XIX 1999: Old School & Black

In Roxbury, the options for inmate rehabilitation were limited. If an inmate did not have a high school diploma, he was required to attend GED classes until he passed the exam. There were trustee jobs like landscaping or working in the kitchen, which was a prized job. These workers had access to food, but more importantly, sugar, the most critical ingredient when making homemade wine—or hooch. Sugar and cigarettes equaled dollar bills. Another option was to take a computer workshop. Given my educational background, I had no problem securing a seat in the course, which consisted of working through a Microsoft Office tutorial with an instructor on site available to answer questions. It was during this class that I met Old School, who had been incarcerated since 1952 when he was 14. When he first told me this, I had to mentally process what that meant in terms of history. He missed the bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, the assassinations of the Kennedys and Malcolm and Martin; he missed the political fervor of a nation. Old School did not raise his fist erect during the civil rights revolution, remained clueless to what hip-hop really meant, and yes-yes ya’ll had no value to him at all. Crack and fiends crawling through the city at night in search of a white pebble might have been overheard in conversation, but to him—really, it was make believe.

Old School never told me his crime, and out of respect, I never asked, though to be locked up that long, the crime had to be murder. Incarcerated since before my birth, I came to know this man when time had become his enemy, the years producing too many body blows to the midsection. The first week we worked in Word, going over lesson plans that had us developing resumes and office correspondence like fax letters and memos. Old School sat next to me and asked questions every time we did a module. I didn’t mind helping him because it was always good to have friends that had been in the joint that long. There was a certain respect in longevity behind bars.

During breaks, we went out to the breezeway and smoked Kite rollups. Old School always wanted to talk about the fear and terror trembling in his body while inhaling menthol flavored smoke. He did not know how to live a functional life on the outside and had become institutionalized and solely dependent on the state of Maryland to tell him what to do, how to do it, and when to do it. Old School understood he lacked any type of useful skill or vocation that would dictate his success in society. If it were not for the undeniable urge to pull a woman into the crook of his arms and run those needy fingers up and down her spine, he would gladly tell them to close the door, he ain’t going nowhere. But the desire to breathe deep a woman’s perfume helped to propel him into the unknown that waited outside the gates of Roxbury.

In February I received a letter from my lawyer informing me the request for a “modification of sentence” hearing had been approved. I also discovered the prosecutor had dropped the charges from Nags Head, NC because of too many continuances. Since my incarceration Chris had been arrested in Fairfax, VA because of information supplied by the informant, his ex-wife, Corrine, about his activities in that county regarding a string of burglaries. Corrine disappeared and now had a warrant out for her arrest. Dealing with these factors for three years frustrated the prosecutor into dismissing the charges. This was good news but there were still hurdles to clear. Later on that month, after hearing from my attorney, the opportunity presented itself to take a Contemporary Psychology class through Hagerstown Community College. The class met once a week in the prison and offered an opportunity to engage in something intellectual besides what went on in the day room and the computer shop.

There were 25 men in the class...