Tanks by D.N. Charlton

Tanks D.N. Charlton

The ConTextos Authors Circle was developed in collaboration with young people who are at risk of, victims of or perpetrators of violence in El Salvador. In 2017, this innovative program expanded into Chicago to create tangible, high-quality opportunities that nourish the minds, expand the voices and share the personal truths of individuals who have long been underserved and underestimated. Through the process of drafting, revising and publishing memoirs, participants develop self-reflection, critical thinking, camaraderie and positive selfprojection to author new life narratives.

Since January 2017, ConTextos has collaborated with the Cook County Sheriff's Office to implement Authors Circle in Division X of Cook County Department of Corrections as part of a vision for reform that recognizes the value of mental health, rehabilitation and reflection. These powerful memoirs complicate the narrative about violence and peace-building, and help author a hopeful future for these men, their families, and our collective communities.

While each memoir's text is solely the work of the Author, the images used to create this book's illustrations have been sourced from various print publications. Authors curate these images and then, using only their hands, manipulate the images through tearing, folding, layering, and careful positioning. By applying these collage techniques, Authors transform their written memoirs into fully illustrated books.

In collaboration with

Tanks D.N. Charlton

I was born in warm waters Paradise some may say South Beach was my location but then I swam away I swam and I swam searching for something new I arrived in Lake Michigan The Sears Tower was in view Tested the waters of summer ‘16 Cold waters with many fishes to be seen The line was thrown and I took the bait punctured, hooked, and taken by hate The water here is freezing and it keeps getting colder Pulled in as my captor reels me in closer Frozen in time with ice in my heart Gasping for air because I’ve been caught

Miami, Florida, Washington DC, Miami, Florida again, Wichita, Kansas, Chicago, Illinois.

A fish swimming across the seas. These were all the places I lived. I was born and raised in Miami. When I was 18, I went to school in DC for 5 years. I spent 5 months back home in Miami after graduating, I landed a job in Wichita, KS October of 2015 and was there for 10 months. I then found my way to Chicago, August 5th , 2016. It was here where my journey took a different route as I got arrested for murder in January 2019.

Once in cuffs, it was a long ride to the police station. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Paradoxically, things were moving both fast and slow, especially in my mind.

Arriving at the police station I was ushered out of the squad car by the two transport officers. We went inside and I was handed over to the detectives and they took me to the interrogation room. I was expecting to remain handcuffed and slapped with phone books while the cameras were off but “whew” that didn’t happen. After briefly speaking with the detectives, as in I wanted to speak to my lawyer, I was taken down to the basement level. There I took a mugshot and tried to make a phone call but to no avail.

After that failed attempt I was placed in a cell by myself.

There were no windows nor clock and very little foot traffic. The days I was there alone I had no idea whether it was day, night or which day it was. Lonely, desperate and hopeless I contemplated taking the expressway to heaven. Decidedly, however, I did not. I stuck out those torturous days of isolation. The only company I had were the given bologna and bread sandwiches that came three times a day. I couldn’t, but had to get adjusted to these new “meals” for now.

Nothing lasts forever, and finally it was time to leave the police station. I came in Thursday evening and was leaving Sunday morning. However, I would not leave on my own volition through the front doors free. I was being transferred to the County Jail along with about 10 others. The transport officers cuffed us up and exited us through the back of the station and into a paddy wagon. I always saw these vehicles on TV and parked idle at police stations, but never did I think that they were still in use. I found out personally that day.

Once inside, there was light conversation amongst the others, but I remained to myself.

Some of the conversations consisted of “Where are you from?” “What are you fighting?”

How’d they got caught, how their case is going to get thrown out, and how “they” don’t have any evidence on them. We stopped and picked up a few more guys in that crammed paddy wagon from two separate police stations before ultimately arriving at Cook County Jail.

The Cook County Jail compound is comprised of several different buildings called Divisions and each is given a number. Only Divisions 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, and 11 were occupied. We arrived, unloaded and entered in Division 8. This was a relatively new building on the campus and is where processing occurred.

