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
Sharing the name of the apartment complex around it, at perhaps a quarter mile long, Coleridge Road rammed straight through the projects. It was the crossbar between two semi-parallel streets that offered alternate routes to similar destinations, though their side roads led to completely different ends. The front one was the busy mainstream people took when speeding to Asheboro’s white or blue collar districts. People motoring on it clearly had somewhere to be, somewhere to go, something to do. It was also a geographical cordon and dangerous to cross – nobody wanted to slow or stop. That intersection saw a lot of accidents. One car attempting to cross it from Coleridge got chopped in half by an SUV.
The rear street was lazier, more meandering and accommodating, but presented dangers of its own. It veined into Asheboro’s darker areas where gunshots and crack pipes left blooming but distinctive scents in the air. Like many of its occupants, even the projects back there went only by a nickname, ‘Low Rent’, which spoke to a key feature of their character. Life itself got cheaper the deeper one went.
Like a giant middle finger flipping up from Coleridge Road into the heart of the complex, Kemp Boulevard looped about 100 yards uphill, past my apartment, where two friends and I stood sweating on a corner sidewalk. We shared a cigarette and peered downhill toward one of the other parking lots to pinpoint the tinny music that had pulled us outside to the curb – a rarely seen ice cream truck. From this distance, the kids resembled roaches as they scampered toward the sugar. Heatwaves shimmered above the asphalt, creating what appeared to be a mirage – an oasis or the birth of a metaphor for hope. Or both.
We wondered how many times it’d visit before somebody robbed it. Then we wondered whether we could trick the vendor into handing us one orange sherbet, one rainbow push-pop, and one Mickey Mouse as we pretended to dig in our pockets for money. It was 1993, hot as hell, and we were twelve and broke.
“They’d probably hand it to you… but not us,” J, the shortest but fastest of us said, meaning – ‘You’re not black’. Puff nodded his agreement, and they both grinned. I knew the look. It teased that I looked soft, innocent – untested.
“Oh, hell, nah! I’ve done more stuff than both of ya’ll!” I cited the fights, the stealing, the broken windows and sliced car tires. I was the most prolific.
“Well, you the one ain’t been to training school,” said Puff, the strongest fighter in our age bracket. He hit the dwindling cigarette.
“Only ‘cause I ain’t got caught like y’all.” The yet was implicit. I felt uneasy. We all knew prison was our inevitable destination. It was a fact of life in the projects, the only life we knew how to live. Around Coleridge, people didn’t dream of being doctors or lawyers or firemen… if they dreamed at all.
We all got quiet. I stubbed the cigarette butt. The ice cream truck turned onto Kemp, getting louder as it chugged up the hill and horseshoed around the bend. It became a big, boxy, yellowish riot of glittery stickers and calliopean music as it stopped in front of us. Suddenly we were jostled by a dozen excited children waving crumpled dollar bills or punching a fistful of loose change at the vendor.
My friends and I glanced at each other; they silently boosted me to attempt a free ice cream, but when I looked up, the vendor locked eyes with me and smiled. After a second he scowled and shook his head hard, as if to warn me, ‘Don’t you fuckin’ try it kid’. So I didn’t.
When he finally slammed and locked the serving window and pulled away from the curb, my friends and I gave chase and hopped onto the rear bumper. We clung to the panel-door seams and jumped up and down to bounce the truck, letting the driver know we were there, letting him feel our presence. Being seen and felt is its own sort of ice cream. It wasn’t slowing before turning back onto Coleridge, so rather than be slung off, we hopped off and hit the ground running. We scooped up rocks and thunked them off the truck’s back, laughing as it squealed its tires to gather speed toward the front street.
