December, 2009
"I see the time passing. Another weekend around the corner, another week down. I slept in today. Time asleep is ‘easy’ time. It’s now mid-morning and will be lunch time soon. We had biscuits and gravy for breakfast. That’s our breakfast every Thursday. One of my favorites. Ain’t like Mama made it, but I pretend. I’m 30 years old and ‘play pretend’ a lot these days.
A couple days ago a young kid came here. He’s 19 years old. This is his first time in prison and you can see the fear in his eyes. Funny thing is, he looks exactly like my little brother. When I saw him for the first time I did a double take. It caused me to take an immediate liking to him.
Then there’s the ‘old dude.’ He’s been my Bunkie for nearly a year now. I call him “pops.” He’s 65 years old and has no teeth. He’s had a hard life and makes mine hard some days. He’s my buddy though. We argue in the mornings (we’re both grumps in the morning), then we’re friends by noon. Like I said, I call him Pops. He has one son, my age, and I think I fill a void for him. He has told me as much. He shows me pictures of his boy and tells me every few days, “You know, you’re the same age as my son.” He is Italian. He speaks Italian and Spanish. In the mornings when he’s a grump and starts yelling, he swears at me in Spanish. He calls me ‘basura,’ which means ‘garbage.’ That’s probably the nicest thing he says. I said he has no teeth, so I tease him and say, “Hey Pops, what’s my last name?” He can’t say an ‘S’ because of no teeth. He tries, and I laugh, then he swears at me in Spanish, then we both laugh. That’s a normal morning for us.
My other Bunkie is a little younger than me – about 24, I think. His name is Scott but he thinks he’s P-Diddy. ‘Scott’ has dreams of being a rap star. And yes, he drives me nuts with his ‘raps.’ I tell him he should ‘wrap’ it up, but I have to remember it’s what he does to pass his time. So at 7 a.m. when he wants to thump out a beat and bless me with the new lyrics he wrote last night, I try to be patient. Maybe that’s why I am so grumpy some mornings – Hmmm….
He’s getting better. I said to him the other day, “Bro, how many songs are you going to write about guns, shooting people, dope, and cops?” He just looked at me like, ‘What else is there?’ You know what? He wrote a new song. I don’t know where he had to reach to find this one, but it was deep. Instead of gangsta rap, it’s a musical song about wanting a relationship with a good girl. He sang for the first time. The kid can sing beautifully, can hit high notes. He even impressed himself. He sings the break, or the chorus, and raps the verses. It’s really good. You can see him feel it. That’s my kind of music. It doesn’t matter what style it is, as long as you can feel it.
So picture this: A ‘gangster’ kid’s got tats all over him, mouth full of gold, singing a love song and feeling it. It’s pretty cool. For me it’s seeing the good here in this place.
Then there’s the kid who looks like my baby brother… I can see him now. He’s talking to the gangsters. When I’m done with this letter I will offer him a cup of coffee and see what his story is. Maybe I can get him to work out with us. We have a good group of guys that hit the gym together each day. This kid’s gonna need to put on some muscle. We’re in the world of ‘only the strong.’ Well, I mean, ‘pray and carry a big stick.’ J
So we just ate lunch. We had tuna fish. It’s one of the better lunch trays. Today is hot. It’s probably 95 degrees. I ate, came back, put on some shorts, and sat down to write again. Writing helps me pass a lot of time. Half of my day is gone now, spent on writing and eating. Works for me. As one of my home-boys says, “Wasted days and wasted nights.” That’s not far from the truth. I have found a lot of good here, but still at times feel I waste a lot of time too.
I have found other ways to pass my time. I draw quite a bit. I have read over 100 books. As you see, I write a lot. I like tat’s too. On the streets I always wanted to have more tattoos. I was short on the money though. Tat’s are expensive, and I had drugs to buy. I was also worried about what people would think. I’m 30, a convicted felon, been to prison, been to jail, and now, well – I’m pretty tattooed. My art expresses who I am, where I’ve been, the people who love me, and my savior Jesus Christ. I have some funny and dumb stuff also. So if you can’t love me through my ink, well… see ya!
