I got outta solitary confinement – Yay! They weren’t through with me though. I expected nothing less…
On the 9th of May I was placed in a modified general population housing unit. This means more privileges – limited, but a tad bit better than the barbaric isolation I endured for over 700 days. I pray that my comrades back there are keeping the fight alive and manufacturing hope in a hopeless situation.
On Saturday, June 3rd, I received a fifteen minute phone call. This was my second in less than thirty days, and I was ecstatic. As you can imagine, we cherish this time no matter how short or long. It’s a lifeline, a buoy that keeps us afloat in a sea of endless blue. Without it, we feel hopeless and fall into despair because of the loneliness. At least, I do.
The person on the other end of the line and I had some catching up to do. I’m nearly deaf in my right ear, so I was holding the receiver to my left ear to hear over all the yelling in the wing. I was on the phone no longer than ten minutes. I know it wasn’t near the end because after fourteen minutes we’re prompted by the operator to hurry up, “You have sixty seconds remaining.”
Mid-convo, I looked over my left shoulder because I felt as if my personal space was being invaded or I was being watched. I stared into a face that was sun burnt, weathered and covered with liver spots. “Wrap it up,” the face demanded, filling the small area between us with the acrid smell of a wet ashtray.
I complied and hung up. Mind you, well short of my fifteen minutes. Yet, who cares? I was elated to have heard my comrade’s voice and learn of his accomplishments.
“You!”
‘I have a name,’ I thought.
“Give me your I.D.”
I handed him my identification card and went to my cell. I was oblivious to why he needed my I.D. The young guy that was walking back to our cages with me stated matter-of-factly, “He’s goin’ to write you up.”
‘For what?’ I thought. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
A few hours later, my cellmate and I were in an intense battle for position. I flanked, he thwarted. He sacrificed, I capitalized. I attacked, he parried. Pop! We nearly knocked the chess board over.
I peeked my head out of my door, and the loud speaker garbled something unintelligible. I was confused, so I looked to my cellmate for help, but he was still studying the board in confusion.
I struggled into my state issued orange jumpsuit that we have to wear in the unit. When I went to the bubble, I was told to go back and see the housing unit Sergeant. The general population wings were open and in full swing. I was bombarded with questions, handshakes and hugs. After nearly thirty days out of isolation, I was still catching up with people every day. It felt good to still be celebrated and relevant after over two years in a box.
After forty-five minutes of waiting, I grew restless. I walked into the back and saw a conduct violation on the desk. I snuck a peek, ‘Refused to get off of the phone’.
‘What?’ I had to catch myself from saying or doing something uncalled for. One thing I’ve learned is self-control. I know impulsive decisions can have grave consequences, so I did the best thing possible. I exercised my right not to participate and walked back to my cell.
But, my heart was beating rapidly, so hard that I felt it in my mouth and heard it in my ears. In short, I was enraged. Why did he lie on me? Maybe it was a mistake. He must have something against me or he’s making some type of weekly conduct violation quota. And, YES, some do this more often than you would think. You can never be too hard on ‘us here pris’ners’.
After I calmed and accepted that I would be found guilty and stripped of all phone privileges for two to three weeks, I made a cup of steaming hot java – John Wayne style. I had no sugar, creamer, or butterscotch candies, so I enjoyed every sip of the bitter fluid just the way it was. It distracted me for the time being.
My cellmate knew what occurred. We’ve all experienced the same bull. We resumed our game. Of course, I took out my anger on the board. I probably shouldn’t have because I – ahem – caught bloody murder in the middle of my cell floor. On the board, of course! Checkmate!!! Come on, you know me better than that, doncha?
On the 17th of June I knew I might get out on the general population yard on the 3rd day of July. I began safeguarding myself by complaining to medical to obtain a ‘lay-in’. If they aided me, it would stop them from giving me a conduct violation for something I couldn’t control – I was sleeping through institution counts. We should be standing, but again, I cannot hear. Sorry, watchu say??? If I got a ‘lay-in’, they’d knock on my door or open it if they needed me.
If medical knows that I suffer from hearing loss, why is it they don’t tell administration that I need to be prompted, and I’m not just being purposely defiant? My apologies for rambling. This had to be expressed. I live in a place that sees me only as a number. Property. Free labor. Not human.
They have a ‘dog program’ now. I love puppies and kittens, no doubt about it. But, the animals sent to be trained by incarcerated persons have more freedom and rights than the very men that nurture them and are advocates for their care. Is this not odd?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D. is a writer, poet, spoken word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor. He can be contacted at:
Tracy E. Greer #1153032
SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32
Licking, MO 65542
Email: Jpay.com
I’m cold right now. Not physically, but emotionally. I’m lonely. I even feel desperate at times. In fact, right now I feel abandoned, neglected and even worse – forgotten. Some of my feelings are unexplainable. It’s not that I can’t place my feelings into words. It’s that there are no sufficient adjectives to describe them. 
FROM THE AUTHOR: Issabella is a fictitious entity – she does not exist. However, I felt more comfy exposing my vulnerability to feminine energy. I saved face, and it’s more soothing this way.
Calendars are my enemy, sheets of paper that have the audacity to not only record but embellish the fact that I am losing time. I can regain space, never time – ever!
I’ve spent ninety-two weeks plus, cooped up at The People’s Zoo. This is where they place all of the untrustworthy incorrigibles to be petted, groomed and most importantly – watched.
I pace my floor in slow, calculated strides. Like a feline, the King of All Cats – The Lion. Yet, I dare roar. It’ll expose my hand and allow them to see me in the light that I’ve worked so hard to distract them from. I’m now the ‘Quiet One’. I smile quietly to myself as I unsheathe my sword. I admire the elegance of my work. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Flexible, yet firm. Molding to my hand. It belongs there. So, I write,
As the day twists into night, time seems not to matter much. I can care less about a clock. Maybe this is because I’ve gone years without seeing one. Sun up, sun down. Lights on, lights out. Three measly portions and a flex pen later it’s time to retire and they still won’t stop racing. Even upon forced slumber, LaLa Land rejects me. Will I ever be accepted? Is there anybody who won’t ostracize me? Do I approve of who I have become? And the story goes on – the sun is peeking. Nearly Fajr time. I finally nod… yet still aware.