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- [00:00]
Rosetta Stone
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- [01:23]
Andy Borowitz
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Andy Borowitz. The Moth features true stories told live without notes. All stories on the Moth Podcast are taken from our ongoing storytelling series in New York and Los Angeles and from our tour shows across the country. Visit themoth.org the story you are about to hear by Ted Conover was recorded live at the Moth main stage.
- [01:48]
Ted Conover
This time of year in Sing Sing Prison, it gets very hot in the cell blocks. The cell blocks are huge buildings where inmates live. They're like warehouses for human beings. And it gets so hot that when inmates come out of their cells to exercise in the yard or the gym, they often aren't wearing shirts. And you get to see some surprising things. You see a lot of scars because a lot of inmates have been stabbed and shot and you see a lot of tattoos. And they're not tattoos as you'd see in the Village so much as jailhouse tattoos, which are cruder. They're homemade, they're often self inflicted and they're often kind of. I mean, they're not artful, you can say. And on this one day In July of 97, an inmate I knew a little bit named Dela Cruz came out of his cell and I learned for the first time that he had emblazoned right about here the word assassin in three inch letters, which didn't surprise me. That's not an unusual thing to see Nsink sing. But as he walked away, and I followed him. I saw that his inc. Entire back was covered in tattooed script. And he has a big back. He's in excellent bodybuilding shape, like a lot of inmates at Sing Sing. And every single inch of his back was covered in script. And from what I could see, I just caught a brief glimpse. It was in Spanish. And so when he came back in, I said, hey, De La Cruz, what is that on your back? And he said, oh, that Conover. That's a poem, man. That's a poem. I said, a poem? What poem? What poem is it? And he goes, oh, nothing. You wouldn't know about a Conover. I go, try me. He goes, oh, no, nothing. And De La Cruz goes into his cell. De La Cruz is a guy who interested me a lot because within a week of arriving on this floor where I worked, he was on disciplinary restriction. He had tried to extort money from another inmate in the commissary, which surprised me because he seemed like an intelligent and calm and reasonable guy. And this is before we knew each other. I said, hey, man, what's this about? Nobody gets locked. Nobody gets a ticket so soon. He said, conover or no? He said, co. He didn't know my name then. Co, you do what you got to do. And seal means correction officer or prison guard in the most direct language. And every day I traveled as a prison guard. It's about 26 miles north of here, up to Ossining. Sing Sing Prison has been there 170 years. The passage of inmates from Manhattan to Sing Sing gave rise to the phrase up the river, which means the describes the way they got there. They went in boats up the river to Sing. Sing Sing also is where the phrase the Big House originated, because the first cell block in Sing Sing was massive. It held 800 inmates. And in the 40s, two more cell blocks were built, A block and B block, which hold 650 and about 500 inmates each. These are two of the biggest cell blocks in the world. They're out of date. Prisons don't work when they're this big. They're chaotic, they're impersonal, they're harmful in all kinds of ways. But Sing Sing still has them. And I worked in B Block, and that's where Dela Cruz was. And I wanted to get to know this guy. And often those guys on restriction are the ones you do get to know, because they're stuck in their cells 23 hours a day. They're not let out. And one day when I saw him sort of sitting There pensively, I said, hey, Delacruz, you know what's on your mind? What are you thinking? And he said, conover. And he looked like he wasn't sure whether he should tell me. And then he said, I'm not gonna lie to you, Conover. I'm thinking about my next job. And I thought, wow, he's thinking, you know, this is good. He's thinking about the work he's gonna get when he gets up, he goes, no, no, no, no, Connor, the job I'm gonna pull, man. The job I'm gonna pull. And I said, what? What do you mean? He said, that's the reason I'm here. It's because I didn't think out the last job. He said, next time it's going to go right, man. It's all planned. And I know it's not a positive thing. I know it's not a positive thing, but I'm not going to lie to you. That's what I'm doing. I've got plenty of time to do it, and if I do it well enough, I won't be back in here again. This was Della. He's a man in his late 20s. This was his third felony sentence. His first one had been in Virginia, where he entered a prison known as the Wall at age 16 because he'd come from Puerto Rico on his. On a birth