The Bible says, “The Lord looketh on the heart.” I’m glad He does. I wish as people we could do the same. I pray God continues to work in my life as He already is. Today I am in prison, but I am free in my heart. The weight of my sin has been lifted from my shoulders and I am a new man. Honestly, I have never felt free in this way. It is a real blessing to me. Yeah, I have bad days – I won’t lie – but I have peace in my life and love in my heart.
For years now I have been addicted to drugs. I hated myself. I tried to drown life away. I feel forgiven now, and have forgiven myself. I am not ashamed of who I am. I can love again. I can look at myself and see a new person. This has given me the ability to love. I see my family members for who they are - unique and special, and I love each one of them. I can have true friends now. Instead of using people, I enjoy their time. I appreciate the time each one takes to sit down and write to me, taking time out of busy lives to send me their thoughts – Beautiful!
My Mom, she’s the bomb! I can talk to her about anything. I never knew I could be this close to my mom. She didn’t want to tell me my appeal was denied, but because my mom told me, I was OK. Mom’s got some inner peace that she can pass to me through a letter or over a phone line. Maybe it’s that first 9-month bonding experience I had with her 30 years ago. Over all this time it just got stronger. Mothers are truly the best gift from God.
I keep thinking I will shut this letter down soon. However, my pen just keeps moving. Better get it all out while I can.
Well I have mentioned a few times that I am 30. Next month I will be 31. My daughter is 12 now. So if this all goes like they say, guess I’ll be around 40 when I get out. My daughter will be around 20.
I think about weird stuff sometimes. Like maybe I’ll open up a tattoo shop when I get out. That seems like a good line of work for a 40-year-old tattooed convicted felon. I can see my resume will not look good.
I want to play music. Since I have been in prison I have written some pretty good music - really strong stuff about addiction, pain-in-the-ass chicks, and salvation. I can tattoo very well. With all this practice, I will be raw by the time I get out. My first tattoo was a big $ sign. My dad saw it and said, “You did that?” It turned out really good. Now these guys call me “Big Money” because of the ‘big’ $ sign. Ha!
I have put a tat on all of my work-out partners, and 1/3 of my dorm. You know, I have all this time to kill. I can only work out so often. I feel like I’m training for the Olympics. We go 3 – 4 hours a day, four days a week, sometimes five. When I first came to prison I could almost do one pull-up. Now I do 300, then I do 600-800 push-ups, then run a couple miles on my day off.
I try to catch a ball-game on the weekends. We have softball and volleyball. I play softball sometimes, but the games get pretty heated. They had to chain the bat to the home-plate after the batter took the bat to the pitcher’s mound and thumped the pitcher, split his head open. Now how’s that for entertainment? We don’t have pay-per-view fights here, we have front row seats.
(10 days later…)
On top of my regular workout, I also joined a wellness class. We do a lot of cardio stuff. Running, jumping jacks, sprints, stair-stepping. I like it. I know it’s good for me. My health is the only thing I will take with me when I leave here. The guys who take the class and my buddies from the gym are good guys. Well, they are murderers, car-jackers, armed robbers, traffickers, kidnappers and so on. But we all have one thing in common. We care about our health.
Whatever brought us to prison, we are trying to better ourselves. These are the guys who have become a part of my life. It’s a motley crew, so to speak - Black, White, Latino, and Mexican. The weight pile is one place where none of that matters. We all help and encourage each other. It’s so cool. Plus, they’re the biggest guys on the compound. Guys here watch who you hang out with. They see you on a weight bench every day, bumpin’ fists with the top dogs on the pound, and they quit tryin’ you. I ain’t a dumbass. I have a plan. I have done some dumb shit in my life. Real dumb! These days I sit back and observe. I have more patience these days. My motto is “Why rush? I have all the time in the world.”
