Imposter Syndrome

We never truly know what other people think of us. When we find out, it's sometimes surprising. But they can be right, even if we don't necessarily agree.

I was talking yesterday with a person in the mentorship program for new prison arrivals—a program for which I, a mentor with a lot of other stuff on my plate besides, do the bare minimum. He was speaking critically about the mentors who do nothing for the program. I raised my hand, and said, "Guilty as charged."

"You do a lot for the community, though!" he said, sounding almost offended. "You're a positive influence and a role model for what we can be, even though we're in prison."

Me, a pillar of the community? That's a lot of weight to carry. Nevertheless, I accepted his acknowledgment of my service with grace. This went some way to explaining the gifts I received from neighbors and acquaintances for more than a week after my birthday had passed—pencil drawings and handmade fudge and from-scratch cake, all speaking to the kindness of my fellow prisoners as much as to the reputation I've somehow established here.

Part of my uneasiness at being well regarded stems from not yet fully thinking of myself as a decent person. Memories can take a lifetime to fade, and my residual self image remains the egocentric asshole I was before coming to prison. It surprises me when people see me as anything else, even though I know it shouldn't. I haven't been that little jerk for a lot of years.

Metta practice, in Buddhism, is the cultivation of a loving heart. Metta, sometimes called "lovingkindness," is a feeling a person may develop, but it can also be experienced and expressed though acts of service, or by doing things for the sake of community betterment. Developing metta partly involves meditating with these four sentences while thinking of other people: "May you be happy. May you be at ease. May you be free from harm. May you be free." There's more involved, but that's the basis of it.

I often sit in metta practice. I don't remember how or when I started doing it, but I know the why. Something in me needed it. Submerging myself in resentment and bitterness about my circumstances would've been easy. I was circling that dark place before I began exploring Buddhism. Continuing further down that road surely would've ruined me. Today, more than a decade later, I can attribute to metta practice at least some of my decency as a human being.

A lot of the Buddha's teachings urge practitioners not to get caught up on things. Therefore, as a general rule, I don't think about my "progress" along the path. Sometimes, though, people say things that prompt exactly those thoughts. Then I wonder what they're seeing that I didn't notice, or they're making a big deal out of something I consider effortless or unworthy of mention.

Why is it still so hard to think of myself as a good person? I don't get down on myself or think of myself as less-than; I just don't seek out recognition nor altogether understand when it's given. The very first part of metta practice typically involves expressing those four sentences to oneself: "May I be happy. May I be at ease. May I be free from harm. May I be free."

I could add a sentence to my next metta meditation. "May I accept that others' opinion of me as a good person is probably more valid than my own."

Happy Birthday to Me

Thinking that a person only turns forty-six once, I resolved to make my birthday a good one.

I made arrangements with my coworker in advance. It didn't take much convincing to swap production days with him. He almost immediately agreed that I could edit and composite video for XSTREAM News on Wednesday—his normal day—if he took Saturday for me. Thus I sidestepped doing any work.

Why even go in, you ask, if I had no plans to be productive on the job? Put simply, I felt like watching a movie. This is one of the perks of working for a media outfit. XSTREAM has more than 14,000 movies and series in our system, and many of them I can't make time enough to watch. Consider also that my work desk has three curved twenty-four-inch monitors on it, while the screen of my TV in the cell spans a meager fifteen inches. Sure, there's a greater risk of interruption in the office, but things at XSTREAM are usually pretty laid-back on weekends.

The morning passed pleasantly. I chilled out by making an insane little animation of a talking egg that has my eyes and mouth, then watched a movie. I left at 1 o'clock for a visit from my mother and a good friend I hadn't seen in many months. The three of us shared some delectable brunchy food—quiche, croissants, and berry tarts—and delightful conversation for hours.

After I left the visiting room, satisfied and stuffed, I met up with a group of tabletop gamers in my housing unit. Secret Hitler is easy to learn and strategy-based, and it turns quite boisterous when you've got seven or eight players all trying to suss out who's a fascist and who's a liberal before Hitler is elected chancellor. Four games in, I drew the Hitler card and promptly outed myself on accident, earning me the title "Worst Hitler Ever"—kind of a compliment, if you think about it.

Before I called it a night, my gaming host for the evening gifted me a bowl of handmade no-bake cookies and a version of the game Catan that he painstakingly crafted. I had only showed up to play a game, not to accept a gift, so I consider the surprise an amazing and thoughtful addition to a wonderful day.

Some days, I almost forget that I'm in prison. The people who help me do that are the best gift-givers of them all. To them, my deepest, most humble thanks.

Overcoming a Service Outage

Ripples from my friend Luke's disappearance, in October of 2023, spread far and wide. Gains and losses were to be had in equal number (even though I'd much prefer if he'd stuck around). Most notable among the changes: I inherited his position at the head of operations at XSTREAM but lost the weekly religious service that I had benefitted so greatly from.

The Department of Corrections requires all accommodated religious groups to maintain a certain attendance level. The minimum is five attendees per week. If the number of people drops below that for more than a month, the service will be suspended for ninety days and undergo a review. After we lost several guys to transfer, losing Luke brought our Buddhist service down to four. I tracked down everyone whose DOC file might list Buddhism as their religious preference. (This was somewhat easier than it sounds.) To those I could find, I extended an invitation to join our service—to no avail. We were suspended and ultimately put on inactive status.

After expending no insignificant effort over the past year, I'm delighted to say that Buddhist services are scheduled to pick back up this week. All it took was a seven-month search for Buddhists, a questioning about their level of commitment to the practice, a plea for them to sign a form claiming interest in attending services, then a long wait for the paperwork to grind its way through the gears of bureaucracy.

It was touch-and-go for a while. "No commitment necessary," I stressed to the guys whose signatures I sought. "Just give me a signature and I'll work out the rest." But the fact is, even if I collected enough signatures, I wasn't sure we'd actually meet the attendance criteria. Anyone can sign their name to a sheet of paper. That doesn't mean they'll show up to sit on a cushion every seven days with a group of strangers. I was nervous. Might my efforts be in vain?

What amazes me is how circumstances (or, if you prefer, karma) conspired to make my aspirations a reality. The Buddhists had previously met on Thursday mornings. When the chapel switched our scheduled time with that of another group, we started meeting in the afternoons, a time that two attendees couldn't make jibe with their schedules. We lost them, as a result. I only got them to sign back up as a favor; I needed signatures, dammit! Then the chaplain announced that our previous meeting space was already booked throughout the week. He'd have to talk with the Institutional Activities Coordinator and get back to me.

"How would you feel about Thursday mornings, through the midday count?" the chaplain asked. My wheels immediately started spinning. Thursday mornings were still prohibitive for those two guys on my list—but if the chaplain could offer us Thursdays through count time, couldn't he just as easily offer us the same time on Fridays? "Let me confer with the IAC," he said, "and maybe we can make that happen."

And just like that, I've stepped into Luke's shoes in another area, becoming the designated service representative for ERDCC's newly revived Buddhist community. The chaplain appointed me to the role last week when he cleared our group for Friday morning services, during count, a time that should work for more than the minimum number of us to attend. That feels like a big win.

As for becoming the Designated Service Representative, I have mixed feelings about taking on yet another responsibility. Nevertheless, I've accepted it with what I believe is an appropriate degree of solemnity. Being a DSR means placing orders for books and supplies every three months, and sacrificing time for quarterly hours-long meetings with the Missouri DOC's Religious Programming Coordinator. It's not exactly an unmanageable burden. If anything, I hope to be able to bring something good to the population, one breath at a time.