When I walked into prison I was full of youth, physically strong with an empty heart, clueless mind, and confused emotions. I began to notice the walls were laughing at me every time I walked by. 

I don't know if it was the smell of the caustics used to mop the floor distorting my normal brain behavior, but I'm telling you - these fucking walls were laughing. But I was not going to entertain them. Why should I pay attention to ignorant walls, whose only purpose is to limit the sunlight and life that comes with it from shining in here? These walls keep all that goes on in here to themselves, binding our community in a state of doubt, ignorant to the reality of what is going on behind them.

It saddens me to admit that these walls and my heart had a few things in common. Just as the walls try to keep all that is good from coming or going, my empty heart kept the warmth of that other side, the good side of me, from reaching my soul.

But I was rocked by the reality of the endless nights and sounds of prisoners who, by day, are as tough as the nasty biscuit we eat for lunch, but as soon as the gates close, and the gallery lights dim, they transform into real human beings, coming together in harmony. Like crickets chirping on their nightly stage, they all perform. A weeping orchestra.

I have secretly and quietly performed with them. I'm talking about me, on bent knees, with both arms stretched to the ebony sky, asking the Gods to come together and strike the smile out of these laughing walls.

If someone snooping around happens to walk by and catch me in that position, I play it off, like I'm stretching or practicing yoga, but never ever weeping or pleading. I have a biscuit image to maintain.

But buried alive is how I feel. Like a fish out of water, I'm gasping for another chance at the free world. Like a pigeon caught in the talons of a hawk, these walls are holding me down, ripping every bit of youth from me. Like a winter breeze, the sight of these walls brings me chills.

Tired of allowing these walls and their stench to bully me, I've decided to give them a piece of my mind. Now every time I walk the hallways, I flip my middle finger up at these walls. Sometimes, I do it mentally. Other times, I just put my hands in my pockets and secretly give them the finger. At times, I can't control my emotions so I go like this; Here take this! Laugh now! Yes, you the green one, the beige one, and even you! All dressed in white like you're a freaking Saint. Who are you trying to kid?

Come on guys, you can't blame me for losing control, these walls are some mean sons of bitches. But who's laughing now?

​It was 1984 in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn, New York. There we were, so young. Terry, Erasts, Big Nose Franky, Tendal, Jamel, Corey, Kief and Puerto Rican Lui. Boy, we were a pack of misfits: Dirty clothes, dirty hands, penniless and always looking for trouble.

We started by meeting in our lobby. There, we planned our adventures. Usually we’d race around the corner to the local KeyFood Supermarket to pack bags for the customers. After earning a few bucks, we'd show the store owner, Mr. Kim, our appreciation by darting through the store aisles, stealing sandwich meat, hero bread, cheese and mayonnaise. We'd find an area in the market with no security and make an arm size hero, devouring it in three bites each. That was heaven.

Then we’d file out of the market onto Rutland Road. It was the Mecca for our thievery - a six block stretch of stores on both sides of the street. There were bakeries, candy shops, grocery stores, ice cream parlors. That's where we went rack'n up! Candy bars down the shirt, tightly tucked in the pants, cakes down the underwear, pudding pops up the shirt sleeves. Store after store we went, filling our pockets and bellies with all kinds of delights, so happy and intoxicated on life. Young and adventurous, filled with the endless energy of just having a good time.

Along my travels one day, I stumbled on a crowd of spectators. 

There it was, the end of all innocence. A bullet riddled body lying on the sidewalk underneath a white sheet. The stillness. His life spilling out onto the pavement, making its trail into the streets and ending in the sewage drain. Perhaps it was over a territorial dispute in a drug war, or maybe he was defending false pride. As I looked on, I wondered if the dead could smell the bleach in the sheets.

I’m ten. The sounds of gunshots are following me. Death comes so frequently. Hosing down the blood stained walkways was routine.  I’m getting desensitized.

Cancer has come to take my mother. The chemo has made her too weak to walk or talk or be a mom to me. Lying next to her in the hospital bed, holding her in my young arms, I tried to transfer my own strength and life into her body. I hoped and prayed God would make her better.

I’m twelve now, thrown into the life of a motherless child.  My shell is hardening, killing my compassion while protecting me from the rough edges of life. My childhood friends are fading in the wind.

I’ve always kept this list of names of the guys I used to hang out with. For some of these guys, I was right there with them until the last few breaths of their lives. Young black males I cared for. Laughed with. Ate from the same pot with. They all lost their lives to senseless acts of gun violence. Bullets tearing through their flesh, hearts and minds. 

