Even though life, for me, started out rough and many of whom were grey and wise could have predicted parts of my future, a big piece of the picture was missing at my sentencing.
Like most children from inner-city neighbourhoods, I was active, mischievous and got myself into all types of trouble. Trouble, that if one wanted to be technical, could be defined as crimes; minor conflicts, major brawls, innocent exchanged of contraband to deliberate sales of them.
Truth be told, some of my activities were done with 100% ignorance and naivety, while others were established to me as being absolutely illegal.
And despite my justification of exercising these acts, like my momma always say, “right is right and wrong is wrong!”
Speaking of my momma, she knew that I was no saint, but she also knew that I was far from being a monster which any innocence person had to be weary of. My relatives and friends all knew that what I did, was what everyone else was doing, and while the city might have defined it as crimes, we defined it as getting by; in other words, surviving.
And as long as no innocent person was being hurt, I always went to sleep with a clear conscience, so clear that every morning I use to pray to God for guidance and protection, and thanked him every night for keeping me safe through another twenty-four.
Don’t get me wrong, sometimes people got hurt, myself included; it’s a doggy-dog world when business is exercised on the black market or better said, outside of the prescribed law.
We were deemed ‘not innocent’ simply because our activities weren’t notarized and registered at City Hall, it couldn’t be, and they wouldn’t have wanted that. If that was to be, the Mayor would have had less reasons to claim aid funds and half of the security forces would have been laid off.
Still, among all that politics or should I say ‘polytricks’, I was arrested, arraigned and sentenced without anyone batting an eye.
I served my time over two decades ago and recently while counselling some youngsters, I surprised them with a confession.
Over twenty years ago, I was deemed one of society’s bottom-feeders, hood-rats or more politely put, a minority or a non-Caucasian, who is a resident of the ghetto.
While living in the ghetto, crime and violence are everyday sightings, and often, at some points, with knowing or not knowing, we all participated in acts which could be defined as crimes.
As I got older, I became more aware of my actions which were defined as crimes. My momma had her suspicions, but my friends were certain of my actions, and last but not least, the local police had information about my activities; their information was correct, but their timing for a bust could not have been any worse.
So after entering my home for a search, they came up empty handed; I was clean, with a cup of Seven-Eleven’s frozen slurpee, being the only thing in my immediate position.
Still, I was given a sentence of ten years, and like I said, no one batted an eye, not even my mom; instead of hearing my plea of innocence, my mother was busy trying to negotiate a deal.
After a while, I too, started to think that I was guilty; after all, I was no saint.
If anything, I was only smart to be one step ahead of the cops, but as you can see, that didn’t help either.
My confession to the boys was a declaration of serving time for a crime that never even took place.
At first, I justified it by all the bad I had done, without consequences, then I blamed high society and its prejudices, I blamed my momma for making me into a minority and I even blamed God for making such an injustice prevailed, and after a very long time, I found the strength to be humble and accept it all.
It’s done and over with.
I now credit the experience for being an eye-opener to one of society’s businesses, which uses its people as commodities for trade; incarceration is a money making business, for some, and not always about innocent nor guilty.
While laws and punishments psychologically prevents more than two-third of us from committing crimes, this strains the business of prison populations, and for this reason, every so often, an innocent person has to be branded ‘Convict’.
Bleeding Pen 