"I'm not a bad person"

The man who stood before me was not the same boy that I’d met three years ago.

He stood resolutely before the class, hands firmly grasping the paper before him.

He cleared his throat and began to speak.

“A while back I went to an AA/NA meeting to speak, to tell my story,” he began.

I looked at him carefully. The baby fat on his cheeks had disappeared. He was now lean and tall, string-bean-esque. His black beard, though wispy and far from complete, no longer sported the patches that it once had. He’d been growing it since I’d first met him and his beard was now respectable enough for the other students (and me) to not poke lighthearted jabs at. The tattoos he’d gotten above his eyebrows were starting to fade and his growing beard helped conceal the grim reaper he’d gotten tattooed down the side of his face years ago. He was starting to look like a man and he carried himself like one.

He’d been in our horticulture program for three years now. When he first enrolled in the program, he was amongst our worst students ever. He was loud, disruptive, arrogant, and angry. He never turned in anything on time and didn’t seem to care if he passed or failed the class.

Now, he was one speech away from graduating. One last assignment, one last grade, then he’d have earned all 21 college credits and his two certificates.

I thought about the change he’d undergone. It was nothing short of a miracle. It was nothing short of God.

And to think, it all began with a poem.

Way back when he was first enrolled in our program, I gave the students an assignment – to write a poem. This particular student was enrolled in our program for juveniles who’d been sentenced as adults. I read several poems to the boys to help give them an idea of what poetry looked and sounded like.

They had two weeks to write their own poem about a plant. Not surprisingly, most of the poems had some iteration of “she loves me, she loves me not.” What teenage boy doesn’t always have some girl on his mind?

He was one of the last students to present that day. I seriously doubted that he’d even written a poem. But when it came his turn, he stood up and walked to the front of the class. I bet that if you’d seen my face in that moment, you’d have seen a healthy dose of skepticism.

He buried his eyes and mouth behind the paper he held before him and read briskly. He was as unconfident of a public speaker as I’d ever seen. After a quick read-through, he began to make his way back to his desk. I asked him to stay up front and read once more. A few words in his mumbled poem had stood out to me; there was something of substance.

Another student hopped up and offered to hold the paper for him while he read. He shot them a look that said, “watch what happens if you try and help me.” I thanked the student for their offer and directed the young boy to read his poem again, just slower. I told him that what I’d heard was good, but that he’d rushed a little.

He eyed me with suspicion. He began to read again, slowly and carefully. His voice rose and fell with inflection. You could tell his poem came from the heart. He wrote about feeling like a rose that was waiting to bloom. An apt metaphor for what would come later.

As soon as he finished, the class erupted in applause. He’d undoubtedly written the best poem. He stood before the class, confused, unsure of how to accept the praise. After a few moments he sheepishly made his way back to his desk. He hid a smile behind the paper he held before him.

After class that day, I asked him to hang back. I told him that I had no idea he was a poet. He told me that he had no idea either. A change came over him. He wasn’t angry or cocky or rude. He was serene. He’d discovered that he could be beautiful.

The next few months were full of ups and downs. One semester he was valedictorian. Another semester he was totally checked out and slept through nearly every class. One day he showed up to class with the grim reaper tattoo. The guard grabbed his chin and turned his face towards me, uncomfortably forcing me to look at it. “Look what he did,” she said. “He’s going to get transferred now.” I could see him fuming as she held his chin in her hand. He was being treated like a child and I was afraid of what could happen next.

I talked to the guard later that day and made my case for him to stay. I asked for more time with him to let him continue his education. If they transferred him elsewhere, he’d become another statistic – another angry, impressionable young man caught up in the system. He’d succumb to gang influence or worse. We couldn’t give up on him now.

For whatever reason, they let him stay at this prison. I don’t know if I had anything to do with it and I won’t pretend to take credit. Maybe someone forgot to file the transfer paperwork. Maybe God interceded.

