Better, Not Bitter Page 3

  I’m beyond grateful that while I did struggle for a season with finding ways to live a fully independent life post-release and pre-exoneration, I was ultimately able to find my way. While imprisoned, I was able to take advantage of some of the programs at Harlem Valley and Clinton. I finished high school as well as completed an associate’s degree from Dutchess Community College. Here’s the real kicker: Separate from the academic programs, there were some lower-level skill and personal development programs that required we do some counseling. Because I was placed in a unit for those convicted of sex crimes, this often meant sitting down with someone and demonstrating your ability to be accountable for your actions. A unit administrator in a group session would say, “Yusef, you’ve been a bit quiet lately. Let’s talk about your crime. Why are you here?”

  Kevin and I at our college graduation in the prison yard. We’re here with our mothers and our early teacher Helena Nomsa Brath, who taught us in her home while we were on bail. This day felt like a real celebration: We could call ourselves college graduates, we were making something of ourselves, and we weren’t letting this scar on our lives shape us.

  “I’m here because of an evil justice system.”

  They’d press me more, but I held fast to my truth. The coordinator would get frustrated because they couldn’t seem to get me to break.

  “Okay, Yusef. Tell us how you might consider making amends for your actions,” they’d say. I would continue running down the facts of the case as I knew them.

  “Look, man, I didn’t do this crime. They know I didn’t do this crime. We were set up. We are only here because of the politics of the system.

  “First of all, how could we have done this if none of those false confessions made any sense? Nobody’s alleged confession matched.”

  And then, “Nobody had any blood on them! None! But they say this lady lost three-fourths of her…”

  And obviously, those exchanges didn’t always end well. I was kicked out of many sessions and often barred from participating going forward. However, because of the favor I’d garnered with some of those same administrators who I think really believed I was innocent, I didn’t experience some of the repercussions other people did. Mr. Shawn Ashby, one of the administrators I’d won over, would simply say, “Okay, Yusef. Just stay in the cell and read.”

  “Word? I can stay in my cell and read? This is wonderful. No problem. I got my own library.” I had a cassette player that allowed me to listen to audiobooks on tape.

  Getting my GED at Spofford—before I went to Harlem Valley. Even though the course of my life changed in ways I could never have imagined, I was able to get my GED around the same time that I would have graduated from LaGuardia High School.

  I felt deeply for the people I knew who were struggling with all the forms of so-called rehabilitation that were offered. Who, for many valid reasons, couldn’t access tools for personal development and as a result firmly identified with prison culture. Nobody actually wants that for themselves.

  As my time was getting short, I grew increasingly nervous. The attachments made in prison are very real. The familial nature and the bonds we create with one another are deep. They offer a kind of grounding that allows us to carry on from day to day. I became very close to Abdur Rashid, a Muslim brother who later became my head of security within our community. In prison, some groups were allowed their own kind of government that was honored and respected by the facility. Some communities like ours were faith-based but nevertheless were recognized by the prison. We even had a constitution that governed how we’d operate. As someone who became a leader in the Muslim community—essentially, head of our organization—I was given a right-hand man who was primarily responsible for making sure I was safe. Abdur Rashid would walk with me when I’d go minister to inmates in other units and make sure no one would run up on me or attack me.

  Abdur and I were from totally different worlds but became great friends. It wasn’t like we were just two guys in prison together—you go to your cell and I go to mine. We’d meet in the prayer room and say, “What’s up, Brother? What are some of your ideas?” Abdur was a warrior but also someone who was eager to learn. We had both a spiritual and an intellectual connection. We created a program for our community called The Meeting of the Minds, which allowed us to minister to our brothers in a separate space in the prison. They even let us paint the wall, which was unheard of. Because of my artistic background, I wanted more than black letters on a white wall. No, we used calligraphy and bright, bold images. The wall transformed into something so colorful and expressive. We needed that. It was our space, and getting a chance to make it feel welcoming was humanizing. In that space, we were free to think, operate, and respect one another. We treated each other with value and really got a chance to understand each other. That was another thing I appreciated about Islam, especially in prison. Yeah, you got protection, but we were more about making sure that you felt human again. Like you were sane. Like thriving was possible inside of a place that was trying to kill anything beautiful inside of us.

  Abdur Rashid sent me this photo of himself a few years after he was released, and I was still inside. He had reinvented himself, moved from Rochester to Atlanta and away from an environment that could have pulled him back into his old life. He went on to work in the music industry and became a video content creator.

  Our bond in that space was one of intimate friendship. We all wanted to hold on to those relationships for dear life. Everyone had their own pods or cliques. Certain people were closer to each other than others. And many brothers would do anything to hold on to one another inside. So, I’d heard about people doing terrible things to make sure someone wouldn’t go home. All because they wanted that person to stay, for those bonds to remain unbroken. On the far end of the spectrum, particularly in an adult facility, you could be hurt or killed. One guy, who’d gone to parole and thought he lost (he hadn’t) was so angry and upset that he went to the bathroom and happened upon someone he had beef with. Both men had razors, and they ended up slicing each other up horribly. The pain of wanting to leave, yet also wanting to stay, was too much.

