No Bars To Freedom

Corresponding with convicted rapists and mass murderers, about how being in prison can help their spiritual growth, has got to be one of the more formidable jobs around. Bo Lozoff, a gutsy and thoughtful spiritual teacher, has been doing it for the past eleven years, with rare skill and unerring wisdom, as director of the Prison-Ashram Project. He’s compiled some of the best of these letters in his new book, We’re All Doing Time, excerpts from which are reprinted here.

“I read only about myself and write only to myself,” he acknowledges. “It’s my hope that you, too, will take these letters personally — not so much to understand the writer, but to see more of yourself, of your own journey through life, your own struggles. It all applies.”

Letters have always been the heart of the Prison-Ashram Project, which was set up with the help of the spiritual teacher Ram Dass, and is run by Bo and his wife, Sita, from their Durham, North Carolina home.

“From the very beginning,” Lozoff writes, “when we thought we would be sending yoga/meditation instruction to mostly middle-class, educated inmates, the letters we received taught us how wrong we were on both counts. What was needed was — and always is — much more personal and demanding than mere instruction, and the people who reached out to us were a cross-section of the entire prison population — not just acid-heads in for their first bust.”

We’re All Doing Time is really three books in one. Book One, “The Big View,” is a spiritual primer, Lozoff’s version of “the profoundest common sense, the truths we all know deep in our bones.” Book Two, “Getting Free,” is an instruction manual for quieting the mind and gaining control of your life. Book Three, a “Dear Bo,” contains more than two hundred pages of letters to and from prisoners.

The writing is sincere and straightforward yet never glib. Compassion never is.

A copy of the book will be sent free of charge to anyone in prison or jail. Otherwise, it’s $10 from the Prison-Ashram Project, Route 1, Box 201-N, Durham, North Carolina, 27705.

Thanks to Bo Lozoff for permission to reprint these passages.

— Ed.

[“We’re All Doing Time” is also the title of an interview in Issue 73 (December 1981) — Howard Rubin interviews Bo and Sita Lozoff.]

Dear Bo,

Hi. May God bless all of you lovely human beings at Prison-Ashram. I was transferred from Avon Park here to “The Rock” at Raiford for possession of a .22-caliber bullet and a matchbox of reefer. Needless to say, I was aware of reefer in my cell — but the bullet was not mine or my cell-partner’s and I didn’t know it was in my cell or I would’ve flushed it where things like that belong.

So, I am dead-locked in a cell twenty-four hours a day and come out only for a three-minute shower three times a week. Every time they open the door they handcuff you behind your back and escort you to wherever you are going, blah blah blah; you know the drill, I’m sure. At any rate — how beautiful a monastery this is. I have a cell partner if I feel like talking, and twenty-four hours a day to read, meditate, do yoga, or jerk off!

The book on Gandhi had the tears just rolling down my face as he was such a beautiful human being — so much what most of us would like to be. I only wish I had that kind of real courage and heart and love. But like most violent people I am a coward and my fear causes me to act like an animal — if someone frightens me I get so angry I would kill them. I’m a real mess of a human being and I have stabbed people and set people on fire — and God, do I feel like a piece of shit!

I did not know what or why I was doing all those things for so many years, and that is my only excuse — I was blind and deathly afraid. After more than twenty years of bars and walls I am becoming aware of what real freedom is. I feel more free right now than I ever did in society, and I do have a measure of peace for the first time in my life. I thank God and the AA [Alcoholics Anonymous] and NA [Narcotics Anonymous] programs for that.

I do hope you have time to write, as I really love hearing from you. “May you be in heaven a half-hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”

Love,
Billy Bananas
Florida

Dear Billy,

Nice to hear from you. You know, you said that you were a coward and a real piece of shit, but if that’s so, then who was the sensitive, intelligent human being who was moved to tears by the story of Gandhi’s courage? That takes a lot of courage and openness, too, you know.

I can see feeling bad about a lot of things you’ve done, but watch out you don’t limit yourself now by a bunch of harsh self-definitions that don’t really fit anymore. The most inspiring thing about Gandhi was his total humility, which means that he would see you (as I do) as somebody who has the very highest and the very lowest within him, just like the rest of us.

Many “nice” people on the streets might think they could never stab anyone or set anybody on fire, but you know better than that, don’t you? You know about that terrible side of us all, the part of us that can do unspeakably cruel, perverted things. So did Gandhi, Bill. And so did Christ and every other saint. That’s why we can feel such incredible love from them — because they know it all, and they still love us.

You obviously have no problem in accepting the down-side of your own human nature. But what about the up-side? The fact that the very highest in Gandhi or Christ is also in Billy Bananas, sitting on a cot in Raiford?

