PRISONER EXPRESS

Winter had blown in from Canada. The Great Lakes were frozen over. The wind howled outside, and whistled as it passed through the cracks on the walls. Old newspapers had been yellowed by time, fluttered as their folded edges wedged in the cracks of the old wooden house could not completely stop the raging winter storm.

The woman cried out for her husband. He was busy feeding firewood to the metal stove. "Basilio." The man closed the side latch, and turned to attend his pregnant wife. She held her stomach and cried again, "Basilio, the baby is coming." The man had blankets ready. He wrapped her up, and picked her up. As he walked towards the front door, he called out instructions to his oldest son. "Manuel, take care of the house, do not let the fire go out, lock the door, nobody goes in or out until I get back. I'm taking your mother to the hospital." Manuel understood he was in charge.

The wind and snow blasted the man and the woman as they faced the elements. Quickly the woman was laced in the passenger side of the man's 49 Chevy. The drive to Detroit would be treacherous in the bad weather conditions. But Don Basilio was a good driver. Many roads were closed. Some completely covered in 8 feet of snow, impassable. Don Basilio turned around and headed to Saginaw. Finally, they reached St. Mary's Catholic Hospital.

Soon as the car stopped outside, the nuns came out to greet the arrivals. The head nun saw the lady getting stronger birth pangs and quickly rolled a wheel chair and pushed it to the maternity ward, where the delivery room was adjacent. Don Basilio didn't have to wait long. He stood at a heater warming his hands, when he heard foot steps behind him. Instinctively, Don Basilio turned just as the moment the nun was reaching out to tap his shoulder. Startled at his abrupt turn, she apologized.

Mr. Govea, you have a healthy wife and a son. Your wife is calling for you. It was like a dream, the day was September 21, 1953. Don Basilio thought as he was escorted to the recovery room. At the entrance way he stopped. There was his beautiful wife, but she was arguing, it seemed with the nuns. Don Basilio quickly stepped forward. "Concha, is everything alright? Where is the baby?"

The boy was born sick. He could not digest milk. Without nourishment he would die. The argument continued. It concerned the nuns' choice for a name, "Jesse Mathew" and the parents' choice, "Jesus Mateo." Finally a middle ground was met. His name would be Jesse Mateo Govea.

Life silently accumulates, like grains of san and the little spark grew. The little body was metabolizing everything it could see, hear, smell, and touch. The input was transforming the little body into the shape and form of a bright young child.

The child survived, and grew and understood, but could not speak, or maybe he did not want to speak. Nobody knew. At two years old he could walk and run around with two farm dogs that favored his company over the rest of the kids. Tipe, the black mixed Labrador, and Spot, the mixed St. Bernard, were farm dogs, guard dogs, family pets. Jesse would wander off into the woods near Fairgrove, Michigan and the dogs would walk on each side of him. They made eye contact from time to time. Something in those woods attracted Jesse. He kept returning deeper and deeper venturing into the unknown.

His parents were immigrant field workers. One day the sun was beaming through the car window. It was a shiny 49 Chevy. By standing on the car seat, at a distance, Jesse could see the dark shapes of his parents, brother, and sisters knee deep in the sugar beet fields. The door handle was hard, but Jesse pulled with both hands until the door clicked open. He climbed down the car seat, to the floor board, and dangled his bare feet from the side board where he sat.

Jesse heard a little voice instruct him to go ahead and jump. Somehow little Jesse knew it would be ok. He let himself go. The loose dirt below his feet cushioned his landing. Jesse smiled to himself. Once again he looked towards the beet fields, but he sugar beet leaves were eye level. He could not see his parents but knew they were straight from the car window and the sun was hot beaming down.

The little voice spoke again. Jesse walked to the back of the car. The trunk looked like a big mouth without teeth, like when grandma yawned. A little smile at the thought. Looking over the edge of the trunk he spotted the glass gallon jug full of water. He could touch the ring on the jug, where his dad would stick his index finger and lift it up to drink and quench his thirst. Jesse, had observed that ritual many times.

