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Student /
Inmate Writing
J. H. G.
Poverty,
poverty is
hard.
Poverty
is there.
It is
everywhere,
like
I was,
we were
together
and didn't
even know.
Living with
poverty makes you do the unthinkable, anything to get out of
poverty. This is how we get to jail. I was a different man.
Poverty changes you like in the flash of an eye. Society throws
you away.
Poverty
makes people turn into animals. It changes us from good students
to felons. We wake up to no breakfast and go to sleep with
nothing to eat. This makes us hit the streets.
We become
darkness at night
looking
for a piece
of whatever
we can get.
Poverty
gets to you. Being broke every day. What will you do to survive?
Will you steal, maybe, maybe not. There are so many kids like
me. This is what we do. Poverty hits us hard. It goes for the
kill, and it kills.
I hate
being broke. What can I do, turn to the streets like everyone
else or go to school?
Poverty
is the
death
of it can
happen.
I tried. I
tried. I tried.
I failed.
Where do I
go from here? I want to go everywhere. I don't want to go to
jail or to prison. Where do I go from here? I want to go to
college.
What about
the riot in Rochester in 1964? Nowadays we don't come together
like that. Today we turn against each other. We shoot, we kill,
we sell drugs to each other. Why do we downgrade ourselves? It
is unbearable.
Why are the
streets of Rochester a corridor to prison? They are dangerous,
scary. We never know what will happen.
We
are
the
obstacle.
Where do I
go from here?
I can't imagine life anymore.
I try to picture the outside
in my mind,
but I'm blind,
and I only hear the sounds of what other people say.
To me there is no outside,
only the inside
of Monroe County Jail.
I can't see
what everyone talks about.
It sounds good,
but it's only a great tale.
Monroe County Jail is my life,
white walls like an ice sheet,
isolated.
I hear there is not only this darkness.
There are whole worlds
with blue skies and you feel like you're free.
I want to be able to see.
Rochester is filled with violence, but there are kids here,
kids, like me, who have dreams they would like to see some day.
Today we know our dreams are just dreams.
Will we ever see our dreams?
O. R.
The street
corner of Ontario and Union is where my cousin was gunned down
and killed. I remember the day like it was yesterday. He had
just turned twenty-eight. I was at my aunt's house on the dead
end of Davis Street. When we got the news, we all ran the two
streets over. We couldn't believe it. We didn't want to believe
it. It had to be a mistake. When we finally arrived there, my
cousin was lying on the ground. Police restrained my family from
touching the body.
This was
the first dead body I ever saw. I was only eleven. My cousin was
a person who loved the hood, had trust in it. He thought family
was the most important thing. Scio City was his family and
everyone inside there was trust. After my cousin's death not one
person could tell us what happened or who did it. It has been
seven years, and no one arrested has been arrested.
What about
the police who are supposed to protecting our streets?
Until this
day I miss my cousin. Scio is still my hood. The love is there,
but it is different.
R.I.P. my
cousin
What makes
me wanna holla are girls having babies and parents who neglect
their children. No love makes me wanna holla.
The
killing,
the evil,
and the
dollar
make me
wanna holla.
Death is so
common today. I hear about it. I see it. When it happens I no
longer grieve, just a sad second's memory that gets repressed.
These memories build up until I can't take anymore. Then I turn
angry. Feeling I once had is all drained from my body like it
was vacuumed out of me.
Have you ever had a dream so big you don't think you will ever
get to it. I do. I try to survive even if my dreams never come
true. I try to live my life. I try to do it right.
It is hard when there is no light.
Can I survive if my dreams don't come true.
I am trying to live my life, trying to do it right
It is hard.
What we need is people who will tell us this isn't right. We
need people to show us how to live our lives. We need people to
believe in us. We need people who are willing to put money into
us.
We need help.
We need a chance at life.
T. F.
R.I.P. M.
H.
H. was my
friend. My family and I loved him a lot. He showed me a lot of
things and cared about me. Then the worst thing happened to him.
He was killed on Bay Street at the Wilson Farms.
M. H. was
shot in the back and fell to the ground, and then he was shot in
his chest. His death caused me to change. I started to drink and
smoke and do crazy stuff because I was angry about his death.
