Jason Smith | Author » Opinion

The Whole Damn System Is Out of Order

Wed, 18 Feb 2015 11:16:19 +0000

California is Broken and Here is Why

Once upon a time, my life wasn’t so together. Most of my writings to-date are a testament to that. Drugs are bad, mmmkay?

I settled my debt with “The People of the State of California,” and haven’t looked back since. But for kicks, let’s look back.

It’s intimidating to hear when you’re before a judge, “The People of the State of California vs. (Your Name Here).” It’s easy to envision a mob of Californians, pitchforks in-hand, board shorts and flip-flops, standing outside of the courthouse, awaiting the judge’s instructions.

Truth is, that scenario may be much closer to true justice than is our current system.

I was the first one in court and my case was the last called, so I got to see and hear an entire, typical morning calendar of the Sacramento County Superior Court, Dept. 3. What I saw was a Judicial cluster-fuck doubling as a plea-mill, bogged down in administrative self-importance and passed off as justice.

It was tragic.

When I walked through the metal-detectors that morning, the cops — if that was what you even call these guys — manning the machine were discussing a judge who recently purchased a brand-new Tesla Model S. According one of the six officers it apparently took to operate this machine, the car was “bad ass.”

Walking into Dept. 3, I could see that to the right sat the Public Defenders, and to the left the District Attorneys. All together there were about 15 attorneys all buzzing around, in and out of the room sporadically. The bailiff sat off to the right, a court clerk at the far end of the table, and finally, the almighty judge’s throne, off in the distance, elevated high above us all.

The District Attorneys were a small group of women who looked like they were fresh out of law school, late 20s-ish, probably trying to pry their way into the system. One of the girls who I’ll just call Walk of Shame looked like she’d just had a hell of a night.

“Did you go home with that guy last night?” asked one of the public defenders, excited to see her and not surprised at her appearance.

“Yes! Oh my God, we can’t go back there again,” laughed Walk of Shame.

Jesus, where am I?

“All rise. The honorable judge Maryanne Gilliard now presiding,” barked the bailiff.

We all stood.

“You may be seated,” said the judge, looking down at us.

And then it began. Nine out of ten were in for drug and/or alcohol charges, with the occasional woman who got popped stealing from a WalMart.

They’d call someone up there and read his or her charges. Then the DA would offer them a deal. The deal was horrible, as far as negotiations go, but most of these people were operating without much leverage. They just wanted to get out and go back to work.

“The state’s offer is: 18 months of DUI classes, parenting classes, a drug diversion class, $2500 fine, and a 3 year suspended drivers license.”

The accused would just stand there, looking at the DA, dumbfounded.

“The state is also prepared to withdraw this deal should the accused take this to trial.”

The accused would look at the judge for help. “Your honor, I’ll lose my job if you suspend my…”

The judge quickly interrupts. “I advise you not to speak to the court. If you want, there are public defenders who will speak for you. They are more trained than you are in addressing me.”

At some point this judge became someone to whom we common-folk couldn’t even speak.

“Mr. ________, would you like to take the DA’s deal or go to trial? Please know that a trial will incurr much tougher penalties should you lose.”

In the legal world, the girl who just got drunk-fucked by a stranger eight hours prior had the moral high ground.

“But your honor,” he’d plead, “how can I get to the classes if I lose my lic…”

“Would you like the deal or not?” The judge was getting impatient while Walk of Shame smirked.

“But why are you suspending my license, this wasn’t a DU…”

“Your only response should be either ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Umm… yes, I guess I’ll take it.”

And that was it. No consulting an attorney. No reading of the fine print. A plea deal, quick and easy.

And that’s what the whole morning consisted of. Plea after plea after plea, by people who took a deal because that’s what the court pushes. Afterall, if every one of these people went to trial, it would clog up the system. If every one of these people took it to trial, the whole thing would collapse. So in the name of maintaining the legal status quo, pleas are the way of life.

