A Millennial in Prison by Leah Richards
“My brother requested postcards. Cheery pictures of faraway places to take his mind off of his pepto-pink cell walls”
I gather myself, clutching two cheery postcards as I slam my car door. These postcards aren’t going far. They don’t contain anything that couldn’t be said in an email or across a social media platform. Postcards - the Instagram of the old world order. Except that I can’t post this on Instagram/Facebook/Twitter/email because people in prison can’t access social media. My brother, in prison, can only receive a postcard. My brother, in prison, must only receive the US Mail, and so I have found myself at the post office, in need of stamps. It’s an alien place, one frequented by an array of people who don’t want to be here. Nobody likes the post office. The one that is nestled in MidCity New Orleans is no different from any other, except that the road leading to it winds along a picturesque bayou. It’s a neat building, tucked back from the banks, with windows facing the still waters of Bayou St John. Its office, however, faces resolutely away from the water, unmoved by the bayou’s still banks.
There is a line to the door and one postal service worker shielded from us by a waist high grey counter. The man at the front of the line, has not completed something. The address on his cardboard box is incorrect, or perhaps the postage has been weighed and found wanting. The worker behind the counter scowls and shoves his box back to him, growling. “You gotta write it in pen.” He turns back to her, palms up, questioning. Her reply is swift and furious. “NO – I don’t have a pen.”
He turns to the rest of us, and makes his way down the line, a beggar made of poor preparation. I fish through my purse, retrieving a mechanical pencil.
“Here, you can use my pencil.”
His eyes fill with gratitude: “Thank you!” He takes it, regards it, and shoves the lead back at me in dismay. “No.” He mumbles, eyes wide. “It must be a pen.” He staggers to the back of the line and out the door, raking his hands through his hair. All is lost.
+ + +
All is lost. When my brother and I were kids, I learned how to play chess at school. I was the smart one, my brother, always a few steps behind me, the way all younger siblings are. My grandparents gave me a beautiful chess set, one that they brought with them from Indonesia when they moved back to Texas. Each piece was hand carved of teak wood, Mother-of-Pearl inlaid on each white square. I taught my brother how to play and we practiced together with me easily beating him every time. Until one day I didn’t. One day, my brother got me into a check mate. I stared hard at the board. Circled it. The reality of my defeat slow in its arrival. Then, before he could move in, I slammed the chess board shut, scattering the pieces to the floor.
“I quit, you win!”
“That’s not fair!”
“What? I said you won!”
We didn’t play chess any more after that.
My brother calls me every other day from prison. He tells me about the things he’s trading for ramen noodle soup. About the games they play to pass the time. Sometimes it’s Spades, sometimes it’s Chess. He tells me, pride bubbling at the surface, that he wins at chess all the time.
“That’s good. You’re good at chess.”
“Yeah, there’s only a couple of guys here that can beat me.”
“That’s good. When you get out, we should play.”
+ + +
Another postal service worker has taken up residence behind the counter. The first customer in her shift has come to try to mail a pair of Timberland boots. They are big, unwieldy, but packaged neatly in their shoebox. The postal service worker informs her that this box most certainly will not do, and motions vaguely to a wall of supplies.
“The boxes on the floor would be the cheapest, but these boots won’t fit them.”
The customer stumbles uncertainly towards the mounds of boxes. “These?”
A barely perceptible nod is given.
The customer proceeds to try to cram her boots into this too small package. The outcome here, will not be a positive one. The postal worker first glares at her, then at her co-worker. They roll their eyes at each other and let out an audible sigh.
I can’t take this. I want to step out of line and launch my postcards into the air, like fluttering birds. “Be kind!” I want to shout. “You don’t know our lives!” I long to rage. “We don’t have much time to be kind to each other!” I yearn to prophesy. No. No, of course not. That will not do. Instead, I clutch my postcards closer to my chest. Hoping that my heartbeat will carry through them somehow to my brother.
+ + +
My brother requested postcards. Cheery pictures of faraway places to take his mind off of his pepto-pink cell walls. I didn’t know what to write to him. The last time I saw my brother was through a glass partition. I put my hand up to touch his face, just like they do in the movies. I put my hand up to the glass because my little brother looked so much older than me. Because he looked sick. Because he was so thin and had such big purple bags under his eyes. I put my hand up to the glass to touch his face. Then I blinked the tears away and he blinked the tears away and we laughed about how much he hated the oatmeal in this place.
