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<font size=3>March 17, 2010 denverabc<br><br>
<a href="http://denverabc.wordpress.com/2010/03/17/lauren-gazzolas-last-writing-from-prison/" eudora="autourl">
http://denverabc.wordpress.com/2010/03/17/lauren-gazzolas-last-writing-from-prison/<br>
<br>
</a>Lauren Gazzola of the SHAC 7 will be released tomorrow, Wednesday
March<br>
17th 2010. Her last writing from prison, below, expresses gratitude
to<br>
her supporters and describes her experiences living in the prison system
.<br><br>
“Final Blog”<br><br>
03/01/09<br><br>
I have planned to draft this blog, to be published upon my release, for
a<br>
long while. But it was only at this moment, when I picked up the pen
to<br>
write, that I realized its significance: my final words from prison. I
am<br>
writing this March 1st, 2009, in anticipation of a possible early,<br>
unexpected release by the Third Circuit Court of Appeals (I am, if
nothing<br>
else, invariably prepared), and, whether I am released within the next
few<br>
months, or a year from now, this is the end. I am now, either way,
looking<br>
back on my prison time, no longer forward at it. How does the view
differ?<br><br>
I think that I am still too close to this experience to answer this<br>
question in any manner close to full, and I expect that it will
remain<br>
largely unanswered for quite some time. Most likely, there are many<br>
answers, and most will require some distance. But there are some
things<br>
that can be said now.<br><br>
First, I must again express my thanks to all those who have supported
us<br>
over these few years. I am always concerned that my “thank-yous”
become<br>
more diluted each time I express them, as with anything that loses
impact<br>
with familiarity, and so it is important that I express the depth of
my<br>
gratitude.<br><br>
There has been, of course, the steady reminder that we are not
forgotten,<br>
which comes with my name on the mail list literally daily, and the<br>
satisfaction of knowing that our voices have not been silenced, but<br>
amplified, of which I am reminded with each new invitation to write for
a<br>
newsletter, to speak to conference attendees, to respond to an
interview,<br>
contribute to an anthology, or be the subject of a film. But further,
my<br>
gratitude has a more acute dimension.<br><br>
For me, prison has corresponded with a specific undertaking that I<br>
insisted would constitute my time here: I have been in graduate
school.<br>
From the onset, I was determined to make something out of this
experience,<br>
and, whether I am released tomorrow or next year, today I know that I
have<br>
done so. Graduate school from prison has been an unimaginably
difficult<br>
endeavor, the success of which would have been impossible without
the<br>
large and small efforts of many people, to whom I wish to express my<br>
deepest thanks: you have allowed me to retain these years of my life,
to<br>
keep from surrendering them to prison, to HLS, to Charlie McKenna, to
the<br>
“victims” of SHAC protests, or to a system of misplaced values. Before
I<br>
came to prison, I was a law school hopeful with a knack for legal<br>
argument. When I walk out of prison, or shortly thereafter, I will be
a<br>
law school applicant with a master’s degree in the First Amendment
and<br>
free expression. I plan to leave wearing a cap and gown.<br><br>
Secondly, while recognizing that a full account will take much time
and<br>
distance, I’d like to sum up this experience as best I can at
present.<br><br>
The range of emotions I’ve felt here could never be harmonized. This
place<br>
is a theater of extremes. I have felt the quiet peace of simple
pleasures<br>
(soymilk in my tea, the socks they let me keep from home, the smell
of<br>
campfires on the shore of the lake across the street) and, sometimes<br>
moments later, the most deep-seated feelings of contempt and rage,
the<br>
intensity of which makes me know that I had never felt hatred or
anger<br>
before I came here.<br><br>
Many threads have run through my time here the dominant one,
thankfully,<br>
being my confidence that in the long run, this experience will be,<br>
personally at least, a net plus. This is the sentiment I’ve shared most
by<br>
way of blogs and other writings. But there are others that are
important<br>
to share as well.<br><br>
Something should be said about the character of the place, and of
the<br>
people who inhabit it. Several questions that have graced my
thoughts<br>
repeatedly as I’ve interacted with staff here are illuminating:
“You’re<br>
making this up as you go along, aren’t you?” “You don’t actually<br>
follow/know/understand the policy, do you?” “How can so many people
share<br>
in the same delusion(s)?” A whole host of unique mysteries abound when
it<br>
comes to the inmates.<br><br>
In seeking to share a bit of the character of the place, there are<br>
obviously many gems to choose from. I’ve decided that it is most
important<br>
to share the following anecdote. Whatever small kindnesses I’ve
witnessed,<br>
despite the few employees uncorrupted by this place, it is, at bottom,
a<br>
place where something like the following is far from
extraordinary.<br><br>
I’d like to tell the story of a friend I made here. She is from
Trinidad,<br>
but she was living in New Jersey for a time. One day, she received
the<br>
news that her younger son, who was still in Trinidad, had been in a
car<br>
accident. Though her family assured her that he was alright, she felt
a<br>
mother’s compulsion to be with him.<br><br>
There was, however, some problem with her passport, the details of
which<br>
escape me. Undeterred, she borrowed a friend’s and forged a passport
in<br>
order to return to her son. Her “crime” was innocuous, but that
isn’t<br>
really important.<br><br>
Her son was indeed fine and, upon her return to the states, my friend
was<br>
promptly arrested and eventually sentenced to 2 years in prison.<br><br>
Inmates here receive 300 phone minutes per month, 400 in both November
and<br>
December, and are eligible to receive more in extraordinary
circumstances.<br><br>
While my friend was here, her older son committed suicide. Just take
that<br>
in for a moment. Sit with it. Because its the most horrible thing that
I<br>
can (barely) imagine. It makes my chest ache to write it.<br><br>
The chaplain was with her in the visiting room when her family broke
the<br>
news. My friend fainted 3 times. The lieutenant on duty threatened to
end<br>
her visit if she did so again, as well as if she didn’t stop
hysterically<br>
crying. The chaplain said he’d stay around so that she could call
home<br>
after her visit, without being cut off after 15 minutes. But he left.