Though it soon disappeared, we still heard its discomfiting moon music a few moments more, until even that was gone, leaving a sticky residue in our hearts. Ice cream dreams never lasted long in Coleridge.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson share his writing here, he was also a contributor to Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I had come home late after a long weekend of drinking and wondering the streets. The house was dark. I looked in on you and you were in bed so I went to bed as well. Deep in a dream I could hear the phone ringing on the end table. I didn’t remember there being a phone on the end table. But there was, and it was ringing. With my eyes still shut, I felt around until I found the phone and put it to my ear: “Robby… Robby, is that you?” you asked, in a quick, hushed voice. You sounded far away. “Robby, help me,” you whispered into the phone. I could hear the fear and desperation in your voice. I was confused and scared, I asked you where you were and you said that you didn’t know. You started to cry. I told you to look around you and tell me what you saw. You said that it was dark and you couldn’t see anything. I didn’t understand. I thought to ask you whose phone you were using, but you cut me off, and, all of these years later, I can still hear you say, “I’m so cold…” as your voice fades away. When I awoke it was still dark outside and as I walked down the hall to check on you again, I knew. Your room was pitch black, and I was afraid to turn on the light because I knew that you were there, in the dark, and I didn’t want you to go. I walked over to your bedside and gently touched your face. It was cold. You’d been gone for hours, but were still there. Did you not know that you’d passed? Were you waiting for me to come home? Did you lose your way? Or, is that really all that awaits us? I’ve heard others talk of heaven, hell, bright lights and judgment; of warmth and weightlessness and hovering above your body as your entire life replays itself before you; of deceased loved ones, gathered around, telling you to go back, that there’s still work to be done amongst the living. I hope that these things prove true, for them, but for me, I know in my heart that when I die it’s going to be dark and it’s going to be cold.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I always look forward to posting his work.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Greene P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
There’s a woman I know who plays Devil’s advocate for me. She’s a skeptic – and I am forever grateful for her perspective. She recently asked, “What would ‘they’ have done differently?” That led to a conversation about a previous post – A Letter To My Thirteen Year Old Self.
Walk In Those Shoes receives those types of letters a lot. Things happen in life, paths take us places and without the insight that comes with decades of living – choices are made that alter lives. I lived through those years and made my share of wrong choices. I got lucky – or blessed. I’ve watched the next generation play with fire. ‘Use’ a little. Carry ‘that’ for protection. Go to that ‘place’ – because they are invincible. Nothing can go wrong. But plans sometimes go awry.
That’s the theme of this writing contest: If you could drop a piece of paper, a message, a letter in the dresser drawer of your younger self – what would it say? I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.
As always – only those who are incarcerated are
eligible to participate.
We can’t accept anything
that has been previously published.
Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.
Entries
should be 1,000 words or less.
Submissions
can be handwritten.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: May 31, 2020. Decisions will be posted on or before July 10, 2020.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
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
“…to remain tight in a bud was more painful than… to blossom.” – Anais Nin
To many, Kenny’s a nobody – which is why he wanted to shine, to prove them wrong.
Would that I could share my light with Kenny, give him another chance
To fit in, to be normal. Since I can’t, I will share Kenny’s light with you,
Break it into wafers.
Death Row, Death Throws…
We slam, we scream, we fling ourselves against prison’s cosmic ennui.
We remember life from before, our memories another spectrum of light.
The texture of some memories never change; these lights refuse to go
Quietly into that goodnight.
Sometimes a soul’s meat-vehicle remains behind long after the light
Has gone. Kenny remembers the moment his light divorced his body,
Remembers when it tore itself free – remembers it half as action sequence,
Half as background requiem for a dream. His bodily
Memory knit together with eye-witness testimony, here tells
You his story, sings you a history, a chorus of blood sung
With words twinkling in air like asterisks. It was preceded
By a blinding flash of light, an insight that had sounded green, As in the moment is ripe, as in… GO.
We all pass with varying degrees of light.
Blossom…
Perhaps the idea began as a flower – it felt like one
At the time. One of those pretty, yellow-faced ones
With white petals. Aster. Or perhaps it started as a small star-
Like flame, a sad blue torch of forked flower in the brain.
