Darriss, Norfolk Prison, 2019

When I’m alone in my prison cell it’s hard for me to forget the day I made my mistake. I tell myself that distractions will keep my demons away. I lift weights until my biceps feel like they’re tearing apart. When I go outside for a run in the yard, it’s hard for me to stop. Even if my legs are trembling and aching, I continue to run. No matter what I see-- a parking lot full of cars, flashing lights, blood flowing down on cement-- that blazing summer day in late August refuses to leave my mind.

The Unforgettable Night

On August 27, 2014, after being pulled over for a traffic violation in Lowell, Massachusetts, my friend Darriss shot at a police officer. Darriss, who was 23 at the time, was driving to his friend’s garage to get his car repaired. He wanted to leave his car there early in the morning so he wouldn’t arrive late for work later that day. Darriss planned to walk home since his friend’s garage was close to where he lived.

According to the police report, at 3:15 a.m. Officer Patrick Casey, sitting in his cruiser in a parking lot in Lowell, Massachusetts, surveilling traffic, saw a dark-colored car speeding. He noticed the car’s faulty taillights, so he pursued. Nearing the car, he ran the car’s registration through the Criminal Justice Information Services (CJIS).

Darriss, on his way to the auto shop, had run a red light. There weren’t any cars or people in the streets and Darriss was in a rush to drop off his car; he doesn’t remember if running the light was intentional. But Officer Casey, who’d been tailing him, now flashed his emergency lights. Darriss slowed, but didn’t immediately stop, eventually pulling over a short distance away on Middlesex St.

Darriss opened his car door and began to step out, which caused Officer Casey to squat behind the door of his patrol car with his firearm drawn. At this point, Darriss sat with his legs out of the car. Officer Casey told Darriss to get back into the car multiple times. Darriss yelled, “The car’s not stolen.” Eventually, after several more commands, Darriss complied and closed the driver’s side door. Officer Casey ordered Darriss to stick his hands out of the window. Darriss did so, but according to the police report, he “appeared to be looking around the inside of the vehicle.”

Officer Casey ordered Darriss to turn off the car. Darriss told Officer Casey he couldn’t turn off the car because he’d hot-wired it to get it started. Officer Casey radioed Lowell Police Department dispatch for assistance.

Meanwhile Darriss withdrew his right hand into the car. Officer Casey demanded that Darriss “Stop moving and place his hand out the window,” but Darriss didn’t listen.

*

The policeman was shouting, and for a few seconds, I didn’t hear any of his words. I panicked and froze in the moment. All my senses seemed to shut off. I wanted to create a plan to escape from this situation, but I couldn’t think. My bones felt rigid, and I had trouble breathing. Anxiety flowed through me, and my hands twitched. I felt as if another part of me took control. I reached for my weapon with my right hand, then pushed open the car door. As soon as I got out of the car, I heard a burst of shots that jarred me from my trance. The bullets flew right by my face. I shot back three times then ran across the street. I tried to evade his position by running and ducking diagonally. For a split second, I looked at him and saw him crouched on one knee next to me. He was shooting at me as if I were target practice. I felt a bullet tear through me. I kept running, but the pain was hard to ignore. I thought he was ready to finish me off, but the bullets stopped.

Once I got close to the Hess gas station, I took off my shirt and wrapped the bullet wound on my arm. I was dismayed when I turned back to see the trail of my blood. I looked around and I saw a bunch of police cars approaching. I thought hiding was the best thing I could do. I ran to the car dealership next to the gas station and slid under one of the cars. Dogs barking and police sirens flooded my ears.

I blacked out a few times and woke to paramedics holding me on a stretcher. I heard loud, forceful noises. I saw a flash as we approached a hospital and glimpsed a white blood-stained bed. I woke up to see a police officer’s badge, and my wrists handcuffed.

*

Darriss was charged with armed assault with intent to murder, unlawful possession of a firearm, two counts of possession of ammunition, possession of a large-capacity device, and assault and battery. The prosecutor proposed a fifteen-twenty-year sentence, but for less time, Darriss plead guilty. A few factors influenced Darriss’ case. The judge allowed Darriss’ childhood history to be included in the testimony -- his academic struggles, poor mental health, his father’s incarceration and absence from Darriss’ life—but the judge couldn’t ignore the bullet hole in the police officer’s cruiser from Darriss’ gun, and the recklessness of Darriss’ actions. Considering Darriss’ background, the judge sentenced him seven and a half to ten years.

