by Amy Stephens
Sadly, I learned that my family had been forced to move into an even smaller apartment, and I blamed myself for it. Everything was all my fucking fault. It pained me so much to hear Momma talk. Everything was so depressing, and sometimes I wished she’d just stop coming to see me at all. That really wasn’t how I truly felt, but how much more could I take?
The only good news she could tell me on her last visit was that Javier had finally been arrested. I wondered how someone could dodge the authorities for so long. I hoped justice was dearly served to his sorry ass. He’d ruined me and my future, and I only wished the same for him.
To my surprise, on Monday morning I received notice to pack my few belongings into a bag that’d been provided to me. According to the officer on duty, I was being transferred to a new facility, somewhere in another state, several hours away from there. There’d been no opportunity to tell Momma goodbye, and that was really painful. I’d immediately felt bad for wishing that she’d stop coming because now I didn’t know when or if I’d be able to see her again. My release was still years away, and I hadn’t even reached the halfway point of my sentence.
Since I’d not had any counseling in quite some time, I hoped the news of my transfer wouldn’t set me back. Not to mention, it meant no more visitations from Momma since my new facility was in a neighboring state and it’d not be feasible for her to visit. I’d be on my own from there on out. Once again, I tried to find something positive to focus on just as Summer had suggested in our sessions, something good about getting out of there, but I couldn’t find anything at all at the moment.
Early on, Momma and I had agreed that none of the kids would find out about me being in jail. For all they knew, I was off doing a special kind of work, and I was unable to come home. I’m sure it confused them since it’d been several years now, and I just hoped they wouldn’t forget me.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and before long I’d probably slipped from their minds. What I wouldn’t give to sit outside on the porch again and watch little Diego playing with his cars and trucks. He wasn’t the little boy I still pictured in my memories, though. He was finishing with the second grade in school and on his way to becoming a young man in the third. I’d desperately wanted to be there, to guide him in the right direction, to help him make the right choices. Sadly, I’d failed even him, right along with the rest of the family. I was the last person they needed to pattern their life after. I wouldn’t be there for Diego or any of my brothers and sisters. Not for a very long time.
I hoped and prayed they behaved and not caused Momma any more grief than what I’d already put her through.
That night, one of the guards escorted me to a holding room. It was time. According to a judge who’d been closely monitoring my behavior through the prison authorities, I’d followed every rule and been on my best behavior for the last couple months. And for that I was being “rewarded.” I was being transferred to a lower-risk facility that was on a military base. I should’ve been excited that my good behavior hadn’t gone unnoticed, but I wasn’t.
For the first time in my life, I boarded a plane, along with a few other inmates who’d also been recommended for a transfer, and we were flown to a military installation somewhere in North Georgia. Speaking of firsts, it’d been my first time to leave the state of Florida, and I hated the reason for it. The prison camp, as it was referred to, had benefits for my inmate classification that included the possibility of getting some college credits. I was pretty sure there was some catch to it since I was under the government’s control. Anything that sounded that good probably wasn’t true. They weren’t going to just give me anything.
After the plane had landed early the following morning, I was amazed at the sights around me. It was my first time visiting a military base, for one thing, and I hadn’t known what to expect. It was a beautiful, cloudless morning, and I sincerely hoped this “change” for me would help bring me out of the depression I was slowly slipping back into. I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull through another round of sleepless nights and internal battles with myself. Not again, and certainly not alone.
The handcuffs were removed once we’d boarded the plane and, surprisingly, had not been placed back on me again when I’d been escorted off. As I walked across the parking lot to take my seat on the motorized golf-cart that’d been waiting for us, I looked up at the glorious sky and asked God to take care of me these next several years. I also asked him to look after my family for a little bit longer.
I was given the weekend to settle into my new environment, and I’d admit, what I’d seen so far, wasn’t half bad. I still had a room I was confined to, but I only had one other person to share it with instead of three others like I’d had at the other place. There were community showers, but each of them had their own shower curtain so there was a little bit more privacy. This place did have a better “feel” to it, so just maybe my luck had changed.
There was certainly more of a sense of freedom there.
Yes, it was still prison on a military base, but the guards didn’t talk down to me as if I was the scum of the earth as they’d done at my former one. I was issued two shirts that displayed the “Falcon Club” name in the upper right-hand corner, and I wondered what it stood for. Everything was a drab gray color, from the jumpsuits to the t-shirts and uniform-like pants we were required to wear. We also wore black combat boots I’d learned once belonged to the soldiers. It wasn’t an attractive outfit, to say the least, but it was an improvement from what I’d been wearing.
