Letter to Jail and "7 Grams"

When I was in jail awaiting deportation, a woman I have known for many years wrote this beautiful story (with some minor inaccuracies) and a letter from her heart.

7 Grams
Vladimir Noskov's life is starting to sound like one of his beloved Bob Marley songs. Only he didn't shoot the sheriff. All he did was share a joint with an undercover deputy 21 years ago at a concert in San Francisco. A public defender put in a guilty plea for Vladimir for "possession with intent to sell," although Vladimir simply gave the officer his last 7 grams of pot and no further transaction took place. He completed his one-year probation and thought the charge was expunged from his record.
Freedom came my way one day?And I started out of town.*
Vladimir Noskov was born in Lvov, in western Ukraine. Jewish refugees escaping Soviet anti-Semitism, his family settled in St. Louis in 1976, when he was 14. Although his mother and sister became US citizens years ago, Vladimir preferred the romanticism of remaining a "man without a country." In a cruel twist of fate, he is on the verge of really becoming a man without a country as he faces deportation under the "Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996," which subjects all non-citizens who have been convicted of aggravated felonies to deportation, even if the conviction happened before 1996.
Over the years, Vladimir had become a fixture on the St. Louis music scene. Popularly known as the Mad Russian, he contributed interviews to music stations and hosted a reggae show on the community radio. He hit big-time as a roving correspondent for Howard Stern. His unrepentant left-wing politics, provocative questions, and bull's-eye observations earned him a few detractors in this conservative Midwestern city. But he also has many friends who value his good heart, honesty, loyalty, as well as picaresque tales that are too outrageous to believe but may very well be true.
On July 13, 2005, Vladimir had too much to drink at a bar. He caused a commotion and was arrested for allegedly assaulting a peace officer. But when he woke up in University City jail, he was turned over to the U.S. Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who carted him off to a detention center in Charleston, Mo.
Reflexes got the better of me?And what is to be must be.?Every day the bucket goes to the well,?But one day the bottom will drop out,?Yes, one day the bottom will drop out.*
As his sister and a group of supporters fight against his deportation, Vladimir faces a possible future in a country where he does not know a soul nor speak the language. We all make mistakes in our youth and Vladimir is not proud of what he's done. Yet he is not a threat to national security or a menace to society. He is an activities director for a group of Russian-speaking senior citizens. He loves this country and deserves a second chance. *Lyrics from "I Shot the Sheriff" by Bob Marley




