I know a fella, an old associate, whose approach to life is different from the norm. He thinks it is his world and everyone else is simply passing through on a scenic route. It’s difficult for him to realize that he is just another bozo on the bus. After all, like myself, he is a convicted felon — he has to be counted daily at designated intervals and must display an ID even though everybody definitely knows his name.

This guy is quite judgmental and always has an opinion, whether solicited or not: Red Sox, Iraq, or breastfeeding. Though he is not arrogant, he has been reluctant to change specific behavioral patterns. One such irritating act is to loudly announce his entrance into a room. It is more common for his voice to be the one heard among the crowd. But there is always laughter when he is around, and he is known to share vivid stories with anyone who will listen.

Now, he is someone I have known for many years and I’m not hesitant to call him a friend. In prison, a friend is required to be more than just being together at the weight room or playing dominoes. A friend is sought for grieving of a family death or the breakdown of a significant relationship. During times of cackling, celebration, or conflict, this person is present in a major way. He probably knows me better than several family members due to our daily interactions and observations. Like most prisoners, he rarely has any visitors from the neighborhood, receives very few letters from family members or friends, and rarely makes regular phone calls. The primary contact with the world beyond the prison walls is via television, radio, and daily newspapers. All human connections are restricted to peers and prison employees, who tend to proceed with caution, as proscribed by the training manual.

Men and women return to the community daily after a lengthy, abusive experience in the prison system. Without a viable support network, this person will one day ride the commuter rail alone into South Station and pursue a bed at the local shelter. He may be unable or unwilling to ask for assistance because this lesson is not taught in prison “school". What does he learn? His experience is full of deprivation and restraint, while the message echoes vibrantly — don’t ask, don’t expect, and don’t tell!

I know a fella…and now so do you. Still, his story, as well as the experience, strength, and hope of others, must be told through barbed wire. I intend to be accurate and articulate, while appreciating another opportunity to beat the African drum and stir it up. One love!

Arnie King writes from a Massachusetts prison cell, which he has occupied since 1972. There is an effort currently to commute his sentence so that he may finally be released. For more information, visit www.throughbarbedwire.com or click here to write him.