Prison Poet

 

✍Prison Poet✍
By Dominic Brogsdale

 

To my youngstas, and adolescents, watch ya homies! To the innocent people in prison, STAY STRONG!

Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm.

(Proverbs 13:20)

 

Over his four decades in prison, Phillips turned to art to occupy his heart and mind, painting watercolors in his cell with supplies purchased by selling handmade greeting cards to other inmates

(“After 45 Years of Wrongful Imprisonment, an Artist Sells His Paintings To Get By” by Sarah Rose Sharp. Retrieved from Hyperallergic)

 Dominic first went to a juvenile correctional facility at 14 years of age after being arrested for armed robbery. But after he entered an adult prison at 16, he says that correctional officers allowed other prisoners to enter his cell and sexually assault him.

 

“I had to endure gang members trying to rape me, like actually breaking into my prison cell—the cell that I was supposed to be protected in by the correctional officers,” Dominic said.

 

(“After Years of State Opposition, Teens Allegedly Raped in Adult Prisons to Get Their Day in Court” retrieved from Michigan Radio)

 

“What happened?”

“Well, the probation officer dropped me off at the front gate, and then I was taken in by a guard, and we went up a couple of tiers in the jail, and there was five inmates standing there. And he pushed me in the cell, and the five guys came in the cell and proceeded to rape me.”

 

“What did the guard do?”

 

“He was standing at the bars, holding onto the bars, laughing.”

“And there was no other adult supervision? Nobody came with you? They put you in there, gave you to the guard, and that was it? Nobody protecting you?”

 

“Nope. Nope.”

 

(Retrieved from “Man Raped During 'Scared Straight' Prison Tour Says He Was Too Ashamed to Tell Anyone” retrieved from CBC Radio)

 

 

It was 5:00 a.m. Paul woke up a little earlier than the other prisoners to gather his thoughts and get some reading in before the long, gray, grueling day ahead of him. He wiped the crust from his eyes and grabbed his black pen from underneath his rock-like pillow and a sheet of yellow paper from under his bunk. He used the autobiography of Malcolm X as a hard surface and wrote his prayer for the day in the light of what little moonlight crept into his cell:

Poem and Prayer #66

I wake in lonely darkness of gloom and gray,
Trying to stay positive through hard times,
So to the Lord I hope and pray.

Not knowing what I did, yet involved in crimes,
I thought they were my friends: just enemies.
Ten seconds of my life with them, now I'm on hard time.

Riding in the car, what was unknown to me,
Wish I would have known, now stuck behind these bars.
Everyday protect myself. I miss my family.

Every day I grow bitter—childhood wounds and scars.
Was I just a victim? Or could I beat the odds
Reverting back to thoughts. Why I step foot in that car?

Like David and the prophets, protect me with thy rod.
Trials and tribulations, I pray before you, God.

Teardrops trickled to the paper like rain falling onto leaves and dripping to soggy soil. A fellow inmate’s yell broke the quiet.

“Agghhhhh!” A man screamed at the top of his lungs in the cold, ghostly penitentiary. He banged on the bars and the sound echoed. “I hate it here!”

“Shut the fuck up,” another inmate snapped from a distant cell.

“Fuck you, I'll kill your ass!” the screaming man shouted back.

It was now 5:30 a.m. and bells were going off. A corrections officer banged his baton on the metal bars and shouted, “All right, killers, rapist, murderers! Nobody’s getting nowhere in life. Time to get up and get your day started!”

 
“Yo, Clinton, wake up. It's time to eat,” Paul whispered to his cellmate.

Clinton stretched out his arms out, yawned, and said, “Good looking out.”

 

They put on their orange jumpsuits, white socks, and sandals, getting ready and waiting for the correction officers to open their cells. A big, rough man, Clinton looked out for Paul who was of average build. He let out a big, grizzly bear yawn and vigorously scratched his scrotum. He pulled his jumpsuit off and sat on the stainless steel toilet. The loud sound of flatulence filled the air.

 

He sighed, “Oh, yeah, that's good.” He yawned again and shook his head. “Oh, shit, that's good.”

“What did you eat, man?” Paul waved his hands back and forth, turning his lip up at the reek of dead fish left to rot in the hot sun.

“Man, I've been eating the same shit they been giving us in rotation every four weeks. This —” Clinton grunted and turds splatted in the toilet “--ramen noodles and toilet water we put on the heater here.”
Paul frowned, still turning his lip up. “Man, I don’t know how you be taking our toilet water, using that ghetto heater or light or whatever you made, and eating that stuff. I also don’t know how you be cooking ramen noodles in the trash bag using a tube and a heater. That right there is ingenious.”

 
Flatulence resounded loudly again.

 

“Excuse me.” Clinton grabbed a tissue and blew his nose. “It's the same shit. No telling where they got this shit they feed us. Dog food taste better than that, but you gotta eat.”

“I guess, man. I don't know how you get dog food brought to you and you be eating that either,” Paul said.

“Ah, hell, it's good, taste like beef stew,” Clinton blurted.

Clinton got off the toilet, turned around to look at his feces, and smiled, displaying brown and missing teeth. “Whooee, that's some strong shit right there, boy. Look at that: green, brown, black. It's real messy this morning.”

Paul’s face scrunched in bitter disgust. Clinton put his big hands on his shoulders and patted him.

 

“Disgusting. And wash your hands before you touch me, man, and you take your meds. I don’t want you flipping out and having episodes while I'm in here with you,”  Paul said angrily.

“Hell, we all do it, and yeah, yeah, I took ’em,” Clinton replied and waved his hand back and forth.

The corrections officer came by, straight-faced as though he didn’t smell the stench coming from the toilet, and said, “Okay, breakfast. Move your asses.”

 
Paul and Clinton walked to the cafeteria, got in the line, and each grabbed a tray. Paul observed what they had for breakfast. One man received four more pieces of sausages than the other inmates. Paul watched their facial expressions and thought, “He must be fucking ’em.” He put his tray on the counter, the other prisoners giving him a cold stare as they served his food. Oatmeal forcibly slopped down on his tray. The next man gave him one sausage link, the next threw his white bread on his tray, and the next man gave him an overripe, partially open banana. Paul and Clinton joined a couple other inmates at “their” table. Like high school students, the inmates formed cliques and claimed certain tables as theirs.

“’Sup, J.?” Paul faced another man at the table and nodded without expression. “’Sup, Stone?”

J. and Stone nodded, nervously looking around them as they scarfed down their food.

“’Sup. Let me get that breakfast though,” Stone replied, looking at Paul and Clinton.

“Nah, G., this mine,” Paul said.

“I'll give you something for it,” Stone said.

“I'm good,” Paul replied  making sure to maintain a neutral expression.

Clinton gargled up a big wad of saliva and phlegm and spat in his food. He swirled it with his index finger. With an intense stare at Stone and J, he said, “All mine, nobody's getting my meal.”

“Shit, gross! We grown men and they feeding us like elementary kids,” Paul blurted.

“That's why you should give it me, if you complaining about it,” Stone said, staring Paul in the eye.

“Nah, I'm eating this. You never know when the next meal is. Be nice if American prisons treated us like other prisons. Maybe we would act better,” Paul said.

“What you mean?” Stone asked.

“All this mutherfucka does is read,” Clinton said through a mouthful of food.

Paul leaned in toward the fellas and whispered, “Man, listen. Ya'll go over to places like Bastøy Prison in Norway, HMP Addiewell in Scotland, Otago Corrections Facility in New Zealand, and the Justice Centre in Leoben, Austria.” He looked up at the ceiling for a second, thinking. “Um, um, um ... what else? Oh, um, Aranjuez Prison in Spain, JUV Fuhlsbüettel in Germany, Sollentuna Prison in Sweden, Halden Prison in Norway, the Cebu prison in the Philippines, and San Pedro prison in Bolivia—man, y’all, they get treated like gold,” Paul said.

