This past year or so has been a hairy time for me with 2 cancer surgeries and a couple broken bones. My arm is currently in a purple cast. I had to let things ride for awhile. Hopefully some of you are still out there.
The tone of this blog will expand because I’m not writing on my other blog and stopped paying the premium fee for the website. I got swallowed up with too much I could reasonably do in a day. It will take awhile to catch up with the changes in my life this year. I’m not going to go into those details in this post. There are more important things to talk about than my life. I want to concentrate on what you can do to better educate yourself and change the way many of you get your news in the United States of America. If you are outside this country you are probably better informed than a large percentage of American citizens .
When I see what people write, and what they think is the truth, it is very disturbing to see the amount of kool-aid they drink every day that keeps them in a zombie frame of mind. Many people want the truth but don’t know where to find it so they go to the same old places day in and day out.
This post is also a reprint of a post I just wrote on my personal Facebook page. That page is very political most of the time. You can find it if you want by searching my name Sonni Quick. I have other pages of various interests. Criminal Justice, Improv Piano ( which has my recordings) and my store page, Watch and Whirl Shop ( where I sell mainly vintage jewelry and sterling silver)
Some of you know I don’t own a TV and haven’t in decades. The bullshit, ads and rising costs for cable turned me off. I am much better informed than many of you because I go to many places online that aren’t owned by a political party. Mainstream news only tells you what they want you to know. I then compare what I learn to what the average American doesn’t learn and it is easy to see how they lead people around by the nose. If this weren’t true then Trump would have no supporters and Hannity would have no voice and people like Limbaugh wouldn’t get a medal of honor for anything.
I’m going to give you a small list of struggling media the GOP has tried to subdue. They used to get funding but it was stopped during the age of Trump so they have to rely on people to help. Here are a few sites to check out to get you started if you don’t know about them already. I have relied on them for truth for more than 20 years.
democracynow.org (they have a podcast)
There are more than these 4. Compare what you learn to the pablum the networks regurgitate everyday, mixing up the words to make it appear as “NEW” news. It’s mind-numbing. Be proactive in educating yourself. Stop being a robot and turning on evening news because it’s a habit you’ve always had. Stop being another counted viewer of the Trump Show just to see what stupid things he’ll say today. TURN HIM OFF! ! Make the ratings go down. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE share thIs. Change the cycle. It is one action you CAN do when you think the is nothing you can affect to make a difference..
This is an early chapter in the book I am finishing. what a journey it has been. In this chapter Jamie is still at the jail after his arrest, before he is sent to the first prison in LaMesa, Texas. He is having problems coping. I haven’t had enough time for writing blog posts, so for those who are new to Jamie’s story – this chapter is important.
Is it Rain or Tears?
“You need to flush the goddamn toilet. You can’t leave it like that,” Jamie exploded. He raised his voice louder than the sound in the room, yelling at the man walking away from him. He was tired of smelling everyone’s crap. Some men have the worst toilet habits like they we’re raised by animals. They can’t flush or wipe the seat if they mess it up. The next man has to clean it, if it matters enough to him. Jamie bit his lower lip between his teeth, forcing himself to not throw another insult at the man walking across the room, through the isles of stacked beds. Low man on the totem pole, a newcomer to this dormitory, he got stuck in the back of the room near the toilets. The only other overwhelming smell was pungent disinfection. It got poured on everything. Being here was getting to him. It was too soon to let it affect his behavior. He had too find a way to keep it together. The thought of not breathing free air for seventeen years was depressing beyond words. Knowing the woman he loved was getting bigger, waiting for the birth of a son he would not be able to see, was the cruelest joke life could play on him. This was only the beginning of his sentence. He didn’t know how he was going to get through to the end. He was tired of this crazy old asshole coming to the back of the dorm which held dozens of bunks with men reading, sleeping or playing cards, and then leave a dump for him and everyone else to smell. Jamie’s bunk was in the back near