Imprisoned Minds: Lost Boys, Trapped Men, and Solutions from Within the Prison Presented by Erik S. Maloney and Kevin A. Wright!

 He convinced himself that he never lied to me and couldn’t understand my disappointment. Self-delusion epitomizes the imprisoned mind.

There’s outright racism, hidden racism, and differential treatment for people of color. It’s all here...

The Imprisoned Mind - Everyone has a story. The stories of men with an imprisoned mind may seem more incomprehensible than others. When you have a comprehensive understanding of the mindset, however, you begin to better understand the actions of the men who are trapped with it. I once came across an episode of the television show Cops. I watched as the police pulled a man from a wrecked vehicle and handcuffed him. The surrounding pandemonium suggested that I’d missed a car chase, and, as was the premise of the show, the “good guys” had nabbed the “bad guy.” The exasperated officer, clearly familiar with the suspect, placed his prisoner in the back seat of his squad car and huffed, “How many times have you ran from the police?” With a smirk on his face and in a casual tone, the prisoner answered, “Twenty-six times.” I can only imagine the average viewer’s reaction to hearing that: “Damn! Twenty-six times? That man’s crazy!” or, “What the hell’s wrong with that dude? He must enjoy getting arrested!” These viewer responses seem rational given the circumstances, but I’ve yet to hear anyone accurately explain why people, such as this man, continue to believe they can get away with breaking the law after having been caught so many times. Clearly, this man wasn’t so crazy that he didn’t know he’d broken the law—he wouldn’t have run from the police otherwise. And I’ve yet to find one prisoner who actually enjoys being arrested, so that must not be the problem. It was obvious to me there was something wrong with this man, and those like him, but what? 

Tracing the development of the imprisoned mind begins with childhood. Stories of unimaginable childhood abuses and neglect are prevalent throughout “the hood” and prisons. Growing up, I remember listening to “homies” openly talk about their adverse childhood experiences. A homey once told me about watching his mom kill his dad. It was chilling to hear him describe seeing the bullet pierce his father’s chest as if it was a scene from a movie and not his actual life. Another spoke of his backside being beaten by his stepdad in such gory detail that I was reminded of hearing similar stories of slaves being whipped by their master. I remember feeling uneasy each time I listened to one of these stories. I mean, what’s a kid supposed to say to someone who’s being so open about such horrific personal experiences? All I’d say was, “Damn! That’s messed up,” or, “Man! That ain’t right.” I thought it was a coincidence when I began hearing many of the same stories in prison. Sure, each story is different, but they’re all still painfully similar. It was clear to me that each individual continued to be plagued by their past experiences as if they had only recently happened. Yet each man had no clue how their past continued to affect their present. It didn’t take long for me to notice how emotionally detached everyone seemed to be while recalling their vividly horrific experiences. Some told their stories as if they were no big deal, casually joking about them. One person laughed about being beaten, at the age of seven, by his mother’s boyfriend. He had a gun put to his head because he’d urinated while asleep on his mom’s couch. “Shit,” the man chuckled as he recalled the story, “it made me stronger, and best believe I didn’t piss myself again after that!” Of everyone who has told me a story of childhood traumas, only one person ever choked up while recalling his traumatic experience. Even then, he continued to tell his story with such numbness that I began to wonder if there was a relationship between childhood trauma and incarceration. By that point, I’d become aware of my own emotional detachment and subsequent imprisoned mindset due to childhood trauma, but I wondered just how common this link was in prison. I set out to find the answer. The development of the imprisoned mind starts with emotionally sensitive children who’ve experienced trauma that is left untreated. The child then begins to experience mental and emotional distress. Without knowledge of healthy coping mechanisms, they eventually turn to drugs and alcohol and begin making other risky decisions. These behaviors don’t heal the trauma; they only serve to temporarily numb or distract from the agony of the mental and emotional distress. The individual becomes so focused on achieving this temporary relief that their willingness to engage in criminal endeavors becomes habitual. With each illegal act, the mindset evolves into a rigid criminal mentality, one that arrests all future development. I recognized prominent and recurring themes in the lives of everyone I believed showed signs of having an imprisoned mind. Like me, everyone readily admitted to being an emotionally sensitive child prior to their initial traumatic experience. My own mother and sisters would describe me as a crybaby. I wondered if this predisposition factored into the intensity of the symptoms of having post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Additionally, the individual with an imprisoned mind often experienced the absence of one or both parents during childhood. This absence, I found, caused some to seek out a semblance of a family or brotherhood, such as joining a gang or the military, to fill the void left by their own fractured family. Being a part of something we feel is bigger than ourselves gives us a sense of belonging to the “family” we feel we never had. The progression of the imprisoned mind is highlighted by denial and deflection. The individual who possesses an imprisoned mind is generally unaware that anything is wrong with them. It’s as if we develop a form of tunnel vision and become hyper-focused on satisfying our desires and needs. The problem with this mentality is its self-deceiving nature: the imprisoned mind causes us to believe that things we simply want are so important that we are required to have them. Our inability to differentiate between our wants and our needs leads to a sense of urgency and a lack of patience when it comes to acquiring what we feel we must have. We then develop an egoistic attitude. Our imprisoned mind leads us to believe that everything is about us and produces behavior that seems rude or inconsiderate. We lie and manipulate to get what we want. We believe that we have honor and integrity, but in reality they’re foreign concepts to us. If there are rules that hinder our ability to do as we feel, then we will attempt to find ways around those rules or just ignore them. It doesn’t occur to us that our actions affect anyone outside of ourselves. When faced with the consequences of our actions, we deny culpability, we feign ignorance, and we deflect responsibility. Saying “everybody does it” is a typical excuse, and one that is indicative of the irrationality of the imprisoned mind, yet it’s suitable enough for us to justify committing unethical or illegal acts. Once we’re caught and suffer the consequences of our actions, the imprisoned mind causes us to see ourselves as victims, virtually blind to our own accountability. The permanence of the imprisoned mind is dependent upon the further traumas we’re exposed to while involved in the criminal underworld. Witnessing violence firsthand as a child causes us to be more likely to engage in violent behavior as adults. The imprisoned mind’s self-deceptive nature convinces us that our learned violent behavior is the only way to respond to perceived threats. We then end up in precarious situations that expose us to more trauma, thus intensifying the mindset. Those who are repeatedly exposed to violence can develop an antisocial attitude that is often misunderstood as sociopathic. In our minds, the violence we engage in tends to be more reactive than senseless. We detest having to engage in it, and we typically only do so when we believe it’s necessary to protect our well-being, our way of life, or the well-being of those we care about. This attitude seems to result from overexposure to hypervigilance and lasts as long as we feel threatened in an apparently hostile environment. Once we’re removed from our hostile environments, this attitude can begin to dissipate and is eventually replaced with shame and a desire to better ourselves. I’ve been interested in human behavior since I can remember. Figuring out why people do the things that they do consumed much of my childhood curiosity. And it continues to this day. I began my informal studies in psychology during middle school. These studies only intensified during my incarceration. I’ve formally taken classes and informally read whatever books I could get my hands on to better understand myself and others. Through my studies, I discovered sociology, and I began research in criminology after taking an Inside-Out Prison Exchange Program class in 2016. I’ve taken human subjects and qualitative interviewing training through Arizona State University, and I’ve personally interviewed over 200 prisoners for two groundbreaking Participatory Action Research projects.1 Together, my studies, my training, and over two decades of experience with prisoners and incarceration make me uniquely qualified to write this book. But I struggled with how to best advance the imprisoned mind idea. I wasn’t even sure who, if anyone, would be interested in an argument from someone who is incarcerated and lacks an academic degree. That is, until a wise man told me, “It’s not about the degree. It’s the experience living that life and with being incarcerated, having the access to prisoners who can support the idea that’s unique.” I decided the only way to lend credibility to my claim would be to tell the stories of the men who I’m referring to as having the imprisoned mind: prisoners. I set out to find those on the unit who had the mindset and were willing to share their life story with me and the world. I was surprised and pleased to discover that many prisoners were eager to have their stories told. I sat with each man and took notes by hand, as recording devices are prohibited, while they recounted their life stories to me. I interviewed in our cells. I interviewed in the middle of the prison yard. I interviewed in the Arizona heat. Each meeting had to be broken down into several sessions as time permitted. We had to work around lockdowns and count times. I processed the information acquired from each discussion and wrote each subject’s story in the first person. Each individual’s story is compiled as a chapter, detailing how instances of trauma can contribute to a singular, common outcome: prison. 

