In The Sanctuary Of Outcasts_ A Memoir Part 9

CHAPTER 29.

Carville was strange in many ways, not the least of which was the use of aliases. No one, it seemed, used his or her real name.

Inmates were issued numbers by the guards, as well as nicknames by Link and his friends. Link had called me Clark so often that most of the leprosy patients and inmates actually thought it was my real name. That was fine with me-a nickname that was the secret ident.i.ty of a superhero who posed as a journalist. Father Reynolds had taken a new name when he entered the Franciscan monastery. All the Sisters of Charity were given new Christian names when they made their vows to chast.i.ty and poverty.

And the leprosy patients took on pseudonyms when they arrived. Jimmy Harris had used J. T. Holcomb for decades; Ann Page picked her name from the label of a jelly jar, and a Texas beauty queen chose Molly for her first name, after her prizewinning cow.

Though most of the inmates thought Ella's name was Cella, she never did take an alias.

"Didn't see no need to change," she said. "Ella the name my momma gave me." Then she asked, "You want to change your name?"

No, I told her, but I wouldn't mind a new Social Security number.

Monikers at Carville were not restricted to individuals' names. Leprosy had all sorts of aliases, too. Most patients almost never spoke the word leprosy leprosy. Among themselves, they referred to it as "the disease," "the package," or "the gazeek." In fact, the patients had launched an international campaign to rename leprosy.

In 1931, Sydney Levyson, a pharmacist from Texas, was s.h.i.+pped to Carville by railcar. Sydney was a handsome, stylish young man. With his topcoat b.u.t.toned and leather bag in hand, he sat inside the locked car as the couriers talked about the "leper" inside.

Sydney, like most arrivals, took a new name. He would forever be known as Stanley Stein. Though he had been diagnosed with a dreaded affliction, being called a "leper"-and all that came with the word-didn't sit well with Stanley. He decided to do something about it.

He launched a publication ent.i.tled The Star The Star. Its purpose: to eradicate the use of the words leprosy leprosy and and leper. leper. The stigma a.s.sociated with leprosy was so ingrained in society, Stein argued, that nothing short of a name change could lift it. Stein and crew at The stigma a.s.sociated with leprosy was so ingrained in society, Stein argued, that nothing short of a name change could lift it. Stein and crew at The Star The Star promoted a new label named after Armauer Hansen, the Norwegian scientist who discovered the bacteria that caused leprosy. The slogan on the cover of each edition of promoted a new label named after Armauer Hansen, the Norwegian scientist who discovered the bacteria that caused leprosy. The slogan on the cover of each edition of The Star The Star read: Radiating the Light of Truth on Hansen's Disease. They made great progress in their campaign among health-care workers, victims of the disease, and their advocates, but they seriously underestimated public paranoia. And ignorance. read: Radiating the Light of Truth on Hansen's Disease. They made great progress in their campaign among health-care workers, victims of the disease, and their advocates, but they seriously underestimated public paranoia. And ignorance.

In many ways, the renaming actually fostered fear and stigma. When uninformed citizens discovered that a Hansen's disease patient was afflicted with a disorder formerly known as leprosy, they felt duped. The stigma was transferred to the new term. Their paranoia and suspicions were fueled by what they perceived to be a covert act-hiding the true ident.i.ty of the ancient disease.

CHAPTER 30.

Doc had one close friend at Carville, Dan Duchaine. Dan was in his late thirties. His short spiky hair was beginning to gray at the temples. He also had no body hair. He shaved his entire body every couple of days. Dan was a nationally recognized steroid and bodybuilding expert who knew as much about physiology as Doc. Duchaine and Doc would sit for hours and discuss mitochondrial biogenesis and weight lifting, varying reactions in type I and type II muscle fiber, genetics and human endurance, caloric consumption and heat. Dan, who for most of his career had promoted steroids and supplements, had an interest in Doc's heat pill, especially its potential for burning fat off bodybuilders.

Dan was a superstar in the bodybuilding industry. He started out as just another bodybuilder, but he didn't have the genetic makeup to compete on a national level. What his body lacked, he made up for with brains. In 1988, Dan instructed major Olympic athletes in techniques for pa.s.sing drug testing. He was so adept, authorities designed tests and regulations and programs with Dan in mind. When he introduced a new supplement to the marketplace, the FDA wasn't far behind to prohibit its use. Dan had written four books, including The Underground Steroid Handbook The Underground Steroid Handbook, which sold thousands of copies among bodybuilders.

