Can't We Do Better?
My encounter with the best and worst of humanity
in a visit to the County Jail
Have
you met Jose'? He is one of the 9 men who have lived in Decorah since
November 2008, brought here by the US government after serving 6
months in as many as 16 different federal prisons following the raid
on the Postville meatpacking plant. Jose' has a wife and 4 children
at home in Guatemala with whom he speaks each week. They lost their
home and land as a result of Jose' being in prison for 6 months; the
'coyote' (human trafficker) who had brought him across the border
claimed those things when payments to him ceased. His oldest son,
13-year-old Jaime, died suddenly of unknown causes just 2 months
after Jose' was brought to Decorah to serve this additional mandatory
year away from his family. Anyone who knows Jose' loves him deeply.
He is a devout Christian and practices the generosity, compassion,
and faith of Christ throughout his days. You walk away from Jose'
feeling in love with the world. You walk away from Jose' wondering if
you could somehow be so loving, sure, and humble as he.
Today
I called Jose' to ask if he wanted to go on a house tour with me.
Jose' is a carpenter and has shown curiosity about our home: the
solar panels, the corner cupboard, the wooden ceiling. He says he’s
collecting ideas to use back in Guatemala, when he next has a chance
to work on the house of some Americans there. I had the idea to take
him and a camera around to my friends’ houses, and today looked
like the right day for it.
Jose'
politely declined. He explained that he had a friend in jail with
whom he still had not been able to communicate, and he needed to go
visit him.
Of
course. I knew about this friend; Jose' had asked me 3 weeks ago to
take him to there. I had been unavailable the day he asked, and
then had forgotten all about it. I’m going to be honest with you
the whole time I write this story: my selfish thought after being
reminded about this need of his and the long drive to Elkader was
“Darn! I don’t want
to drive there! I want to take him on pleasant visits to my friends’
homes!“
But
of course I offered to take him there, even as I hoped that he
already had another way. I knew from earlier inquiries I’d made to
the jail that Jose', as a “convicted felon,” would not be allowed
under any circumstances to visit with a prisoner. (All of the people
taken in the Postville raid were given that conviction in the mass
and fast-track trials. As of May 2009 the supreme court has ruled
that it was unconstitutional to convict someone of identity theft
unless you can prove that they knowingly used someone else’s social
security number, but still those 389 people live as convicted
felons.) I knew that he would need someone who was a US citizen to go
with him and talk to his friend on his behalf. Someone who spoke
Spanish. I’m not the only person that knows Jose' who fits this
description, but I was the one on the phone with him, and I saw what
I needed to do.
I
offered to take him, and he gratefully accepted. I hung up feeling
slightly sorry for myself, but also glad for any chance to be around
Jose'. The prisoner in the Clayton County Jail might as well have
been invisible; I didn’t even have a passing thought of curiosity
about him. It was for Jose' that I would go to Elkader.
So
today was Saturday, and I was to pick Jose' up at 1:00 for the 50
minute drive to the detention center. Visitation hours at the jail
are Wednesdays and Saturdays from 1:30-3:30. That’s all. 15 minute
phone visits are allowed, with a thick piece of plexiglass between
the prisoner and the visitor, allowing for viewing but not touching.
Earlier in the day, I had called the jail to double-check that the
friend was still there, and they told me that he wasn’t.
Why
is it that so many of the people that work in detention centers fit
the stereotype for jailers? With apologies to those jailers out there
who surely do much better than this, I will tell you that those I’ve
experienced are horrifically infatuated with their power over others.
They are cruel and cold. Even on the phone, talking to me - in good
old English! - they seem to do their utmost to not
help,
to not
allow me to feel like a capable and worthy human being. They act as
though I
had
done something wrong. I can only imagine how they treat the
prisoners. When the jailer told me that Jose'’s friend was not
there, I asked how I could find out to where he had been moved. She
said I couldn’t. I asked again - surely there’s got to be a way
to find someone in the prison system, I said. “Wait until he calls
you - then he can tell you where he is,” said she. But he has no
money, so he can’t make calls! “I can’t help you, she replied.
It
is easy to be lost in the US prison system. We have no idea how many
are lost there now.
Since
we no longer had a destination, I didn’t fret when my translating
appointment from the morning bled over to 2:00 in the afternoon. I
knew that I would go to Jose' and give him the bad news, and then we
would make a plan to start trying to figure out where the friend was.