Once inside we were lined up against the wall and searched. We were patted down, removed our shoes and socks, but thankfully we didn’t have to get naked. From there we were taken into a room for just us newbies which I learned that day was called the bullpen. It’s the correct description because that room and the whole intake process makes you feel like cattle. It's not just a feeling, that’s how we were actually treated. In that bullpen, the same conversations like in the paddy wagon

After what seemed like forever, we left the bullpen and were taken to an older part of the jail. The bullpens here looked like actual cages. We were placed inside one large chain-linked bullpen. We were waiting to be appointed a public defender (PD). Once your name was called, the officers took you from that bullpen and placed you in a single man bullpen right before you got a chance to speak with the PD. On speaking with the PD I was given, I stated I had a lawyer who would be with me that day for my bond hearing. After we all spoke with the PD’s, we went to yet another part of the jail leading to the courthouse next door.

We were placed in a bullpen before getting our left hand stamped with a 3 digit number and another bullpen afterwards. From that bullpen we all went to a larger bullpen and from there about 10 at a time were taken to a tiny bullpen next door to the bond court judge’s courtroom. Here our lawyers or PD would briefly speak to us before we saw the judge.

At my bail hearing I was beyond nervous, I probably looked psyched. I remember my lawyer and the opposing side going at it until the judge decided without much thought “no bond.”

After receiving no bond, I knew I would be spending some time in jail starting that night.

While most Americans were watching the Super Bowl game that night I was getting a jail photo ID and filling out paperwork. I swapped my clothing for the jail uniform pessimistically thinking that probably over 90% of the clothes turned over will get “lost” or “damaged.” We then got scanned one by one, probably to see if we were smuggling any drugs or weapons into the jail.

We spoke to some “psychologist” who I was skeptical of. They just seemed like people out to get me and trick me. Especially after following my lawyer’s advice to not speak with anyone about my case. Once that was done we were given our dinner for the night, bologna sandwiches. Internally I sighed heavily. It had to be about 10pm and we were waiting for our housing assignments. Most guys were hoping they didn’t have to get housed in Division 09 or 10. Supposedly those were the worst place in jail to be sent to.

By now I really did not care which Division I would be sent to. I just wanted to lay down and try to sleep after a very long day. Shortly after, an officer called my name as well as a few others and told us to follow him. After walking through the tunnels underground we arrived at Cermak, the County’s hospital. At least the closest thing to a hospital.

Every inmate was spaced out and shackled to the wooden benches attached to the floor. Again, I found myself in a space with no clock or windows,and was tired and uncomfortable.

Time went extremely slow. I went to see a doctor who further pressed and asked about my mental state. I cut to the chase and told him I was feeling very down. After that encounter, I went to the waiting room. After 2 hours passed of me just waiting, shackled to the wooden bench, until an officer called me and another guy. We were finally going to get housed. We went upstairs from there around 1a.m. We were going to be housed in Two North (2N).

Two-North was a housing wing a floor above the hospital. It was one of the few places associated with Division 8 that was a separate building than Division 8. Walking down the corridor, checking into Two-North, there was a short man eyeballing me and talking nonsense in a loony way. His raspy voice was the only constant voice you heard during that early morning. He kept yelling, cursing and banging on the door. Welcome to jail, I thought. After checking in, the guy who came in with me and I were being housed in the same room. The guy was a heavy set, short Hispanic guy who’d spent many years in and out of jail.

The room was empty, with four empty bunks. We each grabbed a bunk and were both exhausted from the day. After a few minutes of small talk and reflection, I broke down.

A guard came in and had me speak to the night nurse on duty and being honest, I told her I was having suicidal thoughts. This time I really found out that that was the wrong thing to say. The same guard came and got me and handcuffed one of my wrists to the most uncomfortable wooden chair. That chair became my bed although I couldn’t get any sleep. With all the adjusting, I didn’t get out of the chair and those cuffs until there was morning light outside. Again, all I wanted was sleep but once again I had to go to court.

This was one of my preliminary court hearings, a whole bunch of short back to back court hearings. Since it was the winter, I was relieved that the criminal courthouse sits next to the jail. I was escorted underground through the maze that led to the courthouse. I still couldn't believe it. Just a few days ago I was a free man and now I’m a captured fish placed in the coldest tank imaginable. Held against my will.

