I was eventually paroled to the I.T. House
in Seattle (the only one at that time), but only after serving another five
years in prison as a direct result of the parole boards bias against my “sexual
behavior” (i.e. open homosexuality). By that time Herb Smith had died of
natural causes (i.e. old age) and the I.T. program was itself in an unstable
state of transition from private ownership to a state sponsored and fully
accredited program. Once the state took over the program, and expanded it by
opening more houses around the state, its notorious success rates (i.e.
non-recidivism) plummeted down to state averages of my other halfway house.
But the I.T. House, as Herb Smith first
established it, was anything but a halfway house (where parolees work and live
in the community under severe restrictions on their freedom). Herb based his
program on one very simple idea: that in order for an x-con to survive on the
streets (i.e. not re-offend or otherwise recidivate) he had to feel like he
belonged there.
Herb understood, better than any state
official ever would, how social pressures and a lack of social support (i.e.
acceptance) drove most x-cons right back to prison. So he privately established
the I.T. House as a parole destination with one main purpose: to shelter x-cons
from negative social pressure by providing a haven of acceptance and support.
He knew that a huge part of the pressure that drove so many x-cons back to
criminal behavior was the result of the very rules and conditions that were
supposed to “protect society” from the x-cons. So Herb was adamant about there
being only one rule at the I.T. House; a rule that all x-cons could understand
and appreciate: “respect the house!”
Every new arrival at the house got a speech
from Herb about the meaning of “respect the house”. It simply meant to show the
same consideration and respect for the other x-cons living there that you would
show for another convict in prison. In essence, it was the “convict code”
reapplied to the house; remarkably simple, but extremely meaningful for every
convict who ended up there. The “code” not only provided a clear guideline for
acceptable behavior, it also gave the x-cons something familiar to cling to in
an often whirling, unfriendly, and unfamiliar new world. They still had all
their parole restrictions and stipulations, but Herb told them right up front
that enforcing their parole was not his job, or anyone else’s at the I.T.
House. His job was only to provide support, and he needed the x-cons’ respect
in order to do that. He got their respect with his “respect the house” rule,
and it worked.
The I.T. House became the most successful
parole program in the state. They routinely accepted the hardest cases, and yet
the recidivism rates were almost non-existent. Herb quickly earned the respect
and admiration of not just the x-cons he helped “transition” back to life in
society, but also of the prison administrations, who soon started letting Herb,
and other I.T. volunteers, come into the prisons to help start the “transition”
process. And these “volunteers” weren’t your typical Christian do-gooders
either. They were genuinely compassionate people, who shared Herb’s heartfelt
conviction that convicts are people too.
Betty Ruth was one such volunteer, and a
commendable force all on her own. Nobody called her Betty thought, I only found
out her first name when the defense investigators for my current case contacted
her for me and told me what it was. Everybody just called her “Ruth”, and even
though she had a doctorates degree (in psychology I’ve been told, but not by
her), if you ever called her “Doctor Ruth” she’d bite your head off. She was
Ruth, a proudly wrinkled little old black lady who you’d expect to meet in a
black alley pushing a shopping cart full of her valuables.
But she was no bag lady. Even though she
drove an old ‘70’s boat of car that could barely rattle down the road and was
spray painted with words like “love” and “peace” all over it, she was an
independently well-to-do home owner in Seattle proper, which I only found out
because I had a friend who worked in the county revenue office who told me how
everyone in his office knew about her because she’d come into the office once a
year and plop down a considerable amount of money, in cash, to pay her property
taxes. To say that Ruth was eccentric would only begin to express how different
she was; I love her deeply to this day, though I have hardly even known her
company (in person at least).
The first time I met Ruth was at one of the
prison I.T. group meetings at McNeil Island in 1988. One of the inmates at the
meeting was whining about something trivial when Ruth suddenly threw herself on
the floor in the middle of the group circle. She rolled onto her back and
started waving her arms and legs in the air like a distressed infant and wailed
like one too. Thus getting everyone’s attention she then sat up, looked at the
now stunned into silence inmate who had just been whining about how own
problems and said, “That’s how you sound; like a giant baby crying for
attention!”