In the cases of many others prisoners, being transferred has meant
being taken far away - 3 hours or much more. I hoped we wouldn’t
find this to be the case for Jose'’s friend.
At
2:15 I arrived and told him the bad news. He was surprised, and
didn’t seem to believe it. We talked some, and I started to
second-guess myself. The truth is, though I’ve lived in NE Iowa for
29 years, I don’t get out of Decorah much. I have never been to
most of the towns around here, and have never gotten straight which
one is in which county, nor where Fayette, Clayton, and Chickasaw
counties lie in relation to Winneshiek and Allamakee. The ironic
aspect of all that is, it is only since the raid and since I’ve
become friends with a number of Guatemalans and Mexicans that I’ve
started to finally become familiar with these other towns! All of a
sudden there’s a reason to know where Monona lies in relation to
Postville, and how far it is from West Union to Fayette. And it
matters what town a person is arrested in, for unless its a federal
raid, the arrestee will land in the jail of the county within which
that town lies. And believe me, if you have friends from Guatemala or
Mexico, and it’s the early part of the 21st Century and you’re in
America, then you know people who are in prisons and jails. The
immigrants are involuntarily contributing to a healthy bottom line
for the prison system.
I
borrowed Jose'’s phone and started another round of calls to county
jails in all these counties, and soon learned that my geographic
confusion had indeed goofed me up: I had called the Fayette County
jail, but he had been arrested in Monona which is
near
Fayette
but in
Clayton
County.
By
the time I got this sorted out it was 2:30. I asked the jailer on the
phone whether we would be allowed to visit just past the 3:30 end
time, since we were coming from Decorah and might not get there until
3:30. I received and unequivocal NO. Not one minute past 3:30. Rules
are rules.
I
hung up and sadly told Jose' that I had goofed, and that his friend
IS where Jose' thought, but that now it was too late to get there in
time. I told him we’d have to wait until next Saturday (and, I
realized, I would be out of town next Saturday, so I would need to
help him find another helper). I waited for his response.
He
seemed to not understand what I had said. His eyes and his body
seemed to be saying “let’s get on the road!” I explained again
that we wouldn’t be allowed in after hours, and it would be
impossible to find our way there before 3:30. “Unless...,” his
eyes somehow caused me to mumble, “...unless you think we can still
make it...do you want to try?”
Yes,
he did, and so we took off! I knew it was hopeless, but I was willing
to do this to show Jose' that I cared about him and also as a weird
apology for having goofed up my geography. I drove fast, but I didn’t
take any chances passing slow drivers on the narrow county roads. We
had a nice chat - about his family, about work, stuff like that. As
we approached the jail I asked him what he wanted me to ask his
friend. He wanted me to ask him how long he expects to be in;
whether they’ve set a court date for him; how we can get him some
money; how we could get him a phone card; and to give him these phone
numbers so he can call me and a few others once we get him some
money.
(Did
you know that unless you have money, you can’t call a soul from any
county, state, or federal prison? This means that many, many people
are lost in the system with no ability to speak with a loved one).
Luckily
Jose' knew the way. He had been there once before and remembered the
winding way. Why did I imagine it would be in a town, in plain sight?
It was hidden away among the cornfields, and Jose' told me that most
of them are like this. As we turned into the driveway, I checked the
clock: 3:27. By the time we entered the door it would be 3:28. Two
minutes until closing time. Though I had come without hope of
accomplishing our goal, all of a sudden I chose to do everything I
could to make it happen.
We
pulled on the door - - locked. We pulled again. We stood there,
waiting for it to open. Unbelievably, we expected it to open. But
instead a voice came from a speaker, asking what we wanted. I said we
had come to visit a prisoner. The voice said the visitation hours
were over. Case closed. I said I thought they went to 3:30, and it
was only 3:27. I said that we had come from Decorah, and I would take
even just those 3 minutes with the prisoner. And then the
jailer-woman did something she is probably regretting right now: she
let us in. She broke her rules. Who caused her to do it - me, or
Jose'? Together we were a force. I feel sure she has never done it
before, nor will she do it again. She made sure we knew that we were
wrong and late and bad. “I don’t care if you come from Arkansas
to see him, you’re not getting in late again.” She was hard and
cold.
So
Jose' was right. He knew we would make it just in time. Or maybe he
didn’t know that, exactly; maybe what he knew was that he had to
try, and if he tried then God would see what could be done to help.
