From Scalawag Magazine:
When I leave my cell, I leave with a plan. I am headed to the trash, the ice machine, the phone, and back to my cell with my head down, my pace fast. I set my course, half hoping my folks won't answer my call and I can get back to my cell quicker, and half terrified that they won't, confirming my desolation. I count my steps.
Somewhere between the trash and the ice, around step #73, a member of my community stops to say hello and ask me a friendly question. I am flooded with irritation. I snap and answer curtly, get back on my track, and start over at step #1. I have to get the ice in my cup and back to my room as efficiently as possible, as quickly, with as little interruption as I can. I keep my head down, a conditioned response from years of worrying my face might be cut, never knowing what's around the corner.
I panic when I see a guard. I panic when I see the violent groups that coalesce in the absence of guards. I panic in the morning and at night. I am always alert. Last night, a woman was stabbed in the head. A woman I know. A woman with a 30-year sentence. She passed out in front of our dorm, handcuffed, in a pool of blood. I stayed in bed because there was nothing I could do. Continue reading >>>
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