certificate that belonged to his dead brother, who was two years older. His mom brought him over on that birth certificate, so the state thought he was 18 and he was 16. And he told me how scared he was that day. It's hard to get inmates to tell you things like this, but he was unusual, and I think he knew I would respect what he was telling me. And I asked him about a week after, I said, hey, Del Cruz, what's that poem? No? I said, excuse me, I'm getting ahead of myself. I said, del Cruz, what's on your back? He said, oh, that poem, seal. You never heard of it, man, it's by a Jewish girl during World War II, man. She was trapped by the Nazis in her house. She wrote this book. Got to be kidding me. Anne Frank. And he looked at me like, you know, Anne Frank. And this would be a very strange thing for an inmate I hadn't appreciated an officer who not only reads, but knows, you know, things you read in high school. Poetry, important social documents, diary of a young girl. And I said, yeah, I know that. I know that diary. And I said, so, what does it say? He goes, oh, no, never mind, never mind. A couple days later, I got a day off and I went home and read it cover to cover, looking for a poem. There's no poem in Diary of a Young Girl. And I came back and I said, hey, Dela Cruz, there's no poem in there, man. You're confused. You go, I'm not confused. You think I'd put a poem on my back? I don't know what book it comes out of. Think I'd translate it from English to Spanish, have some asshole tattoo it on my back? It took me a month and not know what it came from. Yeah, it's from Anne Frank. I went back and checked again. It's not there. I said, dennis Cruz, you want to read that book again? He goes, you got it? And I said, yeah. And it's against the rules for an officer to bring a book to an inmate. It's contraband. It has to go through channels. I said I'd bring it to him. He spent the next two days in his cell glued to that book. And on the third day, I came and said, so how was it? And he said, man, it's the best book I have ever read. I cry all the way through. It is the best book I've ever read. And I thought, wow. And I said, so what does it say on your back? He goes, get out of here, Conover. Get lost. I that was that. Dela Cruz got transferred upstate and I left the state service. But a couple months later, I wrote him a letter. And I asked if he remembered me. He said he did. I wrote him again, and I said, what did that poem say, on your back? And so he wrote it down in Spanish for me. He transcribed his tattoo. And with renewed vigor, I went to the New York Public Library. I figured there's an edition of this book that has the poem. And There are like 50 editions of that book. And I checked out 25 of them. No poem. I called up a woman in Woodstock who'd written a play, a one woman play about Anne Frank. I said, do you know any poem? Did Anne Frank write a poem? She said, oh, she wrote a couple. They're not in the diary. Most people never seen them. And I read her what the poems said. Basically, she said, no, nothing like that. I thought, shit. And I was really. I thought I'd done everything I could. I read the book one more time. I got to the last page, I got to the last sentence, and there it was. It's the last sentence of a Diary of a Young Girl. And this is what it when everybody starts hovering over me. I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I'd like to be and what I could be if only there were no other people in the world. And so at that moment I understood a little bit more about Dela Cruz and I understood a lot more about officers and officers who don't want to talk to inmates, officers who don't want to find out about inmates, officers who I think at the end of the day couldn't bear the sadness of what they'd find learning about inmates. Thank you very much.
- [11:53]
Andy Borowitz
Ted Conover is a writer of narrative nonfiction, best known for his work as an immersion journalist. His books include New Jack, Guarding, Sing Sing, Rolling Nowhere, Coyotes and Whiteout. Please Visit our website themoth.org where you can also buy moth stories on CD, including today's story, which is featured on the Best of the Crimes and Misdemeanors.
- [12:18]
Ted Conover
Our podcast host, Andy Borowitz is a comedian, actor and writer whose work appears regularly in the New Yorker, the New.
- [12:25]
Andy Borowitz
York times, and@borowitzreport.com thanks to Maz Swift for our brand new music. For more information about Maz, visit Maz Music that's M A Z Z M u z I k.com and please tell us what you thought of the new music and of today's episode. What would you like to hear more of or less of? Email us@podcast themoth.org thanks to all of you for listening. We hope you have a story worthy week. Podcast Audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argo Network Podcast hosting by PRX Public Radio Exchange helping make public radio more public@prx.org.