Aniah's Blog Post

Justice

Justice. The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. 

Saying the word and believing in it are two different things. 

And as these metal cuffs clink against my wrists, I realize I will never see justice or anything outside this prison cell. 

Wrong place, wrong time. 

Mama warned me not to sell drugs, she warned me to pick and choose my friends wisely. 

But all the warnings in the world couldn’t save me from this. 

Oh, how I miss her spaghetti and those heavenly biscuits that filled the whole kitchen with their tasty aroma. 

I had dreams, I wanted to become an artist, get out of my poor neighborhood to a better life. 

I still want to do that, but how can I with a singular vision focus, looking at the bars of my cell. 

How can I when I am treated like an animal and they gawk and pry at me in a cage?

How can I when the system is unjust and because I am behind bars, no one cares what I have to say?

I can feel their eyes on me,

Judging me, 

Watching me,

Looking at me like I’m a murderer. 

I’m not a murderer. 

More like the victim.

Nobody died in what they are wrongfully accusing me of. 

Wrong place, wrong time. 

I know my sentence even before its announcement. 

“Guilty of armed robbery. Sentenced 10 years to jail,” the judge bangs the gavel hard, my fate is sealed.

That one motion hurts more than anything I have ever felt.

A child predator was in here earlier and he got half my sentence. 

He was white and wealthy. 

“Money talks.”

So does race. 

Justice is only given to you if you can’t pay the right price. 

Wrong place, wrong time. 

My face is slammed against the cement by the same men that are supposed to keep me safe. 

“Didn’t your Mama warn you to stay off the streets, boy?” The police officer spit near my face. “All you ni**ers are the same.” 

I still remember their taunts and as I am laying on my brick of a bed, their taunts somehow lull me to sleep. 

And the scars of them being aggressive and crooked, are still printed on my face. 

I stand in a sea of bright orange jumpsuits as I am let out into the prison yard. 

A small garden, once filled with beautiful flowers, I know, is now wilted and the flowers looking shrewd. 

The guards push me around and laugh at me and again my face meets the floor. 

And again I get up, just for it to happen again. 

I stagger to the cafeteria, awful slop on my plate that doesn’t look edible. 

I pass another cell on the way back to my own and smell something delicious. 

One of my fellow prison mates is eating lobster.

White. 

Rich. 

Money Talks. 

So does race. 

Wrong place, wrong time. 

“Hey!” A guard yells out. “Why are you away from your cell?” He looks momentarily to the well-fed-prisoner. 

“Solitary confinement you go.” 

“I thought it was three strikes, then solitary,” I defend. 

“Well, that was two.”

“But not 3.”

“Now it’s 3, you should really learn to shut your mouth.” 

I should’ve shut my mouth. 

The padded wall surrounds me, squares and squares of pads

Light brown pads. 

Unescapable. 

Wrong place, wrong time. 

White.

Rich. 

Money talks. 

So does race. 

I should’ve shut my mouth. 

Unescapable. 

Wrong place, wrong time. 

White.

Rich. 

Money Talks.

So does race. 

I should’ve shut my mouth. 

Unescapable. 

I don’t know how much time has passed.

I think it has been a while.

I can’t recall. 

Years have passed, or so I believe, there are a few blank parts of my memory. 

It’s 2021. 

I go visit my mother, she welcomes me back with open arms. 

I can’t find my friends, don’t know where they went. 

My brother-in-law doesn’t want me near my sister’s kids. 

“Ex-co” he labels me.

I apply for jobs. 

All rejected. 

I hear about that child predator from years back on the news, 

He’s doing well.

Is now the leader of a company. 

They say he worked his way up. 

It all started when he was hired 5 years ago.

It’s weird because

That’s the same company that rejected me.

Wrong place, wrong time. 

White.

Rich. 

Money talks. 

So does race. 

I should’ve shut my mouth. 

Unescapable. 

The rope is rough and brown,

I stand on top of a chair, 

I have the rope around my neck. 

I can’t imagine my mother’s face when she finds me. 

But if life rejects me,

I might as well reject life. 

I am no longer treated humanely in this life,

So I won’t remain human. 

I kick the chair out from under me,

And as my body naturally goes into fight mode with the rope,

My mind recalls what I’ve learned in this life,

And what I wrote in my suicide note. 

Wrong place, wrong time.

White.

Rich. 

Money talks. 

So does race. 

I should’ve shut my mouth. 

Unescapable. 

Gabriel's Blog Post

Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe

Blood was smeared upon the entrance,

Little Mary’s breath descended.

The man's identity who mustn’t be known, 

Came from the land no one knows.

He wore a jacket that bore the name Poe,

But who could he be,

No one will know.

He laughed and snickered, 

with happiness and joy, 

As little Mary’s body dissolved.

She kicked and screamed,

But no one could help, 

As the man within the walls,

fled like a crow.

Ariana's Blog Post

Inspired by a real person once incarcerated at Eastern State Penitentiary: 

Jacob Pensendorfer - committed homicide. 