The chapters that follow are real-life accounts based upon the lives of six men who were emotionally damaged during the most vulnerable time in their life. Each chapter provides detailed descriptions of the harm, pain, and anguish some boys have experienced, and then later caused. I believe all six men have an imprisoned mind, but each of their stories better represent different stages of the mindset. In the first part of the book, Kidd’s and Sergeant’s stories epitomize the childhood trauma and neglect that contribute to the development of the imprisoned mind. In the next part, Oso’s and Dee’s stories show how denial and deflection contribute to the progression of the imprisoned mind. In the last part, Oakland’s and Unique’s stories demonstrate how the mindset can be fortified through continued victimization and trauma. These stories are not told to excuse our behavior or to justify our incarceration. Rather, the following brief life histories are meant to highlight the origin of the irrationalities that drastically influence the criminal mind, and to educate those who believe they have criminality all figured out. At times, what’s told here isn’t pretty. But sometimes the most meaningful lessons are born from ugliness. Dr. Kevin Wright joins me in the final part of the book on outside and inside solutions. Kevin and I have worked together on this book for over seven years. He has provided feedback and assistance on all aspects of the book, from helping me to refine the idea of the imprisoned mind to leading our efforts to secure a publisher to copyediting all drafts of the book. Here he contributes a chapter that leverages his outside knowledge as a correctional scholar to complement my inside knowledge as someone who has lived through an imprisoned mind. Where “imprisoned minds” could suggest an individual pathology, Kevin’s chapter makes clear that our life circumstances—especially our adverse experiences as young boys—limit our opportunities for healthy physical and mental development. He writes about the value of combining his outside knowledge with my inside lived experience to suggest solutions to enhance the lives of people who are living and working in the correctional system. I conclude the book with a chapter that identifies what needs to happen outside of the correctional system to prevent the development, disrupt the progression, and reverse the permanence of the imprisoned mind. In simplest terms, we need to support both the lost boys and the trapped men—especially when they are experiencing and working through the trauma that can derail their opportunity to find purpose and meaning as humans. I never thought I’d end up in prison. Nobody with an imprisoned mind ever does. We’re perpetually caught up in a moment that is our life. For me, that moment was proving that I was “a man” and making money. Others’ form of self-deceit differs, but the results are all the same. Days, weeks, months, and years go by without us even realizing that all aspects of our personal development have ceased. Once you have the imprisoned mind, I believe that there are only two destinies: death or incarceration. Unfortunately, we’re unable to comprehend that we’re blinded by our own compulsions, slaves to our impulses, while deceived into limiting our own options in life. When our perceived options are limited (and none of them seem good), then it stands to reason why we make the wrong decisions. We become trapped by an irrational mindset. While I’m unable to tell the stories of the men whose mindset led them to their demise, I can tell the stories of the men.

!!!!

As far as I am aware, Johnny Cash is the only music artist who specifically provided a prison program during his active performing years... So immediately I remembered how those who listened to his shows were so involved and excited to hear what he had to say... When I saw this book advertised, I knew I wanted to read it. The first and only contact I'd made was through a book, of course... But in talking with the young man, he happened to mention that even when he got out, he would not be allowed to vote! To me, that just seemed wrong. If somebody has fulfilled the court's requirements, then that individual should return to the same rights available to all of us--if the prison system was doing what it was meant to do...

But this book clearly shows that the evolution of what occurs in prisons has been steadily going downhill in relation to helping our citizens to move back into a meaningful life.

The other involvement I'd had was with the WV Prison System when as the manager of classrooms on the WVU campus, we at one time had our wooden classroom seats cannibalized for ongoing use. Again, that type of program which helped provide both income and a work program apparently no longer occurs. The impression provided was that those in prison these days have little opportunity to occupy their bodies and minds... 

Finally I want to highlight my personal response as I read this book. The title has a much farther possible use than for those intended by the book. I found myself responding, based upon today's world, as well as from other books, that there could be many people locked into an imprisoned mind. In fact, it could be used by those women who have experienced rape or physical assaults which have traumatized them thereafter. I quickly note that this book does not cover women--purely because of the circumstances of the writer and his location. I remember, however, when I went into burnout based upon my job, there was No term available for a medical diagnosis other than clinical depression. I was not depressed. My mind was burnt out and could no longer function... Thus, I could easily have defined my feelings as a my mind being imprisoned... Job Burnout has since then been added as a specific diagnosis for purposes of diagnosis of simply a very tired mind... PTSD is also one of those which is used across multiple mental results faced either by those in the military, or, for instance, after a rape or other traumatic event.

So, why am I beginning this discussion with this highlight of Imprisoned Minds? Because I want readers to know that this book can be valuable to other people who have never actually been in prison. Consider all of the individuals who commit crimes for which we never determine the background, the reason, or the individual who committed the crime never gets to prison...

Also not covered in this book is the major issue of gun control, drugs, sexual or physical abuse, or political influence. Be aware, however, that the individual stories by those interviewed will be discussing these issues... A final note: The number of interviews were limited by the space available for the entire book covering this important subject. Erik was responsible for identifying what he had determined to be his own diagnosis/identification of what he called how he felt. Only those identified as having "imprisoned minds" were included...

