Category: Blog

Written by incarcerated student, Rob C.

The Indiana Prison Writers Workshop classes at Putnamville Correctional is a place where people change. I have seen many men become betters writers, but I have also known some to become better fathers, sons, and brothers. Some men learn new things about themselves, while others have healed a part of their life. All of these things and more have been made possible through the volunteer work of Tiffany Leininger.

The creative writing class has been a part of my life for four years, and it has certainly made me a better writer and better person. I worked hard to make that happen, but Tiffany’s teaching and dedication have guided me along the way. Her efforts have created an environment that is peaceful and safe, a place where men feel they can open up and not be judged or humiliated. It allows them the opportunity to turn inward and discover new interests, relive and share their favorite life moments, or confront matters that have long been ignored because of the painful memories attached.

I have been involved in many programs led by numerous volunteers over my nearly twenty-five years of incarceration. No one compares to Tiffany in their ability to connect with people and lead them to a better place in their life. She provides a space completely removed from prison that is conducive to growth, creativity, and positive change. Her patience stands out as something unique and refreshing, and her manner in getting guys to be brave with themselves in opening up and exploring new areas is unlike anything I have known.

I am privileged to be in Tiffany’s class and to know her as a person. Her direction has certainly changed my life for the better, and I am deeply grateful for the way she has helped me to grow and see the world in a different way. It has been a special blessing, and she is truly a special volunteer.

Pain is undeniable but suffering is a choice. Living in the material universe demands a certain acquiescence to the limits of form. Pain is not evil or wrong – helpful in fact – only intense in its delivery. Suffering is the result of deciding to ignore or disregard what pain seeks to see made right. I argue that in pain is found truth, and once you subdue your innate aversion to its presence you can gain for yourself its treasure as your own. Pain should be embraced and then allowed to go its way, not to be held too tightly. Pain can only be fully released after its measure is truly taken and its message fully read. Accept your pain, but let go your suffering.

It echoes off the musty, dark walls. The further I try to run from it, the louder it gets. Sadly, I’ve heard this overbearing ‘noise’ since I was a child. At first, I was an innocent little boy, raised by my single mother until the age of six. She was my whole foundation- built on my earliest memories of life with mother always being there.

Then one day, she wasn’t.

“Who’s this?” a curious and confused six-year-old asked, as he stepped out of the guardian home.

A counselor pointed to a group of strangers. “This is your new family.”

This was the moment when I first heard the sound of silence. 

I don’t expect anyone to to understand what the early memories of family togetherness at Christmas means to a person who has been confined in prison for 50+ years. When I was a child in the 40s and 50s we didn’t have lights or ornaments on our tree; we made a colored crayon chain made out of paper and glue, like the ones we used to make in school, and we wrapped it around our tree as decoration. Later Christmases revealed trees with lights, ornaments, and garland. My father, an illiterate, hard-working, self-employed roofer always tried his best to provide. Dad didn’t talk a lot. He was a quiet yet deliberate man. I’ve seen him struggle when he was down but also noticed his generosity towards others when he was doing well and had plenty. He struggled with life because of his lack of education and a bum-leg he acquired from slipping and falling on ice at the age of 29. He never liked taking handouts. At Christmas, our house became as grand-central-station. After the coalman left, neighbors suddenly appeared at our front door. At Christmas, the spirit of thoughtfulness and kindness filled the years and mind of many. I remembered thinking later in life, that if only that spirit prevailed all year long, it would a wonderful world to live.

Owen was obsessed with the little stickers that college football teams put on their helmets. Over the course of the season, players received these stickers for their accomplishments. Owen didn’t have a clue what the specifics were, or if the reward system was individual or team-based? Season after season, as the unquestionable summer sunshine gave way to the crunchy crumbling of orange and brown and yellow leaves of fall- Owen felt like nobody cared but him. Would each tackle by the defense produce a sticker? Or just sacks on the quarterback? Forced fumbles? Owen grew tired of just grunting like a linebacker tackling a running back. Everybody else shrugged him off between plays and sips of beer and awkward crunches of Tostitos. So he did the only logical thing he could think of: he decided to develop his own sticker reward system. Since he didn’t have a football helmet, he used his ’97 Volkswagen Jetta. And since he was sick of stickers, he superglued little toy figures to the hood of his car whenever anybody on his “team” accomplished anything. For job promotions and raises, he glued little army men to the Jetta to symbolize the soldiering through that transpires in places of employment. Whenever his friends announced successful first dates, one-night stands, engagements, pregnancies, marriages-he stuck to the old-school red and blue cowboys and Indians to represent the eternal tension in relationships. And when anybody had the chutzpah to ask him why all those toys were on his car, he would reply “Why do college teams put stickers on their helmets?!” And only the keys in the ignition of the Jetta could break the awkward silence.

I remember growing up wishing that I had more than I did. Times were rough when I was coming up. Son of a single mother that raised seven kids on her own.

I remember learning how to cut grass so I could go to McDonald’s or the corner store to buy candy.

I remember Mom using old bedsheets to make our costumes for Halloween and pillowcases for our candy.

I remember shoveling snow just to buy my mom something for Christmas. I was ten years old.

I remember complaining to my mom about sitting at the welfare office all day long and her telling me “If you don’t go to school and get a career you gon’ have to do this when you get older.”

I remember not getting new shoes for years at a time. I was used to not getting anything new. Mom always made sure Christmas was special though. She always had something under the tree for us. I love her for trying to make us smile.