Expediency is far more important than justice.

Americans have a sixth amendment right to a trial, but the court threatened such severe penalties for having the nerve to exercise that right that people just took shitty plea deals. It’s risk vs. reward, and Walk of Shame made the risk much too high to leave to chance.

It was fucked up.

The result of the morning’s plea mill was the cluster fuck that passed as the afternoon calendar that day. I stuck around out of curiosity. It was all people who’d taken the same deals the morning’s accused had taken, but failed to meet its demands. People who missed court payments, failed to show they’d enrolled in a class they can’t get to because the court took their driver’s license, people who failed to contact probation because their phone was shut off after they lost their job due to not having a car.

We have a court system that sets people up to fail. The penalties for their crimes were unable to be met, adding more penalties on top of the old ones, guaranteeing recidivism and re-offending, guaranteeing girls like Walk of Shame steady employment.

Ever wonder why America a higher percentage of its citizens behind bars than any other nation on earth, including China? This is why.

It’s in everyone’s interest: the judge, the District Attorneys, the Public Defenders, the Bailiffs, the clerks, the judges, the correctional officers — it’s in their interest to keep people in the system and coming back.

The system is broken.

If any other business operated this way, they’d be shut down — ironically, by the courts. Imagine Toyota installing brakes it knew were bad, knowing they’d fail, keeping you coming back and keeping everyone who worked there busy.

Think of the outrage.

This is why we have “victim’s rights” groups that are not made up of victims, and don’t give a shit about your rights. They’re just fronts for correctional officer’s unions, pushing for mandatory minimum sentences and never-ending parole and probation. They don’t want people to get well, to get better, to get out of the court-jail-court-jail cycle.

Their livelihoods depend on people staying IN this cycle. Rehabilitation is bad for business.

California has a 65%-75% recidivism rate, the highest in the nation. If that’s not a broken system, I’m not sure what is. Perhaps it’s time that we, as a state, just admit that WE NEED recidivism to employ the lawyers and the judges and the bailiffs and the clerks and the correctional officers. The people charged with fixing the system are the ones benefiting most from its malfunction.

While the people suffering from the malfunction simply become a cog in the machine.

And in case you’re wondering, I had a very good defense, was very confident in my case, and a competent lawyer… and still said “fuck it.” I took the deal.

The risk was too high. Chalk another one up for Walk of Shame.

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“He Hits Me Because He Loves Me”

Sun, 18 Jan 2015 11:07:39 +0000

And other American tales

“Pack of Marlboro Reds, please,” I half-asked, half-told the guy behind the counter. He reached for the cigarettes before I even opened my mouth.

I’ve bought my cigarettes here ever since CVS Pharmacy took a noble, valiant stance against selling any and all tobacco products. You can no longer purchase cigarettes, but you can fill your prescription for liquid-morphine, grab a fifth of Jack, and throw in a bucket of M&M’s for good measure. But cigarettes? Fuck no. Those are addictive and bad for you.

America.

Slapping the box of Marlboros onto the counter with a thud, the man behind the counter didn’t seem too concerned with me. He was busy mad-dogging the lady behind me while she looked down at the ground.

“Nothing in pockets today?” he asked her in condescending tone that broke through his thick accent.

Looking back, I could see her shake her head no, but not say a word.

They had an obvious history, but it wasn’t any of my business, so I did my best to ignore the exchange. I paid my $5.35 in exact change, like I do every day. I turned around as I approached the door, pushing it outward with my ass. Backing out of the store, I watched the lady place a plastic bottle of cheap vodka on the counter, along with a Coors Light tall boy and one of those $0.99 cent airplane-size bottles of Tequila.

An odd mix of beverages, sure, but again — none of my business.

“Pack of Marlboro Reds, please,” he blurts out as I try to watch the woman—who I’ve caught stealing three times—roam the aisles. She is good. Sneaky. I wonder if she knows the owner does inventory once a week, and anything that comes up short is divided evenly amongst the employees and taken out of our paychecks.

