Thanks for the Memories, by Prisoner K

In prison, I knew this guy I considered a friend. He was being harassed by a thug. Slapped, threatened. My friend was a pacifist. Never fought back. He was a third the size of his bully.

I confronted the bully. To this day, I don’t understand where I got the nerve, but I refused to sit on this.

To my surprise, the bully denied ever putting a hand on my friend. Even though I had witnesses who saw each incident. I didn’t understand it. I expected him to get right in my face.

Another inmate told me the bully “didn’t wanna fuck wit” me. I didn’t get it for a while. I came to realize: this big, three-tier muscled thug had too much respect for me to get into it. 

A lot of people inside the wall seemed to feel that way…

That’s a memory. I find it unsettling to have memories of prison. Especially fond ones. There’s a good chance every ex-con does. We laugh about some fool we associated with or regale you with a tale that’s shelved in our mental library. 

I remember seeing pictures inmates sent home, hung on their walls, or put in albums. We used Click-Click. The Click-Click program used Instamatic cameras (in the 21st Century!). Those ancient devices where you shook a white sheet of film until it magically changed into a poorly lit color picture. (You younger types may need a reference, even if this one’s too old: Andre 3000’s “Hey, Ya” dared us to shake it like a Polaroid picture.)

Click-Click allowed you to invite others to the photographing. This led to small gatherings of convicts grinning and voguing and throwing gang signs. I found the images amusing. (Cons, like anyone, loved sharing and showing off their pictures, their captured moments.) Many of these photo shoots were sent home so the family could … who the hell knows? All I could think of whenever I saw these images was why is everyone so damned happy? And why they are so anxious to share this … experience … with their loved ones? Having a great time upstate, Mom. Wish you were here!

I must admit I had a couple of shots taken. My blood went cold when I learned my grandkids didn’t remember what I looked like. But if you look at my images (which I shared with no one inside), you’ll see there isn’t an ounce of joy in them. It never crossed my mind to … to … be happy. What did I have to celebrate?

But I digress…

Last night, I decided to find an album I bought while locked up. Now That’s What I Call Music, Vol. 63. I originally bought it for one reason. Track 3. I couldn’t find that song anywhere else in the prison system’s music catalog. And, if you wanted that song, the producer forced you to buy the entire album. (A brilliant strategy for consumers that can’t go to another online store to investigate their options.)

So, I bought Now That’s What I Call Music, Vol. 63. (I’m listening to it now.) It was flush with track after track of artists I knew nothing about. There were an overwhelming amount of songs I never would’ve given a second listen. But, I admit, the group of songs grew on me. 

Last night, with the very first song, I was thrown back to sitting in my cube, headphones in place and letting my small and cherished batch of songs take me somewhere else. One Herculean effort, that was. But, for this deprived soul, music has always been a catalyst for peace of mind. I discovered my first Justin Bieber song, a collaboration with DJ Khalid, Chance the Rapper and Lil Wayne. I fell in love with Stay, Say You Won’t Let Go, and the very weird Congratulations and HUMBLE.

And as I listened to the album last night, and listened to it again this early Friday morn, I was thankful for it. The Department of Corrections blessed me with a tablet in 2019 and I had no idea of the way it would impact how I survived. 

I struggled to use what little funds I could get my hands on to buy music. I avoided full albums because, with minimal financing, I didn’t want to limit what kind of music I’d listen to. So, I had Janet and Adele, the Ohio Players and Etta James, Sir Elton and Maria Muldaur. Like on the outside, I continued to feed my obsession for music from the 70s and 60s. A frustrating process as the prison music service was delinquent in telling you a lot of their oldies catalog was not original material. Who in the heck wants a re-recorded version of Redbone’s Come and Get Your Love or a cover of Brandy by a band that calls itself 70s Greatest Hits? (Another brilliant marketing campaign. You see that name plastered on the album and think (Austin Powers voice) Yeah, baby!)

Early on, I remember having to decide which Stevie Wonder song to buy. I went with I Love Every Little Thing About You. The first time I played it, I cried. I couldn’t believe I had my music.

Prison was both one of the best and undoubtedly the second worst thing that ever happened to me. I lost one-fifth of my life to the system. But I regained my perspective. And every day for over the last year of my sentence, I had the blessing of sitting on my cement-hard cot and listening to my music.

I didn’t do a lot of socializing in prison. I kept my circle tight. I mean, TIGHT! I decided early on I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here to serve a sentence and that’s all I wanted to do. Serve it. Survive it. Get out. Friends were for good times. I didn’t want to see prison as a “good” thing in any way. Ev-vah.

I can say I made six or seven solid friends in lockup. One of them, Enoch, may have been the best friend I ever had.  

There was Paul. One of two people I believed was innocent in a world where everyone wasn’t responsible. Jay was a hard-core street gangsta. He put a lot of energy into looking out for me. Something I discouraged vehemently. I did not want anyone “protecting” me. I was concerned if you transferred out, I’d be sitting there in full view of your enemies.

There was this little sociopath. Out of respect, I won’t mention his name. He may likely be the most loyal friend I ever had! When I was unexpectedly out for a medical procedure, I left personal property out. I learned later he almost got his ass kicked stopping anyone from taking it. To this day, I know if I needed to hide a body, he’d say “Gimme a sec. I’ll grab a blanket.” 

I consider my counselor at Rikers, Ms. Davis, a friend. She signed me up for everything without even asking for my consent. She knew I was game for anything that got me out of my cell. And we sat around and laughed all the time.

Other memories hit me from time to time. And they’re not always bad. I remember creating a group of cons who fell in love with The Big Bang Theory because I kinda sorta forced it on the television schedule. 

I think about being on Rikers and coming out of my cell for one hour to watch The Price is Right. (When the entire community would’ve preferred Jerry Springer.) I sat there by myself for a long time before others gradually joined me. Ironically, I never watched the game show before I went up and I haven’t watched it since I got out.

I think about attending classical music concerts and plays. I’m thankful for the Writer’s Workshop I attended faithfully every Friday at Rikers. (How my heart sank when some flub forced me to miss the workshop.) This is an association that remains a vital part of my life —it’s responsible for the words you read now. 

I remember, after my daughter dying, going to the yard, sun or rain, sometimes with her picture in my pocket, looking in the sky and reminding myself the world is still beautiful, even behind the wall. And often reenforcing my mission to get on the other side while promising to not forget how lucky I am to be able to bask in God’s wonderful work under any cloud.

I think quite fondly of how much I hated the food. Recently, the much-despised bellowing of “On the Chow” came to me. The call to let us know it was time to eat the crap the corrections system mistakenly called meals. The thought put a smile at both corners of my mouth. 

I remember a book. (Was it called “Married to the Streets” or “Married to the Gang” or “Married to the Mob?” Who cares!) It was the smelliest garbage I ever read. But I plowed through it, dissecting it and holding back my lunch as I wondered how anyone thought this was worth publishing. 

I hit the yard, lifting weights at Clinton, surrounded by a group of cons I had good connections with through my workshops, classes, church and seminars. I worked out alone but chatted with almost everyone out there. 

I remember hating being a Peer Counselor. (I did not volunteer.) But I also remember how being one clearly showed me how important my contribution to my community is. The experience taught me to not just be more honest with others, but myself.

I hate having fond memories of prison, but I do. I guess this is due to the fact that, even as life ravages us, we manage to find a reason to keep going. We manage to laugh and hope. We look back and realize we made it.

We never give up.

Oh, but I’m never going back…

Prisoner K is a working technical writer. He values his and his family’s privacy and like John has read Kafka’s The Trial, thus the pseudonym.