Eighteen months in prison. Six months in the Special Housing Unit. I’m passing these landmarks of my prison bid as I write this on September 11, 2020. I’m sure this won’t be published until well after this date, but I want to give a reference point to where this is all coming from. 

I was broken when I arrived at Edgefield after nearly three years spent waiting on the inevitable. For those of you reading who knew me during those years, I’m sure it never seemed like I’d actually go to prison. For you it was a hypothetical future, a possibility. As the day got closer and closer, I don’t really know how to describe the feeling. It reminded me of when I was a kid and someone would pose the question: “If you had 24 hours to live, what would you do?” The reality was just as hard as the question had been. I drowned my sorrows doing what I do best: getting drunk, getting high, and getting laid. The last moments I had with my daughter, family, and friends were all heartbreaking. It was a one-time feeling for them, but for me? My heart broke into pieces every moment I spent with each of them. I’ve never been one to frequently get deep and emotional, but for every tear each of them shed, my heart broke a little more. Eighteen months later, the emotions of saying goodbye still linger. Some of the people are now completely out of my life—I guess to them I really did die. Fitting, considering that going to prison is like attending your own funeral. The hardest part of the three years leading up to my incarceration was never being able to move on. I could make no life plans, could plot no course for the future. My only plan was to go to prison. Everyone else got to keep living, and I’m happy for them, but my life had been put on what seemed like an indefinite hold. The reality is that my prison sentence started three years before I ever arrived.

Now here I am, 18 months later. I’m not saying that I’m the reason the world fell apart, but it sure did seem to be doing a lot better with me in it. To all those who knew me best, if you showed up here, you’d find that I’m still myself. I may be in this country’s worst punishment unit, stuck here because of a virus out of our control, but I’m proud. I’m proud of what I’ve done in prison, proud of how I’m spending my time. I’m proud of the plans I’ve made, proud of the people I’ve met along the way. I’m proud that I started writing on the first of this year, proud of losing 50 lbs in the first 86 days I was in prison. I’m proud I’ve become comfortable writing about myself like an open book. I’m proud of the connections I’ve made with people and organizations in the cannabis world, proud that I’ve written senators, media members, and organizations to try to get us all out of here. I’m proud I’ve been a part of bringing 38 men of all races and walks of life, all convicted of federal crimes, together for a common goal. I’m proud that I don’t let people who hate on my motives or methods get to me; I only let them make me stronger. I’m proud that I’ve started writing my first novel and hope to have it done by the beginning of the year. I’m proud of what I’ve already written on this blog, for sharing my story with the world. I’m proud that my daughter and family all love me and stick by my side no matter what. I’m proud of every positive message I’ve received from people who don’t even know me. I’m proud I never waiver; I always stand up and say what I believe no matter the consequence. I’m proud that I’ve turned this pen and paper into my weapon, one more powerful than a sword could ever be.

I believe in myself now more than I ever have before. In a place full of despair and hopelessness, I know that I bring light. I bring hope to those around me, and my attitude can be seen throughout the range. I’m proud to stand up for my cellie and others when they are continually getting fucked up by a system only meant to break them, a system that doesn’t acknowledge the word “fair.” I believe I already make a difference even in this incredibly small world. I know that when I get out of prison, the fire that has built inside of me will shine through to all those around me. I truly believe I will leave a positive mark on this world as someone who brings people together as opposed to tearing them apart. 

This brings me to the current date: 9/11. Nineteen years ago our country was under attack. Whether you believe it was an inside job or believe the reported facts, what is undeniable is that for a while America stood as one. We truly were a nation undivided. The problem was there wasn’t liberty and justice for all. Now our country is falling apart; the leaders of leading political parties have taken to vicious attacks on each other and politicizing things that have no business being politicized. This pandemic has been as much of an American tragedy as the World Trade Center was, but we don’t have a bunch of Muslims we already don’t like to fix our collective rage on. I am in the most racially divided place in America. Even the T.V.s in prison are separated by race—the white side only plays Fox news, the black side only plays CNN. The white side doesn’t watch the NBA, and the black side never puts the Nascar race on. On my range now, some men have killed others simply over the color of their skin. I live where this shit is real. But yet, here we are. Stuck for six months in circumstances that no one who hasn’t already lived it can imagine. There have been issues, but for the most part we have almost become a family. If a bunch of convicts of all races and beliefs can come together and help each other every day, so can all of you.

