The Lifers

Welcome to the Oregon State Penitentiary. Visitors must dress appropriately, or they will be denied admittance. No short skirts, hats, halter-tops, see-through clothing, muscle shirts, low cut tops, camouflage, gang paraphernalia, or the color blue. Women must wear a bra, but should not wear an under wire style as it may set off the metal detector. Money is not allowed in the visiting room.

As of 2008, the OSP was home to 14,300 inmates. And of that 14,300, approximately 30 qualified for the “Lifers Club”. How does one join? The requirements are fairly simple: all members must be well-behaved, personable, and willing to share their stories with strangers. They also have to be convicted murderers.

Les loves to talk. He’s a big man, chubby and bald, with these piercing light blue eyes. He killed a man in his early 20s. It was drug related. He is now 46, and up for parole soon. He has a 21 year old daughter. He did not get to see her grow up. When he gets out, he hopes to be a public speaker. He wants to talk to troubled youth and tell them not to make the same mistakes he did.

Les regrets taking someone’s life every single day. But he realizes he can never atone. “How would you feel if I killed one of your family members? You would hate me forever, right? Sorry just wouldn’t cut it.” His eyes are watery with self-hatred. He alludes to the damage he caused, not only to the victim, but to the victim’s family, and even his own family. “My mom had a new boyfriend. And I felt so bad for her because she had to explain to him about me.”

When Les gets out, his wife will pick him up and escort him home. They were married while he was in prison, with a preacher and a ceremony and everything. The two had been pen pals for months before their friendship grew into love. But, he grins mischievously, they never got to consummate the event. If Les could change one thing about the prison system, that would be it.

But not everyone has such a blissful release to look forward to. If an inmate has no family, he will be given a set of clothes and taken to a bus stop. The clothes are handpicked from Goodwill at a prison guard’s discretion. Les chuckles, “I swear it’s like a joke or something with the guards. This one guy I saw leave with bright yellow pants and a pink shirt on.” But at least they’re free. He smiles wistfully, revealing a row of crooked teeth.

Prospectives

The young woman and what had to be her mother stood in front of the admissions office, deep in conversation. As I approached, they became silent and eyed me expectantly. From my experience as a campus tour guide, I knew that this young woman was a prospective student. There is just something awkward and anxious and refreshingly naive about them that any tour guide can spot from a mile away.
As I inform them about my school project, both mother and daughter relax a little. The young woman, Savannah, seems eager to answer my questions. She tucks a lock of her thick brown hair behind her ear as she recites "We're from Bend. So it's not too far away." I smile, and ask her to tell me about her college search. She shifts her weight and lets out a small sigh. Self-consciously she glances toward her mother, before beginning "Well, it's between this school and another one like it. In Philadelphia." She passionately describes the wonders of this East Coast institution. For an instant my eyes lock with Savannah's mother's, and I can sense a hint of disapproval. Philadelphia was too far away for any parents' nerves.
I shift to a safer topic. Her intended major. "I'm thinking either biology or chemistry. But I'm not sure yet." Her mother quickly interjects "She's pre-med." I nod respectfully.
I catch Savannah staring wistfully at one of the many blooming shrubs on campus, her intense brown eyes surveying the beauty. "I really like it here," she professes. I begin to ask her specifically what it is that she likes, but her mother cuts me off.
"That's the thing with these kids. I mean they're just eighteen years old and they have to make such a huge decision. Based on what? The flowers?"
I nod again. Memories of my own college decision come cascading back to me. "So, Savannah-" I begin. But there is not enough time. Her mother glances at her watch and quickly asserts "Oh. Sorry, we have an appointment that was supposed to start five minutes ago. 'Vannah we need to go!"
Savannah gazes apologetically at me. "Hey, I hope this was enough for your school project."
I smile.
It's enough.

What They Don't Tell You About Driving in the Snow

What they don't tell you about driving in the snow is how little control you actually have. I mean, call me a control freak, but who would willingly choose to be encased in a large metal deathbox weighing thousands of pounds that has the potential to careen out of control at any given moment?

I believe my fear dates back to my tenth birthday. My mother had driven out to my friend's house (who lived so far out in the middle of nowhere that her house had to be powered by a generator) to pick me up from a sleepover. Being a typical Maine February, there was fresh snow coating the gravel roads leading to home (and birthday presents). My mom slowed her maroon minivan to tackle an especially treacherous downhill curve in the road. Suddenly, a rare four letter word spilled from her mouth. "Hold on!" she yelled, frantically trying to get the car to follow the twist in the road, "We're gonna hit the snowbank!"
I braced myself. And then, if things weren't bad enough, a black pickup truck poked its nose around the bend, traveling right for us. My mom emitted another four letter word.
I cringed at the sound of metal on metal, as minivan and truck brushed against each other.
After the police came over an hour later, my mom explained, "I just lost control. There was nothing I could do. That's the scary thing about winter driving."

