WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER FROM THE OUTSIDE WORLD?
BY NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN
As the sun tosses and turns in the bed of sky, I wake to the creaking boards and jabbing wind gusts against the windowpane. Waking to home, Dad’s house with the smells of hot breakfast sizzling and crackling in the kitchen off of my room. I remember the thumping, pounding of running footsteps created by my little nephews, shouts from my baby brother, and the firm voice of my dad: “You guys behave.” I recall how Mom Yvonne’s voice would stand out, asking Dad if he would hand her one kitchen utensil or another.
As my feet touched the cold plastic floorboards of my bedroom, I remember the feeling of routine. We started the Saturday ritual with hot skillet breakfast: potatoes and onions, peppers, seasonings, all fried and combined just right. Toast served with butter, but only if you buttered it yourself. The eggs cooked so the yolks oozed out, and how the bacon-grease jar sat above the stove for other fried cooking. I walk out of my room to hear my two nephews Harley and Kenny arguing over a toy, and baby bro Allen’s shout to behave. I think, “Allen’s just trying to imitate Dad.” I remember in those moments (and so many more), there was always a sense of love in the air — a function of love even when things were dysfunctional.
Walking into my big sister Sarah’s apartment complex, before I could even make it upstairs, I would hear Lil Man’s enthusiastic voice, “Uncle Nolan! Uncle Nolan! Let’s play football.” Malique and I would play catch with the football, imagining linemen and defensive backs chasing us around the parking lot. We stiff-armed imaginary players while we ran the ball past the painted parking spaces and in for a touchdown. I remember the busyness of illicit activities in the neighborhood where Mom, sister Kyah, and Malique lived. My niece Nakyah would ride her bike through the parking lot of the Cedar Tree complex. I worried over them, yet I was comforted that their voracious mom and grandmom would keep her and Lil Man safe.
I recall the sunny sky of the outside world (even in a torrential downpour of rain), for in my memories the harshest day in the free world is still better than the best day incarcerated. I remember the laughter of my mom’s voice; tears of joy sliding down her cheeks; one hand holding a burning cigarette and in the other, a can of Pepsi (her favorites — Pepsi and menthol cigarettes). I remember her tears after seeing me take my shoes off for the first time upon release. I asked her why she was crying, and she said, “Because my baby is home and you finally took your shoes off.”
I sit confined and introspective, as I have passed the day that marked my arrest thirteen years ago. I haven’t been out since. Mention of the outside world elicits strong family memories, like spending time with my relatives. The smell of cooking always radiated in the air when I stopped by Aunt Geneva’s pad. She unrelentingly persisted until I ate some food, even if I had just eaten or wasn’t hungry. I remember seeing her daughter, my big cousin Cokina, who recently passed away (too young, it seems); her ways of living rough . . . tough . . . gentle . . . and loving, led to her demise. I recall her face in the half smile: She’s thinking of something slick to say or she’s devising a plan to make some money or throw a party. I remember those moments and hold them close to my heart.
How nice it was to just walk outside any time I wanted; out to the porch and sit down in the cold, in the sun, or even in the rain. I could walk to the store after seeing a Twizzlers commercial, or go to Burger King after seeing the Western Whopper on TV. The simplest things now remain untouchable. I miss the comfort of being able to just get up and walk away if I felt the urge to do so, or if I don’t want to be around someone. At times, it seems to have been so long that all my memories are only dreams that I dreamed at one point in time, and never actually lived.
I like to think that life was one way when I was out and about in the free world, but I also gave my power to things that ultimately took (and have kept) my freedom from me. This keeps me pushing to correct what I can. I know nothing is so cut and dry — so one way. There are many different ways of looking at things — perceptional reality shapes our worldview. I remember the struggle to find a job; the suffering addiction to alcohol and drugs brought to my life and that of my family; the loneliness that sat in my chest when I never really quite fit in anywhere. I remember the struggle of being free. I remember the hustle-bustle of catching the TriMet; how I would run and run to flag it down, the departing tires and being left in the trailing rumble of the diesel engine exhaust. I remember the pop-up conversations with people as I waited for the bus, and the sometimes-odd people around the whole bus crowd.
As a young person, I helped my dad work on cars, and I wanted to be like him so I would rub car grease all over my hands to feel important. I look back at and think of the outside world in its entirety and it helps me feel connected to my relatives. I remember going to powwows, ceremonies, and different gatherings with my dad and family as a young kid. I would watch all the different dancers in their regalia and hear the sound of the drum and the sharp-pitch blast of song would hit me with an energy that made my heart beat and feet move. I remember going to the Sun Dance and feeling a balance that made everything seem okay. I remember the beautiful sound of the eagle-bone whistles and the cleansing feel of the eagle-wing fans dusting us off during the rounds of ceremony. I remember the taste of fry bread with butter and a little bit of salt that would taste just perfect. | NJB
NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN WAS RAISED IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HIS ROOTS BLOOM FROM RICH CULTURES, BLACKFEET AND IRISH. HE WRITES: “I’M JUST GETTING TO A POINT IN THE EXPLORATION OF WRITING TO BE ABLE TO SAY IT IS A RELATIONSHIP THAT I UNDERSTAND; THEN, I READ A DIFFERENT STYLE, FORM, OR WAY OF WRITING AND MY JOURNEY RESTARTS TO UNDERSTAND.” NOLAN IS A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CULTURE CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY AND HE IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE PONYXPRESS WRITING GROUP.