I got a little emotional on the range in July and implored the men in here to work together and make things change. Even though we are all still stuck here, I have noticed a drastic difference in how we all trust each other. There are inside jokes, picking on each other, and an occasional argument, but day in and day out we all do everything we can to pull together and make this experience bearable. Today, another inmate I have never even directly interacted with sent me a bag of chocolate-covered peanuts just because he knows that I can’t buy commissary and he leaves next week. I’m consistently given stamps, envelopes, and pens when I run low just because the guys here see my passion for writing and getting our story out there. The other ranges get in fistfights constantly, spend hours beating on the doors and yelling. It makes a difference when someone stands up with a passion and calls for people to come together.

The media and politicians want us to believe that we have to pick a side—that everything is all or nothing. Maybe the real answer is in the middle. Maybe we aren’t so far passed the civil rights movement that black people don’t have anything to complain about anymore. Maybe there are still a lot of people who hold that bias. I was told by a correctional officer today that his answer to the drug problem in America would be a bullet right between the eyes. He was dead serious. His plan to end the cartels bringing drugs into America is to cover the border with landmines and blow up anyone who tries to cross. This is the prevalent mindset in those to who my daily life is entrusted. Maybe the best way to point out these facts is not to burn buildings and police cars, to not rip down statues and loot stores in your neighborhoods. I understand the rage; I feel it in here every day. Unfortunately, when rioting happens, your voice gets lost. Where are the leaders calling for peace? Where is the call to understand each other and find a resolution? Bush called for togetherness, Obama called for togetherness. No matter what your political views are, maybe you can’t deny these previous presidents at least tried to bring America together. Is that what’s happening now? We would all be better off to take a step back and look around us. We rely on people of other races, beliefs, and backgrounds every day. This is supposed to be the land of the free, but we incarcerate a higher percentage of our population than anywhere else in the world. It’s supposed to be a place of liberty that accepts oppressed people from all over the world and welcomes them to make better lives for themselves. That is what America is supposed to be. America was not a better place when women couldn’t vote, black people were considered 3/5 of a person, water fountains were divided by color, schools weren’t integrated, gays weren’t allowed to be married, and cannabis was still considered the devil’s lettuce. We haven’t made America great again; we have made America hate again. I know people are tuning out and thinking this is just another Trump bash, but it’s not. Both sides are guilty of division.

What I want to leave the reader with is this: Are you proud of yourself? Are you proud of how you treat the people around you? Are you proud of the person you are in other people’s eyes? Do you take the time to listen to people around you who believe in different things? Are you proud of what your life is accomplishing? What have you done during the last six months that you will always be proud of? I haven’t always had the right answer to all of these questions. It took me coming here, to this place, to find who I am. I know I’m supposed to be ashamed of being in prison, ashamed of being in the SHU. But I’m not. I’m proud to be me.

I’m reminded of the chorus to a song that the best friend I’ve made since I’ve been incarcerated wrote, called “Dear Mom.” It was based on a Mother’s Day message he sent his mom on his first Mother’s Day in prison.

Please don’t for one second 

Think it’s all your fault

Or that it’s bad that I’m here

Behind these walls

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be

Working on who I was meant to be

This I swear,

I’m freer than I’ve ever been.

It’s taken 18 months of growing and six months of constant self-reflection, but I’m “freer than I’ve ever been.” Today I ask that you show kindness to someone different than you normally would. Listen to other people instead of judging. Make this country, and our world, a better place. Be someone you are proud of no matter what other people think. Together, we can change the world.