Could this have been prevented? Let's go to weather.com for some helpful tips for "Driving Safely on Winter Roads":

1. Decrease your speed and leave yourself plenty of room to stop. You should allow at least three times more space than usual between you and the car in front of you.
2. Brake gently to avoid skidding. If your wheels start to lock up, ease off the brake.
3. Turn on your lights to increase your visibility to other motorists.
4. Keep your lights and windshield clean.
5. Use low gears to keep traction, especially on hills.
6. Don't use cruise control or overdrive on icy roads.
7. Be especially careful on bridges, overpasses and infrequently traveled roads, which will freeze first. Even at temperatures above freezing, if the conditions are wet, you might encounter ice in shady areas or on exposed roadways like bridges.
8. Don't pass snow plows and sanding trucks. The drivers have limited visibility, and you're likely to find the road in front of them worse than the road behind.
9. Don't assume your vehicle can handle all conditions. Even four-wheel and front-wheel drive vehicles can encounter trouble on winter roads.

I think it is safe to say (with maybe the exception of number 9) that my mom followed all the rules... That's what I mean about the whole control thing - even if you do everything right, bad things still happen.

When I lived in Maine again for my freshman year of college, I borrowed my roommate's car. It was March. I had convinced myself (after living in snowless Oregon for six years) that maybe my mom was just bad at driving in the snow. I backed my roommate's rusty Volvo out of the parking space with no troubles at all. I confidently grinned at my nervous boyfriend who was visiting at the time. "See," I gloated "I can do it. Stop worrying. I'm not going to kill us."
As I approached the intersection between parking lot and road, I gently tapped the brakes. But the car did not slow. So I tapped them a little more firmly. The car began to skid right into oncoming traffic. Luckily, by some miracle, the car came to a stop right as the front tires kissed the roadway.
"Pull over. I'm driving."
I gladly acquiesced.
For, as weather.com so graciously reminds us: "The best advice for driving in bad winter weather is not to drive at all, if you can avoid it".

Affirmative Action

On February 25, 1987 the Supreme Court decided United States vs. Paradise. The ruling upheld the use of racial quotas in the Alabama Department of Public Safety. This decision opened the door for quotas to be used as an acceptable tool for promoting equality for minorities and women.

Meanwhile in Maine, which is statistically the "whitest" state in the union, I was born. Shielded from the strife of politics and race relations, racism and discrimination were things that I only learned of in books. It wasn't until I went to summer camp when I was 12 that I came into contact with people who were not white. I roomed with some African American girls from Boston, but everyone was so nice to them that I began to think that discrimination was just a myth.

My Grandmother helped me to see otherwise. She was what you would describe as an "old school Mainer". She had a thick accent devoid of R's and had lived in the same town her entire life. She had strong convictions and was never afraid to share them with you. But what made her different from most Mainers (and from most people her age) was her keen sense of equality. She was a staunch supporter of women's rights, which I found out the hard way when I confessed to her just a few months after my 18th birthday that I had not registered to vote. I was in Maine for my freshman year of college and she drove to campus and demanded that I fill out the necessary paperwork immediately. When I told her that I would eventually get to it, I incited a tongue lashing about how women today don't appreciate the rights their foremothers had labored so tirelessly for. Needless to say, I registered.

This past summer I returned to Maine for my Grandfather's funeral. Instead of staying in a hotel, my family was invited to stay in a 100 year old house down the street from my Grandmother's, lovingly dubbed the "Christmas house". It earned that nickname as it was completely decked out in Holiday attire year round. The woman who owned it had another house next door that she lived in, and so this house was used to suit her obsession with Christmas. I marveled at her kindness. She barely knew my family, but she seemed so eager to help. Although I never saw her, she made sure we had clean towels and told us (via my Grandmother) that if we needed anything, all we had to do was knock. One evening I questioned my father about our mysterious hostess.
"Why is she being so nice? Is it just because she's friends with Grandma?"
"It's more than that" he explained, "When I was little, her family was the only black family in town. And well, you know how Maine is. And it was even worse back then. Everyone snubbed them. Except your Grandma, who was always visiting and bringing over pies and stuff, even though people gave her a lot of flack for it. So I think this is her way of thanking your Grandma."

I had never been so honored to sleep in such an eccentrically dilapidated old house. It had character and that's all that matters.

Smurfed

Getting "smurfed" was just a fact of life. I had gotten the little blue stuffed creature God knows when or where and had never really paid it much attention. I rather preferred my cuddle worn canine "Demon" (named after the Doberman down the street) or my fluffy black spider that originated from my Charlotte's Web obsession.

I loved the show though. Whenever "The Smurfs" would come on, my brother and I would gather anxiously around the TV, joyously reciting the theme song. Sometimes my dad would prance by and join in, which I thought was pretty much the funniest thing in the world. I wondered how such an old person could know so much about cartoons.

