MEAN AL, a.k.a. "Daddy"

Seattle Journal for Social Justice Seattle Journal for Social Justice

Volume 5 Issue 1 Article 18

November 2006

MEAN AL, a.k.a. "Daddy" MEAN AL, a.k.a. "Daddy"

Alvin L. Gilcrist

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Gilcrist, Alvin L. (2006) "MEAN AL, a.k.a. "Daddy","

Seattle Journal for Social Justice

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18.

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285

MEAN AL a.k.a. “Daddy”

Alvin Gilcrist

For me, forgiveness and compassion are always linked: how

do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the

same time remain in touch with their humanity enough to

believe in their capacity to be transformed?

- bell hooks

I am known as a good father, a respectful neighbor, an excellent

employee, and a nice man who shops at local stores. I was also once known

as “Mean Al,” the meanest man in Washington State’s toughest prison.

In 1974 I escaped from a Washington State prison van, making front page

news as I led law enforcement officials on a two-week foot race.

I was

nineteen-years-old by two days and the subsequent conviction for my

escape resulted in a life sentence.

One legendary radio commentator told

the world that I had beaten holes in the walls of my prison cell, one so big

that it allowed me to climb out and take a guard hostage for a bag lunch and

a sack of cookies.

In 1975 I had the distinction of being the youngest

person in Washington State history to be sentenced as a habitual criminal.

Then, early one morning in 1979, the Walla Walla penitentiary was

placed on lock-down as riot-suited guards crashed into my cell and chained

me up for a midnight transfer to another prison. I eventually landed in

Marion, Illinois, in a federal prison built to replace the notorious Alcatraz

and used to confine the hardest of the hard. I was twenty-two-years-old,

making me the youngest soul in there. While there, I received a second

sentence, which amounted to a term of double life.

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Today, I am known to the kids in the neighborhood as Cheyenne’s Dad.

All the neighborhood kids come to our home to jump on the trampoline, or

to admire my daughter’s room, which is complete with various amenities

thanks to a recent birthday present from the family. Although painting her

room purple and setting up the new (used) computer was a lot of work, it

was all worth it when this tired father heard his little girl say her room was

“perfect.”

Now I am liked at the grocery store where they often see me and my

daughter shopping. I take my daughter along and buy this and that; I like it

and my wife does too. Now I am liked at the post office, where I buy money

orders to pay bills; when there are long delays, I am patient and friendly and

the postal clerk thanks me for my consideration.

No one in this community knows much about me, except that I am a nice

guy, neighborly, and a good father. They do not know I am an ex-convict

who was once known as Mean Al. I am not sure that I would be greeted too

kindly if they did. I am not sure they believe in redemption and change like

I do. I believe that forgiveness and compassion are inextricably linked, and

I believe that these two seemingly ancient paradigms are just as applicable

today as they once were.

My name is Alvin Gilcrist. I know a little bit about incarceration,

redemption, forgiveness, and compassion. I have served over thirty-three

years of my life in prison. While serving that time, I saw it all. As a result, I

know that most prisoners do not like their lifestyle and would, if given the

right circumstances and help, strive to become better citizens.

In 1972, at age sixteen, I began serving adult prison time.

I was released

in 1991,

and within fifteen months I was back inside for parole

violations.

I did not gain my current release until September 2005.

People were very angry at me for my failures in the early nineties. There

was little compassion; people could not understand how a smart guy like me

could fail so badly.

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I hardly understood it myself. I did not want to return to prison, not just

because I did not want to be in a cage, but because I did not want to break

the law. I wanted to remain in the community as a good citizen and I

wanted to feel as if I were contributing to my community. I wanted to be

respected and liked. I did not want friends, family, and others to be

disappointed in me. But things happen and years of prison life had deeply

embedded in me self-destructive tendencies. At the first sign of problems, I

reacted to the stress and frustration by seeking the comfort of old friends

and drugs.

In prison I learned how to adapt to brutality and I did it well. One

newspaper columnist wrote about my early incarceration, opining that I did

not just survive, I prevailed.

Just like some Vietnam veterans who

returned home directly from a jungle war, when I returned home I was not

equipped for a gentle community life, even though it was in me to live that

way. It is a sad fact, but like women who remain in abusive relationships, I

was locked into a psychological mind set from which I had no egress; not

one that I could see at the time anyway. All I knew how to be was hard—

how to run through road blocks rather than manuever around them.

