A few days ago, I was sitting on the edge of my top bunk, swinging my legs and reading a book that I borrowed from the pod’s library tote. “What’s poppin’ bruh?” Lil Boii interrupted me.

Remembering when I was his age, I understood the young man’s impulsive behavior. “What’s going on, lil bruh?” I said as I placed my book mark on the page I was reading. When I closed the book and shifted my focus to Lil Boii, he wandered his head with a mischievous smirk, as if he was disturbing me to satisfy his boredom. “Whatchu bout to do, big bruh?” Lil Boii asked. I smiled and shook my head. “I know he saw me reading” I thought without losing my patience. “Read!” I said.

What Beth Saw in Me

When I was an adolescent, I was curious about Elvis Presley. I know a lot of things about Elvis – from his songs to his electrifying performances.

Beth, who was the wife of my stepfather’s longest client, was an Elvis super fanatic. If you went to Beth’s house, you would think that she worshipped Elvis Presley. She had lots of Elvis Presley merchandise, portrait clocks, records, etc. She even had a photo of her aside Elvis in Las Vegas. I don’t know how her husband, Earl, put up with her obsession, but she was a very lovable human being. Beth treated me as if I was her grandson. On top of showering me with gifts, hugs & kisses, and money, she would always tell me how special Elvis was, and that I was special, too.

Prison Mentality

Written by: Peter Shelton
Edited by: Latif Torres-Robinson

This is prison life through my eyes. First, let me introduce myself and give you a quick summary of who I am. My name is Peter Obryan Shelton. I was born on February 25, 1982, and I’m the oldest of 8 siblings – 3 brothers and 4 beautiful sisters. My father’s name is Peter, too; however, I am not a Junior because we don’t share last names. My pop’s last name is Oxendine, but my mother, Miranda Shelton, gave me her family’s last name.

My mom was a strong single parent, raising four of us on her own. She never showed any signs of giving up. My father – who is also my twin – didn’t live in the same household, but he was there for me. He is my hero because even while fighting his own demons (drug addiction), he always came through for me.

Is Drill Music Misguiding Your Child?

“My fingers [are] itchin’ to catch a body …” were the cold words a young man sang as he walked passed my bed area, bobbing his head and dancing to his drill music (modern day gangster rap). As I sat on my bottom bunk and reflected on what I had just heard, I realized how drill music has influenced the rational thinking of young minorities, incorporating violence in their perception of life. As the young man continued dancing and singing aloud throughout the dormitory, another thought crossed my mind: drill music may be a motivator of gun violence, substance abuse, and drug trafficking.

You Never Know Who You’ll Inspire

When I was named “Peer Mentor” in August, I established a curriculum in hopes to encourage 70+ men to live a better life. One of my rituals is I write a weekly quote on my dorm’s blackboard. On a Friday afternoon after I wrote a quote. Tomas, who is Muslim, approached me with tears forming in his eyes. “…In all my years – and I’m 43 years old – I never been inspired by anyone’s words until now, and I just want to say, ‘thank you, bruh!’…” were the words I remember Tomas said.

My heart sunk into my chest, and I released a warm smile. “You’re welcome, bro! Anytime you want to build, this is why I’m here,” was my response as we shook hands.

“I didn’t know that … you’ve put me on to something new,” was the response I got from a guy when I told him that he can be the next council member, mayor, delegate, senator, or governor in his state.

“Generally, if you’re a U.S. citizen and you’re eligible to vote, then you can apply to be a politico candidate,” was what I explained to him.

In my experience living in an underserved neighborhood, most of the residents don’t know that they – even as a convicted felon – may run for a public-electoral seat. For some odd reason, they (minorities) think that politicians are distinguished individuals from wealthy backgrounds. As unbelievable as it sounds, this is very true – most Black and Brown people who live in poor communities don’t know that he/she could become America’s next president.

Hated by Many, Loved by God.

Hatred and negativity is heavily present where I live. To be honest, I feel trapped inside a dark place, surrounded by wounded individuals that have my worse interest at heart. Describing it as a bucket of crabs would be a deep understatement. For an environment full of hate is more lethal than little, sharp hands – it’s more dangerous because the gossiping haters would rather see me dead with a frown than alive with a smile.

Everyday many men prey on my downfall instead of my up rise. It seems as though their evil, sinful ways make every effort to take my head out of the game. Yesterday I was booed for being myself; today I’m getting booed for chasing my dreams. The old Latif would’ve gave them two middle fingers. The new Latif forgives and loves them, despite their ignorant thoughts.

As a former drug trafficker, I’ve faced many challenges incarcerated. I had a cell partner, for example, who sold narcotics throughout the prison compound. He was anti-government with a rap sheet that screamed “career criminal.” No matter how discrete or respectful he “thought” he was, there was no way he could hide all of his business from me.

Everyday he brought bags of canteen into our assigned cell. His customers would pay him a visit just to say, “It’s done!” – which meant the Cash app was sent. With the prison administration denying my request for a cell change, I had to put my fate in God’s hands.

How to Handle Loved Ones Who Are Unsafe

“Your brother tried to have sex with me,” my girlfriend said. During a jail call years ago, my then girlfriend explained to me how she endured my brother’s unwanted sexual advances. She was uncomfortable and conflicted.

My brother knew that we (my girlfriend and I) loved each other, yet he selfishly tried to sleep with his baby brother’s lover. His actions were like, “Screw y’all boundaries!” I was equally shocked as I was heartbroken.

But like I always did, I forgave my brother and continued to deal with him despite his narcissistic sense of morality.

Written by: An anonymous Classic Man
Edited by: Latif Torres-Robinson

Class isn’t just a glass of champagne. It’s more about taste and discretion than it is wearing a 3-piece tuxedo.

When we (society) say a man is classy, it’s because he carries himself with good dignity and integrity. Whether rich or poor, he espouses the elegance of an honest, hard working man. The pride he takes in his labor is rooted in the love he has for himself and his livelihood.