It was the day of all days. The days that I would look forward to the most out of the year. As I am looking out my window waiting for the rain to start hitting it, I see the clouds in the sky building up more of a thick plump shape to them, a thousand things, thoughts, and ideas are running through my mind just like they do each and every time I get a few minutes to just relax and kind of not be where I’m at even if it’s just for the moment.

Thirteen dollars and fifty-eight cents is the sum of a month of involuntary labor, and unexplained restitution deductions. How the hell do I survive off this? “Three hots and a cot,” but bro ain’t never lied! Immediately my stomach growls at my now sweaty pits as the battle begins: hygiene versus food for the month.

“Thank you for coming. Before we begin, I must inform you that I am required by law to report any thoughts of self harm or…”

All I could hear resonating over the music was, “I am going to fucking kill you.” I am naked in a tiny basement bathroom with a window too tiny to exit, drying off with an oversized plush bath towel when I heard the shrieks of a drunken psychopath. Before I could even think, I received a blow to my head and now the added scent of blood. Blood everywhere was flowing from my forehead, a feeling not so unfamiliar.

I chased a magical white substance to a small hole. I was not alone. My lover and part time friend gave me the extra courage to take the plunge. She did not survive the fall. 

I lay on my 15-year-old mattress. Three-inch foam. It’s 2 ½’ x 6’ and makes up what the state intends to be not only my bed, but my living room as well. Gravity presses my bones into the cold steel of my bunk. Another man lies directly overhead. If I could look out of “our” window I would. 

I walked into my new cell. New to me. Who knows how many guys have been through this cell on their own journey. It was empty at the time. For those of you who have never done time, having a cell to yourself is a rare experience and not to be taken lightly.

I want to scream, take this mask of “Blissful Hindu Cow” off and smash someone’s face into a wall. Good morning! Welcome to med-line! Because waking up next to a toilet isn’t bad enough, I get the luxury of being subjected to blatant disregard of my personal needs as well as wholesale disrespect from my peers. 

On our way to chow I entered with him. John, a six-foot tattooed white guy with short hair. For the last two weeks we’ve played cards and shared our frustration over our sentences together. Today was the first time we were allowed in the chowhall. We grabbed our trays and headed for a seat. The moment he realized I was following him, he turned, looked me square in the eye and said, “Hey man, white and blacks don’t sit with each other, I’ll see you back at the cell house.”

You were learning life on your own terms, but I guess you had to. You were only 5 months old. You learned what the 4th of July was and I witnessed your surprise and fear when the fireworks started their negotiation with the sky. BOOM, the conversation began and your face crumbled as the reverberations echoed in our chest cavities. The sky lit up with fireworks claiming their space. A whistle shrieks a warcry with an angry tail disappearing and silent, then KA-BOOM this arrangement being brokered in the heavens as you tried to discern this foreign language. Tears rolling down your cheeks and I felt helpless with nowhere to hide you from the deafening explosions. I held you tight. I was so mad I didn’t have fear protection for you. As this war of the 4th taking claim to the ethers, you deciphered the code in this lingo of compromise. You listened as the multiple whistles burst into rhythmic sparks entangled with the stars. It was a shriek met with the biggest smile and laugh. You stood proud but not as proud as I was witnessing you conquer that moment. You were so cute and it was the only and last moment we called ours.

Waking up to an officer standing in my door telling me to pack and you have five minutes and make sure everything fits in your green bag. I spring to my feet at a mad dash, my mind and heart beating fast. I think to myself what’s most important food or books, art supplies. What will they take, what can I keep? 

Tears come to my eyes when I think about a 10x8 cell surrounded by bars, a metal bed, a desk, a toilet, and a sink, squeezed all in one cell in Buena Vista State Penitentiary. A program called Therapeutic Community. I call it forced sobriety, a reprogramming community to tell the truth.