Lives cut short:

Dennis age 24 (Cut down by a hail of bullets)
Terrel Joyner at 23 (Lost faith in life)
My best friend Troy at 22 (Ego, bravery and a gun)
Darell was 21 (The gunman ran out of bullets) 
Lenox 19 (An eye for an eye)
Lindon 17 (A dice game - he gambled with death)
Weazel was 16 (When the bullet pierced his brave heart)
Banner was 15

Banner got shot in the back of his head in a club. If my Dad hadn't grounded me that night, it could have been me lying on the dance floor.

I'm fifteen now.  For every funeral I go to, a part of me is buried with my homies. Dying inside my own reality. After seeing so many horrifying deaths, I ask, "How can I have the audacity to expect a different fate? What evidence do I have that I will make it to my twentieth birthday?”  Hopes and dreams destroyed by a war zone. City blocks where your intellect is spilled onto the streets, next to pieces of your skull.  What was there to look forward to?

The sheets are so bright, they're blinding me. I can't see how life has more to offer than death.

If you pick this gun up, you won’t be able to put it down. I have to carry this gun. I have to protect myself, before I get killed. This thing is going to get me in a world of trouble.

I made choices in life.  Choices molded by situations, circumstances and conditions.  Yes, I had a choice... so I chose to survive in the conditions that surrounded me.

I'm eighteen now. Though the five slugs pierced my flesh, sending me crashing to the ground, they did not kill my core. Nothing's fair anymore. Get down with the cold-blooded reality of my world or lay down in a pool of blood, judged by 12 bullets. With this gun in my hand, I feel invincible. My feet are no longer touching the ground.  Like I'm hovering; just floating through life.

I'm twenty now. My shell is hard and dark. No light penetrates. I'm disconnected. Every time I look around, a part of me is being picked apart.  Am I cursed?

My relationship with nature reminds me of my childhood. We kids sang for rain in our broken rhythms, and "she," in my part of the world, in my town, accepted our vocal sacrifices and sent wind to let us know her intentions. We would put our shorts on and run out looking funny and cute.

And after a few enticing minutes, she came down, but not like in America. Here she comes down reluctantly, in brief pauses, in bits of drizzle, like unintentional burps and then stops. I think she hesitates to come down here  because  she is well aware of innocent Navajos, Cherokees, creeks, and many more who were forced to move out from their land - who died walking  on the  Trail of Tears. She knows there is no comfort for those innocent souls deep in this land .

And not like in Europe where she struggles to find a bit of leftover untainted land by its people through thick layer of dark and gloomy clouds. These clouds keep her composed and cover the atrocities people have done on that land. Here and there, betrayed by that veil of clouds, she comes down briefly on Auschwitz and Dachau. After smelling their suffocated bodies from the earth, she realizes that her heavenly pure water cannot wipe away the blood stains of millions innocently dead in the camps and wars.

​She quietly weeps and drifts away to my part of the world. There she comes down impatiently like an uncontrolled passion and, generously opening her arms, she embraces the earth as if  she might not get another chance.

She sings the monsoon-winds and lyrics and plays the thunder-lightening beat. She dances with us and plays that grana instrument – nature – on earth for a long time. We feel her happiness and for a moment we become one in nature.

When I go back there again, I will enjoy her comforting shade once more.

Every song has a loop or a hook that incessantly plays in a listener’s mind, holding them captive. When you’re doing time, you must find that loop or hook, and it will keep you whole in prison until you’re released. Otherwise, you will be sucked into a false loop and become a legend of prisonville.

Every day when I wake, after my mind registers my prison surroundings, my heart prays that God gets me out of this misery. Yet every night after closing my eyes, I chase this dream - my loop - that keeps me whole. In this loop, I am back in my country...

While the sun is almost setting and turning the western sky dark-reddish, I am standing next to my mother’s room. She is the most important person in my life, but I owe her an apology. I hope she will forgive me in her heart for the poor decision I made twenty years ago. I feel tender knowing that her love has glued me together all those years.

I lightly knock.

“Mother?”

“Welcome home son. It is good to see you.” 

“Mother you look wonderful."

“You know, I missed you a lot when you were out there in America."

“I know, mother. I missed you too.”

I wonder how she’s felt all these years, and what had gone through in her mind. I could never forget what people say in prison: “When you are locked up, your family is locked up as well. The only difference is they are out there and you are in prison.”

 A pleasant memory of us arises. 

“Mother, remember when you used to kiss me over the phone before saying good bye and-”

“And you would hesitate to return a kiss because a female counselor was sitting in the room with you.”

  “And after a while I got used to it.”

“You are my son; I gave birth to you. How could I forget you? You were shy, weren’t you?” 

She grabs my face in her fragile hands and kisses my forehead generously. 

“Here, don’t be shy now. There is no stranger here.”

As she lets go of me, I watch her lightly puffed round face. I remember putting small flowers on her delicate ears. 

“Mother, why did you let your children go to America?”

