Hot, Sweaty, Racist, Interracial, American Prison Love

This is us baby. Well, that’s me with the fro because I am black, and crazy hair because The Man won’t allow hair ties in prison. And that is you to the right, but we can’t see you because you are white. It’s like a metaphor for our love. Wild, imprisoned and invisible to everyone but us. XOXO W/B

They say you haven’t loved until you’ve had a child. F**k that s**t. I say that you haven’t loved until you’ve had hot, racist, interracial love in a racist ass prison system in a racist ass country.

Shout out to Stevie D., formerly of the original orange jumpsuit of South Bay Correctional Facility, you fat, white Irish mick, call me baby! If you’re back in prison because you haven’t yet found a medicine to cure your sociopathy, then f**k your commissary! n**ga!, but you can still call me through Evercon and I’ll take the block off my phone!

Stevie -n- Kindra fuh-eva

Now before you get all butt hurt about my use of the word ‘mick’, actually written ‘mic’, if we’re being racist PC, please note that Stevie used to call me a porch monkey, which what? What the fuck is a monkey on a porch?, and please explain how that relates to my skin color. The racist term is ‘nigger’, you paddy, get with it. It’s all 2003 and shit and you’re using racist terms from like slavery and shit, is this thing on?

Actually, he also used to say that he wished that I got AIDS, but it was when he got mad, sorta like how I used to work in that group home, and that little white girl screamed “NIGGER!” as I walked by, and I turned and fixed my lips a certain way but then a white staff walked by and she yelled: “NIGGER!” to him too, so I’m like oh — you — OK, you can’t, so, OK bye girl, so I was unphased. He’d also call me ‘nigger’, but it was often half-hearted, like he was all butt hurt that I didn’t feel like writing any letters that week or visiting him, but fuck you! I’m not in prison, motherfucker, I gotta work for this other real-life prison that I live in that ain’t free. I gotta pay for this toothpaste and snacks ‘n shit too bitch. F**k that s**t.

Then I’d hang up in his face and he’d call back and the prison voice would be like: this is a call from…, and he’d say: pick up the phone you fucking bitch, and I would because I lovedded him in a funny kind of way and I was in a weird place in my life, and the phone company would get rich off all us trash so, really, we need this love because we’re the real victims here.

Plus, I needed him to fill out this paperwork that I had created as a 2003 Word Document. He called me one day all happy that he had met with his case worker and she had deemed him a “social path”.

It’s a sociopath, you moron, I said. Now I’ve got this test I made up because I’m a psych major at a community college and I’m interested in this shit so fill it out and send it back to me. OK, he said, because he liked to take tests. He said that. I mean, I liked to take tests too, but I wouldn’t say it.

Anyway, he’d always be talking ‘bout how his mother left him in the hospital and I think that’s why he was a racist, and maybe some far-off connection to famine and potatoes. Actually, he was trash in the way of actual trash, whereas I was trash because somebody only said I was, and there’s a difference believe me. It’s like how black people say ‘dumb white people’ and ‘dumb white people’, but they’re actually talking about 2 different kinds of white people. And it may sound the same to you, but I swear fore God that a black person could pick these white people out of a line up (no barber shop).

He was also only attracted to minority women. Like me, for example, as a black, and his son’s mother as ‘Spanish’. They’re pigs, you know, he said. F*****g pigs. They’ll do anything. You mean, like having sex with someone you think is a pig and then making a baby with them? I asked. Well, I didn’t ask that, or how he could be so racist and only date minority women because I think I subconsciously thought that it might confuse him.

And if I exposed his incongruent thinking then I would also have to account for why and how I was talking to a white Irish prison racist motherfucka as a black, and then I’d have to shank you for invalidating my world.

Actually, prison is very racist, he said. It made it worse. You stick with your kind and your kind only even if that Mexican cat got those sticky Cinna-Buns, in his commissary. But how does that describe our love? I’m all black and shit coming for these bullshit ass visits to see your white ass, and now, in retrospect, I can see why everyone looked at us funny, even the COs who found any way they could to interrupt our non-contact visit love because they hated you. Actually, everybody did, that’s why when you didn’t call for a long time regularly, I’d lovingly caress your picture and know that you were in the hole. For some bullshit of course.

So I’d fold my hands on the table and not make any waves because they got the power like Snap said here. Cuz I did not force myself to wake up in the middle of the day because I work nights to come all the way here to stand in line and wait for like 3 hours with this common trash and get searched and lockered and ID’d, only to have my hour visit cut short. I don’t care if your celly Jamal murdered you in the middle of the night then sauntered into the visiting room wearing your face skin like Hannibal Lecter. I’d still call him Stevie and hold his bloody hands because I need a return on my investment. Love is complicated.

Like how the night you met me at the laundromat down the street from my apartment because we were going to have some interracial sex after I finish folding this fitted sheet, how the fuck do you do this shit? I put a butter knife under my bed just like James Caan practicing unsheathing that knife under the mattress in Misery, just in case, because you stared at me with blue eyes that were a little bit too dead for my liking. You also didn’t help me with my laundry.

You told me that you saw me but I didn’t see you the day you were arrested. I was bopping to work, listening to my music, unaware that the Jakes had you up against the wall across the street for violation, and not too far from where you grew up in the Fidelis Way projects down the street from my apartment. Actually, a little bit more further down because I lived in a nice neighborhood with the Jews. I remember I was wearing a red shirt because I could’ve been killed by a random gang member from the Bloods at any time. We lovingly spoke about it for 2 years before I left you for a regular white man. It was our story.

I worked at a Jewish agency and was walking to the office where I was a Case Manager for independently living adults, so-called the ‘Aliyah’ program because it means “elevation” or “going up” in Hebrew. Does anybody else see the irony?

I met you 2 weeks before on the bus. I was with my rather agency-infamous Rain Man-like client Ms. Bonnie Sue who I would later find had the Little Black Sambo book under her bed. You kept staring at me, kind of unblinking, not totally unlike a sociopath, when you realized that I, as a black, couldn’t handle it anymore and asked what you were looking at. I should’ve known even then because you had a healing black eye. You asked for my number and Bonnie Sue promptly announced my phone number at the office. 555–5555, she said, she works at the Aliyah office a-l-i-y-a-h, and I looked at her and thanked her, and she started rubbing her hands together like she normally did when she was mischievous, saying: up to no good!

You laughed.