After only two days in the PC unit they moved me in to my new room. Immediately after introductions, Joseph, my new roommate, informed me that he was “bi-polar” and “schizoid affective.”

“That’s fine,” I said. (What could I say?) He was gentle, and his room – our room at this point – was neat and clean. I calculated that I would be able to make a nest there.

Joseph, and I, as it turned out, got along quite well. After only a couple of days he was ready to share with me the poetry that he wrote. I read about 10 of the 36 poems that he kept in a manila envelope. They were free verse creations, expressing his feelings of depression, confusion, and loneliness. His efforts to find a way out of his unhappiness seemed focused on positive thinking, psychiatric drugs and Jesus.

Nowhere did Joseph deal with the shame he felt about his homosexuality, which I thought must play a major role in the “mental problems” that he talked about. He kept a paper bag full of male erotica in a paper sack beside the commode. Near it there was another paper bag which contained the materials that were connected with his correspondence Bible study courses.

After reading ten of his poems, I told Joseph that I would read some of the others later. I wanted a chance to absorb them.

“They’re very deep, aren’t they,” he said.

*****

A few days later Joseph and I were sitting at a table alone after just having cleaned up the pod with two men from another cell. We were listening to Tyson, a young man I did not know well, who was upstairs. He was talking nonsense in a loud shrill voice. Every other word was some derivation of the word “fuck.”

“He wants to be a minister,” Joseph said, and rolled his eyes.

I smiled. “Well, people are full of contradictions,” I said. “Maybe he is sincere in his own way.”

Joseph nodded in agreement and I used this theme of “contradictions” to open the door to talking a bit more. “That’s one of the problems with organized religion,” I said. I talked a little about how I believed that aligning ourselves with the will of God was the most important thing in life. In this way I was in agreement with what Churches claimed. But I found I had to reject most organized religion because of what I believed were destructive beliefs about sex. Briefly I outlined my conviction that everybody had his or her own pattern of desire.

I used the term “pattern of desire” for the idea of a “bonding profile.” The “bonding profile” is a concept developed by a psychiatrist by the name of Alan Horowitz. The basic idea is that sexual attraction is connected with bonding, and that each person has his or her own pattern. If one takes males and females as one dichotomy, and peers or younger people as the other, one can capture all the possibilities of attraction in a two by two box. One then assigns a number indicating the relative degree of strength of attraction one feels for each of the four categories – eg., younger and of the same sex, peers of the same sex, etc. One’s bonding profile is the pattern of the attractions in the four boxes.

I did not use the term “bonding profile” with Joseph. But I did say that that I did not see any reason to judge one “pattern of desire” as good and another as bad. I felt, for example, that relationships between men and other men needed to be judged by the same criteria as relationships between men and women. Was it entered into freely? Was it loving? Was it non-exploitive? Was it based on honest and open communication? Etc. I said that I felt there could be love relationships between men and boys that were not bad, and hinted that, while men are not that sexually attractive to me, I did feel something about boys.

“Me too,” he said.

I pointed out that if our thoughts were known by too many people, it could create some difficulty for us.

He assured me that this conversation was just between us.

Later in the day, just before going to sleep I told him that I was glad he agreed with me. I wondered, however, whether this didn’t create some tension for him because of his deep commitment to the Mormon religion. He confessed it did, but said “It's sorting itself out, slowly but surely.”

About a week after our conversation about patterns of desire and love, Joseph told me that he knew of a magazine that he thought might be of interest to me. We were in our bunks during a lock-down period. I expressed curiosity about this. He rummaged through one of the paper bags he keeps between his bunk and the commode and pulled out a magazine which he handed to me before retreating back into the cave of his own bunk. The magazine was full of pictures of men – mostly muscular men in their twenties – in sexy poses in which they usually displayed large erections. I thumbed through it for a while and then passed it back down to him.

“Its nice,” I said. “But it’s not quite what is of most interest to me.” I reminded him that on my own profile was a bit different than his. “But this is not a problem for me,” I said with reference to his magazines.

“I see,” he said.

I thanked him for showing the magazine to me. I think he was disappointed that I did not have more interest in mature men, and at the same time I am sure he was relieved that I was not judgmental regarding his interest. I recalled his telling me a few days ago that he had told his mother how happy he was with me as his roommate. “I told her we can talk about anything.”

