abuse of prisoners

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LETTER FROM EYRICKA KING, RECEIVED 11 JULY 2017
====================================

DEAR ——–

HELLO HOW ARE YOU? FINE I HOPE
AS FOR ME NOT DOING WELL AT ALL.
THEY ARE TRYING TO KILL ME! SERIOUSLY
I GOT BACK TO FRANKLIN ON FRIDAY
JUNE 30ᵀᴴ AND I’VE BEEN IN THE BOX
SINCE I WAS ATTACKED BY SOME
SARGENTS UPON MY ARRIVAL BACK HERE
AND THROWN IN THE BOX TO SILENCE
ME. HERE IS WHAT HAPPENED
WHEN I GOT BACK TO FRANKLIN
THE PUT ME IN A DORM WITH THE
SAME GUY (INMATE) WHO TRIED HAVING
SEX WITH ME AND WHEN I REFUSED
TO HAVE SEX HE SPIT ON ME, YOU
REMEMBER WHEN THAT INCIDENT HAPPENED
BACK IN APRIL, AND THE PREA DEPUTY
MS. SOUTHERS HAD ME MOVED TO
A BETTER DORM. OK UPON MY
ARRIVAL TO THE DORM THE INMATE
CAME TO THE DOOR WITH 3
OTHER INMATES AND THREATENED

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TO ATTACK ME IF I CAME INTO
THE HOUSE. SO I IMMEDIATLY
TOLD THE OFFICER THAT I COULD NOT
LIVE IN THAT DORM AND FOR HIM
TO CALL A SARGENT, HE DID JUST
THAT. THE SARGENT ARRIVED IN A
BLACK VAN WITH 2 OTHER SARGENTS
AND HE IMMEDIATLY SAID IT 9:00
AT NIGHT I DON’T FEEL LIKE DEALING
WITH THIS PUSSY FAGGOT CUFF
HIM NOW THE OTHER SARGENTS
THEN BEGAN RUFFING ME UP
THEY SLAMMED ME FACE FIRST ON
A BRICK WALL LUCKILY NOTHING
SEVERE HAPPENED TO MY FACE BUT
I WAS SLAMMED SO HARD ONTO
THE WALL MY RIGHT BREAST INPLANT
SWELLED UP EXTRA BIG AND IS
BRUISED THEY BEGAN PUNCHING
ME AND SAYING YOU ARE A
MAN WHAT IS A FUCKING TRANSGENDER

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I WAS CRYING AND BEGGING
FOR THEM TO STOP BEATING ME
ONE SARGENT SAID AINT THAT WHAT
YOU LIKE YOU LIKE MEN TO MAN
HANDLE YOU. THEY THEN THREW ME
IN THE BACK OF THE VAN BEAT UP
AND STILL CUFFED AND DROVE ME
TO THE BOX AND STRIPPED ME NAKED
AND THREW ME IN A CELL IVE BEEN
IN THE SAME CELL SINCE, THEY ARE
DENYING ME MEDICAL TREATMENT
IVE BEEN ▦ IN SO MUCH PAIN AND
SO OUT OF IT I HAVENT EATEN SINCE
FRIDAY MORNING JUNE 30ᵀᴴ. ——– IM
SO SCARED I THINK THEY ARE GOING
TO REALLY HURT ME AND TRY TO SAY IT
WAS A SUICIDE. PLEASE CONTACT
EVERYBODY THE NEWS STATIONS
CALL THE FACILITY ASK TO SPEAK
WITH MS. SAUTHERS AND DEPUTY
RONALD FOSTER HAVE ——– AND

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——– HELP, CONTACT ——–
ALSO I NEED OUT OF THE BOX
BEFORE IT’S TO LATE I SWEAR
——– I THINK I MIGHT DIE IN
HERE PLEASE HELP ME

I WROTE YOU 3 DIFFERENT TIMES SINCE
THIS HAPPENED ONLY TO GET THE MAIL
RETURNED TO ME SHREDDED UP IN
PIECES, THANKS TO ONE GOOD OFFICER
THAT CAME TO THE CELL TODAY AND TOLD
ME HE SEE’S EVERYTHING THEY DOING
TO ME AND THAT HE GOING TO MAKE
SURE THIS LETTER GETES MAILED OUT.
AGAIN ——– HELP ME DO
EVERY AND ANYTHING YOU
GUYS CAN TO GET ME
OUT OF HERE. F2L IS MY
ONLY HOPE.

