Writing My Wrongs

by Shaka Senghor

  After the preliminaries, he asked me what I would do if I were released. I felt like I was giving the speech of my life.

  “If I am released from prison,” I said, “I plan to work and volunteer at local high schools and community centers. My ultimate goal is to pursue a career as a writer. I have published a novel and copublished a children’s book. I have also been featured in several national publications. But none of those things are what I care about most. Most importantly, I want to get out so I can be a father to my children and an asset to my community.”

  “What if your plan doesn’t work, Mr. White?” he said, peering over the top of his glasses. “And what will you do when you encounter your old homies?”

  “I will do what is necessary to make my plan work,” I said, “including working a regular job until my career takes off.”

  The board member continued to probe to see if he could punch holes in my plans, but he could find none. The things I planned to do had nothing to do with getting out of prison. That’s not what was most important to me anymore—what I cared about most was righting the wrongs of my past.

  When I was done talking, he told me how impressed he was with my efforts and wished me luck on my journey in the event I received a parole. He thanked my father for being a positive influence in my life and wished him the best.

  When the hearing was over, I said goodbye to my father and went back to my cell. I replayed the interview over in my head, trying to get a sense of what the board member was thinking. I didn’t want to get too excited about the possibility of getting a parole, but this time things felt right, so I lay back on my bunk with a smile on my face.

  Three weeks later, I received my parole.

  26

  Detroit, Michigan

  June 2010

  On June 22, 2010, the day after my thirty-eighth birthday, I walked out of prison a free man.

  When I stepped outside and inhaled my first breath of freedom in nineteen years, I felt like a baby taking in air for the first time. The air tickled my lungs, and I smiled from deep within. I was officially a free man, and this time, I would do freedom the right way.

  Ebony and Jay were waiting for me in the parking lot of the parole office. The moment I saw Ebony, I took in her beauty like a man dying of thirst taking his first sip of water. On our visits, she had been forced to dress modestly so as not to be denied entry. Now, though, she was more radiant and sexy than I had ever seen her. Her beautiful locks were twisted to the side, and she was wearing a dress that rode dangerously high on her thighs. We were starting a new phase of our journey together, with no more bars to hold us back, no more zealous guards to scrutinize our kisses and hugs, and no more damn prison blues.

  I turned to Jay and hugged him for the first time as a free man, then kissed Ebony with everything I had inside of me. Then I turned to a brother named Red Montgomery who had also just been released. He had promised to be the first person I sold a book to when we got out, and he remained true to his word. Ebony had brought copies of my first published novel with her, and right there in the parking lot, I made my first official book sale.

  When we finished our transaction, I said goodbye to Red, and Ebony, Jay, and I got in the car to go get something to eat. We had planned on having lunch at a nice restaurant in the suburbs, but when we arrived, the place had closed for the day. So instead of the special meal Ebony had planned, my first meal was a chicken sub from Subway.

  I didn’t care. It was the best meal of my life.

  —

  THOSE FIRST FEW days of my release went by in a blur. On the first day, all of my siblings, cousins, and friends came by my father’s house (with the exception of my sister Tamica, who was living in Seattle). My stepmother had made lasagna at my request, and we had a few celebratory drinks as I got caught up on what was going on in the family. I got a chance to meet all of the nieces, nephews, and little cousins who had been born while I was away. My daughter Lakeisha came over with her son, and it was amazing seeing her in person for the first time since she was a baby. She had grown into a beautiful woman, and I was looking forward to getting to know her and my grandson. By the end of the day, I was filled with emotion at the outpouring of love and support from my family.

  The festivities carried on into the weekend. My father held a barbeque in my honor, and more family members came over to celebrate my freedom. It felt great catching up with my cousins, my grandmother, and my aunts and uncles. Friends from the old neighborhood on the East Side came by, along with some of my brothers from the joint. The familiarity of their faces warmed my heart and soul, and I drank in every moment, savoring each conversation, hug, and kiss.

  From my first hour at home, Ebony pampered, spoiled, and doted on me. She cooked me meals and drove me around Detroit as I got familiar with the city again and basked in the reality of my freedom. I don’t think we slept much the first week I was home. We stayed up late, talking and making up for all of the loving we had missed out on. Each moment felt sacred.

  —

  AFTER THE EXCITEMENT of coming home died down, I started settling into a routine building our publishing business. The first week home, I spoke at the US Social Forum, which was being held in Detroit, and sold a few books. Ebony took me to a few local bookstores to set up in-store signings, and we prepared ourselves for a busy summer. Each day felt like a new adventure.

  I had never owned a legal driver’s license, so one of the first items on my to-do list was to take my driving test. Being locked up for so long made it difficult for me to gauge how far or close things were, so I had a hard time adjusting to being behind the wheel. It took me about three months of studying before I was confident enough to take the test, but when I did, I aced it.

  I also spent a great deal of time on the BlackBerry that Ebony had purchased for me. My phone was basically glued to my hands as I learned the technology and worked to rebuild my relationships with family and friends.

