Kerrie Droban's Blog, page 8

The Language of Butchers

A collection of award winning poetry, winner of the Academy of American Poet’s Award, International Poetry Award, New Letters Award, Amelia Encore Award and the Daniel Shockett Award for outstanding verse.

LOB_POEMS

Random Acts Of Kindness

Today one of my clients, who is currently serving time in Florence prison, sent me an extraordinary gift. He spent sixteen hours crafting an inspiring black and white drawing he titled “Zebra Warrior.” It was meant to be a portrait of me. He wrote from prison: “we live in a black and white world, (hence the zebra/female body). You work with snakes, whether it be the prosecutor or criminals and they try to bite you at every chance (hence the black snake rising up to try to strike you). You seem like a strong woman that stands on what you believe and will fight your ass off as an attorney (hence: the warrior lady and weapon on the zebra). The moon is for the bright and joyable things in your life, the black clouds are for the darkness in your life…long trial, paperwork etc… I hope you appreciate it. It’s an original.” -Darrell

In the seventeen years I’ve been practicing law, fighting for the down-trodden and hoping to save a few lives along the way, I have never received, nor have I ever expected, this kind of gratitude. Random acts of kindness do exist, they do matter and they can come from the strangest of places even a dark prison cell. It’s sobering to know that even the smallest act—drafting an appeal, arguing before the Supreme Court, making a black and write drawing–can have a ripple effect on a person’s life.

RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS

Today one of my clients, who is currently serving time in Florence prison, sent me an extraordinary gift. He spent sixteen hours crafting an inspiring black and white drawing he titled “Zebra Warrior.” It was meant to be a portrait of me. He wrote from prison: “we live in a black and white world, (hence the zebra/female body). You work with snakes, whether it be the prosecutor or criminals and they try to bite you at every chance (hence the black snake rising up to try to strike you). You seem like a strong woman that stands on what you believe and will fight your ass off as an attorney (hence: the warrior lady and weapon on the zebra). The moon is for the bright and joyable things in your life, the black clouds are for the darkness in your life…long trial, paperwork etc… I hope you appreciate it. It’s an original.” -Darrell

In the seventeen years I’ve been practicing law, fighting for the down-trodden and hoping to save a few lives along the way, I have never received, nor have I ever expected, this kind of gratitude. Random acts of kindness do exist, they do matter and they can come from the strangest of places even a dark prison cell. It’s sobering to know that even the smallest act—drafting an appeal, arguing before the Supreme Court, making a black and write drawing–can have a ripple effect on a person’s life.

WHAT INSPIRES YOU?

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

The movie never defines the meaning of the title, Invictus. In fact, everyone I asked who saw the film had no idea what “Invictus” meant. They only knew how the words of the poem made them feel. Inspired, empowered and propelled to action. The title means “unconquered.” In the movie, Invictus, Nelson Mandela, in his first term as the South African President, initiated a unique venture to unite the apartheid-torn land: enlist the losing national rugby team on a mission to win the 1995 Rugby World Cup. Mandela was held for nearly 26 years on Robben Island as a political prisoner. His release marked the end of apartheid in South Africa. Mandela’s amazing tenacity is the stuff of heroes and legends, the stuff of ordinary people who survive extraordinary challenges with grace and dignity. He had inspiration, the poem “Invictus” which kept his spirits up in his place of “wrath and tears” in the “horror of the shade.”

Francois Pienaar, the captain of the losing South African Springboks rugby team, understood that kind of inspiration for he too recited a special song before each match. “How do you inspire a nation…” Mandela implored him. “How do you make them believe against all odds? The final match, between the undefeated New Zealand team and the Springboks, resulted in a South African win of 15-12. How do you inspire a nation? How do you make them believe? You recite over and over again as Nelson Mandela did, “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.” Deliver.

The Deadly Truth

At times we all wish the truth was fiction. It might be more palatable. After all, imagination is a kind of frontier without borders or restrictions; with true evil, at least we hope there is definition, limit and some moral barometer. And if there isn’t . . . we search for explanation, excuse, and even justification.  And if we don’t find any . . . then we look for motivation, for clues in a person’s childhood, for that toxic cocktail that transformed them into a monster, for brutal figures who influenced them, used them, abused them and ultimately erased what made them human.  And if we don’t find those factors . . . then we’re left with the untenable hypothesis that there really are natural born killers.

Why else would a Phoenix woman who had been “happily” married for eight years to a devoted and wealthy arts dealer decide one day to throw his body into a freezer, defrost him, dice him up and put his remains into a large garbage bag? Or, a father conclude that it was okay to keep his daughter hostage in a makeshift cellar for twenty-four years so that she could gratify his sexual urges and bear his children? Or, a woman slice up her boyfriend to drink his blood in a perverse vampire love ritual?