        ERICA

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THEY ONLY CARE ONCE YOU HAVE
PEOPLE FROM THE OUTSIDE CALL
IN. HAVE ——– CONTACT
THE COMMISSIONER GUY THAT
SHE BEEN SPEAKING WITH.
——– I DONT WANNA BE IN
THE BOX I DID NOTHING WRONG
HELP ME.

P.S. I PRAY THIS LETTER
REACHES YOU.

====================================
Assist by calling these numbers:

Jason Effman…Head PREA person in Albany…518-457-3955
Franklin Correctional Facility: 518 483 6040. (You can ask to talk to Deputy Deb Southers or a sergeant).
Office of Special Investigations Department of Corrections and Community Supervision (PREA office)…(518)-457-2653
Office of the Inspector General…(518) 474-1010

and demanding that Eyricka be transferred out of Franklin to a facility closer to NYC with protective custody that is *not* solitary confinement. Eyricka’s DIN# is 16A4486. If you call, reply to this post or reblog with a summary so that we can know what kind of impact we are having.


Harry's Boggart

Imagine if Harry’s boggart wasn’t a dementor. Imagine if Harry’s boggart was Vernon Dursley, raising his fist and threatening to lock Harry in the cupboard for a week with no food. Calling him nasty names, calling his dead parents nasty names and all Harry does is look at his shoes and say “yes sir”. And when everybody starts asking (of course they will, why would the Boy Who Lived fear an overweight Muggle?) he quietly tells them that it’s his Uncle, the man he’s had to live with his whole life. Imagine all those people who thought Harry grew up a rich spoilt prince, only to realise he was in fact abused his entire childhood. Imagine how REMUS would feel, knowing James Potter’s son had to grow up with Lily’s hateful, prejudiced sister. Thinking he can’t give Harry a better life, not on his wages, not with his illness.

wanna hear how shitty the juvi i went to was when I was a kid, and it wasn’t even a bad juvi. lmao okay so first things first, its strange fucking adults who watch you, a minor shower, pee, etc. pretty much every time you do it.

they blasted music all night, loud music, all night, so the workers wouldnt get “bored” your cell was single and had a light on at all hours of the day, so you have to try and sleep with a bright light on you all the time, if you don’t wake up up at 6am to eat they take away your bed padding and pillow from you until you wake up at the right time, so you have to sleep on concrete.

if you don’t do what they tell you to do [like wake up at 6am after having music and bright light blasted at you all night] they’ll take away your only solace: books. You’re locked in a cell by yourself for the majority of the time you’re there. 

You didn’t have a roommate, so you were just alone, for the majority of the day with nothing to do. It was torture, I don’t care what you say, children don’t deserve this, and I shouldn’t have even been sent to juvi in the first place because it literally wasn’t even my doing that got me there I had to take the fall for someone else the first time, and so on. 

They torture children in juvi, don’t fucking think they don’t, they absolutely do.

I taught myself how to read so I could read these books as they came out, they mean the world to me. When Prisoner of Azkaban came out, my asshole of a step-dad (big time abuser) decided that if I wanted to do nothing but read these “stupid fu@&ing books” then that’s what I’ll do. He locked me in a room at his parent’s house for 3 days without food or water, just my PoA book. I will never forget. No one knows. I love Harry Potter so much to this day. I wouldn’t be here without this series.