I see the color draining from her face, as she turns back into her shell. My heart beats fast. I regret asking that question. I wish to take it back, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. My mother must be thinking of 
v
her older daughter, now widowed, whose husband’s blood is on my hands.

“Some questions are not to be asked, Furry. I hoped for a better future for you.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“I don’t know how to express… I think you were a lucky child and you still are. I saw a bright future     in you. You were my ‘Golden Sparrow.’ I don’t know how and where you slipped off, but you are still different than other children. I can speak to you… I mean it is easy to express myself to you.”

“Mother, I want to ask you… I mean… I’m sorry… I apologize for my mistake. I mean what I did…     I am sorry for that. Yes, that is want I want to say. I’m sorry.”

“Stop being foolish. I know you are sorry.”

“Mother, I’m sorry. I know… I know I have broken this family in half-”

“I told you, I forgave you. I did not blame you for much of it… You were not the only one to blame… I mean, part of it, you were responsible for, but you were young, and there were many others around you who were much more mature than you. You have changed. Since your mistake, I have seen change in you. I felt that change in your letters, and I noticed it over the phone. You are trying to mend your mistake.”

“Mother, I am… I mean… I tried to-”

“I told you, Furry, I accept your apology, and I love you. Stop dwelling on your past and move on.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just move forward and hug her. After a long moment, she lets go of me, and I look in her eyes. It’s as if she is saying, “Don’t leave me, stay here with me.”

Something startles me. Beep, beep, beep.

I wake up and find myself laying in the bed of a prison cell in America. I hear my watch alarm go off beside me. I want to stop it, but my limbs don’t respond. So I let it run until it dies out on its own. And I begin my day again.

Now, every time this loop stops in my mind, its addictive magic worn away, I get my reality check. I yearn for another night to fall, taking me into dreamland.

The steal is inflexible - built to last longer than my will. As I caress the cell bars, the lividity sets in my palms, easily visible underneath the perspiration. Standing in the middle of this cage, arms extended, finger tips barely touching either side of the walls. On my tiptoes, every bit of my five-foot seven-inch frame stretches, just four inches short of touching the ceiling. On my knees, hands rubbing the floor’s surface… Get used to this; become one with it. You may be here for a long, long time.

That was September 22, 1997. Eleven days, nine months, and 17 years ago, since I’ve been locked behind state bars. It’s a coping mechanism I found moments after the cell door slammed shut behind me, sending vibrations through my body. Shaking the foundation of my soul.

The gig was up. Exiled by men of real power. Banished from my own existence by black robes, wielding black pens that carried the weight of signatures. Held down by a piece of paper, as light as a feather. Words that read: Order of commitment to the state of New York Department of Corrections to serve 50 years to life. In other words, until I expire. Obliterated into pieces of a man, tucked neatly away in a corner of obscurity. Existing in the realm of nothingness. Getting by in the morass of madness. Finding reason in a place where insanity reigns supreme - where wars are waged with the demons of your conscience. Where spotted cell floors expose cryptic faces that laugh at you with their dagger eyes. I break my gaze from the accusing stares. The walls are closing in, compressing the fire of my mind. The imploding in my head causes my thoughts to combust.

I’m gonna make it. I've just got to exorcise these thoughts.  Scrape inside myself.  Tap into my reservoir of faith and fortitude. This is just a scene in my script, and I’m the author. I will rewrite my life; revise my map. Clear my mind of all this empty space. I will balance this shit out. Use this time to build upon my greatness. I will never give out, give up or give in; I will win.

Loud trumpets of thunder and silent, scary whips of lightning are taking over the Hudson Valley. A blanket of heavy clouds sprinkles its drops, piercing the dark puddle on the softball field. Water hitting water creates an illusion of flashing lights, instantly transforming the puddle into a pool of ballerinas showing off their grace, precision and fluidity.

They fade out of sight, making room for the parade of raindrops to display their creativity. It’s a theatrical show put on by mother nature, for my eyes to enjoy from the solitude of a prison cell. "Belle! Belle!" I yell as each drop outdoes the other. Awaken!

The prison guard walks angrily towards my cell. “What the hell is all the fuss about?” he asks. Joyfully, I reply, “Sorry Sir. I never kiss and tell.” Bemused by my answer, he turns, walks toward the window and says, “Go to sleep, it’s an ugly night out there.” As if God is offended, lightning rends the darkness, chasing the guard back to his post without saying another word. The night and the show are all mine to enjoy.

Four years ago, one Friday afternoon, I was sitting in my cell sipping coffee. Just the day before I had gotten my diploma of IC3 (Internet & computer core certification) in the mail and I was still savoring the moment.

As I took another sip, an end gate opened and a correction officer put two pieces of mail in the slot of my cell. Excitement ran through my body as I put my coffee on the metal locker and rushed forward.

