Noah Bergland

Noah Bergland was a student in FPC Yankton’s Writing and Publishing class.

I AM YOU....

Poetry

The smell of Old Spice aftershave or a puff of smoke, these are two things I remember, I begin to choke.

I remember the early days, when you would tuck me into bed. Sometimes when driving, you would point out imaginary Fred.

The way I love my daughter is just as you always loved me. I watched you closely, not always learning the best things.

I started smoking young. I wanted to be like you. Melrose is almost that age, I wonder what she will do?

Once they were all gone, it was just you and me. You were hurting so bad, it wasn’t hard to see.

I can still see you in your element, behind those steaming hot plates. That diner took over your life, I believe it led to your ultimate fate.

You found a way to cope, it wasn’t talking to me. It was in that bottle, thank you for never getting mean.

As your words began to slur, I knew the end was near. I didn’t know what to do, what came next was my greatest fear.

You may have passed, but the pain did not. It lived on through me, I slowly began to rot.

I have the same passive demeanor, and same short bouts of rage. You wouldn’t be proud, I am now locked in a cage.

My daughter is about to turn nine and I’ve been gone since she was two. You haven’t been here either, so I guess I am just like you.

I will soon have a second chance, one I wish you would’ve had. Your life was too short, but I’m proud to call you dad.

I promise I will remember the good times, like when you would give me two thumbs up. I forgive you for the bad times, even when you didn’t care enough.

Your body might be gone, but your spirit lives on. It lives on through me, because I am you.

THE FACE OF ADDICTION

Nonfiction

I recently started to correspond with a teacher from the Minneapolis-metropolitan area who has been using my letters in her curriculum. She uses them to teach her students the consequences of their actions, whether that’s drug use or selling, being sexually active, or being mean on social media. My letters have helped them specifically to look at the effects of drug use and selling. I have shared my consequences and how they have reached much further than spending time in prison, although that has been the most direct. She asked, “What does addiction look like?” because she expressed that many of her students have the mindset that addiction is only for certain populations of people, and their mentality is, “It won’t happen to me.”

So what does addiction look like, does it have a face? White people smoke meth, Black people smoke crack, Hispanics bring in cocaine from the lands of South America. These are a few stereotypes that we have been fed through Hollywood movies and TV shows. Well, I quickly proved a few of them wrong. I come from a nice middleclass family. I am a white male of decent height and decent build, educated, and fairly good-looking (at least I think so). Addiction doesn’t have a face. White. Black. Hispanic. Oriental. It doesn’t matter; addiction has turned them all out. You think it matters if you are rich or poor? Addiction doesn’t care how much you have or what your background looks like, it will suck you down all the same.

When I graduated from high school and moved down to Minneapolis to attend college, the only drugs I had tried were alcohol and marijuana, and I can relate to the kids who think they are invisible. I thought I could do whatever I wanted: go out and party, have unprotected sex and never get an STD, drink and drive and never get a DUI or kill someone. I could get into a fight and not get seriously injured. I could experiment with any drug and have the

self-control to stop whenever I wanted to. Boy, was I wrong. By twenty-five years old I had a daughter that I was never ready for; I had been dope sick from heroin multiple times even though it wasn’t my drug of choice; I was using any upper to get through the day-methamphetamines, cocaine, or crack-it didn’t matter, I was addicted to them all. I had plenty of places to seek out for help, even though many of them were sick of my antics, but when you are an addict it doesn’t seem that simple. In the depths of addiction, to quit using and get clean sounded harder than trying out for the Olympics and winning a gold medal.

So how does anyone change that mindset? The sad truth is, some people will never get the message; they have to put their hand on the stove to find out if it’s hot. But if I can get through to just one, is it not worth it? What if someone hears this and decides, you know what, I am going to take this guy’s word, maybe drugs aren’t for me. That’s a victory. When I grew up, I knew about D.A.R.E. and I heard speeches from police officers who had seen firsthand the effects that drugs have on a community, but they never really made me feel passion about not using; it was their job and they didn’t convince me drugs weren’t worth trying at least once. I don’t know if a real addict coming to my classroom would have redirected me from my course to prison, but we will never find out. In all my years of doing drugs I didn’t hear any of the people who used with me really voice concerns about the use and none were really inspiring me to stop. Most people want you to do drugs with them whether it’s to share in the fun or share in the misery, because misery loves company.

