Eating Ice Cream

Last August, I wrote a list of thirty things I’d like to do before I turned thirty.

My then-girlfriend, Madi (who is now my wife!!), had done something similar for her thirtieth birthday. She encouraged me to do the same.

I thought about the things I wanted to accomplish in a year’s time. Get engaged. Travel internationally. Visit that mysterious place they call “H Mart.” Some fun, some serious.

We had a good time coming up with things to add to the list. But I began to run out of things I wanted to do. I thought about work. What could I accomplish there?

An idea came to me. I wanted to meet a former student for lunch and dinner out in the “free world.” No guards, no razor wire, no ever-present thought of what was going to happen or where I needed to be going next.

I wanted to see one of my students get released and then I would take them out to eat. It would be like any other meal. Normal.

The other day was my five-year anniversary of working for HeartBound. During those five years of teaching and programming, I can realistically count on two hands the number of students I’ve seen get released. Part of the reason why so few have gone home is the nature of where I’m working – medium and close security facilities that house individuals with longer sentences. I routinely meet men and women who have been incarcerated for three decades plus. Long sentences are routine, not the exception. Data from the Department of Corrections reveals that nearly 1 in 4 male and female prisoners in Georgia is over the age of 50 (24.1%). In fact, the average prison sentence for a male in Georgia is 39 years, while for females it’s an astounding 41 years.

So maybe you can see why I added this item to my list. I’m going to see most of our students week after week, year after year, decade after decade. My life will progress forward while theirs will remain in limbo. Nothing about prison is normal. Human beings aren’t meant for cages.

Chaz (name changed) handed me a letter after class one day. He was headed home. He didn’t want to tell anyone because he didn’t want them to be jealous or sad at their own situation. He was simply asking for prayer. I pulled him aside at a later class to gather more information – where would he be going, who would he live with, did he have a job lined up? Fortunately, Chaz had a wonderfully supportive family and had all his ducks in a row. I asked him if we could meet for lunch when he was released. I would bring my laptop and help him set up a budget and bank account like we’d learned about in class. He said he’d be honored.

So, one day, I found myself outside Chaz’s new home. It was a cinder block shack with a low-slung porch and the paint peeling off, but it was a home and most importantly, he was free. He asked me to pick the restaurant since he wasn’t used to making decisions on his own yet. We sauntered into a diner and grabbed a seat.

Over the next hour, we enjoyed a normal meal in a normal restaurant in a normal town on a normal day. There was no fear of others around us, no guard looking over our shoulders telling us to hurry up, no constant interruptions from a clanging iron door or prison intercom. We just ate and laughed and caught up.

Afterwards, we walked down the block to an ice cream parlor. He ordered two scoops of mint chocolate chip. He offered to pay, but I refused. He only had $5 to his name after all. He left prison with the clothes on his back and a $30 debit card from the Georgia Department of Corrections. He’d been denied two jobs that week by his parole officer and was praying the third would be approved. When I gave his ice-cream the stink eye he laughed and said, “I know, I know. Artificial food dye. But I love that fake mint flavor.”

We sat on a bench outside and ate. Families wandered up and down the sidewalks, businesspeople held their phones to their ears as they rushed to and fro. The world spun round and round as it always does.

Chaz couldn’t finish his ice cream. “Prison shrank my stomach. They feed you so little you just can’t really stomach much on the outside here.” I nodded solemnly.

He began to get emotional. He gazed off into the distance. It was an unseasonably warm afternoon.

“Just look where we are Spence.”

I nodded.

“Look where we are,” he said quietly. “Look where we are.”

One item checked on my bucket list. Thank you for making that moment possible.