I recall being in prison in central Georgia on a cold winter afternoon just a few days after Christmas. In prison, the holidays are some of the loneliest times imaginable, especially for newcomers who were so used to spending those times with their loved ones. By that winter day in 1998, I had been there for a few months already and had learned some tough lessons about life on the inside. I noticed the bus of “new arrivals” getting escorted into the dorm while carrying their belongings and wearing the familiar white jumpsuits. “Not how they want to spend the rest of the holidays,” I thought to myself.
As they were ushered into the building in the customary single-file line, one man stood out from the other new arrivals. He was tall like me and probably about my age. There was a familiarity about him. He had that certain city swag like so many other guys from Atlanta, so I wasn’t surprised when he mentioned that he was from Zone Three. The inner city is divided into unofficial districts that residents proudly claim and that rappers reference in their lyrics. Zone Three was the district that included landmarks like the Atlanta Zoo and Turner Field, but for me back then it was just home. There was the notorious Stewart Avenue and the housing projects called Carver Homes. We had the Run and Shoot Basketball Complex and Club Nikki’s. As the rap group Outkast put it, Atlanta had “all the players, all the hustlers. I’m talking bout a black man heaven here.” The new arrival, I’ll just call him Hill, grew up in that same area. We naturally became friends.
Soon Hill and I played basketball almost every day with the other guys just to have something to take all of our minds off of our misery. Over the years instead of discussing such a smothering reality, we became allies. We were overwhelmed by so many things like the finality of our convictions, the loss of loved ones told to us over timed phone calls, and power-hungry officers making the environment just that much worse. Amidst the chaos, Hill looked out for me, and I returned the favor. We all need a support system, especially behind bars. Hill was to be the first of a handful of guys who turned out to be good-hearted men regardless of what their rap sheets said. Like me, so many of them were just misguided young men who wanted to somehow make a name for themselves in the streets. Their stories usually started in broken and poor homes and ended in premature death, prison, or traumatizing adulthoods.
I’ve learned that one way to have a support system is to be someone else’s. In prison we would keep each other’s spirits up the best that we could. We shared food, relayed messages, and told stories about better times. Having allies was an important part of survival. Since I’ve returned to my community, I see that having a strong support system is important in the free world too. With all of the complications and duties of adulthood, we must have allies who can relate to our struggles and offer a listening ear when we need one. I am so thankful for my fiancé, my family, and my friends who have all been there for me.
I know it feels like the community can be against us sometimes, but the truth is that most communities have means of support available to all people including those who were previously incarcerated. The people closest to us show as much love as they can, but sometimes they are not equipped to help with some of our unique challenges. There’s only so much Grandma can do to help you get a job or enroll in trade school. We can’t hesitate to reach out to the community. Look online for agencies. Visit churches. Get to know the barista at the neighborhood coffee shop. Talk to people and use social media. If you do not find the resource that you need out there, start them yourself.
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Free World 