Taking Greatness for Granted

Whether you know it or not, we were all born to be something.  It had already been written in our individual “Book of Life” that there was a definite purpose as to why we existed.  I believe we were all born to be great thinkers and purveyors of unbelievable talent, that our exhibition of greatness would mature in the same manner as our physical growth would and benefit one if not all of mankind.  Our light, OUR GREATNESS would be meant not only for ourselves, but generations after, to study, marvel, and lead to other acts of GREATNESS.  Some of us would find GREATNESS injected into our blood, privy to the best resources that life had to offer while others worked the fields of humility and circumstance to develop their GREATNESS—one small grain of self-esteem at a time.

Some of have died (or will die) for the sake of GREATNESS while others have lived (or will live) in pursuit of what they believe GREATNESS represents.

 And while there’s only one who knows for sure what that GREATNESS represents for each of us, the one thing that we can be sure of is:  GREATNESS should not be taken for granted.

12 years ago, you couldn’t tell me I wasn’t bound to do great things.  I was a high school valedictorian.  I had the awards, the accolades, everything.  And the best part about it:

I was about to get up out of my mama’s house!!!

Not that I was just totally unhappy, but the thought of college, or even just being independent enough to move out of your parent’s house, was too good to be true.  I could wake up when I want.  Eat what I want.  Go where I want without anybody’s permission.  And lastly:

I could just BE ME!!!

The expectations and the impressions of this more than average student that I had bathed in for the prior 12 years, I didn’t have to do that anymore.  Not that I was going to go attend college and be some kind of fool and just run amok, but the thought of college was that you had to have some pretty decent grades to get in.  They weren’t taking any dummies.  And I didn’t have to be the overachieving student anymore to get a degree.  I didn’t have to study all the time or read all the books.  I could miss class and not worry about being sent to see a disciplinarian.  I could take the classes I wanted to take.  I could dress how I wanted.  I could do what felt best to me…and choose my own path.

And now that I think about it…that’s exactly what I did.

My first year of college, I rebelled against everything.  I still maintained a 3.0 GPA, but you better believed I changed my look.  I got both of my ear pierced.  Grew my hair out and had cornrows for a few months (most people I know still think I’m lying to this day about that).  I even wore sweats to school every day.  Folks back home in Monroe hardly even recognized me.  Now that I think about it, I probably wouldn’t have recognized myself either. 

But it was fun.  I wasn’t at someone’s beck and call, bound by any rules; and although I still had a good sense of “home training” and was interested in getting an education, I thought being “regular” was just fine by me.  I was tired of that pressure to be “GREAT.”  Being good at fitting in could be just as rewarding.  Fitting in lasted 12 long years-- and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

In the game of life, the people who like to fade into the background, that are content with being just a part of the crowd…they probably have some of the most awesome talents/skills/stories on the planet.  I guarantee you that a “stroke of genius” resides in us all.  The difference between those that are apt to display that genius and those who don’t is the idea that being extraordinary or exemplary is not as appealing as it should be.  The thought of being different or special brings about more criticism than congratulations because of the expectations of others.  While that may be something that comes along with the territory, it’s hard not to be lured into a life of simplicity, mediocrity, or just a plain existence where you are no longer 1 in a million, but now just a number in that million.

Why?

Because the burden to share your GREATNESS is no longer a choice or a priority.  The burden society places on you to not only expose your GREATNESS but also break down the flaws in what you consider to be GREAT are just words in the wind.  The burden to maintain GREATNESS throughout your life is no longer fueled externally, but decided when, why, and how it was going to be put to use by the only person who mattered – ME.

So the REAL question here:

Is there a parallel between being GREAT and NORMAL???

Are the opportunities afforded to us to reveal our GREATNESS to the masses coincidental?  Or are they blessings appropriately placed in our paths to give our Book of Life some color?

I wasn’t worried about my “book” back then because the only person I cared to read it was me.  I felt that I was the only person who could understand exactly what it was that was going on in my head; and as long as I was content with the way I was going about living, then I believed I could find some sense of happiness in my own understanding of what type of life I was leading.

