Another sleepless night.
My lower back feels the pain of twenty years of incarceration and sleeping on a thin piece of plastic the MDOC calls a mattress. The steel frame holds my 208 pound frame, and the darkness of my cement cage conceals the vulnerabilities I keep hidden from predators. Tears form in my eyes, but not even in the presence of myself can I cry. Not because it’s not manly – but because I’m numb to the pain.
I find myself replaying an earlier conversation. I was talking to a guy named Santana. I’ve known him for twelve years now. I was eight and a half years deep into my LWOP sentence when he first came. I took a liking to Santana from the start, so I did the same thing the old heads did with me when I came. I shared with him some knowledge I felt would help him on his journey. That was twelve years ago, and now Santana is knee deep into his own LWOP sentence.
Today he literally shook my foundation when he told me that he was ready for death. My first reaction was one of concern, so I asked, “You’re not thinking about taking yourself out of the game?”
He replied, “Naw, big homie. I can’t do that, but I would rather die than live out my days like this.”
I understood where he was coming from. I’ve often had that same thought over the course of my twenty years. I think everybody that is sentenced to death by incarceration has had that thought at one point. There are many nights one goes to sleep hoping not to wake up, only to waken to the reality of captivity. It wears on a person’s mind, body, and soul to wake up day after day in this dehumanizing environment.
It hurts to know I’ve served twenty years, four months, and fifteen days, but I’m no closer to physical freedom than I was twenty years, four months and fifteen days ago when I entered this system. Yes, times are changing, and I can see some light now, but it’s like looking up in the sky at night – I can see the stars, but they are so far away. I can see physical freedom, but it is so far away. Yet I keep pushing forward. I keep striving to be a better man. What other option do I have? I can’t fold. I can’t let them break me. I can’t give up. I have to be strong. I have to keep my head up. I have to be productive. I have to be positive because if I don’t, I will lose hope and the pain of LWOP will kill me. I guess then and only then will they consider justice to be served.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers. He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “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
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My heart breaks for those with LWOP
I often feel it is a worse sentence than death. I remember thinking about helping my son take his own life when we were waiting for his sentence. The lawyer told us that life in Florida meant dying in prison. Since that time I have thanked God for my son’s 30 year sentence but cried for so many others. This must be changed.
LWOP is a sentence for the family and friends too. I’m British and we cannot get our heads around the US so called justice system. For a country that is supposed to be so God fearing America is just lacking in all humanity.