Dan was in the midst of another project, creating an audiotape of interviews with "The Steroid Guru" on diet, supplements, weight lifting, and exercise. A friend recorded the interviews while Dan answered questions on the pay telephones inside the prison.

One afternoon in the inmate courtyard, I asked Dan how they dealt with the recorded message that interrupted telephone conversations from Carville.

"We leave them in," Dan said. "We can charge more."

Dan understood the value of inside information. The bodybuilding world-at least the bodybuilders who used steroids-knew their guru was imprisoned. But he couldn't be silenced. Much like Doc, who spent hours each day reading the latest developments in medicine, Dan put his prison time to good use. He had dozens of inmates who were more than happy to serve as his guinea pigs. They ate exactly what Dan told them to eat. They lifted weights using his techniques. They followed his instructions on when and how to exercise. Then, for a fee, Dan reported the results of his studies over the prison phone lines. From a marketing perspective, it was brilliant.

Dan had suffered a stroke a few years ago, when he was in his mid-thirties. That's why he'd been moved to Carville. Except for stiffness in his left arm and a slight hesitation in his speech, the stroke hadn't done much damage.

Dan scoffed at the idea that steroids might have contributed to his condition. To me, he sounded defensive, but I wasn't the expert.

On a Sat.u.r.day afternoon when Dan and Doc took a break from sharing theories on the most efficient methods to enhance energy consumption at a cellular level, I asked them if they knew about the attempts to rename leprosy.

"Yeah, Hansen's disease," Doc said.

"It didn't catch on," I said. "What should we call them?"

"Lepers!" Dan yelled.

I ignored the remark and pointed out that most of the patients didn't have an active bacterial infection. So calling them "patients" didn't seem right either.

Duchaine suggested, for accuracy and political correctness, that we call them carbon-based units with residual effects of ancient bacterial infection. carbon-based units with residual effects of ancient bacterial infection.

"It's really a public relations issue," I said. I told Doc and Dan that I wanted to help Ella and Harry and Annie Ruth. "They're good people. They don't deserve this."

Doc rolled his eyes. He told Dan that I had fallen prey to their heart-wrenching heart-wrenching stories. Doc looked over at Duchaine. "He believes them." stories. Doc looked over at Duchaine. "He believes them."

Duchaine was never short on opinions or advice. He was happy to share his thoughts on just about any topic. "They lost their childhoods," he said, pausing for a moment to reflect. "It's not uncommon for them to create new histories, even new ident.i.ties."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "See?"

I left the two of them to their science and cynicism and walked the track. I thought about whether Ella and Jimmy and Annie Ruth would really create histories for themselves. I had no way of knowing. But the thought occurred to me that Doc and Dan had been in jail for years. Maybe I should be questioning their stories.

I walked until the sun started to set. Then I went back to my room, propped a pillow against the wall at the end of my bed, and picked up a book.

Link, who had just finished an all-day game of spades, walked into the room.

"What that book?" he asked.

"A book my mother sent me."

"What it called?"

I closed the book and read the t.i.tle aloud: "Pleasing You Is Destroying Me."

Link threw his head back. "Man, you is so white!" Link had a point. "Why you white people read books to solve your problems?"

"You might be surprised," I said. "Books can change your life."

"Where was that book when you was robbing them banks!?"

Doc, who rarely spoke to Link, added, "Neil wants to save the world. And help the patients."

I couldn't believe Doc was siding with Link. I looked at both of them, trying not to sound too earnest, and said, "It feels good to help people."

"If I need some money," Link said, "it'll make you feel good to give me some? 'Cause I need seven dollars."

My father had just put $100 in my inmate account. I walked over to my locker and counted out twenty-eight quarters.

"I'll give you this, if you promise one thing." Link waited for the caveat. "Promise," I said, "that you will never carjack when there's a kid in the car."

"All right," Link said, grabbing my quarters, "and I'll pay you back if you promise you won't rob no more banks."

