Things Remembered: Andrea Thomas

Things Remembered:

Andrea Thomas

So back to my statement, “I don't understand Black America.” I will refer you to a new series on my forgotten blog called “Out of My Mind”(go here:https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/8140572634127178933)

on which I will be posting these and other FB posts some of which will be more focused on my years at the Allan B. Polunsky Maximum Security Prison of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. The more focused posts hopefully will find their way into a book which I aspire to publish shortly before I die unless, of course, I don't and then I won't.

For me, attempting to share what I learned is sometimes best told in stories of people I met in prison. Andrea Thomas was early in my time at Polunsky. For some reason, I was making rounds on Death Row and our department had received a referral about his behavior. Andre's story has been chronicled in Texas Monthy(https://www.texasmonthly.com/news/texas-murderer-andre-thomas-is-mentally-ill-but-is-he-insane/) so there is nothing I can share that is not in the public domain. I stood at his cell, and attempted to speak with him. At that time, there was no aggression and I certainly felt no danger. However, something was off. At that first meeting, I notice that Andrea had lost an eye but physical injuries was not uncommon among the offenders. Some were the result of violence done to them, some law enforcement did to them when they resisted arrest or used weapons against the law. You might say, “Oh, I didn't know that.” Well, I am not surprised because how much time have you spent thinking of where people who are injured, arrested, patched up, convicted, sentenced and sent to prison go? Exactly. Unless you are in some kind of prison ministry or have an incarcerated family member, you might not think about prison at all. The Texas Legislature counts on that. The out of sight out of mind worked until William Wayne Justice. At one point, he was labeled “The Most Hated Man in Texas.”Three significant rulings under his watch brought Texas unhappily kicking and screaming into the 20^th century: the end of school desegregation; reform of the prison system; and the provision for bilingual education for immigrant children in Texas.

So, I brought Mr Thomas down to a psych cell which we had on the premise for offenders who could be suicidal or had attempted to commit suicide unsuccessfully. It was a room of cinder block and concrete. It was the only place in the infirmary where the air conditioning worked too well—except for my office. There was a stainless steel toilet combined with a lavatory also of stainless steel and only cold water. I assumed it was because the suicide risk of an offender burning himself to death with a trickle of hot water was a risk TDCJ did not want to take. If the person was nice while in the cell, he would be given a “suicide blanket with which to cover himself, keep him warm, and protect himself from the cold air because we took all his clothes. If he was unkind to our blanket, or attempted to destroy it or had previously destroyed this indestructible blanket he did not get one. We got 3 days to work with him and attempt to figure out what he needed. The “manipulating outcriers” liked to end up in the cells because during the summer in East Texas temperatures in the cells could be murder. And some like to show off their man parts to the female nurses and clinicians. Many of these male offenders got their sex ed from porn so they lived with the mistaken belief that women swooned when they flashed their man parts. I know, you didn't see that coming.

Mr Thomas was the real deal. By that I mean he was unstable, but I was not convinced he was suicidal. TDCJ(Texas Department of Criminal Justice) had a policy that when an offender(their term for convict or inmate) entered TDCJ, their crimes were not common knowledge within the prison. The theory was each man was given a chance to begin a fresh start. It was also an attempt to protect sex offenders because they were so hated by the other offenders. It was a Topsy-turvy world where up was down, down was up, no one listened, and although mandated, respect was lacking for men who needed the core value of being respected. The one exception to that was the death row offender. His crimes were of such nature, it only took a quick search on the web to pull up the information about him and his crime.

I had no real information on Andrea Thomas. My dysfunctional and devastated department did not give me access to any pertinent information about Mr Thomas. That lack of information on my part would become significant, but all these years later, I am unsure what I could have done differently. Mid-morning I ordered Thomas to be moved to an open psych cell. He was brought down from death row, to the back of the Infirmary, stripped searched, all restraints removed(cuffs and leg irons) he was placed in the cell, and given a “suicide blanket.” I went and prepared the paperwork. Every offender has to be identified somewhere on the premise, suicidal offenders are no different. When the prison stops to count, they must be counted because if not, it could look like they escaped.

