Prison Stories
Tears in a Halfway House
I had to learn how to cry again in order to find peace
It had been years since I last cried. Sitting behind bars for the past seven years, tears were not an option. But, somehow, here in the halfway house I entered a week earlier, I let myself cry. And I was angry at myself as the tears fell.
I always believed tears were a weakness. Kill or be killed was a way of life on the streets. In the land of monsters, feelings made you weak and others would feed off of them. So I always considered my ability to shut off my feelings to be my superpower. I think it was more of my kryptonite.
I first went to prison when I was 18 years old. I had already been on my own for the last four years. First on the streets, then bouncing from house to house until I was able to sustain myself through crime. Drugs, women, gangs, cars. I didn’t really think I was ever going to prison. But once it happened, I knew what kind of convict I would have to be. The one with a devil-may-care attitude. The one who would be ready to fight at the slightest inclination of disrespect. There was no room for tears.
In 2011, I landed in Walpole State Prison in Massachusetts, now known as MCI-Cedar Junction, for armed robbery. The first day of prison is like the first day of school…