So you know what I did?

I started a new story.  Same book, but realizing that my GREATNESS wasn’t meant to be kept to myself, I could no longer reside in a space where fitting in was a part of the tale I was going to live to the best of my ability then leave behind for others to read, put down, and collect dust.  This story, this book, is going to be a classic.  It is going to be something to remember.

Yet in order for me to have the story I want,  the story that even a total stranger would never put down:

I have to be OK with being different…OK with the burden of expectation…OK with criticism without the congratulations.

OK with my GREATNESS...

--R.E.A.L.

Never Let Me Down...

When it comes to being true, at least true to me
One thing I found,one thing I found
Oh no you'll neva let me down

Faith (n.) a confidence or trust in a person or entity, a belief that is not based on proof.

Trust (n.) the reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc. of a person or thing; confidence.

There is no coincidence how these words may be similar in meaning, each relying on the notion of confidence to reinforce a true belief in something. 

Most of us, even at an early age, are taught this concept with the belief that both virtues should be afforded to not only our preferred religion but to our fellow man as well.  To the God we serve (Christians, that is), our faith and trust should be a declaration of our unwavering commitment as a testament to the sacrificial surrender of Jesus to the cross as atonement for our sinful nature.

The ultimate debt had been paid and in return, it was man’s duty to place faith and trust in the promise that our obedience will not only be rewarded in this life but the one hereafter.  Belief that all things practical and that of the miraculous sense are possible if we place our love an allegiance in HIM signifies our need to be connected to something bigger than ourselves.  We may never be able to physically see the face of our CREATOR, but we are built to believe that making a commitment to give honor and praise to HIM begets positive results—evident in what we perceive as blessings for listening to HIS word and testament and applying those principles to everyday living.

Our faith and trust in the belief that we are constantly kept in God’s grace is seems to be challenged every hour on the hour.  No matter how small the tribulation, it is safe to say that our ability to worry is more consistent than our ability to “be still and know” that no matter the trouble, we are protected from the spirit of fear of the unknown by an amazing POWER that we may never completely comprehend. 

Even in our darkest hour, when our resolve is at its lowest, that POWER is manifested in human form by our decision to take even the smallest grain of faith and trust that the same propensity we have for worrying ourselves into a state of sickness can be transformed into a means of overcoming adversity.

Is it a blessing???  Absolutely

Can it be considered a talent???  Sure, especially when we display a knack for “getting up to get down.”

The evidence of the relationship between faith and trust are plastered throughout the books of history, depicted in accounts of triumph in the face of despair.  Movements, rallies, calls to action that defied oppressive measures both internally and externally –only to be quelled by our ability to believe in the POWER.

No, we may not end up as some celebrated catalyst of change that impacts the way more than 7 billion people think and live; but if it only impacts one, then a REAL breakthrough has been made.

Our ability to overcome any situation through a belief in someone, something bigger than we can imagine, should be the only evidence necessary to realize that “let downs” inspire us to “get up to get down.”

Kanye West’s “Never Let Me Down” bests describes the notion that the God in me works to speak to the God in you through positive thought, in spite of shortcomings that are public and easy to judge (both voluntary and involuntary).  There’s a poem quoted near the end of song by a young writer who goes by the name J. Ivy that bests describes the unlimited POWER of faith/trust, challenging the idea of giving up and giving in—and replacing it with the ability to believe.

We are all here for a reason on a particular path
You don't need a curriculum to know that you are part of the math

Cats think I'm delirious, but I'm so d--- serious

That's why I expose my soul to the globe, the world

I'm trying to make it better for these little boys and girls

I'm not just another individual, my spirit is a part of this

That's why I get spiritual, but I get my hymns from Him
So it's not me, it's He that's lyrical
I'm not a miracle, I'm a heaven-sent instrument
My rhythmatic regimen navigates melodic notes for your soul and your mental
That's why I'm instrumental
Vibrations is what I'm into
Yeah, I need my loot by rent day

But that is not what gives me the heart of Kunte Kinte

I'm tryina give us "us free" like Cinque

I can't stop, that's why I'm hot

Determination, dedication, motivation

I'm talking to you, my many inspirations

When I say I can't, let you or self down

If I were of the highest cliff, on the highest riff

And you slipped off the side and clinched on to your life in my grip

I would never, ever let you down

And when these words are found

Let it been known that God's penmanship has been signed with a language called love

That's why my breath is felt by the deaf

And why my words are heard and confined to the ears of the blind

I, too, dream in color and in rhyme

So I guess I'm one of a kind in a full house

Cuz whenever I open my heart, my soul, or my mouth

A touch of God reigns out

- R.E.A.L.

