by Keith Erickson, Pleasant Valley State Prison in Coalinga, CA
There was this boy. He had been harmed as just a child by the very ones that were supposed to love and protect him. They had failed him in more ways than you can imagine. He was, like many of the men that now fill these prison walls of despair and disdain, broken before he ever stood a chance. If you knew his past, their past, you would see the world around you with deeper compassion than you ever thought possible. Their stories, our stories are real.
The tattooed faces, the standoffish body language that silently screams “Beware of Conflict” as the men walk these prison yards nodding to one another in traffic-like passing, “I too am,” but a part of this permanent fixture. It is a sub-cultural metropolis of aggression, distrust, and even hatred that can explode at any given moment. But, what is it that has made such a place even exist? Prison is filled with countless faces that tell a different story beneath each mask if you look close enough. You just have to be willing to look.
I recall the first time that I walked through these gates into the corridors filled with Correctional Officers standing guard outside of the housing units. I was just an eighteen year old boy pretending to be anything but scared. Deep down I knew what emotions were running rampant through my body, I refused to let them see the fear that ran through my veins as I walked with my bedroll towards my assigned destination.
The door racked behind me as I stood there looking at the concrete like box that would be my home for the next few years. How did I get this far? I thought to myself as I slumped down on the edge of what instantly felt like an uncomfortable bed to sleep in. It was as if my life had went full speed ahead since my childhood, and I just wanted to go back to when I was an infant learning all about life again, but this time in a safer environment than where I had come from.
The years went by as I adjusted to my surroundings the best way that I could. I did what I felt I needed to at the time to survive this den of affliction for what I had come to know prison as. And, I would realize through years of becoming a figure of this revolving door like system that the one thing that fuels this unseen beast is the hurt that has been a significant part of these men (myself included) long before ever walking through its gates. When you are hurting (I later learned) you tend to hurt others around you.
I remember the very first time I talked about what had happened to me at the hands of my stepfather. It was during a weekend workshop at the prison sponsored by the Alternative To Violence Project, and I sat there feeling as if I were on the edge of a cliff starring downward waiting for the words to come out of my mouth. When they did, I told my story to the room full of thirty-five men as my eyes concentrated on the tiled-floor beneath me.
I cried that day like a child, reliving the things that my stepfather had done to me is something that I had suppressed for so long. But when I did talk about it the hurt in me started to take on a complete different meaning. I was able to reach many of the men in the group with me that day, and since then I have taken every opportunity to speak about it. So, I believe that very day is when I started to heal the way that I needed to in order to continue getting to where it is that I am, fortunate enough to be here and now.
How many men are still suffering? I ask myself that question often. I also ask, “What is it going to take to heal every broken man and woman before they start to hurt others?”
I don’t know. But I do know that one less person who is experiencing a constant turmoil of afflictions like I once was, means one less person that is going to harm another human being within these walls or out in the community upon release.
If I can help another person understand this concept, I believe that I am making significant difference myself. Ultimately, I know why I am here writing you this article; I have no more hurt to give because I do not hurt myself anymore. And, I feel at peace with that, completely.
No More Hurt To Give
There was this boy. He had been harmed as just a child by the very ones that were supposed to love and protect him. They had failed him in more ways than you can imagine. He was, like many of the men that now fill these prison walls of despair and disdain, broken before he ever stood a chance. If you knew his past, their past, you would see the world around you with deeper compassion than you ever thought possible. Their stories, our stories are real.
The tattooed faces, the standoffish body language that silently screams “Beware of Conflict” as the men walk these prison yards nodding to one another in traffic-like passing, “I too am,” but a part of this permanent fixture. It is a sub-cultural metropolis of aggression, distrust, and even hatred that can explode at any given moment. But, what is it that has made such a place even exist? Prison is filled with countless faces that tell a different story beneath each mask if you look close enough. You just have to be willing to look.
I recall the first time that I walked through these gates into the corridors filled with Correctional Officers standing guard outside of the housing units. I was just an eighteen year old boy pretending to be anything but scared. Deep down I knew what emotions were running rampant through my body, I refused to let them see the fear that ran through my veins as I walked with my bedroll towards my assigned destination.
The door racked behind me as I stood there looking at the concrete like box that would be my home for the next few years. How did I get this far? I thought to myself as I slumped down on the edge of what instantly felt like an uncomfortable bed to sleep in. It was as if my life had went full speed ahead since my childhood, and I just wanted to go back to when I was an infant learning all about life again, but this time in a safer environment than where I had come from.
The years went by as I adjusted to my surroundings the best way that I could. I did what I felt I needed to at the time to survive this den of affliction for what I had come to know prison as. And, I would realize through years of becoming a figure of this revolving door like system that the one thing that fuels this unseen beast is the hurt that has been a significant part of these men (myself included) long before ever walking through its gates. When you are hurting (I later learned) you tend to hurt others around you.
I remember the very first time I talked about what had happened to me at the hands of my stepfather. It was during a weekend workshop at the prison sponsored by the Alternative To Violence Project, and I sat there feeling as if I were on the edge of a cliff starring downward waiting for the words to come out of my mouth. When they did, I told my story to the room full of thirty-five men as my eyes concentrated on the tiled-floor beneath me.
I cried that day like a child, reliving the things that my stepfather had done to me is something that I had suppressed for so long. But when I did talk about it the hurt in me started to take on a complete different meaning. I was able to reach many of the men in the group with me that day, and since then I have taken every opportunity to speak about it. So, I believe that very day is when I started to heal the way that I needed to in order to continue getting to where it is that I am, fortunate enough to be here and now.
How many men are still suffering? I ask myself that question often. I also ask, “What is it going to take to heal every broken man and woman before they start to hurt others?”
I don’t know. But I do know that one less person who is experiencing a constant turmoil of afflictions like I once was, means one less person that is going to harm another human being within these walls or out in the community upon release.
If I can help another person understand this concept, I believe that I am making significant difference myself. Ultimately, I know why I am here writing you this article; I have no more hurt to give because I do not hurt myself anymore. And, I feel at peace with that, completely.
“Like wounded animals, we too as humans react in ways that are often harmful to others and self. That, however, is not to say that we do not accept responsibility for all that we have done. We do, we truly do.”