Thursday, May 1, 2014

The Interaction Transition House (I.T. House)

   The I.T. House in Seattle, Washington, was established as a parole destination for convicts by an x-con named Herb Smith. Herb was a short stalky black man with a friendly disposition. I only met him a few times while I was still in prison. He, and other volunteers from the I.T. House would come and visit each of several nearby prisons (namely, Shelton, McNeil, and Monroe) on a weekly basis to sponsor group meetings where prospective I.T. House parolees would vie for acceptance into the program. Prisoners were required to attend these meetings for at least one year before submitting their application. Once you were accepted by the I.T. House for parole your plans were almost guaranteed to be approved by the parole board. I say, “almost”, only because my plans to parole to the I.T. House were denied the first time I submitted them after I was accepted by Herb and a group vote in 1988. At the time, no one had heard of such a denial before, and I didn’t find out until years later (after a friend hired a lawyer for me) that the reason for the denial was because I had come out in prison as openly “gay” (i.e. a “queen”), on the advice and with support from the prison psychologist. The parole board denied my plans, against the psychologist’s recommendation, because in their (unsupported) opinion I was exhibiting “unstable sexual behavior” (though I had no infractions or disciplinary reports for any sexual behavior at all --- unlike most openly gay prisoners).

   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!)

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