Man in Prison for Life

But then one day, the unthinkable happened. The cops came back, but this time they took me.

By Gerard Booker

(Pixbay stock)

            When I was eight growing up in the late 70s, one of the most important black men in my life was Mr. Charles. He lived next door in a house built just like the one I stayed in with Mama.

            There were a lot of homes in our neighborhood. But there were also a lot of one and two bedroom apartments that families with four and five children were crammed into. And like me, most of them only had a mother to depend on. Our fathers? They were like aliens. They may have visited, but there was never any proof of their existence. At least not in my life.

(Pixbay stock) 

            So, I ran the streets in search of the one who would teach me the ropes. There were a few good role models around. People like Mr. Palmer worked five days a week, spent time with his kids and took them to church every Sunday. But as you can imagine, his spare time was limited.

            Then we had those in the hood who were determined to make their way by hook or crook. They were always close-at-hand ready to paint me a picture of how the world was seen through their eyes. Now, I won’t say they painted a Picasso, but I still listened. I learned all they knew then mixed it up and created my own style. These were the types of people I spent my time around. I loved and appreciated my mother to the utmost, but I just didn’t feel like she could teach me how to be a man. Which brings me to Mr. Charles.

(Pixbay stock)

            Mr. Charles was a big-time dope dealer that seemed to be respected by everyone in the hood, including the preacher. He bought me things, talked to me like a grown up and gave me a job as his personal errand boy, which put five dollars a week in my pocket. This was Bill Gates money to me. The only time Mama bought me new clothes was when I outgrew the old ones. And even those were secondhand. So, you know I appreciated Mr. Charles. He was the coolest nigga in the hood as far as I was concerned. But one day, the unthinkable happened.

            I was in my yard playing when white men wearing army fatigues and black t-shirts kicked in Mr. Charles’s front door. I’ll never forget it. He was wrestled outside wearing nothing except handcuffs and a pair of unbuttoned brown pants.

            I cried that night. Of course I knew the man I’d claimed as a surrogate father was a criminal. But I hated those cops for taking him away from me, and I didn’t give a fuck that they were only doing their sworn duty. Not one of them ever gave me shit when I was starving. Mr. Charles did that and more. But now he was gone.

            The years went by. When Mr. Charles was finally released from prison I was a full-fledged drug dealer and a few other things. I wasn’t poor anymore. But being poor wasn’t the driving force behind the decision to become all that I became. That honor belongs to the man I idolized.

            Now I was Mr. Charles and the little kids growing up in the hood were me. I’d break bread with ‘em. When they saw me, they screamed with joy. But then one day, the unthinkable happened. The cops came back, but this time they took me.

            So, now I lay in my tiny cell, where I am sentenced to die, wondering if any of those little kids followed in my footsteps. I’ve learned a bitter truth. Innocent babies will continue to grow up in black neighborhoods where some of them will turn into cold-blooded killers or some other bane of society. These kids will never have the chance to flourish. They will just continue the cycle of destruction. Until honest black people realize that the influence of those like Mr. Charles, and myself, must be completely removed from the equation.

The end

Gerard Booker is an inmate at the Dade Correctional Institution serving a life sentence. He has graciously allowed us to publish his story. 

I Went to Prison

By Allison Langer

Yesterday, I drove to the Dade Correctional Institution with my friend, Sonesh. He sits on the board of Exchange for Change, a non-profit started by Kathie Klarreich. Kathie started teaching writing workshops in prison in 2009 and began the writing exchanges in 2013. Kathie invited me to the performance so I could meet some of the students I'd be teaching come summertime.  I met volunteers and supporters from UM, FIU, FAU, and Ransom Everglades. All had families and careers, and yet still made time for this program. I found out about Exchange for Change this past spring when Ransom English teacher, Josh Stone did a Tedx talk at Ransom Everglades. He inspired me to volunteer. 

I've never been to prison before, so I had no idea what to expect. I wore loose jeans, a t-shirt and sneakers, no jewelry and only mascara. My long, blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. There are no phones or electronics allowed inside the prison. I was told to bring only my driver’s license and a few bucks.  We cleared security, which was like TSA on steroids: shoes off, belts off, walk-through the metal detector and a thorough pat down. Then, we were guided into a large room with a giant mural of Frozen on the brick wall, rows of chairs and men in light blue scrubs. Only they weren’t doctors, they were prisoners. David Jeffers, AKA Carolina Blue greeted me. He was a lean, well-groomed 6 ft tall light-skinned black man with a sweet smile and warm eyes. I was confused. He did not look like a thug. His energy was warm, not angry. Could he work here? I looked around. All the men were in the same blue uniform. Holy shit, these are the prisoners.

Carolina Blue handed me a brochure with stories written by the inmates. He pointed out his piece. "Let me know what you think," he said.  I didn't have my reading glasses, so I said I would read it when I got home.  I told him I would be teaching there in the summer and asked him to sign up for my class. I asked him how he'd gotten here and waited for his answer. It was hard to imagine this gentle man ever broke the law. Clearly avoiding my question, he told me that he'd transferred from another institution. Then I asked again, "What did you do to get incarcerated?" He smiled...said he would have to tell me another time. The next man I spoke with, Eduardo Martinez is 37 years old. He's been institutionalized for 17 years and has a life term. He told me that at 20 years old he made some really dumb decisions. He was in a scuffle and a gun went off and someone was killed. He left behind a pregnant girlfriend. His son visits, but not often. Eduardo was attractive, very fit, had such a kind presence. Yet his arms and hands were painted in tattoos...colorful art that blended together. His eyelids had a tiny design that I could not make out.  His words were smart and he was happy to tell me his story, so respectfully, he spoke of the wife he'd met and married in prison. "Will you take my class and write that story?" I asked, and he nodded with a smile. 

After socializing from 9:30-10:30am, one by one, the men got up and told their stories. How their young 20 year-old-selves made huge mistakes. How they have matured and learned from their time. How they wished they could get a second chance to contribute to society. Make it up to their mothers.

At 11:30 am, an alarm went off, the prisoners walked outside for lineup and each was accounted for. I thought of my own children, specifically my 7 year old son who is defiant and strong-willed and hyper and easily bored. When he was 3 years old, I took him to Parent Child Interactive Therapy (PCIT). During our first session, the doctor told me that if I didn't get his temper under control he would end up like the kids she visited in Juvenile Detention. Is it just about self control? The PCIT didn't work for us. We have a different therapist now. My son requires love and patience and I require the time and the information to give him what he needs. He cannot end up here. 

By 11:45, the men were back in their seats and the program resumed. The inmates told stories that revealed their chaotic childhoods devoid of a father and infused with an often-addicted or unavailable mother. Not every one of the men came from this type of background, I suspect, but it seemed like 99% grew up in a tough neighborhood with a mom only half there. I live in Coral Gables, with good public schools, nice neighbors and a very low crime rate. I know what it takes to parent one difficult child and two other children. I have two jobs, bills, responsibilities and stress. But I am there when the kids come home from school. I can drive them to enrichment activities and sports. I can help with homework, talk about their day, cook their favorite dinner, make them feel special. I wonder what these men would have become if they'd had attention and love and a peaceful home? If their choices would have been better? It's not too late. And I believe that.

We left the prison at 2:30pm. I was drained and inspired and grateful to meet those men and to hear their stories. I have new heroes and they live at the Dade CI.

I never thought I'd say this, but I cannot wait to go back to prison!