A pebble hit our window. I looked out. It was Smeltzer. I pushed the window up and looked out. Smeltzer reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two Ziploc bags, one full of chicken wings, the other pork chops. Smeltzer stretched out his arms and dangled the bags. "Hungry?" he asked. Food smuggled by a leprosy patient didn't do much for my appet.i.te. "I have a newspaper, too," he said. I said no thanks, and he told me to get my roommates. Link took my place in the window.

"How much?" Link asked. Smeltzer said he could get both packages for two dollars. Link counted out eight quarters from the money I had just loaned him.

"You lepers is makin' too much money off us," Link said. I looked at Link and shook my head. He smiled, like he was proud to have used the term correctly.

"Don't call me that!" Smeltzer yelled.

"You got leprosy, don't you?" Link said. "What the f.u.c.k you want us to call you?"

"I don't have the same disease that was in the Bible," Smeltzer yelled. "Don't ever call me that or I'll report you to the guards."

I suddenly realized we should be reporting Smeltzer. He wasn't supposed to be on the inmate side in the first place.

Link asked him again, "So what the f.u.c.k you want us to call you?"

Smeltzer hesitated. Even the patients couldn't agree among themselves on an appropriate label. Some used "Hansen's disease patient," a mouthful. Others simply wanted to be called "residents." "I don't know," he said after a while, "maybe Hansenite."

Sounded like luggage to me.

Link leaned out of the window and dropped the quarters. Smeltzer tossed the Ziploc bags to Link, who struggled back into the room, food in hand. Link put a paper towel on my bed and spread out the chicken wings.

Doc yelled out to Smeltzer, "Next time, bring some lemons!"

CHAPTER 31.

As the leaves started to turn on the trees, Linda and the kids traveled to Oxford to stay with her family. I missed our family visit, but I was happy she and the kids could be away from the prison visiting room for a while.

Doc thought my eagerness to help the leprosy patients was ludicrous, but I was growing closer to them. They were becoming a family away from home. Especially Ella.

I walked the track and imagined what I would do if I were in charge of altering public opinion, if I were editor of The Star The Star. The patients needed some good, old-fas.h.i.+oned public relations work. "Hansen's disease" was never going to catch on. And the problem with the label "leprosy" was that people were blinded by their own preconceived notions before they had a chance to learn anything factual.

In contrast, Lou Gehrig's disease was named for a great ballplayer, a guy whom everyone admired. Maybe that was what leprosy needed. A more positive twist.

As I walked in circles around the track, I started to brainstorm. Something like Crusaders' disease Crusaders' disease or or Lazarus syndrome Lazarus syndrome sounded n.o.ble enough, but it might also bring up frightful images such as scenes from sounded n.o.ble enough, but it might also bring up frightful images such as scenes from Ben-Hur. Damien's disorder Ben-Hur. Damien's disorder would have been a perfect name before would have been a perfect name before The Omen The Omen movies came out, but now people would think about the Antichrist and that could adversely add to the stigma. Then I contemplated the possibility of names that acknowledged leprosy's ancient roots, and its place as the oldest malady known to man. movies came out, but now people would think about the Antichrist and that could adversely add to the stigma. Then I contemplated the possibility of names that acknowledged leprosy's ancient roots, and its place as the oldest malady known to man. The Holy disease The Holy disease looked fine on paper but phonetically could be misconstrued. looked fine on paper but phonetically could be misconstrued. a.s.sisi complex a.s.sisi complex was not a bad possibility unless you had a lisp. was not a bad possibility unless you had a lisp.

Clearly, none of these was the answer, but solutions never came early in the creative process. I would continue to experiment with possibilities while I gathered stories for my expose.

One afternoon while Steve Read and I walked to Father Reynolds's study, I ran into Janet Cedars, a woman with a remarkable story. In the 1950s, after she had just been elected head cheerleader at her high school in Texas, she was diagnosed with leprosy and sent to Carville. While here, she fell in love, married, and had children. But her children couldn't stay with her. They were placed with a family member in Texas. A staff member told me that for the child's christening, the foster parents brought the baby back to Carville so Janet could see the ceremony. But Janet wasn't allowed to touch the child. Janet was one of the last to suffer from this kind of treatment. In 1962, free of the disease, she was reunited with her family. She completed college and lived a normal life outside of Carville. Then, in an extraordinary move, Janet was hired as a teacher, and later as the director of public affairs at Carville. She was held up as an example of how much things had changed. The Public Health Service made an effort to publicly promote Janet's transition from patient to employee. The inmates had all heard her story, and her name appeared in the newspapers pretty regularly.

