Ya
gotta accept the facts: in the land of opportunities, ya gotta be pretty damn stupid
to end up in the can. Now, I ain't saying that I'm stupid, but I've done some
silly things. I don't blame society, the system, or anyone in particular. The
inclination is in my blood. You see, my old man came from down south. A tough
old Texan, a scary puritan who feared only Jesus, and feared Him too much, at
that. He set out on his own crusade against abortionists and homosexuals. Only,
he picked the wrong place to do it. Killed a few in the name of the Lord and
got put away. Down south he might've been given a medal, but up here he got
what he deserved. I knew he was funny in the head, and I blocked his
Jesus-freak blood thirst from corrupting my soul. When he found out I wasn't
going to church and had given up on religion, he disowned me. I was glad to
have the link severed. But part of him, the part that did the thinking after
the act, stayed in me and ended up bringing me here, despite all my tolerance
and self control. Here, where you're supposed to reflect and repent; I ended up
doing the reflecting, but instead of repenting, I've gotten more proud. This is
the place where instead of repressing my talents, I was free to let them
blossom, which gave me something I never had: respect.
I
got in here and saw a bunch of sad little creatures, not the bulky seven-foot
rapists you see in the movies. Guess I looked pretty damn mean, someone they
would fear and follow and … never get behind of. I told them all sorts of
stories. That I killed a fella by bashing his head with a bag of frozen peas,
or killed another by piercing his brain with a chopstick through the eye, the thought
of which disgusted me so I almost blew my visage. I'm still debating in my head
whether or not I should disclose the true nature of my crimes; it would hurt my
reputation real bad, but my imagination has its limit, and I fear I may have just
reached it.
Just
recently, a young cousin of mine, a journalist wannabe of some sort, wanted to
write a piece on the conditions of Canadian prisons. Only he didn't wanna visit
one. Wrote me a letter out of the blue, saying shit like, “I heard it's more
like a hotel with bars. Is it true?” Never showed any sympathy for my
situation. When a little pussy like that straps on a pair of balls to ask me to
describe the conditions of my “hotel”, well, that just shakes me off my nest. I
wrote him back a masterpiece of descriptive bullshit, just to piss him off.
Told him we had ourselves a sports court, a swimming pool, bathtubs, a
bilingual library, a movie theatre, and beef bourguignon for dinner. All of us loved
to be here,
under the care of our over-zealous government; it was easier, after all, to be
a parasite on the federal budget than actually being out there working our
asses off for so little. He wrote me back a thank you note and attached his
piece. He had swallowed my crap, every little bit of it, and some shit-faced
editor went ahead and published it. Makes you wonder if you got the right
people in jail.
In
my lifetime I stole food and umbrellas, evaded taxes, parked in front of
hydrants, drove into an old lady, changed names, cheated on women, and
abandoned a baby. But none of that ever got me in trouble. What got me here
were the crimes of another man, whose name I was unlucky to pick, and whose
features I was unlucky to have, and whose luck was running high when I decided to
confess to his misdemeanors. I did it because freedom was too much
responsibility and I was tired of the struggle. I'd also heard prisons were more
like “hotels”. Turns out they're not, but the laws of the can are easier on you
than the laws of the jungle – that's a fact, and ya gotta accept the facts.
//Scott Moraes, writer