A risky idea one might symbolize in writing: *. An asterisk
Indicated omission ((of common sense?)), redaction, doubtful matters.
Portents…
–aster: a pejorative suffix denoting something that imperfectly mimics
The true thing – a bootlegged or knock-off version, for example.
–aster is also a combining form meaning ‘star’, which implies
Anyone can be a star – anyone can shine like the popular guys
Simply by stamping aster onto their chest, by declaring, “Let me
Be light!” like in Genesis.
“dis” is a prefix meaning asunder, part, away or having a negative Reversing force, as in disability. As in disaster, which is an unfavorable
Aspect of a star, emblazoned red, as in: Kenny, the stars do not fucking
Align. As in: Kenny, this will rip your asunder, break you apart, and
Your ‘you’ will go away… but Kenny refused to see this light.
Men were slamming bone-yellow dominoes into stainless steel 4-way tables,
Hollering multiples of five and clattering their bones into position. Like built-in
Bleachers, three blocky 18-inch deep steps cut into the rim of the day-
Room’s brownish-gray concrete floor, leading down to the lower cells.
Playing follow-the-leader exercises, acrobatic men would balance
On the top-step’s ledge, lean out with upsweeping arms – then leap
To grab the tier’s floor, to do pull-ups or show-off by monkeying
Up, once their bodies stopped wobbling. Kenny used to watch them,
Wishing upon those stars…
In Carnations, A
Cautionary Tale…
Slow, fleshy red haloes spread
And overlap like Venn diagrams laid on cement,
Petaling around Kenny’s blank comatose face
As a silken illustration of the relationship
Between grace and ground.
Soundgarden…
Light is such a fickle thing. Kenny had tried to swing for it with a tottering
Leap. There was a split-second grace period. *****:
In linguistics, asterisks mark an utterance that would be censored
By native speakers of the language. Generally a fall
From grace is blackhole – interesting, especially when it’s a superstar.
We anticipate a comeback… but
With us mundane asters, there is no coming back. There
Is just a discordant ** * ***
*** ** *
** ** burst of asterisks that flap in the air
Like Kenny’s arms, or a flood of cusswords at startled bus stop pigeons.
Then silence.
The very air becomes electric with prayer, or JESUS… the name
Itself a form of intercession. Then a meaty thud
And a terrible revelation
Of Kenny’s horror obscurus, his brain a pinkish-gray
Light leaking from Kenny, after aster in brain, after Kenny-aster
On air, after air on bone, after bone on stone. Thunk, crack,
The genesis of a ravaged lack of all it means to be human. A shadow
Grows from a length of gauze wrapped round and round
A star. That was in ’97.
My dawg, his dog…
Every few minutes Kenny’s dementia seems to chase down his recent
History and tear chunks from its ass. I call Kenny my ninja, since
I’m Asian. His cane we call the Cadillac to convert limpin’ to
Pimpin; his wheelchair the Escalade for which I made a cardboard
Vanity plate that dangles from its back – to infuse his disability
With style, luxury, richness. With privilege, with ease. Nowadays
He chuckles and calls himself stuntman stumbles (in his garbled drawl)
Or Stag Lee, a fitting confusion of Bruce Lee, “staggering,” and Stan
Lee the Marvel creator. Shit’s funny, but shit ain’t funny funny.
Dark Matter…
The brain is a self-contained universe made up mostly of star-shaped
Cells: astrocytes, billions and billions of them, crackle with magic energy.
Hidden in blackness, the brain explodes with asterisks of thought.