America.

The tall guy with the beard paid for cigarettes in exact change, like he always does. It’s too bad his wife wasn’t with him today. She’s easy on the eyes. As he walked out, the thief placed a bottle of vodka, a tall can, and an airplane-size bottle of Tequila on the counter.

Purchases like these are telling.

A very specific type of person buys these small bottles of liquor — the type who is going to drink and drive home. They can’t wait so they buy a small, easily concealable bottle they can swig in my parking lot before hitting the road. They pretend that if they just drink the mini-bottles, they only have a mini-drinking problem.

I sell these small bottles to people who have shaking hands, not just wanting the drink, but needing the drink, getting drunk in $0.99 increments. It’s sad, really. Americans are funny like that. Every day I sell these people an escape to oblivion.

But what are they escaping from?

I came to America nine years ago from Bihar, India, along the river Ganges, where each day we welcomed gifts from those living up-river: sewage, industrial waste, and the occasional religious offering, wrapped in non-degradable plastic.

Despite living along a river full of raw sewage, nobody tried to escape. Nobody got drunk. Drugs were non-existent. We dealt with it. We faced it. Nobody ran from their problems. Hell, the putrid stench of that river is what drove me to work so hard to get out. I wanted out. I got out! And here I am, selling alcohol to citizens of the most powerful nation on earth, because they can’t deal with their problems.

I respected Americans until I got to America.

“$9.84 please,” I tell her. I’m not asking.

She pulls out her EBT card, as if I’m going to let her pay for alcohol with food stamps.

“No. You can’t use EBT,” I say, pointing to a sign on the counter that says the same exact thing.

“Nice try, though,” I tell her. She glances up as if she’s going to say something, but lacks the courage to follow through.

I watch as she pulls out two one-dollar bills, and then starts digging for change.

Oh Jesus. This is going to take a while.

“$9.84 please,” he demands.

Shit. I hope I have enough change.

Digging through my purse for coins I feel his eyes on me. They sting. He’s caught me stealing on three occasions, although I’ve probably jacked this store at least a dozen times. His glare burns, but what can I do?

Reaching into my purse, I pull out my EBT card because it’s in the way.

“No. You can’t use EBT,” he says, as if that’s what I was going to try. I’m not an idiot. I glance up to tell him I was just moving it out of the way, but life has taught me that speaking up will just get me in trouble, so I keep quiet.

I find a group of quarters, which is a good sign. Putting two one-dollar bills on the counter, I count out the rest in quarters, nickles, and dimes. He looks annoyed, and I don’t think he realizes how embarrassing it is to buy alcohol with coins. I place $9.85 on the counter and wait for my penny back. I’ll need that penny later.

Frozen pennies is an old trick my mom taught me. Put pennies in the freezer for when he gets drunk and violent. If you get the frozen penny on your face within the first few minutes, it keeps the swelling to something that can be hidden with makeup.

America.

I put the penny in my purse, exit the store and sit down in my car. Hidden by darkness, I drink the tequila and throw the tiny bottle out of my window and onto the street. It feels good going down. My God, does it feel good.

People ask me all the time, “Why do you stay with him?” The answer is really quite simple: I love him. And he loves me.

He hits me. Yes. But they don’t get it; they don’t understand. He hits me because he loves me. I’ve been with men who didn’t beat me up, and I never respected them. I walked all over them, and they just let me do whatever I wanted. But Terry is different. He gets it. He gets me.

The moment I heard her pull up I get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know she has liquor.

Rosie’s a good girl. I love her. It’s not her fault I am the way I am, but she seems to deal with my PTSD pretty well. Truth is, I was fucked up before the war. I had PTSD when I enlisted.

Rosie is the one thing in my life I can control. Work is sporadic. Construction demo is a fickle business, coming and going with the economy. Some mornings the phone wakes me up, with a pounding headache, telling me there’s work. Other mornings I just wake up. No work.

