Jail Time

Originally, this was written on 50 strips of paper along a rigid table that, unlike most people, had seen my fullest tears. I've decided to give those pieces a body to encompass the soul from which they were begot. This is Jail Time. 


His head was tilted, anchored by a hand that seemed to carry the weight of the world; and yet, his long, dark extensions of fingers trembled beneath something much heavier - an idea not easily defined by the English language. So, for my purposes, I will call it guilt - systematic, institutionally catalyzed guilt. In the background of my observation, there existed the muffled sounds of sniffling, a choir of sympathy bellowing from dry, wooden court pews. These were the family members of the defendant, holding back disobedient tears, filled with shame, anger, confusion - and (weirdly enough) a small bit of hope. It was between these sounds that I found grief, having hid behind the wall where my emotion once lay. I did not understand the legal system. Another black boy convicted of a crime crafted by a system that reserved a jail space for him just as he exited the birth canal - just as I exited the birth canal Yet, I escaped this fate (thus far). This same prison cell he would come to call home - and his final resting place.

We had no choice. There was never one offered in the matter. He had killed in cold blood - or warm blood as was depicted over and over again by the mottled sequence of events that we jurors had to conjure up from gruesome pictures and half-truths. I probably won't ever be able to reconcile the 'why' behind this young man's decision-making. I could probably name a million reasons or excuses as to why and what got him to this point in making horrible choices, but there is nothing I can do to actually create order in places where a mess of disorder exists. The hopeful part of me thought about programs I could start to give young, black men options - better choices - or initiatives that promote healthy decision-making and reemphasize education. These ideas fled quickly at the loud screams of anger - piqued frustration begot from unanswered questions. Where were his parents, the schools, his family, or his church? What causes a seemingly good kid to make horrible choices? 

There's an odd smell that fills the room as my mind runs through options. Justice. Unfamiliar, yet kin. I'm made uncomfortable by the idea that I have to enact something that I don't truly understand. Justice, a remedy that occurs in hindsight, too late for everybody involved in any situation. Up to this point, a speeding ticket (that was later pulled) was the extent of my criminal history. And yet, I have to make a decision about someone's life - and use foolish justice as my only tool of recourse. In crimes this gruesome, there is only life til death or immediate death. Am I my brother's keeper? Should I extinguish a life so that society's failure of him is but a newspaper headline of memory?

This young man had completely lost - or cut himself off by his actions. The whole scenario reminded me of the feeling I would imagine a kicker to get when his field goal winning kick is two feet left of the field goal post. Nobody on the team wins because of his actions, but the team has to pick themselves up and try to do it better the second time around. I think we (I) chose correctly in giving him life imprisonment. I pray there are faculties and resources available to change foolish justice into saintly rehabilitation. Only time can prove that.