A lot of convicts think that people like me and Sita are somehow more in the “center” of the spiritual journey than they are. But nothing could be further from the truth. Your past, your struggle against your demons, are the real battles along your path. The way you work with your life is very important for people like me and Sita to learn from. So don’t feel like you’re on the outer edges or that you’re not really in the club; you’re sitting square in the middle of your journey, and you can go all the way even in twenty-four-hour lockup. All the best, bro,

Love,
Bo

Many “nice” people on the streets might think they could never stab anyone or set anybody on fire, but you know better than that, don’t you?

Dear Bo,

Received your thoughtful and kind letter, and all I can say is WOW! It really feels good to have a letter like that from really beautiful people. I think I can learn a lot from you and perhaps help you on your journey.

At any rate, I am no longer in confinement, but in the N.P. annex, which is the “bug ward,” and they have me on heavy doses of medication, so if this letter is sloppy or incoherent, you know why. I’m not in a position to refuse the medication as I have been on anti-psychotic, anti-depressant meds every day since 1973 and I’ve developed a complete dependence on these drugs; I can’t sleep or relax without them, or at least that’s my excuse.

After more than twenty years of confinement, I have read quite a few books, to put it mildly! The books that have done the most for my head so far are Alan Watts, Kahlil Gibran, Steinbeck, Hemingway, John O’Hara, Albert Camus, Hermann Hesse (especially Siddhartha), Jean Genet, Franz Fanon, Voltaire, Plato, Socrates, Shakespeare, and I could go on and on for at least six or seven pages. I’m sure you realize mine has been a shotgun approach rather than a disciplined, guided journey. I’d appreciate any guidance you can give me along these lines to progress.

Needless to say, although I read, enjoyed, and intellectually agreed with the ideas expressed in these books, they did very little to “reform my character,” so to speak. By the way, my nickname “Billy Bananas” I got from the mobsters in Atlanta Federal Pen, and I have the reputation of being very dangerous and very crazy. I’d like to get away from that type of thinking and action, as it only feeds the irresponsible part of my nature and ego. I also am known by my friends as a loyal and trustworthy person. I stand by my word and try to always mean what I say and say what I mean.

Of course, being a criminal by choice and inclination, I am very fragmented in my personality and can do two completely contradictory actions within the space of a few minutes, and be sincere in both of them 100 percent. This is why most people regard people like me as “phonies,” when in reality we can be quite sincere but totally inconsistent. I am sure you’re aware by now that the average person in prison thinks he owns the world (and owns you too if you write to him). I don’t play those games, as I’m aware of a manipulative part of my own personality. So what it boils down to is that I will attempt to be honest with you down the line and will try not to impose on you. This is new for me, but I am trying, and that is better than the barrage of bullshit I used for dealing with the world for thirty-six years.

I must admit I am high right now on the stimulation your letter gave me, as I have only spent twelve months in society in the past eleven years, and my mind has stagnated because it is hard to find a decent conversation in places like this — and I really try not to get off into “war stories,” as the blend of fact and fiction in them is very evident and rather boring, and I am just as much of a liar as the rest of the people here.

You think I’m hard on myself, but that isn’t true at all; I’m a very self-serving person and am sick of the games I have played my whole life. I have to maintain a constant vigilance and do a moral inventory every day, as if I open the door even a crack, the whole smear comes jumping out in a short time.

Well, I’ll close for now and say with all my heart, “God bless you and yours.”

Peace, love, light,
Bill

Dear Bill,

I think you’re doing great. I’m not trying to say you should let yourself run wild or apply for saint-of-the-year yet; just don’t get too solid about how bad you are, how quickly you’d “jump out” if you opened the door, and so forth. People really do change, you know, all the way down to the bones. All I’m saying is to be open for that kind of change, instead of defining a world in which you’re only all right so long as you keep a tight leash on your evil self. That’s my only complaint about groups like AA and NA; they seem to reinforce an attitude that you’ll always be weak in certain ways. I don’t buy it.

You’ve read about fifty times as many books as I have, so I’m not sure of what “guidance” you’re asking me for. I think it might be a good idea not to keep reading so much, though. What good does it do to read calculus if you haven’t mastered arithmetic? You’ve already read thousands of years’ worth of wisdom from all over the world, and if you think about it for a minute, you’ll realize that the bottom line is always the same: do it, don’t just read about it.

For example, maybe it’s time you gave serious thought to a practical plan for getting off drugs — all drugs, legal or not. Talk to your caseworker or psychologist about cutting down and maybe using yoga or meditation to help keep you cool while you’re doing it. I’d be glad to write a letter or talk to them if that would help.

