These two guys just won’t stop talking.  Or, more accurately, they won’t stop making noise, because they’re not so much having a conversation as they are making individual statements next to one another that provoke both of them to continue doing so.  It’s bad enough being crammed in a narrow chute with thirty other sleepy men waiting to be called to breakfast, but the witless banter is too much, and my stoic patience is fast approaching a breaking point.

“I think it’s french toast.  The french toast is good here.”

“Eggs – we haven’t had eggs in a couple days.”

“The syrup’s good here too – real syrupy.”

“They was boiled eggs last time; the whole dining hall smelled like farts.”

“I hope they don’t shake the spoon on the syrup; I like my french toast drowning in it.”

Just before my head explodes, the intercom mercifully squawks chow call.  A guard in the booth slaps a button, the doors rattle open, and the herd of us zombie-shuffle toward the cafeteria.  Making it out into the cool, early-morning darkness, I beat feet to put some distance between me and the rambling breakfast twins.  Or at least I try to, because for some reason everyone seems to be moving in slow motion, deliberately in my way.  I can’t win like this; what should be an easy walk to chow has somehow become a human obstacle course.

I eventually reach the dining hall and grab a tray.  They were both wrong:  it’s S.O.S. (a watery gravy over two slices of bread that’s about as tasty as it sounds).  I get to a table and – of course – find the end seat is taken.  I’ll have to squeeze into a middle slot.  I do so and, with my elbows jammed into my sides, eat as fast as my T-Rex arms will allow, dump the tray, and head back to the unit.

Ahhhhh.  The walk back is at least relaxing.  Most of the herd is still eating, leaving no noise or obstacles to deal with on the return trip.  It’s just me, the cool air, and – I suddenly notice – the rising sun.  I glance up at a sky exploding in color:  glowing orange clouds, with wisps of red and yellow, stretched across the entire expanse above me, backed by a bright Carolina blue sky.  I stop and stare; my concerns fade away.  I remember that this place I’m in is just a tiny piece of a much greater world, that this place – no matter how hard it may try – can’t keep me from seeing beauty.

The Russian writer, Dostoevsky, was imprisoned for a short time, the experience having a profound impact on him and his subsequent writing.  He once said that ‘humanity will be saved by beauty.’  After twenty-plus years inside a system seemingly designed to obliterate any sense of the beautiful, I believe him.

Most people realize prison is a difficult place to feel human – the concrete, cold steel, and razor wire make it abundantly clear.  But prison’s most insidious feature may actually be how quietly its harsh exterior creeps inside you, influencing your thoughts and feelings without you even noticing.  It does its work invisibly and effectively, oppressing you to the point that you oppress yourself and others.  You soon realize most of your struggle to change in prison becomes the struggle to not be changed by prison.

Fortunately, I’ve found a growing community of people inside and out that recognize and fight the dehumanizing undertow.  We intentionally seek beauty in any and all forms:  good belly laughs, moments of human connection, a mind-blowing sunrise on an otherwise dreary morning, a short simple essay by a humble or not-so-humble incarcerated writer.  Whatever it is, we remind each other, as much as possible, of our shared humanity and of the ineffable mysteries of being alive. 

Reminders are vital.  It’s all too easy to be swept out to the deep waters of apathy, depression, and hopelessness.  Keep seeking moments of beauty in all its forms.  Find those moments, cherish them; and most importantly, remind yourself of them over and over and over again.  Doing this, if Dostoevsky was onto anything, just might save us. 

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ABOUT THE WRITER.  Geoff Martin graduated from North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program in 2023, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he uses to counsel and mentor his peers. Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. All of his writing for WITS can be found here, and he has also contributed to the N.Y.U. Review of Law & Social Change with his poems Rainy Respite and A Sorry List – Abbreviated. In addition, Geoff has organized a small group focused on exploring self-discovery and personal growth. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and has chosen to invest his time in positive endeavors.

Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.