J. narrowed his eyes. With a mouthful of food, he asked, “Damn, how we go over there? And what's it like?”

 
“Of course, we can't go there, because we stuck here. But what's it like …” Paul raised his eyebrows, “… over in Bastoy, I believe the tennis court look like the Wimbledon court. They got horseback riding, and you can fish and sunbathe in that bitch!”

“Man, how do we get the fuck outta here?” J asked in shock.

“I kid you not, they really tryna help they prisoners out and get them back to civilian life. Go look it up, I kid you not,” Paul said.

“Why don't they have that for us here in America?” J. asked.

Paul shrugged his shoulders, “Shit, I dunno, because it's America and it was built on murder?”

“Fuck ’Merica,” J spat.

“Fuck you.” Stone slapped his left on the table, the back of it sporting a tattoo of the American flag with the Confederate flag over it. The men focused their gazes downward, staring at the metal tabletop and the tattoo inked into Stone’s skin.

“Y’all hear about the guard that got pregnant by Big Rhino?” Clinton said, changing the topic to break the darkening mood.

“Yeah,” J. drawled, “I heard about that.”

“That ain't nothing new. Couple women guards here got pregnant by inmates,” Paul said.

“Yeah, that shit crazy, though. You ’bout to lose your job and everything you worked for. You yourself ’bout to go to jail, and you ’bout to get your baby taken away,” J. blurted.

“Hell, I did it before,” Stone admitted.

Everyone's head jerked back up and eyebrows rose.

 

“You, Stone? Stop lying,” Paul said.

“I sure did.” Stone grinned, a frightening sight. “She had access to all the rooms and give me 30 seconds to a minute. Pump and dump, babe!”

 
“Damn, I'ma pull one of these officer bitches. I’m impregnating one of these bitches, too,” J. said, nervously looking around at some of the female officers.

“You part of the problem, brah. You gonna dump a baby in her, she gonna be in prison just like us; then the baby is left without a mother and father,” Paul said.

J. took a gulp of his lukewarm water, ignoring the gnat floating in it.

 

“Yup, sure am. Shit, my daddy did the same thing to me, so why should I care? I’m tired of beating my meat every night and looking at magazines. Fuck my imagination, man, I need the real thing,” J. said without shame.

“Man, that's reckless, brah,” Paul warned.

“Fuck outta here. Don't lie: if you had the chance, you do it, too? Don't lie.” J. focused on Paul.

Paul paused to reflect, then replied, “It has been awhile, and I don't know what I would do if I was really in the situation. I do miss that connection with a woman.”

 
“Hey, y’all hear about that kid that got killed?” Clinton asked the group, changing the subject again.

 

The other three men shook their heads and listened.

“Yeah, little shit was running his mouth.” Clinton nodded his head at a table across the room, occupied by men who looked like linebackers. He then glanced at the other officers and guards before leaning in and whispering, “A duck said he was badmouthing his mom and talking shit to some of the boys, so they hemmed his little ass up. They all ran a locomotive on his ass, slammed his face into the wall over and over, and stomped his little ass. That’s what he gets for thinking he was hot shit; and, the kid only had a little time in here,” Stone said.

“Damn! Well that what happens when you mess with people that have all day and all night,” Paul said.

Stone continued gossiping about certain inmates, the correction officers, women, and sports. Paul went off into a daze and starting writing in his mushy oatmeal with his index finger, a haiku:

How can I complain?
There are people who don't eat.
I should be grateful.

 

He paused, stuck his index finger in his mouth, and tasted the blandness of his oatmeal. The prison offered no sugar, spices, or raisins to improve the flavor. He gathered his thoughts and started to write another haiku in his oatmeal:

 

I lost my freedom.
No fun, food, friends, family.
Food stale, jail is HELL.

“Yo, P.” J said. “Yo, P.!”

“Ah, yeah, what's up?” Paul woke from of his poetic daze.

“Man, you be zoning out?” J. reached over and grabbed Paul's tray. “Man, you bullshittin’ on this oatmeal, playing in it and shit, so I'ma eat it.”

 

He gobbled it down. Paul had placed his sausage link, banana, and bread on the table, so, he made a sandwich of the sausage and bread, ran through his banana, and gulped some water as quickly as possible before anyone else demanded it. He needed some energy for the day.

“All right, let's move it! It’s time for work,” a corrections officer yelled.

Paul looked at the time and said to himself, “Damn, it's only 7:55.”

Stone looked at him and said, “Hell, be happy you ain't doing two life sentences without the possibility for parole like me and a couple other guys in here.”

Paul stood, drank the rest of his water, and looked at Stone. “Yeah, thanks for the encouragement.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

“Least you can get out. Just be good. You made a careless mistake and was set up. I'm not getting out, man, and to be honest,” he sighed and looked at the concrete floor, “I don't wanna leave. There’s nothing for me out there. My mother was a prostitute, Daddy was a sperm donor. All I knew was street life and biker gang life: that was my family. Well, at least I thought it was. I go back out there, there’s no job, no family. Quite frankly, I'm scared.”

 

Stone paused and leaved back in his chair. He looked around as though he were king of his domain and exuded a strange sense of satisfaction and pride as though he’d achieved his life’s dream. “I'm well taken care of here and hell ... give me fifteen life sentences or 999 years like Jeffery Dahmer. I'll take it.”

“I feel it, man,” Paul replied and silently mused, “The fuck is wrong with you? You got me fucked up if I'm staying here for the rest of my life.”

Paul started walking to the laundry facility where he worked. The procession was interrupted.

 

“Give me your muthafuckin’ oatmeal! You owe me for that half a bag of chips I gave you!”

 

An inmate kicked another inmate. Paul turned around to watch the fight. The alarms pealed. He quickly walked to his job before a correctional officer caught him loitering and everything turned into a riot.

Paul made it to the laundry without further delay. The officers supervising Paul knew he was good at numbers and writing, so they assigned him the task of keeping track of the towels, sheets, and blankets to make sure nothing was missing. Paul nodded to the female officer as he walked into a room with a load of towels to fold and count. He folded and counted for a couple of hours. In his spare time, he wrote on a towel. He sat down, snagging a black pen on the table that one of the correction officers left by accident, and started to write a diminishing verse poem:

A Woman's Touch

Steaming water, just relax, soapy bubble bliss,
Eloquent to look at, about your day, no words I miss,
Mesmerized to look at, soon every part, caress, and kiss.

Let me grab the oil, slowly rub you down.
In a state of happiness, silences in your sound.
Expression says it all, I see that you’re spellbound.

How I miss the moonlight, bodies both connected,
Gazing in our depths, lost without rejection
As we both become one, heart and soul affected.

Take our time, no need to rush.
I need your time and energy, hope I don't ask too much.
Empty night within a cell, how I miss a woman's touch.

He let out a big sigh and started fantasizing about some of the women with whom he’d had sexual encounters. He rested his chin on his right palm and gazed at the lights above him. He thought, “I miss some of those women. I miss playing with them, having fun, and clappin’ them cheeks.” He dug a little deeper within himself. “All them women I was with, and after a while, the sex got boring.”

 

He then thought about having had sex with them, but not having any real connection. He thought about one of the ex-girlfriends he had for several months before he met Falon. She’d moved away, and they agreed it was best they parted ways. He smiled gently and thought, “The sex was good, the passion was good. If that was the closest to heaven I could get, that would be it.”

 

He then thought of his current girlfriend, Falon: “My heart is with Falon.”

 

He reviewed his poem and considered his situation again. “Maybe because I had a real connection with her, it never got boring. I loved her, but I didn’t love the other ones; it was just a physical sensation.” He tapped his finger on the table, still lost within himself. “Maybe that’s why the suicide rate is high among porn stars. How would I feel if I was used every day, making no real connection to a man or a woman? Who knows? Maybe there's research on the difference in being a ho and having a real, intimate connection to a woman.”

