Day 239 - Blue or Red?
A most extraordinary incident occurred today.
I was sent a package from my friend, Claudia. It contained two magazines – an issue of “Mother Jones” and an issue of The Atlantic Monthly. The last I looked, neither were considered subversive (unless you’re Karl Rove, perhaps). Certainly, neither of them fall into any of the categories of “contraband” that we are not allowed to receive here. Included in the envelope was a sealed letter that Claudia was resending me because my CDC# had been off one digit on the envelope—although everything else was correct. And there was also an article that Claudia had printed off the Internet that was not in Arabic or some other subversive language, like French.
Unfortunately, the items, together, were just bulky enough to constitute a “package.” Instead of coming directly to me, they were diverted to R &R (Receiving and Release). When I received a “ducat” to retrieve the package, and tried to, I was told I had to return when a Sergeant Erickson would be there. This was told to me somewhat ominously. (At the time, I didn’t know what the contents of the “package” were. I did know that magazines are only supposed to be sent via subscription, and books directly from the publisher.)
When I did, Sergeant Erickson, who was ruddy, rotund, and repetitious, led me to a back room where he laid out a page of regulations governing material that gets sent in and told me to read it. I reassured him I had indeed told all my correspondents to have books sent directly from the bookstore/Amazon, and apologized for whomever sent a book directly to me (thinking that was the problem). He would have none of it. I had to read down the list of regulations.
Which is a good thing, because, in fact, nothing in the “package” fell into any of the objectionable categories listed. My pointing this out fell on deaf ears, as it became eminently clear the Sergeant Erickson was not interested in hearing anyone else’s voice besides his own, much less what they said. He had at this point opened up the package, as well as Claudia’s cover letter, on which by sheer coincidence, she typed one word in capital letters, which drew the Sergeant’s attention to the following sentence:
“I did NOT listen to George Bush…”
She was referring to his address to the Republican Convention, but as the bellicose Sergeant Erickson noted: “I don’t read the letters, but I have to scan them, in case there are terrorist threats. Like your friend here says she don’t like George Bush, that could be a terrorist threat!”
I was agape, aghast, nonplussed. He went on to explain that the enclosed material violated he didn’t know how many regulations, and then he described, ad nauseam, the route I was supposed to take in order to receive books. At one point he even said something as nonsensical as: “we have to know that you approve of the material being sent to you.” Why would I ask to receive any material I didn’t “approve” of? And how could I “approve” in advance of anything I didn’t know was being sent to me?
But then came the kicker, the mindblower: “Let me ask you something.” He spit when he talked, and droplets of saliva clung to his chin. “Are you a Republican or a Democrat?”
All the I-should-have-saids rush through my brain as I write this.
‘I am a convicted felon, asshole, I can’t vote.’
‘I’m an American.’
‘I’m a Trotskyite.’
‘I’m appalled.’
What I did say was, “That’s none of your business! And what difference does it make? What’s the point of the question?” (I’m going to fast forward a bit through the exchange that followed, because, as I said Sergeant Erickson was repetitious.) At one point, another C.O. chimed in belligerently, remarking “He was just asking you a question!” as if no questions could be inherently offensive, much less unconstitutional.
Finally the sergeant attempted to explain why he asked my political affiliation: “You’re in prison, there are a lot of assholes in prison. Some guys will stab you for a pack of cigarettes. I was asking you that question to find out if you had any character.” I see. It would be interesting to read where exactly one can find that duty in his job description. But since I wanted the magazines, and to read Claudia’s letter, and above all, to get out of there, I finally just told the truth. “I’m a Democrat.”
He gave me one of those: “See, it wasn’t so hard” shrugs, but I knew he didn’t really care what my answer was in any case. He just wanted an answer, as evidence of my submission to his authority.
He handed me the magazines, as he had to, legally in any case. I took them, and said “Thank you, sir,” and returned to my dorm.
MCO 2004
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