My chains had become psychological, and they were forged as surely as carbon steel to be completely invulnerable to any attempt on my part to break them. And it was against these invisible bonds that I began to rebel, and hence unwittingly define my identity and role in society; that of a social outcast, a pariah, and a "dangerous monster". It was a painful time of transition for me, filled with the raw (newly formed) emotions of betrayal, and the beginning of my desire for revenge against "the machine".
Revenge was the only salve available to me that could ease my pain. In this premable I wish to achieve two things: First to explain why this posting has been so long in coming. And, second, to establish the proper mood (solemn) and perhaps add a little deserved gravity to the events that follow. You are about to read (or not) about the actual birth of a real life "monster" from the very womb of social ignorance. Or, to put it a bit less delicately, what follows is a description of the Beast itself, taking a shit.)
"Ignorance is the womb of monsters." - Henry W. Beecher
In 1987, seven years after my arrest and incarceration for forcing another boy – two years younger than me – to take off his clothes and put my dick in his mouth (rape) I got an unexpected break in the fifteen-and-a-half-year-sentence imposed by the Parole Board. The Parole Board was ordered to adjust the sentences they set, and to bring them within the sentencing range set by the Sentencing Reform Act (SRA) in Washington state. The SRA would have set my range at five to seven years, maximum (under no circumstances was I supposed to serve more than seven years, according to the SRA).
I had already served over seven years under the "old guidelines", so the Parole Board (now called the ISRB, or, Indeterminate Sentencing Review Board) was forced to reduce my time and find me parolable. All I needed was an approved parole plan and I could go home, three years sooner than expected! Or, so I was led to believe. It would end up being more than another seven years before I managed to "fight my way out" of prison with the help of litigation filed on my behalf by an attorney. But that comes later in this story.
At the time when I was found parolable, in 1987, I still believed that someday I would be able to go home and the nightmare that began because of what I did when I was a confused 16-year-old boy would then come to an end. Yes, I was still that naive.
So, I submitted parole plans to live with my mother in the same house where I was arrested in the front yard seven years earlier. My plan was to get a job, working with computer and/or electronics repair work – skills I had learned in prison – and to pay my mother rent. This would have allowed my mom to keep the house which she was otherwise losing because of unpaid mortage, assuming the plans were approved. My counselor, Mr. Dennis Wheeler (a name I came to remember because of the subversive role he played in bringing about the addition of many more years to my already extraordinary sentence) assured me that these were good parole plans. He also assured me that all the subsequent plans I submitted through him were all good as well, while he simultaneously and covertly recommended to the Parole Board that all my plans be denied - which I didn't learn about until years later when a lawyer disclosed to me Mr. Wheeler's "unofficial" reports to the Parole Board that I had no way of knowing about. In these reports Mr. Wheeler recommended even that my parole plans to the Interaction Transition House ("I.T. House") also be denied. His recommendations were not based on disciplinary problems or even because of lack of structure in the parole plans. The I.T. House plans were considered the best parole plans a person could have at that time.
It took up to two years to be accepted by the program and I had to participate in the weekly I.T. House meetings inside the prison to win their acceptance. But Mr. Wheeler was "concerned" about my "unstable sexual behavior", which is prison-admin-speak for "flamboyant homosexuality". Even though I never got in trouble in prison for having sex. Most "out" prison homosexuals have more "504's" - sex infractions – than they can count. I never got one, not even after over 17 years in prison population, most of the time being "out" as a homosexual a.k.a. "queen". Yes, I had sex in prison. But not lasciviously. Most of the time I only had sex regularily with just one person, "my man". I maintained and adamantly respected a monogamous relationship for almost the entire time I was out of the closet in prison. I was "Big Al's girl", and everyone knew it.
Apparently, Mr. Wheeler and later the I.S.R.B. decided that flamboyant homosexuals were dangerous to society. Even though the prison psychologist, who in her official report to the I.S.B.R., wrote that because of my efforts to confront my sexual identity, I was a "much smaller risk to re-offend" than I was before. The psychologist's name was Dr. Sally Sloat, a name I remember because of her persistent efforts to convince the I.S.B.R. that I was not "sexually unstable", but actually a better candidate for parole than I had ever been.