Smack!

Paul felt sharp pain in the back of his neck.

 

“You know what I want in that shower tonight,” Rodney hissed at him. He had piercing eyes and a diamond-like body.

Paul looked at the guard, but she wasn't paying attention. Neither was the male officer. Rodney snatched his towel with the poetry on it. He looked it and could barely make the words out because he could barely read. He squinted his eyes.

 

“Touch,” he murmured. Trying to read the other words, he made out, “Kiss.” He looked at the guards, then at Paul, and whispered, “The only thing I'ma touch and kiss is that ass in shower again.”

 

He slowly walked away, staring Paul down.

Paul breathed heavily.

 

“I'm not letting that happen again,” he silently vowed. “I'ma hit him in his throat and stomp his face in.”

 

Paul wasn't much of a fighter, but he didn't want to be pushed around either, like he was weak, letting the other inmates think it was easy for them to pick on him.

He got back to work. Four hours passed and he saw that it was time for group therapy. One of the male corrections officers yelled, “All right, y’all, time to go! Let's go!”

 

The prisoners lined up and went to their assigned locations. Paul walked towards his group and sat in a circle with the other prisoners.

“Hello there, everyone. How is everyone today?” the counselor and psychologist, Mrs. Ratcliff, greeted them as she looked at the inmates with compassion. She held a steaming mug in her hand. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee swirled through the stale air. Some inmates nodded, some waved, most frowned because they attended counseling sessions only under duress.

“So, men—I call you men, not boys or children, because that's what you are: men—let's speak that positivity into your life now,” Mrs. Ratcliff said with a warm smile. “Today, let’s talk about how you feel, some of the choices you made, and things we can do differently, okay? Let’s also talk about some things you want to get off your chest and some of the childhood stuff from last time.”

 

Mrs. Ratcliff looked at the man sitting next to her, his arms folded and his eyes staring at the floor. Tattoos covered his face; the only part one could see was his eyes.

 

“Go ahead and tell us how you’re feeling today, Tony.”

Rocking back and forth, lost in a daze, Tony confessed, “I'm angry, sad, and depressed.”

“Why are you angry, sad, and depressed, Tony?” Mrs. Ratcliff asked softly.

“I kept thinking about my mother again and how she let my stepfather—” his voice started to crack and tears rolled down his face, “—rape me over and over again. It led me to coke, weeds, and pills to try and escape the pain.” His voice cracked again, and he started shaking. “One night I snapped. I repeatedly stabbed my mother in the vagina. I cut his penis off, cooked it in oil, and ate it.”

“Breathe, Tony, remember to breathe. Are you still writing, doing your exercises?” Mrs. Ratcliff maintained that soft, compassionate tone.

With his arms still folded and snot dripping from his nostrils onto his bright orange prison outfit, Tony closed his eyes and did not respond.

“Breathe, Tony. We’ll talk later, okay? Thank you for letting us know how you feel and being honest about what's there,” Mrs. Ratcliff said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ratcliff,” Tony said, sniffling.

Mrs. Ratcliff looked at Khalan with a stern, yet kind, expression. “How are you feeling, Khalan? I know last time you were telling us a little bit about your childhood and going deeper about how you felt about certain things growing up. Please speak.”

 
Khalan turned his face toward her, his expression inscrutable. Above his left eyebrow a tattoo in bold black letters spelled STRONG, another above his right eyebrow spelled WARRIOR, which was the meaning of his name. The counselor met his gaze and held a silent stare across the room for thirty seconds before he let out a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“I keep having nightmares, screaming in my cell at night, thinking of my childhood,” he said.

Mrs. Ratcliff slowly nodded her head. “Okay, be honest and please tell us what's going on.”

Khalan focused his dead-eyed stare at the cold concrete floor. “I remember my mom having us do drug runs. She taught us how to sell drugs and how to murder, and it was on from there, you know?”

Mrs. Ratliff took a sip of her hot brew then said, “How have you been dealing with that, Khalan?”

Khalan’s gaze was still buried in the concrete. “I’ve been doing those breathing techniques you been giving us. They help some. I been trying to read different types of religious stuff, like the Bible, the Quran, and Buddhist and Chinese religious stuff: Confucius, Jainism, Judaism, Shinto, Taoism, and Zoroastrianism. That helps, but still ...  the nightmares come back here and there. I see all the bodies pile up at one time, then I end up in chains sitting in a chair, and they just all start shooting at me. Then my mother shoots me in my head and heart repeatedly, and I don't die.”

 

He paused again and looked at Mrs. Ratcliff with a blank expression. “If I had a gun, I'd blow my brains out. The guilt and the nightmares consume me; I can't do nothing but cut myself.”

 

He pushed back his sleeves to show the deep bike marks in his arms. The dark scabs looked like potholes.

Mrs. Ratcliff looked at the wounds. “Thank you for sharing. Well, you said the breathing is helping. We’re going to set you up with the pastor again. Do you still want to do that?”

“Yes,” Khalan replied, still without emotion.

“I'll do that. Stay positive. Whatever is helping you heal, continue to do that. And remember, what your mother did to you and your siblings is not your fault, you understand?”

 

Khalan nodded.

 

Mrs. Ratcliff continued, “You’re not the first to deal with an abusive, neglectful mother. She may have had problems of her own that she never processed or dealt with. How many siblings did you have again?”

“Eleven of us. She was the ringleader. She had us sell coke and everything, and we was using coke,” he said.

“Your mother was dealing with a drug addiction on top of a lot of other problems. Again, we will get you set up with the pastor. Thank you for sharing. Stay positive,” she said.

“I’ve been reading the Bible,” Khalan said, not accepting the counselor’s dismissal. “I was reading the second Book of Kings and noticed most of the kings who had problems had bad mothers.”

“The Bible is not my expertise, but if it's positive and helping you heal, continue to read it. I will say that most problems do stem from childhood, can we agree?” Mrs. Ratcliff replied, looking over a sad row of hands going up from those who agreed. She looked at each individual, then said, “Tony, you just gave us your story. Khalan, your mother had you sell drugs and kill people, and she threated to kill you if you didn’t do it. Aaron, your father brought drunk women home all the time and beat them. That gave you an impulse to beat women, but your mother was also emotionally abusive. Lamonte, your father sexually abused your sisters, which caused you to act on it. Owen, your mother brought men home all the time to make money. You talked about how it made you view women and how you were looking for love and validation from women. You ended up with forty-something children, am I correct?”

 

Owen dipped his chin in a small nod.

 

“How did you keep up with all those children, Owen?”

“Well, they look like me. Although I wanted to be in denial, blood tests don’t lie. But I was drugging them, fuckin ’em, then dumpin ’em, not caring, and I got caught because one of the women died and the feds traced it back to me. So ...”

Mrs. Ratcliff nodded.

 

“See? We all need to heal from childhood. My father was not in my life. It affected me greatly, but I chose to see a counselor on my own so I could heal. That’s why I like working here: so, I can hope to help you all heal. There are issues I myself deal with, but I learned to be honest with myself and see what's really there,” she said as she pressed on her heart. “We have to keep an eye on time, so, Aaron, would you like to speak today?”

With a disgruntled expression, Aaron met her gaze. Tattoos covered his face. Inked horns stretched from his eyes to his stringy brown hairline, 666 was inked underneath both eyes inside teardrops, Neo-Nazi men carried Confederate flags across both eye brows, the face of Hitler adorned his left cheek, the words “Aryan Brotherhood” penetrated a Bible, and underneath the Bible tattooed ink read “Fuck God, Fuck Jesus, Atheist for life.”  

