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The 12th Anniversary Of My First Day

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​The fridge and pantry had nothing I wanted. On the floor, beneath cardboard boxes and sneakers, sat the real meal: a bag of Lay’s (the closest seasoning I could find to The Whole Shabang) a half sleeve of Ritz crackers, and two cans, chicken and beans. ​Instinct kicked in. I dumped the crackers into the chip bag and kneaded them down to powder. A sharp fragment poked a pinhole through the silver foil. It was a minor, familiar frustration; my fingers twitched automatically, searching for the scrap of masking tape I used to keep pressed against the angle iron of my bunk frame. ​I rinsed the chicken and beans, tossing them with BBQ sauce, adobo, and onion powder. Running the sink until the tap steamed, I worked just enough water into the crushed crumbs to bind them into dough, smoothing it out flat before piling on the filling and a handful of shredded cheese. ​I wrapped it tight in aluminum foil. I told myself the foil was an upgrade, but I knew better. Institutional clear trash bag pla...
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The 90s Were The Last Real Decade

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You know you are officially aging out of the cultural conversation when people start getting nostalgic for stuff that just happened.  I know there are young people throwing  "2000s-themed parties." But what does that even mean, really? What is the visual shorthand there? Low-rise jeans, a Razr flip phone, the Homeland Security threat level changing color? That wasn’t a theme back then. That was just a Tuesday. The dirty secret of the 2000s is that we didn’t even think our own decade had an identity while we were living it. Our best parties were 80s-themed. The 2000s wasn’t an aesthetic; it was LimeWire destroying the family computer while Akon played on a pair of desktop speakers that buzzed every time your cell phone got a text. The 1990s was the last time a decade managed to pull off an actual distinct vibe, and honestly, just barely. It squeaked by on neon windbreakers and Pokémon cards. Since then, the concept of a "theme-worthy decade" has completely collapsed....
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What They Don't Tell You About Leaving Prison

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​In prison, you are in isolation. Not literally by yourself, but effectively the same. You are stuck with a crowd of other guys, completely removed from the outside world, "the brick," in the most intimate sense. You may watch the news and follow events or trends, but you aren’t living them. It’s as if someone described a movie to you, but you never actually saw it. (That happened with most hit movies while I was locked up; late-night talk shows filled me in on the plots, so I knew the stories but never had the experience.) ​This disconnect is one of many factors contributing to the common inmate mindset. If you asked a sample group about their career plans post-incarceration, you’d hear a lot of them say they want to open a food truck, start a business, or flip houses. They want to jump into social media and chase the hype, or become a millionaire trading stocks and playing DraftKings. Because they spent so long in isolation, their years of mental loop theory became law in t...
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Witnessed at the Gas Pump

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The queues for left-side tanks were full, forcing me to an opposite pump where I stood straining against the hose, angling the nozzle downward to keep the fuel flowing. "Four dollar gas! You voted for this!" The shout had the pitch and tone of an unstable man. "Still better than the other people in charge." His voice won the argument, wrong as he was.  I know this guy, he works at the Costco gas station. In another life he could have been a cop. Just last month he noticed that my car wouldn't start and pointed to a place I could push it out of the way. "We're gonna get him out of office!" The shriek went on... ​I found myself hoping for the same, though perhaps for different reasons. It isn't just about the price per gallon or the latest political scandals; it’s a desire to move past this era entirely. I’m ready for a time when a person’s political leanings don't make me second-guess their character. I liked that guy.
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Freedom Promotions

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I was discouraged by the lack of a grand moment of freedom at the end of my decade in prison. People imagine it as a dramatic shift— you live in a cell day after day, then one day, the door swings open, and life returns in glorious style. But that’s not how it works. A prison sentence has its own phases. You move from higher security to lower security, each step requiring its own adjustment. Then, if you're released to a halfway house or another form of monitoring, you're out, but not really free. Even from the time of my sentencing, I knew I’d have years of special parole waiting for me on the other side, an automatic way to ruin the best part of a long bid: the day I got out. Looking back, though, I see it differently. I can track my growth through each stage and appreciate the small freedoms I gained along the way. I never had a single moment of freedom, I had freedom promotions. And while that realization surprises me, maybe it shouldn’t. After all, you get a lot stronger ...
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Crazy Eights

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Playing casual card games like Crazy Eights has a way of loosening people up, breaking down walls that conversation alone might struggle to breach. It was over cards that I really got to know my Aunt Michele. Before, I knew her as the relative who always demanded a hug, but over this game she was a storyteller, a person with depth, humor, and a way of making life feel just a little more unpredictable. My favorite story of hers was about my cousins, Mike and Matt, when they were young. One night, they were supposed to be asleep, but instead, they were playing games in their bedroom, laughing and whispering past bedtime. My aunt heard them, crept down the hallway, and threw open the door. The boys froze, wide-eyed, caught in the act—two deer in headlights, waiting for whatever punishment was coming. But instead of scolding them, she grinned and said, “Have some candy!” Then, she tossed handfuls of treats their way before walking back to bed. I loved that story. It was funny, sure, but it...
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Butter On The First Bite

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Pancakes have always been a simple yet magical meal to me, a symbol of warmth and comfort that stretches back as far as my memory goes. When I was a little kid living at my grandparents' house with my younger brother, pancakes were more than breakfast—they were an event. The anticipation would start the moment we smelled the griddle heating up, filling the kitchen with the sweet aroma of sugar and flour. My brother and I would sit at the table, perched on the edges of our chairs, practically vibrating with excitement. When our grandmother finally placed the plates in front of us, they were perfect—golden pancakes draped in syrup, with that one glossy spot of melted butter pooling in the center. That buttery spot was sacred, the best part, and I always ate it first. My brother did too, like it was an unspoken rule between us. I can still hear my grandfather chuckling from his seat behind us. "Look at that, Gerri," he said, his voice full of amusement. "The...
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