As I remember, I returned from lunch break with a nurse running down the hall screaming, saying something like, “I can't believe he did it,” over and over again. I guess in my new job, I overestimated the capacity of our nurses to lean into any situation with professionalism and a stoic “What needs to be done here?” First, lunch was not that good. I do remember that. Then I rounded the corner onto the left hall where two psych obs cells were located. Standing at the door was one from our department, and a security officer. People were responding unhelpfully. So I walked up to the cell and looked at my employee and said, “What happened here?” The person said, “He dug out his good eye and ate it.” Yep, it definitely was not that good of a lunch.

The cell was bloodied, his suicide blanket was bloodied, and as soon as we could, he was transferred to a hospital for treatment and then to the psychiatric hospital where he now resides. Andrea was a tragic story almost from the beginning. What I learned was it was not an unfamiliar story. Raised in a black community in Grayson County totally unfamiliar with mental illness, he showed early signs of being mentally ill. A kindly church lady started taking Andrea to church but he disappeared and she did not keep up with him or know what was happening. At the target age he developed full blown paranoid schizophrenia but still fell in love, married, and together they had children: two; a boy; and a girl. Then they separated and divorced but Andrea came calling one day stabbing his wife, their children and attempting to stab himself. Simply, it was murder-suicide gone wrong. Arrested, tried, convicted, sentenced to DR to be executed, I found him in 2008 and that morning not in good shape. What I did not know at the time was he took his other eye.

On that day, he was successful in totally blinding himself not realizing that without any vision he was now doomed to the hell of only seeing the horrific images playing again and again in his head. Sadly, that began a theme I saw repeated again and again in black offenders. In the black community, there was no access to mental health care or no awareness of how mental health could impact a person. So the most seriously mentally ill black offenders were never identified, never treated, never stabilized, until they came to prison. Sadly, prison gave them their first experience of getting the help they needed.

Things Remembered: I Don't Understand Black America

I don't understand Black America. There, I finally said it. I don't understand Black America or Black Americans.

Growing up in Odessa, because my father ran a service station, blacks were in my life from the time I was 6. As I recalled, there were always two men, one worked as the car washer and the other worked in the grease bay. When they were not working in the bay, they made service calls, and waited on the front. They always worked hard. Mom hired a house keeper/cleaner who she trusted to clean, cook and supervise three boys(which Mom would tell you was no small feat). When I look back, I remember three short snippets. I remember never, never being called “Mike” by any of our black employees. I think it was instead preferenced with “Mr.” It was the way of things. I remember Mae cooking a meal for me and having put it on the table, did not sit down and eat with me. I pressed her on why she would not sit with me and eat with me, and all she could say, “It's not done.”

Of course, years later continuing to the present, I would learn about the chronic life choking disease with which America afflicted itself and continues to suffer the ravages of called “slavery.” It is a cancer which began as the foundations were laid and a whole group of people, a huge group of people were ignored regarding the civil rights we enshrined in the Constitution and Bill of Rights. It is one of the reasons I reject the revisionist narrative that America was founded as a “Christian nation.” Our founding fathers were men like us full of courage and clay, willing to fight the British but afraid to fight slavery. It became a cancer on the soul of America.

This is what I don't understand. I understand why Minneapolis is burning, I understand why Watts burned and there was rioting and looting. What I don't understand is why there are not more. I don't understand why we have moved at glacial speed to address this social scourge.

