Black Eyed-B

My rabbit has a black eye. Why wouldn’t he? He’s a prison rabbit. I distinctly recall that when I first came to prison, I spent more time with a black eye than without. But that’s beside the point. Black Eyed-B was born that way.

As I enter the yard, I can see him nibbling grass nearby. The moment I enter the yard, his head comes up and he freezes in that position, tracking my every move. 

First, I get my work gear ready. I keep watching out of the corner of my eye. Black Eyed-B hasn’t moved. He’s waiting. 

Soon I turn back in his direction. Then I lift my shirt and begin extracting a cereal bar from my waistband. In a flash, Black Eyed-B is running toward me. Before I can even open the cereal bar, he’s at my feet, perched on his hind legs and pawing at my shin with his front paws.

This gets me laughing every time. I bend down and extend a piece of the cereal bar towards him. He gently takes it from my hand and sets it on the ground a few inches from my feet. He spends the next twenty minutes enjoying a better breakfast than the other rabbits, who are scattered around nearby but too timid to approach. 

After spending over forty years in prison, I often consider myself as being from prison. In fact, when someone asks me where I’m from, that is my answer more often than not. Not to be a smart ass. Just being real. What I saw on TV last week is more real to me than nearly anything that happened before I came to prison.

That probably sounds harsh. It’s not meant to be. I had family and friends. I had good times. But that all ended at age twenty-one. In a few months, I’ll be sixty-three. All kidding aside, I am from prison.

Black Eyed-B is from prison too. In fact, he was born here late last year. He has three brothers and sisters. All of them are white with black markings. At times, it’s difficult to tell them apart. But then, I rarely have to. Black Eyed-B distinguishes himself.

One of the things about prison is that aggressive behavior is rewarded. When things are being passed out, those who put forth the most effort, usually get the biggest and best share. That goes against the will of the authorities, of course, but in a borderline unmanageable environment, one leans to adapt or suffers the consequences. 

In fact, that’s how I come to identify so well with the whole black eye thing. When I first came to prison, most of the other white guys led pretty boring lives. They’d lift weights. Sometimes they’d play softball or football. But the sight of a white guy on the basketball court was a rare occurrence.   

The significance of that fact is that that is where the fun was. Walking the yard, listening to stories grew old quickly. And lifting weights was easy to overdo. Early on, the doctor advised me to cutback or I’d wear out my shoulders. As I wandered around, wondering how to fill my three-hour recreation period, I kept coming back to the court.

I’d grown up playing a tame, suburban version of basketball. I’d always enjoyed it. But the game I’d learned to play was a far cry from what I saw on the court in the prison gym.

Then I’d go back to my cell and watch Larry Bird and Magic Johnson battling it out for supremacy in the NBA on my television. How could a young, athletic person witness such a thing and not want to play? I’m sure there are people who might say that’s possible, but it wasn’t for me. 

The first day I showed up on the court, it was ugly. There were about fourteen black guys and me. I had to wait an hour to get a game. Once on the court, I didn’t last long either. My opponents took it as a personal affront that I’d even step into their court. My teammates seemed embarrassed to have me. 

If that was supposed to discourage me from a repeat performance, they sadly underestimated my tenacity. The next day, I was back. The tricks that had worked against me yesterday no longer worked. That was fine though. They had many more. And, in the absence of some nuance of the game I was not apprised of, they often resorted to attempts at physical intimidation.  

The second day, even though nobody would yet pass me the ball, I managed to go get it from the other team a few times, much to the embarrassment of those I’d taken it from. This often elicited a physical response. A response I met in kind.

By the second week, people were actually passing me the ball. Sometimes I even made good plays. But I still had a lot to learn, and the environment still had a hostile undercurrent. What I lacked in skill, I tried to make up for with effort. Eventually, many of the other guys recognized this and I began to experience the first hints of respect.

One of the things I learned, as I got better, was that, much like the famous movie title from the 1990s, “White Men Can’t Jump”. So when it came time to go for a rebound, I had to clear out as much space as I could in order to have a hope of getting one. Even then, guys often sailed over me and snatched the ball before it got low enough for me to get my hands on it.

That’s where the black eyes came in. Sometimes, they mistimed their leap. Sometimes, the play simply wasn’t there to be made, yet they were not going to let the likes of me get the ball if they could help it.

