Lifes Incorporated-Commutation Committee Information Sheet

December 21, 2010

BY, Mikal “Smokey” Wilson, Chairman

WHAT IS COMMUTATION?

Commutation is the change of a sentence of a less severe punishment and like clemency it is a mercy dispensing act. If commutation is granted it results in a change of sentence. A life sentence for example, could be changed to 25 years to life.

The Pennsylvania General Assembly, Special Session No. 1 of 1995, yielded a change to Article 4, Section 9, of the Pennsylvania Board of Pardons in the case of an inmate sentenced to Article 4, Section 9, of the Pennsylvania Board of Pardons in the case of an inmate sentenced to death or life imprisonment and has raised the threshold for commutation from the previous “requirement” that a petitioner only needed a majority vote of the Board of Pardons members to a more onerous unanimous vote to support his or her commutation petition. This change has greatly reduced the likelihood that a commutation will reach the Governor’s desk for final approval.

During the twelve years from January 1967 to January 1979, the commutation was granted to 346 life sentence inmate in Pennsylvania. In the last 25 ½ years a total of only 36 commutations ave been granted to life sentence inmates:

 

APPLICATIONS FOR COMMUTATION OF LIFE SENTENCE

SHAFER ADMINISTRATION (1967-1971)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS:

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 94

 

SHARP ADMINISTRATION (1971-1978)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS: 733

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR: 267

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 251

 

THORNBURGH ADMINISTRATION (1979-1986)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS: 373

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR: 75

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 7

 

CASEY ADMINISTRATION (1987-1994)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS: 249

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR: 118

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 27 (2 FEMALES)

 

RIDGE ADMINISTRATION (1995-2001)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS: 15

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR: 4

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 1

 

SCHWEIKER ADMINISTRATION (2001-2003)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS: 2

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR: 1

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 1

 

RENDELL ADMINISTRATION (2003-PRESENT)

HEARD BY THE BOARD OF PARDONS: 10

RECOMMENDED TO THE GOVERNOR: 2

GRANTED BY THE GOVERNOR: 2

The commutation process (release valve) for returning life sentence individuals to society had been curtailed in recent years due to the changes. There has been a total of 382 inmates that have been granted commutation in Pennsylvania. These individuals today are on parole and have a remarkably low rate of recidivism. Much less compared to other parolees. The percentage of lifers returning to prison in Pennsylvania, for the same offense is less than 1.5%.

The current commutation policy of not approving any lifers for commutation by the Governor is a frustration of the whole constitutional purpose of the Board. Under the Casey Administration, sentences of 27 lifers were commuted. Before that the Thornburgh Administration commuted lifers as did every Governor for over the last century. It must be recognized that not all those convicted of murder should be treated the same. Some are innocent of murder; some were not the triggermen, but merely an accomplice with no foreknowledge; some are women who killed abusive spouses or boyfriends; some were youths when they committed the murder, but now, after decades of imprisonment, they have become model prisoners; or some are just too old and too feeble to ever be a threat to society. There are more inmates doing life imprisonment for first degree murder than there are doing life imprisonment second degree murder. Obviously, judges and juries thought those convicted of second degree murder did not commit intentional, premeditated murder. Yet, the term of imprisonment is the same.

 

NO EXIT: THE EXPANDING USE OF LIFE SENTENCES IN AMERICA

A new report released July 2009, by the Sentencing Project finds a record 140,610 individuals are now serving life sentences in state and federal prisons, 6,807 of whom were juveniles at the time of the crime. In addition, 29% of the persons serving a life sentence (41,095) have no possibility of parole, and 1,755 were juveniles at the time of the crime.

No Exit: The Expanding Use of Life Sentences in America represents the first nationwide collection of life sentence date documenting race, ethnicity and gender. The report’s findings reveal overwhelming racial and ethnic disparities in the allocation of life sentences: 66% of all persons sentenced to life are non-white, and 77% of juveniles serving life sentences are non-white. Pennsylvania leads the nation with 345 juveniles serving sentences of life without parole.

The dramatic growth in life sentences is not primarily a result of higher crime rates, but of policy changes that have imposed harsher punishments and restricted parole consideration.

Source: Sentencing Project

IF YOU FILED AND APPLICATION FOR COMMUTATION

YOU MAY BE ELIGIBLE FOR FEDERALLY APPOINTED COUNSEL ???

