In prison, friendships developed like a seed; they took time, love and patience to bloom. You would think that there was a secret for making a friend in an environment like prison, but truly, no, relationships just happened like when Rah moved into my cell in Augusta State Prison. The day I met Rah, we would've bypassed one another if we weren't cellies, being that I'm nearly 15 years older than him. Plus — because we're New Yorkers — he's from Queens and I'm from Manhattan.

A transgender entered our housing unit and shouted female on the floor. This was a sergeant who looked like a man on the outside, but was a woman at heart--and those incarcerated did not agree. You heard men screaming, "You're not a female, you're a man." As I witnessed this, I became disgusted by the men around me. Why? This reminded me of when African Americans were being called the N-word. As the day progressed, I wondered how we couldn't be more than angry men who lashed

I met Micky J on Augusta Correctional Center, a man who spent 40 years incarcerated in a Virginia prison. He reminded me of the pimp from the classic Superfly movie. His salt and pepper afro was always well-maintained, as was his sculpted body for a 60-year-old man. He worked out all the time and bragged about being in better shape than the younger men around him. What made him most proud was how he kept the tiled floor in the dayroom polished like glass. That was Micky J, no

Tupac Shakur expressed that a rose growing from concrete was a beautiful impossibility. That was why three incarcerated men in a congested dayroom working to attain their associate degree appeared as an anomaly to the outside world. Education changed the lost to the found by offering them a path of success. An average man entered a prison environment with aspirations for survival, nothing more. This was attributed to the notion of what was constantly shared in society: Crimin

My friend Lefty called me into the dayroom, sharing with me that his sister had died, and asked if he could borrow eight dollars. Hi, this is prison, and craziness occurred daily--and yes, I lent Lefty the eight dollars. I remained on the top tier watching him vanish from my view, lugging mackerels and chips. Next to me was my neighbor Chris. Chris was an older white man who hid away in his cell as he worked through his life sentence. We started up a conversation about the st

Thursday, I'm up at six in the morning, shouting happy birthday to Red, my celly of two years. He tiredly thanked me as our day began. I waited an hour before the cell door opened and out I went, moving down the tier with a mozzarella cheese bar, a vanilla health shake, eight individual vanilla wafers, a strawberry Kool-Aid and my small plastic bowl and spoon. Ramutu ran into me with the small bags of milk I asked him for to make the cream cheese for Red's cheesecake--his bir

I made my way up to Medical on a cold February morning, only to learn that I'm heading out on a transportation run for a tooth extraction. This surprised me because I have never been transported off-site for my medical needs. I sat in the waiting area, being asked by a female officer my uniform size...Honestly, I didn't know it. This was how foreign I am to a transportation run. As we figured out my size, men began filling the entryway. Some for their diabetic shot, others to

The elderly of the prison system have always been my encyclopedia when navigating life inside. Funny, now I'm the one the young men approached for wisdom. In all truth, this wasn't a badge of honor, but more so the reality of my being incarcerated for far too long. Now they call me Unc (short for uncle). I'm a 49 year old that sat alone each morning at a stainless steel table. My books and college assignments littered the table as I sipped lemon tea from my coffee cup. The wo

My mind can't stop thinking about my brother Zo dying from cancer. Everything around me triggered memories about him. He was a shield that protected me from this madness known as prison. I been sharing how much I miss Zo, and that brings on more tears. Chris, my closest friend, worried I would relapse and get high. That started us on a journey as to why that would never happen: I'm not afraid to ask for help, and I'm not Tim. The night of Zo's passing, Tim decided to disrespe

A blizzard came down on our facility, placing us on Yellow Status, meaning only essential personnel were being called in. This meant that for the incarcerated men, outside was not on the menu. So workouts started and card games as men swarmed the six phones, calling out into the world. Life in prison didn't stop because of the elements; they adapted. That was why Haneef and I started working out. Each morning, Monday through Friday, we trained our aging bodies to stay healthy