Boys

When I first met Darriss he was a skinny 16-year-old, with long black hair and a man bun, who seemed full of joy, doing tricks on his skateboard, which he carried wherever he went. He wore fitted caps and basketball shorts that hung at his hips. I met him through his younger brother Marcus, with whom I went to middle school. That was back when they had a German Shepherd Rottweiler, Lita, and Marcus’s father, Choco, lived with their mother Minda. (Choco was not Darriss’ father). They were always welcoming and kind to me.

I was thirteen, and into smoking Black & Mild cigars with a Caucasian friend, Danny. I’d give Danny $1 to buy the cigars, then smoke them after school in his apartment. I thought I was smoking blunts, not cigars. Once someone broke the news to me, I wanted to try actual weed, so a friend told me Darriss could hook me up.

That day, which I recall was cloudy and intermittently raining, I walked through Darriss’ wide, empty driveway, past a couple of tall pine trees. Darriss, wearing shorts and a black hoodie, was smoking with one of his friends near the front door. The blunt was smoked down to a nub and looked like the cigars I smoked with the tan tips.

“Do you have the money?” Darriss said, then took another hit.

I gave him five dollars.

“Here, lightweight.” Darriss passed the blunt to me and when I didn’t smoke it the right way, he looked at me like I had two heads. I’m grateful that I made myself look like an idiot because it was better for my health.

“Did you feel anything?” Darriss said, with a slight grin. He didn’t mention how I wasn’t inhaling, though he did tell me this a few weeks later “Nah man. I should be feeling it soon though.”

As we took turns smoking the blunt, I felt relaxed. We didn’t talk much and I left, wondering if my mom would smell the sweet, stinky odor on my clothes. I wondered if the rain would wash away the guilt I felt as I walked home.

*

Another night not long after this, my aunt and I drove to Darriss’ home. The night was silent and chilly, with a dark orange shine from the streetlights that fascinated me. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door, worried because I didn’t see movement inside. I saw only lamp light and a reflection on a TV screen in the living room. I knocked again and waited. Darriss finally opened the door.

“My bro isn’t here right now, but you can chill inside if you want. He’s probably on the way home from baseball practice.”

Darriss was shirtless, but wearing his typical shorts and black sandals with socks. There were few lights on in the house, but I sat on one of the two cream-colored couches arranged near two small windows, their blinds dusty. The picture window had a roller shade. On the t.v., I saw elephants and loads of grass, and heard a narrator who seemed to speak gibberish.

Darriss sat on the edge of the couch, watching the show.

“What do you think about humanity or how humans were made?” Darriss asked.

“I think the world has many interesting things. I just sit back and wonder.”

“Have you thought about how we may connect to something bigger than what we see around us? It blows my mind how we have empty planets gliding in the air. There may be more than one God, and we could be too dumb to realize it!” Darriss hunched his back, then cracked his knuckles as he spoke.

“Wait, what are you getting at?”

“Our world likes the idea of mystery and ugliness. The things we see on the internet entertain us, but it doesn’t mean they’re good. Look at how Mother Nature treats us sometimes. She creates beauty, yet she chooses to destroy it for whatever reason.”

Darriss and I bonded over discussions like this, about things that our other friends would consider weird, and these talks deepened our friendship. Most of our friends cared mainly about proving how tough they were, or bragging about the number of girls they’d slept with.

*

Often on weekends, I slept over Darriss’ and Marcus’ house, staying up till dawn playing NBA 2k or watching Netflix. One morning I woke up from my bear-like sleep, brushed my teeth, removed crust from my eyes, splashed water on my face, then left wearing the clothing I wore every day that summer, t-shirt, drawstring shorts, short white socks, and black sandals. As I stepped out onto the staircase of their home and walked towards Darriss’ car, I felt like I needed to drink ten glasses of water. The air was dry and sticky. I squinted at the brightness outside. The temperature in Darriss’ Honda almost gave me heat stroke as he drove us downtown.

At a bodega, we bought some Dominican food in styrofoam take-out containers. My stomach rumbled at the savory smells of rice and red beans, and fried chicken. I sat in the back of the car glimpsing at the food and occasionally teasing myself by eating a tiny portion of it. At home, there weren’t a lot of men around. Darriss and Marcus began to feel like brothers to me.

*

On the night of July 4th, about two months before Darriss was arrested, a group of our friends got together at a baseball field. Darriss and others set up an arsenal of firecrackers, rockets, ground spinners, and fountains. They lit up some fireworks and ran to a safe spot to observe. It felt like an eruption shook us when the fireworks exploded in the air into sharp rays of light, glittery reds, greens, yellows, and blues that illuminated the sky.

