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.