Not everybody who experiments with drugs is going to become a drug addict; most of the friends that I used to use with are married, have kids and work a decent job or even own their own businesses. I am sure some still use and continue to find ways to function, but even so, their lives are affected in some way, shape, or form, whether it’s a strained marriage, low productivity at work, or self-loathing or selfhatred. Some people are, however, predisposed to become

addicts or battle with a mental health issue, and sometimes it takes just one use and one becomes a full-blown addict. I have met people who claim they are an alcoholic and have never tried alcohol. I don’t know if that is even possible, but I have to applaud the individual for not wanting to find out with a single use just to see.

Prison has taught me a lot and one of those lessons is that addiction has no particular face. I have seen every combination you can think of regarding ethnicity, childhood or upbringing, and walk of life, I have seen it all. Every action has a consequence; if you don’t believe me, then go find it out for yourself. Good luck; I will be here for you when you are ready.

COVID-19

Nonfiction

So, it appears that the novel coronavirus is all anybody is talking about out there. The news is consumed by it, markets are crashing, and people are buying up hoards of food and toilet paper. Why are they buying all the toilet paper? They are preparing for the worst, the apocalypse, which until now was portrayed only on TV or in movies. The Walking Dead has come to life, and for once it almost feels safer to be in a prison than out in the free world, where thousands are being infected by daily interaction. International travel is out the door and soon domestic travel will follow. Cities like New York and San Francisco are hot zones that I hear are on the verge of being quarantined from the rest of the world.

It sounds like people are being restricted in their daily routines and forced to work at home; plans are put on hold, events are being canceled, and it’s starting to sound very familiar. It’s as if in these next few weeks, months, or even years, the world will be forced to live like us, prisoners or inmates. I have been sitting here for the last several years, watching the world pass me by as if I didn’t exist, and now I have to start preparing to get out to a world that nobody has ever experienced. Some bad things are happening but in the end I have faith it will make us stronger.

Every time I make a phone call, I am asked to write a post about the virus; they want to know what’s going on inside here. Is it a good place to be right now? Or is it just a matter of time before it makes its way in and then we will all be infected within days? Well, the virus is all we are talking about as well. Once infected, how are we going to be treated? That is the biggest question: is it going to become our own personal hell with nowhere to escape the spread of the disease? Sick inmates piled on top of each other-that’s one image that comes to mind. I am not going to lie; some are expecting the worst situations imaginable. With some of

the stuff we hear, we almost think that the National Guard is waiting outside, ready to start executing any infected inmates on sight. The typical prison nuts are talking about every conspiracy theory thinkable; my personal favorite is the Dems are responsible for this, in order to dethrone Trump.

Not all inmates are updating their wills just yet; some are still hoping for the best. Any hint of encouraging news, and they are running through the compound with it and speaking as if it’s a signed bill, effective immediately: President Trump is releasing all of us. One rumor claimed any inmate with less than two years was about to be released, and by the end of the day that number had climbed to five. I didn’t believe it for a second, but something inside of me wanted to. I quickly pushed that hope down as I have so many times over the years and went on with my day.

Am I scared? Yes, maybe not for myself, but I can’t help but think about my grandma, mom and all my aunts and uncles that are at a higher risk. Any time people are dying and we are forced to look at and think about the unknown, it can be troubling. My time in prison has forced me to prepare for this, because I have controlled very little in my life over the past six and a half years, so why break that habit now when it finally benefits me?

Do I think the media is full of it? Not completely, but I think they are embellishing the situation. However, the government is taking certain measures and basing this information on the advice of people much smarter than I, and I am in favor of these measures. Let’s go through some discomfort now as a whole, to save the lives of the susceptible. One thing is for sure, I am very interested to see how this thing plays out, how long will it last; will it get worse before it gets better, and what will they do with the prisoners when this thing breaks out inside? My selfish side hopes they just let me go home since I am under six months, but I know better.

The fear is real for some; I see it in the eyes of my buddy

Chuck, who has started to wonder if this will affect his out date. They have stopped all furloughs or transfers, and that only leaves departures. As the days progress I can tell Chuck is worried less about his out date and more about the criteria that put an individual at risk. Chuck was watching TV the other night and informed me of his fears as he said, “Over the age of sixty, check; respiratory problems, check; high blood pressure, check; are you in prison, (confusion sets in) check; is your name Chuck, (wide eyed, he mouths the words, what?). I think I’m done watching the news.”

