It's difficult to articulate the experiences we endure while in prison. Only those who have lived through it truly understand. It's akin to a man attempting to comprehend the pain of childbirth - no matter how hard he tries, he cannot. The trauma is profound. Now, as we are reintegrated into society, a place we claim to desire, the question arises: do we truly know how to navigate it? We may assert that we do, but the reality will soon manifest. I don't blame those who struggle, as the system seems designed for our failure. Allow me to recount my story of re-entry following nearly a decade behind bars.
It's been nearly ten years, and upon returning home, everything appears unfamiliar. My family has relocated, familiar buildings have disappeared, and new towering structures have taken their place. It feels like stepping into a new city for the first time. I was not provided with any money, and the meager earnings from prison work were insufficient for saving, as I needed them for survival. Thus, I re-enter society with only the clothes on my back. As I observe my surroundings and breathe in the air, a sense of relief washes over me, yet anxiety quickly begins to build up. Why? It's the fear of the unknown, isn't it? We are most afraid of things beyond our control, the unfamiliar, and the incomprehensible.
My sister has just left me at the halfway house. It feels unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar. It's essentially another type of confinement. They dictate where you sleep, there are bunk beds as usual, they control your movements, and you can face repercussions, like being written up or sent back to a more secure facility (like prison), if you attempt to escape. If you do manage to escape or leave without permission, you could be charged with evasion. Essentially, it's not much different, except for the absence of physical barriers, guards, and so on, but you're still under constant surveillance. If this were a movie, a creepy soundtrack would be playing in the background.
Just before Memorial Day, I was released and placed on house arrest by the parole officer for the three-day weekend. I found myself lacking essential items like clothes, toothpaste, and deodorant. Despite explaining my situation politely, my concerns were disregarded. Feeling frustrated, I reached out to a friend for help, who reassured me not to worry. As I spent the day inside the house, I realized that although I had physical freedom, I was restricted from having visitors or going out. Comparing this situation to prison, where I had access to basic necessities, social interactions, and outdoor activities, I couldn't help but wonder if house arrest was even worse. Shouldn't things be improving instead?
The following morning, I had to attend both AA and NA meetings. I woke up and made my way to the nearby halfway house where these gatherings took place. After the meetings, while walking back as required, I noticed several individuals from the halfway house gathered on the porch, observing something. They inquired how I had received a package so promptly upon my arrival. Without responding, I approached and spotted a large box, which I took to my room. My roommate, who resembled more of a cellmate, was there. He displayed a great deal of curiosity, a trait common among many white individuals in prison. I, being white myself, acknowledge that nosiness is not limited to any particular race, but rather, this is a recount of my personal encounter. Upon opening the box, I discovered 2 pairs of jeans, 2 shirts, 2 sets of underwear and socks, 2 deodorants, 2 bars of soap, a pre-set cell phone, a wallet, and a note. Inside the wallet were two brand new hundred-dollar bills. Upon reading the note, I was instructed to contact the sender.
When I found the cell phone, his number was already saved in it. I dialed and he answered, emphasizing the importance of having a place to go and access to resources, including financial support, for individuals to thrive post-incarceration. He noted that the system is set up for failure, but with a support system, there is a chance for success. Ultimately, the outcome depends on the individual's actions. He offered to provide $200 per week for three months, expecting self-sufficiency or significant progress by the end of that period. After our conversation, we ended the call.
The people envied me because they had burned their bridges. Misery loves company, right? So here I am enjoying my newfound freedom, or what they call it. I spent the weekend ordering from Happy's Pizza. This made the guys even more envious, except for one who had his own money. We started talking more and more, ordering takeout and hanging out when he wasn't working. To be frank, some of the other guys at the halfway house were a bit peculiar. If you've read my article "Misunderstood," you'll know that I see "weird" as being misunderstood and different. The reality is not everyone gets along in life, but that doesn't mean we can't be civil to one another.
After the holiday weekend, it's time to start being productive. I make my way to the bus station and head into town to take care of getting my State ID and other necessary paperwork. It's a bit confusing as the building is new, but with the help of another resident at the halfway house, I manage to locate it. Upon arriving, I realize the building is huge and I get lost, needing to ask for assistance. The anxiety starts to build up as I worry about finding my way back to the halfway house, although deep down I know it's just my own fear. The issue lies in my reliance on the government for everything, a habit ingrained in me. Still haunted by the past experiences, I feel unprepared for these challenges. Having been incarcerated since my youth, I now find myself at 27 years old facing a whole new world.
Every day, I find myself in a situation where I am constantly surrounded by individuals who have committed crimes - sharing a living space with them, commuting together, and working side by side. This scenario is in direct conflict with the terms of my parole, which prohibit me from associating with known felons. This contradiction led to a meeting with my parole officer, who reprimanded me for being in the company of such individuals. Frustrated, I stood up, pointed towards him, and indicated my willingness to go back to prison, feeling that I had reached my breaking point. I accused him of simply wanting to violate my parole and insisted that he send me back to prison, arguing that I had more rights there. In response, he clarified that his intention was not to send me back and remained seated behind his desk.