Everyday as I stand in the court room and defend against this kind of pathology I search for a way to mitigate my clients’ horrific choices.  The challenge is to find a kernel of good, to convey to the judge and the jury that something about them is worth salvaging because our knee-jerk reaction is to warehouse them in cells or exterminate them like rats.  My real life experiences have fueled my desire to write true crime because I don’t want refuge or respite from the real stories or the real macabre.  I want to understand.  Writing is a kind of catharsis for me, a way to process savage behavior with a goal toward inspiring change in the social institutions—schools, families, prisons—who house and guide these sad individuals.

My goal, in many ways is to do what the operatives did in my first book, Running with the Devil, to journey through the darkness in order to understand the criminal mind, its violence, rage and purpose. The undercover operatives lived for eighteen months as outlaw motorcyclists in order to infiltrate another vicious gang, The Hells Angels. They lived a triple life as outlaw bikers, ATF agents and family men. And the stress nearly destroyed them.

Their goal was to cripple the Hells Angels, chill the club’s criminal exploits and enlighten the public about the gang’s activities. In the end few of the criminal charges against the bikers held and the ATF operatives were rewarded with fear of reprisal from the Hells Angels without government protection or, sadly at times, even government interest.  But, the operatives’ efforts were not entirely in vain, the Hells’ Angels public persona was tarnished and the club’s reign as “Lord of the Flies” diminished.  But what may have died as a news story lives on in Running with the Devil.  With both of their secret lives exposed—the operatives’ sacrifice and bravery and the gang’s savagery and pathology—the public cannot forget what happened or why it happened.  That’s the real goal for me in writing true crime, to preserve a moment in time and to hopefully learn from the experience so that we can effect change through information and knowledge.

THE DEADLY TRUTH

At times we all wish the truth was fiction. It might be more palatable. After all, imagination is a kind of frontier without borders or restrictions; with true evil, at least we hope there is definition, limit and some moral barometer. And if there isn’t . . . we search for explanation, excuse, and even justification.  And if we don’t find any . . . then we look for motivation, for clues in a person’s childhood, for that toxic cocktail that transformed them into a monster, for brutal figures who influenced them, used them, abused them and ultimately erased what made them human.  And if we don’t find those factors . . . then we’re left with the untenable hypothesis that there really are natural born killers.

Why else would a Phoenix woman who had been “happily” married for eight years to a devoted and wealthy arts dealer decide one day to throw his body into a freezer, defrost him, dice him up and put his remains into a large garbage bag? Or, a father conclude that it was okay to keep his daughter hostage in a makeshift cellar for twenty-four years so that she could gratify his sexual urges and bear his children? Or, a woman slice up her boyfriend to drink his blood in a perverse vampire love ritual?

Everyday as I stand in the court room and defend against this kind of pathology I search for a way to mitigate my clients’ horrific choices.  The challenge is to find a kernel of good, to convey to the judge and the jury that something about them is worth salvaging because our knee-jerk reaction is to warehouse them in cells or exterminate them like rats.  My real life experiences have fueled my desire to write true crime because I don’t want refuge or respite from the real stories or the real macabre.  I want to understand.  Writing is a kind of catharsis for me, a way to process savage behavior with a goal toward inspiring change in the social institutions—schools, families, prisons—who house and guide these sad individuals.

My goal, in many ways is to do what the operatives did in my first book, Running with the Devil, to journey through the darkness in order to understand the criminal mind, its violence, rage and purpose. The undercover operatives lived for eighteen months as outlaw motorcyclists in order to infiltrate another vicious gang, The Hells Angels. They lived a triple life as outlaw bikers, ATF agents and family men. And the stress nearly destroyed them.

Their goal was to cripple the Hells Angels, chill the club’s criminal exploits and enlighten the public about the gang’s activities. In the end few of the criminal charges against the bikers held and the ATF operatives were rewarded with fear of reprisal from the Hells Angels without government protection or, sadly at times, even government interest.  But, the operatives’ efforts were not entirely in vain, the Hells’ Angels public persona was tarnished and the club’s reign as “Lord of the Flies” diminished.  But what may have died as a news story lives on in Running with the Devil.  With both of their secret lives exposed—the operatives’ sacrifice and bravery and the gang’s savagery and pathology—the public cannot forget what happened or why it happened.  That’s the real goal for me in writing true crime, to preserve a moment in time and to hopefully learn from the experience so that we can effect change through information and knowledge.

LORD OF THE FLIES REVISITED

William Golding’s classic tale about a group of English schoolboys who are plane-wrecked on a deserted island is just as chilling and relevant today as when it was first published in 1954. At first, the stranded boys cooperate, attempting to gather food, make shelters, and maintain signal fires. Overseeing their efforts are Ralph, “the boy with fair hair,” and Piggy, Ralph’s chubby, wisdom-dispensing sidekick whose thick spectacles come in handy for lighting fires. Although Ralph tries to impose order and delegate responsibility, there are many in their number who would rather swim, play, or hunt the island’s wild pig population. Soon Ralph’s rules are being ignored or challenged outright. His fiercest antagonist is Jack, the redheaded leader of the pig hunters, who manages to lure away many of the boys to join his band of painted savages. The situation deteriorates as the trappings of civilization continue to fall away, until Ralph discovers that instead of being hunters, he and Piggy have become the hunted: “He forgot his words, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear on flying feet.” Golding’s gripping novel explores the boundary between human reason and animal instinct, all on the brutal playing field of adolescent competition.