Both envelopes were identical and light-weight, only a page inside. I felt my heart beating under my chest like a moth gone wild in a lamp shade. I scrutinized the letters. They were mailed consecutively a week ago.

A bad sign.

The rest became mechanical. Once I opened them, I found the same page mailed twice. "I am sorry to inform you of the sad news of your father's death..."

I wondered: Should I grieve for my father's death or feel remorse that I couldn't make it to his funeral?

That afternoon, as tears ran down my cheeks, I calculated which day he passed away. Was that the day my counselor never showed up for work after scheduling me a phone call with my parents? What if another counselor had stepped forward and helped me make the call, could I have spoken to my father one last time? What if... What if...

I struggled to recall the day he had passed away, to find any emotional connection. Why didn't I feel my heart broken when he died 6,000 plus miles away from me? After all, he was my father and I was his blood. Shouldn't my body have felt some chemical change?

But how could I have recalled anything from that day? For the past seven years, I had been deliberately training my mind to ignore passing days in prison. I was wiping each day from my memory as one less day in prison. How could I have gone back and rummaged through those half-conscious fragile memories when my whole focus was on the future?

The same way a horse wears blinders or a donkey eyes a carrot, in prison, I vigilantly look at the world through tunnel vision, knowing that one mistake will cost me. A lot.

Just like these animals, I must focus on my own issues in prison, minding my own business, not breaking any rules, not daring to show sympathy or empathy to other prisoners as that would only bring their trouble to
my doorstep.

To get through it, I have hope. I live every day with a hope that one day this will be over. One step at a time. One day, there will be a light at the end of this tunnel vision. One day, this dangling carrot in front of me will turn into a prison gate I will walk out of.

I keep my mind dwelling on lost loved ones or those who don't stay in touch. I look around and find my hope - my carrot. I have a few friends who visit me throughout the week and recharge my emotional battery - friends like Krista Tippett (On Being), Terry Gross (Fresh Air New York), Diane Rehm (Fresh Air Connecticut), Guy Raz (TEDTalk).

This is how I am living in prison, collecting all of these bonus rounds on air and putting them under my pillow to keep up the kindle in my heart; trusting that one day a carrot will transform into a prison gate to walk out.

Night after night, I lie on my bed and stare at the small red light that flashes repeatedly, indicating the smoke alarm is working. It's in these hours of the night that every prisoner truly becomes himself, the time when the prison becomes so quiet you can hear the silent tears stream down the faces of the men.

I cry because everything that I have grown to hate with a deep passion reminds me of everything that I love. Everything in my cell is a reminder of the life and times I left behind. Though my cell is approximately a six by eight cage in size, it possesses the key that unlocks every emotion - every pleasant and painful memory within me.

The walls in my cell are a mint green or, rather, a dull green that used to be mint. Because the paint is peeling and chipped in a few places, I can see the colors that my cell once was - a tan cream color, then a smoky gray, followed by an orange, and, beneath that, a rusty steel.

It's not the steel or the orange that bring back memories for me. It's the mint green and the cream beneath which makes me think of my mother.

It forces me to go back and visit the apartment that my mother, two brothers, grandma, uncles and I shared on 164th Street in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan. I once again sit in the living room that I was raised in; the same living room where my uncle lay dead on the floor after a massive heart attack at age twenty. It's in this living room that my mother came up with its color scheme - hunter green and cream.

Our three piece living room set was hunter green. The walls in the apartment were egg shell white. The drapes were hunter. Everything color coordinated to the tee. My mother is the type of lady whose socks have to match her bag, her shirt, and her footwear. So it was only right that the parquet wooden floors complimented the color scheme she picked for the living room.

The floor in my cell is an imitation of Italian marble, brown, black, and gray, and cold all year round. Even in the summer when it's blazing hot, the floor is cold.

It reminds me of my younger years when I used to visit my aunt Gail. It was in her building on East Tremont where I first saw this floor. I remember because it's the same building that had flower pots on every level and always smelled as if you were walking through a hospital. It's in this building that I was in my first fire.

My mother, grandma, uncles, and I were in Aunt Gail's apartment. I remember my aunt was outside, buzzing the intercom from the lobby like a mad woman. My mother must have buzzed her in a hundred times. Every time, my aunt's voice came through the intercom it was choppy, as if she were a robot, programmed to talk with cotton in her mouth. No one could make out what she was trying to say. My aunt continued to buzz the intercom and we continued to buzz her in.

"Something smells like its burning," my mother said, and I was sent to make sure nothing in the kitchen was on fire. I checked the stove and went back to the living room to reassure them. We all sat back down to watch TV, and I wondered why my aunt had stopped buzzing the intercom.

