Writing My Wrongs

by Shaka Senghor

  This turned out to be important work, because Carson City had a reputation as one of the most racist facilities in the state. The tension was thick enough to slice with a prison shank. The officers bullied the younger inmates by calling them names like “young dumb punks” and “ghetto thugs,” and setting them up on bogus misconducts that caused them to lose their privileges. The younger inmates were clueless about how to deal with the situation, but BX and I showed them how to use the grievance system to address whatever issues they had. This made the younger brothers gravitate to us, and we would train with them—physically and mentally—every day. We felt it was our responsibility to do for them what had been done for us when we first entered the system as teenagers.

  Later that year, we organized a Kwanzaa program, and after a successful turnout, we were invited by the special activities director (who oversaw the recreation department) to organize events for Black History Month. We convened a small group of brothers and organized weekly events to honor our people’s history. We also created a males’ rites of passage program, which taught the younger brothers to read, do research, and respond to life from a position of personal responsibility, reciprocity, and respect.

  To help implement the program, I reached out to Yusef, Baruti’s son, who by then had been home for a few years. He was the first guy I knew who, after getting released from prison, actually followed through on his promise to become an asset to our community. Yusef was excited to hear from me, and he said he and a brother named Kwasi would support us and come speak at our opening event.

  When the day finally came to launch the program, I was filled with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see Yusef, as it had been nearly ten years since we’d been at the same prison. When I told my comrade Larry X that Yusef was coming up, he got just as excited as I was. We had all grown up in prison together, sharing books and ideas, and now we would have a chance to reunite.

  But when I reached the building where our program was to be held, I was met with disappointment. The activities director informed me that Yusef had been denied a clearance to return to the prison because he had spent time at Carson City while he was incarcerated. I was pissed because I knew how much the younger brothers needed to hear his story—to see that it was possible to get out and do something positive with your life.

  The activities director told me that even though Yusef couldn’t make it, two other members of Helping Our Prisoners Elevate (HOPE) had been approved for our program. HOPE was a small organization, but I admired and respected the hell out of them. They would send free books to men and women in prison, and they also organized family visits to prisons across the state and published a newsletter to keep us updated on what was happening in the community. We didn’t have many organizations that looked out for our interests like this, so I was grateful for the work that HOPE did and was eager to volunteer for them as soon as I got out.

  That day, I knew that Kwasi would be one of the two HOPE members visiting us, but when the special activities director returned a few minutes later, I learned that Kwasi had brought with him a beautiful sister named Ebony. Although she and I had exchanged correspondence related to HOPE before, I had never seen her in person. She had beautiful almond-shaped eyes, bright and radiant skin, and long locks that flowed down her back. She was dressed casually, but her model-like looks couldn’t be denied, and she gave off a positive aura that made me smile inside.

  I welcomed Kwasi and Ebony into the room, where about twenty-five brothers had gathered. The presentations focused on what we would need to do to become difference makers in our communities once we were released. A Q&A session concluded the program, and it was during this session that I developed an intense attraction to Ebony.

  She was passionate about her views on Black men and their role in the community. “Our community needs you brothers to return as strong men, teachers, leaders, and mentors for the children who are growing up looking up to you,” she said to the crowd of young men. “So, while you are here, do everything you can to change your life.”

  She articulated her views with a fiery intensity. Her energy made me think of Assata Shakur, who to me epitomized the strength and resilience of Black women. Over the years, I had suppressed my desire to be in the presence of a beautiful woman; I didn’t want to be let down by the cold reality of my isolated existence. But those desires returned with a vengeance that day as I listened to Ebony.

  I fought the urge to stare at her and drink in all of her beauty. No matter how beautiful Ebony was, I knew I had to tuck away my thoughts for my own sanity and the sake of the program.

  —

  A FEW DAYS later, I was moved over to a Level Two unit, also known as medium custody. Level Two was a lot different from Level Four. The units were left open most of the day, and we had keys to our cells. This arrangement allowed us to come and go as we pleased, with the exception of when we were called back to the unit for count. Life in Level Two made me feel like I was actually getting close to freedom, but I also felt nervous. The new wing of the prison was full of newer inmates who were fresh off the street and hadn’t yet learned how to jail, and officers who thought nothing of sabotaging our freedom. I had grown mentally since my short stint at Muskegon, but I was apprehensive about whether those changes would stick.

  Two weeks after being moved to Level Two, I was transferred to Riverside Correctional Facility, the first prison I had been sent to, back in 1991. Things had changed since I was last there. At the beginning of my incarceration, Riverside had been considered one of the more open and relaxed prisons, but now it was very restricted and run-down.