the toilets, and they smelled ungodly rank. If someone was going to take a dump they’d better have the decency to flush. He was losing his tolerance for ignorance as well as losing his emotional self control. He was often angry. Angry about being here. Angry because he couldn’t change it and angry at himself for screwing up. It wasn’t as if the janitor came in to clean every day, or even every week. No one wanted to get up and flush the damn toilet for someone else. Some dudes think they can intimidate weaker ones as if they were some stinking ‘King of the Hill’ in a child’s game. Jamie had had enough. “Didn’t yo’ mama ever teach you no manners?” Jamie yelled sarcastically across the room, deliberately provoking him. “Oh, yeah?” This dude was clearly not liking that Jamie had the guts to get in his face. He turned around and started strutting toward him with the bowed legs of a gorilla, acting as if he thought his shit didn’t stink. “You have anything else you wanna say about my mama?” Jamie immediately felt sorry for the woman who gave birth to this lowlife. He must have been a joy as a kid. He clearly wanted to use this as a reason to pound somebody’s head in and thought Jamie was his next likely victim. He didn’t know what a mistake that was gonna be. “Da-amn,” Jamie muttered under his breath in two syllables. He was going to have to make good on what he said. He got himself together and slowly stood up. He wasn’t going to get caught off-guard sitting down. “Oh well.” It hadn’t been a good day so far, anyway. He might as well make it worse.
“Oh, and you think I need to flush the toilet?” He laughed. Jamie smiled.
As he closed the gap he spoke these words with a pause between each word. In a menacing way he walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps, trying to look more dangerous than he was capable of pulling off. Maybe ten years ago he could have, but not now. He might have scared some of the smaller men but he didn’t scare Jamie. “Make me,” the man taunted him. He had the look of injecting too many steroids a couple decades ago and the hard muscles were turning to flab. “You and who else?” he demanded from Jamie. He looked like he had been in a few too many bar brawls already. Jamie didn’t care. He was strong and he knew how to take care of himself. Besides, he already had a seventeen year sentence. They couldn’t do much more to him they haven’t already done. The man walked over to a mop sticking up from a rolling bucket someone had left propped up and leaning against the wall. He grabbed the stick at both ends and broke it in half over his thigh. He raised the stick in his right hand, ready to swing it at Jamie’s head when he got closer. “Come on, mama’s boy,” the man bent forward and growled at him. “Show me what ya got.” He motioned with his fingers to come and get him.
The man would sorely regret those words. He lunged at Jamie, who beat the crap out of him all the way from the toilets, through the overcrowded room, past the open mouths of men on the bunks who were startled out of their boredom, to the locked door that led to the hall. Once Jamie got started he lost control and took all of his pent up frustration out on that loudmouthed son of a bitch who was never taught any manners by his mama. He knew some now, that was for sure.
Jamie didn’t quit beating him until the guards pulled him off. An ambulance arrived at the jail and took the man to a hospital. Jamie was taken to solitary confinement. “He’s the one who came at me,” Jamie tried to explain to the guard who cuffed his wrists behind his back and walked him to his new living quarters. The guard didn’t give a shit who started the fight. “So you decided to put him in the hospital?” “Maybe he’ll learn some manners in there, like knowing when to flush a toilet,” Jamie said under his breath. “What did you just say?” the guard snapped back. Jamie shook his head, “Nothin’.” “I didn’t think so,” the guard replied with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “You’re gonna to be staying here in this hotel room until you’re moved.” He seemed to take great pleasure in saying this to Jamie, but Jamie didn’t get upset. “How long will that be?” Jamie asked. “Where will they be sending me?” he added. His questions hung in the air unanswered. The guard probably didn’t know where he would be sent so it was pointless to ask again. He walked out of the cell and slammed the door. Jamie heard the sound of the lock turning. He motioned for him to back up to the small opening in the door and stick his wrists out so his cuffs could be unlocked. A second guard stood right outside the cell door making sure nothing happened. Jamie rubbed his wrists to get the circulation going. The cuffs had been put on as tight as possible. They wanted him to know they could do anything to him they wanted and he could do nothing about it. They weren’t going to take any chances now they knew he had a temper.
