Looking out: That look
By Brandon Astor Jones
I saw a fellow prisoner come into the cell block from outside where the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Centre's administrative offices for G-Unit are. He carefully and deliberately walked to his cell, passed through the cell's open door and closed it behind him.
On his face there was "that look". It is an ineffable expression that brings no immediate name to mind, but I know it well. On him it is the look of a man who is doing hard time in prison — who had just been told his mother had died.
I had been talking with another prisoner, so I excused myself and walked down to the grieving prisoner's cell. When I got there, he was attempting to seclude himself by blocking the view into his cell by connecting a sheet from one side of his cell wall to the other. He was trying to get a few minutes of privacy before the officer walked through on his routine 30-minute visual check of the entire cell block.
I knew I was intruding, but I was driven by a force beyond my control. I asked him, even though I could not see him behind the pseudo-privacy of the sheet, "Is everything all right?" Of course, I knew it wasn't. He replied "No. They just told me that my mother died yesterday."
I felt inadequate as I offered a sincere, "I'm sorry, man." Then from my lips suddenly sprang the question, "Hey man, can I hug you?" He said "Yeah". He came out from behind his sheet and as he stuck his arms out of the cell, I stuck my arms in. We patted one another's shoulders for a brief and telling moment. Before we ended that embrace, while both of our voices were riddled with the emotion of death's presence, I said to him, "You were more fortunate than some of us. You had an opportunity to know and live with her — and she knew how much you loved her." He responded, "Yeah. I did."
It was in that instant that I realised how difficult a hug is to give or get through the cold steel bars of a prison cell. Yet, it was a warm and pleasant experience. Well worth the effort. It was an experience entirely devoid of pretence or fear of it being misunderstood by any who observed it. Empathising, I too felt death's sorrowful grip upon my heart and soul anew. I had felt it more intensely back in February, when I was told that my father had died.
Today, for hours, I gazed upon the photographic images of one of my youngest grand-daughters. Her name is Precious. She is now seven months old, but in the photographs she is less than a week old. She lies fast asleep on a blanket my daughter crocheted for her but I swear that I can hear her infantile cackling and laughter as I view those photographs.
I am reminded of what Lucretius, that old Roman poet and philosopher, said: "The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead." For me, today, that is true.
I hope the brother's grieving is tempered by the beautiful presence of a newborn child in his family. I am grateful for such a child in my family. I am equally grateful that the brother and I were able to hug each other. There are too few hugs in the African-American community today.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He is happy to receive letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, GD&CC, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA.]