  Coming back made me realize just how much of the prison way of doing things I needed to purge from my system. I had to keep learning how to navigate around potential conflicts, and I cut back on the hustling I had always done to survive. And if I was really going to focus on getting out of prison, I couldn’t care about what was going on out on the yard. I understood where the brothers were coming from when they got into beefs with each other, or fought with the guards, but I could no longer let those frustrations get under my skin.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t long before I settled into the same routine I had followed at previous joints—reading, exercising, and writing down thoughts and story ideas whenever I got the chance. I joined the brothers for Kwanzaa, and I also became a member of the National Lifers Association. Even though I wasn’t serving a life sentence, I wanted to use my organizing skills to assist the brothers who were.

  I had also gotten classified to take a business computer technology class. That was a no-brainer for me—I knew I needed to learn all that I could about computers in order to pursue my dreams when I came home. I found the class fascinating. Outside of taking data business processing when I was at MR, I hadn’t been exposed to new technology. This is one of the costs of being locked up—inmates are basically left behind by the world.

  In the evenings, I would work out with the brothers. One day while working out, I met a guy named Anthony Moorer who knew a lot about urban literature and had started a publishing company on the outside. Anthony gave me a lot of pointers. He told me that if I saved up enough money, I could hire an editor and a graphic designer to publish the books I had written. He and I would walk to chow every day, talking about the future and how we would work together in the publishing business when we were released. Those conversations kept me inspired and motivated.

  I had been at Riverside for a month when my father brought my younger sisters, Nakia and Shamica, to see me. It was the first time I had seen the two of them in years. It was amazing sitting across from my sisters, who had been little girls when I was arrested but were now young women. We sat in the visiting room laughing and joking and talking about the future. It was 2006, and I was down to two years before my earliest release date. I could sense that my father was getting excited. We had been through so much together, and it seemed like the worst was behind us.

  Having my family visit really meant a lot to me.
Their presence gave me hope and increased my desire to get out and live my life in a way that honored their sacrifices over the years. My father had stood firmly by my side, and I was looking forward to showing him that his efforts hadn’t been in vain. The countdown to my homecoming was under way, and it couldn’t come soon enough.

  —

  LATER THAT WEEK, I was sitting on my bunk when the unit officer came with the mail. A letter had arrived from Ebony. I had received HOPE-related correspondence from her before, so I didn’t get excited when I saw her name on the envelope. I tossed it on the desk to read later, after my unit returned from chow.

  At lunch, Anthony and I talked about the latest trends in the publishing industry and how important it was for us to start our own companies. We broke from chow, and when I got back to the unit, I went to my cell and sat down to read Ebony’s letter.

  But when I started reading, a smile creased my face. Ebony wasn’t writing to discuss official HOPE business. Instead, she had sent me a personal note:

  March 20, 2006

  Brother Shaka,

  I pray this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I have been meaning to write you for some time, but I am so forgetful (despite my youth!). I received a letter the other day from Brother Tone that made me go ahead and write. In his letter, he spoke about the need for conscious female correspondence, and asked me to forward his info to some of the sisters I work with. (I work at an African-centered school.) After reading his letter, I thought about you, probably because I met you both at the same time, and wondered if you felt the same. I assume you have sisters who you correspond with, but may also want to kick it with a sister of like mind.

  Yusef gave me your address. I hope that’s okay. I’ve actually never written anyone about anything other than HOPE business. While I have received countless letters, most of which I didn’t have time to reply to, I am committed to corresponding with you, even if I don’t reply right away. I’ve gotten so used to the fast-paced world of technology that I usually communicate via e-mail or text messaging…so I will have to slow down a bit so that I can compose a letter.

  I realize how important correspondence with family, friends, and supporters are to our brothers’ development; this may ultimately make the difference in the choices they make once they return home. Even still, I’ve been neglectful in writing. Perhaps because I shoulder much weight as an active member, and now secretary, of HOPE. But I must admit that it helps knowing you are one of Yusef’s comrades. That personal connection, although not necessary, makes writing consistently that much easier for someone like me who’s very busy and forgetful to boot. I also plan to write Yusef’s baba as well.

  Anyway, I am writing you at work, so I must close this letter. I look forward to building with you.

  In struggle,

  Ebony

  The letter was short and noncommittal, but it brought back the intense desire I had felt when I first met Ebony. I knew I had to seize the moment and let her know exactly where I stood. I was at a point in my life where I knew it was going to take a special woman to help me break through the rest of the walls that prison had constructed around my heart. I had seen enough of Ebony to know that she possessed the qualities and the spirit of determination that I was looking for.

  Sitting at my typewriter that evening, I wrote as though Ebony were in my presence and we were having a conversation. I told her that I wanted to get to know her—all of her. I didn’t want to mislead her into thinking I just wanted a pen pal, so I wrote that I was interested in building a friendship with the hopes of us one day becoming more than friends. It was a bold approach, but she was worth the risk.

  When I received a response from Ebony a few days later, I was as excited as a puppy. Her letter was full of thought-provoking inquiries and candid responses to my thoughts and questions, and it made me feel special. I felt like we were sharing more than our thoughts and philosophies on life; it felt like we were opening our souls to each other. I was moved less by the topics than I was by the depth and ease with which our conversation flowed. We discussed food security, revolutionary theory, and community activism. We talked about our dreams, visions, fears, setbacks, insecurities, and hopes for the future.

