Author: Cushing P

—Stephanie A.

Opportunities for service work are pretty plentiful here and I was fortunate enough to have a sponsor who believed in our A.A. Responsibility Declaration and got me involved in service work from the beginning of my sobriety.

My career was in the field of corrections, and I retired when I was about three years sober. One area of service work I was sure I didn’t want to get involved in was working with inmates. I worked directly with inmates in the classification field for nearly 35 years and I figured I’d “done my time” where convicted felons were concerned. I still believed in habilitation and rehabilitation, I just wasn’t sure the majority of inmates did!

At about 5 years sober, after listening to the Corrections’ chairman again beg for help carrying the message into prisons, I decided to stick my toe in the water and attend the training session required of volunteers wishing to enter state prisons. Having some experience with state bureaucracies in general and DOC bureaucracy in particular, I walked into the main Alabama women’s prison to carry the message for the first time without a whole lot of enthusiasm and maybe some pretty jaded expectations.

Three of us entered the prison that evening. It took a while to get “processed” and go through a cursory shakedown. Our women’s prison is an ancient structure with old everything. It is a loud, echoing, concrete relic from the Stone Age. Hugh fans, and swamp coolers circulate the summer air up and down the halls and offer the only relief from the brutal Alabama heat. It’s muggy and damp. Everything looks second hand and like it’s barely holding on after years of use. Not an environment conducive to recovery, I thought. Or, maybe just the right environment.

A few women attended that first night. We started reading the Big Book. Some had experience in recovery programs; some didn’t. So, we thought we should start at the beginning.

The inmates are not allowed to keep the Big Books we use, so they only have access to them when we come once a week and if they can access the one or two in the prison library. We aren’t allowed to communicate with the women outside the meeting, so they won’t have a traditional sponsor-sponsee experience. And, since it’s the only 12-step meeting available, we welcome addicts too—keeping the focus on AA but encouraging everyone to share their experience, strength, and hope. It’s bare bones AA.

What it isn’t is a depressing, whiny, entitled group of women. It’s voluntary for one thing. No one’s forced to come. There’s no coffee, air conditioning, comfortable chairs, food or any other lure to draw them in—just a bunch of women who want to stay sober. I’ll go out on a limb and say no one was more surprised than I was at the depth of honesty in this group.

What also surprises me is the acceptance I have of the red tape of prison procedures. They have rules about what we can wear and bring, and sometimes that changes depending on who is checking us in, but I have it clear in my mind what I need to do each and every time in order to pass muster at the front gate: slacks, modest shirt, complete set of underwear, shoes with backs, no jewelry, and don’t come in dressed in all white. No big deal.

I hear the giant grill gates slam, but that’s okay, too. As I’m walking down the wide hallways, I wonder if Angela or Tanya will make it tonight and I want to hear if they’ve had a good week. Some of them won’t show up. Some will move on to another facility; some will be released. There are a few of them who will be there for a long, long time and some will never get out. But for today, we’re just folks who want to stay sober, and be happy, joyous and free no matter where we find ourselves.

I know that AA needs to be in prisons, and I need to be here, too. As with every experience I have had in service work in AA, when I step out, the message of recovery and hope is carried back to me tenfold in the eyes of those of us who want more.

—Mike B.

On the afternoon of April 16 the phone rang. Noting that the area code indicated that the call came from New York, I wondered who would be calling me from there. Picking up the phone, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the caller was Michele Mirza, the very dedicated non-alcoholic archivist at the General Service Office in New York City. After exchanging greetings, Michele is unfailingly polite, she noted that I was already registered to attend the International Convention. I was pleasantly surprised, but wondered why she would note such a fact. After all, tens of thousands of other alcoholics were registering.

Michele then floored me with a question. “Would you be willing to speak on your experience at being the archivist of the Area One archives at the International Convention in Atlanta in July?”, she asked. I was stunned and rather weakly replied, “I can do that.” She laughed and said, “You can do that, huh?” I replied, recovering a little from my shock, “Yes I can, thank you so much.” She then mentioned that she knew I had been a professional archivist, and asked at what institution I had worked. I told her I worked at the Alabama Dept. of Archives and History from 1985-2015 as a collections management archivist, retiring at the end of January. She then asked if I could include the topics of professional development and cooperating with professional archivists into my talk, and I eagerly agreed. The official written invitation arrived the next day, April 17, by email, and I quickly completed the necessary paperwork and returned it.

Accepting the invitation gave me about ten weeks to prepare the talk. At this point I did what is normal for me, I panicked. All those alcoholics! All that recovery! What if I got it all wrong! AACK! After pausing a bit, then praying, I began to calm down. At various times I also talked about this opportunity with my sponsor. That helped me stay focused.

I identified my audience more completely. The folks I would be addressing are AA members interested in doing service work in AA Archives. I noted that there was time for me to become even more familiar with the Area One archives as well. In preparing my talk I examined the archives more closely, including taking more photographs, looking through boxes to be sure the inventory was complete enough, even if not exhaustive, categorizing what was in the Area One archives, and enumerating the tasks that needed to be done, at least in general terms. My original talk was created in PowerPoint using 46 slides. I forgot that only oral presentations are made at the International Convention.

After Michele reminded me of that fact, and I had a good laugh at myself, I converted that talk to an oral presentation only. After all, I wrote all my papers in graduate school on a manual typewriter. The presentation consisted of five parts: my professional background, What Archivists Do and the Difference Between Archives and Special Collections, Archives Development from a Professional and Non-Professional Perspective, The Purpose of Archives in Alcoholics Anonymous, and The Area One Archives in the Present and a Vision for the Future. I also talked this over with and sent out versions of my talk to several folks in the Area One Archives, as well as Michele, and asked for their input.