Surrounded by many and yet so alone.

Arriving at the courthouse, still underground, there’s usually a short bald, muscular Correctional Officer (C.O.) yelling out different courtroom numbers that way once your courtroom is called you can go into the assigned bullpen underground before going upstairs to the actual courtroom bullpen. I waited as they separated the cattle.

I heard my courtroom and was herded into the bullpen. Some guys who came from other divisions were already in there spread around and more were to come. I found a spot and stayed to myself on one of the long steel benches in that dimly lit room that smelled like piss.

Lunch, as they called it, was handed out shortly after entering, which had to be about 8:00am. Most of the guys had to experience being in this jail before because immediately it became an auction block. “Sandwich for juice, sandwich for juice” is what was being shouted by nearly every other person. Lunch consisted of the jailhouse famous bologna sandwiches and a small juice. The juice was the hot commodity everyone was trying to barter. I kept both my sandwich and juice but barely ate the sandwich.

My name was called and I rode the elevator upstairs and waited in the courtroom bullpen. My name was called again, this time to see the judge. After less than 30 seconds of mumbo-jumbo the hearing was adjourned, I was given another court date a few days away, and it was time to go back to 2N.

Back in 2N I was finally given a bed. Not only a bed, but a room to myself. I could have really used the alone time. There was a catch, however, I had no say-so to it. I had to strip all the way down to my boxers, the same boxers I’ve been wearing for 4 days straight with no shower. I was given a turtle green suit to wear, which they dubbed a smock. It was a 1 piece, non-adjustable oversized body vest that went down past my knees. The staff didn’t outright say I was on suicide watch. The euphemism was that I had to be closely monitored.

Being in that room alone reminded me of the police station. I did however, have a view to the dayroom through the glass in the door. I passed some time simply by people watching. There was also a view of the clock by the nursing station and time, by myself as usual, was moving slow. I missed my day room hour since I was at court.

It seemed like I was being purposely tortured. No shower, no communication with anyone, not knowing what’s to come and it was tough going to sleep. The “bed” was a raised waxy plastic platform with very little cushioning. Uncomfortable, but preferable over the wooden chair.

By the time the next shift arrived, it was my dayroom time. I had it to myself since I was in isolation. That was meaningless to me. All I cared about at this point was taking a shower. It was a cold shower with liquid soap. I got out finally feeling clean minus having the same boxers on. I watched a little t.v., but we couldn’t watch the news. My theory was that many guys would be fresh off the streets and if they saw themselves on t.v. they might freak out or others might recognize them and their crimes and possibly take matters into their own hands.

The next few days were basically the same. Breakfast at 4am, lunch around 9, morning dayroom hour, dinner at 5, evening dayroom hour, and in my room every time outside of my dayroom time.

One evening, a guy who was also isolated alone, was misbehaving in his cell. He was constantly kicking on the door and yelling for a while. I assume the officer and doctor on duty got fed up with him and warned him if he continued they would have something in store for him. Of course the madman ignored the warnings and used it as a license to continue misbehaving. Moments later the brigade came to his room.

One officer unlocked the door, the other officers rushed in followed by the doctor on duty. The doctor must have recently been from Africa because he had a strong African accent. I couldn’t see inside the cell but a minute after entering the cell the madman was all of a sudden quiet. The officer exited and so did the doctor with his empty syringe. Then I knew the madman was sound asleep.

It was probably the next day when I was transferred to a room a few doors down.

It was a room for 4 and there were already 7 guys occupying the room. There was Muhammed, late 20’s who was a laid back guy, Middle Eastern descendant; a black guy, late 20’s who wore a green suit and would habitually masturbate to any woman in view while we were in the cell; Gamez who was the hispanic who arrived at 2N with me, Sean, late 20’s white guy, goofball and immature, in for armed robbery again; an early 20’s hispanic guy who was always doped up; Papa King an over 60’s hispanic man; a 7th guy that I forgot and I made the 8th man. It was only 4 platform beds and the other 4 of us slept on what we called “the boat.” You’re pretty much on the floor inside a bed shaped kayak. Time here was slightly easier since I got to listen to many stories told by the other guys. Some talked about their past and future. Lots of it sounded like an action packed fantasy movie. One conversation came up about the incident with the madman acting up. They called it “bugging up” and explained that the doctor gave him “booty juice” which was some sort of tranquilizer that put him down for good.

