
Evelyn de Morgan (British, 1850-1919)
Twenty-five meat pizzas and five cheese were ordered but not delivered. My credit card was charged, but the order was cancelled. “For now,” the prison official told me.
Ramadan began yesterday, so there will be no pizza for at least a month. Observers and non observers endure the harsh realities of death. Everything except for one’s own mind is out of their control.
Hearts ache for redemption. A few ache for their corrupted and lost brothers knowing now that the road to healing will be even longer than before.
“We are on lock down,” she tells me,” I don’t know when we’ll be able to have the graduation, hopefully down the line.”
Then the news out of Aurora comes down the line and it’s clear that this violence is not isolated. The peal of this nation, those most close to the open, life giving air, is revealed to be just as rotten as the core, those parts we lock away.
“Did anyone die?” I ask.
“Yes, we had one killed.”
Each of us swallowed back, for at least the first moment, repulsion, anger, and fear when we heard the news of 12 dead at a late night movie viewing. On the other side of the country a community of inmates, those who are trying to find the antidote for violence and hatred, hang their heads and shake them, hopes dashed. And in that Colorado town, in my hometown, in a Georgia prison, there are tiny hearts beating, gasping for hope.
There are gang fights in prison, did you know that? In a place where there is no remedy for despair, the violence of the streets is present and more concentrated. My friend William, a so called “inmate” in the Georgia prison system, writes me, “Around any prison you do have to be very careful about what you say or do because it could cost you your life. That just the way it is inside prison’s walls.” A month later he wrote, “One inmate was so badly wounded his intestine was hanging out of his body when he were fighting for his life. He were air lifted to a nearby hospital. We do not know if he made it or not.”
For the first 9 years that I knew William he made vows to keep to himself, so as not to get in any trouble. Through letters I saw him longing to encourage the other inmates to follow God, and change their words of hate into words of love. He’d memorized speeches by Dr. King, and sometimes would recite them in the dark, his powerful voice luring cellmates into sleep. Mostly, he turned those words of wisdom on himself, and into letters.
Last year, William found some others and started a group called “The Brotherhood of Hope,” reaching out to men serving life in prison sentences,and together trying to turn their lives around, condemning violence and speaking of change. More often then speaking of victory, they speak of hope. After one year of meetings, testimonies, building relationships, and following strict prison guidelines without misstep, a ceremonial graduation was scheduled for Friday, July 20th. What might seem like a forced school assembly to an outsider, pizza, soda, and a ticking clock, was a chance for these guys to feel normal and celebrate like those on the outside. Instead they are on lock-down, no party, no meetings, no packages, no visitors, no internet.
For a life trying to find a future to hope for, prison isn’t conducive to change. Every concrete wall, which is every wall, the sound of gates, the institutional voice over the loud-speaker and list of restricted behaviors is a reminder of worthlessness. You ARE your crime, and don’t you ever forget it. And yet, when I visited the Brotherhood of Hope in April, I heard so much talk of purpose. From prison reform, to reaching out to the most anti-social, hate-filled, angry, dangerous guy on your cell block to get him to come to a meeting, possibly at the risk of your life. These guys were informed, passionate, thoughtful, eloquent, convicted. What will these men do now, locked down and locked away. Where will they find a whiff of Hope in this dark time?
And me, impotent with my credit card, ready to buy pizzas that no one down there is allowed to eat, what can I hope for?
Perhaps this:
That my life will be the truth I speak of. That my love for these incarcerated I have come to know and care for will be worth something real in those lives. That is certainly what William has given me.