Kidd - I was never allowed to have closure, and because of that, it still doesn’t feel real to me. I was born in Tucson, Arizona, in 1993. I’m the second youngest child of five kids. I have one older brother, two older half-sisters, and one younger half-sister. Two of my siblings have the same father, and the other three—including myself—have different fathers, so my mom had four different “baby daddies.” All of my mom’s kids are biracial. My mom was white, so my siblings are both Filipino and white or Mexican and white. I’m her only child who’s half Black and half white. We moved to Mesa, Arizona, when I was two years old. My earliest memory is of my first day of kindergarten when I started at Harris Elementary. I remember going out to play during recess. I didn’t know anyone at the school and just wanted to be a kid and play. I spotted some kids playing soccer and wanted to play with them, so I went onto the field and asked if I could play. I remember a Mexican kid telling me I couldn’t play with them because I was Black. I didn’t understand, but I knew I didn’t like it. So we fought. After fighting with the kid, we became best friends. One day I went to his house to play video games and his dad came into his room and began beating him for playing video games with me because I was Black. That wasn’t my first experience with racism, though. My own mom used to discriminate against me. She used to tell me, “Quit acting like a n——boy!” It wasn’t until I learned to read, at the age of four and a half years old, that I realized what the word “n——” meant. Even then, I didn’t fully understand. I knew it was a bad thing said to Black people by “ignorant” racist people. It really hurt me to be called that by my mom, and it made me feel as if she hated me because I was Black. I began noticing how she looked at me differently than my siblings. She also talked to me and treated me differently. There were times when she fed my siblings, yet withheld food from me. She once tried to drown me, and she’d even locked me in a closet for long periods of time and spanked me for the smallest things. My siblings received no such treatment. Each time my grandparents (my mom’s parents) would come to visit, she’d find a reason to punish me before they arrived. Once I was withheld food for three days. The hunger became so bad that I had to go to the store and steal candy to eat. I was about five years old then. Even my grandparents were racist. They treated me differently than my siblings too. My grandfather accepted that I was his grandson, but it seemed to me like all he wanted to do was “customize” me by changing me into one of the “good n——s.” This made me feel bad for being Black. I never felt like I fit in with my own family. I felt alienated. I used to wonder why my mom even gave birth to me if she didn’t want me. The best excuse I could come up with was maybe she became pregnant by a Black guy because of a one-night stand—of course, I was a little older when I came to that conclusion. I knew Mom drank and did drugs. I began using this to excuse her behavior toward me. I’d tell myself, “She’s only acting like that because she’s drunk or high.” I never knew how true (or how far from the truth) that was. I’ll never know for certain what the answer really was. One morning, when I was nine years old, I awoke to find my mom had cooked a big breakfast for all of us kids. It was unlike her to cook breakfast. She made pancakes, eggs, and bacon that day. She even had a box of my favorite cereal just for me—Cookie Crisp. My siblings and I normally took the bus to school, but this morning she drove us. We were shocked, but I thought nothing of her behavior at the time as being out of character. I was just excited I was being treated normally. She even let me sit in the front seat. That’s something I’d never been able to do. It felt great riding in the front seat of my mom’s Mustang too. I remember feeling like I was the man! I was shocked when she said to me while driving, “You know that I love you a lot?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I liked it. She went on to tell me that I had to be there for my brother and sisters. She told me, “They’re not gonna survive like you will.” She told me I was strong and independent. It was weird hearing her say these things, but I dismissed it. I was just happy to live in the moment. I remember leaving the car feeling as if everything, from that moment on, was about to get better. I was upbeat and jovial at school that day. We had what was known as a “fun run”—kind of like a mini-carnival. There were a lot of games like slip-n-slide, basketball tournaments, and all sorts of fun stuff to do. It turned out to be one of the best days at school I’d ever had. My friend Kelsie and I rode the bus home from school together. Kelsie lived a few houses down from me, so when we arrived at my house he and I parted ways. I went to the front door and knocked, thinking it was locked, as usual. I’d never been trusted enough to be given a key, so I waited for my mom to open the door. There was no answer after what must have been five or ten seconds, but it felt like forever. I tried to turn the door handle and, to my surprise, it turned. I pushed the door open and yelled, “Mom, I’m here!” I closed the door behind me and walked into the living room. There I found my mom’s body lying in a pool of blood. She had a gun in her hand and a hole in her head. I don’t know how long I stood there looking at her before I panicked. I remember realizing I needed to get help, so I ran to the neighbor’s house. My mother had committed suicide. My best day had become my worst day—I felt betrayed and left behind. To make matters worse, Child Protective Services (CPS) separated me from my siblings. My oldest brother and sisters were sent to live with their uncle. My younger sister was sent to a foster home, and I was sent to a group home. It was very difficult for me to be separated from the only family I had left. I was nine years old, and I quickly missed my family. I desperately wanted to be with my brother and sisters, so I began running away from my group home to be with them. My group home was in Tempe, Arizona, so one evening I decided I was going to live with my siblings. I began walking from Tempe to Mesa at five P.M. and arrived at my siblings’ uncle’s house at approximately three A.M. In my mind, I thought I’d be welcomed and celebrated for being there. But my siblings’ uncle called the police. He told me he had to because if he didn’t, he’d get in trouble. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. When the police arrived, they called my group home and told them to come and pick me up. I felt restricted from my family, like I was being punished. I blamed the police and CPS for my mom’s death. I didn’t know my dad, and I couldn’t be with my brother and sister. I was alone, with no home and no sense of belonging. I can’t even count how many group homes I’ve been in. I was treated like shit in most of them, like I was a burden or a nuisance. I really hated the second one that I stayed at. The staff would talk to me crazy all the time. One day, I ended up getting into an argument with a staff member. They said I disrespected him. The staff member responded by hitting me so hard that I bit off part of my tongue. I threw a tantrum after seeing all the blood coming from my mouth—it reminded me of finding my mom’s body. I don’t remember much about the tantrum except for them saying I threatened to kill myself. I only said that hoping it’d force them to remove me from the group home and send me to a better one. I wanted to be someplace I felt I belonged; instead, I was taken to Arizona State Hospital—a mental health facility. I was thrown into a cell and placed on suicide watch. I still remember the sound of the first time the door slammed shut behind me and locked. I flipped out! Before, I could always run away, but in the cell I was stuck. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t see my brother and sisters. I was locked up. I cried so much that I stopped producing tears. It was there they convinced me something was wrong with me. Although I was only there for a couple of weeks, the experience left me feeling as if I was more of an outcast. To be fair, not every group home was bad. I stayed in two that treated me well. I always behaved in the ones that treated me well. I didn’t want to give them a reason to ship me off to a group home that was worse. I also found that if I behaved, I could earn a home pass that allowed me to see my brother and sisters. On my tenth birthday, I was moved to Kenwood group home. It was there I met Miss Bobby. Miss Bobby was the manager of the group home. She was an older Black lady. She brought me in and welcomed me. She even recognized it was my birthday and cooked me hot dogs and macaroni. She took me shopping for clothes and had my hair cut. On our way back, she took me to ride go-carts. It was the first time anyone took an interest in me and recognized it was my birthday. I felt special. It was a whole new experience for me. I remember thinking the lady was an angel. I’d never had anything special done for my birthday prior to that day. I’d been to other kids’ birthday parties, but I’d convinced myself I wasn’t special enough to have my own. It was obvious to me I wasn’t loved enough to enjoy the recognition of the day I was born. Because of Miss Bobby, my tenth birthday has always been a special memory to me. It was the first time I really viewed a woman as a mother figure. I spent about three months with Miss Bobby. The entire time I was on my best behavior. I didn’t want Miss Bobby to be disappointed or angry with me, I was happy there. Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. Miss Bobby received a promotion and was transferred to another group home. Around the same time, I was assigned to a new CPS caseworker. The guy who replaced Miss Bobby turned out to be alright. His name was Mario. He was a younger Black guy. The first time we met, he quickly eased my concerns about the type of person he was. He handed me his phone and let me listen to rap music on it. Under his care, I wasn’t abused or made to feel like I was a burden, but I wasn’t at home either. When I was eleven, my caseworker established contact with my dad. I was able to meet him for the first time and get acquainted. Like any young boy who never knew his father, I always dreamed about meeting him. I remember being nervous and excited while waiting for him to arrive. When I saw him for the first time, it was unreal. I immediately noticed I looked like him. It kind of scared me, too. I knew he was my dad, but I didn’t know if he’d love me or treat me like my mom did. We were accompanied by my caseworker for our first meeting. We went to the mall and ate at a place called the Rainforest Cafe. After that, we went to a place called Dave & Busters and played games—Dave & Busters is like a sports bar and arcade combined. I had a great time that day, but it was awkward because I didn’t know how to express myself. It made getting acquainted quite difficult. I did ask my dad how he felt about meeting me. He explained that he’d known I existed since I was two years old, but my mother had told him I wasn’t his child. He seemed excited to have a son, but we never talked about what I’d been through. After meeting my dad, I had an incentive to stay out of trouble—staying out of trouble meant I could get a home pass and be with him. The next time we met, I was taken to meet his whole family. I met his mom, my grandma, her sister, my great aunt, and a few cousins. It was the first time I had a family that looked like me. I even met my dad’s daughter, my older half-sister. They made me feel so welcomed. I finally felt like I belonged to a family again. Soon after my dad was awarded custody of me, I was allowed to go home with him. Having a father was unreal to me, after not having one the first eleven years of my life. I’d been in so many group homes that I began to believe I’d never have a home—that I’d always be unwanted