claiming to repent—to radically change your life—is easy
when you are incarcerated. Any change that gives hope for
a better life is tempting. Think about it: being locked up on
the Texas Gulf Coast in August without air conditioning, in a
sweltering, poorly ventilated cell or dormitory where the air never
stirs and the temperature exceeds 100 degrees, and you finally drop
off to sleep each night in a pool of sweat. The tasteless monotony
of badly prepared potatoes, beans, corn, and ground meat served
day after day on a cardboard or plastic tray with plastic spoons and
forks, and sometimes only peanut butter and jelly on stale rye bread
for days on end during lock-downs. The fear of intimidation and
possible assault. The depths of loneliness with absolutely no
privacy. Hoping against hope for a letter or a visit from a parent,
spouse, child, or friend and being disappointed when they don’t
come through. Having a visit from your children and not being able
to show them where you live or adequately explain why you’re
locked up and can’t go home with them. Having a visit from your
spouse and returning to your cell frustrated with unmet longings or
fears about what’s happening on the outside. Having your life
controlled by prying correctional officers. The indignity of strip
searches, or even body cavity searches. The destroyed hope of
rejected parole applications. The lack of freedom and hope in a
country based on individual freedom and opportunity