Work, money, the police, the courts — these are things I can’t control. But Rosie — I can control her. And it feels good.

What people fail to realize is, I don’t get anything out of beating her. Punching Rosie in the face or slapping her around — these things do nothing for me. In fact, I don’t enjoy breaking her down like this.

But when she’s broken, bleeding on the floor and crying, you know who she looks to for help? ME. She looks to me for comfort. I’m the one she reaches for. I’m the one whose name she cries out. It’s this — this is what I live for .

This is what I learned at Parris Island. Landing in South Carolina, I was a skinny, undisciplined 19-year-old kid who enlisted to avoid a jail sentence. I had never made a bed or fired a rifle or taken a life. I was a kid. Phase One broke me down into nothing, my only salvation being the same drill sergeant who smacked me in the face for using a first-person pronoun. I learned to move in mnemonics and fall in love with the source of my pain.

Just like Rosie.

“What did you bring me?” are the first words out of my mouth.

She sets down a plastic bottle of vodka and a tall-can of what looks to be Coors Light before walking into the bathroom. She usually does this when she’s started drinking already but doesn’t want me to know.

Chasing a large gulp of vodka, I make quick work of the tall-can. From the kitchen I can hear Rosie turn on the shower in the bathroom, meaning I don’t have to share.

Over the next half hour, Rosie leaves my mind completely while I focus on scrubbing death from the backs of my eyelids. One bottle of vodka isn’t going to do the trick.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I see Rosie walk out in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Looking at her, I realize that at one point, she was probably really attractive.

“We need more,” I tell her, the vodka starting to kick in.

“I didn’t have enough money,” she tells me. “I had to use all of my coins just for that.”

I’m getting annoyed. “Why didn’t you just put something in your purse?”

“That fucking guy watches me like a hawk now,” she says, her voice drifting into a pleading tone. She knows what’s coming. “I’ll go back and try, though…”

“I’ll go,” I tell her, cutting her off. “And when I get back…” My voice drifts off. I like making her anticipate this dance of ours. A brutal, bloody, violent dance.

Her face is a combination of excitement and fear. It’s beautiful. As I walk by I grab a hand full of hair and pull her head back, her robe falling open. She gasps, not knowing if this is sexual or violent, as if the two are separate. The entire length of her neck is exposed as I just hold it there, allowing her to wonder. I eventually let go without saying a word and walk outside to my truck.

Rosie watches me leave in silence.

Now the vodka is really kicking in. I start my F-150 and half of the street lights up. It has only one headlight, the other falling victim to Rosie and my tweaker phase. But fuck it. I need to feel anything but my feelings, and more alcohol will help.

I hate daylight savings time. Getting dark at six o’clock sucks. I go from school to basketball practice, to my dad’s store to help stock in the back. I hate it. By the time my mom picks me up it’s dark, leaving me no time to play with friends.

If I had any friends to play with.

I’ve always felt different — probably because I am different. Kids my age don’t seem to like me, and girls just look right through me. Being one of only a few non-white kids in my school is alienating.

“Did you bring the trash can in?” my mom yells, her accent just as thick as the day we arrived in America.

“Not yet,” I snap.

She yells something that I can’t decipher, so I tune her out. I’ll get the trash can. Eventually.

My father used to be a minister in the government back home for the RJD party. He was important. A somebody. In 2005, the RJD lost power and the new government charged him with 27 counts of corruption. We packed up whatever we could carry and ran, all the way to America. Where I don’t fit in. And I have no friends. Where girls don’t like me. And I’m embarrassed of my father.

He sells liquor to drunks. Not a very noble profession.

I respected my father before we came to America.

“Daya,” my mom screams from the doorway. “Bring the can inside.”

I hate when she screams at me like this, in front of the other kids who are all playing outside together.

