Humans of Thomson: Big Randy

Lessons from the Humans of US Penitentiary Thomson.

Dear Friend & Subscriber-

It has been some time since I have shared any follow-ups from my friend at Camp Thomson (a federal prison in Illinois).

As you may recall, Jason was dealing with shakedowns and punishments assigned to the entire population indiscriminately, without regard for who was and was not involved in whatever brought down the sanctions of that day.

These practices have only continued, and I'll spare you the details, but life hasn't been easy at Camp Thomson these past few months. Luckily, Jason has friends to stay in touch with, books to read, articles and essays to write, and even a golf course to build onsite at the prison!

I wanted to follow up on the Humans of Thomson series he has been writing, and share a new profile with you all: Big Randy.

May these essays provide a humbling contrast to the daily excitement of our newly-legal industries; we have come a long way, but we still have a long way to go.

Until next week,

Ben "Amplifying Voices" Owens

---

Humans of Thomson: Big Randy

Everything about Randy is big.

From his height and beard, to his booming voice and laugh, to his loyal and caring heart, Big Randy is a presence that I have felt from my first days at AUSP Thomson.

He entered quarantine as I was concluding my stay there, and I noted how desperately he wanted to let his mom know he was okay. His anguish resonated with me as I wrestled with the frustration of being unable to contact my wife. I offered him words of encouragement and resolved to connect with him as soon as he made it to the camp.

We dove right into getting to know each other as Randy came by my bunk in the evenings to chat.

He coaxed my life story of out me, and he openly shared his. Each conversation was like the peeling of an onion, and at every layer he detailed more hardships that he had survived.

As the full story unfolded, I found myself in awe of the strength and resilience of the human spirit, and this human's spirit.

"How is this man able to function, much less laugh and make new friends?", I wondered.

By exploring the layers of Big Randy's story, perhaps we'll catch a glimpse of the power source that keeps him, and us all, going.

Randall Pursley Jr. was born in St. Louis but relocated to California at a young age when the Air Force transferred his father.

It did not take long for cracks to develop in the surface layer of his family life. His parents separated when he was five years old and the stability that is crucial for healthy development would never return for any sustained period. Randy and his dad moved back to Missouri, leaving his sister behind with his mom, and he was promptly deposited with his great aunt, who had a room available. She was in her sixties but took on the job of raising him for the next five years.

"Dad said that it was 'just until he got on his feet'," Randy shared. "But the truth was that he was a womanizer."

He was also a man who, in his selfishness, sent a devastating message to his son about priorities.

Apparently, having sown all of his wild oats, the elder Pursley made another attempt to settle down and remarried. Randy moved in with his dad and stepmom on their farm in Warrenton, MO, outside of St. Louis. This new arrangement was supposed to be a second chance at a somewhat stable family life and Randy's sister also rejoined them.

The second marriage ended in divorce and Randy moved back in with his great aunt when friction developed between him and his father.

"Dad was well-respected in the EMT field and the community, but he wasn't good to me," said Randy with an icy edge.

By age thirteen, he was too troubled for his aunt to handle, and he had taken to living on the streets. "Dad was never around anyway, and there was nobody to stop me," he stated flatly.

Descending another layer reveals that the troubles in the Pursley family were more significant than the fluidity of the living situation.

In the early days in California, it became clear that Randy suffered from a hyperactivity disorder.

"I would ride in circles in the living room on my tricycle until I passed out," he recalled, "unless they let me out the door, and then I'd be gone."

Sometimes he'd reappear on his own, and others the neighbors or police would bring him back.

Randy was put on Ritalin at age five, and not long after that, his father had him inhale marijuana smoke to calm down--an early introduction to problem solving through chemicals.

"When I was living with my aunt, I wasn't using drugs because I could play sports with other kids all day," he said. Martial arts also provided an additional outlet for his energy and helped him focus.

Any developmental progress that Randy made was short-lived, however.

The reunion with his sister was bittersweet as it was necessitated by his mother's commitment to a psychiatric hospital in Georgia. That was difficult to process, to say the least. Those troubles were compounded by the sexual abuse that he experienced at the hands of his stepmom's sister and her friends.

He explained, with a faraway look on his face, "I was exhausted from working all day on the farm and terrified from being molested all night...at first."

It is amazing what human beings can come to accept as normal.

When the abuse came to light, it precipitated his father's divorce, and set Randy on a path that would lead to the streets. "What put me on the streets was my own demons," he said.

Before drifting off, Big Randy had a parting message for his father: "I told him that I don't care what you do for me, but the first time you're not there for my sister, I'll kill you. And he knew I meant it."

The next five years found Randy living in parks when he couldn't find a couch to crash on.

He was known as the Rock Road Kid to the locals and the police, who looked out for him and gave him food and blankets. That was better treatment than he received from his extended family who lived in the area and would periodically honk and wave, but never stop.

Having been stripped of home and family, Randy began to rebuild layers of his new life at school, although not through academics.

Even though he was dyslexic, he filled private journals with songs and poems, but he could not channel that energy into the classroom.

"It was a nightmare because I couldn't focus, sit still, or pay attention," he recalled.

His teachers knew he was living on the streets and struggling, but apparently did not know what to do with him. They passed him along from grade to grade without the kind of intervention that could have made a difference.

On the social side, Randy was coming into his own, and drugs were his primary tools.

It started with selling joints in middle school – 1 for $3, 2 for $5 – and progressed from there.

"I always had a knack for finding things that people never tried or couldn't get," he recounted. "I was living on the streets. I did what I could and did what I had to."