R.I.P my
friend, my family, my cousin, M. I love you and I miss you. See
you soon.
Why do we
black men kill each other?
Why do
people look down on black men?
Why do the
police always think a group of black men are up to no good?
Why is it
so hard to live a good life?
Why do
young black men sell drugs rather than try to get a job?
Why do
people drop out of school?
Why do
people get high?
Why do dads
walk out on their families?
Why life is
so hard and death comes so easy?
Why?
Why?
Why?
R. B.
Poverty
the word hurts as if I am being stabbed and a sword is impaling
my heart. This society leaves us broke as a joke, but that
doesn't mean it's something to laugh at.
Poverty is
one of the reasons
why ninety
percent of young black men's paths
end up in
the cemetery or the cellblock.
Not many
black kids choose the classroom. I was one of those kids. I
didn't choose the classroom because of what was going on around
me. It started in 7th grade. It started as stress
from poverty. I started smoking weed. I never had any of my own
money, so I wanted to make my own money. Every other kid my age
was making money. Society made us that way. Society puts us
down, it discriminates, and the judges refuse to understand what
we deal with on a daily basis as if we deserve to be treated
like wild animals.
Look at the
percentage of minorities in prison or jail.
Why do the
police
want to see
us either dead or incarcerated?
Why do they
want to see us caged in like zoo animals?
You might
as well say we have two choices. Can you blame us? No. Can you
blame where we come from? No. Can you blame parents? Maybe a
little bit. Why do people want to see us dead or locked up? Who
are these people? This is a question I cannot answer. There was
once this family I knew, and they were close to mine. The family
was poor and had very little money. That's where the word
poverty comes in again. They were stressed because of it. The
mom had addiction problems, which included crack, cocaine, and
alcohol. She was so intoxicated all the time that she would
abuse her child, and then she couldn't remember what she had
done as if she had amnesia. The son started selling drugs, and
then he got locked up. They still suffer financially to this
day, and my family does too.
I wish I
had hit the books like my mother wanted me to. When I was
growing up, I used to blame her for the way I was, like it was
her fault when it wasn't. She tried her best to raise me; she
wanted the best for me. I grew up without a father. He was
incarcerated since I was seven years old. My father is out now,
but it's too late because I'm seventeen years old and damn near
grown.
I wish I
knew the way this country worked before I was twelve years old.
We don't learn until it's too late. How are we the menaces to
society when poverty causes us to do the things that we do? Why
are we cursed? Do you really want to know the answer to my
question? Poverty.
M. T.
Long + Live
+ S
I remember
cooling in the hood with Big Bra and the homies every day,
watching the girls ride past waving at us as they rode by. If we
weren't doing that, we were chopping the town down in the
minivan. I miss those days. S. was someone everybody in the hood
looked up to. He was like the big brother none of us had around.
He was the type of person who would tell you about yourself and
wouldn't care or think twice about it. S. was a homie you could
ride with and be with when you were angry. He could make you
angrier for being angry about nothing especially if it wasn't
about money.
S. was
stabbed to death in a local club. The stabbing wasn't supposed
to take place, but because of all the arguing and friends who
wanted to prove something to others, it did. It was the worst
thing I ever experienced in my life. A brawl broke out in the
middle of the club, and that's when it all happened. It
happened all in the blink of a bull's eye. I think about Big Bra
and have flashbacks about the tragedy ever since it took place.
I will never be the same any more.
B. H.
Violence
What makes
the streets so strong and addictive? We like the streets because
of the adrenaline rush we get when something bad takes place.
Violence tears our families apart, leaves children without
fathers, and leaves women mourning over the deaths and
incarceration of their husbands, boyfriends, and friends.
Violence has taken its toll on this world, and destroyed the
ability to walk the streets in many places.
My father
has been in jail ever since I was two years old. I am seventeen
now. He was trying to help his brother out of a life or death
situation, and it backfired leaving him with the choice of his
life or theirs. My dad did what any person would do to help his
brother and to save both of their lives. Now he is sitting in
jail for life for trying to help his brother who later helped
with his conviction of fifty years to life in prison.
B. H.
12-18-12
In reality
jail is no place for a human being, but I admit that it's a good
place for teaching someone a lesson.