Class continued with more ups and downs. One semester he didn’t show up. When I’d call his name during roll, the guys would cast their eyes downward. Everyone felt bad for him and what he was going through, though no one wanted to talk about it. It was abundantly clear that things weren’t going well. His best friend walked around with a pervasive sadness.

He showed up for the graduation ceremony during that semester he missed. I was angry with him – how dare he show up for graduation when he didn’t do any of the work? I knew why he was there. At graduations, HeartBound serves a meal. Usually, it’s a meal I cook myself – full of sauces and sides and dessert – all the things that the guys love. I wanted to cast him out, tell him he wasn’t welcome. But I got distracted while putting the finishing touches on the food and forgot to dismiss him. Perhaps God intervened again.

At the end of the meal, he sought me out and apologized. He said he didn’t just come for the food and really did want to resume classes. I was skeptical but left the door open for him to return.

That was then. This is now. He stood confidently before the room, preparing to give his final speech before graduation. He’d come back to class and was on track to be valedictorian once more. He glanced around the room, being sure to make eye contact with his audience before he began. Just like he’d learned in class three years ago, I thought to myself.

“A while back I went to an AA/NA meeting to speak, to tell my story.

Everyone who stood to speak to talk about their struggles, they began with “Hello, my name is ‘ ’ and I am an addict.”

I was a guest speaker, invited by the host out of nowhere. And with no time to write a speech or anything I stood up and told my life story, straight from the heart.

Unlike those before me, I did not greet the crowd and say that I am an addict. I went in front of everybody and I said ‘Hello, my name is H***** and I am a victim of the cycle of addiction.’

This poverty cycle course that we’ve been going through these last couple of months is deeper than just hearing and talking about it. It is reality. A life of cause and effect.

Victims of circumstances, addictions, and poverty equal out to be products of their environment.

Up until the age of 6, I had both of my parents. Even though I had both my father and mother with me physically, they were not there mentally. My parents were junkies. As a child I viewed them as zombies. I've witnessed countless acts of domestic violence and stumbled upon many overdoses. My mother's last overdose took her life in 2012. At the age of 6 I lost my mother to drug use. During that time my father was in jail for beating on my mother and I didn't see him again until about 6 months after my mother's death. All of my father's girlfriends were abusive. I've been beaten and lied on. I've had cigarettes put out on me for company’s amusement.

From an early age I've hated life and I was in constant fear of losing my father to an evil girlfriend or from another overdose.

The only escapes I had were school and in the streets. I received no attention at home so I acted out for attention in school. I received no acknowledgments at home, so I did things in the street that others wouldn't so I could bask in their praise and finally feel some love.

Smoking and popping pills that I've detested my whole childhood became an outlet. Stealing cars, striking, and carrying guns made me feel like somebody. In 2020, at the age of 14, I was locked up for murder. I received my life sentence at 17 and I've been facing the consequences of my actions since. Like I said at the beginning, I'm not an addict or a bad person. I'm a victim of the cycle of addiction.

Here’s what I ask of you today.

Next time you see an angry young man in the news or a tattoo that scares you, know that there’s more to the story.

There’s a young boy who watched his parents cycle in and out of drug addiction.

There’s a young boy who was tortured for amusement.

There’s a young boy who buried his mother while his father sat in jail.

Little boys and girls don’t dream of growing up and going to prison. Prison is an unfortunate byproduct of this broken world that we live in. There will always be a need for prisons so long as there are people. Hurt people hurt people. The cycle continues.

When you meet these hurt people, when you take the time to hear their stories, you can begin to understand how they ended up in prison. It doesn’t excuse their actions, it doesn’t absolve them of their crimes, but it does give you a better understanding of why prisons exist, why generational incarceration is so prevalent in our society.

Hearing his story and so many like it has helped me to see that the men and women and children that we work with inside prisons and substance abuse rehab facilities are just like you and me – beautiful, broken, scarred human beings who long for love – our love and God’s love.

May we have the grace to show them that love. It’s a love that they deserve no more or no less than you and me.

^“You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:6-8