Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison T. Parsell (ebook reader play store .txt) 📖

metal bedpost. At some point, I had grabbed my pillow and hugged it like a baby as I sobbed. Then almost as suddenly as it had started, the tears stopped and my body calmed itself.

When I had shut down over the years, I had blocked out anything that hurt me or might have hurt me. At the same time, in doing so, I also locked something else in-stuffing it deep within myself. For a split second I caught a glimpse of who I truly was. It was such a brief simple moment-triggered by what that guard had said: "You don't belong here."

I got up off the floor and tossed the pillow on the bed. I threw cold water on my face and stared at myself in the scratched-up mirror above the sink. Then something unexpected happened. I got down on any knees and placed my hands together on the bed.

I could not believe what I was doing. It had been years since I had gone to mass. I felt as cut off from the church as from my family. God, it seemed, had abandoned me around the same time as my mother. But now I was down on my knees, and looking for answers. "Please God, just give me an opportunity, and I'll do the work."

I didn't know where my words were coming from, but I had heard someone say once, that only when your whole being becomes a prayer will God listen to it. I wasn't asking for anything so much as I was making a promise, a pact maybe, and not even with Him, but with myself. I had hit bottom and became willing to do whatever necessary to put the life I had known in the past. "Just give me an opportunity, and I'll do the work."

This was my last night behind bars.

The next morning, on May 3, 1982, I walked out of prison for the last time. And as I left there-I left as a man.

On June 1, 1984, I was discharged from parole. To date, the only run-ins I've had with the law have been minor traffic tickets. (I paid both fines immediately.)

My dad quit drinking for ten years. Sharon said they were the best years they ever spent together. They currently split their time between their home in Michigan and Texas, where they bought a trailer and retreat to in winter.

A year or so after my release, I came home for the holidays with a boyfriend. This was my first trip home with a guy and the first time my family had to face my sexuality head-on. To my surprise and delight, it was Sharon who stood up and said that anyone who had a problem with me-would have to deal with her.

In April, 2001, my brother Rick died from a drug overdose. He was fortyfive and on parole at the time.

My stepbrother Bobby served nine years for the armed robbery he and my brother Rick committed together. He now lives in Michigan.

Claudia, my ex-girlfriend, had a miscarriage. I never heard from her again.

Slide Step is still in prison. His discharge date is 2021. I never asked him about what Paul had said. If he had set up my initial rape-I didn't want to know it.

The Oracle won an national penal press award. None of the original inmates who worked on the newspaper, upon their release, have returned to prison.

Warden Handlon retired from the Department of Corrections. He died a few years later, and the Michigan Training Unit was renamed The Richard A. Handlon Training Unit.

Sherry Burt made warden after thirteen years in the department. We've kept in touch, and she plans to retire soon.

When Paul was sentenced for escape, burglary, armed robbery, and car theft, his victim appeared in court. She asked the judge for leniency, citing how polite and apologetic Paul had been to her. Nonetheless, the Judge gave Paul ten additional years, to be served consecutively to his original sentence.

In the fall of 2002, while I began work on this book, I discovered sadly that Paul was still in prison. I wrote to him the following letter:

December 5, 2002

Dear Paul:

So here it is, almost twenty-five years later and you're finally hearing from me. I imagine this letter will come as quite a surprise. Yet even after all this time, I've never stopped thinking about you.

I tried to visit a few years back, but they had changed the rules and I couldn't get in to see you. I was all checked-in and it wasn't until the woman at the front desk told me to place my all my belongings in a locker that she noticed I wasn't on your list of approved visitors. I had stayed in a hotel the night before and was so nervous about seeing you again that I hardly slept.

I'm not sure why I didn't write to you after that. Perhaps I wasn't ready to deal with whatever feelings may have come up as a result. I was also a little afraid you might not remember me. Though you played a major role in my life, I realize you've been down a long time and I may not have been as significant in your life as you were in mine.

I assumed you were released after that, and I had no clue how to find you. I located you this time on the Internet. The Dept. of Corrections has a tracking system that's open to the public. It even has a nice digital picture. You've aged some since we last parted.

Enclosed is a picture of my family and me. As you can see, I look older as well. I'm the one in the middle with the (premature) gray hair. I've lost some weight since thenbut I'm still a lot heavier than I was at seventeen. The good-looking folks next to me are my partner Tom and