Imprisoned Minds: Lost Boys, Trapped Men, and Solutions from Within the Prison Presented by Erik S. Maloney and Kevin A. Wright!

 He convinced himself that he never lied to me and couldn’t understand my disappointment. Self-delusion epitomizes the imprisoned mind.

There’s outright racism, hidden racism, and differential treatment for people of color. It’s all here...

The Imprisoned Mind - Everyone has a story. The stories of men with an imprisoned mind may seem more incomprehensible than others. When you have a comprehensive understanding of the mindset, however, you begin to better understand the actions of the men who are trapped with it. I once came across an episode of the television show Cops. I watched as the police pulled a man from a wrecked vehicle and handcuffed him. The surrounding pandemonium suggested that I’d missed a car chase, and, as was the premise of the show, the “good guys” had nabbed the “bad guy.” The exasperated officer, clearly familiar with the suspect, placed his prisoner in the back seat of his squad car and huffed, “How many times have you ran from the police?” With a smirk on his face and in a casual tone, the prisoner answered, “Twenty-six times.” I can only imagine the average viewer’s reaction to hearing that: “Damn! Twenty-six times? That man’s crazy!” or, “What the hell’s wrong with that dude? He must enjoy getting arrested!” These viewer responses seem rational given the circumstances, but I’ve yet to hear anyone accurately explain why people, such as this man, continue to believe they can get away with breaking the law after having been caught so many times. Clearly, this man wasn’t so crazy that he didn’t know he’d broken the law—he wouldn’t have run from the police otherwise. And I’ve yet to find one prisoner who actually enjoys being arrested, so that must not be the problem. It was obvious to me there was something wrong with this man, and those like him, but what? 

