The Hobo
By: Downing Keyworthy
After the Civil War, African Americans especially in the "liberated"
South suffered a frightful depression. There was little or no
food, very few if any jobs and crushing poverty. The dispossessed
blacks wondered around looking for sustenance and work. Most
were illiterate field hands who carried their hoes (meaning the
implement, not the woman) with them. They became the "hoe-boys"
or "hoboes," an army of aimless, itinerants searching for
a crust of bread or a dime.
The plentiful supply of very cheap black labor displaced the jobs for lower class whites. That caused the deep conflict and intense hatred which marked race relations for the next one hundred plus years. It was an economic conflict as much as a social one. Of a truth, the American Civil War was a foolish and pointless slaughter. It did far more harm than good. There were many much better ways to resolve the slavery issue. It was simply a question of rich folks wanting cheap labor. In the Pennsylvania Department of Imprisonment the hoboes are the wondering migrant guards who drift around looking to cause problems and to rummage through prisoners' pathetic personal property. They are the searchers. By-and-large, they're an unsavory breed of bullies who relish causing harm and hardship. I knew a couple pips at the Frackville prison, but that's a story for another time, Halloween, perhaps. I was sent to the hospital prison at Laurel Highlands. Some Department of Imprisonment authorities hoped I'd simply curly up and die. I'd be out of their hair. Laurel Highlands has a reputation, perhaps undeserved, as a death camp where the old-timers are sent to linger and perish. A woman named Vicki Stanishefski cooked up the scheme as her "Final Solution." I admit, I was pretty sick and a deranged guard named Michael Conti was actively trying to kill me. After I arrived in the hospital a sergeant appeared with the boxes of property I'd brought with me. In 30 years one accumulates quite a collection. To the Department of Imprisonment, it's very, VERY important that a prisoner has only the few things they allow him to have. The sergeant, a pleasant enough young man, was there to filter what I could keep out of my prize possessions. In a few minutes along came a hobo. He wasn't carrying a hoe. He had what appeared to be a fingerprint kit. He was beaming with pride. He seemed to be taking fingerprints for the FBI. That made him an important big shot. Most prison guards and particularly the hoboes need to feel like important big shots. Being a hobo, this fellow was looking for a job. He also wanted to cause whatever trouble and hardship he could. He joined in the search of my papers and briefs. One of the first dangerous items he found was the Department of Imprisonment Code of Ethics. The hobo though that that was really dangerous. It didn't matter that it's public information and available for the asking. The hobo felt threatened. He didn't want me to know what he was supposed to do and how he was supposed to do it. He seized the Code of Ethics along with a few other papers about the Department of Imprisonment. Information scares the ignorant. Maybe the hobo was right. I'd been using the information in suits against guards. In that sense, the hobo was protecting himself. Of course, I had, and have, no intention of suing him. He's not that important. The information is available any time I want it. The new Public Records Law makes it even easier to get. After hoeing through my briefs, the hobo migrated off. I suppose he was looking for another place to earn a dime. Have a good chuckle The Prison Code of Ethics In fairness, I must mention that the medical facilities at Laurel Highlands are really VERY good. The large, conscientious staff is professional, cordial and thorough. If you must die, it's not a bad place to choose. Of course, they pick at you and bother you a lot. Somebody's always taking your blood-ox.
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