I met different guys from all over the place instead of the usual Hispanics and Latinos I’d been forced to share accommodations with in Miami. I soon learned that many were there for drug trafficking too, while others were there for crimes that seemed petty in nature to me. My cellmate had been there for three years because of tax fraud he’d committed at his car dealership. I soon felt there was a brotherhood amongst all the guys instead of being looked down on as if I were a worthless piece of trash. There were a couple of them I was a little doubtful of but, for the most part, no one caused any trouble. We were all members of the Falcon Club and had each other’s backs.
I was offered a small job opportunity to earn some money that would go into an account of my own. From there, I could buy things from the military commissary, and I’d admit it was rewarding saving up to make those small, special purchases. The pay wasn’t a lot, but it wasn’t as if I really needed much to live on, either. Many of the inmates bought cigarettes and stationary items so they’d be able to write home, things that weren’t provided to us. I’m proud to say my first purchase ended up being a nice haircut.
I’d been letting my hair grow out ever since I’d gotten arrested, and by then it was halfway down my back. It was dark brown, almost black in color, and still had a nice shine to it. I felt the look was fitting with my “I don’t care” attitude that’d I’d sort of developed back when everything’d happened. Having long hair was actually pretty common among the other inmates, but there were a few who kept theirs cut short. Most of the time I kept it pulled back in a ponytail, but I figured it was time to trim it up some. Being in a new place and environment, I was ready for a change. Maybe nothing too drastic, but yes, a change.
In the end, I wasn’t able to have more than just a couple inches cut off on the day I’d had it done. I had this weird kind of feeling take over me when I walked into the room and saw the stylist who’d be cutting it was a young, rather attractive woman. She was just the second female, the first being my counselor, I’d been around since I’d been locked up, and it was a little more than I could handle at the time.
She was dressed as I imagined a normal stylist would but, God, she was pretty. She had kind eyes with long, natural-looking lashes, and just having her run her fingers through my hair caused all kinds of sensations to happen down there. I couldn’t help it. She drove me crazy. It was a good thing I’d had the cloth draped over me while she cut or else I’d have been really embarr
assed. She kept complimenting how healthy my hair was, and I admit, I enjoyed her attention. Things happened below that hadn’t worked in a really long time. In fact, the last time I’d had any “physical contact” with a female had been the night Lucy and Brittany had put the moves on me. Even back then my “man parts” had been sort of rusty and out of sync. I’d often put my family before any kind of relationships, and my lack of interaction with women was apparent now, hence my hard-on.
It’d been way too long for me, if you catch my drift.
As soon as I’d been able to leave the hair salon, I’d made a mad dash for the camp. I’d taken care of “my business” while in the bathroom, and upon coming back out, the guys had taken notice that I looked relieved, more calm, and that my cheeks were glowing. At first, I’d been so embarrassed by their teasing and mild bantering. Then I realized they, too, had probably experienced similar situations, so I laughed it off.
Some of them had been there a lot longer than me, so I could only imagine the torture they dealt with. Still, it felt good to joke with them about it. They had my back, and I had theirs. I learned the Falcon Club wasn’t half bad.
With a fresh haircut and better attitude, I was ready for my new job. Ten of us had been chosen, and every morning we were bused down the road a couple miles to a facility that housed hundreds of military vehicles. It was our responsibility to wash and clean them, both inside and outside, as each one was brought in. Was it challenging? No, but I still felt I’d earned a bit of self-worth by having that little bit of responsibility. Yes, it got old after a while, and it was rough once the weather turned cold, but I didn’t complain.
After six months of doing that for five days a week, I got another job offer. I’d had a little bit of experience with landscaping when I’d worked at the hotel a few years ago, so to say I was honored when they put me in charge of five other inmates at the local golf course was an understatement. It meant more to me than they’d ever know. We rode around the golf course on a cart, hauling lawnmowers, weed eaters, and edging equipment.
I wrote home more often, and my mom apparently sensed my need to stay in touch. She, in turn, sent more letters to me, too. I’m sure this was also her way of making up for the visits she was no longer able to make. I’d finally reached the halfway mark of my sentence, and while still having another five years to go seemed a long way off, it’d been the most hopeful thing I’d had going for me at the time.
In the cafeteria one morning I overheard a conversation at the table behind me. Since it wasn’t the first time I’d heard talk about this, I decided to check further into it. I learned the federal government was offering a program for inmates to take college classes at Bishop University again.
Bishop had a small campus on base that the military officers used to further their education, but the main campus was just off base in the downtown area and was where the majority of the students attended. Depending on the classes being offered during certain semesters, civilians were granted the right to come on base and use the military location too. While we wouldn’t be able to attend the downtown location for our classes, there’d still be a substantial amount of classes for us to choose from.
