I would be lying if I didn’t say part of me fears this may be the end of the world as we know it.  We are all in the grip of COVID-19.

I’m currently housed at Gus Harrison Correctional Facility in Adrian, Michigan, and at the time of this writing, there are no positive cases at this facility.  However, there have been cases in almost every prison around this area.  It’s inevitable for the virus to make its way here.   Not only that, on April 7, 2020, the MDOC decided to bring fifty prisoners to this facility who had tested positive for COVID-19 and were supposedly recovering.  While the prisoners are in an isolated part of the prison and administrators claim they no longer have the coronavirus, this decision only adds to the anxiety and uncertainty – adds to the fear that comes with this pandemic.

I fear for my life here.   I fear our overseers contracting the disease and spreading it to those of us on the inside.  Officers are angry the administration brought in once infected prisoners, and I’ve heard that some have said if they were to contract the virus, they were going to give it to us.  

I fear losing a loved one.                             

I fear my underlying illness preventing me from fighting off the virus if I were to contract it.

I fear the impact the coronavirus is having on Black and Brown communities.  

My worst fear, though, has always been dying in prison, and now that this disease is in such close proximity to me, I feel I am staring at death.   Why would the MDOC bring prisoners who were infected to one of the only prisons that doesn’t have any cases?  Since the COVID-19 outbreak there hasn’t been one single case reported in Lenawee County, which is where this facility is located.   Yet – as I write these words, I was just informed two prisoners in Level 1 of this prison were put in segregation with temperatures of 104° and  men in their cubes have fevers.  The inevitable is happening.  COVID-19 is closing in on me.  I hope my fear of dying in prison doesn’t start closing in on me next.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”

Quentin can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

MYLIFEMATTERSTOO on Facebook.

All Posts By Quentin Jones.

When the officer woke me at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for the one hour ride to Duane L. Waters Health Center, I had to mentally prepare myself for what I knew I would see.  I’ve been there before, and I knew death would be there, up close and personal.  It’s not unusual to see a dying prisoner being moved around the facility. 

Duane L. Waters Health Center is the MDOC’s prison hospital, located in Jackson, Michigan.  Every prisoner dreads going there – partly because of the ‘healthcare’ and partly because the building itself reeks of death.  It’s also where they house the hospice prisoners.  I had to go today for a hearing test for the loss of hearing in my left ear.  I’ve been dealing with it for almost a year, and today was my day to go to DLW. 

As I entered the building in shackles, the foul smell of human suffering and deterioration immediately filled my nostrils and the torment of death by incarceration filled my body.  After being unshackled by the transporting officer, I made my way to the crowded waiting area, where I saw a man I have been serving time with for years walk by.  The sight of him shook me to my core.  All that was left was a shell.  The man I knew had deteriorated, and I could see death practically knocking on his door.  I hadn’t prepared myself to see someone I knew in such bad shape.

The wait can be lengthy at DLW, but the sight of the old head in such bad shape made the couple hours feel like forever.  He’s me.  I’m serving life without the possibility of parole.  I’m sentenced  to die by incarceration.  I’m 39, and to most, that’s young.  But I’m twenty-one years in on a sentence of forever, and I can’t help but notice my health deteriorating.  I think every prisoner’s worst fear is dying in prison, but for those of us serving LWOP in Michigan – we will probably die at DLW. 

While I was waiting, thinking about what I’d just seen, another guy I knew entered the waiting area.  He works in the hospice unit.  He told me he recently sat with one of the old heads I had a lot of love for – as he died.    

So, here I am in the wee hours, reflecting on a day in which I saw my reality – what the final days of death by incarceration look like.  Death is promised to everyone, and for those of us whose worst fears come true and we die in this place, it will be alone in a dark prison hospital like the one I saw today.  Over the last six months six men I have been doing time with died after serving decades in prison.

Today’s trip replays and thoughts run rampant in my mind, preventing sleep as I stare at the concrete walls of my cage.  My pain is real –  and it gets realer by the second…
by the minute…
by the hour…
by the day…
by the week…
by the month…
by the year…

by the decade.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”

Quentin can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

MYLIFEMATTERSTOO on Facebook.

All Posts By Quentin Jones.

Another sleepless night. 

My lower back feels the pain of twenty years of incarceration and sleeping on a thin piece of plastic the MDOC calls a mattress.  The steel frame holds my 208 pound frame, and the darkness of my cement cage conceals the vulnerabilities I keep hidden from predators.  Tears form in my eyes, but not even in the presence of myself can I cry.   Not because it’s not manly – but because I’m numb to the pain.

I find myself replaying an earlier conversation.  I was talking to a guy named Santana.  I’ve known him for twelve years now.   I was eight and a half years deep into my LWOP sentence when he first came.  I took a liking to Santana from the start, so I did the same thing the old heads did with me when I came.  I shared with him some knowledge I felt would help him on his journey. That was twelve years ago, and now Santana is knee deep into his own LWOP sentence.

Today he literally shook my foundation when he told me that he was ready for death. My first reaction was one of concern, so I asked, “You’re not thinking about taking yourself out of the game?”

He replied, “Naw, big homie.  I can’t do that, but I would rather die than live out my days like this.”

I understood where he was coming from.  I’ve often had that same thought over the course of my twenty years. I think everybody that is sentenced to death by incarceration has had that thought at one point. There are many nights one goes to sleep hoping not to wake up, only to waken to the reality of captivity.  It wears on a person’s mind, body, and soul to wake up day after day in this dehumanizing environment.

It hurts to know I’ve served twenty years, four months, and fifteen days, but I’m no closer to physical freedom than I was twenty years, four months and fifteen days ago when I entered this system. Yes, times are changing, and I can see some light now, but it’s like looking up in the sky at night – I can see the stars, but they are so far away.  I can see physical freedom, but it is so far away. Yet I keep pushing forward.  I keep striving to be a better man.  What other option do I have? I can’t fold. I can’t let them break me. I can’t give up. I have to be strong. I have to keep my head up. I have to be productive. I have to be positive because if I don’t, I will lose hope and the pain of LWOP will kill me.  I guess then and only then will they consider justice to be served.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers.  He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”

Quentin can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

MYLIFEMATTERSTOO on Facebook.

All Posts By Quentin Jones.