Impossible is Nothing...

The more I heard stories about eating out of garbage cans and sleeping under bridges, wild blackouts and stealing to get the next drink or fix (some of them claimed to have more than one addiction), the more I felt an adverse effect taking hold of me.  Instead of fear or worry about becoming that type of person, I felt more compelled to drink because of how stressful a life that seemed to be.  To rummage around looking for a temporary sense of fulfillment that lead them to a life riddled with pain and suffering of some sorts.  Then to finally seek a solution in a program that focuses on working “steps” to lead a sober life, one day at a time, I wasn’t sure what to make out of any of those stories other than I didn’t want to hear them anymore.

Alcoholics Anonymous and I have tussled with one another for almost a year.  The stories hardly vary, yet the people look like anyone you’d randomly meet on the street.  Sure, when you think alcoholic or you think of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, you get this picture this down-trodden, hand-trembling, babbling fool. 


Could they have been capable of greatness?  Could they have been sane enough at one point in time to function like a normal human being? 

Some of you may or may have not known that some of the most famous people of our time were addicts to some type of substance or drug.  Don’t think that it’s just alcohol or drugs that people can become addicted to, though.  Some people are addicted to sex.  Food.  Money (is that really good or bad???).  Whatever the vice may be, you often hear people say too much of one thing is not good for you.

Webster’s defines an “addiction” as the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice ot to something that is psychologically or physically habit forming.

While it may not be a physical substance that we can ingest, sniff, or inject into our bodies, we can also become addicted to a mindset that forces us to have “tunnel vision” about a particular area of our lives that makes us uneasy or uncomfortable.  We settle into the humdrum of its existence because we believe not only was this supposed to happen to us, but that we must accept this part of our lives as an area that we’ve failed in, leaving us two options:

• Concede to our addiction to mediocrity and accept the truth that we just weren’t meant to have the type of lives we dreamed of living.

Or...

• Focus on putting forth a concentrated effort into our passions to create a purpose in which path and provisions manifest as a means to achieve a fulfilling existence.

Really, what is it that we get from just living life "on life's terms???"  By conceding to our defective thoughts and actions that not only affect our lives but the lives of those around us???  Why are we compelled to accept things for the way they are rather than make steps to improve our disposition by seeking knowledge, taking a stance, and putting boots to --- (you can thank "The Rock" for that quote).


By accepting failure, we rebuke the idea of change.  We accept the idea of dying with regret, knowing that we never tried (or tried hard enough) to fight the surpression of mediocrity within us.  We embrace "impossible" as a solution and close off the path to destiny's star that was designed for each of us.  We settle on the notion that we are incappable of injecting a sense of meaning into areas in our lives that afford us the opportunity to live better, love harder, and shout louder to all that will listen no truer words than these:


Impossible is Nothing

A Second Chance...

Second chances...

Yeah, man...

Imagine yourself as a fighter.  Having worked your way through the ups and downs of a career, you've come to that one fight that is to determine where you are headed from this point forward.  If you win, it could mean the life you've always dreamed of--or at least the one you've worked for.

You lose...then the penalties attached to not coming out on top could vary from a minor setback to a catastrophic spiral down the well of despair.

You're holding your own for the time being.  Bringing a little more reality to the topic.  You're making ends meet, not going hungry, getting by without having to overextend yourself too much.  You aspire to be more, but that break just hasn't come yet.  The championship is comfort and a chance to sit back and just take a breather if even for a minute.  It's knowing that when you wake up in the morning, things will be a little bit better, just a little bit sweeter, than the day before.  As long as you are taking care of the simple things that can sustain your "fight," you're good.  Just getting by without getting knocked out will work for now.