Nobody laughed. I think everyone respected
Ruth too much to laugh unless she laughed first. But she didn’t laugh. She just
kept looking right at that now sorry inmate until she felt her point was made.
Then she got back into her chair and pointedly gave the floor to someone else.
I’ve respected her deeply ever since. Though most people just think she’s
crazy, I know better.
Once, years later, while I was living at the
I.T. House in Seattle on parole, I was depressed over a bad job interview or
something, but was keeping it to myself (I’m not a whiney person by nature). I
was standing by the sink in the kitchen at the house. When she saw me she
blurted out from across the room, “Jet! What’s wrong!?” as she held out her
arms and came and gave me a big Ruth hug (she hugged a lot, and was the only
person I knew with whom I didn’t mind getting a hug from). I immediately got
emotional and didn’t even know why until I thought about it later. I didn’t
cry, of course, I was still too deep in my shell for that. But when I looked at
her I saw that she was crying! Real tears, for me! I knew then and there that
somehow she could feel my feelings, but only because she had caught me with my
guard down. I later learned that she was one-quarter Native American, and
considered herself to be a shaman, though I never heard her ever use the term
myself. I believe she is now though, in the truest sense.
When I first arrived at the I.T. House in
1994 the director, attempting to fill Herb Smith’s shoes, was an ambitious
middle aged bureaucratic leech named Paul Ajzenman (sp?). Picture the short fat
balding guy on “Kramer” and you’ll have a good image in your mind of Paul. As
far as I know he never attended the prison meetings, he was too “important” for
that kind of menial responsibility. He always seemed nice enough with everyone
he dealt with, but that was just it, he “dealt” with people as problems, or
puzzles, to be worked to his advantage. And the I.T. House was a major project
of his. I knew Paul was a typical bureaucrat the first time I met him on my
first day out of prison, fresh from the airport. We met formally in his office
and one of the first things he told me was that there was only one rule at the
I.T. House, “respect the house”. But, when he tried to explain what that meant
I could tell he didn’t even know. Then as our conversation continued he started
causally informing me of all the other “expectations” (i.e. rules) like paying
rent on time (Herb never enforced rent payments), abiding parole conditions,
and even a new curfew for entering and exiting the house; just to name a few.
Ruth told me later that Herb was rolling circles in his grave because of what
Paul was doing to the I.T. House (i.e. institutionalizing it!).
You see, Paul had no interest in helping
x-cons “transition” to the real world, except insofar as it lined his pockets.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I found out later that Paul had already
established a drug addict rehabilitation service center that bilked money from
the state coffers by providing life “counseling” for addicts in treatment programs
elsewhere. It all looked great on paper, as if Paul was a real public servant
providing needed social services. But if his drug program was anything like
what he turned the I.T. House into then the only service it provided was all
bureaucratic lie.
Apparently the “social services” Paul set up
for drug addicts required very little of his personal attention (as a true
leech would have it), so he could work full-time at preparing the I.T. House
for official state funding. That means rules, rules, and more rules; no state
program could possibly run without rules. He submitted numerous reports,
applications, reviews, and whatever else it took to get money from the state
for the program, and all the while made himself out to be the great savior of
the I.T. House. According to him, without state funding the house would be
forced to shut down because Herb’s surviving wife, who inherited the house and
property, had sold it all and the new owners (a group of investors who were
never named, but I have no doubt now --- given hindsight --- that Paul was one
of them) raised the rent so high that there was simply no way the rents
collected from the x-cons living there could ever cover it, not even close.
But, state funding could “supplement” the needed rent, not to mention pay
competitive salaries for essential staff (i.e. the director, who, of course,
was Paul). All hail Paul Ajzenman for coming to the rescue of a program he was
helping to drown!
