Wild Spirits

We got turned back at the gate of the new (to us) prison, where SC is now living.  Actually, we were beckoned into the gate so we could break the posted rule which barely registered as we looked at the bar blocking our path.  No firearms, etc  or ALCOHOL permitted beyond this point, said the sign to the left of the gateway.  The bar in front of us lifted after several moments, and we rolled through, coming to a stop as the guard stepped out of the warmth of her little office.  She was short and round, hatted, gloved, and coated against the below-freezing temps.  Standing by the passenger side, she asked who we were visiting, and then said, "Level 4s aren't allowed visitors." She started talking on the walkie talkie, and then asked us for SC's offender number.  I had the number in my online address book, so I got out to fish my phone out of the trunk.  We'd already prepped ourselves for the usual: no phones, no jewelry, nothing but a roll of quarters for the vending machines and your license and keys, to be surrendered at the checkin metal detector.  We were old hands at this, and even though this was the state run facility instead of the overcrowded private facility (CCA), we assumed it would be the same.

It wasn't.

As I looked through my phone for SC's offender number, the guard looked in the trunk and pulled out the bottle of wine I'd brought along as a gift for that evening's hostess in Santa Fe.  The guard said, "you can't bring that in," and I said, "even though it's staying in the car?" and she said nope, and I said, then what do I do with it?, and she said, she was calling her lieutenant.  We were still trying to convince her that SC was NOT Level 4 and that she was eligible for visitors, we were not worrying about the wine, when two men came up and gestured us to drive further in, and park off to the side.  It was like a traffic stop:  Stay.In.The.Car, Wait.Here.  They talked to the guard and then came back and gestured at me to roll down my window.  "You're on a 24-hour suspension, because you tried to bring alcohol in."  No arguments, no letting us bring the wine back to the hotel for them to hold, no leaving it by the side of the road ("kids will find it"), no recourse.  They wouldn't even call SC to let her know we couldn't come in.  Jerks.  "This isn't the old place.  We put one of our guards on suspension for bringing in an empty can of beer."  Oh KAY.

Tails between our legs, metaphorically speaking, we turned around, drove past the very clear sign (I'll give them that), re-booked our room for the night, called our Santa Fe hostess to cancel the evening plans, and drove southward.  I'd wanted MS to see El Morro for some time, and it looked like this was the best option for our day.

It was.

The weather was crisp, the skies were clear, and although the switchback trail was closed, we could still hike up to Atsinna for the splendid view.   The striped walls of the mesa were lined with ice.  Through the winter light, we sought the inscriptions from Ancestral Puebloans,  conquistadores, army units, and pioneers.  We looked at the blown cattails in the perpetual pool, the "reason we are here."

SC called a few times, but the signal kept getting lost.  Finally she got through as we stood in the freezing wind, looking into the canyon and across the sea of sage and badlands towards other headlands.  It was after noon, and she'd been frantic about our non-appearance.  Not for the first time, I cursed the system.

After a few hours of walking and looking at the sites, we went further south to see the  Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary. Because the snow and freezing temperatures were followed by some melt, the gravel road to the sanctuary was pea soup slush.  Despite the new tires, the car was slewing, not dangerously, but disconcertingly.  And at one point I hit a puddle of slush and mud that went up over the windscreen and along the sides of the car.  At the end of the road I told M that he got to drive back.

The sanctuary is a compound of fenced enclosures and yurts.  You walk in the gate and turn left, duck under the short lintel, and enter a dark round room, filled with wolf-themed tchotchkes and apparel.  I almost bought stuffed wolf cubs for my grandnieces, just to be helpful to the sanctuary.  They were so darned cute.  But I resisted.  The long-haired granola type girl sold us tickets to the tour, which was due to start in half an hour.  We walked over to the  Candy Kitchen general store across the road for some hot coffee.  It appears that the store is a combination meeting place, laundromat, and deli, as well.  (I found out later it was a place to buy moonshine, and they sold pinon candy as a front.  The name stuck.)  A long porch with wooden benches and chairs and rickety tables ran the length of the building, facing into the muddy parking area.  We were greeted by an aged Rottweiler mix, and his bearded owner remained seated at the far end of the porch, not paying much attention to us.  A dreadlocked couple in their 20's sat at one of the formica tables by the deli case/kitchen area.  It appeared they were doing their laundry and watching the TV.  There was no one behind the counter or by the cash register, and no one in the store.  We wandered about a bit, looking at the display of old VHS and DVDs for sale, checking out the shelves of snacks and canned foods and cleaning supplies.  There was no coffee that we could see, and no one to sell it it us in any case.  We got ready to leave, when one of the couple went to the door and told the Rottweiler's owner that he had customers.  Hmmm.