With my phone in hand, I looked around to get a better camera angle and avoid bumping into someone when I noticed Darriss’ joyful expression, one I hadn’t seen often. He stood admiring the few trees and scattered leaves brightened by the fireworks, and the baseball field in all its madness.

My eyes stung from the white smoke after the fireworks flamed out, and I felt jumpy, ready to run from trouble. I stopped recording the scene. Darriss and his friends rushed to pick up the debris in the field, and then Darriss ran away, still carrying a long red lighter and tiny boxes of leftover fireworks.

I followed Marcus and Todd as they ran toward Darriss’ home. I felt my leg bones tighten and my mouth felt drier than a California desert. The world moved in slow motion. The feeling of an overwhelming rush turned into an indescribable low. I looked around, unsure what I was searching for. My neck lost its flexibility after a while with each twist and turn and became stiff. I was relieved that I didn’t hear police sirens nearing us. Once we got out of the tight alleyways and paths, we slowed down and walked.

The Preset

Darriss’ father, Darryl, was in Darriss’ life sporadically, inviting Darriss to say with him at his girlfriend’s house some weekends. Darriss remembers nights when his father dropped him off with his friends at Roller Kingdom, and another time when they took a trip to North Carolina to visit Darryl’s family. Darryl compensated for the lack of affection and attention to Darriss by bestowing him with gifts.

Minda argued with Darryl over his wild behavior and heavy drinking, and Darryl’s disrespectful treatment of Minda strained the relationship between he and his son. Darriss was only two when Darryl went to prison for five years on an illegal firearm conviction. Essentially, Darriss grew up with Minda, his aunt Jessie (Minda’s sister), and his grandmother Sandra was also supportive of Darriss. Darriss has few memories of visiting his father in prison, just a snapshot of being with his father in the prison yard, glimpsing the tall concrete walls. The tension between Minda and Darryl grew over the years, and when they broke up for good, Darryl distanced himself from his son, Darriss.

At fourteen, Darriss started smoking marijuana, recreationally at first, but by the time he was 16, he got high every day, a habit that continued for the next five years. He now believes that his weed addiction harmed his cognitive skills and caused him to lose his grasp on reality. His mother tried to lead him down the right path, but without his father in his life, he had no healthy male figure to model problem-solving. Darriss felt isolated in his own family, too, especially as his half-brother Marcus had a good relationship with his father, Choco.

Darriss suffered from depression, first triggered by his severe eczema, which began in middle school. His skin was itchy and dry, and painful to the point where it hurt to sweat. Rash-like red patches covered his face, neck, and torso. The eczema made Darriss irritable and anxious, especially as no treatment seemed to work for him. When his skin broke out, Darriss wore hoodies and long sleeves, and he cancelled dates. He’d even considered suicide. Instead, he smoked his pain away, never truly addressing what bothered him. Because of the eczema, he lacked self-confidence, and so he often channeled his anger and depression into defiance.

As a child, Darriss was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and depression. Most of his teachers labeled Darriss disruptive. He attended Lowell High School for his freshman year, but after he was suspended for being in trouble so often, for his sophomore year he was transferred to Molly Alternative School.

Midway through his sophomore year, an incident at school led to Darriss’ admission to a psychiatric hospital. One Friday, Darriss went to retrieve his backpack, which he’d left in the principal’s office after a meeting earlier that day. But the principal left for vacation and the office was locked; nobody would open the door for him. He wanted his iPod, which was in his backpack. Frustrated, he grabbed a rock and threatened to smash the window. After arguing with the school staff, Darriss walked away, but a teacher cornered him in a hallway. Darriss pulled out a multi-purpose tool from his pocket, which had a small fold-out knife. There was often gang activity around Darriss’ neighborhood, so he carried the tool for protection. He poked the knife toward the teacher, who felt threatened and called the police.

In his holding cell at a juvenile court facility, one of his peers convinced him to say he was suicidal so that he’d avoid spending time in a juvenile detention center. But this ploy landed him in a psychiatric hospital. At least there he was able to complete his schoolwork. Darriss was 15 then.

Darriss’ stay at two different psychiatric hospitals stretched to nearly four months. At the first hospital Darriss was defiant and misbehaved, and because of this recklessness he was transferred to a stricter psychiatric hospital in Cambridge, just west of Boston. Upon Darriss’ release, Minda sent him to live with her parents in New Hampshire, where he spent his junior year. For his senior year, he moved back home with his mother and graduated from Lowell High School.

