Pathways from Prison Journal, Volume 1, Summer 2025
Welcome to Volume 1 of the Pathways from Prison journal, presented by the University of Wyoming Writing Center.
This journal exists because too often, the voices of incarcerated people are silenced or distorted. The public rarely hears anything beyond the narrative of a conviction. But every person inside Wyoming’s prison system has a story and a voice. This journal is one small attempt to make space for some of those voices and to challenge the limits of what we think we know.
We are incredibly grateful to Jackson Colter and Rob Colter for their steadfast support of this project through the Pathways from Prison program. Special thanks also go to Erin Bentley, who not only provided thoughtful editorial feedback but also created the artwork for this volume, along with Gregory Barr and Alex Huss for their generous feedback to our writers.
Most of all, we thank the students who submitted their work. Your insight and honesty is the heart of this journal.
We hope you enjoy this volume.
Francesca King Director, University of Wyoming Writing Center
INTHISISSUE
BLOODONTHEHANDSOFTHEU.S
READON-READON MARTINGABRIEL
BANANASAREFROMGOD TAYLORNICKS
ADOGCHASINGCARS BRADYTREVINO
CRYSTALCASTLES AMYDOERR
APRISONER...OFPHILOSOPHY THOMASMILLER
LONGWAYFROMHOME MARTINGABRIEL
HOTPOTATOES KELLYTURNER
SOMEWHEREINBETWEEN BRENNANS HODGES
WORDSANDLABELS JAMESWILEY
IAMSTRONGERTHANITHINK WADEFARROW
FALLENSOLDIER
RyanBorrego
Sometimes in life there are moments when one selfless choice can give meaning beyond the act itself. It was the fall of 2009. I was working the graveyard shift at the coal mine when I learned that one of the shovel operators on my crew had just lost their son in Iraq and the military would be flying his body into Gillette that morning. When I heard this, an idea fell upon my heart. As the evening progressed I developed a plan to film the homecoming ceremony at the airport and then ask the family if they would like me to put together a tribute video for their fallen soldier for free. Because I had recently started a video production business, I already had the necessary equipment to make this work even though I was lacking experience.
By the time I got off work and back to Gillette that morning, I was exhausted. The 15-hour work night that I had just finished at the coal mine had worn on me. I distinctly remember picking up my filming equipment from my studio and thinking to myself, “I should just go home and go to bed. No one even knows what I have planned. I wouldn’t be letting anyone down.” As I got into my car, something inside me convinced me that I still needed to proceed with my plan.
When I got to the airport I was surprised to see such a huge turnout. The parking lot was full of vehicles, the sidewalk full of people, and a row of motorcycles lined the curb There was even a young family of four set up just outside of the runway fence with flags in hand. They were awaiting the final descent of the aircraft so they could welcome home the fallen soldier for the last time. I had never filmed a production like this before, especially on the fly, so I did not know what to expect. I just knew I needed to capture the story of the day so I could save this memory for the family.
Once the airplane landed, the community was allowed to take their places on the tarmac. With my camera bag over my shoulder and my video camera in hand, I pressed record and I never stopped. What I was able to film was an emotional final
homecoming that no mother or father should ever have to be a part of The emotions that I captured from everybody involved would make even the hardest of hearts shed a tear.
As the military carried the casket of the soldier off the plane, everyone stood in silence as the veterans gave their fallen soldier a final salute. With the American flag draped over the top, the military carried the soldier past his mother and father The couple wrapped their arms around each other and the father closed his eyes and rested his head against his wife as the realization set in that their son was home but gone from them forever.
I continued to film the procession from the airport to the funeral home and it was there that I asked the father if he would like me to create a tribute video of his son and film the service a few days later. He was extremely grateful and gave me permission to capture this memory for him and his family.
The Wright church was completely full and the funeral service was beautiful. Once it was over, the journey to the veteran’s cemetery outside of Sturgis, South Dakota would begin. As I followed the motorcade to Gillette on that desolate highway, what I witnessed tugged on my heart strings. Motorists on their way to other destinations were pulled over along the side of the road. Instead of waiting in their vehicles for the procession to pass, they were standing outside to show their gratitude for what the soldier had fought for Locals also came from their ranches and rural homes miles away to park alongside the highway. As the procession passed, their arms were either raised high in a salute or crossed over their chest against their hearts. There may have even been a few homemade signs.
One man who looked to be in his 70s, stood out from the rest. To me he represented what this nation was built upon, hard work and a love for his country He was standing next to his old worn out Ford pickup, wearing those blue bib overalls that you would imagine a farmer wearing and an old trucker’s hat. As the procession passed by, he held a flag in one hand and saluted in his other. That’s community. That’s America.
Because I had permission by the highway patrol to pass the procession and speed towards town, I was able to set up in Gillette to capture the procession as it went through. But before
I found my spot, the site that I saw was one to behold. The highway leading through town was lined on both sides with groups of citizens holding flags, signs and even shirts covered in red, white, and blue. It didn’t matter what color your skin was, your age, or your social status, everybody came together that Wyoming autumn afternoon to say good-bye to one of their own.
As the journey continued past Gillette, only a handful of bikers who had dressed for winter and close family members in their vehicles remained in the procession. But the tribute was not over yet. I wish I would have thought ahead and had my two sons (my daughter was not born yet) come with me for this leg of the journey. I really wish they could have witnessed what I was about to see My father did volunteer to drive me in my truck so that I could film if I needed to and I needed to
As the procession approached the small community of Moorcroft, I could not believe what I saw. For over a mile, the interstate shoulder was lined with people from all the little communities in the area. Hundreds of citizens were holding little flags to honor their fallen soldier My heart sank and tears began to flow from my eyes as I filmed this moment
As the procession continued on the interstate towards South Dakota, another example of love showed itself in a very unique way. As we approached a bridge crossing over the interstate heading into a canyon, I could see an American flag draped over its edge I barely had time to grab my camera and start recording. Surrounded by pine trees, the bridge was full of children holding flags and signs. They were waving their little arms in a final act of remembrance as the procession passed beneath them. I was later told that these children were from the elementary school of the hometown of the fallen soldier. It was a very humbling moment The procession continued to Sturgis where the soldier was laid to rest with his family by his side
A few months later, my girlfriend and our children were waiting for our food at a local restaurant when the parents of the fallen soldier walked in. I had not seen them since the day he was laid to rest. As soon as his mother saw me, she quickly made her way towards our table. By the time she reached us, she was in tears
and her arms were wide open. When I stood up, she gave me one of the biggest hugs I had ever had and whispered to me, “Thank you so much.”
As I look back at that experience in my life, I realize how significant it was. It affected the way I look at others and how I approach new situations. I could have easily gone to bed that morning and no would have been the wiser to my idea Instead, what I was able to give the family was a priceless memory Moments caught on film that they could use to remember their son for the rest of their lives. That hug the mother gave me was more than just a hug.
