Caged Angels
Michael Xia
A single note falls like a raindrop at my feet, shattering into a
thousand tiny rainbows. I think there must be an angel caged in the
cell next to mine. If I could play the instrument of my voice as miraculously,
would I be closer to God? It seems my destiny is to be an ordinary
raven, even here, where birds are forbidden to fly.
My reverie is broken by a clamor of keys and slamming gates. A prison
guard bellows, "Get your ass out here, damn crackhead. Damn you
stink like a Indian!" I rise as do the twenty-five other men
who have shared this cell with me over the past forty hours. None
of us is certain to whom he refers. It is not me, not this time.
I sink back to the floor that has become so cold I could ice skate
on it. I look for the largest person (the fat ones give off the most
body heat) and huddle close to him, but made sure it didnt seem
like a homosexual come on. In here we have no prejudice or pride.
We have a camaraderie of spirit we did not share in the street. Out
there we took each other's money, drugs, and bitches; in here, we
give each other warmth and hope.
A harsh voice shouts, "Eric Young!" It is my turn. I am
shoved into a much smaller cell and sprayed with horrid smelling breath
to frighten me. I stand calm and quiet because I want to please the
guards. I have been here two times before and I know the rules well.
They know me, I know them, but I know better than to address them
in a rude manner. There are rarely any clean sheets stocked so I had
to settle for unwashed rags. I wonder why they bother to cage us when
they let us go the next day.
Just as sleep comes to steal me from this misery, another voice intrudes,
this one gentle and assuring. "Sir, my name is Mr. Smith. I have
been in a worse position than you and look at me now. I have fine
clothes, a fine job, and I'm fine lookin' too! If you want what I've
got, you have to do what I did to get it. I pledge my support to anyone
willing to make a change." I step out of the cell not even flinching
when the gate clangs shut behind me.
As we are walking to the dormitory where I will be housed, I hear
singing and stomping. I am amazed when we arrive and I see that it
is military marching and cadence.
"My God Mr. Smith," I exclaim, "you didn't tell me
I was joining the army!"
"There's more to it than that, Eric," he says.
He calls the men together to introduce me and they applaud. One man
approaches me and says, " Good morning. I'm Steven, the unit
captain. In this program it's mandatory that we attend school. We
have five minutes to get on line so let's go!"
We march down the bleak hallways to school shouting, "Yer left,
up on yer left, it won't be long, yer left up on yer left, we're goin'
home!" I suppress an urge to laugh outloud, especially while
the men in general population are watching us. Unlike the adolescent
boys that are in jail, adults are not required to attend school, so
most of them don't. They spend their days watching television, playing
cards, getting high, (yes, there ARE drugs in jail) and fighting.
We are allowed outside one hour per day for recreation, but our program
is kept separate from the other inmates. We are learning to change
all our negative behaviors and that means changing who we hang out
with.
After three hours of computer training, we return to our dormitory.
Awaiting us is a social worker who visits our unit weekly. She suggests
that we continue treatment at a residential facility upon our release.
I can't see myself doing that. I want to stay clean, but after eight
months of jail how can I volunteer to be cooped up for another year,
being told what to do and when to do it? I feel so much pain and guilt
over not seeing my family for the years I was using, how can I not
see them when I am released?
At night after dinner, we meet in groups with the counselors to discuss
our issues, which run the gamut from being shot at to being abandoned,
to abandoning our hope. A man who I do not know well, starts the group.
"You know," he says, "this is my second time here.
When I left I swore I was going to a residential program. I missed
my freaking kids so much I figured later for that! Well, I got home
and my bitch, who looked after them for years, just hugged me and
went out to get her hair done. The fuck was up wit dat? The kids were
all over me for attention and fighting, and I was a nervous wreck!
My bitch finally came home and when she thought I wasn't looking,
took her purse. I was so mad. Then my kids wanted her to put them
to bed instead of me. I didn't want the kids to see us fight, so I
went to my other old bitchs house. Just like when I got busted,
she was getting high. I had nowhere else to go, I was depressed, so
I got high right along with her. Now, here I am again, but this time
I am going to take the cotton out of my ears and put it in my mouth!"
God works in mysterious ways. Though my situation isn't exactly the
same, I see he felt the same as I do now. I do not want to make the
same mistakes as this man. I lost my friends along with my self-respect.
My mother died while I was in active addiction not knowing what would
become of me. I have not had contact with my father for two years.
I have decided that I am no longer afraid to die, I am afraid of living
my life the way I was. I am slowly coming to believe that I am just
like every other human, no better, no worse. I decide to go to residential
treatment and I encourage my peers to do the same.
Unfortunately, many are called, but few are chosen. I hear of many
who leave and die of overdoses or have been killed in gang related
fights. I am determined not to be one of them this time. That is the
part I wish I could give away, not just to addicts, to everyone, this
love of self. I cannot, but I can live in an exemplary way.
The day of my release has come and I am sent off with cheers and
hugs. I await the volunteer who will drive me to the rehab center.
I laugh aloud when I see that it is Mr. Smith, who inducted me into
the program in jail. There is a certain symmetry to arriving at yet
another program with Mr. Smith, and I pray I will be as successful
in this one.
A single note falls like a raindrop at my feet, shattering into a
thousand tiny rainbows. I step up to the cell and say, "Mister,
you sing like an angel. My name is Eric. A few years ago I was in
a worse position than you and look at me now. I get paid to come to
jail! If you want what I've got, you've got to do what I did to get
it. Would you like to hear more?" The angel looks at me and smiles.