What does school really teach our children? I struggle with this issue daily as I send my boys off to school only to retrieve them hours later and listen to their tales of grief, bullying, and abuse. Not exactly the value system I envisioned for my children. But it was clearly Golding’s vision in Lord of the Flies. My son, like Piggy, has “become fear”; he endures a special kind of hell in his classroom and on the playground. He is told he has a “voice” but when he speaks no one listens. The pig hunters operate in full force as they lure away the popular boys to join their “band of painted savages.” When my son is brutalized no one rescues him. No one sees him. No one cares. Recently, when he reported some punk in his class slammed his head into a wall, the principal did nothing. Meanwhile, my son convulsed into seizures. When my son advised a week later that this same creep tried to choke him with a string, no one took action. The bully was not suspended, reprimanded or even expelled. The school did not even summon the police.

Lord of the Flies is another term for the Devil. The island depicted in Golding’s book is my child’s classroom and sadly he is not alone. Unfortunately, we only hear about the tragedies, the children like Asher Brown who commit suicide because they have no advocates on that island. Brown was bullied to death. His school staff destroyed videos and other evidence of brutality. Brown’s father who, like me, spoke with staff about his concerns, whose son, like mine, made written and oral complaints, received no relief. Brown’s father followed protocol. He believed, like I did, that there was a “system”, that responsible adults would be horrified at the news that a bully roamed among them. But what we both learned is that there is no “system”, no “rules of engagement”. No one made Brown safe. No one has made my child safe. Brown’s perpetrator was “punished” by being forced to miss one football game! My son’s bully continues to harass, threaten and assault my son in plain view with no repercussions.

The Power of One

What makes a person trust enough to risk everything? I never understood the meaning of that word until I applied to law school. I couldn’t afford the application fee or the LSATs (which cost nearly $1000 dollars). But I knew it was my rescue. I was living in a trailer park in South Tucson barely scraping by and too proud to ask for help. The night before, I fell asleep to bullet spray.

This was not my life. This was not my destiny. This was not who I was meant to become. In pouring rain I stood shivering in the Admissions Office at the University of Arizona’s Law School hoping to speak to the director. She didn’t have to see me. She didn’t have to accept my application. She asked me why I wanted to become a lawyer. I thought of my college philosophy class—the professor asked one question of us: “What is Risk?” and the student next to me scribbled on his paper, “This” and handed it in. I handed the Admissions Director my essay. I told her I believed everything happened for a reason, even this. She smiled and I turned to leave knowing she was my last chance. I really needed her to believe in me, a stranger. I needed her to trust me. A clap of thunder rattled the windows. “Are you signed up for the LSAT?” she asked me. With my back to her, I shook my head, ashamed that money could derail me.

“There’s one extra spot, it’s yours if you think you can do it.”

I was about to protest, but I can’t afford it …then I listened to her words. She never asked me if I had paid the fee or if I had studied for the exam. She asked me if I thought I could do it. She offered me a chance to change my life’s direction. She saw something in my eyes—not desperation not sadness, but fierce determination. She believed in me. She inspired me to aim so high it hurt to breathe.

“REALITY LITE”….

They called him “the Block Monster”, a killer who, at the age of twelve, still curled in bed with his mother and sucked his thumb unable to process his horror. Why should we save him? Judges asked me and their question reverberated in the packed pews. It was a fair question, made me think about the people whose lives I try to save and those who’ve saved mine. Why save the block monster? Because he is broken, because killing him means nothing, accomplishes nothing except more broken people, because understanding is healing. Because I, too, want to feel something, anything but numb.

His life is raw and visceral, I begin. The judges roll their eyes. He lived in bitter loneliness. They don’t want to hear his abuse. Give us “reality lite”, soft truth, the kind that has a happy ending despite the dark shadows. Sell us that? Maybe then we’ll listen. I can’t. This is his story, history, his truth.

How dare you deny him that.

"REALITY LITE"….

They called him "the Block Monster", a killer who, at the age of twelve, still curled in bed with his mother and sucked his thumb unable to process his horror. Why should we save him? Judges asked me and their question reverberated in the packed pews. It was a fair question, made me think about the people whose lives I try to save and those who've saved mine. Why save the block monster? Because he is broken, because killing him means nothing, accomplishes nothing except more broken people, because understanding is healing. Because I, too, want to feel something, anything but numb.

His life is raw and visceral, I begin. The judges roll their eyes. He lived in bitter loneliness. They don't want to hear his abuse. Give us "reality lite", soft truth, the kind that has a happy ending despite the dark shadows. Sell us that? Maybe then we'll listen. I can't. This is his story, history, his truth.

How dare you deny him that.