Dear Vlad,
I've never written to anyone in prison before and wish my first-ever letter to you didn't have to be addressed to a god-forsaken correctional facility.
When my sister told me to find the Post-Dispatch article about your arrest, I was expecting to read a colorful narrative about your latest escapades. Then the reality of your situation set in and I became angry and frustrated at the absurdity of your predicament. Since when is it a crime to be a loud drunk and a pothead? You have a kind, loving heart and a mouth that gets you in trouble. The more I think about how you got nabbed and the treatment you're getting in prison, this only confirms that we live in a police state that is only slightly better than the one we left in the 1970s.
As a result of Bush's murderous rampage and the ensuing silence from the media, I no longer believe that I live in a democracy where people's voices are respected or basic rights observed. This country is convenient and offers unlimited opportunities to hard-working individuals. But it also chews up your soul and alienates you from other human beings who are equally in pursuit of the almighty dollar. I've always admired your independence and near-poverty. You live your life exactly the way you want without owing anyone apologies or explanations.
I vividly remember our first meeting in Columbia, Mo. You were a roadie (groupie?) with the Itals reggae group and someone told you that there was another Russian at the Blue Note. You gave me a T-shirt to commemorate our acquaintance. I believe this T-shirt is still stashed away with sentimental objects from my youth. You regaled me with stories about starring in a TV pilot, hanging out with the Grateful Dead in San Francisco, and living with musicians in Jamaica. I've held on to all your stories. It's been nearly 20 years since that night!
Then, a few years later, you set off a chain of events in my life that led to my current home and family. I'm sure you recall introducing me to S. at Edison Theater at Washington University. We went to see a show called "Romance, Romance," and then spent an afternoon at Venice Café. This hot July day led to an ill-fated marriage and my move to Virginia. I now have a new family and own a home in the same complex where S. and I rented our apartment. You see, you were a catalyst to one of the most monumental events in my life. At the time, our chance meeting at the Blue Note didn't seem significant and you provided much comic relief with your outlandish stories. But we ended up being connected on a metaphysical level that magnified with each passing year. It's almost like the saying about the flap of a butterfly's wings in Central Park could ultimately cause an earthquake in China. This is the chaos theory, which uses 'the butterfly effect' to describe how small and apparently insignificant incidents can set in motion a chain of events with far reaching consequences.
Your sister Faina is frantically working to mobilize support for your cause. I can't imagine how stressful this is for her and your mother. I hope the lawyer knows what she's doing and can work the system to secure your release. I worry about what the prison experience is doing to your psyche. How will your soul recover from degradations, beatings, and hunger?
One suggestion I have for you is to keep a journal. Do you have writing implements? If not, I'd be happy to send you whatever you need. First of all, writing is how most otherwise unstable people stay relatively sane. By putting your experiences on paper you'll feel more in control of your circumstances. You'll be able to analyze and make sense of what is happening. And perhaps eventually, this journal can find a publisher and readers. Think of yourself as the latter-day Solzhenitsyn. I recall that one of your favorite books was Deti Arbata, which deals with Stalinist purges and arrests of innocent people on trumped up charges. Isn't it a totally bizarre twist of fate that now you're a political prisoner?

Affectionately,
(name withheld by request)

Hare Krishna Are Bad People by Vladimir Noskov

As I was walking with my 21-year-old friend from the Ukraine down Delmar Street in the Loop to eat at Thai Pizza, I ran into Blake Ashby and Ruben.
I feel Blake and Ruben stopped me just to check out Yulia. Then Ruben told me a wild story that I thought there were no witnesses to.
Back in the foul year of our lord 2003 I drank a little vodka. I was sitting on my fire escape enjoying the sounds of U. City Loop. I was listening to music. Then a very annoying noise came echoing from Delmar. It was a dozen or so of Hare Krishna people. They were beating on a drum without the knowledge of rhythm. They were chanting about how enlightened they were and wanted all of us to join their movement. It made me ill.
I decided to go see them in front of Vintage Vinyl.
As their mantra of "'Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare / Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare" mixes well with my mantra "Marijuana, Marijuana, Marijuana, Marijuana, Marijuana, Marijuana, Marijuana, I decided to break the mantra of the Hare Krishna with my own vodka induced mantra. C'mon, you all hate the self-righteous pious condescending Hare Krishna. Admit it!
I wanted to make a point.
There was one white Hare Krishna who behaved as a high priest of Tentric at their temple for many years. He took my non-violent mantra to his heart. Within 15 minutes he dropped his drum and started to pummel me into the sidewalk. My head was split, I was bleeding, and all the lookers-on just stood there watching the first man in history to get beaten by the Hare Krishna.
I was successful at showing the anger and angst, the fear and loathing that lives in the heart of the Hare Krishna. Not to mention their violent nature.
Ruben pulled the faker off me before he could hurt me more or kill me. I crawled home a happy man.
I exposed the airport religion.
It can all be verified with Blake Ashby of Delmar Restaurant and Lounge and his buddy Ruben.
Next time you see the Hare Krishna, tell them: “Go Step on a BUG!!!”
v.n.

Karl Rove | Mad Russian - Meet me in St. Louis !!!

Episode 1 of the new Mad Russian Show!

May 11 2009, Karl Rove decides to visit St. Louis to address the Missouri Bar Association about the economy. The Mad Russian shows up and hilarity ensues!!

