Memoir: Final Draft
“6-4-7-8-5, Byrne! 6-4-7-8-5, Byrne to that sallyport, now!” A deep voice from a man, probably younger than myself, but adding base to his voice as to come across is some authoritative measure crackled through the old intercom in a staticky, barely audible way. I lifted my head off the state issued plastic pillow and placed my feet on the cold grey cement floor, another day set before me in this miserable dreary hell hole that I called my life. “What the hell do they want now,’ was all I could think as I tried to sneak a peek at the officer’s desk on the tier below. Through the 2-inch-wide glass, I cannot see anything out of my peripherals. I fumble around in my footlocker looking for a clean pair of state grey’s, the standard issued uniform to all inmates, and I pull the top over my head. The tough starched fabric grates across my skin like a brillo pad. There is nothing in my life that is comfortable. Every single aspect has been set up strategically by corrections officials to ensure misery. It has been this way now for almost 7 years. Really, it barely phases me anymore. The reality is this is my life, and there is nothing I can do to change my circumstances. It is all up to me to retain my mental health and my joy. If the state had the chance, they would have taken that as well. Normally, I would sleep until Lunch is brought to my unit around 11:30. My routine is what helps me get through the days, and without it, time would be like an hourglass with a never-ending sand drip. But today? Today is different. I just have no idea how big the snowball can and will become once it started to roll.
The heavy metal doors squealed shut across the cement floors, echoing down the halls as the latches interlock to a loud crack. I walk down the 200-yard corridor: freshly polished and waxed by the inmate workers, with lemons and ammonia lingering in the air from the state inspection just passed. As I turned the corner towards the attorney privilege office, I could see the silhouette of a man I had never met. So tall, over 6 ft and rather lanky, an African American man surprised me. Frankly, living under conditions racked by racial tensions my suspicions were heightened probably to an unnecessary extent. As we had our introductions, I could sense a presence of peace within him that alerted me there was no way this guy was from the prison. But who was he? Reaching out to pound fists and with almost a street like swagger I questioned, who was this guy? What did he want with me?
“Yo, what’s good Freddie, my names Steve Wilkes, I work for Gandara. We’re an offender re-entry program, and noticed you were due to wrap soon.” Skeptically, I listened to what he had to say, and what offers he was trying to put on the table to try and help me. Honestly, I just could not wrap my mind around why he would want to help me. I was incapable of trust at that point in my life, but it was more of a survival skill than anything.
Seven years of incarceration can take a toll on a man. Eventually, out of basic survival instincts you can very easily forget the rules and laws of society and begin to adapt and adhere to prison politics. My earlier years than that… they were not any more stable. Growing up, DCF took custody of me. I spent most of my teenage years bouncing between group homes and whoever had custody of me. The streets were my family, and heroin was my first love. I was consumed with destructive behavior and self-sabotage. Never loving myself, it was perfectly understandable that not many people had ever shown me love. For somebody to fall out of thin air like Steve did in my life, I have no other way to describe the situation as an act by the hand of God.
Sitting in that small office, white painted bricks surrounded us. We sat on the cheap plastic chairs across from one another at a folding table. “So, what’s your plans for when you wrap up bro?’ Steve asked.
“I do not know my man, I got about 12 days until I go hit the streets, and once that is the case, you know what time it is” I responded with a menacing grin as to make sure he knew what a mess he was talking to. What deep seeded issues I had. We went back in forth for the next hour or so as he explained to me what Gandara was, and what they could do for me. There focus was to see me stay sober. If I was willing to volunteer at their offices a few hours a week, go to some recovery groups they had set up, Gandara was willing to scholarship me to a sober house. It was a place to live, something to do, but even more, it was somebody who believed in me. “What’s the catch,” I asked. “Why me?” Steve looked at me with a grin and said, “I don’t know bro, something about you tells me you just need a shot. We are going to have to do this off strength.” I had not felt that in a long time. I had just met Steve but the impact he had on me from the jump was meaningful. I saw a guy around my age, who had his shit together, trying to help people. He believed in my character. I could not let him down.
April 12, 2018, I walked out the cold steel doors of Souza Baranowski, looking over my shoulder for one last peek at a place I never wanted to see again. The sun was radiating down on my face as I sat in the front seat of Steve’s Chevy Malibu, sipping a caramel swirl ice coffee from Dunkin Donuts a feeling of freedom hit me I had never felt before. It was not just free from incarceration, but it was a freedom from the demons that had haunted me all my life on the streets before. On one hand I felt this enormous pressure to not fail this man taking a leap of faith in me, but on the other I had never been more grateful or relieved. For the next few month Steve and I continued to grow closer as our relationship blossomed from a pure mentorship to a true friendship. I would spend countless hours at Gandara answering phones, licking envelopes, running groups, making coffee, you name it. Anything I could do to help and anything to keep my mind occupied from the dark places it can wonder. Those first few months on the streets were so crucial for me to establish a foothold in my community and really begin to start a life on my own I had never had. I was able to take the ball and really run with it. My life has now grown leaps and bounds and I am now in the position to help others the way Steve helped me.
Coming up on the 3-year anniversary of my release date, it is nice to stop and take a breath, and look at all the enormous strides I have been able to make in my life with the support of my friend Steve, and the program Gandara. When your locked up, hope is a rare commodity. Where hope is even harder to find, is in somebody in active addiction. I never lose sight or focus of my goals, and there is more to what I thrive on today. The biggest thing is helping others. As they say, you can give a man a fish to eat and he eats for a day. But if you teach a man to fish, he can eat for a lifetime. Steve did not just help me to get a place to live when I got released, he showed me a whole new model to live my life. There is joy in helping others, and people are more susceptible to take the help when you have walked in their shoes. I learned while incarcerated to thrive from energy. It just used to be negative energy. But with the correct guidance and role model I have learned to channel that energy positively. I do so now by helping those that are in the same shoes I used to wear. I may have nearly ruined my life. Prison changed my life. Gandara, thankfully saved my life. Sometimes all a person need’s is somebody to believe in them, an accountability partner. Steve was for me, and I now look to do that for others. Pure Hearted people are tough to come by, but they exist, and it is up to us to surround ourselves with good influences. Through everything I have been through and seen as an example from Steve, I believe that it is important to try our best to look out for other people and there needs. What goes around comes around. One way or another.