It was a hug full of love and gratitude that had more value than any amount of money could ever have That experience will forever influence me on the significance of selflessness, humility, and the importance of listening to your own heart.
ADOGCHASINGCARS
BradyTrevino
It was summer before 8th grade and the time in life when you thought you knew things, but you didn't know anything. Life was still sharing its secrets with you. On this particular day I was with my girlfriend and it happened...in my mind I became a man! I scored, and like the beginning of any manhood I did what anyone else would do. I told my friends
At my friend's house named Green-Thumb (all my characters will be using their actual nicknames) I was passing a bong around and bragging about my sexual conquest and I was in for a surprise.
“Big Bird! Welcome to the club, we all hit it!”
I soon realized that my girlfriend Big Bird was boning all my friends. I was devastated, and in the process learned my friend got the clap from her.
The best advice given to me was from a bunch of friends while passing a bong around. They recommended I get checked. I had a lot to think about. What was supposed to be my moment of manhood immediately turned to shit, and I went home to check my junk. Things got worse. What I found was an immense amount of red bumps and I knew, I knew I had an STD.
I prayed to God. My dick was going to fall off and I was scared and prayer was my first course of action. I was waiting for hours for God to come down and perform some magic on my dick, but it never happened.
I learned about STDs online. I shouldn’t have done that as I totally put myself in a panic and broke up with Big Bird which was a mistake. She showed me a great time and I broke up with her over a text with no explanation.
I received more advice from my friends. Who would have guessed a bunch of 8th graders are idiots?
“Did you try petroleum jelly?” Chief asked.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I don’t know, the one at my house has a bear on it.” Chief said.
I ransacked the cabinet looking for anything to save my dick What I did find was a bunch of prescription codeine, vicodin, and OxyContin.I was like fuck petroleum jelly. I momentarily forgot my dad broke his neck twice and had enough pain killers to kill a heard of elephants. I also momentarily forgot about my imminent doom in the face of the greatest score of the day: free drugs!
But back to my dick problems: I couldn’t sleep The images of all the STDs I saw online had me freaked out. Perhaps I had something that could only be cured with a shot or pill. I did the only thing I could think of, and I asked my dad for help.
I woke my dad up out of a dead sleep. He stared at me as he woke from his slumber
“Dad, I got with this chick and I think she gave me something.” I said.
“I’ll take you to the clinic tomorrow.” And the man went to sleep on me.
The next morning I was in summer school. I should have been paying attention, or at least, come to the realization that with my current problems an education was something I needed. I mean, I didn’t even know what petroleum jelly was. Instead, I was in summer school, with a pack of cigarettes, a handful of pills, and a cheap bag with a change of clothes for swimming at the river later. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it got worse, because in walks my mom to pick me up for a doctor appointment
Having my mom take me to the clinic for my first STD test was horrible. My mother gave me a great talking and I’m certain I’ve blocked out the details as a traumatic experience.
“I have good news.” The doc said as he looked at my junk. “But in your defense, this is the worst case of ingrown hair I have ever seen.” The doc gave me a bag of contraceptives and we started the drive back to summer school. I was no longer being scolded, now I was being laughed at by my mom. Yeah, it sucked.
My mom dropped me off at the school and I walked in with a cotton ball taped on my arm and a bag of condoms. The feeling wasn’t of disappointment for realizing I was an idiot; no, it was a feeling of relief, of joy knowing that my dick wasn’t going to rot off. I immediately texted Big Bird to get back together and I may or may not have been thinking with my heart.
“What happened?” Chief asked.
“All good!” I said.
“Did you get a STD check?” Kay asked. “No.”
“Yes you did. You had blood drawn, and they gave you a condom bag afterwards.” Kay said, as I realized she knew. She smiled. “They gave me a bag like that after mine too”
Here I was, sold out by a bag of condoms and a cotton ball held on with tape. An idea came to me, but first I wadded up the cotton ball and tossed it under a nearby desk.
“Kay, do you want to get out of here and go swimming at the river?” I said.
She smiled. “Let’s go”
What did I learn from this situation? I learned that I shouldn’t break up with my girlfriend over an ingrown hair. I discovered petroleum jelly is also known as Vaseline. When I explained the situation to a family friend who tried to keep me out of trouble by doing hard labor at his house, he said: “Jesus Christ, you’re worse than a dog chasing cars You can’t catch one and if you do you wouldn’t know what to do with it ” Mr Halstead shook his head as I unloaded a truck bed full of dirt.
The absolute worst outcome, however, was my mom’s reaction.
For a long time whenever I left home she would say, “Don’t catch an ingrown hair.”
APRISONER…OFPHILOSOPHY
ThomasMiller
Philosophy has, is, and will always be present in humanity. Some willcallitphilosophy,othersreligion,whilemanywillseeitasan innate capacity towards a moral way of living. Whatever label it mayhave,thepurposeisclear:toseektruthandawelllivedlife. Thesetwosimplebutparamountbeliefsarethedrivingforcethat captivatesmeasaprisoner…ofphilosophy.
The day-to-day life of a prisoner reflects the separation from society the judicial system has required, as punishment, for crimes committed against my community. There is very little privacy and little opportunity to set oneself apart from the masses Every choice is scrutinized by the staff and other prisoners Look at someone the wrong way or speak your mind and it could have serious repercussions Prison is a place of extremes Itrequirestheutmostdiligenceofaprisonerinorderto havetheleastamountoffrictionandthebestpossibleexistence. Enterphilosophy.
For some, philosophy is nothing more than contradictory argumentsagainstthenormsofanygivensociety.Someprisoners have the mindset of: “Philosophers do nothing but pick apart people for their way of living while placing themselves above others”or“Philosophyisboringandhasnoplaceoreffectonthe life of a prisoner.” But the average prisoner is untrained in philosophical thought. I know this because at one time, these weremythoughts.
