Posts by Michael Santos
Take Action on Long-Term Imprisonment
Published July 30, 2009 @ 04:35AM PT
Perceptions of time puzzle me. I’m about to begin my 23rd year in prison, and since I’ve been living inside for so long, prison feels completely normal for me. When I write that I’ve been incarcerated since 1987, that doesn’t sound like such a long time ago.
To put the term in perspective, I have to think back to when I was first locked inside a federal prison. Had I met someone then who had served as much time as I’ve served now, he would have begun his term in 1965. From that perspective, I can understand how much time has passed.
Another way for me to put how much time I have served into perspective is to contemplate my age. Yesterday I saw a photograph from much earlier in my term, when I was still in my early 20s. Today I am 45. Although I feel physically fit, the photograph provides incontrovertible proof that I am aging.
What Will Freedom Bring?
Published July 21, 2009 @ 05:34AM PT
By devoting the majority of each day to writing or thinking, I sacrifice time I would otherwise spend reading. I wake every morning between three and four, gather paper, pens, my dictionary, and journal from my locker, then walk to a room where I sit at a Formica-topped table in solitude. I am alone for these first few hours of each morning, and I feel grateful for the silence. I hear the ventilation system’s forced air, but no loud voices or blaring televisions. I welcome the gift of these peaceful hours, as few prisoners ever find such space.
I serve these final months or years of my sentence at the minimum-security prison camp in Taft, California, about 30 miles southwest of Bakersfield. Administrators of the Bureau of Prisons transferred me to Taft Camp in June of 2007, after I had concluded two years at Lompoc’s prison camp. Before Lompoc, I served 18 months in the prison camp at Florence, Colorado. For the 17 years before my transfer to Florence camp, I was locked in various U.S. Penitentiaries and Federal Correctional Institutions across the United States.
I have been a prisoner for so long that I cannot really contemplate what liberty means. The time approaches when I will walk out of prison boundaries, I know. My release date is scheduled for August of 2013, though halfway house placement, parole eligibility, and possible relief through prison reform could mean I return to society even sooner. But what does that mean?
Getting Married in Prison
Published July 07, 2009 @ 05:33AM PT
[Editor's note: This is the second part of Michael Santos' post on waiting for visits and building relationships from behind bars. Part one is here. Above are Michael and Carole Santos in April 2009.]
While I was serving my 15th year, I received a letter from Carole. We had both grown up in a North Seattle suburb and gone through school together. After graduating from Shorecrest high school, our lives went in separate directions and we lost contact. Carole found some of my writings as she worked to coordinate our 20th high school reunion, and she wrote to me. My response to Carole’s letters led to a correspondence, then a romance, and we fell in love through our written words.
I was 38 years old. Despite my having lived as a prisoner for my entire adult life, once I fell in love with Carole I began to need her. I wanted to feel her touch, to smell her hair, to taste her kiss. She lived in Oregon and I was imprisoned in New Jersey, so we had to nurture our relationship through the mail and telephone calls. Once we committed our lives to each other, Carole moved to New Jersey so we could visit whenever rules would allow.
With Carole in my life, visits became extremely important to me. I was scheduled to serve 11 additional years, and through our visiting privileges, Carole and I would build our prison family. We could not enjoy the physical intimacy that other couples took for granted, but life became so much richer for me as Carole and I tied our futures. Carole became my partner, and in many ways, that meant she would serve the remainder of this sentence alongside me. Through our weekly visits, I was privileged to build a life that few long-term prisoners can enjoy.
Waiting for a Visit
Published July 06, 2009 @ 05:49AM PT
As a long-term prisoner, visiting has had different meanings for me at various stages of my confinement. In the beginning, after my initial arrest, I spent my first year locked inside a large county jail. I was only 23, and never having been confined before, I didn’t know much of anything about living in an institution. Visits gave me a break from the monotony.
Those initial weeks in jail, beginning in the summer of 1987, passed slowly. I had been charged with leading an “enterprise” that trafficked in cocaine. Although neither violence nor weapons were a part of our group, my leadership role in the crime exposed me to a possible sentence of life without parole and thus persuaded my judge to deny my release on bond. After pacing from wall to wall in my jail cell day after day, I looked forward to Saturday visits.
My ritual to prepare for the Saturday morning visit began the night before, when I would lay my pants and shirt carefully beneath my sleeping mat on the concrete platform that served as my bed. The weight of my body through the night would press creases into the drab clothing, and I hoped the effort would make me look sharp. I’d wake early. By knocking out several hundred pushups on the floor of my cell, I could get my blood pumping, swell my muscles, hopefully giving the illusion of strength. I’d take a bird-type bath in my sink, shave closely, then pull on my jail outfit, methodically folding up my sleeves to flaunt what I thought were impressive biceps. Then I sat on the corner of my bed, minimizing movement so as not to wrinkle my clothes, and waited for jailers to escort me to the visiting booth.
Ready for Release?
Published June 30, 2009 @ 04:44AM PT
Paul is being released from prison today, and I’m concerned that he will find himself poorly prepared to overcome the challenges he is about to encounter. An examination of Paul’s prison file would suggest quite the opposite.
To prison administrators, Paul has built the record of a model inmate. That means he has complied with all rules, he participated in available programs, and he did not burden staff members with requests that deviated from the norm. The irony was that in adjusting to live as a model inmate, Paul conditioned himself for institutional living. The flip side of such an adjustment meant that now, as Paul was ready to walk out of prison, he lacked the resources necessary for a viable chance at success in society.
Adjusting to Prison: Two Decades Later
Published June 16, 2009 @ 08:38AM PT
[Editor's note: This is part two of Michael Santos' post yesterday on his adjustment to prison life.]
During my first decade in prison, I needed to structure my days. A rigid schedule helped. As soon as guards unlocked the heavy steel door of my cell at six, I stood dressed and ready. My first stop was the gym.
Muscles would not slow the thrust of a knife, but regular exercise would keep my healthy. From the gym I reported to a clerical job that provided the quiet solitude I needed for study. I completed university coursework that would lead to degrees from Mercer University and Hofstra University. From the clerical job, I walked to the prison infirmary, where I volunteered as a suicide-watch companion.
My busy schedule kept me in the penitentiary, but not of the penitentiary. I avoided the bloodshed, the gangs, the corruption. By always having a place to go and a project to work toward, I created my own niche. It kept me safe. I passed through my twenties inside those walls without a single altercation. Administrators responded to my deliberate adjustment by transferring me to a medium-security prison.
My First Days: Adjusting to Life in Prison
Published June 15, 2009 @ 10:10AM PT
When DEA agents first arrested me in 1987, a cavalier attitude blocked my ability to grasp the gravity of my problems. As far as I understood, the government’s case against me hinged on the testimony of witnesses. They had been caught with cocaine or money from cocaine transactions; they bargained for a lower sentence by pleading guilty and cooperating with prosecutors in the case against me. Since the agents did not catch me with tangible evidence, I deluded myself into believing that a jury would not convict me. I was wrong. I was only 23-years-old then, and I didn’t know upon my arrest that I would serve decades inside the federal prison system.
It was not until after the jury returned its unanimous verdict of guilt on all counts that I accepted the mess I had made of my life. When the delusions of acquittal yielded to the reality of conviction, remorse began to take root. I realized the disappointment and shame I had brought to my family, my community. Those feelings inspired a need to change, a commitment to reconcile with society.
An inherent cynicism prohibited those in the judicial system from considering my expressions of remorse. The prosecutors and judge stood convinced that the only reason I felt remorseful was because I had been caught. They were correct, of course.