Apparently, the government had tried this program before, and it’d been deemed successful. The most unbelievable part had been that they would take care of all the expenses for the inmates who’d signed up. Of course, it’d been expected for us to maintain certain grades or we’d be removed from the program, but this almost sounded too good to be true. I’d always wanted to attend college, but it was beyond anything my family could afford. With the prospect right there, I’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.
I rushed over to talk with someone in one of the prison offices about the opportunity, and they put me in touch with an academic advisor at Bishop. The advisor set up an appointment time with me, as well as with several others back at the camp, and within a week’s time, we were all signed up. And the best part of all, classes for the fall semester began in two weeks.
That night I’d written Momma another letter, telling her God was looking out for me, after all. I truly believed in miracles. Had I still been in Miami, the chances of me attending college would’ve never happened. The following day, I mailed out yet another letter to her. I’d been giddy, like a kid with a new toy, except I’d actually been a young man with a new notebook that I was anxious to put to use. There was nothing new to tell her, but I’d just been joyful. It’d been so long since I’d felt that way about anything.
Chapter Eight
FORTY INMATES STOOD in line at the end of the sidewalk, waiting to catch the bus. It felt like being back in high school again when all the kids in the neighborhood had gathered around. The bus showed up, and we all got on, taking the first seats that were available. Our books for the classes we’d selected were being held in the classrooms for us to pick up once we’d arrived. I’d made a special trip down to the commissary to buy some pencils, pens, and a couple packs of notebook paper. We’d even been given a binder from the university to use.
To say I’d been a little bit nervous was an understatement. I’d have plenty of time to study and do my class assignments, but I was worried I wouldn’t be smart enough to pass my classes. Back in high school I’d not really applied myself and had passed with a “B” average. I knew my education wasn’t going any further than my high school diploma, so I hadn’t really put forth the effort I should have. Man, I wished now that I’d studied just a little harder, that I’d taken it just a little more serious. Working had been the only important factor back then, and the sooner I’d graduated from high school, the more hours I’d been able to devote to work.
The bus pulled up in front of the Bishop building, and I listened to the sound of the air breaks as they were applied. The guard who’d made the ride with us stood from his seat in the front row. We all quieted down and listened to what he had to say.
“Gentlemen.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Please remember this is a privilege you all have earned. If, at any time, you disobey any of the rules, you’ll be removed from the program, and you’ll not be allowed to re-enroll. The bus will arrive five minutes before the end of each class, so if you have only one class tonight, you’re expected to return to camp promptly. If you have two classes, then you may remain for the second part of the evening. Please be standing at the bus stop so there will be no delays. There’s to be no interaction with any of the other classmates unless you’re placed in group assignments by the instructors. You’ll not speak with them or communicate in any way before, during, or after class. You may not borrow or take anything from them. If you need classroom supplies, it’s your responsibility to provide the necessary items for yourself.” He paused. “Are there any questions?”
When no one spoke, the guard stepped aside, and we exited the bus. I pulled out my schedule from my binder and searched for my first class. I’d started out with the basics, and tonight I had English 101 followed by a history class.
Upon entering the classroom with several other Falcon Club guys, we filled up the last few rows of desks. The instructor kept the first night simple, and I was glad he hadn’t loaded us down with assignments. By the time my history class was over, I was ready for a break. My brain was tired from taking in so much all at once, but I felt proud.
The next night I listened to the guard’s long-winded speech all over again before heading to my biology class. I wasn’t a hundred percent certain, but I pretty much decided I wanted to pursue a degree in business. Later on, once I was released, my chances of getting a real job would be pretty slim having a criminal record, so the next best option would be to go into business for myself. And what better way than to learn everything I possibly could about doing just that. For whatever reason, there was a chance I might not even finish the program there, but anything I could learn and take with me would be valuable. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to take any business classes until hopefully next semester, but it sure gave me somethin
g to look forward to.
One thing I found interesting was my classes seemed to have an equal mix of military and civilian students. It was easy to tell them apart since the military students wore their dress uniforms and the others were in normal clothes. From what I could tell so far, the civilians didn’t have any idea what the Falcon Club was, which I guess was a good thing. There was no sense in pointing out where we’d gone wrong in life if it wasn’t necessary. Of course, the military students knew, because we were there on base with them. Not only did they see us working at different jobs there, but a couple of them worked security at the prison camp. Some of them were nice to us while others were not, but it was okay. This had been such an improvement from the Miami prison, which was depressing and demeaning.
All of my life I’d had to deal with people treating me differently because I was either Hispanic or I was poor or both. I soon learned that was just life, and I was glad my momma had taught me to treat everyone the same, regardless of where they were from or what they did or didn’t have.
At first, I had a hard time knowing I couldn’t interact with the other students. For crying out loud, they shared a classroom with us so how could I not talk to them? I was fairly certain those who didn’t know we were inmates probably got the impression we were just stuck up. At least that’s what I would have thought.