IdidnotalwaysembracephilosophyasIdotoday.Myjourney startedbytakinganintroductoryphilosophyclassofferedatthe Wyoming Medium Correctional Institute (WMCI), through the UniversityofWyoming'sPathwaysFromPrisonprogram Overthe years, I have seen the effects of a wasted mind in this environment and I wanted no part of it So, I took the class to keep my mind from becoming stagnant Thankfully, and due in large part to the professor (now my mentor), the class was nothing close to what I thought it would be. You see, as a cradle Catholic,Iwasraisedtobelievethatphilosophyevolvedfrom
religionandnottheotherway Assuch,IadmitIhadabitofachip onmyshoulderthefirstdayofclass.Tomakealongstoryshort, my preconceived opinions of philosophy were wrong and I now embraceitasmuchasIdomyfaith.This,however,wasnottobe the end of my journey but the beginning of a growing devotion towardsalifeofintellectualcontemplation
Philosophy,asIhavecometounderstandit,“istheexamination of the human existence; the individual moments, freely chosen, that culminate into what we call life” (Plato, 2002, p. ix). Each choice we make produces an outcome that is either positive or negativetoourexistenceandhasthepropensitytoaffectothers aswellasourselves.Therefore,Isurmisethatphilosophycouldbe a catalyst used to break down negative behavior and influence better, more productive behavior in prisoners After all, this is what society expects of the prisoner; a transformation from selfish disobedience (bad) to selfless community mindedness (good). Epictetus sums this idea up when he said, “anyone who nobly endures his circumstances and makes reasonable use of what they have to offer deserves to be called a good person” (Epictetus,2022,p 356) Thisisjustoneofthephilosophical“gold nuggets”thathasmademyintegrationwithphilosophyapositive influenceinmylife.
While I can not speak for all prisoners, I can use my own experience to convey the possible outcome of using philosophy in the prison setting. Philosophy helps me to find order in this chaoticworld Ithelpsmetorecognizeweaknessandexaminemy lifeeffectively Initsmostsimplisticform,philosophyasawayof life, is discernment during individual moments of pause. It is something that we do everyday both consciously and unconsciously. Being that prison is often an environment of reactionorsometimesover-reaction,itwouldmakesensetohave atoolsuchasphilosophytopromotepreventionversusreaction
Philosophy can ignite a lifelong passion for the truth which is whatithasdoneformeandcountlessothersinandoutofprison. The pursuit of truth is indicative of a desire for intellectual stimulation through thought and conversation which philosophy provides. Saint Augustine, a religious philosopher, echoes this sentimentwhenhequotedoutofabookbyCicerosaying:
“The only thing that pleases me in Cicero’s book was his advice not simply to admire one or another of the schools of philosophy, but to love wisdom itself, whatever it might be, and search for it, pursue it, hold it and embrace it firmly. These were the words which excited me and set me burning with fire.” (Augustine, 1961, p.59).
The benefits are not just for those who choose to embrace philosophy Inmates I come into contact with often ask me questions about my upbeat attitude which for me is a declaration of my life being lived well. It’s also an opportunity to share my faith and philosophical beliefs with them in the hopes that they too may seek something better. What draws people to a better life is seeing the possibilities being lived out even in an environment like prison. That generates hope, which is a lacking desire in many prisoners today.
In closing, for a person to change, especially in prison, requires positive outside influences to establish the base fundamentals of who they will become. Without those influences (ideas), how can a person become aware of what is and is not? We become aware through interaction, discernment, and the acquisition of learned behaviors. Our thoughts, beliefs, emotions, even our character are acquired from a collective. Philosophy is the tool I use to sift through the chaos of thought, speech, and action to make sense of it all. So, I remain a prisoner…of philosophy.
References
Augustine, S. (1961). Confessions. Penguin Books. Epictetus. (2022). The Complete Works: handbook, discourses, and fragments (R. Waterfield, Trans.). The University of Chicago Press.
Plato. (2002). Plato / Five Dialogues (G.M.A. Grube, Trans.; 2nd Ed. / revised by John M. Cooper ed.). Hackett Publishing Company, Inc.
Hurrying through the fields of cotton, the rows seem to stretch miles and miles. The boots sink into soft dirt while they head towards the river but, first they must navigate the swamps filled with gators, spiders, snakes and leeches. Still, they push on, creating distance between themselves and the dungeon of a plantation, filled with nightmares and beating, cries in the nights of family members being mistreated. Yet they push on, through the trees, giant oak trees where a distant relative was strung-up. Finally, the river, and they fall to their knees.
How did they get here without a map? How did they know to come to the river? Who told them where to meet?
The idea that quilts were used as coded messages to guide enslaved people escaping via the Underground Railroad is a popular narrative, but it is not well-supported by historical evidence. This concept suggests that specific quilt patterns conveyed messages or instructions about safe houses, directions, or meeting points. The quilt code theory gained popularity in the late 20th century, particularly after the publication of books and stories that romanticized the idea However, the lack of contemporary evidence from the 19th century, such as diaries, letters, or firsthand accounts from those involved in the Underground Railroad makes it difficult to substantiate these claims.
But I've seen these patterns…I’ve experienced watching my mom and grandma make the quilts Placing these swag hooks in the ceiling to hang the support rope to hold up the quilt while they sew in the patterns. When they were not quilting, my brother and I would play with the ropes hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes we would pull down the swag hooks by mistake. My mom would yell at us, “Boys go outside and play, stop messing with that rope!” and my brother and I would run through the hallway, on the hardwood flooring of the old Victorian home, out the back down while letting it slam shut. Of course, we would hear about it when we’d return.
It's important to recognize the significant risks and challenges faced by those involved in the Underground Railroad. Communication methods would have needed to be highly secretive and adaptable, and while quilts may have been used in some capacity, there is no definitive evidence to confirm the quilt code theory as a widespread practice.
The Underground Railroad was a complex and highly secret network of routes and safe houses used by enslaved people to escape to free states and Canada with the help of abolitionists and allies. It relied heavily on oral communication, word of mouth, and the bravery of those involved.
Specialized quilting patterns were used to help slaves escape One in particular that stood out to me was the “Monkey Wrench.” This pattern was used by Clara Ozella, nicknamed “Sweet Clara”. When the Monkey Wrench quilt pattern was displayed, the enslaved people would gather blankets, knives, food, and water for the journey north to escape the South and slavery Similarly, the Bear’s Claw pattern represented those who were escaping by following the bear’s footprint across the Appalachian Mountains.
Can you imagine what it was like trying to follow the prints of a bear, in the dark, across a mountain, while escaping as a slave? My God.
The Crossroad symbol represented a northern city which served as a major terminal on the Underground Railroad; pathway to the northern cities, such as Chicago and Detroit, then moving on to Canada with all points north in mind. And we must consider the repercussions of these patterns and plans being recognized by the slave owners, striking fear in the hearts of the people who were making these quilts
This is really going to move the blood pressure to warp speed: a Virginia slave code from October 1669 addressed the killing of a slave this way:
Whereas the only law in force for the punishment of refractory servants resisting their master, mistress, or overseer cannot be inflicted upon Negroes, nor the obstinacy of many of them be suppressed by other than violent means, be it enacted and declared by this Grand Assembly if any slave resists his master
(or other by his master’s order correcting him) and by the extremity of the correction should chance to die, that his death shall not be accounted a felony, but the master (or that other person appointed by the master to punish him) be acquitted from molestation, since it cannot be presumed that premeditated malice (which alone makes murder a felony) should induce any man to destroy his own estate
Can you wrap your mind around the idea of being captured and taken to a land where you don’t know where or why you are there? What it felt like being ripped away from your home and your family? Children, babies, grandmothers, households torn from you. Can’t speak the language of the country you find yourself in so you come up with codes That prevailing smell of the dead bodies in the ships, the smell of blood from the rebellious ones who fought back at the trade and were shot. The young girls and women that were raped and killed at the port yards?
