Issue 3, September 2007

I once thought the worst names to be called in prison were rapist, snitch, homo and child molester. But I've discovered another: Burden.

It lacks the degree of negative connotations associated with the others, but its the only one I've ever had to contend with, and therefore the worst.

I may not live in fear of the ranks of self-appointed enforcers of the prison's social pecking order, but my fear is no less tangible: The fear of being ambushed by the sound of my mother lamenting. The fear of her having to choose between accepting a phone call she can't afford, or affording me the opportunity to beg for more money.

Sometimes I hate me for having a mother who loves me. A mother worried more about my safety than her own. A mother willing to travel a days distance for a 1 hour visit. A mother willing to endure searches; randomly stripped of her dignity ust to see me. A mother who reaches back for me, willing to wade through a sea of my enemies just to find me and arm me. My one woman army.

I may never be in danger of being called someone's "piece" because I was too weak to fight back. But I'm robbed of my peace, knowing I should be home to help her fight back. To defend her against the onslaught of insults brought on by her inability to reconcile her son's imprisonment.

My wounds, though internal, bleed the same blood as a throat cut in retaliation for tellin'. But my story is told by men who don't know it. So, it won't get told unless I tell it. And I tell it through puncture wounds inflicted by double-edged epiphanies instead of ice picks. So what I'm not a snitch. So what I never suffered the experience of being ostracized by my peers because of the nature of my crime. I've done time. The worst kind: as a burden.