Jamie hadn’t meant to hurt the dude so bad. He couldn’t stop once he got started. The anger for everything that happened had been building up with no way to release it. He had to get it out. He had been in this jail for months waiting to see what was going to happen next. Nobody told him nothing. It was like they didn’t want to let him know what was going on. Keep him in the dark. He got some letters from Morgan who told him how his family was doing. He didn’t hear much from them himself. He did in the beginning. They were probably afraid he would ask them for money for the commissary. If they didn’t write to him they couldn’t say no. Their silence told him a lot. He was on his own.
Morgan told him over and over she would wait for him. It was the only hope he had and he was hanging on to it for dear life. If he lost her and the baby he would have nothing to live for. He waited for every letter like it was the last letter he would get, afraid she would go on without him. Every day that passed with no letter broke him into smaller pieces. When his name was called a mail time it gave him a reason to hang on. One day at a time. That’s all he had. It wasn’t much. On the far end of Jamie’s 5′ by 9′ cell was a raised cement slab with no mattress that was supposed to be his bed. Not even a two inch piece of foam covered it. A folded, rancid smelling blanket was at one end. He doubted it had ever been washed. It was another way to break the inmates. Take away their humanity until they feel worthless. There was a toilet with no lid and a sink with only cold running water. A nearly empty roll of toilet paper balanced on the edge. If he thought the toilets smelled bad in the dormitory, that wasn’t even close to the smell in here. There was a permanent smell of piss and Lysol with the added odor of vomit and a backed up toilet that had never been cleaned. He was pretty anal about being clean, especially in this place, so this smell was an insult to his senses. There was a grimy piece of polished steel for a mirror, screwed to the wall above the sink. Someone must have punched it. It was so scratched and dented it was almost impossible to see his reflection. A bare lightbulb stuck out from the wall next to the sink. He supposed that light was never turned off so the guards on the outside could look inside and check up on whoever was there. They didn’t have any privacy. They could watch you take a crap if they wanted to, just to embarrass you. It was a low wattage bulb, hardly enough to read by, if he had anything to read. So far no one brought him his stuff. How long would they keep him in here? Maybe he was better off here for awhile. Give him time to think. He needed to get his head together and figure out how he was going to handle this sentence. He couldn’t be fixin’ to beat the crap out of everyone who pissed him off. Besides, maybe if he was really good and caused no trouble they would let him out early. Jamie went over to the cement slab and laid down, folding his arms behind his head. There was nowhere else to sit but the floor and he didn’t think he wanted to get that close to it. He looked up to see a vertical, narrow window too high up to stand and look out, and too grimy to see anything. The light let him know it was still daytime. It was never daytime inside. In solitary you never knew if out was night or day if there wasn’t a window. That added to confusion and a feeling of being off balance. He could hear the sound of rain beating against the wire-enforced glass. When he closed his eyes and listened, the sound of the rain relaxed him. It was peaceful against the thoughts and emotions still raging through his brain. It helped clear the bad thoughts away and he felt himself begin to drift off to sleep. Jamie couldn’t stop his raw emotions from coming to the surface. One tear fell down the side of his face to his ear. The wetness joined with the sound of the rain running down the window pane.
You know you are getting old when you attend your 45th year high school class reunion. How did so much time go by? If I live another twenty years and become elderly, that time is going to whiz by faster than the rest. Knowing this I fill my life with as much as I can, never thinking I am too old. It’s easy think we are to old do things or it’s too risky. We wonder, “What will people think?” I have a motto I live by, (actually I have several of these) “If you don’t like what I’m doing, then don’t watch me do it.” I don’t care what people think about what I do. It’s my life and I’ll do what I want to do. If the fear is all in your head you’ll end up with regrets. Trying and failing isn’t nearly as bad as not trying at all.