The United States Supreme Court in Harbison v. Bell, 129 S. Ct. 1181 (2009), tuled that: 18 U.S.C. Section 3559(c) which authorize federally appointed counsel in proceedings for executive or “other” clemency proceedings, as may be available to the defendant encompasses federal counsel’s representation in state clemency proceedings, and that the federal statute does not require a state prisoner to first obtain a certificate of appealability (COA) before challenging and adverse District Court ruling from the denial of requests for federally appointed counsel pursuant to Section 3559(e). Caveat: This is untested territory!

 

Life Sentencing Policy In The United States

Life Sentences and LWOP Sentences

Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, Maryland, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Wisconsin, Wyoming

Only LWOP Sentences

Illinois, Iowa, Louisiana, Maine, Pennsylvania, South Dakota, Federal

Only Parole Eligible Life Sentences

Alaska

In six states – Illinois, Iowa, Louisiana, Maine, Pennsylvania, and South Dakota – and the federal system*, all life sentences are imposed without the possibility of parole. Only Alaska provides the possibility of parole for all life sentences, while the remaining 42 states have laws that permit sentencing most defendants to life with or without parole.

*Parole is no longer an option on the federal system, as of 1987. The 886 individuals serving parole-eligible life sentences in the federal system were sentenced before parole was eliminated in 1987.

 

Source: The Sentencing Project

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WORK ON YOUR FLAWS GRADUALLY

At the heart of becoming a better person is the ability to accept that you’re not perfect. Nobody is! Every single person has strengths and weaknesses—that’s what makes us human. The important thing to understand is that we all have the ability to improve on our weaknesses and rid ourselves of many of them altogether. The key is to work on our flaws slowly. You’re not going to become more patient or more loving or less angry overnight. Many of us have thirty to forty years worth of unlearning to do. The point to remember is, we can unlearn.

It took ten years for me to overcome my addiction to nicotine and other drugs. I’m still trying to stop cutting people short when I am in a hurry. I’m also striving to be more conscious of the emotional well being of my friends and family members and to remember that my actions affect them as well as myself. For those of us who live in a sort of emotional, self-absorbed “cocoon” in order to survive, this isn’t always easy.

Let’s be honest. Most of us thought we were pretty tough hombres at one time—and maybe we were! But if we examine that “toughness” honestly, we can see that is was (and sometimes still is!) a front, a shield for us to hide behind. We all experience fear and anxiety and confusion inside. Part of being human is acknowledging that we have fears and worries. No matter how much work you do to improve yourself, those fears and worries will still be there to some degree. But you can take a giant step toward a healthy life when you allow yourself to admit how you’re really feeling inside. Sometimes, it’s risky to admit to others (your peers) that you’re afraid of something or someone. It’s not risky, however, to admit it to yourself; it’s only humbling. When you acknowledge your fears to yourself, you’re acknowledging that you’re human.

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU’RE IN THE BUCKET (A Prisoner’s Guide)

When I began this life sentence in 1976, I started off doing 60 days in the Hole for fighting. I was 24 years old and clueless as to what to do with myself when they threw me in a dark, dingy, rat-infested dungeon-of-a-cell in the old “Homeblock” of PA’s Western Penitentiary. All around me men were screaming, shouting and banging the bars. I was terrified.

About three hours into this ordeal, I flagged a guard down as he was passing my cell. “Yo, officer,” I said, “I need a toothbrush, some toothpaste and I don’t have any sheets, pillow or a blanket.” In mid-stride, he spat tobacco juice against the wall and these words at me: “What do I look like, your mother?”

Frustrated and angry, I cursed his ass out and his mother, for which I received another misconduct and an additional 30 days in the Hole.

Thirty years later, at another prison a couple of years ago, I found myself in the Hole again, under investigation for I knew not what as I hadn’t had a misconduct in years. All around me I heard men screaming and yelling and banging their fists against the doors. It took me six days to get my property, but I never complained. I simply inquired and waited, for three decades have taught me that to fight these people with diatribes and emotions is to fight a losing cause.

Observing the mostly young bucks around me, I saw intelligent, capable human beings who were allowing their frustrations, anger, boredom and loneliness to pull them off their “Squares”. Almost to a man, they had turned 30, 60 and 90 day Hole time into years.

If you find yourself in the Hole (RHU) for whatever reason, the first thing you need to understand is that the fastest way out is to “fall back” and get into a routine:

1)      Do your time one day at a time. Don’t think about how much time you have to do; just take care of yourself one day at a time.

