I’ve been home a month now, after nearly three decades in prison. And at this moment, it feels like I will never complain about anything again. Freedom is the most amazing, enjoyable, ecstatic state of being I’ve ever experienced.
But these last 30 days or so have been hectic. Not hectic in the sense that I am worried or stressed. Right now, freedom is still fresh and literally everything is fun. Walking down the street is fun. Going into a store is fun. Even going to see my PO (probation officer) to pee is fun. It’s all fun because I’m free to do whatever the hell I want.
But it’s hectic in the sense that I’ve been going nonstop. I’m running to one place to get my ID (without which, I’ve learned, I can do almost nothing). Then I run to another building to sign up for Medicaid. Then I’m running to another place to get SNAP benefits. And at the same time, I ‘m trying to see all of the family and friends who have supported me or are now reaching out. I’m trying to schedule all of these activities, without double booking or forgetting about one. It feels like I am being pulled in multiple directions. Ma wants her time, which she will get. MTOC (More Than Our Crimes) and my co-founder Pam need their time. Plus there are so many others who did time with me — 30 years’ worth. And then there’s all the new things to learn — smart phones, laptops, Zoom, bank accounts. (Remember, I went into prison at the age of 16!)
All that doesn’t even include me answering prison calls from my friends left behind, and talking to their lawyers. One thing is for sure: I will not be one of those people who leaves prison and never looks back. Who doesn’t answer their calls, doesn’t follow through on what I said I’d do, always sounds rushed or annoyed by requests for help. There are a lot of people like that, but that isn’t me. I feel obligated to help bring them home too.
So yeah, it feels hectic.
But last night, as I strolled across the bridge at Navy Yard in southeast DC and looked out over the great expanse of the Anacostia River, a profound new feeling settled over me like a cloak. And then I realized: It was tranquility. For the first time ever, I felt a calmness that stilled everything swirling inside me.
During all those years in prison, I thought I found peace when I was by my myself in my cell, reading or meditating.But that was a forced peace that I created to maintain my sanity. This was a different type of peace. A stillness. My mind meandered to where I came from, including all the trials and tribulations, and then where i was heading. But I was relaxed and optimistic. And it was a beautiful thing.
Yes, I’d felt the first rush of freedom when I walked out the prison gates. This was a different type of freedom. Not like when I walked out the gates of the prison. But this…this was different. It was a freedom that only peace can provide.
A peace that I yearn to be possible for all of my comrades still in prison.