*****

One day, Joseph told me that he was scheduled for his first “furlough.” It was to occur from Friday afternoon, June 2nd at 2:30 to Sunday afternoon, June 4th at 3:00. He would be spending the time with his grandmother, his step-mother, and his girlfriend. In some detail, he told me about the barbecue they had planned for the Friday afternoon he was to go home.

Food is a matter of some importance to Joseph. When his mother or grandmother replenished his canteen fund, he ordered bags full of Hostess Twinkie type food. For some days after one of the periodic replenishments of his account, I would be aware of the frequent crinkling of paper down below as I was stretched out on my bunk during the evening lock downs. In a remarkably short time the boxes were emptied. He seemed to have a hard time letting loose of his snack boxes even after they were empty. I notice that he seldom took them to the trash. Occasionally he sent an unsolicited bit of his loot my way. Once I found a rectangular chocolate-covered and cream-filled little cake at my place on the desk. Another time his hand reached up from below and placed a granola bar on the edge of my bunk.

The snacks were taking their toll. Joseph was six foot three, and soft as a marshmallow. I could see that fat was accumulating on his stomach and thighs. He was not in good shape for a twenty four year old.

Joseph was intelligent, friendly and reasonable. He listened if I talked, and shared very brief answers to my questions. But I seldom heard him express a strong opinion or a passionate wish. I think that, in addition to his being chronically depressed, his medications for his presumed bi-polar and schizoid affective conditions leave him drained of psychic energy. Therefore I was pleased to hear him speak of something that brought some animation into his voice and manner. He was excited about his furlough.

When I first arrived on the unit and began sharing the cell with Joseph I estimated that he slept about 15 hours out of every 24. In the late afternoon he would emerge to sit at the table in front of the TV with his friend, Charlie, who sat in his wheelchair at the end of the table. Wayne, who slept even more than Joseph, would sometimes join them after supper for a couple of hours. But as the time for the furlough approached Joseph slept less. He remained up for whole afternoons, and he worked with real industry on his correspondence Bible study courses.

Joseph spoke about how excited he was about the prospect of seeing his girlfriend on his home visit, but he never told me a lot about her. I speculated that the reason for this was because his real interest was in men. After I had been rooming with Joseph for a while, I went into a more complete explanation of the the idea of the “bonding profile” than I had previously shared with him in our conversations. I suggested this might be a more flexible way of understanding sexual identity, and once again expressed my conviction that it was best to have an attitude of acceptance for the wide diversity of bonding profiles that are encountered in people. I went so far as to give him a general idea as to what my profile might look like.

About two weeks before he was scheduled to go on his visit, Joseph received a note from his case worker, Nancy, who is responsible for coordinating all matters related to furloughs. She was sorry to inform him that she had not heard from the Department of Probation and Parole. This was unfortunate as they had to complete a home study and get the results to her before she could OK the visit. As she was going on vacation in two days and would not be back until the ninth, Joseph would have to assume, unless he heard something different within a couple of days, that his scheduled furlough was canceled. Joseph showed me the handwritten message she had added to the bottom of a note he had sent to her. Well, there was still some hope, I suggested. Maybe something would come in the mail tomorrow. If not, within a few weeks the furlough would probably be rescheduled. Nothing came in the mail the next day, or the day after that. Joseph began sleeping a bit more again, and ordered another bag of junk food.

*****

One evening I shared with Joseph my three-pieces-of-a-puzzle-that-don’t-fit-together theory of people who have strong but unacceptable sexual feelings. We are given three pieces:

 

1. The desire to find some fulfillment of a powerful inner yearning.

2. The desire to be an acceptable member of society.

3. The desire to be honest with self and others.

“Those are important pieces of a person's life,” I said. “Its hard to admit that there is just no way to make them fit together.”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I think too.”

*****

“Guess what?” Joseph said to me on the on the first day of June.

“What?”

“I’m going on my furlough.”

An interest in life was once again flowing in his veins. It brought color to his normally pallid face.

“Great,” I said. I offered him “five” and “gave him five” in return. But I must have looked dubious. It was hard to believe that they had reinstated his furlough.

He gave me a somewhat confused explanation about a friend of a relative who was in prison and who had said that the house check by parole and probation wasn’t necessary unless you had certain kinds of charges against you. I was preoccupied with some concerns of my own, and didn’t pursue the matter further at that point.

