The Vow

Greg didn’t like seeing his precious Lita like that, kneeling, facing the wall, her shriveled hands upon her own head, while other hands, rough hands, searched her, handled her with careless exuberance. Why was she suffering this indignity? What had she done but try to raise him where his parents, both cut down by the scythe of heroin, had failed? Was this the crown she deserved in old age, the humiliating cap of her interwoven fingers? Shame flooded Greg as he watched his wise-faced, tender-hearted Lita being humiliated for his crimes. From the angle at which they had him pinned to the wall, he could make out the tragically significant part of the whole scene, the heartbreaking spectacle of his grandmother being treated like a common thug. They even searched her votive altar, treating the candles, statuary, and reprints of Jesus Christ – with blazing stigmata – as if it were all some form of pagan accoutrement. They knocked down her little Virgin Mary statue. In the frenzy of searching and unsettling, one particularly clumsy officer stepped on Mary’s head, crushing it. Greg kept shouting, “My grandmother had nothing to do with it!” They only ridiculed him more emphatically.

Kind hearts, although seemingly not as prevalent as cruel hearts, are nonetheless everywhere. A considerate officer came in and, noting Lita’s age and discomfort, immediately offered his hand to help her up. He guided her to the kitchen table and helped her into a seat. Greg thanked the officer whose humanity, he quickly discovered, did not extend to drug-dealing grandsons.

Soon, Greg was in the police car. A light, icy rain began to fall as he peered out the back window. She was there, Lita, at the building’s entrance, trying desperately to get past a burly officer whose arms were outstretched, like meaty cordons. The icy rain on the window set tears upon the scene, upon her very image as the police car pulled away. A leaden despair settled into his chest, and he hadn’t the will to contest the arresting officers’ litany of taunts. He would not, could not resort to his usual insolence. The thought of Lita having to suffer through his capture, indeed, through his overall decline, throttled his conscience. In a way he had never experienced, although a “lord” of the streets, he felt a crushing loss of dignity and self-worth. Suddenly, and for the very first time, he saw his little grandmother as poor and betrayed.

The case against Gregorio Vega was very much a straightforward matter. He had been caught with 21 crack vials, and it was a repeat offense. The court appointed attorney could not claim “no priors,” and he was sentenced to 3 years imprisonment. That’s 7 vials per year, he flippantly figured. He struck a cavalier pose upon hearing his sentence. It was a toothless display of contempt for the proceedings and for the judge’s decree. Within him, his heart was shot through with holes. His every thought hidden behind his mask of disdain was about Lita. Who’ll protect her? Who will help her with the groceries, las compras? The bailiff proceeded to escort him through that door that all prisoners hate. As he was about to cross the threshold, he saw Lita just entering the courtroom. He called to her, but it was too late. She barely saw his face as he was prodded through the doorway. He pleaded with the guard to let him at least kiss her goodbye. He might as well have been asking for pizza and a cell phone. No, the tail of Minos was wound. Judgement had been pronounced. There was no going back, for anything.

Greg wanted to die. He was 19 and in solitary confinement. He had gotten into three fights in order to stay independent of the coercive prison gangs constantly vying for his allegiance or subservience. The last fight wound him up in the bin, in solitary. A beautiful orange setting sun seemed to call to him from beyond the grimy grated windows of his cell. Greg wanted to die. It was his birthday.

Being alone was probably best for him. In one sense, solitary provided some solace from the madness of the general population. He needed that solace now, as all manner of thoughts sat tensely within his mind, like animals eager but unable to pounce. He held all the thoughts on a leash, all except one, Lita. They had spoken once, using the phone of a reluctant neighbor. He couldn’t help but notice a weakness in her voice when she did speak. This shoved him deeper into his own despondency and ceaseless worry. The helplessness of captivity only turned that worry into an awful gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He tried to breath, tried to imagine the 2 years and 7 months left in his sentence evaporating, dwindling away. It was useless. He really had to suffer, to feel the pain of confinement over time. That could be managed, miserable as it made him feel. What he could not manage, aside from his fears for Lita, were his burgeoning feelings about prisoners and prison life, in general. He had run into a few “homies” from the neighborhood, but he couldn’t seem to talk to them as he once had. He found too many inmates unafraid of wasting away in jail. Some were content to remain, while others looked forward to release so they could repeat the very infractions that had gotten them imprisoned in the first place. He couldn’t get the hang of this willingness to do time, as if time were nothing. For the most part, he was extremely sad and isolated, even outside of solitary, especially outside of solitary.