I didn’t piece all this bureaucratic
waggling together until years later, but I didn’t need to know about Paul’s
“business” arrangements at the time to see what kind of person he was. In fact,
I tended to treat him with the same general respect I would give anyone, until
one day at a weekly group meeting at the I.T. House (at which attendance was
now “mandatory” for all residents at the house) Paul said something to me that
made me swear to never speak to him again. With one seemingly innocuous
statement, that was actually meant to be high praise for me, I knew everything
I needed to know about Paul as a human being; he was a bigot of the worst sort
--- the kind who has no clue of the depth and destructiveness of his bigotry.
At the time I wasn’t even a resident at the
house. I had long since gotten a job, and saved enough money to move into a
nicely refurbished studio apartment closer to downtown Seattle. I was only
attending the meeting with a friend of mine, Dave, who was the gay lover who
helped me get out of prison (by hiring an attorney for me) in the first place.
Dave was now official on the I.T. House staff roster as a “sponsor” (he later
became the “counselor” for gay x-cons). Dave was a good man, but when I tried to
explain to him later why I suddenly demanded that we leave (he was my ride), he
couldn’t understand why. All he heard was Paul’s high praise. What I heard was
an insult of the worst kind.
The group meeting had already broken up, but
Dave and I were hanging around as expected to socialize. Because of my status
as a “successful” x-resident of the I.T. House I enjoyed enough prestige to
warrant the director’s attention. So, Dave and I ended up in a clique
conversation with Paul and the soon-to-be new director, Tom Tiecher (more about
Tom in a moment), standing in a closed circle in the foyer with our paper cups
of coffee and donuts talking about something I have no reason to recall.
But, what I do recall is that after I had
just made some appropriately intelligent sounding interjection into the fourway
conversation with good timing and plenty of savior faire, there was a
gratifying pause as my statement was thoughtfully absorbed by the group. And
then Paul looked at me with a big smile and said with great praise in his
voice, “You know, Jet, just standing here like this having an ordinary
conversation it’s easy for me to forget that you’re an x-con.”
I looked at him blankly; or, at least my
mind was blank, but the expression on my face must have betrayed my hurt and
confusion over the implications of what Paul had just said, because Dave told
me later that it was clear to everyone that I was upset by the statement,
though no one could understand why.
After a moment of saying nothing while the
conversation continued without me I finally decided that I was, indeed, just
severely insulted. And, as I remember it, I simply turned around and walked out
the front door without saying good-bye or anything (I may have said something
to Dave, like, “I’m leaving,” but I don’t remember specifically). A few moments
later Dave caught up with me outside by his car. Even though Dave was just as
clueless as Paul and Tom about the reason I was so hurt by Paul’s “praise”, I
told him that I would never speak to Paul again --- I knew if I did that I
would not be able to conceal my anger; and concealing anger was very important
to me at the time --- and I never have- (And in case you too are puzzled by
this “insult”, try imagining a similar conversation in the pre-civil war North
between a free black business man and three whites, when suddenly one of the
white men blurts out, “You’re pretty smart for a negro!” I doubt if the black
man would feel very complimented no matter how sincerely the white man meant
it. In fact, the more sincere he was, the more insulting the statement would
be!) The fact that the I.T. House was being taken over by men who could not see
the insult in a statement like that was all the indication I needed that
everything Herb Smith had built was soon to be completely destroyed by the
wrecking balls of ignorance and state sanctioned bigotry; not to mention green
in the guise of social service.
Tom Tiecher eventually took over the
director-ship of the I.T. House, after Paul had set up the cash flow pumps and
turned his attention to other prospects. Tom wasn’t a leech like Paul, but he
was a bureaucratic parasite, taking money from the system while constantly
trying to convince himself that he earns it. Tom was a very typical “counselor”
type, constantly providing “counseling” because he thought that’s what he got
paid for. To illustrate the sickness of this mentality (and the harm that it
can do to “innocent” people) let me relay a little story about Tom as well.
