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Three Days

The Ravens Perch, February 25, 2023

 

Three Days, Opening Scene


“And so, in honor of the breakthroughs you’ve made, and your breakaways from gangs and addictions, I’ve brought something.” I reached into the tote bag and pulled out a one-inch, 5 x 7 wooden board. “I need someone to—”


“Hey, I’ll do it,” said Mr. Phillips, the tall, heavyset man sitting a few seats to my right in the circle of inmates and volunteers. He jumped up from the blue plastic chair with surprising speed for such a large man. Mr. Phillips’s sad eyes and gentle smile sat atop a fullback’s body.


“You place your—”


“I got this, Ms. W____-, I know how to hold it.” I didn’t mind being interrupted twice by Mr. Phillips. Recently, he’d shared a lot about his rough childhood. I was glad to see him smile.
Mr. Phillips kneeled, placed his palms underneath the board, and curled his long fingers around the sides, holding it horizontal, about three feet from the prison floor. I raised my right hand like a salute, palm at the top of my forehead but facing outward, then yelled “Kiah!” as I attacked the board with a fast, twisting, downward knife-hand strike. The board broke with a loud, satisfying crack. The men looked at me—a short, elderly White lady—for a moment of stunned silence before they whooped and applauded, an unexpected payoff for the hours I’d trained to earn a black belt in my sixties.


“That’s a hard act to follow,” said the inmate to my left, accepting the talking piece, a small, grey cloth starfish. He revealed a sunrise scene he painted the previous night, symbolizing the glimmers of hope he’d experienced in the Restorative Justice program, a twelve-week course offered at several Wisconsin prisons. The shades of red and orange brought a welcome contrast to the grey walls and drab green of the men’s uniforms. This session, when we share creative offerings, is my favorite part of the program.

 


When Mr. Phillips held the board for me, we were an odd pair—a contrast in age, skin color, and background—but for a few moments we connected. I needed his strength to support the board, and I trusted him not to flinch as my strike sped towards the board and his fingers. If he flinched, the board wouldn’t break and I’d look like an idiot. It felt good to trust someone so different from me. But as often happens in the restorative justice program, we were linked in a deeper way: we had both admitted to the group the long-buried secret that we were victims of violence. Carrying a secret for many years had made Mr. Phillips lash out in anger, ending in a murder for which he was serving a life sentence. I buried the shame of my rape, resulting in bouts of depression. We both found prison to be the one place where we felt safe enough to be honest.


To read the whole piece:
https://theravensperch.com/three-days-by-ernestine-whitman/