Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison T. Parsell (ebook reader play store .txt) 📖

Directors-and most recently I was voted President of the Board. Every other day, it seemed, I was being asked to help out here and there-so much so that it was becoming difficult to finish my book-which had already taken over three years to complete. I worked as a consultant to the U.S. Justice Department, as they set up the staff of the National Prison Rape Elimination Commission, and I helped coordinate their first public meeting held at Notre Dame Law School. The U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics invited me to provide input on the survey instruments for the first-ever national inmate study of the prevalence and incidence of prisoner rape in the United States. And I worked with the National Institute of Corrections on an inmate orientation video that is available to all new incoming prisoners in the United States on how to avoid prisoner rape and staff sexual misconduct.

The first time I spoke out publicly was in support of the Prison Rape Elimination Act, the first-ever federal legislation to address the issue. When I stood on Capitol Hill and told my story, I stood next to Linda Bruntmeyer, whose seventeen-year-old son had been repeatedly raped by Texas prison gang members. And then after prison officials refused to intervene-he hung himself in his prison cell. Like my friend, Grasshopper, he had been sent to an adult prison for starting a dumpster on fire. Thinking back on the despair I had felt before Paul entered my life and taught me some survival skills-it could have easily been Sharon who was standing there, preparing herself to tell her son's story of rape and suicide.

I went inside Starbucks and ordered my venti nonfat latte and a blueberry scone. It was a long way from the three powdered donuts in a waxed-paper bag and a carton of milk left resting on a cross-section of bars.

As I waited in line for my order, someone behind me said, "I saw that guy in the New York Times. He's that guy who was raped in prison."

Being a poster child for prisoner rape was not high on my list of ambitions. But I have spent many years in therapy, dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder and the residual effects of my rape trauma syndrome. It took almost a decade of therapy, before I could even talk openly to my therapist. For a few years after my released from prison, I was like a walking time bomb with anger and rage. But now, after eighteen years of recovery and therapy, I follow a spiritual program that believes that no matter how far down a wrong path someone may have gone, or how far they've fallen, others can benefit from knowledge of that experience-especially if that experience led to redemption.

I turned around and smiled gently at the guy who made the comment. I could tell by his look, that my smiling at him made him uncomfortable. I had been told before, that meeting me was sometimes disconcerting because I hardly looked like an ex-con.

Behind him, on the New York Times rack, an article caught my attention. It was the first in a series on teenagers behind bars who were jailed for life for crimes committed as teenagers. The caption read, "To More Inmates, Life Term Means Dying Behind Bars."

My friends at Human Rights Watch were releasing a report on how a growing number of teenagers who were ending up behind bars were never getting out. On the cover of the newspaper, were two mug shots of Jackie Lee Thompson. The first picture had been taken when he went in to prison at age fifteen, and the other shot was recent-age forty-nine-after having spent thirty-five years inside.

I stood there transfixed by the mug shot of the fifteen-year-old boy, side by side with his foty-nine-year-old self. No matter the time difference, the eyes were the same in both photographs. Only the expressions were different; the fifteen year old appeared frightened, whereas the forty-nine year old looked lifeless and sad.

That was me at seventeen and that could have been me today. Like Paul, Slide Step, and all the others, I could have easily spent the past twenty-five years of my life behind bars. What really separated us other than circumstances?

I walked out of Starbucks, forgetting my latte on the counter. I drove to my meditation meeting in Wainscott, tears rolling down my face. It became so clear to me what I'm here to do.

Once again, God had given me my sign.

According to the U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics, we housed over 2.2 million prisoners in the United States-more than any other country in the world. And an estimated 13.5 million more pass through the justice system each year. Including over 100,000 teenagers who are housed in adult facilities.

Sexual violence is a crime that preys on the vulnerable. In some states, children as young as fourteen have been sentenced to adult facilities, and in many cases, they fit the profile of likely sexual assault victims because they are small in stature and inexperienced in the ways of prison. According to experts, teenagers in adult facilities are five times as likely to be sexually assaulted than young people housed in juvenile facilities, and eight times as likely to commit suicide. But while certain characteristics like age, sexual orientation, or physical appearance can increase the likelihood of rape, anyone can be a victim of sexual violence behind bars. Male, female, transgender, young or old, gay or straight, black or white, physically weak or stronganyone. It's up to corrections officials to take steps to prevent it. Stephen Donaldson, the former President of Stop Prisoner Rape, was an antiwar protestor, with no prior history of criminal activity. He died of complications from AIDS, which he believed he contracted as a result of his rape.

And today, when HIV rates among prisoners are estimated to be five to ten times higher than the rest of the population, the risks are even greater.

Most people who want to be tough on crime don't