  —

  I HAD HEARD all the stories of wild coming-home parties and ex-cons who had made it big in the ’hood after returning home. But I had also heard about untimely deaths and men who returned to prison only weeks after being released. As much as I wanted to predict how my transition to normal life would go, I knew I couldn’t. I had walked into prison a man-child and walked out an adult—at least that’s what I thought. What I hadn’t accounted for was my arrested development when it came to adult interactions and behaviors in the free world. I had never held down a real job, never had a mortgage, a car payment, insurance bills, or the demands of a mature adult relationship.

  Besides, I was returning to a world that was vastly different from the one I had left nineteen years earlier. When I went to prison in 1991, there were no sleek Apple MacBooks or iPhones, and gas was $1.05 a gallon. There were no social networking sites, and people either called and talked to their friends or met them face-to-face instead of texting and e-mailing. I was essentially being tossed headfirst into a new society that had an entirely different way of communicating, and I found myself struggling to catch up.

  Beyond these challenges, I was still technically under a criminal sentence, and the terms of parole are nothing to mess around with. One innocent slip, and you can find yourself back in the joint. Though I was free, the system was still in control of a lot of areas in my life. I couldn’t hang around anyone who was on parole or had a felony, and Ebony and I had to fight to get approval for us to live together. I couldn’t go out to parties with my family and friends, and I couldn’t spend time at any place that sold alcohol. I couldn’t even be around children playing with water guns.

  As the weeks went by, I found myself getting into a groove. I went to my first Tigers game and took my first-ever flight when I was invited to speak at the University of Wisconsin-Platteville. It was an amazing experience, getting onto an airplane for the first time, and I enjoyed every moment of it—even when we hit turbulence halfway through the trip.

  Within a few months, I landed a
part-time job writing for The Michigan Citizen, which I enjoyed immensely. I reviewed CDs and wrote feature-length stories on writers, musicians, and filmmakers in the community. But soon, the paper went through a round of budget cuts, and they were forced to reduce my salary and only give me a few assignments a week. It was too much of a financial strain for me. I had just purchased my first car, a gas-guzzling 1996 Caprice Classic, so by the time I had driven around the city gathering information for a story, I would hardly break even. I was thankful for the experience, but knew that I had to make things happen on my own.

  —

  THE YEAR 2011 was a big one for Ebony and me. I had met a local filmmaker who wanted to make a documentary about my life. I also landed my first acting gig, playing a single father named Darren in The Mocha Monologues, a production that dramatizes relationship problems that single men and fathers face.

  In February of that year, Ebony and I moved into a new town house, and shortly thereafter discovered she was pregnant. It was the greatest news in the world, and the day we found out, we cried with joy. Ebony had long dreamed of being a mommy, and I knew she would be the best mother in the world.

  As we celebrated the news with our family and friends, my desire to succeed increased. Until that point, Ebony had been providing most of our income. My book sales were growing, but the profits weren’t enough to constitute a real living, and I wanted to relieve Ebony of the financial burden of caring for our family.

  I started putting in résumés and seeking out employment, but none of my efforts netted anything. I had applied for a position as a reentry counselor at a local shelter for men who had felonies and substance-abuse issues, and I also applied for several youth counselor positions at various nonprofits—jobs I thought would be perfect for me. But nothing came through. The economy was tough already, and it didn’t help that I had the stigma of incarceration clinging to me.

  Ebony didn’t flinch, though. She kept encouraging me to not give up or give in. Even though I was struggling emotionally and financially, I continued to volunteer with youth in the community, sell my books, and speak at local high schools and colleges. The highlight of this work was having the chance to meet Dr. Cornel West during a return trip to UW-Platteville.

  Around this same time, the Knight Foundation rolled out a pilot program called BMe (Black Male Engagement), which recognizes Black men doing positive things in their community, and I was nominated for their leadership award. I created a video profile, and people in my social network promoted it among their friends and family, putting me on the grant-makers’ radar. Ebony and I submitted a proposal for a twelve-week mentoring program that would teach at-risk youth to use writing to process their emotions and get at the root of their anger and frustration—an idea I had gotten after seeing two of my nephews and one of my childhood friends get shot the previous summer. My hope was that, with the guidance of a mentor and the self-examination I had discovered through literature, children in our community could begin making sense of their environment and receive the love, acceptance, and guidance that they needed to thrive.

  A month after submitting my proposal, I got the news that I was one of the winners of the BMe Challenge. I couldn’t wait to implement the project at the schools where I had been mentoring.

  —

  BUT THE EXCITEMENT in my professional life was nothing compared to the excitement of knowing we had a baby on the way. With each doctor’s visit, our anticipation grew, and we soon learned that we would be having a boy. We chose the name Sekou Akili—which means “scholarly warrior”—and began preparing for our son’s entrance into the world. I knew I could never make up for the time I had missed with my two older children, but I was determined to be the best father I could be to Sekou.