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And now I wish to God thatThe earth would turn coldAnd my heart would forget it's made of glass

Why I was never truly alone:

Let me tell you a story about a very important dog. 

When I was seven, my dad decided to get a miniature pinscher. He was meant to be the family dog but I fell in love and he became my responsibility. His name is Mac. I helped house train him, I taught him to walk on a leash, and I took him everywhere I went, even when my parents divorced and we went back and forth weekly.

When we (my siblings and I) were taken from home and became wards of the state due to the abuse, he stayed with my mom, who eventually gave him to my grandma who adopted us when both parents went to prison. Mac slept with me every night after that, curled up next to my chest. Only with him there did I feel safe. 

This is me and him shortly before we were adopted. (I am 12 in this picture so excuse the slight gawkiness)

He was there for me through everything: The abuse, my parents going to prison, some of the worst instances of my depression and cPTSD, the loss of my uncle, both instances of my grandpa’s cancer flairs, everything. He’s 13 now, he can’t see much or hear well and has diabetes, but he still follows me around, guards my door when there’s something he doesn’t like (like when the gardeners come by), sits on my book or computer to get my attention so he gets pet, and sleeps with me when I’m home. 

Recent:

I know he won’t live forever, and I miss him when I’m away at university, but he’s doing well still. My brother has taken over as his main owner and he still plays with his toys and goes for walks, even if he runs into things sometimes. I love him, and he deserves so much. I don’t deserve him but I am so grateful that he is a part of my life. I never was truly alone.

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Name: Robert Downey Jr.

Crime: From 1996 through 2001, Downey was arrested numerous times on drug-related charges including cocaine, heroin and marijuana and went several times through drug treatment programs unsuccessfully, explaining in 1999 to a judge: “It’s like I have a shotgun in my mouth, and I’ve got my finger on the trigger, and I like the taste of the gun metal.” He explained his relapses by claiming to have been addicted to drugs since the age of eight, due to the fact that his father, also an addict, had been giving them to him. 

  1. In April 1996, Downey was arrested for possession of heroin, cocaine and an unloaded .357 Magnum handgun.. A month later, while on parole, he trespassed into a neighbor’s home while under the influence of a controlled substance and fell asleep in one of the beds. He was sentenced to three years of probation and required to undergo compulsory drug testing.
  2. In 1997, he missed one of the court-ordered drug tests and had to spend six months in the Los Angeles County jail.  After Downey missed another required drug test in 1999, he was arrested once more. Despite Downey’s lawyer, he was sentenced to a three-year prison term at the California Substance Abuse Treatment Facility and State Prison in Corcoran, California.
  3. Before the end of his first season on Ally McBeal, over the Thanksgiving 2000 holiday, Downey was arrested when his room at Merv Griffin’s Hotel and was searched by the police, who were responding to an anonymous 911 call. Downey was under the influence of a controlled substance and in possession of cocaine and Valium. 
  4. In April 2001, while he was on parole, a Los Angeles police officer found him wandering barefoot in Culver City, just outside Los Angeles. He was arrested for suspicion of being under the influence of drugs, but was released a few hours later, even though tests showed he had cocaine in his system.

Quite honestly – and this might be a controversial opinion – but: people in prisons deserve humane and ethical treatment regardless of the reason why they’re in prison. Prisons should not torture and abuse inmates. Prisons should give inmates adequate health care. Prisons should provide opportunities for rehabilitation to inmates who are responsive to it. Prisons should not exploit the labor of their inmates. Prisons should not house minors with adults. etc. Torture and abuse aren’t stopping crime from happening, because they are crimes in themselves. 

wait isnt this the person who threw an extended internet fit because people were drawing fanart of two guys from overwatch, a game with the worlds flimsiest canon to begin with, being affectionate boyfriends who love each other instead of abusive and “prison gay”

from a comrade

I have a lot of friends in other parts of the world so I’d like to make sure everyone is aware that the prisons in the United States are still doing slavery. A lot of our domestic goods like clothing and vegetables are produced by prisoners who are forced to work and who get paid a few pennies an hour if they’re paid at all. That is a real thing that is happening.

