#lifeinprison

The first photo after a year and seven months in prison feels different. The world after a year and seven months in prison feels different. Even though I kept up with the outside world through TV and newspapers, the world outside isn’t the same. After a year and seven months, when I was released from prison, I didn’t know who had arrived, who had left. I didn’t know what was new, what was old, what was trending. Honestly, I still don’t know, even after eight months of freedom.

It feels like I was frozen in time while the whole world kept turning. People, of course, continued with their lives, while I was stuck there, in prison. The feeling of being smaller, of being lesser than everyone else, gnawed at me and left deep scars until I had to fight and confront myself. I had to rethink everything I knew about prison. Not everyone sees it the same way, but I needed to find some kind of beauty in that experience, because I lived it so intensely that it had to mean something.

In the early days, I thought I was going to lose my mind, that I was going to lose everything. So, I had to start working on myself. I began developing myself personally. I read every book on personal growth I could find. I took every online course I could. I re-learned high school material. I understood that the most important thing about being in prison was what I was going to do with it, and I decided that I was going to make the best of it.

I did yoga naked in a cell. I danced naked in a cell. I made friends, told jokes until late at night, laughed until my stomach hurt. I cried many times. I slept hungry, woke up thirsty. My privacy was ripped away, exposed, shattered. I was diminished, dehumanized. I fought for rights and realized, most of the time, it wasn’t worth it. I translated documents in Portuguese, English, Spanish, and French. I worked on immigration cases. I wrote every day. I taught classes. I exercised. I did and lived the best I could in that situation.

Gay for the Stay. That’s what they call straight men who, during their time in prison, decide to enter into a relationship with another man, being “gay” only while they’re behind bars. Can you imagine how amazing my life would be if I could just decide to be gay for a while, then not be, and then turn it back on whenever I wanted? Like flipping a light switch on and off. I’ve always been gay, never changed, and I suffered a lot until I learned how to survive.

In the beginning, in criminal prison, I behaved more cautiously, which made me an easy target, prey that was easy to spot. And believe me, there are so many men in there looking for someone to live with in a cell as a couple. I won’t deny, some of them were very attractive. Think about it: many were Latino, tattooed, in shape, just looking for someone to exchange affection and care with while in prison. It’s fascinating to see how humans, in this case, men, can change in the search for affection, in the search for love.

And I fell in love. I had my heart broken more than once in prison—multiple times, to be honest. One of the first was Chad. He was special, beautiful. His eyes were an incredible shade of blue. When I first arrived at the psychiatric ward of the prison, Chad came to greet me. And when I saw those eyes… “Chicos, those eyes!” I knew something would happen between us, and it did. We never kissed. We got so close once that our lips almost touched. He looked into my eyes, and I looked into his, and then we pulled away.

We were two madmen locked up in the psychiatric ward of the prison. And you know, they say that mad people don’t realize they’re mad. Deep down, we were just two people desperate for affection. We spent our days together, talking, laughing, sharing stories. When I met Chad, he had no money to buy food at the canteen, and neither did I. We helped each other whenever we could; if one got extra food, we shared it. Chad would talk about all the drugs he’d done and how heroin was his favorite. He would tell me how he loved living on the streets, always saying, “It’s a lifestyle, Bro!” Something inside me believed I could save him, that he deserved saving.

Sometimes, Chad would come to my cell, sit next to me, and just stare at me with those deep blue eyes. We would play-fight with each other, a way for us to touch without anyone saying anything. Someone started putting money in Chad’s account, and he began to gift me sweets and food. Sometimes, other prisoners got jealous, but Chad didn’t care, and neither did we. But Chad was very jealous. Once he realized how much I was into him, he started to change. He would complain that I walked around the block too much, that I didn’t want to sit next to him, that I talked to Scotland, that I didn’t play with him. Many times, out of jealousy, Chad would refuse to share food with me, doing it on purpose.

One day, Chad snapped out of jealousy and tried to attack me, saying he was just playing. The guards decided to lock down the block, and Chad refused to go back to his cell, so he was taken to solitary confinement. And just like that, Chad and I never spoke again. Maybe it was for the best. Many other inmates told me real stories about him that scared me and opened my eyes.

Chad was the first, but many more would come after. The interesting thing is that during that time, I never questioned Chad’s character. I never evaluated his actions towards me, and now, almost two years later, I can look back and see it all—and most importantly, see myself too. Remembering all this only made me realize how desperate I was in my search for love, not knowing that I should never have been searching for it because love isn’t something you search for; it’s something you build from the inside out.