What’s going on, y’all. This is Jy’aire Smith, and I’m coming to you live from SCI Chester. This is titled, “Prayers of a Savage, Part 1.”
You want to know the funny thing about labels? If you aren’t careful, they can define you. I know this to be true, because I, too, fell victim to labels once before. I remember vividly, being eighteen years young, standing in front of Judge Silverman as he looked down on me. It was quite obvious that he found my presence to be nauseating. I was there for a simple violation of probation, while simultaneously being investigated for capital murder. Although I hadn’t been charged, well, not yet anyway.
During that hearing, I was given every demeaning label one could imagine. The prosecutor had it out for me. She was a lion out for blood, and at that moment, my jugular vein was exposed. She told the judge that I was a menace to society, a threat to my community, a gang member, a drug dealer and a sociopath. She even said that I was a person of interest, and not only the capital murder case that I had mentioned early on, but that I was a person of interest in several other cases in the neighborhood, which was a hyperbole, of course.
With every label she threw at me, it chipped away at the little bit of self-esteem I had managed to hold on to, and although my facial expression remained stoic, her words penetrated, cutting me deeply. Was I really this bad of a person? Apparently I was, according to the judge’s remarks. Not only did he agree wholeheartedly with the prosecutor, but he chimed in, adding that I would be shot dead in the streets or serve a life in prison by the age of thirty. Judge Silverman said that I was only eighteen and already a career criminal that couldn’t be salvaged. I was a savage in his eyes.
Now, you would think that the word savage would offend me, but it didn’t. At that point in my life, I had already embraced that label. Some of my friends even had savage tattooed on them, or savage life. Was I wrong for embracing a label? I was young and impressionable. I have been called these labels so much that eventually I believed them. If you don’t tell the world who you are, it will tell you who you are.
I watch my community get treated as if it wasn’t salvageable. We get neglected, denied the basic necessities that you need to make it in everyday life. Our schools lack resources because they’re underfunded. Our healthcare system uses discriminatory practices that disproportionately affect communities of color. Our houses are dilapidated and drug use is prevalent. What is one to do when you are raised in an environment where poverty is concentrated and violence is amplified? You adapt or die, that’s what you do. I had to develop the characteristics of a savage in order to make it in a savage-like environment. You can’t be a goldfish in a tank full of sharks.
Have you ever seen the show “Naked and Afraid?” They place an individual in an oppressive environment, stripped of their clothing and all resources. They are up against the elements of nature, and predators come in all states and sizes. They are told to fend for themselves for twenty-one days. If the conditions are unbearable, they can quit, and the crew will come to their aid. Once the contestants make it home, they let the savage-like behavior fall by the wayside, and everything is back to normal. They were salvaged. The difference is this is a TV show, strictly for entertainment purposes, whereas this is our reality. Every day the people in my community are forced to fend for themselves. We don’t have a crew on standby to come and rescue us. We’ve been stripped of every resource. Truly, we are the ones who are naked and afraid.
So, was I a savage?
Huh! Maybe,
But I too am salvageable.
God, what are these sins that I have tried to leave behind me:
The four felonies on my record,
The broken home due to my absence,
The thirteen wax baggies filled with heroin
Wrapped in plastic stand night-night
From one palm to another,
From my palms to a mother’s;
The Glocks with 30s,
The perc 30s that made my whole body numb by the 30th minute.
I’m counting down the seconds, 3-2-1
Damn, I’m gone.
The cruelty of addiction,
The cruelty of resentment,
The constant confliction of emotions.
I love you! I hate you!
And don’t you dare point out that oxymoron;
These are my feelings and only mines.
What are these on a scale of sin or failure
That they should follow me to social gatherings
Where I’m constantly given a side eye
And if body language could be verbalized out here,
“Who the heck invited that guy?”
What are these that they should find me in prison,
At the age of eighteen,
Serving a twenty-seven year sentence,
Partially due to propaganda that’s inaccurate.
The prosecution was so passionate
While painting pictures of these “savages” I hang with.
What was I thinking, God?
So absent-minded at the time,
Oblivious to the puppeteer behind me,
Controlling my every move,
While weed smoke clouded my thoughts
And gunfire blinded my sight momentarily.
But, when the smoke clears,
Still I see bullet-riddled streets,
Bloodstained from the deceased,
Yellow tape conveying caution,
Abandoned row homes,
Vandalized graffiti with R.I.P.’s.
Somewhere behind me,
There’s a shoe box full of memories,
A Gucci bag full of regrets
And respect from all the wrong people.
My case was tragic, so they label me savage
Am I salvageable God?
Amen.
These commentaries are recorded by Prison Radio.
