by William Curl, SATF in Corcoran, CA
…I’m on my twenty sixth year of incarceration. I’m no longer the immature kid who had no idea how to properly process the emotional trauma from my childhood. I’m sure none of you woke up one morning and said, “Today I’m goin’ to join a gang or become a criminal.” That’s not how it works. It’s a process that starts with the way we were raised, be it household, environment, some traumatic experience in our childhood caused us to embrace an antisocial way of thinking.
It’s all about perspective. The way we perceive and process information, feelings, conditions. My father trained insecurities in me through verbal abuse when I got too big for the belt. He was a solid brotha’ when it came to raising us. Like most men, he wasn’t openly affectionate.
Although he took care of us financially, went to all our games as kids, celebrated all accomplishments like graduations, birthdays etc., the only emotion he knew how to openly communicate was anger. He was the action type. I knew he loved me, although he never said it because he did the things that flow from love.
As I got older and began to get into adult trouble, he didn’t know how to express his fears that I would end up dead or in prison for life, so he tried to humiliate me out the lifestyle.
He’d say things like, “You a wannabe. Somebody gone blow yo’ dumb ass brains out wit’ yo’ punk ass.” “Keep this stupid shhh up and you ain’t go’ be nothing.”
He made me feel like a coward with his words.
Physically my 5’5” 150 pound frame was no match to his 6’2” 230 pounds. I felt defenseless and worthless. I had to walk around with that shame inside of me. Whenever I got into trouble I secretly wished for the belt. That pain went away after a few hours. Those words taunted me daily with the possibility that they could be true.
Whenever someone got close to making me feel like my father did I wouldn’t accept it. Before they could figure out my secret, I would unleash all that inner rage. I had something to prove to my father. I wasn’t no coward. That was the beginning of my low self-esteem.
When I realized at forty years old I had daddy issues, it was difficult to accept. Those are called causative factors. The factors that influenced us to adopt an antisocial way of thinking or what I like to refer to as a warped belief system. I noticed I was always angry the day I found it necessary to put the mask on. I’m sure most of you are angry too.
When you are raised in poverty, drug addiction, physical, sexual, mental abuse, abandonment, and neglect, you have a right to be angry. You have a right to be frustrated, disappointed, distrustful, worried, scared for having to survive that type of victimization at such a young age.
Yep, no one wants to be called a victim, but that’s what we were. It was the reason most of us searched for acceptance, acknowledgement, validation and love in the streets. It’s completely understandable.
Now it’s about finding healthy ways to respond to those emotions we spent so much time denying. I’ve learned anger is a secondary emotion. The primary emotional drivers are shame, pain, guilt and fear. Those are the secrets we hide behind the mask, the reason we act tough and unaffected.
When you lay down at night ask yourself how is it so easy to pull a weapon and take a person’s property or their life from them. When I was asked these questions it took a minute for me to recognize a painful truth. I didn’t see them as people. I saw them as objects and as enemies to be destroyed and sources of money to be robbed.
I demonized people so it was easier for my conscious to accept dehumanizing them. It’s the way human beings justify foul treatment of other human beings in our dysfunctional thinking. That’s the way CRASH officers, that judge, that sergeant was able to treat me the way they did. I was a gang member, criminal, prisoner which translated into an animal that didn’t deserve a certain level of respect.
At the time, it definitely was a true assessment. I was a danger to myself and any one unfortunate enough to cross paths with me. I’m hoping y’all take this as a cautionary tale to help you choose differently than I did.
Regardless how bad our upbringing was, we still have choices. I’ve got three brothers, two sisters raised in the same household and none of them chose the path I did. When you reach a point in life where the facts of your existence are painful to reflect on, it’s a difficult reality to relax into.
For example things I took for granted in my youth I regret never participating in. Like I never been to a prom. The last grade I completed was the sixth. I never participated in any of the teenage milestones that serve as memories. I’ve literally been locked in this cage longer than I was living in society as a free person.
Those are the regrets I’ve had to wrestle within the confines of my being. Those are the inner conflicts that drove KD over the edge and introduced so many homies who started this journey with me to psyche meds. These yards have turned into insane asylums. Millions are spent annually on mental health. The mind is the first to go.
Witnessing someone you know succumb to the conditions of confinement is scary. Mental death leaves purposeless shells wandering around the yard constantly reminding you what’s ahead if you decide to lose focus. There’s always a reminder of what you stand to lose.
The misconception is that surviving behind these walls is 100% physical, but it’s not. Throwing a fist in hand to hand combat or conquering the fear to do battle under the gun, it’s what we do. There’s nothing complicated about that.
What we weren’t taught in the game was how to process family deaths, break ups with girlfriend’s or baby mamas. I never understood the depth of those women hatin’ tattoos I witnessed on so many. I knew they were mad but it didn’t resonate because I never been in love before.
I didn’t fall in love ‘till I was forty years old. It was beautiful. Never knew I could love another human outside my family like that. When it ended, I understood the tats symbolized a level of pain some don’t recover from. (That’s a whole other writing). We are emotional beings. I used to hate when people told me the love from the homies wasn’t real because they didn’t write or send money. That made me angrier.
I’ve come to understand it wasn’t about real or fake. It was a teenage love that ultimately lacked the capacity to develop in sync with my individual growth. There’s not a lot of stuff I find interesting as an adult that I did as a kid. Banging is one of ‘em.
When I think about the destruction and suffering I caused the community, the torment resonates through my soul will outlive the pulsations in my heart. I despise who I was. I know I can’t change the events that mark the most shameful period in my existence, but I will dedicate the rest of my life to restoring balance to the community I helped destroy.
Some years ago I got my GED. This was before I had any desire to be better. Back then, I did it so my Mom could have something to be proud of me for. It’s crazy but the process of change started way back then and I didn’t realize it.
Now, I’m dedicated to building William up. I’m currently enrolled in Bakersfield College chasing an AA degree in communication. I’m in a vocational trade program to be HVAC technician. I’m a facilitator in self-help groups and if I’m never released, I’ve found purpose in being an example of the change so many want but have no idea of what it looks like or how to relax into it.
I find ease in seeing that light bulb cut in men who like myself are searching for self-identity. I hope this sheds a little light on y’all future if nothing in ya’ choices change.