Suddenly, we heard loud bangs from outside the front door. The banging got louder and louder, so my mother and I went to see what all the noise was about. As we opened the door, a cloud of thick dark smoke rushed the apartment. My eyes began to water, and I coughed uncontrollably as the dark smoke filled my lungs. My mother slammed the door and began yelling in panic.

"Mommy, mommy the building is on fire" she screamed to my grandma. "We have to get out."

My grandma got up and started to grab whatever she could. My uncles scrambled to find their clothes and I continued to cough.

Boom, boom, boom. This time the banging was on our door. "It's the Fire Department. It's a fire; you have to get out," the fireman screamed from the other side of the door. Boom, boom, boom. My mother opened the door and two firemen rushed the apartment, but not before the dark smoke assaulted my lungs once more.

The firemen moved my family and me safely out of the building. My aunt Gail hugged me when I got out. "Y'all didn't hear me say it was a fire," she asked as she squeezed me tighter. Smoke could still be seen coming from the building.

Now, I lie on my bed and watch the alarm blink, remembering that time on 164th Street. I lie on the kind of mat that you'll find on the floor in a dojo gym, the steel frame making it feel as if I'm lying on a bed of rocks. It's moments like this that make me long to once again lay next to my ex-wife in her soft bed; to feel her warmth that once welcomed me. To once again smell the Victoria Secret's "Love Spell" fragrance that she loves to wear; to hear the pattern of her breathing as she sleeps peacefully like a baby.

Next to my bed is a stainless steel toilet connected to a sink. The toilet is so close to my bed that I can put my hand in the bowl while I lie down. Some prisoners use the toilet as a refrigerator. They wrap up their food, drinks or anything else they need to stay cool in plastic bags and place it in the toilet bowl because it's the only place that's constantly cool.

Not me - my mother would kill me if she found out I was eating food out of the toilet.

One time, she smacked the shit out of me in public because she thought I was going to eat gum that had fallen on the ground. She had picked me up from school and we were a half a block away from our apartment when it dropped out of my mouth. I picked it up, hoping to do a fade away jump shot into the garbage can.

Smack. The gum fell back to the ground. I held my face, trying to stop the sting. Tears streamed down my face. "That's nasty. Pick it up and throw it in the garbage," my mother said pointing to the garbage can in front of a bodega.

"I wasn't even gonna eat it," I cried as I picked up the gum and went to throw it in the garbage.

"Yes, you were."

I never thought nineteen years later I would look back at the time and find humor in it. I swear this cell brings laughter to all the things that once made my cry or made me embarrassed. In this cell, I cry for the people I'll never see again; I cry for the time that I'll never get to spend with my family; I cry for the future that I'm not sure I have; I cry because the only thing that I have to look forward to are the things of my past. It's my past that keeps me alive and motivated. It's the memories of every moment spent with loved ones that I wish to one day relive. Though this cell is my casket and I'm buried alive in time, this very cell reminds me that my life is of value and has a purpose.

(Twenty-four years ago, at the tender age of eighteen, I was taken from the Hood to Hades by Blue Devils in shades, where a judge sentenced me to life beneath my unmarked grave)

Every morning I awake to a cold, steel, claustrophobic, existence equivalent to the Public Housing bathroom I was raised in. Beyond bars and reinforced windows, lies a 40-foot concrete wall, concealing freedom and discouraging unfettered imagination. Armed watchtowers guard against escapism.

Each night, I lay on a narrow cot yearning for freedom. Learning wisdom is priceless wealth. Burning for justice as I witness innocence die. Hugging a pillowcase to muffle cries. Bedsheets damming waterfall tears, questioning why.

I am eager to embrace sleep and escape reality in whatever adventure dreams may take me. Even an occasional nightmare is a welcome reprieve from the hellish monotony I can't awaken from.

Any event, whether clemency, death, or Super Bowls, helps define time, while oppression is too omnipresent and eternal to spiritually climb in a lifetime.

All I have is the Present to reveal my lifeline.

The photographs taped against my bedside wall are a daily reminder of loved ones I miss dearly. At times, I wonder if a blank space will erase torment or whether I'm simply too self-absorbed in self-pity to realize I'm not suffering alone. Love ones are doing time too.

I attempt to genuflect after reading Psalm 27, but question if God's listening to my prayers or letting me ramble so neighbors may question my mental health and orderlies can tranquilize faith.

I question whether to get out of bed or close my soft brown eyes instead, hoping to resume the dream I was compelled to leave when a Blue Devil banged on my gate, yelling "COUNT!"

I question the sense of trimming my hairline, shaving, or wearing the polo shirt my beloved aunt purchased, if I can't feel warm compliments by a woman to redeem my esteem to a sense of humanity.

I question my will to fight to live another day if each day is an attrition against life so difficult to endure and so easy to give up on today.

Welcome to my daily bout against depression.