I remained standing there, motionless, but I lowered my hands to my side. "You are suffocating me with your demands. When my dad visited me, I had to seek your approval. Fine. You instructed me to choose one location and remain there for seven hours during the visit. I can't spend seven hours at a restaurant, or I'll be arrested. If we go elsewhere because my dad traveled nine hours to see me, we won't be able to eat. How is this fair? Ease up on me, as I am making an effort, or send me back. It doesn't matter to me," I argued. After a moment, he relented and said okay. I exited his office and carried on.
Every day, I found myself questioning my purpose and feeling like I never chose to exist in this world. Despite having people who claimed to love me, it was only my father who truly demonstrated it. He would often say, "You're either with me or you ain't, sometimes I feel the whole world is fake." Most days, I even felt like a phony because I lacked a true sense of identity. Growing up in prison, I absorbed life lessons from my surroundings, learning what to do and what not to do, and how to navigate manhood. Surrounded by long-term inmates and the oppressive atmosphere of the prison system, I struggled with daily thoughts of giving up, battling a diagnosis of depression for more than two years. Convincing myself that there was a purpose behind it all proved to be a constant challenge, as the reason remained elusive.
Here I am, attempting to navigate a society that has become unfamiliar and incomprehensible to me. I relocated from Michigan to Tennessee to complete my parole alongside my elderly father and aunt after six months. The transition proved to be quite stark. The mannerisms, speech, and behavior of people in the North differ significantly from those in the South, leading to a profound culture shock that intensified my existing anxiety. I sought support from numerous doctors and psychiatrists. In the words of Halsey's song, "wherever I go, there are countless individuals eager to meet me, yet I still feel isolated, and meeting me might not be as desirable as you think." Despite not being as renowned as her and lacking a multitude of admirers, I still experienced a sense of solitude. I struggled to articulate my thoughts effectively, still grappling with the lingering effects of institutionalization even after a couple of years.
Despite my efforts to abide by the rules and follow the correct procedures, I found myself unexpectedly arrested by the parole officer on the very day I was supposed to be released from parole. Subsequently, I was detained in the county jail and underwent an extradition hearing. The judge ruled that I would be released if not picked up within 30 days. However, as the 30-day period elapsed, I was left isolated and without any assistance. Feeling helpless, I was confronted once again by that persistent individual. Despite his continuous attacks aimed at breaking me down, I refused to succumb. I questioned his motives and wondered why he singled me out for such treatment. These thoughts plagued my mind daily, yet I persisted in standing my ground, even in moments of confusion.
Feeling the desire for acceptance is a universal sentiment, isn't it? These were my reflections, acknowledging that we sometimes seek to rationalize our own thought processes. Our perceptions can be either logical or illogical, prompting us to question the criteria that determine what is considered logical. It's no wonder that societal confusion prevails among us. Interactions with others often escalate into chaos, as many individuals express the sentiment of needing to be proactive rather than reactive. This notion holds significance across various contexts and should not be underestimated. As previously discussed in "Misunderstood," each of us operates within our unique 'personal language,' frequently encountering challenges posed by this communication barrier. This dynamic is evident in interactions between both men and women. People typically resist being easily understood by others, yet criticize those who fail to do so. We have a tendency to undermine ourselves, leading to moments of self-pity where we question, "Why me?"
Here I am, enjoying my newfound freedom, yet feeling lost in not knowing how to navigate life. I was arrested just after turning 18 for a crime I committed as a juvenile. Serving nearly a decade in prison left me ill-equipped for the outside world, lacking the necessary skills to thrive. I was not provided with the tools for success, nor did I possess the knowledge on how to achieve it. My social abilities were greatly impaired, making it challenging, though not insurmountable, to learn at this stage. It's understandable why many individuals may feel inclined to give up, but true failure only occurs when one surrenders. Recently, there has been a debate among states regarding the abolition or modification of the 13th Amendment, which permits involuntary servitude, also known as "imprisonment" or "legal slavery." Some states are moving towards requiring prisoners to be paid minimum wage and cover expenses like housing and utilities. The rationale behind this initiative is to educate those incarcerated on such responsibilities, as many are ill-prepared upon release, particularly given the ease with which our government dispenses prison sentences.
I relocated to Tennessee to reside with my father and aunt. My father's intention was that a change in location and exposure to a new culture would benefit me. The transition was indeed a unique experience. I observed that in the southern region, individuals are more welcoming, and I felt eyes on me as I walked by. My initial reaction was suspicion, wondering why people were observing me. Unfortunately, that was not the reality. Nevertheless, the influence of institutionalization still lingers within me.
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