The Tan Suit

This dispatch, co-written by Prisoner K and Sylvester "Sonny" Jackson, evolved out of a series of conversations in workshop around the haphazard methods around the release of prisoners after they're served their time. One commonality many workshop members found was the ridiculous "tan suit" given along with train fare to returnees, which marks them for anyone who knows as a returning prisoner and just makes them look silly to anyone who isn't in the know on their return.

It was the mid 90s. I’d arrived to Queensboro Correctional from Happy Hudson, a work prison. I guess I’d been such a role model prisoner during my 11 years, that the state board decided to give me a shot at work release. It was winter time, and coming down those mountain roads was scarier than some of the places I’d been locked up in, but somehow we made it. I remember getting closer to the city. You gotta remember I’m a city kid, I’d never been that far upstate, Canada was someplace I’d heard about in school. I was close enough that I could take a rock, throw it over the fence and knock a Canadian mountie off his horse.

Anyway like I said, I knew I was home because I looked out the window and saw litter along the edge of the road. Tires, garbage bags and trash. It brought a smile to my face.

I was finally home.

We pulled up to Queensboro, Long Island City, yet another place I’d never been. Work release, I had no idea what work release was, after all, this was my first bid. We must've sat on that bus in the snow for a good two hours, it seemed. You may not know or remember, but we had some really bad snow storms back in those days. Anyway, I finally got into the facility and went through all the paperwork and everything else that comes with checking into a new place, only Queensboro is an old factory building across the street from LaGuardia High School and College.

Well I was there a couple of weeks before I spoke to a counselor about work release. We worked out that I could go home for five days and I’d have to look for work those days and I’d have to come back for two days to report in to her, a lady whose name I can’t remember, and my parole officer, another woman whose name I can’t remember.

Leaving her office that day, the only thought running through my brain was Do they really think that if they let me outta here, I’m actually gonna report back to prison, turn myself back in. They’re giving me a 5 and 2, and you think I’m gonna look for work and come back to get locked down. I didn’t know who was crazier, them or me. 

Well that day came, they called me downstairs, where I changed into, yep, you got it, the tan suit, the freedom suit. I’d never seen it before. I actually still have one of them, not from the 90s, but from a later date.

I remember walking out one of the two locked doors, almost free, it took a minute for them to open the second door, I almost freaked, I thought they changed their minds. And then it happened. They opened the outer door and I walked out into freedom after 11 years, actually a little less. I still owed the state time, that’s why they gave me work release, so I could finish my time at home.

* * *

My friend Sonny’s piece about his transfer to Queensboro amused me. It reminded me of the day I left Gouverneur Correctional Facility in St. Lawrence County. I too got stuck with the tan suit. This was because I was released somewhat unexpectedly. I found out on a Thursday I was getting out on Monday.

I didn’t even know how to be happy about it. It came at me like a nice wave on the beach. It was just there and felt good.

My family had planned to send me Exit Clothes. Attire to be held by the DOCCS that I’d change into on my way out the door. Only, they never got the chance to send it. So, like Sonny, I too got the tans. Well, the white shirt, tan pants and a pair of white sneakers. But we call them tans.

I hated them. The prison was located in a prison town. I’d walk out the door and anyone who saw me would know exactly where I came from. I didn’t want that…

I got in a van driven by a volunteer who took releasees from the gates to the bus station. I commented on how comfortable his seats were and he bust out laughing. His vehicle was a wreck in every way, but those seats were cushioned. I hadn’t sat on a cushioned seat in years. 

It felt good.

The bus trip was an all-day thing. And, not surprisingly, as we crossed the state, many a tan-garbed gentleman got on the bus. We didn’t speak to anyone, not even each other. It was understood we didn’t want to be convicts here. At least, that was my thinking.

Here’s where my plan fails. New York City is a smorgasbord of people quite familiar with the criminal justice system. I stepped off the bus at Port Authority and saw the looks. I tried to convince myself I was a handsome devil… Didn’t work.

I was in Port Authority ten minutes before someone welcomed me home. A janitor gave me a good, long look as I crossed the tiles. I took a seat. My ex-wife had agreed to meet me. Planned to bring a change of clothes. I tried to get out of it, but it was what she wanted so I gave in.