 

“I’d like to speak,” he said as he leaned forward, directing a menacing gaze at the circle. He wiped his nose with one finger and said, “Tony, grow a pair of balls, stop crying like a little bitch. Khalan, fuck your God what has he done for you, your so-called God of love. Accept that you and everyone around us has a fucked-up life. Your faith is shit. Being an atheist is the real way to go about thinking. Use logic, not some magical, so-called fair, loving, just God in the sky. I read your Bible: it's a bunch of bullshit, fiction, and fairy tales. Ain't no mutherfucka sending me to hell. Nothing's going to happen when I die, and you’re not going to the clouds either. And we got nigger flower boy—"

“Hey, Aaron, we’re not doing this today. We’re going to need you to leave,” the counselor interrupted his diatribe. She glanced at him, then to the guards waiting on standby.

“You know what your problem is? Your father was a pastor and he used to beat you and rape you, and you’re taking it out—” Khalan‘s dark gaze flashed with emotion as he snarled in response.

Aaron lunged at him. The officers were quick on their feet, three of them grabbing him. One took his left arm, one took his right, and the other stood behind him. Aaron fumed, oozing menace.  

 

The one behind Aaron said, “Come on. We’re giving you a chance, before we have to use more force.”

“I'll kill him! How’d he know about how I grew up?” Aaron yelled as the guards escorted him down the hallway.

“He needs his brake fluids,” Khalan commented.

Mrs. Ratcliff heaved a big sigh. She looked at the guards and put her hand out, signaling everything was okay. Shaken, she knew violence could happen at any time within a prison environment.

 

“Okay, let's continue,” she said softly, trying to ignore what just happened. “Paul, how are you feeling today? How are you coping with the decision you made and have been talking about?”

Paul looked at the cold, gray concrete, rubbed his face, and let out a big sigh. He lifted his shoulders and left them there. “I made a mistake. A guy who I thought was a friend asked me to tag along. I wasn't thinking. I was in the middle of the car, and they went to rob the store.” He paused and shook his head. “Two of them were shot and killed, the other's locked up in a different prison. I don’t know why that is, but …” he shook his head and got his thoughts back on track “…They set me up as the fall guy. I waited in the car, like a dummy, and … yeah …” he paused again, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed, “… I should have listened to my mom when she told me not to hang around with those guys. Now I'm stuck for I don’t know how long.”

“I wish I had a mother like yours,” Khalan said.

“Me, too” Tony said.

“How are you feeling?” Mrs. Ratcliff asked.

Still staring at the concrete floor, he shrugged again. “I live in regret every day for not listening to my mother. I'm angry at myself because I felt like I had a lot going for me. I’m trying to keep my head up and stay strong, just coping, praying, and writing.”

“That’s good. That’s good that you recognized your poor choices. As you can see,” she looked at everyone, “bad choices affect not only yourself, but everyone around you. Let me ask you a question, Paul: what do you think you would be doing if you hadn't gotten into the car with your so-called friends?”

 
“I would have been doing something with communications in college. I like kids, maybe I could’ve worked with them. I dunno, I would have figured it out in time, I guess,” Paul answered.

“What positive things have you been doing, Paul, to keep your mind occupied?” she asked.

“Well, I been trying to pray and meditate, which has been helpful, reading positive quotes, books, trying to get my college education while I’m in here, and writing letters—letters to myself and how I feel and what I'm going through—and writing poetry is all.”

“Spit something, man. Can you rap?” Khalan asked with a small smile.

“I can't rap, although rap is nothing more than poetry with a beat. I just write it on paper.” Bashful about his writing, Paul blushed.

“Come on, spit something, anything,” Khalan egged him on. He smiled and rocked his fist back and forth, chanting, “Paul, Paul, Paul!”

 

The other inmates started chanting his name as well.

“Yes, give us something, Paul,” Mrs. Ratcliff said with an encouraging smile.

Bashful and blushing underneath brown skin, he agreed.

 

“Okay, okay, here I go off the top.” He cleared his throat, looked around at the other prisoners, observing the liquid mix of rage and sulky gray depression on their faces. He bit his bottom lip and tapped the side of the chair with his index finger. He cleared his throat again, sat up in his chair, and smiled. “Okay, this is called, ‘Childhood.’”

Coming out the womb, even cold inside a cradle,
Cannot choose our parents, so most of us weren't stable
Growing up as toddlers. Unloved and left alone,
If you don’t have parents, where can we call home?
Observe the world around me, where's my mom and dad?
Growing cold and angry, lonely, dark, and sad.

Adolescence creeping up, left to my own device,
Robbing, stealing, killing, sin’s my only vice.
Wandering in mischief, does anybody care?
Wish I had some guidance or someone who was there.
Started getting into trouble, maybe two or three,
Hiding from my guilt and shame, authority’s after me.

Rage filling in my heart, the tears I cry in silence,
Memories of my misery turned it into violence.
Finding an escape, sex, guns, and drugs,
All I needed was my family and just a couple hugs.
Transgression has caught up to me, can't get out this hole.
Does anybody love me? Will God come save my soul?

Poverty has ruined us, no help from the rich.
Now I’m in this jail cell, crying like a bitch.

Everyone chuckled at the last two lines, then Paul finished.

Don’t ask about my future, especially the past,
Feel like I don’t have one, and everything was bad.
Don’t ask about my peers, either locked away and buried,
Suicidal in my thought, I’d like to join the cemetery.

Trapped just like an animal, thoughts of life and film,
Stoned face and crooked mind, growing up was grim.
Now fighting for my life, raped, beat, and shoved,
Maybe life would have been so different if someone showed me love.
Who am I to blame, parents, block, society, or ’hood?
Most our issues now, today, stemmed from our childhood.

Everyone clapped. Paul bowed his head.

 

“That was very good, Paul,” Mrs. Ratcliff praised with a smile. “Are you able to remember that and write it down?”

“No.” Paul chuckled and admitted, “I just say it, write it on a napkin, and throw it away.” He paused, then added, “Well, I keep some poems in my cell.”

“Well, I think you should keep all of them, just like some of the others in here keep their art. You know, there’s some really, really great talent in here: we have writers and poets such as Paul here and some really, really great artists who would put Picasso to shame. Some of you guys would have made great businessmen: if you can sell drugs, you can do business. Some of you guys have creative ways of making food in your cell.” She started to laugh, tapping her hand on her clipboard, “I remember one guy had me try ramen noddle and wine. I went home and actually made it myself. I have to be honest, it wasn't bad.” She laughed harder, then snorted like a pig. The inmates giggled at the rude sound and thought she was corky. “Anyway, there are lots of positive ways to do things and be in life while you’re in here.”

“Good shit, homie. I like that, man. You should turn that into rap or something,” Khalan said.

“Nah, I dunno, maybe. It’s just a hobby,” Paul said.

“That really hit home. I could never say or do something like that,” Tony said.

“Your poem sucked ass,” one of the other prisoners said.

“Hater,” Khalan retorted in dismissal.

The man stuck his middle finger up and said, “Fuck you.” He gave him a sarcastic smile and quickly went back to a straight face.

“Fag,” Khalan said.

“Love it to Daddy, wanna piece?” the man said, pushing his long hair back.

“Okay, okay, fellas, let’s go to the next person. Remember, positively,” Mrs. Ratcliff broke the argument before it turned worse.

About an hour went by and everyone got to talk. Then it was time for lunch. The inmates went to the cafeteria, got their lunches, and sat down. Paul sat with his usual crew, and Mr. Richard Phillips joined them.

“What's up, Mr. Richard? How you holding up?” Paul asked.

“I'm holding up. I'm a innocent man. I keep tryna tell ’em, but they won’t believe me,” Mr. Richard said, staring into the distance.

“This whole system is fucked. What did they get you for again?” Stone asked.