After high school, Darriss worked a variety of low-level jobs, but several months before his arrest, he’d found a decent job working as a forklift operator. When he didn’t have much to do at work, he learned how to repair and manufacture doors.

Darriss calls himself anti-social, even though he’s a good conversationalist. He made plenty of friends in his youth, but he attributed that to his brother Marcus’s connections. Growing up, he and Marcus spent a lot of time with their cousins, yet Darriss was a bit of a loner. Darriss went to bars with friends and had no problem meeting women or finding girlfriends, but he didn’t go out to party or socialize often, preferring to stay home.

Darriss’ impulsiveness and sometimes too-blunt honesty put off others, but I knew his heart. Once, when he and I walked to a gas station to buy some snacks, his spirit calm that day, I saw a glint of hope in his eyes when he gazed at the sunset. Outside the store, a homeless man asked Darriss for a dollar. He pulled out his black wallet then gave the man a bill. Walking home he said, “God knows, it’s only a dollar, just a piece of paper.”

Prison Visit I

After Darriss’ conviction in 2015, he was held first in Middlesex Jail & House of Correction, then transferred a year later to the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Cedar Junction (MCI-CJ), a medium-security prison with over 600 inmates, and a long-standing reputation for violence and ill-treatment of inmates. MCI-CJ has a maximum-security component for dangerous inmates with profoundly serious offenses, those who get only an hour of time outside of their holding cells. The institution is known for having a terrible structure and numerous inmate murders.

He took advice from fellow inmates in Cedar Junction, who told him about the educational programs and rehabilitation opportunities at MCI-Norfolk, a more progressive medium-security prison. Darriss worked hard at Cedar Junction, hoping to be transferred to Norfolk. And he worked on his character. Finally, after a year at Cedar Junction, Darriss was moved to MCI-Norfolk.

*

One day in June of 2019, during Darriss’ fourth year of being in jail, his mother Minda and I drove two-hours from Lowell, where we both lived, to Norfolk to visit Darriss. I left all the stuff I had in my pockets inside Minda’s car, everything except my ID and a paperback I’d brought to read in the waiting room. My clothes were soaked with sweat from my anxiety and they felt tighter than usual.

Vending machines full of Snickers, Doritos, and Coca-Colas crowded the back of the small waiting room. Minda and I signed in on the visitor sheets, grabbed a ticket, and stored our belongings in a locker, then checked in with the correctional officers, who asked about our background information and prior visits. The seats in the waiting room were sturdy and plastic, bolted to black metal frames, which were then bolted to the floor. There weren’t enough of them, and some visitors had to stand. Kids ran around excitedly, a thrill I wished I felt. Gleaming glass separated the bored officers and impatient visitors. The rules stated that visitors couldn’t be disruptive or use their smartphones. The day was slow for everyone, although we didn’t wait too long before the correctional officers called names.

Minda and I rose. As we walked through the narrow hallways to the security room, I heard a toilet flush from one of the bathrooms next to us. I looked at the dirty, vintage walls, and on one side, a row of numbered lockers. Dust and dirt had accumulated in the corners of the room, and alongside the edges of the floors and ceilings.

A correctional officer instructed us to remove our shoes, belts, and any metal objects. We emptied our pockets into a small yellow bin, and another correctional officer, wearing plastic gloves, searched them. I moved my feet around a bit and wiggled my toes, waiting my turn as I watched people walk through the metal detector, their faces looking as bewildered as I felt. I was relieved to leave that room, to be walking toward the tall, steel door behind which I knew Darriss would be waiting.

In the next room we passed through, a female corrections officer stamped our hands to verify our clearance with ink that was visible only under a blue light. A tall, white male officer held a German Shepherd on a leash, the group of us standing shoulder to shoulder as the dog sniffed our bodies for drugs or other illicit substances.

There was a loud sound, like an emergency alarm, to alert people to danger, followed by the steel door clanging open. We had to wait for another steel door to open to the path that led us to the building where we finally met Darriss. Minda looked around the room and glanced over at the few people around us. She had both of her hands inside the pockets of her light blue pants. I was staring at the ground, but when I looked up, I noticed that she was looking at me.

“Darriss gets excited when you come to visit him. I’m sure that he will be happy to see you.” She smiled and backed up next to me.