When the I.S.R.B. first found me parolable in 1987, my first concern was to make sure that I would not re-offend. So, on my own initiative, I began meeting with Dr. Sloat regularly in order to discuss my treatment options on parole, and my current attempts at self-treatment. The prison had previously turned down all my request for treatment because I had "too much time left". So, seeing Dr. Sloat was my only option, which I took voluntarily, and under my own initiative. When I told Dr. Sloat about how my fantasies of letting men use me as a woman seemed to make my fantasies about children go away, she revealed to me that all of my "psych-tests" (e.g. MMPI) indicated that I had "strong feminine characteristics". She encouraged me to "explore my sexual identity", as a way of understanding and controlling my deviant sexual fantasies about children. So, with the help and support of Dr. Sloat, and "my man", who Dr. Sloat knew about, I came out of the closet, specifically as a transsexual, which translates as "queen" in prison.
My man, Big Al, was an intelligent, well-educated (with a BA in psychology that he earned in prison) and highly respected convict throughout the state prison system at the time. He was also the prison imam (muslim leader) and devoutly dedicated to his beliefs. The entire time I lived with Big Al, he always performed his daily prayers and observed all of the other muslim religious conventions, except one: he fucked the hell out of me almost every night that he could, and I loved it! As for how a devout muslim, an imam no less, could possibly reconcile such a serious offense against muslim practice as homosexuality, all I can say is that Big Al was not homosexual at all. To him, I was just a "female trapped in a male body", but I also had a very female-ish body and he never treated me as anything but a female. When other muslims confronted him about his relationship with me (which he never tried to hide) he would tell them: "It's between me and Allah”. In other words, none of their business. And he backed this up with several sutras straight from the Qur'an.
Big Al took a huge risk to his reputation as a muslim in order to represent me (be "my man") in prison. But he did it because he supported Dr. Sloat's idea that I needed to establish my sexual identity if I wanted to have any hope of escaping my deviant sexual past. He knew all about my crime and about how I was bothered so much by persistent sexual desires for children. In fact, he was the one who initially suggested I go see Dr. Sloat, and told me I could trust her. He did not pretend to be qualified to give me the help I needed. But when Dr. Sloat suggested that coming out of the closet would help me get over my pedophilia tendencies, Big Al cared enough to support my efforts, even though he knew well that he was risking more than just his reputation; a lot more! Because of his open relationship with me, Big Al lost his prefered housing status at McNeil Island. He also ended up losing his custody security level (from medium to closed), which caused him to be transfered back to the state penitentiary on the other side of the state (away from his family). And he is still in prison to this day, having been found parolable himself more than six years ago, but yet to be released on parole, perhaps again because of his relationship to me. But, the thing that impressed me the most, personally, was when he risked his life in order to protect me.
In a move clearly intended to separate me from "my man" and thereby putting me in danger from other inmates, prison officials placed me in a unit where Federal inmates were being housed (on a contract with the BOP). Even though Big Al could receive none of the conventional benefits of representing me any more (namely, sex) because of our seperation, he nonetheless let it be known that I was his girl, and if anyone messed with me they would answer to him. He did this after I had made a mess out of trying to solicit the biggest, baddest, and handsomest Federal inmate in my new unit to be "my man", and represent me. His name was Kato (or at least that was what he liked to be called), a tall and muscular half-Asian, half-black man who lived in Korea as a youth and studied Kung Fu since childhood. He was an enforcer for the Asian mafia in America (not necessary the U.S.), or at least that's what he and his "crew" claimed. Whatever he was, he was clearly a dangerous man. He practiced his Kung Fu Katas (fighting exercises) every day, but was forbidden by the institution to teach other inmates. He talked all the time about Kung Fu, and about his time in the Special Forces, and about all the special training he received. He was especially proud of a form of Kung Fu called "Praying Mantis" that he claimed to have learned while he was AWOL in Cambodia, from traveling priests who took him in to exchange styles (he taught them several of the styles he learned as a kid in exchange for being taught the Praying Mantis style). He claimed that he also taught Kung Fu in America, and he himself had learned from various masters, though he always insisted that he was not a master because of his lack of spiritual reverence, not because of his lack of skill. I believed all of it.
