JodyAnnShaw
10-03-2002, 01:46 PM
I received this from a friend of mine... I'm not sure where he got it from... but I wanted to share it with you all...
If one were to sit and observe a prisoner at 'mail call', he would probably feel about as stupid as a butcher at a vegetarian convention. There's nothing particularly enviable about a prisoner receiving mail, but it's interesting to note his anticipation for such an article, although the casual observer.. that is to say, the average John Q. Public, might find said observation about as mentally stimulating as it would be to watch a benignant pussycat tranquilly cast its lazy yellow slits across a caged canary, or a Hawaiian Kahuna sit in morose silence; one who seems perfectly nonplusses at his failre to heal.
But, in this compendium or murderers, rapists, armed-robbers, burglars, arsonists, child molesters, defrocked priests, drug dealers. pimps, hustlers, kidnappers, cattle rustlers<(yes, there are still those who rustle cattle), etc. etc., ad infinitum; one can sense a strong familiar bond between the variegated souls hidden behind mesh wire and steel bars; a bonc accentuated by the need to 'hear' from the outside world.
Monday's are a prisoners favorite day, because it begins a new week with the possibility of receiving mail for six long days (holidays excluded), although many in the outside world loathe Mondays because it's back to work after a short weekend.. But prisoners are drawn to this most holy day, like a magnet to metal, or a kleptomaniac to an open safe. But, he is cautious and not overly enthusiastic because he realizes his common place obsession for mail has a chance of running aground (i.e.not receiving any mail) and his anticipation has him feeling out of constitution and his thoughts are governed by nothing more than the distinct calligraphy of his spouse, and this isn't necessarily a thing-in-itself, but to the contrary!
On any given week day, and Saturday's of course, conversations between prisoners can be heard over the 'air waves', that is to say, out loud; very loud in fact and louder when most of the forty-some-odd prisoners in the building take a notion to conversate at the same time, and a typical dialogue between two 'compadres' prior to mail being passes around might be as such:
"what's up, Bob?" is the reply.
"you 'specting any mail tonight?"
"Naw, how 'bout you?"
"should hear from mama and my sister... Beth Anne," a pause. "and hopefully I'll get a letter from the governor with a recommendation for a full pardon."
Both prisoners laugh at this quip.
"Well," says Joe, "I hope you get some mail, boy, but don't expect the governor to pay no social call."
And so the conversations go, although some days Joe is clearly not interested in the topics of discussion, he plays proverbial ear incarnate, that is to say, he listens well with one ear, while the other is off is space, listening for sounds fo life on mars.
Then other such conversations are tossed into the verbal fray, along with incessant yelling, banging, 10 different people singing 10 different songs... the soft human murmurs of those talking to themselves, all of which elbows out the flushing toilets, coughs, stifled laughs, or slamming steel doors in a distant hallway, and then everything stops! In one snap of a finger, all noise comes to a cease.
"It's mail call! Yes! Yes!" pierces through the collective thoughts of the prisoners. The nondescript guard is finally passing out the beloved mail. The silence is as thick as sheeps wool. The wait: that long miserable wait has been excruciating, but it is finally over.
Each man holds his breath as the guard nears his cell, silently praying to God for one letter, one solitary letter; thanking Him if He delivers, execrating Him if He doesn't. Then, somewhere down the aisle the guard abruptly says,"Jackson, Number". Its wasn't a question. The guard holds the letter before the prisoner's cell like a proverbial carrot before the starving jackass, waiting for the prisoners TDCJ numbers to match, then slides the letter under the cell door and casually moves on.
Each person stands at his cell door anxiously awaiting that small tidbit of information from his loved ones, like a condemned man waiting an 11 hour reprieve, and when the guard slowly passes by some unfortunate creature's cell door, his agonizing sigh is almost audible; a sigh every prisoner knows all too well.
The guard finally makes it to Bobs cell; Bob holds his breath, hoping... the guard just stands there, like the Almighty, then says," You've got mail" Bob utters his relief; calls out his ID number, and grins like a slobbering idiot once the guard leaves; happy and content with the reward bestowed upon him, and he furiously pumps his fist in the air; a token of victory. His friend, Joe, yells, "Get any mail, Bob?"
"Yep" He yells back, "gotta letter from mama"
"Well that's good boy, hops all's well."
"Yea, me too"
Such a typical day for a prisoner at mail call. The only regrets being Sundays' and holidays, when there is nothing to look forward to. But, the average prisoner isn't awash is perpetual pessimism when he doesn't receive any mail, he merely aniticipates the morrow.....