I.C.E., I.C.E. baby

i.c.e., i.c.e. baby since 9/11 immigrants have been deported at an alarming rate due to aggressive anti-immigration laws words vladimir noskov Originally printed on hard copy in WHATS UP MAGAZINE in St. Louis, Missouri as an address to The President of the United States George W Bush. Re-posted on http://www.barackobama.com/ (All Rights Reserved) By Vladimir "The Mad Russian" Noskov - Jul 5th, 2008 at 6:23 am EDT

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There are immigrants being deported at an alarming rate due to a bad legislation, terror fever, and the inhumane misuse of the Immigration Law passed in 1996 by the majority Republican Congress and signed into law by President Clinton. Almost every day I see news reports about raids on illegal immigrants. The Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996 created a cottage industry and together with the “Patriot Act” subjects immigrants to inhumane treatment and abuse because President George W. Bush wants to give American citizens a false sense of security. Most of the people who are being deported are not criminals. I myself went through the deportation proceedings and did not meet a single terrorist. What our government is doing is hogwash. Deporting immigrants does not work, Mr. President. Deporting immigrants is as hollow a solution as the war in Iraq. Neither one makes this country any safer. “Papa Bush” started the War there in 1991. “Baby Bush” is continuing the bloody conflict 16 years later. Our men and women in the military are dying everyday. Here in the States, Americans are running around like the crazed pilgrims did in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692. When they are not talking about “American Idol” or Anna Nicole Smith, they are imagining that the terrorists are hiding under every bush (pun intended). Just remember that thing about the “huddled masses” and think, “Who are the real Americans?” Are “real” Americans the Native Americans who came here 100,000 years ago? Are they the Europeans that came here a few hundred years ago, or are “real” Americans the descendants of African slaves? Maybe the Asian indentured workers? All these groups contributed to building this nation. Besides, we the immigrants take jobs that you Americans would not even apply for. If you are reading this - you are not confined to a Federal detention facility to be deported. In Missouri you are not allowed newspapers or magazines if you are in a county jail. Missouri does not have an Immigration Detention Facility. The Homeland Security Department contracted three county jails to warehouse deportees and this contributes to a small cottage industry comprised of three county jails in bad need of “them there Federal Greenbacks.” The best one is the Mississippi County jail in Charleston; the close second (they actually let you smoke cigarettes!) is Montgomery County jail in Montgomery City, and the worst one is Lincoln County in Troy. I was a prisoner in two of these three jails in Missouri that the government uses to detain “criminal aliens.” My personal nightmare in jail occurred in July and August of 2005. If you are not a U.S. citizen, and you have committed a felony during your life in America, under the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996 the Feds can throw you in jail and deport you after the paperwork is complete. When I was picked up by the I.C.E. (Immigration and Customs Enforcement), I thought it was a huge mistake. It had to be. I have lived in the U.S. for 30 years. I came here with my mother and my sister on July 7th, 1976. Just three days after the country celebrated it's 200th birthday. I was 14-years-old. Jimmy Carter was running for the Presidency against a never elected Gerald Ford. I plunged into the American culture immediately. I fell in love with my new home. Five years later my mom and sister became naturalized citizens, while I decided to remain a legal resident without the citizenship. It seemed romantic to me to be a “man without a country.” After growing up in the Soviet Union I felt a bit allergic to patriotism of any kind. After all, I was now living in a country that allowed this kind of individual freedom. I was also a stupid teenager. Without going into the boring details, I will admit to being caught by an undercover cop with a small amount of marijuana. I had no money for an attorney. A public defender helped me plead to a “possession of marijuana with intent to sell” and I paid a small fine. I also served one-year of probation. I forgot the whole stupid thing. It was just some harmless weed. But it was a felony conviction. It was 1983! I was 21! Many years later the immigration law of 1996 made me a “criminal alien” retroactively. America had to be saved. After ten days in a relatively tolerable environment of the Mississippi County jail, I was taken to the Federal Building in downtown St. Louis