Sean told a story about how one time he was here before and they gave it to him and he was knocked out for what seemed like days. You would think he would have learned his lesson, but periodically during my stay there he would continuously S.W.A.T. kick the door and scurry to his bed just for giggles. Our room was on the far end of the wing so the officers could never tell who was the perpetrator.

The place was filled with loonies. Not just those incarcerated, but the doctor and some of the guards were well off their screws too. It was a Tuesday, a week and two days since I arrived, when I was told that I was being transferred

I arrived in the dark although not pitch black. The lights in the room were all off with the exception of two emergency lights. It was around noon and the outside daylight was partially illuminating the room. Upon entering I gave the guard my ID and that was it. I guess some part of me was waiting for some instructions, introductions and a grand tour of the place. I was back in Division 8, now on the 4th floor, wing 4G. This was what they called a dorm setting. Thirty-nine concrete bunks for thirty-nine inmates and one guard overseeing us all.

After leaving the 5x2 exposed guard post I turned around and noticed many eyes staring at me. I was already nervous just by being in jail, but now I became instantly paranoid. Why were they staring? Were they planning on attacking me? It was all in my head, at least that’s the comforting thought I told myself. Later on during my time there, I was amongst the many staring. The reason inmates look and stare is simply because you are new and everyone is always curious about the newest arrival. Some may be old friends, others may be enemies, or some may have smuggled drugs. Either way after a few minutes things go back to normal.

With no instructions and all those gawking eyes, I’d figured I’d just go wherever there was an empty bunk. I heard and saw different people saying where and pointing to empty bunks. I didn’t know what to think of it. Maybe they were trying to set me up.

I selected the empty bunk next to the semi-open communal restroom which was to

the left of the sleeping areas. The 39 concrete bunks were laid out in 5 rows. The

guard post was next to the entrance door. The dayroom area consisted of 4 long

rectangular steel tables with seating, 3 phones, 1 flat screen TV above the phone,

and 3 TV monitor stations which I later found out were for video visitation. Every

division had in-person, behind the glass visitation except Division 8. Basically your

visitors would come to the jail, then go to the division and would be on another

remote monitor while the inmate would stay on the tier. The downside to the 15

minute video visits is that there would be 38 nosey inmates peeping through, thirsty

to see who you were on a visit with.

After being on my bunk for some time I noticed the stares started to fade away. I also noticed that the prime real estate was in the back row. There were nine bunks on the

back wall. There, you got an overall look of the tier and didn’t have to worry about

someone walking behind you since your back was protected. My bunk was one of

the most trafficked areas because it was next to the bathroom. Paranoia of someone

shanking me while I was asleep or on their way to the bathroom and me not being able

to see them forced me to eventually move to the back row.

My bunk neighbors were a 30’s, 6’0” dark skinned guy with unkempt and

uneven dreads. He was to my right and would go on random rageful rants about

many things and do an evil villain chuckle with a smile in between. He seemed

more possessed than crazy. To my left was Murphy. Early 40’s tall, light-skinned,

chubby with braids was probably one of the nicest guys I ever met. I never knew

what happened to him in life but he could only speak no more than 2 words at a

time, and even those words were hard to understand. He spoke as if he couldn’t

move his tongue. He was a guy who slept all day and night and didn’t have

much of anything including a support system. It came out that he was in jail for

8 years so far. Most days I’d just give him my lunch cookies because he was in

love with cookies.

The first few days that turned into weeks were an adjustment for me. Ever since

I got arrested, I never really had good sleep. Being in the dorms did not make it

any easier. The guys, many younger than me, would stay up late talking loud,

walking around, and horse playing well past one in the morning. No courtesy

was given for those of us trying to sleep.

