A train ride turns into a lesson on poverty and social justice in America.
—
The sun had set hours before but I could still see the silhouette of the hills as the train sped by. The whole car shook violently. I had no choice but to stop reading. When we reached the last stop in Massachusetts I watched as the people climbed onto the train. A young mother carrying her infant daughter in one arm and two grocery bags full of clothes in the other, was the first to board. Behind them walked a young black man in a large winter coat. His long dreads escaped from under his knit Yankees cap and hung low enough to almost hide the tattoo on his neck that looked like a woman’s name but I couldn’t quite make it out. Several women smiled at the young mother but quickly looked away when the saw the man marching up the aisle behind her. The woman took a seat, still cradling her baby, but the young man kept walking. He slowed his pace at every empty seat he came to as he watched the person in the adjoining seat squirm nervously and then he moved on to the next empty chair.
“Can I sit here?” he said to me when he finally made it to my row which was nearly in the back of the car.
“Yea, have a seat.”
“Life doesn’t change when you get locked up.”
|
I could smell the booze seeping through his skin before he sat down. This was the smell of a daily drinker, not someone who had just forgot to wash his shirt from the night before.
“Hey baby,” he said into his phone, “I just got on the train. I should hit Albany in a few hours.” He listened as the woman on the other line talked.
“No baby. Don’t worry, I’m clean. I’ve had a few drinks. You know how it is. But I’m clean. I told you, I’m never returning to crack head status again,” he laughed, whispered something and then hung up.
He put the phone back into the pocket of his coat, leaned into the aisle and looked both ways for the porter. He took a long clear bottle from inside his coat and sucked out a slow smooth drink before returning it to its hiding place.
“Fucking women, man,” he said as if he was trying to explain the bottle. “My girl wants me to move in with her.”
“I heard. Sounds like she’s trying to keep you out of trouble.”
“She worries,” he laughed. “I’ve been locked up for the last five years. Went in when I was eighteen. I got out about a year ago but they violated my ass back the same day for having some drinks. I tried to tell them I was celebrating but they didn’t go for it. Did another year and now here I am, free,” his voice trailed off at the end and he took another drink. This time holding the bottle to his lips slightly longer.
“The reality of his situation silenced us both.”
|
I recognized the story. Several of my friends from childhood were now serving out lengthy prison sentences. Breaking the rules of parole and getting violated back to prison was pretty common. Life doesn’t change when you get locked up. So when people get out it’s nearly impossible to find a new life. Most people just return to what they were doing before.
“Well, maybe a good woman can change all that for you.”
“She is a good one. She made me breakfast,” he looked at me and smiled. “The first time I stayed with her, she woke up and made me breakfast. I never had a woman do that for me before.”
“That’s good man. We all need that person to take care of us. Man or woman. We all need someone. Love has the ability to change our world. Hopefully, she’ll change yours for the better.”
“Did your woman change yours?” he said looking at my wedding ring.
“Oh, yea. I was drinking and doing a lot of things I shouldn’t have been doing. My wife did more than change my world, she saved my life.”
“Drugs?”
“Some. But that’s all behind me now. It sounds like they are for you too?”
“Maybe. One condition of me living with her is that I need to be making money. I’m a felon. I can’t get no nine to five type job. No one wants to hire my ass. I won’t do the shit but I might have to go back to selling just to make rent. I don’t want to but I don’t want to lose her again either.”
“If we stop fighting, the game is lost and the future of our nation is up for grabs.”
|
The reality of his situation silenced us both. I wanted to tell him that there were jobs out there but I knew it was a lie. I didn’t have it in me to look him in the eye and tell him to take a minimum wage job at a fast food restaurant that wouldn’t even pay his bills. Without even knowing him, I wanted him to make it but I knew the truth of that life. I had been there and barely made it out myself. And I had no advice that would help him make it to the other side. The system had its teeth dug in deep and it would never let go. The man deserved a second chance but it was doubtful he’d get one in our society.
After he finished his bottle, he took a nap. He woke just before we reached the train station in Albany. He gathered up his coat and his phone, shook my hand and stood to leave.
“Stay free, brother,” was the only piece of advice I had as he started to walk out and with the same calm coolness that he had displayed the entire trip he looked back at me and answered.
“That’s the dream.”
I knew he didn’t have a chance. The odds were stacked against him and the house always wins. Our society has no love for the poor man, especially the poor black man. We have created a system that denies education to the impoverished youth of America and then we punish them with prison time when they turn to the only options available to them to make money. Crime will always seem like a reasonable alternative when the other options are starvation or losing a family you can’t support. I was glad that I met this man because it reminded me who I write for. It reminded me that as long as there is someone struggling there will be a need for someone else to speak out on their behalf. The world has stopped listening to the people who are fighting just to survive. We are their voice. We are the only ones left who can change the system. If we stop fighting, the game is lost and the future of our nation is up for grabs. Never stop fighting, never lose your voice.
Like The Good Men Project on Facebook
- Want the best of The Good Men Project posts sent to you by email? Join our mailing list here.
–Photo: ethicalgifts/Flickr