In 2010, three years into his 12 year jail sentence for the abuse and subsequent death of 1 year old Peter Connelly (Baby P), Steven Barker was brutally attacked by a fellow inmate at Wakefield prison in West Yorkshire. 6ft 4in Barker, who was left with permanent and serious burns to his face and arms after having a container full of boiling water thrown over him, had apparently been left screaming in agony while other prisoners gathered and applauded the perpetrator. It was also claimed that sugar had been added to the water, as this causes the substance to stick to the skin and intensifies the injuries.

On 3rd August 2007, after enduring a short lifetime of abuse and suffering, baby Peter was found by paramedics in his cot, blue in colour and dressed only in a nappy. Despite numerous attempts of resuscitation and being rushed to hospital, he was pronounced dead at 12:20pm. The post-mortem which followed showed that Baby P had swallowed a tooth after being punched, as well as revealing other injuries including a broken back, broken ribs, mutilated fingertips and missing fingernails. His own mother, Tracey Connelly, was also convicted for the relentless abuse which eventually led to the loss of her own son’s life.

Although Wakefield prison, often nicknamed ‘Monster Mansion’, is recognised for its detainment of high-profile and high-risk individuals, other offenders have openly expressed their feelings of contempt towards Baby P’s abuser. One said:“To say Barker is disliked is an understatement - he is reviled. The other inmates all hate him with a passion. When Barker came here every one knew what he had done to Baby P. Your card is marked if you have a crime against your name concerning kids. After the attack everyone was in good spirits, knowing someone had hurt Barker. The guy who did it will be getting applauded everywhere he goes now. It will be seen as a badge of honor and it is just a matter of time before someone else takes a shot at Barker too.”

Sally Mann ‘Immediate Family’

Over twenty years ago, Sally Mann published Immediate Family (Aperture), a book of photographs of her children playing on their family farm in Virginia, which was called “disturbing” by the New York Times and “degenerate” by the Wall Street Journal. The children were often nude, as the secluded farm was miles away from strangers, and the children’s poses, innocent to her eyes, deeply disturbed many who saw them.

She said she and her children, collaborators, were trying to tell a story of growing up. “We tell it all without fear and without shame.” Later she said, “The fact is that these are not my children; they are figures on silvery paper slivered out of time… . These are not my children with ice in their veins, these are not my children at all; these are children in a photograph.”

At times she sounded defensive, at times uncertain why there was controversy at all. She had not prepared a standard response because she did not expect many people to see these photographs, much less for the pictures to become a cultural lighting rod.

Mann had been publishing small books with limited print runs, of interest to photography collectors and specialists, and imagined this body of work would reach a similar audience. But it was published in the midst of culture wars over government funding of “pornographic art” by artists like Robert Mapplethorpe, who also photographed nudes. It was a moment of intense interest in the propriety of art; transgression was seen as an existential threat to the moral fabric of American society. Compounding this problem, and inviting an additional slew of criticism and outrage, was the fact that she was a mother.

Several photographs showed her children in apparent danger. Critics felt a good mother would have removed them from peril rather than pausing to photograph them. This was seen as evidence of Mann’s lack of maternal instincts. It is a testament to the strength of her work that the reality of the photographs went unquestioned. It was somehow forgotten that this was art.

As Immediate Family was reissued this year to coincide with the publication of Mann’s memoir, we now have the gift of a greater context for the genesis of these photographs, what they meant to her, and the effect they had on her family.

“How I love those, children. And how I fear for them. And how real those fears can become, in just an instant. Right before my eyes,” she writes. The photographs were her talisman against harm. When she feared great danger to her children, and that danger was averted, she would recreate her fear for the camera as if this could somehow prevent it from coming true. She describes this process as feeling “like some urgent bodily demand.”