Every day, I exit the sanctuary of my confines at my own peril. Return is uncertain, but met with a sigh of relief once the gate slams behind me. Only then can I claim a minor victory against adversity for maintaining dignity, self­-respect, and preserving my sanity. Wherever I go, through catacombs of lost souls and callus corridors, I fear to walk slow. My smile is met by grim, intimidating stares found only in the horrors of Hades.

Social skills are euthanized, while hostility invades.

Polished steel-toe boots stand at ease to kick in teeth, sterilize genitals, and stomp consciousness. Indiscriminate hands clutch batons to bash intelligence, crack ribs, and maim lives. Handcuffs dangle from waistbands to subdue surrender, so brutality's justified for overseers to sanction and cover­-up.

Life is hopelessly vulnerable to unpredictable possibilities I'm powerless to. I may be slashed by a mentally ill while standing on a messhall line. A shiv may get tossed in my direction during a surprise search. Drugs may be planted during a routine pat-frisk. Gang assault by Blue Devils results in fabricated charges and unlimited solitary time.

Respectful behavior is cynically received. Reason is under siege. Fairness is considered humane and naive Rules are reinforced if broken by the offender, but manipulated by the enforcer. No fair hearings held. Just kangaroo courts to keep me shell-shocked in cells. Violence painfully haunts the inner-peace I struggle to preserve.

My homogenous attire cries for expression. To be addressed respectably as Mr. Pedro Rosario. Not distinguished by 94A2927, scars, or tattoos. But for the right to be judged for the contents of my character. To be commended on my quest for redemption by America. Not tormented for perceived mistakes we're all conceived to make. But admired for redefining myself in a positive light.

I often wonder what would man do if God revealed the truth: that man wrongly condemned an innocent man to Hades?

Would I be resurrected to freedom or buried in my unmarked grave?

I am a straight heterosexual man, who absolutely adores the company of a woman. Sadly, it’s been 16 long years since I’ve been able to have a normal conversation with one.

This is not due to my lack of ability to hold a meaningful conversation, or because I loathe the mere thought of conversing with the opposite sex.

This is due to my 25 year to life sentence. Yes, prison! The death of chivalry, courtship, and love at first sight. Something that only someone who’s incarcerated can know so well.

When I was home, I was able to walk up to a woman and say, “hello, how are you? What’s your name?” and then have a conversation, and get to know the person. Get her number, go on a few dates, and build a friendship from there. You can’t do that in prison. The only woman here are correctional officers, nurses, and civilians…and you are not allowed to address them in an unofficial capacity. Even if the conversation is innocent, it can be perceived the wrong way, and you will end up getting a misbehavior report, or even worse, beat up and sent to solitary confinement.

There is no holding the door for her, or simply doing something nice. Prisoners are being conditioned not to look at women. Conditioned not to have a natural response to the opposite sex.

No eye contact, no verbal contact, and definitely no physical contact.

There are those fortune few who have wives, and girlfriends from their past who come to visit them, but that’s a very small percentage of the prison population. The majority of men here are alone, and doing time by themselves.

I, myself, fear the social effect that not having a companion has on a person. After serving all of this time, will I be out of touch with reality, or will I be able to have a healthy relationship with a woman?

The physical and psychological condition that’s being implemented inside prison is unnatural. It’s not normal for a straight heterosexual man to not have any type of relationship, or communication with a woman.

Chivalry, courtship, and love at first, second, third or fourth sight should be encouraged. To have a section of any population that’s disconnected from normal, human behavior, is a detriment to society as a whole, and there are no winners in that situation.

I can only hope that chivalry, courtship and love at first sight, hasn’t died inside of me. I would hate to have let prison steal the human side of me.

FIRST ENCOUNTER

One evening, while playing handball, a skinny, Caucasian kid, with a cute, front-tooth gap asked if he could play me next. He wasn't very good, and I sensed he wasn't there for handball. I asked him why he was looking anxious. Things poured out. He said he was going home in eight days. I excitedly asked about his future plans, and he told me he "hoped to get a job." I was dumbfounded and, as more details emerged, livid. He was gay, kicked out at 14 by his parents. He experienced homelessness, drug addiction and prostitution. He came to prison for burglaries at 18. At 21, he is going to live in a shelter and "hope" to find a job. He had fallen through the cracks. He took the required transitional programs, but had no contacts for a reentry program. In the minutes before we were locked back in our cages, he shared his love of poetry. I made him promise to go straight to the public library when he got out to ask about reentry programs and getting into college. The next day, I sent a follow­-up note. The day after, he was placed in protective custody when a frisk revealed a can top he was carrying to protect himself from reprisals from the Muslim community after a sexual encounter with a Muslim was exposed.

