Doing Time A Reflection by James R. Tramel People evade Time here because it is a carrier of ghosts, memories and uncertain dreams. "If you don't do your time, your time will do you," said the old-timer, in his holding cell, on the day I arrived at California's most notorious prison. Advice to San Quentin's youngest inmate (seventeen years ago), from one of its oldest. From one who had been unable to escape the clutches of doing time behind the walls, despite repeated paroles. His time had been doing him, and now it wouldn't let go. Time is marked differently here; clocks and calendars, while still present, are uncomfortable reminders of hours wasted, months gone by, and family holidays missed. How inmates measure time is a fairly precise indicator of the way they are living their lives in prison. Everyone is pressed into the overarching rhythm of chow call, work call, yard call and count time. But within that, a different sort of internal clock marks the passage of time. For some, time is measured by their favorite TV programs; for others it is measured by card games played, laps walked around the track, or in cigarettes smoked. Some are concerned about the number of days until a batch of fruit juice, sugar and yeast ferments into wine. How many weeks since the last lockdown? How long until the next visit? How many mail calls without a letter? How many days, or weeks, it takes to see a doctor when ill? Some know exactly how many days they have left until freedom; others can only count the years which have passed. There are many faces of Time in prison, and prisoners experience them differently. Time becomes more of an entity, with an apparent personality, than a nonspatial continuum, in which events occur in apparent succession. Time, itself, becomes the thing one does, and things are done to pass the time -- to evade from Time. Prison is very much like that movie, Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray keeps reliving the events of the same differently. One day blends into the next, weeks into months, months into years, and a lifetime slips away. People evade Time here because it is a carrier of ghosts, memories and uncertain dreams. Unfulfilled time is time to think, to reflect, to be confronted with one's past and with the prospects of one's future. Not wanting to face those demons, most of the people here just want to kill Time. In the movie, Bill Murray's character had to truly confront himself before he could escape the repeating pattern of his mistakes. The great challenge of prison is not about how to kill Time, though; the struggle is about how to conquer and befriend it. That is what that old-timer was trying to tell me, so many years ago, even if he felt it was too late for him to take the advice himself. He was trying to tell me to not get caught up into the prison culture, to not let others dictate how I would spend my days, and to not surrender my heart to the oblivion of Time. During the daytime, my thoughts were distracted by survival; at night, there was no escaping guilt. I have seen so many young men become entangled in the prison culture. Some have literally been raised by the State, in and out of institutions since they were children. Others have so few threads of connection to the outside world that they can hardly help but to be woven into the fabric of the inside world. Their concerns become centered around internal politics and power struggles between prison factions. Life beyond these walls becomes a blur to them, and its time marches on without them. At the time of their parole, home is not a place they are going to, it is a place they are leaving. My own experience in prison was not immune to the gravity of Time. The early years were numbing and lonely. Time was measured more by long nights alone in a cell with my thoughts than by side-stepping the minefields of dangerous days. During the daytime, my thoughts were distracted by survival; at night, there was no escaping guilt. For a while, I teetered on the edge of allowing Time to do me. Two things made the difference for me. First, the grace of God kept me safe while I was still riding the fence. Second, having someone in my life to love pulled me down off of it. Or, more accurately, having someone in my life who loved me. Love is the healer of so many wounds. I've been in prison longer than I was alive when I came. Last Sunday (August 8, 2002), I passed a significant milestone; I've been in prison longer than I was alive when I came. Memories of my life before prison seem like dreams, yet I am probably far more connected to the outside world now than I ever was then. There is a Greek word, kairos, which can be translated as "in God's time." In God's time, my life has been transformed here, and I have my own ways of marking time's passing. Twenty minutes is the length of a phone call with a friend, before the timer hangs us up. Visitors wait an hour to get processed in to see me. It takes a day to write a sermon. It takes a week for letters to get through the mailroom. I count school semesters in months. I count anniversaries with my beloved fiancée, Stephanie, in years. I can mark time in the friends I have made, or in the age of my first niece. My markers of time are connected to the world beyond these walls; and perhaps, because of that, my time here has been productive. I have a vision for how I spend my time that is larger than my current environment. American culture tends to speak of time in terms of money. We talk about how we spend, save, invest or waste time. We even talk about prison sentences in this way: the numbers of years to be served is a debt to society. Do we care, as a society, how that time is spent? Whether it is invested or wasted? I believe that many men waste their time in prison because they see little or no hope of reconciliation with society. Our prisons are increasingly fostering a belief that the debt can never be paid...and in this, for most prisoners, Time becomes a Torturer rather than a Transformer. James Tramel is a seminarian and a prisoner in the California State Prison, Solano. Related Links Bring Fire to the Earth In this reflection, James Tramel considers a fascination with, and fear of, fire. A sermon from an inmate in the California State Prison, Solano. Reflection.