Tracing the development of the imprisoned mind begins with childhood. Stories of unimaginable childhood abuses and neglect are prevalent throughout “the hood” and prisons. Growing up, I remember listening to “homies” openly talk about their adverse childhood experiences. A homey once told me about watching his mom kill his dad. It was chilling to hear him describe seeing the bullet pierce his father’s chest as if it was a scene from a movie and not his actual life. Another spoke of his backside being beaten by his stepdad in such gory detail that I was reminded of hearing similar stories of slaves being whipped by their master. I remember feeling uneasy each time I listened to one of these stories. I mean, what’s a kid supposed to say to someone who’s being so open about such horrific personal experiences? All I’d say was, “Damn! That’s messed up,” or, “Man! That ain’t right.” I thought it was a coincidence when I began hearing many of the same stories in prison. Sure, each story is different, but they’re all still painfully similar. It was clear to me that each individual continued to be plagued by their past experiences as if they had only recently happened. Yet each man had no clue how their past continued to affect their present. It didn’t take long for me to notice how emotionally detached everyone seemed to be while recalling their vividly horrific experiences. Some told their stories as if they were no big deal, casually joking about them. One person laughed about being beaten, at the age of seven, by his mother’s boyfriend. He had a gun put to his head because he’d urinated while asleep on his mom’s couch. “Shit,” the man chuckled as he recalled the story, “it made me stronger, and best believe I didn’t piss myself again after that!” Of everyone who has told me a story of childhood traumas, only one person ever choked up while recalling his traumatic experience. Even then, he continued to tell his story with such numbness that I began to wonder if there was a relationship between childhood trauma and incarceration. By that point, I’d become aware of my own emotional detachment and subsequent imprisoned mindset due to childhood trauma, but I wondered just how common this link was in prison. I set out to find the answer. The development of the imprisoned mind starts with emotionally sensitive children who’ve experienced trauma that is left untreated. The child then begins to experience mental and emotional distress. Without knowledge of healthy coping mechanisms, they eventually turn to drugs and alcohol and begin making other risky decisions. These behaviors don’t heal the trauma; they only serve to temporarily numb or distract from the agony of the mental and emotional distress. The individual becomes so focused on achieving this temporary relief that their willingness to engage in criminal endeavors becomes habitual. With each illegal act, the mindset evolves into a rigid criminal mentality, one that arrests all future development. I recognized prominent and recurring themes in the lives of everyone I believed showed signs of having an imprisoned mind. Like me, everyone readily admitted to being an emotionally sensitive child prior to their initial traumatic experience. My own mother and sisters would describe me as a crybaby. I wondered if this predisposition factored into the intensity of the symptoms of having post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Additionally, the individual with an imprisoned mind often experienced the absence of one or both parents during childhood. This absence, I found, caused some to seek out a semblance of a family or brotherhood, such as joining a gang or the military, to fill the void left by their own fractured family. Being a part of something we feel is bigger than ourselves gives us a sense of belonging to the “family” we feel we never had. The progression of the imprisoned mind is highlighted by denial and deflection. The individual who possesses an imprisoned mind is generally unaware that anything is wrong with them. It’s as if we develop a form of tunnel vision and become hyper-focused on satisfying our desires and needs. The problem with this mentality is its self-deceiving nature: the imprisoned mind causes us to believe that things we simply want are so important that we are required to have them. Our inability to differentiate between our wants and our needs leads to a sense of urgency and a lack of patience when it comes to acquiring what we feel we must have. We then develop an egoistic attitude. Our imprisoned mind leads us to believe that everything is about us and produces behavior that seems rude or inconsiderate. We lie and manipulate to get what we want. We believe that we have honor and integrity, but in reality they’re foreign concepts to us. If there are rules that hinder our ability to do as we feel, then we will attempt to find ways around those rules or just ignore them. It doesn’t occur to us that our actions affect anyone outside of ourselves. When faced with the consequences of our actions, we deny culpability, we feign ignorance, and we deflect responsibility. Saying “everybody does it” is a typical excuse, and one that is indicative of the irrationality of the imprisoned mind, yet it’s suitable enough for us to justify committing unethical or illegal acts. Once we’re caught and suffer the consequences of our actions, the imprisoned mind causes us to see ourselves as victims, virtually blind to our own accountability. The permanence of the imprisoned mind is dependent upon the further traumas we’re exposed to while involved in the criminal underworld. Witnessing violence firsthand as a child causes us to be more likely to engage in violent behavior as adults. The imprisoned mind’s self-deceptive nature convinces us that our learned violent behavior is the only way to respond to perceived threats. We then end up in precarious situations that expose us to more trauma, thus intensifying the mindset. Those who are repeatedly exposed to violence can develop an antisocial attitude that is often misunderstood as sociopathic. In our minds, the violence we engage in tends to be more reactive than senseless. We detest having to engage in it, and we typically only do so when we believe it’s necessary to protect our well-being, our way of life, or the well-being of those we care about. This attitude seems to result from overexposure to hypervigilance and lasts as long as we feel threatened in an apparently hostile environment. Once we’re removed from our hostile environments, this attitude can begin to dissipate and is eventually replaced with shame and a desire to better ourselves. I’ve been interested in human behavior since I can remember. Figuring out why people do the things that they do consumed much of my childhood curiosity. And it continues to this day. I began my informal studies in psychology during middle school. These studies only intensified during my incarceration. I’ve formally taken classes and informally read whatever books I could get my hands on to better understand myself and others. Through my studies, I discovered sociology, and I began research in criminology after taking an Inside-Out Prison Exchange Program class in 2016. I’ve taken human subjects and qualitative interviewing training through Arizona State University, and I’ve personally interviewed over 200 prisoners for two groundbreaking Participatory Action Research projects.1 Together, my studies, my training, and over two decades of experience with prisoners and incarceration make me uniquely qualified to write this book. But I struggled with how to best advance the imprisoned mind idea. I wasn’t even sure who, if anyone, would be interested in an argument from someone who is incarcerated and lacks an academic degree. That is, until a wise man told me, “It’s not about the degree. It’s the experience living that life and with being incarcerated, having the access to prisoners who can support the idea that’s unique.” I decided the only way to lend credibility to my claim would be to tell the stories of the men who I’m referring to as having the imprisoned mind: prisoners. I set out to find those on the unit who had the mindset and were willing to share their life story with me and the world. I was surprised and pleased to discover that many prisoners were eager to have their stories told. I sat with each man and took notes by hand, as recording devices are prohibited, while they recounted their life stories to me. I interviewed in our cells. I interviewed in the middle of the prison yard. I interviewed in the Arizona heat. Each meeting had to be broken down into several sessions as time permitted. We had to work around lockdowns and count times. I processed the information acquired from each discussion and wrote each subject’s story in the first person. Each individual’s story is compiled as a chapter, detailing how instances of trauma can contribute to a singular, common outcome: prison. 