You could say, my going to prison was my real education on Black America. See link below (http://www.justicepolicy.org/images/upload/05-02_REP_TXRaceImprisonment_AC-RD.pdf )
I found in the prison in which I ran the Mental Health Department about 70% non white offenders primarily Latino and African American. Over the nearly 7 years I was there, I got a profoundly sobering look into the African American family and culture. Frankly, it was not a culture of hope but a culture of violence, of unfocused rage, and sadly, incredibly fractured families. I carry in my heart the stories of some of these men and grieve over some of the choices they made, the incredible brokenness that comes from a culture of prejudice and unreachable opportunities. It must be like a children looking through the window of a candy store eyes big with all the choices, mouth savoring, thoughts of favorite choices, but finding the door locked but realizing even if it were not locked, the child had no money to buy what their eyes feasted upon.

I regret deeply I lost track of a young father who came to my “psych” cell shortly after I arrived at Polunsky. I stopped by at the end of the day and took too long to talk to him. It broke my heart and still does to this day. He was from Lubbock, attending Texas Tech, married with a young son. He was black. He had not been at Polunsky long or even in the system long, but it was enough to break him. Men don't weep in prison. He wept. And wept and wept. His life was in ruins, his son left without a father, He had tried his whole life to do it “right.” And now he was in prison for a crime he did not commit. It had become too much and he gave into despair. I don't remember the nature of his suicidal behavior, whether it was just thinking about it, telling a security guard, or an attempt. All I remember was I saw a broken man without hope. I remember having absolutely nothing to say from my storehouse of empathetic statements from 30+ years of working with people in difficult places. What I remember was it was about 6:00 in the evening, our staff was supposed to have left at 4:30 but all I could say was, “I am going to sit with you a while, if you don't mind.” So I sat down on the cold floor, pulled out my ever present hankie and he wept and I wept. And I prayed for wisdom.
We had 3,000 offenders which were constantly being moved around. You might ask, how do you remember that one. Well, because all these years later, after working with all the offenders I worked with, the suicidal patients who were manipulating(it is the way of prison) and insincere, I remember this young father and husband but I still believe, he was truly broken. And telling his story still hurts my heart.

Things Remembered "The Unexpected Journey" Forward

THINGS REMEMBERED:

An Unexpected Journey of Discovery

Forward

Today was my appointment to see my Neurologist. Surprised I was not given the option of doing the appointment in Austin by “telehealth,” I went in. The focus of the appointment was on my essential tremor which over time gets worse. It is not Parkinson's but may look like it to the undiscerning eye. Family can bless, and family can curse. Essential tremor has a history in my family. Dr Erik Krouse said that focusing on the tremor might be a little difficult if we did it by video.

During the course of the appointment, I mentioned the struggle with depression I was having and working with my primary care provider on getting off one medication and increasing the dosage of another. In that conversation, he mentioned suicide and wondered if during this sheltering in place the rate would go up. I reflected to him I was constantly reading but saw no spikes at this point in suicides. We moved on to talk about suicidal outcries in the Texas prison system, and after sharing some of my experiences, he repeated something he said previously “ You should write a book”. Perhaps being at a different place in my life from a previous visit, I seriously considered his counsel. It is from that fleeting conversation I have decided to move forward on telling a story about a journey I made reluctantly, but the results of my journey profoundly shaped everything that has come after.

There is a part of me that thrives on adventure—to a point. Anna and I have shared adventures around the world. We have been to Scandinavia(Norway), Great Britain, ate breakfast at the Dublin, Ireland airport, enjoyed South America in Ecuador, several trips to Brazil, and East Asia including Taiwan, Thailand, three cities in China, and alone to South Africa. Together we made our way to Eastern Europe stopping in Greece, Macedonia, Vienna, Budapest, Slovakia and Germany on several different occasions. And we have been to Prague. If you have ever been to Prague, you understand. I am adventuresome trying foods which ingredients I can recognize. Not so much with things which are unrecognizable.

Having said that, there is a deep, deep part of me which likes routine, sameness, and schedules. My day in years past has been preferred to be predicable, familiar, and without high drama. Saying that does not mean I have escaped high drama, however, if I was scheduling my day, I would plan for the predicable.