It had been twenty five years since I went to a class reunion because I lived too far away. I moved closer to home in 2010 when I was sick and decided a few years ago I wasn’t going to miss this one. It wasn’t because I was such great friends with these classmates and we stayed in touch over the years – it was quite the opposite. I was a loner. I had a couple friends I hung around with and made no attempt to fit in. I suffered from low self esteem. If I didn’t make friends they couldn’t reject me.
As a very young child, music was the only thing important to me. It was the only music I listened to – the only albums I collected. A stack of classical piano albums was put on my record player at night and it played through the night. I was enthralled with Van Clyburn and Andre Previn. I knew current music because it was played on car radios when my boyfriend and I drove up and down the main street through town in the evenings, but I could rarely identify a song with the name of the band. I still can’t, even though I know all the songs.
In school I took every music class and sung in the chorus and yearly musicals but I never joined any other club. I think every school has their cliques and they are often divided by what part of town you live in and if your parents could buy you the latest fashions. I definitely wasn’t part of those groups of kids. I was part of the ARchie Bunker style streets. I always had what I needed, but what I wanted I didn’t ask for. My parents were young, struggling to raise three children.
We were not taught racism. Nothing negative was said, but neither was anything positive. We understood there was a clear line down the middle of town and black people lived on one side and whites on the other. Realtors wouldn’t sell a house to a black family on the white side of town because it brought down property values. That changed after I left home when homes were bought by realtors and broken up into apartments. Black people didn’t go to our church. I remember wanting to touch a black person and see if their skin felt different. The elementary schools weren’t mixed. Kids went to the school in their own neighborhood. It wasn’t until Jr High that classes mixed because there were only two jr high schools, and only one high school. But even though we all went to the same school, black and white students generally stayed with those they grew up with. But still there was no racism. No name calling because someone was a negro, because the word black wasn’t used. Kids weren’t taught to hate. Were there problems – yes, sometimes – but not like today. Still, white kids didn’t walk through black neighborhoods. I did that – once. Children threw stones at me. There was an underlying fear. That is a story for another day.
There was bullying and I was on the receiving end. I honestly don’t know why. I was cornered in the restrooms, stairwells and the auditorium. I was threatened. I ran out the back door in the music room because I was afraid. That is yet another story. But kids have it much worse today with bullying because of the use of social media.
In many homes, kids today are not taught respect. Why? What happened? Suicides by kids who feel threatened are common. Kids in the 70’s still had respect for teachers and staff. The thought of cussing at a teacher was unheard of. It is much different today, and it shows in the behavior of the kids. We also had no cops at our school ready to handcuff us on school property and take us in the back of a police car and lock us up. The principal was the law. Black kids weren’t filling up juvenile detention facilities the way they do now. Now there is a lot of profit for locking up kids and preparing them for prison by destroying their education. It is so wrong – and that is another story.
Today, in 2017, I was now more than twice as old as I was when I graduated. I knew I was not the same person I was in the early 1970’s and I knew the students weren’t, either. Starting a few years ago I began connecting with people in my class through facebook. There can be a lot of drama and other crap on fb but the positive aspect is being able to connect with people. Some of these students I graduated with I also went to Kindergarten with as well.
If I was going to the reunion I didn’t want to walk into a large room with a lot of people who were strangers, so I used my time getting to know many of them. We “talked” about the things that separated us. It taught me a valuable lesson. What we think about people – what we think is the truth – often isn’t. People put on faces of what we want others to believe. We hide things about ourselves we don’t want other people to know.
We continue to do that even as adults. When someone asks us how we are, we say “fine” even when we aren’t. We assume people really don’t want to know so we don’t tell them. We don’t show people what is really going on in our lives. We think they will judge us. We don’t get to know other people, either. Sometimes we also choose to not do things we want to do because, “What will people think?”