So, I considered having Kato as my "man" a step up from Big Al; at least that's what I thought at first. But Kato was (surprise, surprise) only interested in using me for sex (and letting his "crew" use me). It didn't take me long to figure that out and as soon as Kato made a clear breach of contract (by not defending my honor as he should have), I bravely dumped him. I say "bravely" because getting dumped by a prison queen is a hundred times worse than getting dumped by a real woman, and Kato totally did not expect me to do it. When I told him to his face that I no longer considered him as my "man", I saw that same demon flash behind his eyes that I came to know so well behind my own not much later. He would have killed me right there, if he could have gotten away with it. But instead, he ordered his "crew" to teach me a lesson on his behalf. I found out later that he was under "orders" from his mafia bosses to stay out of trouble, which is why he did not just "bitch slap" me right then and there. And that was when Big Al stepped back into the picture. But when Kato found out that "some state inmate" was speaking up for me he sent his "crew" after Big Al instead. But, what he didn't realize (and neither did I at the time) was that Big Al had a "crew", too - a much bigger "crew"! So, Kato and Big Al ended up negotiating peace terms (that amounted to an apology to me, but without reparations, from Kato for allowing his "crew" to disrespect me) down in a back room of the prison laundry (Kato's turf). I was genuinely afraid for Big Al, and warned him not to negotiate on Kato's turf. But Big Al assured me that Kato only thought it was his turf. Well, things worked out, or at least Kato and his "crew" never messed with me after that (and neither did anyone else).
For a while at least I was probably the most chaste "queen" in prison population in the whole country! Big Al and I could only see each other on the prison big yard, where we met almost every day, and spent hours, just talking, as we sat on "our throne" (a bench seat that overlooked the yard) that other inmates left open for us. He agreed to be my "man" only if I agreed to give him say about who I had sex with, and I could only have sex with people he knew well enough to know for sure that they did not have AIDS, which was almost nobody. I only had sex with one other person on one or two occasions during this time, but I won't say who, though Big Al, of course, knew.
The harassment from the prison officials kept up. As part of my transition from convict to prison queen I had quit my job in the electronics shop in order to take a job in Institutional Industries, so I could work with Big Al. He was a data entry clerk and I became a programmer in the same office. But no sooner than it took for me to establish my ability to run circles around the other so-called programmers (I single-handedly cleared out the six month backlog of dBase report requests in less than a month), I was "fired" by the institution. Not because of anything I did – the industries staff loved me since they could now request complex reports that they could never get before. But, I was fired because I "knew more about computers than the institution's go-to-guy" which made me, supposedly, a "threat to security". Of course, the real reason, again, was a thinly veiled attempt by prison officials to seperate me and Big Al. Even though we weren't in the same living unit any more, our reputation as a couple (i.e. lovers) was growing stronger all the time. And that, for some reason, bothered the hell out of the prison officials. Also, around this time (1989), I was scheduled for another parole hearing.
My counselor (no longer Mr. Wheeler) assured me that it was a necessary routine hearing to reconfirm my paroleability status after having all my parole plans denied over the last two years. So, I was completely unprepared to defend myself when the board members started asking questions about my "risk to re-offend", questions they had never asked before, not even when they found me paroleable two years earlier. Dr. Sloat was at the hearing (she insisted on being there, even though my counselor tried to discourage her from appearing – apparently, she understood the real purpose of the hearing, even though I did not). But, even though she adamantly backed up her report, saying that I was a much less risk to re-offend than before, the ISRB revoked my paroleability and added the first of several more extension years to my sentence!
I would say that this was the proverbial "straw that broke the camel's back", but it was more like a ton of bricks when a straw might actually have been enough! After all my efforts over the years to straighten out my life were thwarted, by one broken promise after another by the "system" to "help me get better", and after I was betrayed by the sex offender therapist who tried to use his authority to coerce my mother into having sex with him, and after this same therapist wrote an almost completely fabricated report to the court (in order to protect himself from backlash) that caused me to get such an extreme sentence for such a juvenile crime, and after I was then repeatedly raped and assaulted by other inmates (until I learned how to protect myself) while prison officials denied my requests for protective custody, and after I did everything I could to "heal myself", even going to the prison psychologist as a last resort, and after my mother lost her house because my parole plans to help support her were denied, and long after the rest of my family had pretty much given up on trying to support me; after all that, the ISRB dropped this ton of bricks on me out of the blue.
