For nearly as long as I can remember, I’ve lived in a cage. It’s a nice cage. Certainly better than the ones at the animal shelter. And they don’t execute us when we’ve gone unclaimed for too long.
For the first few years, Christmas was the toughest time to live in a cage. Back then, I still had vivid memories of Christmas being my absolute favorite day of the year. When I thought about that, then about what my life had become, it was almost more than I could bear.
Soon I developed a way to cope with that. I began pretending Christmas was just another day.
I’d strive to fill my days to the greatest extent possible. Staying busy with routine prison activities was my way of dealing with my emotions. It kept them in check.
At first this was somewhat difficult. Back then the institutions still tried to maintain the pretense that Christmas was special. They’d serve elaborate holiday meals. There would be Christmas events in the chapel. Yet pushing these thoughts from my mind seemed to be the best way to cope with my loss.
Over the years, the war on crime has dispensed with those amenities. Now the Christmas meal consists of a slightly larger portion of meat for lunch and a sack of cold food for dinner. And the programs? All but gone.
Make no mistake, this is a loss of my own making. I killed two men who’d never done me any harm. I took all of their Christmases. I also heaped sadness and despair on their families and mine. No, mine was certainly not the only Christmas I ruined.
But that was part of what made it so difficult. The more I thought of Christmas as this special time of year, the more I thought of the way I had tarnished this day for so many others. No, disregarding Christmas was more than a little self-serving. It was a survival tool.
On Christmas day, dozens of prisoners line up to use the few phones the prison provide. At first, Mom and Dad looked forward to my calls. I knew they wanted to hear from me, so I dutifully called no matter how long the line. It was worth it.
After a few years, however, my dad passed away. That was thirty-five years ago. Then it became even more important that I call. These conversations were the high point of my day. Sometimes, the high point of my year.
Sadly, I lost Mom twelve years ago. Now I see the lines at the phones and realize there’s no one to call. Sure, I still have family. But it’s not the same. They might accept my call just to be polite, but they’ve got things to do. Things that I’m not a part of and never will be as long as I live in a cage.
So these days, Christmas really is just another day. I woke up at the crack of dawn and began slugging down coffee, as strong as I could stand it. It was leg day, when I pretend I still have the capacity to lift a lot of weight. After all these years, that is kind of a joke in itself.
My door rolled open right on time too. I spent two hours grinding away, trying to recapture my youth. Even though I am but a ghost of my younger self, I still feel at home pushing my limits in
the weight room.
Throughout the morning, I’d encounter people who would offer a half hearted ‘Merry Christmas’. One guy even said, ‘Happy Birthday,’ then corrected himself. That’s just how Christmas is in the bighouse. When they finally closed the gym, I headed back towards my cage with nothing on my mind but how good a bag of ice would feel on my aching shoulder.
The moment I walked into my cage, I could tell something was different. Soon I noticed a package sitting on my bunk. My first thought was that someone must have gotten the wrong cage. Then I noticed a card with my name on it.
I opened the package to find a variety of treats. Homemade cookies, a large slice of cheesecake, an assortment of candy, tea, cocoa. Soon it occurred to me that someone had spent the better part of the previous day preparing this feast that lay before me.
When I opened the card it read, ‘Merry Christmas from Chelsea and Chris.’ I almost cried. it took me right back to a time before I’d tarnished this sacred day. To a time when this was still my favorite day of the year.
Instead of my usual routine of reading a book, writing a letter, or engaging in nearly any activity that might take my mind off the fact it was another Christmas in a cage, I did something different. I tuned my television to the channel that projected video of a fire burning in a fireplace with Christmas music playing. For the next two hours I thought about all the good times I’d experienced with my family on Christmas and how wonderful it all was back before I
threw my life away.
For the rest of the day, I was somehow able to keep my mind on the blessings I’ve enjoyed and all the wonderful people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Instead of wearing my prison mask and hiding, I wore a smile and an open heart. It was an unusual day in my world. Those around me might still be wondering why I was smiling.
When the door to my cage slammed shut at the end of the day, I closed my eyes and retreated into my lost memories once again. This beautiful gesture of kindness had transformed one of my most trying days of the year into an uplifting experience. Christmas in a cage was truly different this year.
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