Majority of my time there on 4G I spent in my bunk. Not necessarily asleep

nor tired, just empty. I didn’t care about my life no more since I was in jail and

didn’t know the outcome. The meds I took I felt they had no effect on me. With

so much time in my thoughts, I began to wonder many things about where I

was at. How was it that people's belongings remained safe in an open room

of 39 guys? It does not. What happens if I got shanked? Oh well, say hello to

Jesus. There would be only 1 guard to however many attackers. He wouldn’t

risk his life for mines. I was beginning to question my decision of choosing to

come to a dorm versus a Division with cells.

It didn’t take me long to realize what this place was. It was the in-between

of 2N and general population. In Division 8, the basement and the 1st floor

was for administrative, processing, and holding. The 2nd floor was for those

inmates recovering from drugs and alcohol. The 3rd floor was for medical

issues such as broken hands, wheelchair bound, or anything that needs

constant but not severe monitoring or where you can’t be around others. The

5th floor was for women and their problems. However, the 4th floor was for

those with psych issues. On tier 4G where I was housed, there were many.

21, was the main guy I would never forget and the worst in my opinion. The

young guys on the tier named him that for reasons unknown to me. He was

an older bony black man in his 60s who wore a turquoise “green” jumpsuit.

Wearing a green jumpsuit, just like the guy from 2N, in Cook County jail means

you’ve been caught in a sexual act, typically masturbation. I guess it’s harder

to whip it out while in a jumpsuit than in regular pants. Those guys are also

cuffed wherever they leave the deck so they can’t whip it out while walking

throughout the jail; going to court for example. The jail slang for those guys in

green suits are “the clappers” and masturbation is called “clapping.”

He would rummage through the trash for food or objects to play with. He

would talk to himself day and night. I never caught him sleeping. He refused

to sleep on a mattress. He preferred to sleep on the bare concrete bunk or on

the floor. 21 would pick up the phone and have “a conversation” immediately

after pressing a few random buttons and we all knew he was talking to

no one based on how quickly he would begin the conversation. He never

showered. Each time after using the restroom he habitually flushed all 5 toilets

simultaneously, even during the early morning hours. As bony as he was, he

ate like a sumo wrestler. Both 21 and another guy named Cornelius, would

each day during dinner time literally stand and put their faces against the

glass windows that gave a view in both directions to the hallway outside of

the tier watching like a hawk for the dinner trays that would soon arrive. Once

in sight, they would announce “trays” as if they were waiting all year for their

1st meal. In addition to hawking down the dinner trays, they would separately

stare at people eating to hopefully get another tray or eat the portions of the

meal that the initial recipient discarded. I gave him my dinner trays and some

commissary sometimes, but tried not to make it a habit.

Next were a few less severe guys. Tony was maybe in his late 30’s or 40’s. A quiet

Middle Eastern guy, he would spend most of his time walking laps around the day

room and sleeping area. There’s 3 things I remember most about Tony. Maybe it

was nerve damage, but at least every 30 seconds he would do a double, triple,

double-double, or triple-double take over his shoulders as if there was a finger

sized version of him standing there. He’d do his “takes” to the left, right, and some

time alternate between both all as if involuntarily. Second was the incident that

happened within my first two weeks there. Tony didn’t have much. A group of

guys thought it would be hilarious if they gave him a tasty burrito they made. The

funny part from their point of view was to watch him have a reaction that would

make him do “funny” stuff because they crushed up a whole bunch of pills and

mixed it inside the burrito. Shocked and disgusted, I saw the whole thing and just

watched in disbelief. Fortunately and to those evil guys' dissatisfaction, Tony didn’t

show any effects, but enjoyed the burrito. I hate myself for not intervening still to

this day. The last incident with Tony was the last time I saw him. Both him and 21

were pacing around doing their laps. Both were in their own world. Most of the tier,

including myself, was upfront watching a movie, until we heard the officer shouting

“stop!” We all turned around to see what he was yelling about and saw 21 and Tony

exchanging blows. I never knew what caused the fight but many of the guys found

it to be the funniest thing ever. They both got separated and moved off the deck.