2)      Exercise Daily:  Do jumping jacks, push-ups, knee bends, sit-ups and run in place. This will enable you to feel better, sleep better and you’ll eat up a good chunk of time each day.

3)      Read Daily: Every RHU has library resources. You can pass a lot of hours reading and learning at the same time.

4)      Write Daily: Let your loved ones know about your situation. Be honest. This is a perfect time to catch up on your letter writing.

5)      Reminisce on the good times. All those treasured memories of your past life can serve you well now. Lie on your bed, close your eyes and recall a favorite memory and relive it. You can spend hours doing this and having fun, though stay away from negative memories.

Finally, try to be polite to every staff person who comes to your door. If you can’t be polite, at least remain neutral and respectful. Remember! They’re in a win-in situation and you’re not. You win when you leave the RHU. Good luck!

Introduction

When people in society ask a prisoner what it’s like inside, they are most often met with replies like, “It’s miserable and inhumane,” or “It’s sheer hell.” If asked to elaborate, prisoners typically point to the violence, conflicts with guards and other staff, and the lack of support from family and friends as the sources of their frustration and misery. Rarely, though, do we ever acknowledge the real source of our problems: a shortage of inner peace and harmony.

To put is plainly, this book is about change. Whether you’re incarcerated or not and you’ve grown tired of being angry, resentful, and without hope, this book can help you. We start with this premise: No matter how troubled or hopeless life seems—whether you’re serving ten years, fifty years, or life without parole—you can find peace of mind and a purpose for living.

Despite my optimistic outlook, I don’t intend to suggest that all your problems will go away, or that you won’t still become confused at times. Prison is, by its very nature, an oppressive environment; there will still be times when you experience loneliness and frustration. I am suggesting, however, that whatever pain you do experience will be greatly lessened and that your problems and daily struggles can be approached with greater ease and perspective. In other words, you will have the confidence to know that you can rise above any personal crisis and get through it, and in the process, maintain your sense of well being and dignity.

Writing this book has been fun and challenging for me. In fact, it has been one of the most fulfilling projects of my life. It’s given me the opportunity to carefully reflect on what I believe to be the keys to self-redemption, peace of mind, and happiness for any individual. While I don’t consider myself to be an expert on how to find the meaning of life, I have done a pretty good job of finding happiness and meaning in my own life. As of this writing, I have been incarcerated for twenty-nine years. For twelve of those years I kept my nose to the proverbial grindstone of higher learning. Between 1979 and 1990, I earned my Bachelor of Arts Degree, Master’s Degree, and Ph.D. Degree, all from the University of Pittsburgh. While my areas of academic interest were as eclectic as a painter’s palette, no subject fascinated me more than the workings of the human mind—particularly, how we learn and how we “unlearn.” My studies in educational psychology eventually led me on a quest to find the answers to such questions as, why were the vast majority of my fellow prisoners, myself included, so miserable, so self-destructive, and so unhappy? Theories abound as to why people become criminals, and they are equally plentiful when it comes to how to bring about change. This book is not about theories. It is about practical ways to make your life a whole lot more fulfilling and productive.

My hope is that the skills and strategies presented in this book will help you to begin to deal with the discontentment and unhappiness that lies within you. By embracing the very first strategy, self-honesty, you will begin to discover how to accept and nurture yourself in ways you never knew existed.

Father’s Day 1986

Today you drove 160 miles

and they turned you away.

When the captain of the guards

informed me a mistake had been made

“Sorry, Middleton, you do have one visit

left for the month. Tell your father

he can come back next weekend.”

I locked the tears in my eyes,

for men in prison aren’t supposed to cry.

How I wanted to choke his regrets,

to swat his smile like one does a housefly.

But, no.

Instead, I hid in my closet of a cell

and I cried.

I cried because this Father’s Day,

I would kiss your cheek

for the first time in 25 years;

I cried because this Father’s Day

I would whisper in your ear,

“I love you, Dad,”

for the first time in 25 years.

A Slice of Pumpkin Pie

At Hope’s Folly Penitentiary, on the Northside of Pittsburgh, the examination room for the condemned is reached through a labyrinth of hospital corridors. A pair of olive-green swinging doors admits you to the noises of the prisoners sitting in the sick-call waiting room, and with a gulp dissolve all traces of sanity. Stairways leas upwards to the psychiatric ward, a single floor carefully labeled ‘Mental Health Unity.’ Another leads downward to the basement where the smell of either assaults the senses. The adrenalin beings to flow as the body passes the open doors of laboratories and examination rooms filled with cold instruments and the retorts of grouchy old nurses.