The things that occurred in those days left a terrible wound on the country For the most part, if you owned slaves, it was at your discretion to do whatever you wanted to do with them. Such as, raping women and young girls. So, this is some of the causes that have the woman quilting to make their escape from being a part of the scare that plague the country. To run, hide, do whatever it takes to leave this hellhole or climb out of this dark pit of tragedy. This is the blood on the hands of the U.S
I sometimes look at things in life like a rock climber. To prepare yourself for the climb, you will need all the safety gear for the climb. You want to secure your ascent to a solid foundation. This is the general rule for climbers: to check and make sure that you have everything in place, because a fall will be fatal
This principle is so true for life; you need to be secured to a solid foundation. The foot placement is very important for the purpose of not falling. Each step is a leg up that you need to reach new heights. And, metaphorically, climbing is how we are expected to journey through life Your age climbs, you step to a better promotion in your career Everything you do to get better in life, is a climb. My question is: for those enslaved people, did they have this opportunity to climb?
I know they had the ropes, but were they allowed the opportunity as a human being? No This the blood on the hands of the U.S.
Finally, I have personal experience with quilting—I used to help my grandma fold them and box them for shipping. I’d often think: would be like for me in these times of secrecy. How would I fare? Would I protect my family like a true man?
It’s hard to know Things are still difficult for the AfricanAmerican community. We are still running, still often unable to climb. We still have to teach our children about the danger that lies in the path of their growth: things like police violence, George Floyd, the Trayvon Martin killing. But I am hopeful that we will move forward into a productive new generation who will clean that blood that remains on the hands of this country
CRYSTALCASTLES
AmyDoerr
Have you ever been on the sidelines of conversations or situations, or even in the middle of one, and been left with the feelingthatifyourMakerwerelistening,hewouldbeashamedof youractions,orinactions?Recentlythishasbeenapparenttome, and it moves this writer to reflect and mark some thoughts regarding the judgement of others, and the lack of empathy whirlingaroundthisuniverseofbeings.
Weliveinacruelworld.Castingjudgementsuponothersisnow, as it has been for most eras, a common practice in societies. I myself have been guilty of lounging around in my crystal castle, carelessly throwing stones out of my gilded windows However, whenIstopandreallythinkaboutit,howmywordsoractionscan inflict pain and harm others, I am left with a terrible feeling I knowmyCreator,aswellasthepeoplewhobroughtmeintothis world,whohaveraisedmeandforgivenmytransgressions,would be disappointed. I come from a tribe of extremely kind people the salt of the earth, and they would expect better from me. I expectbetterfrommyself.
Howcananyofusbesurethatwhatwehavereadorthinkwe know is the real truth? No matter the reality of someone's personal journey, how can we treat others with disrespect or hostilityorevenviolence,wheninfact,ourgrievancemaynotbe valid? Even if it is real, who are we to pass judgement? Are we perfect enough that we have the authority to do so? History has proved that many humans do believe this, and act, sometimes harshly,uponthesebeliefs.
Theactofjudgingothershasbeen,attimes,extremethroughout the centuries Arbitration was demonstrated in dramatic events such as the purging of indigenous people, genocide and slavery Though, what about the smaller events? The daily judging that occurssecondbysecond,whichmayalsohavedifferentlevelsof negative consequences? As I have only lived in this age, I can't writewithtotalcertaintytocompareandcontrastthesimilarities anddifferencesofpriortimeframesinhistory.However,onemay deduce that in the technology-driven world we live in, the judgementofothershasrisentoanall-timehigh.
The modern day use of the internet and social media has enabled persecutors around the world to dig for dirt, and to have 'facts’ delivered in a nanosecond. Oftentimes, common sense or discernment is thrown out of the window regarding the 'truth'. People may then use the information in a hateful or spiteful way, regardless of the point that the target may or may not be guilty of whatever infractions have been posted on hate machines, or through gossip and assumptions. This is not a practice that invokes honor or respect for fellow human beings.
There will always be situations and people who we may feel are deviant or dangerous, or not worthy of our personal consideration. People will annoy us, or exhibit behaviors that clash with our own core beliefs. Upon examination, it even seems prudent that each individual must have a moral responsibility to refrain from inflicting harm with words or actions upon another person. To not do so is in fact hypocritical, as many times the person passing judgement is participating and perpetuating behaviors which may be the equivalent to what they claim to be against; causing harm to another person.
Respect for and from fellow human beings is not a thing that is earned. It is a fundamental moral responsibility to treat every living being with respect and reverence, regardless of race, creed or transgressions I keep thinking of the verse from Hebrews 13:2: "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Should this courtesy not extend to the familiar as well?
One of several conclusions I have reached regarding this reflection is that while I might not like someone, regardless of my personal opinion, my place in the universe is not from a high horse, a throne, or a castle. I have always tried to walk my walk of life in a way that invokes humility and honor. Sadly, I have fallen short, and I see so many others around me doing the same. Each individual is responsible for treating all fellow humans with respect. We are responsible for our words. Words are a powerful war and peace tool They may cause great harm and even kill Yet, words may also heal, educate and evoke laughter and joy.
What if, while residing in our crystal castles, we missed the opportunity of keeping company with an angel, someone we may have overlooked or cast out because of prejudice or anger? I know in my bones this has happened to me, and it makes my heart heavy with regret. My wish in writing this is to not only reach out to others, but to settle my own spirit, and set a standard for myself that I can model to my children and grandchildren.
This is my vow to myself and my Creator: I will strive to keep harmful words from my mouth. I will turn my cheek against ill will and hate, and think carefully before I speak. I will articulate words that reconcile and promote peace whenever possible. Forgiveness within me and for others must be adhered to I will abandon my crystal castle and be aware and alert to the fact that I may very well be entertaining angels
"Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always."
I was always doing things without thinking, and signing-up for the military on a whim was one of those things After three months of boot camp at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, I received my orders for my new residency at F.E. Warren Air force Base in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I was only nineteen, and I remembered having a lump in my throat on the phone when I told my Dad the bad news that Wyoming would be a long way from home.
Of course, he relayed the information to my Mom sitting at the kitchen table, but as far as I was concerned, it was the worst story a son like me could ever tell his loving and devoted parents. Stubbornly, I would never admit the fact that I thought the military would bring me the happy freedom I always wanted from all the restrictions and curfews I had at home with Mom and Dad.
