This is the sixth installation of a column composed by MarQui Clardy Jr, one of our pen pals incarcerated at the Lawrenceville Correctional Center in Virginia.
When a person is incarcerated, it's expected that they'll have a number of the rights they enjoyed in society stripped away from them. But you'd also expect that certain basic human rights, such as sufficient medical care, would be inviolable. You would be wrong. In 2011, while working in the inmate kitchen at another prison, I experienced a terrible accident that showed me how little my rights matter in prison.
On this particular day, I was rushing through the kitchen and mistakenly slipped on some cleaning solution someone had just poured onto the floor. I landed directly on my face and blacked out, having suffered a blunt force head trauma injury. When I regained consciousness a few minutes later, I was leaning up against a hotbox being attended to by two nurses. I was in a slight state of delirium; my neck was in so much pain, I could barely hold my head up; there was blood pouring from my nose, mouth, and a nasty gash on my forehead; and my jaw felt broken. The nurses advised that I be immediately transported to the hospital to see a doctor. However, despite the obvious severity of my injuries and nurse's advisement, the C/O's made me wait until they changed shifts - which took almost an hour - before clearing me for transport.
This is the fifth installation of a column composed by MarQui Clardy Jr, one of our pen pals incarcerated at the Lawrenceville Correctional Center in Virginia.
According to a 2016 report on parental incarceration, the Annie E. Casey Foundation found that more than 5.1 million U.S. parents currently spend time in jails and prisons before their children reach adulthood. Being incarcerated for a prolonged period obviously damages the parent-child relationship. But there are also less obvious, albeit equally deleterious, impacts on both parties' daily lives and relationships with others. Children of incarcerated parents often suffer emotional, behavioral, academic, and/or psychological issues, and they're six to seven times more likely to be convicted of crimes and incarcerated when they become adults. The overwhelming majority of parents behind bars - particularly the first time offenders - had no idea of those consequences when we made the decision to break the law; however, knowing these statistics and seeing how our children are ACTUALLY being affected due to our incarceration creates degrees of guilt, shame, incompetence, and parental failure that can never be adequately conveyed to non-incarcerated parents. A large part of daily prison life is learning to numb ourselves to such feelings in order to deal with the more "immediate" struggles of this environment. But every time we call home and hear our kids' long-distance voices, or look at frozen images of them taped to the walls of our cells, or even when we see televised depictions of mothers and fathers and their children playing, educating, disciplining, loving, living normal lives, those feelings rear their ugly heads to remind us how much we're failing as parents. It's a battle that will continue to haunt us long after we've won the war for our freedom.
At the time I was incarcerated, my oldest son was a six year old kid about to start first grade. Last week he turned 18, and he has just completed high school. What do you call a parent who doesn't take their child(ren) to their first day of school, show up to any of their sports games or PTA meetings, help them with any of their homework, provide financial support, or even attend their graduation? The word 'deadbeat' comes to mind. Having spent the majority of my son's childhood - and the entirety of his grade school years - in prison serving my 33 year sentence, I'm aware that I am an archetypical deadbeat dad who has utterly failed as a father. With every day that passes, and every missed moment from my son's life, this fact becomes evermore apparent and psychologically grievous.
This is the fourth installation of a column composed by MarQui Clardy Jr, one of our pen pals incarcerated at the Lawrenceville Correctional Center in Virginia.
It's been over 72 hours since I've showered, since I've breathed fresh air, since the sun's rays have touched my skin, and since I've been able to call or email my family. My complete range of motion has been limited to the confines of my prison cell for over 72 hours. My skin and hair are starting to itch, my back aches from laying in my bunk so much, I have no appetite since I'm not expelling any energy, and I'm so bored I often catch myself staring blankly around the cell, sort of "stuck" in thoughts about absolutely nothing. Any semblance of control over my mobility, hygiene, and social life I may have held 72 hours ago has been completely stripped away from me.
What frustrates me is that this punishment to which I'm being subjected is due to no fault of my own. It's the result of a gang fight that occurred in my housing unit a few days ago, during which weapons were used. Even though the fight was caught on camera, all the offenders involved were identified and taken to segregation, and all of the weapons used were recovered, my entire housing unit has been placed on lockdown. This sort of mass punishment happens all the time in prison. All it takes is for a handful of offenders to get into a serious altercation, and the whole unit - or sometimes the entire institution - gets locked down. This is another form of segregation that usually goes unnoticed. Just like the offenders in the actual Segregation Housing Unit, we're locked in our cells 24 hours a day, unable to enjoy most of the rights and privileges we'd normally be entitled to in general population.
