AGING THROUGH PRISON
BY LE'VAR HOWARD
As I have aged through prison, I find it horrible for those sharing this experience, especially when I know them personally and have seen their struggle. I’m 35 and potentially have the rest of my life to go. I came into prison at 18 years old. Many of my friends have helped me mature, not just grow old. My friends are still in the tide, a very rare breed of men, who like me, came into prison at a young age. My friends are 51, 54, 53, 48, 47 and I believe 45 and 43. I have many friends who are in their 30s. It is not easy to see them day by day doing the same things over and over and over … being commanded and searched, and verbally or mentally abused, to see such anger be directed at them until their bodies — once young, strong, and vibrant — can no longer process the frustration they hold. In fear of rage, they let go with great effort to resolve conflict within themselves. These are the men I know, these are my brothers of time and men who exemplify what it looks and feels like to hope for an honest life, to beg for forgiveness through good works — only to fall short year after year pierced by the oppressive sword of vengeance and name it justice.
We often laugh about woodpiles burning us in the end or me possibly making parole and going to a club for the first time and when the music hits (instead of dancing with a pretty girl), I hit the ground and start doing burpees. I would, just for us, I would. We humor each other because we must. And my guys are no strangers to hard times. The lesson is and always has been, when you make the best of your struggle, your hurt, your situation, your pain, the best is yet to come.
Some of my friends have made it out after decades in prison. Life outside the prison looks different to them forever, as does the system … as does connection, love, family, war, peace, violence, fear. I imagine what I suffer or would suffer to understand if I were in their shoes. Leaving after so long, I strive for optimism, though I can’t clearly see a future.
Wheelchairs and walkers are parked outside of pretty much every cell on tier one. When I go to early chow with the rest of my class (the privileged and productive inmates, so to speak), I’m standing in line after line of elderly men who have volunteer inmates pushing them around in wheelchairs and bringing them their trays. I walk past what we jokingly call the “Zombie Line,” a line that stretches across the control room floor and is filled with those who cannot cope without some form of medication and the elderly — men who should not be here. I can only see this as revenge to keep dying men dying in prison. The scariest part is no one says it’s right only that it’s the law, or the way it is.
I pay close attention to my friends, my elders, and see how they navigate both for their safety, and their potential to lead a better life. Watching this is painful work to see men ask for permission to do anything, to be searched going to and from; to walk around with identification pinned to their chests; to visit their loved ones for 20 years and some, being told how to hug, not to kiss or hold hands; how to talk by the standards set by DOC, what is or isn’t appropriate conversation.
Living in this structure of chaos, I work. I am a prison worker. We have no real term for what we are because technically prisoners can’t have jobs. I have colleagues who are between 22 to 78, I know most of my “co-workers” personally. There are two days off and five days a week we work, aside from a scheduled visit or other programs. I know men, co-workers, prisoner who have kept that working schedule since before I was born. These men have no real reward waiting for them. They are happy just that they are still alive. Being taken advantage of is never spoken of because as far as society is concerned the only thing waiting for them is death. These men do not get to retire, they don’t get to take vacations, and those I know are not leaving. My reality is to maintain hope in this tortured design.
My fear is that I am, we are the Age of the Dead. | LH