Prison Thoughts

My Disillusionment

I squirm uncomfortably as the unforgiving bench digs accusingly ino my backside.  Unfortunately, there is no comfort to be found, and I eventually give up as the hissing reprimand of my foster mother reaches my ears, ordering me to sit still.  I gaze around me in an attempt to distract myself from my discomfort, but what I see merely directs the discomfort inward.  Vaunted ceilings soar to an intimidating height, shiny wood and marble make up every visible surface, and I swear I can feel the officious austerity leaking from every nook, cranny, and crevice.  At nine years old I wilt under the weight of its severity, of the authority evident in every graceful arch, at the sight of every sharp edge revealing the complete lack of mercy built into the very bones of the courthouse.  I don't even have to look at my foster mother to know I will find no protection there.  I look for it anyway, with the naive hope of a child.  What I find is exactly what I knew I'd find; rage, embarrassment, and shame.  I lower my gaze, unable to withstand such an onslaught.  The clicking of heels breaks through the solemn hush of the hallway.  I get to my feet as my name is called, and I shuffle after the woman who was to defend me as she leads me into a room with a massive table.  She sits across from me and riffles through her paperwork as she explains what I'm being charged with, the possible consequences, the trial process, etc.  The words begin to blend together, the moment seems surreal.  I keep waiting for the punchline, for someone to yell out "Gotcha!".  There's no way this could be anything but a prank.  And yet it was happening.  Woodenly, I answered the public defender's questions, hardly aware of my responses, until the questions ran out.  Then time seemed to move quickly, and before I knew it the large set of double doors loomed before me, terrifying in what they concealed.  A guard opened those imposing slabs of wood, and they slid silently open on well-oiled hinges.  As I entered the courtroom I was slapped with pompous ceremony.  Self-righteous superiority dripped from every person in the room.  When the judge entered, resplendent in his ceremonial robes, I had to ask myself; is this all necessary?  And as the judge looked down on me from his throne of entitlement, I felt something I had no word for, and only years later would I recognize it for what it was; contempt. Who was this man who I had never laid eyes upon before, and what made him fit to judge me?  All I had done was defend myself from a lowlife bully, defended myself when no one else would.  How was that deserving of this, how did the situation get twisted so that the bully is now the victim?  With new eyes I saw the court for what it was.  A facade populated by charlatans.  An illusion of self-proclaimed justice.  A fake.  I left the courthouse a convicted criminal, forever tainted in the eyes of society.  I knew that I could not rely on my parents, foster parents, or any other adult to protect me.  I knew that true justice did not lie with the legal system.  As my foster mother hustled me back to the car, all the while telling me how much of a burden I was, how much of an embarrassment, something hardened within me.  While she did her best to break me, it occurred to me that her words had ceased to have power over me.  Something had changed within me.  From then on, I would protect myself.  I would decide for myself what was right and wrong.  And no more would I have any respect for authority.  I would be my own authority.  From that day forward I would forever be metaphorically facing the world with both middle fingers raised.