Affirmation: My time may have been taken from me, but my voice, my mind, and my will to be free still belong to me.
Dear Diary,
In 2008, when I was first arrested in Alabama, I believed I’d be home in no time. Seventeen years, eight months, and seven days later, I’m not even close to finishing a 130 year bid.
Damn.
Who ever would have thought this? Nobody thinks about the time before they commit the crime. So I don’t understand why judges, legislators, and the criminal justice system insist on using deterrence as a reason to sentence people so harshly.
Over the years, I’ve watched dozens of guys from my community come through this joint. Friends. Family. The sons of men I once ran with. Even rivals. My 130-year sentence didn’t deter them. So what exactly is being deterred?
To me, the aggravating factor of “deterrence” feels like a sham. Instead of deterring crime, these extreme sentences can deter people from exercising their right to go to trial. That fear is real. The fear of being whacked by the judge’s gavel can make a person think twice about fighting their case.
If I had taken the 22 year deal I was offered, I’d be on my way home. But in 2008, I was 22 years old. There was no way I could see 22 years away. Shit, I couldn’t see past my nose.
And that’s what I’m trying to explain today, sometimes accountability doesn’t arrive in the moment. Sometimes it takes years for a person to understand what they’ve done, who they’ve hurt, who they’ve become, and what their choices really meant.
Accountability can take years to catch up with a person. But the criminal justice system doesn’t seem to respect that basic human reality. It can be a remorseless machine, taking years from men and women without a second thought. As if time is something we can simply get back.
But we can’t. Once a year is taken, it’s gone. Once a birthday passes behind these walls, you don’t get it back. Once a child grows up without you, you can’t rewind their childhood. Time doesn’t do refunds. And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most. If we could have accepted accountability early in the game, whether innocent or guilty, our punishments would have been less harsh.
Maybe.
I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m tired. Tired of sitting in this cell. Tired of waiting. Tired of watching time pass while I’m expected to somehow remain hopeful.
Sometimes I wonder, What’s a nigga supposed to do? What could I possibly do to set myself free?
I cry. I pray. I pray. I cry. I write. I read. I read. I write. I even shout with all my might.
But still… The doors of this cell remain locked tight. So I keep searching for the key.
Maybe the key is in a courtroom. Maybe it’s in a letter. Maybe it’s in a book. Maybe it’s in these words I write with this pen. Maybe it’s in me.
Dear Diary, after seventeen years, eight months, and seven days, what does a man have to do to prove that he deserves another chance at freedom?
Peace,
Kory “Blaq” McClary
Dear Diary #12