This meant, several times a day, guys would land on me. In two or three hours of basketball, there are literally hundreds of rebounds to be had. Chances of me ending up with a black eye during those skirmishes was relatively high.

The other white guys made fun of me for my black eye problem. Often, the guards standing watch in the dining hall did as well. But I considered them a badge of honor. I’d become good enough that my opponents felt they had to resort to cheap shots to stop me.

Lest it seem as if I’m the victim in this story, I am not innocent in this. I dished out my share of lumps as well, except mine were lower because I rarely found myself soaring over anyone. But a lump’s a lump, and it all evened out in the end.

After several months, I even formed several friendships amongst the other players. There were still guys who resented me because I was white though. Many saw being beat by me as humiliation and would resort to nearly anything to prevent that from happening. But their angst only served to make me better.

After a couple of years, I was good enough that I rarely had to wait for a game. It was then that a friend of mine on the really good black team lamented to me that he regretted that I couldn’t be on his team for the season, but that some of the guys on his team would never stand for being on a team with a white guy. I suppose a lot of people would have been hurt by that comment, but I took it as the high compliment it was meant to be.

My basketball career ended many years ago. With two metal hips, my already inadequate vertical leap is virtually nonexistence, and if the doctor saw me even attempt such a thing, there’s no telling what he’d do to me. And, along with my basketball career, the black eyes have receded into the past as well. But they still hold fond memories for me.

So, when I saw Black Eyed-B for the first time, he immediately caught my attention. As I watched, he became more fearless each day. While his siblings would run from people, Black Eyed-B would amble right up to the fence and check us out.

When people started putting food down, some of the rabbits would simply sit back a safe distance and wait for the people to leave before they considered approaching it. And if people returned while they were eating it, they were easily scared away. 

Yet, Black Eyed-B displayed none of these characteristics. He’d fearlessly approach people a hundred times his size and wait for them to offer whatever it was they had for him. If it was to his liking, he would eat his fill, no matter how close they were standing.  

Black Eyed-B grew much faster than the rest of his brood. He was looking like an adult in just a couple of months. That’s when I decided he was my guy.

Adult rabbits are plentiful here. It’s the babies that really attract attention. Once Black Eyed-B grew big, he was no longer the center of attention. He was just one of the many rabbits; to many, indistinguishable from the others. The crowd, and their treats, flocked to the newest generation. 

My job brought me into this world more often than most. It also got me there earlier than everyone else. 

The first day I brought a cereal bar to the yard, it took a moment to get Black Eyed-B’s attention. The same with the second day I did. Soon though, he began to recognize me. That’s when our ritual began in earnest. 

Many guys feel compelled to possess the wildlife. They want to pick up the cute little bunnies and pet them. They want to offer food, then try to touch the rabbits. On occasion this is possible, but not very often.

I’m satisfied to have this small connection. I don’t want to make Black Eyed-B my pet. I don’t want to put him on a leash, or bring him back to my cell. I’m satisfied to share a bite to eat with him and know that we’ve got this small connection, even if only for a moment. 

My little friend Black Eyed-B might not have acquired his distinctive black eye the same way I used to, but he’s a prison rabbit through and through. And, when it’s time to go get his issue, he’s not shy about it.  Perhaps I’m simply seeing what I wish to see, but he’s my little friend and there’s no one in this whole place who brings a smile to my face like my little buddy Black Eyed-B. 

The day the doctor told me I’ve got cancer, I was in a daze. I wandered out to the yard, trying to wrap my mind around this devastating news. I was at a loss for what to do or how to cope with it.

In prison, everyone has plenty of problems. No one wants to hear how bad another guy has it. One learns to keep their yap shut and just deal with whatever blows come their way. I’m an expert at this.

That was how I’d resolved to handle my diagnosis. I was just going to walk it off. But then, Black Eyed-B came running up to me. I was startled. I hadn’t even reached for my waistband.

He put his front paws on the toes of my shoes and looked up at me expectantly. Looking down at his innocent face, my eyes filled with tears. I reached in my waistband and pulled out his cereal bar. By the time he was done with his snack, my little friend had given me the strength to keep pushing forward in the face of my heavy burden. I’ll never forget him for that.

Tim Pauley