He would tell anyone who would listen how he’s spent the last 30 years in prison for a robbery. Even if you don’t care or are tired of him telling you. I told him that he should write a book, and that people on the outside need to know what is happening to us in here. I told him that what people say becomes lost in time and space if people don’t write it down. His lips part in slow motion and he smiles and says, “Somebody needs to”, like I was supposed to take out a pen, put a quarter in him like a jukebox, stand back, and let him sing his favorite tune and start writing.
He spent every day and all his time constantly talking about how “these people” had locked him up for over 30 years “knowing they doing wrong.” Never mind he was preaching to the choir. Like we weren’t all being warehoused in this God-forsaken place. Like some of us weren’t doing time for something we didn’t do, or weren’t over-sentenced, or over-charged because we went to trial and didn’t take a plea deal.
The first time he would tell you, you would feel pity; maybe the second time too, but the third consecutive time, consecutive like 3 times in one day or 3 days back-to-back—pretty much every time you see him—you knew these walls and “these people” had driven him mad. And he was certifiably mad. There were a few older brothers like that. Everyday they’ll recount a story back to the 70’s or 80’s, about how they got locked up, and how these people want to cover up the fact they’re in here. It’s a sad thing to see. Someone you’ve gotten to know over the years, whom you see as old and harmless, slouched over from old age, recounting to you how they got locked up over 20, 30, 40 years ago—every time you have more than a 5-minute conversation with them, as if they never told you before. You could tell the wounds were fresh. It’s very confusing serving a life sentence for a crime you didn’t think carried life. It’s like you’re trapped in eternal damnation, a time loop, a purgatory, but you never get to go back and right your wrongs.
He constantly told the correctional officers, the youngsters, and the old heads that had been down just as long as him, “You know they doing me wrong, you understand that don’t you?” His eyes searching into your eyes looking for any shred of humanity in you that could feel his confusion and pain.
I once heard him and some older brothers talking about slavery and what some of our ancestors had been through in this country. This was in Black August, a time that represents community and struggle amongst the Blacks in prison. Out of nowhere he chimes in, “They don’t have it worse than us.” And of course, we knew he was talking about himself. He would get fired up all the time when you mentioned anybody’s struggle but his. We would all just shake our heads because we knew he was burnt out.
When someone that knows how the game goes in the “criminal justice system” told him he was looking at this moralistically and this was really a business and an extension of slavery, he would tell them not to tell him anything like that or it would make him want to do something to someone. Granted he was simple-minded, but physically he was strong. If he wanted to, he could really hurt someone. It really was a testament to the goodness in him amongst the psycho-babble that he didn’t unleash his fury on people, at least physically. However, you were going to hear him out. He was still a ticking time-bomb, and his normal disposition was confusion as to why they wouldn’t just let him out. I think maybe he might have had a learning disability, but his pride made him always scoff and joke saying, “Ahh you stupid,” like you’re the one that’s slow and to reinforce his stance on something he would say as a refrain, “You understand that don’t you, I know you do,” as if he was confirming his intelligence and yours.
Sometimes I think maybe he wasn’t crazy at all. Maybe he was sane and the rest of us that don’t talk about our incarceration all the time were losing it. Maybe we should be the ones racking the cell bars screaming at the top of our lungs about how we are being held hostage. How we have served our debt to society and are being held on “enhanced” or “alternative” sentences like “1-strike rule” or “3 strikes.” “Enhanced” and “alternative” sentences are like “alternative facts.” “Like okay I know you did x, y, and z but here is an alternative 25 years to life because I can’t charge you with a murder.” Or “3 strikes and you’re out” like a baseball game but on your third felony strike you get a LIFE sentence in the dugout a.k.a. prison a.k.a. a trip to the big house.
Maybe the only sane thing to do was wake up pissed off, with the darkest cup of coffee glued to your hand and pace in the cell with enough rage that you begin to emit heatwaves. Wait for anybody to pass by the door like some type of caged dog that barks at every passerby and tell them, “You know they doing us wrong,” hoping they understand your barks. Of course, every time I’d say “us,” I’d be talking about me because the only sane thing to do is think about my own oppression, my own loss and regret, and my own unborn children. It would be crazy to think about anyone else.
As soon as the cell door opens the sane thing to do would be to find anyone to listen to my story. Try to act calm like I wasn’t just pacing in the cell 30 seconds ago, lure them into a conversation by bringing up world events, or whatever piques their interest, and somehow bring it back to me. Then, rant and complain about being locked up for decades until I had cotton mouth, while close enough for them to smell the coffee on my breath that still has a hint of yesterday.
The sane thing to do would be to tell every correctional officer I could about how I have a life sentence and didn’t kill anyone, chastising them saying, “You know y’all wrong, don’t you?” To let them know I have the moral high ground; and then ask them with tears in my eyes “How do you explain that?” The sane thing to do would be to get riled up every time I heard about someone getting out that wasn’t me. My hands would flail matching every word I used that would be matched with spit every time I used a word with a “p” or a “b.”
I would tell people, “I am not doing no group therapies, or self-help, they know they did me wrong,” and “That’s crazy, thinking I need rehabilitation and they tryna take my life.” I would start arguments at the domino table because I can say what I want and, “They know these people are doing me wrong,” and then I would tell them “You too sensitive. What you think it’s gone be like on the streets?” Even though I haven’t been on the streets in years.
He did all these things and more. Many would look at JD like he was crazy. Maybe he was just doing what we all thought we had too much dignity to do. Maybe we were crazy doing all the self-help groups, group therapies, NA/AA, Domestic violence, victims’ impact, etc. , not knowing if we would ever get out or if they would just come out and tell us the truth and say, “You know what, it’s good you’re rehabilitated but we pay our mortgages from your being incarcerated. And our rural community hasn’t got any replacement jobs for unskilled labor, so our unions lobbied the politicians to put a tough on crime policy on the ballot, so we don’t have to let you out. Sorry, now lock it up before I mace you.” Maybe we were crazy for having hope and JD had it right all along. Because he may have been a little slow, had missing teeth, been the quintessential angry Black man, short, unattractive, no skills whatsoever –other than being a porter for over 20 years in a prison—could barely explain himself, a relic from slavery times, and/or Jim Crow. But today. he was going home.
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