PRISONER EXPRESS

In the strange and often times backwards world we have created, there are places in our society where it is almost impossible to be heard. Like the sound of someone screaming underwater, these places muffle and distort any cries for help one might make. In these places, the clothes people wear, the way they look, the homes they live, even the cars they drive, speak so loudly it drowns out anything they might have to say. And as if living under the rug of society, the inhabitants of these silent worlds are so successfully muzzled, that the vast majority of them live out their entire lives never having a voice. Usually it's only the extreme actions on the part of a few brave souls who manage to capture the attention of the rest of society. Yet, even on those rare occasions -- whether the extreme actions are positive or negative -- the attention is always fleeting, never lasting more than a week.

These places I speak of, places covered by massive blankets of silence, are better known by the names poverty and incarceration. And only those unfortunate individuals, who have had the misfortune of experiencing these states of existence, can truly attest to the utter hopelessness one feels to be utterly voiceless. How frustrating it can be to have so much to say, but no way of saying it. No means of getting their words through the bars of their cells, or off the ghetto blocks they live on.

Instead, the residents of these voiceless voids are subject to what ever direction the winds of the privileged are blowing. Forced to drift upon the tide of the powerful, never having a say on what shore they're washed up on. Never having a voice in shaping the world that surrounds them. Not even allowed to put forth their input on the very laws and policies they must live and die under.

Whole generations have come and gone under such conditions. Countless family trees forced to scratch out an existence under the suffocating canopy of the rich. Forever denied direct light from the sun, only receiving a few drops of lifesaving water and only after it has slowly trickled down the limbs of the powerful. In the shadows of the privileged these people have sprouted only to wilt and wither in their harsh environments. Only to become for the greedy who have monopolized all the fertile grounds.

But as devastatingly cruel as it is to experience one of these black holes, it is far worse to have known both. I know this to be true, for I, like the many others who surround me in the prison system, have grown up knowing both worlds. I, like them have gone through most of my life never having an audible voice, and the little voice I did learn to use was expressed mostly through violence. So frustrated at my inability to convey my thoughts clearly and rationally to an unconcerned society, I learned to strike out blindly and senselessly. And the more I struck out at a deaf society, the more distorted my voice became, and the more distorted my voice became, the more violent my actions grew.

This vicious escalation of miscommunication on my part, and lack of understanding from an insensitive society, caused me to adopt an anti-social stance. My face slowly took on a constant look of anger whenever I found myself in public. And so obvious became my hatred for the system I had no say in, regular law abiding citizens automatically took a wide berth when coming upon my scowling face. I found myself gravitating towards clothing and music that advertised and highlighted my outsider status. And whenever this caused a Caucasian person to stare at my direction, I was quick to snarl a, "what the fuck you looking at?"

Criminal behavior, hostility towards those for whom the system worked, this state of mind became like second nature to me. I laughed whenever the news reported on tragedies, like an airplane crashing, or a high --rise building caught fire. And when an anchor person broke into regular schedule programming to claim it was a sad day because a police officer had been killed. I would just clap my hands and celebrate, as if a victorious blow had been delivered for "our side." Anytime something terrible happened to the power structure who's foot I lived under, my upper lip would curl and I would proclaim that it was good that they should experience a little helplessness. When the Rodney King riots erupted on an unsuspecting nation, I was ecstatic with joy, only feeling regret that I was in jail unable to take part. And when the majority of Americans wore looks of dumbfoundment on their faces, which later turned to disgust after realizing O.J. Simpson had been found not guilty, I couldn't stop telling every inmate who would listen, "It's about time they knew how it felt."

And that is how I would have continued to live out my life. Full of hate and rage towards a world that had excluded me. I would have continued to run headfirst into the unyielding walls of prison. Shouting incoherently up at those who enjoyed life on the glass ceiling above me. My tethered spirit would have gone on consuming me from the inside, corrupting every thought I dared to think.

But then I discovered writing, discovered it in the middle of my journey on a dark barren path. The same dark path my father traveled along, the very same path his father traveled, and his father before him. I discovered that with a pen I could produce words my vocal cords never could. Words that always seemed to get tangle dup with my tongue. These words began to flow freely onto blank sheets of paper, until like an unstoppable fog, my words slowly rolled out into society. Where they found their way into magazines, newspapers, and onto computer screens. To my amazement my writings made their way across the state of California, from San Francisco to Los Angeles, across the country to New York, even around the world to Japan. TO the very land of the rising sun, where poetic samurai once walked the earth like semi-gods.

From being a faceless inmate hidden quietly away behind tons of concrete, to having my writings read on the other side of the world. Having my writings read by doctors, lawyers, journalists, to individuals who always looked right past me. I had found my voice at long last. Never again would I be silent. Never again would I be kept voiceless. This is why I write. This is why I write.