When you pass the operation room and intensive care unit, the corridor angles off like a boomerang. It is ominously dark and narrow along this corridor and the way to the next pair of olive-green swinging doors. Beyond this pair of doors is another long corridor known appropriately as Dead Man’s Walk.

The first room along Dead Man’s Walk is the dietician’s office where requests for the condemned man’s last meals are processed and records are kept. Across the hall is the chaplain’s office and further down the hall, beyond the storage closet and electrical room, in the x-ray department.

The last office before you reach the death chamber and viewing theater—with the lethal injection room on one side and the electrical chair on the other –is the examination room. There is a single wooden bench in the gall outside the examination room and a two high windows painted forest green to keep the maintenance workers from seeing in. The fluorescent ceiling lights reflect the shadows of the water cooler, the fire extinguisher, and a wooden push-cart on the polished floor.

A single prisoner is sitting on the bench. His name is BillBo Coleman. BillBo does not talk to either of the officers who sit alongside him. His eyes are fixed on the shadows dancing on the polished fool. His frail body moves back and forth, slowly, like a rocking horse. Now he is singing: “Don’t know, why, don’t know why, there’s no stars up in the sky, since my baby left me. Stormy Weather…” He stops. He laughs. He rocks. Today is BillBo’s final examination.

The noises along the corridor are particular and typical: the high rubber squeak of the nurses’ shoes, the echoes of distance cries, the metallic wobble of swivel chairs, the sizzling hum of the x-ray generator. The materrnal voice of nurse Blanche who said, “We’re ready for you now, BIllBo. Come on in honey. ”

Billbo shuffles into the examination room flanked by two officers.

“Now BillBo, just relax, brother,” the tall black officer admonished tenderly.

“Where I’m gonna go?” Billbo says. “I ain’t got nowhere to go. Hahaha.”

When the handcuffs are removed, Billbo stretches his arms, then faces the black officers and poses like a boxer. He feigns a jab at the officer who returns on e of his own.

“You two may go outside and wait now,” the nurse say to the two officers.

“Can’t do, Nurse Blanche. Our orders are to stay with this man wherever he goes,” say the ruddy-faced white officer. He is a chicken-breasted little man with loose skin and big, bulbous red nose.

Nurse Blanche moves like a tank across the room toward the telephone.

“The doctor will not examine the patient with you two in the room,” she says. “Have you no respect for the man’s dignity?”

BillBo rocks back and forth on his heels as the nurse threatens to call the warden, the officers back out the door and stand in the hall looking in.

“We’ll be right here if you need us,” the white officer says

BillBo sits down in a chair besides the nurse’s desk, gets up and hesitates in a muddle, trembling and looking at the inter-doors and instruments.

“Come with me, BillBo,” the nurse says. “Into the dressing room.”

He shuffles across the room quite aimlessly, glances at her like a dog who wants a bone. Now his eyes are narrow, now they are large. She leads him by the arm and he sings: “Life is bare, life is bare, paint and misery everywhere, since my baby left me. Stormy Weather.”

“Now BillbBo, take off your shirt and trousers and underwear and put on this gown,” Nurse Blanche tells him. “When you have done that come out and sit down.”

The door closes on BillBo. The nurse waits and waits for him to come out. But he does not come. She goes to the door, opens it and smiles significantly, her dark round eyes like a surprised doll. She has her hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle.

“Oh, my!” She says, giggling away. BillBo is stark naked and fast asleep on the floor. Nurse Blanche cannot stop giggling in awe.

She closes the door and returns to her desk where she dashes through her paper work and waits for the doctor. The door to her office swings open and in comes Betty the dietician. Betty walks straight to the chair besides Blanche’s desk, give Iit sharp whisk with a magazine, sits down, and puts her bright bulging eyes into the latest issue of People.

After a minutes she says, “Is our man here yet, Blanche?”

“Ah-huh,” Says Blanche. “At least physically”

“Everyone’s wondering if they are going to grant him a pardon. Did you watch the news last night? Well, what’d you think about what those lawyers said concerning BillBo’s mental capacity?”