Jesse tugged on the bottle ring with all his might bringing the jug balanced on the rim of the car trunk. With one more pull brought the jug crashing to the soft dirt. Water started to spill as the jug fell to its side, just as the little voice said, half the gallon spilled, the dirt drank it quickly. Only a black spot remained. Jesse lifted the jug, it was lighter now. Once more looking up at the sun the little voice spoke again. Take them water to drink. Jesse walked to the row in front of the car door and started to walk. The sugar beet leaved slapped his face as he walked between two rows. I was along walk. Somewhere along the way Jesse dropped the jug. He could not hold it or cradle it in his arms anymore.

He rested a bit, but the little voice ordered him to get on his knees and grab hold of the ring over his shoulders and stand up and "keep walking." It felt lighter and I could walk better. I could hear voices now, my Dad giving orders, I speeded up my pace, until I could hear the hoe's chopping weeds and the swish of the loose dirt as my Dad, Mom, brother, and sisters worked in unison. I could not see him, but my Dad spotted me. He must have been looking back making sure no weeds were left uncut. I heard him, "Ah miren" (Ah, look), "Mijo nos trajo agua." (My son brought us water.)

In life we always have choices to make some good and some bad. Whatever decision we make, we must learn to live with the rest of our life. I was three years old when I made that choice to take water to my loved ones. I remember it was Dad, Mom, Irene, Gloria, Manuel, Alice, and Margie. Now only Mom, Irene, Gloria, and Margi remain.

I didn't have a childhood like regular kids. Animals were my friends. I never had toys, I made my own sling shot. I searched the woods until I say a tree with a good section forming a "Y." I stood in front of the tree. A breeze indicated "No" not to cut it, "Go Away!" So I kept on, until I found on the floor of the forest, a dried perfect branch formed in a "Y" for my sling shot. I used it to knock down apples or pears high up on tree limbs that I could not reach. If my family wanted pheasants, I would bring some home. Sometimes the dogs knew what I wanted, and they would catch some rabbits or pheasants alive and bring them to me. I would give them to my grandma, who would quickly kill, clean, and cook them. I would not eat any animals I brought home!

Childhood for me is a blur, short lived. I was forced into field labor as soon as I could swing a hoe in the fields. I was disguised with a tall hat, and thick heeled boots to make me look as tall as a short bent over adult, swinging the hoe chopping weeds from sunup to sunset. The time off at home was spent chopping firewood and stacking it in a wood shed in our basement/storm shelter under our wooden house, for the cold Michigan winters.

At 11 years old, I started to attend school, the 1964 civil rights act, would not allow my parents to keep me from school. It got me out of the field labor force. I started to learn English, I understood it before I could speak it. I learned to pronounce words, to communicate, with the help of a caring little girl's teachings. Her name was Diana, we attended Fairgrove Elementary. She started to bring sandwiches and ate and exchanged some for tacos of refried beans. I would refuse to eat in the cafeteria. I ate outside on a tree stump. Diana started to follow me and she didn't bring a sack lunch like me. I gave her one of my tacos. I felt obligated to give her half of my lunch. I could not seat and leave her watching. I was always starving when I got home. I finally had to ask my mom to put 6 tacos in my bag instead of 3. Diana and I did not speak; she made me understand her by signs and the tone of her voice. She meant well so I accepted her company and shared my tree stump with her.

Finally I became a problem, got into fights with all the little white guys at school. I was a loner and a darker shade than white. Diana was the only friend and communicated by signs, nods and her leadership. My father pulled me out of school and moved all our family to San Antonio, Texas.

Again it turns out that the choices we make play a big part in our future. I was an A and B student and even skipped from first to second to fourth grade. But in the seventh, eighth and ninth grades I made bad choices. In 1968 I was kicked out, expelled, banned from all the tough schools on the west side of town, from the Edgewood district.

Ten years later I was sent to prison for murder and 27 years later after much hardship and pain, I sit in a prison cell at the Wynne Unit with a busted right wrist and broken thumb, penciling this story with my left hand (I'm right handed.) Childhood to some never existed, never experienced the things that some children now a days take for granted. Still, some old men never grow up. They act like little spoiled children. To define childhood, one must evaluate the full spectrum, from silly to serious, rich, poor, or as some say "filthy rich" or "dirt poor."

The unfortunate, the still born, never experience the choices of good or evil afforded to every child. Good or bad decisions, our choices form a path we will follow until we come to realization that failures and success in life derive from childhood, choices and decisions acted out in adulthood. A child is born every second, that child's choices and decisions may some day affect all our futures. Until the spark goes out, I continue to remain on my childhood past.