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