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What We Wait For
Expectant Anxious Excited Unworthy Your arrival Signifies commitment To us Who is not worthy Time Energy Effort Expended for us When you don't have to lift a finger Obligated to no one Especially us Yet you still do This for us Out of love What else could it be? Afraid of being disappointed A lifetime Of empty promises And broken dreams Has made us sceptical Yet we take the chance And prepare For you to prove true to your word Nerve racking Impatient We sit Pace Wait in on our names to be called That one moment Of release of anticipation That gripped us Ritualistic Sacred Habitual Insanity Is our routine Of waiting Preparing If you haven't figured it out yet Let me make clear What I've been unclear about The thing I'm talking about Describing to you What we wait for The thingnw place stock in Our hopes Dreams Nightmares Is a visit from you... Chris W. 10A1460
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From:CHRISTOPHER WALLACE 10A1460 P.R.I.S.O.N.E.R. Political Rebel Incarcerated Systematically Ostracized Negro Endangered Race I am a PRISONER. Every person who has black or brown skin is a potential me. Not because you have the potential to commit a crime but because you are the food for a beast that eats such like us everyday. You do not have to be born in the ghetto, carry a gun, or be a gangbanger to walk in my footsteps. You need only be born a different color than white. James Baldwin said: "I Am Not Your Negro". I say: I am not your slave. But slaves we are. A modern day version to Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, and a cast of others. We are no longer being whipped, flogged or branded. No, they've learned that those things are no longer viable options. Instead, we are criminalized, negatively portrayed, judged, sentenced and housed in complexes that support entire communities with our bodies. We no longer pick cotton, process sugar or build railroads and dig mines. Now we work for Corcraft--the new masta. Under "Masta's" watchful gaze we build the world. The uniforms airline pilots wear, high school sports teams wear--we make. The desk in that office building--us. That locker you place your belongings in--yep, that too. The caustics you clean you house, office, bathroom with--mixed, packaged and shipped by yours truly. Those brand new license plates you bought for your brand new car--I made them. I even printed out the envelope with your person address on it--me, the convicted criminal! The guy on the 5, 6 and 7 o'clock news has access to your personal information. Bet you didn't know that, huh? But they'll never tell you this. They never tell you anything other than what advances their cause or is detrimental to ours. Hey, when you push your chair away from your desk to grab something, just know my hands created that chair. From the wheels to the cushion you place your ass on--my work. We run this nation with our labor. Always have; always will. It's not the Mexicans stealing your jobs--it's us! But we don't have a choice. "Masta" won't allow us to do otherwise--he needs us to do this work. But don't worry, we're well compensated for our labor. Starting salary for such positions are a substantial 16¢ an hour. Yep, standard pay for skilled artisans. But it gets better! If I work really hard for "Masta" and keep making his bottom line every week, month and year, he'll give me the max amount: 45¢ an hour. See, who says America isn't great!? So, why are we trying to make it great...again? I am the reason why you cannot find employment. They took me away from my family and forced them to support themselves but they didn't tell them that every job they'd apply for is undercut by my very own hands. So, as I feed my "Masta" I use the food from my own kitchen to do so. You may be free but you are still slave to the system. Are you working real hard right now, making the bottom line for someone else? Then we are essentially doing the same work. Our owners just happen to be different people. Or maybe you're one of the "privileged" few who have corporate or executive careers...good for you! But let me ask you a question: Do you own the company? Or are you a cog in the machine--albeit, a well placed cog--rotating in place? If you do not work for yourself, you work for another (unless your a hobo, then you're in a league of your own) and are slave to that other. They write your checks, assign you your work hours, give you your benefits (if any are included) fire you when you are not productive. You slave out your labor for cash...we call it a job. Well, dear reader, as I've been explaining, I have a job as well, I just do it a lot better and cheaper than you do. That's why I make the big bucks! What I want you to take away from this is simple: Slavery never ended, it only transformed itself into something less unpleasant (The 13th Amendment is a Trojan Horse). We called Emancipation: Jubilee. They called it: The next step. I am a PRISONER, but you may also call me slave--it means the exact same thing to them anyway. Chris W. The dormitory phone rang and I could feel it, this was it. He hung up and immediately the Officers yells “ Apparicio…pack up and carry your stuff to the B Building.” The day had finally come, 1,095 days of being incarcerated had come to a close. After being up seemingly all night, push-up after push-up, thought after thought, it was finally Freedom day. As I walked through the yard for the final time I can hear the shouts through the iron-barred windows, “Congrats Dre, DON’T COME BACK.” I look and realize this is the day I no longer had to call this 4 building hell-hole home. The air seemed to lack oxygen, thick and dense. As I entered the building, I felt as if people could hear my thoughts and feel my emotions, but I kept walking. “Stop right there!” an officer shouted, bringing my feelings to a peak. “Where are you headed?” “Home.” I replied, showing him my pass to go to the front. “Aahh Freedom day” he stated, “DON’T COME BACK.” As I went through the final processing, finger printing, signatures, uncomfortable conversations with officers along the way who decided to get their last jabs in for me as an inmate; my thoughts began to come at a slower anxiety-filled pace and it really, truly hit me that it was time to go. I was handed my $40 and a metro card as promised by the state, not a gift, being that you began to work towards that months before you go home. I turned to another individual that was being released and asked how he was getting home. He stated he would be taking the bus and that he didn’t care if he had to walk or crawl, he was leaving. My sentiments exactly. As I laughed, I told him he wouldn’t have to do either while simultaneously handing him my metro card and $40. He thought I was joking at first, but after further assurance we began to part ways and my final words to him were “DON’T COME BACK.” As I watched his eyes light up, I couldn’t help but think ‘did he really understand I meant that whole heartedly?’ Walking out was like a scene from a movie, everything appeared to slow down, the sun was brighter, air was fresher, I saw a bunch of cars in the parking lot. As I looked to the sky and thanked God for keeping me these thousand plus days, I fell to my knees and kissed the ground. Cliche’, I know, but it just felt so right. I thought to myself ‘what a wonderful feeling.’ I stood up and instantly noticed one of the civilians that worked in the prison smiling at me. “Hey congrats, there is a really pretty young lady waiting for you, stay strong, and stay focused, and most of all DON’T COME BACK.”
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