So, he made us some coffee, and we sat outside to drink it.  Then, back to the Sanctuary for our tour.  The 20-something guide was a New Zealander with an accent that came and went:  she'd moved to New Zealand when she was 8 and had recently been getting her degree in biology in the States.  She was bundled up, with her long dark braid hanging down her front, and carrying a baggie of jerky treats for the wolf dogs.  She was very engaging, and we tipped her generously at the end of the tour.  It was her last week of the 3-month stint, and while she clearly loved the work, she also clearly was happy to get out of the yurt home and back to New Zealand.

We met wolf-dogs from all across the United States:  some came from hoarders who had been busted.  The shelters don't know how to handle or interpret wolf-dogs and are afraid of them, so the animals had been housed in poor conditions after their "release."  In one case, the dogs had been born at the sanctuary, and were living out their lives there.  The shy ones actually came to the fence, and our guide told us how lucky we were.  She sounded sincere, but I think we may have been played.  That's okay, though.

I learned that wolves do not have blue eyes:  that's a myth from the fact that true wolves cannot be trained to "act," so all the wolves depicted in films are actually malamutes or huskies.  I also learned that wolf behavior is the opposite of dog behavior:  a tail held high in dogs is happy, while in wolves it's aggressive.  Wolf-dogs are a man-made construct of the exotic pet industry:  unlike coyotes, wolves won't willingly breed with dogs in the wild.

The shelter has ambassador wolf-dogs, who visit schools and libraries and other institutions to share the word:  wolves should not be bred with dogs, wolves cannot be pets.  The wolf-dogs who live at the shelter are there for life:  they cannot be safely returned to the wild because they do not have the skills to survive there.

My favorite myth-buster was the concept of the alpha:  it turns out the alpha of the pack is female.  So there!

We wandered up the hill past the fenced enclosures, meeting various animals and hearing their stories.  We stood behind a low wooden barrier log, a few feet from the fence, while our guide stood next to the fence with the treats.  There was a different ritual at each enclosure:  some of the inmates came to the fence, some just watched us from a rock or straw-filled hut at the far end of the enclosure.  Some were white arctic wolves, some grey timber wolves.  We saw and heard Himalayan singing dogs and we saw a dingo pack that had been bred in Florida and advertised for sale via Facebook.  (The breeder was betrayed and retreated back to Australia, leaving the dingoes behind.)  We even saw a fox:  beautiful.  For the most part, the sanctuary focuses on wolf-dogs, but there are a few other escapees from the exotic pet industry.  The sanctuary receives several hundred calls a week, but most of the dogs in question are huskies or shepherds whose owners cannot handle them.  The sanctuary uses behavioral and visual cues to determine the breeding of the dog as DNA testing would be expensive and not conclusive.  Apparently the wolf DNA is not that different from dog.

There was a lot of information to absorb and we also talked with our guide about her background and plans.  So, the tour was fun and too short.  As the sun westered, we hoped to hear some wolf music, but it was not to be.  We walked back through the lengthening shadows, said our goodbyes, and drove back down the slushy road.

My car needed a bath.

I thought about the various images of the day.  SC, fenced in behind barbed wire.  Wolf-dogs, ditto.  Snow, ice.  Signs and inscriptions.  Mud.  Tumbling walls at Atsinna, strong walls at the prison.  But mainly I thought about the golden light, about wildness penned up, about the ways people hurt the world and each other, leave their marks and disappear.  About sanctuary.

Not orange or black, but dusty maroon

We got up at 8 so we would reach Grants by 9:30.  It had been a late night, with M driving down from Colorado, picking me up in Taos, and then stopping off in Cerrillos for a fantastic concert of Early Music.  We didn't reach the house in San Antonito until 10:30 pm and were both exhausted, but slept well.  We had breakfast with P and I fed Zeus the cat and told him we were going to visit his Mom that day.

It was a glorious day, warm with a bit of a cool breeze.  After the preceding week of snowstorms and closed roads, it felt like a gift of early spring Since it was a Saturday, there was not much traffic on the road, which was a good thing:  M was still getting used to the size of the Tundra. We drove through the badlands, which are a jumble of huge broken lava flows and bubbles and tubes protruding through sage and surrounded by red and ochre mesas, which are cut into canyons by the arroyos.  A long train passed through the landscape, green and blue and maroon rectangles bisecting the fields, pointing towards the mesas in the east.  Another train passed when we left at 3:30, and that time the golden late afternoon sun cast the train's shadows.  It is a lonely landscape, but a truly lovely one.