Once incarcerated, an offender can become whatever he wants: a kingpin, a Division I recruit for a prestigious college, a porn star, the leader of an infamous gang, or a former Navy Seal. These are some of the men who can't accept the reality of being a state number in prison blues, so they lie. Bill, a 40-something white man with a fading green flute-like tattoo on the left side of his face, is a liar. He's frail, bald, and wearing wire frames. His story is that of pure nons

Finally, I'm back in college. My mind has been wrapped in crafting my fourth screenplay, and I completed that Sunday, the night before my return to studying for my associate degree. Now that I'm done with figuring out an ending for two unique characters, I'm in bed early, dreaming of what I'll learn in Western Civilization. Hopefully something useful. Ramutu and I would be taking two classes together this semester. This made me excited, because he too is passionate about atta

Twelve months of my life have been changed traumatically as I navigated Nottoway Correctional Center in Virginia. Now I will express that there were amazing triumphs in the year 2025, but that's not what this story is about. So sit back, and thank whatever deity you believe in that you aren't in prison. The first memory that I wish to forget is when Steve asked me if I wanted to make some money. He and I weren't social at all, but his celly and I were old workout buddies, so

I'm wide awake at 3 AM, on December 31st, 2025, celebrating my 49th birthday in my bunk. A wave of nausea collided with me as I braced my hand on the barred window. I made it 27 years in a cell, and now I'm starting my last year in my 40s. My head was ringing with cathedral bells as I blocked the noise with music from my tablet. I closed my eyes and began cardiac coherence, centering my breathing as the hand of my celly Ryan smacked my stomach as he shouted, "Happy birthday,

My celly Red yelled at the correction officer in the dayroom that nobody was in the shower as I awoke on Christmas day. He turned to me, saying that they were screaming for those in the shower to get out. Nobody was in there; the nozzle had been stripped for a few days, so the water ran day and night. Oh well, my celly did say good morning, and Merry Christmas. To change the negative energy, I opened up my locker, grabbed a handful of Kind bars, and dropped them on him when h

A snowstorm was in the forecast for the weekend, so the prison ordered my work crew to spread rock salt around the facility. We came out after lunch call, being instructed on what to do, then we started working. I had a five-man crew, and knew we would get the job done quickly. We huddled together, discussing who would do what. Since there were five of us, we took a section and headed for these industrial trash cans filled with sand/rock salt. They each weighed 80 to 100 poun

Wallen Ridge State Prison has a mystique that comes from the violence that is widespread behind its walls of concrete. The hard-edged offenders made it their playground, and that's where I was housed during my twenties. A young man who could do burpees like a Navy Seal trainer, and fought harder than one way back when. The job I held at that time was in the kitchen. You had a 3 AM wakeup, then departure around 3:30 AM. We walked in single-file lines, quiet, as the correction

Thursday morning, the day room came alive with complaints that somebody broke the cord to sync our tablets to the kiosk. Immediately, I awoke my thoughts with phrases like, "Don't drown in crap, walk around it," and "you're going home, SOON." That assisted me as I opened up my coffee-stained book for prayers. The stainless-steel table I sat alone at was near the backside of the day room. Ramutu lumbered over to me, "Tut, how many pull-ups we gotta do today?" This was a brothe

It's October 8, 2025, the start of my 27th year of incarceration. I woke up around 3 AM, realizing that this day had arrived. I prayed for all those impacted by my actions that hurt so many, then I struggled to find sleep again. My mind began reminding me of my crimes, the horrors I faced alone, and the fact that I'm in a cage, growing older. This usually broke my spirit, but now I'm better equipped to handle my depression. When I decided to confront my emotions in a positive

I had many friends during my incarceration, but none like Gee. We met back in the early 2000s, when Nottoway Correction Center was a tough environment for anybody. Our housing unit, Upper C East Side, was called the Ghetto. The administration gave us that name, and it was exactly that: a ghetto. When I met Gee, we were in the midst of a gang war. The kind that had you checking the stairwell when you marched outside. It was a hectic time, but Gee was the type who smoked cigare