Thus by the time I gave the talk at 11;00 am on July 3rd, a calm confidence went with me. I do not walk alone, and others before me paved the way. In addition, a number of individuals from my home group, The Prattville Downtown Group, as well as those from District 8, and from Area One, made a special effort to be there for this talk. They came to support me, but more importantly they came to be more effective in carrying the message of Alcoholics Anonymous. That is the mission of archives in AA. At the end of the talk an overwhelming sense of gratitude enveloped me. It became even stronger as several friends and I shared lunch.

Another big bonus for me was meeting many other archivists in AA. Some of these individuals I had corresponded with, but now I got to meet them and make a person-to-person connection. That alone was worth the trip to Atlanta. I have followed up with some and plan to follow up with others.

In summing up, this experience revitalized my connection with Alcoholics Anonymous by expanding my borders, by allowing me to be a part of a much larger whole, and by making and carrying through a commitment to the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous. After all, as it says in Alcoholics Anonymous, page 89, “Frequent contact with newcomers and with each other is the bright spot in our lives.”

Gratefully, Mike B.
Prattville Downtown Group

—Jarret L.

I was born the youngest of four in a city in the Deep South. I grew up not needing anything. I like to think I had a silver spoon in my mouth when I grew up. We were an upper middle class family who worked hard and play hard, too. We traveled a lot together and spent a lot of time together. However, I had a deep feeling that I was different than other people. It was a feeling that had dogged me for a long time. There was a deep secret also. I had a drinking problem, which had started when I was seven years old. I kept it in check until I reached my teenage years. That was when it took off like rocket.

At 14, I did what any Southern Baptist boy would do at that time–I got saved. I thought it would save me and make me happier, but it didn’t. I didn’t realize that, as with anything good in life, you have to put some work behind it and learn a little patience. I wanted everything then and there.

At the age of fifteen, I attempted suicide. My sister stopped me and never mentioned it to anyone. Then, after being “dry” for six months, I picked up drinking again. The six and a half years that followed were the worst hell I have ever experienced in my life.

I barely got by in high school. At seventeen I had DTs for the first time. When I was 18 to 20 years old, the DT’s had gotten worse, and hangovers were the norm. I had become physically addicted to alcohol. Something I did on weekends had spilled over into the weekdays. I had become a daily drinker. It didn’t matter that I was off and on academic probation repeatedly; that my family was getting tired of my going out and staying out not just for nights, but for days at a time. It was definitely one big hurricane after another.

When I was twenty-one, I signed up for the Marine Corps–to play music–while in college and working for a retail store. I was put on delayed entry to finish out the semester. Around May of 1992, I went out like I always did to meet up with my girlfriend at the time to celebrate my recent success. It was supposed to be a happy time. I left the nightclub to drive home, and started to drive on the wrong side of the street. I got upset because I noticed that my girlfriend wasn’t behind me. She had told me she was going to follow me to make sure I got home safely. So, I turned around and went back to the nightclub I had come from. I didn’t see her anywhere, so I decided to drive home again. The insanity of it all is that I was driving down the wrong side of the street again.

The only thing I remember is playing with my car stereo, then waking up to a faint “click”. The next thing I remember is people cursing me out, yelling that I went the wrong way. When I got out of the car, staggering, I looked at traffic and the way it was going, and hung my head down because I realized that I had caused the accident.

When the cops arrived, they gave me a field sobriety test. I failed with flying colors as expected. One of the cops asked if I had ever seen the television commercials about drinking and driving. I told them yes, but I never thought that I would do this. Two weeks later, out in front of my workplace, I was officially arrested for vehicular homicide. The girl who got hit in the accident did not make it.

Before my sentencing, I went to a therapist who strongly encouraged me to go to A.A. I reluctantly attended my first meeting. I didn’t say anything. The next one I went to, I admitted that I was an alcoholic for the first. Thus the healing process began, and the long, hard journey that awaited me had begun.

I received a two-year sentence to prison. I was in a military-style boot camp that specialized in drug and alcohol rehab. I went to A.A. meetings in there, and couldn’t wait until I got out so I could got to meetings outside of prison.

I was released from prison a year later. I got a job and went to meetings, but not as many as I should have. Then, after my first sponsor went back out and I fired him, I got a new sponsor who did not cut me any slack. We worked the twelve steps. I went to more than one meeting a week. I got involved in service work almost immediately. I also started sponsoring other guys, and chairing meetings, too. There is one thing that I did not do well when doing the steps and that was learn to forgive myself–“Letting Go and Letting God.”

I moved to Alabama after my first nine years of sobriety. After I had received an 11-year chip, I didn’t feel like someone with double-digit sobriety. I still felt tremendous guilt, shame, and remorse over my accident. So I had re-worked the steps thoroughly, and asked God to allow me to forgive myself. Gradually over time, I have finally forgiven myself. I have stated to love who I am. My relationship with people on a one-on-one basis has gotten much better. But more importantly, my relationship with God has improved a lot.

Now, at 23 years of sobriety, I know more than anyone that there is still a lot of room to grow spiritually. I have goals with the job that I have worked for over 19 years. I have educational goals. But I also still want to grow spiritually one day at a time. For the first time in my life I am actually happy and content with who I am as a human being. I still look forward to going to meetings and working with others. Sobriety has given me a life that I had never imagined I could ever have. I owe everything to God and Alcoholics Anonymous for my life today. So thank you everyone!