Prison journalism: I am a total jigsaw puzzle

Prison journalism: I am a total jigsaw puzzleA writer incarcerated in California. Finds writing to be therapeutic as a response to a childhood speech impediment, is awaiting prison and sentencing reforms.

by Prison Journalism Project

22-06-2023 17:01

in Prison Journalism

Puzzle piece Photo: PIXBAY

Prison Journalism Project trains incarcerated writers to become journalists and publishes their stories. Subscribe to Inside Story to receive exclusive behind-the-scene looks at our best stories, as well as author profiles and other insights.

--

Life has a habit of reminding you that at the end of the day your choices are not only yours, they affect others in your life. As I swim in this punitive fish bowl, I am in fearful awe of my future and the future of my future.

I grew up with a resilient, proud working mama. She was always able to turn water into wine. With a son like me, that was always a must. She married twice. My father died when I was young and left me alone with her and her then-boyfriend Ron. Ron became her second hubby, and the unforeseen catalyst of my under-development. It wasn't that I hated him as an individual. It was my loyalty for my father that didn't allow the necessary room to open up to him.

ALSO READ: Prison Journalism: My first two days in Pollsmoor Prison

--

Both men were career military men. Ron died in 2017 from natural causes. I was at the time fighting my bank robbery charge in Los Angeles, where the state was convinced that a 100-plus year sentence was just despite my nearly non-violent track record. My mama and Ron had been living a retired life in Fayetteville, North Carolina - a city I was raised in, a city that also hosted one of the largest army bases in North America: Ft. Bragg. They had just rebounded out of bankruptcy and life had started to look fair again. The death of Ron and the toll that it took on my mama wasn't that apparent at first. My baby half-brother in New York didn't recognize any of my mama's forthcoming debility.

Immediately after the last of the ashes were burnt my mama sought refuge with a friend. I thought nothing of it; it had been four or five months since Ron's death. By this time I was already in the bowels of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. That relationship left as quickly as it came, but I noticed a slight change in her demeanor. I shrugged it off and said to myself: even though she is my mama, she is still a woman first.

At this particular time I was housed on a level 3 yard, which in prison political terms is a setting that is unyielding and breathless. Some type of incident took place amongst the Mexican mafia population, so we were on lockdown. An associate of mine, who was a porter was out on the tier; delivering kites and doing his convict job. He happened to zip past my 7-inch cell window, so I stopped him and asked him to give my mama a call to let her know that we were on lockdown and that I would contact her soon by mail.

--

ALSO READ: Prison journalism: From father and son to strangers

Most prisoners have no issues with this type of request. Even though we might be considered selfish for leaving our family and our community to pursue illegal activities, at the end of the day we are human, and we long to embrace our loved ones. The porter, called O.G., quickly obliged and extended his hand as if to say, Give me the number.

I slid it to him underneath the cell door. He promptly went to the wall phone and dialled. I watched him attentively as he went through the process - his lips were moving, and he nodded. O.K., he had gotten through. I waited by the window as he spoke. When he looked up and gave me the thumbs-up signal, I let out a sigh of relief. The last thing any man wants to hear is that his mama is sick, in the hospital or worse yet dead! Especially me.

I really f***** up this time, L.A. County served me 25 years. The plea deal was better than life, but s***, at 50 years old, that is a life sentence. Thank goodness the laws have changed towards prison reform. I have a few shots I can take to get out early. Leaving my mama out there by herself was the worst of the punishment. I felt like a traitor most of my days.

A short while later, O.G. dutifully came back with the worst news ever. Hey little bruh, your mom is kool n the gang, she just spoke to your son the other day, and he's good, he told me. Your brother is in the Dominican Republic with that girl, and she has a new boyfriend and he's from Africa.

You said she has a what? I exclaimed.

O.G. brought his mouth closer to the plexiglass and said, BOYFRIEND!!!

My heart sank to my knees. Fast forward His name was supposedly Jeff. He was in his mid-50s and lived in the Mojave Desert in California. He was a contractor of some sort from South Africa. He was a widower with three children, the eldest a student at a university somewhere.

ALSO READ: Prison journalism: The feelings I hold for Nelson Mandela

Apparently my mama met him on the Gram and has been smitten ever since. My ex-wife Kay and my brother Ronald have seen the picture that he has sent to her. They both say the guy in the picture is way out of her league, very swank with his Balmain jeans, Louis Vuitton belt, gold chains and millennial disposition. Kay remarked that he was very handsome and why would he want to have relations with your mother, a 76-year-old woman with health issues who has two protective adult sons (one a habitual criminal). She pointed out that he only used a Google number in their communication. He claimed that using Facetime would violate the memory of his late departed wife because this was how they communicated (WTF). He also claimed to be working on a construction project in Iowa (WTFx2) and he commuted back and forth from California to there. The kicker of it all wa

LINK:	https://www.thesouthafrican.com/culture/prison-journalism/prison-journ...
	See more stories from thesouthafrican

Most recent headlines