Life In The Joint
Life in this joint is real. Growing up in the streets amongst older street guys and hearing them tell tales of how they or someone we knew held it down in prison. The person didn’t tell, so in street terms he kept it real. And in the streets, not ratting on your cohorts is a badge of honor. Purple heartish if the guy was serving the rest of his life prison.
I witnessed older cats that I looked up to get arrested right before my eyes. They would spend summers in jail. Some for so long that I forgot they existed. When they returned to the streets, the whole neighborhood would celebrate their release. Cookouts and block parties would be held in their honor like veterans retuning home from war. During those parties the beautiful woman in the neighborhood would throw themselves at the guys with words like, “You look so good.” And “You got so big.” And their comrades who hadn’t fell yet would give them money as homage.
The guy who was recently released would tell us about the other guys from the neighborhood that he left behind. He would tell us that person was living the life in the joint, with stories like, “He has the whole jail scared and the officers are bringing him whatever he wants.” This was the norm growing up in my neighborhood, so it was all love and respect.
Living the life of a street dude I never wanted to be arrested. But if it happened, I knew that when I was released the celebration would be big.
How about when the release date is never? Guys coming home can’t speak on what a life sentence in a cell is about. Or the pain and anguish that a man experiences when serving life.
Some guys serving a life sentence relish the glory of not being a rat. He never told on his companions so the streets hold his name in honor. The streets don’t know what his life is really like inside.
I know guys that didn’t tell but after spending years in a cell, losing appeal after appeal, now they wished they would’ve told. Because the guy’s name that he kept a secret, turned their backs on him. Imagine spending the rest of your life in a cell for a guy who won’t press five on the phone to accept your collect call.
I know some guys who still have the opportunity to rat, but won’t take the opportunity because their word is sacred. Having the opportunity to be free from hell but not able to accept it because he made a vow to a code. It’s so painful. I see it in guys eyes. Imagine being reformed and realizing that the way of life you gave an oath to is wrong but your word is too strong to break. That’s mental anguish.
Life in this joint is real. Sometimes when I sleep, I dream that I’m free only to be awaken by an officer’s tap on my cell door screaming, “It’s count time McClary.” I wish that I could go home and let the youth who grow up like me know how it really is in here.
I want to tell the youth how I felt when I was in the hole and I received a letter with my brother’s obituary inside. I couldn’t understand it, my brother was gone. Since I committed an institutional infraction, the prison wouldn’t allow my family to contact and inform me in person or console me. All that I could do was cry and wonder how? And as the years passed on my grandfather passed, my cousins, and friend’s. It never gets easier on the phone listening to the details of the funeral because I couldn’t go.
I see guys in here fronting to the people that they talk to in the world like they’re holding it down. “Yeah, the judge gave me all of that time but it’s nothing to a gangsta.” When in reality, they’re breaking! And they’re dependent on all sorts of psych meds, trying to escape the pain of life in a box.
I know a guy that said if he loses all of his appeals he’s going to kill himself. But he has the audacity to preach the gangsta lifestyle to those who are unaware of what life is like in a cell. I don’t understand it. Then again I do. There’s nothing in here that makes a guy want to change. If a person doesn’t want something different, the prison is designed to keep guys on a criminal path. After all we’re surrounded by all types of gangsta
The streets hold my name in high regard but it means nothing to me. When I call home I try to tell them what it’s really like, but they don’t hear me. Where I’m from guys only respect actions and never words. They have to see it to believe it. So I figure that if they see me doing what’s right, they’ll believe that they’re capable of doing the same.
I wish that I could spill my heart out to the youth about what I see in here on a continuous basis. Everyday the same ol faces withering away. I seen my friends lose their minds in what seems like overnight.
The fear of losing your mind from being in a cell for twenty four hours a day, wondering if God will ever will for you to be released. And the reality is… I only witnessed a handful of guys be released. In the ten years that I’ve been in Trenton I’ve seen more guys die than be released and that’s real. I know a guy that entered this place as a teen, forty seven years in and parole is still denying him.
It’s scary but the street guys that we looked up to never told us about this part. The squares warned us. But street guys don’t listen to squares. Street guys only respect street. So, the street guys that put the work in to reform themselves need to be released so that they can forewarn the youth in the streets.

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