So, when I called home to Detroit, Michigan from San Antonio, Texas on that fateful day, I was far from being happy about the turn of events, and I wanted my orders to be rescinded and things to be undone. As always, my folks were trying to find a silver lining in their eldest son’s black cloud; a wayward child who seemed at times to lack good sense when it came to serious life choices.
Although I argued with them that Wyoming wasn’t my ideal choice to be stationed, I wished to God that they could somehow help me out because I wanted to go back home to the State of the Great Lakes. Geographically, I knew that Wyoming was a part of the Western Mountain region on the map, but I had forgotten that Cheyenne was the state capital. On the phone, I remember my Dad reading information to tell me that Wyoming was home to the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks, and that it was ranked second to Texas for the most cows in the nation. Dear God, I prayed he was joking, and if not, I knew my short life was over before it had even started.
Funny, my parents always said that I could make a mountain out of a molehill whenever I became upset. On the phone, Mom told
me that when I was younger, she remembers me telling Dad and her that I would someday run away from home to see the mountains in Wyoming. At the time, I thought she was trying to make me laugh because I sounded miserable on the phone.
No longer living at home, I realized that there were even more restrictions and curfews as a service member. Still, I am loved by Mom and Dad—two Mountains I can freely run to from now until eternity In sharing my story, I now appreciate the state of Wyoming for its powerful and rocky landscape, a stark reminder of the parental mountains of love I have received all my life.
READON—READON
MartinGabriel
Gunshotsandpolicesirensweresimplybackgroundnoisesinthe MotorCitywhereIgrew-upintheseventiesandeighties Inspite ofallthekillingsandhatefulviolencerunningrampantinthecity, Iamsuretherewereworseplacestocallhome,andmychildhood memories of Detroit weren't all bad because I did have a loving family In retrospect, I wished I had spent more time letting my imagination run wild in hardcover novels, instead of letting my mindrunwildinthehardcorestreets
Before you read on, here is my story in a nutshell: The US militarybroughtmefromtheGreatLakesStateofMichigantothe mountains and plains of Wyoming. But not too long after my honorable discharge from the Air Force, I went to prison for life forkillingamaninbedwithmywife.
In my first year at the Wyoming State Penitentiary, North Facility, I met my buddy Stevie working in the Education Departmentatthelibrary.Irememberhimtryingtopersuademe to read fantasy novels, as if reading that kind of book was the cure–allforprisonblues.OfcourseIwasn’tinterestedinreading books at the time, and especially all that fantasy type stuff. But worse,itseemedlikeeveryconvictImetontheyardwasoffering mesimilarbookstoread.ItoldthemIwouldrathersleepallday inmycellthanwastetimereadingthatgarbage.
The prison cell I lived in was clean. In fact, I was dubbed the neat-freak on the unit because I kept my cell both clean and in order. Believe it or not, that was one of the few things I took comfort in. However, I found very little comfort with people pushingfantasynovelsonmetoread.Irememberthinking“What kindof crazy place isthis? Prisonersreading story booksto pass thetime?!”
Ofcourse,Ipolitelydeclinedalltheiroffersandmadeitapoint totellafewofthemthatifIwantedtoreadstufflikethatthenI would read something more in line with flimsy comic books. I mean, who in their right mind makes time to sit around reading pagesafterpagesofafantasynovelinprison,anyway?
Those kinds of books took too long to read, and I would rather lift weights on the iron-pile
However, it didn’t take long before Stevie and I started working out in the gym together and he convinced me to read one of his favorite fantasy series. I can still hear him now: “Gabe, trust me! You’re going to like this novel, and it will be much better than reading a comic book ” So, the next thing I knew, he gave me a 700-page book, what I thought was a tome, an insanely thick book for a fantasy novel, and my reaction was “Hell no!!!”
I felt like I had been manipulated by a professional bookworm and was angry at myself for being such an easy target. I told him that this ain't the place, nor the time, for me to be sitting around and reading that many pages in one novel Besides, story books like that are for kids, and I would rather deadlift 700lbs of weights before reading 700 pages of fantasy.
Nevertheless, he was persistent as ever, and he wouldn’t let me give the book back to him until I read at least a couple of chapters. So, I promised to read one chapter before I gave the monstrous book back to him. I kept my word, and I read the first chapter, the second, and then the third. The next thing I knew, the night had passed into morning, and I wasn’t even tired.
Instinctively I knew something magical had taken place, and I simply couldn't put the book down for the life of me. In fact, I spent all that day and the next sitting around my cell and reading my first fantasy novel while missing my workouts in the gym. After a few days, I wanted more books to read, and before long I was finishing up my first fantasy series, The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan.
Since then, I have read hundreds of fantasy novels while sitting down, or even walking around with the book glued to my hands For a while, if you didn’t see me with a fantasy novel, then I was either sick or sleeping. To end things here, I will always be grateful to my friend in the Education Department for turning me on to one of the best medicines for the prison blues, where my imagination runs wild in fantasy novels. Thanks Stevie, and let us read on—read on!
HOTPOTATOES
KellyTurner
Whenlookingbackonyourlife,isthereonepointthatshowshow boredyouwerewithit?IlookbackandseethenightIvideotaped abunchofguysplayingadangerousgameofhotpotato.Iwasin my early twenties and thought my friends and I were good at relieving boredom. However, this night I was proven wrong when my friends started a small grass fire. It all started innocently enough,butendedwithlaughter,cryingandheat.
There were four of us sitting around the little living room: me, my boyfriend Vin, and his two friends Don and Jay. We were watching Indiana Jones for what must have been the dozenth time between the four of us. About halfway through the movie, Don went to his room and returned with a stun gun he’d just boughttoshowitofftotheguys.Whentheywerecheckingitout, Donthoughtitwouldbeveryfunnytostartelectric-shockingthe othertwo.Ithoughtitwasmachoandstupid,but,Iadmit,alittle funny. Vin thought he was going to outsmart Don by putting his Mountain Dew between himself and the stun gun, which caused theguystostartteasinghim Theiranticsgrewworsefromthere When Don shocked Vin with the stun gun he farted, and that causedJay,Don’sbrother,tolaugh VinandIweresmokersatthe timeandhadourlighterssittingnexttothecouchwherewewere sitting. Jay grabbed one, and for some reason that escapes me, the guys started to purposely fart and try to light them on fire. Thankfully,thisonlylastedacoupleofstinkyminutesbeforethey gotboredofthegameandmovedontochuckingatennisballto eachother.
TheyhadthrowntheballaroundacoupleoftimesbeforeJay decided to increase the risk by running my lighter across the tennis ball. I did not think anything would happen, but it caught fire for a few seconds. This was apparently very entertaining because they kept lighting the ball on fire and throwing it back and forth. They wanted the ball to stay ablaze as they were throwing it. As they did this, I got out my phone and started to recordthembecauseIknewnobodywouldbelievethatthese
thirty-year-olds would be acting exactly like teenagers As I continued to record, they ran out of lighter fluid.
