Anger

Making me angry these days is about as easy as getting one of those Buckingham Palace guards with the big furry hats to crack a smile. I’ve been down and getting kicked for so long now, that simple disrespect or mistreatment doesn’t even come close to getting my ire up. Honestly, it doesn’t do you a whole lot of good to get angry in prison. You let another convict know you’re mad at him and he’s probably going to want to fight, and if you pop off at the mouth to a cop you’ll be REALLY sorry—that will either end in an ass-whipping, or a vacation to the hole, and either one will leave a bad taste in your mouth. (The blood or the food.)

But recently, these cops did something that frustrated me so much that I was ready to lick one of the jerks and stick him to the wall. I used to be a fireball in the temper department, but lately I’m a pretty cool customer. When you tick me off nowadays, I get this methodical, Don Corleone thing going, but I’m telling you—I almost blew a fuse. Here’s what happened.

I’m all about my friends and family. As weird as it may sound, I feel obligated to constantly remind them how much they mean to me. It probably seems like it would be the other way around—them reminding me how much they miss me—but I know they love me. I want to make sure that they know how important it is that I can still call them loved ones. After all these years, I don’t have many people left, so I’m doing everything I can to hold on to what I’ve got.

So, as often as I can, I send little reminders—a drawing, a card, a little note to Mom saying, “I Love You.” And not just on special occasions. I have two beautiful nieces that don’t really know me very well, but they know they have an Uncle somewhere far away who thinks the world of them. Well, I made some absolutely adorable drawings of teddy bears on white fabric, with frayed edges, full color—they were awesome. A lot of work, too. So I stuck them between some paper, threw them in a big envelope, and mailed them to my two little angels with a note saying that I made these things special, just for them, and told them how much I love them. I could just picture the ear-to-ear grin on the seven year old’s face when she opened her envelope and saw . . . nothing but a piece of paper.

That’s right, some jerk who “inspected” my mail (we’re not allowed to seal our own envelopes) swiped my niece’s presents. I can only imagine the baffled look on her angelic face as she tried to comprehend why her favorite uncle would tease her with non-existent gifts.

Obviously, I didn’t find this out right away. It wasn’t until I got a letter in the mail telling me that the drawings I promised in the letter weren’t in the envelope that I knew something was rotten in Whoville. I tend to give the benefit of the doubt in most situations, but after a while you kind of get an intuition for when the cops here are hosing you. This one felt wet.

So, I waited until the overnight shift (that’s when they sort the mail) and caught the guy who I knew was in charge of the mail as he was walking by my cell. I calmly explained the situation, hoping he would tell me it was a mistake, or something that would make me feel better. But no, this guy got a big smile on his face, and looked me right in the eyes and said, “I threw them out.”
“Why,” I inquired.
“You’re not allowed to send out drawings,” he said. (Not true!)
“Why didn’t you come tell me?” I asked.
“Because I don’t have to.”
“Why didn’t you give the drawings back?”
“You’re not allowed to have them.”
“’Cause you said so?”
“Yep. You getting smart with me?”
“Yep.” (I couldn’t help it.) “Okay, why did you still send out the letter saying that I was sending drawings?”
“Because I don’t mess with people’s mail.”
AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!

In horse racing, when they get to the home stretch, the jockey starts whipping the horse furiously to get all the horse has to give. Except they don't call it “hitting” the horse—that wouldn’t be very nice. They call it “encouraging” the horse. Well, I would have liked to “encourage” the living daylights out of that cop right then and there.

Just one problem with that. Between me and him was a gigantic steel door, and he had the keys. I could’ve cussed up a storm. I could’ve “filed” a complaint. I even could have covered him in something unpleasant through the crack in the door. But in the end, none of that would have gotten my nieces their pictures, and that’s all I wanted. So I did something I’ve gotten really good at over the years. I told him that he was the boss, and I was glad I knew the rules now. Humility, my friends, is the single best weapon you can have in this place. Pride has disastrous results. Sometimes I feel like one of those oppressed Muslim women who aren't allowed to drive or be seen in public. Life is hard sometimes, but I guess most days you’re just better off not pissing off the Sultan. Because if the Sultan decides to beat you, there’s no one to complain to.

So, I’m over it now. I send an apology to the kids, and already managed to get some new art work out to them. I’m crafty like that. I don’t have to worry about my food getting spit in, and there’s no foot wedged in my derriere. Another classic win-lose situation for me here behind bars. Of course I’ll get screwed again next week, and every week after that until I get out, but at least I’ll get out, and I’m looking forward to when they hand me my pride back at the front gate. I miss it a little bit.