The morning of this day I will be awarded a piece of peace, a hint of freedom, and a touch of something outside. There is a friend who has chosen to cross the land to visit with me. We will sit and indulge in some of the world’s most serious conversations, conversing of ways to save the world, which to me is kind of ironic being that I have yet to learn the way to save myself. However, this day is a meaningful one.
Much of society has deemed not only me, but all incarcerated as throw aways, the wretched of the earth. So to have someone, someone I can call a friend travel such great lengths proves to me at least to this one person I am not dead. Anticipating the moment, I rush to the shower, soon the visits will start and I need to be prepared. Not wishing to make her wait for my arrival for I am sure the correctional staff will do that on their own. The scrutiny of the visiting process I don’t know first hand for my visits have always been one with me as the prisoner and not vice versa. However, I have been told by visitors themselves that they are treated as though they have done something wrong. But to a country that prides itself in the number of incarcerated, I imagine that visiting a prisoner is treasonous in their eyes.
Once inside the shower, preparing myself, I wash with the prison’s most expensive soap, wash my dreadlocks with the commissary’s cheapest shampoo, and touch my skin with a Muslim oil blessed by something greater than me. The entire time my mind wanders to what I should say first. Should I shake her hand? Should I offer her a quick embrace? She is a friend and I need this to be known. The only way to display my appreciation outside of words, is the look on my face as I enter the visiting hall. The look speaks on its own, “Thank you!”.
I’m sure this woman has no idea what happens here, or how to even fix it, but she tries. She travels looking for answers, and also attempts to offer a few. For 15 long years I have been holed up in the United States’ most dreadful federal penitentiaries and persons I have known my entire life have done nothing outside of ask questions.
These questions asked from the quiet of their homes for they would dare not enter a place like this, regardless of the relationship we once held. I say “once held” because our relationship has proven to be something of the past. Not because they fail to visit, not because I can’t call their phone, but because their privilege of being free has been a selfish one. Their freedom is the only thing that matters. My incarceration, and the incarceration of over two million men means nothing.
Again, this is why today’s visit is something akin to a godsend. This woman from Paris, France challenges racial segregation, opposes individualism. She fights against social injustice and rages against mass incarceration. Our fight is one in the same. She wants to see me free as she does herself. Finally, I hear my name being called, “Butler, visit!”. I can’t wait.