With the lighter not working anymore, I thought that they would tire of this game as they had of being stunned, but that was not the case. Don went to his truck and found a bottle of lighter fluid that they had bought to take camping that next weekend. He brought it into the house and they proceeded to soak the ball in lighter fluid. Then light it on fire Once the tennis ball was aflame they started to toss it about once again. This time, because of the amount of fluid soaked into the fabric of the ball, it was not going out no matter how fast they threw it. It made it four rounds before Vin dropped the flaming ball inside the living room. At this point, even though I was recording it on my phone, I was asking myself why I was hanging out with these guys. I was scared because I knew how fast fire could spread, and a little dumbfounded that grown men were acting like thirteen-year-old kids. Once the carpet caught fire the guys decided that it was probably not smart to play with fire inside a living area I figured that they would stop all together, but they did not They went from playing inside to going outside and throwing it around. I will say that watching a flaming ball being tossed around in the dead of night is really beautiful. It was such a dark night that the only way I knew where the guys were was because of the light from the ball when they caught it. They lasted another twenty minutes before their clothes started to catch on fire, and then, the field of grass around them.
With the field on fire, they finally came to their senses. Thankfully, Vin was a volunteer firefighter and was able to put out the grass fire before it became a larger danger to those living around us. This was the last time that they did something as foolish as playing live hot potato while I lived with them. From this experience, I learned that I need to fill my time with productive and active things to do. I stay busy so I never find myself bored enough to light a ball on fire and play hot potato.
WORDSANDLABELS
JamesWiley
Words are powerfully symbolic! They might unite, but more so, they divide. What words divide? Racism? Sexism? Discrimination? What about “marginalization” or “disenfranchisement”? All these words have nasty implications For one group, they disguise justified elitism and empowerment; for another, it exemplifies isolated oppression and abuse. Each perspective is defined by circumstance.
I have a unique circumstance. With grace, I have been blessed with the opportunity to study with fine scholars from the University of Wyoming. But this opportunity is not without conflict See, one side says I am human and should be afforded the opportunity to learn from my mistakes, reform, and develop into a citizen that adds to society's value. However, there is the other side that judges me for my mistakes and vows vengeance with phrases like, “an eye for an eye,” and labels like “monster” and “devil” along with descriptions like “repulsive” and “evil ” With that said, it is clear that one side welcomes me to learn and study with them while the other side campaigns that I should never be afforded the chance to attend the University of Wyoming. In the midst of this conflict, I have been asked to write a story of my choosing illustrating my experience in school and showcase myself. Put myself out there
After much thought, I have chosen to use this opportunity to enlighten the community and impact change. The number one question I have been asked throughout my life is, “Why did I do it?” That is one goal of education–fulfilling curiosity. The thing is, as a 15-year-old child, I did not know why I did it. I only knew that it was what I believed I was supposed to do Everything in my life up until that moment taught me ideas that came together in that instant, so that when it came time to act, that is exactly what I did: I acted. Unfortunately, it was the single worst mistake of my life, but as a chaotically-raised and misguided child, I did not think I had any alternatives.
Interesting, imagine, the lack of diverse education leading to a desperate singularity When a person can see alternatives, they can make choices. They can visualise the good and the bad and see the possible outcomes from their choices. Without afforded education, they might not be able to see that full spectrum of outcomes.
As a child knowing what I knew, I made the wrong choice; even though I didn't even know why The thing about choices is that they have consequences, which brings to bear the debated questions of whether I should be afforded education or not. The state also made a choice when it determined that I would spend the rest of my life in prison. Taxpayers would cater to my needs for the rest of my life without any opportunity for me reintegrating into society
When it comes to society, the only difference between prison and the community is scale. Prison is a micro-society unto itself. There is racism, sexism, and discrimination. Except; there is another level, the justified marginalization and disenfranchisement of the individuals in prison. It has been determined that I am to exist without a voice and to live out my existence in the isolated shadows funded by taxpayers under the guise of their communities being kept safe. The truth is that the communities are far from safe—they are ignorant. Ignorance is not bliss, it is dangerously mindless. Young people all over the country act out desperately with school shootings People ask, “Why do these tragedies keep happening?” I scream, because I have spent my life in search of understanding every intricate detail of how events like this come to be. I have learned to recognize patterns and also I'm able to map out every step of the process up to the event. I learned because it was personal to me I did it in spite of the naysayers saying I had no right to study
So what has my studies gotten me? It has made me a knowing spectator to horrors that I enduringly witness. Even though I deeply understand desperation and pathways leading to destructive acts; due to my mistakes as a child, the justified marginalization and disenfranchisement binds me. I fight to overcome how I have been discarded as I yell, but my voice carries like an echo through a long garden hose.
Well; here is me, yelling through the mufflers People of the world, please be mindful of how you talk to yourself Listen to your children because their words will show you where they are looking. Imagine where you want to be and what you want, because what you see is where you'll be. Thank you for listening to me.
TaylorNicks
Six years ago I found myself in a horrible situation of my own making. I'd made some atrocious decisions that landed me in jail for what I knew was going to be a long time I could see my life falling apart before my eyes, and I was utterly helpless to stop it. My stomach was in constant knots and trampling on rusty nails sounded more appealing to me than eating. My mind was running relentlessly. Who will take the kids? What will my family and neighbors think? Why didn't I give my babies one last hug and kiss, or read them their favorite bedtime story one more time? Everything was coming into my head so fast, and nothing I did could slow it down.
I'd really never been lower in my life. All I could picture was my kids growing up without me and I felt utter contempt for myself and my actions I was in a dark place, but the funny thing about darkness is that after you've been in the dark for so long any amount of light becomes blinding. Even a tiny ray of sunshine peeking through your itty bitty 1' x 4' jail window can set your eyes on fire, and that's what God decided to teach me over and over again since I've been locked up.
Now don't think I don't feel your eyes rolling as you realize that I'm talking about finding God in jail I know it's cliche but I'm a proud member of the Jesus freak community. I just am! Jesus is awesome, amazing, and worthy of praise, and I'm going to tell you why.
In jail, fresh fruit is just a fairytale. It's just as unique and rare as seeing a unicorn. Although it sounds quite comical, I'm not exaggerating. Astonishingly, once the initial shock of being in jail wears off you truly do become quite hungry. However, now the issue is that you are hungry for everything you don't have. For me, my cravings were bananas. This was odd because on the "outs" I probably ate one banana a year and that was a lot! But now I was practically perishing from the intense yearning for just one sweet, fresh banana I had my mind on bananas, and bananas on my mind. The only thing that distracted me was my Bible
whichIalwayswalkedaroundwithandreadconstantly,forsanity purposes Believe me, my need for Jesus and bananas didn't go unheard by the women who were unlucky enough to be housed withme.
