United States of America: an average day at the joint

MANY BELIEVE that a day in prison is a day wasted. But I say the value of a day is determined only by the beholder.

A typical day for me here begins with the beeping of my rinky dink, plastic alarm clock every morning at 5:30. Apart from in summer (which seems to be shorter here than in the rest of the country), it is usually still dark outside. I reluctantly roll over to my side, shut off the annoying beeper, and mumble seven words that have subconsciously become part of my morning ritual: “I gotta get the hell outta jail.”
I slowly crawl out of bed, relieve my bladder, wash up, rinse my mouth, and drink several cups of water. I then roll out my yoga mat and hit the floor, stretching and posing, and doing myriad other contortionist moves to fend off the stiffness, aches, and pains that come with not only aging in prison, but also eight consecutive hours of lying on a steel bunk cushioned by only two inches of foam. I toss lukewarm instant oatmeal mixed with peanut butter on a bowl of bran flakes, and my day begins.

The cell doors are unlocked at 6:30. But I usually don’t step out until seven. While the rest of the prisoners rush to the chow hall like a herd of cattle, to pick up a Styrofoam tray filled with bran flakes and a banana (yes, it is the same every morning), I stay put and prep for the tasks that make up the significance of my day.

I am the head mentor in the Challenge Program, a highly recognized program in the FBOP that teaches prisoners cognitive thinking skills to help us become more “pro social”. My tasks as a mentor are unlimited. I teach classes, facilitate groups and meetings, resolve conflicts between irrational prisoners, and the list goes on. In addition to being a Challenge Program mentor, I am the guy who everyone in the prison seems to rely on when a situation arises. “Adams!” one particular female staff member often yells when conflicts and situations need to be addressed and resolved. I used to loathe her shrieking voice, but now, ironically, I embrace it. It’s a revelation of my having purpose even in a world where there seems to be none. And my embracing of this reveals my growth as a man, one who cares less about how he is perceived by irrational individuals and is more fulfilled by the acceptance of rational, so-called law-abiding people.

An ideal day wouldn’t involve my stepping in the middle of a hostile crowd of shank-toting prisoners on the verge of self-destruction. But often I find myself courageously diffusing the illogical ire of my fellow captives. I use some of the things I’ve learned in the program, as well as my experiences in life, to show them that their anger and perceived slights are the result of a twisted belief system and perception that likely aren’t based on objective reality. My courage and ability to handle such a task has added more to my plate. “Bosco!” the prisoners yell. “Adams!” the staff yell.

How do I deal with it all? Perhaps that explains the yoga every morning. I also spend another 90 minutes of the day doing more strenuous workouts. Without that, I’d be the one yelling. And believe me, there are days when I want to holler. But for some strange reason I find myself laughing instead. I laugh at the fact that I’ve spent nearly 16 years in prison for attempting to possess marijuana, a substance that is legal in most states. I laugh at the fact that it seems that my oppressors can’t empathize. I laugh at my fellow prisoners who roam the yard like zombies from 8-10 a.m. I laugh at the lunch we eat at 12 p.m. I laugh at the latest irrational tweet from President Trump. I spend a lot of my day laughing inside to prevent myself from going insane.

If the same thing that makes you laugh makes you cry, why can’t the things that make me cry make me laugh?

I lock myself in my cell at 8:30 p.m. Another day over with. Another day wasted? Maybe. Maybe not. After all, I’d started off with yoga. I’d given my precious time to distraught prisoners in need of guidance. I’d assisted staff in ensuring the orderly functioning of so-called rehabilitation. I’d spent it laughing. And I often end it with flossing, brushing my teeth, washing my face, brushing my hair, looking at pictures of my daughter, thinking of the day when I will be able to walk on the beach with her, shutting off my light, lying in that steel bunk, and mumbling to myself: “I gotta get the hell outta jail.”