“Murder, a murder I didn't commit,” Mr. Richard said.

“Damn, you been in here how long now? And how old are you? And how you keep sane?” J. asked.

“Too long, and I’m in my early seventies. Matter of fact, make that more than a couple decades. I keep sane by doing artwork. I'ma sell it when I’m a free man,” Mr. Richard said.

“Damn, that's fucked up!” J. said, staring off into the distance and wondering what it would be like to be innocent and still be locked away for years, losing all his freedom.

“There's a lot of people like that,” Paul said, eyes focused on his food. He tapped his fingers on the table, starting with his left thumb to his right thumb and counting. “Wilbert Jones, Delbert Tibbs, Joyce Ann Brown, Grover Thompson, Clarence Elkins, Luis Vargas, David Camm, Brian Banks, Aisha McClinton—” he looked at Mr. Richard and pointed with his right index finger, “—and Mr. Richard over here.”

“I keep telling y’all to call me Rich,” the old man said.

“How the hell you be remembering all them names?” Stone asked, sipping warm soup.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I just do.”

“Man, people in here getting convicted for stupid reasons,” Stone said.

“I know. You hear about the 12-year-old kid that opened his Christmas present too early? The police arrived and charged him with petty larceny. Or the mom who takes away her daughter’s phone and gets arrested for stealing?” Paul said.

“Hah!” Stone laughed loudly. “That didn't happen.”

Paul met his gaze with a drowsy look and said, “Yeah, that really happened.”

“Pigs ain't shit,” J. said, boiling on the inside. “My cousin called the cops because someone stole his car. Them mutherfuckas didn’t even show up.”

 
“Did they show up at all?” Clinton asked.

“Yeah, two days later after he kept calling,” he growled with remembered rage.

“Yup, sounds like pigs,” Stone agreed.

“Man, that's why I took matters in own hands. They ain't gonna do shit. I don't know how many times I called them when my mom's was getting beat by her boyfriends over the years. I was too young to do anything, so I shot the shit out his ass,”  J. fumed.

“All right, calm down, young man, before they come get you,” Mr. Richard said quietly.

J. stood up and went full throttle, looking at one of the corrections officers and pointing at him. “Man ... fuck you, mutherfuckas!”

“Aw, shit, here we go,” Clinton groaned.

“He taking that shit in the cell that fucks you up, that what it is,” Stone said.

The correction officers ran over. One leveled a shotgun at the group and said, “All right, everybody down on the ground and don’t say shit.”

 

“Are they allowed to shoot shotguns in here?” Paul said to himself with his empty hands raised above his head.

A correction officers grabbed J. who struggled, thrashing his arms and legs. One guard slammed his head against the wall, then on the floor. Another kicked him in the stomach. J. grunted.

“Fuck y’all! Y’all do this off-camera where nobody see y’all. Bet you won’t see me on the streets,” he said, gasping for air.

One of the corrections officers grabbed him by the neck, breathing heavily, hot trash breath going into his ear as he whispered, “You’re in our world now: our world, our rules.”
J. rolled over and spat in his face. “Pig bitch!”

The guard tightened his grip, holding his rage. He reached for his pepper spray and sprayed the prisoner. Bending down to the inmate’s ear again, he said, “We’re gonna enjoy beating your ass in the hole where there's no cameras and nothing you or anybody can do about it.”

 

He then looked at the other officers and, wiping his face on his sleeve, ordered, “Take him to the hole.”

 

The guards snatched him up and handcuffed him.

“My eyes!” J screamed, tears rolling down his face as they marched him toward solitary confinement. “Fuck, I feel like Eric Garner! I can't fuckin’ breathe!”

“He’s trippin’,” Paul whispered to the guys.

“That shit he takin’,” Stone said.

“What he taking?” Paul whispered.

“I dunno, some shit brought from the outside and mixed in with his medication,” Stone answered.

Pow!

As white cloudy smoke filled the air, another shotgun blast peppered the air.

 

“All right, everybody, we’re in charge here, so shut the fuck up! No talking, no whispering, no nothing until we say so,” the gun-toting guard announced.

Paul sat on the cold floor, with his hands over his head not knowing how long he was sitting there. He observed the rage, fear, and broken humanity in front of him. He quietly recited aloud a clogyrnach in his head to pass the time:

Stuck, no power, wish I was free
Friend but all foes, my misery
I lay on this ground
Not a word or sound
Teardrops fall right now
Pain I hide
Thoughts ... suicide.

“Argh!” Paul grunted as he received a kick to the ribs and a light hit to the head from the shotgun.

“What are you mumbling down there, boy? Keep your mouth closed,” the correctional officer said.

Paul didn't bother to reply. He knew if he said anything, there would be repercussions. Time passed and everything cleared. Everyone went back to eating. At 3:55 p.m., one of the correction officers approached Paul.

 

“You got a visitor,” he said.

 

Paul got up and was escorted to the telephones where his mother awaited him. She stared at him in tearful glee. Paul walked over to the glass and put his hand flat on the surface and picked up the phone with his other hand. His mother, a petite woman with wrinkled, baggy, tired eyes, put her palm to the glass and smiled at him as she picked up the phone on the visitor’s side of the reinforced glass partition.

“How you holding up, baby?” his mother asked.

Paul let out a big sigh, trying to hold back tears. “I'm holding up, trying to stay strong and keep the faith.”

“That good. You know God got you?” she said.

“I guess. I can't tell. I'm debating if he even exists. I'm about to go the atheist route like a couple of the inmates here,” he confided.

“Listen, God looked after Joseph in the prison and it says he had favor with the guards. He eventually became vizier in command over Egypt. If God took care of him, then believe he'll take care of you, too,” his mother said sternly.

“I guess I'm starting to believe them is just fairy tales. If God protecting me, why I—” he paused and closed his eyes “—why a guard just assault me not too long ago, and why was I raped? And are you still working on getting me out of here? I don’t want to end up like Rodney Hulin,” he said, trembling as warm tears slowly fell to the counter.

His mother loving gaze turned sad. “I'm speaking to them, baby. Mama's trying.”

 

Her tears flowed, too.

Paul shook his head, still trembling. He looked at the cracked Formica® where he rested his elbow then back at his mother. “I wasn't thinking, Mom. I just got in the car. He dropped the gun in my lap, and they robbed the jewelry store. I didn't have any part of that. I should have listened.”

 

His fist bounced on the table, slow and quiet, a tightly controlled movement so the guard wouldn't take notice and intervene.

“Be patient, baby. We’re getting the paperwork together, and we’re working on it. Baby, things are looking good so far. Respond to my letters, don't let the mail pile up,” she said.

“Sorry, Mom, I'll try and do better about my mail. I just be tired or busy. They need to hurry; I don't want to be stuck in here like Mr. Richard for something I didn't commit,” Paul said.

“Mr. Richard is a different case from what you told me. You were in that car with those boys and you got caught up,” his mother said.

 

Paul's cheeks puffed as he lightly blew hot air up. He closed his eyes, and the wet warm tears rolled on his cheeks.

“How's your roommate treating you?” his mother asked.

“He's not my ‘roommate,’ Mom.” Paul looked around nervously. “I dunno. I get these strange vibes. He looks out for me, but he be staring at me funny sometimes, and I don't trust it. He's a big dude, so I really got to watch myself.”

 
“Be careful, sweetie, some of them sound crazy,” his mother said.

“That's because some of them are crazy. J. spazzed out this afternoon ... again … and we all had to get on the ground. Rumor’s going around the two of the female correctional officers is pregnant by a couple different inmates. Dudes are screamin’ in the middle of the night, dudes peeing and taking a dookie and putting it inside a milk cup and then flicking it on the COs. Couple guys committed suicide; they hung themselves. One dude purposely killed someone so he could stay in prison, because he was afraid to go back to the outside world. There were two murders the other day by lifers, a gang beating the other day, and a prisoner knocked out a CO's eye.” He paused in his litany of violence and horror to take a deep breath. “But for the most part, if you respect someone, they'll respect you. I could keep going, but ...” He shrugged and stared at his mother, then asked, “How the family?”