The chapters that follow are real-life accounts based upon the lives of six men who were emotionally damaged during the most vulnerable time in their life. Each chapter provides detailed descriptions of the harm, pain, and anguish some boys have experienced, and then later caused. I believe all six men have an imprisoned mind, but each of their stories better represent different stages of the mindset. In the first part of the book, Kidd’s and Sergeant’s stories epitomize the childhood trauma and neglect that contribute to the development of the imprisoned mind. In the next part, Oso’s and Dee’s stories show how denial and deflection contribute to the progression of the imprisoned mind. In the last part, Oakland’s and Unique’s stories demonstrate how the mindset can be fortified through continued victimization and trauma. These stories are not told to excuse our behavior or to justify our incarceration. Rather, the following brief life histories are meant to highlight the origin of the irrationalities that drastically influence the criminal mind, and to educate those who believe they have criminality all figured out. At times, what’s told here isn’t pretty. But sometimes the most meaningful lessons are born from ugliness. Dr. Kevin Wright joins me in the final part of the book on outside and inside solutions. Kevin and I have worked together on this book for over seven years. He has provided feedback and assistance on all aspects of the book, from helping me to refine the idea of the imprisoned mind to leading our efforts to secure a publisher to copyediting all drafts of the book. Here he contributes a chapter that leverages his outside knowledge as a correctional scholar to complement my inside knowledge as someone who has lived through an imprisoned mind. Where “imprisoned minds” could suggest an individual pathology, Kevin’s chapter makes clear that our life circumstances—especially our adverse experiences as young boys—limit our opportunities for healthy physical and mental development. He writes about the value of combining his outside knowledge with my inside lived experience to suggest solutions to enhance the lives of people who are living and working in the correctional system. I conclude the book with a chapter that identifies what needs to happen outside of the correctional system to prevent the development, disrupt the progression, and reverse the permanence of the imprisoned mind. In simplest terms, we need to support both the lost boys and the trapped men—especially when they are experiencing and working through the trauma that can derail their opportunity to find purpose and meaning as humans. I never thought I’d end up in prison. Nobody with an imprisoned mind ever does. We’re perpetually caught up in a moment that is our life. For me, that moment was proving that I was “a man” and making money. Others’ form of self-deceit differs, but the results are all the same. Days, weeks, months, and years go by without us even realizing that all aspects of our personal development have ceased. Once you have the imprisoned mind, I believe that there are only two destinies: death or incarceration. Unfortunately, we’re unable to comprehend that we’re blinded by our own compulsions, slaves to our impulses, while deceived into limiting our own options in life. When our perceived options are limited (and none of them seem good), then it stands to reason why we make the wrong decisions. We become trapped by an irrational mindset. While I’m unable to tell the stories of the men whose mindset led them to their demise, I can tell the stories of the men.

!!!!

As far as I am aware, Johnny Cash is the only music artist who specifically provided a prison program during his active performing years... So immediately I remembered how those who listened to his shows were so involved and excited to hear what he had to say... When I saw this book advertised, I knew I wanted to read it. The first and only contact I'd made was through a book, of course... But in talking with the young man, he happened to mention that even when he got out, he would not be allowed to vote! To me, that just seemed wrong. If somebody has fulfilled the court's requirements, then that individual should return to the same rights available to all of us--if the prison system was doing what it was meant to do...

But this book clearly shows that the evolution of what occurs in prisons has been steadily going downhill in relation to helping our citizens to move back into a meaningful life.

The other involvement I'd had was with the WV Prison System when as the manager of classrooms on the WVU campus, we at one time had our wooden classroom seats cannibalized for ongoing use. Again, that type of program which helped provide both income and a work program apparently no longer occurs. The impression provided was that those in prison these days have little opportunity to occupy their bodies and minds... 

Finally I want to highlight my personal response as I read this book. The title has a much farther possible use than for those intended by the book. I found myself responding, based upon today's world, as well as from other books, that there could be many people locked into an imprisoned mind. In fact, it could be used by those women who have experienced rape or physical assaults which have traumatized them thereafter. I quickly note that this book does not cover women--purely because of the circumstances of the writer and his location. I remember, however, when I went into burnout based upon my job, there was No term available for a medical diagnosis other than clinical depression. I was not depressed. My mind was burnt out and could no longer function... Thus, I could easily have defined my feelings as a my mind being imprisoned... Job Burnout has since then been added as a specific diagnosis for purposes of diagnosis of simply a very tired mind... PTSD is also one of those which is used across multiple mental results faced either by those in the military, or, for instance, after a rape or other traumatic event.