I couldn't "go home" after all. I snapped. To say the least, I snapped. And the stress of trying to identify myself as a woman in a male institution didn't help. I had very little information about what it meant to be a transsexual and the only support I got was from my "man" and from Dr. Sloat. Many of my "friends" stopped talking to me. And most of my new "friends" only wanted one thing (need I say what?). There were times when I was so nervous about trying to appear effeminate in the prison population that it felt like there was a physical force surging through me that made me so stiff I was afraid I'd fall over. I never felt that kind of stress ever before, or ever since. Not even at my death penalty trials or hearings; not even close.
It was around this time that I also started having my first "paranoid delusions". But my rational mind, and self-education in psychology, kept me from letting the delusions take control. No matter how convincing the delusions seemed – and they were very convincing – I was always able to reason them away. Or, at least out of my conscious mind. Who knows what havoc they might have wrought unconsciously.
When I mentioned these delusions to Dr. Sloat, she recommended that I see the prison psychiatrist. Which I did, and he prescribed some kind of psychoactive drug. But I didn't like how the pills made me feel (like my brain was being mildly electrocuted), so I stopped taking them and rarely spoke of my delusions with anyone after that. They didn't seem to interfere with my ability to function, or at least so I thought. Even when I did talk about them I always played them down by calling them "paranoid thoughts", even though I realized they were much more than just "thoughts"; they were a part of my reality (or, a significant aspect of my overall experience at least). So, when the ISRB yanked my paroleability and added several more years to my sentence because of my attempts to understand who I was - and hence, why I was in prison (i.e. why I raped a 14-year-old boy), so that I wouldn't reoffend - yes, I snapped. I cried. I screamed. And I mourned. But, I kept it all inside.
Showing such emotions in prison was a sign of weakness, even for a queen. But Big Al saw my feelings, though at that point I stopped seeing Dr. Sloat and was never honest with a prison psych-doctor ever again. My "man" watched helplessly as all the hurt, and frustration, and betrayal, congealed at last into a dense ball of rage that I buried beneath thoughts of revenge and vindication so that I wouldn't have to feel the pain. It was the only way to make the pain go away, other than religion I suppose. But as much as I respected Big Al's faith in Allah, and as much as I myself had even come to acknowledge a conscious force much greater than myself in the universe - to me, religion was just another "delusion" that I ignored or rationalized away just like all the others. The consolation of revenge became the only source of relief I had.
When I was 17 years old sitting in Pierce county jail awaiting to be tried as an adult for raping that other boy, I wanted to die so bad that I cried for days, almost non-stop. But in lieu of picking up a razor or rigging a noose, I made a pact with myself instead. I always remembered this pact very clearly, because it let me live with what I had done. In the pact I swore to myself that no matter what happened (as a result of the charges against me) over the next several years and that no matter how much I changed as a person, or who I became, that I would never, NEVER, under any circumstance or for any reason, cause such harm to my family again. You see, I wanted to die not because of my shame, or even because of what I faced. I wanted to die because of how I hurt my family, my father, mother, sisters and my brother. For the first time in my life I realized how important my family was to me. So I swore that I would die (kill myself) before I ever did anything to hurt them again. But, when the ISRB revoked my paroleability in 1989, I realized that it was a pact that was impossible to keep. The system would not only never allow me to heal, but my mistake as a 16-year-old kid would be used to keep hurting my family for as long as I lived. And I couldn't kill myself either, because that would hurt my family even worse. So, I changed my original pact to say that I would never hurt my family directly. In other words, neices and nephews and even "friends of the family" were all "off limits" to my "sickness". And I have always honored this version of my pact even at times when it would have been extremely easy not to. But, after 1989, when I realized that my best efforts to fix my life were a vain dream, and that I would never be allowed to stop paying for the mistake I made, I also made a new pact that the modifications to my original pact now allowed, even demanded in a way: I would make society pay, even if that meant I had to die in order to do so.
The purpose of my life changed at that point from repairing the damage I had caused my family (which I finally saw as impossible), to causing as much damage (pain and suffering) to society (which I blamed for not letting me heal) as possible. So now, instead of educating myself to work towards "getting better", I would from now on educate myself to work toward "getting even". In the past, my reason for living – my "pact" for life – was to heal myself and my family. My whole life centered around this effort. Even when things seemed impossibly difficult, I kept going for this hope, this goal.