You get an “A” for self-honesty, which is very important; you’re good at looking at your thoughts and motivations. But you’re not looking deep enough or high enough. You’re not taking personally all the stuff you’ve read. Siddhartha is about you, Bill. All the books are. You can do it; you don’t just have to read, talk, and write about it. You can change. You just have to get out of your head a little; start paying more attention to each moment as it comes and goes. Look at the sky for awhile, and don’t daydream while you do it. Watch a roach crawl across the floor; notice in tiny detail everything he does, the way he moves. Listen to the sounds of the joint as you sit in your cell. Pay attention. Use more of your senses than the mind. It’ll take self-discipline at first, but the rewards will be obvious as time goes by.

The journey is a great adventure, and I think you’re at a big crossroads right now, if you want to take it. I started to write “Think about it,” and then realized that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do. You already do quite enough thinking. Just dive in.

Much Love,
Bo

Donny, a.k.a. Robert Martin, is a published writer who experienced nearly unimaginable horrors being raped more than fifty times in a twenty-four-hour period after being thrown in the D.C. jail due to a political protest. Some years afterward, while in federal prison, he wrote me asking for help in setting up a network of pen pals especially for prison punks. Here is an edited version of that correspondence.

Dear Bo,

My impression after reading your stuff was that sexuality was noticeable for its absence, and that your readers were living lives of enforced (if not voluntary) celibacy. But this is not in accord with my own experiences and extensive knowledge of prison and jail life, which is drenched with sexuality, both consensual and coerced.

Jail punks are more oppressed than any other group within the walls, living lives of abject slavery, sold and traded among the powerful, forced into prostitution, tossed about as footballs and prizes in racial and other power structures, tormented by conflicts over their sexual identity and role, isolated, humiliated, ashamed, and often suicidal. There’s a crying need for someone to reach out to punks, someone who understands oppression.

I am suggesting primarily a network of pen pals. I believe these should in the first instance be heterosexual or bisexual women, ideally young women, both because women are more likely to be able to deal with rape victims and help them to understand the nature of their oppression, and because it is vital that the punks’ need for feminine contact be supported.

I’m ninety-five days into my solitary retreat now, with no end in sight. The period in solitary has been a real blessing so far, but signs of stress are beginning to manifest. More grist for the mindful mill.

May all be happy!
Donny the Punk
Connecticut

Dear Donny,

Certainly the problems of punks are terrible, and need to be dealt with far better than anything that’s currently going on. But your idea for a network of pen pals doesn’t strike me as workable.

It seems to me that this planet can hardly survive one more special-interest group. A feeling of group identity may feel great and be very valuable at first, but it needs to be quickly expanded to an identity with the whole human race. Instead, what’s starting to happen is that in addition to the separateness many of us unfortunately feel due to race, religion, color, or sex, we’re now adding whole new labels by which we can feel disconnected from the person next door. From where I sit, humanity as a whole is not necessarily being brought closer together by this tidal wave of “you can’t understand me unless you’re like me” support groups.

The bottom line is, everyone suffers. Everyone truly knows loneliness, pain, humiliation and defeat. I agree with you that we need to open our eyes more to the suffering of punks, but I don’t think reinforcing their identity as punks is the solution.

I really do feel your compassion and your desire to serve others. My own instincts are that it would be more useful to remind punks that their “punkhood” is not the center of their lives. If they feel that it is, then that’s the problem to work on; see what I mean? Let’s keep in touch and see whether we can figure something out together.

Love,
Bo

Dear Bo,

I am sensitive to the matter of proliferating narrow-issue groups. One important distinction you should keep in mind is that most punks would give their left testicle to escape from that identity. As I envisioned it, the support would facilitate that rather than strengthen the identity. In concrete terms, everyone in his environment treats the punk as a punk. To those on the street who communicate with him, he cannot ever be open about the most important aspects of his life experiences, for fear that knowledge of his “loss of manhood” will spread in his home community. Our hypothetical pen pal would be precisely someone with whom he can discuss everything, yet know that the person outside sees him as a person and relates to him as a person.

Bo, my writing and working on the rape question and the enslavement of punks (and gays) poses a major dilemma for my own spiritual work, though I am hard-put to articulate it. It is work in the plane of duality, of concepts, and everything I do in it reinforces my own identity as a punk, since I am speaking out of experience. It would be a lot easier to just work on my own invisibility and blur my identities rather than sharpen one of them. But compassion must operate on that level, so in a sense it is the old Bodhisattva dilemma of trying to help beings while not losing track of the reality that there are no beings to help.

Perhaps one reason why I work to help other punks in transcending their punk identity is that the destructive results of assuming that identity are all too manifest in my own life — where the identity has become so firmly attached as to be part of my own name, “Donny the Punk.” Oh physician, how to heal thyself?

May all be happy,
Donny the Punk

Dear Donny,

I really value your insights and I’m learning a lot from you, though I still don’t agree with your proposal. In fact, the last paragraph of your letter pushed me further away from agreement than ever.

You mentioned “blurring your identities,” but your spiritual work isn’t a matter of “blurring” anything; if that’s all it were, you could do it with booze or drugs. The spiritual path is not to cling to identities, but let them come and go as necessary. As Ram Dass puts it, “Grab tightly, let go lightly.” It sounds like you’ve grabbed tightly to your punk identity but forgotten how to let go at all. And this has been my concern about your proposal all along.

The other thing is, Bodhisattvas don’t have an “old dilemma.” Bodhisattvas are enlightened people who stick around to help others become enlightened. You and I are simply not in that league. We’re not free enough to “sacrifice” our own development for the sake of others. Anything you do which hurts yourself is not going to be for the good of others. The best thing you can do for others is to get free of all your identities, confusion, and conflicts.

You said that punks need to be able to write about “the most important aspects of their life experiences,” meaning their “punkhood.” But that’s where you and I fundamentally disagree. I don’t see victimization, violence, or sexuality being “the most important aspect” of anyone’s life. It may be the most painful, the most challenging, the most demanding, but not the most important. The most important aspect of any of our lives is to get free. And I hear you yearning to be free, yet then imprisoning yourself once again by signing “Donny the Punk.”

I honestly think the best service you could perform for punks is to struggle free of the stranglehold this identity has on your life. Calling yourself “Donny the Punk” is like somebody calling herself “Susie the rape victim,” or “Sammy who always gets mugged.” If other cons cruelly call you that, that’s one thing; but for you to wear it like a badge is quite a different matter.

I really, really feel for your suffering and send you all my blessings for your work. Your mind is sharp and your will is strong, and I have faith that someday you’ll be able to cross this ocean of pain, and then be able to help many, many other people across as well.

Love,
Bo the human

Writing letters of encouragement to Maury, I’ve had to keep in mind that he spends every day of his life in a cell smaller than my bathroom, surrounded by people who fear and hate him. I’ve had to remember that the only human touch he ever experiences are the hands which cuff his own.

Maury Logue, #89201 at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, is a very bright guy and a gifted artist. He’s also considered to be one of the most dangerous convicts in the country. He’s stabbed so many other inmates that now he’s on twenty-four-hour lockup and is hand-cuffed even to be led to the shower three times a week. He’s been on lockup longer than any other convict in Oklahoma, with no end in sight.

We first heard from Maury around 1975. He wrote intelligent, gentle letters and sent us some of his artwork. At some point over the next four years, a terrible bitterness ate into Maury’s heart like sulfuric acid, burning a deep, smoking hole which was more painful than he could bear. Now, because of his violence in the past few years, Maury has so much time piled on top of his original sentence, he doesn’t expect to ever see the streets again — unless he escapes.

Writing letters of encouragement to Maury, I’ve had to keep in mind that he spends every day of his life in a cell smaller than my bathroom, surrounded by people who fear and hate him. I’ve had to remember that the only human touch he ever experiences are the hands which cuff his own.

I have no interest in helping Maury to “cope” or play mind-games with himself in order to survive. I see myself as his second in a duel — just holding his cloak, reminding him of his truest weapons, and wondering, with a good deal of awe, just how well I would fare on the same field of battle.

This chapter begins in 1979, with Maury’s first written description of his vicious transformation.

Dear Bo,

Since as far as I know, you and your family are the only people on Earth who sincerely care for the people, the poor people who are confined in teeny tiny cages like animals, it is to you I wish to pour out some of my pent-up feelings concerning society in general.

I stole $25 in an unarmed robbery. I was later apprehended, and sentenced to twenty-five years in a rusted-out cage . . . simply to “rehabilitate” me (according to the prison authorities). Society supports these cages which house only indigent people! Society is a malevolent mass of morons as far as I’m concerned! I have a friend in here who got drunk one night, thrown in a jail cage, and ended up kicking the toilet off the wall. The courts sentenced him to twelve years in a cage to “rehabilitate” him! At $10,000 per year, per prisoner, that toilet will cost $120,000. Think of all the poor people that money could feed! The state is willing to waste $120,000 to get revenge on a drunk for destroyin’ a stinkin’ toilet! You see, in Oklahoma a toilet is held in higher esteem than twelve years of a man’s life! In a materialistic country like America it’s considered a terrible thing to steal money, but it’s OK to put poor people in cages and leave them there until they go mad, and then release them on society!

I was a robber when I entered prison, and now after only four years of being “rehabilitated,” in a cage, I am contemplating becoming a sniper when released. Society has gotten its revenge on me . . . they’ve shown me revenge is the righteous, holy way . . . that the only way to “rehabilitate” people is to punish, punish, punish! So after completing a four-year course in “rehabilitation,” I want to spread this “divine rehabilitation” to our wonderful society! Yes, just as the authorities have attempted to ameliorate me by punishment, so in like manner I do wish to ameliorate society by punishment! I have reached the inevitable conclusion that society is insane! They must be exterminated, beginning with the “leaders.”

Now, I can’t afford to purchase cages to put society in like they do the poor. Instead, I can only afford a high-powered rifle with a scope. I will simply blow the tops of their skulls off. It will be quick and efficient, and it will have an auspicious deterrent effect on all aspiring lawyers, judges, D.A.’s, and politicians.

Perhaps you might even think I’m just “talking.” I can assure you I intend to do everything I’ve said I would, and then some!

I love speaking to you, Bo, for you listen, and you don’t go for the lie that society does, that they’re too pure, too innocent to associate with us “bad ones.” The only thing that separates convicts from society is the fact that the convicts got caught! Society . . . there’s not a single one of those pompous assholes that hasn’t broken a law or two. Not a one of them is innocent!

Hey, the authorities only “blew” $40,000 tax dollars to convert a small-time robber into a big-time sniper! (Me.) I’m soooo very, very grateful for all the “rehabilitation” they’ve given me to make this possible! Will the joys of incarceration never cease?

Luv,
Maury

Dear Maury,

Sounds like heavy times for you. I really hope you’re feeling better than when you wrote. Getting out and killing people is quite a bit different from the kinds of things we seem to have had in common so far. I mean, what is it about my family that you love so much? Whatever you admire and respect in us also exists in you. If you love it in us, then you’d like to be that way, too.

Your anger and bitterness are excess baggage that you can no longer afford to lug around with you. I really do understand your pain and anger, and wanting revenge on those people who have made your life so miserable. But if you go kill a few people, then those people will simply check out of this life and take birth again, and you’ll probably be killed in the process and have to take birth again, too. The world will go on much the same as before, with a little more suffering, rather than any less. And then you’re born into that world of greater suffering, which means you may have it even tougher than you did this time; and maybe you go to prison again, and get out again, and kill some more people, and get killed again, and take another birth, and suffer more. . . . Maury, aren’t you tired of it yet?

There’s really no such thing as “society.” There’s a bunch of scared, lonely people who seem like an organized society, but we’re not. And you and I are as much a part of it all as anyone else. So if you’re going to start shooting, you may as well shoot me, Sita and Laxmana first.

We’re friends, and to me that means we don’t have to pull any punches with each other. Take the luxury of being absolutely straight with me, and know that nothing you say or do will change my love for you. You’re my brother, even if I think you’re full of shit.

Love,
Bo

Dear Bo,

Thank you, dear friend, for taking the time to write to me. As for my aspirations of becoming a proficient sniper — you seem to have misunderstood my motive. You seem to think I’m “vindictive.” On the contrary, I want to repay society for all the “kindness,” “compassion,” and “obvious concern” they’ve shown me. I want to “help” them. Do you see?

You’re wrong in your assumption that the world will go on much the same as before, after I pick off a myriad of “leaders.” For it will start a “fad.” America will be like Italy. There are many anarchists in America waiting for someone to kick it all off. I shall be that one.

You’re wrong again in your assumption I might be slain and have to reincarnate in this miserable terrestrial realm. By your philosophy I can tell you’re familiar with the Bhagavad Gita. Well, in it there is such a thing as akarma — action without fruitive reaction! It’s when you are in KRSNA consciousness, which is exactly what I’m in!

Bo, why don’t you “help me” to “help society?” Take a gun, pick out your “friendly” neighborhood district attorney, or judge, and simply exterminate the ugly body that confines his wretched, unclean soul?

DO YOU WISH TO HELP?? REALLY HELP?? THEN DO IT!!!

Luv,
the “rehabilitated one,”
Maury

P.S.: Definition of a politician — that’s a person who’s got what it takes, to take what you got!

Dear Maury,

Sorry, but I just can’t buy your trip about wanting to kill people. First of all, you and I are very far from being in the state of “Krishna Consciousness.” That’s the same as being in Christ consciousness; it’s a state of pure Love, a love so profound and intense that you see beauty in everyone and everything. Maury, you’re angry and bitter and hurt, and your own hatred is driving you up the wall. You could kill everyone in the world, and you’d still be sitting there, the biggest loser of all, because you have no peace.

You don’t have to keep explaining to me how unjust and unfair society is; I know all about that, I assure you. Meanwhile, when you really come to understand karma you’ll see that no one ever gets away with anything. Everyone pays for their unkindness and unfairness, and you don’t have to be the fool who delivers their punishment. That’s just more karma for you.

I know they’ve done awful things to you, Maury. I really do. And if you just want to strike back in some way, of course there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But let’s cut out the bullshit about it being spiritual or holy, all right? Bitterness and revenge are not going to get you closer to God. It just makes you more like the people you hate.

When are you going to let it sink in that what I tell you is for your sake, not for the sake of the people you hate? I’m not defending anyone’s actions or misdeeds; I’m just trying to help out a brother who’s in an incredible amount of pain. All this stuff about love and peace is not just head-trips for goody-goodies. It’s the heaviest, most revolutionary message in town, only for super-strong dudes who see that they can’t let other people’s trips drive them crazy. So far, you’re just not as strong as you want to be. And you know it, bro.

I love you,
Bo

Dear Bo,

If you think I’m one of those “phonies” who just talk big, all you need do is examine my prison records and mental asylum records. Since the last time I wrote you, I’ve stabbed three reprobates, beaten a myriad of others, and put several on protective custody. I don’t like fools, I have no patience or sympathy for them. I haven’t actually killed anyone yet, but it’s only been because I was dragged off before I finished the job. All my life, fools have provoked me. I’m quiet, introverted, and a curiosity to them. Thus, they seek to “test” me. They only need test my mettle one time and they will immediately realize they made a fatal mistake!

I meet their arrogant, bold, stupid, otiose threats with a smile cold as ice. And when the doors open to the cages I’ll still be smiling as I stroll into their cage with a nice long razor-sharp knife. I grin all the way through the stabbing . . . their screams are music to my ears! The horror on their faces is testimonial to their newfound respect for me. I experience no remorse in eliminating human pests.

It’s a law of the jungle! Only the craftiest, toughest, most dangerous of men is treated with the deference he rightly deserves. Not only did my dad beat me as a child, but so did groups of older boys. Since I’ve been in here, eight big guards (goon squad), armed with clubs the size of baseball bats, attacked me in my cage. I hurt three of them, and knocked two completely out of my cage. One was knocked out and quit his job. I eventually was “subdued” . . . and naturally beaten and scarred for life. After my arms were cuffed behind my back and my legs shackled, I was beaten and kicked again. I was bruised from head to toe. Do you think that will change my mind about exterminating as many advocates of prison that I possibly can?

No mercy offered, and none shall be given. And my record speaks for itself.

“Love,”
Maury

Maury obviously wasn’t asking for (or taking) my advice on how to get his head straight. And yet, it’s always been clear that he wanted to keep our connection going. I didn’t especially feel like reading letter after letter of his violent hatreds, so I tried to slant our correspondence more toward his artwork and the family stuff he related to, like building our house.

He began sending a lot more of his artwork. But still, in every letter Maury wrote was at least a passing mention of stabbing or killing people, and a lot of racist jokes. And in my every response, I let him know that I thought he was a few quarts low. We’ve stayed straight with each other right down the line.

Once, after reading one of his super-angry letters, I wrote out a short fairy tale that I asked him to illustrate for me. I called it “The Convict and the Kittycat,” and it must have hit him just right, because he opened up quite a bit. This was his response; the illustrated story follows.

Dear Bo,

I’m very impressed by the concise, heart-rending short story you wrote about the kittycat. That story really “touched home.” It’s very prison-oriented, for many prisons have cats for mascots. We had a legend here named “canteen Tom,” one tough ol’ perverted tomcat (he raped skunks — true!).

Bo, you impressed me with your sensitivity. Never since I read Kahlil Gibran have I encountered a male who is evolved enough to express such sensitive feelings! I really HATE “men;” they’re crude, fatuous, bellicose, vulgar — I regard men as dirty, filthy, brute beasts who are incapable of rational behavior.

You, Bo, really surprise me. You’re an exception to my opinion of men. You’re more highly evolved; you function upon a superior level of consciousness than the majority of men do.

Hey, Bo, I felt my ego was dead — but when I got that issue of the Prison-Ashram Project newsletter and saw my envelope art on the cover — gosh, what a LIFT! It copied so well it looks better than my original!

I love you folks like you’re kin of mine — and that’s ’cause violent as I am, I identify with your level of consciousness. Just remember, I’m a reflection of everyone I meet. Those who come to me with sensitivity and compassion and intelligence receive back the same from me. Those who come to me in ignorance and violence get back the same — ten times worse. Y’all take care,

Love,
Maury

Maury went on to talk about his growing friendship and respect for two women psychologists, Charlotte and Brenda. He refused to speak to any men. However, much to his dismay, Charlotte and Brenda had both resigned by the time I got his letter. He was still in touch with Brenda via mail, but now she was no more directly available to him than I was.

He also sent me a newspaper article from the Tulsa Tribune (June 14, 1983), which featured him and another lock-up inmate under the title “Hate-filled Convicts Become Like Animals.” Maury was clearly proud that the article described him as one of the most dangerous convicts in the state. But what struck me more was the remarkable likeness between the newspaper photo of him and the character he drew for “The Convict and the Kittycat.”

The illustrations for “The Convict and the Kittycat” are available as a PDF only. Click here to download.

THE CONVICT AND THE KITTYCAT

Once upon a time, there was a convict — a very mean, tough, nasty, bitter convict who hated everyone and everything.

Well, actually there was one thing in the world he didn’t hate: a small, black and white, funny-looking kittycat who lived all around the prison.

But of course, the mean, tough, nasty, bitter dude had an image to live up to, so he had to hide his feelings for the little kittycat, which he managed to do very easily. He was excellent at hiding his feelings.

The kittycat didn’t know anything about images or hiding feelings, though. In fact, she didn’t even know the place was a prison, so she walked around every day feeling purrfectly free and comfortable, friendly and trusting to everyone except for a very few sicko-types who tried to mistreat her or do weird things to her.

And so, one day this funny-looking black and white kittycat strolled over to the bench on the yard where our mean, tough, nasty, bitter man sat every day thinking all his terrible thoughts, and she began rubbing against his shoes and purring very loudly.

She looked up into the convict’s face with her light green eyes, which were more innocent than anything he had ever seen. She had two white cheeks and a black raccoon-mask around her eyes, and a ridiculous little tuft of black fur under her mouth, like a tiny goatee on her white neck.

Now, it’s pretty hard to feel mean, tough, nasty and bitter when you’re looking at a trusting little face like that. He might have done it, though (because he was so good at it), if it hadn’t been for the little black goatee. That was just too ridiculous, and his face broke into a wide grin before he could stop himself.

The mean, tough, nasty, bitter convict reached down and picked up the kittycat and put her on his lap, stroking the top of her furry little head while she kept adjusting herself on his lap, as cats will do, purring all the time.

And all the other convicts, secretly watching from the shadows, smiled and felt new hope for themselves, though none would dare admit it.

THE END
(of our tail)

As we kept writing, every now and then he seemed to be softening:

Dear Bo,

Mahatma Gandhi said prison is a place for robbers, “but for me it’s a temple.” I admire Gandhi — he’s intrepid! The authorities tried to hire an assassin to waste Gandhi in prison. Gandhi heard about it and confronted his would-be assassin and said, “I hear you’re looking to kill me, so I delivered myself to you.” And the killer turned away shamefacedly from this little ninety-pound, toothless, brave little man. Gandhi’s spirit got BIG HEART.

Bo, I confess you’re right about my needle being stuck on violence. I need to get my mind off this hole for awhile! Violence is becoming the total content of my thoughts! Bo, I’m really starting to “lose it.” I have a permanent anxious/panicky feeling I’ve been experiencing lately. I used to get it about twice each year but it would leave after a couple of days. But this time it’s lasted three weeks and is intensifying. It’s the same kind of panic one would feel after awakening in a coffin underground. I’m not exaggerating; that’s how intense it is. I’m introverting more each day. . . . Once my introversion is complete, I shall mentally ostracize myself from this entire world and its worthless inhabitants — I shall never speak or write to another person as long as I live. My request for correspondence is the cry of a drowning man reaching out for a little assistance — before the final descent into . . . madness.

Later,
Maury

Dear Maury,

I feel bad that you’re in such low spirits. You’re my friend and I love you. I just wish you could see that your own hatred-and-violence trip is killing you; it’s not just being in the hole, I swear! I do believe you’re going to succeed in driving yourself crazy if you keep trying so hard. Do you think it’s just a coincidence that you’re losing your mind, and your mind is filled with hatred? When are you going to cop to what’s happening?

You’ve definitely succeeded in making the point that you’re a big, dangerous man. So now what? You’re going to be awfully embarrassed when you die and look around the astral planes and see that the size of your arms and color of your skin meant nothing at all. You say you respect Gandhi so much, but then you live exactly the opposite of everything he stood for. (By the way, his biceps were skinny and his skin was brown!)

Listen, Maury, you and I have been friends for a lot of years now and you have to admit I’ve never tried to change you forcibly. And even now, I’m not doing that, so don’t get me wrong. The only reason I’m harping on this stuff is that you’re the one who keeps writing me that you’re coming apart at the seams. I hurt when you hurt; that’s how it is with friends. It’s like I’m watching you butt your head up against the wall, and you keep crying that your head hurts. You and you alone — not the prison, not the hole, not your past — are responsible for the state of your own mind. Nobody, including me or Brenda, will be able to save your sanity if you keep up this super-macho, super-bitter routine which you’ve perfected. You’ll just shut me and Brenda out eventually, claiming that we’ve become “ignorant” or something.

There’s an old saying: the only way out is through. You’ve got so much pain to unlock and let go of; it’s going to be tough and scary, but you can do it right where you are. The inner journey is more real than anything else you’re experiencing, and there is relief from everything that hurts so badly.

We’re praying for you, pal.

I love you,
Bo

Maury replied with some great sketches and a note saying he felt a little better, having found a new (woman) pen pal and therefore some “escapism” from the hole. He closed with:

I’m trying to re-adjust to the conduct espoused by you and Brenda — I’m making an honest attempt. I shared your letters with Brenda; she cheers everything you say (especially where you said I was a few quarts low when it came to violence and racism). It’s like listening to an echo, both of you are giving me the same advice. Between her and you, I’m succumbing to your peer pressure. For I know both of you love me and know what’s best for me. I haven’t taken advice from anyone in years. But I know you and Brenda are right. Trying to clean up my act. Heh heh.

Love,
“too cool fool,” Maury

In early April, 1985, Maury was stabbed to death by two other inmates while taking a shower. Though this chapter was already in press, the printer has kindly included this note so that we may all take Maury into our hearts and wish him well on his journey.

We love you, Maury, and we hope you’re enjoying the freedom you longed for. We’ll miss you.

Dear Bo,

Thanks for the books and magazines. Within one of the magazines you sent, a question was raised to which I would like to find the answer. The question was how to combine the search for higher consciousness with social and political action. This is a question that has been dogging my mind for the past few months and occurs most frequently whenever I discuss my spiritual quest with my Afro-American brothers.

I would sincerely appreciate it if you would send me some advice that would aid me in understanding and resolving this troubling question.

Have a happy day,
Horace
New York

Dear Horace,

I read you loud and clear. This dilemma comes up for most of us who want to be spiritual seekers and yet have a social conscience. The only problem lies in seeing the two as somehow being in conflict with each other. They’re not. In fact, social/political action needs a personal spiritual basis; otherwise, each “new order” quickly becomes as corrupt and insensitive as the one it replaced.

Let me give you an example. In 1967, Sita and I were helping out in a labor strike in Blue Ridge, Georgia, against Levi-Strauss & Co. (Levi jeans). It was a classic “company town” situation: Levi had come in with promises of jobs, revenue, etc., and so the county had given them a building for their factory and all sorts of tax cuts. Once they had gotten established, Levi operated under the philosophy of taking as much as possible from the people and town, and giving back the least possible return.

After a few years of broken promises and management abuse, the women got up the courage to strike, and it was a violent one. Levi goons even burned down the union steward’s home and ran over a picketer with a car. But everyone pulled together. They rebuilt the steward’s home in a matter of days; they welcomed my brother and Sita and me along with other civil rights organizers to give them advice and strategies. In their struggle, these all-white mountain people opened their minds and hearts to blacks, Jews, and hippies (some of them had met blacks in their lives, but they had never even seen a Jew or hippie!).

But then a funny thing happened in Blue Ridge, something we had never before experienced in our years of marching and organizing and boycotting: complete success. The women got a large grant from a New York philanthropist to open their own co-op sewing factory, so they kicked Levi out of town and took over the factory. My brother stayed for a year to help train the women in how to manage their factory. Everything was absolutely perfect.

When Sita and I came back occasionally to visit, we noticed that the women seemed jealous of one another’s positions in the co-op; we heard snickering and snide remarks about long hair and beards; we even heard racism re-emerging from the very people who seemed so “radicalized” during their struggle. We heard conversations about color TV’s and stereos and new trucks. We no longer heard any mountain wisdom about how all people are equal or how people of all colors and regions need to band together for mutual support. In short the strike was over.

We had to face the fact that what we thought we were doing is not what we were actually doing in Blue Ridge. The fault wasn’t with the people of Blue Ridge, it was that we wanted to change the world, but we didn’t have much wisdom in how to do it. We helped the people to become uptight, greedy middle-class Americans. All they had wanted in the first place were better pay and working conditions; it was our assumption they would become revolutionaries if we helped them to get those things.

Before Blue Ridge, it was easy to be noble freedom-fighters battling against tyranny — easy simply because we knew we’d never really win. We never had to face the possibility of becoming the people in power. Blue Ridge forced us to look at ourselves and our brothers and sisters in the movement, and ask whether the world would be any better off if we suddenly got all the power we fought for.

Look around where you are, Horace, and ask yourself that question with regard to your revo brothers. Do you think they’d run a good prison? A good country? Do you think they’d be able to wrestle with the incredibly complex issues of fairness and justice and power to all?

Look at what happened to the Russian Revolution. Look at what’s happened to the American labor movement. When there’s no personal, spiritual growth accompanying political change, the oppressed become the oppressors not long after their victory. It’s happened all through history, and we can look at some of the African and South American nations and see it happening every few years.

Spiritual work is important for all of us. It’s most important for people who are trying to change society. Sitting alone in your cell to meditate, you’re not copping out on the “struggle;” you’re taking responsible steps of preparation.

To shoot his arrow north, an archer has to draw the bowstring south in order to create power. Same thing with a spiritual activist: in order to create external change, we first have to develop the internal power and wisdom so that the change we create is good and lasting. Angry minds don’t understand this.

Love,
Bo