That's when the fists of life knock the living s*** out of you.  It was something you hadn't expected.  You thought you were at least giving enough of what you had to stay in the ring.


 


You're beaten...broken...bruised.  The stress of wanting to be more than what you are, greater than the person you have become, hangs low over your head as the referee begins to count you out.  Your body hurts as would any type of pain, but it's your spirit and mind that hurt more...

I thought that when I got arrested the 2nd time, my fight had ended.  I was a habitual offender with multiple DUIs on my record.  The financial toll would force me to invest money I had planned for other ideas into saving my own ass from the most adverse of consequences following a guilty plea.  The relationship I thought I was heading toward would've surely fallen apart.  I can't really see a woman being interested in introducing me to her family knowing that I had a criminal record when the most anyone of them may have ever had was a speeding ticket.  It's like I wouldn't even begin to know how to explain to someone's parents that I have been to jail for an ability to consume an embarrassing amount of alcohol and driving anywhere, knowing the consequences (after the first arrest). 

Spiritually, I just knew I would fall apart.  Having not been satisfied with most of my life's experiences up to that point (other than a few occasions), I believed that this would be the end.  I would become just another statistic to the system, my obscure existence shrouded in mediocrity, falling a slave to my own destructive devices.

July 15, 2011

I could remember walking outside of that jail that Friday morning and never smelling air so sweet. Yes, some days there was a semblance of light that shone through the Plexiglas walls of the institution; however, this was a different kind of feeling. I had gone into my sentence afraid of what might happen on the outside without me.

Would I lose my relationship? Would I lose my job? Would I lose the love of others whom I hold dear? Would I lose me?

So often we find themselves on the wrong side of life, encountering life-changing experiences that test our resolve to remain strong in our convictions, faith, and dreams. Each time the doors shut behind me, I felt the sting of failure. I felt my family had no reason to look at me the same. YOU could not look at me the same.

My conversations with God had gotten longer at night, evolving from simply praying for my safety during this time to asking for strength for my family and friends to appealing to HIS mercy for A SECOND CHANCE.

A twinge of envy stabs you as you watch someone get freed when you’re in JAIL (remember that reference I gave you about the difference between jail and prison). At least that’s after the first person you see leave. You hope that your name is called as soon as your time is up and that they can move you out as soon as possible. Name after name is called and what was envy now becomes nothing more than hope. Hope that the person that just got out doesn’t screw things up this time around. Hope that they can get themselves straightened out and put their lives back on track to do something other than come back to jail. Hope is, ultimately, replaced by dreams—that when you leave, you would do nothing to waste a SECOND CHANCE on life.




R&B singer El Debarge returned to the world of music from a two year stint in jail (narcotics charges brought on by addiction) with what I considered to be one of his greatest songs in 2010. And a year later, the words from the chorus of “Second Chance” spoke volumes to the testament I felt moved to deliver to others as I continue to write this blog.

So tonight I lay me down to sleep...
And pray my soul to keep...
In that your love will rescue me, for the rest of my life...
I live to say good bye...
To all the promises left behind...
Here we are you and I...
A second chance...

When you get a second chance, there should be no doubt that the best you is ahead. Your best chance to live, love, and serve are now in front of you. A walk of faith is now required to quit dreaming and start realizing that the quality of your life doesn’t have to be predicated by the errors of your past. WE can bounce back from this. The chance to be great has not passed us.

So...take a deep breath. Open your arms wide. Embrace the opportunity. Say goodbye to what we leave behind.

And say hello to “a second chance.”

Jesus Walks...

Before I went to jail, I was told that there would be no outside books brought in.  So the thought of bringing and cookbooks or my GQ magazines was out of the question.  Not that I was completely sure why they would be adverse to bringing in magazines or literature that would help me keep my mind off of the hell I was experiencing from within, but that was the law of the land.  Nothing I could do about that.