No one would ever have guessed she had suffered from the disease. Her face was flawless, as beautiful now as it had been when she was a cheerleader, though a bit more round. I noticed a file folder clutched in her arms. It was labeled Centennial Celebration.

"Mrs. Cedars," I said, as I approached her.

"Yes," she said, a bit surprised I knew her name. "May I help you?"

"I've been thinking about some of the public relations issues you face. I have some ideas I'd love to talk with you about."

She looked at me, standing in my prison uniform, not able to hold on to my own freedom. "I did this sort of thing on the outside. Are you familiar with Louisiana Life Louisiana Life magazine?" I explained that my concepts for rebranding leprosy weren't fully formulated, but I was sure they were headed in the right direction. magazine?" I explained that my concepts for rebranding leprosy weren't fully formulated, but I was sure they were headed in the right direction.

She stared at me while I held forth on how best to alter public opinion. Then she nodded and repositioned her file folder.

As she walked away, I called out, "I look forward to the centennial celebration. And let me know if I can help."

Janet glanced back over her shoulder and scurried away.

"You moron!" Steve said. "I bet she'll run right out and call a press conference. Oh, yes, he's a very insightful federal convict, Oh, yes, he's a very insightful federal convict," Steve said, channeling Janet, as if she were pitching my services to a group. "His company? Oh, I think it's called 'PR with Conviction.' He doesn't have a telephone, but he does have an inmate number. I think we should just turn the entire program over to him." Then Steve went back to his own sarcastic voice. "Oh! I've got your slogan: 'Captive audiences are our specialty!'"

An inmate offering professional services might seem a bit odd, but Janet had been imprisoned, too. I thought she would understand. And I thought I had something to offer.

CHAPTER 32.

Smeltzer's efforts to profit from the inmates reached a fever pitch in October. His newest scheme involved an inmate m.u.f.fuletta feast. m.u.f.fulettas-enormous, wheel-sized Italian sandwiches stuffed with meats, cheeses, and sauces and topped with an olive salad-were a New Orleans specialty. And the best place to get m.u.f.fulettas in New Orleans was Central Grocery, an old-time store located in the French Quarter.

Smeltzer had collected $4 from forty different inmates. He promised the prisoners a bounty like no captive men had ever seen. On the afternoon of the clandestine event, Smeltzer's cousin, a New Orleans native, purchased ten m.u.f.fulettas from Central Grocery. The sandwiches were cut into quarters and then wrapped in heavy-duty aluminum foil. Smeltzer's cousin packed the m.u.f.fulettas in a blanket and then stuffed them inside a black garbage bag. He drove from New Orleans to the edge of the colony where he dropped the bag at the hole in the fence. Smeltzer was waiting. He carried the bag of sandwiches to the rubbish collection station, where Dog Man, the inmate fond of howling, waited in his motorized garbage cart. Smeltzer placed the plastic bag in the back of the cart along with the other trash. Dog Man drove the cart, like he did every afternoon, toward the incinerator. But on this day, he stopped at a window at St. Amant, the inmate dorm closest to the leprosy side. Dog Man signaled the inmates inside with a series of predetermined yelps and barks. A window was opened. Dog Man pushed the bag through, and forty inmates feasted on still-warm m.u.f.fulettas.

I didn't join in the bounty, but I loaned Link $4 so he could buy in. Frankly, I was afraid to be a part of the operation. If inmates could successfully smuggle a garbage bag full of food, albeit with the help of leprosy patients, I wondered what else could have made it through the gates. Drugs, tattoo guns, knives.

Every inmate involved had pledged not to speak of the operation, but I knew all too well that inmates had a hard time keeping secrets, especially Link. I also knew if the guards found out, everyone involved would get additional time tacked onto their sentence. No amount of food or fun was worth keeping me from getting home as soon as possible.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n," Link said, the morning after the feast. "That motherf.u.c.ker made $160 off them m.u.f.fulettas. What a leper gonna do with all that money."

"Seems reasonable," I said, reminding Link that the m.u.f.fulettas were delivered hot from New Orleans. "We just have a skewed perception of money right now."

"Screwed what!?"