So imagine my surprise when being comfortably settled in an Abilene church for 15+ years, our world was turned upside down. Previous to this year of 2008, Anna had received her Master's in counseling, and I joined her in that pursuit. I finished a little ahead of her only because I started a little before she did. She was the greatest student and to this day, I stand in awe of her counseling, empathy, and skill.

What was it that changed everything? Anna's sister is the only surviving sibling she has. Injured in a wreck on her way to work, her knee would not heal and on her shoulders rested the total responsibility of the care of their parents. It was Sandy's choice. As long as she could, she would keep them at home. Her step dad's health failed and he passed away, Sandy is as amazing as Anna, but the wreck, the crippling load of trying to maintain two homes, and cook for her mom was getting to be too much. Add to that, Bonnie had been diagnosed with a stroke and dementia. The stroke was the surprise, the dementia had been long coming absent a diagnosis. We went down to Livingston a couple of times after the wreck and did what we could, but Sandy needed more and Bonnie needed more.

Having pastored for 33 years at that point, I knew the ways of Baptist life and Baptist churches. One does not jump and be called to a Texas Baptist church because there are few in deep East Texas. So, I reached out to a friend I knew was in Huntsville because we had gone through the same counseling program and I had tried to keep up with him. He was working for UTMB(University of Texas Medical Branch) in their Correctional Managed Care. I asked if there were jobs available and he pointed me to the website for the work, I went in and found out they were looking for a Manager for the Mental Health Department for the maximum security prison housed at Livingston. Truthfully, I had no idea what that meant. Mental Health care in Texas is poor and the prisons often offer the best hope for those with severe mental illnesses. When I speak of severe mental illnesses, I am talking about the diagnoses of Schizophrenia, severe bipolar, delusional, and psychotic patients. Depression and anxiety are a “walk in the park” next to these severe mental health conditions. Some come to this place because they have used illegal substances, but some come because there is history in the family. More than that are the personality disorders which are often found in Texas prisons. Antisocial personality disorder is a no-brainer. The definition is a “pervasive profound disregard of the rights of others.” Go figure. 80% of offenders in the United States would qualify for this personality disorder.

So I applied. I actually got an interview when my friend noted the need for clinician vacancies might be a good first step. His suggestion was wise—start with that and work my way up. Unfortunately, I had already been granted an interview and apparently I possessed the three qualities they were looking for: stupidity, naivety, and experience with dysfunctional systems. I got the job. Following the interview I was told I would hear from the committee by the following Friday. On Monday, the Senior Mental Health Manager called and told me I had the job. That call literally changed my life.

To be candid, law breakers are not high on my list on which to show compassion. My brother was in law enforcement, my son is in law enforcement, and I must confess that going to the jail to visit offenders was not on my list. I hated it actually. Then I came to Crescent Heights Baptist Church and there was a deacon who loved jail ministry. He dragged me along. I hated every minute of it. I hated the asking for prayer requests, I hated being there, and I hated not being able to say to the jail inmates, “if you were not so stupid, you would not be here breaking your mother's/grandmother's heart. Yep, I was cold hearted. That I think would cost me dearly.

You may ask, “What do you mean?” Honestly, I believe God is troubled by the cold hardheartedness of His people when we refuse to care about those who struggle in life. I was one of those. My compassion was selective. All my years of ministry did not help me see this beam in my eye.

So, Anna and I quickly adjusted our life plan, put the house up for sale, retired from the ministry and the church, and headed to Livingston to be there for Anna's mother and sister who had born so much grief in this life. For years, I had been the “point person” for my mom because my schedule was more flexible than my brothers, but in an unexpected move, Mom moved to San Angelo, and Jim and his family willingly changed roles. They were and are awesome. I was then free to focus on Anna's family and their needs. I could never forget how that Anna went to be with my mom for a month when the boys were young and her mother came to help me with them. She took my place, and Bonnie took her place. Those are deep connections one does not easily forget.