In the distance I see a motorcycle approaching. I’ve always wanted a motorcycle. I think when I grow up I’m going to buy a motorcycle and drive across America, all alone. It’s a dream of mine. The freedom, excitement, speed. Yep, that’s what I’ll do.

I watch the motorcycle approach; I realize it’s not a motorcycle. It’s a large truck, with a headlight out.

How fitting. Dream: dashed.

America.

Grabbing the trash can with my right hand, I swing around to pull it up onto the curb.

Seeing the truck heightens my senses immediately. It happens too quickly and I can’t move. I can’t run. All I can do was kneel down, put my forearm in front of my face, and close my eyes.

The last thing I see is a broken headlight.

And then it goes black.

The post “He Hits Me Because He Loves Me” appeared first on Jason Smith | Author .

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Putting Pen to Paper Does Not Make You a Writer

Sun, 18 Jan 2015 11:05:26 +0000

It makes you a primate.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but at some point we lost our way. Maybe it was when we got trophies despite getting our asses kicked on the field, or maybe it was the time that teacher let us advance in the class spelling bee despite spelling the word incorrectly, because, my gosh, we sure tried hard.

Maybe it was our parents giving us their version of ‘tough love’ that was anything but tough, or television showing us we could get famous despite possessing anything but qualities that warrant fame. (The fact that I even know what a Kardashian is pisses me off.)

We find ourselves in a society where people think the pasta they made for dinner is so important, so relevant, so fucking beautiful , that they need to take a picture of it and post it for all to see on Facebook and Instagram.

If we’re lucky they may even Tweet a link to it.

Have you checked out YouTube lately? It’s full of tweens who think they can sing, rap, dance, play an instrument, recite poetry, deliver a soliloquy on the flaws of mankind based upon their scientific exploration of World of Warcraft that surely, should we just listen, would solve the problems in Gaza.

Nobody ever told them “Son, perhaps you should try something else because, I’m not really sure how to say this… well, you’re a shitty singer.” Or, “Sweetie, that dance video you posted was the whitest shit I’ve ever seen. Don’t do that again.” Or, “Your little rant on WOW and Gaza… well, actually, that makes much more sense than our current strategy, so I’ll leave that one alone.”

We didn’t want to hurt their feelings, so we just co-signed the bullshit they were slinging and told them they were great. That they sang beautifully. The voice of an angel. Keep it up, kid, you’re going places.

Let’s not let this attitude of apathy and delusion seep into writing. Someone who writes is not a writer any more than a high school freshman who passed his history test is a historian.

You want to write? Then fucking say something. Something that’s going to teach me, or cut me, or hurt me, or heal me. Write something that’s going to make me different than I was before I read it. Write something that’s going to stay with me, that’s going to force me to carry it with me whether I want to or not. We’re all capable of it. We’ve all gone through some seriously traumatic shit because life is seriously traumatic, and we participate by default.

Someone wrote “You know what’s worse than writing something that isn’t worth a damn? Writing nothing.”

Bullshit.

I would rather NOT read your lifeless, heartless, emotionless, irrelevant bullshit than read it. Not writing it might be the best decision you made today.

You want to be a writer? Be willing to sit down and bleed on a page. Be willing to open up the ugliest parts of yourself for the world to see. Be so brutally honest that you begin to hate yourself, realizing that this is only way to start the healing process. Share your pain, that comes from a place so deep you didn’t even know it was there until it was too late. Touch me. Inspire me. Don’t make me want to write. Make me NEED to write.

Make me need to write because I don’t know how else to deal with what you just told me.

Make me never want to write again because I’ll never be able to do what you just did.

And if you don’t want to go there, that’s OK too. I get it. Believe me, I get it. It can be ugly and painful and brutal and emotional. Just don’t call yourself a writer.

Putting pen to paper does not make you a writer. Monkeys can do it. My three-year-old son can do it. And yes, I just put my son and a monkey on the same equivalency scale.

Writing comes from the depths of human emotion and experience. Let’s not lose that.

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