They
ran my ID through a high-tech machine, and found me to be worthy of
entering. (“Does it say that I was incarcerated in the ‘80s for
civil disobedience?”, I wanted to ask.) She told me to step over to
the second window. I was surprised! How could I have been so naive as
to think that there would be a private-seeming conversation, even if
it were being secretly listened to by the jailers? But no, there are
three little visitation windows, so close together that I imagine it
would be hard to hear one’s own loved one through the receiver of
the phone if others were also visiting just 2 feet away. And it’s
right there in the lobby, where anyone would hear the whole
conversation. Not to mention the fact that it’s probably
recorded...
I
stood there waiting, concerned whether I would be able to remember
all my jobs and get them done in the 2 minutes I would have. By now I
could see that Jose' was in the siteline of his friend, as there was
only 25 feet, plexiglass, and me between them. I wanted to stay out
of the way enough to allow them to see each other, and also to convey
Jose's concern as well as his questions, and to try to repeat the
friend’s answers so Jose' could hear them, and to remember all the
answers correctly to report later, and to allow space and time for
the friend to convey what he had to say. There was no time or space
for butterflies in the tummy. Time to try, that was all.
The
prisoner came toward me in his orange and white striped uniform. I
have saved his name to tell you now, for it was at this moment of
course that he became a real person, a real person that really
mattered, someone more than just “Jose'’s friend.” His name is
Davi Lopez Chala. An American first name, a second name from Spain,
and a last name from his Mayan ancestors. Davi Lopez Chala. Say
“Cha-la.” Then say a prayer for him.
He
approached, and I swear to you it was as though Jesus himself
approached. The look on his face was peaceful, and joyful, and
loving. I soon realized that his gaze was fixed behind me, at Jose'
who now stood gazing back, with the same joy-and-love looks. This
lasted just a moment, and then Davi brought that gaze down to me. I
took in all that kindness and appreciation that Davi was sending to
Jose'; he treated me like the trusted childhood friend that Jose' is,
and I easily returned the connection.
Though
I had all those assignments in my head, I also had my manners and my
heart with me, and so the first words that came out of my mouth were
“How are you, friend?”
His
answer was this. His hands and arms made signs of struggle and
trouble, and his words did the same. He spoke briefly and quietly
about how hard it was; about how he was treated, how nobody would
tell him anything about what was happening to him...he mumbled these
things quickly, but I had to blink to believe what I heard, because
to look at his face, one would think he was gazing at his newborn
babe, or some other miracle of God. He radiated peace. His words
spoke of struggle, but his face spoke of light and hope.
I
want to understand the look in Davi’s eyes. Would I have to be a
Guatemalan in order to understand all the layers? If your family and
all the generations as far back as anyone remembers have suffered
endlessly, are you left with only the options of serenity or
self-destruction? Is it a cultural history that brings out that look,
that seems to say “I know I am not alone, that God is with me. I
cannot hide my suffering, and I don’t need to hide it nor explain
it to you, for I know that you too are part of the secret of God’s
love.” ? You could also wonder if it’s a half-crazed look, which
would be understandable. Whatever it is, you cannot feel separate
from other human beings, or, if you are a god-speaking person, from
God, when you are in the presence of such a gaze.
I
cruised through the other questions and reported the answers loudly
into the lobby for Jose'. Another jailer had walked through behind
me, and, observing Jose'’s non-verbal interaction with the
prisoner, said loudly in English to him that he was not allowed to
communicate with the prisoner - but she didn’t stay to watch over
him, so the only thing that changed was was that Jose' sat down. He
still gave his whole being into Davi’s sight, twisting in his chair
to face the window fully and offer gestures of support. Though I
couldn’t see it with my eyes, I was aware that there was this
heart-communication going on between them as Davi and I spoke.
I
unfolded the torn paper on which Jose' had written three phone
numbers: his own, and those of two friends in Guatemala. I faced it
toward Davi and asked if he had paper and pen. He glanced to either
side and said that no, he couldn’t write them down. I felt helpless
there, lamely holding in front of me this small but essential piece
of information that Jose' wanted to convey. It should have been a
simple thing to do, but it would be impossible here and now. For lack
of a paper and pencil, but what’s more, for lack of seconds and of
the right to ask for what one needed, that part of my job would be
left undone. Really, how much did it matter at this point? - for
Davi had no way to make calls anyway.