It is the seat of language, music, motion… personality. A lump
Of grace that will shine until we die, but… sometimes
Stars flicker and wink out, entire galaxies have power outages,
And the wrinkled surface of the deep becomes void: dementia
Steals the self. It would be simpler if one just vanished
The sun – not this gradual decay into the sightless realm where darkness is
awake upon the dark.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice here. He has incredible insight and actually advised WITS in certain aspects of our organization, for which we are very grateful. Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Born a ghetto child, ‘9th Ward’. Why do I smile? I still have dreams, Owning a house on Miami Beach. I had two close homies back in ’94, But now both are deceased. Look in my eyes, See what I see. Trust me, It’s not pretty. This is raw, reality T.V. Up-close and personal. My sights set On the finish line, But I’m so far behind. I’m damn near outta time. What is life really? Do I have purpose here? I thought I did As a kid Until my first crack sale Down in New Orleans. Being the crack dealer And not the crack fiend Was my ‘Amerikkkan Dream’. Go ahead and laugh! I ain’t mad. But I am mad I grew up without a Dad. I’m sad because Dude ain’t never tried And I’m confused because Dude is still alive. Hell no, I ain’t gonna cry! I’ve been through worse Shot 3 times with a 9. Laid in the hospital bed 6 days Almost dead, IV’s and nose tubes. The first 4 days I didn’t have a clue Who was you. So come on Walk in my shoes for only 1 day. I wish you would. Nah, young Homie, I don’t think you could! Let me tell you Growin’ up in the hood Ain’t all good. Forget about dat shit Your favorite rapper say in his song. For this right here is a REAL LIFE POEM!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Mr. La Caze – A.K.A. PrimeTime – was moved off Death Row not long ago, and he continues to maintain his innocence. His writing feels deeply genuine to this reader, and I hope to see more. Rogers LaCaze can be contacted at: Rogers LaCaze, Sr. #356705 CBB L/L L.S.P. Angola, La. 70712
Most of my life I tried to rationalize my circumstances, believing things would be different if I had been given the ‘White Picket Fence’ dream. Instead – I’m a product of my environment. I grew up in a community plagued by gangs, violence, drugs, and HIV/AIDS. It wasn’t until I met my friend, Scott Moore, I was able to accept the path I carved out for myself.
Scott literally had a white picket fence around his home, a home fully paid for by his thirtieth birthday. He married a preacher’s daughter, and they have three beautiful children. His grandparents owned a farm, and his eyes light up when he shows me photos of riding horses with his big brother. He lived a life I wish I had, and yet he’s two cells away in this hellhole we call prison. I didn’t understand why.
It wasn’t until the day I sat listening to one of his stories about being a cable guy in East St. Louis that I found the courage to ask how he ended up in this place.
“Well, Alex,” he said, “Heroin is how I got here.”
It all started when he was just a kid, and his parents got divorced. His older brother processed the divorce with great difficulty. Scott was able to bury his feelings, but his brother turned to drugs, and it led to an opiate addiction. While his brother was entering in and out of prison, Scott was able to finish high school and found a high-paying job. He kept it together on the surface, believing he had overcome his parents’ divorce, and he couldn’t empathize with his brother. He would even go out of his way to put him down, hoping it would help him get his act together.
Things were fine in Scott’s life until one day when he went to visit his mom at her home. He found her severely wounded and his brother dead in the basement. It’s easy to see when Scott talks of this storm in his life, that it haunts him. After he dialed 911 he grabbed his brother’s pills, and his own addiction began.
He watched his mother have three surgeries on her brain and
steel plates inserted to support the damage to her skull. The pills had a
numbing effect, and he took them to keep his heart from continuing to ache. When
his mother came out of that first surgery, he was the one who had to explain to
her that her oldest child was no longer alive.
The pills led to abusing heroin because it was easier and cheaper to score, and his life spiraled out of control. He alienated himself from his family, and the relationship he had with his wife and kids suffered. He lost his job. Eventually, he was arrested for first degree murder in Madison County.
I’ve been around plenty of heroin addicts, but Scott is not
a person who fits the criteria of the average addict. Instead, I see someone who did not know how to
deal with a crisis and sought to remedy it the way his brother did, a brother
he could no longer turn to. I see
someone trying to sweep up the remaining pieces of his life by righting his
wrongs. I see someone who longs to be
with what’s left of his family. I see a
man truly sorry for the choices he made.