You see, she’s not exactly the what-time-is-it-I-gotta-go type. I knew if I was coming in at six (which I did), I might as well get comfortable.

She showed up three hours later.

During that period, I was forced to wander around Port Authority. I took a peek at Times Square but I wasn’t able to go far. After all, she could’ve showed up at any time.

I spent the time being welcomed home and congratulated and questioned about my bid. I bought a magazine, found a quiet spot on the second floor of Port Authority. I sat on the floor behind a column so that no one would spot me.

They spotted me. I was a rap star.

One young man actually joined me. Apparently, he was looking at his first bid and wanted to talk to me about life in prison.

Oh goodie.

What I did find curious was this young man — who’d never seen prison — recognized the tans. It made me think of how the criminal justice system is intertwined in our communities. We talked for a few minutes and wished each other luck.

I’d get up frequently just to see if I could find the ex. We’d no real plan of where to meet so I just had to hope we’d find each other. Any time I got up and roamed, I made a new friend or got that nod. You know the one. The one that says I feel you, brah. or Good to have you back, man.

Before my bid, I wouldn’t have recognized a person coming out based on what they wore.

My ex finally showed up. Like I said, three hours late. But I wasn’t upset. I was thrilled to see her. She was family. She’d held a brotha up. And still was. She handed me a bag and sent me into the bathroom. I changed into a pair of jeans, a Big Bang Theory tee, button down shirt, new socks, and a pair of blue sneakers. I finished off the ensemble with the same brown leather cap you’ll see in one of my photos here.

I shoved my tans into the garbage and washed my hands to get off the stench.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, the janitor I’d seen scoping me earlier was leaning against the wall. He smiled.

“That’s better,” he said.

I sighed. It was.

* * *

It was about a week before my final release from prison. During my entire time, I had to go to medical for my cancer and pain meds twice a day. I was sitting in the medical holding pen with about another thirty inmates. I always sat in the back, mostly with the older guys.I was sitting there waiting when the CO opened the pen to allow older guys to come in. I always watched who came in—it’s just something I’ve always done. Anyway about five other guys came in, and one in particular caught my attention. A tall white guy. Not because he was white, but because of the tattoo on his neck—it was a big red swastika. 

I don’t remember ever seeing any skinheads, neonazi sympathizers, or white supremacists during any of my bids. Maybe I just made a point of keeping to myself.

Well my release day came, and like I said, I was in the workers’ dorm. My bunk number was called, the CO opened the door, and I was on my way. I went to medical to take my meds for going home. I turned in my uniform and then walked to the draft room to be released. Normally there’s a bunch of guys being released. This day, there was only two of us.

That’s right: me, and the nazi guy!

Just my luck. Of all the guys to be released, I had to share a ride with him. We changed into our ugly tan suits and waited for our ride to the train station. We rode there in silence. We didn’t speak to each other, not until we were waiting for the train to Penn Station. I learned that he, too, lived on Long Island, and his aunt was going to meet him at Penn.

Oh joy.

We got on the train, and I tried to sit away from him, but he sat on the seats across from me. A lot of people got on the train, but it wasn’t until a Spanish family got on that he started making stupid remarks. I stopped him in his tracks. I wasn’t going to listen to his hatred. Penn Station couldn’t come fast enough.

And here’s the kicker—he offered me a ride home to Long Island. Which I turned down.

We finally got to Penn and he offered me a ride again, but there was no way I was getting into a car with a nazi sympathizer and his family. 

We made our way to Long Island Railroad—again I tried to get away from him. Finally I told him I was going out for a smoke and did so.

I walked outside and within minutes a passerby stopped, looked at my ugly tan suit, and said, “Welcome home.” Until that moment, it hadn’t hit me that I was really home. My final seventy-one days of prison after all were over. I knew in my heart of hearts I’d never be behind the wall again. Finally a smile came to my face.

It wasn’t long after that that three other people welcomed me home or told me stories of themselves or family members being up top. I walked back to the Long Island Railroad waiting area to find the nazi guy gone. Another smile came to my face.

Soon after that, I was sitting on the train home. I told the train conductor I didn’t have enough to pay for my fare. His reply? “Welcome home.” He turned and walked away. My ugly tan suit and I were on our way home—were on our way to starting the next part of our journey of life and freedom.