So, why am I beginning this discussion with this highlight of Imprisoned Minds? Because I want readers to know that this book can be valuable to other people who have never actually been in prison. Consider all of the individuals who commit crimes for which we never determine the background, the reason, or the individual who committed the crime never gets to prison...

Also not covered in this book is the major issue of gun control, drugs, sexual or physical abuse, or political influence. Be aware, however, that the individual stories by those interviewed will be discussing these issues... A final note: The number of interviews were limited by the space available for the entire book covering this important subject. Erik was responsible for identifying what he had determined to be his own diagnosis/identification of what he called how he felt. Only those identified as having "imprisoned minds" were included...

Kidd - I was never allowed to have closure, and because of that, it still doesn’t feel real to me. I was born in Tucson, Arizona, in 1993. I’m the second youngest child of five kids. I have one older brother, two older half-sisters, and one younger half-sister. Two of my siblings have the same father, and the other three—including myself—have different fathers, so my mom had four different “baby daddies.” All of my mom’s kids are biracial. My mom was white, so my siblings are both Filipino and white or Mexican and white. I’m her only child who’s half Black and half white. We moved to Mesa, Arizona, when I was two years old. My earliest memory is of my first day of kindergarten when I started at Harris Elementary. I remember going out to play during recess. I didn’t know anyone at the school and just wanted to be a kid and play. I spotted some kids playing soccer and wanted to play with them, so I went onto the field and asked if I could play. I remember a Mexican kid telling me I couldn’t play with them because I was Black. I didn’t understand, but I knew I didn’t like it. So we fought. After fighting with the kid, we became best friends. One day I went to his house to play video games and his dad came into his room and began beating him for playing video games with me because I was Black. That wasn’t my first experience with racism, though. My own mom used to discriminate against me. She used to tell me, “Quit acting like a n——boy!” It wasn’t until I learned to read, at the age of four and a half years old, that I realized what the word “n——” meant. Even then, I didn’t fully understand. I knew it was a bad thing said to Black people by “ignorant” racist people. It really hurt me to be called that by my mom, and it made me feel as if she hated me because I was Black. I began noticing how she looked at me differently than my siblings. She also talked to me and treated me differently. There were times when she fed my siblings, yet withheld food from me. She once tried to drown me, and she’d even locked me in a closet for long periods of time and spanked me for the smallest things. My siblings received no such treatment. Each time my grandparents (my mom’s parents) would come to visit, she’d find a reason to punish me before they arrived. Once I was withheld food for three days. The hunger became so bad that I had to go to the store and steal candy to eat. I was about five years old then. Even my grandparents were racist. They treated me differently than my siblings too. My grandfather accepted that I was his grandson, but it seemed to me like all he wanted to do was “customize” me by changing me into one of the “good n——s.” This made me feel bad for being Black. I never felt like I fit in with my own family. I felt alienated. I used to wonder why my mom even gave birth to me if she didn’t want me. The best excuse I could come up with was maybe she became pregnant by a Black guy because of a one-night stand—of course, I was a little older when I came to that conclusion. I knew Mom drank and did drugs. I began using this to excuse her behavior toward me. I’d tell myself, “She’s only acting like that because she’s drunk or high.” I never knew how true (or how far from the truth) that was. I’ll never know for certain what the answer really was. One morning, when I was nine years old, I awoke to find my mom had cooked a big breakfast for all of us kids. It was unlike her to cook breakfast. She made pancakes, eggs, and bacon that day. She even had a box of my favorite cereal just for me—Cookie Crisp. My siblings and I normally took the bus to school, but this morning she drove us. We were shocked, but I thought nothing of her behavior at the time as being out of character. I was just excited I was being treated normally. She even let me sit in the front seat. That’s something I’d never been able to do. It felt great riding in the front seat of my mom’s Mustang too. I remember feeling like I was the man! I was shocked when she said to me while driving, “You know that I love you a lot?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I liked it. She went on to tell me that I had to be there for my brother and sisters. She told me, “They’re not gonna survive like you will.” She told me I was strong and independent. It was weird hearing her say these things, but I dismissed it. I was just happy to live in the moment. I remember leaving the car feeling as if everything, from that moment on, was about to get better. I was upbeat and jovial at school that day. We had what was known as a “fun run”—kind of like a mini-carnival. There were a lot of games like slip-n-slide, basketball tournaments, and all sorts of fun stuff to do. It turned out to be one of the best days at school I’d ever had. My friend Kelsie and I rode the bus home from school together. Kelsie lived a few houses down from me, so when we arrived at my house he and I parted ways. I went to the front door and knocked, thinking it was locked, as usual. I’d never been trusted enough to be given a key, so I waited for my mom to open the door. There was no answer after what must have been five or ten seconds, but it felt like forever. I tried to turn the door handle and, to my surprise, it turned. I pushed the door open and yelled, “Mom, I’m here!” I closed the door behind me and walked into the living room. There I found my mom’s body lying