SOMETHING BROKE IN ME

I cried more times this year than I have in my entire life. I don't know if it's from hearing all these motivational speakers who showed up at Nottoway Correction Center? Or have I tuned into this emotional side that the world said I couldn't? No matter what, I'm crying as I'm reading an article about my fallen comrades who died in a prison cell.

I shook those sad thoughts off and rejoined the prison populace. Besides, it was chicken nuggets for lunch, and a strawberry Poptart. I'm on the top tier, my perch, watching my comrades as they're bickering about prison life. I sighed, took a breath and marched ahead.

The front steel door chugged open for our housing unit. I'm in line with the men, stampeding into a choking hallway where I found Hawk mopping the floor. He immediately complained about how we screwed up his floor. I attempted to hug him, but he shoved me back. No man-on-man touching. I flipped him off. His response: "I love you too, Tut." That had him smiling.

The sidewalk that leads us through a maze of barbed wire fences loomed over us. I'm seeing the elders of the prison, most wave, smile, and then I came face to face with Pete. Pistol Pete. An old bank robber who took the lives of all his partners. Old as dirt, he liked to play a shooting game: he shoots you before you shoot him. "Bang. Bang," he would shout triumphantly. This game has become a fad for everybody who knows him. The sad truth is he's a racist prick who pretended to be your friend. This truth came to be known by his former celly, who had to remove himself before harming a bitter old man.

As I stepped into the chow hall, I was standing in a line full of men, chatting away, and anticipating a pat down from correction officers that swarmed the exit we were to use upon finishing our lunch trays. Some of the men were eager to be rubbed down by the female COs. I shook my head as I picked up my tray and scanned the chow hall for an available seat with someone competent. I found Ten-A-Key.

Ten-A-Key had spent time together with me in another prison. He enjoyed sharing his art, which transformed him from a drug dealer. Now he was in pursuit of an associate degree in business. We chatted about our struggles with grasping higher learning while incarcerated...but then someone would interrupt us by complaining about the movies he put on for the prison channels. This occurred daily because they wanted what they wanted to see, but since they had nobody to get movies sent in, they griped constantly about what they watched. I told them to change the channel, or better yet, get transferred somewhere that didn't show movies, period. That always had them exiting stage left, and me chuckling as Ten-A-Key and I were fondled by strangers (COs) for a well-placed baggie of juice, or stale bread to feed the pigeons. Prison life.

I'm meandering up the sidewalk, staring at this obese man named Charlie. He weighed 350 pounds and always patted my back when we passed each other. Today, his breathing was labored, so I stepped up to him, asking if he was good. He waved me off, assuring me he was fine. I'm watching him take a few steps, then stop. This repeated itself as he entered the laundry building, where commissary also worked out of. Charlie slithered out the front door with two pints of vanilla ice cream in his meaty hands. I sighed again, then closed my thoughts, thinking about where I was at: Prison.

Unlike my previous years--where I abused drugs, hustled snacks, and mastered doing 20 pull-ups a set--I had my blinders on. My focus was on being tough, respected, and not having my buttocks become an entry for all signs. That was me, lost, empty, and without a solitary thought about growing myself mentally. Now, I'm crying as I close myself off in my cell after lunch.

How could I have been the kid who entered this hell by being so broken? That made me grab my tablet and blast my music. It's Hillsong United's top 5 singles. I needed spiritual healing because I'm suddenly being called out of my cell by Chris.

Chris is a close friend who abused drugs so much that he didn't have any teeth anymore. On top of that, his only child was in a supermax prison...trying to be a gang member. They were on Nottoway together, but Chris had issues that consumed him that he couldn't be a father to himself, let alone his son. So, we sat in the day room, by ourselves, discussing how we could better prepare our lives before we get out of prison. This helped him, as well as me. Why? We're talking beyond these walls of shame and steel. It helped because, as the days had passed, Chris took more control of his life and actually had self-help books shipped to his son.

As our nightly talks continued, Jae began joining us. This was a former male escort with mental health issues who had him physically assaulted more than once. So, he spoke with me because this aspiring author introduced us. After all, Jae wanted to write a book...which never materialized; Jae talked smart, but had childish traits that affected him in all that he did. So as we talked, the conversation returned to his appearance: did he look 22? When I said he didn't (he was actually 27 but looked 40), this turned him sour and he constantly questioned me about what he could do to make himself look 22. I tuned him out and retreated to my cell.

Before my earbuds were stuffed into my ear canals, my celly began ranting about how many new people were in the unit and how his maintenance job kept him tired. This went on for thirty minutes--and before I could close my eyes for the night, he started saying that the prison would shut down if he weren't working for them. I lay on my side, giving him my back.

A new tomorrow would come, and I would need to be mentally ready for it. As I thought about that, a tear trickled down my cheek. The hundredth one I shed this year. When will they stop? I sighed, then I heard someone screaming that his basketball team won. Prison...tears.