When I
first walked into the pit, I noticed the smell was horrible. The
next thing I noticed was that there were fifty-three cells,
twenty-eight cells on top and twenty-five on the bottom. Some
cells are bigger than others. My cell is seven feet wide and
nine feet long. Inside each cell there is one metal toilet
without a seat, one thin mattress on a metal slab with no
pillow, and one brown thin blanket with two thin white sheets.
The light is always on.
Each pit is
assigned two deputies. If one deputy has to go to a different
part of the jail, inmates are not able to lockout or come out of
their cells. The food is terrible, it's flavorless, but inmates
improvise, giving the food taste using seasoning packets from
the Ramen noodles we order on commissary. There's also a tier
system, levels one through four. Level ones can only order five
dollars worth of hygiene products, no food, and they have to
lock in at 8:00. Level twos can order fifteen dollars worth of
food or hygiene, and they have to lock in at 8:30. Level threes
can order thirty dollars worth of food or hygiene, and they have
to lock in at 9:00. Level fours can order fifty dollars worth of
food or hygiene, and they have to lock in at 9:30. Problems
start because some guys have their levels and more food then
others, so some inmates get extorted. The strong prey upon the
weak. Guys will demand that others give up their food, and if
not they will get beat up. The inmates that are getting extorted
give up their food because they are told they will get beat up,
and if you fight, you end up loosing your level. You get locked
in for twenty days, and only get an hour out of your cell each
day.
J. M.
On The
Outside Looking In
When the
thought of the friends and family taken from me by the inane
violence of this city crosses my mind, I start to wonder. I
wonder why this inhumane cycle of murder and tragedy plagues us,
our city, our people, our lives. My eyes moisten when I think of
the father my niece lost. A heartless murderer gunned him down
in broad daylight. He was shot in his head multiple times. My
niece never knew her father. The loss forced me to grow up and
take responsibility. I was only 11 years old when this event
transpired.
I
was
only
a kid.
"The Three
Paths for Young Black Men" (Tiffany Lankes, Democrat and
Chronicle, December 5, 2012) is an article of truth and what
should be a wakeup call. Of all of the possibilities and
opportunities that present themselves daily, so many young black
men choose negative interactions. What does it say about us that
we are limited to three paths? Has this become so obvious that
our futures are pre-destined? I take pride in my people and our
history, yet I feel despair in our future. I am not a hypocrite.
I can't grasp the concept of killing your fellow man, selling
drugs to earn a living and, not wanting a better life for future
generations. Everyone understands what I mean, yet no one wants
to change or truly speak out, and when they do, they become a
victim. I know what and who the problem is. I just don't know
how to stop it and them.
On the
other hand I was asked if my teachers understand my culture. I
do not understand my culture. I shouldn't even call it my
culture. For some reason I am a part of it, yet it is not the
scope of my existence. If I could choose, this would not be my
current role in society; I just find myself where I am because
it seems to be a sad destiny crafted by forces out of my
control. This culture, if it can be called so, is nothing to be
proud of when there is so much more to our people. Where have
our strong black men gone? We are not gangsters. I know the
teachers don't understand our culture because it doesn't make
sense at all.
L. M.
The reality
of the cellblock is that the whole time you're in the cell
you're missing out on your life. You're missing out on all of
the positive things you could be doing to make your life better.
Being in your cell has nothing but disadvantages and a negative
impact on you. There might be one small positive impact on you.
To me it's more like a rub in, by that I mean it makes me
realize how important freedom and my family really are. That is
the only thing the cellblock did for me.
E. T.
Violence
D. G. was
someone who was taken away by violence in Rochester, New York.
Even though he wasn't family by blood, everybody in my family
considered him a member. That day was a very horrible day for
us.
In 2010, D
was coming home from a Valentine's
party, when two guys approached him with a gun and tried
to rob him. He didn't want to give his money up because he
worked for it. He ran and shots went off. He got hit in the back
by one bullet. D. pulled his gun out, turned around and fired
back, almost killing one guy.
D. got hit
a second time and fell. The guy with the gun ran up to D. and
shot and robbed him. D. died there and was left in a small alley
by himself off of Jefferson Avenue and Main.