Looking at the lovely setting sun was probably not the best idea, considering his overall mood. Hints of other colors began seeping into the protracted vista as the sun sank into the skyline of the city beyond the East River. Faint reds and wispy lines of pink seemed to cushion the sun’s decline and made Greg wonder if one could still experience awe in the maw of loneliness and depression. He could savor the beauty, but it made the prison cell seem so much smaller. It was too much for him. He pulled away from the window and sat on his cot, numb, rejecting thoughts of freedom which, considering what he had done, both to his grandmother and his neighborhood, seemed undeserved. He had never learned meditation, but in that moment, he wanted only to think of nothing. It was while suspended in that gaping emptiness of mind that the cover on the cell door slot slid open, startling him.

“Gregorio, you in there?” Givens, the unit supervisor asked.

Greg smiled irresistibly at the ridiculous question, then answered: “Where else would I be, Givens?”

“I don’t know,” Givens responded with his out of place affability, “sometimes, I see you looking like you’re in another universe”

“Can you blame me?” Greg, countered as good-naturedly as he could.

“Happy Birthday, Gregorio Vega,” Givens said with not as much joy as the statement required.

“Thanks, man.” Greg said, a bit stunned. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

“It’s there on your write-up sheet,” Givens responded, “inmate number, date of birth, cell block.” He stuck his hand through the rectangular hole and held out a cupcake with an unlit candle stuck in it.

Greg stood, went to the slot and took the cupcake from Givens’ outstretched hand.

“Wow. Thanks a lot, Givens.” Greg said, genuinely moved.

“It’s nothing, son.” Givens responded. “This is not the kind of place for a person to spend a birthday. Sorry I couldn’t light up the candle. It’s the rules.”

“No, no, that’s cool.” Greg was smiling. It was a red-velvet cupcake with yellow icing.

“Greg,” the geniality in Givens’ tone was replaced with something akin to parental concern, “I don’t mean to ruin your day… I mean, being where you are and all, but what are you doing here?”

Greg answered by wondering aloud how Givens didn’t know the answer to that question. “You know I had another fight with Botea. That fool has been all up in my personal space one too many times.”

Givens answered evenly, “I don’t mean here, I mean what are doing in prison? You’re too smart for this place.”

Greg struck by this comment. He was already heavy hearted from thoughts of Lita and confinement in what should have been a day of joy, but this heartfelt conscience-rattling inquiry from Givens, a prison guard, was more than he could stand. A full minute passed before Greg could mount a response. In that minute, the worst moments of his personal history coursed through his mind, like a polluted stream. Flashpoints of sorrow and self-destruction, the events he had hoped to forget, greeted his consciousness like unwelcomed visitors. He recalled the day, at five years old, he’d had a nightmare and ran into his parents’ bedroom seeking solace, only to find their bodies cold and unresponsive, strange-looking, tiny bags of white powder on the dresser and a blood-tipped needle on his mother’s chest. That was the living nightmare in which all he could do was scream and scream, banging on the front door whose lock was beyond his reach. Then came the voices from the other side of the door, desperate inquiries for which his only response was more screaming. In that eternity, he wet himself and stepped back from the door at the admonition of the harsh voice outside. Banging ensued and the door was broken in, a rush of uniformed people, fire-workers and officers bustling about until he was picked up and consoled - by whom he can’t remember. He does remember the funeral and tears that followed, gushing as he cried in Lita’s lap, the tears for her daughter, his mother, all the while hidden – for his sake. Children adapt, they say, and it seemed he did, taking to school and the love of his grandmother like one yearning for normalcy, for something better. He remembers meeting Nelson, who beguiled with thoughts of riches and a street respect his bookish manner would never earn him. He plays out countless lies he told Lita in his mind, a crushing memory of betrayal, mounting one lie at a time. He understands pointedly how he’d given over her sacrifices, his promising achievements in school for the dismal netherworld of back-alley drug deals and the impulsive, spiraling dissipation engendered in the satisfaction of every urge and the fulfillment of every street-level whim. He remembers the day he was arrested in his grandmother’s home, the look of confusion and burgeoning despair in her eyes. He had a home, and there was love: but he had rejected it.