Each time a newbie arrives at a tier it’s some sort of tradition for at least someone to shout “on the new.” Usually it’s more than one guy announcing it. If that phrase was said when I got to the tier I must have been so out of it that I didn’t notice. The last few guys I encountered arrived at 4G after me.

Billy D was a short, quiet, peaceful guy who said nothing to no one. He was also the same short, loud, raspy voiced guy that welcomed me to 2N. I take it he was on or off meds that day I saw him acting up in 2N. Brian H. was one of the few white guys. He was in for attacking his family with a knife.

He said he had a history of “bad episodes” and most times he was just admitted into a hospital. This was his first time in jail. He would rant in a calm way about how he hates his sister and how his family turned their backs on him this time. Brain was very educated, knew a lot, and was pretty funny despite him always being depressed and in bed most of the time. Many of the guys on the deck thought he was racist because of the one time he used his sheets to tie a leash around a Hispanic man then proceeded to “walk the dog.” I knew they were just playing but the other guys found it bothersome and humiliating.

A big no-no in jail is stealing. Everyone says they don’t steal yet things somehow mysteriously go missing. There are two incidents I’d like to talk about that involved stealing.

The first involved a 6’5, bald headed, dark skinned guy in a green suit. He wasn't a bully,

maybe just hungry, but would must swipe food when he thought no one was looking. One

morning he was walking around while he thought everyone was asleep and I saw him

swipe an apple. I saw the whole thing, confronted him and nicely told him to put it back.

At first he didn’t, announcing his “innocence.” We were standing at the crime scene and

the victim woke up during the commotion and he saw his apple was missing and a little

fed up, I told him what happened. The 6’5 guy was such a poor thief when I caught him

and addressed him as soon as it happened, the apple was sitting in plain sight on his

bed. He finally gave the apple back and that settled things. For a few minutes the failed

thief was talking trash to me saying I wasn’t right. I just let it slide because I was over the

incident. Even though he got caught red-handed, he would brag out loud about how he

doesn’t need to steal and how he has so much money for commissary. Yeah yeah, who

cares. He was typically like this daily. Stealing, denying, and causing trouble. Several

people on the tier wanted to beat him but thought like me that it wasn’t worth it. Until that

one day, the shortest, tiniest man who was 4’11 punched him up. He did it out of anger

and frustration and the 6’5 guy just took it without fighting back. Probably since he was

so short and small. As always after every fight, they both got moved.

The second incident that involved theft was personal. One morning a guy who slept in a bunk in front of me woke up to his property bag opened and to the side of him. Everyone kept their property bag with their belongings, including commissary, underneath their bunks. The guy found it odd, knowing he didn’t put it there, looked inside and saw many of his commissary purchases missing. A nice guy who mostly talked and walked with the guy next to him, he made an announcement stating he had some items stolen. As usual no one saw or knew anything about it.

The very next morning I woke up to my entire commissary bag missing. At first I thought I was tripping and took a second look and my bag was indeed gone. This was the very first week I purchased more than what was needed for the week. Enraged, I looked around for anyone who was suspicious. Everyone was acting normal. Then I tried to do the process of elimination. Usually when there’s an incident, especially a fight, the guards elsewhere in the Division are able to rewind the cameras. I informed my tier officer about the theft that happened when I was asleep. This guard, this day could have cared less and told me they couldn’t rewind the tapes. I knew it was a lie. I decided to ask each and every one on the deck if they stole my item. Everyone said no but 3 suspects' names kept coming up. I individually asked each of the 3, they each claimed innocence, and pointed the finger at one another. No honor amongst thieves and since I didn’t know who specifically stole it, I let it go. I was super mad but told myself that the goal is to get out of jail and not stay in jail. Why put myself in a situation where I would have to be in jail for extra time? Time I could be back with family.

