BEING HERE

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 state of prison, as we watched the men below. One in particular was Twin, whom I broached the subject of his raising his hand and speaking about white people in a meeting for Black History Month. You see, we were told not to be angry black men as we showcased our blackness. Well, Twin said, "It's not like I'm going to call them something racist--and they do know our history, right?" This is who I'm going to be introducing to a large room of visitors, and I'm praying I didn't tie myself to a sinking rock, as Twin was scheduled for a four-minute speech on our history? Please tell me I didn't. Please.

My headspace has been altered since I stopped punching concrete walls as a way of feeling something different. Now I absorb knowledge through education and reading profusely. Besides, when you get men who smoke a laced piece of paper for a high, you gotta better yourself.

I watched the men below, seeing them chase card games. One in particular reminded me of my heydays: Mike. A two-time felon who played Uno all day, and had dances and goofy verses for when he or the players did something silly. I never danced, nor sang, never, but I invested in numerous games to escape the madness. Now, when I say madness, I'm talking about people eating from discarded trays, others who lied about being stone-cold killers, and the men who begged for a dollar like Lefty. So I tossed cards across the stainless steel table, trying to drift by the reality that I'll be in my cell for institutional count in an hour or so. Today, I grimaced because I wasted too much time dying in place rather than making the right moves to get the HELL OUT OF PRISON.

I gave up my perch and told Chris I'd talk with him later. He slithered into his cell, and me, I'm heading to my other friend named Chris (yup, there are two of them and both are white). He--the other Chris--was in his cell, going over his Magic The Gathering printouts as I knocked on the doorframe, then removed my sandals and made myself at home on his toilet's lid.

We were an oddity: a toothless white guy who bested his drug addiction and befriended a large tattooed black guy who could dispense a quote from Aristotle or Maya Angelou, depending on the audience. I always inquired about his day, because we're friends, then he returned the favor. Today I was trapped in my thoughts about those grooves on the wall in Wallen Ridge State Prison that I made from my repeated abuse with my fist. How the hell did I find that as an outlet? I couldn't answer the question...I still can't.

I knew a close friend who sliced horizontal openings in his penis and inserted shaved domino pieces inside to make himself stand out...in prison, but to whom? This was told to me as he almost lost his penis from an infection. I still email his mother monthly...but then I'm lying back wondering how we get this lost mentally? I did have a life sentence. Maybe that was it, because my friend had life too--the penis slicer. So possibly he, as I just wanted to escape this madness. I don't know?

I departed from the other Chris's cell and ran into Tom. He always spoke to himself, then to me. I smiled at him and nodded, but I never could make eye contact since his cell door opened while he sat on a toilet, naked. He stood and imprinted upon me and the dayroom of men his genitals. I recalled how this was supposed to be prison...is it?

College classes were supposed to be a haven for higher learning. Right? Incarcerated men sit quietly and jot down notes for those grueling tests. Yeah, that's what I'm assuming too, but then you had these micro conversations turn up for an hour and a half while our professor chuckled at his jokes that were dryer than an old man's fart--damn, Tom still danced in my cranium. Help. I'm desiring college while this gang member repeatedly poked me, asking why the professor inquired whether we ever watched any of the Percy Jackson movies. I shrugged and wrote the question down too. Hey, when in college, you never knew if it would be something to study upon since it was about Greek gods. Anyhow, I'm navigating this life as best as I can.

Now, there once was an incarcerated man who had no plan when he departed prison. He headed home, had a reunion with family, then climbed into a car with two other felons. They were pulled over by the police for something that turned into an attempted capital murder of a police officer. Thirty-one days free, then he returned to prison. We spoke and he said this: "You gave me the blueprint for remaining free but I didn't listen. Sorry about that, but I get it now." We're on River North Correction Center, where you couldn't stand idle in front of a fence, you had to constantly be on the move--and I moved right past him.

When you get your chance at freedom, you gotta clear your head of all this madness. I did it, but as these men constantly fail at life, I'm telling myself this: "When you get out, please make sure you call a therapist." I high five myself on learning that truth when I sauntered past a seventy year old man who told me he needed some sex--and this time with a woman.