FEATURED

Have you ever been in jail? I have. As a matter of fact, I'm currently serving a life sentence in Nebraska. When I was 18 years old, I was dumb enough to go along with a plan to rob a convenience store. Tragically, the clerk was accidentally shot and didn't make it. The choices I made resulted in her death. I take full responsibility for the reckless disregard I had for others' safety.

A pair of nylon Reebok! For an inmate like me it's like four-months' salary. On the outside, these kix would be like ten dollars at the discount-dollar store. But these sneaks are the cheapest kix available; all others are over a hundo. They got you over a barrel -- if you want or need it, they are the only ones who supply, so pay it or go without.

Do you hate us so much, that you won't forgive us? Is it wrong to look for someone who can provide a glimmer of hope? What will it take for us, who have been deemed lepers inside and out, to truly be restored? Please, I await your answer. For I among the many would love for the healing to begin.

I've been walking and dreaming in prison for a long time. 15 years to be exact. And it amazes me how much I misunderstood the seriousness of life and now my mission is to get it back. At the age of 21 I stood before a judge and from the bench he looked at me but didn't "SEE" me. Seeing me would have meant thinking of my past, my parents, my traumas, what led me to him. But the system does not allow that.

I got transferred since my last installment. Went from a medium to a Max security. A disciplinary transfer, they call it. But honestly, I'm better off here. The officers treat us with more respect in a max compared to a medium. The food tastes better, and more of a serving. TV channels are better. Why, you may ask, would a max be "better" than a medium?

The year was 2000. I was 10 years into the mess I had created, 7 years into fighting a death sentence I asked for (hold that thought, a future blog will cover this). I was talking with my Mother (who passed in October, 2022), known to us as Mama, and she asked me, "Robert, what do you do?" Mama was French, born and raised in France, only coming to America the first time in 1955, and even 45 years later her thick French accent was pronounced.

I came to be incarcerated during the Covid lockdowns. My (adopted) city, Chicago, was in the thick of things during this time. I got a little carried away and continued my 'looting'. That brings me to now. Sitting in segregation (well, standing actually, as I stand to write on the empty Top Bunk in my cell due to no desk for me to use) writing my first Blog entry.

Fellow underdogs, we have come to a point in this journey of life where sharing our stories of perseverance has power. It's our duty to...