Growing up, it seemed every Christmas my imagination would expand more than the year before. I would hope for everything I ever wanted, but in reality my hopes were diminished. At times I only got the Goodfellow’s box and a few other items underneath the Christmas tree. It was tight for us back then, the only means of income in our household, like many others, was the public assistance check known as ADC or Welfare every two weeks. Man, those were some embarrassing times as a youngster. I would go to some of my friends’ houses and see all kinds of toys in their front rooms under huge trees. I don’t think my young heart could form any envy toward them because most all my friends would share their many toys with me. They’d let me ride their new bikes, and play with their electric trains, race car sets, and even their Rockem Sockem Robots.
Although we didn’t have much in the form of material riches, we had a kind of wealth in our hearts which was demonstrated by the love and appreciation we had for each other. I recall my mother and I decorating our tree with Christmas lights, an assortment of bulbs, candy canes, artificial icicles, and ornaments to make our tree look its very best. I was happy to crawl under everyday and pour water into the stand to keep it fresh. We usually waited until Christmas Eve to go down to the Eastern Market and buy us a tree because the price would drop to only a dollar or two. It was an exciting time during the holiday season, and I enjoyed helping to select our tree every year.
On Christmas we would enjoy my mother’s deliciously cooked meal before heading over to visit with relatives, and I could always expect several Christmas presents waiting for me at my Aunt Mae ‘s house. She was what you call hood rich and lived ghetto fabulous. Her house was laid out with the best furniture from Margolis, an expensive furniture outlet where she bought mostly all Italian-style layouts. She was never stingy with her money or riches, and gladly gave us whatever we needed. So, we might have been borderline living way below the poverty level at our household, but it was a completely different story when I went over to my auntie’s house. My Christmas changed dramatically, and so did my attitude of not having much because at my aunt’s house on Seyburn in West Village, I had everything I wanted. That is how I could imagine something different every Christmas morning back when I was growing up, and even though I might be confined behind bars, I can still experience those same fond memories at Christmas time.
While the meals in here can’t compare to the ones my mother and Aunt Mae cooked, where the collard greens, sweet potatoes, baked turkey, deep fried chicken, chitlins, baked ham, potato salad, string beans, cranberry sauce, and butter milk cornbread would literally melt in your mouth, not to mention the best banana pudding you could ever taste, I’m still appreciative because there’s millions upon millions of people who go hungry every single day, many starving to death. I have no room to complain about a poorly prepared and cooked prison holiday meal. What I normally do is close my eyes and imagine those delicious meals I used to eat at a real dinner table. Believe it or not, a smile always comes across my face because I can still imagine tasting what I miss so much.
Today is Thanksgiving, and we’re on ‘quarantine status’ for at least fourteen days as a result of nearly 200 of us in this housing unit testing positive for COVID, which means we’ve been eating cold, poorly prepared meals three times a day out of styrofoam trays since this past Monday. The holiday meal of processed turkey, dressing, mash potatoes and gravy will be served the same way later, and the same meal will be served on Christmas Day, but I’ll do as I’ve done for nearly forty years in here, close my eyes and imagine something different.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Ricardo Ferrell is the winner of our final writing contest of 2020. I’m not one of the judges, but as I was posting this piece – I see why he won. It’s not just the writing – it’s the heart behind the writing. That heart, which he so easily expresses, is exactly why WITS exists. Ricado Ferrell has the ability to express the light that exists within himself and within prisons all over the country. Ricardo Ferrell can be contacted at:
Ricardo Ferrell #140701
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 E. Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221
He can also be contacted through Jpay.com.
