by Brian A. Wilkins
This day corresponds with Sunday, August 17.
“Wilkins…go through the doors and take a left!” the D.O. said via the loud speaker. Who knew what bullshit was about to happen. I went through the doors and stopped at the round desk area where medical is. The G.I. Joe guard, along with the older “black” female guard, and the goofy-looking guy all stood there, the latter having a copy of the grievance I filed.
“So you want to explain what happened in this?” he asked me. I told him I explained it rather clearly in the grievance and all I wanted to know is if my letters got sent or if I needed to re-write and re-send them. “I don’t really care about you guy’s power trips and what not…I just want to know if I need to re-send my letters,” I said, looking at the G.I. Joe guy. I identified him as the one who snatched and crumpled the letters from me, which got him throwing a hissy fit. “You said it was a ‘European American’ guard…well I’m not European!” he declared. I kind of looked at him like he was crazy and responded, “well, I’m not African and you keep calling me African American.” The “black” female guard kind of smirked and put her head down, trying to hide her amusement. The G.I. Joe guy didn’t say much after that, so the goofy-looking guy took over the lead interrogater spot.
“We looked at video footage and didn’t see you give any guard any mail at the time you wrote on the grievance,” he said. I told him the timeframe was likely give-or-take an hour, as jail time is all the same bullshit and time is easily lost, considering I don’t exactly have a watch or a clock to look at. “I really don’t care about all this stuff…I just want this guy to say yes or no whether my letters were sent or not,” I said, looking at the buzz-cut guard. He continued to try and deny he was the guard who took my letters, and they all continued to contend the tape didn’t show me handing a guard any letters that morning. “I wanted to hand the letters to her. She had done the last round so I figure she would do the next, but it was him. So you guys can easily find out which guard succeeded her in round duty that day,” I said. They continued trying to convince me I was hallucinating and never wrote or sent letters…or something? After a couple of minutes of them sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher, I figured I had re-sent the court motion already and these people were getting on my nerves. “Ok, what do I have to do to walk away from here and not talk to you people anymore?” I asked. “I really don’t care about it this much,” I said. The goofy guy tried to reassure me, telling me that the jail doesn’t really care what gets mailed out, just what comes in. “We just take the letters and put them right here,” he said, pointing to a box in the desk area. He said guards would have no reason to sabotage mail, and wouldn’t do it anyway.
Though that whole exchange only spanned about three minutes, it seemed like I was in there for hours. I can’t believe my life has resorted to arguing with steroid freak guards. I can’t believe I’m this worked up over something so minute; being I already re-sent the letters. I can’t help but think about how gratifying it would have been to take a swing at that guy…and subsequently get Tazed, beaten, and put in solitary. I and nobody I know would consider me a violent person, but I guess this is what jail does to you. When there’s just nothing left, the human instinct to fight many of us have lost in this “civilized” society called America comes out front and center. I just can’t watch myself deteriorate. My address will be T12A20 for the forseeable future. Because I had to protect myself in a land you have the right to bear legal arms. And I didn’t hurt anyone. And the sad thing is, I’d probably be in better shape had I killed him with knife in hand, in my apartment. Or I could be in worse shape, somehow facing murder charges. Bottom line is that I’m going to die in here. Once you’re here, its impossible to get out. They can keep me here as long as they feel like it. I have only one card left to play.