A DAY AND A LIFE OF A MENTOR

My day always began in prayer as I crawled off my top bunk. The cramped quarters were my shared domain alongside Red, my celly. We rarely talked in the morning, maybe because we're mentally preparing ourselves for the daily grind of mass incarceration--or my breath stinks and he hadn't informed me yet.

Yeah, humor, that was a necessary tool when you're watching an elder who spent 40 years in a cell. Do not misinterpret that I'm laughing at him; more like I'm making him laugh. Think about this for one second: a man entering prison when a cassette player was a popular mode of entertainment. So, if I'm making Grandpa Jo smile, thank God, because anger was commonplace in prison.

Words like "I don't give a fxxk" or "It's whatever" have made for a long day of anxiety. Meaning I'm on my tippy toes, navigating arguments over washing clothes in the washing machine, or not cleaning up the microwave after use, or craziest of all, not picking up trash that was left behind at a stainless-steel table someone prepared their meals at. Fights arrived like emails on Jpay, constantly.

The moment I decided to become a Peer Mentor, I assumed I had all the insight in the world to help someone. Honestly, I do not. Especially when a 50-year-old man smoked hand-rolled cigarettes of synthetic Spice--or what we called Paper Crack. The zombies were everywhere, inebriated and staggering as they attempted to take a solitary step forward. My mind was still haunted by the father of a daughter who cried out: "They're killing me," as he tumbled down the metal staircase--then hopped up and raced back into his cell, shouting, "They're not going to get me!" Prison...what the fxxk.

Memories of violence were sprinkled throughout my memory bank. Now, as the third decade of confinement was about to begin, I kept the blinders down. Why? The same show at the same time has played since my 20s, and as my 50 years reached their apex, I'm burnt out. In earnest, even with the introduction of the transgender community, that too had become normal.

Shoot, a bisexual kid who leans on me for advice didn't freak me out anymore. When I first entered the prison system in 2000, it was taboo to be associated with the LGBTQ community. Now, they're one of us, and their misery was no different from ours. So, more discussions came between them and us, and nobody whispered, "Is he trying to sleep with that?" Time truly had evolved.

I remembered when we would watch the elders speak about the old days. They would have a crowd, as the stories were about drugs and wars with Virginia and Washington DC incarcerated men. That held all at bay, but now it's like, grow up. Serious, when you're 60 years old and talking about bruised knuckles, the young men waved them off and surrounded themselves with their peers. Me, I'm the corny guy from New York with the big chest.

I wear a badge that informs the populace that I'm a Peer Mentor. I hand out educational books to those in the Intake Units. I facilitate therapeutic programs and I'm a hugger...plus...I am called a bully. That title arrived when I stepped in on a group talking stupidly about who had more money in the rap game. I grabbed the ringleader and told him to read a particular book that I pressed to his chest. Did it work? Absolutely. That's why I'm a bully; I made him get into a book rather than wasting his day on someone else's money. Now it did get troublesome.

When you're good at something in prison, you're attacked at all hours. The men have mental health issues, sobriety issues, and are just lost in an environment where nobody truly cares about your problems...except that select few. So when on the phone with family, I'm getting called to have a private chat about one's issues. Me, the bully.

Lately, I've been inviting a large pool of morons into my circle. This was due to my being a Peer Mentor. I'm standing in the gymnasium with 60 new intakes, explaining to them about PREA (Prison Rape Elimination Act). This door I opened due to my badge had me being begged to help someone stay at Nottoway Correctional Center, where I'm housed. The pleas wore on me because I really wanted to help; then I met with those men at a later time...only to find them inebriated. These were men returning to prison for a second and third time, and they're still getting high. I refused to offer my name to assist them when I was witnessing that they were not ready for help. Most would still give them an olive branch, but I'm not that guy.

I sat with Steve (Peer Recovery Specialist) one morning in a classroom for college studies. I picked his brain on how to assist those who returned to prison for a second and third time. He replied, "All you can do is give them the information that we have; after that, it's on them, because until they're tired of this life, then and only then will they change." That remained with me as I sauntered from that junkie's cell and offered my assistance to another man who wanted help and wasn't high.

This life of mass incarceration had me shaking my head all the time, but my work on freeing myself of this life takes precedence. Seriously, I'm 28 years inside and I haven't succumbed to this...this insanity. Right now, I'm reading a parole questionnaire for a friend who wanted insight on how he answered it. He trusts me with what he wrote, and as I read it, I realized that he worked in here to better himself...but when the questionnaire is gone, could he express his truth himself? I'll find out, because I want those ready for a second chance to get the HELL OUT OF HERE.

Prison grinds our gears constantly, and for that to be hardship, despair, misery, and sadness, I'm grateful that I can smile and others--around me--call on me for advice and one of my great hugs.