“Please, don’t forget me!”
[Letters from a dying man in Prison]
You ever do something you’re not sure of being comfortable with, then forget about it for nine-years only to wake up out of bed and say, ‘Hay, I remember him,’ and then you’re not sure of why he came to your mind, and is it worth more of your time. Oh well, this is that kind of a story. A true story and I will try to put it together the best I can, from the letters he wrote me during a twelve month period, from 1997-1998, there about.
I was working for the Volunteers of America, in Minneapolis, Minnesota at the time, as a Counselor, and Case Manager, for Federal prisoners (BOP), inmates that would come out of prison, conditionally, to find work, normally, a year before their time was up, and sometimes, six to three months (let me add, before I go on with this story, I do not support the VOA, or Volunteers of America, nor their philosophy, I think for the most part, it is a farce ((from what I’ve seen)), and much wrong was going on at that facility, when I worked there, I did not care for, and it was overlooked inmost cases by the higher ups, you couldn’t tell whom the inmates were from the staff: or whom were the better or worse crooks, was a good question).
Anyhow, I got a letter from an Amnesty International organization, I shall not pinpoint them, or their name, as I will also leave out the prison’s name, and the two people involved with this story. Again I say, I was sent this letter from Amnesty, whom was trying to get a reprieve for this certain person in prison going on ten-years, for being falsely accused of murder. He was a native of the Philippine islands, and around the mid 1980s, to the later part this took place, as a youth he was involved with a rebel group.
Now before I get into the letters of this man he sent me, which really is the premise of this story, likened to the VOA, the Amnesty, was not upfront with me about this man—not a fare player, not honest, deleted information as if to make their quest more justifiable, (I have been likened to a guard, and a soldier, so I’ve been on both sides of the fence here) and I have little respect for them because of that, nor would I support them in the future, although I did support these two men, in particular one, we shall call him Jose, his friend, Manual.
When I started writing Jose, he admitted he had a dictionary, English, and for me to be patient with him and his English; each word he wrote was big in the beginning, and sometimes misspelled, and the letters went on for two to three pages because of that, had they not been so big, they would have fit on one page.
In the first three months of his letters, they were rather skimpy, and I asked him to be more forthright with what was taking place with him, now, in the past, and what was his future outlook, especially since I was sending a few dollars his way, not much, for his extras he could purchase at the prison, such as cigarettes, and pencils and paper, est.
During this time he introduced me to his friend, Manual, and asked me to help him financially also, and I did send him a small check once, but it was only once, and that was it, I did not feel good about supporting his friend, and perhaps a lover, as he often seemed to express deep emotion for him (so this is conjecture on my part).
Anyhow, during the following nine months, he answered a lot of questions, some of the stuff was blacked out, but he was honest, and he said the guards would show the letters to their friends, and laugh all the way to the sensor (the person who would reread the letters to insure they were proper), which they blacken some of the stuff out, and left, surprisingly, a lot in (and under light I could read through the blackout parts, for the part). Perhaps they left much of it in, knowing it would not help him anyhow.
Too, I sent a letter, two letters to the President of the Philippines at that time, asking for them to review his crime, his case, that I understood it to be false. I received two letters back, one stating, they were looking into his situation, that he had caused some trouble during his stay in the prison, and it was hard to assure me of anything. The second letter told me almost the same news, but added he was being moved to another prison in the near future. That is when I lost track of him. But they also mentioned something serious also, that seemed to be hindering his case.
[The Letters] The letters acknowledged he did kill a soldier of the Philippines’ Army, which Amnesty did not consider murder, and the Government of the Philippines, considered otherwise. Jose, said he was with a rebel group at this time, trying to overthrow the government that is when he met, Manual. He had the perspective, perhaps the same one I had, soldier against soldier; I mean, Jose was fighting a cause he believe in, and he admitted it, and he was taken prisoner of war, as he said in so many words, plus he said: I deserve to be here, but not the death penalty, because I was a soldier, I simply was on the losing side. How true this was, but this was not the entire story. As a counselor, I never stop digging, and I usually find out more facts, facts, people want to delete at first, or generalize.
In one letter I confronted him with his actions in prison. He said in so many words: I’ve been here going on ten years, ten long years, I got in some fights, and I was again young, but must I be punished all my adult life for what I did in my youth. I asked him what he did, and he said he killed a guard, in self defense. He, nor the prison warden, whom I wrote would give me the facts; I suppose if he did, or they did, it might not help their cases, and it seemed there was two sides to the story, so he felt. So I was getting distortions, in addition to generalizations and deletions; if not from the prison warden, or Jose, the President’s writers, or helpers.
He continued to tell me about Manual, as if I cared, and to be quite honest, I didn’t all that much. But I knew he was lonely, so I left that issue alone, although I suppose it bothered me, he put him into each letter, at least a sentence, if not a few paragraphs. I tried not to show my distaste for that, and I don’t think he figured it out; he had enough problems without my biases.
About, in the middle of the process of sending back and forth letters, he talked about his early prison days. Here is what he said, I shall try to write it as I remember it, for I have only two letters left from him, whereas I had perhaps a dozen he sent at one time (I must rely on memory, mostly). He said they tortured him, burnt him with cigarettes to see who could burn a hole threw his flesh the fastest, a game, if I recall right, it was sometimes to the bone, and infection would seep in and he’d end up in the infirmary; no questions asked.
In other letters he described a chair, it seemed to me to be a common wooden chair, where he would sit in it, or on it, naked, and his arm, one arm, would be twisted in-between two wooden bars, that you would normally rest your back on, and the right leg, twisted between the legs of the chair, twisted and tied in some jacquard position, and left there for several hours, if not longer.
In another torture I had never heard of up to this point was, he’d be laid down on a bed, or bench of some sort, and his hand, one hand chained around the upper part of the bench, or bed, and his leg chained around the upper part of the foot or ankle, and tied round the leg of the bench or bed (I say bench or bed, because I can’t remember which one, if not both were used). Anyhow, here he would lay on the wooden surface for several hours, his hand being stretched upward, holding the weight of his body hanging downward, so his torso could not lay flat on the wooden surface—the bed part, and his leg stretched to its limit at the end of the item he was laying on, so he would get cramps in them, and not be able to do a thing, but suffer.
[Concluding statement] I’m not sure what is right and wrong in this case, he killed a guard, a friend I’m sure of the other guards, and they wanted revenge. He killed in war, which it seems, was more forgivable than his killing of the guard, so I’m told. And being a soldier, of Vietnam, I can understand part of this. But here was a youth, who lost it, will perhaps never know who Shakespeare was, or Thueydides, or Herodotus, the historian, or read Robert Frost’s poetry, or Homer, Villon, Catullus, although he sent me a poem once, saying “Please, don’t forget me!” I never told him I wrote, it was not part of our drama, our mixed up drama, it was his show, not mine, and so I dedicate this story to him, wherever he may be, and he very well may be dead for all I know. It is, this story, I make out, not as diverse as I could make it, almost expressionless, where I could have developed this text much more, justify, or try to, his stand if I wanted to, but it seems to me a nuisance, why? A man cannot clearly understand or grasp certain things unless he experiences them, and I haven’t in this case, only on the soldier side, and his facts; other people are involved, the family of the soldier. Maybe he deserved death, maybe not.
