June 8th

Dear Leonard,

Here are a couple of poems that I wrote to go into our writing book for the last writing class I was in here. Please put them on with the next newsletter. Thanks.  God Bless. Ruth

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Here are 2 pieces of writing that I wrote during our "Advanced" writing class this year.  Our class recently ended.  We had a "Reading Night" and got to share some of the pieces we had written.  it was fun.  I have found that I love to write since being locked up.

I also want to say thank you to all the people who care about us and pray for us- thank you for caring!

Ruth

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Ruth Christine #13955234

Doors Open.  Doors Close.

Rise with the clock already it's ticking.
5:30am time to wake up, get ready and snatch a moment with my Bible if I can.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
6am aerobics, 50 minutes with six people sweating in a room. Pushups, squats and lunges.
6:50am time for a quick shower.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
In my cell, time to change, time to clean, brush my hair, eat my oatmeal and say a quick prayer.
7:30am "Workline" the officer announces.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Into the dayroom, oatmeal half eaten and sweatshirt in hand
Sit and Wait.
7:40am Walk down the corridor and line up for work.
Wait.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Metal detector, patdown.
Doors Open. Doors Close.
Clock in at DMV. Log in to my computer.
Pray.
8am on the dot. Log onto the phone.
"Good Morning, DMV, this is Ruth. How can I help you?"
I listen to customer's questions about title transfers and suspended licenses, and try to answer them.

11am Bell rings, it's count time.
Around eleven-thirty, the lunch bell rings, 
depending on how long it takes for the count to clear.

I clock out, line up.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Metal detector, patdown.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Back in the Unit, it's beans and rice in my cell, and a little time to pray.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Lunch is over.
We wait.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Metal detector, patdown.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Clock in
Back to work answering phones.
Endless repetition of "Good Afternoon, DMV, this is Ruth. How can I help you?"
Customers ask questions, I answer them.
4:30 bell rings, it's count time.
5am Log off the phone
Clock out
Line up.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Metal detector, patdown.
Back on the Unit, I stand in front of my door.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Dinner time.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Twenty minutes to eat and back to my cell.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Time to write my husband.
6:30pm "Line Movement" is announced.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
Time for church, two hours of worship and teaching
9pm. I return from church in time for the last line movement.

Doors Open. Doors Close.
One hour left to write letters or read
9:50pm Doors Open. Doors Close.
Our last line movement.
Sealing us in for the night.

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Ruth Christine #13955234

The Echo.

Clanging doors,
bars and walls
and here in my cell
The woman in solitary confinement,
The suffering of the man on death row as he sees the inhumanity around him,
The heartache of women without their children
and children without their mothers.
There is so much pain here,
Sometimes I wonder how I can draw another breath.

And yet

The oxygen is drawn into my body by a force beyond my control.

Though I have wanted to die, 
My heart defiantly continues to beat.

And somewhere

in the midst of the pain,
I discover that there is a bottom to the pit that I thought would never end.
A place of solid foundation not built on circumstance or situation, but on a reality for greater.

As the darkness that has swirled about me lifts.

I am surprised to find that I can see with a new clarity, as though through the eyes of one whose eyes have just been opened.

I see light were there was shadow.
Sepia tone transformed to vibrant color

Serenity replaces fear, 
And hope takes the place of uncertainty.

Here at the base the air is purer and cleaner.
I breath it in like a woman who has been deprived of oxygen for her whole life.

I see the anguish of those around me and instead of cold complacency, tears of compassion run down my face.

Every night at lockdown a song would echo through our housing unit.  I didn't understand the words, but it was hauntingly beautiful.

My cellie would sing from behind our locked door and the women in the cells below would echo the reply.  Somehow it connected us.  I would close my eyes and it was as though the walls would disappear.

A song is a powerful voice.

It was a song of defiance, proclaiming that though we were confined to this cold world of concrete and steel,  we were free.

We were still humans of flesh, blood and spirit.  Part of something greater than could be confined to those man made walls.

Sometimes in church I am singing and all I can hear are the sounds of the voices surrounding me- powerfully connected, singing in harmony. 

Each voice a little different and alone quite insignificant, but when the voices combine they become a powerful force. 

Like an army marching.