Two Inmates at Christmas–Brothers All Are We

If someone had told me, five years ago, that I would be looking up Rastafarian holidays so that I could send my son’s cellmate an appropriate holiday card, I would’ve thought one of us was on peyote or something stronger. But it’s true.

I didn’t (couldn’t) stop sobbing for the better part of a week last May when I found out my only child was in jail. He’d already been in trouble and I was busying myself with false hope about lessons learned when I got this news. I knew this was the end of a certain road and he wouldn’t be able to get out of this one. He’ll be there for a while.

Time absolutely is a healer. It’s so repeatedly true. Somehow, in seven months, this has all become oddly normal. Right about the time he was arrested, some wonderful people in my life led me to the beliefs found in two 12-step programs. The only relief I had from the situation were the books written on the steps and the prayer and meditation that go along with them.

I was able, for the first time in my life, to really let go and let consequenses be just that. I felt a real faith in a higher power that would see my son through and let me rest because it’s been a long road. Somewhere in this process, I felt like I was receiving word (divinely) that there would be people in that awful, horrible place who would end up being spiritual mentors and that he would actually grow as a result of this experience. It seemed I was being told to step back and stop blocking him from the sunlight. Well, actually, I was told that–by my therapist. But it came through loud and clear on many levels.

Those things have all happened. He hasn’t gravitated toward the punks with bad attitudes but toward people with kind hearts and generous spirits who’ve simply made mistakes. He’s gotten good, solid advice. His anger and temper have calmed. He’s formed friendships there with people I feel more comfortable about than the ones he was hanging with before. And those people are all still walking around free.

The stories I hear about my son, C.J., and his forty year old Jamaican cellmate named Cain crack me up. I think of the odd couple or a couple of eccentric old ladies or any number of paired people who create comedy just by being.

A few weeks ago Cain went to a court appearance and brought back a baby lizard. My son was good naturedly cranking about having to worry over the lizard until recreation the next day when he could set it free. He said, “Cain brings a pet home and I’m the one who has to be responsible. Why would he want to bring an innocent lizard to this place anyway?”

Cain wrote a letter to my mother and me describing C.J. as hardheaded but promised to work on his spirit. He hit that nail on the head. Hardheaded doesn’t even begin to cover it. But he is working on it. I can tell a huge difference in C.J.’s attitude. They talk about all kinds of things, deeply intellectual subjects that interest Cain (he reads everything, apparently) and that he patiently explains to C.J. who has never believed he was capable of understanding much beyond his BMX bike.

I’m so grateful to this person I don’t even know for simply caring about another human being who just happens to be my son. I sleep better at night because of Cain.

There have been other inmates and some guards who have made a difference too but this Christmas I’ll be sending what I can to a family of two in an institution of many. To these brothers–one with dreads and a thick island accent, skin as dark as night and one short, skinny white boy with a chip the size of Mount Rushmore on his shoulder, a chip that’s getting smaller. Let there be peace on earth.