Joseph went to our cell and made preparations for his trip. Presumably it was to occur the next day. I noticed that he came out of the room with a stack of magazines in his hand. I was sure that those were his homoerotic magazines and speculated that he was getting rid of them so that he could take his accumulated junk home without fear of being discovered. It did occur to me that he was taking some risk when he took them to the public trash can and, removing the cover, threw them in. Nobody paid any attention, however. I didn’t ask myself why he didn’t simply hide them in a different sack in the cell.

When we were locked up Thursday evening I questioned Joseph a bit more about how his furlough came to be reinstated. He was vague and evasive in his answers and I let the matter drop.

Friday morning Joseph told me he would be having a strawberry milkshake before the day was over. This was his way of reminding me about his furlough which was to begin in the afternoon. “I hope it all works out,” I said.”

He nodded.

When I went out for morning recreation, Brian asked me about Joseph’s furlough. He had heard about it and was sure that if the home study by Probation and Parole had not taken place, there would be no visit. I was non-committal at this point, but did feel that probably Joseph was being misled by wishful thinking.

When I returned to the room I saw that Joseph had packed up the things he planned to take home. An assortment of plastic and paper bags was sitting on his bed. When they let us out at 1:00 he took a shower.

We went outside for rec at 2:00. Joseph stood expectantly by the door. At 2:30 Jack was called out to join the family members who were to take him on his furlough, but no one called for Joseph. I overheard a conversation between a guard and a couple of the men about Joseph’s furlough. The guard was saying that he knew Joseph wasn’t going on his furlough but there was no point in telling him that.

When I came in from outside recreation at 3:00 I found Joseph in our cell.

“I’m still here,” he said.

I nodded. I asked again about how firm the arrangements had been and this time he admitted that he had received no messages from anyone at the prison indicating that the furlough had been reinstated. I commented that it was easy for us to give into wishful thinking about things we really wanted a lot.

He agreed.

The mail didn’t arrive until we were locked in our cell again. Joseph received an envelope from one of the groups that provide him with his correspondence Bible courses. He pulled a diploma out of the envelope, indicating that he had successfully completed another set of lessons. He held it up for me to see. “I’m very proud of that,” he said.

After supper Charlie called me over and asked what I knew about the furlough. I told him what I knew. He was hurt that Joseph did not tell him more about what was going on with him. “I’m his best friend,” he told me.

I said I didn’t think it reflected on their friendship. Joseph was just slow to share with other people.

Charlie nodded and asked what I knew about the magazines. I said I had noticed Joseph throw them away. I briefly told him my theory the three puzzle pieces that won’t fit together.

“I think this is Joseph’s effort at a solution,” I said. “He wants to reject that aspect of himself.”

Charlie told me that he felt that Joseph had made a deal with God. If God would make that furlough happen, Joseph would dump the magazines. He told me that when he confronted him with this, Joseph admitted it was true.

Joseph spent a long time in the cell after supper. When he came out he told me he had been sick again.

“I know what it is this time,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“It’s the fish.”

He remembered that he had also been sick last Friday when they had fish.

I nodded. I guess it doesn’t agree with you.” “I won’t eat it any more.”

“This has really been a shitty day for you,” I said.

He agreed

(This is a little essay I wrote on 10/7/00, after I had been incarcerated for about six months. Except for changing proper names, and making minor spelling and grammatical corrections, I have left it as I wrote it then, as a record of my feelings and thoughts at that time.)

The external facts of my life are at this point moderately difficult to deal with. But what eats at the core of my being, and threatens my ability to cope, is the inner judge who accuses me of having done irreparable damage to Terry. Suppose he is chronically depressed because of me – suppose eventually he even commits suicide. Since I am prevented from having any information on how he is doing, the situation is fertile soil for worst-case scenarios growing and thriving in my fantasy life, and they threaten to crowd out any happy thoughts. One thing I am clear on is that the very limited sexual contact I had with him was not, in and of itself, harmful. It is the reaction of a hysterical society that has transferred a fumbling, gentle, and perhaps ill conceived effort on my part to liberate us both from the oppressive mentality of a puritan culture, into a wrenching and absurd melodrama. I have little inclination to seek forgiveness from, or reconciliation with, this society. I am its enemy. Yet it was my act that created the possibility for Terry being exposed to the confusion, grief and guilt that I think he undoubtedly experienced as a result of turning me in. If, for this reason, I am guilty of causing him profound suffering then I feel that I have no right to self-respect, meaningful activity or happiness. In short, the thought causes me to wish for death as the only escape.