for a bond hearing. We were transported in leg irons, chain belts, and handcuffs that were all connected. It did not make for a very comfortable three-hour ride. I remember a Pakistani guy who was really calm the first few days having a nervous breakdown on one of those rides. While I was not exactly feeling cheery myself, this guy kept screaming that we are all doomed and America does not care about people who actually love it here. Things did not go my way, and the bond was denied. I had no immigration attorney at the time. I asked one of the ICE agents for a form to appeal the judge’s decision. When they refused and ignored me, I lost it. I called all of them “Nazis” and told the supervisor Fed that if he grew a little mustache he would have no problem passing for Hitler. They all gave me dirty looks, but none of them touched me. When I arrived back at the county jail in the Missouri boot hill, I was told to get undressed. The “hole” was a very cold little cell with plenty of air conditioning. I was going to “the hole.” Handcuffed and naked, I was thrown into a small concrete cell with a steel toilet/sink combo and a roll of toilet paper for 72 hours. I was told that the Feds told the jailers to have me on a three-day suicide watch. I never said I was going to kill myself. It was just a way for the Federal agents to punish me for calling them “Nazis.” I was loosing my mind. I thought it was bad in Mississippi county jail. The day after my release from the hole, I was transferred to Lincoln County jail in Troy, Missouri. That place is a real torture chamber. While being processed into their system I was given a tray of food. When I told the guards that I was a vegetarian, I got smacked on top of the head. I was then told that “special” meals were given only for medical and religious reasons. I told them that I am a Buddhist. The response was typically redneck: “Show me your Buddhist Bible.” At that moment I knew that I had better find a good immigration lawyer, or I would be dead. My sister mortgaged her family home, my mom charged her credit cards to the limit, and an immigration attorney was hired to represent me. The worst time was the visiting hour (once a week). I prayed that no one was coming to see me. I hated putting on my yellow jumpsuit and visiting through a thick glass window talking to each other on the phone. Visitors reminded me of the outside world, and after the visitor was gone I was just put back behind bars far away from real life. I have many stories to tell from my two months in jail. Stories that happened to me as well as to people I met. But you will have to wait for the book version. I was lucky to stay here in the U.S. simply because during my original sentencing my constitutional rights were violated. The original conviction was set aside and vacated. It was a fight that lasted for more than a year. I was lucky to have family and friends that helped to secure my freedom. I am also grateful to the local media that showed me support by telling my story. My attorneys Barbara Bleisch in St. Louis and Randy Knox in San Francisco are awesome. Most deportees are not that lucky. I think about the unlucky ones every day. This country was founded with the belief that one can always escape another country’s persecution and to come here to build a new life. Yet only when immigration laws recognize your country’s abuse. I happened to get away from the anti- Semitic U.S.S.R. There are some great folks here that come from countries the United States supports politically and those people cannot claim a refugee status. If you overstay your work or guest visa, you become a criminal and subject to deportation. Your tax dollars (and mine) are going to this kind of foolishness. I happen to think that laws designed to keep terrorism down should not penalize non-violent foreigners. If you kick all of us out, who’s gonna drive your cabs, pick your food, work in your kitchens or raise your kids? I think that new blood in this country is healthy. I strongly feel that the immigration laws have to be revised. What can you do? Oops, relax. Have a beer and go back to the “American Idol.” Or you can call and write to your Congressman or Senator demanding that this inhumane treatment of immigrants has to be stopped. The law has to be changed. ‘Nuff of the foolishness.

Vladimir "The Mad Russian" Noskov

Vladimir Noskov lives, works and plays in the Delmar Loop. Wherever the “Mad Russian” goes - he fights for truth, justice and the American way of life. As a persecuted Jew, he came to the U.S. with his mom and sister on July 7, 1976. His full-time job is looking after senior citizens in a multi-cultural high-rise in University City. “I happen to think that laws designed to keep terrorism down should not penalize non-violent foreigners. If you kick all of us out, who’s gonna drive your cabs, pick your food, work in your kitchens or raise your kids?”