The continuous sound of inmates yelling and slamming against the bars, filled Hasaan's ears as he laid in his designated bunk staring up at the ceiling. He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes feeling his head pound from the noise. The sound hadn't bothered him much before but it was much more voluminous than it had ever been. The constant yelling drove him mad the first few years he lived in FDC. However, onto his seventh year of being locked up, he grew accustomed and furthered his knowledge in topics he found himself curious about.
Things hadn't changed in the seven years he had been there. In fact, everything seemed to stay exactly the same— the ear piercing sound of a sexual assault taking place early 3 AM, the slamming of batons waking inmate up early at 7 A.M, and the annoying sounds of a beating gang initiation taking place. Then after these "big events," came shower time, breakfast, work, rec time, fights, lock in, dinner, then bed. Nothing about prison amazed Hasaan anymore, seeing that he perceived and understood things better than most. He passed the time by keeping a journal taking up writing to document his thoughts. He mainly wrote about racism and the system, but occasionally took time to write other things through poetry.
He had received his GED his first year there, and his business degree his fourth year— in hopes of becoming a clothing entrepreneur for a brand he planned to title Bottom Boy Survivor. He criticized his name choice harshly before he realized how perfect it really was. He in fact, was at the bottom of the barrel but he had managed to survive, and stay real while the other inmates folded and became someone else's bitch.
His mind drifted to the many court days he endured and wondered whether evidence was missing, because deep down he knew what he did was justified. He knew deep down, there was evidence somewhere that could clear him and that was why he stuck true his verdict—not guilty. He sat in his cell days at a time after it happened, and watched how the media destroyed his image, and his friends turn and walk away from him. He watched how the letters that came in every week, came in less and less frequently, and how from some people stopped altogether.
It hurt to see the people whose names he had defended so strongly, turn their backs and prove the truth that people tried to tell him— they weren't solid and were going to turn his back when things began to hit the fan. No one visited him much besides his sister Symphonee and his mother Saphyre and occasionally his cousin Messiah who lived in Dallas, which was fine with them since they were the only ones he needed and kept him level headed.
Through his time in prison, he found himself at times at peace and other times angry. He of course spent more years angry than calm— but when he finally found peace within himself, he began to understand just how the system was rigged for him to fail.
The idea came simply to him when he rode the bus back from the court, and it led him to his conclusion: the system was merely there to benefit those who are white, and tank those of other races to there doom with no loophole to escape. When a white man does something that is considered illegal, it is found by the court that there was a valid reason, therefore benefiting the man and in essence, eliminating jail time. If the white man is to be convicted, there is almost always a loophole or payable amount to escape their time, which opens the door to injustice and freedom for he who lacks color.
Black men are likely to serve more time for a pettier crime than a white man is to serve for murder. While a white man is deemed a murderer yet freed after a couple years on "good behavior," a black man is sitting in the same cell serving double for a crime such as selling cigarettes. While a white man could massacre an entire school, and walk out alive with their weapon in hand, a black man is shot for having his hands in his pockets for too long. While a white man can massacre his whole family and be freed due to "mental illness," a black man sits in jail awaiting trial for a bag of insignificant weed.
The system was a joke, a disgrace, and a cold blooded murderer. It was something put in place, to laugh at the pain of those who are colored. It was something for the white man to use to justify his crimes and kill those for lesser crimes. It was something put in place, to let people know that they are lawfully inferior to those are white, and that exactly is why the jury who are there are predominantly white.
The system was not built to improve life for those that are black and of other races. It was never intended to help black men and others get as far as it did. It was designed to kill those like Hasaan but unexpectedly, Hasaan was learning to survive and the system was teaching him the joke that was called justice. Justice was a mere figment of imagination when it came to anyone who wasn't lacking color, which is no one held hope in this lackluster thing they called the justice system.
This survival of black men, of course in essence scares the white man, and exposes him for what he is—a coward. Which is why the white man keeps fighting to keep black men under. Which is why the system was built—to keep those who were on the way up, down in the water and nearly drowning.
Fortunately, through this struggle, Hasaan is keeping his head afloat and on top, because he's inferior to no one. After all, he is what his cousin and sister calls a Bottom Boy Survivor.
