Narrative essay about jail

Narrative essay about jail

Free Personal Narratives: Jail Time. Words15 Pages. Jail Time. Those blocks (block, block, block) in just plain gray (gray, gray, gray): the perfect surroundings to leave one's mind blank or insane. Ow. My head hurts. It has been lying against this wall for at least an hour now. I scratched the back of my head to move around my dark, curly hair Essay about Jails, Prisons, and Rehabilitation Overcrowded Jails and Prisons. Why are prison and jail so overcrowded? Could it be we need to establish a better program Gap In Prisons. Research gap (in Indian context) Prisons earlier known as "house of captives" have been the part of the  · Life In Jail Narrative. Pages: 4 ( words) Published: February 25, These past few months have been pretty rough. I’ve been in jail for almost three months now, and it’s all because of my best friend. These jail cells are a lot less roomy than I expected. I hate being here, it’s crowded and it smells really bad

Life In Jail Narrative Essay - Words

I am 5 years old. I am playing on the kitchen floor when I hear it : J-A-I-L. My nana spells it out to my mom in the way adults do when they don't want children to know what they're saying.

But I'm smart and I can spell, and I know what they're saying. That week, I go to kindergarten and I tell all of my classmates that my daddy is in j-a-i-l. I tell them that he beat up some bullies and that he is a hero.

My teacher is narrative essay about jail my classmates are intrigued. It wasn't the truth. He'd been imprisoned twice before, but at the time my father was a fugitive, evading arrest for two armed robberies. I didn't know that, though. I knew he was gone, and I knew that for people like me, jail was a place that daddies and brothers and sisters and cousins and girlfriends went. So my nana spelled it and there it was, the possibility looming over my mind — even years before my father was caught and put in prison for five years.

Incarceration is a curse on my family. It sucked up and spat out my brother and father and friends. It permeates my earliest memories. It shaped my worldview, informed my awareness of the system, narrative essay about jail, and plagued my youth with knowing. America has the highest incarceration rate in the world — 2.

And for most of those 2. After my father was apprehended and sentenced, my mom took my brother and me to visit him in prison. We loaded up the car and made the long drive from New Jersey to North Carolina. Strange as it seems to look forward to visiting someone in prison, I was ecstatic. I wasn't angry at him. I didn't blame him for being there. I was 12, and I missed my dad. When we arrived at the prison, my brother and I were buzzing with energy. But our moods quickly fell. At check-in, the guard informed us that my father was only allowed two visitors.

Since my brother and I were minors, we had to be accompanied by our mother. That meant one of us couldn't see him. We had traveled 10 hours. We felt defeated. The guards watched as my brother and I stood in the faded green waiting room debating who needed their dad more.

In the end, I let him go. I sat alone in a folded yellow seat and sobbed. It all seemed so unfair to me. My father was on the other side of a wall that I was forbidden to pass through. I felt detained too. There is no crime in loving someone who is incarcerated. There is no crime in being their daughter, their brother, their best friend. But incarceration incriminates more than the incarcerated. For every man in a cell missing the birth of his child, there is a woman delivering alone.

My uncle took me to my elementary school's father-daughter dance. No one asked why — everyone already knew. While I was grateful for my uncle's attendance, my dad's absence was a much larger presence, a yawning chasm at the core of my childhood.

His absence was something we were all trying to accommodate, to build a life around, to cope with. My mom worked hard. She raised my brother and me by herself. She went to night school, got her master's, and eventually made the income of two parents.

But his absence remained an elephant in every room we entered. His absence marked us. We had to compensate for it, compartmentalize it, and normalize it, narrative essay about jail. But it was not normal — it was nerve-racking. I worried about him constantly. I vacillated between feeling abandoned and feeling robbed. While most kids were grappling with grades and hormones, I was fighting to submerge the reality that my dad was always in danger, narrative essay about jail.

After our first and only visit, my brother reported that my dad had a broken hand — that he'd gotten into a fight after someone tried to steal his black composition book of rhymes. So I knew it wasn't safe there, narrative essay about jail.

I knew he was in an environment of men under immense pressure, and that the pressure rising could only be destructive, narrative essay about jail. It inundated me with anxiety that he could be in solitary confinement, he could be attacked, abused, assaulted. I clung to contact, narrative essay about jail. He wrote me letters, and I read them over and over. I kept them in my nightstand drawer to remind me that he was okay, that it'd be over one day and that when he got out we could have a life like my friends' lives.

But my life could not be like my friends' lives — my father was in a cage. And the time we lost was real. All the years stained with longing narrative essay about jail fear could not be recovered. When my father was released, we tried to live like he had never been gone. But it was impossible. His goneness was as integral a narrative essay about jail in our relationship as narrative essay about jail presence. I was a teenager by then, more aware, less forgiving.

I was in a constant and archetypal power struggle with the world, narrative essay about jail ushering in a parent who had never parented me was narrative essay about jail a smooth transition, narrative essay about jail. I was a volatile and moody year-old, and deep in the throes of my first romantic relationship. My dad tried to finally be the co-parent my mom needed, but it didn't feel fair for him to discipline me.

He was more like an estranged childhood friend than a father. He was both familiar and unfamiliar, and we didn't know how to navigate each other's existence.

We were more accustomed to being away from each other than in each other's presence. And everything was tainted by his previous absence; the remnants of our separate endurances surrounded us.

Our house was always tense, each member of our family burdened by anxiety. My mom and I bickered a narrative essay about jail, my brother was constantly getting into trouble, and my father was overwhelmed. No doubt he needed to recover. We all did. He moved out within a year, narrative essay about jail. It's been almost a decade since he was released, and we still haven't made up for lost time.

I don't know if we can. Our love for each other is unfaltering, but we don't know each other the way most daughters and fathers know one another. In his presence I fumble, reserve myself, am not fully at ease. I know distance better than closeness. Despite the vast number of Americans dealing with it, having a loved one in prison is lonely. I had to deal with the absence of my father alone.

My mother dealt with the absence of her co-parent alone. My grandparents dealt with the absence of their son alone. Incarceration has different implications on everyone it affects, and it often feels like no one understands.

Mass incarceration in America, explained in 28 maps and charts. There is a stigma attached to having a loved one in prison that makes it difficult to talk about openly. At sleepovers, speaking about it earned me looks of pity from my playmates' parents. At school, kids were amused by the stories. I was a stereotype fulfilling itself, and there was very little genuine empathy for what I was going through. I was confronting the reality that one misstep meant anyone I loved could be taken and locked away in a box for years.

I needed understanding. Instead I found that many people believe it's our fault for loving narrative essay about jail incarcerated — that we deserve the suffering inextricably linked to that love.

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 · Mass incarceration in America, explained in 28 maps and charts There is a stigma attached to having a loved one in prison that makes it difficult to talk about openly. At sleepovers, Literary Representation Vs Visual Testimony Essay Words | 9 Pages. or fact, all the stories share common themes – suffering, loss, sacrifice, death, inhumanity and ultimately freedom whether in death or surviving to be liberated in some form or another. Some of these representations have been fictionalized with creative license taken  · Essay title: Going to Jail. Evelyn Garrett. Mrs. Paula Branch. College Writing I. Narrative Essay. 2/15/ Going to Jail. When I realized that the choices I make in life can have a lasting effect on me, maybe I should have thought those choices through. Because once I