Truth was, the Smurfs had been around for quite awhile. In fact, they were only a year younger than my dad, with their debut in 1958 in a story illustrated by a Belgian man known as Peyo. Even more intriguing than his name was his rise to fame . After completing school, Peyo narrowed his prospective careers to two options - a dental assistant or an illustrator. Fortunately for myself and thousands of children worldwide, when Peyo showed up at the dentist's office, he was told that he was fifteen minutes too late.

I don't remember how it started. Maybe I initiated it. Or maybe my dad did. All I remember is finding the Smurf in odd places, like on top of my backpack as I grabbed it for school in the morning. Or slumbering peacefully in my doll cradle. When my dad would see me gazing quizzically at the awkward blue man, he would belt out a roaring laugh and shout "You've been Smurfed!"

Peyo's little creations gained fame. In 1976, they starred in the film "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute". In 1981, with a little help from the legendary Hanna & Barbara, their television careers were launched. The Smurfs had gone global.

I had to retaliate. And I did. When he was at work I would plot with my brother about the most creative place to smurf. I would set it on my dad's dresser. Or by the coffee pot. Once, when he was asleep, I snuck down to the garage and placed it in the driver's seat of his Dodge Neon.

As the old adage goes: all good things must come to an end. During Christmastime 1992, Peyo passed away.

We moved to Oregon when I was thirteen. I thought Smurfs were babyish. I thought I would be fine without my old friends. I thought I didn't need my dad's dumb jokes.

Yet, Peyo's legacy still lives on. Even without his guidance, the Smurfs have continued to expand into videos, CDs, and video games. Millions of copies have been sold.

As I crept up the stairs into my desolate new room for the very first time, I couldn't help but crack a smile. And then a laugh. There, propped up on the shelf of my barren closet was that mischievous blue being, welcoming me home.


Smurf facts from: www.smurf.com

Truth

I'm kind of on the fence about this whole issue of where to draw the line between truth and lies in Creative Nonfiction...

As a writer, I can definitely sympathize with the need for embellishment and exaggeration within a piece. It is difficult enough to portray the exact meaning you want your readers to comprehend (regardless of the genre you are writing in). But when you are constricted to only pure, simple facts, this task becomes nearly impossible. Often the events of our lives don't always have some deeper, greater meaning. Even when traumatic and exciting things are happening to us, rarely do we stop and think of the meaning of those events in the heat of the moment. It is only afterwards when we use our flawed memories, and our sense of good storytelling that that meaning is applied. I think that to write without these techniques would make for an incredibly dull and confusing piece of work.

As a reader, however, I crave the truth. It bothers me to read a piece that is labeled nonfiction, only to discover that certain bits of dialogue, or certain emotions/events never really occurred. When I read fiction, I am fine with extended fabrications, mostly because I anticipate them. I know its not real. But when I read nonfiction, I expect it to be the most accurate and honest rendering of events that the author can possibly produce. I want to be able to tell my friends "Hey, listen to this! This actually happened to someone!" If I cannot do this, if I cannot trust the author, I feel cheated.

By the Safeway Starbucks

"Yeah, so I've been working here about a few months. It's pretty nice." He is standing with one foot perched upon the stool, like in a Captain Morgan commercial.
"Oh really?" asked the woman, leaning in. Her frizzy hair and sun-damaged skin gave way to forlorn blue eyes craving a second chance at love.
"Yeah, being the manager is great. You can set your own hours and stuff. You know, it's pretty flexible. And-" he looked down and her with a triumphant grin, "I'm not complaining about the pay."
She chuckled. "I bet not. This seems like a great job."
"But this is only one of my jobs. I work two. For awhile I worked over there at the Best Western, but then I switched to working for NetFlix."
"Oh? Wow, two jobs... that must be hard."
"Yeah, I work a lot. Sometimes its hard, but you know, I'm one of those people who likes a challenge." He straightens his posture, as if to show her the extent of his power.
"Oh...yeah" she laughs nervously, tilting backwards in her seat, causing the chair to creak slightly.
"Yeah.. NetFlix is a pretty fun job."
"So, uh, like how do you actually work for NetFlix. I thought it was all online."
"Nope. There's actually a store out in Hillsboro." He removes his foot from the stool, restlessly shifting his weight.
"Oh, yeah. Now that I think of it, I think I remember seeing one."
"Yeah, that's us. Great place to work."
Suddenly her attention is called away to a pudgy adolescent boy who has been lingering on the outskirts of the conversation. "Daniel, honey. Sit still. Stop moving around so much," she admonishes. He meets her eyes with a vacant stare, and continues in his anxious dance. She turns back to the man with a shrug of apology.
"Yeah so..." he begins, stretching his shoulder muscles, "I gotta get back to work. But I'll see ya around sometime. Nice meeting you."