  Which is not to say that this part of our life didn’t come with its challenges. Throughout Ebony’s pregnancy, Sekou was snugly nestled sideways in her womb. The doctor warned that if he didn’t turn around, he would have to be delivered by cesarean section, a procedure that Ebony dreaded. She wanted to experience natural childbirth, and I was heartbroken because I knew how much it meant to her. We had gone to birthing classes, and we did everything we could to prepare for a natural birth, but Sekou didn’t want to cooperate.

  During one of our final ultrasounds, three weeks before Sekou’s due date, the doctor confirmed that Sekou hadn’t turned. She scheduled Ebony for a C-section on December 1, 2011. I tried to do my best to help her see the blessing that was before us, but we couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

  Then, a week before Ebony was scheduled for the surgery, the doctor discovered that Sekou had miraculously turned around.

  On December 12, 2011, we checked into the hospital for Ebony to be induced. For eight hours, I watched my best friend, fiancée, and the mother of my child undergo the extreme pains of labor. I coached and encouraged her the best I could, but I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt to stand by helpless as she suffered. Watching her go through childbirth deepened my love and respect for her more than I’d known was possible.

  On December 13, 2011, shortly after midnight, Ebony gave birth to the most beautiful baby in the world. Sekou came out with his eyes wide open—bright and loving from day one. Whenever I would enter the room, a big smile would spread across his face. When I held him, he clung to my finger and snuggled up to me, falling asleep to the sound of my heartbeat.

  The first few months were a challenge as we managed the adjustments and exhaustion that all new parents face, but I wouldn’t trade those months for anything.

  Watching Sekou grow, I realized that the desires I had expressed to the parole board were real—more than anything in the world, my dream was to give our son a better world than the one Ebony and I had inherited. And I also discovered that I couldn’t have chosen a better coparent. Ebony’s tenderness, thoughtfulness, and motherly instinct kept Sekou covered in a blanket of pure maternal love from the day he was born.

  —

  IN EARLY 2012, the BMe Challenge winners were invited to a reception where we would receive our leadership awards. It was a great day for me and my family. Yusef was there, having also won one of the awards, and we talked about how our lives had come full circle from our days at the Michigan Reformatory. But the best part of that day was sharing the experience with my father. For years I had longed to show him that I was serious about changing my life. This award was really a reward for him—for the love and loyalty he had shown me all those years.

  Over the course of the next few months, I made trips to Wisconsin and New York, speaking to students and continuing my mentoring work in Detroit. My mentorship project was also in full swing. The students were enjoying the class, and I loved watching these shy, introverted, street-toughened kids blossom into brilliant writers and expressive artists, right before my eyes. There was something profound about listening to them speak without interruption, and with each story, poem, or haiku they shared with me, I found myself learning what it truly means to support someone else in his or her journey. They opened up about stories of sexual and child abuse that were both horrifying and heartrending. But in each line they wrote, I could see a ray of hope shining through.

  When May arrived, my focus shifted to walking down my last month of parole. By now, it had been nearly two years since I walked out of prison, and I couldn’t wait until June to be able to say that it was finally over. I was fatigued from dealing with all of the parole restrictions, and the fact that my BMe grant was running out meant that I would soon be unemployed—but Ebony and Sekou kept me strong.

  Finally, on June 28, 2012, I was released from parole. When I exited the office with discharge papers in hand, I had a bop in my step as I thought about how I would never again have to ask permission to travel out of state, or have to pee in a cup while strange men stared at my penis to ensure that the urine was actually coming from me. For the first time in more than twenty years, I would be able to live my life as a normal human being.

  Despite my s
kill set, finding employment continued to be a challenge in ways that threatened my sanity. I began feeling stressed and depressed. Book sales were nominal and speaking engagements were sporadic. I refused to give up or turn to the streets, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I would be able to hold on to the idea of finding a job or making it as an author.

  At night, I would talk to Ebony and vent my frustrations. She listened and did her part to encourage me to keep pushing forward. Ebony knew me well enough to know that a nine-to-five would drive me crazy, and she reminded me that it would also affect my mentoring work. I continued putting in résumés, attending networking events, and sitting in on business meetings that I was invited to, but my heart wasn’t in it.

  —

  THEN, THAT JULY, I was invited to a meeting hosted by the Knight Foundation, where I would meet a group of people who would change my life.

  By that time, I was tired of walking into meetings like these with hope and optimism, only to leave feeling uninspired and empty. I had met a few well-meaning people, but they never seemed to follow through on the big plans we had talked about in our conversations and e-mails. They told me that they were interested in working with me and helping me get my life on track, but all it ever turned out to be was empty rhetoric.

  This time, the meeting was a presentation by Joi Ito, director of the MIT Media Lab, and Colin Rainey, from the design firm IDEO. They were talking about some development work they wanted to do in Detroit. I had no idea who either of them was, and when I looked at them standing at the front of the room, I was convinced that they were no different from the rest of the outsiders who saw Detroit as a charity case. I figured they would come in and give some syrupy spiel about planting gardens or painting flowers all over run-down buildings to make the natives feel positive about the blight and violence that surrounded them.