One does not just start with UTMB Correctional Managed Care. Instead you must be sent to Hell for a week of training. I say “Hell” because as a foreshadowing of things to come CMC does most of its meetings in incarcerated setting. More than that, a specialist in “onboarding” new employees gathers all the nurses, MH clinicians, doctors, and mid-levels in an extremely uncomfortable meeting area for 40 hours of mind numbing information to get one ready for the “work.”

All of that was just the beginning of the journey.

My first day at “work.” I went in early. I just wanted to get a feel for the setting. It must have been the second locked gate I passed through that brought me to the reality “I wasn't in Kansas anymore.” All I knew, or thought I knew would be challenged and sifted as I had to decide who I really was at the core of my being and what I was about.

It was a trans-formative experience. More than that, I thank God for that time. I hope you will share the wonder I experienced beyond the shell of the local church.

This morning while at the neighborhood HEB and watching some flaunt their careless, thoughtless lack of consideration for others by not wearing masks or trying to not run up on others in the isle, I found myself wondering about this strange time in our American culture. The current behaviors mentioned above are driven by a careless President and his followers many of who identify as evangelicals.

Growing up Baptist in Texas, I was one of the first pastors to identify myself as an evangelical. Those early years the Landmarkism movement championed in “The Trail of Blood”by James Carroll still had a hold on many Baptists. Some liked to give Baptists a different identity. We were “apart” from other mainstream Christians. Carroll traces a direct line to the apostolic times documenting(sort of) the Baptist claim to be the “only” true church. Course that was nonsense grounded in slanted research and end conclusions already drawn.

Today, the people I so easily identified with years ago are driving a movement which will take this nation to the brink. I have wondered, thought, prayed, read, trying to wrap my head around this resistance to the truth among folks who I have always been willing to name as one group of “my people.” I believe I was given some clarity this morning in the tomato juice isle at the grocery store.

This fervor of so many well intentioned folks is born of despair and desperation(not unlike the religious leaders during the time of Jesus). For many believers living in the late 70s and 80s, there appeared to be an erosion in America of respect and traditional family values. The Moral Majority burst on the scene in 1979. I was in my first church as pastor and what began to creep into our national dialogue was a seething fear and anger. Time passed and fear and anger became despair and the loss of hope.

All of this began with an elevation of a stream of reinterpreting the roots of the United States. In my opinion, and my study, the history of America was rewritten like Landmarkism of old. The conclusion was America had a special relationship with God and a destiny akin to being His Chosen People. Scripture does not support such a notion but can give us clarity to the real source of blessings and the moral issues we have faced as Americans.

Ephesians 5:25 is one of those nuggets of gold about the church nestled in a verse about husbands and wives. “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with the water through the word.” I would challenge any American believer to document the book, chapter and verse where God's Word says in the time of Christ he died for any nation, movement, or for that matter any denomination.” It simply is not there. However, what this simple verse says is that Christ loved the church, gave Himself up for the church, and has not wavered from the goals of making her holy and cleansed completely by the Word.” When that has happened to the church of the Living Christ, revival and spiritual awakening have reset the vitality of the people of God and born miracles of blessing to the culture in which that church resided. However, to see that happen, believers have to humble themselves and seek the face of God, turn from their wicked ways. (II Chronicles 7:14) The promises that flow from that verse are timeless, God will hear, God will heal, and God will heal the land. The problem is historically, that takes too long for some. Although, if God's people began in 1979 humbling themselves and calling out to God, history tells us we would be living in a different world.

So, despair is obviously palatable and Believers instead of straightening out the church house have turned to the nation. Desperation has driven the most unbelievable alliances, abuses of power, manipulation of influence and law, lack of compassion, and a reckless disregard of the neighbor in our midst. Our treatment of the poor and the immigrant grieves the heart of God.

No more likely than the President's hydroxychloroquine will cure COVID-19, will evangelicals rescue America by political effort.

Wash your hand, mind the gap, and be kind.