“Everybody good. Your sister ’bout to graduate college and your brother still working at the firm, so he good. He said he gonna try and save his money so you can get bail; but it gonna take time. That’s why you need to behave while you in here,” his mother said.

Paul sighed and looked at the cracked ceiling. “That's six figures, Mom. If he got it, I appreciate it.”

“He even went so far as putting his girlfriend and baby in a small studio to try and save money to get you out. They agreed on it, so you make sure you behave and don't forget your brother's love. How are you staying positive and constructive while you in here? You’re about to get your degree, right?” she said.

Paul rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. He blew a breath of hot air, then answered, “I'm doing push-ups. Therapy is good. I like Mrs. Ratcliff; She's cool. Writing letters to myself and a couple people, so-called friends who never wrote back. I have stacks and stacks of poetry. I'm praying, but I don't know if God is listening or if it helps. I'll have my bachelor's soon; but, if I have felonies, I don't know if I'll be able to use it, so, I don't even know why it matters.”

“Well, honey, again, don’t be negative. Be positive and remember what it says in Roman 8:28: ‘We all know in all things—’” his mother began.

 

Paul cut her off and finished the scripture, “‘God works for the good of those who love him.’ Yeah, yeah, I know, Mom.”

Paul bowed his head and wiped his eyes.

 

“Time’s up,” the guard said.

“All right, baby, I'm praying for you. I'll be back for your twenty-first birthday” she said as another tear fell from her eyes. Dark mascara ran down her cheek.

He touched the glass and begged, “Mom, don't go.”

 
The correctional officer walked over to Paul and whispered in his ear, “Come on, man. I know you’re a good kid deep down, so don't make this hard in front your mama.”

 
“Do what he asked, babe. I'm taking care of you. Love you,” his mother said.

“Love you, Mom.” Paul wept like a baby. He wiped his tears so the other prisoners didn't see him cry.

“You all right, kid?” the correctional officer asked.

“I'm good, thanks,” Paul replied, sniffling.

“Look man, you made a mistake; you were with the wrong crowd. But while you’re in here, don't make any mistakes. Do the best you can, stay away from gangs or someone that's always getting in trouble. Do you want to get more time?” the correctional officer asked.

“No,” Paul said, and thought to himself, “It's easy to say; you guys don't protect us. I'm thinking about joining the gang in here to protect myself.”

 

The guard handed Paul off to another officer who escorted him to his college class where he was working towards his degree in English. Paul quietly took his seat and listened to the professor, Mr. Clifton, who came once a week to help the students with whatever work they had. Preoccupied, he turned his attention out the window to the gray cloudy skies and the rain falling to the cracked concrete. He took the pen and paper on the desktop in front of him and started writing an alphabet poem:

After much deliberation
Barely can I hold a tear.
Certain thoughts of suicide,
Death, or maybe homicide.
Evaluating my soul,
Finding it dark, murky,
Gloomy and depressed,
Hiding in the shadow, looking for the
Light to shine my way.
Maybe I should pray more,
No promise for tomorrow.
Optimism out of reach,
Prison waiting here another day.
Question, questions, questions, many questions.
Roughly the vanity of human being existence:
Strife, stress, sadness, and struggle,
Trauma, tears, and trouble.
Unity I try to find or
Virtue within chaos.
Wayward minds within these walls
Xesturgy on my heart and soul.                                                                                                           Y... so I don't slip into insanity,                                                                                                       Zoo inside this prison.

“That’s pretty good,” Mr.Clifton said with a gentle smile as he pulled up a chair and sat next to Paul. “Sorry, I shouldn't be eavesdropping.”

“You cool, just writing down my thoughts,” Paul said, again glancing outside and wallowing in damp depression.

“Hey, you’re really smart, and you’re doing good with keeping up with your schoolwork,” Mr. Clifton said, trying to encourage him.

“Thanks, but is all this even worth it? Why do the schoolwork if I can’t use the degree?” Paul’s softly spoken words held an undercurrent of anger.

“Woo, woo, woo.” Mr. Clifton raised his eyebrows. “That's not true. There are guys who got out of here and got jobs, guys who used to sell drugs and now own their own businesses. Those men took what they learned from drug dealing and turned that experience into careers in sales selling cars, clothing  … I mean the list goes on and on. You just have to be creative,” Mr. Clifton said, trying to impart a sense of hope.

“You think I can do it? You think someone will hire me?” Paul looked at him with doubt.

“Someone will. Not everyone in society is against ex-cons. You just gotta make sure you stay out of trouble when you get out. There will be some bumps in the road here and there; but, as my father use to tell me, don't be stuck on stupid. Spend money wisely, not on a bunch of materialistic stuff you don't don't need. Think needs over wants, and you'll be all right,” Mr. Clifton said.

“You know anybody else who made it when they got out?” Paul asked.

“Sure, the guys I told you about: one guy became a personal trainer. There are programs that help you get jobs. You can be a welder, electrician, carpenter; join the military or work in the oil fields; be a truck driver,; or work in marketing or online freelancing. A couple guys I heard about became doctors, so there's hope. Just keep the faith and be wise in how you go about doing business.” Mr. Clifton raised his eyebrows and put his right hand on his chin, giving Paul a smile of encouragement.

Paul looked at the desk and dipped his chin in a shallow nod. “That's what's up. I'll have to look into that. Writing may be my passion, but I can work at one of those jobs and build towards a career in my passion.”

“Don't give up hope. What you’re going through is nothing compared to chattel slavery or the Holocaust. Which one would you rather go through if you had a choice?” Mr. Clifton said as he patted him on the shoulder three times and walked away to help another student.

 

Time went by quickly as Paul worked on his assignments. He looked at the clock which showed it was dinner time. A corrections officer escorted the students to the cafeteria. He grabbed his meal which consisted of one slice of bread, a slice of meatloaf, green beans, a banana, and mashed potatoes with gravy. He decided to sit next to a group of teenagers because he thought they were fun. He liked joking with them and listening to their stories.

“What up, Buck? What up, Young Gangster? What up, Little 40? What up, Rob the robber?” Paul greeted.

The boys all nodded, looking back over their shoulders as they tried to eat their food quickly before someone stole it.

 

“What you know good?” Buck asked through a mouthful of food.

“Chillin’, man, tryna maintain,” Paul answered.

“That’s what up, me to fam,” Buck said.

Paul looked at the youth and realized he had never thought to ask why they were in prison, teenage boys incarcerated with adults. He just liked hanging around them for a good laugh. “I never asked y’all what you're in for.”

“Me ... oh ... shoot ... um ... corner store robbery,” Buck said, spitting out food between the words. “I shot the man in the corner store at point blank range, him and a couple other dudes.”

“Oh, okay. That why they call you ‘buck,’ because you was getting the big bucks?” Paul asked with a smile.

“Oh, nah ... well as to that, I like to keep the one dollar bills. So, because I like ones and bucked on the guys I shot, they called me buck,” Buck said.

Shocked, Paul swallowed a wad of spit and, under his breath, exclaimed, “Damn!” He shifted his attention to Young Gangster and asked, “What you do, Y.G.?”

“Man, in a gang with my big bro and uncles,” he responded with a smile and shrugged his shoulders. “Out there thuggin’, representin’ my block, you feel me? Bustin’ at the police and them niggas off the block.”

 

Breadcrumbs fell from his mouth as he spoke.

Paul nodded, “Okay, okay, I see, I see.” He looked at Little 40 and asked, “What you do, man? Why you in here?”