  Bottom line: If folks found out you were leaving too early, you could be assaulted. People would set you up so you might stay in a little longer. Anything could happen.

  While a release date is never publicly announced in prison, everyone knows when a person’s time is getting short because they start giving stuff away. If you have a black-and-white TV, which some people did, or a stockpile of snacks, you slowly but surely start distributing them to the people around you. So because my name was known in the prison—due to the public nature of the case but also because of the reputation I’d attained as a spiritual leader—I had to be very careful about how I donated my possessions. I had books, a few prayer rugs, and a black-and-white television, which was a really big deal. I did not plan to take most of it home. I began to carefully distribute my things to a few select men under the radar. I didn’t want to alert the masses and experience any of the trouble that would bring. It didn’t feel like I was being released from prison; it felt like I was escaping. Of course, I didn’t belong there, and I had always felt that, too.

  There are two ways to escape prison. There is, of course, the physical withdrawal. Even legitimate releases can feel very much like a kind of extrication as your body has become so used to the routines and machinations of prison life. But escape happens in other ways as well. The second version of escape can happen from day one. We can escape mentally. And that was my intention from the moment I arrived.

  Escaping from prison mentally allows for freedom even when one’s body is in bondage. To mentally unlock the chain that’s wrapped around your mind once those cell doors shut behind you. So you can still dream! You can still plan! You think and imagine yourself in a better situation. Just like a modern-day vision board, your mind becomes a place of liberation. A place where you can create a reality for yourself that’s different from the one you are exper
iencing. A reality that, if you are released, can be re-created. But it cannot be realized if you don’t know who you are.

  My growth in the first years of prison was exponential. Self-knowledge and self-awareness were on my prison syllabus, for sure. When I was in prison, a simple but most profound question was asked of me: “Who are you?”

  Six months into my bid, Jerome Jones, a corrections officer, asked me, “Who are you?”

  I answered as a teenager trying to parse the magnitude of what had just happened to me. “I’m Yusef Salaam, one of the guys they accused of raping the Central Park jogger, but I didn’t do it.”

  Jerome replied, “I know that. I’ve been watching you. You’re not supposed to be here. Who are you?”

  This second probing confused me. I said, “Oh, shucks. I don’t know.” But in that moment, something shifted inside me. It occurred to me that I actually didn’t know who I was. Sure, I was the son of Sharonne Salaam, brother of Shareef and Aisha, but who was I? And that began my long spiritual and personal journey of realizing who and why I am. I would lie in my cell and ask myself, Why was I born? What am I supposed to contribute to this world? Why am I going through this? But these were questions and not laments. That curiosity became the driver for every choice I made while in prison. Every book I read. The work I did to keep up with school.

  This was how I chose to approach doing time. Knowing I was innocent, even having these correctional officers affirm my innocence, and still feeling helpless to do anything about my physical incarceration could have driven me mad. No one would have faulted me if it had. But because of the foundation my mother had given and my growing faith at the time, I decided to become an active creator in my own mental freedom. I would sit in my cell and create imprints on my mind of what it was I wanted in the future. I pictured myself free, and I held on to that picture for dear life. I found that your imagination is a precursor of what is to come, what’s possible.

  Now, in my work as a motivational speaker, the terminology has changed a bit. I’m no longer asking, “Why did I go through that?” I’m asking, “How did I grow through that?” I’m walking out my purpose now, carrying with me a story that’s impactful and a magnanimity toward the injustice I experienced, so that I now feel a responsibility to those who come into my orbit. I see myself, because of my experience, as a caretaker of people’s souls.

  This is a critical lesson from my life that I want to share. Whatever imprisons you in one area doesn’t have any control over your mind. Poor health, poverty, and lack of support, to name some examples, are all very real burdens. As real as my body in prison. And many of these issues are the function of grave, systemic injustices that absolutely need to be examined and reckoned with. We must keep working together for change, whether it be by making donations, protesting, refusing to stay silent, calling legislators, or using whatever means we choose to do this work. But alongside all of this, what’s also important is that you envision a future for yourself, and not allow these injustices to dictate what that vision is. So, you’re a freshman college student feeling imprisoned by a lack of understanding or support from family? Meditate on the affirmation “I’m going to graduate.” Visualize yourself taking that tassel and moving it from one side of your head to the other. Marry that vision with a feeling of what it will be like to be in that room: the cheers, everyone excited by their sense of achievement, the room vibrating with the palpable hope of what is to come, the joy of being celebrated by your friends and your family—the people who tried their best, within their own capacities, to be there for you. Do that visualization daily, weekly, whenever sorrow and despair try to take over. You’ll smile because you will have acknowledged all that you’ve endured, that all your experiences have brought you to where you are. You are on purpose. You are on assignment.

