119. Earning Freedom (3.4) with Michael Santos Prison Professors

I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
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When I call home on May 27, 1989, I hear the news from Julie that Christina has given birth to a daughter, Isabella. I’ve known of Christina’s pregnancy for some time, but I’ve been too wrapped up in dealing with the loss of Lisa and the challenges of my prison adjustment to grasp what that means. It’s surreal to think of my younger sister as a mother, and to think of myself as an uncle.
Christina and I grew up very close as children. I have fond memories from our grade school years, and of bringing her fishing with me in a neighborhood stream. But I haven’t seen her since my imprisonment. Now she’s a mother, and trying to imagine her as a grown woman with a family of her own feels almost incomprehensible.  Life is changing without my being a part of it. I hang up in tears, unable to suppress my mix of emotions.  I’m happy for Christina, but also filled with sadness because I’ve missed Isabella’s birth.
I need to walk around the track but that means waiting in line for a pass, then waiting in the crowd for the next scheduled movement to leave the housing unit. Instead, I head for my cell. There isn’t anywhere I can console the ache I feel inside privately. As I lie on my rack with my head pressed into the pillow I can still hear Check and his buddy playing chess at the table. Dropping into self-pity, all I can think about is the isolation from my family. I’m a stranger, isolated from the family bonds that make life worth living.
How will society view me? If I were a free citizen today and encountered a man who had served more than a quarter of a century in prison, I’d have major preconceptions about him. I’d feel reluctant to accept him as a neighbor, a colleague, and certainly as a peer. Women, I expect, will think twice before dating a man who served time in prison. And if I’m not released until my late 40s, without a work history, savings, and a home, there’s a strong likelihood that I’ll never become a father and have children of my own.  How could I?
It’s too much. I have to break this up in my mind, take it in smaller increments, one chunk at a time. Otherwise it overwhelms and defeats me.
Where will I be in 10 years? That’s what I should think about. What is the best I can become during the first decade of my imprisonment? My studies are going well and I’ve nearly completed the manuscript for Drugs and Money. I don’t know what will happen with the Rule 35 motion once the time comes to submit the request for reconsideration of my sentence. But in 1997, after a decade in prison, if I stick to this plan I’ll be an educated man. If I keep my focus I’ll have a university degree and possibly a law degree. Those credentials will distinguish me from prisoners who thrive on hate and who rely upon weapons and gangs to empower themselves.
Still, I live amidst the weapons, the gangs, and the power struggles within my community of felons. With two years behind me I understand the politics of race, geographical origin, and anarchy. On the surface it looks as if whites mix with whites, blacks with blacks, and Hispanics with Hispanics.  But that isn’t the real story, as this culture is driven by influences that are far more complex.
I live in a society of deprivation, where policies extinguish hope. With years to serve, abandoned by their families, and severed of their previous identities, most prisoners give up trying to improve themselves. Instead, they ripen for rebellion. They form an anti-society culture with its own underground economy, values, and social structure. Mafia dons and gang leaders hold the top spots with snitches and child molesters at the bottom. Disruptive factions form and either scheme together or battle each other for power. In this society, where prisoners kill without remorse in an effort to increase th