“I’m glad to see him. We have good conversations. If I could stay around for longer I would.”

“You know, he goes through a lot. You’re one of his only friends who’s supported him.”

“I only hope that he doesn’t end up back here once he gets out,” I said.

Minda adjusted her glasses and looked down briefly at her feet.

“Me too. I don’t want to go through this again.” She sighed, raised her head, and turned to the door.

I glimpsed the high ceiling and then the yellow markings on the ground that indicated where the steel door would swing. Every motion or noise was magnified in that hollow space.

As we walked out of that dim room, brightness reflected off my shoes. I blinked to adjust to the daylight in the courtyard; it felt like a miracle to be outside again, even though we were still in prison. Flowers bordered the paved walkway, adding a dash of cheer to the grim setting. I observed the grass and its vivid green color while noticing that the prison was like a fortress, with guard towers on each corner and steel fencing with barbed wire around the perimeter. The courtyard felt like a trap among traps.

Minda and I entered yet another building that contained the visiting room. There was a guard behind a wooden desk who oversaw the wide room, with plastic chairs and vending machines, and a backdrop that inmates used to pose for photos with their loved ones. Next to it there was another long wooden desk with a desktop computer. A triangular skylight brightened the room. There were toys in a play area, with a colorful plastic table, a play mat for children, and a flat-screen t.v. nearby.

Darriss walked toward us in a big white t-shirt, baggy Levi’s, and his signature black Nike air force ones. His hair was short, with a neat patch of chin hair, and light spots of acne on his cheeks. Darriss gave Minda a hug and then he hugged me with a big smile. Once we sat down, Darriss’ legs started to shake. He slouched in his chair with his arms crossed. Minda sat on his right while I sat to his left. Every time one of us talked he turned his head, which made him seem restless. He was like a curious kid, observing his surroundings and occasionally talking about the people he recognized.

Arms folded, Darriss stared at the ground. I never knew exactly what he was feeling, but his mysteriousness made him interesting. He’s open yet reserved. He wasn’t often forthcoming about his frustrations.

Minda and I were both cautious on these visits; we didn’t like to give Darriss sad news. If anything, we wanted to hear what he had to say and to give him a respite from his stressful life behind bars. Minda moved to the edge of her seat while Darriss and I spoke. She usually gave us space to talk, so she looked around the room, then stood and pulled out a white card from her pocket.

“You want the usual stuff right, Darriss, Pepsi and Cape Cod chips?”

“Yeah Ma, please.” Darriss licked his lips and scratched his face. There was some redness on his cheeks and a bit of dry skin along his forehead.

“Do you want anything David?” Minda asked.

I looked over at the vending machines. “Not right now, but thank you,” I said.

“Well, if you want anything let me know and I’ll give you the card.”

Darriss waited for Minda to walk away, then sat back and rested his arm on the top of Minda’s seat. “Bro, are you good? You haven’t said much.”

“I wanted to let you talk to your mom,” I said.

Darriss smiled with his mouth slightly open.

“I talk to her all the time. Worry less about that. How is school going for you?” Darriss’ smile faded, and he looked straight ahead, as if he were concentrating.

“School is going fine. You know the same old stuff. Nothing new.”

“Stay focused man. You don’t want to end up like me. Look at where I am. You’re outside on the streets. Enjoy what you have.” Darriss started tapping his feet rapidly.

“I try to, but it’s hard to feel that way if a lot of things bring me down.”

Darriss’ tapping slowed as he faced me.

“Stop being hard on yourself. You’ll get to where you want to be in life.” Darriss’ voice seemed to deepen, and he appeared more focused.

“Thank you, Ma. Do you want some, D?”

Darriss opened his Pepsi and took a quick sip.

“Look, you have your whole life ahead of you. You’ll have a four-year degree soon!”

“I know, but I feel like I can do better.”

Darriss set his chips and Pepsi aside. His arms rested on his knees while he leaned forward and squeezed his hands. He looked at me for a few seconds then readjusted himself in his seat, his arms crossed and eyebrows raised. His small eyes widened as he firmly planted his feet on the ground.

“Do better with what?”

“I don’t know. With everything I guess.”

Darriss looked across the room to the windows, then and shifted closer to me. He shook his head.

“You’re bugging kid. You’re blessed. God is on your side.”

Minda was sitting next to him, looking at the surroundings with a childlike smile on her face. My interaction with Darriss cheered her.