However, I could bring a Bible...or some sort of religious text.  Naturally, being of the Christian faith (Baptist) and at the prodding of my family, I carried my Bible on the inside with me, hoping some mystically power from within would help me through my ordeal.

I often found in my short time here on Earth that skepticism and faith cannot exist in the same space.  That we cannot hope without hope, dream without actually having a dream ourselves, or inspire without first having being inspired. 

Those first few days, the words on the tattered pages of a old Christmas gift , held only significance because that was what my grandmother taught me.  She wanted me to believe early that God so loved the world, that he had offered the life of his only son to save fools and followers alike.  Yet, I was trapped, in this cage of granite, having been shackled in the midst of my peers.  The shame, I tell you, was like none I've ever experienced.

Jail.  Prison.  Mental Institutions.  they say that those places are a form of rehabilitation, "correcting" wrongs that can be made right.  But was that through means of serious reflection?  Confinement to the gallows of society where many a man could reach for the worse if no better?

Yet a Bible was all they allowed me to bring in.  My sanity lay in the power of a book that spans millenniums before my birth.  My comfort spelled out in the words of Jesus as he spoke to the people
in hopes of leading them to salvation.

Salvation???  Was I able to be saved???  Was jail God's way of saving me from myself???

I just had to ask.

Was locking me up God's way of keeping me off the street for a while? 

So that I'd not have another night similar to the one when I got arrested...so that instead of being in chains for charges only applicable to my own error in judgement, I wouldn't be facing charges attached to the tag identifying the body of another if not my own?

Often we reach for the redeeming hand of OUR FATHER when we are at our lowest.  I was no exception to the rule.  Flashbacks of the seizures on the cold, floor of the holding cell just a few short months ago.  The friendship of suicide lingering in my ear for but a brief moment.  The chains of judgement that held not only my body captive, but that of my spirit.  I was nothing short of feeling broken.  It wasn't that I had no sense of praising the MOST HIGH before, or that I didn't make efforts to give praise as often as I could (not should), but the clasp of my fingers felt as if superglue had held them together.  I couldn't have prayed any harder or asked for forgiveness more sincere than I had then.

That Thursday, I happened to be browsing through the "library" after  having stomached through a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and some white stuff that looked like grits.  I was looking for something long enough to keep me occupied as I was going to be released the following Friday.  I couldn't say that the book I would pick up was as eye catching as the others, books about Coach K's tips to winning at life or Dr. Myles Munroe's "Releasing Your Potential" (a self-help manifesto regarding the use of our special talents for the glory of God); however, there was a healing power in the spirit of its pages--something I wasn't quite sure I was ready for.

Letters to God was Tyler's story...yet I somehow felt the testament of the young boy in myself.  I hadn't lost my father in a car accident as he had (he and my mother divorced) nor did I have older siblings to whom I looked up to (I'm the oldest).  And I wasn't dying of cancer...

Tyler's unbelievable reach to hearts of the characters in that book--from the drunk postman with whom he became friends to his widowed mother who wanted to have a love of her own again to his neglected older brother who just wanted to grieve in his own way--could not have come at a better time. 

Instead of asking "God, why me,"  I should've focused more on answering "God why not me???"

Often we believe we suffer as a means of punishing our deeds than are less than flattering, never thinking that the true purpose for our lives can be revealed when our faith is in jeopardy.

God's hand had been on me the whole time.  It was through Tyler's bravery through adversity that I could finally feel a hope for my own perseverance through my time.  I was not to question the plan.  HIS grace was sufficient enough.  I share that grace with you through these words:

And he said to me, My grace is sufficient for you: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest on me.

I had finally found my church in the wild...

The "Chain Gang"

As the six prisoners each shuffled their feet in an eerie unison, Sam Cooke’s “Chain Gang” came to mind:

That’s the sound of the men…working on the chain….gang…

They weren’t actually going to work on a chain gang; but hoping in the passenger seats of the sheriff’s department van seemed nothing short of being shipped off to some hot part of Athens to wield some type of labor instrument necessary to perform some cheap work.  In fact, they were headed off to the state courthouse downtown for the regularly scheduled “Status Check” as participants of the county’s DUI/Drug Court program.

