Little Brother,

“No way.”  That’s what I thought of moving in with a youngster dealing with a fifty-year sentence.  He’s going to yell at the CO’s and listen to rap music all day long.  He was from Elkhart, Indiana, and I was from Merrillville.   Anytime you try to explain the rules of prison to a youngster, they automatically think you’re trying to be their father.  The reality is, as someone ten years older, you’re just trying to share the tools needed to navigate this life.  

But this young man was receptive, and he became my cellie for five years, from the age of 19 to 24.  He also became my little brother.  We did everything together, expressed our thoughts toward each other on our birthdays, played basketball, and shared meals.  On lockdown, we played chess and cards, and I gave him advice on how to deal with baby mama drama.  I talked to his mother to assure her that I would try my best to keep her son out of trouble.  

When my little brother transferred, his sister made it possible for us to stay in touch.  We’d arrange a time to link up, he’d call his sister and then she would add me to the call.  We’d laugh like we were still in the same cell.  

Living in prison can be lonely and depressing, but when you form a bond with someone, a total stranger can become like a blood brother, someone who would fight next to you and cry in front of you.  Those are the relationships that keep going.  Me and my little brother, we made a pact.  Whichever of us gets out first will give the mother of the other a thousand dollars.  

Luv you Bro.