I once wrote about inmates being germaphobes, and now one would think tensions would be at an all-time high. But to be completely honest, they’re not, or they could at least be worse. I guess they are saving that behavior for when it actually makes its way in. I thought for sure the homemade masks would be out, everybody would have their own personal “pink spray” bottles, and people would have picked their corners and fought off any intruders trying to come within six feet of them. That is not the case and I commend the inmates here at Yankton Federal Prison Camp for keeping their composure.

So what are we doing as inmates to stop the spread of germs, just in case one of us gets infected? The reality is there is nothing we can do; if it gets in here, we are all screwed. We sleep in bunk beds, we share a room for two, with twelve to sixteen inmates, and half of that space is taken up by lockers. Every morning when my roommates and I are getting ready for work, we orchestrate a synchronized dance while getting dressed, brushing our teeth, filling our coffee mugs, and going in and out of the door too many times; the last one is according to the roommates that are still trying to sleep (sorry, Gucci). The TV rooms have more than a hundred people in them every night, the dining room has been broken up by units, as we are eating in shifts now, but that still means over a hundred people at a time are eating together. Everybody is stocked up on commissary, most are washing and bathing regularly and we are as good as we can be.

The bureau is taking measures to stop the spread of this thing; they say they have a plan but just won’t tell us what it is, which makes it even more alarming. They have installed sanitizer dispensers next to all computers and phone rooms, and they have put out numerous bulletins with very basic information about the disease and ways we can prevent the spread of germs. One of those bulletins gives a five-step process in Spanish, and a six-step process in English. What is the additional step for English-speaking inmates? Step six is using a paper towel to turn off the faucet, which explains why I have walked up on numerous faucets left running throughout the compound lately. So far most of the measures that have been taken restrict only our privileges, and by “most,” I really mean all. First, they took away the Community Service Program, which had been my own piece of heaven over the past month and a half. I was going out into the community and enjoying getting away from prison for a few hours a day, but all good things must come to an end, and they did. Then they shut down visits, as soon as Trump ordered the National Emergency. The problem with that is the announcement came on a Friday afternoon, so they strolled in and informed everyone that visits were done immediately, not to be alarmed, but anyone who had traveled from far away was out of luck, so enjoy the weekend in Yankton. Wednesday or Thursday would have been a better day to announce this, but I am guessing the president wasn’t too concerned with prison visiting schedules when he made the decision. The staff sensed that tensions were high and to smooth things over they bumped all of our monthly phone minutes from 300 up to 500, and it worked because any talk of retaliation by the inmates disappeared by morning. All classes with outside instructors or professors have also been postponed; this includes college classes, yoga, creative writing, and the Welding and CNC programs at RTech.

So what is next, closing education or the gym? I can’t wait to see them try to close the gym, because if so inmates are going to lose their minds. I am sure the staff realizes the ramifications that this could bring, and I hope, for their

sake, they have something prepared. I recommend HBO or Showtime, because the fastest way to an inmate’s heart is more television programming; this is sad but true. That brings up the last and most severe measure, taking the TVs; I don’t even want to think about that, because that would mean WWIII is right around the corner.

I have talked to numerous friends and family members who have given me updates on the different ways this virus has affected their lives or their take on people’s behaviors. Dacotah said, “Does it really take a virus outbreak to get people to wash their hands?” I was laughing hysterically throughout our phone call as she told me how dirty people are and how she has continuously observed people over the years go straight from the toilet and walk right out of a bathroom without washing their hands. My buddy Lars said, “New York is a ghost town-there is nobody anywhere. There are no lines, you can walk into any restaurant and get a table, and it’s amazing, unless, however, a bunch of people die, then I retract my amazing statement.”

Last night I was talking to my buddy Lucas and he told me about his latest trip to get groceries. He said, “On the way to the store I didn’t see one car or person walking on the street, everything was closed and then I got to Hugo’s and the parking lot was completely packed. I called my wife and told her that there was no milk, eggs, or toilet paper.” He just walked out and when I asked why he didn’t load up on some other things he will need in the future, he said, “I am not going to contribute to hoarding.”

So far nothing has gotten out of hand inside the prison. Everyone is on high alert, but we are still going on with our days the best we can. Dennis once told me, “You have no power in the future, only in today.” That’s what I am doing, living just for today. I can’t predict if the virus is going to hit us or what plans are if or when it does, nor do I have a choice whether or not I follow those plans. So, I am focusing on what I can control, and today that is who I chose to call with my extra minutes, what I decided to write about, and my recovery. I will keep you updated from the inside.

