Housed: Wabash Valley Correctional Facility, Carlisle, Indiana
They drove me to the hospital. It was the first time I left my cell in over a decade. It had been so long I forgot how lengthy the driveway was. But more surprising was the melody of the pebbles underneath the vehicle. I was unaware if this would be the last drive I would ever experience.As we drove away from home and entered into the countryside, I saw all types of grass, wild flowers, and oak trees. I saw a tamed dog and some wild turkeys. They were enjoying the beaming sun. I wish I could have said please stop driving!
Let me out of this vehicle. I want to know and feel the emerald grass in my hands.
Please stop and empower me with the ability to bow before the flowers, so I may gently place a flower stem in my hand, my nose next to its petals, and smell the liberating aromas.
Please stop this vehicle and grant me the right to feel the sturdiness of an oak tree and look up at this blue sky. Let me feel the juxtaposition of being wild in the freedom of choice, yet still tamed. I knew I had to be confined to this vehicle. This was my plight.
I saw women and men walking with their children, cheerfully enjoying the sunny day. My heart hymned with sorry, like the crying of a dove. At thirty, the probability of having a wife and child was razor-thin, like the fencing around my home. My heart felt like a black hole with the dying of my wish to one day look upon the starry eyes of a wife and child. With the speed of a comet, we arrived at our destination: the hospital. Once inside I felt the stares of people. They look at me as if I was a caged ape at a zoo. Some people starred with revulsions, others with empathy, they must have seen my humanness. I wonder if they too had regrets and wishes.
They then drove me back home with what felt like the speed of a cheetah. The pebbles, however, sung no melodies. The melody was silenced. I looked at the chains placed around my hands and feet. I looked at the prison issued clothes placed on my body. I looked at the reflection on the window. I was quasi-alive at my home—a maximum-security prison.
If nobody doesn’t know him that’s my brother Kenneth Zamaaron. We all have been incarcerated since the first day we went in there, but like him we all grown. He was a child when he entered a man’s prison. I am proud of the path that has taken in the worst environments of the world. Over the years his has learned to read, write, and win law suits for rights that were violated, as a result of that his paying his way through college. In some it would be a privilege for anyone to know him. He learns from his scars the ones that some people may judge him for and some scars that haunt him and ours.