Just
writing about one of my friends/brothers is really hurtful. I
still think about the fun times we had together and to know he
got killed at twenty-one by violence is very disturbing. I wish
all the violence would come to a stop because when I bring my
children into this world, I don't want them to grow up in
Rochester, New York surrounded by violence like I did.
D., I hope
I will see you one day in a better place with no violence. Love
you bra always and forever.
February
14, 2013
Today is a
very hurtful day for me and for my family. It has been a very
long time since I have been with my brother/friend. I miss the
fun times we had together. I miss that even if I was mad or sad
being around D. always put a smile on my face.
The thing
is it has been three years today since he has been gone. The
city built a house on the exact spot where he was killed. I saw
broken candles where D. died. Does law enforcement really care?
Why are candles smashed and Teddy bears thrown away at people's
memorials? It is a shame. Why do they do it?
I am very
angry to be in jail on the day D. died. I should be out in the
real world, reminiscing about the man D. could have been if he
were still alive. Even though you are gone D., we still speak
today through our love for one another. I miss you
friend/brother, always and forever. This love will never end.
M. M.
What makes
me want to holla is the way I brought myself down this path into
this dump! I have to holla sometimes when I get frustrated, and
I holla out to myself because of what I see these days that
looks just like the past. All I'm trying to say is the world is
the same--nothing has changed but bills, payments, prices for
food, and clothes. That's why more people have gone out of
control because they can't handle their lifestyles anymore; they
hurt a lot and see too much; their hearts can't take it too much
longer.
Their
hearts
can't take
it
too much
longer.
Some nights
I want to holla out when I wake up and still find myself here in
this little square room--locked door with a sink hooked onto my
toilet and sleeping on this little thin blue mat. I holla when I
can't feel that comfortable queen size mattress underneath me,
with the nice, soft, big comfortable blankets. I holla out when
I can't step into that big refrigerator full of food and get to
pick what I want to eat every now and then, instead of eating
noodles and oatmeal every night.
2/25/13
F. J.
The streets
of Rochester are a roller coaster, up down, round and round.
They are controlled by violence and guns.
The streets
ate me,
chewed me
up,
and spit me
into a lot of trouble.
Now here I
am.
Hungry for
money, money hungry, what would you do? Can you give me an
answer? I went to the streets so I wouldn't have to go to sleep
with an empty stomach. Did I have to do this? Did I have to get
kicked out of my mother's house?
I don't
want to be in jail right now writing this, facing state time.
When will it be my time? I am waiting for my time.
Why didn't
I listen to anyone?
Why, black
on black murder?
Why is
there so much violence?
Why did I
have to do this? I left my siblings alone. They are probably
scared. Why didn't I just listen?
Why did I put myself here where my life feels like it is going
up and own like waves in my head.
Where do I start? When did I start praying that there is not
someone on the ground?
We must save the children, save them, don't discourage them. We
must believe in them and not let them hit the streets.
I don't know what's going to happen in the future.
Why is it like this?
It seems like the judges really don't look into the person's
eyes. He / she just sentences? What can I do to have a judge
really see me?
I am in my cell looking out the window watching my dreams pass
by.
The graveyard, the jail cell. This is where my life is at.
It is like watching a movie when I look back into my thoughts
and my life
Z. W.
I have seen
too many people strung out. How did they start? Why did they
start? I want to ask, but how do you ask? How will a person who
would rather buy drugs than food to eat react?
This
is
real
Women sell
their bodies. Men steal and even kill.
Addiction
is like
a
submission.
Kids are
left at home with their parents' mission.
C. M.
Killings.
Anger. Power. Stress. Fame.
My dad was
twenty-eight. He was in a motorcycle accident. I was ten.
We used to
live in Alphonse. My dad told me I used to ride up and down the
street on my tricycle. My dad was a kind man. Some man in a
U-Haul truck hit him in the back. I was leaving school. I was in
fifth or sixth grade. We got a phone call as soon as I walked in
the house. We rushed to the hospital. When we got there it was
too late.
I am
eighteen now. I love football. The Dallas Cowboys are my
favorite team. I love my friends. I like to support and be there
for my friends. I dream of being a Civil Engineer. I studied in
school. Now here I am. When I get out I want to do better. I
will try.
I want to
move to Georgia, towards Decatur. My aunt and her husband live
there.
I hear
about killings
so much.
What
is there
to think?