And what was society to do when I violated my parole? I had guns and I

was using drugs. Surely something had to be done. More prison time?

How much more time? Fourteen more years? How could fourteen more

years in lockup improve my character or rehabilitate me any more

effectively than the previous nineteen?

In the 1970s, the Washington State Penitentiary was one of the most

violent prisons in the country, and unlike today, teenagers were rarely sent

to that prison. But there I was. Faced with the prospect of being a casualty

of prison violence, I decided to climb the ladder. I prevailed. I adapted. As

I used to say, I became an animal in order to be treated like a human. Some

individuals will bury their heads in the sand, others will thrust themselves

into the governing structure, and some will strive to excel in the new

environment. While in lockup, when one peers into the abyss, it does

288 SEATTLE JOURNAL FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE

RISON AND DETENTION

indeed stare back. As a result of looking into the abyss and considering

what stared back at me, I learned many things during my incarcerations.

A friend once told me that the primary problem public and prison

officials face when considering the need to return allegedly rehabilitated

prisoners to their communities is recognizing that the prison environment

itself may have destroyed all that was good in certain prisoners. My friend

illustrated his point with an example based on my own incarcertaion. My

friend identified many of my good characteristics, and many of my bad

behaviors that were exacerbated by prison conditions and circumstances.

That was a long time ago.

When the time came for my current release, I asked myself many

questions: How do I find my place given what I have done? Do I have a

place? Is there compassion and forgiveness for me? The answers were not

immediately clear, and some remain unanswered. People have different

opinions. Those who remain angry at me for my past deeds are justified. I

sincerely and wholeheartedly acknowledge this. I was

the meanest man in

Washington State. It is not reasonable for me to demand forgiveness, even

though that is what I seek. Although I would like these individuals to

understand some things about who I am now, they are entitled to their

judgment and they owe me no compassion. Regardless, I continue to wish

for it, and I believe that showing compassion is ultimately what is best for

the community.

I really want to make it out here and this time I believe I will. I have

learned a great deal since my last release, and things have changed

dramatically in my life. I have a daughter. I have a wife. I realize that I

remain capable of failing if I do not take care each and every day to avoid

the triggers that can pull me back, however subtly, into a life of drugs and

illegal acts. This is a truth that is hard to admit. Years of an outlaw

lifestyle have molded my being so deeply. As a result, there will always be

inclinations and tendenicies that I will have to struggle to overcome.

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Despite these ingrained tendencies, I am armed with something different

this time around. Fear will help me prevail. While I have rarely feared

anything in my life, today I am afraid that I will let my daughter down. I

also fear I might disappoint those who have helped me: my friends,

extended family, my wife, and others in the community who have spent

their time and love in an effort to help me. I am a hardened guy and I

continue to have some concerns about making it out here; but unlike before,

I have a little girl who needs her daddy. And, this time around I am

surrounded by a great deal of compassion and forgivness.

This is all relevant to understanding the link between forgiveness and

compassion. Before there can be compassion for anyone, there must be

some understanding of where the person came from, and what contributed

to the actions that may require forgiveness. One cannot forgive without

feeling compassion. Compassion does not, in any way, mean that the

forgiven actions are condoned. Compassion means being able to

sympathize, or maybe even empathize, with all of the factors that may have

brought an individual to the place and time in their lives where they

committed the illegal acts. As the perpetrator develops remorse for past

conduct and begins to take tangible steps towards change, the perpetrator

will likely seek or desire redemption. While this happens, both the victim

and society may be able to begin feeling compassion for the perpetrator. It

is the ability to feel compassion that opens the door to the ability to forgive.

I believe that compassion and forgiveness are inextricably linked because

it is important for me, and people like me, to feel that those who judge us

will eventually welcome us back into the community; not only as someone

who lives and works there, but as a full member of the community. This

transformation requires forgiveness because one has to forgive to be able to

grant honest and full access to one’s community.

Again, compassion and forgivness does not

mean that one must condone

past actions. It does mean, however, if I am worthy of compassion and

forgiveness as a result of my efforts that my fellow community members

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will let me know that I am welcome and allowed to participate in the

community just like everyone else. If I am not welcome and allowed to

participate in the community as an equal, then I am a second class citizen

that remains separate from the whole.