In 1989, all that changed. My life now centered around a new goal, and a new "pact". From now on I would not only stop trying to "heal" but I would strive to become the "sickest sicko" alive, so I could hurt society with the very "sickness" that it would not let me escape. And, just so the reader understands: I did not blame the ISRB or people like Mr. Wheeler. They were just ignorant servants of "the Beast". And I did not blame the men who raped me at Shelton Corrections Center. They were just victims themselves, even if they didn't think so. I didn't even blame Mike Shepherd, the therapist who sexually assaulted my mother, and lied about me in his "official" report in order to protect himself. No, I blamed the entity that gave rise to all these ignorant people. I blamed the "system", which is the name I gave to the faceless masses usually called "society". I blamed no one person, or group of persons, more than I blamed society itself. I didn't even blame the "secret government" that my mind convinced me (to this day) was behind all criminal behavior and sexual perversion in society. Even if it wasn't a delusion (I still can't honestly say if it is or not), it still could not be held accountable for all of my pain and suffering, because it was "super-secret" after all. But, in my mind at least, society had to held accountable. The "system" could be hurt, if not damaged. I could at least make it cry, to feel some of the pain that it caused me and others like me. If I was never to be allowed to heal, then neither would I let "the Beast" live in peace.
With as much vehemence and emotion that I put into my first pact, I now (in 1989) swore that no matter what happened, no matter how long it took, no matter how my life changed, for better or for worse, and no matter who I became, I would make society pay. And, the only way this pact was able to ease my pain, is if I knew I would keep it. And I knew I would. And I did. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
(Anyone watching the videos I made even the infamous "cabin video" with the Groene children in Montana can see that I did not "want to" do what I was doing. I had to do it – or, at least that's what I believed until Shasta broke the "evil spell" that this "pact" had become for me).
I told Big Al: "Someday, they'll make the mistake of letting me out". He tried to warn me that it was my mistake to think that way. But I didn't listen, and it was something we never spoke about again. He named that part of me "Joe", and "Joe" and Big Al didn't like each other at all. So, when Big Al and I were together, "Joe" stayed in the dungeon I made for him in my mind. Big Al also named my feminine personality. He called her "Jazzi". He said that, sometimes, when she "took over", my whole face changed like a completely different person. A very beautiful person in his opinion also. As best as I can fathom, using the radar of hindsight, "Joe" was "Jazzi's" protector before I'd met Big Al. But "Joe" protected "Jazzi" mostly by keeping her hidden, which Dr. Sloat and Big Al convinced me was not healthy. But, after 1989, "Joe" was the one who went into hiding, and in a strange reversal of roles. "Jazzi" became "Joe's" protector. These were not "split personalities" in the clinical sense (since they were each fully aware of each other), but they were also as distinctly different from each other as any "split personality" could be. I could go on for pages about all the ways "Joe" and "Jazzi" were different. But, to keep it short: they were complete opposites in every way you can imagine. But, one thing "Joe" and "Jazzi" had in common was that they were both emotionally based creatures. Because of this, they both shared the common weakness of all emotionally based people: they were both "intellectually challenged". And that's where "Jet" came in.
Yes, Big Al identified "Jet" also, but I gave "Jet" the name I grew up with because "Jet" was the central personality that held "Joe" and "Jazzi" together. "Jet" provided the intellect and rational basis for all of "Joe" and "Jazzi's" behavior. "Jet" was also the mediator for the other personalities. He realized the importance of "Joe" and "Jazzi" because they gave his life (my life) meaning and motivation. "Jet" needed "Joe" and "Jazzi" as much as they needed him. But "Jet" was all brain and no heart. He could always think clearly, even in the most dramatic situations (such as during a murder, or even a life threatening situation). In such circumstances, "Jet" could easily push "Joe" and "Jazzi" aside and "take care of business" with no emotional "interference" from them.