 We had to stop by a bank to pick up rolls of quarters for me (M had already purchased his in Colorado).  Turns out that's the only thing we are allowed to bring with us into the visitors' room. No knitting, no food, no jackets, no sunglasses.  Just two rolls of quarters and the clothes we stand in (and no sleeveless tops either.)  We arrived at 10:15.  The building is long and low, with narrow windows.  It is surrounded by the traditional barbed wire and empty fields.  It's a typical government installation.

 

 

M was a nervous wreck, trying to make sure he did everything right.  He had to go out to the Tundra to stash my sunglasses and his wallet, which they would not keep at the desk. They gave him the wrong set of keys, so he had to come back again.  They did allow him to bring in the vitamins that he needed to take at 11 am, since visitors are not allowed to return once they have left.

 

There were two young women waiting in the anteroom, and they were called to the visiting room while M was out at the truck. Then it was our turn to wait while SC was being "processed" for the visit.  The walls were covered with posters and regulations, which I read carefully while I awaited M's return from the parking lot, and the ceiling was low, with square, covered fluorescent lights. The waiting room was approximately 300 sq ft, with the desk and scanner and gate to the left as you enter, and institutional chairs lining the walls facing the entry and the desk.  The chairs were separated, so M and I had to push them together to hold hands comfortably while we waited.  I kept hoping that it was legal for us to do that. 

 

The dark stocky young man behind the desk was actually quite nice about M's jitters and my questions about knitting.  And he was even nicer when I set off the alarm going through the gate scanner.  Oh, yes, my rings are metal.  Alarm again.  Take off shoes, recheck pockets. Nothing.  Alarm again.  Man, that thing is sensitive. All we could figure is that the bra hooks were setting it off.  The guard scanned me with the handheld scanner and let me through.  We walked down a short  concrete-block hall.  Everything was  beige-white: floor tiles, walls, and ceiling tiles. The lights were bright and yet somehow dingy.  The walls to our left were covered with posters about caring and proper treatment.  The walls to the right contained doors to restrooms and a private room.  The women's restroom had the eyewash symbol, too.  We stopped at a gate that was top-to-bottom bars.  We could see double doors ahead and a windowed door to the left.  That was our destination. We pushed the button to the right of the gate, and it parted and slid open towards us.  Another button, and we were in the visitors' room.  SC was coming through a door to our right.  She was wearing a dusty maroon jumper, purple eye shadow, and clogs, and she gave me a long hard hug.  Then it was M's turn. 

 

The CO (Correction's Officer) was a young woman, with nicely bunned hair, delicate features, olive skin, and a slight build.  She pointed out the chairs that were ours:  two small plastic blue chairs facing another plastic beige chair.  There were approximately 10 of these arrangements, set in loose rows between the CO's desk and the vending machines.  The chairs to right and left of ours were filled, and there was another group or two towards the back of the room.  Everyone seemed comfortable and calm.  Conversations were quiet, smiles frequent. The atmosphere was clinical rather than penal:  it was like we were visiting hospital patients in a particularly uncomfortable waiting room. 

 

The CO brought a small square beige plastic table/stool to sit between us and made me move my chair so the camera could see me.  She also took my jacket and hung it up on the wall behind her desk. The guard had warned me that might happen, but fortunately the temp was okay. The CO's desk was large, with a high narrow counter surrounding it on three sides, and a window behind it.  It held a phone and the CO's lunch, but not much else.  The view from the desk commanded the entire room.  Visitors faced the eastern wall, which held the restroom door, the meshed-filled windows into the phone room,  and the door through which inmates entered.  The phone room contained 3 or 4 stations, unseparated.  It was long and narrow, and was currently empty. Through the phone room window, we could see a door into a hallway that led straight east.  Another hallway apparently led north-south, behind the phone room.  The door from the hall into the phone room remained open, and around noon we could see inmates in green and blue shirts and slacks filing past, watching us curiously.  The CO eventually got up and put plastic cling sheets on the windows so the light came through but the inmates could no longer see us. I'm still trying to figure out why they didn't just close the door and cover its window.

 

There were several visitors, but plenty of room for more, so I wasn't worried about being asked to leave before the 3:30 curfew.  To our left, closer to the CO station, a woman in her fifties with a protruding chin faced the two young women I'd seen in the lobby.  They left after a few hours and she told us it was her daughter (and a friend) whom she hadn't seen in 8 years.  She was proud that her daughter could see her clean and sober:  she had been so for over a year.  I'm still trying to do the math:  is it really possible to be not clean and sober in prison?  I guess I'm too naïve.  SC told me that the letter I had written with calligraphy pen and ink was considered "suspicious" and was withheld for that reason.  Apparently drugs can be put in the ink, and the inmate then eats the letter.  For the same reason, the authorities have withheld the crayon missives from her grandkids.  They take photocopies and let her read those, but won't give the photocopies either.  Seems odd, but I guess I should be glad she was allowed to read the letter.