Through a window, she watched her five year old daughter Jessie play with a doll on a tire swing. Then Jessie disappeared. She asked neighbors to help scour the woods, calling out her name. She feared her daughter had drowned. “I stuck to the creek edge,” she writes, “certain I’d see a flash of gingham, of white sock and patent leather Mary Janes in the water.”

Her son’s school secretary called to say Jessie had only walked down the road to visit her brother. The next day, Mann put a dress on her son and posed him as a drowned girl, face down in a pond on their farm, titling the photograph The Day Jessie Got Lost. “I prayed it would protect us from any such sight, ever,” she writes.

When her son Emmett was hit by a car, she ran into the road and held him as he bled from the head. Onlookers assumed he was dead. After he recovered, she tried to photograph him in a way that would capture the feeling of that moment. She chronicles her attempts: a photograph of his bloody sheets in the hospital; his head blurred, as if he might be screaming or shaking off a nightmare; a self-portrait of her face next to the crumpled, blood-stained sheets. None of this worked.

Finally she came upon the right subject: Emmett, nude, alone in a river on their farm. It took a week to make the final photograph, after nearly a hundred iterations: Emmett submerged in water, Emmett holding onto a black rubber inner tube, descending into the river wearing water goggles, standing beneath a broken tree, and at last the final photograph, Emmett touching the water’s surface with his hands, as if to hold it in place, as the river uncontrollably flows past him, inexorably moving away, on toward a bend in the river, and out of sight. “I had tried to exorcise the trauma of the experience by following my own command,” she writes, “to ‘photograph what is important, what is closest to you, photograph the great events of your life.’”

After an article in The New York Times Magazine brought her work to a wider audience, she started receiving disturbing letters, some from victims of child abuse, others from prison inmates. She was especially hurt by letters calling her a bad mother, suggesting the photographs had emotionally damaged her children, and put them at risk of attracting “pedophiles, molesters and serial killers.”

She recalled Oscar Wilde’s response to personal attacks, that “the hypocritical, prudish, and philistine English public, when unable to find the art in a work of art, instead look for the man in it.” But she found different rules applied to a mother.

Until the publication of her memoir, she had not publicly discussed the fact that a man in a nearby state became obsessed with her children, writing their schools to ask for yearbooks, calling the local hospital to request birth certificates. He subscribed to the town paper to read about their ballet recitals and school prizes. When she asked a policeman for advice, he told her to buy a shotgun.

Mann carried a photograph of this man in her wallet for years, fearing he would appear at one of her lectures. She obsessively locked windows, made sure her children were never alone, and asked police for more protection. “We live routinely now with a hitherto unendurable amount of stress,” she wrote a friend, “Each time it ratchets upwards, we adapt to it.” She remained silent, knowing her critics would feel vindicated.

“This year, though,” she wrote in another letter, “the good pictures of the kids might not come. The fear may scare them off. My conviction and belief in the work was so unshakably strong for so many years, and my passion for making it was so undeniable. Now, it is no longer the same: I am frightened of the pictures.”

Questions about the reality of the work, different moral rules for mothers, and voluntary suspension of disbelief, all so vigorously debated in the pages of various journals, could no longer remain academic to Sally Mann. “How can a sentient person of the modern age mistake photography for reality?” she wrote. And yet legions of them did.

But what endangered her children was also a great testament of her love. “She has a hard time letting us know how much she loves us,” said her daughter Jessie, years later. “But I’ve also realized that each one of those photographs was her way of capturing, if not in a hug or a kiss or a comment, how much she cared about us.”

Sally Mann told her students to photograph the great story of their lives. The great story of her life was her adoration of her children, which was entangled with her fear for them. Her photographs of imagined harm were self-portraits of her grave, solemn, vast love. In trying to ward off danger, she inadvertently endangered them, while simultaneously, paradoxically, recording her unbounded devotion. “Unwittingly, ignorantly,” she writes, “I made pictures I thought I could control.” (via)