You might say that "Jet" was the "psychopath", but I think it is misleading to assume he existed independent of emotion. Yes, "Jet" seemed to act and think completely without emotion, but without "Joe" and "Jazzi" (my emotional selves), "Jet" would have never had any reason or motivation to act at all. This is why I say there is no such thing as "a true psychopath" (a.k.a. "an emotionless person") like is so commonly depicted in the movies. Even the most depraved and "monstrous" people are ultimately driven by their emotions. In fact, it is only the intensity of their emotions that enables them to behave so extremely, not the lack of feelings at all.
Though, like me, like all of us to one degree or another, they have split off from their emotional selves. The only thing that makes me unique, perhaps, is that because of my intense efforts to understand my own mind (and problems), and with the help of intelligent and knowledgeable friends like Big Al and Dr. Sloat, I became aware of this "split" from my emotional selves, and thus "Joe", "Jazzi" and "Jet" were "born" into my conscious mind, rather than unconsciously like in most "normal" people. I think that if so-called "psychopaths" do share one trait in common that distinguishes them from "normal" people, then it would be a very high level of self-awareness, which allows them to act without emotion when necessary. But, if that were true, then there are an awful lot more "psychopaths" running around than we'll ever know!
So, regardless of all the philosophical ramifications, in 1989, "Jazzi" stepped into the limelight, and "Joe" retreated to his dungeon. I would no longer concern myself with "getting better" because now I accepted that I would never have a "normal" life. There was never any such a thing. Instead, my primary focus became "survival" and, to me, because I needed "Joe" to survive, and "Joe" needed to be "fed" in order to live, "survival" meant "revenge", because that was all "Joe" cared about: hurting those who hurt me. But, "survival" also meant "love", thanks to one special lady named "Jazzi". So I kept both "alive" inside of me. Alive, but completely separate, which became my bane and my "sickness". (I have been struggling since my arrest and "revelation" in 2005 to unite "Joe", "Jazzi" and "Jet" into one person by essentially "dismantling" the "walls" between them. It is a difficult and often very painful process because it forces me to learn how to live with the pain that the walls were built specifically to "protect" me from. But I've learned that, in the end, the walls come down anyway, ready or not. My goal in life presently is to be as "ready" as possible when they do come the rest of the way down!)
As I already mentioned, Big Al eventually got an infraction for "threatening a staff member" and, although this is considered a serious infraction, it is one that an inmate can never defend himself against because all the staff member has to say is that they "felt threatened" and that defines the "offense". I've know inmates to get this infraction for just glaring at a staff member and, of course, going straight to "the hole" as a result.
In Big Al's case, he told a guard to leave him alone (i. e. stop harassing him), "or else". And that was enough to get him taken to disciplinary segregation ("the hole"), and to lose his "security points" so that he got sent to the maximum security penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington (the other side of the state). And so the prison officials finally had their way. Big Al and I were as "separated" as any two inmates could be in the Washington state "corrections" system. We were in completely separate prisons with different security levels on opposite sides of the state. We couldn't be any more "separated" than that, or so they seemed to think. But I had different ideas.
As soon as I learned that Big Al had been set up and taken down, I came up with a simple plan to join him. I went to the prison "hobby shop" and, in front of "everyone", I climbed up a wall and across an I-beam to a small second story window in the back of the hobby shop that led into the administrative offices for Institutional Industries (were Big Al and I both once worked). It was after hours, though (in the evening), so the offices were empty and "locked up". Rumor has it that I broke into the offices in order to avenge Big Al by planting a virus "bomb" on the computers there. Actually, all I did was take off all my clothes and run around the offices naked while masterbating to fantasies of being "trained" by a bunch of inmates (this was "Jazzi" after all). I was simply enjoying the rare privacy that I had while alone in the offices.
Of course, the real reason I broke into the offices was because I knew I would be "ratted out" (by one of the inmates who saw me climb through the window), and that the resulting infraction would be serious enough to get me sent to Walla Walla, to be with Big Al. And it worked perfectly. Later that same night (after I had "had my fun" in the offices, I climbed back out through the same window and returned to my cell), the "goon squad" (a team of guards) showed up at my cell door and took me straight to the hole.
A few weeks later, I was on the "chain bus" for Walla Walla. And so began the next chapter of my adventures as a prison queen in one of the notoriously "toughest" prisons in the nation, Washington State Penitentiary.
To be continued... Part IV: The Queen
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