What I found over about three years is – all these kids grew up. I’m not the same kid and neither are they. They had their own mountains to climb, kids to raise, careers grew and some were destroyed. Spouses died, kids died, health problems destroyed dreams. People moved. Some had wonderful experiences and some didn’t. No one had a perfect life with no problems. Our experiences shaped us. I enjoyed getting to know these same kids, now all around 63 years old.
Our reunion was over two evenings. Our class president and other students who stayed local put a lot of time into preparations so we could enjoy our time together. I saw many people who looked familiar but I had to look at their name tags to remember who they were. I honestly thought I had been so insignificant in school I didn’t think anyone would remember who I was. But they did. Part of me was dumbfounded. We hadn’t been “friends” in school so why? That was my low self esteem surfacing. Growing up I had to put on a tough exterior. I put on a face of confidence that wasn’t real, until I made it real. One student I didn’t remember walked up to me and said, “You always did dance to the beat of a different drummer.” What did she know about me that i didn’t? I have no idea what made her say that – but it was true. I always bucked the system.
One of the tables at the reunion held the pictures of all the classmates who had died since we graduated. Today that number is 39. About a half dozen of us stood there looking at those pictures and reading about how they died. A few died very soon after graduation, and the most recent one was in March of 2017. Looking at these pictures of people knowing I was still alive was overwhelming. I had come very close to dying of liver disease and cancer in 2012 but a liver became available in the nick of time.
“The Pain That Unites Us All” a book being published right now, has twenty-seven authors contributing their story – in short story or poetry. My story about my liver transplant and the emotional pain of being ignored by my immediate family while going through something so traumatic is published in that book. I had come home thinking they would support me. I was dead wrong. That is also a story for another day. I’ll be posting a link to the book soon if you are interested.
We all have stories. Some people change for the good and some don’t. I have more new/old friends because I took the time to listen and not judge. We can have value in other lives and they can have value in ours, but if we think we know it all and don’t need to take the time to listen, we lose that person in our life. It has taken a long time for me to find a place in my head to put the knowledge, realizing that coming home was a mistake. Except for patching it up with my mother, I have no value in the lives of the family I grew up with. I can’t even try anymore. But I have children and seven grandchildren and I am the head of my own family. When I moved home, extremely sick, and was treated badly – I’m done with them and that is just the way it is. I had to teach myself to not care any more
I could have been in one of those photos of people who passed away. Anyone of us could have been up on that wall. At 63 we aren’t elderly, but more and more of us are reaching the end of our life. Many die due to illness. Some give up. My mother had her class reunion the week before mine. She graduated from the same high school. Her list of students who have died was a double column, front and back of two pages.
It is hard to look at your own mortality. When I didn’t die of liver failure I had to make a choice. Wallow in my illness and give up – or push past it. I could say I’m getting too old to begin again. I live in a senior community and I see it all around me – those that give up and those that force themselves to live their lives completely until the end. I chose to give my live everything I can. It wasn’t time to give up.
That is when I started the blog My Name is Jamie – and everything else that followed – the writing of the book “Inside The Forbidden Outside” which I am still rewriting. I am heading to Texas next week to go to the Allred prison where Jamie is, and to complete the stories that tie the chapters of the book together. I started writing the ITFO Newsletter which focuses on different issues concerning our prisons because many people really do not know the real reason for why we have more prisons than any other country. I also write about different people in prison with a story to tell. If you have one – contact me. My focus is to educate people and teach them there is no race that is better than another, no matter what mainstream media teaches you. We all need to work together to save our planet and our humanity.
This gives me the reason to write music as the soundtrack for the book. Helping others makes the cause to help my own life. I never sit around bored wondering what to do next. I spent most of my life creating music. Why stop when I am better at it now than I ever was in my life. Our senior years are when we have the most experience and wisdom to give the world. The youth has nice skin – but they lack life experience. We should strive to find a way to utilize it.