and unloved. My dad was a successful businessman. He owned three businesses and lived in a three-bedroom, two-bath house in a small community situated on the outskirts of Tucson called Vale, Arizona. He had a fiancée and a daughter who was a few years older than me. I was excited to have a new big sister, and she seemed excited to have a little brother—as excited as a teenage girl could be given the situation. My dad’s fiancée seemed pretty cool. She welcomed me into their home, and I was given my own room. Prior to that day, I’d always shared a room with my older brother. Having my own space felt great. My dad bought me posters so I could put my personal touch on the room. It was nice, too. I had a bunk bed, a computer, and an entertainment center. I felt like my life was finally perfect. It didn’t take long for reality to set in. I thought my dad and I would be able to make up for lost time and be together all the time. I had a list of all sorts of father-and-son things we could do. However, my dad worked a lot and I barely saw him. I didn’t understand why he was never home. To make matters worse, it turns out the neighborhood we lived in was predominantly white. I began to feel like an outsider again. Much like my new neighborhood, my new middle school was predominately white. There were a handful of Mexican kids, but I was the only Black kid. I met a kid named Jesus, and he seemed pretty cool. He was my age, so we hung out at school a few times. One day, he asked if I wanted to go to his house and play video games. Of course, I had nothing else to do, so I accepted. As we played video games in his living room, a light-skinned Black kid walked into the room. I pretended as if I didn’t see him and just kept playing the video game. I was excited to see another Black kid, but I did my best not to let on. I was curious who he was, so I kept glancing over at him. He looked to be a few years older than me, and he carried himself with a certain swagger that I immediately admired. Once the video game had ended, Jesus introduced me to his big brother. His name was Rico. When his brother introduced us, Rico flicked his head upward, saying “What’s up,” and with a smile asked, “What’cha doin’ hangin’ with this lame?” referring to his brother. I knew I liked him from the moment I met him, and we instantly became friends. Rico was half Black and half Mexican and, much like me, he was the only mixed-race child of his mother. He and I connected because we were the only two Black kids in the neighborhood. The fact we had similar backgrounds, given our family dynamics, only strengthened our bond. Rico was only two years older than me, but at thirteen he was already an imposing figure. He stood about six feet two inches tall and dressed in that New York “gangsta” style T-shirt, baggy jeans, and signature Timberland boots. He didn’t go to the same school as me because he was kicked out prior to my arrival. I was impressed. He was tough, cool, and for an eleven-year-old boy who’d never really had a Black friend, he was THAT DUDE! My dad was at work all the time. Because of that, I always hung with Rico when we weren’t in school. I became popular with the girls at my school, but that seemed to only make the boys dislike me even more than they already had. I started getting into fights and began getting suspended from school. It was cool, though, because each time I was suspended Rico and I would end up skipping school and partying. He smoked weed and drank alcohol, so naturally I smoked weed and drank. And even though I hadn’t smoked or drunk before meeting Rico, I acted as though I had. When I was with Rico, I felt like I fit in. My dad purchased my clothes from either Ross or Walmart. For an adolescent, that gear wasn’t cool. I had to keep up with my popular image, and the gear I wore wasn’t helping. I decided I needed to get better gear. To do that, I needed money. At first I started raking people’s yards for money. That, however, wasn’t cutting it. Rico suggested we sell weed to make money, which I thought was a good idea. I also thought it’d further my “rep.” We started selling small amounts of weed, and I was able to start buying better clothes. My “rep” began to grow thanks to the gear. I figured out the larger amounts of weed you buy, the cheaper it was. I wanted to make more money, so it was only logical to buy larger quantities. I suggested to Rico that we save our money and buy a pound of weed. He agreed, and that’s exactly what we did. After doing that, we started making pretty good money. I felt like the man when I hung with Rico. Selling weed and wearing fresh gear made the girls love me more. The boys hated me, but they couldn’t beat me up, so I didn’t worry about them. I had an established “rep,” so everybody began to know who I was. Rico and I started buying larger amounts of weed after a few years, and our clientele grew. At fifteen, Rico had enough money to buy himself a car. We also bought dirt bikes so we could go out in the desert and ride with other kids. My dad would ask me about my new possessions, and I just lied to him. I’d tell him they belonged to someone else, which he seemed to believe, or maybe he just didn’t want to know the truth. Perhaps he did know and was cool with not having to spend money on me. I don’t know. I was providing for myself, so I was cool with him not pressing me too hard. By my sixteenth birthday, I saved up enough money to buy myself a car, a Honda Civic. I also found out my dad’s businesses weren’t doing very well. I was surprised to find out he smoked weed too. When I found out, my dad seemed cooler to me, but finding out his businesses weren’t doing so well made me feel like I was a burden on him. By then I’d been providing for myself for some time. I sold weed, so I convinced myself I had to step up my game in order to take care of myself. By this time, my dad’s daughter had been doing drugs and had gotten pregnant. My dad was helping her with money, so I felt like I was doing him a favor by not having to spend money on me. I began selling different types of drugs in order to make more money. I grew to six feet tall and had the build to go with it. Together, Rico and I were imposing figures. This only seemed to bring more hatred from the white and Mexican guys. We were getting into fights all of the time—mainly when someone would call us the N-word. And we won every one of our fights. Our opponents always outnumbered us, so at some point they just started to jump us. One night after getting jumped, these guys tried to rob us of our money, so Rico and I decided to buy guns. That was the game changer. We now had protection. Having a gun proved to be a deterrent, but thankfully we never had to use them. A few months before my seventeenth birthday, my dad told me he was breaking up with his fiancée, and they were losing their house. This news was devastating to me. While I hated the neighborhood, I had a good thing going on. I had a family, a friend, and I was making money. I finally felt like I fit in somewhere, and now I was losing my sense of security. My dad told me I had to move to Tucson and live with his mom. He ended up renting a one-bedroom townhouse, and, once again, I felt abandoned. It was all good, though, I thought. I could be going to someplace worse, I told myself. In the five years of knowing my grandma, I’d come to love and appreciate her. She’d made me feel special since day one. Each time my dad went to the city, I enjoyed going to visit her. While I felt abandoned by my dad, I knew living with my grandma would be a safe place for me—at least it wasn’t a group home. My grandma was pretty cool. She was born in England and had a British accent. I always got a kick out of hearing her speak. Until then, I’d never heard a Black lady speak with a British accent. Every time I saw her, she was the typical Black grandmother—you know, churchgoing, welcoming, and always offered to cook something to eat if I was hungry. At the age of seventy-six, she continued to work as a registered nurse. She’d always taken good care of people regardless if they were family or her patients. One thing that always stuck out to me was the fact she was a no-nonsense type of woman. My grandma did not play. Knowing I was going to live with my grandma meant I had to be proper. I knew I’d have to go to church and go to school. I knew I’d have to do my homework before I even thought about going anywhere. It felt good to have someone who cared about me like that. I didn’t hate the structure, but it did take some getting used to. The problem was I felt stuck in my ways, so it was difficult for me to get used to. It didn’t help that I had trust issues. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my grandma would die or leave me like everyone else. I became determined not to get used to the structure, or even to try and embrace it, because it was temporary. I did everything asked of me while I was in her house, but I continued to “do me” once I was outside of her house. My grandma lived in a four-bedroom, two-bath house. She used to be a certified foster parent, so I guess she was accustomed to keeping a full house. When I moved in, my cousin had already been living there. He was twenty years old at the time and thugged out. He was a light-skinned Black man who stood about five foot nine inches and was very stocky. He had green eyes, wore his hair in cornrows, and had a cocky demeanor. One glance at his brand-name clothes, new shoes, silver chain, and expensive watch told me he sold drugs. I knew he belonged to a gang, and I knew he had “connections.” I saw him as an opportunity to establish myself in this new city. By then, I treated selling drugs like it was my job, and I had work to do. I still had some money from selling drugs at my dad’s house, so my cousin helped me to buy a half ounce of coke. I was excited because I was in a bigger city, and that meant more people. And more people meant more money. My cousin was a Crip, so naturally I wore blue all the time. I began going to Palo Verde High School while living with my grandma. There were a lot of Bloods there, so I began getting into fights because I wore blue. Those fights led me to the principal’s office often. The principal came to really dislike me because of my attitude—and for the fact that it appeared as if I caused all of the trouble. I wasn’t about to snitch on anyone, so I always refused to cooperate with the principal. I just took the suspension rather than telling him what’d happened. For some reason, people never seemed to like me due to how I carried myself. That’s always been something I could never quite understand. It wasn’t as if I walked around like I was some kind of tough guy. I was just determined never to back down from anyone. One day while I was in school, I had words with a guy who made a remark to me. I could have ignored his remark, but if I had it would have made me appear weak. I said some disrespectful things back to him, hoping he’d fight me. He didn’t respond. I thought it was the end of it as we went our separate ways. After school, he was waiting for me with some of his friends. They ended up jumping me and beating me up pretty good. The minute I stepped foot on campus the next morning, security grabbed me and took me to the principal. Apparently, the school received a report that I was going to bring a gun and use it on someone. They searched me, my locker, and my book bag but found nothing. The situation, however, was the perfect excuse to kick me out of school, given my history of suspensions and my attitude with the principal. Grandma wasn’t too pleased with me. She immediately enrolled me in a school for troubled kids called Southern Arizona Community Academy (SACA), and I decided I’d really try to keep up with school in order to make my grandma happy. The problem with SACA was nobody there tried to understand me, what I’d been through, or what I was going through. To their credit, when I brought this to their attention, they tried to help me. They sent me to a place called La Frontera after school each day....

