I find clarity in meditation. I purify my karma in practice. I’ve found the truth there.
Where do memories go when you’ve lived 48 years in confinement? This is not easy for me. In 1985, my last year of freedom, I was riding in a car with my mom and little brother, just going to eat before I fell for good into my eternal confinement. Both have passed away. I’ve not a lot. But for 41 years, I knew them better and better as I went on, and they became of another. Memories are not easy when you awake in youth and all you want is food at McDonald’s or Burger King. When it is not that, but screaming and shadows instead.
Good memories are hard to find after 41 years of confinement. When you were last free, riding in your mom’s car with only her and your five-year-old brother. Bob Fox at the Boys Club knew I was troubled but never gave up hope. He knew I came from the broken. Still at a death penalty phase, they get on the stand and still don’t lose hope in me. My story is only confinement. I know nothing else. I’ve done it for over 50 years. I’m 62.
I find clarity in meditation. I purify my karma in practice. I’ve found the truth there. I’ve found that I’m bisexual. I am peaceful in confinement. I’m not angry or apologetic for being me. I miss the breath of air in the free, rain on a tin barn roof, sheltering under it during storms. My father led me into confinement. But I found freedom here. I had a meaningful conversation with a female correctional officer in Pontiac. In training, I told her the truth. She said it was the best conversation she’d had yet. A year later, she still remembered. Lasting impact? When I became lucid and met Hecaté. This life, 48 years of confinement out of 62, some things are just not easy.