He started out innocent. The way all kids do. Smoked some pot. The way all kids do. What happened? I don’t know what happened. But read your email/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram and you’ll understand that his story is just like that of hundreds, thousands. Privileged kids. Underprivileged kids. Kids that thought prescription pills couldn’t hurt you. But those are expensive, you know. Heroin is cheaper than pills. Meth is cheaper than heroin. If you sell a little, you keep a little. Do you understand? Do you really understand? Don’t think that it couldn’t happen to you. Be kind.
I didn’t know what to write to him, so I just wrote the things that other people wrote before me. An excerpt of a book I liked. Some poems. I don’t remember him enjoying reading. We haven’t really talked in a long time, though.
+ + +
The next girl in line has long blonde hair tied up in a loose ponytail, she is sporting a backpack and also mailing a postcard. She is speaking in broken English and I keep hearing her mention Euros. The girl tries to count out change, eventually shoving a pile of crumpled bills and coins onto the counter. She asks a question, too soft for me to hear. The postal worker avoids eye contact and replies with an emphatic: “No.”
I am motioned forward next; my time has arrived. “I need to mail these postcards?” My voice lilts at the end. It is a question. Will you let me mail these postcards? May I mail these postcards? May I mail these postcards to my brother, in prison?
“Yeah, you need a stamp on them.”
“Yes?”
“Well – how many stamps do you need?”
“Two?”
She disappears to the back of the room and returns with two stamps.
“A dollar sixty is your total.”
I pull two dollars out and hurriedly place my stamps on the back of my card.
“Do I give you the postcards, or…?”
“Put them in the mail bin outside.” “Next in line.”
As I am walking out, I notice the blonde girl is still there. Postcard still clutched in her hand. Speaking broken English to the man. The man from before who didn’t have a pen. He is back. Hope springs eternal. I hear her say: “This may be strange question, but…” They put their heads close to each other. He is patient. Listening. Trying to save her from this place.
There is something about it. About them, how gentle they are with each other, that makes me want to cry.
+ + +
There was a gun in the car. My brother’s car, the one he was living out of when no one in our family knew where he was. When he was arrested, there was a gun in the car. It was unregistered. That’s a felony charge. His lawyer says if we get him into a rehab in sixty days, then maybe he won’t have to do time. Maybe we can straighten him out.
There is a rehab facility by my house. It’s supposed to be the best one in the state. I call them.
“Ma’am – I can’t give you any information unless his lawyer completes a HIPPA form.”
The lawyer completes a HIPPA form. My brother signs it. An application is completed. We wait for two weeks. I call the rehab.
“Ma’am – I can’t give you any information unless his lawyer completes a HIPPA form.”
“He completed a form, can you please check on his application?”
“Ma’am – I can’t confirm that he has an application.”
“I know he does. Can you please check on it? Can I do anything to speed it up?”
“Ma’am – I can’t confirm anything for you if you aren’t listed on the HIPPA form.”
“I might be, can you check?”
“Ma’am – I can’t help you. There’s another client in my office.”
Click.
The click of the receiver rings out like a shotgun. The lawyer calls the rehab a week later. My brother’s application has been rejected because he is considered a violent criminal. My brother, who only hurts himself, was rejected because there was a gun in the car.
There are so many ways we can fail each other.
+ + +
I drop my postcards in the box outside and turn my eyes to the bayou, my face to the gentle south wind. It smells like the ocean. I watch a pelican dive down from the sky, plummeting faithfully toward the shallow waters. I am free.
+ + +
Header image courtesy of Charles Leval aka Levalet. To view a gallery of his street art on NAILED, go here.
Leah Richards is a stay-at-home parent, writer, and actor in New Orleans, Louisiana. Her work has appeared in Where Y'at Magazine, Mothers Always Write, and will soon be heard on NOLA Voice Theatre's podcast, Untold New Orleans. She finds time to reflect and write in between naps and nursery rhymes.