Betty the dietician lowers her voice, “Don’t you think it’s wrong, Blanche, to put a retarded man, a man with a room temperature IQ, to death?”

“Yes, I do!” Blanche says. She is offended. “It’s downright immoral, in my opinion.”

Black picks up the phone. “Hello x-ray? This is Blanche. I’ve got Mr. Coleman down here, you know the man whose schedule d for execution on Friday evening? Well, we’re going to need to send him down to you again. The films didn’t come out. Looks like his bowls are full of gas pockets. Okay, we’ll call you when we’re finished here. Thank you.”

Word spread soon to all the offices along Dead Man’s Walk that he condemned man has come. One by one the other arrive –the lab nurse, the orderly, the mortician, the chaplain’s clerk, the x-ray technician. They have come to gaze at BillBo the condemned man, the man who is without family or friends, without a soul to claim his bag of bones after the triad of drugs puts him to his final rest.

There is a restlessness in the room.

“Where is he?” the chaplain’s clerk asks.

Nurse Blanche leans forwards and nods toward the dressing room

“What is he doing in there?” the mortician asks. “Is he praying or playing with himself?”

Blanche twitters like a parakeet

“He’s asleep on the floor and I’ll not wake him until the doctor comes down.”

“Isn’t that a pity?” says the lab nurse.

“Isn’t what a pity?”

“You know, what there’s going to do to the poor man. Did you read the morning paper? The man is not slightly retarded , they say. He doesn’t understand.”

The mortician counters quickly.

“That’s nonsense!” He says, indignantly. “All that controversy and legal rigmarole about where he understands.”

The mortician, a thin, mottled little man with a crooked nose, tell them what he knows.

“Now ladies, I am as compassionate as the next person, but this fellow committed murder in the first degree. He drove a rusty butcher knife through a police officer’s chest. And there’s no doubt about that. Do you know that he gave a confession without being coerced? It’s true,” he says proudly. He pauses briefly for effect.

“It’s quite easy to be emotional over this sort of thing,” He goes one. “That’s why it’s important to keep it all in the proper perspective.”

There is a long pause, a dumbfounded pause, the kind that comes after someone had pleaded his case first and seems to be in the right.

The chaplain’s clerk breaks the silence.

“Hmm, well, yes, but there are two sides to every story, surely,” He says, rather timidly and absurdly friendly. He proceeds to set the record straight, to tell the other side of the story.

“I am baffled as to how anyone could find this man guilty of first degree murder. There’s no disputing that he killed that policeman after the man awakened him on a park bench and told him to move on. But was it premeditated murder? Surely not. It’s not so much that he’s illiterate that matters. Or even that he was a homeless vagrant. What disturbs me is what the official record reveals. This poor man is a borderline idiot. Are we really to believe that someone who starts fires for the sake of waltzing with the flames is mentally capable of understanding? He did, you know? Throughout his childhood he went around setting little fires all over his neighborhood, and never one did he run away from. Each time he observed at the scene,

************

The workers scatter like squirrels down the corridor and Blanche is left alone. She opens the dressing room door and even though the room is no bigger than a closet her voice sounds as if she is speaking into a megaphone. “BillBo, you have to get up now, honey. Come on. Come with me.”

BillBo stirs, rises like a crooked little man, and shuffled out of the room. His trousers and shirt, and underwear are draped over his arms and shoulders. He is drowning in the large dressing gown except for his head that bobs up and down like a buoy. Blanche leads him into the room behind the curtain.

“Sit up on the table, BillBo,” she says. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

When the doctor enters, BillBo grips his groin and stands up to bow. “Don’t stand BIllBo. Sit down.”

In a muddle, he sits down. He stirs. He holds his groin as if he has to pee.

The doctor examines his eyes, ears, and throat. He listens to his hears. “Now breathe deeply.” His lungs are clear. He instructs BillBo to stand. “Now turn your head to side and cough. Now bend over.”

When the examination is over the doctor scribbles in BillBo’s file, signs a form, then leaves the office as quickly as he arrived. BillBo has passes the examination.

Nurse Blanche tell BillBo to get dressed. When he comes of the examining room, he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, only noises, and that old song. One by one the lab nurse, the dietician, the chaplain’s clerk, the mortician and the x-ray technician reappear. They are pitifully sad. BillBo spreads his legs and puts his hands on his knees. He stands up. He sits again.

“BillBo, your sugar level is just fine, “says the lab technician.

