Magazines Wrapped Around My Chest

Author: Mikemike

I came to prison at 17. I’m 50 now. I’ve survived 32 years in general population and have seen the worst humanity can offer, lived in a war, on the battlefield doing what had to be done to survive life with monsters but have kept my humanity, my civility and my morals despite it all.

Mentally I had to convince myself that there was an end in sight, that I would make it home to my family no matter what. Physically? I fought nonstop to keep my possessions and against oppression. There were times I wore boots to the shower so I had traction for when I was in a vulnerable position, naked and alone. I’ve had to sleep with a knife in my hand at my side in case they came in while I was sleeping. I have to use the bathroom with a weapon in my hand because I witnessed an associate get murdered while sitting on the toilet. I’ve had to sleep with magazines wrapped around my chest to keep from getting stabbed in my sleep.

I wasn’t really close to him, but he was an older guy like me who’d done a lot of time, and the older we get the more vulnerable we get in here. I had to use my illegal cell phone to call administration to tell them that he was dying and then it took them 41 minutes to get to the door. He died three minutes before they entered. After seeing that happen, I knew there was nowhere you’re safe, that if I was to die, it would be alone with no help, no officers, no medical, no nothing. I still can’t use the bathroom without a weapon in my hand to this day.

That phone was crucial. That was the first time I did it, but after that a few more times, and I saved a few people. There were times that the lieutenants and the CERT team knew that it was me calling because I was the one constantly trying to help other inmates, keep pressure on them, trying to keep them from bleeding out, help carry them out the front door to the medical cart. I’m a lifer so they don’t like to give us education. They’ll put short timers ahead of us on the list for education. I guess they feel that a person who is eligible for parole within the next three or four years is more important than a person with a life sentence that there’s no guarantee is getting out. They don’t try to rehabilitate you. I honestly believe they don’t ever intend on letting me out so there’s no reason for me to have an education other than what they need me for — sweeping and mopping floors or pushing food trays. It seems easier to control a dumb person and keep them in check.

My family couldn’t afford regular calls or didn’t have the correct phone system required for calls or approval for calls so the phone was really the only way I’ve been able to maintain any type of relationship. You gotta remember when I came in there was no Internet or cell phones and getting to watch a TV was rare so I’ve been cut off from society and what’s going on for 30+ years. If it wasn’t for a phone I would be totally lost as to what’s going on in the world, the changes, the movements, the technology. I couldn’t even fathom now what it would be like to not have a phone and have access to information or help or communications or knowledge that it provides, which these people do not want us to have or allow us to have. The dumber you are the easier you are to control. I can’t express how much I’ve learned through having a phone.

Now I’m taking online college courses. I’ve taken small business management courses, personal finance, personal development. I’ve learned so much, just things I never even knew were taught in school. I’m learning every day about other cultures, other ways of living. I’ve basically learned life, everything a person is supposed to know after the age of 17 — how to cook basic spaghetti sauce, how to do basic maintenance on your car, radio electronics, growing vegetables and flowers, basic math. Before the phones I read nonstop — history, philosophy, religion. I’m a jack of all trades. I can cut hair, sew, tattoo, fix almost any appliance, sewing machine mechanics, how to sew on a sewing line in a factory job they have in here.

For the first few years, I told myself I was never going home and this is all I had, even though I still had hope in my heart of going home. I was prey to every predator that walked the compound. I was tried constantly, my stuff stolen. I had to prove myself over and over again. I was locked behind doors for months at a time with no communication and strict isolation for fighting and that does something to your head, especially when you’re so young. I’ve cried night after night praying to God this was only a dream. Praying to God to take me, for one of the people to kill me because my religious beliefs say it’s a sin to kill yourself so I was hoping somebody else would do it for me.

It wasn’t easy. I mean I was fresh out of high school, never in the streets, not a gangbanger, not a criminal so I didn’t even have an understanding of how other criminals thought. I didn’t grow up in the streets. I was raised by a good mother and a father who was a Chicago police officer. My oldest sister became a homicide detective in the city of Chicago. Her husband was an officer, my brother-in-law was a fireman. I was raised in a good home and then I was thrown behind the wire to survive. I was a kid in a grown man’s world where everyone was out to take anything you possessed that they wanted. I fought everyday, almost had to. But I was smart, I learned fast and I had a family waiting for me so I knew I had to survive and keep going. I watched everything and everyone. Found, for lack of a better word, role models to imitate — people that had survived and still had a character I approved of — and I studied how they lived and moved and did the same.

People that had respect for themselves and how they lived and had respect for other people and allowed them to just live. That were honest to a degree, that didn’t just give up and act like an animal to survive. Tough guys who had a conscience and good morals. People that protected the weaker ones and not for money or favors, just because they felt it was wrong to take from others or hurt others to seem tough.

It’s instinct to help the older, the weaker, but there are times when I can’t help, won’t be allowed to help. But I do it because I know one day I’ll be too weak to defend myself and I hope that someone will help me. And I constantly think about dying in here alone with no one by my side and no one to help me and that’s a terrifying thought and I can’t see someone experiencing that and not help. It’s what I would want. And what kind of person can watch another suffer and not stop that suffering if they’re able? Only the monsters in my nightmares are capable of that.

The fear gets stronger but you learn to live with it the older you get. And the older you get the more life you understand so you know it’s inevitable. You don’t want it to happen but it will. I pray for a quick end if my prayers for freedom aren’t answered before.

My parents are dead now. Though they were by my side the whole time doing everything they could to help me and make this easier on me. My older brother and one of my older sisters have died too but until their deaths we had a good relationship, constant communication where we were able to. I guess they survived because we worked hard to keep connected. And because they were good people, loving people and as I said I wasn’t a bad kid from the streets, our family was close, and I did everything I could to keep in contact and be a person that they would want to talk to, a good person. I still tried to make them proud of me even from in here.

I wasn’t able to go to the funerals. But thanks to these cellphones I was able to talk to my mother in hospice before she died. That was a blessing. And talk to other family members after and console them a little and share memories and pictures thanks to a cellphone.

I have three living sisters and one brother and countless nieces and nephews who are waiting for me, preparing for the day I’m free. They’re still supporting me and my parole, writing letters and everything. I plan to parole out to my sister’s and her husband’s home in Florida, both of whom are retired Chicago homicide detectives who now live in Florida.

I worry about not embarrassing myself or them by some of the prison mentality shit. But to walk into her home, well that’s really unimaginable to me sort of. I’m looking forward to peace, to getting to know my family again and kind of showing them that all their efforts weren’t wasted. I fear kind of how people will see me and react to me if they know I’ve been in prison so long. I don’t want to stand out and draw attention. And I worry about parole and them sending me back to prison to die for something unreasonable or unjustified. And I’m scared that if I do make someone mad for something, whatever the reason, that they won’t pick up a phone and call on me and have me put back in prison out of spite.

I’ve handled all the prison habits I can see, it’s the ones I don’t see I worry about, the ones that others see that I don’t. But I hope I don’t ever find myself clutching a knife while on the toilet. It’s the unseen habits I might have that I’m sure everyone coming home has that slightly concern me.

Physical contact and friendly people that aren’t just being friendly to trick you or beat you out of something. Genuinely nice people. I’ve learned predators. I know one almost instantly. And out there I can walk away from any situation and choose who I want to surround myself with.

I want to just live as peaceful as possible. I’d like to help others as I’m able, maybe share my story in hopes of helping others not make the choices I did. I want to swim. Open a small tattoo business and see the stars at night. Among other things but I want to live life for what it’s worth and be happy and help others to be happy.