A Hole In My World

“You look nervous.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Don’t worry about it. They are all friends.”

“Maybe yours. I don’t know any of them. I don’t know anyone anymore.”

“It’ll come back. You ain’t dead you know.”

I may not be physically dead, but I’m not sure about emotionally. I’ve been gone a long time. No need to talk about the whys and wherefores just yet; let’s just say I was indisposed. 

There is something to be said, for being alone. I’ve been told that many people lose their minds when kept from human interaction. I guess I was lucky in that respect. I don’t really like people all that much. It isn’t that I don’t like them for any particular reason, it is just that I always come away from interactions with a feeling that I’ve either been talking to myself, or to someone that I wish I could make disappear.

Four years seems like a long time, and it is. One thing being alone teaches you, is to trust yourself, no one else. The trial went as I expected. My court appointed defender was a nice guy. He should probably have been an undertaker or someone who remains out of sight. I know it wasn’t his fault. You wouldn’t expect someone who was defending those who can’t afford a lawyer, to have much experience. You would have been right. I don’t think he even learned to pronounce my name until the last day. The judge pronounce me guilty, and he said inadvertently I supposed, “So that is how you pronounce your name.”

What is hard to understand, is how little they pay attention to you, or what you have to say. It is like you are guilty, they know it, and you are wasting their time by pretending you are innocent. It is particularly difficult when you are innocent. Getting someone to believe you, is impossible. They have all the power, you have only your word.

“Do they remember I’m white?”

“Why do you always bring that up? They don’t care what color or race you are. And besides, I thought you didn’t like the term white.”

I don’t like the designation. I wish I could prefer Caucasian, but that seems only a semantic move to make yourself and others feel better. I don’t, truth be told, like any designation having to do with color. What difference does it really make. The problem, however, is that we have been socially segregated by color for so long, it is nearly impossible to get to know someone that looks different than you. We have gotten to the point where if you are seen with people that don’t look like you, the assumption is you are up to something.

That is what happened to me. Stretch and I had just been in the Quick Stop convenience store and were making our way down the street towards the party someone was giving. Birthday, anniversary, don’t really remember. Apparently someone had held up the store after we left and the attendant, no doubt out of fear, said a white guy did it. Well Stretch is not white, Caucasian, or purple, but he got picked up too.

He got kicked around a little more than me, but after the following mornings interview they decided he, not being white, was not the culprit. So that left me. Now the clerk couldn’t make an identification because the robber was wearing a mask. But he could see the hands, and he believed the ring I was wearing was the ring he saw on the hand of the person who demanded the “cash,” as he put it to the jury.

There was no gun involved in the testimony of the attendant and the entire process, and my conviction, was dependent upon the ring. Apparently the robber did not speak, preferring to use a note demanding the “Cash.”   

I was less than fortunate, in that the ring I was wearing belonged to my deceased brother. He died in a foreign land, defending a country he was told needed defending. Anyway, it was a silver band, not unlike thousands, perhaps millions of silver bands worn by men professing their devotion and love to a woman, and should therefore be avoided by any female looking for a partner. It is said to work in some cases, but not all. But then that is not what got me locked up for larceny. 

“Do you believe I had anything to do with that robbery?”

He didn’t answer, or wouldn’t answer. He preferred to change the subject by assuming, and letting me know of his assumption that, I probably shouldn’t talk about it. “Bringing up old memories that are best forgotten.”

I knew where he was going with the deflection. In the years I was on “Vacation,” as it was referred to by those that were required to explain my absence, I was treated as though I had a terminal disease. 

I don’t have any family to speak of. I was raised by an aunt, and she had passed away while I was incarcerated. They wouldn't even let me say goodbye.

I should mention at this point that being causation, white, even purple, had its perks, as they say. Yes you are locked up, you have limited advantages, but when you are in the proximity of guards that do not put on the proverbial scowl and expect to be knifed because you look like them, or a shade of them, and not the other colors or shades in the zoo, it provides a comfort; unexplainable.

Having time to reflect on the injustice in our system I could not help but always come back to the place where being half black designated you as, black. I had never heard that rationale used to designate the color or race of another person. Our president at the time was considered black because his father was black. I on the other hand was considered white, regardless of the fact my father was of Scandinavian descent, and my mother of Polish heritage. They were both citizens, my father because of his occupation, a brick layer who worked in the elements, would have been considered browner than most. But none of that mattered.

“Come on, they won’t bite.”

Being bitten was the least of my worries. I was more concerned with being considered, not only a deviant, because of my color, but because of my recently assumed designation as, parolee.

Having served my time, I had been released early because of exemplary conduct, according to Jerome the guard I played cribbage with. I was free, but for certain restrictions. The main one being they needed to know where I was at every moment. No doubt in case the lottery ticket I didn’t buy, and had left under my almost a mattress, won the grand prize, and they needed to find me.

Now Malcom my next-door neighbor and confidant, got denied for the third time. They said he hadn’t been rehabilitated, and his demeanor needed work. What that meant he had no idea, nor did I. We assumed it was his lack of hair and snake tattoo that caused people to become ill at ease; most refusing to look at him at all. 

“Now, just be yourself. You’ll see, it will be fine. We know what you were through. God knows half the people in the neighborhood had been where you were. They were all innocent too.”

It was that kind of inference that I wished to avoid. If I was guilty, I could accept the distrust. But I have never stolen anything, except maybe that one time. But that was so long ago that I’m sure Karma couldn't remember all the trivial things that young people do just to see how it makes them feel to get away with something. At that age, your mother, having eyes in the back of her head, leaves little room for error as it is.

“Come on now. Just stay behind me and remember be yourself.”

He opened the door to the accompaniment of a sound that reminded me instantly of my cell door. And then someone turned on the lights and everyone yelled, “Surprise.”

After that everything went downhill. Stretch had failed to mention I was not affiliated with undercover anything, but it did no good. I was stared at, smirked at, laughed at, and finally asked if I’d mind going to the store for more beer. They said it was safer after dark for someone that looked like me. I had to admit they were probably right.

I pretended to be a good sport, took the money, and left. I couldn’t go back, and was planning on relocating the following day anyway, so I went home to pack. 

This entire situation could have been avoided had I been born a different color, or spent more time in the sun. But being allowed only an hour a day does little to put the tint on your skin or a twinkle in your eye. But then we live under a system of blind justice, and getting tripped up, shouldn’t really be a surprise.