About a year or so after the incident in the
I.T. House foyer, I had made friends with an attractive older “African
American” nymph who called herself Dee. We had met at work (telemarketing)
after she had learned I knew something about computers and asked me to help her
buy a PC clone for her family at an auction, which I did. I ended up giving her
personal computer lessons (she was very intelligent and learned fast) which
very quickly became very personal and we consequently became very good friends
even though she was married with two preteen girls.
I had told Dee early on that I had been in
prison for half my life and what for (“raping” a boy), but she didn’t seem to
let that bother her. Though she’d never been in trouble with the police
herself, she had been around x-cons enough to not be afraid of them, or me.
But more about Dee elsewhere; the important
thing here is that she fell in love with me and (or) wanted to have my baby
(which never happened, but not for lack of trying). So when she started asking
a lot of questions (we had a very open communicative relationship; the kind I
like) about my past life in prison, I thought taking her as a guest to an I.T.
House meeting would be a great way to show her a part of my “Prison life” world
first hand. So I asked her if she’d like to go to one and she said yes.
We showed up unannounced (which was the
practice) on a Wednesday night for one of the weekly meetings. I remember that
there was more people there than I had ever seen, a real crowd with barely room
for everyone to sit on all the couches and chairs in the living room (with
chairs brought in from the kitchen and everywhere else, even from Tom Tiecher’s
office). It was crowded, I learned, because of the new mandatory attendance
rule.
Tom was there, of course, and so was Ruth,
though she remained watchful as ever, she was uncharacteristically silent
throughout the meeting. I only learned later the reason why; because she
generally only spoke when she knew her words commanded the respect they
deserved, and this new I.T. House, under Tom and Paul, didn’t even know the
meaning of respect. The fat that she was there at all was out of love and
respect for Herb. But even that wasn’t enough to warrant regular attendance
from her. I was lucky to see her that night.
The meeting went pretty much as I expected,
and had even warned Dee that it would; according to a very institutional format
with Tom at the helm at all times steering the meeting instead of letting it go
wherever I wanted the way Herb used to do it. At one point an “issue” was
brought up concerning an empty beer bottle that had turned up in the kitchen
trash (where only a “cop” would look for something like that).
The issue was treated seriously and very
formally. Questions were raised, and there was some discussion about what
should be done about it. There were several suggestions, monitoring
refrigerator contents, imposing spot checks on bags brought into the house,
etc. Toward the end of the entire discussion I finally broke my silence and
said what Ruth told me later she had wanted to say, but didn’t because she knew
(wiser than me) that it would not be respected; and it wasn’t. In fact, I was
practically attacked by the group, all at Tom’s guidance.
I pointed out that the beer bottle was not
the problem. The problem was that obviously someone was in trouble, and the
bottle was their way of letting someone know, and instead of responding
supportively, as Herb would have done, all “The House” was doing was
threatening discipline and sanctions that would only drive whoever needed help
further down that road of isolation and abandonment that would inevitably lead
to recidivism.
But, the “group” didn’t see it that way. A
house rule had been broken and I was being irresponsible to think it could just
be “ignored”.
I tried to counter that I wasn’t suggesting
it be “ignored”, but instead that it be “embraced”, or rather, the person who
left the bottle in the trash should be embraced, because that’s clearly what he
needed, not “discipline”.
At this point Dee spoke up bravely in my
defense, saying something intelligent and prudent to my cause. Because she was
a guest she could not be “attacked” as easily as I could be, so Tom took
control and promptly ended the discussion, which also concluded the meeting,
but before breaking up Tom asked me and Dee to join him in his office.
I honestly and innocently thought that he
just wanted to have a private conversation so maybe he could ask how I’d been,
since it had been so long since he’d seen me, or perhaps he would even thank me
for attending the meeting and bringing a guest (i.e. showing support for the
program). Boy was I naïve!
