MyTimeToBlog
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 brother from the rough streets of Richmond who had health issues thanks to five bullets that wrecked his chubby frame.
I placed the book face down, saving the page I hadn't read yet. "Twenty-seven for me, so--what--twenty for you?"
We joined Haneef, and Mecca for our morning stretch routine, then moseyed into the shower stalls for our pull-ups. There were no complaints, just groans as our bodies woke up physically. Sweat danced on my brow as we all dapped hands, then departed to freshen up.
My cell--on the top tier--was prime real estate, one cell away from the corner cell. Nobody ventured to my cell. So, it has clean floors that Red (my celly) and I utilized to remove our shoes before entering our cell. I found him on his bunk, toying with his foot-long dreadlocks, while his 12-inch TV broadcast that it's freezing weather outside. I'm washing my hands and face in the sink as Red began his morning rant about prison being miserable. I remained quiet as I dried off, dressed, then departed before more rants arrived.
Back at that stainless table, I'm praying and gearing up for my afternoon foray into Reentry. My promise of returning kept me anxious, simply over speaking with short timers who have their minds on the streets, not a lifer with a good heart. That was why I tried preparing myself with my daily mantra: "I'm going to win mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually, and financially." Does it work? I pray so!
My march out into the cold grabbed me just like my sprained ankle from that basketball game I played on Sunday. Bolo--this black behemoth--and I were side by side, traversing the concrete sidewalk for our daily allotment of slop--excuse me, food--in the chow hall.
The aroma of meat rock wafted around the congested chow hall. Incarcerated men packed every seat, and that was because GED and college classes were today. I saluted my friends, as I did, the majority of the men began their dart throwing contest with my injury: "Old man, you need a cane." "Tut, it's been five days, the pity party has ended." "You did good on the basketball court, then you didn't." I'm serenaded by them as I picked up my cold tray of meat rock gravy and sat with Bolo.
After I departed from the chow hall, I watched Bolo battle the cold, heading to his GED class. Pigeons littered the sidewalk, thanks to bread crumbs being tossed to the ground. I bypassed the older men who fed the pigeons, returning to the warm day room. I found Will and his motley crew commandeering the center stainless steel table, watching ESPN.
The large plasma TV had highlights from the NBA games that were played last night. Discussions began on who would win the title this year. I prayed to the NBA gods that my Knicks would be in title town this year...but I never uttered it aloud; I've been getting demolished for being a New Yorker in Virginia, thanks to my Jets and Yankees laying eggs all season. So, I'm praying that the Knicks won't.
Hours disappeared as I'm doing college assignments and calling family. When two o'clock arrived, I made my way into Reentry. The artist had painted a mural in the day room of a man in space ready to reenter Earth's orbit. I admired it for a spell, then Bull came and shook my hand. He was one of the men I gave a book to during my last visit. I offered him a new one, then made my way to Ced and Metro. They were the Peer Supervisor for Reentry. I hugged Ced, then he passed me a worksheet: Rehabilitating Incarcerated Men Part 2.
The men gathered around us, quiet, respectful, and studious. Ced went through the rules of saying, "Peace is how we begin our introduction, and peace is how we close." He followed that with a discussion on how men need to have emotional intelligence. As he continued to speak on it, he pulled on the men to open up and share their struggles, which they did. One in particular was Drama, a schizophrenic young brother who was incarcerated for a second-degree homicide that gave him 5 years, with 3 suspended on his incarceration.
This young man was articulate enough to be described as intelligent, but needed structure to deal with his mental health issues. He shared this, and I was entranced by how he was unapologetic about his battle with schizophrenia. His favorite saying was, "Sorry, I'm not sorry." He even dived into how he tried figuring out how he was like Albert Einstein falling out of a tree to come up with new ideas. Never had a young man grab my attention. The more he talked, the more I decided to speak with him at the close of our session.
I hugged Ced, who departed for the other reentry unit, teaching both sides. Myself, I stepped to Drama, who was getting cells opened for his peers at the booth. I extended my hand, which he shook vigorously. I handed him Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. I explained that since he expressed during his speech that he loved literature, this would be a great read. "Thanks, I need to open my third eye with books and K-2." Drama spoke calmly as he continued: "I get this euphoric feel as I'm opening my third eye to see the world in a new way. People don't want to believe me."
My mind told me: "Only in prison would you hear that craziness." This came to me as I found a young black gang member with preschool artistry tattooed on his face, bobbing his head to a rap song as we shook hands. "You good?" I asked before departing.
"Always."
My life is a unique episode into mass incarceration. You never know what to expect. "Me too."