He helped classmates prepare for house parties, including taking polaroids of rooms so that they could be cleaned up properly afterward. He also began throwing big, outdoor parties of his own. Guests had to go on an elaborate treasure hunt to discover the secret location.

His drug dealing and party organizing were a means of fitting in to a community and creating a social scene. Unlike his chaotic family life, he was able to dictate the terms of that scene.

Drugs became a full-time vocation after a violent altercation got Randy banned from Missouri public schools.

He was still homeless, but an encounter with a stranger sent him in a new direction. Woodson Terrace Park, by the airport, was a place he slept frequently.

One windy, cold night, he was getting ready to climb into the rafters of the pavilion when a neighbor walked up.

The man said, "Hey, see that truck over there? It's yours. I don't want to see you in this park anymore."

The man threw the keys onto the picnic table, turned and walked away.

In the ashtray of the 1991 Ford Explorer that was his first car was $600.

He was 19 and he would never have to sleep outdoors again. For years thereafter, to pay that random act of kindness forward, whenever he was ready to upgrade to a new car, Randy would drive to Rock Road, find someone in need and give his car away.

Big Randy got even bigger as he entered adulthood.

He was never really concerned with money or recognition, but he clearly enjoyed being in the thick of the action.

"I was the man, but nobody knew I was the man," he disclosed, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

He partnered with his foster brother, who served as the duo's front man, and they bought a 250,000 square foot warehouse and started throwing raves. Their operation was unofficially branded The Urban Subculture, and they hosted 2-4 parties per month. The largest was attended by 10,000 people and they made $85,000 selling bottled water alone.

Of course, beneath the bright lights and the music, drugs were the undercurrent, and Randy found himself getting deeper into the trade.

Trust and loyalty have always been a big part of his commitment to his relationships, which helped him to get along in a world where everything's a test.

"I would leave drugs or money out on a table and then leave the room just to see what someone would do," he recalled.

He considered himself an "honest dealer", never cutting his product or ripping anyone off. When people were in over their heads or engaging in shady behavior, he would often cut them off and try to help them. As he progressed, what he saw was troubling, and his own troubles mounted.

"There are two sides to the drug culture," Randy explained. "There are the normal, functioning buyers and sellers, and then there is the other side – the darker side run by criminals in a way that you would not believe. For those people, it's not even so much about making money. It's about power and abusing it."

Over the years of his use and dealing, Randy's attempts at forming solid family relationships were as unsuccessful as those of his father.

He was estranged from his sister and the business with his brother imploded. He had two marriages, both of which failed, and he tragically lost a newborn. What he had been chasing since he was a kid, a tribe he could belong to, still eluded him. The clock was ticking on his time in the subculture as well.

Big Randy's big heart would ultimately be his downfall. He rescued a girl from a human trafficking situation, but when she was subsequently arrested, she was flipped by the DEA.

Randy was caught with ice, MDMA, cocaine, and perc-80s, and he knew that his long run had come to an end. He was asked to cooperate against his suppliers, but he refused. He would not harm others to help himself.

As he summed it up, "I'm loyal to a fault." He ultimately pled guilty and received a 65-month sentence.

Randy has had plenty of time during his stay at the camp at Thomson to reflect on his journey. When I pressed him on his time as a dealer, he became pensive, and it was clear that he realizes he did more harm than he would have admitted at the time. His discomfort at taking a deeper look was evident.

He has started down a new path now and I am pulling for him to succeed. He is sober, is pursuing his GED and has applied for a transfer to the BOP's residential drug and alcohol prevention (RDAP) program.

His family relationships, particularly with his mom, are better than they've been in a long time. "Mom's my rock," he gushed. "There is no way not to fall in love with my mom."

And he has a plan to get his CDL, drive a truck, and invest in a piece of property with a friend when he gets out. As we talked about the future, that softer layer showed itself again when he said, with a hint of sadness in his voice, "I'm sick and tired of just surviving. I want to live."

As we were wrapping up our conversation, Randy asked me why I was interested in writing about him. There were many reasons.

• He is my friend and is one of the few people outside of my family who I believe would literally give his life for his friends.

• His perseverance is inspiring. I wonder if I could have taken the beatings life gave him without giving up.

• He is authentic, capable of bringing forth a strong assertiveness, but also holding onto a sensitivity that feels younger than his 50 years. There are many layers to explore in his humanity, making his story worth sharing.

Beyond what makes Randy interesting though, he confirmed a suspicion I had about drugs, and our country's failed war on them.

There are certainly monsters in the world, and the drug trade is no exception.

I would contend, however, that the war on drugs has made the market considerably darker over time, and wherever there is darkness, monsters will be attracted.

I've stripped back the layers of Big Randy and confirmed my hunch that he, just like most buyers and sellers of drugs, is not a monster.

He is just a man, with a kid inside of him, longing for what so many of us want – a sense of belonging and human connection.

—

If you enjoyed this essay, found humanity in its words, or if it made you pause for a moment and remember that the lifestyle many of us lead cost so many others theirs, I encourage you to:

• Forward this letter to just one person (bonus if you share with a few).

• Reply with your thoughts, impressions, or what this story meant to you, and I will forward that feedback on to my friend.

And, as always, please throw a like on the post by clicking the heart at the top or bottom of this letter if it added something of value to your day.

Related Reading:

• Camp Life: Preface

• Camp Life: Shakedowns

• A Letter from a Drug War Inmate: J. Lee