Each story takes a chapter--this is not the total first story since copyright has stopped further sharing... In my opinion this book is a must-read... The remainder of the book gets into a review of the issues within and without the prison, including support changes for programs necessary. At this time, in this political climate, it is questionable whether any of the proposals would even be considered given the racial discrimination mentioned earlier and the present DEI mandates... 

But this is not a singular issue, or a single book. This issue cannot really be addressed pre-prison, in my opinion, since drugs and guns are preventing what the majority of people want to change... There are other books related to guns, for instance, that should be considered. Most importantly is that what I saw in this book was a total lack of interest on the part of too many people. Dare I say on the part of one political party in particular. We already know that even school shootings has no effect on republicans. Certainly, caring for those in prison would never be on their radar...

You know folks, I still have NO answer as to why pro-life can be considered a mandate for republicans, while at the same time, they could care less about what happens to those children once they are born. There is always talk about drugs by that party, but bombing boats really has little to do with access available in the U.S. When somebody turns to selling drugs to be able to survive, which ultimately turns into a desire for making lots of money and fighting over territories/gangs... there has to be full awareness at the state level that these issues must be addressed...

We've talked about the fact that children learn how they will live based upon their early home life. I come from a poor background, but what I saw was my widowed mother working 24/7 to feed and shelter us. When the U.S. is the only major country that allows mass shootings to continue, then each of us has to realize that something is very wrong... And it doesn't mean that more guns is the solution...

This nonfiction book should be in every library. It is published by a university, based upon the content being of value to be shared across our land... When you read an individual's story and see that they live based upon what their environment has taught them, then, in my opinion, the United States should be embarrassed that what you will read and learn about those with imprisoned minds, is very possibly NOT the fault of the individual...who...is...imprisoned...

GABixlerReviews

Extraordinary Psychological Thriller Created by Lisa Friedman - Nothing to Lose - You'll Decide Which Side You're On...for the Death Penalty...

"Some of it was gruesome, but I was detached and thinking clinically so it didn't penetrate really," Anita said. "The part that got to me was the parole system. I saw petty criminals retained in custody because the state needed the funding, and hard-core criminals released for the wrong reasons. It's an insane system, based on unsound thinking and emotional conclusions.

Like the pardoning of January 6th criminals  in jail... 

Nothing seemed to work as it should have; nothing was untouched by politics and money. It was a very disturbing experience." Her intense feelings forced her round face to tighten and shrink until the smooth skin looked gutted with deep dark lines. "That's when I came to believe that some people are simply evil," Anita said...

...challenges the morality and personal consciousness of every last one of us. What would you do? That premise has launched philosophical debates, psychological studies and dinner table discussions. Nothing to Lose takes that premise to the farthest reaches of the imagination in a wildly entertaining story of determination, unexpected behavior and social justice.

A few weeks later, I was getting dressed in a hurry when a Special News Break interrupted the morning talk show on television. I stepped out of my closet, half dressed, and stared at the television. The reporter stood at the side of the picture, huddled against the wind, waiting for her cue. Glass Lake looked like a serene but gray place, misty, cool, and damp. Tall, striking redwood trees covered the landscape. Huge Blue Mountains blocked the background. The lake in the foreground was still and dark. A layer of white mist stretched across the lake from shore to shore, hovering just above the waterline. The reporter drew the microphone up to her mouth and squinted into the false light of the cameras. She clutched the fake fur lapels of her coat up next to her neck. The tip of her nose was red, and her breath burst from her mouth in rhythmic white puffs. Suddenly, she looked alert; as a signal transmitted to her that she was on the air. "I'm standing across the street from the sight of the murder of Edmund Garetzky, the feared serial killer who seemed to be one step ahead of our own Federal Bureau of Investigation for the past three years. Garetzky had been on the FBI's Most Wanted list since the arrest and conviction of his partner, Martin Ling. Ling was tried on nine counts of kidnapping and murder and was sentenced to three life sentences in the penitentiary. He committed suicide after just three months in prison. "The FBI had been tracing Garetzky for three years. Ironically, the FBI was alerted to Garetzky's whereabouts just yesterday by an anonymous caller who saw his photograph on the television program America's Most Wanted. Special Agent Arthur Brucemann told KUBS News how the FBI discovered Edmund Garetzky." Agent Brucemann spoke soberly and carefully: "The FBI Special Unit for Criminals at Large received a tip from a citizen and we followed up on that immediately. We arrived in Washington last night and began our search at that time. We were in the process of conducting a sweep operation from Old Forge, thirty miles north of Glass Lake, through Adeho, when we discovered Garetzky's body in the lavatory of the Stop 'N Shop at Glass Lake. We believe Garetzky stopped for cigarettes at the Stop 'N Shop, and then went to use the lavatory. That's all I can say at this time."

Brucemann moved through the cluster of microphones and tape recorders with his chin down, ignoring the excited and eager questions fired at him. "Who is that woman?" Several reporters shouted at once. The cameras whirled past Brucemann, losing focus as the lens sought out the next target. In the center of a pack of men wearing FBI windbreakers stood a woman of about fifty years in a smart green raincoat that shone like a beacon in the grim mass of men. The picture shook erratically as the cameraman ran toward the mystery woman. All around, reporters and camera crews stumbled over each other and equipment in a frantic stampede toward the woman in the green raincoat. "Who are you?" "Did you see anything?" "What's your name?" "What happened?" The questions came all at once, insistent and shrill. The agents surrounded the woman with their bodies and held their hands up to deflect the lights of the cameras.