One of the suspected guys was a guy in his 50’s named Kilo. He had a big head,

lazy eye, and a crippled walk that sometimes he would use his cane to walk. He

was a cool guy, a bit delayed, and I was shocked people were naming him a prime

suspect. I just couldn’t see it in him. As thieves' greed can never be satisfied, less

than a week later on commissary distribution Saturday for Division 8, an old man’s

commissary came up missing. His name was Hartfield and when they stole from

him it enraged me more than when my items were stolen. Hartfield was medically

mute, read only religious stuff all day every day, and knew a lot about alot. I knew

he was very educated but as much as we communicated he was very private. He

gave hints though that he had a career in either engineering or aerospace. When

they stole from him, I was beyond upset because he gave away freely and was

kind. He wrote to the guard and informed him about what happened. The guard on

duty made a call on the phone to have someone check the camera, something the

jackass guard on duty when I reported my incident didn’t do. Minutes later more

guards swarmed the deck along with their superiors. Two culprits were arrested.

Kilo was one of them.

My time on 4G I was pretty isolated and to myself. Majority of the time I stayed on my bunk, laying down depressed. On the phone, I reached out to my support system that helped me stay grounded. Being in jail, it’s pretty much a lot of doing nothing all day. Sometimes I would spend time with Brian, Hartfield, and a few others but most times, I’d stay to myself. Trying to break up the monotony, I decided to kill time by reading. My mom sent in a book by Hill Harper entitled “Letters to an Incarcerated Brother” and it was worthwhile. I’d recommend those incarcerated as well as those not incarcerated with loved ones incarcerated to read it. Partial credit to me reading the book but I decided that I wanted to positively and meaningfully use my time in jail rather than wasting it. I decided to read and learn rather than sit and pout.

Being new to jail and on the back row, I was able to observe a lot. I’ve heard a lot of the lingo and still don’t know what many of it means. “Clappers,” and “a bug,” I slowly learned the meanings of. However, words and phrases such as: a pipe, stick, switch, woo woo woo, woo wop the bam, are terms and phrases I still don’t comprehend. Guys here “merch it” which I take means a promise you make to someone while using someone or something as collateral. For example, one guy would challenge someone to a claim and say “merch it” and another guy would follow up by saying “on fo nem (whatever the hell that means), “on BD” (a gang), “on GD” (a gang), “on Stone” (a rock and a gang), on my dead homie, etc. Some terms and phrases fly right over my head many times when some of the locals and seasoned jail birds speak to me.

From my view, from the back I was able to watch two friendships kindle.

The first friendship was between two of the crazies, Donnell and Mr. Knox. These guys

together were best buds after they got to know each other but individually they had many

screws loose. Both men were around the same age, mid 60s. Mr. Knox was tall and brown

skinned. He had a bad habit of staring at people. Mr. Know would swear up and down that

every ok or good looking woman was his wife. I mean he’d truly believe it and would try

to make everyone else a believer as well. It could have been a good looking officer, nurse,

new anchor, Beyonce, Michelle Obama, you name it. Wherever he would see them he’d

say, “that’s my wife” and would have a story to go with it. Hopefully if he did have a wife

before coming to jail nothing tragic happened to her. Speaking of outside of jail, Mr. Knox

would constantly brag about “having” a bond. In his delusion of having a bond, he would

waive random papers as proof of his band. It could have been a blank sheet of paper, used

paper, or even a commissary receipt as evidence of his bond.

Mr. Knox would also fill out numerous requests on the medical slips. He would literally

take all the medical slips, fill them out the same day with the same issue and turn them

in and not save any for anyone else. The nurse who came to pick them up each morning

quickly became annoyed with him. One day Mr. Knox got into an altercation with 21. 21

recently returned to the tier after his fighting incident. 21 was in his own world and so was

Mr. Knox, staring at 21. 21 called him a fag and verbally they were going back and forth. I

brought Mr. Knox over to my bunk and sparked up a conversation with him just to diffuse

the situation while others did the same with 21. Sometimes people just want to be heard

out and feel like they matter.

Mr. Knox’s buddy was Donnell, Mr. Young. Mr. Young was in a green suit. He was

browned skinned; around 90% of his gray medium sized afro looked as if he'd just

been electrocuted, and he had a large protruding bottom lip. Donnell confirmed he

had schizophrenia and probably some other stuff as well. He would holler (thankfully

only during the daytime) a whole bunch of gibberish dance as if he was Michael

Jackson, splits included, and walk around with his blanket draped around him down

to his calf as a cape. Mr. Knox and Mr. Young’s friendship I found was touching to

see in a place like jail and beneath both of their mental illnesses together it was like

they knew each other their entire life. Friendship is truly essential to the soul.

