Walls…They’re a Tricky Thing.
The walls we put up and the walls we break down.
The walls that we paint, the walls that we reach over, dream over, seep over, and peer over into the horizon line. To the sunset, and the sun setting on the mass incarceration of men and women that our society has labeled felons, crooks, criminals, vicious animals, monsters, and threats to our supposed homeostasis of peace and wellbeing that exists out in the “real world.”
But what is the “real world?” And who are these supposedly “innocent” people that make up the majority of society that exist on the exterior of these walls?
What makes them innocent, and what makes them immune to the harshness of a system dedicated to indicting for misdemeanors, felonies, and hard earned TIME?
Time away from loved ones, time away from children, from metro cards, from the birth of the iPod, and the election of a Black President representing the so-called “post race” era of our “democratic” country.
It’s a tricky thing. A slimy thing, Especially when it is against you, or rather sticks to you, adheres to your soul and keeps you perpetually in IT and in a historical moment that is long gone to those of us on the OUTSIDE, the real world, the space where justice is served and handed appropriately on a platter to those who await (blind) justice’s eyes.
Walls. They are constructed. Guarded. Shot at. And guarded once again.
Attica. Where an uprising began and men gave their lives to ensuring that those that would come after them would not suffer like they did, or like their grandfathers did during Jim Crow, or like their great grandmothers did during slavery, or like their great great grandparents did when they were brought to this “just” country on slave ships that held their souls, and their breath within them.
Movement. It’s a tricky, slimy thing. The movement of people down corridors. In lines. In silence. Batons being twirled to signify power. Masculinity, Control. Dominance.
Timed movement. Of men into blocks and yards. Into the mess hall and the chapel, the shared bathroom half stalls – half open, half closed to the pieces of tissue paper that construct the roll of their
Lost, in time. Time gone. Time taken away. Thrown away the key. Swallowed the key and down into the deep well of darkness, of power, of control, of mischief and sneaky, slimy, dominance.
Overcome with power, overtaken by their need to control, by their need to prove, by their need to provide, for their families, communities and children.
Corrections officers. These men.
These men who have been brainwashed, washed over with notions of keeping security, and maintaining order, of yelling harsh words and whispering harsh stigmas, of
Power. It’s there at the end of the hall.
And in every room.
In every cell block. And every hall that twists and turns inside the belly of the beast and the beast of the burden of
But at who’s expense?