We were dressed more like Halloween characters rather than actual prisoners aside from the full bodied chain apparatus, shackling our hands and feet…

Chains…

Bound from movement of limbs anything more from 6 inches to the left or right of either side.  Even if I wanted to scratch the unlikeliest of itches, it’d just have to wait.  The chains weren’t coming off.

We were the last to enter the 5^th floor courtroom.  Participants who had been assigned to the program as part of their respective sentences lined most of the pews in the room as those who were transported from the jail had to sit together.  The stares were embarrassing although I knew that they had been in the same position as I was at one point or another, yet that didn’t bring any less shame to my thoughts.  No one in the room had been at liberty to judge other than those members of the program’s administrative powers; and while there eyes may have given off the “seen it all before” vibe, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of judgment that I was being labeled as just another case in their file…another criminal for them to watch.

And in all honesty, I was.

Athens-Clarke County DUI/Drug Court program was the brainchild of State Judge Kent Lawrence.  A former UGA letterman and graduate, Judge Lawrence formed the county’s version of drug recidivism program as a means to cut down on the number of repeat offenders of drunk driving in the Athens-Clarke Co. area through a means of intensive probation and accountability as an alternative to just throwing people in jail and letting them dry out—only to go back on the streets after their time is done and do the same stupid thing over again.

48 weeks of treatment.  Group therapy which involves meeting with substance abuse counselors once a week.  Mandatory, random, drug testing at the discretion of the court/program.  AA meetings.  “Check-ins” that served as a means for just making sure all participants are following rules or as a means to collect a random sample for drugs and alcohol, which included the day’s “status conference.”

Not to mention…$240 a month for program fees/costs.

Top that all off with a bulldog of a probation officer who probably didn’t give a **** (insert your own four letter word) about what it took to get you sober just as long as you did what you were told and were inside your residence (or at least the county limits) when he came a knockin’ – you were either going to be on top of your stuff or your ass would’ve been in jail with very few questions asked.

“Status conference” was like a roll-call of sorts, making sure everyone who was signed up to participate was doing what they needed to do to get through the program.  If you were a model participant or made progress, they would praise you.  I you were a hard case, they would encourage you to do better thought some means of encouragement that would include sanctioning of even the smallest of privileges you were allowed as grounds of not following the rules.

This was only my first “status conference” so there was little for the judge to way other than to welcome me on my path to “RECOVERY,” promising that they would do all they could to make sure that I was offered every advantage to have a chance at a new life without using drugs or alcohol.

I had yet to hear a word the judge had been saying.  My concern lie with no one else in the room other than that of the mind of the prisoner occupying the orange jumpsuit I had been assigned.  While the attention of the others was on the judge, my attention had floated away to when I had told my grandmother about my arrest that night.  Vividly, I could recall he using the adage “like them stupid a** ni---s” to describe my behavior in which my already damaged psyche had burst into flames made of remorseful tears.

Obviously, she had seen and heard the countless number of men in our city…our community…our family that had been taken into custody for a number of reasons, becoming just another statistic of the country’s penal system. 

Now it was her first-born grandson, her “Boobie,” that was now the statistic.  A two-time delinquent with mug shots to boot.  Was her pride hurt?  Sure.  I won’t run down my accomplishments again as I had in an earlier post, but why wouldn’t have she been proud of her oldest grandson?  Why wouldn’t she have wanted the best for me?

Yet as I ran my hands down the grooves of the cold links of my handcuffs, I had to ask myself:

Why wouldn’t she have been ashamed to know her grandson is in jail?  Why wouldn’t she have not cursed me out more than she had before as my name…her name…our family’s name…would have been marred by what was viewed as a destructive habit?

My hands tightened around the shackles, carelessly daydreaming that Hulk-like powers would surge through my body to free me from my bondage…or that the judge would just be merciful because I was the one who was “different” and just let me go.

