Jason ponders his life

Trade My Blues

When I was a little boy I wanted to be a race car driver like Al Unser Jr.  I wanted to be filthy right so that I could buy a mansion with sixty rooms so all of my family could live there.  We’d have three big hotel kitchens and a huge backyard with a pool and a race track.

When I was a little bit older, I wanted to be a doctor/policeman so I could heal people, rescue kittens and lock up the bad guys.  (Never imagined that I’d be one of the bad guys.)  I’d drive a Porsche and have lots of girlfriends.  Life would be good.

As a teenager, I wanted to be an All-Pro NFL QB/HB/WR/Free Safety and a rapper.  The football was because I was good at it, the rap because I wanted to tell my story.  All of it would make me rich, but my sports cars became Cadillacs with candy paint.  I was going to show the world how we do it down South.

By my eighteenth birthday, I’d smoked away so much of my ambition, drank and squandered my hopes, dreams and scholarships, and one-night-standed my hurt into a constant state of mistrust.  Sports required too much energy, and I could rap my behind off, so well that somebody would find me and offer me a record deal.  So I kicked back, fired up blunts, slept with my gorgeous woman as I could and watched life pass me by in a cannabis saturated daze, resentment brewing below the surface, the oppressive clouds of higher expectations hanging over my head like pregnant thunderheads.  And when lightning struck, thunder cracked and the afterbirth of failure rained down on me.  I didn’t even seek cover.  I just sat there, wet and high, wishing I was somebody else, anybody but me.

Life continued like that for years, perpetual storm clouds hovering, smothering any budding hope, the floods of failure swimming around me, licking at my chin, threatening to drown me, threatening to extinguish the ever burning, ever present blunt between my lips and make me surrender to my awful reality.  Between the inside outs of jail, my inability to stay faithful to any woman in my life, my drug dependency, I would have gladly traded places with someone else because I felt that I was ruined, a lost cause.  My kids deserved better, my mom deserved better, my wife and my girlfriends deserved better and all I felt was  that I deserved to die, to be at peace.

You know, it’s sad . . . my kids are and have been the brightest thing in my life since their births, but with the exception of them, the brightest thing about me had become the orange ember flaring at the tip of my latest blunt.  I really wanted to be a chef or a zoologist, anything working with food or animals, but those people didn’t get rich and it was all about the money, wasn’t it?

After seven long years in prison, more than my fair share of trials and tribulations, ups and downs, spiritual highs and emotional catastrophes, I don’t dream the way I used to.  I still dream often, but it is the quality of my dreams that is different.  No more are the dreams of mansions, Italian cars, super stardom or any such foolishness.  I don’t ever dream of being someone else.  I tried to imagine what it would be like to be Jay-Z, the money, the status, the beautiful wife . . . but those are his dreams from his journey.  None of that moves me anymore.  Just the thought of trading my life for someone else’s seems absurd.

Now I understand what Maya Angelou meant, “Wouldn’t Give Nothin for My Journey Now:  This Is My life.”  I cannot undo the past, but I can make the most of the present and stride proudly into my future.

Even with my struggles, my circumstances, the odds against me, I do not wish for a shortcut or an easy way out, because this is my journey.  I must go through this as I climb towards greatness.  No longer am I in the shadows of hustlers, thugs and dope dealers.  No, my aspirations will leave me in the presence of the Kings, X’s, Kennedys and Lincolns.

It’s a hard journey, but now I’m wise enough to know that this journey is part of who I am to become, it strengthens the power of my fight to righteousness, it glorifies the mercy and goodness of God, it proves that God will bring you up from the lowest of the low and use you for good.  I will touch and inspire a great many people because of who I’ve become, of who I’m becoming.  I may never rush for or pass for 200 yards and score four touchdowns in front of a stadium of people, I may not ever take the checkered flag at Indy, I may never rock a sold out arena of screaming fans, but I will stand before many crowds and tell of my journey . . . sometimes I’ll cry, sometimes I’ll shout, sometimes I’ll laugh, console, hug, pray with . . . but I’ll always reach and reach and reach because only my arms can touch them.  I am God’s tool.

My journey . . . yeah, my journey is priceless, my struggles are my struggles, my stories are my stories.  No, I wouldn’t trade my blues or my simple dreams of fishing, spending time with my kids, or cutting my lawn.  I am who I am because of my journey, and I wouldn’t trade my blues.

                                                                                                                                                                     

Lesson #40

“If we wall threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d grab our back.”

Lesson #13

“Don’t compare your life to others.  You have no idea what their journey is all about.”

Regina Brett

Author of The Plain Dealer

Jason has a Dream Girl

September 18, 2011 11:52 pm

Short and sweet! Just wanted to let you know that you are on my mind! I’m about to go to sleep. Long day tomorrow, but I’ll try to squeeze in a better letter than this one.

Also, I wanted to give you the info that I was sent when I wrote about the phones. Texasprisonphones.com 866-806-7804 or 866-963-7912 which is info I’m sure you already have. Other than that, they told me nothing, and I’ve tried to register your number through the phone. As always, TDC doesn’t make anything simple. Stupid. I call and a recorded voice tells me that the number is not on my approved calling list???

Anyhow, I’m too tired to try to figure it out. Know that I love you and I’m staying out of trouble. 

Love.

P.S. Hope you enjoyed your trip! I received the books! Thank you so much. I’ll save them for the next lockdown and enjoy them then.

September 22, 2011 9:59 pm

I know, I know, I promised a long letter. And I’m still promising it. The past days have been a circus! Oh, I’m fine, but I never have a moment’s free time while I’m somewhere that I can write you. And by this time of night, I’m exhausted.

The good news is, I’m staying busy! Plus, after I take this test Monday, I’ll be able to relax some.