I AM YOU....

Nonfiction

It’s amazing how the fragrance of something will take you to a place in your memory so quickly. I don’t smell Old Spice that often since it’s not a product I use, but every now and then my nose will come into contact with it and for a second I look for my dad. The same goes for a puff of cigarette smoke, something I catch a whiff of much more often. When I am walking on the compound and the wind carries the scent from the officers’ smoke pad, it hits me as if I am walking by the back of my parents’ restaurant and there’s my dad, stressed out, trying to get a little relief. That smell gets me thinking about him more than anything else in this world. It’s actually something I have grown to enjoy; maybe it’s my subconscious telling me how much I miss my dad.

It’s always nice to think back to the days when I was my dad’s little guy. He used to come in and wish me good night, kiss me on the forehead and tuck me in, snug. Nothing could be sticking out; otherwise the monster under my bed would grab whatever limb was hanging out and I would be done for. He would always stop at the light switch, turn around and give me our signature two thumbs up, just to let me know how much he loved me.

Then there was our imaginary friend Fred. I don’t know if I made him up or if dad did but I remember when we would be driving and one of us would point out Fred on a snowmobile or four-wheeler keeping up with us on the highway and all of a sudden, BAM! Fred just crashed into a light pole and we would laugh at how crazy he was.

The unconditional love that I received from my father was without question, as he never left me wondering for a second whether or not he cared about me. Whenever he was angry with me, it was typically because I crashed or destroyed some inanimate object of his; snowmobiles, four-wheelers, motorcycles, golf carts, and vehicles all felt

my wrath at some point growing up. He would always make sure I was all right first before he asked about his possession, which must have taken some self-control. He would walk into another room and release his rage through various screams filled with vulgar language. Even the times he was unable to control that anger and lashed out at me, he always made sure he came back after he cooled down to apologize and explain himself. These are all things I will certainly pass down in parenting my daughter, Melrose.

As for watching him closely, I observed his every move; I looked up to him and wanted to grow up and be just like him. My dad could fix anything. He was a handyman and I regret not putting in time with him out in his shop where I could have learned so much. I guess that is part of growing up on a farm; you learn how to fix any problem. That was the early days though; eventually that shop became his escape and I didn’t want to go out there because I knew I wasn’t welcome. Not only was I not invited, but when I did show up, I could sense it, this was his time and he wasn’t looking to share it with anybody else. So I started going in there when I knew he wasn’t at home and I started to discover why: empty 1.75 liters of Smirnoff vodka and ashtrays full of Swisher Sweets. I understood then that he didn’t want me to see him in that light; I was too young. Previous to that, all I had ever seen my dad drink was O’Doul’s, a non-alcoholic beverage. I guess they eventually didn’t cut it; he needed a new edge, so he looked for something sharper.

I didn’t start drinking at that time but I took note for a later date. What I did help myself to was some of his Swisher Sweets; I found those in the oil shed. It was another way to be like my dad; I thought he looked cool when he smoked and I knew if he did it, it must be something worthwhile. The first smoke was some cigars that I knew had been sitting there for a while because as I took the cellophane off, each of them started to fall apart. I did my best to keep them intact and smoked behind Larry and Linda’s camper on the shortcut between our houses. That

became my usual spot until my uncle Steve eventually drove by as I fumbled to hide everything. I am guessing he knew what I was doing but he let me do it. My daughter is only a year or two away from the age I was then, and I couldn’t imagine her in that same situation. And maybe that is only because I haven’t been home the last six years to show her a bad example. I hope she makes better choices then my dad and I did.

Morgan, my sister, was in California going to school, just living life; and Jesse, my brother, was down in the Twin Cities attending the University of Minnesota. My mom had decided to go back to University of Minnesota-Crookston and turn her two-year early childhood development degree into a bachelor’s degree for teaching. So that left my dad and me. He was in pain; it wasn’t hard to see. It was written on his face, specifically in his eyes and in his body language, but I was sixteen years old and didn’t know about pain or how I could help somebody overcome it. Now there is so much I would have done if I knew then what I know now. I want so badly to go back and help him work through some of those problems but it’s too late; he’s dead. Something it has done is created a dialogue between my mom and me. When I asked for her permission to share some of these intimate details of her life, I was able to find out that she was in a tough spot as well during this time. She was feeling suffocated by her life, both work and marriage, and she felt going back to school was the perfect escape. She described empty nest syndrome and the way she was feeling with all of us leaving the house. I reminded her that I was still there with two years left of high school and that I had to watch dad drink his pain away. She told me she was sorry and unaware. I knew she was telling the truth because I remember once asking her about dad and his drinking and she told me that my father doesn’t drink. Not wanting to tell on him, I played it off and changed the subject.