I<br>
and another friend went around to lieutenants and counselors that<br>
afternoon, begging for someone to let her make a call. No one would.
She<br>
spent the night…disintegrating.<br><br>
Needless to say, she used up her 300 phone minutes within days, and<br>
approached our unit manager asking for more. If these weren’t<br>
extraordinary circumstances, I don’t know what would be.<br><br>
In the coldest act I have ever personally known someone to do, our
unit<br>
manager denied her request. My friend was forced to go to the warden
to<br>
ask for more minutes, which were granted: 30 minutes. Two 15-minute
phone<br>
calls for the remainder of the month. Every year, 14,000 inmates
receive<br>
200 extra phone minutes for the holidays. When your child dies, you
get<br>
30. And you have to beg for them.<br><br>
Really, there’s nothing more to say.<br><br>
I’d like to close by describing the indescribable. My most accurate<br>
description of this experience for a long while was, “I can’t put it
into<br>
words; you just have to experience it.” But I read Catch-22 for the
first<br>
time last summer, and it turns out this experience can be described
in<br>
words. I think the most appropriate sign off is for my final words
from<br>
prison to be Joseph Heller’s:<br><br>
“The trouble with you is that you think you’re too good for the<br>
conventions of society. You probably think you’re too good for me
too,<br>
just because I arrived at puberty late. Well, do you know what you
are?<br>
You’re a frustrated, unhappy, disillusioned, maladjusted young man!”
Major<br>
Sanderson’s disposition seemed to mellow as he reeled off the<br>
uncomplimentary adjectives.<br><br>
“Yes, sir,” Yossarian agreed carefully. ” I guess you’re right.”<br><br>
“Of course I’m right! You’re immature. You’ve been unable to adjust to
the<br>
idea of war.”<br><br>
“Yes, sir.”<br><br>
“You have a morbid aversion to dying. You probably resent the fact
that<br>
you’re at war and might get your head blown off any second.”<br><br>
“I more than resent it, sir. I’m absolutely incensed.”<br><br>
“You have deep-seated survival anxieties. And you don’t like bigots,<br>
bullies, snobs or hypocrites. Subconsciously, there are many people
you<br>
hate.”<br><br>
“Consciously, sir, consciously,” Yossarian corrected in an effort to
help.<br>
“I hate them consciously”.<br><br>
“You’re antagonistic the the idea of being robbed, exploited,
degraded,<br>
humiliated or deceived. Misery depresses you. Ignorance depresses
you.<br>
Persecution depressed you. Violence depresses you. Slums depress
you.<br>
Greed depresses you. Crime depresses you. Corruption depresses you.
You<br>
know, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re a manic-depressive!”<br><br>
“Yes, sir. Perhaps I am.”<br><br>
“Don’t try to deny it.”<br><br>
“I’m not denying it, sir,” said Yossarian, pleased with the
miraculous<br>
rapport that finally existed between them. “I agree with all you’ve
said.”<br><br>
“Then you admit you’re crazy, do you?”<br><br>
“Crazy?” Yossarian was shocked. “What are you talking about? Why am
I<br>
crazy? You’re the one who’s crazy!”<br><br>
Major Sanderson turned red with indignation and crashed both fists down
on<br>
his thighs. “Calling me crazy,” he shouted in a sputtering rage, “is
a<br>
typically sadistic and vindictive paranoiac reaction! You really are<br>
crazy!”<br><br>
<br>
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