Prison Pen Pal B53728

You've got a friend....

It starts with letters.

Vowels combine with consonants to form words. And then the magic happens. We learn to spell “Dear” and dare to write it at the top of a page preceding a name. We give ourselves and others the gift of human connection.

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Already a letter-writer, I arrived on campus at age 17 for my first year of college. I embraced the off-campus culture of the co-ed dorm and the off-beat nature of Isla Vista, the college town adjacent to the University of California Santa Barbara. I wrote lots of letters to my good friend Lila (not her real name) back home (a senior in high school who would be my roommate next year). I would annotate the dining hall menu with culinary commentary, circle the picture of a bong on a dorm-party flyer, and cut out an ad for an off-campus bar called the English Department. The school newspaper, The Daily Nexus, delivered a wealth of quirky personal ads, protest rally announcements, and the daily Doonesbury comic strip—all within scissors-snip reach. Every week or two, I’d splurge on a small Manila envelope and fill it with all those fragments of my college life accompanied by a multi-page handwritten letter about cute guys in my classes and how hard Chemistry was. Sometimes it required more than two stamps, but it was always worth the price. Strange as it may seem, Lila’s the one who made me do it.

History lesson: In 1976-1977, a first-class postage stamp cost 13¢. A long-distance phone call, however, cost about 75¢ for the first three minutes. After that, per-minute charges added up quickly and varied by distance, time of day, and even day of the week—you needed a multi-variable algebraic equation just to figure it out! College students could do the math, but those of us on financial aid could not afford to phone a friend.

Sometime after spring break, Lila wrote, “You know that personal ad from the guy in prison looking for a pen-pal? Well, I wrote to him and he wrote back.” I just about choked on my glass of milk in the cafeteria. I had clipped out the ad as a joke, never expecting her to write to a man in federal custody!

Lila was still corresponding with Jim (not his real name) when she and I moved in together. By then we knew him as an intelligent guy studying criminal justice at the minimum-security facility just up the coast. Lila was a political science major, so she and James discussed their common interests. She was careful to drop in the occasional “my boyfriend and I” reference so James wouldn’t get any ideas.

But I had an idea. I wrote a note to James asking if he had a friend there who might like a pen-pal. I gave a little background on myself. I must have said I was a psychology major thinking about working with special ed kids and for some reason told him my sister lived in Australia. I did not send him my photo. [Story continues, below.]

Thus began the U. S. Mail exchange between James’s friend, Greg (not his real name), P. O. Box A-E, San Luis Obispo and me, P. O. Box 11328, Santa Barbara, California. Greg’s first letter arrived in a pink envelope postmarked April 10, 1978.

Hi Andi: At first James was a little puzzled about whom to have write you but then it was discovered that you work with the mentally handicapped children. Since I am the only one on the tier he gave me your address. Actually I know a bit about Lila from James who talks about her from time to time; he and I have some of the same classes, we live on the same tier, exercise as a team, and sit around telling each other fabulous lies of the good old days.

I learn several things about Greg from his 3-page, single-spaced, typed letter. He is a Viet Nam war veteran who had a wild, boozy R&R in Sydney, Australia. He has taken enough college courses in prison to earn 44 semester units toward an associate’s degree; and he is learning the heating and air conditioning trade. He also has friends whose only child has cerebral palsy and he loves kids but figures with his record he won’t ever work in a school.

Greg ended the letter, “I get the idea that you are a very intelligent woman from your writing and I find that very attractive, [sic] I am looking forward to getting to know about you, exchanging ideas, and being your friend. Will try to get you a picture soon.” I ignored the letter’s trail of red flags, focusing instead on the “Take care, God bless” closing and a pencil drawing of a funny face with spirals for eyes and a conversation bubble that says “This makes it official.”

I was a little uncomfortable, but felt obligated to continue the correspondence. Besides, I liked being thought of an “intelligent woman.” I didn’t tell my mother about my new pen pal, but what could she say? My step-dad had served time, after all!

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For ten years, Greg and I regularly exchanged letters and postcards. I sent him care packages a couple of times, but never money. I never visited him (despite having been invited), and I don’t think I ever sent him a photo of myself. I followed his behind-bars career as he did time in minimum security, maximum security, and mental health facilities, grateful for the years I could hide behind a P. O. Box address and didn’t have to tell him where I actually lived. You’ll be able to read more about our correspondence in upcoming Substack posts, though I won’t write about him every time.

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Letters to Prison

When you’re seventeen
   you don’t know any better,
so when you read a personal ad
in the Daily Nexus
—Pen Pal Wanted—
you write a letter
even though the name
has a long number after it
and the P.O. Box address
in Lompoc, California
follows the words
“Minimum Security.”

You’re excited when the first letter arrives
   from B53728
but you know
from the code stamped in black ink
inside the envelope
you’re not the first one to read its contents.

In colored pencil
he’s drawn you a picture of a teddy bear
with a heart on its chest inscribed
        “Please Bear With Me”
and because you’re seventeen
you think it’s cute and sad.

He tells you
how much he misses his family in Iowa,
his old blue Camero convertible,
and his buddies, outside,
and signs his letter
Your Friend.

You write back
in your best handwriting
adding a few little flourishes—
   a smiley face here,
   a star, there.

You tell him all about school
   your courses, your roommate,
   the dorm, the dining hall.
You never hint at family matters
     like divorce, mental illness, alcoholism—
trying to stay upbeat
for his sake.

After a few months
of weekly correspondence
he asks you to send a Christmas package. You agree.
He sends you the mailing instructions, an authorization form, 
and a list of allowable items:
        beef jerky
        Slim-Jim sausages
        smoked cheese
        Hershey’s chocolate bars (no nuts)

After final exams,
   you hitch a ride home with friends,
   and stay at your mom’s.
Once home, you buy all the food
   and put it carefully in a box.
But you get lazy or busy and forget to mail the package
until the last day of the year.

Back at school,
   a letter is waiting.
January 10
B53278 is upset.
You can tell by his handwriting,
        small, tight script in dark, smeared pencil.

He says that because of you,
        he got nothing for Christmas.
If you’d bothered to read the instructions,
you’d have known he’s allowed only one package per month.
Yours was supposed to arrive in December.
It didn’t.
When his sister’s early January care package came,
the prison refused delivery because your box got there the day before.
And you’re supposed to be a college student. Can’t you read?

His anger frightens you,
and for the first time you wonder why he’s in prison,
and when he’ll get out.

You cry.
You write a short apology,
thinking he probably never wants
to hear from you again…
praying he never writes you another letter.

But spring arrives
along with hope, forgiveness, and a letter from B53278.

You turn eighteen and write to him about your party.
You offer to send him an Easter box,
        but he says
        never mind.
Then months of silence.

A thick envelope appears.
You recognize the handwriting,
and the number,
but the San Quentin address is new.

He did a stupid thing, he confesses.
Got into it with a guard.
They transferred him to 
Maximum Security,
starting with a couple of months
in Solitary.
He wants out of his hell-hole
and he thinks he knows how. 

You don't want to know.
Not today.
Not ever.

Originally published in When East Was North (2012)