And, there's always the morrow....
If one were to sit and observe a prisoner at 'mail call', he would probably feel about as stupid as a butcher at a vegetarian convention. There's nothing particularly enviable about a prisoner receiving mail, but it's interesting to note his anticipation for such an article, although the casual observer.. that is to say, the average John Q. Public, might find said observation about as mentally stimulating as it would be to watch a benignant pussycat tranquilly cast its lazy yellow slits across a caged canary, or a Hawaiian Kahuna sit in morose silence; one who seems perfectly nonplusses at his failre to heal.
But, in this compendium or murderers, rapists, armed-robbers, burglars, arsonists, child molesters, defrocked priests, drug dealers. pimps, hustlers, kidnappers, cattle rustlers<(yes, there are still those who rustle cattle), etc. etc., ad infinitum; one can sense a strong familiar bond between the variegated souls hidden behind mesh wire and steel bars; a bonc accentuated by the need to 'hear' from the outside world.
Monday's are a prisoners favorite day, because it begins a new week with the possibility of receiving mail for six long days (holidays excluded), although many in the outside world loathe Mondays because it's back to work after a short weekend.. But prisoners are drawn to this most holy day, like a magnet to metal, or a kleptomaniac to an open safe. But, he is cautious and not overly enthusiastic because he realizes his common place obsession for mail has a chance of running aground (i.e.not receiving any mail) and his anticipation has him feeling out of constitution and his thoughts are governed by nothing more than the distinct calligraphy of his spouse, and this isn't necessarily a thing-in-itself, but to the contrary!
On any given week day, and Saturday's of course, conversations between prisoners can be heard over the 'air waves', that is to say, out loud; very loud in fact and louder when most of the forty-some-odd prisoners in the building take a notion to conversate at the same time, and a typical dialogue between two 'compadres' prior to mail being passes around might be as such:
"what's up, Bob?" is the reply.
"you 'specting any mail tonight?"
"Naw, how 'bout you?"
"should hear from mama and my sister... Beth Anne," a pause. "and hopefully I'll get a letter from the governor with a recommendation for a full pardon."
Both prisoners laugh at this quip.
"Well," says Joe, "I hope you get some mail, boy, but don't expect the governor to pay no social call."
And so the conversations go, although some days Joe is clearly not interested in the topics of discussion, he plays proverbial ear incarnate, that is to say, he listens well with one ear, while the other is off is space, listening for sounds fo life on mars.
Then other such conversations are tossed into the verbal fray, along with incessant yelling, banging, 10 different people singing 10 different songs... the soft human murmurs of those talking to themselves, all of which elbows out the flushing toilets, coughs, stifled laughs, or slamming steel doors in a distant hallway, and then everything stops! In one snap of a finger, all noise comes to a cease.
"It's mail call! Yes! Yes!" pierces through the collective thoughts of the prisoners. The nondescript guard is finally passing out the beloved mail. The silence is as thick as sheeps wool. The wait: that long miserable wait has been excruciating, but it is finally over.
Each man holds his breath as the guard nears his cell, silently praying to God for one letter, one solitary letter; thanking Him if He delivers, execrating Him if He doesn't. Then, somewhere down the aisle the guard abruptly says,"Jackson, Number". Its wasn't a question. The guard holds the letter before the prisoner's cell like a proverbial carrot before the starving jackass, waiting for the prisoners TDCJ numbers to match, then slides the letter under the cell door and casually moves on.
Each person stands at his cell door anxiously awaiting that small tidbit of information from his loved ones, like a condemned man waiting an 11 hour reprieve, and when the guard slowly passes by some unfortunate creature's cell door, his agonizing sigh is almost audible; a sigh every prisoner knows all too well.
The guard finally makes it to Bobs cell; Bob holds his breath, hoping... the guard just stands there, like the Almighty, then says," You've got mail" Bob utters his relief; calls out his ID number, and grins like a slobbering idiot once the guard leaves; happy and content with the reward bestowed upon him, and he furiously pumps his fist in the air; a token of victory. His friend, Joe, yells, "Get any mail, Bob?"
"Yep" He yells back, "gotta letter from mama"
"Well that's good boy, hops all's well."
"Yea, me too"
Such a typical day for a prisoner at mail call. The only regrets being Sundays' and holidays, when there is nothing to look forward to. But, the average prisoner isn't awash is perpetual pessimism when he doesn't receive any mail, he merely aniticipates the morrow.....
And, there's always the morrow....