  In prison, I saw myself as a free person. I visualized myself being able to walk down 125th Street in Harlem with my big LL Cool J boom box, pumping some reggae music and maybe even visiting Mart 125 or Dr. J’s. I visualized stopping by my friend Muhammad’s store, Muhatino’s, to get one of his dope hats that hip hop artists like Queen Latifah and Kool Moe Dee would wear. I visualized even maybe finally speaking to Julie Dash, the director of the critically acclaimed film Daughters of the Dust, who happened to live in my building. I would lie in bed at night and ponder whether these places and people were going to be the same when I got back, or what had changed. My mother would send me photographs of the neighborhood, so I could see the changes and the old places. These visions and affirmations helped sustain me.

  This reminds me of some of the narratives written by enslaved Africans and slaveholders. When a slaver would come to examine the “product” and saw someone who stood out, they might say, “Wow! Look at that one.” It was usually because the person looked regal and confident even on an auction block or a sales floor. The buyer would turn and say, “I want that one,” and the seller would reply, “Oh no, that one is not for sale.” The buyer would ask, “Why?” and the seller would respond with, “That one was a prince and he knows it!” He never forgot who he was. He buried that knowledge inside himself, and it radiated outward.

  Me and Kevin, together in brotherhood. We did time separately, even though we were in the same facility, but we were eventually in the college unit together. In this photo I’m wearing one of the many T-shirts I created and designed myself. I would lay down Scotch tape over a shirt and draw my design with a pencil. Then, using a tiny pin, I would cut out a part of the tape, peel it off, and paint the shirt. The Scotch tape acted as a template, and this became my version of silk-screening.

  That was what I had to do in prison. I knew I was innocent. I knew I was born on purpose and with a purpose. To survive, I did my best to follow the rules in prison. But on the inside, I never forgot who I was. I buried that knowledge inside myself and let my mind paint an alternative picture to the one I was living.

  Consider this as a way of navigating those difficult days. Because life will certainly challenge you. Life will sometimes even run you over. But the power of your comeback lies in what you allow yourself to think, the thoughts you allow to marinate.

  I want you to know that, yes, your time is getting short. Your release from whatever imprisons you is coming. Embrace it. Go into stealth mode and start giving away those things you don’t need. Give away that self-doubt. Trash those insecurities. Set your mind free, and when you finally are able to breathe fresh air, tell your story. You, too, can look at your life and see a higher purpose. There are certainly evil and ignorant people in this world who have codified a reality that is to your detriment. They have created cages in order to create animals so they’ll have an excuse to create more cages. But we all have the power to blossom behind those bars.

  TWO

  Master Yusef Salaam

  If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.

  KENDRICK LAMAR

  An early photo of me with my flattop and a Black Bart and Maggie Simpson.

  MAIL FOR YUSEF SALAAM!”

  Her voice was surprisingly warm. Like syrup on pancakes or a cozy throw blanket on a cool autumn day. When we think about correctional officers, we often imagine burly, rough men and hardened women. And in some cases, especially in an adult facility, those stereotypes are not far from the truth. But in the youth facility, Ms. Eleanore Faulkner was a balm for all of us. Her skin, a smooth dark brown, reminded me of my own. She wore her glasses on the tip of her nose like a librarian, and when she put those letters in my hand, she’d smile. It was a simple thing, her cheerfulness. But it encouraged me, and all of us there. Especially in the midst of the seemingly insurmountable obstacles we all were facing. All our mail was prescreened for contraband, and her smile was the grounding force we needed before we picked up our violated envelopes and packages.

  For me, Ms. Eleanore’s acknowledgment of my humanity was supported by the name that would appear on every letter my grandmother would send to me. My grandmother loved
to constantly send me those Blue Mountain cards with the lyrical prose meant to comfort and reassure the receiver. She would address them to:

  MASTER YUSEF SALAAM

  I suspect that this was her way of reminding me of who I was. When I looked up the noun master, I read things like “a man in charge,” “a skilled practitioner,” and “a man of high rank.” No matter how the criminal justice system and media tried to frame me with the horrifying narrative they’d expertly crafted about me and the others, and no matter how anyone else chose to see me, my grandmother, prophetically, wrote into existence who she knew me to be. Above and beyond the emotional and psychological impact of seeing my name written that way, I also believe that my Mommie—that’s what we called my grandmother—was strategic. She was seed-planting. She also wanted the correctional officers to know who they were holding. To insulate me from any harm that could have come my way from either their hands or their neglect. She wanted them to know there were people outside of that facility who loved and cherished me. That I was worthy of being cared for. In her own way, she was laying the foundation of a mental and emotional fence with just three simple words.