This is the third installation of a column composed by MarQui Clardy Jr, one of our pen pals incarcerated at the Lawrenceville Correctional Center in Virginia.
"My clemency petition WILL be granted! I WILL be going home this year! My clemency petition WILL be granted! I WILL be going home this year!" These words are written in large black letters on the back of an institutional request form taped to the front of my bunk. Ever since I was contacted by the Virginia Governor's office in 2017 to confirm that my clemency petition was received and is being investigated, these words have become my mantra. Having studied countless books on the power of autosuggestion - repeating something to yourself until it burns into your subconscious and begins influencing your actions - I've convinced myself that if I recite these words enough and believe them wholeheartedly, I will speak them into fruition! These words have become my only source of hope that this nightmarish existence called prison will soon be over.
Therefore, every morning when I'm startled out of my sleep by these rude correctional officers loudly blowing their whistles, smacking their clipboards against the metal rails, and banging on every cell door during morning count, I recite these words. When I open my eyes and realize that, despite the previous night's dream of being back at home relaxing with my family and friends, the reality is that I'm still trapped inside this tiny, 8 x 12 foot metal and concrete cell for the next two decades, I recite these words. When my inconsiderate cellmate wakes up and lights his morning blunt, and I have no choice but to duck my head under my blankets to avoid catching a contact high, I recite these words.
This is the second installation of a column composed by MarQui Clardy Jr, one of our pen pals incarcerated at the Lawrenceville Correctional Center in Virginia.
Researchers estimate that, on average, at least 30% of all U.S. prisoners held in solitary confinement are mentally ill (*1). Jail and prison correctional officers aren't medically trained to treat mentally ill individuals, so when these inmates display problematic behavior, the officers' first reaction is usually to place them in solitary confinement, either as a means of punishment, or simply so they won't have to deal with them. My first time in segregation made this notion crystal clear.
This incident occurred in 2008 while my case was still being adjudicated. After my trial - which resulted in me being convicted on all thirteen of my charges - the Commonwealth's Attorney had explicitly promised me that she was going to recommend a LIFE sentence, further adding that the judge always went with her recommendations. I'd already been in jail for about six months, and the thought of spending the rest of my life in such an awful environment, away from my children, my family, my career, my life...it was more than I could handle. I'd been previously diagnosed with poor mental health during my enlistment in the military, and all the stress I was under in jail likely triggered my disorder. I began rationalizing that my life was over anyway, so it would be best if I just ended it. Suicide seemed to be the obvious solution to my problems.
In March 2019, IAHR kicked off a column composed by one of our pen pals who is incarcerated at the Lawrenceville Correctional Center in Virginia. Lawrenceville is a state prison. Our correspondent’s name is MarQui Clardy Jr.
What would you do if you stumbled into a room amongst a group of individuals who have been convicted of robbery, murder, gang activity, and using firearms? How would you react? Most people would likely perceive that group as some outlaw clique of thugs and gangsters, and they’d zoom out of that room faster than sonic the hedgehog. This is why, as a convicted felon, one of the many probationary terms to which I'll be subjected after I’m released from prison is that I won’t be allowed to affiliate with any other convicted felons. There’s a skewed perception among lawmakers- and maybe even society in general - That two or more felons socializing could only mean one thing… that we must be up to no good. That’s why the law was implemented, and violating it would likely land me right back behind bars.
I believe this is one of the most blatantly irrational laws ever created since, by the very function of prison, I’ve been around nothing but convicted felons for the past 11 years I’ve been incarcerated. In fact , if you were to stumble into my prison cell, you’d see exactly what I stated in the opening sentence of this essay: Me, serving my 33 year sentence for robbery; my friend “S” whose serving a 48 year sentence for murder and robbery; my friend “P,” who’s serving a 45 year sentence for murder, shooting in an occupied dwelling and malicious wounding; and my friend “Z,” whose serving a 9 year sentence for attempted carjacking and gang activity. However, what you won’t find in my cell are any outlaws, thugs, or gangsters. You’ll see four regular human beings who, for whatever reason or circumstances that personally impacted our lives, made poor choices in our youths and who, like everyone else, have since grown into better, wiser, more responsible adults.Read more