I first realized I was the enemy of society when I was a homeless child sleeping on the roofs of steaming laundromats and eating the abundant variety of food thrown in business dumpsters.  It was before grocery stores defeated the homeless by installing trash compactors we couldn’t access.

I was homeless by choice. I’d been offered the hospitality of 30-40 foster homes which I impolitely declined, running loose until the courts gave up and legally emancipated me at age 16.  It’s possible one of those foster homes I escaped from would’ve provided me with security, nurtured me, possibly even loved me, but I refused to gamble.  I despised authority, saw it as a disease that transmutated ordinary people into monsters.  Four decades later, rotting in a former slave state prison for a crime I did not commit, my opinion about authority hasn’t improved much.

Before I reached age 14, I had been assaulted three times by police officers, once so severely it took more than a week in the hospital to recover.  They hurt me not because of criminal acts, but ostensibly because I lacked respect.  Yet the truth is, my irreverence didn’t provoke them nearly as much as my disparity.  I belonged to a different tribe, and I was a powerless divergent unable to retaliate. The establishment has always victimized people without status or property; they were the proverbial ‘us’, and I was ‘them’ – enemies from the dawn of mankind.

When I grew up, I almost joined their number, not as a cop but as a patriot.  I never did get good at following rules though, and it wasn’t long before my military career ended.  Once again I was delegated to one of ‘them’, a disenfranchised human of no money or status, who lacked the hive worker skills necessary to acquire any.

I was a drifter, drove a clunker, and had long hair; each a crime in itself.  Like diverse strangers everywhere – racial minorities, homosexuals, the homeless – I became a target for police.  In a southern town where disparity was the ultimate sin, I was jailed. 

Attorney General, Janet Reno said, “Justice is available only to those who can afford lawyers.”  How right she was.  I would’ve fared so much better if I had been wealthy and guilty rather than poor and innocent.  Or I could’ve at least saved my life if I had capitulated to the politically ambitious prosecutor and accepted his five year easy conviction plea deal.  Instead I demanded a trial by my ‘peers’, and they sentenced me to die in a plantation penitentiary.

If I thought poverty and diversity made me less than human, I soon discovered there is absolutely nothing lower than a prisoner.  Even lab monkeys have more enforceable rights to humane treatment than prisoners.  We have less prestige than all the unarmed black men, homosexuals and homeless put together.

Just a few months before George Floyd was murdered and set off international protests, prison guards went into the cage above mine and beat a naked old man named Frank Digges to death.  There were, of course, no protests.  I’m betting you’ve never heard of him even though his murder and a gruesome photo of spinal fluid leaking down his face was published in a major newspaper, The Houston Chronicle.

Why haven’t you heard of Frank Digges and all the other prisoners tortured and murdered?  Because society at large doesn’t care, and the media knows it – and the perpetrators know it.  We’re the ultimate ‘them’, viewed much like the native Americans with valuable land, the plantation slaves, and the marginalized that society doesn’t even acknowledge as human.

Given human nature, it seems impossible concepts like social justice or its sibling, criminal justice, will ever truly exist.  Our tribal instinct is so strong that even small children cruelly attack a child who is different.  History is full of powerful groups committing atrocities against weaker groups.  One could argue that’s all history is.  Family, race, religion, nationality… we all belong to a tribe, and we’re all guilty of injustice to some degree, but the greater tragedy is how easily we rationalize our evil.

I will likely die in a cage for the crime of being ‘them’, but I still think social empathy and justice are possible. It won’t be accomplished by appealing to groups because groups naturally set themselves above and apart from outsiders.  But as individuals, I think we’re all capable of walking in other people’s shoes, inspired by someone’s story.  Stories allow us to see strangers as humans.  So I write, not just to have my story heard, but the stories and voices of thousand of prisoners, many of whom are functionally illiterate and have no voice of their own. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  I love this piece. John Adams put into words our purpose in such an eloquent way, although it was not his intention. His writing is always honest, open and a true pleasure to work with and share. He is not only an amazing writer, he keeps me on my toes, always making me review the way I present topics. John Adams has served twenty-five years of a life sentence and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:

John Adams #768543
810 FM 2821
Huntsville, TX 77349

Winter holidays are associated with remembrance, love and ‘be with your family’ time.  For many inmates, it’s more traditional to cry into their arms when the lights go out during this time of year.  Holidays are one more day without mail.  Mail is big in an atmosphere of systematic dehumanization.  Mail is validation of a prisoner’s humanity rarely received, even in the mirror.  Holidays are reminders of the inability to feel your wife smile against your chest, or bathe in the sparkle of your kids’ eyes as they unwrap presents, or even witness a normally grumpy family member catch a bit of Christmas spirit.

Agony.

This Christmas will likely be the worst in Texas penitentiary history because it’s already been seven months since we were allowed family visits, courtesy of COVID-19, and the restriction remains indefinite.  Not that Texas allows family visits on Christmas anyway, but the preceding weekends usually fill the visitation room with women, children, laughter and tears, all of which are excruciatingly cherished by men starved for such light.

Thanks to a new prison policy this year, not only will we be deprived of visits, but now all holiday cards from our children and loved ones are forbidden as well.  See what I mean about systematic dehumanization?

Holidays are generally unacknowledged by our captors or even ourselves.  Decorations, parties, gift exchanging and now – greeting cards – are prohibited by the state, but amongst ourselves there are some exceptions.  Beautiful exceptions.

A common penitentiary celebration is the birthday spread.  When it’s someone’s birthday, his friends often pitch in with commissary purchased food and make a big meal, or even a cake made in a cage with cookies, oatmeal and maybe some candy – surprisingly delicious, and we’ll have a small get-together.  The spread is a subtle expression of what we don’t communicate most of the year, ‘Hey, it doesn’t matter where we are or how tough we act, it’s your birthday, and I love you.’

I tend to dread the mail-less holidays but even after twenty-five years of prison, the dreamer in me still romanticizes Christmas.  It’s crazy because as a child I never experienced sitting under a Christmas tree unwrapping presents, or sitting with a family through dinner.  Maybe Hollywood movies made me idealize the image of family Christmases, or the rare glimpses I eventually saw myself.  As a young adult, I accompanied various girlfriends to their family gatherings.  Not enthusiastically or even willingly, but I’m easy to manipulate because I’m terrified of female tears.  The problem was that I looked and dressed repellently.  I wasn’t a boy that any family, particularly a father, wanted their daughter to drag home.  But that’s the magic of Christmas.  Those families were unfailingly polite, even warm to me.  I witnessed the holiday spirit they showed each other, and it filled me with an almost unbearable longing, knowing I was doomed to always be a guest and never a true family member.  All these years later and Christmas still stirs that lonesome longing I felt as a sixteen-year-old.

Believe it or not, even Texas prisons acknowledge the existence of Christmas.  You won’t see any blinking lights or Santas, but they do give us an extra tray of food.  More importantly, at least to me, they also give us an apple and an orange, which are basically the only fresh produce we’ll see all year.   You don’t value the small things until they’re gone, and I torture myself over every piece of junk food I ever chose over an orange when I was privileged enough to choose my diet.  Healthy food is merely a pimple on an elephant of regrets, but I’m hungry right now, so bear with me. 

Christmas day in prison is not that horrible.  The miasma lifts some, it’s quieter and there’s a more positive vibe.   Some guards relax a little.  Some men wish others a Merry Christmas, and others gather in pockets of fellowship.  It could be worse, the whole purpose of prison is vindictive punishment, to inflict misery and demoralization, and it’s wildly effective.  But there are moments, you know?  And Christmas is as good a day as any to find them.

Merry Christmas.

ABOUT THE WRITER. I’m always excited to hear from a new writer. Mr. Adams entered our recent writing contest, and I’m glad he did. He is our second place winner. His writing is honest, open and a true pleasure to work with and share. It’s my hope he will submit more. John Adams has served twenty-five years of a life sentence and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:

John Adams #768543
810 FM 2821
Huntsville, TX 77349