 

There was a small area for kids, with carpet, toys, books.  It was surrounded by a short wooden fence with a gate.  Later in the visit we went in there to get a group photo taken by the CO:  the only time outside of the greeting and farewell hugs that we were allowed to touch SC.  Otherwise, the only contact was visual and verbal.  She wasn't allowed to go to the vending machines, either.  We had to take our rolls of quarters, examine the wares, and ask her what she wanted.  She wanted a lot, because it was a treat.  Soda, candy, burgers with chili, burritos:  the usual vending machine fare for the usual vending machine prices:  $1.25 for candy bars, $1.75 for drinks, $3.50 for burgers.  We probably spent close to $30 on SC and on ourselves.  I felt sick afterwards.  Why couldn't we bring in our own food?  But it did give us something to do, someplace to go at intervals in the conversation. 

 

The plastic bottle drink machine was fascinating:  a robot arm moved laterally and vertically from the bottom left corner, positioned itself in front of the selection, caught the bottle as it moved forward, moved again in precise jerky motions to the deposit chute, and dropped the bottle in.  Sadly, it didn't always work.  If it wasn't positioned perfectly in front of the bottle, nothing happened and it returned to the starting position.  The machine did give back the money, at least.

 

The microwave was to the left on the machines, and, again, could only be used by the visitors. We had to bring everything for SC to the CO desk.  After I returned to my seat, SC was allowed to go to the desk and get the food.  Thus, no sharing of chips, no handing over anything.  I did notice that the girl on our right was allowed to play Scrabble and card games with her visitors, so there was some possible exchange.  SC didn't want to do anything but talk, though.  So we talked.  M talked about his travel trailer and plans, SC talked about her job sewing and other bits of daily life and the audit that the Corporation was undergoing.  (Rumor had it that they were caught shredding documents.  I don't understand the rumor mills:  where does the info come from, and how is it disseminated?  SC says the guards are the source, and I guess that's it, but it still doesn't make sense to me.)  I talked about my job and Taos. Towards the end we talked about her legal situation and her relationships.  As I suspected, D's speech in court devastated her:  she sees her father's influence in every word.

 

It was so difficult to just sit for 5 hours in those hard plastic chairs.  It was so difficult to not be able to hold her when she was upset.  M spent much of the visit holding my hand, rubbing my arm:  was it because he couldn't do the same for her?  In that sterile environment, touch was what we wanted, and what she needed, and what we couldn't give.

 

There was a restroom for inmates only:  twice I had to go back through the door and the gate to the one in the hall.  Again, my naïveté:  people pass things in the restrooms, apparently.  It's not all about metal, you see, and the detector cannot catch everything.  For example, another inmate asked if her daughter could buy some quarters from us:  she had a $5 bill.  Since this was the inmate who had the bed next to SC and was apparently threatening her, I wanted to be accommodating.  I asked the CO about it, the CO said it would not look good in front of the camera because no one is supposed to bring in ANYTHING except a roll of quarters (and M's sanctioned vitamins.)  I'm still trying to figure out how an exchange of money between visitors could constitute a risk of contraband.  I'm still trying to figure out why SC could not take off her clogs.

 

I asked about the maroon jumpsuit.  It's the special visiting outfit.  Usually she wears a green T and pants.  The God Pod wears blue, and the high risk pod wears read.  No orange to be seen.  As per usual, the TV show gets it wrong.  I'm not sure what color the fleece (which has still not arrived) is.

 

So the hours passed and it was time to leave.  Another long hard hug, and we all filed out the door, while the inmates waited in the room.  The anticlimax was discovering I'd left my jacket in the room (one of the colorful Marketplace India ones):  I got back through the gate and knocked on the window.  I pointed to the jacket and SC went to the wall where it was hanging and brought it to me.  I hope she didn't get in trouble for it.

 

We drove home through the golden late afternoon light, met SC's friend F at the 66 Diner for an early dinner, and talked some more.  My mind was a jumble:  M's traveling plans, F's moving plans, SC's legal plans.... everyone talking and doing and trying to make things better.  But SC is in prison for 8 years, in which anything can happen and all plans can go awry.

 

I just wanted to go to sleep.