He
said that there was another Latino in the jail, the only other person
who spoke Spanish. He was from Mexico. He expected to be let out
soon, and told Davi that when he got out he would find a lawyer to
help Davi. I know about these kinds of stories and intentions; they
are good and important, and as often as not they don’t come to
much, but you never know what those seeds of hope might bring about
instead.
He
said that there was one jailer who was kind to him, a woman.
The
harsh jailer who had somehow found it in her to let us in stood just
a few feet away having a loud conversation though a speaker with one
of her co-jailers. To hear Davi through the telephone receiver over
her voice, I needed to press my ear into the plastic and I needed to
ignore the irritated voice in my head that was noting this, another
behavior that seemed designed to take away power and dignity from a
prisoner and anyone who cares about one.
Maybe
I attracted her attention by thinking bad thoughts about her. She
turned and said that time was up. We had talked for approximately 6
minutes. We hurriedly finished our sentences, stood and said goodbye.
We took the extra second for a silent sending of love. As I turned
toward Jose' to take our leave, I caught the quick gesture Davi sent
out to him across the space of the lobby: looking right into Jose'’s
eyes with that serene gaze, he pounded twice on his heart with his
right fist, then held his two fists together in front of his heart,
as though he were holding a branch--and then he broke it. A broken
heart. Friend, my heart is breaking.
And
then, as I continued that turn away from his broken heart, in the
same second I caught a glimpse of Jose', standing straight and
looking directly back at Davi: he, too, with serenity and surety in
his whole countenance, and his palms together in the form of a
prayer, and then lifted up high to God. His fist on his heart, and
then the prayer again.
In
two seconds it was all over. I had seen this private moment between
two life-long friends. One has already known the loneliness and
sadness of 6 months in jail, and much more. One is just at the
beginning. They are one. What more can we have than this, and our
faith in whatever we have faith in?
Before
I could even take one more step toward the door the cries ripped
through me, bursting out of my mouth with such force than I could not
stop them. I heard them and willed myself to stop, but it didn’t
happen right away. I desperately did not want this to become a
spectacle of me, but the things I had seen and heard, both beautiful
and evil, hopeful and hateful, were now over the top. Jose' and I
turned toward the door, he dignified in his quiet power and I taking
in the last glances at sights and sounds of that terrible place: the
plastic window, now vacant; a prisoner in her orange and white
stripes, now being led through the inner door; the jailer, who heard
my cries and thought - what did she think? Does she hear such cries
of anguish all the time? -and Jose'’s kind gesture of consolation
as he put an arm around me. I didn’t want to need consoling, by
anyone and not by someone who has suffered as Jose' has - but this is
the way things go, isn’t it? He is older and wiser than I. We both
have our roles to play.
Long
ago, I spent 5 days in an Iowa county jail. I had participated in
civil disobedience and had a choice to pay my way out of my sentence
with $50 or spend 5 days in jail. The choice might seem obvious,
unless you are single and childless and wanting to understand more
about the underbelly of the world, as I was. And so, though my
experience of the jail was utterly distinct from those of Davi and
Jose' and all the rest who have no choice and no exit date and
precious few people to advocate for them from the outside, I do know
a little about how it feels to watch human beings try to strip away
other people’s humanity. I do know a little about windowless rooms,
and days that start and end in utter sameless, boredom, and tedium.
But this was altogether different. This left me feeling socked in the
heart, out-of-breath.
Two
minutes later it was all over. Jose' and I got into the car and drove
toward Postville, where he bought me a coconut drink that is a
favorite around there. Driving on toward Decorah,he told me more
stories about himself and Davi, and more stories about how one is
treated in a jail or prison. “...like a little animal, not a
person.” He talked again about his faith in Beautiful God (Diosito
Lindo), and how he would not be alive today were it not for all the
gifts of God. He believes - because he’s seen it proven true again
and again - that when things can’t get any worse, Diosito Lindo
will bring something to help you through. He counts his being able to
live among and get to know the Gringos of Decorah among one of those
gifts.
Of
Davi he said: “Davi had a very good job with a local tradesman. He
had been taught the trade by the owner of the company, and he was
well-liked there. But then everything changed, as it always will for
an undocumented worker. One day you’re free and making it, the next
day you’re a prisoner or deported. All the days in between, you try
to not live in fear of whether this is the day when everything will
change.”
