12 Principles for Using Your Time Well

October 12, 2008. I sat down in the quiet room at Taft Federal Prison Camp at around 5 a.m. I had a red bag of Folgers, hot water from the one spigot in the bathroom, and a legal pad. With Michael’s help, I wrote my first blog that morning. My mom got it in the mail a few days later and posted it online. That post is still up. Still timestamped.

For the first few months at Taft, I thought I was ahead of the curve because I exercised and did not watch television. I was wrong. Exercising eight hours a day is a very organized way of avoiding the hard work: creating something that does not exist. In 2011, a judge said at a sentencing hearing I attended: “If it ain’t documented, it didn’t happen.” That sentence alone should influence you to create, starting now.

The risk: Creating in prison is high risk, high reward. Staff will read what you write. If you say online that you are doing something you are not actually doing, you will get called out. Write honestly. Write what is true. Do not belittle or be critical of other prisoners.

In prison, your credibility is visible. Staff read your emails. They listen to phone calls. They know how much television you watch, who you walk the track with, and whether your routine is consistent. If you tell your case manager you are building a record and you are not, they know.

I committed on October 12, 2008, to writing every single day. I wrote it. I sealed the envelope. I put it in the mail. There was no taking it back. My mom posted it online that week. The commitment was public before I had any idea what I was building. That streak started at Taft. It has not stopped.

People who do what they say they will do stand out inside a minimum security camp. Not because it is heroic. Because most people do not do it.

At Taft, I woke up at 4 a.m. Every morning. I walked to the bathroom. One spigot offered hot water. I filled my mug. I had Folgers from the commissary, that red bag, and some apricots. I sat in my cubicle while the dorm was still quiet and planned out the day.

The count schedule at Taft: 5 a.m., 10:30 a.m., 4 p.m., 10 p.m., 1 a.m., and 3 a.m. You do not need a watch. After about nine days, your body just knows. At 10 minutes to 5, a guard came in and said: count time. You went to your cubicle. You sat. You heard: count clear. Then you went back to the quiet room and got back to work.

Waking early is a choice to live the day on your terms, before the compound makes the choice for you. The men who woke early at Taft tended to be the most productive. Not all of them. But most.

When you arrive at a federal prison camp, you do not know what you do not know. You do not know the disciplinary structure. You do not know the politics inside the dorm. You do not know the unwritten rules. Listening before speaking is not a virtue you perform. It is a practical strategy.

A few months into my sentence, I used a phone in the common room and touched the television screen without washing my hands. Another prisoner pulled me aside and said quietly: hey, you touched the phone with that hand. I said: I’m sorry. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again. That was it. No argument. I had earned enough goodwill by keeping to myself and doing my job that the long-term prisoners gave me a pass.

The disciplinary structure: Infractions are classified into four levels: 100, 200, 300, and 400. A 100-level infraction can result in loss of good time, transfer to a higher security facility, or the hole. Less severe infractions cost you your job, bunk, or commissary. Learn the system before you test it.

Being useful is different from being busy. Busy means you are getting things done. Useful means someone else benefits from what you do. Going to required programming is not what makes you stand out. Showing up without a disciplinary infraction is not what makes you stand out. Those are requirements. What makes you stand out is what you do beyond them.

I wrote Professor Pope at DePaul. I told her I was in federal prison, earning 15 cents an hour, and that I could help her students understand what drives white collar crime. She wrote back. Her students sent questions through the mail. That exchange is part of my documented record. My probation officer saw it. Days into my time at the halfway house, my new career was approved.

For one month at Taft, I also taught a class on the stock market. Nobody required it. I chose it. It gave me something to prepare, deliver, and write about. Being useful also earns cover when you make mistakes.

In a minimum security prison camp, the enemy is boredom. Not violence. Not fear. Boredom. Men who are bored obsess over mail call. They get into other people’s business. They gamble. They gossip. The problems that persist at Taft mostly happened in the television room at night, after the day was behind you.

About 10 or 12 minutes after you arrive, someone is going to walk up and say: let’s walk the track. Maybe that man has an iPhone. Maybe he owes money to three people. Maybe he complains all day. You do not know yet. You say: no, thank you. I’m fine. I’m going to create my own routine. You do not explain further.

Staff know what you are doing all day. They read emails. They listen to phone calls. They know who you associate with. If you go to your case manager six months in and say you want to get home to your family, and you have spent those six months watching television with the wrong people, they know.