SECOND ENCOUNTER

She reminded me of a heavier Janet Jackson. A beautiful smile below a gorgeous forehead and above a large set of breasts. She was going home in less than seven months. Naturally, I asked about post-release plans and, naturally, she didn't have any except a hope to share a friend's apartment. When asked about reentry programs and employment, she said they didn't sit right with her because they gave trans people a hard time. As we walked, I noticed she attracted a lot of attention. On one hand, she was objectified because of her femininity and breasts. On the other, she was degraded with cutting glances and remarks. She confided she didn't want to prostitute anymore, that it made her feel bad about herself. I never got a chance to ask what she would love to do with her life and how to make it happen. A banger (weapon) was found in her cell after she was accused of having sex with a blood (gang) member. She was sent to the box.

THIRD ENCOUNTER

He blended in perfectly with the other Muslims. We spoke in college courses. We tutored him and the Amir (head of the incarcerated Muslim community) twice in physics. One day, the Amir told me his brother, since transferred to another prison, gave up his faith to have a relationship with another man. It was a scandalous revelation. After the Amir died from cancer, his friend was transferred back. In a rare moment of semi-privacy, he confided he was gay, that he liked me, and was desperate to talk about his experience and future. Shifting his kufi, he said he couldn't reconcile his faith and his sexuality. Though depressed, he felt suppressing things was best. I offered an answer for people similarly challenged, a solution to help. He laughed as I started running and he went to join his Muslim brothers.

WARNING

I was asked to work in Transitional Services. I loved the program. I was privileged to assist gay and transgendered clients. There wasn't a lot of reentry information for LGBTQ people. Being proactive, I wrote 20 LGBTQ organizations for help with setting up a prison chapter and information on reentry resources. The mailroom flagged the open, postage paid envelopes and sent them to the Dep. Supt. for Programs. He had my supervisor issue a misbehavior report and had me removed from the job. I was disciplined - fined $10.00 for misusing state property (paper), $5.00 for the hearing, given seven days keep-lock, and lost honor block housing. The envelopes were then cleared to be mailed out. Go figure.

These are the last words of Eric Garner, a black man who died on a white, Staten Island sidewalk. I know this because I witnessed his death on news networks over and over again.

Before Mr. Garner was surrounded, tackled, held in a choke hold, had his head mashed into the sidewalk and became invisible to law enforcement and paramedics, I was struck by his words. "Leave me alone! I'm not going with you!" he yelled with his open hands up in the air. I know about the frustration he was expressing. I found it underneath the sadness of watching a man die and powerless to do anything but cry. Its name was fear.

As a person who is incarcerated, I experience this moment while going through security check points in prison.

A security check point has a magnetometer with security staff directing people through the machine in single file lines. Usually, when one has passed the scrutiny of the magnetometer, they continue following the line to the next area. You hope for this outcome. When you hear the words, "Get on the wall!" your heart sinks. These areas are invisible and dangerous, but you learn how to handle them. My face goes blank as I go through the motions of nodding at the officer, placing anything in my state pants on the table and assume the position. I hate myself that I go through the motions so effortlessly. With my hands firmly on the wall, I only slightly step backwards. No matter how far you step back, the officer’s script will demand “Step back!" Once I had an OJT (On the Job Training) officer who was intent on have me step back until it seemed I would be parallel with the floor. As my hands were sliding down the wall, an area sergeant came over and pointed out to the OJT what was happening. Lucky me.

Everyone knows that if your hands move, the officer is granted license to assault you. Other rules include: don't look up, down, right or left; when the frisk is over, stand facing the wall with your hands in your pockets. Violating any of these can lead to a severe outcome. If the officer is in a bad mood, I’ll make him tell me twice to get my things, just to be sure there are no misunderstandings.

Unfortunately, I learned to be a master of the security check the hard way. The first prison I was sent to, I found myself getting frisked. Because I was last in line, there were six officers in the area watching. The guy searching me seemed to be about my age. He reminded me of my older cousin. The officer frisking me made a comment, but I couldn't make it out. Confusion rolled across my face. An officer to my left commented on the expression. "He thinks this is funny." It was only natural that my face registered a sense of high alert and disbelief that I was being talked about. Another comment followed: “He thinks you are a joke!"

No more face reading. I found my face being slammed into the wall. My arms were wrenched behind me before I was handcuffed. I was directed through the long halls and found myself inside of a Sergeant's office. I was stripped naked. It's an odd dance where you have to keep your hands on the wall and remove articles of clothing with one hand while being threatened if the other one comes off the wall. Naked, I endured body shots and verbal abuse. I had heard rumors that bodies had been discovered in the basement and out on the prison's property. My reality was that I was going to die and never have the opportunity to repair my relationship with my family. The powerlessness struck deep. Back in my cell, I looked myself over with the small, funhouse mirror and only noticed a small bruise under my left eye.

What had I done? What had Eric Garner done? We were surrounded by people who had all the power in the world (as far as we were concerned). Why the escalation?

I believe we were somehow being perceived as undermining their authority. If memory serves me correctly the Stanford Prison Experiment demonstrated how authority could shape personality. In this experiment, male, college students were randomly assigned to two groups: prisoner or guard. Almost immediately, the men who put on the uniform costume began acting strange. Their demand for immediate control went far beyond what was needed. It wasn't long before authority became a sick and perverted virus that transformed the young college men into sadists.

It was the same thing with the Abu Graib prison in Iraq. Their physical bodies were tortured, their emotions taxed and their spirituality demeaned. Once photos were leaked, people were upset by what they witnessed. One detail that grabbed my attention was the occupation of a service member. He was a corrections officer.

I am suspicious that, with no oversight, Abu Graib gets played out time and again. I've assisted men who have been badly assaulted and they know the reality of how far authority without accountability can go. It is a culture that supports this mind set. This culture denies wrongdoing and delays the serious attempts to challenge those denials. This culture allows deep manipulation of others. If an officer is seen as being too fair or nice to an inmate, a fellow officer only has to rein him in with the taunt of "inmate lover." People will do a lot of strange things to satisfy the criteria of unbridled authority, to be seen as in control.

This culture allows for a group of officers to hear Eric Gamer's statement, "leave me alone!" or see an expression of confusion on an inmate's face and use it shore up any doubts about their authority rather than ensure justice or security.

Governor Pataki, a three term governor, was tough on crime. He brought back the death penalty and influenced law enforcement and the parole board to crack down on criminals. That meant keeping people in prison for a very long time. That meant building two new prisons whose design of having everything in the cell (a shower, a door leading to a recreation cage in the back of the cell, a table, and a chair) would fulfill the desire of many officers to hold prisoners in a cage for twenty-three hours a day. After Governor Pataki left office, Governor Spitzer took over. He was going to be smart on crime, but he was also a bully to the Republicans. It wasn't long before he was discovered with a prostitute in Washington D.C. and retired in disgrace. His Lt. Governor Patterson, disclosed drug use and marital infidelity before taking office. When Governor Cuomo took office he took note in his first State of the State that some of the prisons were basically empty, but still being used to employ correctional staff. He called this workfare and announced his plan to close prisons.

His plan created a frenzy of people who thought his plan was preposterous - even in the face of declining arrest rates. One of the main critics of his plan was the officer's union (NYSCOPBA). For the first time I witnessed a commercial that had a radio counterpart. In the ad, I saw a young, white, virile man in the costume of a Corrections Officer walk down a prison tier. You could only see the front of the cell gates, not inside of the prison cell itself. Were they empty? The message was simple, "WE are the only thing between YOU and THEM!"

I meditated on this advertisement. It seemed pretty simple. Recalling Robert Greene's "The Art of Seduction", I knew that anyone could create a marketing campaign. If I took any object, put it in a room filled with beautiful women all laughing, I could make you associate that object with desire and happiness. If you were lonely, it might stick. Corrections was playing on a different emotion: fear. All of the pieces were there. WE (Corrections), YOU (Society, anyone with a voter registration sitting at home or in a car) and THEM (us, the prisoners) were all connected. The power of the imagination concerning THEM didn't dawn on me until later. I was looking on the inside out. I knew a lot of good people: People who were remorseful, people who had survived really bad living conditions, people who died, people who kept their humanity and reached out to help others. But what if you were on the outside looking in?

Let me pause here to ask you to do a quick brain game. You are in a room. The only way to get out of the room is to choose one of three doors. Behind the first door is a room full of ninjas. Behind the second is a huge lion that hasn't eaten in thirty days and the third door opens to a raging fire. Which did you choose? Did you feel your amygdala scratching your fear instinct? This exercise demonstrates that I didn't have to describe what was behind each door to you. Your imagination fills in the blanks with amazing clarity. If we had thought about this predicament, we would have chosen the lion who hasn't eaten in thirty days and is dead.

The advertisement is creating the opportunity to connect fear with "THEM" - the invisible people behind the gates that you never see. What did you see? Did you see the rapist, murderer, robber? You see your worst fear.

On an even more subtle level, it is interesting to consider that the one of the few things our society places in cages are animals. And what do they say about animals? A leopard never changes its spots. So "THEM" hints at your worst fear - animals and something incapable of change. That's powerful. When I saw this level of possibility in the advertisement, I realized why the ad was played over and over and over. Corrections was seducing the population into believing it was the only answer to crime and criminals. The total institution of prison easily perpetuates an attitude that sees the people within its clutches as a bunch of animals. This attitude is leveraged by fear that keeps people held captive by shame and keeps the money pouring in.

I am not an animal. I have changed. I am your friend.