Within all the frantic pushing and shouting, the woman remained calm and quiet. Finally, she held up her arm and waved. "I would like to say something," she called to the reporters. The agents parted, exposing her to the cameras. "My name is Margaret Linen, and I killed Edmund Garetzky." A roar formed as the collective voices of reporters and crews blended together. The woman closed her eyes and put her hand out as if to ward off the noise. The microphones reached toward her as the crowd became quiet. "I killed him because I care about society. He was a threat. He deserved to die." She paused, and the cacophony rose up again. She waited for the thunder of voices to subside before continuing. "I will tell you about him. This man kidnapped people at knifepoint. He brought them, some of them children, to a cabin in the mountains where he and his accomplice repeatedly tortured and brutalized them beyond our most horrific imaginations. The screams, gasps for breath, cries, and moans were recorded on audiotape and labeled. On the labels was a rating. Stars. Five stars if the victim suffered well, and fewer stars the less entertaining the victim was. "Parents of missing children and families trying to find missing people listened to some of the tapes in an effort to identify the screams of their loved ones. Can you imagine?" She slowed her speech, letting the impact of her words settle. "This man was evil. Evil beyond our scope of understanding. Evil beyond humanity."

"Were you victimized by him?" "Did they kidnap someone in your family?" "What is your connection to this serial killer?" "We are all victims of people like Edmund Garetzky. They perpetuate a circle of violence that affects us all. They are animals preying on us, and worst of all, they are protected by our laws. The criminal justice system does not work. We have all seen evidence of this at one time or another. In the states where the death penalty exists, it is rarely used. Special interest groups hold up the process by insisting that everyone deserves life. Well, the real truth is that some people do not deserve life. "Our government is unable to keep our families and our children safe. Bureaucracy clogs the arteries of the system and some violent criminals fly away scot-free. Well, not this one. Not anymore." "Did you know the victim?" "How did you kill him?" "Do you represent any organization or group, Ms. Linen?" "I came here on my own, to do what society is unable to do for itself — rid itself of Edmund Garetzky. Someone had to do something. And I couldn't stand by and watch our system grant this animal a trial and a life after what he did to us. He did not deserve a lawyer. He did not deserve a fair trial. He did not deserve a life, certainly not in a place that provides meals and a bed, and particularly not at our expense."

She paused for a moment, thinking. "I am going to die." She said it like a statement. "What did she say?" "Who's going to die?" She continued to speak so quietly that the camera crews and reporters had to strain to hear. "I will not be around to protect my family, my grandchildren, from evil," she said. "But now I have assured that we are safe from the monstrous behavior of one terrifying criminal. I did it because I could. I believe that we fail as a society in terms of justice. I did it in order to accomplish something positive for society before I die. My family need not fear Garetzky, society need not fear him, nor will they be forced to spend any time or money on him. I feel I have truly contributed something. I have made the most extreme contribution to society; I have given something back to the good people in this world. I have given all of you freedom. Freedom from this monster. I am not sorry." She looked into the camera lenses, one by one. Then she concluded with a small smile: "I will die in peace." The agents and enforcement officials flanking Margaret Linen were silent. They responded to her cultured, quiet voice and stood back, letting her finish. Possibly, they agreed with her. Whatever the reason, they let her speak without interruption. After she finished they moved in a huddle toward a dark sedan parked nearby with all four doors open wide. The reporters continued to shout questions at her even after the doors slammed shut and the car drove off. Holy shit, I said to myself, and I stood there as if glued to the carpet.

When the phone rang, I had to force myself to lift a foot up to walk toward the nightstand. "Hello?" "Are you ready? You sound asleep?" Lauren's voice sounded impatient. "I hope you didn't forget! We have a date to see my editor and go over your illustrations for my article." "No," I said, shaking off the shock of what I just saw. "I'm almost ready." "What's going on? Why do you sound so funny?" "It's nothing," I said, beginning to come back to life. "I was just watching something on television . . ." "What was it?" Lauren laughed. "Devil worshippers? S&M? People who were abducted by aliens, or women who fall in love with men on death row! Turn that thing off. It's just not safe!" I was laughing and it felt great. I glanced over at my desk to the illustrations I had finished the night before. They were good. I pulled the phone closer to the desk and blew some nonexistent dust off the top board before slipping it into its laminated cover for transport. "I'm ready," I said. "Come and get me." CH

Abortion and the Death Penalty are the two most controversial legal issues in the world... Why is that? Is it because the legal system is and has been flawed? Is it because of religion, civil liberties, or lack of juries willing to put somebody to death. There are no answers in this book. It is psychological fiction, perhaps one of the best I've read. Mainly because of how the ending was created...

Actually, I didn't recall that Friedman was the same writer of Hello Wife which centers on drugs. It is quite obvious that this author is ready and willing to attack today's hard questions! And we all know she may be one of the few who is actually doing so with the divided country we now inhabit... Personally, I preferred this, her first book. It is unbelievably written in such a way that it is truly fiction, but there is much non-fiction of this important issue that she purposely includes, including blackmail. Many kudos to the author. Her amazing characters presented each possible side of the issue, the Death Penalty, with a group of women... Frankly, this decision was the best possible group that could occur, in my opinion. Women care more about the "personal," yet are quite willing to deal with the facts, learning as much as is needed to make their own decisions.

It all began when a woman living in a fairly rich neighborhood and sees a new neighbor being moved in. Roxanne soon found her way over to welcome Anita to the community--and to her small group of women who met for friendship and a little food, of course...

You might recognize quickly that these two women are the two main characters. Roxanne was obviously a leader who enjoyed gathering a flock to share news and more...There was nothing that this group did not discuss. And, later, unfortunately, one of the husbands heard a rather troublesome topic...

Because, soon, a change in the discussions became geared around Anita's work... She counseled those who were going to die.  No, this wasn't hospice where you actually go to die... Anita's goal was to help each of her clients realize what was happening, how they felt about their past, the present, and the future... Frankly, learning that, I thought it was a great service for those who often didn't have family who were even willing to discuss their deaths...

I've purposely included an excerpt providing the "why" of what began to happen...Many of you will not be able to actually read this important book... Instead, I ask my readers. What would you do if you were dying and another Sandy Hook school murder of grade school children took place at that time. Would it affect you as it did me... Or have you and others become so accustomed of death, guns, and violence being around us daily? Personally? I think it would be on a case by case for me. But when the fanatics made videos of our citizens being beheaded? I would have no question about whether they should be put to death.  Just as I would disagree that shooting out boat loads of people in South American waters, without any type of documentation of who they were or a trial of their guilt? I'd say that, instead, the instigator of that total destruction should pay via death penalty.

It is a time when we must trust what we know is right or wrong within our legal system... Even if it is not being followed at this time. Each of these individuals began discussions with Anita about their need to leave this earth, having done all they cold to help improve the world... 

This book requires that you start thinking quickly... because I've already said, I would choose Jesus over Barabbas to live! It may have been planned that way, but, actually, those who chose a criminal that day is still choosing criminals in many ways for minor or major offenses. I call this as I see it. If we don't start using our minds to make our decisions, then what we do during our lifetime really doesn't matter if you're really just following the directions from anybody or everybody...

When we are facing decisions about Truth daily, I consider this book a must-read to help you start developing your own decision-making skills...

GABixlerReviews

Lin Wilder Presents Plausible Liars - A Dr. Lindsey McCall Medical Mystery! This is the Best Book Written Thus Far by An Outstanding Author!

Selected

Plausible Liars Finalist Book Excellence

Medical Fiction 2023

"Father John said, speaking into the silence, “I’ve learned that it is best to first understand the consequences when seeking to rescue another person.”