I remember Mom telling me to lock the door behind her and to open it for no one because she had to go to work. My older sisters and brothers had run away from home.

I remember walking to the grocery store with my mom because she didn’t have a car and having to carry the bags back. She’d tell me “You got it son, show me how strong you are.”

I remember not going on field trips because my mom didn’t have the two dollars. Things were different back then. It made me grateful for everything that I receive.

I remember.

I remember my sister pulling my ears until they popped.
I remember running around the house, curling my lips, singing and imitating Elvis.
I remember pretending to be a working man, fixing things.
I remember the smell of incense and booze mixed with cigarette smoke clouding the air and the night that was to follow.
I remember joining a union at 18 years old and starting my career.
I remember building my own home at 21 years old.
I remember the birth of my firstborn.
I remember smoking cigarettes and drinking beer and that same smell that filled the air.
I remember my first OWI.
I remember the births of my next 2 daughters.
I remember living a beautiful family life.
I remember getting hit by that car.
I remember the pain meds and how they made me feel.
I remember realizing I was addicted. Only no incense, smoke, or smell of booze filled the air.
I remember the darkness that came over as my addiction consumed me.
I remember losing everything. 

My mom and I lived in a small two-bedroom red-brick house. Our front yard had four pine trees and a giant oak that became my hiding spots, forts, climbing domain, and all-around playground. The neighbor to the south owned a plot of land that was humongous to me, as long as two football fields running east and west. At the neighbor’s fence line was another fence separating their yard from a big cow pasture.

Being mischievous (as many children are), I would play in my backyard and have the urge to throw things, thinking I was a great quarterback or some outfielder in the major leagues. So, what better way to perfect my skills than throwing apples? And what better way to measure my success with distance and aim than throwing apples at cows 50 yards away?

The cows seemed to enjoy eating the apples. But my main intention was to hit the cows, like playing dodgeball-except the cows didn’t get the dodge part down. Every now and then, I’d be dead on target and smack a fat cow with my apple ammo. I couldn’t tell if it hurt the cow or just irritated it. After what happened later, I am 100% certain the cows didn’t forget my apple attacks. One day my best friend Brad and I were headed to the wooded trails at the end of our neighborhood.

We decided to hop the fences and take a shortcut through the cow pasture. About five minutes into our journey, I heard a faint rumble in the distance. I stopped, turned around, and looked back to see a stampede of cows running toward us. I didn’t even know cows could run! Brad and I screamed and ran for our lives from the thunderous sound of running and mooing cows.

Finally, we made it to a fence. This was one of those old cow fences with squares of wire six by six inches wide. Good to climb on and over quickly but easy to put a foot through too. In my haste to climb over the fence, my foot snagged, and my shoe fell off, landing in the cow field. There was no time to jump down and get it because the cows were already there. What was the farmer feeding these things? Jeez, they were fast. Were these Olympic cows?

So there I was, one shoe on and one laying directly under one of these giant bovine creatures. The cow seemed to have a personal vendetta against me. Was he the one I routinely pelted with apples from my backyard?

The squares in the fence were large enough to reach through, so I slowly tried to grab my shoe. As I reached in, the mad cow snatched up my shoe and began chewing it like a cud of grass. What the hell? First cows that run, now cows that eat shoes.

Trying to explain to my mom how I lost my shoe seemed more dangerous than any renegade cow. With our day ruined, I took the slow walk of shame back home. This story is my fondest memory of my first home.

I remember growing up wishing that I had more than I did. Times were rough when I was coming up. Son of a single mother that raised seven kids on her own.

I remember learning how to cut grass so I could go to McDonald’s or the corner store to buy candy.

I remember Mom using old bedsheets to make our costumes for Halloween and pillowcases for our candy.

I remember shoveling snow just to buy my Mom something for Christmas. I was ten years old.

I remember complaining to my Mom about sitting at the welfare office all day long and her telling me “If you don’t go to school and get a career you gon’ have to do this when you get older.”

I remember not getting new shoes for years at a time. I was used to not getting anything new. Mom always made sure Christmas was special though. She always had something under the tree for us. I love her for trying to make us smile.

I remember Mom telling me to lock the door behind her and to open it for no one because she had to go to work. My older sisters and brothers had run away from home.

I remember walking to the grocery store with my Mom because she didn’t have a car and having to carry the bags back. She’d tell me “You got it son, show me how strong you are.”

I remember not going on field trips because my Mom didn’t have the two dollars. Things were different back then. It made me grateful for everything that I receive.

I remember and I’ll never forget.

I wonder about the power of strength. Is strength measured by physical stature? Is it mental fortitude, or the ability to endure emotional hardship? My life has been one hardship after another with no big windfalls, or high points – only a constant struggle.

In prison, it was easier to be strong physically and not care mentally as one’s path was laid out, and that used to be my foundation for survival. For better or worse, it was comfortable enough. Now, plagued with uncertainty, I find myself drowning in a world I do not understand and with problems I was never taught to fix. Every job denial – because of my criminal history – is a slap in the face. The cracks in the wall grow deeper, exposing the shadows and darkness within of defeat. Still, I push on.

What will I become? Will I be reduced to nothing and fade away as the light shines upon the places I hide. Will I regress into what I had once become in the name of survival and embark on a mission of self destruction? Or will I rise once again and rebuild with greater strength than before?