My dad in his element was working at The Guest House, a restaurant he owned with my mother; he was an exceptional cook, another trade I didn’t spend any time

learning from him. I can see him in the window, putting out food and ringing the bell to notify the waitresses that their order was ready. When I was young I would sit in a booth where he could see me from the window and if he wasn’t too busy he would come out and see what I wanted to eat. He knew I always wanted a number five: two eggs over easy, perfectly rectangular hash browns with a golden brown top cooked to perfection on a slab of ham and white toast. On the rare occurrence that I was in the mood for something else he would recommend pancakes and he would form them into Mickey Mouse or some other cartoon character. This was still at a time when I loved The Guest House, because it had the best cook in the world: my dad. Eventually it became something entirely different and so did my dad. He was no longer working for his future, as if he had lost all hope of having one. He was living for the day and wasn’t concerned about much after that. He cared about one thing only, getting his kids educated so they had options beyond running a restaurant. I know this is a fact because he told me. The Guest House eventually led him to his ultimate fate.

It was in those late years of his life that he really started to drink heavily. He no longer had to hide his drinking in the shop because he knew I was drinking and smoking weed, so I guess he didn’t feel ashamed around me. He never got mean when he would get drunk, he never took his problem out on me and for that I thank him. He may not have showed me the best example of how to cope with stress but he at least didn’t drag me down with him, or so I thought.

At the time when I was leaving for college I didn’t know my dad would make it only three more years, but as I look back now, I should have. I guess I thought whatever was going on with him was none of my business and I just needed to take his advice and get out of town. I did.

When my dad died, his pain did not. It was passed on to me and instead of dealing with it, I buried it, only for it to resurface time and time again. It resurfaced every time

I got into an altercation or when I failed at something in life, whether that was a relationship or a job opportunity. I coped with his death by turning to the same techniques that I learned from him, only my illness was a much more progressive one. In high school I would struggle with insecurities and feelings of being inadequate. Then I grew up and added failures in both my professional and personal life. My emotions started to compound and I began to hate myself; alcohol no longer cut it, so I moved on to more powerful medications. As my meth and crack addiction reached its highest point, my insides literally began to rot. There was even a time when I was bleeding out of my rectum and I thought it was hemorrhoids but it was my drug use. I was rarely eating, never sleeping and my use was out of control. It’s embarrassing to even share these details but that’s addiction: ugly and shameful.

In so many ways I am just like my dad, easy-going and fairly passive. However, I have short bouts of rage that come out of nowhere and don’t last long, just like he did. I remember one time when we were going to church. I was ready to go so I was trying to set up my new landline in my room and I asked him if he could come upstairs. He came up there not knowing what I needed and realized I was setting up a phone. He yelled, “I don’t have time for this” and punched a hole in my door and ran off. I was standing there with my phone like, What did I do? He got his composure back, apologized and we were on our way to church. Now I am thirty-four and have been in his shoes, more times than I can remember, over even dumber circumstances.

I held a grudge against my dad after he passed away, as if he abandoned me, didn’t give a rip about what he left behind and didn’t care to meet his granddaughter. He chose booze and cigarettes over us, just like I picked selling and using drugs over my daughter. Now look at me. I am sitting in prison. I’ve been gone most of my daughter’s life. She doesn’t remember the first two years I was home. So, like father, like son.

My second chance is coming and I wish I could give it to him. I know he would rather I have the opportunity anyway, so I guess it’s up to me to make the most of it. I have forgiven my dad and I hope my daughter never feels those feelings towards me for not being there.

Two thumbs up was our thing; it’s how we would show our love. We would gauge where we were at; if I was mad at him I would shake my head and give him two thumbs down and scowl. But most of the time we were in a good spot and we would see each other and simply flash two thumbs up. That is something we never grew out of and it lasted till the end. I realize now my dad always cared; he just simply lost hope and got lost and never found his way back. That is nothing I can hold against him.

I won’t let this addiction kill us both.