“Shit ... um ... man, I was having a bad day,” Little 40 said.

Paul lowered his eyebrows. “What you mean?”

“Like I said, having a bad day, was sippin’ my shit, and moms was arguing with her boyfriend or whatever again, and I shot his ass, then his family what lived down the street, and popped his moms, his sisters, and his brothers. I went back, smoked, and sipped my 40, and cops came and got me.” He looked at Paul with sleepy eyes and a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Shit, I didn’t hesitate. They put the cuffs on me, now I'm here.”

“Over a bad day, though?” Paul asked in seriousness.

The sleepy look in Little 40’s eyes hardened. He leaned forward, emanating malice. “Yeah, nigga, you heard me, a bad day. I just wasn't feeling it that day: moms crying and bitchin’, somebody broken into the house again a couple days before, mom's boyfriend calling her out. I grabbed my shit and lit his ass up. Just a bad day.”

Paul put his hands up, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I feel ... I guess.” He then looked at Rob the robber and asked, “What you in here for?”

“Shit ... um ... breaking into homes in the ’hood,” Rob the robber said.

Buck butted in, “Man, this nigga was like Batman with all the tools and gadgets and shit.”

 

Rob smiled, looking at his food. All the teenagers started to laugh.

 

“Man, if you need a job done, that’s the nigga you call: Inspector Gadget.” Buck put his left hand out and extended his thumb over and over again with each crime, “Bro, look, he could break into caged doors, any window, any car and steal the car. He was stealing out the school, he could hack camera, he knew how to turn them off. He robbed the bank, took some diamonds from this mansion. Whatever you need, he'll get it, no questions asked.”

“Damn, that’s crazy. You could have been an electrician or worked in IT or somethin’, man? Who taught you how to do that?” Paul asked.

“Shoot, I learned a lot on my own. My moms and my uncles taught me a lot of stuff,” Rob answered.

“So, where you got your name from?” Paul said, turning his attention back to Little 40.

“What you do?” Little 40 countered with his own question.

“Man ... got caught up in a gun charge, robbery, and homicide, rollin with some dudes,” Paul said, stretching back and putting his hands behind his neck, not at all reluctant to fabricate the story a little bit to sound tough.

“How much time you doing?” Buck asked.

“Shoot, I'ma just say some time,” Paul replied, knowing he had a chance of getting out if everything worked out right. “What about y’all?”

Chewing on his food, Buck said, “Shit, what you think? All day and all night, back door parole: we stuck in this bitch.” He grinned and looked at Rob the robber before adding, “Unless this nigga breaking us out.”

“I'm working on it,” Rob said with a sinister smile and a mouthful of food.

“Y’all all under twenty-one and y’all was out there like that: where was y’all’s parents or family?” Paul asked.

“What parents, what family? They was all doing the same thing,” Buck said.

Smack!

Rodney hit Buck in the back of the head. “Hand over the soup, little nigga.”

Buck smiled and handed him the bowl of soup. When the bowl was in Rodney's hands, Buck quickly slapped the steaming soup into Rodney’s face, then karate-chopped his throat. Rodney fell to the floor. Buck lunged to his feet and started to kick him in the face. The other three boys got up joined in with vicious glee.

 

“What’s good! You ain't ’bout to take my manhood,” Buck yelled.

“Not this again,” Paul groaned. Because he knew what was about to happen, he got on the floor and put his hands above his head.

POW!

A shotgun blasted, the noise reverberating throughout the penitentiary.

 

“Everybody on the ground now!” a correctional officer ordered.

Several guards grabbed the boys and escorted them out. One checked Rodney's pulse, swiping his right hand over his neck, and yelled, “No pulse!”

Paul gaped in shock.

 

“Damn, little dudes really did kill dude. How he die, though? The throat shot, the hard fall on the head, or repeated kicking?” he mused under his breath.

 

He looked at Rodney's lifeless body and bloody, battered face as medics rushed in to remove the dead prisoner. He had a flashback of how Rodney overpowered him a couple of times when he first got in prison and raped him. His shock turned cold and his face showed no expression while he said to himself, “Glad that son of a bitch is dead. Good job, boys.”

 

After all the commotion, the prisoners were granted leisure time. Paul decided to use that time write a letter to his girlfriend and respond to what she’d written. He opened the first of her two letters and read it, then wrote his response:

What up, Boo?

 

Sorry it took me so long to respond.

Thanks for holding me down while I'm in here. Letters like yours bring sunshine to my day, a light to my lamp, and joy to my soul. I try to stay positive and keep from going bitter. I feel like an animal in here; it doesn't feel like “rehabilitation” as society calls it. Dudes in here are getting killed. I hear yelling in the middle of the night. Dudes fling poo and doo from a milk carton on to the COs and inmates. Some dudes get out and make it a priority to come back in here. I guess they have nothing to live for ... sad.

 

I have to watch my back here; nobody can be trusted, especially my cellmate, Clinton. He has episodes here and there, and he looks at me with a glare and glitter in his eye, so I just really have to watch myself. One minute he protects me, next minute he’s screaming in his sleep, next minute he's throwing things in the cell, next minute he cussing someone out. He's up and down and up and down, and I don’t know what to expect.

So, you asked me if I seen anything crazy. Yeah, all the time. I told you about big Rodney. Them kids I told you about jumped him today and killed him. I’m not sure how he died. I know they stomped him, and he hit his head hard. They checked his pulse and he was a goner. One kid in here is getting passed around on the daily (if you know what I mean!). There were three suicides a couple weeks ago. One dude outside got shanked to death. Dudes in here find all types of ways to make and hold weapons in here. Some dudes put weapons inside their butts. Yes, inside their butts. They dookie it out and find a way to slash your throat. I could keep going about all the craziness in here.

 

If there's anybody you know, tell them my story and what I'm going through. Tell them this ain't the place you wanna be: don't hang around the wrong crowd or get caught up like I did or be stuck on stupid. This ain't where it's happening. So ...

You asked me about the positive side of things. Well, I'm still working towards my degree; that’s always good. I'm reading plenty of books right now, trying to do what Malcolm X did and use my free time wisely while I'm in here to get my knowledge up.

 

You asked me what I'm reading right now. Well, I'm reading the autobiography of Malcolm X, Prison and Slavery — A Surprising Comparison by John Dewar Gleissner, Slaves of the State: Black Incarceration from the Chain Gang to the Penitentiary by Dennis Childs, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Color Blindness by Michelle Alexander, Doing Time Like a Spy: How the CIA Taught Me to Survive and Thrive in Prison by John Kiriakou, Dark Alliance: The CIA, the Contras, and the Cocaine Explosion by Gary Webb,  S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C. by Ruben Castaneda, The Big White Lie: The Deep Cover Operation That Exposed the CIA Sabotage of The Drug War by Michael Levine, and Countering the Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys by Jawanza Kunjufu.

 

I’m reading stuff on gangs, the set-up of prison systems, society, looking for a good job so we can start that family liked I promised! So, I’m staying busy like that. Oh, yeah, I’ve been reading the Bible, the Quran, and other religious stuff here and there. I’ve been trying to go to church, trying to keep my spirits up. I dunno, I'm really up and down right now on my faith and question the existence of God. I can relate to an atheist or an agnostic right now. It's hard to keep sane when you live in insanity!

 

I've been writing prayer poems every morning and before I sleep, trying to find light in the darkness. Shoot, I don't even know if prayer works. If God knows everything why do I need to pray? Hah! I sound like Job in Chapters 38 through 42. It’s all good, though, just trying keep the faith.

