It's Life; Don't Make It Weird

In spite of prison etiquette's prohibition against asking about other people's time, a lot of guys either ignore or don't know the the rule. When they ask me, I get cagey. I don't like telling people about my sentence, especially short-timers.

What I'm about to say might seem strange to you, but having life without parole (LWOP, for short) used to not be a big deal. Yes, it's the stuff of nightmares and waking existential horror; I just mean that LWOP used to be more commonplace. Everyone I met, my first week in prison, had at least a forty-year sentence. I was just one more kid coming down with a lifetime on his back.

Here in Missouri, the Department of Corrections assigns each prisoner a custody score between one and five, which determines the security level of the facility they're housed. The state's level-five institutions are Eastern Reception, Diagnostic & Correctional Center (where I'm currently confined); South Central Correctional Center; Southeastern Correctional Center; Potosi Correctional Center; Jefferson City Correctional Center; and Crossroads Correctional Center. Being confined to any of these used to mean you were surrounded by level-five inmates—"the worst of the worst," as some say.

However, sometime in the 2010s, probably as a cost-cutting maneuver, the state changed its classification system by doing away with custody level four. Call it "creative placement." The DOC reclassified every level-four inmate and transfered more than a few. Most former level-fours were bussed to maximum-security prisons, to serve time alongside lifers and death-row residents. Those of us who'd been in the system for a while felt the sea change.

Fights and other violent incidents spiked. Drug use worsened. Gang activity increased. Administrative segregation (aka, "the Hole") filled up to the point of needing expansion. The great irony of these circumstances was that it wasn't longtime level-fives causing the ruckus. The former level-fours, mostly younger people, with their comparatively minor offenses and shorter sentences, ran wild while the elder convicts shook their grizzled heads in bewilderment. Codes of conduct went out the window. Over the next ten years, Missouri prisons became the Wild West.

I work with guys who are on the verge of release. Most are within a year of the door. If they found themselves in my shoes, some prisoners say they'd have a hard time dealing with people who are preparing leave. I don't. As I blogged about before (in a post entitled "The Staggering Heartache (or Not) of Coaching Returning Citizens"), helping them actually makes me feel good.

There are awkward moments, though. For instance, during a momentary lull in our Career Exploration class last week, Adam, a quiet, easygoing guy in his mid-twenties, spoke up to ask, "Hey, Byron, how much longer before you get out?"

Our lesson was about the importance of professional networking, so his question might've come from a desire to practice shop talk. Realizing that Adam is only a few months from his release date, I wondered how to tell him without making him feel guilty for broaching a potentially touchy subject.

My reply ended up being a sly demurral, followed by a speedy return to the curriculum: "Okay, we were talking about mentors. What are some ways that we can reach out to people who can help us in our careers?"

At the end of class, everyone gathered their folders and journals and made for the door. Adam hung back. He approached me with a look of nervous contrition. "I shouldn't have asked that," he said. "Brett elbowed me in the side and whispered what was up. I'm really sorry."

So Adam's classmate answered the question for me—kind of a thoughtless move. If I wanted the length of my sentence to be a secret, someone spilling the beans could've caused serious offense. Fortunately for Brett, it's not for my own benefit that I keep my time on the down-low.

Poor Adam couldn't have predicted that he wouldn't want to know the answer. Now the disparity of our sentences loomed over our conversation. He felt bad for bringing it up. This is why I prefer that people not ask.

As much as anyone can be, I'm at peace with the truth of LWOP. What never gets easier to handle are people's startled reactions. The phrase "life without the possibility of parole" inspires pity. (The same response probably greets the phrases "stage four cancer" or "aspiring novelist.") People who hear it act differently.

If there's a lesson to be learned here, it's to check your assumptions. Even in an echo chamber, no two people are identical. Perspectives differ across infinitely variable personal dimensions. My experience is not your experience; my time is not your time.