When I talked to Darriss about my depression and family issues, he understood. His honesty helped me realize that I could handle life’s challenges better if I tried to tame my fear and anxiety. I sat quietly for a few seconds and looked at everything around us. I saw an elderly inmate talking to his daughter, and a young inmate who was sitting close to his girlfriend. A middle-aged inmate interacted with his kids. All were smiling, engaged in the moment, and shining with hope. If it were not for the setting and discomforting supervision, I might’ve forgotten I was in prison.

*

When I talk to Darriss in person, I occasionally think about how life used to be for us. At one point, I was as troubled as he was. I skipped classes, defied my parents, and lacking any ambition, I fell into a serious video-game addiction, spending more than four hours a day playing with online friends. The school staff and counselors, along with my aunt and mother teamed up to turn me around, pointing out how foolish I was acting. When I was 16, I spent two weeks in a psychiatric hospital because I’d skipped so much school. At the time, I was designated as a Child Requiring Assistance (CRA) case. During my stay at the hospital, I was given a variety of antidepressants, attended mandatory group therapy sessions, and just as often just sat in my room alone, staring at the walls.

One day, my parents visited the hospital to review my progress with my probation officer, a social worker, and other staff members. I was upset with my parents for talking about my habits at home, how I constantly played videogames and slept all day. Later, in a room designed for patients to release their frustrations, I threw a dodge ball against a padded wall. One day, a female staff member cautiously walked into the room to talk to me. She conveyed a feeling of warmth and lovingness, which disarmed me, and I was able to open up to her, to speak about my father’s death. I was ten when he died, but even before he passed away, I hadn’t seen him much. This was the first time I understood the connection between that loss and my depression and rebellious behavior. I took the time to listen to her, and to talk about my life. Over time I realized that I needed to change.

*

I find it ironic that Darriss and I admire one another. Darriss embraces my intellect and the way I avoid negativity and drama, while I’ve always envied his hustle with finding work and creating goals, and his confidence with women. Darriss was creative about earning cash, even if it meant he had to sell weed, or pawn his smartphone. I always liked how he knew a lot about Hondas. He sold car parts and used the money to buy better parts or to save for another car. Darriss was a bona fide flipper.

We are the opposite of one another in numerous ways, yet we share interests and hobbies. Both of us enjoyed listening to hip-hop artists that nobody around us liked. I laughed every time he did the “cooking dance” in his living room to a song by Lil B, pretending to stir a pot of soup and cut vegetables with rapid hand gestures and arm motions. We used to talk about how good Halo 3 was and played Halo 4 a few times before he went to prison. Darriss, Marcus, and I would play basketball with some other friends at a park next to Bartlett Middle School, and we went to the gym occasionally to work out, usually near midnight because we loved having the machines to ourselves.

When I talked over the phone or sent e-mails to Darriss, he usually said that he was well, but I was never reassured. It was nearly impossible to not feel sad or bothered in prison, but Darriss learned how to keep a positive attitude. When the prison lacked opportunities or prevented him from participating in programs, he focused on finding other ways to improve himself. During his eight-month stay in Middlesex Jail, a correctional officer denied Darriss the opportunity to work. The correctional officer held a grudge against Darriss because he’d shot at a police officer, and so the C.O. targeted Darriss, harassing him and even snatching Darriss’ gold pendant.

When I talked with Darriss, we’re open with our opinions about the world. Sometimes we tried to analyze what happened the night he got arrested. I didn’t want him to feel horrible about his choices. I saw his problem as linked to deeper issues in our paradoxical society—one that promises the American dream for everyone, yet makes it particularly difficult for people of color, and those who are poor. Darriss wasn’t some hoodlum who wanted to shoot a police officer for no reason. Darriss was a kid who needed help.

A Visit before Christmas

I looked at the highway and the crowd of cars ahead of us, wondering when Sandra, Darriss’ grandmother, and I would arrive at MCI-Norfolk. It was a chilly November morning in 2019, five years since Darriss’ arrest and two years before his scheduled release. Sandra and I had never visited Darriss together, so I didn’t want to make the occasion awkward. Sandra often visited Darriss at Norfolk, even though she lived more than an hour away in New Hampshire. Around the time of this visit, she’d beat cancer but had suffered damage to her lung that reduced her breathing capacity. I appreciated even more her generosity in taking me along for the visit.

Sandra was open and honest about her family history, admitting their troubles with gambling, alcoholism, anxiety, and depression. Darriss could never control these things, but Sandra never saw him as a bad person. “I love Darriss with all of my heart,” she said. It’s harder for Sandra to see Darriss as a menace. “When he came to live with me and my husband for a while, he treated me with a lot of respect.”