The last friendship involved two different guys. One guy was a young guy with dreads.

He was no older than 21 years old and he was my immediate neighbor on my right once my old neighbor left. The other guy was a very large black guy in his 30s. By large, I mean wide & round, over 300 lbs less than average height. The big guy was on the tier months before I arrived and the young guy was there less than a month.

They began playing cards with each other and became cool. One night, which was technically the wee hours in the morning, many of us were awakened out of our sleep because one knuckle-head (one of those annoying under 21 year old guys) was laughing and giggling saying “Hell naw” repeatedly. Of course everyone wanted him to shut up so we could go back to sleep. Moments later our night officer emerged from the bathroom area with the young neighbor of mine in cuffs.

Then everyone was curious to know what happened. After the guy was escorted off the deck, the big guy was making his way out of the bathroom. Shortly after a few more officers came in, cuffed him, and escorted him off the deck. Everyone was really wondering what was going on. The young knuckle-head who loudly woke many of us started telling others individually what happened and the word got out that he went to use the restroom and heard noises coming from the single showers. Sheets are hung as curtains for privacy when showering. He told the officer that he heard something in the shower and that the officer might want to take a look. The officer arrived, pulled the curtains back and both the officer and the young knuckle-head found the big guy and the young guy in a sexual act. I never knew exactly what happened and didn’t care but after that incident I immediately wanted to move to another part of jail. I didn’t care if it was Division 9 or 10. Despite all the horrible stories I heard of those two Divisions, I wanted to be as far away from Division 8 as I could be. These were grown men. one was supposedly a thug with “so many hoes,” and this was what they were doing. Not even an excuse but both guys haven’t even been in jail for 6 months. I just was disgusted and wanted out.

A few days after that incident, I got what I asked for. The guard called a few names.

Many guys were scared or just too comfortable in Division 8. They tried to put up

fights to stay there but it was never successful. Some would play crazy or threaten

suicide and maybe get sent to 2N. My name was called and it was time for me to

“pack my shit,” as the guys would say. I was more than ready to leave.

Being incarcerated for me is analogous to a fish. In the ocean, a fish is in true

freedom. Taken out and placed inside a tank becomes a new environment that a fish

must adapt to. Ultimately the fish is limited because it is confined to a tank. A fish

can no longer go where it wants freely. A fish must rely on its owner for feeding and

maintaining the environment. The fish become dependent. Jail in my experience my

first few months, can be seen as a tank or a collection of tanks. Taken away from

the ocean of society, I’m now stuck with many other fishes. Many look like me and

others don’t. Some are friendly and others are dangerous. By the time it was time for

me to get transferred, I was being thrown in a different tank, Division 10. Ultimately,

I wanted to be free, but as of summer 2021 I am still stuck in this tank waiting to be

free like a fish.

I gasp and I gasp

As I struggle to exist

Please throw me back in the water So I can be with the other fish I can’t breathe out here

As I am trapped in this net I hope this thing breaks

So I can swim with the rest Back into the cold waters I’ll swim so fast

Back to the tropical waters

Hard lessons learned from my past

I Am From Poem D.N. Charlton I am from the start of I-95 From Dolphins and Hurricanes I am from the Uncle Luke's, Trina’s, Gloria Estefan’s and Rick Ross’s Creative with music, trendy forever timeless music I am from an orange tree A pleasantly refreshing burst to always awake you I’m from first day of school pics and ambition From Claudette and Devious I’m from the “I’m around the corner” yet nowhere And gathering at grandma’s house From “I don’t have it” and “Ask your dad” I’m from being dragged to church on Sundays, every moment of it torturously boring I’m from Miami, the Bahamas, and Haiti Boo-yon soup and Dee-yee (rice) everyday From the sunny days and beaches I deserted For cold winters and Lake Michigan all to get arrested.

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