 

I've been listening to Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Wagner, and them old school piano dudes to calm my soul. And, oh yeah, that nature music. I had to put the rap away for a little bit: it has too much violence and I see enough of that here. Now if it's positive, then I'm all for it; but shooting the block up, how many chicks you been with, and what you did at the club, and how many dudes you robbed was too much, so the piano and mediation music helps. Of course, so does my poetry. I have one for you:

All alone, a silent gray cloud,
green pastures, Skittle rainbow hills,
every flower bunched into one—
roses, dandelions, and daffodils—
luscious lakeside, roaring river beneath the trees
swiftly dancing in calm-like breeze

No longer alone, now fluffy white,
flashes in my eyes, filling up my heart,
you are a Middlemist camellia, among them all.
Not a crack, a creek, no air to part,
gentle drift your way to protect you,
I soar to hope you say I do.

Love eternal,

Paul

 

Paul smiled as he looked at his letter and the poem he wrote at the bottom. He licked the envelope and whistled a tune as he sealed it. He looked through the other mail and murmured to himself, “Mom, just seen her; brother, just talked to him. Sister, my dude, my dude, hm, my dude,” his eyes squinted, “and another one from my girl. I need to do a better job at checking my mail, instead of letting it pile up: too many people to write to. I'll look at this one and get back to others after it.”

 

He opened the second letter, giddy and smiling. He bit his bottom lip as he read:

Dear Paul,
        
It pains me to say this and I don't know any other way to say this, but our relationship will have to come to an end. I can't do this anymore. I can't sit and wait for you in prison. I know you are working on yourself, trying to get the papers together to get out. I know you’re trying to get your degree, but it's just too much.

 

The drive to see you takes up a lot of my day, especially while I'm in school and working and a lot of other things. Also, it pains me to say this, but I have been talking to someone, and things between us are going well. He's good to me: he's a gentleman, he's kind, and he's working on his master’s. I thought I should be upfront with you and let you know.

 

I'm sorry. I held out as long as I could, but I couldn't pass up on this man. Just know that you were my first love. I always loved and will forever love you, ever since you gave me that blade of grass and daisy in middle school. I enjoyed the times I did have with you. I hope you’re not upset with me or hate me. I hope you understand.

 

Stay strong. My prayers are with you. If you don't write back, I understand.

Love always,

Falon

Paul let out a deep, bitter sigh. He stared at the letter as memories of Falon and him unreeled through his mind: the first time they met, their first kiss, their arguments, how she stood by him the first couple of years of his incarceration, and their lovemaking. Paul's heart fled into the darkest reaches of the universe. Slow, warm teardrops dropped to the paper, causing the ink to puddle and smear. Under his breath, he muttered, “Grandma always told me, if you love them, let them go. But then again, maybe she didn’t love me if she couldn’t stay with me any longer.”

 

Paul stared at the concrete wall, sniffling as tears trickled down his face. He didn’t bother to look at the other letters. Instead, he ripped Falon’s letter and the one he had intended to send her. Like autumn leaves, the shreds of paper littered the cold, concrete floor. He closed his eyes and let out a loud shriek: “AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

About five seconds later, one of the inmates yelled out, “Shut the fuck up!”

About an hour passed. Paul stayed in the same spot on his bed, bloodshot eyes focused at the dead wall before him. The corrections officer escorted Clinton to the cell. Clinton looked at Paul’s expression of despair.

 

“Lights out,” one of the correctional officers called out as the lights started to go off.

“What's wrong with you, man?” Clinton asked.

“My girl broke up with me, man,” Paul said, still staring at the wall.

“That sucks. At least, you get mail. I haven't received mail in years. I'm here to talk about it if you want me to listen. How did y’all meet?” Clinton asked.

Paul sighed. “Thanks, man, you been a good friend to me. Well ...”

 

Paul talked for an hour and a half. All the floors where quiet. Clinton jumped down from his top bunk, standing tall in front of Paul.

 

Paul looked up and said, “Thanks for listening.”

 

Clinton kept looking at Paul, his eyes glittering.

 

Paul lowered his eyebrows and said, “Yo, man, you good. Why you looking at me like that, man?”

Clinton started rubbing Paul's shoulders. “It's been a while for me, too, and I think it's time for you to pay me for listening to you and protecting you these last couple years.”

Dread filled Paul’s belly and his sphincter clenched. “Yo, Clint man, what you doing, man? What got into you? Did you take your meds? You know I don't swing that way.”

 

Paul shot to his feet and ran towards the bars. Clinton walked towards Paul, glittering eyes focused on him as he slowly started taking his clothes off.

 

Paul yelled, “Guards, help! Guards, can one of y’all here help me?”

 

Clinton’s hand snapped forward and grabbed Paul. With a brutal shove, he slammed Pauls’ forehead slammed against the bars and cuffed him in the back of the head, knocking him unconsciousness. When Paul woke up, his head rang and he was underneath Clinton's left arm. He felt a sharp sting in his anus. He touched the back of his jumpsuit only to feel wet warmth: blood.

 

“Not again,” he said to himself. “First Rodney, now Clinton.”

 

Paul lay there, trembling in silence until it was time to get up. Clinton let out a big yawn and lifted his heavy arm. Paul quickly got up, trembling and not knowing what to do. Clinton rolled out of the bottom bunk where Paul slept, sleepy-eyed he sat on the toilet for his morning bowel movement. Clinton didn't bother to look at Paul as he made loud grizzly bear sounds. He spat between his legs into the toilet bowl. Paul didn’t know what to say or do. He didn’t know what side of Clinton was going to manifest.

“Breakfast,” one of the guards announced, and the barred cages opened.

Clinton got off the toilet, he rubbed the crust from his eyes, yawned again, looked at Paul. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

Paul nodded, avoiding eye contact as he walked towards his bunk bed and grabbed his slippers off the floor. He looked at Clinton’s wide back as he was just about to leave the cell. Paul's face twisted in rage and he said to himself, “I'm not letting anyone take advantage of me again while I'm in here!”

 

He charged Clinton, grabbing him by the head with all his might. The bigger man stumbled and toppled over the railing, falling three stories and taking Paul with him. The fall felt like forever. Clinton’s bald head landed first on the tile floor with a sickening thud. Blood leaked from Clinton’s ears and rushed from his nose, and he started convulsing. Paul landed on top of him, his right arm and both legs breaking when they hit the tile. Lying across Clinton’s broad back, he stared towards the ceiling where a glimmer of light came through. He looked at the light and, in his mind, he said:

 

God, If I was to love,
I would have been used.
I had to murder to survive
or on a daily get abused.

Guess I'm stuck here, huh?
No future, no children, no wife.
Just to protect myself
I take a life, just to get life!

In chaos, how can one be human?
In disorder, how can humans obey the law?
Death awaits me like tomorrow not promised,
So, I ask God, guide and help us all.

 

A teardrop oozed from Paul’s eye. Medics and corrections officers rushed to their aid as Paul wallowed in his poetry and contemplated his fate.

 

 

The hard reality of the world of the street can be traced to the profound sense of alienation from mainstream society and its institutions felt by many poor inner-city black people, particularly the young. The code of the street is actually a cultural adaptation to a profound lack of faith in the police and the judicial system—and in others who champion one’s personal security. The police, for instance, are most often viewed as representing the dominant white society and as not caring to protect inner-city residents. When called, they may not respond, which is one reason many residents feel they must be prepared to take extraordinary measures to defend themselves and their loved ones against those who are inclined to aggression. Lack of police accountability has, in fact, been incorporated into the local status system: the person who is believed capable of “taking care of himself” is accorded a certain deference and regard, which translates into a sense of physical and psychological control. The code of the street thus emerges where the influence of the police ends and where personal responsibility for one’s safety is felt to begin. Exacerbated by the proliferation of drugs and easy access to guns, this volatile situation results in the ability of the street-orientated minority (or those who effectively “go for bad”) to dominate the public spaces.

 

(Code of the Street: Decency, Violence, Moral Life of the Inner City by Elijah Anderson, p. 34)

---