 



Boredom

I'm spending a 3-day weekend with E:  her replacement caregiver was fired last week, and the next is not available until later this week.  It is wonderful to be here again, watching the birds and the snow and the clouds.  I got up at 6:30 this morning to take sunrise pix,

and now I'm watching the white fluffy clouds floating behind the mountain silhouette, with bright New Mexico blue accentuating (or being accentuated by) them.  I miss this, but I don't miss the boredom.  The last two days were very snowy, and I wanted nothing to do with the roads.   In fact, I made a break Thursday afternoon, in between blasts, when the pavement was dry.  There were several inches of snow in Taos, and the University was closed Mon, Thu, and Fri last week.  Interestingly enough, they don't tend to close the campus when the sun goes down and we night workers have to drive home in sleet and ice.  But, if there is snow falling in the morning, they close up.  The weather usually calms by noon, and the roads are fine by 1.  That was the case on Thursday.

However, once I got to Cerrillos, the snow took over,

 

and there was nothing to do.  I built a fire in the casita on Friday (and totally smoked the place out).  We spent the afternoon doing crosswords and reading and basking by the fire, and we made dinner (pasta with olives and tomatoes and garlic, chicken pounded with chopped nuts and fried in garlic and olive oil, with capers and lemon juice added, salad made by E.)  And by 8 pm I was long past ready for bed.  Same thing on Saturday.  I chopped kindling for the casita and C/M's pod, and that was about it.  I was in bed by 7, and cancelled my 10 pm tutoring session.  C called me, and talked, talked, talked, and I kept nodding off, and he kept saying "K? are you there?  are you awake?" and I'd mumble, yeah.

 

What is it about this place that makes me want to sleep, sleep, sleep?

 

I guess that's why I didn't accomplish much during the 18 months I lived here.  I focused on domestic activities, doing Tai Chi Chih, walking (with and without E), shopping, cooking.  I read, took pix, practiced some music.  But the pace was very slow, and I didn't really do much except heal.  Now that I'm back in the swing of DOING things (even though it's still not much), I'm aware of how little happens here.  No wonder E feels like her life has halted.  No wonder she wants to return to the more active lifestyle she used to have. 

 

I think about my friend SC, who is in prison for the next 8 years.  She calls me regularly (since I can't call her and we can't e-mail), and her life is boredom personified.  She's read 20 books in the 3 months that she's been in.  She has several books of her own in process, but she has to pay for paper and pen and can't use a computer, so that's a slow process.  In fact, the whole system is set up to actively discourage any productive or creative activity, and to destroy any connections with the outside world.  It seems counter-productive to me, although I guess the idea is to make it so unpleasant no one will want to come back.  But, recidivism is rampant, and I think it's because the system slaps down the impulse to improve one's life.  So, it's difficult for anyone to acquire the skills that will take her someplace positive when she leaves the system.

 

In fact, since it's a for-profit agency, the prisoners are exploited.  They have to buy the necessities, and many of those necessities are "out of stock."  For example, my friend still has no washcloth:  she uses her underwear.  We can't send her paper or stamps or warm sweaters.  We can put money in her account, and get charged an extra $7 per transaction for the privilege.  If we want her to call us, she has to queue up for the phone, and we have to put money in that account, too.  Often, when we are talking, the call is interrupted:  a random lockdown on the holiday, a call for her to meet with someone, and one bizarre time when the monitor thought I had initiated a third party call.  (I hadn't.)  Even when things go well, the calls are restricted to 20 minutes, and if we want to continue talking, she has to call again.  There are TV's but no sound:  she has to buy a radio and earplugs to get that, and guess what?  it's out of stock. 

She is feeling a little more productive now, because she finally got a job sewing, which is a step up from sweeping the "pod."  She gets 20 cents an hour, with the chance of increasing to $1.20.  This would be outrageous in any other society, but I guess she should be glad she doesn't have to pay for her room and board as well as her necessities and communication needs.  And, there's the possibility of another job that will give her access to a computer.  Woo hoo!

So, I think about her situation, and I wonder how she is managing to keep her spirit, her sense of humor, and her creativity.  Even setting aside the reason she is there and the legal fight for which she is gearing up, she has plenty of cause for depression in the institutional boredom.   I look at her and marvel.  Could I do the same?  I don't have any reason to fall prey to boredom in my situation:  I am free to walk outside, to take pictures, to write, to work at a good job, to see my friends. I can surround myself with beauty. I can make music.  I can cook a healthy meal. She has none of this, but she continues to take her meager possessions and make the most of them.  The other day, she concocted a foot scrub out of food bits (I can't recall the details.)  In other words, she is not just surviving, she is thriving.  I wish I could say the same for myself.  But even now that I'm off the mountain, working a 40-hour week and building community, I don't seem to have the drive to create.  I am so tired.

Have I created a prison?