When Sandra looks at Darriss, she sees someone with pure intentions. He’s like a son to her and they are quite close. She knows that he has matured in prison over the years but worry still lingers in her mind. After Darriss is released, she wants him to stay out of trouble, to continue to pursue positive goals. “I told Darriss that if he goes back to prison, I am not going to visit him. I can’t do this for the rest of my life.”

Since Darriss was a kid, Sandra tells me, he was energetic and tried to be helpful. One bright, cheerful Easter, Darriss’ little cousin Meagan felt left out of the egg hunt. Everyone else had found some hidden eggs, but Meagan was too small to realize where they were. Darriss noticed how she walked around with her little shovel and empty basket. There was a moment where she found an egg but couldn’t reach it. Darriss went over and grabbed the egg for her. Sandra had witnessed this and has never forgotten. It can be easy to see only Darriss’ hard exterior and ignore his personal qualities, but Sandra can still see that little boy who liked to lend a hand.

Norfolk Prison II / Reality

I think about all the things that led up to my mistake in 2014 and wonder where I went wrong. Was it the gun that I bought? Did I lose focus on what was important? Were the people I was hanging around with waiting for me to fail? In a couple of years, I will be free again, but I cannot forget about how different things might’ve been. Instead of sleeping on a stiff bunk bed with sweaty sheets, I could be at home lying on a king size bed under in an air-conditioned room. I could’ve been spending time with my girlfriend and not talking to a bunch of men. If I wanted to use the bathroom I could be sitting on a toilet in private, I wouldn’t have to think about people looking at me or the toilet clogging. I pray that my mistake doesn’t haunt me anymore.

*

Reintegrating into society isn’t easy for any prisoner. With a criminal record that shadows them, they wrestle with finding jobs and housing, which makes it difficult to avoid falling back into illegal activities. A U.S. Department of Justice report published in 2018 found that between 2005 and 2014, of the 412,731 male and female prisoners released in thirty states, some 45% were rearrested within a year. In three years, the total was 68%; in six years 79%; and in nine years 83%. Recidivism is a real danger for those who’ve been imprisoned, especially given the many roadblocks to creating a normal life outside.

Massachusetts offers workshops and reentry programs to assist inmates before their releases; they help inmates find jobs and housing and offer services for mental health and substance abuse. Even so, ex-inmates in Massachusetts face challenges. Many don’t have access to certain industries and occupations, like government jobs or work in health care. Depending on their crimes, they can’t obtain licenses for businesses or health-related practices. Ex-inmates in Massachusetts lack immediate access to public housing, food stamps, and transitional assistance programs, which means that once they are out in the world, if they lack family support, they might be immediately broke and homeless.

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The criminal justice system is flawed, says Melissa Morabito, an Associate Professor of the School of Criminology and Justice Studies at University of Massachusetts Lowell. She believes that imprisonment focuses solely on punishment and isolation, which can only push troubled people further down the wrong path. Instead, she’s worked with juveniles in programs that serve as alternatives to incarceration—keeping kids out of prison and leading them down a more constructive path. The program has proven successful at helping young people avoid jail by giving them the resources they need when they’re struggling with personal problems like depression and anger. Unfortunately, according to Morabito, many schools and communities lack these essential services. Especially in poor communities, troubled kids may not have anyone with whom they can talk.

Morabito is against incarceration. “Even someone with good mental health is going to have a tough time surviving in prison,” she told me. Prison sentences are often arbitrary and unfair, varying by judge and by state, and research shows the criminal justice system is fraught with racial bias, which means that often, people of color are convicted more often and given harsher sentences for the same crimes as their white counterparts. Worst of all, many innocent people are wrongly convicted. What baffles Morabito is that America doesn’t seem to recognize how people can change and mature, especially younger people. “From what we know about the criminal life cycle, as people get older their priorities change. Getting married, finding a job, or even joining the military can alter a person’s mindset and behavior.” Research shows that 90% of young people will “age out” of criminal and reckless behavior by the time they are in their late teens or early twenties.

A 2018 U.S. Department of Justice study of ex-offenders 24-years-old or younger found that as time goes by, fewer and fewer of them re-offend. By the seventh year out of jail, 72.4% of young ex-offenders desisted from breaking the law, and never again spent time in prison. In contrast, giving a juvenile a long sentence can lead to an adult life of criminality.