Just wanted to let you know that you’re on my mind.

Love,

P.S. Still trying with the phone.

 October 1, 2011

Hey there, sweet, kind lady! Well, I finally find a free moment, a week later! Drama and politics, but I’ve survived.

Yeah, it’s been one thing or another, and my boss has put a large portion of the workload on me because she knows it’ll get done. Between work, working out, my cakes, and college, I’ve been swamped! Not to mention running a fantasy football league. Whew! Talk about more than I bargained for.

It could be worse. Busy is good. Seems like I’m always waking up and starting all over.

I see you’ve been busy as well! And you enjoyed the vacation. The pictures were cool! I’ve always loved nature, spent time outdoors and what not, but took it for granted, as I got older. The pics you send often keep me appreciative of how wonderful nature is.

My boss should be emailing you about the donation of the books that you’d asked me about. I wanted to make sure that it’s done where the State of Texas can’t screw it up. The mailroom seems to have layed off of me. Maybe she’s found a new victim.

Wow, so much with the phone already! I wrote in submitting the correct information, but they have not responded yet. I try to call every day and get the same response. I hate this place every day! Yet, I stay positive. You are a large part of that.

Got another letter from my father. (Feels weird calling him that). Honestly, I was ready to write him and hurt him the way he has hurt me, although I could only inflict a minute percentage of the pain he’s caused me. Then while as Mass last week, I was praying and started laughing. I knew that I wouldn’t write that ugly letter.

That night, a letter from him came and he was more open and sincere. Really, my heart goes out to the guy. He’s trying, and I’m glad that I didn’t attempt to hurt him because I’d been hurt. The last thing that man needs is for someone to kick him in the face. He’s trying, so I’m going to try, too.

My uncle came last Sunday. It was cool, as usual. It’s good to escape this madness as much as possible. I’m so thankful that he makes time for me. He’s fine, tired, travel weary, but fine.

Yeah, all the drama at work was caused by the regional director walking in one day while my boss was gone and deciding he didn’t want us in the library unsupervised around all those dangerous books. Well, the Major hates us and pounced, trying to cut us from 7 workers to 3. Fortunately, my boss wouldn’t go for it. She stood up to them, and showed them (made them watch 3 of us try to handle a crowd of 60) that it cannot be done by 3 workers. I was one of the 3 and not in danger of losing my job, but the pressure was still there. Ever since we’ve had to be on our A game, and we got in nearly 200 new books to inventory, catalog, label, shelve, and circulate.

I thank you for your patience. It’s just been crazy, but it’s trying to ease up. One of my co-workers got fired for mouthing off to the Major, leaving us with six, but I’m on top of my responsibilities.

Next Monday, there is no school, so I get a small break. I’ll still have to study, but with less pressure. I made an 80 on my first exam. That’s the lowest score I can ever remember. So I’ll have to ace the rest of my tests to keep my 4.0. Don’t fret, now I know what to expect. He threw a bunch of trick questions at us. Next time I’ll be prepared.

The blogs are coming. They’re in my head brewing. Probably this week they’ll find paper. I’ve got so much on my mind that I need to spill. The ones I’d started writing before…I lost two and went back to read two more and didn’t like them. Too angry.

Well, I’m going on and on. Of course you know that you’re in my thoughts and heart.

Love,

P.S. Have you seen that commercial for “Google Chrome”? Wow! Cool commercial, cooler program! I miss my kids. Did I tell you that the court dropped the case (child support) because my mom showed and Khristen didn’t? Yup.  After all that.

 

Blog - Dream Girl

My thoughts … whew.  My thoughts are never ending, a constant stream of everything imaginable ranging from concerns that I inhale all of those millions of dust motes and particles that I see so clearly floating in a ray of sunshine, to the gender of my creator, to what type of creature I was in my former life, to what my kids are thinking at this moment.  Anything and everything, non-stop, awake and asleep.

However, every night that I close my eyes to fall asleep, I see a beautiful woman in my bed.  Nooo, not this midget cost that I sleep on in this walk-in closet that I live in.  I mean, in my bed out there.

It’s a big bed, perhaps a king or queen size.  The sheets are not crisp and new with packaged creased in them, rather they are clean, worn just enough to be soft and inviting.  She is lying on her side with her back to me and although I can almost feel her lying on my arm, I can see her from behind and from above, also viewing myself.

We appear to be asleep, completely comfortable, uncovered.  She is wearing one of my T-shirts and I am wearing a pair of shorts.  She is never anyone that I know or recognize and she is always different.  Sometimes she is fair with brown hair, other times, more tanned with blond hair.  Often she is a tropical brown with straight raven hair, and sometimes she is any shade of caramel brown to ink black, but always beautiful.

That I do not recognize her does not bother me because I realize that we have not met yet.  But she is not just some woman lying in my bed.  She is the woman of my bed of life.  And I am beyond content.  I am happy.  This is how sleep finds me every single night.

Why am I never alone?  Even when I try to picture myself in that bed alone, she always pops up and I smile to myself.  Does this mean that I can’t be happy alone, or unless there is a gorgeous woman in my bed?  I think that unlikely.  But it does mean something.

Does maybe the fact that she is least often a black woman have something to do with my issues with the emotional abuse I’ve suffered in my dealings with black females?  Does the fact that even when she is plus sized, she is always in good physical shape a result of fantasy or due to my healthy lifestyle?  Does the fact that she is wearing one of my shirts mean some sort of sub-conscious statement of ownership?

Who knows?  Who cares?  I guess I do, but only for the moment.  I know that she brings me peace, puts a smile on my face and puts me right to sleep.  Even better, one day I’ll be able to thank her for helping me rest on so many countless nights and she’ll look at me like I’m crazy, probably even call me corny when I tell her that she’s the girl of my dreams.