All of this swept through his mind in the minute before he answered the patiently waiting Givens.

He finally said, “I was going tell you I don’t know why I’m here, but I do. And now… now I don’t know what to do.”

“Change!” Givens rasped intensely. “Nothing is stopping you. Make a vow today, your birthday. Tell yourself you’re going change.”

“I don’t know where to start.” Greg said, a casual helplessness in his voice that seemed to upset Givens.

“Oh, stop it.” Givens shot back with more heat than he had intended. Softening, he added, “Start with yourself. Make that vow, however you want to word it: I’m done with this life.” The gears suddenly switched. “Is there anyone you care about?”

That question set off another flurry of remembrances, his Lita kissing his forehead after making sure his communion suit fit just right. The sun brimming through the window highlighting the smile on her face, a smile that was the purest embodiment of love. He savors the time she brought him his favorite treat, coconut and nutmeg pudding, “tembleque,” which he had earned for doing his homework without fail. Then, underlining his shyness, she sat there, beaming with pride, watching her beloved grandson devour the treat she’d made with bits of ingredients that included a generous quantity of affection. One more memory danced across his mind, the sight of her joyful face in the graduation audience as he recited a poem by Frost, the last line now echoing within him: and miles to go before I sleep.

Again, Givens waited for an answer to his plea for Greg to make a change now, not tomorrow, not in some uncertain future, but now, on a day that signified not only the years, but a new year of life, his birthday.

Greg finally responded, “I have someone love, very much, my grandmother.”

“Well, there you go.” Givens said, in what might have seemed like an incomplete statement. Greg knew what it meant. No more needed to be said. There was someone he loved and cared for, deeply. His time away from her was making that fact agonizingly clear.

Then Greg did something he hadn’t done in very long time: he asked for help.

“Givens,” he began, “is there any way you can… help me change?”

Now, it was Givens’ turn to pause. He hadn’t expected Greg to appeal to him, directly. In his mind, he reviewed what he knew about the prison’s programs. When, at last, he spoke, Greg was grateful to hear his calming, encouraging tone.

“First thing we have to do,” said Givens, “is get you moved out of B Block. There’s nothing but trouble waiting for you back there. Botea is going to be there for a long time. He doesn’t care anymore. I think C Block is a better fit. I’ll try to get you moved to kitchen duty. Those fellas don’t make trouble, they like being around the extra food.”

“That sounds great.” Greg said, buoyed somewhat by the thought of a change of prison circumstances.

“Wait a minute, now,” added Givens, “that’s the easy part. The prison is starting a something called the College Annex Program. You can sign up and take some courses to get real credits for college.”

“I didn’t finish high school.” Greg announced joylessly.

“No problem.” Givens responded, undaunted, “We’ll sign you up for the G.E.D. classes. You can do that, can’t you?

Greg didn’t hesitate to answer, “I was a good student until I started messing up.”

“It’s settled then.” Givens didn’t hesitate either. “But it’s all on you to make something of these chances. Use the library. You got plenty of time to study, even out in gen pop. But you’ve got to make good. Most people make wishes on their birthday. You need to go next level: You need to make a vow. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I hear you, Givens.” Greg couldn’t remember the last time he sounded so earnest about anything. “If it means I can get back to my grandmother and do something to make her happy, to make up for all of this, I’ll do it.”

“I’ve got to go now and make my rounds.” Givens said, almost sadly. “Think about how you got here and where you’re going next. And don’t forget the vow.”

“Thanks, Givens,” Greg had forgotten about Givens’ job and the metal door that stood between them.

He stood there, still holding the cupcake. He heard Givens’ footsteps fade as the guard walk away. For the first time in months, Greg felt an urgency that was more than just the raw desire to get out of prison. It was a pull of resolution. It was a need to do something that would change the course of his life for the better.

He sat on his cot, thought about the words of wisdom Givens had imparted. The man showed care for him when he didn’t have to. It was uplifting, a powerful reminder that life isn’t just the sum of things that happen to a person. Life also contains the things a person can do. Greg looked at the cupcake and made a vow as tears started down his face. “Happy birthday to me,” he whispered, “happy birthday to me.”

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