In fact, the longer an adolescent spends in detention, the higher the rate of recidivism. The Council of State Governments (CSG) Justice Center, which tracked the recidivism rates for juvenile offenders, claimed that the recidivism rates after three years of incarceration were 76%, but rose to 84% after five years of incarceration. Once these juvenile offenders reach adulthood, the numbers don’t change much.

Even when prisons offer training and life skills programs, they still don’t offer parolees a path to secure employment. Morabito says, “There are limitations to job training if we don’t help ex-inmates get a job after their release.” People who go through the prison system simply need structure and purpose to keep them out of prison.

Moving Forward

Darriss endured many long, lonely nights behind bars, but his Christian beliefs prevented him from succumbing to suicide. “It would be like a slap in the face to God,” he told me. He managed to find solace in his faith, and he was grateful that he has survived. His faith has led him to help other young people at risk through Project Youth, an anti-violence and drug-use prevention program for teenagers. The program, formed in 1990, connects inmates with at-risk youth in settings where people like Darriss can talk openly to the kids about their own mistakes and experiences.

Darriss was elevated to the position of training facilitator in Project Youth, which aims to train new inmates to counsel youth. “Correctional officers screen participants for those who are responsible and genuinely want to help,” Darriss said. Darriss is proud of his work with Project Youth. “I personally talked to more than 2,000 high school students in the span of three years.” Instead of trying to hide his shame from the world, he shares it, so that young men just like he was don’t make the same mistakes he did.

From the beginning, Darriss knew he needed to reinvent himself and he’s worked hard at it. Correctional officers noticed the impact Darriss had on the kids in Project Youth, and they complimented him for his bravery and vulnerability. After hearing his story, some correctional officers told Darriss he’d became more of a man, positive feedback that kept Darriss motivated.

Beyond Project Youth, Darriss was enrolled in a 32-credit undergraduate certificate program in Interdisciplinary Studies through a Boston University program for inmates. He found the challenge and lively experience helpful. Inmates who enroll in prison education programs are 45% less likely to reenter prison after release, and the likeliness of them getting a job after prison increases by 13%. Inmates who participate in vocational training are 28% percent more likely to find employment upon release. Those who leave prison without academic or vocational experience have a 50% percent chance of reentering. On top of pursuing an education, Darriss has learned two trades, carpentry and welding, skills that will serve him well back in society.

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No matter how much good Darriss does, he still feels ashamed. “People always try to paint me as a monster.” Throughout his six years of imprisonment, Darriss managed to avoid gangs and drugs, which might have lengthened his prison stay and harmed his ambitions for his life outside. He found other men in prison who supported him. Soon, Darriss will finish his seven-year sentence at Pondville Correctional Center, a minimum-security facility that acts as a steppingstone from prison back into society. By the end of 2021, Darriss will be released and on probation. “I plan on getting my license immediately, shopping for clothes and necessities, getting a car, and working within the second month of my return.” Meanwhile Darriss has two jobs lined up. Darriss’ grandmother Sandra, and her husband, who own a pool servicing company, have promised Darriss work in one of their warehouses. Through another contact, Darriss has an offer of a job as a welder. Darriss wants to volunteer, too, once he gets his life together, to continue helping other people.

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Aside from promising job opportunities, Darriss wants to live a clean life, surrounding himself only with family members and close friends who’ve supported him throughout his incarceration. He wants to continue working on his character and his attitude as well. “I've built a support system that comforts me and I worked on the underlying issues that led me to trying to take my life away.” Darriss has learned to control his emotions, unlike years back when he couldn’t control his anger and would black out, almost transforming into a different person.

He credits his experience at Project Youth, which allowed him to be more open about topics he’d avoided his whole life. “Project Youth was monumental for my mental health because it became therapeutic.” While helping others, Darriss helped  himself as well. His involvement with the church in Norfolk prison and studying the bible contributed to his more positive outlook.

“I stayed out of trouble for almost six years. I can vocalize how I feel now. I'm humbled, grounded, and spiritually happy,” Darriss told me recently. In a matter of months, Darriss will have that opportunity to prove outside of prison how much he has grown inside.

David Rosario is a literary nonfiction writer living and working in Lowell, Massachusetts. He is an honors graduate of the creative writing program at the University of Massachusetts Lowell, where he studied with Maureen Stanton, Andre Dubus III and Marlowe Miller. His nonfiction writing has been published in The Offering literary journal. For more of his content, visit Medium.com/@spiritual