I don’t care what people say about you, I know where your heart is, I raised you.
Before I ever entered the prison gates, these eighteen words were given to me by my grandfather from behind plexiglass as I was going to trial for murder in the Harris County Jail in Houston, Texas. He raised me, my brother, and my sister. He is and will always be my giant, a person bigger than life, no matter how old and frail he is now. Maybe he spoke those words because he saw me spiraling into darkness. I didn’t care if I ever got out or accomplished anything. I wanted to blend into the shadows like the men around me. Yet, his words would float to the surface of the darkness, like a pale rising sun on a distant horizon. Most days I tried to push them back, but they always returned, whispering through the noise inside me. As years passed, I questioned those words more. Despite my wrecked life, friends and family gave unwavering love and support that helped me love and appreciate myself more. I began to ask, where was my heart at? Was it truly mired in violence, anger, and murder, or something else entirely? Deep down, was I truly a good person like my grandfather believed? Because I loved him, I wanted to see the man he already knew was there. His words became real, holding truth and inspiring me to pull myself from the wreckage of my life. If I was as good as he believed me to be, I had to find that goodness and bring it back to life. It took years, but change and growth happened. Loneliness grew into connection, depression into understanding, and darkness into light. Within prison, I came back to life.
My grandfather succumbed to Alzheimer’s years ago and has forgotten the life we shared. He will never see the condemned murderer become a certified mentor and life coach, helping other men become their own lights in the darkness. He will never know how eighteen little words, forged by unwavering love, had the power to save a boy’s life. Yet he will always be in my heart. Because of him, and for him, I will always show exactly where my heart is at.
I’m not in prison perse; however, yet prisoner of “stuff”, emotional,mental, spiritual…. Guess you wonder, ‘how can I complain??!’. I can, I feel bondage. —— Can’t find my ‘place’’, just disconnected. I guess we’re both human regardless of our physical home. — I spend plenty of time reading about stories as yours, humans in prison, in hopes of finding a resolution to my story. It’s sorta backwards, free people should offer solice to those incarcerated but not necessarily. May the holidays find you safe, sound and blessed.