in a pool of blood. She had a gun in her hand and a hole in her head. I don’t know how long I stood there looking at her before I panicked. I remember realizing I needed to get help, so I ran to the neighbor’s house. My mother had committed suicide. My best day had become my worst day—I felt betrayed and left behind. To make matters worse, Child Protective Services (CPS) separated me from my siblings. My oldest brother and sisters were sent to live with their uncle. My younger sister was sent to a foster home, and I was sent to a group home. It was very difficult for me to be separated from the only family I had left. I was nine years old, and I quickly missed my family. I desperately wanted to be with my brother and sisters, so I began running away from my group home to be with them. My group home was in Tempe, Arizona, so one evening I decided I was going to live with my siblings. I began walking from Tempe to Mesa at five P.M. and arrived at my siblings’ uncle’s house at approximately three A.M. In my mind, I thought I’d be welcomed and celebrated for being there. But my siblings’ uncle called the police. He told me he had to because if he didn’t, he’d get in trouble. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. When the police arrived, they called my group home and told them to come and pick me up. I felt restricted from my family, like I was being punished. I blamed the police and CPS for my mom’s death. I didn’t know my dad, and I couldn’t be with my brother and sister. I was alone, with no home and no sense of belonging. I can’t even count how many group homes I’ve been in. I was treated like shit in most of them, like I was a burden or a nuisance. I really hated the second one that I stayed at. The staff would talk to me crazy all the time. One day, I ended up getting into an argument with a staff member. They said I disrespected him. The staff member responded by hitting me so hard that I bit off part of my tongue. I threw a tantrum after seeing all the blood coming from my mouth—it reminded me of finding my mom’s body. I don’t remember much about the tantrum except for them saying I threatened to kill myself. I only said that hoping it’d force them to remove me from the group home and send me to a better one. I wanted to be someplace I felt I belonged; instead, I was taken to Arizona State Hospital—a mental health facility. I was thrown into a cell and placed on suicide watch. I still remember the sound of the first time the door slammed shut behind me and locked. I flipped out! Before, I could always run away, but in the cell I was stuck. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t see my brother and sisters. I was locked up. I cried so much that I stopped producing tears. It was there they convinced me something was wrong with me. Although I was only there for a couple of weeks, the experience left me feeling as if I was more of an outcast. To be fair, not every group home was bad. I stayed in two that treated me well. I always behaved in the ones that treated me well. I didn’t want to give them a reason to ship me off to a group home that was worse. I also found that if I behaved, I could earn a home pass that allowed me to see my brother and sisters. On my tenth birthday, I was moved to Kenwood group home. It was there I met Miss Bobby. Miss Bobby was the manager of the group home. She was an older Black lady. She brought me in and welcomed me. She even recognized it was my birthday and cooked me hot dogs and macaroni. She took me shopping for clothes and had my hair cut. On our way back, she took me to ride go-carts. It was the first time anyone took an interest in me and recognized it was my birthday. I felt special. It was a whole new experience for me. I remember thinking the lady was an angel. I’d never had anything special done for my birthday prior to that day. I’d been to other kids’ birthday parties, but I’d convinced myself I wasn’t special enough to have my own. It was obvious to me I wasn’t loved enough to enjoy the recognition of the day I was born. Because of Miss Bobby, my tenth birthday has always been a special memory to me. It was the first time I really viewed a woman as a mother figure. I spent about three months with Miss Bobby. The entire time I was on my best behavior. I didn’t want Miss Bobby to be disappointed or angry with me, I was happy there. Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. Miss Bobby received a promotion and was transferred to another group home. Around the same time, I was assigned to a new CPS caseworker. The guy who replaced Miss Bobby turned out to be alright. His name was Mario. He was a younger Black guy. The first time we met, he quickly eased my concerns about the type of person he was. He handed me his phone and let me listen to rap music on it. Under his care, I wasn’t abused or made to feel like I was a burden, but I wasn’t at home either. When I was eleven, my caseworker established contact with my dad. I was able to meet him for the first time and get acquainted. Like any young boy who never knew his father, I always dreamed about meeting him. I remember being nervous and excited while waiting for him to arrive. When I saw him for the first time, it was unreal. I immediately noticed I looked like him. It kind of scared me, too. I knew he was my dad, but I didn’t know if he’d love me or treat me like my mom did. We were accompanied by my caseworker for our first meeting. We went to the mall and ate at a place called the Rainforest Cafe. After that, we went to a place called Dave & Busters and played games—Dave & Busters is like a sports bar and arcade combined. I had a great time that day, but it was awkward because I didn’t know how to express myself. It made getting acquainted quite difficult. I did ask my dad how he felt about meeting me. He explained that he’d known I existed since I was two years old, but my mother had told him I wasn’t his child. He seemed excited to have a son, but we never talked about what I’d been through. After meeting my dad, I had an incentive to stay out of trouble—staying out of trouble meant I could get a home pass and be with him. The next time we met, I was taken to meet his whole family. I met his mom, my grandma, her sister, my great aunt, and a few cousins. It