“Your lawyers are coming to see you later, today, Bill,” says the chaplain’s clerk. “Won’t that be nice?”

And in just a few minutes we’ll get your x-rays done over, Mr. Coleman,” says the x-ray technician.

“And after that,” says Betty the dietician, “we’ll process you order for you last meal. Do you know what you want to eat, BillBo?”

BillBo does not hesitate to answer. His eyes are bright. He is alert now.

“Going to have me a big Thanksgivin’ dinner,” BIllBo says. With all the trimmings. Cranberries, sweet potatoes, dressin’, peas and white meat.”

“That sounds scrumptious. How what you like for dessert?”
Again BillBo doesn’t hesitate.

“Pumpkin pie,” he says. “yeahyeahyeah, that’s what I want. I want a large slice of pumpkin pie.”

BillBo sits down and nods his head in approval of his final meal

“That’s an awful big meal for a little fellow you like you, Bill,” Betty says. “But don’t you worry. We’ll fix it just that way you ordered it.”

BIllBo looks up through his long black eye lashes with eyes as round and bright as two wet black olives. Very slowly his lips part, he grins and showing strong yellow teeth, he makes a grunting noise. He begins to sing.

When Friday evening arrives the warden greets the reporters and witnesses as solemnly as a funeral director. In his hands he is carrying a portable phone is case the Governor calls. He is hopeful, but not optimistic, for it is an election year. He is heard to say that what is about to take place isn’t right. But he is a servant of the state and must carry out his duties.

An hour before the execution is scheduled to begin, the Captain of the Guards turns the key to BillBo’s cell and opens the door. BillBo is standing at the sink washing his socks and whistling that old song.

“Well BillBo, it’s time,” the Captain says, solemnly, but sympathetically.

BillBo dries his hands nonchalantly, turns around in the room. He is still whistling.

Suddenly the Captain point to the foot of the bed where BillBo’s plastic dinner plate sits with a large slice of pumpk1in pie still in the corner slot.

“Why BillBo!” The Captain says. “You didn’t eat, your pie, son”

BillBo rubs his stomach in hearty anticipation.

“I be saving my pumpkin pie for later in the evening”

He slips into his shoes, he shuffles out the door singing that old song.

LESSONS IN LIFE: IT’S NOT JUST ANOTHER FUNKY DAY

We’ve all heard it before. A brother greets another brother: ”How you doing this morning?” And the brother responds with, “Oh you know, man. It’s the same old, same old.” Or he says, “Ain’t nothing changed. It’s the same as yesterday. Just another funky day.”

Yesterday started out to be just another day. I went to breakfast and saw the same ducks back again that quacked and flew above the prison the day before. Those same four beautiful cell dogs were in the yard for their morning walk, and the same humongous groundhog I watched yesterday was peeking out of his tunnel in the yard under my window.

After breakfast I was called to the dispensary to have the callus on my foot shaved. I signed in and then sat on one of the benches to wait. Beside me sat a man who looked to be about my age. His left foot was wrapped heavily with gauze and there was red stuff oozing from his foot. “How’re you doing?” I asked. The man was obviously in pain. He kept his eyes on his foot and replied, “Not too good. They just amputated my toes. Damn diabetes.” I said, “That’s too bad, man. Diabetes runs in my family too, and it scares the heck out of me. I’ve been lucky so far.” We spent the next ten minutes sharing stories of family members who have diabetes.

When the nurse called my name I said goodbye and good luck to the fellow and followed the nurse into the room. In the corner, a prisoner sat in a wheelchair grasping his chest and grimacing. He struggled with each breath until he cried out, “Nurse, I’m having a heart attack. Please, help me!” The nurse said, “The doctor’s on his way. Just hang in there.” She told me to take a seat and remove my shoe and sock. Then I watched while she took the other prisoner’s blood pressure. A minute later the doctor walked nonchalantly into the room and asked me where the pain was. I said, “It doesn’t hurt until I step on a rock.” The nurse yelled, “This one, doctor.”

Suddenly I no longer wanted the callus treated on my foot. All I wanted was to get up and walk out of that place and find those ducks and that groundhog and those four beautiful dogs and just look at them, man, and really see them! And the next fellow that told me how miserable his day was, I would remind him that he has toes to feel and a heart that pumps and eyes to see and if that’s not enough to be thankful for, then what is?

It’s not just another funky day, people!