Denying me forgiveness and compassion does not help the community,

my neighbors, my familiy and friends, my daughter, or myself. Although I

adapted to the rigors of prison life and became the most violent of the

violent, I always retained the ability to love and be loving; I have always

felt compassion for the elderly, the sick, and the needy. I never forgot how

to hug a child, or how to be kind to others around me. I never pass a

stranded motorist because I understand what it feels like to need help or

assistance and to have it denied. I care about people and I want nothing

more than to live a decent life. I do, however, need help with my efforts. I

have always needed help, but I have not always gotten it.

It was always in me to be a good father, husband, and neighbor. But I am

a person who, for whatever reason, developed a lifestyle and mindset that

was destructive to our society. The prison environment did not help

diminish this destructiveness, instead, it brought out the worst in me (as it

does for many, if not most, prisoners). My awakening came slowly and it

came despite prison bars and conditions that fostered anger, frustration, and

distrust of authority. Ultimately, it was the civil rights attorneys, not the

guards with riot batons, that convinced me that there was a better way to

live. I met them while challenging prison conditions and each time, I

marveled at the way they gave their help freely and with kindness. These

people never voiced judgment about my behaviors, even though they

certainly would have been justified in doing so a time or two. Rather than

look down on me, they quietly and consistently demonstrated a high level of

self-respect, and dignity. This is what I began to wish I had for myself.

Gradually, I began to change because I had positive models to emulate.

While it is true that I was once Mean Al, it is also true that I was always

capable of being a good neighbor and father, and a credit to the community.

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I just needed some help. I think that help is a better approach, and I know an

eleven-year-old girl who thinks so too. She has a purple bedroom.

Alvin L. Gilcrist is an ex-convict who has served more than thirty years in Washington

State, and other prisons across the United States. He has been incarcerated two times. His

second incarceration was the result of a parole violation. His most recent release was

accompanied by participation in a Halfway House/Work Release program. After

successful release into the community from the halfway house, the author maintained his

employment and is now living with his wife and daughter in Vancouver, Washington.

“Mean Al” was a moniker given to me by a Seattle newspaper columnist in the early

1970s. In the book C

ONCRETE MAMA, detailing day-to-day life inside the Washington

State Penitentiary at Walla Walla in the late 1970s, it was said that a friend and I ran the

prison, instigating rebellion and violence. E

THAN HOFFMAN & JOHN MCCOY,

ONCRETE MAMA: PRISON PROFILES FROM WALLA WALLA 43-44 (1981).

I was eventually captured on Camano Island, forty miles away from the escape site.

This was so even though no one was injured and no weapons were involved.

He had only part of the story. While the incident did result in another trial, complete

with helicopters tracking my transport van, it also prompted the prison to install an

operable toilet in the dungeon-like cell I had beaten my way out of.

See Scott Sunde, A Convict’s Life Reaches A Crossroad, SEATTLE POST-

NTELLIGENCER, Sept. 29, 1997, at B1.

Back then, many in the criminal justice profession liked the idea that I would always

be in a prison cell; in fact, many touted that my two life sentences were necessary for

public safety, because I was such a bad a character.

During those thirty-three years I met prisoners from both ends of the our nation’s

political extreme. In the early 1980s, I celled next door to James Earl Ray in Brushy

Mountain Prison in Petros, Tennessee. In 1979 I met Rafael Miranda while confined at

the United States Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois. As a result of my time, I know many of

the prisoners who started the gangs that we now hear about every day, including the

Aryan Brotherhood, the Mexican Mafia, the Crips, and the like.

I was sent to the Washington State Reformatory in Monroe, Washington for armed

robbery.

I was originally given five years, but, because of activities during those years, which

resulted in convictions for additional crimes, I did not get out of prison until 1991, almost

nineteen years later.

These violations were related to drugs and gun possession.

Sunde, supra note 6.

I do not want to sound preachy or moralistic. As I said, I have been a lousy citizen

most of my life. Prisoners are their own worst witnesses because it always sounds so

self-serving when they try to explain why they do the things they do. But it is we who

know truly what we feel, and that knowledge should be shared.