A
by Carletha
I walked into a room, as most of the correctional officer would call it, but over time I realized this room was different than the jail cell I just left at the county jail; I didn’t have a bail because this is a prison and the room is really a prison cell.
“I am Black, I am cold I am lonely.”
I was twenty-one years young at the time but, I stayed in the county jail for 3 ½ years fighting for my life—not everyone gets this opportunity, like Tyre Nichols, who had no chance and who died on the streets just the other night.
I am Black, I am cold I am lonely.
This was no beach house, clearing house, charter house or whore house, this was a human warehouse, similar to the ones my grandmother would describe to me as she told us stories about our ancestors, repeating over and over—your ancestors would tell you the same if they were alive.
I am Black, I am cold I am lonely.
I worked in this place I would compare with the plantation my ancestors slaved on. I worked for 8 cents an hour graduating to 24 cents an hour after twenty plus years, I never had a vacation and was forced to work even if I was in a wheelchair or had a walking stick; it didn’t matter if you had the flu or if you were sick.
I am Black, I am cold I am lonely.
The correctional officer was like that of an overseer who made sure we complied with all the “ups”: wake up, get up, shut up, line up, eat up, med up, stand up, lock up, while also making us (all incarcerated) comply with the “downs”: stand down, sit down, face down, and if you were too slow you could be thrown down.
I am Black, I am cold I am lonely.
The atmosphere was so cold that even the brick walls cried for us as—you could see the water as it slowly ran down the walls. Officers would tell us it’s from the rain or the heat but we all knew different—it was a sign of the loneliness, the tears and the fears that surrounded us.
I am Black, I am cold I am lonely.