University of Texas School of Public Health at Houston Doctorate in Public Health, Medical Ethics 

Boston University Boston University MS, Registered Nursing, Nursing Administration

Dominican College Bachelor's degree, English Language and Literature/Letters

This latest book is the 5th in Series. It also includes A Price for Genius (3) Malthus Revisited (4) Do You Solemnly Swear (2) and The Fragrance Shed by a Violet (1)

This novel may be as important to you, as it was to me. In fact, I included information on the author's credentials. To me, knowing the background of a writer often allows me to evaluate what is covered in the book and whether the writer has the credentials to have done so. I know that I usually reserve this for non-fiction books. However, this book in many places reads as a non-fiction book and, in my opinion, the author's inclusion of documentation was needed to make this book, in my opinion, the best book that I have read by this author, and, the best coverage of a sensitive issue that must prove that the information is Truthful...

Plausible Liars is a Must-Read. Given the state of America where lying has become acceptable, even by our highest office holder, this could be the most important book written by the author, thus far.

Many of us will remember the sensation when Bruce Jenner, named as the greatest athlete suddenly proceeded to move toward become a transgender woman. And letting the world know about it... Let me very clear, Gender Identity is now a choice that is covered under Federal Government Laws. BUT Bruce Jenner was in middle age when he moved forward by choice... I support the coverage, just as I support laws that cover those of us, such as me, as a woman who has been discriminated against, is covered...under the phrase All Are Created Equal.

BUT, as we also all have seen, those who are prone to "hate," often may be those who have been torn apart by hatred, discrimination, prejudice, and often find  themselves in trouble, through no action or fault of their own. In fact, many have found that only through pushing for recognition are they able to be the person that they really are... For me? I believe this is a matter between the individual and God... and possibly family, if age is relevant.

Plausible Liars is a fascinating, heart-breaking story of people who have been influenced by their past and, many more than the average individual, have formed either a tough skin, or a world of pain in which they must live. Even Bruce Jenner in the early video above, expressed that what he felt inside was what he had always felt... Key issue is that he was old enough to make that decision himself, perhaps through counseling, religion, or just spending years reviewing what he knew about himself and what he was willing to do about it.

I felt compelled to provide basic groundwork before I proceeded. Because this very important book is about gender identity... And there are so many misconceptions, disinformation, and confusion in knowing what is true or not... Why? Because we already know that many are using religion to promulgate hatred, divisiveness, and violence...

Note:  These two cases, in my opinion, are quite different from the two in the book, although there would be some, as is seen, that have strong opinions about what is happening... I welcome further discussion through the comment section immediately after each post... We all have the right to have opinions, as long as we remain open for receiving further information and listen to opposing views. How else are we to learn and better understand each other?

~~~

I have seen this over and over and over. The government announces a new policy... Yet does nothing to ensure implementation and training... One of the major issues I got involved with is when the new American Disabilities Act was approved. An Important Act, but little guidance was given for actual implementation. They put out some specifications about measurements, but, especially in classrooms for which I was responsible, they stuck an empty location in the front of the room in case somebody was in a wheelchair. That's it! Nothing about hearing or seeing limitations were even considered, yet there were undoubtedly more of those problems than with somebody in a wheelchair. And what if that individual who was expected to sit in the front, yet could not see over the demonstration bench for labs, which was the instructor's location for teaching? The thing is that America has gotten into a very bad habit--we stereotype anything and everything that we either don't like or that we have not taken the time to think through the ramifications and actually establish a plan of action or indeed a solid breadth and scope of knowledge for any given issue. It was my job to be responsive to all ADA facilities issues, particularly in classrooms, and later in facilities planning of all facilities.

I include this trailer by a book review agency. The emphasis on drugs, in my opinion, sadly misses the full impact of the book. For surely, how drugs are being prescribed is very important, but, in my mind, the impact of possibly allowing a sex change to take place... is the primary topic of the book, even if drugs are in some way, related or, at least covered in equal weight. Disinformation? On Purpose? We can't be sure, can we?

Please note that when something has been made a law, some division is responsible for implementation. Certainly, we all expected the past president, when he initiated the Covid vaccine with pharmaceutical companies to also begin planning for implementation and distribution. He did not. In fact, he began to cause problems related to masking even as his own administrative departments were giving tight regulations for Americans... causing mass infighting rather than allowing the major concern to be to save all lives if at all possible.

And certainly when gay marriages were made legal, if regulations and procedures had been distributed--perhaps they were?-- then we would not have had court cases, such as having to decide whether to bake a cake for a gay couple getting married. If you choose to work as a service provider, then you should do the job fully. Your religious concerns has no place in doing a job, but that's my opinion, maybe because I believe that doing your job is an act of service to Him.

Somewhere along the line, individuals started making a choice based upon their own life. They felt more like boys than girls (or vice versa). For instance:

Lili Elbe (born December 28, 1882, Vejle, Denmark—died September 13, 1931, Dresden, Germany) Danish painter who was assigned male at birth, experienced what is now called gender dysphoria, and underwent the world's first documented sex reassignment surgery. Born Einar Wegener, Elbe lived nearly her whole life as a man.

These changes began and were considered new options until around 1969 when they became more normalized... And it was in the mid-1980s when the government recognized these individuals and allowed the surgery... Later the Supreme Court merely added sexual identity to be covered under a current law on discrimination. 

But as the author, Lin Wilder, determined that she would write the book she had been asked to write, she realized that she would have to dig deep into her characters--to be more empathic, perhaps, than she had ever been before. Readers will know this as her main character, Dr. Lindsey McCall, shares both the internal thoughts of those involved--yes, from both sides of the story... I was especially impressed with this, because it reflects the maturity of the author in ensuring her complete story is told--even when we, as readers, may understand the why of the "villain" in this case, but know that his decision was based upon his personal past and should never have been used to advise and counsel others... Shall we, then, begin...

~~~

"The beauty around her pushed back the malicious darkness of social engineering and the insanity of a world led by people who deified humanity while wholly unconscious of consequences."

“The story, tell me the whole story.” Kate smiled and wiped away her remaining tears. “Because three-year-old Danny Sugarman decided he no longer wanted to be called Danny but Susan, Addison Meeks, the preschool teacher, bought Danny/Susan a chocolate cake with the name ‘Susan Sugarman’ written on it. Then Addison took all the kids outside to circle Danny and sing, ‘Susan, come out.’ Danny removed his pants and put on a skirt Addison had purchased. 

Since I was getting JH early for once, I got to see and hear the entire bizarre party. “After I parked, I sat and watched because it looked odd. The kids were outside, and Danny Sugarman was in the middle of their circle, looking at a cake. Curious, I got out of the car and walked up the driveway. When I got there, Danny began crying hysterically, screaming that he didn’t want to be Mia, over and over. The other kids, including JH, started to cry, too. So, I asked Addison if I could help. When she said I could, I picked up Danny, swapped the skirt for his trousers, and he stopped crying instantly. Addison didn’t care for that. She asked me what I was doing and why. “Instead of answering her, I suggested we get all the children back inside the kindergarten. I hoped the situation could be managed before the other moms and nannies arrived. So, I had JH take Danny and two girls inside the kindergarten without waiting for Addison to say anything. 

Meanwhile, Addison asked me again why I’d changed Danny back into the trousers he’d been wearing before he ‘came out.’ “‘Addison, you heard Danny screaming because he didn’t want to be like his older sister, Mia, right? And now he’s no longer screaming. You see this, correct? In fact, he’s acting like any other three-year-old little boy, chasing after JH and the others.’” Although it had been months, Kate shook her head, still trying to process what seemed like wholly irrational behavior on the part of the young teacher. “Addison nodded as if she agreed and started to say something, but I cut her off and asked her why she would treat a three-year-old child as mature enough to decide that he wanted to be a girl and then to treat him as if he were a transgender male to female, even ceremonially changing his name and clothing. Why would she do such a thing? Then I asked if Danny’s parents had told her it would be OK with them.” Listening to Kate’s objective and straightforward story, Lindsey was impressed with how she’d handled herself. She had covered all the angles, even the unlikely possibility that Danny’s parents would approve of him transitioning to a girl. 