The only
thing you can think is where are we from?
I was about
twelve, six years ago. I saw my first killing on Dewey and Burr.
I thought wow, broad daylight. I was just twelve. I was not
expecting it. I saw blood everywhere. He was lying there. My mom
told me to get in the house. This is all I remember.
This
changed me.
I knew
I was out
here on my own.
V. S. M.
I am
eighteen. I was born in Puerto Rico. I came to Rochester with my
mom and sister. My real dad left us. He stayed in Puerto Rico.
When I was
little my real dad hit my mom a lot. When we came here, my mom
met my step-dad. They have been together for fourteen years. Now
they are getting a divorce.
I have been
coming to jail since I was sixteen. Now I am eighteen.
I feel like
I don't
know what to do.
I
have
tried
everything.
Now I am
going upstate.
I feel like
I don't
know what to do.
I have been looking for my sister. She left my mom's house when
I was seventeen. I don't know where she is.
Where did she go?
Why did she go?
"Everyday I miss her so much.
I tried to call here. I always get not answer. We lived together
for fifteen years, and now she is gone.
What do I do?
Where do I look?
My sister was the only person I could talk to. She is the only
one who would fight for me.
Sometimes
I feel
like I have no one,
no one to run to,
no one who cares what happens to me.
J. M.
I am
eighteen years old. I was born in Rochester. I have lived in
Monroe County my whole life. I grew up in a nice house with
parents who were together until now.
I have been
in Westfall, a wilderness program, and a treatment center. Now I
am in jail.
R. F.
Every night
before I go to sleep I write a song. There is never a day that
goes by that I don't make music. I want my music to inspire
people.
When I was
little I listened to Easy-E and Coogi Rap. I feel like nobody
can make it in rap or hip-hop. You have to dedicate yourself to
it. You have to be lyrical.
I was nine
I think when I first started. I first started selling drugs. I
was born into this, into the streets. I turned it into rap
music. I dedicated myself. When I first put on headphones I
started rapping. I rapped my life. My mom was not home. I don't
know where she was. Still to this day I don't know.
My father
never cared. When my dad walked out, that's when it started. I
was the man of the house. Once my dad left we were stuck in a
life and death situation. Both of my older brothers were in
jail. I was the man of the house. I turned to the streets to
feed my little brothers and sisters. I had to feed them. We live
in the projects.
I had my
music. I always had my music. I love music. I make street music,
I always hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
S.E.
My live is not perfect.
D'A. B.
Forget my
past, please look at my future.
Listen to
all my stories. not the lies you are used to.
Forgive me
for my sins, for being a drug user.
Going large
means measurements with no ruler
If you
forget about my future and look at my past,
I was a
soldier in a weak army, coming out last.
All of the
false soldiers run out, run out fast.
Everybody's loyalty comes first and betrayal lasts.
No not mine, mine's a straight line,
But straight lines of loyalty can turn a man blind,
Blind to the fact that everybody in his pack
Is putting up a front and claims to have his back.
So much back then I didn't understand, but now
I'm transforming from a boy into a man. So know
My soul is standing out and no longer bland.
Forgive me for my past and look at my future.
Please listen to my story, not the lies that you used to.
Don't judge me by my past.
I ask myself why should I want to stay out? It is easier in.
Sometimes I want to act out, but my feelings stay in.
Why should I want to stay in?
I can't take the world.
Here they feed us.
Here we have water, electricity, and no bills to pay.
It is easier to survive in the belly of the beast
than the belly of the streets.
I don't know how to feel. Every New Year the only reason I
celebrate is because I am still here. And through long nights of
pain and fear I celebrate because I am still here.
I try to jump the gate of poverty, pray that I make it over.
How to kill poverty and survive? Poverty is mixed with violence.
We all need to succeed. We need our dreams. Instead there is
violence every night. It seems every day another mother's child
is dead.
M. A.
Why am I left alone to the cold streets?
Why am I left alone to the cold streets
to figure out how to survive?
Why am I left alone to the cold streets
to sell drugs and stand on street corners?
Why am I left alone to the cold streets
to be someone I don't want to be?
Why am I left alone to the cold streets
to find out what to do when I am as cold as the streets?
2013 Dale Davis, The New York State Literary Center
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