Judge Lawrence had wished us well throughout our journey in the program.  While the “free” persons filed out of the courtroom to go back to their own lives (or what lives they led, all things considered), the chained prisoners stayed put until everyone had cleared the room.  The officers charged with our care instructed us to gather ourselves to be transported back down to the holding cells to wait for our transport vehicle back to the jail. 

One foot in front of the other, we shuffled to assemble in a straight line…making that sound again…

The same sound as the men…working on the chain gang…

Prisoner 74319...

My sentence carried a somewhat minimal effect than what it could have had the judge went by the typical rules of a person convicted of DUI for the second time.

My lawyer negotiated a plea by reducing my jail time in half on the grounds that I enter into a court mandated program (which I am currently in as I write this blog) that was specifically for multiple offenders in attempts to redirect their thoughts about alcohol abuse and impart knowledge in regards to possible addiction to a mind or mood altering substance.

It’d be safe to say that the week I spent in jail was one of the most life-altering experiences I had ever encountered. TV and press scare you into thinking the worse, and while many of the horror stories are true, the most frightening thing I learned about being in jail was the trained mindset of other inmates who were in the same “dorm” as I was.

These guys weren’t hardened killers or drug lords. They were DUI cases, probation violators with minor drug offenses, and child support dodgers. Most of them seemed like decent guys, some who may have just run afoul of the law by chance and others who didn’t give a damn. Yet, it was the mindset, the mental capacity for some of them to think that their best lives were better off spent in jail, caged like some kind of deviant animal just because they were used to it.

After the first 24 hours (and a jailhouse moniker attached to me by a card-playing slick named Tony), my resolve had been confirmed:

This was not my best life.

Did I believe I was too good for jail??? 

Hell yes, I did.

• Class valedictorian:  Done
• Voted Most Likely to Succeed:  Did that, too
• Best in Service:  All me
• College Grad (Go Dawgs!!!):  BAM!  That was me again.
• Prisoner 74319...

The wristband that resembled a hospital ID bracelet posted only my first and last name, followed by the number 74319 as a means to identify me on a list of many...as well as a means to make calls to the outside world that was still going on without me just fine.

Think for a minute...

60+ grown men milling around a university-style commons area, bunk beds lined along the walls.  They are dressed in dark blues or khaki jumpsuits and facility-issued slippers.  15-16 hours of the day would be spent staring at 2 large plasma TVs, playing cards, reading, or swapping stories of the life we once lead outside of confinement.

Food served on trays that wouldn't have been used in even the poorest of school cafeterias were served three times a day.  It might not have been "Iron Chef" approved, but it was just enough to keep you alive.  As I stomached down the bologna sandwich with one side plastered with a slice of white bread and the other side with a multi-grain slice, I could see Paula Deen's face turn sour at the thought of hearing one of her biggest fans eating something she wouldn't have fed the catfish she catches in her backyard pond. 

Love and best dishes, my ass...

The shows on TV that depict life on the "inside" tend to lean toward the more violent aspects of life behind bars; and while "jail" and "prison" are two TOTALLY different terms in regards to confinement (prison is relegated to persons who get more than a 1 year sentence), the fight for manhood and sanity is more prevalent in the mind rather than it being a solely a physical battle.  Only focusing on barbaric thoughts and actions, society has trained our minds to revert to our animalistic instincts in order to survive what we think we might know lies ahead in the coming days.

Natural fear and anxiety forces me to my bunk as I kept a close eye on the other inmates around me.  While the names slip my mind, the faces an etched into my brain as the weathered effects of aging through life in and out of jail had offered distinct images of what society would label as "my peers." 

The biggest threat to me doing time unscathed was  running afoul of the officer on duty; however, the motives of others around me who had more experience in the life were just as unsettling.  Whatever advantages I was going to gain to make the best use of my time...or at least make the time fly by...were going to be by adapting as quickly as possible.  I did as much as I could not to give off any type of vibe that I was going to be easy to get over on, exhibiting the fear a type of penal system predator would flock to.  I was nobody's "bitch" or "boy" -- and I had no intentions of being such.

Killers or not...if you're in the "system" long enough, you'll pick up habits to prey on others.  It was all about coming out on top whatever way you could.