I talked about the Bible and bananas so much that I'm pretty sure they were formulating a plot to get me locked down for the restofmystaythere.
One night while thinking about bananas, I decided that I was going to pray about it. After all, in the Bible it says that if we delightintheLord,Hewillgiveusthedesiresofourhearts,andI was delighting in Him and my desire was for a banana! So I told Him exactly that. I then drifted off to sleep, dreaming that I was Noah in a banana arc afloat in a foamy sea of delicious, cold chocolatemilk.WhenIfelloutofbedthenextmorningforsixa.m. count, my prayer and my dream were already a distant memory, floating away, as dreams sometimes do. I dragged myself downstairsandbeganthedifficultprocessofopeningupmyeyes wideenoughtoseemybreakfast WhenIdidIwasamazedtosee a banana on my otherwise unappealing tray In shock I said nothing I held my breath and refused to even blink for fear that I'd open my eyes again and realize it was only a figment of my imagination.Theotherwomenwereequallybaffled.Afterall,it's not often that you see a flippin' unicorn in jail! Had this been a movie, this would be the slow motion moment, running towards theloveofyourlife.It.Was.Beautiful!
I enjoyed that banana more than I could ever describe, but oddlyenoughIdidn'timmediatelyremembermyprayer.However, I have learned that God has a sense of humor and He enjoys remindingusofHispresence.Solaterthatdayguesswhatwason ourlunchtrays,andthenourdinnertraysaswell.Yep,bananas!I was flabbergasted. After dinner, the sergeant came in to collect our trays and I immediately asked, "what was the deal with all thesebananas?"Shesmiledandsaidthatsomeonehaddonated boxes of fresh bananas and that she wouldn't be surprised if we were eating them all week! Suddenly, it hit me I had prayed for this!Me!Godlistenedtosinfuloldme!Heshowedupformeand He hooked me up with bananas! Sure enough, because God is good,wehadbananaseverymealthatweek
God showed up for me in one of my darkest and most undeservinghoursandHeblindedmewithHislight Itmayhave only been a small ray of light but it set my eyes on fire and my heartwentupinflames.Thisisjustonestoryoutofhundredsin whichIhaveexperiencedthepowerofGod.Inrealitythisstoryis justanittybitty,jailwindow-sizedviewintotheunendingbenefits of knowing Jesus. He shows up for us. When all is lost. When it seemsthedevilmightwinout.Jesusshowsup,andHesavesus. He provides us with restoration, salvation, justification, and sometimesevenbananas.
BrennanS.Hodges
Where am I from, I'm from nowhere and anywhere or Somewhere In Between
From Idaho mountains to California streets
Along Oregon slums and Washington's beach
I've lived and I've learned, with Struggles In Between
I've been locked in dungeons without a key
Mass incarceration has taken a toll on me
Homelessness and starvation have dug in their teeth
Covered in scars, I stand on my feet
The worst of them you cannot see I keep them guarded because they're sacred to me
They're my wisdom and understanding of life
The cost of knowledge came with a price, Pain and I have come to unite
I've been abducted, addicted, tortured and even abused I've attempted suicide and woke up in the ICUs
Where am I from? Where is Somewhere In Between?
Somewhere In Between is a place with the darkest of nights and the rainiest of days
Where whiskey bottles slam into walls with a shatter
And screams echo through the house while the sounds of broken furniture clatter
Where we snuggle with mom in fear, because a drunk cowboy is near If we're lucky the doors are locked with him on the other side If we are not, there will surely be a fight
Where the power goes out and through the walls shouts can be heard
''The house is going to burn!''
Gunshots ring out, the door shakes and the knob turns
No neighbors to hear our cries
On a 1200 acre ranch this wooden door is our only ally
Somewhere In Between doesn't stop there
Somewhere In Between also has tent cities with syringes laying in the streets
Where starvation twists your stomach into a painful knot
Where the ability to sleep is hard fought
Where the cold sidewalks press painfully into your bones
Where the only comforts come and go, with the burn of a liquid down your throat
Where the same whiskey bottle that used to shatter you awake in fear
Becomes your closest friend whispering in your ear
As you lay shivering on the concrete she whispers how warm she will be
Where drugs will give you the energy you will need
To move through the night, in order to be alright
The nights are colder than the days, so if you stay moving you will be okay
The chill is not the only pain, tires will screech and gunshots will rain
Fear of sleep becomes a common thing
Streetlights will flicker and whispers will start calling your name
Voices you recognize will put you to shame
When you look they will be impossible to see
They will lead you down a path you don't want to be
They will make you see things you don't want to see
Your mind becomes your own worst enemy
A betrayal that sets in deep, sinking its teeth into your sanity
Every thought will be filled with doubt. How have my senses betrayed me?
Somewhere In Between is a place from where you don't want to be
Your family will abandon you because they don't know what to do
You will have to steal food and try to hitchhike just to survive
People will rarely be nice, they will look at you in disgust and walk on by
Treating you as if, when they get too close you may bite
Trusting others becomes impossible with the voices and all their spite
Your mind will attack you from the inside
Convincing you your family is the enemy, day and night
The voices will get so loud, you will lose track of reality forgetting what life's really about
The instability will vibrate off you, putting people in fear
Somewhere In Between can be a lonely place
No one will be there to wipe away your tears
No one will ever understand the problems you faced
Prayers to a God fall on deaf ears
Somewhere In Between will become the source of all of your tears
If you've been there you know this is true
Once you come out you will be someone new
If you manage to heal, you will realize what matters and what is real
Some don't make it out, Others never learn to cope
They bring Somewhere In Between with them everywhere they go
Like a leech on the mind that will never let go
Mentally corrupted beyond recovery, Somewhere In Between is a nasty revelation
For some it is beyond discovery, Somewhere In Between is not a destination
If you can heal from the trauma, you gain so much wisdom and knowledge
Understanding pain in a way that enlightens the spirit
Brightening the world making you fearless
Giving you the confidence to conquer yourself, Curing addiction and mental health
Learning how to love in a way so pure
Because the understanding of pain is held so dear
Experiencing the ugliest parts of this life
Motivates me to make sure others are alright
Bearing burdens of another, Is the pinnacle of humanity bringing us together
Nurturing and healing in a way so true, never knowing this was the path for you
Somewhere In Between teaches the most valuable lessons
Finding the silver lining amongst all of life's messes
Salvaging hope and opportunity where there seems to be none available
Realizing one's strength and what is truly attainable
Somewhere In Between teaches a person to persevere against all odds
To continue on, even when all hope seems to be lost
When the world spits in your face and disgraces your name
To love with all your heart, And to believe who you are
To be the change you want to see in the world
Even when hope and growth seem to be infertile.