  In the years since, Ebony has teased me for putting some serious mack on her in those first letters we exchanged. But I knew the feeling was mutual. She had a way with words that touched places inside of me that no one had before. She caressed my broken spaces with tender poetry, helped me heal by asking questions that no one had asked me before, and shared her personal frailties and triumphs. Her thoughtfulness was second to none, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to share my life with her.

  After a few letters, I let Ebony know in no uncertain terms that I wanted to see her—this time, for a personal visit. She agreed to drive up for a visit, so I went to the counselor to have her added to my visiting list. Soon after, I was transferred to another joint, but two weeks after I arrived at Lakeland Correctional Facility, Ebony came to visit me. It would be my first time seeing her face-to-face since we’d started corresponding.

  When the officers called me for the visit, I had butterflies in my stomach, but they settled down as soon as Ebony entered the visiting room. I took her hand in mine. In the cold, cruel world of prison, I hoped I had finally found someone who could love all of me.

  21

  LAKELAND CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

  Coldwater, Michigan

  May 20, 2006

  When Ebony and I reached our seats in the visiting room, I noticed that something was different about the woman I had met at Carson City. A tightly wrapped scarf had replaced the long, flowing locks that at one time adorned her head, and her glowing skin was healing from a severe bout of acne. It was a dramatic change in Ebony’s appearance. During the time we corresponded, I had formed an image of her in my head, looking forward to seeing her beautiful tresses and radiant smile. But she had cut off her locks, and she wore an uneasy expression on her face as we sat together in the visiting room.

  For a brief second, I recalled conversations I had had with other inmates about women who dated prisoners. It’s not uncommon for women who are going through physical challenges or who have self-esteem issues to seek out companionship from men behind bars. In many cases, incarcerated men and women are emotionally vulnerable enough that they’ll accept companionship from anyone who reaches out, and it’s a widely held notion that some people invest their time in inmates because they are a captive audience—both in the emotional and the literal sense.

  But if I had any doubts about Ebony, those doubts were quieted once we started talking. Within moments, I could see that her warm spirit and deep, soulful eyes had remained unchanged. She had an ease about her that allowed us to flow in and out of conversation with the fluidity of a gentle stream. Everything about her spoke to her genuine interest. She asked deep, probing questions and answered my questions with sincerity. Sweetness dripped from every word she spoke.

  On that visit, we discussed a wide range of subjects concerning life, love, and relationships. She shared with me her passion for urban gardening and how she believed it was necessary for Black people to have control over their own food supply, and I told her about my love of writing and my goals for life after prison. By the time our visit ended, we had discussed everything from privately owned prisons to the reasons behind the abundance of liquor stores, fast-food restaurants, and inferior grocery stores in predominately Black neighborhoods.

  When I had begun my transformation, back in the hole, I thought often about the kind of woman I desired to have in my life. I was changing as a man, and I had different needs than I had when I was a teenager slinging dope in Brightmoor. Now I wanted a woman who would challenge me to be the best I could possibly be. I wanted a woman who would love and nurture me; who had a determined spirit and would stand beside me as I fought the system for my release. I needed a woman who had a profound understanding of what it would take for me to transition back to
the community and would be there to support and encourage me. My mind craved the nourishment that Ebony provided, and I could sense the feeling was mutual.

  But I also knew the Department of Corrections would test our relationship in ways that would make us think we were crazy for daring to love. The system isn’t designed for inmates to cultivate healthy relationships with people on the outside. Families of loved ones are discouraged from visiting by the invasive pat searches and the disrespectful officers who talk to them like they are children. Then there was the reality that while the majority of prisoners come from Detroit and other parts of southern Michigan, the majority of them are sent up north to prisons in rural areas. This makes it close to impossible for loved ones to visit often enough to cultivate a real relationship.

  —

  A FEW WEEKS after our first visit, I was transferred from Coldwater to a minimum-security prison in Jackson, less than a hundred miles west of Detroit. Ebony and I were excited when we got the news. It was the first time in my incarceration that I had been at a prison close to home, and the first time I had been to a Level One prison. I felt it was a good sign—one that said I was finally on my way home.

  When I arrived at Cooper Street Correctional Facility in Jackson, I sought out a few brothers I knew to get a rundown of the prison. They told me that Cooper Street was designed to transition inmates into the camp system, which is the lowest level of security and allows men to work in the surrounding community. Though it meant I was getting closer to going home, it also meant I could be sent north to a camp in the Upper Peninsula, as many as twelve hours from Detroit. When I broke this news to Ebony, she told me to think positively and focus on staying where I was. There were guys who had found ways to stay at Cooper Street until they saw the parole board, and that gave me a glimmer of hope.