Letters from prison reveal a damaged life

The first letter he sent went to the newspaper because he didn't know my address. He corresponded for months. For each letter he sent, I returned one. I didn't know it mattered till his last letter.

The name Joey is not his given one.

He was born in 1984 to a troubled family. He said he was adopted and molested by his stepfather.

Ironically, those who have been violated identify with the perpetrator. They see the power, somehow, and do similar kinds of things.

Do the letters matter?

" … mostly a broken home … in counseling on and off since I was two years old. Well, I ended up always in trouble in school … BD, LD, ADHD … “

Joey has lived in Illinois, North Carolina, Florida, Missouri, Colorado, California and Iowa. He and I met in a Dubuque pawn shop.

"I'm like in a circle. I'm trapped."

He said he turned himself in on charges of burglary.

"I stole gas from a farm house like a dummy. I was already on probation … ‘cause I was with two friends stealing from stores, which again, no money, no job, no help … it's nobody's fault but mine … "

He understands how to present himself as a broken victim, complete with the diagnoses. Yet maybe he was.

" … now the state wants 2- 4 years of my life … put me in prison. I already did 2 1/2 years behind bars … I can't find my way out."

The young man is facile with his past writing that "I start wanting to change … and to be looked at like a normal person, not a criminal … I want help to change … "

"Hey," he writes 10 days later … Joey " … from the pawn … "

The issue of place becomes consistent in Joey's letters, from his telling about living in Colona, Illinois at age four to many other prison locales. The movement he reflects seems mirrored in his mind like a travelogue attached to his train of thought.

"Life is really hard with a record like mine."

He begins the next letter with a thank you … "for listening, I guess, and it's great to know someone's willing to listen … "

Joey is a thin young man, lean in every aspect, from his ears to his thin face and spindly hands. He smiles with uncertain grins and looks away and seems unfazed when he draws negative attention.

"I'm so broken over everything, even trying to talk to a counselor put me in tears. I just want to run or hide alone in a room."

One hundred years ago, the early sociologists wrote about the fractured society. The theory was that society had failed to provide the means of success to disenfranchised youth.

"Money is my addiction, my mother says to find God, ha."

Joey does not hear himself.

"Tell my mother to drop off some nice sunglasses, prefer blue, plastic ones like Oakleys but cheaper like 10-20 bucks and a cross necklace. I talk to the guard. They said I can have that …"

He adds a postscript: "I prefer silver for a necklace not gold … if you can let my mother know."

I can only read and then write him with the most positive things I can muster. I don't pretend to know what's right for him. In one note, Joey begins by telling me it was great to hear from me. He says he's been trying.

"What I would like to do with my life is go to college …"

In prison he feeds the ground squirrels.

He tried weights, and saw the strength other inmates had:

"Yesterday this guy maxed it out at 445 lbs. He was the only one in his weight class."

The time is spent playing cards, softball, guitar. He goes to the library, a food mart and a health center.

In another of his ironies, he adds he doesn't want people to feel sorry for him.

The last letters Joey sends include his concerns about his dignity. He thanks me, says that there's not a lot going on, he's going to do his time, and that he's playing around with the Bible.

He finishes his last letter:

"Thanks again, your friend … "

It's been years, now. I never heard from him again.

Tim Trenkle lives in Dubuque and has worked as teacher in the Iowa community college system and is a counselor at the rescue mission in Dubuque.