by Shawn Ali
No bars. No barriers. No blockades. They don’t even know. I’m dreaming with my eyes wide open during the day. If they could see me now, but they can’t, shhhhh. Don’t you give me up (wink). Yep, I’ve done it again. I’m out of my cell. Sneaking. Stunting. Streaming live — on your screen. Oh, if only they could monitor my mental migration, me moving methodically through the megabyte matrix, on my own; maneuvering metaphorically, magnifying the Machiavellian-madness to the masses, maximizing my mouthpiece on the megaphone, made possible by Me.
Ahhhh, damn, that felt so good (stretching my mental muscles). You look intrigued, so how about another alliteration for this clandestine conversation. (Taking a deep breath.) Clouds of creativity colliding chaotically, cornered, caged, confined Correctional Corporations can’t corral, conquer, or crush this convict because I’m a contortionist, counselor, contrarian corresponding credible conundrums and counterintelligence to the common civilian.
Freedom, to me is…mind over matter. Mic-check (tap-tap-tap) — Mayday! Mayday!
The Sentencing Project estimates that as many as 100 million US citizens (that’s nearly one in three), are now or have been, entangled and enslaved someway, somehow in the widespread web of incarceration.
Ahhhh, damn, that felt so good (stretching my mental muscles). You look intrigued, so how about another alliteration for this clandestine conversation. (Taking a deep breath.) Clouds of creativity colliding chaotically, cornered, caged, confined Correctional Corporations can’t corral, conquer, or crush this convict because I’m a contortionist, counselor, contrarian corresponding credible conundrums and counterintelligence to the common civilian.
Freedom, to me is…mind over matter. Mic-check (tap-tap-tap) — Mayday! Mayday!
The Sentencing Project estimates that as many as 100 million US citizens (that’s nearly one in three), are now or have been, entangled and enslaved someway, somehow in the widespread web of incarceration.
There’s no discrimination — young or old, black, brown, or white, rich or poor — they need you. They are looking for a few imperfect people who have made at least one bad decision on one really bad day of their lives, or who happened to be in the vicinity of a crime. Guilty or innocent, no matter how minor the infraction, they’ll implicate you into the investigation. They’ll prove intention, place you at the scene, find and coach a witness - usually someone with a criminal record who has charges pending against them that will say anything to have those charges dropped.
I’ll give it to them, they're good at what they do. They’re experts. It’s a billion-dollar business, and their bottom line is dependent on, that’s right, your conviction. Politicians, judges, lawyers, and detectives, they’re all connected; police, guards, parole officers, the private sector contracts with prisons, are pivotal pieces of the prized puzzle. This is a successful and lucrative business model that is funded by you, the taxpayers, and dependent on you and me to keep the paychecks and promotions coming, and the machine called the Prison Industrial Complex running.
Watch out, yes you, the one on the cozy couch clinging to a cocktail, don’t get too comfortable now, because you might be the next convict. Hide your spouse, your closest of kin, and yes, especially your kids. They love the kids. At a time of declining crime, the kids have become an untapped human resource. As young as 12 years old, they’ll certify them as adults, they sure will, and as easy as passing out candy, they won’t think twice about giving the kids — yes the kids — a life sentence. They won’t give the kids the benefits of being an adult, only the punishments.
Didn’t you know, the only time a kid’s mind is mature enough to know right from wrong is when they commit a crime? It’s unthinkable and irrational to let a kid vote, own a gun, play professional sports, drive a car, smoke, and have consensual sex, but it’s perfectly moral and okay for the same kid to do two decades or more in prison.
I’m confused, and have been for a long time (two decades). I am an outspoken victim of a double injustice. You see, I was kidnapped — err, arrested — at the tender age of 17, but I was also wrongfully convicted. God, why me? Why anyone, since it happens so frequently?
For example, I opened the newspaper last week and read this headline: Curtis Fairchild, jailed at 12, now 29, released from South Bay Correctional Facility. Killed girlfriend of his father, who Fairchild said molested him and his sister. Two lives destroyed. Where is the justice? I know - I know, I shouldn’t cry, I can’t help it though, I can’t deny the empathy I feel; it hurts, it’s real, it’s natural, like raindrops falling from the sky.
I think I’ve said too much. My words left clues. They’re hot on my trail. I knew they would come get me. The truth has a way of dismantling the dirty lies that help dictators and draconian systems thrive. Yes sir, I’ll put my hands behind my back, I’ll go quietly and peacefully, but I’ll never shut up. Perfect timing, by the way, because I’m ready to go back into my cell. Need to be alone. Need to think. Need to pray. Need to figure out a better way. Need to concentrate and create what next to say.
“Open cell six,” clank-clank-clank-CRASH! For now, I’m back in, until I’m ready to leave again.
I’ll give it to them, they're good at what they do. They’re experts. It’s a billion-dollar business, and their bottom line is dependent on, that’s right, your conviction. Politicians, judges, lawyers, and detectives, they’re all connected; police, guards, parole officers, the private sector contracts with prisons, are pivotal pieces of the prized puzzle. This is a successful and lucrative business model that is funded by you, the taxpayers, and dependent on you and me to keep the paychecks and promotions coming, and the machine called the Prison Industrial Complex running.
Watch out, yes you, the one on the cozy couch clinging to a cocktail, don’t get too comfortable now, because you might be the next convict. Hide your spouse, your closest of kin, and yes, especially your kids. They love the kids. At a time of declining crime, the kids have become an untapped human resource. As young as 12 years old, they’ll certify them as adults, they sure will, and as easy as passing out candy, they won’t think twice about giving the kids — yes the kids — a life sentence. They won’t give the kids the benefits of being an adult, only the punishments.
Didn’t you know, the only time a kid’s mind is mature enough to know right from wrong is when they commit a crime? It’s unthinkable and irrational to let a kid vote, own a gun, play professional sports, drive a car, smoke, and have consensual sex, but it’s perfectly moral and okay for the same kid to do two decades or more in prison.
I’m confused, and have been for a long time (two decades). I am an outspoken victim of a double injustice. You see, I was kidnapped — err, arrested — at the tender age of 17, but I was also wrongfully convicted. God, why me? Why anyone, since it happens so frequently?
For example, I opened the newspaper last week and read this headline: Curtis Fairchild, jailed at 12, now 29, released from South Bay Correctional Facility. Killed girlfriend of his father, who Fairchild said molested him and his sister. Two lives destroyed. Where is the justice? I know - I know, I shouldn’t cry, I can’t help it though, I can’t deny the empathy I feel; it hurts, it’s real, it’s natural, like raindrops falling from the sky.
I think I’ve said too much. My words left clues. They’re hot on my trail. I knew they would come get me. The truth has a way of dismantling the dirty lies that help dictators and draconian systems thrive. Yes sir, I’ll put my hands behind my back, I’ll go quietly and peacefully, but I’ll never shut up. Perfect timing, by the way, because I’m ready to go back into my cell. Need to be alone. Need to think. Need to pray. Need to figure out a better way. Need to concentrate and create what next to say.
“Open cell six,” clank-clank-clank-CRASH! For now, I’m back in, until I’m ready to leave again.