Scott is not only a brother to me and our close knit group of friends, he’s also a mentor in the beloved community we are building within these walls. When any of us are down, he’s able to lift us up with his light-hearted nature and wealth of pop culture knowledge. When any of us need consultation, he’s available and ready to offer his advice. He gets up every morning using his past as a driving force to make himself and others around him better.
If I had the power and resources to give someone a second chance – this person would receive it. Without knowing Scott, my own personal growth would be stagnant and incomplete. His story and how he’s endured and overcome his addiction is helping to transform the lives of those around him. No one knows the storms we’ve each been through until we take the time to get to know each other, and if you encounter someone suffering from addiction, I pray you remember Scott’s story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. I’m happy to say Alex Negron is the winner of our first writing contest of 2020. This prompt brought out the advocate in many, and it was heartwarming. If we could all take on the practice of looking out for and speaking up for each other – the world would be a better place. Mr. Negron can be contacted at: Alex Negron R17084 Stateville Correctional Center P.O. Box 112 Joliet, IL 60434
In this prison, the ‘dayroom’ is a common area where all the uncommon souls – the offender population – congregate. Most come to the dayroom to perform all manner of inconsideration, smacking tables with chess pieces, cards, dominoes, and fists of anger. Some, made mentally ill either by nature or time, wander around letting dead skin fall from their bodies to be swept down one of the many floor drains, until one day they disappear altogether.
The hapless State experiments shuffle about, carrying out a primal social dance, a continuous pecking order struggle to determine who the coolest monkey is. The players are ever-changing, but the wicked waltz remains the same, and nauseating to witness. For what humans commonly refer to as ‘lower animals’, there are reasons to build a social hierarchy, their strutting around and exhibiting odd behavior means something exciting or necessary hangs in the balance, such as food and resources or a prospective mate to ensure their genes are passed on and their lineage strengthened. But in prison we’re all provided the same amount of food and there are no mates to speak of – yet some still try.
The minutes we’re killing while witnessing this horror are marked on an unreliable, cheap Walmart clock on the wall or the bit of light that beams through the barred skylights in the ceiling and shine into our gray tomb. The sun traces the day on the bare concrete floor and moves across as the hours proceed, a primitive sundial. It’s nine a.m. so the light is about three quarters of the way down the Western wall and will move downward through the day, out across the floor, then up the Eastern wall, following a funeral procession of dead minutes. The bright sun spot a stoic observer of passive human treachery.
In the air-conditioning unit, a worn bearing sings a whirring aria, the constant sick hum of poorly maintained machinery raising the overall level of irritation in the homo sapiens exhibit, and a poor, deranged man walks in circles talking to himself. His name is Melvin, and he’s been here about 35 years. Melvin didn’t kill anyone, but he’ll die in prison. He signifies what can happen to anyone who has been locked up for a long time. Melvin walks around like a caged animal and talks to himself. He sometimes stands in the shower with a t-shirt on and argues with himself for an hour. His body was imprisoned, and his mind followed shortly thereafter. The healthy light has long since been extinguished from his eyes, his pained orbs now cloudy and gray. They could chemically lobotomize him if they cared that he was tortured by his semi-conscious psychosis. But alas, they do not care. A chemical lobotomy would only render him a quivering mound of medicated flesh, allowing him to escape the punishment he deserves. Melvin is sustained by rumors and cheap carbohydrates provided by the State. The rumors are the same as they’ve always been. They go something like, “Take heart for the times they are a changin’, and the State may be admitting that the current prison model is unsustainable.” I imagine this gives Melvin hope that he may make it aboard that change train and not have to die in this unholy scab heap.
Melvin often asks me questions and hopes I’ll reply with something to sustain him, but I refuse to provide false hope, it is cruel. Some laugh at him. I do not. I am more concerned than amused. Melvin has suffered enough, but I am also afraid that with no warning, I will begin to argue with myself. It may have already started, as people say I often appear to be whispering to myself when no one’s around. Apparently, my lips are always moving, which I had previously been unaware of. I hope its only the monotony affecting me and I’m not losing my mind. These things only exacerbate an already intense feeling of urgency that life is passing me and my friends by.
