Introduction
Geneva was one of two grandmothers who raised me. She is the mother of my mother, and first had custody of me while my mother was off in the military. Though we had very little, the experiences I had growing up with my mothers side of the family–good and bad–were valuable themselves. The things I learned, endured, and saw are stories I’ve yet to write about.
Growing up in my neighborhood was such a fruitful time. I mean this literally. There was not one house that didn’t have some kind of fruit tree or plant. And almost everyone had a garden. My grandma Geneva had a garden, and she and my grandpa Alvin (Buddy) taught me a great deal of how to tend to plants.
I never thought that the woman I saw as my mother would die in my lifetime. I can honestly say that I’m still in disbelief today. I often wonder whether she’s standing beside me at times. I like to believe so.
After being informed that my grandmother passed away. I wanted to turn my experience into a brief story, to show folks what one such as myself endures while in prison, and particularly in solitary confinement. It was then that I wrote “The Disturbing Call.” It was truly a hard piece for me to write, because I wrote it immediately. I put a great deal of pain, love, and sorrowful feelings into it. I didn’t write it for anyone to feel sorry for me, but just to give readers a look at things from my perspective.
“Ms. Geneva” is a poem I wrote some time later. In the poem, I reminisce on some of the good times with my grandma. It is just a brief look at my life with her. These events date back to the mid and late 1980’s. Life back then was so much different than that of today. The air even tasted different.
I also wrote this poem with true feelings and sorrow. However, I wrote both these pieces knowing I’d be keeping my Mama alive, and for that, I am joyful.
I dedicate these two pieces to my grandma Geneva, as well as to all my family on my mothers side. May we keep her alive by not forgetting her. She was such a realist, and was never fake with nobody. She spoke it how she felt it, and lived life the way she saw it. And I’d be lying if I said I don’t have her blood in me. I’m full of it.
So, I hope that while reading this, you’ll also keep your loved ones–past and present–in mind and heart, and the good times y’all shared. Remember the experiences, both good and bad, that you endured.
And that’s what’s up!
The Disturbing Call
Friday, February 24, 2009:
A bit past 4:00, and I’m in my cell at the Ohio State Penitentiary, Supermax Solitary Confinement. I’m watching the Wayan Brothers Show on the CW.
Correctional Officer Ms. Greene is knocking at my cell door. Slowly, I get up to see what’s up. This is a non-movement day for inmates (No showers or recreation, except for make-up recreation), so, I’m clueless as to what she wants!
With a curious look upon my face, I walk to the door. Correctional Officer Daniels is stand to the side. Two CO’s are to be present at all times when dealing with anyone (inmates).
“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask.
“Mrs. Parker wants to see you,” says CO Greene.
“Whatcha say?” I ask.
“Mrs. Parker wants to see you,” she repeats.
“Mrs. Parker wanna see me?”
“Yeah!” C.O. Greene says.
Standing in my shorts, I reach for my shoes. “I gotta wear my states?” I ask.
“Yeah, you got to wear your state clothes,” says Greene.
I fumble through my stack of folded clothes, find a state shirt and pants, and get dressed. I brush my teeth and comb my beard, and proceed to get cuffed up–due to my security level (supermax), I have to be cuffed from the back before exiting my cell.
Click, slide, click, door opens.
Click, slide, click, door closes.
C.O. Greene pats me down, and we begin to walk down the steps.
“What’s up, Ms. Greene?”
“Hey, what’s up, Wright?” she responds.
“You know what dis bout?” I ask.
“No,” Greene says bluntly.
I kneel on the bench to have leg shackles put on and we proceed to leave the block. I have no socks on, so the shackles cut into my ankles.
Click, slide, click, door opens.
Click, slide, click, door closes.
Walking down the hall towards the barber shop, I 360 my surroundings. Mrs. Parker stands inside the Barber shop alone as we enter. Mrs. Parker is the Unit Manager Administrator (UMA), for C-block.
“What’s up, Mrs. Parker?” I say as I’m locked in a small cage of thick plexiglass.
“What’s up, Wright,” she responds. She has a blank look on her face and is holding a single piece of paper. She says nothing until COs Greene and Daniels have left the room.
“What’s going on, Mrs. Parker,” I ask as they leave.
“Just got off the phone with your mom,” she says.
“”My mom?” I say, looking confused. I think to myself that something is wrong. “What’s wrong wit my mom”? I ask worriedly.
“Your grandma passed away,” she tells me.
“My grandma,” I say, almost dumbfounded. “Which one?”
“Your grandma Geneva,” she says.
My grandma Geneva is my heart, and the mother of my mother. She’s one of two grandmas who took care of me as a child. She taught me how to garden and raise livestock. She taught me how to kill and pluck chickens, and make homemade chicken and dumplings.
She used to sit under our apple tree with friends and family, playing poker for coins, drinking, listening to the blues, all while teaching me to garden, and she only would get up to correct me.
“UH UH, baby, let me show you how to plant those seeds,” she would say as she stood up. “Now baby, you’ve got to remember what I teach you, okay?” she would tell me.
“Awright, ma!” I’d say.
–
Thump-Boom, Thump, My heart pounds, head spinning. Instantly, I get a headache.
I quietly stand in awe, rubbing my face, trying to come to understand what was just told to me.
“My grandma passed away!” I say.
We stare at each other. I guess she’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “Your
mom said you two were real close, and that you’d take it hard,” she says.
I stand there, eyes watery. “Yeah, she was like a mother to me,” I say in pain.
“Your mom said you’d take it hard,” She says, still staring at me. Then: “Due to your security level, you won’t be allowed to attend the funeral.”
I already know this, but she only adds fuel to the fire in my heart. I suppose she felt she was compelled to inform me of this due to procedure.
“Would you like to talk to the chapel or the psych?”
“No! Speakin to you was enough,” I tell her.
These folks already deem me a criminal unable to change, grow, or develop. If I go to the psych, all hysterical, with no self-control, they’re liable to mark me as an unstable subject, put me on drugs, and have me walking like a zombie.
“I’ve informed Lieutenant Gallaway to let you use the phone,” she tells me. “Your mother is on the highway on her way home to Columbus now, and I’m on my way to call her back,” Mrs. Parker says.
“When she say she’ll be home” ?
“She said she’ll be home in an hour or so, and for you to call around 6:00 PM.”
“Aw-ight,” I respond.
“I’ll have them come back to take you to your cell in ten minutes, give you a few minutes alone,” Mrs. Parker says.
“You going to be alright?” She asks.
“Yeah,” I bluntly say.
“I’m going to go call your mom on her cell phone now,” she says.
When Mrs. Parker leaves, I’m left standing, heart devastated and heart broken. A few tears drop as I try to keep my composure.
Ten or fifteen minutes pass, and I observe COs Greene and Daniels on their way to get me. By now they’re aware of my situation.
Mrs. Greene hand cuffs me, pulls me out the cage, and proceeds to escort me towards my block. “When do you want to use the phone?” she asks.
“Bring it in around 6:30 p.m., my mom should be home by then.”
“Alright,” she says. “Entering the block.”
Click, slide, click, door opens.
Click, slide, click, door closes.
I Kneel on the bench to have the leg shackles removed, and we walk up the stairs to my cell. Ten steps away from my cell, I break down and cry. I can’t keep my cool any longer. As I turn into my cell, I look up and lock eyes with prisoner Jason Robb, who I’m sure saw the pain on my tear-streaked face.
“Walkin in my cell,” I say.
Click, slide, click, door closes.
Ms. Greene removes the cuffs. I go to sit on my bed, but she calls me back to get my mail. I grab it and angrily toss it to the side. I sit down, crying in pain.
At 6:40 PM, Mrs. Greene brings me the phone. I have to use the phone while in my cell, due to my security level.
“Dialing Mom!” The phone rings.
“Hello?” My mom answers.
A recording automatically takes us through the procedure.
“What’s up, mom?” I ask, hysterically crying. I can’t help but blame myself, on account of my absence.
“Mikey, you gotta be strong!” my mom says, yelling.
Why I gotta be strong, who gonna be strong for me, I say to myself. The pain has me thinking crazy. I continue to blame myself for everything. “I’m suppose to be out there for y’all, it’s why y’all is unhappy!” I say. “I shoulda been there for ma.”
“You gotta stop blaming yourself, Mikey,” my mom says. “Everyone is unhappy because of their own problems, and there ain’t nothin you coulda done to save your grandma. Cancer had spread throughout her body. And the doctor told her numerous times to stop drinkin or it would kill her. Then, they tried to keep her in the hospital, but she refused, and said she’d rather be at home. Her organs began shutting down, and she had to be rushed back to the hospital, and the doctor said she was dying, wit only a few hours left to live.
“She requested my presence, and held on until I got there,” my mom continued. “I was in Columbus and had to rush to Lima before she died–it takes two hours. Once I got there, she refused to let go until she had confessed her sins, and accepted Christ in her life with the pastor there, holding my band. Soon after, she said she was tired and ready to go, and she slowly let go. She wasn’t in no pain, and she went peacefully.”
“At least she wasn’t in no pain,” I say. “But I didn’t even get to see her, say see you later, or I love you.”
“She knows you love her deeply, Mikey,” my mom says.
Phone recording: “You have sixty seconds left.”
“I’ll call you back, mom”
“Alright.”
“Second call made!”
We resume our conversation. “When is the funeral”? I ask.
“Wednesday, March 4. I’ve already made all the funeral arrangements. Thelma’s gonna help pay for it. I’m going back to Lima tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” I say. “She didn’t even get to visit me,” I say.
After a few minutes, the topic drifted to my case. “It won’t cost as much as you think to get my time reduced,” I say.
“Yes it is, it’s gonna cost hundreds of thousands, or maybe millions of dollars,” my mom says, in a rage of certainty.
She has so little faith in my freedom, I say to myself, what little hope I had crushed. I quickly change the topic.
I often think back on all the bullshit I’ve been through, and how she was dragged through it all. I know she’s tired, I say to myself. She’s always been by my side, holding me up.
I sometimes wonder if she believes I’m better off here. Maybe she feels I’m safer here (I’m not), and so she doesn’t have to worry about getting that disturbing call.
She seems to get frustrated when I speak on getting out. Maybe it’s that she can’t get me a lawyer at the moment. Maybe I’m just trippin. We talked for a bit longer on the phone.
“You have sixty seconds left,” the recording says.
“Give everyone my love!” I say.
“Alright! Imma send you some money and stamps, and try to visit soon. The van acting up!” She tells me.
“Don’t worry about visiting until you’ve got sufficient transportation!” I tell my mom.
“You have ten seconds left,” the recording says. “Alright Mikey, I love you!” She tells me.
“I love you too, y’all be safe out there.”
“Alright, Love you, bye!”
“I love you too, see you later!”
I hang the phone up, and inform CO Greene I’m finished. She retrieves the phone, locks the cuff port, and leaves.
Crying, I sit on my bed, reminiscing about my grandma, and all we went through. The good times, and the bad. I feel dark, lonely, and lost inside, as I sit trapped in a 8×10 cell of brick and metal. I can only try to stay sane and human.
–
Saturday, February 28, 2009, 11:53 am:
I haven’t slept in twenty four hours. I’ve cried all night and morning, listenin to slow music (Isley Brothers), and drinking coffee. My cell is a mess, due to my tossing things around.
I haven’t felt like going to recreation or working out, but I do so anyways to relieve new and accumulated stress. Indeed, I feel a lot better after my emotional and recreational release.
–
March 2, 2010:
Here I sit at my desk, staring at my ma on the wall, reminiscing.
I can only pray she’s gone to a better place than where I sit today.
This is one day of pain endured here, so you can imagine what ten, twenty, thirty years of this is like.
Nonetheless, I continue to push forward, striving to get through my struggles best I can. Whether here or there, we must all do so, as we close in on our own demise. Don’t take life for granted, because the next day isn’t promised.
Families: love each other, because when you gone, you gone! Try to lift each other up, as opposed to knocking each other down all the time. And adults, we must start guiding kids positively, and teaching instead of preaching. And stop the hate! Congratulate and participate! As others destroy, you rebuild!
For Geneva “Ma” Horne
1938-2009
We all love you, and shall see you in due time.
Ms. Geneva
2010
Ms. Geneva, will you come back home, cause I’ve yet to come to terms with you being gone.
Ms. Geneva, you were like a mother to me, and I remember vividly when we had less than nothing to eat.
Ms. Geneva, you the one showed me how to grow greens, plant those seeds, and shuck that corn,
Ms. Geneva, how is it that you’re gone, and I’m left here to mourn.
Ms. Geneva, I miss you, and watching you, friends and da family play poker for coins, drinking and listening to da blues,
Ms. Geneva, I remember watching Buddy work on cars, and him introducing me to the tools.
Ms. Geneva, remember the apple trees that sat in the back yard,
Ms. Geneva, remember on Union St. how small the house was, including the front yard.
Ms. Geneva, remember how I’d go fishing at the Salvation Army pond, and bring bass back for ya’ll to eat,
Ms. Geneva, I didn’t want any, I was a kid who wanted candy, and the fruits in the trees that were so sweet.
Ms. Geneva, you taught me survival while having nothing,
Ms. Geneva, what you taught me is really something.
Ms. Geneva, you showed me how to cut the head off that chicken, pluck it, clean it, and make the best dumpling.
Ms. Geneva, those chicken and dumplins were always jumpin.
Ms. Geneva, I’m so sad you’re gone,
Ms. Geneva, do you think you’d still be here had I been home.
MS. Geneva, will you forgive me for leaving you all behind,
Ms. Geneva, I never anticipated receivin all this time.
Ms. Geneva, will you guide me through prison,
Ms. Geneva, will you help me see clear my visions.
Ms. Geneva, you were some kind of woman, an extraordinary kind of lady,
Ms. Geneva, whatever happen to Buddy Son, now that fool was crazy.
Ms. Geneva, WHEN I look at the beautiful, bright moon, I can see your face,
Ms. Geneva, will you be sure to save your son a place.
Ms. Geneva, are you really living an eternal life.
Ms. Geneva, I suppose the same way you found out, so will I.
Ms. Geneva, I just wanted to talk with you a bit, cause I miss you.
Ms. Geneva, you give everyone up there my love, and don’t forget the kiss too.
Okay!
See later, Ms. Geneva.
I love you, Boo.
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