It was my birthday and I wanted to enjoy it with alcohol, illegal narcotics and food.
Our first step was just like at a pizza place on the street. We made a nice dough for our pizza crust using crackers for the dough.
Everything Thanksgiving was for me growing up, it was the complete opposite experience once I became incarcerated.
My little army man that I had carelessly forgotten to retrieve from the oven, the one with the rifle and it’s bayonet, landed into the meatloaf and melted into the meat.
Last year Missouri served smaller amounts of turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, cranberries, and pumpkin pie with ice cream. But I know I am blessed to get even that.
Me and my children have been surrounded by love and great caretakers during my entire incarceration. No matter what though, there isn’t a substitution for ME with MY children during the holiday season.
While White children my age were growing up in the suburbs , learning how to become policy makers, lawyers and doctors, I was learning how to survive the third-world environment of urban living
On Halloween night I make a big platter of nachos while listening to songs for the occasion like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” Mötley Crüe’s “Shout at the Devil,” Carl Orff’s “O Fortuna,” Creed’s “What If,” Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me.”
Sometimes at night, when it’s relatively quiet, I will close my eyes and let my mind take me back to my Halloween memories.
My last Halloween on the streets was in 2009. I remember the day well. I had been taking advantage of a treatment program that uses methadone, a prescription-only medicine that helps opioid addicts detox with some semblance of stability.