One More Birthday in Prison

I see my comrades free, and it’s bittersweet

The post below was written by Rob Barton around the time of his birthday in March. However, mail became very unreliable both at his end and in D.C., where Pam (his collaborator) lives. So we share it now.

I stare at the photo I had just received in the mail. It’s of my man Pete and a few other comrades, all recently released from prison after 20+ years. They stand against the harbor in D.C., the light shining behind them. Damn, they look good… It brings a smile to my face, a flutter to my heart and a tear down my cheek — all at the same time. I’m conflicted. Not too long ago, all of us were in jail talking about the things we’d do once we were free. Now, they are out there doing them, and I’m back in a penitentiary.

Something gnaws at my subconscious that I can’t quite identify as I gaze at the pictures Pete sent me, absorbing every detail. Something is “off.” And then it hits me: They are all smiling from ear to ear. They radiate happiness: The joy of being able to sit in a restaurant among the comforting company of friends and savor the taste of real food. The freedom of being able to walk out on the pier and leisurely dip your hands in the water. The tranquility of sitting on a porch on a starry night and just watching the traffic go by as you think. Experiencing the feeling of holding actual money or your own legal mobile phone in your hands.

These are some yearnings that flow through my mind as I look at these pictures. These things that are such common, everyday occurrences on the outside are alien to us in captivity. This is why they can now smile so genuinely.

As I force myself out of my reverie, I suddenly remember that it’s my 26th birthday in prison. I’m still here. Even worse, we’re locked down (confined to our cells 24/7). So, I’m forced to spend my birthday locked in a bathroom (our cells are small and we share space with a toilet) with no human comforts, or even the well wishes of friends and loved ones. And it kills me. I want to be free! I’m tired of prison. I’m overjoyed that my men are out there living life to its fullest and have gained their freedom. I love to see their smiles, to see them out there establishing themselves in the world and climbing their own personal mountains to succeed. But I want to be, I’m supposed to be, out there making a mark as well. It’s very hard.

I used to tell my friends not to wish me happy birthday, because to me, there were no happy days in prison.

To distract myself, it became my custom to spend my birthdays “partying.” In prison, that means feasting on food from the commissary, drinking jail hooch and sometimes smoking weed. You’d be surprised how creative we can get in prison to “dress up” food from the commissary. For example, we’d make mackerel patties by mashing the tinned fish with mayonnaise, crackers, chips and mustard. We’d make cakes by scooping the cream out of the middle of Oreo cookies to use as icing, then crunching the cookie part to make a kind of crust. In between, we’d stuff a honey bun or something like that. [Note from Pam: As for “hooch,” sugar isn’t sold in prisons for this reason. But sugar can be derived from many things, including cookie filling and hard candy. Old bread can be used for its yeast. Mix it up and store it with fruit for a while in a warm place, then strain it all with a sock.]

‘Bidding’ is how we survive

Basically, I spent my time bidding to seek some kind of comfort. A lesson in prison “lingo”: To bid is to find some way to be comfortable in jail, so that things on the outside lose their importance and we gradually close ourselves off from the world. It’s a survival mechanism. People bid in many ways. For me, I ordered my days by working out, gambling, watching/playing sports, reading and studying. I had a set schedule for each of these things. In fact, anyone bidding hates their schedule to be broken because it takes you out of your comfort zone.

The thing is, bidding is both good and bad: It’s what protects us and allows us to tolerate being locked up, but it’s also what hinders us. It lulls us into engaging in behavior that will work against our eventual release, for example.

Bidding is how I got through 26 years in prison. And I could have gone right on bidding. But this birthday is hard. Shit, who am I kidding? Each day has become its own journey. A minute seems like an hour. An hour a day. A day a month. And a year a lifetime. And it’s all because after being offered a taste of almost-freedom in D.C.’s Correctional Treatment Facility (during some court proceedings), prison no longer feels like my habitat. It never was, but humans can survive anything, and through surviving we learn how to navigate our hardships and become “comfortable” with them.

My mother recently told me, “Rob, you got to make it home before I close my eyes.” And as I sit here on my 26th birthday in prison, I realize my mother is not getting any younger. I’m not getting any younger. Each day counts. Time truly waits for no one, and I have to do everything within my power to win my release. I’m not the same Rob of 10 years ago, five years ago or even three years ago. I don’t think the same. I don’t subscribe to the same ideals. I’ve grown. I’ve matured. When will my time come?

A note from Pete: When I sent Rob those photos, I will not lie; I knew how he’d feel. But I wanted to make sure he understood that, “Yeah, all your friends are home, and you’re missing. You’re the only person missing out of all of us. So, keep focused on what you got to do to get home.”

Getting photos like the ones I sent Rob in prison is definitely bittersweet, because the thing about it, all he sees is everybody he was in prison with. But it’s also really good to see some make it out. To know it can happen.

Rob’s parole examiner recommended against his freedom. If the full board complies, as expected, his next chance will come in January 2023, when he can apply a second time for release.