Where Have I Ve Been In Jail-Personal Narrative

I was a prisoner in his house because I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. The chains on my hand represents me being a prisoner in the house. After dark every night I would be all by myself scared. I was 15 years old at the time and Jamaica wasn’t a place that a 15 years old shouldn 't be all by their self at night. The place was always quiet and the yard was dark. I would turn on the TV 's, the light, and the radio. I was always afraid. I wasn’t allowed to watch television, so there was not much to do.. The only thing I could do was study nor sleep. In the cave I was trapped and could not leave.

Hey little brother sorry you can't call. I don't have any money on the phone. I haven't spoken with Mj in a month. I am so heartbroken. Your wife told me the great news and I am so happy for you both. Like I told Lamont I really don't talk to no one in Michigan. Kristy (1-2 times a week) Aretha and Fred (every other 3-4 months) maybe. Mom and Cass never. So that's that. You, Lamont and Mj are my concerns as long as you all let me be in your lives I will be. I love all my family dearly; however, along the way we have lost vital parts of who we are as a family. I think long incarcerations have made some feel that they are not family. Many people have forgotten who they are as simply Africans but on a basic level in this family we have forgotten

As I walk out of the building with my friends, a hand stops me. I turn around to see the judge, smiling at me.”You would make a truly outstanding lawyer.” before I have a chance to thank him, he retreats back into the courthouse. I continue on with my friends, making our way to the bus, when a sudden thought comes to mind. When I first walked in, I looked at this place and immediately thought about what happened this summer. Those are old memories, the bad ones, but I have to let in the new memories, the happy ones. Happy memories are always better than sad ones, and I now have happy, and sad, memories of this place, and I’ve learned that it’s ok to have both kinds of memories. Sometimes you need both memories. I can still remember what happened last summer, but I also have to remember what happened today, because today I learned so many things, and any day when you learn something, is a day to

Finally the day has come that Jr. and I. get out of jail. We had our good friend T-dawg pick us up. He pulled up in his Chevy impala with his 28 inch spinner rims and competition hydraulic lifts. He pulled up and simply said get yo cracka pasty lookin selves up in my whip before I pop a cap in yo man. Jr. and I simply responded we didn’t know you had a daughter and that we missed him too. T-dawg was always such a nice guy he used to give homemade candy to all the adults and kids on the street in exchange for just a little bit of cash.

She had taken care of him, suffered through his fits of rage, accepted his blind addiction to loving himself, and his inability to sympathize with there needs. She was alone, isolated, and her pain was denied by his constant need for the world to revolve around his compulsions. This contradictory life weighed heavily on her, until one day she cold not live with it any longer. He came home on one of his low days. He was upset by his business, rattling on about how his business associates had wronged him. As he was ranting, something in her snapped, she grabbed the kitchen knife to her left and stabbed

There were bad days and worse days, I don’t think any could constitute as “good”, but some were definitely better than others. Some nights I was only left with a small scratch, or a drunken slew of words meant to berate me. Others, I was beaten to within the last inch of my life. I became all too used to the feeling of the ground, cold, yet so familiar. The wood tensed with every movement, as if it was flinching, mirroring my own actions. I would lay there, salty tears merging with open cuts, and I wished he would follow through on his promises to kill me. That would be the first time he followed through on anything. But, it wasn’t his actions that hurt me so much as it was his lack of remorse. There were no apologies or meaningless condolences, nothing that shouted “I have an inkling of a conscience” . He was hurting me more often than not, and I was left to pick up my own broken

It had been almost three months since the incident, and ever since then, I found no reason to live. I tried jumping off the balcony to cope with my loss, but my neighbor saw me, and he called the police. When my neighbor reported me, the police officer encouraged me to meet a therapist. Nowadays, I struggle to wake myself up in the morning, so I have to rely on Summer’s cries to wake me up. When I used to work, I would always be enthusiastic, but because of my drinking problem, I got caught in a fight that ended up with me losing my

I’m in the prison line minding my own business as a few girls punch me. I did nothing to them, but that day i was getting out of prison and the girls get jealous if the others get out. The police are sending me to a foster home. My seventh one and i’m hoping it’s the last. My head is throbbing and there is a cut on the upper part of my lip. Before I leave I ask where is my brother you said you promise would never split us apart. The social worker finds my brother and he is taken out of the home he is in, now he is with me I feel safe.

Hey how are you doing? My name is Sheterrica Lenard and I've been working since I was 16 years old and I have all the experience that is required for this position. I have 5 years of experience in supervising and coordinating work of other correctional officers, I also can drive passenger vehicles and trucks used to transport inmates to other institutions, courtrooms, hospitals and work sites. I counsel inmates and respond to legitimate questions, concerns, and requests. I have also participate in required job training. After being in school for 8 years, majoring inn this field, I know I meet all required standards for this position. Although not all police departments require their detectives to possess a college degree, the shift toward a

On Christmas day of 2012 I remember sitting on a dirty cold bench at the Women's Correctional Center in San Mateo County. My dad and I sat patiently waiting to see my mother behind a glass window as thick as a brick. It had been two weeks since I hugged her but not the first time I visited her in jail. She landed there plenty of times before so I knew what to expect.

“It’s okay, everything will be just fine,” My tears started to dry and a little smile came. Embry hugged me and pulled me to my feet.

I heard a feminine voice call out to me as I blazed out the front door. "Good morning Amber! Oh, where are you--" I cut her off with a sharp slam. I couldn't look back. With each step towards my car, I inhale painful sobs of air. I feel as if I don't know who I am, as if I was that 18 year old girl hearing the news of his death for the first time. I couldn't think of the name that belongs to me, or any one else but my father. Any face my subconscious offers had the resonance of a total stranger, then was replaced with the haunting image of

They take me to the cell and as go in I tell them that I didn’t do anything wrong, I am a US resident and that I want a lawyer now, I have the right to an attorney! “In a couple of moments someone will come to talk to you.” They tell me. As I wait in my cell, I see someone come my way. They open the cell and tell me, “You are in an Immigration lockup center sur. There is a phone your left, you have five minutes to call your lawyer or anyone you desire before anything else happens.” I nod my head, stand up from where I was sitting and head my way to the phone. As I pick up the phone the first person I call is my wife. I call her and tell her what has just happened to me. “Oh my God! I can’t believe this is happening!” she is telling

I haven’t slept in weeks, the thought of mom’s death has been creeping in more and more lately. Ever since that night things have never been the same and I find myself enraged at the world around me. Dad made Autumn stop dancing, the thought of her dancing reminded him of how mom had loved dancing and how it had caused her death. Little did he know she never stopped, she trained in secret, and I supported her along the way. Autumn was the only one who was there for me after mom died. We became closer to each other, our own support systems in a sense. That was until she left me to be with Sylvia. I was alone, and when I needed her most she left me. I still had my girlfriend Claire, but we were growing apart. When she left too, what life I had left finally shattered. Leaving me to deal with the impact in solitude.

I remember that it hurt, looking at her hurt. A beautiful line, no doubt, but I mustn’t take credit. I remember seeing her at her best. I remember telling myself that she would get better. I remember seeing what she would post on Facebook and pretending that I thought she wasn’t slowly killing herself. I remember seeing the blades sitting on her desk and throwing them in the trashcan and acting like they didn’t hold any significance, only to repeat the process the next weekend. I remember hearing her stories about falling out of that damned tree and telling myself, “Oh yeah. Those scars could totally be scrapes from the tree bark.” I remember ignoring the brokenness of her smile. I remember not doing anything about it, and I remember foolishly telling myself that it was all in my head.