This self-condemning way of seeing things competes in my soul with a second gestalt. In this gestalt I see myself as a very ordinary human being seeking to understand the love I have felt for certain boys, and who sought to liberate both myself and the boys from a society that condemns such love because it includes the sexual dimension --whether or not this is overtly manifest. It is my belief that so long as nothing is done to risk the boys health, and nothing is forced on him, it is up to the boy and the man to decide how their love should be expressed. But to act on such beliefs, and to seek liberation in a society that condemns even the slightest hint of sexual feeling in such relationships, does create a situation full of risks for both the man and the boy.

In short, my self-perception oscillates between two conflicting gestalten: (1) the worthless piece of scum who is desperately trying to evade his responsibility for having perpetrated serious damage on a trusting and innocent child, and (2) an ordinary person, who feels what most men feel, and who is seeking liberation both himself and others from an oppressive, cruel and self-righteous society. Naturally, as my perception oscillates between these gestalten, my mood and my appetite for life follow suit.

Three images of struggles for liberation haunt me. (1) A black man who has been fighting for an end to apartheid in S Africa (back when Mandela was still in prison) is being tortured outside hospital where he has been brought to have his wounds treated. A doctor looks on helplessly. (From an article in Granta.) (2) A woman from England (or from some European country) is in India during the bloodshed between Hindus and Moslem's that followed India's liberation from England. From her car she sees some older boys attacking a dark-skinned boy. She doesn't see the outcome of the altercation right then. But when she returns later she sees the decapitated body of the boy. (Not sure where I read this. In “Thorn Birds”? Whether it was a novel or a piece of journalism, I'm not sure.) (3) A few days ago I watched a twelve year old boy on television (a news clip) screaming in terror because he and his father were caught in a cross-fire between the Israelis and the Palestinians. The father was trying to shield him. Later another news clip showed the two of them again. The father had been wounded by Israeli gun fire and his twelve year old son lay dead beside him.

It would seem that any struggle for liberation elicits opposition and creates suffering. This is true even if the means for seeking liberation are based on a philosophy of non-violence. Does this mean that one should not engage in struggle for liberation? Of course one should do what one can to see that the innocent are spared. But an irreducible messiness characterizes all historical processes. We always do more than we intend and less than we hope for.

The father of the 12 year old boy related that, after they had both been shot, his son said, “don't be afraid.”

*****

A week after writing the above essay I had two dreams that I remembered.

First dream: I am sitting on a wooden platform that is part of a stair-case in an apartment building. A boy shows up on the floor above. He leaps over the railing and does a somersault (like an Olympic dive) across the stair well and lands on the landing in front of me.. I am quite impressed with his agility, but tell him that I was afraid for him when he did this, and that I wished he would be more careful with himself. He comes over to me and sits in my lap. I kiss him on his forehead. I;m afraid that this will offend him. He looks at me with a quizzical expression, but I see that he is not upset. It is almost as though he is unsure whether I really kissed him or just accidentally brushed my lips across his forehead. With some uncertainty about how he will react, I kiss him again on his forehead – and am certain that this time it is clear to him that what I did was intentional. He smiles. He is very pleased to be kissed. His reaction is thrilling to me. He snuggles up against me and I feel very happy.

Second dream: An older man is talking with me. We are in a small bed-room or study. I'm sitting at a desk. He is from a very good seminary. We discuss a book I found quite interesting. I tell him that I had never heard of the author before, but that I liked him. He wants to discuss my beginning a course of study in the seminary where he works.

I don't recall whether I interpreted the second dream at the time, but it seems to me now that it pointed toward the possibility of new and more adequate ways of understanding.

Later in the day I was sitting in the rec room waiting for B to come for a visit. I was reading some Shakespeare sonnets, selecting them randomly. I began reading #XXXIV, about a boy he loved:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes..."

During my visit with Betsy I told her the dreams. “That's Terry,” she said, referring to the boy who did the somersault over the stair well. I could not have had a better dream or a more helpful interpretation.

On 10/18.00, not long after the above conversation with Boo I had the following dream: