated from the rest of the prison population to protect them from the wrath of other inmates who view their crime as inexcusable. I’ve read articles and books that discuss how a murderer can be treated, by other inmates, as a lesser criminal than a child molestor behind prison walls. In her second letter, Corby writes:

“I got a cellie (room mate) last Monday. Her name is Chris. She had been out to court for a custody hearing regarding her 15 year old daughter. She had her daughter taken away. I don’t really feel sorry for her though. She used to do drugs with the girl and didn’t shield her from any of her own sick lifestyle. Granted… Chris is doing things to improve herself while here in prison but that doesn’t mean she’ll be able to stick to it when she is released. I told her to just focus on working on herself so that when she does get out she will have a better chance of having a relationship with her daughter when she gets out.”

And that’s the murderer advising the child abuser how to lead her life. I find this morbidly humorous in some fashion, although of serious interest here is how little respect those who harm children are given, regardless of the tainted past of the person doing the judging.

Lest you come to believe that Corby only writes about depressing topics, here is an excerpt from one of the many instances where she reflects (and possibly romanticizes, but who can blame?) on her past life of liberty:

“I’ve never owned a horse but have known people with horses, gone to horse camp numerous times, paid for horse trail rides & beach rides. Basically… any time I saw a horse or a sign saying horses, I’d do my best to ride. I’ve jumped a horse 3 times. A family friend in Ranier, Oregon taught riding and when I would visit she would teach me.”

Flyboy responded to this revelation by exclaiming that he had never even ridden a horse, let alone jumped one. I told him he had just been one-upped by an inmate. When someone in prison has experienced more of the world than you have, it’s time to get your shoes on, run out the door, start living, and be grateful you have the option.

April 22nd, 2007 | Category: Uncategorized | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL