What does it take to touch the heart of a man?
Comforting memories for prisoners can be haunting because whatever provided comfort was stripped away. It’s not easy to accept hard truths, leaning into accountability. It’s difficult to accept the reality of what each day in here represents, especially in light of how precious every day actually is.
Assuming a man feels that way. At 25, facing the prospect of a Life Sentence just didn’t make sense. Oh, I understood the technical language. How I would have to do 30 years flat time to become eligible for parole. Yet parole isn’t guaranteed. Trying to imagine what it would take to reach the age of 55, and who I’d be, was impossible. That mountain was too high.
It has become a much different view these days. My time sheet informs me that I’ve served nineteen years and two months “flat time.” So, twenty years come October. Leaving ten years until parole. I reflect often. I have plenty of “time” to do so, hmm? It matters — all the struggles I endured. Time hasn’t been wasted, and yet I’m not sure the man I am now is who I need to be.
I consider that as I interact with others. Discussions, telling stories, listening to what is shared. All of it teaches me. I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes along the way, but I’ve also learned how to see past symptomatic expressions. There is depth in every man, where scars abide, or open wounds fester. I sense them as I once recognized my own. The suffering touches my heart, and I feel drawn to stand in the trenches whenever possible to encourage and inspire.
Maybe it’s futile, like some suggest. That some people will never change or are too far gone. Too broken. Best to give up, right? What if you were one of the broken, though? Dealing with neurodivergence requires extraordinary patience, humility, and compassion. The grace needed to stand with those struggling with mental storms requires degrees of compartmentalization that are beyond the norm. Because the moment anyone seeking to “help” begins to feel personally attacked, suffering rules.
I once cleaned cells, leaving them as gifts for whomever came behind me. I used to move weekly, making it difficult to form close relationships or lasting bonds. Didn’t stop me from trying. My mind is filled with stories. There seems to be a constant dramatic production running in my subconscious.
I choose to remember because my heart was touched. When confided in I cared. When asked for help I responded. I cooked or made cakes, but not regularly. Not enough to establish a worthwhile tradition.
Then one day I stopped moving.
Now it’s Meals Without Wheels, a Taco Sunday tradition to share hope. To let men know they are not alone or forgotten. The responses are varied, of course, but I’ve never had anyone say “no” to a grilled taco creation! I take my time, dedicating the day to serving, and that willingness to invest in others causes pain. Of course it does. Kindness and misery always war with each other. Yet a threshold of release is reached with each bite taken. The crunchy, seasoned tortilla, layers of food, cheese and toppings. Time and presence, my effort and commitment. I offer them willingly, and I receive spiritual enrichment through the process.
For all those reasons each taco represents more than food. As sacrifice and investment, they are words conveyed through aroma and flavor. They evoke memories, opening doorways in the mind. Tacos are something to look forward to but acts of kindness can be feared by those entrenched in darkness.
Hence the no wheels part. I’m not going anywhere. For better or worse, the tacos are a gift that can’t be earned, bought, or lost. I strive to be consistent to counter how men have been abandoned. Yes, they burned bridges and live transactionally as master manipulators craving acceptance and a sense of purpose as hungry ghosts. But they’re still worth showing up for and investing in.
The paradox of prison is any suggestion that right and wrong can be absolutely identified or defined. Simply put, if I started with the base assumption men in here are wrong or bad, then it would be easy to condemn and write them off as worthless. Deeper truths exist, however, because change is possible. Rehabilitation does transform lives, guiding men and women with scars from broken pasts towards channeling failure into a success that is fundamentally needed in society. How to endure hardship. How to overcome. The wisdom gained through traumatic experience. Paid forward they become gifts of instruction and guidance to lift others out of suffering. But only if the paradox is acknowledged and addressed.
That is why I’ve worked hard to develop methods of communicating in diverse ways. As Neil deGrasse Tyson said, “It isn’t enough to be right, you have to be effective.” I don’t have all the answers, and I recognize there are people who won’t listen to what I say.
They’ll accept food, though.
When it is hot and fresh of the grill, crunchy and all things nice, words are irrelevant. But they do come out.
“Tell Daniel to stop putting crack in these!”
“This is the best taco I’ve have in 20 years of being in prison!”
“Oh my God! I don’t know how you get them so crunchy. Flavor all the way through.”
“Man, that white boy got something on the grill!”
I smile at such comments because they don’t understand how the intentional creation of each taco infuses light into their souls. Each bite parts a veil or pulls back a curtain. Raging thoughts fade. Calm and stillness and peace are realized, even if only for a short period of time.
In a perfect world maybe all of us who were abused as children, molested, abandoned and given up on would be able to overcome the well of depression on our own. Just with the power of mind, recognizing misapplied values, faulty perspectives. Pushing hard with introspection as an objective observer to raise questions and possibilities capable of changing the inner narrative is what’s necessary. The conditioning behind the scenes. But there is no practical one size solution as to how that can be achieved. All too often external stimuli are needed. Circumstances can, and often are, a driving force in helping people overcome.
It could be a rehab facility, a retreat. Taking a vacation. A long walk, bike ride, or cruising in a car listening to music. I used to visit the Water Garden in Corpus Christi, Texas late at night, sit under the vine-covered trellis on a bench, watch the stars, and listen to water. Just being there, moment by moment without the need to do or be anything was so freeing. Calming. Healing. Until it was time to get up. I couldn’t stay in the Garden forever. And I didn’t know how to bring the Garden with me.
In prisons, there are many forms of Animal Programs, involving horses, dogs, cats, even fish. I am currently working to hopefully encourage the Administration here at Michael Unit to approve a Cat Program in Restrictive Housing. The therapeutic value would be immense. I already have a kitten and am deeply affected, even after all of the hard work I’ve done over the years to heal. Whether or not the program becomes a reality, though, the hard truth is that it won’t be for everyone. Some hate cats, others can’t stand animals at all.
Well, unless it’s beef or pork or chicken, summer sausage or turkey bites prepared and served in tacos. A Meal Without Wheels of tacos, even if only one is given at a time, becomes a great unifier.
Men of God, followers of Santa Muerte, other pagans, and gang members, all end up sharing an experience together. Any dark or evil intentions anyone brings to the table become irrelevant as they eat, know peace, and find joy. In those moments balance and harmony are realized, which isn’t a coincidence. Rather it ends up being an expression of how faith with works brings life, because consistent steadiness brings change.
When the heart of a man is touched, what then?
“The last thirty three years of my life have been wasted in this gang,” J.J. told me. “Look where it’s gotten me.”
“You’ve been married, had kids, still have a family that supports you, and you’ve excelled as a carpenter — even owned your own business.” I replied. “Those are not the works or efforts of a life wasted.”
“But I’ve done so many bad things, even enjoyed it, or thought I did.” He suggested. “I often put the gang first.”
“Of course you established priorities and managed them the best you could.” I offered. “At the same time, consider what you learned? How you can manage complex situations, and communicate with difficult minded people. You know how to command attention, lead, and perhaps most importantly you developed a keen, unique level of discernment.”
This isn’t J.J.’s first time in prison. But his last period of incarceration, as he frequently described, was structured. None of the nonsense of fires and flying feces. The irrational behavior over drugs, or because of them. The reality of prison now, especially on Michael Unit, has tested him in extraordinary ways, calling him to listen like never before. Ask questions of himself. Challenge the notion of what he really wants, who he is, and who he can be.
“Why do you give it value?” I would ask him often as he’d rant about a neighbor yelling and banging. “You are letting how he suffers affect you personally. Is that necessary?”
Taco Sundays have faced many complicated issues. It was interesting to me how smoothly the first couple Sundays went, but thereafter things began to happen. Adam’s anger would overshadow the day, or fires would rage — as if they could deter me. Power outages always seemed to take place when I wanted to cook, or shortly after I started, so an alternative power source was worked out. Only when I didn’t have food was Taco Sunday missed. For two weekends, lacking tortillas, I improvised with potatoes or beans. A couple times Adam’s mental disturbances would prevent him eating on Sunday, so the day would get extended into Monday just for him.
One of the last, and most recent, hectic situations happened in mid January of this year. An issue existed that Adam wanted me to call and check on. When I told him “no,” (because the person to call had stressed no longer wanting to be involved) Adam flew into a rage. Granted the issue was a problem between him and J.J., I just happened to be in the middle. By taking a stand, Adam declared “you picked a side.”
That was Sunday morning, early. I didn’t begin prepping the meal until hours later, but Adam remained in a dark funk throughout. I left him alone to calm down, figuring the smell of grilled food would bring him back. When it didn’t, I cooked his tacos, bagged them and set them aside in a bowl, covered. I fed as many other guys as possible, cleaned up, and continued to wait.
And wait.
By 11 PM, figuring he wouldn’t make an appearance, I ate the tacos. Weird thing was, I had a sense he would come back after I finished his portion. By midnight I was proved right when he yelled in the hole about being hungry, “where’s my food!”
I’d just laid down to sleep. Eyes closed. Jazz was on. I promptly got up, turned on the light, and the war began.
“Okay, asshole, if you want your food send your line!”
“I asked earlier …”
“I don’t care about what you’re talking about,” I yelled back. “You wanted to scream and cause a scene in the middle of the night. Shut up and shoot your line!”
“I don’t have a line,” He said at half volume.
“Aww, seems like a personal problem.”
“Fuck that food. Fuck you. Stick it up your ass!”
“No no, here you go,” I yelled back, taking a black bag of coffee and a soup to the back wall. “Come get this!” I began cramming the bag of coffee up through the hole in the ceiling.
“If you push anything up that hole I’ll open it and pour it on you!” Adam yelled, stomping around.
Meals Without Wheels, Part 4 (Final Part).
“I don’t give a damn what you do!” And I forced the bag of coffee all the way up.
“You think I won’t!” His scream was shrill. “You think I won’t. You testing’ me?”
I just stood there beneath the hole, waiting, daring him.
He broke.
Soon powdered coffee exploded through the hole, spreading everywhere.
I backed off the bunk to watch.
“And I’ll flood your ass out!” Adam raged, kicking things around ” You testin’ me!”
His sink didn’t work, but he did have bottled water. About three gallons worth poured down the hole, mixing with the coffee, forming first a small puddle, then a brown lake. Coffee stains spattered everywhere.
I watched, waited for him to get done. Even asked him, “Are you done yet?”
He stopped pouring. There was a pause. Then his face leaned over the hole and he asked, “Why did you test me like that?!”
I started laughing.
He cried.
I looked up at him and told him it was okay. He apologized, claimed he was stupid, pathetic. We talked it out, went over the misunderstandings. And we laughed a lot together over the next five hours of cleaning. Because coffee and water flooded his cell, as well.
“I don’t care what you do, Adam, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand that, even if you have to dump coffee and water on me.” I laughed again.
The masks men wear cover shadows that don’t want to be challenged. Those shadows will trigger a person to fight back and push away any suggestion of change. Or what might help. The wounded, or truly broken, have walls to hide behind or shells to retreat into. They provide a delusion of safety. Interrupt the process and … well, I still laugh at being covered in coffee.
I recently gave Adam my speaker and he cried when he saw the coffee stains. A reminder of exhibited pain, and the willingness of a friend to stand side him until the storm calmed.
I can’t be that for everyone, though. There is only one of me, and not enough hours in the day. I need to be completely devoted to being present for Adam, so I have to be careful when engaging other men at the same level, so Adam doesn’t feel left behind, abandoned.
One taco to one man at a time. I’ll continue the tradition for as long as I can, and provide for as many as my resources allow. My gift. My service. Keeps me humble and reminds me to never forget how broken I once was. The blessings in my life are not something I deserve. It has defied reason to receive the love and support that I have over the years. People did not give up on me.
I won’t give up on others.
And every Sunday you’ll find me without wheels, dedicating a meal of grilled tacos or whatever’s possible with a sincere hope each recipient will find peace. Know love. Understand it’s possible to be more and live a life worth meaning even while incarcerated. Even when in isolation where the majority of interactions are through vents, doors, holes in walls or floors, with limited or no physical interaction.
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