After I returned from my class reunion I sat at my piano and recorded a piece of music for all of the students who were no longer here – to honor them. When I play it I will think of them. They will not be forgotten. I’m hoping my friends – these past classmates will listen and remember and remember them, too.
I have a new album coming out that will soon be at CDBaby and Spotify named “Stories without Words”. This music will be part of that. I often give music as a gift. Writing music is a part of me I can give. It is all improvised. I feel, I play and record it. I can never play anything twice because I let it play me, not the other way around. I’ll be posting a link to the album soon.
Thanks for reading and thanks for listening. It is for everyone who graduated from Pottstown High in Pennsylvania in 1972. It is my gift to you.
ReverbNation . . . Website of Indie music not on traditional radio stations. Sonni’s featured page.
SkunkRadioLive . . . Indie radio station out of London playing music composed for the book being written for Jamie. If you can, help support. It will all help Jamie in the end.
Protect yourself by having an attorney on call with an app on your phone. Have you ever been stopped and given a ticket? harassed? Get screwed by a landlord? Customer service not refund your money? Your rights abused in any way? Need a FREE will done? (normally about $300) Click on the link below and see why you need this. Just knowing you have access to an attorney when you need one, especially with all the crap going on these days, it gives you some peace of mind. No one knows when the police car lights are going to go off when you are driving in your car. Who do you call? What happens when one of your kids or grandkids ends up in trouble whether they are guilty or not. Today, people are guilty until they are proven innocent and today even that doesn’t matter, or they lock you up for months because you can’t afford bail money. This is why I promote this. Our govt is looking for new ways to lock you up. Without an attorney to call there is little you can do. This is only good for the US and Canada. Click on the link below that says 101 reasons to use Legal Shield. You owe it to yourself to find out what this is about. Leave me a msg here – or if you want it to be private leave me a msg at Facebook through messenger or at email@example.com. All for muchless than a trip through Kentucky Fried Chicken.
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Excellent article. We’ve had so much white nationalist stupidity in the news lately. I shake my head when I hear them yell with their and stretched out Hitler style, “Make America White Again!” Again?? When was America ever white? Or are they just ignorant about our history. Many of these new Nazis are young – 20’s – and education has fallen so far down the ranks. They can’t write their signatures, so maybe they really are ignorant.
Please go to the original article to leave comments. There are many posts on this site that most people could learn from. There is way too much black history not being taught as well as American Indian history, to all people. If we want to change and become better people in a better country, it starts with better education.
Earlier last year I recorded a piano lullaby called “For The Children.” When I was putting my last ITFO newsletter together it was called, For The Children, about the children of inmates who often become the next generation of inmates by being pushed through the school to prison pipeline – a very deliberate action by teachers who admit they suspend black children much quicker and easier than white children who are also physically abused by onshore cops that were NEVER needed in the schools when I was a child.
The Prison Industrial Complex is very selfish about their financial gains made by diminishing the quality of the lives of anyone who isn’t white. Anyone who thinks this isn’t true is most likely white as well. Keeping the status of white privilege as a badge they think worth wearing, even though it doesn’t really exist.
Many people are emotionally upset over the concept of abortion. I’m not saying that is wrong.We should care about the lives that become children and hope they have the dream of a fulfilled life. I am more concerned about the lives of the children who have already been born yet their lives are not being helped by the people who insist all lives should be born. Too few people care about the lives after they are born. Are they loved, fed, nurtured, educated and given hope or are they brushed aside because they are black or minority and have less value because they have a parent in prison and therefore have a gene that automatically makes them prone to be a criminal? There is no gene like this. It is a box we put these children in and they grow up feeling they have no worth because people make them feel this is their rightful place in society.
If you have ever felt these things – If you have ever felt that every impregnated cell has the right to life, yet have done nothing to help these lives, you should be ashamed, because there is much you could do if your feelings were sincere.
