Growing Old in Prison

March 31, 2021

by Yohannes Knowledge Johnson

Not too long ago I received a photo of myself off of the internet and was shocked by what I saw: I have aged and grown old while in prison. Now, I know that we all age but to do so in prison has been a rather unique experience for me as I generally do not feel as old as I am. I came to prison when I was 24 years old. I am now heading towards my 65th birthday, having spent the last 40 years behind these walls. Of course, along the way I met a new friend, Art (short for arthritis), who always seems to feel the need to remind me that he is a part of my life now. My hair has started to grow short and has turned almost completely gray (or white, depending on how you may see it for yourself.). I looked at myself and seen this happening but always seemed to continue to feel as if I was still, at least, in my twenties.

At first, as I spoke to my mother and brother, they both sounded the same. The few opportunities I had to visit with my brother, I would see how he began to age. I never had the opportunity to see my mother after I was sent to state prison, but my brother kept me informed and he always stated she looked the same, except her hair started to get longer. I remember it as being short like Nina Simone, but he said she now had hanging braids. This was in the '90s.

I began to get small aches and pains when I stopped exercising. I stopped because I was transferred to another prison and did not feel comfortable in the company of those I was around, or who was around me. I could still do some light calisthenics in my cell, but I was weight-lifting for 13 1/2 years prior to stopping so there was a big difference right there. During these 13 1/2 years, I felt good and full of energy and always sought to show my workout partners that I was serious in my routine just as much as they were in theirs.

Birthdays were wake-up calls, but I seemed to always view them as times to celebrate for me. I always viewed myself as growing more mature in my thinking and in my actions, but not old. I often (and still do) thought of my father and how he aged. He passed away at a very young age, approximately 46 years old. I know in the early '60's he had either a stroke or a heart attack and one of them revisited him in 1974. Of course, I became wiser and considerate of others as time continued to come and go around me, but I never seemed to pay too much attention to how I was aging during this time. When I first came to prison, my thinking had been, for the duration of time I was incarcerated, time on the outside stopped. Everything stopped! But upon my release, I continued to be amazed of how people have grown or came into their own. And yes, I have sadly been in prison before, twice. And in the short periods of time, I was away, in both instances, lessons learned were taken for granted, thus my return.

So when I looked at my picture and then looked I into the mirror on my wall, I was honestly shocked at how much I have aged and how I could actually see the aging process I have encountered. And as I watch, read and listen to the news, I am reminded how time stands still for no one but is all a part of the process in life as we know it to be.

My mother passed away in 2004. When I went to her wake, she did not look like she aged at all. Now, that may have been me as I wanted to see and remember her as being when I last saw her in 1980. Upon viewing her body, I was reminded how fragile life can be and how so suddenly things can change for the better or worse. The last time I spoke to her, she shared she was tired. Back in my cell, I wondered what my father’s last words were or could have been, in relationship to how he felt. During this time, I felt the passage of time, literally, striking me like a tidal wave as the feeling behind her words seemed to smother me, making it hard to catch my breath. And in the deep recess of my mind, I continued to forcefully recite my mantra "I got to get out of prison!". Because too much was happening, family members were dying and while I may not have been able to stem this tide of their passing at least I would be there to share in the weight of the suffering and loss. My presence could have eased a lot of pain and suffering, or so I was told.

I am ashamed to not only be in prison but also for the crimes I have been convicted of, murder and robbery. The lessons briefly spoken of above having been acquired and learned of while in prison, held so much meaning if only I would have "listened" to what was being said to me, via my life experiences. Instead, I allowed selfish ignorance to overwhelm what can be considered common sense and just threw away a generation or two that could have come to be produced by the victim who lost his life in my case and what I could of (and maybe have) produced to be.

Yes, I have grown old in prison and may have even acquired some wisdom along the way. But the price being paid, I must truly ask if it is worth it to have to get wisdom this way, under these circumstances. When the victim in my case died, in the end we both lost, he in a box and me in a cage.

When I look at that picture, I see time spent and time to come. The time spent speaks to what was and what has occurred during such a time. The time to come speaks to future endeavors that may contribute to that which is to be. The aging process can be seen in the eyes, but so can the future prospects. To grow old in prison is not something to strive for nor seek to do. To grow old in prison is to waste your life away as time continues to move on. To grow old in prison is to throw your life away. To grow old in prison is to grow old, in prison.