“Davi
helped me to get to the US - he had already been here for 2 years,
and he helped me find a coyote to get me across. When I arrived in
Postville, he bought me clothes and food and helped me to find a
place to live. When I couldn’t work at ArgiProcessors anymore
because my body was in too much pain from working 14+ hour days in
the cold of the kill room, he found me a job with him. Eventually I
had to go back to Agri because there wasn’t enough work there. He
has helped so many people in this way, but no one is reaching back to
help him now in his time of need. He is a good person, and a
“paizano” - a countryman. I will do whatever I can to help him,
until the end. “
Back
in Decorah, I invited Jose' to come with me to Matt and Randi’s
where we could use the internet and phone to find out how to send
Davi a phone card and money. The house was empty; we helped ourselves
to some trail mix from the kitchen table and started in. There’s a
company called Reliance Telephone through which you can buy minutes
for people in the prison system. After many phone calls to customer
service, entering my credit card, and printing off the right
documents, we had the PIN number for Davi’s electronic phone card.
The only way to get him the PIN and the instructions for using it was
to send him a letter, so I found some paper and Jose' set about that
task. I went looking for an envelope, and not finding one in the
house went to neighbors’ houses. I finally found one at the Taxi
garage. An hour later we were stamping the envelope and then walked
it down to the post office. For me, getting that done was the perfect
antidote for the poisonous sadness that had landed since Davi became
a real person to me, and since I got a taste of the Clayton County
Jail.
We
parted at the corner, where he would walk home and I back to Matt and
Randi’s to gather my things. He opened his wallet and took out $20
to give me, the amount we had started the Reliance account with. I
looked around in my mind for a second wondering what would be more
polite, to accept it or not. I accepted it. Then he took out more,
for gas; I turned that down. He thanked me deeply and eloquently for
the many hours we’d spent that day, and again told me that God
would thank me too.
God
thanks me every day, and gives me more chances to learn from the
beautiful people that are our new neighbors. And God, in the form of
Davi and Jose', asks that we not allow people to become lost and
forgotten in our jails.
I
am truly amazed that we got to see Davi, against so many odds. Did
Jose' know it would work out? Of course not - he just knew that we
ought to try, that he wanted to try. Did I want to try? No, not
really. The fact is, almost every time I receive a call or request to
help one of the immigrants, it is inconvenient and I sometimes wish I
hadn’t picked up the phone. Doesn’t everyone experience that?
-that even for things you know you want to do and also should do,
sometimes you wish you be the one to choose when and how? But it
doesn't work that way.
I’ve
had enough chances now to learn the truth: when I spend time with
these people, I always come home richer. There’s nothing better
than to keep answering the phone, and keep writing down whatever I
can.
**************************************
I
am an average Iowa citizen. Middle class, partial college education,
business professional for 25 years, now self-employed. Married,
mother of two.
Why
then do I keep handy a list of the names, addresses, phone numbers,
and visitation hours of many county jails in our region? I do not
work in the criminal justice system. I am not a prison minister.
It’s
because the world has changed since you last looked. If you ever
thought that the only people who served time in jail were criminals,
you were always wrong and you are even more wrong now. If you ever
thought that the only people who served time in county jails were
people who have been convicted of a crime, you are so wrong. They
wait and wait and wait for their court date, and then often they go
back and wait more months.
You
just might want to start noting the names, addresses, phone numbers,
and visitation hours of regional jails, because if we can lock up
immigrants for months to years over unproven crimes, then it is not
long before it will be done to someone we know and love.
Maybe
you already know that most of these Hispanic immigrants have done
nothing wrong, that they have done nothing that our immigration and
economic policies have not encouraged and depended on. Maybe you
already know that the US prison system locks up more people per
capita than any other nation on earth. Did you also know that,
according to a new report by the Congressional Research Service, over
the past 30 years the federal prison population has increased by
nearly 790 percent? Today we imprison some 716 people out of every
100,000.
Someday
soon you too may have to learn the complicated way to send minutes to
an inmate so that they can make collect calls to you, or so that they
can buy some supplementary food for the meager rations given them.
Someday you will find out what it means to drive hours to spend the
allotted 15 minutes with your loved one, looking through a
plexiglass, talking into a phone receiver. Someday you will look into
his or face and know the effects of months without seeing or feeling
the sun.
Someday
you may have to learn all of this, and maybe it will be then that you
will ask for prison reform. But it may be too late. The new jails
will be built, and they will need to be filled. It’s the bottom
line. Business is business, and this is the USA.