After we entered the office, dragging a
couple of chair in from the meeting, Tom promptly closed the door and took up
his position behind the desk; the position of authority, which I’m sure now was
the real reason he wanted us in his office before he assaulted us; to establish
his authority firstly and clearly, which is something bureaucrats like him do
instinctively without even thinking. He needed to establish the wall between us
and him, so he’d be protected from any emotional cost, and/or damage. Herb
never had a desk, or at least not one like Tom’s or Paul’s that he could sit
behind and feel safe, distant, and above.
Tom never asked how I’d been, nor did he
thank me for showing my support. Instead he told me he was concerned about me
(why do they always say that) because I was “thinking like an addict”. He used
my attempt to “support an alcoholic” as his evidence. And then he accused Dee
of being co-dependent by supporting me!
At first I responded automatically and, of
course, defensively, which I’m sure he noted as another indication of my
“problem”. I told him that I could care less about the alcohol, and the only
thing I was trying to support was the idea of support. I began to engage Tom on
an intellectual level and was ready to defend myself thoroughly. In my mind Tom
was the one who needed a lesson, and I was going to give him one. I knew I
could easily beat Tom intellectually; I’d done it many times before. He would
eventually surrender his poorly reasoned position without conceding my superior
one. So, he’d learn nothing (people like him seldom do because they think they
know everything they need to know and that keeps them from ever admitting that
they don’t know anything; which is, as readers of this blog should know, the
beginning of real wisdom).
But, just as I was gearing up for the
skirmish I glanced at Dee next to me and saw instantly that she was crying, but
trying not to show it! That threw me, because Dee didn’t cry. She was one of
the strongest people I knew, one of the few who could stand my rash
intellectualizing. But apparently something had snapped, or at least was about
to. All my attention immediately shifted to her. “What’s wrong”, I asked. But
she couldn’t answer. Her emotions had already choked off her words. This was
bad. This was VERY bad!
Paul insulting me and hurting my feelings
was one thing. But whatever Tom did to hurt the feelings of someone I cared
deeply about was way over the top! I took Dee’s hand and said, “Come on…” and
got up to leave. But she was still trying to be respectful of Tom’s authority,
authority that I didn’t recognize at all, despite all of his airs. I don’t
remember clearly what happened next, I was way too upset. But somehow I got Dee
to leave with me before Tom could finish his “well intended” lecture. This time
I was the ride, but once we got in my car I only drove a few blocks (to get
away from the I.T. House and any chance of being disturbed) then parked in an
empty parking lot near a busy street and waited for Dee to calm down enough to
tell me what was wrong.
Dee and I had many long heartfelt
conversations parked like this, so there was nothing unusual about that. The
level of emotion was unusual tough, so I just held her hand until she was ready
to talk. She told me that she felt Tom and I had conspired together against
her, to “teach her a lesson” of some sort. She felt threatened and confused by
our hostile familiarity with each other, like it was all some sort of act for
her benefit. She simply wasn’t accustomed to feeling on the “outside” of a
conversation like that, so she assumed we were playing a game at her expense.
I understood instantly why she was so upset,
and apologized profusely for putting her in such a position, then assured her
that there was nothing close to conspiratorial between me and Tom at all. Yes,
we were unfortunately quite familiar, but only in the way two cats who don’t
like each other but are forced to live in the same house are familiar. I would
never plot to “help” someone that way (i.e. by manipulating their emotions), it
went against everything I believed. (Not even in my crimes did I ever play such
“head games”. I could never be THAT cruel!) We hugged for a while until we both
felt better, then I drove her home.
That was the last time I had anything to do
at all with the I.T. House. The last I heard is that the program has spawned
several branches in different parts of Washington state, but no longer provides
housing for z-cons at all. They only provide “counseling services” now, all at
the state’s expense (way to go Paul!)