“Please just call me Jacob.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Just get back to work 1381.”

He wasn’t working on anything particularly spectacular, only a chair, but the problem, the insanity was eating away at him. He had heard others say his name, he had heard her say his name, so he repeated it, over and over, and over, and over.

My name is Jacob.

My name is Jacob.

My name is Jacob. 

He could hear the judge saying his name “Jacob Pensendorfer is found guilty for the murder of a Liam Ninseky, his sentence, life in prison.”

He didn’t like the way the judge said his name. He was so rude; judgemental.

His mother crying his name didn’t make him feel any better either. In his head, she cried his name, desperate for him to come back to her. For him to stay in her arms as the child she loved. 

He yearned for the way she said his name. Her. His girl. His Maria. She was betrayed and hurt when he last went to see her. When she last called his name, it was in anger and betrayal, instead of the love he had craved. 

His number. B-1381. The warden grunted his number. The guards yelled his number. No one knew his name anymore. 

My name is Jacob.

My name is Jacob.

My name is Jacob.

He had been working. Working with a co-worker. A disrespectful young co-worker. He always had something to say about someone else. Everyone here was hardworking. We are all on the same page, except for him. He was only a teenager, and the worst breed of them. He was one of the ones who had no respect. The co-worker walked with arrogance. That had to stop. Th co-worker spat his name with disgust. He thought he was better than everyone. No, that was going to change. 

He followed Liam Ninskey into the back hallway on the way out. His friend said goodbye to him. He liked his friend. His friend said his name with a kind familiarity. He had met his friend’s family. They like him too. His friend had kindness and compassion. His friend was nice. He would do this for his friend. And everyone else he liked. Everyone else who showed kindness.

He followed the co-worker into a back hallway. A shovel dragged against the wall. The co-worker was starting to get afraid. Starting to get nervous. He walked faster. Broke into a trot, then a run. The boy started saying his name fearfully, terrified even. 

My name is Jacob.

My name is Jacob. 

My name is Jacob.

The boy never reached the end of the hallway. Jacob killed him. He was found in less than a day. Liam's family mourned while Jacob’s waited. Jacob. Jacob. Jacob. And now we’re back at the beginning. The judge sentenced him to life in prison. His mother cried. His girl left. He went to prison and rotted. His mind fell out of sorts. He barely knew what his name was any more. So at twenty four years, he was let go. He lived on under the care of a psych ward. 

My name is Jacob. 

My name is Jacob. 

My name is....

Anna's Blog Post

Mary White Morris 

August, 1773

I hate this life. It has been a year since my marriage to Robert Morris. Already I despise him and everything this union has brought.

As I write this, Robert is sitting in his study, going over the finances of one of his many ventures. I swear I can feel his contempt for me, leaching through the parlor door, and piercing my heart. I can practically hear his chubby fingers grasping a quill and scratching away, trying to cheat his employees out of a dollar or two. There is his sickly face, a cold bowl of porridge, hunched over his desk, showing no emotion. 

It was not always like this. I met Robert when I was nineteen, and he was thirty-four. I was living in my family’s home in the outskirts of Philadelphia. Before we married, I passed my days with my three younger sisters. We spent long afternoons reading poetry, playing music, and going to dances. I had no idea my bucolic life would come to an end upon saying my vows. 

When I first met Robert, I was smitten. My father oversaw our relationship, and I trusted his judgment completely. Like my father, Robert was from England, yet was an avid supporter of the patriot cause. At first impression, he seemed incredibly smart - and somehow even more charming. We married quickly, and moved to a gorgeous house in the heart of the city. 

I quickly became disillusioned with my new life. Robert’s true side, the scheming, manipulative businessman, soon came out. He rarely says a word to me, and when he does, it is a snide remark about me or my family. He holds the threat above my head that we will move back to England, and I will never see my beloved family and city again. Even Robert’s supposed wealth has brought nothing but shame and misery to me. Despite his impassioned speeches on freedom and man’s natural rights, he keeps two slaves, who he treats worse than me. I have come to realize that his only interest in impending conflict with England is for personal gain. 

Today, I spend my days isolated in our home. I am a day’s ride away from my family, and even if I could visit, Robert will not let me unless to discuss another business proposition with my father. Robert’s friends’ wives, the gorgeous and well versed Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Powel, are no consolation to my sisters. When I see them on occasion, they turn up their noses at my apparently childish attitude and interests. Instead of living a fast paced life with a revolutionary, I am holed up in this dreadful house, waiting for something, anything to change. I feel so insignificant, the world may as well burn in a few years time, and I will have done nothing. There's a verse I once heard, written by the Greek poet, that reads,

“I declare

That later on,

Even in an age unlike our own,

Someone will remember who we are.”

I cannot imagine a world where I will be remembered. And even if I were to be remembered, what would it be for? The daughter of a long gone man of society? The wife of a greedy merchant? Perhaps that’s all I ever will be. Perhaps not. Until then, I will remain in the house, waiting.