There is a house outside of the large wall surrounding the New Jersey State Prison, a quaint little Tudor house with an attic window. I can see the upper portion of the house from my housing unit and when I walk around the prison yard.
Back in my high school days, a good friend of mine lived in the attic of a similar house in Long Island. His room faced west and from the attic window, the sunsets were epic. Sometimes we would climb out of the window to sit on the roof that hung just over his driveway. From that point of view, we could watch the girls from our high school playing basketball on the court across the street.
All these years later, here this alien swath of land with its barred windows and barbed wire, I can look at that little Tudor house and find solace in its presence. It reminds me of a much happier time.
In prison, being melancholy is not a feeling but rather a state of being — in perpetuity. A few fleeting moments of joy feel like gasps of air for a drowning soul.
I don’t know who lived there, but that attic window with its pink curtains, was a breath of fresh air. In this sea of despair, that attic window became an island of hope. In that window, humanity was alive and well.
I am Muslim so holidays like Christmas and New Year don’t mean as much to me. Yet during Christmas, someone would place a pink placard sign in that attic window, wishing all a “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
Through falling snow flurries, I could see that pink message of love. The humanity of that simple act touched me to the core. It caused me to smile in my despondency and, for that, I am forever grateful.
In my mind, I often place myself in that attic, wondering how the view must look from that vantage point. Surely, looking out at the wide expanse of the prison — foreboding and threatening — must have felt foreign and eerie from behind those curtains. The apparitions inside must have appeared ghoulish.
Over the years, the little attic window changed steadily. First the window was shut, its curtains draped, no more pink signs spreading love across the expanse. Eventually, it was just boarded up. The view blocked, the hope crushed and the well-wisher silenced.
I didn’t like seeing the changes, but I did understand. I am a pragmatic man, after all. People move on, things change. And from their perspective, the prison must have been a frightening place, filled with ghosts. In a way, they were right — partly. As it is with all things, there is good and bad here. And in prison, there are also many who are just misplaced. Wandering spirits.
So, yes, I understand but I am still mournful because I never had a chance to show my appreciation. Among the many evil wraiths that roam these cell blocks, I like to believe I am one of the friendly ones. So, if by some chance of fate, this composition reaches the one behind the pink curtain in the attic, I just want you to know that from the bottom of his translucent heart, Casper says: Thank you.
(This essay was originally published on the blog, Captive Voices)
Republish this article
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Here are our ground rules:
- You must credit Prison Journalism Project. In the byline, we prefer “[Author Name], Prison Journalism Project.” At the top of the text of your story, please include a line that says: “This story was originally published by Prison Journalism Project” and include a link to the article.
- No republishing of photographs, illustrations or graphics without specific permission. Please contact inquiries@prisonjournalismproject.org.
- No editing the content, including the headline, except to reflect changes in time, location and editorial style. For example, changing, “today” to “last week,” or San Quentin to San Quentin, California. You can also make minor revisions for style or headline size, and you can trim stories for space. You must also retain all original hyperlinks, including links to the Prison Journalism Project newsletters.
- No translation of our stories into another language without specific permission. Please contact inquiries@prisonjournalismproject.org.
- No selling ads against our stories, but you can publish it on a page with ads that you’ve already sold.
- No reselling or syndicating our stories, including on platforms or apps like Apple News or Google News. You also can’t republish our work automatically or all at once. Please select them individually.
- No scraping our website or using our stories to populate websites designed to improve search rankings or gain revenue from network-based advertisements.
- Any site our stories appear on must have a prominent and effective way to contact you.
- If we send you a request to remove our story, you must do so immediately.
- If you share republished stories on social media, please tag Prison Journalism Project. We have official accounts on Twitter (@prisonjourn), Facebook (@prisonjournalism), Instagram (@prisonjournalism) and Linked In.
- Let us know when you share the story. Send us a note, so we can keep track.