When I put out the last issue of the newsletter, this music it would have been a good piece to put it but I had forgotten about it. So I’m putting it here today if you’d like to hear it. There are 32 pieces of music on Sound Cloud. Someday I’ll be gone. I hope my music lives on in the people who were part of my life. The music I write is about emotions. When I feel something strongly it comes out in music. So much of what I write is melancholy, written in minor keys.
I began writing when I was a teenager, writing songs. Somewhere I have all the lyrics. I should publish them. They are a diary of my life. My piano accompaniment was classically influenced. Growing up I was influenced more by Van Clyburn and Andre Previn than by the Beatles and the Stones. I no longer write songs but I do write poetry, better read to the music than sung. You can find it on both blogs. Here and “Watch and Whirl” by searching for Sonni Quick Piano Music.
Growing up all I had was my family on my mother’s side. I know no one on my father’s side of the family. Who am I kidding, hell, I don’t even know my father. I grew up without him only having my mother. It’s nothing different from most black families. Single mothers raising kids alone. Well, in my case it was a little different because my brothers and sister knew their dad and their dad’s family, leaving me with only a mom. Each of us has a different dad. That was cool, but sometimes I wondered what it would be like with a dad. To this I still wonder, even though dad is home with mom now. She said they got married. I tried to reach out to and write a letter. I even sent him a birthday card. I’m still waiting for a reply. So, I guess I still don’t have a dad. She said he is a retired cop, no less. He was married and didn’t tell her and then when she got pregnant, he told her and she ended the relationship. She almost ended the pregnancy, too. She told me that when she came to see me on my birthday this year. That hurt. But back then? That was just the way it was. He left both of us. She never told me who my father was when I was growing up. That’s pretty bad, isn’t it?
I really hate this because some things I don’t want to remember. Growing up, my favorite cousin was my Aunt Ann’s son. His name was Keithy. He passed away in 1996 from sickle cell anemia. Since I had epilepsy, we were the sick ones in the family. He broke my heart so bad. We used to follow each other. I didn’t matter he was older than me by six or seven years. We enjoyed each others company. We had each others back. We played together all the time. He loved to go fishing. I would go with him. There were times we caught nothing, but we still loved to go. We sometimes had our days when we were mad at each other. But it didn’t take long for us to make up. We had lots of fun. There were also times I couldn’t visit him because he was too sick, and that made me mad. Mad that he was sick. There were times he went to visit his dad’s family. One time when he came home from his dads he was sick. I went to visit with him one day and when we were playing he just started crying. My aunt came in to help him and called my mom to come and take me home. While I was waiting his pain got worse. I could hear his cries for help. It hurt so much to see him like that. His sickness got real bad so I ended up having to stay home a lot. I then started leaving home. I felt empty as far as friends. So I would leave sometimes just to get away. It got to the point where I would leave in the middle of the night to try to fill in that blank space. Well, I left home one too many times at night. My mom got worried about me and placed me in a children’s hospital. I didn’t like it there.
I don’t remember how long I was there. I do remember them letting me call home one day. I remember explaining to my mom that I didn’t like this place and I began to cry. I also remember the day that really broke my heart. But I started out happy that day because my mom came and got me out of the hospital and took me to my aunt’s house. There was a lot of people there. My mom took me to the back room where everybody was and she told me that my cousin died. I broke down. My old brother grabbed me and told me not to cry, but we both cried. We went to view him and he looked so different. I remember touching him and asking my mom why he was so cold. Then we buried him.
( Sonni’s note: Jamie was in prison long before he actually was in one. It’s easier to have hindsight than it is to have foresight. He arrived in this world broken and never had a fair shake. His cousin died 19 years ago, but it could have been yesterday. He had a lot of obstacles to overcome that he is still working on today. There have been many lessons learned. But I believe it was after his cousin died that the road in his life took a sharp left turn.)