Justice Notes: First Christmas
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
This journal entry was written on December 25, 2018—my first Christmas in prison. I’m sharing it as it was written, because some days resist interpretation.
12/25/2018 — First Christmas in Prison
Christmas in prison is tough. All the thoughts of other ones—where I was and where I’d be. My family, now spread out all over instead of at our house, with me presiding, making Manhattans, my wife cooking our family fare from three generations: cousins, nephews, friends, friends of the kids—all that excitement. Now just enormous regret.
It’s a beautiful day, maybe the most beautiful day since I arrived here. A completely blue sky, no wind, maybe thirty degrees but it feels warmer. So clear. The moon was still up, full and white against the blue. I walked the track looking at the main prison—its steel building, the gleaming barbed wire, the parked cars with their prominence—framed by the woods behind it. Tall trees with clouds above them that look like mountains. I kept staring at them as I walked, to be sure they were clouds and not mountains.
There is so much of life on the periphery here: the woods, the passing cars. You can feel it and hear it, but you can’t partake of it. It’s almost more painful than if you were locked up inside.
The inmates overall are surprisingly upbeat, wishing everyone Merry Christmas—the Spanish guys Feliz Navidad—most in good humor. Of course, the nice weather helps. There were more people than usual walking the track. The geese were back too. I don’t think they know it’s Christmas. But it’s a coincidence that they’re back on Christmas Day.
I walked with Steve on a second walk since he woke up late. I wanted to accompany him; he’s such a positive guy. Maybe one of the nicest people I’ve ever known.
I’m not sure how I feel today. I spoke to my wife and she sounded good. She was with a nice group last night—very uplifting—and I could hear that in her spirits this morning. That made me feel better.
The regret, the painful self-reflection, never goes away. How can you find redemption at seventy-six and in prison? At fifty, maybe you can rebuild your life. But at my age, the die is cast: the kids all adults, the businesses blown up, the family unmoored, displaced, the previous generations gone. The remaining fourth generation diluted—except for fading memories. I’m not sure they’re even aware of it yet.
There’s a big meal at eleven, a box dinner at four, a movie at seven.
And that’s my first Christmas in prison
If you’re drawn to the idea of storytelling as self-reckoning, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
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