This holiday season, PJP editors asked formerly incarcerated writers how the holidays have changed for them since they left prison. Read the other perspectives here.
This Thanksgiving marked one year since my release from prison — a year of swift adjustments and slow transitions. Like many who have served time, I find myself reflecting on those we left behind.
For my third Christmas behind bars, I proposed a new tradition to my friends: a holiday feast. Our sources of income varied from legitimate jobs to various side hustles, and together we pooled what we could from the canteen and kitchen. On Christmas morning, we covertly “borrowed” three 8-foot tables from a multipurpose room. Obviously, we were not supposed to bring them into a living unit. But if I had learned anything during those first three years, it was that if you walked around like you knew what you were doing, very few guards ever confronted you.
We started a massive cooking spree: chopping sausages and cheese with makeshift knives, commandeering microwaves to cook onions and peppers, and rehydrating beans. We also whipped up gallons of artery-clogging cheese sauce. Preparation sprawled over three hours.
Then we lined the tables with inverted trash bags and spread nacho chips along the makeshift buffet. Frantically, we layered beans, cheese, meat and vegetables over the chips. By then, we’d attracted onlookers, including some confused-as-hell guards. As the tables brimmed with food, I climbed onto a chair, declaring, “Merry Christmas, f—ers! Have at it!”
That day, we fed our entire pod, inaugurating a tradition I upheld in some form or another throughout my sentence. This experience — transforming a time of isolation into a moment of community — remains a profound memory that I carry into my life post-incarceration.
