Why Am I Here

SURROUNDINGS

Why Am I Here

I woke up staring at a grey colored cinder block with etchings of names and symbols I did not recognize. I released my gaze from the one block and realized I was in a room, a very small room, encased in grey cinder blocks with unidentifiable etchings carved by the unknown. To me that is. “Where am I?” I wondered.

I looked down at my chest and body and saw myself covered in a scratchy wool blanket, also grey. “Where am I?” I wondered aloud this time. I was answered immediately by the vision in front of me. Looking ahead, through the bars of my own encasement, I could see more bars far across a room, a very large room, a room as large as an airplane hangar. I am in jail. But why?

It was then I noticed the terrible stench. It was musty and felt thick like on a hot humid day in an old 4’ x 4’ gas station bathroom with no windows. As I looked around at the amenities in my small space, maybe 8’ x 8’, I could see they were along the same par as that old shabby gas station. Gross. The hard water stains in the bowl of the chipped porcelain toilet looked like the remains of many a prisoners’ meals still present. Gross. I don’t know much about jail but as far as I knew from the latest streaming series they had replaced porcelain sinks and toilets with stainless steel. Where am I that my jail has a porcelain toilet? No lid of course. At least that is consistent with what I know.

I began to hear yelling and screaming, screaming that seemed to come from all around me, even inside my own head it became so loud. Then I heard it, “Chow time!” That must have been what caused the sudden uproar. Food. I sat up and, thankfully, noticed I was on a top bunk before I jumped out of “bed”. I hopped down and as my bare feet touched the hard concrete floor I felt a very, I mean very tight grip around my right calf. “Where you going, Sister?” A stern, yet oddly calm deep voice penetrated my fears, and my leg. I turned to look and it was another inmate. Inmate? What am I experiencing here? Why would I be in jail? I do not recall committing a crime.

“I heard ‘Chow time'," I said to the creature still gripping my calf, “I figured I should get up.” It suddenly released its grip and said unsympathetically, “Food comes to us through that slit in the bars over there. You can bring me both trays.” Okay. Now I have seen this kind of bullying in the movies so I shouldn’t be surprised by that comment. A little Orange Is the New Black fighting and then It and I will be best friends right? I can handle that. I guess, though I’ve never actually been in a physical fight before.

I walked over to the bars. I could not see much to the right or to the left looking down the walkway but I sure could hear the wild cries of the captured. They want food! No. I doubt that is what all that howling is about. It was clockwork. An undeniable, time-stamped thrice daily opportunity to let out some rage; rage at being held captive, rage at what they have done, rage at what has been done to them, rage at their feelings, rage at a life disappointed. But why was I hearing these cries of woe? What was I doing in jail?

“A21, B21!” yelled the guard as he shoved two metal food trays through the slot in the bars. Okay, I thought. Some stainless steel. That’s what I’m talking about. “Hey, Aeeeeehhhhh 21. Bring me my food.” So I did. She threw a Twinkie at me and gobbled the rest. Why am I here?

They opened the doors of bars for all the cells at 1:00 PM for yard time, to exercise, pick fights. It is a loud, screeching noise when all the cells open at the same time, like 50 trains pulling into the station at once. Ouch.

We lined up and duck walked out to the yard. Then poof! Like lightening everyone dispersed knowing exactly where they were going—to their crew of course. I had no crew. I still don’t know where I am, why I’m here or what I did. “Hey, Aeeeeehhhhh 21!” She nodded to come her way. She was sitting with her “crew” at a picnic table. “Bitch, sit here with me for a minute. Let me show you what’s up. Now this here is Sheila, she likes to bang and this here is Rosanne, she likes . . .” I tuned out at that point. The introductions were making my head spin. I looked over towards the basketball court and saw a girl crippled over in pain and blood. She had been stabbed, shanked, probably murdered while trying to make a basket in a stupid jail yard court. She was screaming, crying out in agony, shrieking in pain.

“WHY AM I HERE?” I asked again.

Instantly I felt my eyes flutter open. It was too much. I couldn’t take the woman’s suffering. She was curled on the tarmac, her top drenched in blood, her cries of agony—I just couldn’t take it. Why am I here?

As my eyes opened I heard shrieking, the terrible screams of agony. It carried on. But as I took inventory of my surroundings; my favorite plush pillows, my fluffy cream colored—not grey—comforter, I understood what I was hearing was the screaming of an infant. The sounds were as shrilling as that of a hyena. “Oh no,” I thought. I know that sound. That is Jessie, my baby.

“Angie! Angie!” yelled my husband with all his might. “Get in here and shut her up! Get in here now you wench!”

Now I know why I was there.

I closed my eyes.