was the first time I had a family that looked like me. I even met my dad’s daughter, my older half-sister. They made me feel so welcomed. I finally felt like I belonged to a family again. Soon after my dad was awarded custody of me, I was allowed to go home with him. Having a father was unreal to me, after not having one the first eleven years of my life. I’d been in so many group homes that I began to believe I’d never have a home—that I’d always be unwanted and unloved. My dad was a successful businessman. He owned three businesses and lived in a three-bedroom, two-bath house in a small community situated on the outskirts of Tucson called Vale, Arizona. He had a fiancée and a daughter who was a few years older than me. I was excited to have a new big sister, and she seemed excited to have a little brother—as excited as a teenage girl could be given the situation. My dad’s fiancée seemed pretty cool. She welcomed me into their home, and I was given my own room. Prior to that day, I’d always shared a room with my older brother. Having my own space felt great. My dad bought me posters so I could put my personal touch on the room. It was nice, too. I had a bunk bed, a computer, and an entertainment center. I felt like my life was finally perfect. It didn’t take long for reality to set in. I thought my dad and I would be able to make up for lost time and be together all the time. I had a list of all sorts of father-and-son things we could do. However, my dad worked a lot and I barely saw him. I didn’t understand why he was never home. To make matters worse, it turns out the neighborhood we lived in was predominantly white. I began to feel like an outsider again. Much like my new neighborhood, my new middle school was predominately white. There were a handful of Mexican kids, but I was the only Black kid. I met a kid named Jesus, and he seemed pretty cool. He was my age, so we hung out at school a few times. One day, he asked if I wanted to go to his house and play video games. Of course, I had nothing else to do, so I accepted. As we played video games in his living room, a light-skinned Black kid walked into the room. I pretended as if I didn’t see him and just kept playing the video game. I was excited to see another Black kid, but I did my best not to let on. I was curious who he was, so I kept glancing over at him. He looked to be a few years older than me, and he carried himself with a certain swagger that I immediately admired. Once the video game had ended, Jesus introduced me to his big brother. His name was Rico. When his brother introduced us, Rico flicked his head upward, saying “What’s up,” and with a smile asked, “What’cha doin’ hangin’ with this lame?” referring to his brother. I knew I liked him from the moment I met him, and we instantly became friends. Rico was half Black and half Mexican and, much like me, he was the only mixed-race child of his mother. He and I connected because we were the only two Black kids in the neighborhood. The fact we had similar backgrounds, given our family dynamics, only strengthened our bond. Rico was only two years older than me, but at thirteen he was already an imposing figure. He stood about six feet two inches tall and dressed in that New York “gangsta” style T-shirt, baggy jeans, and signature Timberland boots. He didn’t go to the same school as me because he was kicked out prior to my arrival. I was impressed. He was tough, cool, and for an eleven-year-old boy who’d never really had a Black friend, he was THAT DUDE! My dad was at work all the time. Because of that, I always hung with Rico when we weren’t in school. I became popular with the girls at my school, but that seemed to only make the boys dislike me even more than they already had. I started getting into fights and began getting suspended from school. It was cool, though, because each time I was suspended Rico and I would end up skipping school and partying. He smoked weed and drank alcohol, so naturally I smoked weed and drank. And even though I hadn’t smoked or drunk before meeting Rico, I acted as though I had. When I was with Rico, I felt like I fit in. My dad purchased my clothes from either Ross or Walmart. For an adolescent, that gear wasn’t cool. I had to keep up with my popular image, and the gear I wore wasn’t helping. I decided I needed to get better gear. To do that, I needed money. At first I started raking people’s yards for money. That, however, wasn’t cutting it. Rico suggested we sell weed to make money, which I thought was a good idea. I also thought it’d further my “rep.” We started selling small amounts of weed, and I was able to start buying better clothes. My “rep” began to grow thanks to the gear. I figured out the larger amounts of weed you buy, the cheaper it was. I wanted to make more money, so it was only logical to buy larger quantities. I suggested to Rico that we save our money and buy a pound of weed. He agreed, and that’s exactly what we did. After doing that, we started making pretty good money. I felt like the man when I hung with Rico. Selling weed and wearing fresh gear made the girls love me more. The boys hated me, but they couldn’t beat me up, so I didn’t worry about them. I had an established “rep,” so everybody began to know who I was. Rico and I started buying larger amounts of weed after a few years, and our clientele grew. At fifteen, Rico had enough money to buy himself a car. We also bought dirt bikes so we could go out in the desert and ride with other kids. My dad would ask me about my new possessions, and I just lied to him. I’d tell him they belonged to someone else, which he seemed to believe, or maybe he just didn’t want to know the truth. Perhaps he did know and was cool with not having to spend money on me. I don’t know. I was providing for myself, so I was cool with him not pressing me too hard. By my sixteenth birthday, I saved up enough money to buy myself a car, a Honda Civic. I also found out my dad’s businesses weren’t doing very well. I was surprised to find out he smoked weed too. When I found out, my dad seemed cooler to me, but finding out his businesses weren’t doing so well made me feel like I was a burden on him. By then I’d been providing for myself for some time. I sold weed, so I convinced myself I had to step up my