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Voices of Peace
Federal Prison Camp, Dublin
Margaret M. Morton
Reg. No. 92102-020 5675
8th St. Camp Parks
Dublin, CA. 94568
Peg's Letter #11
We live in a section of a large room, seven us, four bunk beds, cabinets, several chairs, not much room to move around in the middle. Sometimes, especially as we wait for the 4:00 P.M. or the 10:00 P.M. count, we laugh and joke. Sometimes bits of stories find their way into our midst, piecing themselves together, bit by bit.
Toni is 32, a small, compact woman, part Japanese, with long, straight, black hair, an alive face, a dimple, listening eyes. She exudes energy. She tells work and prison stories, making us laugh. She's a good friend to others, responsive to their needs. She has a daughter, age 13, being raised by the father, and tries to parent her over the phone. She's been in prison about five years and has one to go.
Toni works as an automobile mechanic here, gradually building her skills. In the state prison, where she was before, she completed high, began college courses, and built computer skills. Here there are no college courses, and only a small computer room with introductory classes. In free time, she reads, sleeps, smokes, walks some, plays spades - she is bored.
She describes being busted, something like this:
"I was on the street and into drugs by the time I was thirteen. At the time I was busted, I was using and selling meth, making up to $32,000 a month. I had a big property, a 5-bedroom house, beautiful furniture, several cars, some owned, some owed for. I loved taking my Camero to the store, watching people stare. No one my size drives that kind of car.
"One day, my lover left to do errands while I worked around the yard and house. We planned to bathe and freshen up afterwards and make love. That never happened. Soon after he returned a swarm of riot police appeared. AK47s out. They surrounded the house and broke in, even though I was right there. We were handcuffed, and that was that.
"While I was in the jail, they ransacked the house and property, taking anything of value. I was told, 'The house is open.' I called a friend and told her to go to a certain place and take my special photos and memoralia. 'Don't bother with the rest.' I had wondered for some time how I could get out of all this shit. Now it was being done for me. Good riddance.
***
Last night, almost a month later, our little group sat mesmerized as she told an earlier part of her story:
"My mother was a prostitute and an alcoholic. The house was a disaster. I was always hungry, because there was no food. I would try to wake my mother up out of her stupors.
"When I was nine, my father, who I had never known, turned up, wanting custody. He seemed nice. The court granted custody, and he took me home for a little celebration, only what he did, right then, was sexually abuse me. He told me that what fathers were supposed to do was end their daughters' virginity. That is what he had done for her much older sister. That's why he wanted custody. I finally ran away, and for many years was a ward of the state. My father was locked up, sentenced for eight years. He was released in four years, hinted that he might kill her and actually tried to run her off the road in his car.
"I lived in one foster home after another. Sometimes they were abusive or neglectful, just in it for the money. I would run away to my best friends' house. They would always take me in. Sometimes they might have really loved me. When they began talking about adopting me, I would remember what happened with my father and run away again. There was a wonderful social worker who stuck by me and helped me through those years.
"My mother's house burned down, and she barely got out with severe burns. She almost didn't make it. But that somehow got to her, and she turned her life around a lot. I went to live with her, wanted to help her. She eventually married a man I really loved. He was a big black man, a teddy bear. It was like he was my father. They are both dead now. They died after I was in prison. She died from the health effects of her former life. He had health problems, but maybe he died of a broken heart."
Visit Peg Morton's writings at West By Northwest.org:
Peg Morton's Letters from Prison: Work, Babies and Conditions and
A Cross and a Fence: The question is "How do we live our beliefs?" A Quaker grandmother has an answer and follow the links.
© Copyright 2000-2004 by West By Northwest.org
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