I owe two natural life sentences to the state of Illinois, which means that self-doubt constantly flows through my body. I always feel like I am less than, on the verge of nothingness or just plain worthless.
But for one day, I was able to experience a different reality. On Wednesday, April 20, I was reaffirmed when me and 19 other incarcerated men were celebrated and honored for our academic achievements.
We were the first cohort in the Northwestern Prison Education Program to receive associate degrees from Oakton Community College in a commencement ceremony with the full pomp and circumstance of any graduation. We wore green caps and gowns and our professors from Northwestern and Oakton entered the auditorium in a formal procession with their academic regalia.
The Black Oak Ensemble, with Grammy-nominated musicians, played music, and Aislinn Pulley, the co-founder of Black Lives Matter Chicago and the co-executive director of the Chicago Torture Justice Center, was our commencement speaker.
As part of the ceremony, each graduate was asked to give a two-minute speech. While I waited, anxiety hit me first, followed by fear. Self-doubt wound its way through my body, with shame as its plus-one.
Standing in line with the rest of my classmates, disquiet and fear clashed inside me, causing the “why” police to show up unannounced. I was all over the place emotionally and I was drained physically. Tears streamed down my face, while I rocked from side to side, trying to shake the nerves from my body. Then my turn came.
The tassel from my cap wiped the tears from the right side of my face. That put me at ease, and I found myself wiping my entire face with the tassel.
At that moment, it hit me. I was graduating. The emotional party was still going on in my body, but the professors on stage were all I saw. I purposely looked each professor in the eye as I walked toward the microphone. The emotional party inside me was over. Only self-doubt remained.
I gazed into the crowd searching for a face, but the masks made it virtually impossible to know who was who. Eventually, I saw my mother’s eyes. I could see she was going through the same emotions as I was. She pulled her mask down and smiled. I cleared my throat, and read the poem I had prepared. This was my moment.
“Am I Worthy”
I stand at the finish line between humble and cocky draped with pride on the outside
Wondering who can stop me?
Am I worthy?
An inmate with a number
But blue has never been my color
I take pride in my stride to be like no other
Am I worthy?
A philosophical scholar with existential views A journalistic genius with “in the moment” tools
Am I worthy?
Dazed and confused with nothing to lose
Armed with two degrees, from two elite schools
Am I worthy?
At times I feel like a seedless flower dying. By the hour
Trying my best to find my purpose I’m trying to grow
Do you like my surface?
Am I worthy?
I’m the son of a single mother, who’s been like no other. She will love me until she has nothing left. So, to you mom I say this: I love you, I thank you, all in the same breath.
Am I worthy?
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.