game in order to take care of myself. By this time, my dad’s daughter had been doing drugs and had gotten pregnant. My dad was helping her with money, so I felt like I was doing him a favor by not having to spend money on me. I began selling different types of drugs in order to make more money. I grew to six feet tall and had the build to go with it. Together, Rico and I were imposing figures. This only seemed to bring more hatred from the white and Mexican guys. We were getting into fights all of the time—mainly when someone would call us the N-word. And we won every one of our fights. Our opponents always outnumbered us, so at some point they just started to jump us. One night after getting jumped, these guys tried to rob us of our money, so Rico and I decided to buy guns. That was the game changer. We now had protection. Having a gun proved to be a deterrent, but thankfully we never had to use them. A few months before my seventeenth birthday, my dad told me he was breaking up with his fiancée, and they were losing their house. This news was devastating to me. While I hated the neighborhood, I had a good thing going on. I had a family, a friend, and I was making money. I finally felt like I fit in somewhere, and now I was losing my sense of security. My dad told me I had to move to Tucson and live with his mom. He ended up renting a one-bedroom townhouse, and, once again, I felt abandoned. It was all good, though, I thought. I could be going to someplace worse, I told myself. In the five years of knowing my grandma, I’d come to love and appreciate her. She’d made me feel special since day one. Each time my dad went to the city, I enjoyed going to visit her. While I felt abandoned by my dad, I knew living with my grandma would be a safe place for me—at least it wasn’t a group home. My grandma was pretty cool. She was born in England and had a British accent. I always got a kick out of hearing her speak. Until then, I’d never heard a Black lady speak with a British accent. Every time I saw her, she was the typical Black grandmother—you know, churchgoing, welcoming, and always offered to cook something to eat if I was hungry. At the age of seventy-six, she continued to work as a registered nurse. She’d always taken good care of people regardless if they were family or her patients. One thing that always stuck out to me was the fact she was a no-nonsense type of woman. My grandma did not play. Knowing I was going to live with my grandma meant I had to be proper. I knew I’d have to go to church and go to school. I knew I’d have to do my homework before I even thought about going anywhere. It felt good to have someone who cared about me like that. I didn’t hate the structure, but it did take some getting used to. The problem was I felt stuck in my ways, so it was difficult for me to get used to. It didn’t help that I had trust issues. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my grandma would die or leave me like everyone else. I became determined not to get used to the structure, or even to try and embrace it, because it was temporary. I did everything asked of me while I was in her house, but I continued to “do me” once I was outside of her house. My grandma lived in a four-bedroom, two-bath house. She used to be a certified foster parent, so I guess she was accustomed to keeping a full house. When I moved in, my cousin had already been living there. He was twenty years old at the time and thugged out. He was a light-skinned Black man who stood about five foot nine inches and was very stocky. He had green eyes, wore his hair in cornrows, and had a cocky demeanor. One glance at his brand-name clothes, new shoes, silver chain, and expensive watch told me he sold drugs. I knew he belonged to a gang, and I knew he had “connections.” I saw him as an opportunity to establish myself in this new city. By then, I treated selling drugs like it was my job, and I had work to do. I still had some money from selling drugs at my dad’s house, so my cousin helped me to buy a half ounce of coke. I was excited because I was in a bigger city, and that meant more people. And more people meant more money. My cousin was a Crip, so naturally I wore blue all the time. I began going to Palo Verde High School while living with my grandma. There were a lot of Bloods there, so I began getting into fights because I wore blue. Those fights led me to the principal’s office often. The principal came to really dislike me because of my attitude—and for the fact that it appeared as if I caused all of the trouble. I wasn’t about to snitch on anyone, so I always refused to cooperate with the principal. I just took the suspension rather than telling him what’d happened. For some reason, people never seemed to like me due to how I carried myself. That’s always been something I could never quite understand. It wasn’t as if I walked around like I was some kind of tough guy. I was just determined never to back down from anyone. One day while I was in school, I had words with a guy who made a remark to me. I could have ignored his remark, but if I had it would have made me appear weak. I said some disrespectful things back to him, hoping he’d fight me. He didn’t respond. I thought it was the end of it as we went our separate ways. After school, he was waiting for me with some of his friends. They ended up jumping me and beating me up pretty good. The minute I stepped foot on campus the next morning, security grabbed me and took me to the principal. Apparently, the school received a report that I was going to bring a gun and use it on someone. They searched me, my locker, and my book bag but found nothing. The situation, however, was the perfect excuse to kick me out of school, given my history of suspensions and my attitude with the principal. Grandma wasn’t too pleased with me. She immediately enrolled me in a school for troubled kids called Southern Arizona Community Academy (SACA), and I decided I’d really try to keep up with school in order to make my grandma happy. The problem with SACA was nobody there tried to understand me, what I’d been through, or what I was going through. To their credit, when I brought this to their attention, they tried to help me. They sent me to a place called La Frontera after school each day....

