During this period, I’m wracked by an overwhelming bitter cold sadness and a longing for home.
Thanksgiving in prison is a thankful moment and a grateful event, but it is also a humbling and sad time filled with sorrow because we can’t be with our families.
“I’m grateful I still have my mom, dad, and daughter, and people in here that I care about to spend Thanksgiving with. I’m also grateful for Governor Newsom and prison reform.”
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.
Dislodged from our brethren in society, deficient of togetherness, devoid of love, our hearts call us to dream bold. Our collective soul cries out for more. We yearn to feel fully human again, if only for a day. We choose to commemorate these sentiments on Thanksgiving.
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
We might have broken our social contract with society, our communities, our families and ourselves, and we are paying the consequences, but there are times like Thanksgiving Day when humanity supersedes everything else, and we get the chance to prove to ourselves and others that we are still human.
I was born on Thanksgiving. My family would gather at my grandparents’ farm. I remember Grandma in the grand kitchen cooking, baking, and fluttering around creating memorable smells. There was always a dish of olives for us to put on each finger like tentacles.
Little did I know, “This is prison” would become a mantra. Those words echo through these walls as if they’re programming us to stop asking questions once we hear them.