“Acting huffy, Addison said that she’d studied under Dr. Matt Heathcock, one of the theorists who brought the diagnosis of gender dysphoria into the twenty-first century. He also wrote and passed the transgender education legislation pioneered in California.” Kate smiled sardonically. “Another step forward for humanity from Sacramento.” Lindsey shook her head, impressed by this gutsy, levelheaded woman. “According to Addison, Danny has the right to decide his gender,” Kate continued. “Since Danny had been calling himself a girl for the last couple of afternoons, Addison felt obligated as his teacher to ‘affirm’ his gender identity. She said that, unfortunately, parents are frequently too ‘emotionally involved’ to help their children become who they are meant to be. “Once we got the detritus of the cake cleaned up and all twelve of the kids back inside, Addison thanked me for my help. For a moment, I thought she was having second thoughts about what had happened. So, I asked Addison if she planned to speak with Danny’s parents about the party and what had happened. Then you’ll never guess what this twenty-something-year-old child did. She smiled at me and said, ‘Kate, you mean Susan’s parents, not Danny’s, right?’” 

Lindsey studied Kate. “What? You’re looking at me as if I’ve developed a third eye or something, Lindsey!” “I’m just flabbergasted at this story.” She picked up the second scone and broke off a piece. Without picking it up, Lindsey said, “And I can’t express how very proud I am to be your friend.” Toying with the piece of scone, Lindsey popped it into her mouth, swallowed, and said, “So many of us would have just grabbed our kid and walked away. And tried to forget what had happened. Even pretend it didn’t happen.”

~~~

I love all the characters in this book, especially the two female lead characters who are also friends, Lindsey McCall and Kate Townsend, the latter being a Pulitzer Prize winning Investigative Journalist. Kate had just completed a series of articles for her newspaper, while Lindsey has been counseling a local teenager at his request while he volunteered to care for dogs in her clinic... The book opens as Lindsey and Kate have just been let out of jail on bail for wrongful death of a minor... The teenager had died...

Readers then begin to hear from two successful and involved women, first, separately, and then together, in participating in issues which directly affect the children of America... Kate had already finished with the last in a series of articles concerning transgenderism. 

While Lindsay had only become involved because the young teenager was a friend of a young student living with Lindsay's family. I will quickly point out that Morgan, the involved friend has Autistic spectrum disorder … Asperger’s, high-functioning autism, with high perception abilities who knew what was happening with her friend before anybody else... I was pleased to see her character since I've had the pleasure of living with a great-nephew who exhibited the traits I was reading in the book, although Morgan has a paranormal ability as well... Cool, right?!

"Once again, Lord, there are no coincidences with you, are there? Father John had acted as consultant and advisor to their mutual friend, Kate Townsend, for the last few months..."

You see, a triangle of faith had been made by that time and when either of the women felt a need for guidance, they called Father John. Lindsey had called him about the young teen, but during that conversation, Father John was able to tell Lindsey all about the work of Kate, with whom she had not been in contact with for some time... Surely, this was a sign, a God Incident, where concern for His children, was brought forward for His faithful to help correct, but for one, it was too late, sadly...

Kate had had a hard time getting into what she needed to write. She kept seeing the results of what could happen allowing children to choose a sex change. Surely everybody should know this, right?

Wrong... for one reason or another, an individual can become so immersed in their opinions, their beliefs, that they may feel like they are acting as they should. The woman in the above video, also a teacher, thought she was being responsive to the child... However, the teacher in Kate's experience had pointed out her training, her indoctrination of an important issue and chose to act immediately and extremely with the child she was now teaching. Based upon the teachings she had received from an individual with skewed and strong negative thinking of what his own life was like--and, actually, thinking that he, too, was helping children...

Where and How Did We Come To This? In my personal opinion, when we fail to place Love Your Neighbor, whoever they are, as primary to our decisions, then our children are those who suffer and grow to be what they may become, based upon, even, sometimes religious beliefs... Children must learn through what they see, what they are taught nonverbally as well as verbally. And, when parents aren't prepared--if teachers aren't prepared--if religious leaders aren't prepared-- only then, it seems that laws came into existence to protect those damaged by actions that are based on wrong information...

While Kate was highlighting concerns about teachers with access to young children too young to make any decisions, Lindsey had been working with a teenager who was being prepared for a sex change from female to male. From an early age. But then her body was maturing, she started binding her breasts! The medication was causing major problems for her and she on her own had started to slow down taking the meds. In other words, she was already prepared and needed to talk to somebody to prevent an operation that was already scheduled... Lindsey was that person who had been helping her. But the damage was already too far along...

Now here's a key factor for me and I believe readers as they begin to digest this important novel. Remember what I said about love? For thousands of years, people have not been satisfied with working together. Many, such as the early slaves brought to America against their will, were abused and started to fight back. Many wanted money and power and did anything to get that. You will see that the characters in this book are either loving and concerned, or they are mentally skewed, not able to see the children as somebody to love and protect... Unfortunately, at this point, our children are getting the brunt of those in power wanting to continue in power, regardless of concern...for...anybody... Think separation of children from parents at the border years ago that still haunts us because many have never been reunited... Or think of the children who have died by gunfire, because republican politicians refuse to take certain guns away!

Those who are loving are forced into legal battles such as both Kate and Lindsey were placed. Laws are only as good as the people who forced laws to be made are. Meaning, they can't force everybody to love one another. The world is in a crisis made by those who have no concern for anybody but themselves. Our children, God's children are suffering.

What do we do? Well, as you know, I read and talk about what I read. Writers are writing about what they see and learn about. They do the research and present both fiction and non-fiction for all of us to learn from, to begin to understand more about what those who place themselves above the law as well as above Love for more than themselves, is doing to the world we live in.

In my opinion, this book is the most important book thus far written by Lin Wilder. She strikes deep into a subject that is not only confusing and hard to understand for those of us who don't truly have those feelings... and, which, is being used by political power thirsty individuals who... really... don't... care... about... anything... but... staying... in...power... When you see things like transgenderism, which is normally a small percentage--a small group of people who have these feelings... AND... Are Adults... suddenly become a visible "issue" of politicians, then we need to be prepared to participate and logically talk about it. Certainly it is in schools. Teachers who have never had training or bad guidance based upon disinformation; i.e., information that is purposely skewed or falsified in order to have acceptance by the listener... Just like Physicians who have had training but are being threatened with jail for trying to help those desperately in need during difficult pregnancies... This is Crazy!

Then, my readers, you have a world of chaos and such great turmoil that we can not even trust our courts to be truthful and concerned for all of our citizens... If you have children, read this book! But, more, read books or movies like God and Country, to begin to understand and realize that we must all be involved.

Because, there is no way around it. Following God's guidance in placing Love--for Him--and for our neighbors--first, or we will possibly lose our great nation. Be diligent, force yourself to watch multiple news, not just what makes you feel comfortable... If you are not up to date on the hate and violence that is occurring daily in America and across the world... Then, you really have no reason to ever make any personal statement, even for voting... If you do not Love... If you seek only violence, power, and hatred of all those who are different from you... then, we, the world of Love will reject you...Humans are different from God. God may forgive you at the final hour... But a mother who has lost a child to guns, to disinformation, to hate... will never forget what those who choose Hate have done to our country...

And, thank you Lin, for taking the challenge and writing this book! Indeed it is clearly a book inspired by God...

GABixlerReviews