Letter:
Transcript:
12/25/20
Dear SW,
Please add me to your contact list, so that I might stay abreast of your activities + publications. While now in general population, I spent 2 years pretrial, then my 1st year of prison in solitary. (County justified 23 ½ hr/day isolated lockdown by claiming my “sophistication” posed a credible threat – classic cop-out.) A prolific writer, I included a couple modest pieces I thought you might appreciate.
I thank you for your time, consideration, + the invaluable work you do!
Gratefully and respectfully yours,
Charles Tooker, BF9504
CTF State Prison
P.O. Box 705, WA325
Soledad, CA 93960
2/4
As we neared the prison, I saw its razor-wire fencing, gunner towers, + obnoxious lighting. Otherwise, the low, uniform buildings, saddled between two modest yet fetching mountains, were more reminiscent of a suburban business park. Two years prior, I’d have thought this scenario impossible, no less than the worst circumstances I could conceive. But after 22 months at Marin County Jail (+ two months at San Quentin), locked down 23 ½ hours/day, the prospect of settling at a state prison, with real opportunities for self-betterment, was profound relief…in a masochistic sense, I suppose I was about to script Act 1, Scene 1 of a new life, ripe for much-needed rehabilitation + invaluable education through an extra-ordinarily candid, immersive introduction to the human condition. In fact, I was right where I needed to be + I knew it. A neuropsychological mess + critically astray upon arrest (+ racked by debilitating uncertainty pre-sentencing), I was resigned to be redesigned. Unlike so many of my “brothers in solidarity”, most beaten down much longer + harder than I, many more deprived of loving families + friends, or relatively safe, conducive environs, I still had to trust that I wasn’t a lost cause. I had to believe that. Any other possibility was, well…not possible.
As psychologically blind + deaf as I’d become, I’d seen the storm strengthening and heard the alarm bells for years, + 2,000 miles from the sanctuary of that laundry room. But, I was (+ am) the same good-natured, promising boy onto whom my family had centered those protective huddles + whispered encouraging words. Now conditioned to suppress such sentiment, self preservation in this volatile world…
3/4
I now call home, I’m reminded that the same robust will that landed me here is also that which will ultimately guide me to, through, + well beyond my release date.
By current CA Department of Corrections estimates, I can expect to be roughly fifty years old upon release; freed from institutional confinement anyway. The stigma + overt discrimination will certainly manifest with reentry, my felony conviction to forever dog me. At the same time, I can expect to devote the following years to positively affecting ill-informed hearts + minds. Not only those misconceptions about me personally (some well justified, of course), but also the millions of similarly remorseful , accountable hopeful convicts nationwide – fallible errants we.
There’s a familiar superstition among prisoners that warn of bad luck to those who look back on the person as they leave, ensuring their eventual return. But alas, I intend to turn hard + stare down that gate, committing it to memory along with the myriad other long- + short-term residencies I’ve held through my life, domestic + abroad. Sure, it won’t be like the lighthearted superstition that had me tossing coins into Rome’s Trevi Fountain, but no less powerful or, better yet, empowering. Now living, + in many ways thriving, as the protagonist in what just three years ago seemed a surreal nightmare, I no longer fear imprisonment or any other imaginable hardship – for better or worse.
4/4
I hope that my brother will meet me outside the gate. A decorated, well-respected American soldier, he’ll be wearing mirrored sunglasses + a hoodie, strategically subdued + nondescript…to all but me. He’ll give me a solid hug, jarring back pats, + a swift jab to my chest before tossing his arm over my shoulder + leading to his car; ritualistic reunion I’ll understand + appreciate with ambivalence. As my dear friend, he’s excited to see me but circumspect. As an honorable citizen, he rightly condemns the acts that brought me there. As my big brother, he loves me rather unconditionally.
As we drive, my brother will speak of his wife + his wonderful son. An eternally humble, disciplined serviceman, he’l deflect my typical, sincere interrogations about his military-related whatnots + soforths. I’ll soon relent + instead brief him on my practical, ideal, then fantastically implausible plans: at once to fulfill my obligations to the state of CA, divest my defunct businesses, + to ardently work to affect criminal justice reform. We’ll share a comfortable silence as I stare instinctively at people in passing cars, they talking, singing, laughing – models of contentment. My attention will then be inevitably drawn to the horizon, fixated expecting to see gathering those ominous clouds + what they portend. Now also, in my own unique way, battle-hardened, world-weary, + deeply scarred, I turn a confident smile to my brother in solidarity
-Charles Tooker, 2019
“Brothers in Solidarity”
“Yo! Check these clouds!”, someone yelled from behind me, struggling against my shackles, I rubbernecked over the guy beside me for a better view out the barred windows. A storm loomed in the foothills, somewhere between San Quentin + Soledad, CA, our destination for the day. Next I knew I was silently imploring (of no one in particular), “Please let those clouds upend this bus, either killing me instantly or abetting my escape.” After two years of incarceration, including a lengthy jury trial, I’d finally accepted my fate, albeit far from contended or hopelessly defeated; not fearful, I was mentally exhausted + desperate for relief by whatever means the universe deemed most appropriate.
A child of the Rust Belt, I was born in Detroit + spent my formative years in Northwest Ohio. Here, I’d learned early that such poached orange-green clouds, while handsome, were harbingers of destruction + sorrow. Occasionally predicting funnel formations or other shapes less natural, yet no less sinister, they were wont to maim or kill you – or so I was conditioned to think. Tornado sirens + emergency weather bulletins, rudely interrupting radio + T.V. programming, were common. And not unlike Pavlov’s famous dogs, I’d be sent drooling + scampering toward the nearest window, a senseless automaton oblivious to my mother shouting me down in a panic. My irresponsible curiosity satisfied, I’d join my older brothers + parents in the laundry room, safe amid their shared embrace + mountains of dirty clothes. As odd to me then as obvious now, we all relished the drama of those episodes. Over the years + in kind, my brothers + I’d unwittingly continue to entertain our parents with much more frightening dramas; indeed, I reluctantly chewing up the scenery since my 2016 arrest.
Codes:
Administrative seg/solitary confinement; emotional geographies and ways of coping; positive emotions; spirituality/self-improvement as coping; psychological and emotional impact of solitary confinement (during and after); keeping track of time: how long they have been in solitary, or the length of their sentence; self identification (as a writer); descriptions of prison architecture, geography/location; architecture, space, and location of the prison; referencing the past: nostalgia/reflecting, identity; ideology of choice (accountability for self); classification of self and others