These friends I’ve grown up in prison with were children when they committed their offenses, but they have since grown into admirable men. The sometimes overwhelming sense of urgency I feel is more for them than myself. I have a light at the end of the tunnel, they do not. I don’t want anyone else to end up like poor old Melvin. I am told that life’s tough, and I can personally attest to that. Prison life is a bit harder, yet people consistently ask me what prison is like, and all I can offer is this. If you want to know what prison is, prison is being relentlessly pummeled by the guilt and shame of our offenses and constantly bombarded with the irritation of the aforementioned malcontents, defiling the closest thing I have to a home. It isn’t what some would have you believe. It isn’t Syria, but it also isn’t a nonstop party with cable TV and catered food. Its prison… It cannot be romanticized or dramatized because what it is, at its core, is ugly and shameful – a dumping ground for throwaways and undesirables.
If it’s punishment you want… mission accomplished.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Joshua King was the judges’ second place choice in our recent writing contest. He is a talented writer and was also one of a handful of Honorable Mentions in our previous contest. All the writers rose to the occasion for this prompt, and Mr. King was actually the most consistantly voted for amongst the judges, with everyone placing him in their top three. Joshua can be contacted at: Joshua King #69192 ISCC-F2-28A P.O. Box 70010 Boise, Idaho 83707
When I first met – let’s just call him Cheese – it was the year 2000, and he’d already been in solitary for twenty-something years. He looked to be in his early fifties then, and I marveled at his resilience. Every Monday through Friday he’d go outside to run and do calisthenics to stay in shape. No matter rain, sleet, snow, ninety degrees or ten, Cheese was getting his yard time. He was an inspiration to those of us beginning our time.
I never talked to Cheese, so I never knew why he was in solitary so long, but rumor had it he was involved in an attack on a guard in the 70’s or 80’s. I myself had been involved in a staff related incident so I was curious, hoping I wouldn’t be in solitary that long.
I eventually left that prison and never kept up with how Cheese was doing, but in 2017 I again found myself in a prison with him. The man I saw was a shell of the person I’d met seventeen years earlier. He was now nearly seventy years old and a completely different person, both physically and mentally. I’d heard of and experienced the affects of solitary confinement, but what I saw left no doubt what it can do to a man. Cheese was old and broken down. He was using a walking aid because his hip needed to be replaced, and as bad as his physical problems were, his mental deterioration shocked me even more. Once proud and defiant, Cheese was now delusional and had difficulty holding a conversation. When you did hear him talking, his conversations were with the birds who’d made a home inside the tarp atop the exercise cages.
At this point, Cheese isn’t a threat to anybody. There’s not one legitimate penal justification for keeping him in solitary, but sadly it appears that the Department of Corrections is just waiting for him to die. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be him in another twenty years. Right now my feeling is that I’d rather be dead than experience myself slowly wilt away. From where I stand, suicide seems the better option.
I recognize getting out of solitary and into general population isn’t the same as going home, but Cheese should be released from solitary. Let the man at least attempt to recover from the damage of long-term solitary confinement and live out his remaining years not having to be strip searched and hand-cuffed every time he leaves his cell; not having to always eat alone; not having a light on for twenty-four hours a day, making it difficult to sleep; not being forced to change cells every ninety days, making it impossible to get comfortable; not being denied access to religious, vocational, and educational services – and not having anyone but the birds to talk to. Let Cheese live out the rest of his life with some semblance of dignity. Show him some compassion and stop punishing him for a mistake he made more than forty years ago.
ABOUT THE WRITER: Sterlin Reaves is the third place winner of our writing contest. The point of the contest was for the writer to use their words to make people care about someone else – to help us walk in their shoes. He did just that. Mr. Reaves can be contacted at:
