One day, while walking the yard at an SCI on the western side of the state, I had a conversation with three younger incarcerated citizens, who were unfortunately also serving DBIS (death by incarceration sentences). Hopefully, you will find our conversation enlightening.
It was a pleasant summer afternoon — low humidity, not too hot, with a light and gentle breeze that almost made me feel alive. I had already made my rounds, sought out and acknowledged the elderly incarcerated citizens, hurled insults at the young’uns on the basketball court, even had the nerve to give the guard manning the tower the finger (when his back was turned, of course). Eventually, I made my way back up onto the track in the north yard, where I was greeted by three younger brothers. After exchanging greetings, we continued walking together, talking about what the perpetually imprisoned usually talked about…prison.
As we walked and conversed, I will admit that I was hearing but not actually listening to what they were saying. I was too preoccupied with the sights, sounds, faces, and all the other non-prison-related activity going on around me. There was this dull sound of a distant pat pat of a basketball bouncing, then the thud and distinct metallic vibrato from a brick shot hitting hard against the side of the metal backboard. I heard the ear-ringing tap tap of dominoes being hammered down by calloused hands on top of the metal picnic tables that lined the perimeter of the track. There was also the loud and abusive rap and rock music echoing from the dozens of Yamaha keyboards and Super-3 radios laid out in the outfield of the softball field.
Prison life at its finest. The arguments, laughter, petty disputes, litigating, foul language, cries for help, cheering, complaints, exercising, hunting, and other stuff some of us do to help us cope with the hellish environment on a daily basis. As always, with all the chaos going on all around me, what I usually found myself focusing on was the beautiful scenery all around and above me, in the sky as well as on the other side of the 16-foot razor-wire fences surrounding the yard and the rest of the institution.
Like the stacks of multi-colored leaves that covered the trees lining the hillside. The birds of all species, swooping and diving in the sunny blue skies above the prison yard. Occasionally, an airplane or helicopter would fly overhead. Having never been on either before, I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to travel that way, amazed at the size of the machines being propelled through the air by nothing but faith.
Once in a while, I’d get a glimpse of a wild turkey sprinting across a field or a timid deer peeking out from behind a tree before retreating back to the safety of its special hiding place, exposing themselves just long enough for me to know that life still exists outside this metal and stone sarcophagus we’re forced to live in.
We were walking, I was lost in the moment, and my heart was full of so much joy and promise of a future void of prisons. I was joyful, because in that moment I was…free.
“Look! OG havin’ an Epi!”1 the 20-year-old yells, dragging me back down into hell.
“What do you see?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.
“Who…me?!” the 20-year-old asks.
“All of you…look!” I pointed. “What do y’all see?”
First, they all looked at each other, but none of them tried to clown me. They respected my hand and knew that I was a deep thinker. Suddenly, they were all intrigued. So, for the next hour, as we spun the track, they all went on and on about all the things they were seeing transpire around them.
Like the guy walking the track holding onto the back pocket of his lover’s cocoa-brown uniform pants. The swindlers passing out pro football gambling tickets in June, when the season didn’t officially start until September. The fiends picking up dead e-bombs2 and attaching them to homemade battery powerpacks just to get a single puff of the crack-like poisonous alkaloid vapor.
They complained to me about how the guards were walking around the yard telling the men not to work out in pairs, not to sit on top of the picnic tables, not to slam or dunk the basketball on the rim (that they had not personally paid for), to put on their t-shirts, not to stand idle on the track. They also pointed out to me how the guards were cutting in front of or cutting people off while they ran the track, forcing them off their path and onto the grass or into other prisoners. And how the yard guards had intentionally turned off the only working water fountain in the entire north yard, all because they didn’t want to “Smell you guys’ funky ass sweat!” as we drank from the fountain some rocket scientist had decided to put right next to the guard’s station.
Suddenly, multiple gunshots erupted from the guards’ shooting range down over the hill adjacent to the yard where they trained.
“I swear, OG! Them racist ni**az be doing the most! That sh*t right there be a scare tactic!” the oldest of the three yelled, suddenly angry and perspiring as his steps quickened. I understood why he was so upset, but to be honest, the sounds of gunfire made me feel like I was back in my old neighborhood, so I could’ve cared less. I tried to lighten the mood so we could salvage what was left of (all things considered) a very pleasant day. Before I could get a word out:
“YO! Y’all want something from up top? I’m about to grab a soda!” proclaimed the 20-year-old before sprinting off in the direction of the fieldhouse instead of waiting for our orders never to return. Kids!
I wanted to share this story with you because as me and the other two young men continued on with our walk, I never once heard either of them mention any of the things I was seeing above the prison or on the other side of the fence. It was as if there was some kind of bubble or invisible shield around the yard that I only I could see through. Now I was the one who was intrigued.
So, I asked them why they hadn’t mentioned any of the things I was seeing. I even went so far as to point several things out, like the sky and the deer. And to my surprise, they wouldn’t even look. So, I asked them, “Why?”
“‘What?! You talkin’ ’bout out there?” one of them says, pointing. “No disrespect, but that sh*t right there, that right there ain’t for me no more…l’m in here! This be me right here, Big Bro. So, I ain’t concerned with nothing out there. That sh*t is a fantasy, Big Bro…These folks done gave me LIFE, Big Bro! Ni**a, I’m over!” he says, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes. I knew exactly how he felt. I had been him years before. So, I just nodded my head in agreement and said nothing.
“I feel what you saying, Big Homie…but I deal in reality,” said the other guy, breaking the awkwardness of the moment. “I can’t afford to be looking out there…l deal strictly with reality, Bro. And my reality is that these crackas told me that my Black ass was going to die in prison. No birds. No deers. Just a cell until I die. So I ain’t got it in me to be sightseeing…and I don’t give a damn about what’s on the other side of that damn fence!”
“ATTENTION IN THE YARD! ATTENTION IN THE YARD! YARD IN! YARD IN! YARD IS NOW TERMINATED! IREPEAT, YARD IS NOW TERMINATED! PLEASE RETURN ALL EQUIPMENT TO THE FIELDHOUSE AND PROCEED TO THE MAIN GATE. YARD IN! YARD IN!”
Now, before I was so rudely interrupted, I had just been about to try and say something profound and oldhead-like, but I allowed them to feel the pain they were feeling. Pain can sometimes be cathartic when you are being oppressed or feeling depressed and hopeless. They were not wrong for feeling the way they did. Prison is hard. It is even harder when you are told you can’t leave…EVER! So, I understood the pity party they were throwing for themselves. I’ve been the guest of honor at several myself.
We (those of us who have done time) have all bought into the concept of our punishment and what we had coming to us at some point in our incarceration. So, it’s only natural to get a little depressed and down on ourselves. But to feel so trapped and defeated that we can’t even imagine being able to see ourselves outside prison or on the other side of a prison fence is to accept defeat.
Freedom starts inside you, down deep in the core of who you truly are. It is not “normal” for a man to be caged. If you only see a future for yourself that involves you in chains, then you will never try to free yourself from those chains. Freedom is more than something you attain, something you fight for. If you can’t free your mind long enough to see the beauty in what the Creator has placed all around you, your perspective on life and visions of self will always be cloaked in chains. You will never be free.
You will always be in prison.
1Epi: Allergic reaction to a drug
2Electronic cigarettes
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