Each story takes a chapter--this is not the total first story since copyright has stopped further sharing... In my opinion this book is a must-read... The remainder of the book gets into a review of the issues within and without the prison, including support changes for programs necessary. At this time, in this political climate, it is questionable whether any of the proposals would even be considered given the racial discrimination mentioned earlier and the present DEI mandates... 

But this is not a singular issue, or a single book. This issue cannot really be addressed pre-prison, in my opinion, since drugs and guns are preventing what the majority of people want to change... There are other books related to guns, for instance, that should be considered. Most importantly is that what I saw in this book was a total lack of interest on the part of too many people. Dare I say on the part of one political party in particular. We already know that even school shootings has no effect on republicans. Certainly, caring for those in prison would never be on their radar...

You know folks, I still have NO answer as to why pro-life can be considered a mandate for republicans, while at the same time, they could care less about what happens to those children once they are born. There is always talk about drugs by that party, but bombing boats really has little to do with access available in the U.S. When somebody turns to selling drugs to be able to survive, which ultimately turns into a desire for making lots of money and fighting over territories/gangs... there has to be full awareness at the state level that these issues must be addressed...

We've talked about the fact that children learn how they will live based upon their early home life. I come from a poor background, but what I saw was my widowed mother working 24/7 to feed and shelter us. When the U.S. is the only major country that allows mass shootings to continue, then each of us has to realize that something is very wrong... And it doesn't mean that more guns is the solution...

This nonfiction book should be in every library. It is published by a university, based upon the content being of value to be shared across our land... When you read an individual's story and see that they live based upon what their environment has taught them, then, in my opinion, the United States should be embarrassed that what you will read and learn about those with imprisoned minds, is very possibly NOT the fault of the individual...who...is...imprisoned...

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