IAMSTRONGERTHANITHINK
WadeFarrow
I stepped through the front door into the crisp autumn air and took a deep breath. The temperature was cool enough to be refreshing without making me feel cold—the perfect football weather, my dad called it. But I wasn’t leaving football practice, not today No, I was standing in front of the now deserted and seemingly haunted middle school more than an hour after class got out—hoping and praying my mother would forget about me— for another reason entirely.
Generally speaking, I was a good kid, polite and well-behaved, especially in the presence of adults. My parents—both former Marines—who had divorced when I was five years old, if nothing else, had agreed on how to raise their children. They had made it a point to instill within us a strong set of values and sense of moral decency: “Always do the right thing,” “Don’t lie,” “Be kind,” “Treat others with respect,” “Work hard,” “Honor your commitments,” and so on. Well, at some point, I had apparently forgotten one of these lessons, because at school that day, I made the mistake of saying something that my teacher found far less amusing than I had. This earned me an hour of detention. It was something I never did—get in trouble, that is. But on this day, I had, and as it would turn out, my mother did not forget about me.
When she finally pulled up in front of the school, I got in the car and placed my backpack on my lap Typically I would have tossed it to the backseat or placed it at my feet, but today it was providing a barrier, or at least the semblance of one. My mother didn’t say a word. She just put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. Silence—the absolute worst. What is she going to do? What did the school tell her exactly? And why isn’t she saying anything? Shouldn’t I be getting yelled at right now, or grounded, or… something? As I peered aimlessly out the window —because it was the only direction I could look to avoid risking eye contact with my mother—I saw Michael, a boy in my grade. He was being circled by the Markel twins, Brett and Adam, and their cousin Robby. They were bullies, all three from the wrong
side of the tracks so to speak, the kind of kids who at the age of 11 smoked cigarettes and had already been arrested. I, on the other hand, had barely experienced detention.
I remember seeing one of the boys throw a punch at Michael. Though, to be honest, at the time, it hardly registered in my mind. I had my own problems to worry about, such as my mother—the 115lb volcano, of what I had expected to be bipolar rage, lying inexplicably dormant in the driver’s seat
Unexpectedly, the car began to slow down. This isn’t where we live. Why are we stopping? I didn’t actually ask the question out loud—I didn’t dare speak for fear of triggering an eruption. My mother jerked the car to a stop against the curb and slammed the shifter into park Suddenly, the car was filled with an uncomfortable sense of urgency Oh no. Here it comes
“Wade, go help that boy,” my mother said, her voice calm.
I’m not sure what I was expecting her to say, but I can assure you that was nowhere within a mile of the top of my list.
“Wh-what?” I finally managed to stammer, my face contorting into what I can only imagine was a comical mixture of confused shock and mortification.
“Go help that boy!” She repeated, more stern this time.
Is this my punishment? I have to go get beat up with Michael? I stared at my mom the way a sane person stares at someone who has clearly lost their mind. It didn’t make any sense. I’d always been told not to fight The only person I’d ever even fought up to that point was my brother, and I had paid dearly each time The one exception to the rule, as I understood it, was if it was absolutely necessary to protect myself, my brother, or my sister —but not Michael.
“Get out of the car, NOW!” she snapped.
The last word made me jump I quickly turned away from her I couldn’t let her see the tears welling in my eyes Why is she doing this to me? I messed up. I get it. But this… Do I really need to go get my ass kicked? What is she thinking? Doesn’t she know who these guys are?
I’m not sure if 11-year-old-me’s internal dialogue had begun using expletives yet, but if I had, then I was I considered refusing her, begging her to drive away, but I couldn’t I knew if I did, I would feel weak. I hated feeling weak. More than that, I hated the thought of letting other people see me for what I feared—and in many ways knew—I truly was: Weak.
I slid the backpack off of my lap and got out of the car I can remember the slow and steady ding… ding… ding… signaling that the door was ajar before I closed it behind me. My palms were damp with sweat, my heart beating itself ragged inside my chest. I refused to look back. I stared down the tree row marking the edge of the school’s property. There was Michael. The other boys had already knocked him to the ground. I could barely see him as he struggled behind the flurry of kicks and punches Great, I thought, I can’t wait. It felt like I was watching a preview of the exact same ass-kicking I was about to receive.
Then something changed—something inside me. Michael did not have a good home life. I knew this. We lived in a small town, the kind of place where everybody just knows stuff like that His family was poor, or at least more so than ours; his father was cruel if not abusive; and as if it weren’t already bad enough, he was picked on at school. Not by me, but I saw it. It happened everyday. And now, there was Michael, lying in an alley, getting the shit beat out of him—life offering him no reprieve. In that moment, my heart broke for him, for that kid who I knew had it so much harder than me, who had to carry the shame he endured at school back home to his asshole father, and who probably understood a million times better than me what it meant to feel weak and to hate yourself for it.
As an 11-year-old, it is difficult to understand your emotions. I don’t know if at the time I even tried. What I do know is that, at some point, what I was feeling turned into anger and that without noticing it, I had completely forgotten about everything else. I was no longer thinking about detention, was no longer worried about being in trouble, and was no longer afraid. The fear was gone. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the injustice of it all, but all of a sudden I was running as fast as I could towards what had seconds earlier been the last place on earth I wanted to be.
The fight, if you can even call it that, was anticlimactic. As you might have guessed, 11-year-old-me was not equipped with a heavyweight’s knockout power. None of us were. I did, however, for the first time in my life, throw a punch at somebody who wasn’t my brother, and, well, it kind of worked. After I punched Brett, Adam punched me, and then nothing—it was over. Adam
Brett, and Robby backed off We stood there panting for a second and then they walked away I helped Michael to his feet, and the two of us walked back to my mom’s car.
After we dropped Michael off at his house, my mom turned to me and said, “Always help. Do you understand?”
I nodded, even though I didn’t—not then anyway. My mom must have recognized this, because she followed with, “Michael needed help, and you had the ability to help him. It was the right thing to do.” After a few more seconds, she finished her thought, “I know it wasn’t easy, but it was right. I’m proud of you, Wade.”
I don’t know if my mom had intended to teach me a lesson or if she had just done what she thought was right; we never spoke about it after that, but I did learn a lot that day It altered my perception of the world. I began to understand that not everything in life is black or white, right or wrong, good or bad, but that life is full of gray areas and that being a good person and doing the right thing, while seldom easy, is still our responsibility Perhaps most importantly, however, is what I learned about myself
Sometimes, when I am feeling weak or doubting my abilities, I think back to that day. My mother believed in me, not only to do the right thing but to be strong enough to handle the outcome— no matter what it was. I think about how she saw strength in me when I felt weak and about how I felt on that car ride home knowing that I had made her proud, and it reminds me that even when times are tough and life is at its darkest, I am stronger than I think.