Earlier on in this book I’m writing – I mean this letter- I mentioned a kid who came here, the one that looks like my youngest brother. Not only did I give him some coffee, but I loaned him a few bucks for the canteen. He’s waiting for his family to set up an account for him. We talk quite often now. I finally told him he reminds me of my little brother. He said to me, “Why do you keep helping me out?” I said Because I can. He keeps calling me Mr. Smith. I said, “Listen dude, you remind me of my bro. I wish I could be there for him, but I can’t. So I’m helping you because I can, but you best quit calling me Mr. Smith or I may stop.” It’s cool. I still can’t get him to work out, but hey, like I said earlier, I’ve got all the time in the world.
Last week I had my assessment. I have been in prison for a little over a year now. My first two months were the hardest. Coming off drugs and being tried by other convicts. I got into 4 scraps right off the bat. Before here, my last fight was probably back in high school. My first scrap here wasn’t all that. I took a couple hits and it was over. But guys watch, so not long after, I was tried again by a Latino from the city. I beat his ass. When I got him down, I saw his friends start to circle around. I looked around and thought Oh shit, this is about to get real bad. Bad for me.
About that time another group of guys started to circle. My buddies from the weight pile. Here to rescue their little white friend (most of my buddies from the gym are black). These dudes are hard. They have been selling crack on street corners and fighting since they were little kids. About 4 of them stood up for me, saved me from really getting my butt in trouble.
Prison is a weird place. The guy I fought with is now cool with me. We don’t hang out, but we nod when we pass. I earned some sort of a status by holding my own. Ha! I think they also saw I have friends here. Prison is like that too. Watching and observing pays off. A dude may be little, but he may be protected by the Dukes, W.P. or the Latin Kings. You want to be careful who you’re messin’ with. I don’t get into the gang crap.
My assessment went well. I was able to put in for a transfer. I’m trying to get out of here, and back down south. My dad drives 5 hours each way to come here to see me. He comes once a month. We are a lot closer these days. He gives me a hug and tells me he loves me. I didn’t get that growing up, so it’s nice to have it now.
My dad is getting older. He looks smaller than I ever remember. I’m bigger than I was, but I see him aging. On his first visit to see me, he cried. My dad never cries. We were standing in the visiting area. All you see is fence, concrete, bricks, and razor-wire. My dad cried and put his arms around me. He said, “This is hard to see my son here.”
It’s pretty powerful. I will never forget the day the bus pulled up and dropped me off. I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t scared senseless. For the first few months all I saw was the bars and fence. Over time I barely notice it. They are like giant steel hedges; our trees are 50-foot tall gun towers. Today I look past it all and see freedom - a life I used to have – one that some day I will have back again.
Prison is another world most people will never know about. And it’s worth keeping it that way. At all costs! You come to prison and find out your life wasn’t what you thought it was. People you thought were friends, well – huh! – I don’t know what happened to them, but they’re gone. I needed to break up with that chick I had on the street anyway. That one didn’t take long. Here you spend a lot of time looking over your life. If hindsight is 20/20 then I’m seeing things a lot clearer these days. I see my errors in life. I can’t take them back. That’s why I had to give them to God. So I could have some peace and quit asking, ‘What if?’ What if I hadn’t married that chick? What if I hadn’t let that one get away? What if I’d loved those in my life a little more? What if I had just said no to drugs? What if???
See what I mean? In a way, this place has given me a second chance. I’ve been going back and asking a lot of forgiveness these days. I don’t want to ever go back to where I used to be. Damn! I was a real asshole! Could I ask you to forgive me? Would you? If you will accept this, I’m sorry. You loved me and I let you down. I know who my true friends were. That’s why I am telling you I’m sorry. Thank you for always being on my side.
Until next time,
Much Love,
MS
Brothers
